tap tap tap

waxen pelage would unfurl from the calloused skin of the willow, abraised and burning. the clearly distraught woman was quite befuddling. what was he to do? and then she would twitch, repeatedly, that same look of dejection plaguing her features. possessive uncertainty boiled to the surfance and he would slip slowly toward his festering maeva, flustered pools always locked on this strange woman. she would whimper then, and that sultry frame of his would lean forward. was she sick? deranged? a tightened throat would clear before eliciting an uncharacteristicly soft coo, do not apologize, my love.