So what did he whisper in the night, sodden with alcohol, distracted by lust? Sweet nothings? A declaration of love? Or was it a statement of intent: grasping panting blood penetration? With you demure and pale beside the vein-ribbed muscles of his thighs. No chance.
But one. One moment to smile, be the coquette, pour more wine. Lips eyes promise passion submission. Finally, ragged breathing as sleep enters the pavilion. And you with your slender blade so skilful. A slit here, a drawing there. Then the maid carries your virtue (and the city) away, a weight in a wicker basket.