His voice sweet as dripping honey, his tongue sparkling with the red pearls of most divine treasure.
Mairon feels the stirr of forbidden temptations dancing on the small edge of the wine glass, exquisite movements with fragile balance. For a moment he ignores the filaments dictating the artist. He only sees the glow of persuading seduction and wants to feel the nectar of allurement on his very own lips. He misses the flash of something in his eyes.
His voice so very close to his stone-build ignorance he desperately tries to keep up.
Truculent hands grab him and lingering fingers curl around the weak barriers of his soul. With a burst they crush his prison of austerity and Mairon moans against the hot touch of branding lies that, from now on, mean his life.
His voice a rough frisson on his maimed skin cutting it more open with every thrust. It leaves scars of his never satisfied passion on top of once clear and untouched soil. Notches are a silent witness of the waves of pain and pleasure that swirled up all foundations Mairon once laid for himself.
His voice never formes the tunes that would make it real but in this single blasphemic second, Mairons lips part in mere astonishment as he realizes the significance of the unknown sparkle in his masters all too dominant eyes.