Pale hands.

Pale hands that were dexterous and desperate. They meandered at the base of the neck, and wandered lovingly against the shaving foam. Scrape and scrape they did against the skin, mowing away unwanted hairs. Up higher over desired cheekbones and one could almost hear tenderness sing from the sharp blade. This pale hand was careful and was sure to erase all memory of those black disfiguring bristles. Another hand rested onto a relaxed shoulder. The hand gripped tightly and the blade once more began to wander.

A flick of the wrist and a slide of the hand.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood was on the apron fizzling out in a fountain of gore. The wooden flooring drank readily, famished and pleased with another job well done. The butcher, not the baker, nor the candlestick maker wiped away the red liquid unto a black cloth. He then pulled the lever and allowed for another dull crack to alert the woman downstairs.

Her guests were hungry and it would not do to keep them waiting.

The butcher, not baker, but a blood merrymaker, put away his tool lovingly into it's case.

Whisper I'll listen

I know, I know

You've been locked out of sight

My friend

A definitive caress of the case and to the baker the blood merrymaker made off.

.......................................................................

He felt dead, a slow week it was, and no body to sing garish bloody songs upon. He would have to settle for the baker. She pale as death, clip clopped upon the hobbly stairs, ever the faithful wife. But she was not a wife, just a simple stand in, one that was in dire need of a cutting. She opened the door to his little shop an innocent smile gracing her lips, but he smiled his wicked grin and it was easy to see that all innocence was pretend. Sit down little baker he thought to himself as he gestured to his chair. Let us retrieve our friend.

Ruffles and lace. Ribbons and grace.

She sat down on her tuffet, letting him have his way.

He leaned down beside her, his grin growing wider

And cut some Lovett away.

A thin slit near her breast and little rivulets of blood trickled onto the tight fitting dress. She sighed in pleasure and kicked her tiny feet onto the foot rests appreciatively.

Come Mrs. Lovett let us get on with it the blade whispered as it ghosted over her neck making a wretched promise it could not keep. Her eyes fluttered close and one delicately pale hand gripped her knee. The blade skimmed as a dancer would in a ballet grazing soft pink lips.

Petal lips, pink and rosy.

Foutain of blush, pretty as a posy.

Ashes, ashes, another slit,

Down.

And he cut away the fabric that restrained pale full breasts. He leaned the chair back to study his handiwork, and licked his lips slowly. What work he could create with fine breasts as those and so he made stark vision a blatant reality upon snowy skin.

Oh, blood made the heart beat and so it was evident as it continued to mar the black of the dress as it rolled and roiled around timid pink nipples.

Art.

He walked before the pale, heaving baker, noting her unrestrained ecstacy, her breathy moans as her curious fingers rubbed at the blood. Hooded eyes met his cold calculating ones.

Would he not play today?

Dickery dickory dock

The widow gasped in shock

The clock struck one

The blade swung down

Hickory Dickory dock

Pale clever hands met a reddened breast gently squeezing a nipple. A wanting baker pushed into the hand but he was not interested. Pale hand returned to a grim mouth and sucked gently.

It was copper and good and sweet. The man straddled the woman, knife in one hand the other holding a bleeding breast and licking away gently. Soft steady mewling, but he did not let it bother him.

Another cut beneath the collar bone and a faithful tongue followed abandoning a bleeding breast to the English chill.

He drew back and looked at a very loose and dreamy Mrs. Lovett, who was not a Mrs. at all. A flick near the edge of her mouth and he suckled gently at the corner of her mouth. Soft hands fluttered to the back of a firm suit, grasping the scratchy material.

Lips met briefly and a curious tongue begged entrance. Another flick of the knife stopped that insatiable mouth. A smooth tongue laved over a surpised and bleeding shoulder and still those hands.

Hands.

Wandering, grasping, and needing.

So be it then.

He held out a gentleman's hand to help her from the chair and so she took it.

Clip clop they went down the stairs to the powdery, black on black room that was hers. A large bed there was to accomodate a large husband he guessed.

Sweeney had a little lamb

Whose skin was white as snow

And everywhere the barber cut

Blood was sure to flow

Ties undown, ruffles pushed through, shoes kicked off, knickers pulled down. And yes, fingers, he supposed were necessary. A blushing writhing thing she was when he forced two cold fingers into her. He pushed up into her feeling his hand becoming slick with her juices. He watched coldly as her body enflamed with a crackling passion bucked into his hand. Mrs. Lovett felt what he could not, but if it would end her insufferable whining, he made to unbutton himself.

Recovering she watched as pants and drawers fell to the floor. She grinned madly and gazed pointedly at the shirt and vest. He scowled but obeyed the silent message. Naked flesh met naked flesh and so se enfolded him into her arms struggling to warm a bitter and frozen heart. A body responded, cock hard, audible grunts, but the thoughts of the knife never wavered, neither did the need for revenge and the pit of despair.

His fingers resumed the steady rhythm inside of Lovett. She laid gentle kisses upon him as she struggled onto his impatient fingers. Finally hitting a spot that he knew was key, she came against his hand, and his first thought was that his suit had remained somewhat clean during this endeavour. He pulled out his fingers and held them to her mouth, and as if trained she licked them clean.

She got onto all fours and approached her prize taking all of him into her small petite mouth. He could not help but groan loudly. If only it were Lucy he wished as he shivered uncontrollably. Looking down he imagined blonde curls, imagined steady sky blue eyes looking into his. He grasped streams of hair and forced the hungry mouth all the way down onto his cock ignoring the choking noises.

Hey diddle diddle

The cat and his fiddle

And so she cried to the moon

The clever wolf smirked to see such sport

And she wished she could have him soon

He felt himself release into her mouth and pushed her away quickly. She laid in the heap that he threw her, looking up at him with large doe eyes. He ignored this and got off the bed and began redressing himself. He heard a tinging sound from above and his eyes regained a little glimmer of life. He turned to her a small smile on his face.

"Get dressed and I'll make sure dinner's ready, all nice 'n' proper."

"Anythin' for you Mista T."

There was a barber and his wife

And he was beautiful

A proper artist with a knife

But they transported him for life

And he was beautfiul

FIN