Vice of form

Star¹, is there, on that large square pillow.  Almost at the center of the brown cotton, where a tuft of three corded hemp sprouts her middle.
She watches the friend, and wonders why she seems so perplexed.  They have known each other for a while but have never had the chance to deepen their acquaintance.
Why is she afraid of me? All of this also depends a little on her.  I cannot but obey her.
The friend has always been a little mistrustful, fearful at just the idea of revealing her icy character.  A prickly character from another era, she is certainly not one who needs to shine to understand her worth.  Of a sober appearance, yes, but of a toned form.  One can’t avoid staring.  Stunning outside, severe inside but in the end docile.
The friend should have known that she would not have made a move without her consent.  She was loyal to her.  And now, visibly excited, it was all she wanted from the moment they had met, from when the friend’s hands had detained her and their thoughts had become one.
Touch me, I won’t do anything else unless you want me to.
But that feeling there, that her presence gives, restlessness more than anything else deriving from a sense of guilt.
Why doesn’t she approach me? Why doesn’t she touch me?  I am a part of her by now.
The morning advances with the noise from outside.  Wails and repetitions knock at the French doors in frosted glass.  Inside, this sacrilegious room, pastel green walls and long curtains of coarse, lobster cotton that gobbles the light.
At first impression, Star seems innocuous in her lines of compact purity, it seems that the turbulent years and impure acts have slid off her.  The curves both front and back are smooth and full like the sides.  The burnishing has gently turned into a pleasant beaver tail reddish color.
I’m not sure if I feel like it anymore, my secret passage, my dark internal tunnel, maybe she’s not so ready ...
Her shoulder still sports the scar from the last wound not healed.

The friend begins to open each of the fifteen slim and wide drawers of the dresser.  A brief search, she extracts an elegant blue box.  She sits and playfully pushes it on the table like a cat with a ball of foil.
At last, rolling out almost by accident, that polished tube with a flattened point at one end and a disk that caps the other.  
Star cannot believe it.  I don’t know why she is doing such a thing but after all this time waiting I’m not sure of wanting it ...
The friend performs a rapid gesture, everything flows with fast mechanical precision.  Star is taken, without forewarning. The friend handles her almost without touching her.  The cylinder is opened.
The Leon Beaux bullet, in excellent condition, is loaded.
I will kiss her on her neck, up to under her chin, skim the artery, enter her mouth, and awaken her senses.  Is love colder than death?
The trigger is pulled.
Spatter on the walls.  Given that too much desire kills the beloved, Star falls to the floor exhausted, at her side the slightly hardened friend, floating in a pool of hot red liquid.

Done. She is much more serene now.  And until the umpire blows the whistle, we will continue to play.

¹ Pistol is the name of the biggest star in the galaxy