Evil

I dreamt last night.

Her black skirt flared a few inches out as it passed her knees, like a halo surrounding the last whispered prayer of a bombshell.

A pencil skirt I think they call it.

Belted high, it reminded me of the 50′s pinup girls that walk my walls and the recesses of my bookshelf. The top was impenetrably black like the skirt, belt, boots, and the fishnets filling in the blanks.

When she started undressing it was like watching the Mona Lisa being painted. Slow, meticulous…

hopelessly…

artistically…

calculated.

Not a brush stroke wasted; all the mystery of womanhood. All the power of sin.

Her skin was soft… impossibly soft. So soft I opened my eyes to make sure it was still human being I was touching. Soft but not fragile; in fact, it seemed strong to the point of impenetrability. Like this was the pillow that caught Lucifer after the fall. This was the place where my stumbling had ended. As if all the air, epidermis, clothing, thought, expectation, and uncertainty had melted away and i was touching pure humanity. And I was lost.

It was time for her to leave. Night was gone and the morning was on it’s way out. We had broken our fast and done our best to break each other in the early dark. She wasn’t leaving. I made the best of the situation by kissing her with temptation, sliding moisture across her lips and sucking them rhythmically. I could smell her desire. Not her desire exactly, but it’s symptoms. You know; the prelude. Her increasingly heavy breathing wafting her lip gloss and the smell of orange juice into my face. The smell of her womanhood that was already slicking the insides of her thighs in rivulets. She should have worn panties. A satisfied need no longer motivates behavior. It’s time. Leave.

She exits like molasses. Black. Slow. Still fluid. barely.

Now I’m awake. Alone.