Miss Holly Golightly. Traveling. (annabelleec) wrote,
Miss Holly Golightly. Traveling.

 "Do you know that there once was a time when they could burn you at the stake or drown you for being a witch?" he said.  And sure enough, "bewitched" was the only way he could describe how he felt.  He turned towards her and examined her profile backlit by the setting sun.  Eyes trained on the rooftops that glowed in the golden light of the evening she seemed to have escaped into a parallel dimension of her own.  After a short while sensing his eyes on her she finally turned towards him languidly, as if regretting her return from that faraway world of hers, and her green eyes sparkled with amber fire of the reflecting sunset.  As she peered at him with, boring through his eyes and deep into the hidden caverns of his soul, with nearly animal intensity, the world around him fell away.  People walking around them arm in arm, the hubub of voices, the occasional piercing shrieks of traffic remained lightyears away.  The only things remaining to him were the embers glowing in her eyesm the river flowing under their feet, and the sun slowly melting over the city.  The longer she held his gaze, the more the time slowed down, until halting completely.  The river stopped flowing.  The sun paused in its tracks.

This wasn't love, he knew, but rather some kind of drug-induced fog he was unable, and actually rather unwilling, to shake off.  She continued to look into his eyes, her facial expression intent and somewhat surprised, as if she had glimpsed something unexpected inside his soul and was now taking a longer look to understand the meaning of it.  Unable to hold out any longer under her stare he broke the spell by finally averting his eyes and shaking his head to get rid of the remnants of her invasive look.  He started mumbling something about religion, since they had been talking about that earlier in the day.  He tossed the subject up in the air and she picked it up eagerly, as if she too were looking for a respite from the intensity of her own feeling.  She took her time speaking, listened with relish to every word he said, digseted the argument thoroughly, and then argued her opinion with passion.  But as he searched her face in the quickly darkening twilight he saw that the raw expression in her eyes did not match the conversation.  Unless she was truly so passionate about the topic.  And he was sure she was not.  

She sat there on the riverbank, slumping slightly, feet kicking over the murky water, the shape of her body easily detected through the thin fabric of her baggy dress.  A woman of many faces: a femme fatale stripping you naked of all your pretenses with one hard look at one moment, an innocent child throwing pebbles into the river the next; each one of the personalities more enticing than the other.  Something stirred inside him when the next gust of wind smelled distictly of her perfume.  No, this wasn't love, he reassured himself as he felt himself loosing his head more and more, while she spoke slowly, articulating every word, about all the reasons why Christianity was the religion of the oppressed.  "Yes, now I really am sure that the stake would be where you would meet your end" he said laughingly, and her face dissolved into a devious smile.

All of a sudden the smell of her perfume wafted over the whole river, and he was reminded of getting lost in the frizzy cloud of her hair earlier in the day when he kissed her hello.  "My litle witch" he thought, but looking up at her ralized that the words must have been pronounced out loud.  She smiled at him, nodded, and placed her hand on his, pressing it into the warm stone of the bank.  The warmth crawled up his arm and into his throat, from where, after a small caugh to get it going, it travelled lower into his lungs, his stomach and lower still, pulsing, spreading in waves.  The air was warm, filling with the combination of the flowery and musky scents of her skin.  And in this shrunk universe of his, centered around the two of them, he felt like a drowning man grasping at nothing but thin air, completely overwhelmed by her presense.  Still pressing his hand in hers she said softly "I've been an angel before, but never a witch."  Her smile exposed her slightly overcrowded front teeth and the fine lines around her eyes, as if trying to prove to him her humanity.  

He would never be so silly as to call her an angel.  No angel would ever be able to stir these kinds of feelings in a man, to rouse him from the slumber of his daily routine, to awaken his soul, to stir his flesh.  She was a witch.  A goddess even.  A pagan goddess of fertility, virile with her curving hips, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, fecund, a walking hint at the pleasures her body was able to afford.  Lightheaded from the smells of expensive perfume and even dearer flesh, already performing rituals of goddess worship in his mind, he mumbled "you are hardly an angel."  And the little devil, she looked pleased, appreciative of the comment.  

Drawing courage from her smile he drew his hand from under hers, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him.  Soft and pliable, she placed her head on his shoulder and nuzzled up to him, like a cat hoping to get scratched.  Her hair tickled his neck but he was careful not to move so as not to scare this rare and precious game away.  He looked down at her bare shoulder and her arm lit up by the last golden rays of the day, and the proximity of her skin intoxicated him.  Sinking deeper still into the scary and uncharted depths of his feeling, he could hold himself back no longer.  He tilted her face upwards towards himself and put his lips on hers with so much force as if trying to kill her with his kiss.

Her soft full lips, at first unmoving, taken by surprise, parted, letting the tip of his tongue brush against her teeth.  His mind went blank and only his heartbeat went counting off the seconds.  All of his senses concentrated on her alone.  He felt himself become an integral part of her: his breath synched with hers, her heart beating for them both.  He smelled her scent coming off her collarbone where sweat was forming into small beads.  He tasted the mind of her gum, the bitterness of her cigarette, and the sweetness of her desire for him.  He heard the blood rushing in his ears and her stifled almost moans.  He felt the sticky smoothness of her skin as he ran his fingers up and down her arms.  He only refused to open his eyes, lest this all turn out to be just an illusion.  

Her inhibitions fell away.  Her icy intensity was left behind.  Her lips were no longer just responding to his kisses, but rather plunging ahead, drinking his life essense straight out of him.  Her mouth moist, greedy.  His face covered with her saliva.  His soul flayed on her altar.  She fed on him with beastly ferocity, engulfing his being with her hungering mouth, imparting her secrets through her minty gum, and loving, loving as he had never known anyone to love before.
Tags: scribbles, the date book
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