In The Eye II: Sultry (The Odalisque Remix)
"Her cheeks are blushing,
Her legs lay bare,
And shipwrecked there, I'll shake you from your sleep"
The way her stomach flutters each time you graze it drives you mad. The skin as white as clean linen doesn't seem to belong in this part of town, where dirt seems to creep into every crevice. But she is still pure against your tan hand that is drawing slow circles around her belly.
Her voice has started in that perfect pleading, that is sweeter then any begging you've ever heard. And you have heard more begging from husbands who don't want to leave their family fatherless, to widows looking for handouts. It's a vicious circle, but it's a circle that can't be stopped.
"Please, please, please," until it reaches the fever pitch that you need to hear as you plunge your fingers in her.
She bends and breaks each time you bring your tongue to her. Her breaths are gasps, soft mutterings calling to Jesus, and she rubs your cheeks red, the same color of her ragged stockings.
Everything is seeping together in your head as you tug brutally at the tuft between her legs and make her curve a perfect arch, and grasp your headboard.
You can't help but imagine if this is what it would be like to kill her, to make her beg for you to bring her to that edge, to the end that she needs, that she wants. So close to hell that she can feel the fire rushing up her.
You know that she imagines it too, because you are kindered spirits. You know that she's imagined bringing a knife down on you as she moved upon you.
You know also that she's imagined you tightening your hands around her neck.
But you wouldn't kill her.
You could kill her. You could kill her easily, because she over-estimates the strength she has, and she doesn't understand you have seen her give everything over to you. Everytime she lets you lift those skirts, and everytime she rests in your arms; you know you could easily end it quickly.
But you wouldn't. For she is a piece of art that belongs in your bed, in your ownership unlike the other whores who've walked beside her down the streets.
Besides no one else on those streets tastes as sweet as her. Better then any wine that's slid down your throat, and better then any other lady walking your streets.
She's coming closer and closer to her end, you can sense it in every twitch of her thigh. The feel of the sweat dripping off her is warmer then any of the blood you have washed off of your hands.
Her blood would burn you, just your fingers tingle with the heat inside her.
Finally her body clenches, she thanks you in her old voice, and you know that she's yours.
Later you make her say it. You make her scream it. You make her feel it, dug into her thighs with the mark of you on her.
It doesn't need to be said.
You already own everything else.
But you like to hear.
You need to hear it.
You need to remember that there will be someone waiting for you at the gates.