taste like a poem, like religion
My laughter falls dark with sin. I want to kiss the moonlight. I want to get lost in the music. I want to steal kisses from strangers, as they whisper back with an aching want. Blue smoke billows against my thighs, as I sashay with sultry promise and sensual abandon, against the ruinous flames. Beneath thin streams of moonlight, I laugh and dance, wickedly. I throw my head backwards and my laughter echoes like silk into the night. I feel so alive. I feel like a sinner. I feel like a living flame, dancing in a sea of hot bodies, as I carve them up like a wolf hunting between moonsong and storm shadow. All around me, I can hear the grinding noise of chaos and pleasure. All around me, the dancers spin, laugh and exchange passionate kisses.
I can feel their caresses, sliding down my spine. I can feel the heat of their soft touches, running against my curves, and I enjoy the feeling of being caressed so openly. It feels like ecstasy. Pure, unbridled ecstasy. And I want more. I want them all. Including the mysterious stranger shrouded in darkness and in silence. Only when I see him pass my gaze, only then do I slow my dancing. I tilt my gaze to one side and study him between the shadows of waltzing bodies. I watch him closely, my lips a firm line. There is a secret part of me that fears he would get lost in the crowd. That I would lose him; forgetting the contours of his face, the deep lines of his handsome jaw, all caught in bonfire smoke and lovers' moonlight.
At the edge of forest-darkness, where meadow meets river, beneath luminous moonbeams – with starlight, gleaming across a black river made of reflections, and fire – Euryale dances with a group of heathens and gypsies. Euryale becomes her own hunger. In her image, hunger crawls through her heart made of thorns and vengence. Her heart howls like a wardrum, when she dances; beating like a fist, beneath her ivory breast. When she dances, she dances with passion on her breath; the shuddering violence of crimson curves, smoothing down with blood and sweat and grace, like wine smoothes down a parched throat. Her hips swing with feral longing; swaying to the rhythm of the flames, to the rhythm of desire. Her pale hair, flung in wild abandon. Descending in ruinous waterfalls of lilac across her shoulderblades. With cruel gyspy eyes, Euryale Calantha dances wickedly around the flames. Each step she makes becomes a provocative tease; each curling limb, waltzing with both hunger, and relentless appetite and sensual madness, while her lips hiss and beckon come-hither promises for the damned.
Tonight she feels wilder than love, wilder than religion – with hunger crawling through her like a sickness, a disease. Music becomes a starved lover, aching to hold the sensuous angles of her body close; each possessed melody, screaming out for want of more. Tasting her heart, body and soul. Music bellows like a wild animal through the wanting of flesh. Tonight, there is no room for separation – there is no room for absence, for distance, for shyness. Tonight, there is only rampant lust, there is only chaotic pleasure, and the tangled blur of drunken laughter, echoing deep into the evening. There is only pleasure and darkness and sweat-laden bodies, caught in the sensual trance; maddening music and over-indulgence, a ravenous whirlpool of toxic need. Fire, lust, laughter, alcohol. Each melody, each vice, each promise – becomes a wanton caress of pure addiction. A forbidden whisper of passion, laced with temporary heat. Sweat clings to skin. Breath falls, hot and heavy. The moon glows with a wicked desire. A desire to see her come undone. Tonight is the night for fallen angels – fallen angels, with thorns for halos. And when Euryale and Lilith both spy the strange man, hugging the outer edges of the roaring crowd, they cannot help but stalk him among the shadows.
When she dances, she dances in the sea of teeming bodies, like a shark dances in oceans of foam. She laughs like hunger, and whispers like violence. When she dances, she dances in a blur of feral hunger; spinning in a tempest fury of blood and lilac. Hurricane woman. Banshee. Witch. With now-slow, calculated steps, Euryale dances toward the silent figure; the man cloaked in darkness. The blue smoke follows her like a doting pet. Her pale hair curling against her face. Her body appears touched by silver, soaking in all that effervescent moonlight. Her voice wants to find him in the dark; their low, husky caress; their alluring whispers, touched by the song of tender femininity and devils wanting. "Enjoying yourself, stranger?" When she smiles, her fangs glisten, moon-bright; and the shadows beneath her gaze, suddenly thickens. It is hard to say if it's desire, if it's danger, or threat. But the way she looks at him – unholy, inviting – and the ghost gentleness of her voice; all whispered of wickedness, of ruination. "May I have this dance?"
