She was the woman I could never wash (part 1)

She was the woman I could never wash (part 1)

The door opened inertia, as if under the same mute effect of surprise.  My whole reason was paralyzed by the surrounding air with the smell of mystery, and what had until then been a strong and determined man had turned into something very close to a virgin, looking blankly like an ox, with a bouquet of roses in his hand.   Empty because I couldn't see her, but she was so present with that smell that intoxicated me with every breath.  If it had a color, that smell would have been a wet, wild black stained with a dark red.  I couldn't see it, but it could be seen from the end of the hall where I was that it would be a night like I never thought I could imagine, we only have senses and instincts.

 And instinctively I went on.  As we progressed, so did his pulse.  I don't know if my mind was ahead of itself or because of the diffused light that was fooling the darkness in a cunning way.  I don't know if everyone around her had taken on the bastard attributes, or she was the only bastard who stole my reason.  I don't know or I don't want to accept.  But I know I didn't want to be anywhere else, on this February night that seemed to be the last night on earth, and I was going to spend the rest of it in person.

 Nail heels and silk.  That's what I saw the first time.  Then I continued on, watching the black stripe that connected the shoe to the lace on my thigh.  The silk wasn't on it, it was on silk or something.  I do not know the details of the material, because I'm a man, but I saw her stupid in bedding, as she cared for them.  I could see it slipping lightly and calculatedly into that seemingly cold texture, I could see that in the way her skin longed for closeness, and her parted lips cried out for touch.  Wet black and wild, indeed.  She twisted her demons on my fingers with every arch of my back, with every elbow lift, defying me with her breasts and doing so with the lightness with which she would play a little with a strand of hair.

 It was a paradox.  She was a villain dressed in temptation, she had infamous looks, and her waves did not make you think of divinity at all, but she did all this in innocent, elegant bedding with royal motifs.  She was a dazzling queen of darkness within me.  He seduced me with whispers and submissive grimaces and pushed me back with sharp heels that protected his back explicitly turned to me.  I hadn't known drugs to do what this woman did by smell, whisper and what she was in that bed, maybe the most common place, but she, unlike other women, knew how to use it.  She knew how to make weapons out of the man's senses, and she knew how to combine them in such a way as to short-circuit his logic.  He had turned bed linen into a demon battlefield.  He had turned a woman with an angelic countenance in my mind into a woman worthy of punishment.

 It was no coincidence that she was a maid in a queen's bedding, it was no coincidence that she was a whore in a lady's sheets.  No, not in February, not in the month of touch and feelings.  Something told me that such a woman would keep you in February all year long.  An uplifting feeling of power to know that you are going to have it.  Deceptive thought that dissipates, realizing that you do not know how much you would have.

 I grabbed her wrist like a hungry jivin, so that a satiated bastard would be defied and

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