Anything to distract

Eurythmics-sexcrime (extended mix 1984)
Words.  She always thought they came easy.  In a society, where the raw is no longer eloquent.  When society runs from the real.  Heretics are the only ones who speak the truth. Jesters grow silent in the corner.  His words were practiced... they were sharp.  Just as she.  When... she walked.
The undulating, beckoning movement of her hips.  One leg, elegantly placed so light, in front of the other.  A diminutive dance as her hair falling from her shoulders softly shook.  Movements disciplined she tried to maintain in profile.  Making sure he saw a glance.  Just a sight.  A hint of tthe full, supple side of her thigh carefully hidden under the dancing of her skirt.  Her stocking legs merely provided a hint of the hidden treasure beneath.  She knew that lines meant to be invisble would be seen.., if he only looked.  He would see.

Walking behind, he was able to capture a glimpse;  He was looking, but he had to make it seem as if he wasn't.  The savage must be contained, captured, behind a smile.  Her beauty, her heat, was radiating.  She wanted to feel.  To touch, to be touched.  Her finger delicately drew along the spine of a book, where the two would speak of Geiger... Monet... Matisse... Dalai... any thing to distract, to divert desire.  Distract from the tiny dance of courtship.  At each pause, each break, he drew closer to his desert rose.  His Jordan flowing.  Longing to bask in her waters so warm, to be surrounded.

So it was.  She moved.  To gaze at old magazines.  To look at Look.  Ads filled with art-deco.  The lines so firm, the bending shapes soft curvature revealing always the artst's trace.  His touch.  Softly lovingly forming each line.  Each curvature caressed to be drawn into full points growing frim, growing full, till the sharp points drew themselves full in expectation of being seen, of having the fingers trace.

She grabbed a magazine, just as suddenly as she sat.  In the brief moment of passing, he saw what she longed for him to see.  The flash of white.  The stripes going from top to bottom, or bottom to top.  He didn't know.  He didn't care. The soft pass of her settling, the diminutive exposure as she gained her compose.  The draw, the undertow, the pull towards her.  That which she had so longed for.  The real hidden behind the facade.  Fulfillment of the unquenched burning, that had smoldered so long.  She felt his hand, the gracing touch that could almost be forgiven as accidental, become more focused and directed in its elevation.  She turned away if only for a moment.  She knew she could not maintain the game much longer.  With each glance she became intoxicated to his touch.

It was dark outside.  Not that that mattered.  She had already lost herself.  The tremble in her lips longed to capture the fire from his.  She felt the hardness of his body press against her.  She pushed forward, trying to melt into him with the fevered grip of the lovers passion.  If they would burn it would be glorious.

Lips spoke forbidden truths each to each in a language that would only be defamed, desecrated in an attmpt to translate.  The would meld.  He was determined.  He pressed her into him.  Drawing her body ever closer to him.  His press along the gentle, supple, arrogant curve.  His trace drawing her body further into life.  A singing truth shouting to a dead fast wold pleasures they had long forgotten.  The sacredness, the burning heat, that too many had forgotten.  The melding behind the eyes too heavy with desire to remain fully open.  Perhaps only seeing a little of a dying world, or only allowed a glimpse of a sacred truth, the world has too long forgotten.  His draw.  Her press.  A lover's bite on a supine neck.  As her head arched skyward longing to enter the glory; to beat the confines of a weary world.