Belliisima

Madonna-She's Not Me (Offer Nissim mix)


The smoke filtered across the floor.  Caught in tiny pirouettes moving lights created a world of halves.  Half light, half shadow.  The glory of...

the hidden...

the revealed.

That is when he saw her.  Dress so tight, Shaping almost every curve, so supple: firm, vexing, beckoning.  Her crown composed of hair short shone.  Her face smiled, her body swayed.  "Come to me" it invited.  "If you only dare," her shift, so soft, so supple warned.

Bellisima

He advanced.  The dance, so soft... so simple, had begun.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him.  She had to feign, to pretend, that she did not want, the focus of her desire.

Describe the heat, so burning, so soft, that rose while lips laden, burning with desire, longed to press.  To somehow quench her fire perpetual.  Just for a moment, to be lost, in consuming extacy   To die, so one could live.  Fully.  Lips longing to feel the heat of his contact.  Her hips soft sway.  Movement towards enticing followed by a supple retreat.  Chase me.  Love me.  Devour...

me.  For I will devour you.

He joined.  Advance soft slight.  The grace across her hip... a simple move that could so easily be excused in the confusion of the dance.  The fury of a furious movement.  He knew it was a grace relished... and so did she.  She closed her eyes to move towards her desire.  He advanced.  The slight game of seduction.  Separated by the tiniest of spaces.  A fraction unbearable.  In that space, was the grace, where energy erupted from her, to mix, to dance, to become one with the energy that was erupting from him.

Bellisima.

His hands moved.  Longing to map the undiscovered county of her body  To memorize every hill, every valley, of her glory.  Meanwhile she, pressed close to him.  She wanted to draw from him.  To justify, to release, to be consumed, by the energy she had created in her longing for him.  Her points rose for him.  Desire dripped from lips so ruby red.  So ripe.  Waiting, desperate for the touch of his desire.

The dance pulled closer.  She felt his reception to her advance.  His welcome.  His longing desperate to consume her beauty.

Bellisima.

The drawing close.  The pulling near, provided by every beat.  Of the heart?  Of the music? Did it matter?

He pulled her close. Her fire burned so bright. His lips burning touched hers, so inflamed.  They were consumed by the inferno.  Erano stati consumati.  Ognuno parlava a ciascuno, in una ligua inespressa.

Bellisima