by Nicole Cave
"Excuse me, miss? I couldn’t help but notice your breasts."
"Si, they are perfect, no?"
"Yes, quite perfect. Do you always show them off?"
"Would you rather I cover them? It would be like draping a heavy cloth over a perfect statue.
The man seemed innocuous enough, she had known his kind, quite well in fact. Her eyes took him in, hard lines of the face gave way to the hard planes of his broad shoulders, covered in a thin acrylic which hugged every muscular delineation. He was quite simply, perfect. She wanted him. That was an easy conclusion, and from his roving gaze she knew he wanted her as well. Though to which use each would use each other had yet to be seen.
She performed the dance. The ritual known to any woman worth the breasts upon her chest, smiling, laughing at his jokes, letting him talk incessantly about himself while feigning interest, making it possible to touch him in an inconspicuous way. The dance. He could not seem to break his gaze from her breasts, she decided to tease him, her nipples coming out to say hello before shying away.
The dance, as always worked, soon he was lying nude on her bed as she tied his arms to the bedposts with a nylon rope. She secured his ankles to the posts as well, sprawling him open before her. Her tongue snaked about his lips as she whispered, "Que bellisimo, que belissimo." His mouth worked for her kiss, his body straining against his restraints but she gave him no more. Now her pleasure will begin.
Slowly, she pulled the blade from her jewel toned pendant, the silver making a delicate sound leaving an echo in the warm air about them. His eyes grew wide at the blade, belying his own soft moan escaping his lips. Yes, fear of pain brings pleasure. With an experienced hand, she slid the blade across the flesh of his thick, muscled thigh, watching as his flesh parted to reveal the thin line of blood. His sharp intake of breath sent a shiver through her dead body, a moan of her own escaping as she placed her full, warm lips to the thin line. She continued her ecstatic journey around his body, tasting from his arms, his belly, his nipple and finally his now fully engorged manhood.
The taste was sweeter as it rushed into her mouth, sliding over her lips and down her neck. His last moan was a shuddering breath as with one quick movement she brought the silver blade across his neck to end him. Now, her work began.
Stabbing into his sternum she ripped the blade down his chest to eviscerate him before her hungry eyes. Each organ, lovingly extracted, held above her lips as the still warm liquid dripped into her waiting lips.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The incessant drop of crimson liquid lulled her into a state of blissful ecstasy. Her fingernails, sharp, pointed and in a matching hue to the "paint" worked the lines in the flesh. Giving, pliable, not yet hardened with death, it moved to her touch. Her art was escaping through the corpse, the pleasure coursing through her fingers, her eyes and her ears. The cavity before her held a still softly pulsing heart. It’s soft glub creating a subtle duet with the vitae marking the stone floor.
"Death in Art, Art in death. Pleasure be mine." Her voice, low, sultry and laced with her Hungering passion filled the room. She stepped back, backing slowly into the velvet divan and draping her body across it. Her gaze admired and critiqued her masterpiece as her bloodied fingers slid between her full lips. The soft suckling an accompaniment to the moans vibrating her body.
She has never lost her marvel at the awe-inspiring beauty of the human body. Inside and out.