The Power of Beauty

"May I get you a drink?" he enquires.
"Vodka & Coke" she retorts, and fixing him with her gaze, emphasises, "No ice".
Before he can respond, her gaze has left him, and her eyes are back persusing the room.
Muttering, "certainly" which he knows she is oblivious too, he heads for the bar...

Returning, he picks up the aura of her persona again. He'd spotted it from across the room before his approach. She held herself differently from other women, almost like she knew she was perfect.
Perfect - What is perfect? He'd had this image of perfect in his head, but it was a blurred image that never before had been actualised. Now it was, and she was it. He had to possess this perfection, he had to own it for himself. To own it he has to take it over, take down the power of this perfect state and encapsulate it for himself - then he himself may become perfect.

He spots the drink. "Lady your drink".
She glances, checks there is no ice.
"Thankyou" she says and diverts her attention again.
"May I sit down?" he enquires
With a flick of her hand, she gestures to the seat beside her.

He sits back in the seat, tentively waiting for her attention.
She is in no hurry to give it.
He submerges in her presence. Each times she moves, he catches the scent of her skin. Her aroma is of the richest herb, suffusing his senses and overpowering his being. He takes in each tiny fragment of her. The feminity of her hands, the slenderness of the legs stretching out from beneath the leather dress, the arch of the feet encased in the lethal stilettos. His eyes rise up, he takes in the curve of her breasts, the arch of her back, the distinguished collar bones rising to the elegance of her neck. She throws her head, locks flow down her back and over her sensuous shoulders. Fleetingly, she looks at him with eyes that are darkened pools, her lips part as if to speak, and he is lost, gone for ever into the orifaces of what he has come to posess.

Hours later, she rises, beckons him with one finger, he walks behind her.
His eyes train in on the rise of her deriere and the curve of her hips and the fragility of her waist. He knows tonight he must possess it, and whatever she asks, he will be it.
She unlocks the door, leaving it ajar, he follows behind, closing it for her. She drops her coat, walks to the lounge. Picks up the scotch, lays down a glass, fills it and says, "Drink".
She leaves. He hears the shower running. She comes back, this time enrobed in a towel. Gone are the black leather encasings, left is slightly tanned skin and the whiteness of snow in the towel that is wrapped round this frame of feminine perfection. Fragile in body she may be, authority is not lost. Off she wafts with a persona that could never be virginal, despite the white. She leaves again. He takes the liberty of pouring another drink...

She retuns again. This time the vision of style. Her locks descending over one shoulder, the red halter neck dress skimming over her breasts, cut tight to her waist and encasing her perfect hips. The dress stops at her ankles, he again, takes in the curve of her feet and his eyes drift up over the slash sided dress where the slenderness of her leg is visible up to her hips. His mind drifts to her straddling his torso, those perfect thighs encasing his own, the halter neck falling, and the perfect breasts descending on his lips...
He visualises his manhood embedded deep, possessing, taking, embodying...
He sickens with his own thought.
She is too perfect to possess, to violate, to take.

She lounges back, the thigh length slash of the dress falls apart.
Again, she beckons with one finger.
He knows what he must do, he knows what he wants to do.
He eats the flesh, possessing, embodying, pleasing, to have, to give, is to belong, be part of...

"Do you breathe my flesh?" she asks.
"Your flesh is my life", he responds as he buries his head back in the deep herbacious aroma.

"Breathe easy", she sighs, another groan ommitting as he brings her to orgasm. She grasps the cheesewire around his puny neck and pulls tight. She feels the wire cut through the cartiliginous tissue. His eyes bulge like a rabbit stuck in headlights and then she lets him sleep, forever embodied in her female aroma, death becomes him possessed in the perfect state.

La petite mort...