Even immortal

The mask rendered her exotic and wild.

Venice. Late evening. A sultry, velvet, expectant night.

Standing in the middle of a hushed and empty square dominated by a blind, sleeping church.  The last calls of the gondoliers echoing along silent, narrow canals.

The dress was like a sheath.  It clung to her body as hungrily as my desire.  Her curves were elegant and perfect beneath sheer silk. Her hair, raven-black, strangely lit by the weak street light, fell to her pale, bare, elegant, vulnerable shoulders in a lustrous cascade.  Her nipples, urgent beneath the cloth, betrayed her.

I could see her eyes glittering like living jewels behind the half face mask she had worn to the masquerade, now silenced by distance.  The tip of her tongue slid over her slightly parted lips. Otherwise she was completely still.

From somewhere nearby a clock uttered a deep, muffled, single chime.

“Take it off.” I said softly.

She slowly reached behind for the zip with one hand.  She guided it down to the small of her back with the other. She peeled the dress from her like a second skin.  It fell at her feet with a whisper.

The ancient city seemed to hold its breath, and then sigh.

I will never forget the divine beauty of her body in that holy, timeless, heart-stopping moment.

Even if I become immortal.

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Photograph stolen from the lovely chloris8