The Scissors
I sat before the round mirror.
He stood behind me, holding the scissors.
I shut my eyes.
I felt the cold scissors on my bare neck.
Snip. Snip.
I felt the cut hair falling on my bare shoulders. I shivered.
Slipping down my naked back.
My dark hair, cut. Falling. The scissors touching my like a lover.
I smiled.
I was wet between the legs. I pressed them together.
Done, he kissed me. Kissed my hair, kissed my hands. Kissed the nape of my neck.
He brushed the hair from my naked back and shoulders with a small brush.
Then he dusted me with talcum.
He lifted me in his arms. Took me to the bed.
I clung to his neck. Like a child.
He set me onto the bed. I sank into it. My eyes shut again.
Moist and trembling, I felt his firm hands part my legs.
I let him scissor my legs open. He pressed his mouth to my cunt.
My cunt. I love that word. I love it when he says it in my ear. Tenderly. Biting the lobes. Sucking them. Sticking his insistent, wild tongue into the dark passage.
Paris. 6.00 AM. It’s raining.
I lick my lips. I listen to the thudding rain.
The hooting, jangling roar of traffic.
I see the Arc de Triomph. The stark, soaring phallic basilisk brought back by Napoleon from Egypt.
I shiver. I let the orgasm take me. My body rushes in and out. I scream. He licks me harder. My clit is throbbing as if struck. Struck and vibrating, like a tuning fork.
Paris rushes into the room. All of it. I arch my naked back. Blinding pleasure — I shriek four times. As if I’ve been cut with a knife.
Lashed with the whip of an empty cold sky.
