You arrive exactly at the appointed hour. You are in my room facing me silently as I emerge dripping from the shower. You say nothing. Only look at me with those cat eyes. Something rolls and sparks in my belly and a slow fire travels under my skin. You do not move but your nostrils flare slightly. You have scented my blood. My breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts. I cannot speak. My mouth goes dry as you pad towards me with a heart-stopping grace. I am lifted in one fluid motion and placed upon the table. Your face is an ancient mask, perfectly beautiful, entirely distant. Now I feel your breath on my face on my neck lingering on my breast lapping at my breast nipping at my breast with small sharp teeth. I have lost myself somewhere in your velvet tongue, your cat eyes. But now the moment has come. Now you draw back and slice off my breast. Bend down and begin to sip, nostrils flaring slightly as my slow hot blood slides down your throat. Dark red stars bloom before my eyes as cat eyes glow bright brighter in the thick air. There is no pain and I feel my body grow gravid with pleasure. You drink to my heart and nibble delicately, stopping now and then to pat at your mouth with my soft flayed skin. Your movements are getting slow and languorous now. Soon you will be sated, but not yet. Not yet. You grow weary of my heart. Lazily reach out and pluck my eyeball out of its socket. You roll it around with your tongue, savour it like some exotic fruit, then bite down on it. It spurts into your waiting mouth. I wonder if it tastes like dark honey. Or bitter chocolate. That little intake of breath tells me that you are pleased. That I have pleased you. And then you are gone as silently as you came, exactly at the appointed hour. I know you will come again. You will continue to come until your palate craves something different.
Contrinbutor:
SHALMALEE PALEKAR. Writer and theatre personality. MA (Hons.) in Post-colonial Literatures from the University of Wollongong. Her doctoral work was on poetry of Prabha Ganokar.
