He sat there admiring her beauty. He felt working for a singer was an honor. Especially, one of her status. People started wars over this woman:
Arguing about what level of beauty she sustained or how well she could sing or play an instrument.
It wasn't only the teenagers that fought over her, but people in their early twenties to late fifties of both sexes fought. Lesbians and gay lovers' relationships broke under the weight of her power.
Many believed God had sent them their savior. Others believed she was the higher power that brought them to Earth.
Every word she sang brought forth flocks of people from every corner of the world. People spent money they did not have to hear her, see her or have a sense of being with her.
They called her Pandoraje. She unleashed the true animal in people. Something completely uncontrollable, but what was it? What was she?
He sat on the hot leather seat in the back of the limo. He ignored the hot, sticky air that engulfed him, for he believed it was his nerves.
His eyes scanned her body from her three inch high-heeled boots, up her luscious tan thighs, to her skirt, and up to her chest. The shirt she wore was hardly a shirt at all: Thin strips of cloth wrapped around her plump breasts and nipples. He looked up further and met her beautiful green eyes. She starred at him, piercing his unworthy soul.
She shifted and rolled up the window in front of them that divided reality and fantasy.
"This is what you want?" She said.
He looked into her eyes and watched them turn blood red. Pandoraje slipped her hands between her thighs, never taking her eyes off his.
"Take what you want."
Without thinking twice he leaned over to her and slipped his hand up her silky smooth thigh and under her skirt. He heard her breath out heavily.
"Not afraid to get your hands wet, are you?"
He grabbed her hips and pulled her forward so that she laid on her back.
"Don't stop until I scream."
That was far from dirty talk. It was a command.
