Rewrite of a story I wrote last year on a deleted profile. Comments appreciated. For the person who will make the comment: No, I'm not doing Judaism or Islam, not because it's not allowed and christianity is, but because I know absolutely nothing about the others and so will not write about what I don't know. Enjoy!
While she would never have considered herself a stalker, the tall, Italian born director of the art museum in which she now stood was certainly keeping an eye on the gorgeous woman who'd walked in just past twelve on that Sunday afternoon. Their eyes had met for only a second as the woman passed, but it had been enough to light a spark which drove her to pursue a glimpse of the other woman again. She'd never seen the woman before and she would be damned if she let this woman whose thick, dark hair, soft tanned skin, piercing green eyes ringed with thick khole, and trim (but not skinny) figure so tantalized her, go without so much as a whisper.
So now she stood off to the side, examining the woman who examined the art. Her eyes roved down from the long, pinned chestnut hair to a graceful, inviting neck. Her ears were gauged to zero, and a plug with a picture of the Immaculate Heart of Mary sat in each ear with a pair of crosses dangling behind them. She felt a knot in her gut, acknowledging that this certainly decreased her chances of her interest being reciprocated, especially considering her afilliations. The woman also wore a pearl rosary, which gently flowed over the burnt orange polka dot short-sleeved dress, ending just above the knees and sporting an angled slit on one thigh, which crossed at mid-thigh, and the woman's ring-covered fingers were clasped behind her, accentuating the cleavage, which meant to be visible over the low neckline, or would have been were she not wearing a white undershirt beneath it and a thin black unbuttoned sweater for modesty's sake. The dress was accented with a black leather belt with a simple buckle and a pair of black flats.
She was beautiful and not at all the sort of woman she usually went after, at least not judging by her choice of jewelry. She generally viewed one's like these as enemies. The director herself wore a black pantsuit, which fit her immaculately, and a white button-up with the top button undone and a black tie. Her glossy hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the thick rimmed glasses she wore gave her a studious air. Her cheekbones were high and her olive skin was without blemish. plump, pink lips shone glossily above a heart shaped chin.
"You look like you want to eat her up," the woman who'd approached her whispered, and she jumped, startled.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," the director replied.
"Oh, I know, but you look so serious over here. It's just a woman," the woman chuckled.
"A beautiful one," the director said, not looking at the woman who was now beside her. "An exceptionally beautiful one. Excuse me, Sarah," she purred in her slight Italian accent as she boldly walked up to stand beside the mystery woman. They both stood, staring up at the painting for several moments before she spoke. "Dorè certainly brings it alive, doesn't he?" She cast a sidelong glance down at the shorter woman.
"Yes, he really captures the emotion and the fear," the shorter woman replied.
"So are you fond of fairy tales then?"
"I am. 'My, grandmother! What big teeth you have." She gave a sly smile as she gazed up at Little Red Riding Hood sitting right next to the wolf in bed, her eyes darting between the painting and the Italian beside her.
"The better to eat you with, my dear," the taller woman smiled, her gaze meeting the other woman's, her eyes full of hunger and barely restrained passion.
"You do say," the woman said, her voice lowering to a seductive whisper, "but what's a girl to do when she meets a wolf in sheep's clothing?"
"Well, I suppose she has two options. Run as fast as her legs will take her, or..." The Italian woman took a slid closer, invading the other's personal space.
"Or?" the shorter woman prompted, her arms crossed as she allowed the invasion.
"Or, she could be male the more interesting choice to stay and be eaten," the Italian purred.
"Oh? Now that's a novel take."
"It is. I have many of them." The director took in the stunning thing before her, wondering just what was going on behind those gorgeous eyes. "So, I've never seen you here before." She smiled warmly, hoping the exchange had been as flirtatious as she imagined.
"First time, though I must admit the gallery is far larger than I expected. I've wanted to come for a while, and so I was coming out of mass at Saint Dominic's across the street, didn't have shit else to do, and decided to pop in." She explained matter-of-factly.
"Ah, a good Catholic girl?" a note of disapproval unintentionally laced her words which she tried to stiffle and failed.
If she noticed the tone she didn'tshow it. "That's the idea." The woman shrugged. "Or well... at least that's what everyone thinks." She smirked.
"Oh? So then what's the truth?" The director cocked an eyebrow.
"Let's just say that I'm... not much of a believer. To say the least."
"So then why put on the charade?" The director asked.
"Because I have gone there my entire life. Because my whole family goes..."
"And you don't want to disappoint them?"
"Exactly." The other woman nodded. "Not that it isn't beautiful, I just... don't believe. Not like I should anyhow and... let's just say that I have certain... inclinations." She slid a loose strand of hair behind her ear before dropping her arms to rest at her sides.
"Such as a fascination with wolves in sheep's clothing?" The director raised an eyebrow, her hand grazing the other woman's. She felt a thrill when the woman didn't pull away but simply glanced down for a split second.
"Maybe. After all, I've always been into the darker shit."
"Mmmm, you should come see some of the things in the other wings, then," the director said with a sultry smirk.
"Maybe I should. So, you work here?"
"I'm the director."
"Ooo, impressive."
"Perhaps, but I do love my job. Art is passion."
"Indeed. I myself have a great deal of that. I've been told by my priest that I have too much, but I just can't help it."
"And what is it that you have a lot of?" Her hand swished against the woman's thigh gently as their eyes now bore into one another's.
"Passion. For music, for writing, and, well, other things," the mystery woman said with a suggestive smirk.
"Christ had a passion if I rightly recall." She could smell the intoxicating perfume on the woman as her her gave a light touch to the small of her back.
"Indeed, but we're not talking about Christ," the mystery woman said, "and that is an incredibly blasphemous statement." She leaned into the touch, subtly tilting toward her admirer.
"And?" She slowly licked her lips, giving the implications of her blasphemy time to breathe like fine wine. She knew she couldn't hide who she was, in fact she refused to do so. It was clear the desire was mutual despite her chosen aesthic. If anything the illusion of being a good, Christian woman only served to highten her desire.
"And," the shorter woman breathed, "does a hungry wolf have a name?"
"Maria. Maria D'Angelo."
"Maria? Mary. Like the Virgin." She chuckled.
"Mhm. Just like her. And yours?"
"Eve."
"Oh, that is too good!" She laughed heartily.
"The irony isn't lost on me. And then there's you. Holy Mary, the second Eve." She smirked.
"And is this the serpent come to tempt her?" Maria teased, her hand now fully resting on Eve's thigh, her fingers curling under the edge of the slit, teasing the exposed skin.
