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Claudia was still now. Oppressive afternoon heat had overtaken her. Closed shutters to keep the searing sun away, wearing a skirt so that she could dress whilst waking without thought. Black boned bodice; purple flare…… She pinned up hair, her neck cooler and it would look beautifully deranged lose by evening. Almost naked under white sheets. No disturbing clock: siesta so embedded that she would wake exactly at four. Market traders shuffling in the streets below. Car horns, bicycle bells, all bellowing last urgent attempts to get home for sleep.The last sense to leave her was smell. Strong coffee brewed for wakening. Lokuum, with its edge of hazelnut and dusted sugar, bought from Europe. Grilled pepper freshly milled Şerifali Escort into coconut milk; crushed raw onions. Claudia had scoured her hands and arms with lemons just before sleeping. To take away the smell of raw beef and peeled prawn. Because he would eat.She woke an automaton. Pulled on bodice and dancing shoes, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Step, skip, make a rhythm of stilettos down three flights of stone and out into the still stifling heat. Careful over cobbles, then a dance across the dust, into the blue smoke of the club. Claudia lent across the bar. Endless rows of cocktails hung with festoons of fruit waiting for her. Drink the first, the second and almost through Şerifali Escort Bayan a third, commanding everyone who saw her. Punters’ mock amazement at her theft but none ever complained. Her body filled with warmth as the music began. Beat so beguiling that it was impossible for her to keep still. All eyes turned.Claudia had three hours. Unbridled curls fell in abandon down her back as she sidled to the centre of the stag. They had put in a pole only a week before. Stainless steel, pristine it went from ceiling to floor, ice-blue in the low lights. Strong and steadfast for her. Claudia slithered around it, her legs entwined and wrapped around it. She could fasten herself to it Escort Şerifali and hold and balance as if it were him holding her in the air. They could almost see their prize as she stretched her legs wide and arched her back in limbo. As low as she could go she would press her naked body hard into the coldness of the metal.Money came. They threw it; rolled it; pushed it carefully down the wire of her bodice between the softness of her breasts. Her dancing: all relationship, all expression. Freedom. Just like waking from siesta, when it was over it was over. She stopped. Refreshed herself from the bar, grabbed her shawl. Was gone.Out into dying heat and falling light. Across cobbles and into the back of a tram. Black bodice; purple voile; dark legs, the shawl wrapped around her head as if in confession. A sense of urgency. The end of the tram line met with a cable car, caught high on steel wire, swinging in growing breezes. Open, exposed, a frail bar to hold her, she got in, artfully matching its constant movement.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32