She was good, like jam on toast. She was very, very good.
She started swaying her hips one way and then the other. She swiveled as her breasts bumped, and then a bass beat started up and she began to really hump.
Her belly rippled like a dream, and then her sleek, long legs began moving again.
Her scent, the aroma of her dance, almost drove me mad.
Her sweat smelled like frankincense and cinnamon, and then her habit started peeling off, piece by piece.
Across the pool, her glittering eyes drew back as I watched her swaying, lovely thighs.
She had dark lines around her look, kohl smoldering her gaze, green eyes looking deeply in. This bride of Christ could dance, oh, how she could dance.
If I hadn’t been born for something else, I would have stopped and offered her my hand. I might have danced then once again.
But no. My fate was off before I knew. I’d served Him up the way he’d asked. And then when done with my lone task, they hung me from a tree instead.
I watched her dance into the sky as vultures feasted on my eyes. That nun could dance to wake the dead.