#impure

That's how it felt to stare into your eyes for Cairo — she could see all your demons, fighting the urge to escape from the depths of your mind and release their chaos into the unknown world. It was fascinating, daring even, to unveil each creature that gazed back at her when your eyes met for a hot second in the middle of the crowded classroom. And when you quoted the first sentence of said quote, with dark eyes craved on hers, a grin drew on her lips.

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.” Your voice was low, matching the sound of your high heels stomping on the wooden tiles, following a pace that, somehow, was synchronized with the beat of your heart. 

Everything about you seemed well-placed, from the glasses that always slipped to the tip of your nose, forcing you to push the dark frame up every five minutes, to the white blouse that never carried a single wrinkle in the soft fabric; Cairo wanted to run her hands up and down your biceps when you brushed slightly against her as you returned to the front of the class. Even the chalk writing on the board behind you was perfect, rounded, and easy to understand. 

Hell! It didn't even look like you had troubles in your life, almost as if you were friends with all the demons screaming inside your head. 

There was only one that threatened to take over your muscles and move your body by itself, making you walk to the young writer that always sat at the first row, paying attention to every single movement of your body with curious eyes, staring at the window of your soul. The alluring brownish of her long hair created a delicate aura around her as the noon sun cracked through the big windows.

She was angelical, with freckles sprinkled all over her skin like the stars painted by Van Gogh, a dimple that came followed by an astounding smile. Yet, she was the devil. Forcing you to sin as you dropped to your knees to adore her; it was forceful, corrupt, making you ache as your mouth ran up and down her tasty body, thirsty, desperate. 

Cairo Sweet felt like heaven, but had a soul that was grabbed from hell and thrown into the body of a girl that craved the world, to be known, to take everything she could from everyone she touched. 

And you weren't different. At first, her greediness was subtle, well hidden under the facade of a lovely girl. You thought she was a “teacher's pet” — as your professor told you in one of his “preparation class” before you replaced him for the month as a graduation test, but the young writer was more than that, she was eager to please you, be it with her aggressive writing or with fingers deep inside you. 

Sometimes it felt like she was the test, and you would only succeed if you survive the storm that was Cairo Sweet.

When you fell on her bed for the first time, it felt like Lucifer descending from heaven, and Cairo was your personal hell. She smoldered against your fingertips, with gray smoke leaving her mouth at every word of euphoria, sliding her tongue against your lips with a carnal desire that consumed her more and more at every sob that left your mouth. 

The second time was excruciating. It melted your skin in a way that made you feel like it was written on your forehead all of your dirtiest sins, with the same perfection of your calligraphy and in every language so that all eyes on you were because of that. 

Cairo was charming, with her knowledge and way with words, leaving you in awe every time she asked your opinion or answered one of your questions, effortlessly expressing her vision of the world — there's not a single poet, writer, or philosopher that's not been read by her brilliant mind. 

Her favorite at the moment was Friedrich Nietzsche. For her, his view of the world was admiring, appalling. It's like he knew about the demons everyone constantly fought against, burying them deeper inside our core to prevent them from leashing them out in the open. 

Little did you know, it was because of you. Because of the way your eyes lit up at the mention of his name. 

While Cairo was a demon with an angel-like face, you were the opposite; with your dark clothes fitting perfectly on your curves and rough voice that always dropped one octave when you whispered her name like a prayer every morning for the past month. When you smiled, she could see the gentleness dripping like water from you, the patient you had with the students had her dumbstruck, looking at you with her chin resting on her hands, the cloth of her blouse itching her skin when you leaned forward to help a stupid classmate that only wanted to smell your perfume, leaning closer to your body as you calmly explained the most obvious subject, and that stupid smile on your face made it even harder for her to not clench her jaw over and over until you returned to your desk to finish today's reading. 

When you fell the third time, it left a stain that wouldn't disappear from the cotton sheets — the white wings of a fallen angel, burned in black soot, fully corrupted and taken. This time it was brutal, lewd, and enticing with a small portion of a euphoric hunger. She savored you on her tongue with a devilishly smile tugging the corner of her lips, crawling up your body like the scarabs that loved Cairo, following her like a deity. 

“Is man one of God’s blunders, or is God one of man’s blunders?” She asked, pressing her lips on your neck while her warm hands found your chest. 

“I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time.” Your answer came in between a catch of breath, eyes closed and head thrown back against the soft pillow, nails digging deeper into her back, bruising the skin with long, red lines that stung.

“If I was a God, would you praise me?” 

“I would adore you with every ruthlessly beautiful word known by mankind.”