(Cos I’m focused that way)
The vast echoing dome shaped room was sterile, cold somehow, the curved walls painted a glossy winter white, white faintly veined marble floor, white brocade draped over the altar set high on a platform in the center. The person standing next to it was very tall, thin, very very pale, with snowy white hair cut short, pale eyes set in an ashen face, wearing a long silk robe in an icy white, uncertain age and indeterminate gender, yet obviously the priest. And as each soul was carried past, halting for a bare moment at the designated spot, the priest selected a tiny muslin wrapped bundle and placed it in its hands.
The souls were then carried to the glowing chamber next door, and in the heat of the fires set around the room, the moist steam that hissed up from the cauldrons, the bundles seemed to grow, and then burst open and settle over the naked souls. Tender skin, transparent and fragile, run through with nerves that hissed and crackled, sparks that glittered and twitched. This soul became a voluptuous woman, her sleepy eyes beckoned as her lush hips rolled, this other soul grew tall and broad shouldered, with balls the size of oranges and just as tart. That one there had a mischievous smile, her full bottom lip begging to be kissed, while the one over here grew a talented tongue, which would be appreciated by all kinds of others.
As the souls now clothed with sexuality jostled and moved through the lines, they exclaimed and moaned as their newly discovered senses rubbed against each other. This spot right there felt divine when licked, and the other one over there spasmed when a hot breath passed over. There were some whose skin stayed velvety soft and others who grew hair so long and shiny.They touched and twisted, poked and curled, delighting in the sparks of pleasure that set of fireworks inside them.
They were randomly shuffled and stuffed through the flavoring sprinklers, some tumbled through shame and worry, and other souls got a polish of doubt and uncertainty. A dash of plump, some got a pinch of kink or a touch of pain. And so the souls stood away from the others, the coating blocking their impulses, unable to indulge their skins. Sneaking glances at the others, their minds stripping away the coverings tithe naked skin below, remembering how it felt to touch and caress, skittering splashes of sensation orgasming as they stood rigidly in their places.
And even as the music began, twining winding around them, graceful arabesques and pirouettes of melody brushing over nerves deadened by what must and what should be. The right thing to do, good examples for the kids. And the souls felt their skin absorb the sounds and yearn to feel the touch of another’s body, the rules, the things they call morals and self respect, they control the dance in total domination, strict series of steps that turn and bend without grace.
As the night goes on, one by one the souls are born. Till there are none left. And the ones who have returned must give up their bodies which are recycled, broke down completely and reformed. The souls washed and wrung out till all the experiences have been gathered in the baskets and the souls are pale once more, naked and without skin.
What happens to the experiences? Oh they get poured into the soup they feed the writers.
(Cos I’m focused that way)