The ladies of Old Crompton Road

Old Crompton road is one of the heartbeats of his life in the city. The road is a mile short of modern living in London. It leaves Charing Cross road turning to take you in he middle of Soho.
He liked this walkway and its early life. He was devoted to this street for the past ten years and saw what the time and progress done to it. The little coffee shops of dubious Italians immigrants now wearing the logo of soulless corporations, the precious booksellers reduce to fill their windows with cheap literature and the desire to escape condensed behind that door.
It is at the corner between Charing Cross and Old Crompton, a house no more the twenty yard in. The outside is the colour of white smog and lifeless windows perch their view on the onlookers beneath. There is a little restaurant beside the house door which uses the first floor of three as warehouse. Soon the boxes and the olive oil are clean the stairs splits in two different directions, one to the east and one to the west both moving slowly ,upwards ,towards silent doors bells. He went west, dreaming.
The apartment looked spacious and functional. The kitchen was large enough to act as waiting area and reception with a large sofa and the gossip magazines left open on a small centre table. An ashtray fills of cigarettes butts was the sign of others nervous visitors. After the courtesy of a beer he was escort in the main room and left alone with his anxiety and thoughts.
His mind over-indulging addict as it was to the smell of aromatics candles and the hallucinations of another pinch of tobacco .He took off his jacket and shoes, unbuttoned his shirt reviling on his back the tattoo of the only woman strong enough to leave a mark on his skin: the simple name of a flower.
The day was shut outside by long velvet curtains and the natural light was replaced by a single floor lamp and its reflections in mirrors. With a white, pure and clean underwear covering his modesty he went to sit on the green armchair in front of a dead fireplace waiting for the divine punishment to kick in.
Their body touched for the first time when she took a seat beside him leaving her golden legs resting in his arms. She let him sensed the coconut’s smell of her black hair and his hands were free to fiddle, gently, with her bra. Their lips touched and kiss were exchange, nipples sucked, necks bitten but he never had a chance to see deep in her soul.
Holing hands they went in bed. Her toned body was lying on the white sheet like a sea map would lay in front the eyes of a ship captain. Every inch was a possible clue to discover the very reason of what he was.
He leads her in top of him and left his arms to be pinned above his head. Her voice was a soft wind in his hears. It was blowing to him desires, sins and lies .He rolled over whispering to her words of reassurance. He start to explore her breast with his right hand without lose sight of her closed judgment, any tweak was a signal , any moan had the force to push him a little further carefully enough to never speak of love but just looking for it, in vane.
She smiled to him and for the first time the secret of those brown eyes was there to be told.He was unlike to be one of them. His touches were soft, respectful and missing the bestiality of some hands. His kisses were electric shock waves across her body and his voice has the accent of ancient poetry. His trust was gentle and vigorous, she was pleased.
The steps rises from the East were another, simple, way to indulge to catalogue of misdeeds. A world make by phantom temptations and opium. Silk veil printed with dragons and ancient creatures of a time went bye created a maze of lights and shadows killing any hope to exit, unwounded. He was no more him stumbling along little sofas each one dress for give fragile pleasures.
A man can change, even forgot any good teaching, when the sour taste of power over other of his similar inebriate the confusion of his initiations. She was there to obey but he was no a master of the art to command just a bleeding animal looking for revenge. The greed of his actions was too much even for the devil. He was there to conquer the little body in front his eyes, his was his right. He paid for it.
Pain is pleasure as tears are joy. Hard and dry he found relive grasping for air and life; his absolution at his feet, bared and used.
Nobody, who went inside to visit one of the ladies of Old Crompton road, went for love. He was alone.