Had the curve of my hip been carved any other way- and maybe if the line of my lips or the shape of my eyes been more subtle- then perhaps he would not have fit so well in the sway of my back. But then- this is a role I was born to play. I do not wear bells on my feet, though I jingle in time to the swaying of my treacherous hips. If truth be told, no silver needed to cross my palm, I was not slaying lions after all- Only a man. I betrayed him once. My arrowless bow strings in tatters at his feet, proof of my deceit. But still he would come to my chamber. Perhaps if my skin had been fairer, coarser, and less spiced, he would have turned from me and cast me to judgement as he did her before me. I called him a liar as I languished in my chamber his head upon my lap. I wailed that he did not love me that if he did, he would tell me no lies. “I want to know your weakness” I purred. Again I betrayed him. Bound to my deceit by the ropes that lay flayed at his feet. His vengeance did not come and yet he would lay beside me, knowing of my duplicity and still wanting me all the more. Again I declared him a liar. I pouted that he did not love me that he did not trust me, and with the taste of my tongue on his lips I asked again “what is your weakness?” Thrice I betrayed him- laid bare for him my treachery, my trickster tongue as tangled as the golden tresses I had hewn and weaved, lay knotted and broken at his naked feet. And still he would come to my chamber, clamour atop of me, sink himself deep inside me in a relentless stabbing until he choked the cries from my throat. Despite my perfidious actions I stated him a liar, and wailed that he did not love me, that if he truly loved me he would open his chest and allow me the honour of knowing the secrets contained within. “I want to know your weakness” I purred, trailing my finger down his chest in a swirl. And if I slipped him a potion it was nothing more than what had been asked of me- for I could not risk the clanging of my bell otherwise. They did not know how I wept as his hair was shorn from his head. They did not tell of how my eyes spurned him as he transformed from God to man. No they only tell of the glint of silver in my eyes and proclaim me the whore of Sorek. They did not say how I had loathed him so. The last and greatest of the Judges of Israel, they supposed that his strength be magical in some way and when they came to me his favoured of whores and crossed my palms with silver they begged to know his secret. Foolish men! To believe the cutting of his hair to be the thing with which they could bind and defeat him. No other could have done this No other could have brought the mighty Samson to his knees Did I not say this was a role I was born to play? Samson’s real weakness, Was not the seven locks of his hair, It was Delilah, Judas with a **** It was me.Birth sign: Scorpio
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