Well, the competition was VERY tight and all the entries were excellent, but now the time has come . . .
* Drumroll please *
The winner of Week One of the Flash Fiction Challenge is the multi-talented TL Tyson and her entry The Dance. Congratulations T - excellent work!
TL Tyson - The Dance
The love he feels is tender. It quakes and shakes him; it brings him to his knees and ripples up his spine. His words are taken from him when he sees her, they way she commands attention, the way she makes people take notice. When she enters a room, all eyes are on her, and when she moves people watch. She sparkles and glints, she teases and taunts, she is magnificent to him.
The love he feels for her is thick and choking, unrelenting in its strength, unwavering in its power. And there is passion when he holds her. And there is adoration in his eyes when they skim over her sleek lines. And desire is set aflame when he undresses her, pushing back the cloth to reveal her curves. When she is naked in his hands, it arouses in him a sense of power and indescribable longing.
He caresses down her length. Long, delicate fingers stroke her cool form, marvelling over her edges. For a moment he closes his eyes. How many times has he fondled her in this fashion? He knows everything about her, the image of her is burned on his memory, branded behind his eyes. Still, he reads her body with his fingertips.
When he is finished examining her, his heart swells with pride and happiness, and he holds her close to his chest, running his cheek over her most graceful parts. She is perfect in every way. She does what he wants and always has. She executes his desires perfectly. When he picks her up, his fears are eradicated. Nothing matters when she is in his hands. Nothing matters when he controls her. She slays his doubts and worries. She slaughters his weaknesses.
Tonight he takes her out to play, out for a night on the town. With only a fragment of moonlight slicing through the window, it illuminates her and she is mesmerizing. After all these years, she still takes his breath away. They dance, swaying this way and that, twirling around the room, around the house. They move with determination, eager to carry out his hearts wishes, and together they delight in the nicks and bites and rips and slits.
Together they are unstoppable, sweeping around the night, devouring and gorging, tasting and tormenting. Their act is sheer torture, but they’ve perfected it to the point where there are no longer any flaws. It is a routine. It is an escape. It is a well choreographed ballet with an unstoppable beat and intoxicating rhythm.
He watches her work. She moves with such ease, he could watch her forever. The way she cuts back and forth—how certain her movements are. The depths in which she plunges to give him what he wants, what he needs, leaves him captivated. He yearns for more and she delivers, stabbing out his fantasies and goring his lust.
She never lets him down.
When they are done, when he is spent and sweat glistens on his forehead, he sighs with contentment. When his hands are wet from the fluid she has spilled, he feels the ecstasy flushing through him and lets out a whimper of delight. He places her back in her bed and covers her with the silk cloth, hiding her delicious arcs. Hesitantly, he moves away from her, but his eyes stray back to her time and again.
Their love affair will never end, for he will never let her go. She does not breath, she does not laugh and she does not cry. She has no legs, she has no arms and she has no face. She is hard, she is cold and she is sharp. She is an extension of his hand when he works.
As he rinses the blood from his skin, he smiles, thinking of the next time he will take her out to dance.