The Danse

14 Apr

Property of The DarkRose Journal, 2013

by DarkRose 11/2012


The Danse

Twisting strands of moonlight glistened across his bare chest as he stood before me. The sight of him made me miss a breath. Luminous and unabashed, I thought. His shoulders gleamed like pale marble. His manicured hands of the same shade began to drift over his body, caressing. His eyes closed. I heard his faint sigh echo in the cavernous night.

I resisted the urge to taste his thoughts, allowing myself only the tiniest of tastes. I felt my heart’s pace quicken as his dream bloomed in the silhouette of my mind. An intricate fantasy of dark seduction and surrender, of succumbing in bloody, wanton release. The heat of the red passion in this unknowing creature inflamed me.

I had no need for this game; I had reality. Still, as I savored his ruminations for a moment more, I found something uncanny beneath his meandering dream woven of blood and abandon. I realized he didn’t really believe it. To him, this was all image and illusion. In his fevered mind, we were both merely play our infernal roles.

I retreated from his thoughts. His face was lowered now, alabaster features traced in harsh brushstrokes of shadow. His fingers worked at the silver buckle of his belt. A moment later I heard it clatter to the darkened ground at his feet.

But my gaze drifted to his bare head, shining in the pale light. The shape of a gothic bat was tattooed onto one side of his shaved scalp. On the other side was a tangle of thorny vines, etched into his skin in hunter green. The two dark figures were the only stains I could make out on his perfect, pallid skin.

His fingers came up and locked around his smooth skull. They flowed back, as if he was brushing a tumble of hair. I heard him moan softly, and fought against the urge to touch his mind again. Instead I stared at his svelte, hard body, drinking in each detail. His limbs were lean and muscular, feral. And I saw hints of the other things drawn into his skin, images in vivid colors, ebon words traced in secret places once hidden by clothing, now half-hidden in dark grey silhouette. I wondered again why he needed any more than this. Until I remembered he didn’t believe any of it was real…not ‘really’ believe.

He came to me. His warm hands brushed my face, the scents of his body still clinging to his strong fingers. One hand wandered across my lips and I opened my mouth, tasting. His other hand drifted down, opening my blouse, tracing fiery circles across my cold skin. The sensations, and his closeness, were so delicious, so agonizing. My nerves crackled beneath my skin, the torturous pleasure burning in my brain like a blinding sheet of lightning.

A heartbeat later he was behind me, drawing the blouse down my back. His arms closed around my breasts. I felt his hot cheek pressing between my shoulderblades, his rock hard cock pressing against my arse, raking the tender flesh there. His hands moved lower, pulling down my silky skirt.

Time became meaningless as we embraced, a series of portraits painted by an otherworldly artist. Some moments seemed endless, spanning ages. Others lasted a mere heartbeat. Crushed in each other’s arms, we tumbled onto the grassy knoll. His hands drifted down my back to my will o’ wisp waist. As they moved toward the front, I stopped him.

“No. Only you.”

Sighing, he rolled onto his back. His lean, hard arms slid up past my head, fingers lacing into the wrought-iron cemetery fence fence. His knees rose, his legs opened. I knelt between. As i lowered my face to his body, I could see more words, more of the images drawn into his sweet, tender flesh.

Droplets of sweat trickled over his stomach, sparkling in the frail moonlight like crystals of ice. But they sizzled against my tongue as I licked slowly up his inner thigh. His skin was soft for a man, yet fiery to my touch. I could hear his breaths, quick and ragged, as he writhed against the twisted tree roots which our bed this night were made of…my mouth closed around the head of his cock, my tongue licking tiny rings. His dick grew even harder, as impossible as that might seem. I closed my teeth around his throbbing cock, gently. With the slightest of pressure the skin broke, a single drop of blood searing my starving tongue.

Laboring against the desires of my nature, I moved upward. The flesh of his throat was flushed and damp. I tasted the sweat pooling beneath his chin. Heavy and salty, the musky flavor engulfed me, it ignited my rapidly growing hunger. I could feel his arteries pulsing as I rounded his neck and licked at his ear. I sucked the lobe into my mouth, holding it for the softest of love bites. I savored another taste of his blood. My lips closed on his, a moment later. I wondered if he could taste himself, as our tongues tangled. Taste his own blood.

It was ecstasy and misery as I tore my lips away from his. My tongue wandered languidly back down his body. I felt his fingers fluttering light as feathers against the back of my head as I tasted the skin inside his thighs. I closed my eyes at the maddening mingling of softness and warmth and wetness.

His fingers suddenly curled, tangling into my long raven tresses. Guiding my mouth. My tongue drifted across wiry hair, matting it down with saliva. The texture and taste sent my thoughts spinning out of control. My hands closed around his hips, drawing him close to my mouth. My hands slip from around his hips and grabbed his ass while he gently pushed his cock into my wanton mouth. I realized that his fingers had never left my hair. I wondered why he needed any more than this.

Then there was nothing but heat and wetness and silken skin. I licked harder, deeper, and found more warmth, more softness. I felt myself shivering, my pulse thundering in my ears, my nerves skittering. My hands slid upward, grasping the tender skin behind his knees, opening him to me further. Somewhere deep inside the burning, velvety skin I found a tiny hardened bud of flesh. My tongue caressed it. I became lost, disembodied, in his scents and tastes. I groaned with pleasure at the whisper-tang of old, life-rich blood.

An eternity later I heard his quick intake of breath. He moaned, almost as if in pain. His fingers tightened against my head, the nail scraping. His entire body seemed to tighten. and I felt tiny ripples arcing through him. His touch softened, his fingers falling. Breathless, I tore my lips away.

Moonlight gleamed along the liquid curves of his body as he rose silently from the grave yard bed. Crossing the grounds, he disappeared into shadow. He returned shortly, stepping back into the jagged patch of moonlight, I saw him spread upon the grassy knoll a Victorian mens suit a blond curly wig and porcelain fangs. I drew in a sudden breath.

“Why all of this?” I whispered.

“To make the dream real.”

“But you don’t need the dream. I am real. Why don’t you believe?”

“I believe that you believe. It’s the same to me. And it’s enough.”

I gazed at him as he sat on the dew covered ground. His strange words swirled in my head and I struggled to understand what he meant, what he felt. There was something here, I knew, something real, something to be learned. But, at the moment, in the midst of my blood lust, it was elusive and alien. Perhaps it was something I had known as an unawakened child, but had forgotten as lonely, sanguine years shaped my nature.

I paused for just a moment, in the darkness, hesitating to finish this crimson danse, this danse of fiery passion and warm, sweet blood.



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