The Last Dance

"The Last Dance" - a reading (on YouTube)

Symmetry and delicacy define beauty in all things, even the silk of her hand-knotted fishnets. What a perfect mother she would make.

But he was getting ahead of himself, a deadly sin with a creature such as this. She hadn’t even consented to a dance.

He approached her cautiously, hesitantly. Her allure pulled him beyond mere physical attraction. Long, strong legs, raven black hair with just the right splash of red, the sensual curve of her body, her calm aloof even when surrounded by a circle of admiring males. And her scent, a delicate blend of perfume perfectly matched to her body chemistry. Like nectar to a butterfly, it inspired a hunger in him too powerful to ignore. That scent alone had drawn him out of hiding, enticing him from the solitude and isolation that defined his life despite the proximity of his murderously jealous rivals. Her perfume was an elixir.

It was her reputation that worried him, even repelled him - until now a counterbalance to his desire. But he couldn’t get her scent out of his head, along with the warm glow it inspired within. She was a killer brunette who chewed through men as if walking through a spider’s web, pausing only to brush away the remnants that tickled her lovely face like errant hairs blown out of place. One by one, he had seen his rivals fall before her only to end tangled in her web, drained and discarded, without so much as an invitation to dance. As much as he wanted to believe he was better, deep doubts gnawed him inside like a demon brood struggling to emerge.

When he dwelled on the fear, it paralyzed him. Nearly. Until her siren song of scent coaxed him back heedless of the consequences of failure, intoxicating him with desire, armoring his confidence to invincibility. One dance with her would be worth whatever price, whatever sacrifice she demanded. With her beauty, her strength, her sleekness, theirs would be powerful children. If only she would give him the chance.

His desire flared to naked lust, a primal ache, a procreative need so strong he almost rushed headlong into her embrace.

Terror and sanity resumed their tenuous grasp upon him, freezing him before he advanced a step, turning his eyes away before she interpreted a challenge. Any such move would end in suicidal rejection. He needed subtlety and caution. A sprint now would brand him an unrestrained adolescent and set her temper aflare. There would be no dance once her fangs came out. A dance required courting, a strict ceremony with slight variations to arouse her curiosity and appeal to her individual tastes. With a beauty such as hers, he would get only one opportunity.

His desire cooled to measured rationality. While he could no longer fight the pull of her attraction, he knew he had to follow the established ritual, risking rejection in its harshest form and forum, before witnesses.

To calm his nerves, he checked the wrapping on his gift, ensuring the silk ribbon was tied just right. That alone marked him as a hopeful partner among his rivals. When she first made her appearance several days before, he knew she must be his. Her song of scent captivated him even as her dark eyes looked right through him, noticing neither he nor the other assembled males as she tapped out a rhythm of desire that defined the circle of the dance floor.

After her debut, he had spent days hunting up just the right sacrifice for his goddess. He quickly discarded the idea of baubles and trinkets. What use would she have for such trifles? Food seemed the likely answer, a meal, though not one she would share. One meant for her alone to show he was a provider, quick and cunning. A morsel to whet her appetite, to demonstrate he was strong yet sensitive enough to appreciate her refined tastes. Something small and succulent so as not to drive her into a torpor of sated disinterest. Something sweet to sooth her fiery temper without banking her internal flame. An aphrodisiac.

He had spent day after day testing and rejecting each prospect. One was too plain, another too bitter, a third too sweet. He stalked through all his usual haunts finding nothing suitable. Driven to desperation, he tried the unusual and, finally, unorthodox locales. With each day’s failure, he grew more certain that his moment would soon pass.

He was nearly despondent when he had stumbled upon his gift. With a jolt he had seen it waiting then seized it like an opportunity. Like her, it was a perfect shape, a perfect size, a perfect taste, or so he hoped. Elegant, not gaudy, needing only to be wrapped in a silken bow.

He hoped it was to her liking. He knew that she could be finicky from watching his rivals’ rejections one by one. Some approached too early, before she was in the proper mood to dance, tricked by her swaying to the music like the over-exuberant adolescents they were. She had no interest in them anyway. The newly mature tapped out the wrong counter-rhythm, one laced with too much aggression and not enough submission, to be driven off with a venomous glance or dismissive flick of her wrist. The more experienced made it close enough to offer gifts. Some were rejected on smell alone, others on presentation, one on taste. That one found him holding his breath knowing her acceptance would end any chance for him. But all who approached had felt the sting of her anger, the poison of rejection, and staggered away from an anticipated embrace having failed to dance a single step. After each she returned to swaying to the music, oblivious to their failure and her remaining suitors.

Not that he didn’t owe them, the ones who failed. Watching their downfalls had taught him, helped him refine his approach. He learned the subtleties of her tastes and expectations. The young were the most fortunate; they might get to try again. The old nearly as much so, as they took a final stab at glory regardless of the consequences. It was the ones in their prime who were drawn deepest into her web of seduction, not wanting to risk passing into the balding desperation of their elders, heedless of the second chance they might be offered by failing gracefully. Ones like him. The lucky ones she merely turned away. The less fortunate she drained of their desire.

Alone in the center of her circle, she tapped out a new tune. The beat resonated in his chest and seemed to call him forward. Now or never. He gave his hair a final pass, ruffling its spikes to just the right angle. He approached her cautiously at first, not too quickly, not too slowly. Neither aggression nor exuberance would be rewarded. At the edge of her demesne, he matched her beat measure for measure, perfect timing. Her posture shifted as she changed the tempo, adding a hint more sway, permission to approach.

An opening.

Though he could feel his remaining rivals watching, his eyes remained fixed on her. Her own eyes casually, coyly remained turned away as though she hadn’t noticed him, a sultry gesture that fortified his resolve. The pulsing beat of the music only the two of them seemed to hear dispelled all hesitation, anxiety and fear. Instinct took over as, cool and confident, he strode toward her with the slightest swagger of his own to advertise his intent. His heart raced then nearly melted as her radiant heat increased with each step that brought him closer.

A pace away fear once again gripped him, enough to note the annoyed expectation that had crept into her latest pose. She was still open to his advance, but there was protocol to follow with a goddess especially for a mortal such as him.

He paused, uncertain whether he had ruined his only chance before remembering his gift. He extended it toward her, laying it in front of her, an offering. Outwardly calm, he waited, the demons inside restless and writhing.

At first she only sniffed the air as if testing it. Approving, she turned her gaze upon his gift as though curious how this parcel had arrived at her feet. She admired the painstaking precision he’d taken in wrapping it. A second test passed, she lifted it daintily and began to tear away its delicate covering, revealing the morsel within. She considered a moment, cocking her head, then sniffing a final time. The allure of her nostrils’ flare with each breath made him tremble. Her sultry detachment drove him to a near frenzy. But he remained frozen, knowing his quest for this one dance balanced on the next few seconds.

Gingerly at first, she nibbled at his offering, pouting seductively as she chewed the tiny sample. As she swallowed, her radiant heat intensified. Her eyes rose to meet his.

An invitation.

“Shall we dance?” he asked hoping his voice was steadier than his legs.

Licking a finger, then her lips, she nodded.

Acceptance.

He fell into her embrace and began swaying to the music, ignoring his rivals’ jealous stares. The young would try again; the old could not. His peers consoled themselves with the thought that they could be him had they only moved a little faster - the same thought he’d consoled himself with as he’d watched others dance the times before.

Their bodies swayed in harmony, their legs entwined in the careful steps of this ritual, rhythmic dance. His consciousness of the others fell away as her perfume enveloped him completely. So close, so soft, he thought as he caressed her hair. The swell of her abdomen pressed against him. Her teeth played along his neck as they danced in time, the tempo steadily increasing. It was finally happening. She was finally his.

As his passion peaked into fiery bliss, he barely felt her fangs sink as deep within his neck as he found himself in her. Each drained their fire into the other, his spreading life, hers a poison.

Consummation.

© 2006 Edward P. Morgan III