The Tsuruoka Files: Mid-Week Blues-Buster
Prompt: Here in the Black
528 words
The darkness is so stifling, pressing in on the edges of our subconscious, swallowing our good intentions whole. Nothing else exists outside of this. She swings to the beat. The light playing across her skin, the dress that's too short, too tight. Men stare. If only we could hunt them all down, tear their eyes from their sockets, bathe in their bloody distress.
The crowd parts for us as we walk toward her. Do they feel the darkness as we do? Do they fear it as much as we have embraced it?
Her hips move in circles, the dip of her back arching as her arms wave above her head. She doesn't notice when we step up behind her, but that little gasp, the way her eyes flutter, how she presses back against us, touching in places that shouldn't be touched, tells us she feels it when we grab her flesh, pressing our fingers down against bone.
The beat changes, and so does her dance. Less erratic. Less wild. More sensuous. More bold. I can't help it when our desire blooms, when her skin turns pink with the blush rushing through her body. How close her blood is to us. Our dark passenger wants her, calls to her, pulls her from the dance floor.
The alcohol on her breath stains our cheek as she presses us to the brick, wrapping a leg around our waist, kissing our exposed skin. "What's your name?" she whispers.
"Jeffrey."
"Ted."
She giggles, and we sigh in relief. "Nice to meet you Jeffrey Ted. Let's get out of here."
The drive seems too long, the anticipation too much. Her hands wander as we grip the steering wheel too tightly. There's no trust. In us. In what we would do if we let go too soon, too premature. We know what it feels like to waste a perfectly good opportunity, a perfectly good score. So we moan and we shift and we beg as she expects until finally the car is parked in our driveway, so close to our satisfaction.
She climbs over the center console, straddling our hips, whispering naughty in our ear. "I can't wait to fuck you."
"Neither can we." She's so warm against where we ache, undulating her body in a dance she had perfected at the club. We grow, and she seems to like that. If she only knew.
She likes bare skin. This woman. She doesn't waste time when the door closes, stripping us naked and then herself. The clothes mess up our clean living room. Ignore it, we think. We're almost there. Almost to her submission. Her fear. Metal against skin. In our special place. Where we'll meet our guilty pleasure.
Her lips stain our flesh as she pulls us forward. "Where are we going to do this?"
"Downstairs."
She nods as we urge her in the right direction. "Do you have protection?" We wait until she's hit the bottom landing, turning around, looking back at our shadow silhouetted in the sparse light. "Jeffrey?"
"We do, but it's not for you."
Her screams don't pierce through the wood when we slam the door shut. Time to prepare.