Horny Devil Publishing Flash Fiction: An Autumn Dance

by J.M. Dabney

On a late autumn night, I watch her move. The embodiment of sex, a pleasurable thrill abrades my control and strips away at the tight reins that harness long, dormant needs. My gaze travels the graceful lines of her curves, the heaviness of her breasts, that sweet rounded curve of her belly, and those hips that scream to be palmed. In my mind, I can see her; the beauty of her splayed upon crisp, white sheets, the supple curves of her thighs as she spreads them, inviting me in to taste. To sample the flavors of her passion upon my tongue, the taste and the smell of her response to only me assails my senses and drives out all rational thought.

Fingers curl and short nails cut into the sensitive flesh of my palms, the hollows aching to be filled with luscious curves. My need to experience her with each sense grows with every interminable moment that passes. I want to inhale her, draw in her essence until my nose is filled with the sweetness of her. I want to taste her until my tongue knows only her. I want ear the perfection of her whimpers and see the writhing of her graceful form as she moves beneath the stroke of my hands.

However, I just watch her move, the ebb and flow of her hips as beautiful as waves touching sandy, white beaches. The sway of her onyx hair as the curling ends tease the hollow of her lower back draws my eye as nothing has before. The ache grows between my thighs, my tongue rolls upon my palette. There is nothing more important than learning the secrets of her body—finding every spot that makes her moan, makes her eyes roll back in pleasure.

She is ecstasy, a visual feast, sustenance my soul craves. I have not heard the sweetness of her voice, don’t know if it’s melodic or a sensual rasp, nor do I know the exact color of her eyes. The dark fan of thick lashes hides this secret from me. Sitting back with a need close to overwhelming, all I can allow myself is the pleasure of watching her move.

She moves gracefully from the dance floor, and our eyes catch as she sits. It’s all there in her eyes as she watches me from the other side of the room. Her fingers curl beneath her gently, rounded chin. Darting looks in my direction, she nervously nibbles at the pout of her lower lip. There is innocence to the pale blush that spread upon her face. Lust wars with something more inside of me. I want to touch, to discover, and to know the passion-induced flush in more intimate settings. A few patrons mingle in the last precious moments before last call, and the music plays softly.

My motorcycle outside, thoughts of her arms wrapped around me from behind while the cool, fall air stings our cheeks as we escape, just the two of us, fills my mind. This dark, smoky barroom left behind, I picture laying her down upon a bed of colored leaves, her dress resting across her hips, her beauty exposed to me. A shiver works through me, but I couldn’t give in. I would have to settle for what I could have.

All I ask for is just one dance to learn the perfection of her lush body as it fills my arms, her curves conforming to mine. My eyes catch hers, and I slip from the bar stool, my steps purposeful and steady and the distance disappears. I draw closer; her eyes are the rich, hue of chocolate, her tanned skin made darker by the paleness of her dress. Words were not necessary.  My hand takes hers, fingertips caress along her jawline, and she’s like warm silk. Her sweet scent is cherries and almond; it inflames my senses, and I draw her to her feet. Backward steps bring her with me toward the empty dance floor.

The music is of no importance.  Fingers lace with hers and lift them to rest upon my shoulders. Fingertips dance along her arms, over her shoulders, and ever so slowly down her sides until my hands finally find the flare of her hips. I slowly pull her closer; there is a sigh of breath, a signal of relief that she is finally pressed tightly to me. Through all this, my gaze never leaves hers.  Emotions swirl, shifting, changing as eyes darken with what I can only hope is passion.

Leaning into me, her cheek caresses over mine, and my fingers flex as her warm breath teases the sensitive shell of my ear. The woman in my arms is close to perfection; all my dreams come to blaring reality. I close my eyes to relish the softness of her—her breasts cushioned to mine, her rounded belly conforming to mine, and the sweet brush of our thighs as we begin to move.

A subtle sway in the last flickers of candlelight. Fingertips find the curling ends of her hair as I nuzzle the silky strands and inhale. Her sigh teases the side of my neck. Pleasure induces a slow exhale of breath. The world fades away; there is nothing but her and I and the music that plays softly. Our bodies move unconsciously, they brush, tease one another in the innocence that is and probably will be nothing more than a dance.

Fantasies playing out on the hardwood of the floor, we hold on for too short, stolen minutes. Reality fades at the edges; a cocoon envelops us and locks us away just for the selfishness of a dance. I ignore the ring that caught the candlelight, push away my conscience and silently scream, “Don’t touch.” Just for now, I can imagine that she is mine, that the curves pressed so closely to mine belong to me alone..  Just for these fleeting moments, I believe that I have the right.



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