Master of the Stage
by Leanne Fitzpatrick
Blood trickled down her red lips and delicate chin. She slid her tongue against the knife caught between her teeth and let out a low, throaty chuckle as another squirt of blood trickled down her chin and dripped onto her bare chest. They were both sweaty, breathless. He fought well, but not enough to best her.
He cursed, trying to jerk the knife away. She laughed again, bringing her hands up to grab his wrist.
He jerked back with a shriek, releasing the knife and she tossed it away, droplets of her blood arcing through the air.
Around them the auditorium grew quiet, the audience leaning forward in their chairs.
Everything was silent, all eyes caught on the frozen tableau before them. They waited for her to strike, to tear the throat out of the upstart that had tried to claim her.
The she seemed to flicker, her outline shimmering as she stood, achingly slowly and glorious in her sexuality.
Blood trickled down her chest, over the smooth curve of her stomach, and she pulled the man towards her.
He whimpered, but her grip on his wrist was an iron shackle, her gaze locked onto his brooked no argument. He would prove himself worthy, or he would prove himself coward.
Her other hand was already at the back of his neck, drawing him towards her.
The audience held its breath, and then let out a single sigh as she kissed him.
Some leaned back in their chairs, smiles faintly touching their mouths. Others remained leaning forward, watching, waiting.
The show was everything. She was everything. She was love and peace, rage and war. She was the bounty of the earth and the scourge of th unbelievers. She gave graciously and demanded brutally.
She was a goddess surrounded by the devoted, and she demanded sacrifice.
They watched in silent worship as she brought the figure on the stage to perfect euphoria.
Then he started screaming.