Fist

It is a tasty fist, but wily. It teases him with just a lick, or a nibble, then darts spryly away again. It bounces back and forth, just beyond his range, laughing at him. He sleeps, resting up for their next game of chess, their next showdown. He has drooly dreams, the fist at his mercy. He chews and chews and chews.