Legs open wide. An invitation. My hardness accepted your wet welcome. Our eyes locked, pulling us closer together. Magnet and steel. The whispers of your eyes spoke to me. Spoke of pleasure. Spoke of want. Lowered myself between the valley of your thighs. Your hands around my neck, legs coiled around my waist. Loud silence when you told me
‘Slow baby, just the tip’
I smile, follow your instruction. Rest my head at your entrance, it crowns me. I am king of your queen-dom. Your wetness is my throne. I rest on it. Sit still and look into your eyes. You smile, bit your lip, mischief in your eyes. I sense your playfulness. Become curious. Curiosity blends with my desire, mixes with my longing to enter you. Your request echoes in my mind ‘slow baby, just the tip”
Your hands soft on my face. Strokes the curiosity away, makes it fade. Your gaze fixed on my face.
Then …you squeeze, flex you woman muscle. Tingles explode in my head … And in my head, tear through me. Cause me to roar. Curse out loud. Surprise shakes me. Evoke the moment before release, the intense build up. I grit my teeth. Try to pull away. Retreat from the onslaught on compounded sensations. You grip me with your legs, hold me prisoner and keep me captured in the bitter-sweet torment. I look at you. Playfulness in your eyes, mischief dances in them. You flex again. Unable to be freed I try to push inside you and charge past your fortress of wetness. You put your hand on my stomach. Hold me at bay. Refuse me entry, decline me pleading request to be set free from this cerebral anguish. I am a hostage, held captive in the beautiful prison of tightness. I growl. Explicit words spill out my mouth. I clench fist. Angry lust rumbles in me. Joyful vexation erupts. I punch the bed. Shudder with raging pleasure. You squeeze again. Hold. Grip hard. Maintain your hold. You’re knowingly pushing me to the edge. I curse you. Laugh with vexation in my voice as tingles stampede through me. You giggle with naughtiness in your sound. We laugh together. You hold me with your legs and pull me inside you …
I ask you if you’re are happy. Ask you but afraid of the answer. Ask you but scared your reply will be the nail in the coffin of hope. Asked knowing that your reply could mean that there will be no resurrection of the salvation of your love.
You answer my question. ‘I am content’
I ask you again; ‘Are you happy?’ You pause. Let moments pass. Look into me. Again you reply
You turn and walk away. Leave me standing still; alone in a crowed place. The noise of music, conversation, the bubbling of laughter fades into silence as you’re words echo in my head.
‘I am content’.
Thoughts take me back to our past conversations. Back to 2am dialogue we had as we lay naked in bed discussing love and life. Back to a time when the world was asleep and still but our minds sparked bright lights in our eyes. Back to how our finger tips touched, engaged in their own dialogue of silent words. We become naked as we take off the layers of old relationships, the clothing of hurt, the garments of regret, the attire of painful lessons and silent tears.
Then I am ripped away from this bliss. Slapped with the moment you found out the truth. I did not hear you’re words; I see their colours; scarlet red, deep blue, pitch black. They bubble up in your lungs, clamber up your wind pipe, fill your mouth and cause it to swell as they burst from your mouth. They swirl around in the air like storm clouds; fills it with colourful sound, splash against the walls, splatter on them and leave stains. They are a thunderstorms. Your words are lightning lashes that strike, surge, crackle and cause electrical volts of hurt. Despair, anguish, I hear fury. I see the colour of your emotions in your eyes…
She took me in her mouth. Held me with her hands. Wrapped her lips around my hardness, pulled on it with her mouth. She used her tongue, coiled it around my tip. I wished she was you. Preyed her to become you…
I hated her, hated myself. Was angry, vexed. Bitterness swirling in my head, pain in my heart. I fucked her with hatred, fucked her with angry regret. She made sounds, moan with pleasure. Told me harder her. I hated her sounds. Loathed her voice. Fucked her harder hoping she would stop, wanted to hurt her. Take out my frustration on her. Fucked as if she was the cause of my pain. Pushed deep into her. Snared, growled. Called her a names …
I released white tears, a million tears from the eye of my masculinity. Weeping sorrow, sobbed. I knew what had taken place could never be undone. Knew one day you would know of this transgression. I didn’t pray for God to forgive me, I prayed he’d allow you to …
I introduced you to my great grandma, introduced to my roots, my linage, my oldest living bloodline. She hugged you. Held you tight. Held you like you were a long lost relative who had finally returned. She took you into her domain, the place she believed to be a woman’s sanctuary, a place in which a woman provided nourishment for her family. I watched as she became your teacher, your culinary interrogator, quizzed you. Watched you as you kneeded flour making dumplings. Mummy Edna assessed your abilities to provide nourishment for her unborn great-great grandchildren – she wasn’t concerned if she would be here to see them. She wanted to know her bloodline would be left to a virtuous woman. I tried to save, Intervene. Was repelled by with threats of dutch pot to forehead reprimand. Told this was woman business, female talk. Smiled. Looked into you. Felt you kiss me with your eyes. You chuckled at my reprimand. Swift wooden spoon to your knuckles stifled your mockery. Mummy edna telling ‘dis ah nuh joke ting, mind fi yuh biznezz. Cah yuh mussi feel mi mek any an’ any people inna mi kitchen much less nyam from dem.’ Mummy Edna had embraced you. She was letting you cook in her kitchen. A kitchen she had provided food for 9 children, for 11 grand children, for 5 great grandchildren. A place she held as sacred.
We sat down as conversation and the clatter of cutlery filling the air.
Mummy Edna pouted her lips, tipped her chin up in your direction.
‘She can gwan still. Di likkle food taste ahright still.’
You had passed your culinary test, you had her approval. The woman who had raised my mother, the woman who had survived slavery, seen wars, seen her country become independent. She believed you could carry her baton, would be able to allow her spirit to rest peaceful know her family would be in good hands.
It was 10:30 in the evening and Eva was working on her talk show. She was playing over her conversation with Bookie.
‘You’re fucking lying!? You serious? But you don’t know what he looks like; you don’t know who he is.’ Bookie blurted down the phone.
‘I know, I know! But it’s just so fucking sexy. It’s crazy I know but he just makes my pussy so wet; it’s not normal but so natural.’ Eva replied.
Bookie was silent for a moment and Eva could hear her brain ticking over down the phone line.
‘Well, you and I are the same so if true be told I’m fucking jealous; you need to find me one of my own. Having someone control me like that is making my pussy get wet just at the thought.’ Bookie said breaking the silence.
The two girls burst into laughter. Bookie asked Eva to make sure she filled her in on ALL the details after she met Marcus.
‘It’s been a little while since I’ve had me some outlandish fun so right now I’m living vicariously through you girlfriend.
Another eruption of laughter before the girls conversation drifted onto work, life, family and then back to Marcus. Read more…
It was just gone passed midday and Eva was working from home on her next show. The last few days had been unusually hot for UK summer and she loved it. She waltzed around the house in her oversized t-shirt floating between her bedroom, the kitchen and the living room. The episode of last night echoed in Eva’s mind. She tried to work out how and why she was so turned on by it all. Her mind, her logic was shouting at her to fix up and not allow, in essence a stranger, control her like Marcus did. However, her body, was a live with the pleasure of being dominated, being controlled the way Marcus controlled her. It was a clash of mind and body and right now her body was way out in the lead in the race of indulgent pleasures. Her pussy was still tingling and begging to be touched, pleading for release. It’s a good thing she was working from home because Marcus had left her hornier than a nymphomaniac on Viagra. Her t-shirt would brush against her nipples as she moved around the house making her wet. Read more…
Eva had been speaking with Marcus for over a month and their conversations and banter had been flowing like they’d known each other for years. It would go from jovial, to intellectual to sexual and then back to jovial all in minutes; and all seamlessly. It wasn’t just that the rapport between them was great there were two factors that made this new connection even more appealing. Firstly there was the fact that she actually had never met or seen Marcus. They had ‘met’ on twitter after a friend of hers had retweeted one of his tweets so she decided to follow him. One day he randomly commented on her hair that they looked liked dreads and he like them; from they instantly clicked. They spent several weeks sending each other 140 character messages until one day Marcus sent her a message with his number in it. Eva smiled at his old school gentleman approach:
“Forgive me if I’m being forward but 140 characters limits our convo, may I offer my tel. 07539 XXX XXX. My intentions r honourable.”
She added him on Whatsapp and before she knew it Eva and Marcus were sending messages back and forth throughout the days … and nights. They were both night owls and would message until 1, sometimes 3am. Even though Eva hadn’t seen Marcus she was drawn to his vibe and personality. For her it was refreshing getting to know someone solely based on them as a person and not their looks.
The second, the most appealing factor about Marcus and their rapport, was the fact their unique sexual disposition matched perfectly; he was dominating, she was submissive. The sexual energy between them was intense. He understood and played with her sexually submissive side in a way that made Eva feel comfortable, relaxed and most of all very wet. Eva was intelligent, articulate, upwardly mobile and confident. She was a TV presenter on a Nigerian cable station and had her own talk show which had been running for 2 years. However, Eva loved to be dominated by a man; for him to take control and command her and Marcus understood and match her perfectly. Read more…
… As he stroked her gspot she could feel that familiar warmth build up in her stomach. The palm of his hand was pressed flat against her clit. As he rocked his hand up and down the soft flesh would rub against her clit. The deep throbbing would pulse hard and deep between her thighs. Her breathe was jagged, shape, short, tattered as his fingers worked her spot. She gripped the back of her knees and pulled them into her chest – her knees either side of her face. Her wetness opened up invited his fingers in deep, offered her gspot to his nimble digits.
‘Squeeze my fingers, make it tight.’ Read more…
The sound of the AC hums above our head. Curtains drawn closed we refuse the sun’s light to enter our domain. Our kingdom is made of silhouettes and shadows. Naked limbs tangled together, body presses against body as we stir from our post mid afternoon sex sleep. We kiss. Touch. We are hungry to consume each other, to continue our ravenous feast. You tell me we should order some real food. I tell you that you are my sustenance. Even in the dark I can see you smile …hear you smile. Read more…
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