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Seven Songs Later
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Seven Songs Later I shouldn’t have...I know it, and that’s what gets ; that I was wholly aware that my decision would lead to this situation. How wild is it for to be both culprit and victim to a crime of passion. What else did I expect to happen when she slid her ivory hand around my pulsing neck. How innocent the action, but I’m guilty of getting involved with a broken person. I remember the drive, it took songs to reach your apartment, and each of them hinted the possibility of us fucking. And each of them inspired a scenario to replay in my head; how I wanted her. To bend her body like a pretzel, making her take every inch of this black dick, slapping sweating skin and spit with tongues that taste of lies. Each suck of your supple breast giving another reason to continue stroking, to continue denying common sense for the chance to inside a stranger. Yes, aren’t you proud of the orgasm you provided, how her petite frame tremored, the bed quivering as an aftershock; and the sudden disappearance of pupils behind eyelids. I remember pulling up to the spot and from the angle, I was positioned I could see a lit room. Your room. Through the window I saw you, watched you light a candle, adjust your hair and outfit; I saw you get prepared for me… I knew I wasn’t imagining things when you opened the door. Belly exposed, a thigh peeking from a blue shawl wrapped around angled hips, collarbone and shoulder cleaned and plated like a delicacy. The way you spoke too, a calm ripple cresting over low tides. It was inviting, you were inviting, and I accepted without considering what it to enter. Your room was minimal, ordered and smelled of sage. Comfortable is an understatement, I felt at home here; like I wanted to come here again. I started at the edge of the bed...ironic. We talked, and talked, shared intimate secrets, laughed about childhood traumas, we even shared playlists which is basically a proposal for creatives. And then you became selfish. Asked me for my body, my intimacy, my cock. And I gave it all. Started by kissing your ears, my hand slithering from the neck before snatching a tuft of hair. I couldn’t believe this was happening; our lips met, and I tasted Modelo. You asked to begin a journey of friendship and intimacy, and I agreed. So we fucked. Oh, how we fucked. I still get hard thinking about the heat we frictioned out that evening. I painted your breasts with my tongue, I told you, a man only needs a mouthful. Then slipped into my routine even though it’d been over a year since the last time I’d had sex. I rotated the right breast with the hand while the left was a morsel for my mouth; until my mouth craved something more. The<b> lace </font></b>of your panties, and what laid behind. My tongue couldn’t wait to come in. Too eager and territorial. I thought I could lick away the pain, hopefully, cure you of the heartache by helping you with a back breaker. I wanted you to , to build a climax and release whatever hardships you’d been holding in. Even when my dick found its way to the back of your throat (“It’s so big.”) I wanted you to . Wanted you to know that I could fuck you exactly how you wanted, to put you in your favorite positions so you’d enjoy the experience. At least one of us did. Do you remember how we ended? How we came together? By crawling into the skin of each other and holding tight? And this is where I went wrong, by letting you hold me. How I missed this feeling, to be touched with care, even if the anchor was broken...and now I’m drowning in the puddle you left on my lap. |
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