Night 17

It is flesh peeling against flesh. Barbed wire under epidermis. Friction and heat.

The dual deadline pushes back.

Checkout.

I move like an animal. Primal. Interlocking. I am ahead of her and behind myself.

A knock. Not loud. Certain. “ Housekeeping”.

Silence snaps. I hold my breath too long. Sheets twist.Her face presses into hotel feathered pillows like fabric can still hide her. Her body sits in the crux of the crucible. My grunt thins and disappears.

She is older. A woman of faith. weaver. vixen. A fashion goddess. Her self is cared for. She carries millennial Black intellect in her body, skin with the sheen of cocoa beans ripened under a Ghanaian sun. Her hips are thick with flesh and muscle, always rippling when she moves. Magnetism. Lust is an underrated murderer. Dexter. Dahmer. Her. She is fine. You get it.

The knock again. Closer.

She is pious. She loves God. She loves dick. Both facts exist without conflict. Sometimes, when I am inside her, I wonder what made her choose me as her vice - her altar. Whether the devil whispered my name first or God allowed it. Whether this is temptation or permission. She grips.

She says “wait , i am i a m co co min g” but it is not for me. I do not stop.

I grip her throat to steady her, to own her. Wolf and fawn. Our bodies make a four legged stool, unstable, split at the chest. Her breasts perk and flay. My hands graze, then hold too hard. Leon Thomas plays and it feels misplaced, I was a well bred nigga mutt.

She moves first because stopping feels worse than being caught. She takes me fully. Victorian. Impaled. Her body decides before her mind does. She shudders. I stay suspended, counting nothing.

Dew finds cocoa leaves like magic every morning. When I bring my goats to the bushes, I stop and stare at the diamond studded smoothness of those broad, alien, heart shaped leaves. The memory arrives wrong. Clean where this is not.

I imagine myself soaked in dew diamonds from the aperture between her thighs. Precipated . What happens when wood gets wet? Well, it shrink and warp as it dries, potentially leading to cracks, buckling, and structural weakening.I settle inside her warmth without hesitation but part of me is already elsewhere : home. Her nails force into me, searching for pressure, for proof.

Another knock. Firmer.

On rainy Saturday nights in January, winter pressing against the windows, this is what we do. Her faith stays intact. Bodies and all.

She breaks too fast, electrical. She locks, revs, rides. Light spills and I lag behind it. She stutters because I am not where she expects me to be.

She lifts, and envelopes my cock -a sort of kamakaze looking for my face. I do not meet it. Her breasts graze my mouth and I do nothing. I shudder and fold because the body ends before the moment does.

This is how the Roman Empire ends.