She was straddling him, her legs’ grip on his sides fastening as her body shuddered. Spasms undulating current through her body. Slight moans escaping her lips. Goose bumps rearing their heads on her supple skin. The bedsheet underneath damp, soaking perspiration off his back. He watched – gobsmacked – yet still immersed in gratification. Raptly gawping at her, intrigue on his face. Trying to perceive the sheer flair by which she was thrusting her waist against his pelvis. He groaned. She heaved. Her nails furrowing deeper in his shoulders. She falls heavily by his side, with her, every ounce of energy he had left obliterated.
She ambles to the john, bolstering her movement by tracing the walls with her palms, trying to find her footing. Warm light from the bedside lamp tenuously beaming one half of her body, unravelling the sea of ebony nakedness glistening under it. Her fierce pee streams, eroding the insides of the toilet bowl. The gush so profound you’d hear it from Kapenguria as she goes at it in South B. A man has the liberty to pee silently or loudly. Most aim for the sides of the bowl, to muffle their stream, the others are outlier better yet – self centric. Femmes on the other hand remain sans choice, their pee demands to be heard.
He stretches his left arm out to let her snug on him, her left thigh falling on his leg. Her head rests on her palm, her index finger makes concentric circles on his chest and the primal hairs therein; indulging in that thing femmes do when they’re about to throw a curve ball after a good time. With every circle the impending question grows more palpable. She bashfully grins, revealing another facet of her seductive encore.
“What do you think about me moving in?” She mutters.
Trepidation courses his vessels. He gulps. Hard.