Once he had finished, he would dismount, but for now he was pouring into her what she liked to call his “thick saliva.” Invariably, she would urge him to sink deep in her, as far down as his wand could reach. Then, flooding her thighs and soaking the rug under her, he wore pleasure like a crown.
A sudden gust of wind seemed to trip the latch and the door swung open. There, framed in the doorway against the backdrop of a bright clearing, was what he took to be a naked man, possessing what the salty dogs called a “unit” when they sought to console one another in the waterfront bars. This creature seemed to groan uncontrollably, as though his body were filled to overflowing with great need.
The man sprang to his feet, quickly lifting his lover, and her hand in his, they scrambled quickly to the top of the stairwell, slamming the door to her bedroom shut, locked. Now they could cavort on her bed in a seemingly endless sequel to their frolic on the floor downstairs. In their frantic play, loving with abandon, they began to topple each other to the floor, regaining the bed only to fall off again. Finally exhausted, she breathed in his ear, “mon frere,” and he knew, as always, she was about to grow more personal.
Go back, naked brute, beyond the clearing, where you dwell with your own sister, who refuses to break God’s law by submitting to what you call your need. Then she must hound you out of the cave to hunt for what she hopes to prepare when night falls. “Your prowess in killing must never fail you,” she likes to say to you by the fire. “That’s the instinct you need to perfect.”
(19 February–10 March 2014)
copyright 2014 by Floyce Alexander