“It must have been early morning when I heard her moving. Padding softly across the carpet, her form graceful, I know, as she slides out of her bed and over to my futon upon the floor. I crack my eyes, and she stands before me: tallish and lithe, with the wan skin of her kind. Textured magenta hair and pink lips on a face rendered silver-white in the moonlight. Black, ever-so-slightly pointed teeth. Black irises on blacker sclera.
She is naked, and she bears the lacy, complex black ritual tattoos of flowery curves and geometric wheels on her legs, extending down from the inner thigh, encasing each appendage below such that it appears as midnight. Another tattoo – symmetrical and slender – begins at her clitoris and extends two-thirds of the way up her belly. Still one more beneath her left eye, this one atypical, a stylized net of veins stretching towards her ear. And the horns: ebony, spiralling horns nearly a hand’s width long (surprisingly lightweight, for she moves her head with ease), rise through her hair from her upper skull.
She is breathtakingly beautiful.
She also so much resembles a succubus of ancient Earth that the irony is painful.
I doubt she knew that I was appraising her, but she crawls down to hands and knees on top of me, breaking my reverie, kissing my neck, my collarbone. I can feel her warmth heating my sleep-cooled body in the brisk room, and she smells musky, foreign, intoxicating, exciting. She is licking below my stomach now, letting her fingers graze over the prickly, sensitive pubic hair on my lower belly, and then bending her head down to take my cock in her mouth. Her eyes rest shut as she works, but when she opens them every so often to glance up at me, the light of the moons sliding through the slit in the blinds catches those eyes just so and illuminates them an effulgent gray-black, her pupils distinct from her iris, the glowing dark of a lake under a full moon.
As she goes to work with her lips and tongue, her teeth brushing gently, painlessly on my foreskin, I begin to stiffen for her. That ancient part of me that has been carried across the centuries, coursing through my veins from time immortal, starts to hum, and her mouth responds by stroking deeper, moving faster, wetter, warmer. I am groaning softly now, and she accelerates. Then, in a swift motion I don’t quite see , she mounts me and begins to ride, back slightly arched, round breasts out, nipples and the pores around them – hairless, smooth, perfect – erect. She has closed her eyes as she slides back and forth against me, and every so often she tightens around me as she oscillates. She must have this – urgently, I know – and her body betrayed her the previous night even as she tried to mask it.
Last night: a smear of alcohol and drugs, hazily remembered. Innumerable bars, blurred faces, drinks as anesthetizing as aphrodisiacal. Stumbling through crowded, drunk streets, dimly lit by comforting restaurant-window warmth or garish neon glare, back to her flat. I had expected her to spend that prurient hunger then – to tear my clothes off and seduce – but she’d been more gone than I thought and we fell asleep, exhausted.
Now: she is moaning quietly, and she leans back, head tossed skyward, hands on my thighs propping her up as she slides her labia up, then down, then up, then down around me. I’m gone in the moment, too; my abs beginning to tighten and my back and biceps flex at the sensations she elicits from me, the sights she is presenting me.
And then I come. Long and deep inside her, convulsions racking my form as she grips me from within, riding the wave, spasming inside of her once, twice, again, then again, and again. A sound escapes from me that is part grunt, part sigh, part compressed, pained exhalation, and I’m done: motionless, soaring along the blissful aftershocks of the seismic event that’s erupted from within me, gazing without seeing at the ceiling above. She shivers once, in satisfaction, then, panting slightly, leans forward and rests her forearms on my chest. Five seconds go by like this, then ten, our breathing in synchrony. Have I made a regrettable mistake?
No. With a speed one wouldn’t expect from such a languid, graceful being, she grabs the pillows she’s placed beside me (the ones I hadn’t even registered) and forces them over my face as her culture dictates, as I know she must. Now comes the hard part.
She is deceptively good at this for being so unpracticed, and her wiry limbs are taut even as my substantial, panic-fuelled power pulls her elbows outward to relieve the pressure cutting off the air from my world. She is strong, though, so strong: even as one of her arms caves, it snakes through my flailing limbs and finds its way back onto the pillow, back on my thrashing face. I’d underestimated her – the inexperience she’d spoke of in last night’s febrile haze – and the exertion was forcing me to draw ragged gasps through an impartial, unyielding, corduroy-textured amaranth funeral mask. I was losing this fight, and a hungry blackness had begun chewing at the edge of my mind. A horrifying thought flipped my gut upside down: what if it didn’t work?
Then, my salvation: the pressure on my face lets off a fractional bit, then a little more. Life-giving air starts to seep around the edges of the pillow, through cushion-crevices and corduroy canyons, to my nostrils, and I will my half-functioning hands up (faster, you fucking pieces of meat) to tear that suffocating thing off me. Never in all my years have I been so glad to draw a breath: a huge, rattling inhalation to clear the dark away, to restore precious consciousness, to live. My pulse is pounding and my head aches, but I have another matter to attend to.
She is still perched atop me, still enveloping my penis, with such a comically aghast look on that pretty face that I bark out a weary laugh of relief. Her eyes are in motion, flickering in amazement from my grinning face, to to her hands hung clumsily before her, then back to me. Her mouth opens to ask, “Ho-”, but her spinal erectors give way at that moment and she topples off me, her question devolving feebly into a groan. The paralytic neurotoxin the doctor had so painstakingly, so expensively embedded in my semen is beginning to take its toll on her, and I use her bed’s edge as my crutch to bring myself to a kneel next to her slumped form. Though the rest of her is strewn about uselessly, her ocular muscles still work for the moment and she gazes plaintively, beseechingly up at me from the corner of her eyes, those stunning, midnight-fog orbs that had so enthralled me last night. So many emotions in that stare: anger, confusion, shock, and grief. Above all though, the hurt abandonment of one whose entire world – entire expectation for the way things ought to go – has been upended.”
And that’s how I fucked a Dathaari girl.