omi

It is like a magic trick, he said, as I rode him, swiveled, his cock embedded deep in my cunt.

“It’s an omi,” I said, and it is indeed an intriguing movement.

My lover tonight is enjoying the benefits of my latest dance craze, an obsession that has me drilling and zilling my morning workout, veils removed as the sweat pours down my face in these efforts for perfection…

I think of my lover late in the day since I began dancing–practicing my seduction with veils, with ben wa balls, with the Arabic music blaring across my practice room, my pelvis aching with desire, my dancing suffering less and less from lack of proper attention to form as I become accustomed to the way it feels, as I gain control.

So it is magic, the scarves draped across my face, my breasts hidden from you, the music separating us as I hide and tease throughout the day. You love this chase, I know, love it when I reveal so little of my urgent desires. But you know. Yes, you know.

My lack of dance experience is irrelevant to my lover now, he thinks, as I grind down on him, clamping down as he groans and I pull slowly up, side, back.

“Oh fuck.”

Yes, that is what we are doing, but I love the slowness of it, exotic decadence of a weekday afternoon, the early evening light behind dark curtains, the music lulling me slowly around your blessed cock, my cunt sweet, wet, hot, undulating, my own desire tensely on hold as I block my hearing from the walkers out on the dirty streets below. They are walking to their cars, from jobs in some world that seems so faraway right now, going home to some world that may lack this sort of passion. Shun the thought.

“Lish, habibi, lish…” sings Natacha Atlas, and I know the song sings of whys, of wishes, of grief.

But not now, not now do I think of this lament when my hips circle and sway, delaying your climax–mine–once more. You grab me more roughly, more urgently, as I deny your release again on the up beat.

Oh.

It is darker now, the shadows like veils as the music wails to a stop, as I slow and let my hips settle with you deep inside. You pull my mouth roughly to yours as I lean over to kiss you, your throbbing cock trying to thrust into me as I simply ride you, my body still in a trance of sorts that is not nearly enough for you now, you, tightly wrapped in this web, wishing now to let loose, explode inside me.

You push me from you, pinning me on my back, my hands above my head as you kick my legs apart, as I let you. You bring me from my oasis to yours, now, my heart racing as you switch the control, then let me loose. I am yours.

Oh yes. Yes! Take me now, take me hard. My fingernails scrape your back as you push me roughly open, devouring me, my skin, my entire being. I push my legs together in mock modesty, and you push them back apart, my cunt yours, gleaming as your hands knead my breasts, as your fingers comb through my hair and pull it, your cock not hesitating as you groan and slam into me, once, then again, and again, harder, larger. I am gone now, obliterated into the bliss, my orgasms riding one another as I hear myself howling, I think. Or is it you, transformed into some beast, insatiable?

This is what I wished for always, your desire urgent and good, relentless, inescapable.

And satiable, now.