Robert’s footsteps—a size thirteen—march from the bathroom. He stands tall at 6’1 with a wet towel in hand, analyzing me as if I were an ebony Oscar, Heisman, or Grammy. I do the same. His sandy colored skin sparkles in the sunlight. I admire his broad shoulders, hard biceps, pink nipples, meaty stomach, thick thighs, and feet. My insides shiver while my dick grows. He grins mischievously as his third leg dangles between the other two. I’m irritated at its undeniable power to turn me into his sex slave.
I mean, I knew better than to mess around with him. A friend warned me months ago to leave him alone. “Nothing good will come from it,” she said. I wanted to, tried to, but I couldn’t. It’d been so long since I had sex with a man. It started slow. A picture here, a few texts there. Something in my body needed to be fed. Robert answered the call and fed it. His strength, his growls, and how he handled me excited me.
“I’d love to give you another round, but I have to head back home,” he says, drying off. “Father duty calls.”
Father duty. Those words vanish into the flowing air. I thought I made some peace with him being a father, but those words, after we made love, cut deep.
“Well,” I say bitterly, “shouldn’t be too hard to come up with a simple lie.”
“Naw, it’s not,” he says, looking down at his dick getting harder. “How we gone fix this?”
I get up from the couch and walk with my mouth-watering. Robert licks his lips and grabs me. His tongue invades my mouth and swirls around. I feel his hands grabbing my ass and spreading my cheeks apart. I moan as two fingers slide inside. His creamy white fluids, still inside from our first go around, allow easy access. All I can imagine is him on top of me, devouring me as if I were prime rib served with sautéed shrimp, broccoli, creamy mushrooms and a side of buttery mash potatoes. I don’t have time to think too hard as he tosses me on the couch. I try to catch my breath, but he towers over me. I am no longer a body, flesh, and soul. I am an object deemed worthy of his admiration in moments like this.
In these moments, I am his good boy. When his dick enters my body, I am his property. As it ravages inside me, the pleasure takes over my body like smoking marijuana, and I cry for more. I yell for him to go faster, dig deeper, and breed me like the pornos. I want to be his bitch, his whore, his slut, his nigga. I want him to know I can take it. But this is a game, and because he chose to fuck a man, he would and could fuck another. I want him to know that no woman could satisfy his needs—not like I can. When he comes inside me, gripping my waist as if his life-force was draining from his body, and kisses me, I know it’s done. I also know that it is a mistake. A check that I cannot cash.
Photo: Timo Wagner