Choice

He is choosing locks instead of a weave, dark skin instead of light skin, 6 feet instead of average height, straight toes instead of bunions, supple breasts instead of a silicon chest. No acrylic, false eye lashes or tinted eyes; subtle makeup instead of a palette plate; scented oil instead of heavy perfume. He is choosing something different.

Scent of a woman

Spray perfume on my pulse points, so he can smell me before he sees me. Massage scented oil in my locks. Dust powder on my inner thighs just in case. He must never forget the scent of his woman.

Coffee Black

Thinking of having milk in my coffee; never had milk in my coffee. Always enjoyed it black with two teaspoons of sugar, but I have been convinced to try milk in my coffee.

Marks

Lying in bed, well-oiled, dark skin glistening from the glow of a dim light, dark skin smooth, dark skin supple and toned, long legs, tight ass, rippled arms, wet seat. Anxious! Waiting! Fuck! How many times have I envisioned this man walking towards me, naked, no, not quite - some skin covered - covered in marks; arms covered in marks, legs covered in marks, back of his shoulder, the nape of his neck and chest.He walks in.Goliath, Samson and Mandingo rolled in one. His shaft jumps at the sight of me lying in the bed. He says my name as a whisper. I cannot respond because the words are caught in the tidal wave that is storming in my crotch. He says my name again, this time it is response to the wetness he feels via his shaft that is well positioned between my legs. He calls the Lord's name, I whisper "this is not the best time to get him involved" he chuckles.I use my fingers to trace the marks I can reach. He must have every tribe depicted on his body... he has alliance to no one. The marks represent all Mother Nature’s offspring.He says my name again! “Yes!” I respond, finally finding my voice. “I want you to focus on me and not the marks,” he says. “But you are the marks and the marks are you,” I whisper.

Home

When I need a quiet place to think I go to the cemetery. No matter what time it is, day or night, I go to the cemetery, sit on someone's grave and tell them my story. Who the hell they going to tell?! Shit! I read their headstones "loving husband and father" bullshit! He throws so much horn in her, barely supporting her and the pickney she had for him. Bastard! That is why your ass is 6 feet under my ass right now. Sorry, I digress, like I was saying, I like going to the graveyard - the home and final resting place for the mortal body.

Love of the cat

I love my pussy - yes my pussy. I do not call her vagina that just sounds to fucking prissy. Pussy is what I call her; she takes care of me, I take care of her. She insists that I groom her to his liking. I oblige. He likes her bald and smelling of a hint of jasmine. She is always well moist and plumped when he is around. She loves him, I know it. Always so fucking ready to do his bidding - at times I am disgusted at her weakness for him. She missed the ‘am woman hear me roar’ movement, the ‘burn ya bra’ rally. He on the other hand gloats at the measure of control he has over her. But what can I do, but give in.

Gift

i can see. my third eye is open wider than most. i talk to the dead. i deliver their messages.