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.