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And with each stroke, my body is flooded with joy. I have become a river, flowing along the sides of his shaft, a waterfall cascading down, around and across his balls. I am wet. And I am wetting him. The slippery, smacking, slurping sounds of my vagina play sweet music. I lift my hips and place my hands back upon his chest, then remain still. Instinctively, Horus raises his hips up into me. “Uh…mmm…oh, yesss,” I purr. My vagina clenches and throbs as he moves himself inside of me with slow, measured strokes. “Take me, Horus,” I whisper. “Let the gods see how well you feast in my womanhood.”
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
I am pushing. He is pushing. I am chanting. He is chanting. We are calling out to the gods who have crossed over into the afterlife. We are seeking refuge and temporary solace in each other’s arms, in each other’s lips, in each other’s movements—fluid, fast, rippling movements of pleasure.
“Oh, Raghaba,” he moans again. “You are so wet. I could lose myself in your every move from now until eternity. My heart beats for you, Raghaba. And I shall lay down my life to live out the rest of my days with you here and in the afterlife.”
I blink, blink again. His tongue announces the thoughts of his heart. And I feel myself slipping off this pleasure ride. But I say nothing. Just press my lips against his to silence him, and continue to ride. I do not share his sentiments. Does he not know that I will allow him to soil my sheets, but never my heart? Does he not recognize that what he speaks is not of love, but of lust? After tonight, though I may ride him through the sun and back again, I do not want his heart, or his undying love.
I give him more of my tongue; shove it into his mouth as deep as it will go to keep him from speaking words that may clog up the surge that rushes through me. Like the mighty Nile that extends four thousand miles from the mountains of Ethiopia, forming the Blue Nile and the White Nile that flows through Sudan, then converging and emptying into the Mediterranean Sea, a giant orgasm is swelling inside of me. I hear its roaring rapids crashing against my inner walls, splashing against Horus’ pulsing organ as he thrusts deeper inside of me. I reach around and cup his balls and jingle and gently squeeze them. They too are full…and heavy, ready to erupt. Our silhouettes sway about the room like two sensual dancers looping around each other, dipping and bending.
I flip my wild and tossed-about hair out of my face. I feel the eyes of the gods looking down upon us, my womb calling out to them. I move down into him. He moves up against me. We are fighting to outmatch each other.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
I am galloping him. He is bucking me. Our pelvises are crashing against each other, the clanking of bones, the smacking of skin, desperately seeking release. I hold my breasts in my hands, pull one up to my lips at a time and suck and lick them, alternately. I slow my pace, moaning. “Uh…uh…oh, yes!”
Horus runs his hands along the small of my back, his fingertips slowly gliding down my spine. “Raghaba,” he whispers, “my sweet, sweet Raghaba. Your insides are like the center of the earth, deep and hot. My loins burn with desire for you.”
He slides his hands and fingers all over my flesh, causing it to tingle and become hot. Finally, his hands rest on my two soft, round humps. He digs his fingers into the flesh of my backside, squeezes the fat of my cheeks together and rapidly thrusts himself up into me, his eyes rolling back into his head. His moan becomes a growl, deep and hungry. He is panting and howling and pulling at the bedcovering. I pull in my bottom lip. His begins to quiver. And, together, we explode against each other. The intensity forces me to shudder and collapse against his chest. Drenched in a mixture of pleasure and sweat, we drift off to sleep, limbs intertwined with his organ still lodged inside of me.
We both awaken to the kiss of the sun, bright and gleaming. The heat is already creeping in, causing beads of sweat to line the bridge of my nose. I am on my side, back facing Horus, and he has me pulled into his chest with his arm locked around me, and one leg draped over both of mine. I can feel the rigidness of his manhood poking me. With his arm still wrapped around me, I maneuver myself so that I can turn my body around to him, face-to-face. Although, I am full from the pleasures of the night before, I cannot believe I have allowed him to stay. Cannot believe I am looking into his face, breathing in his breath scented with stale passion. Can not imagine why I did not wake him in the still of the night and send him on his way. Probably because I will have him another round, I think.
“Good morning,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. “The gods have poured down their blessings upon us this beautiful day.” He pulls me into his arms, and buries his face against my neck. His breath is warm and tickly, but I do not become aroused. “Oh, Raghaba, what have you done to me?”
I slowly pull back from him; look into his eyes. There is another kind of wanting in them, a wanting I will not provide. “I have given you what you have so desired.”
“And I yearn more.”
“There is nothing more to offer you.”
“Oh, my sweet Raghaba,” he says, leaning up on his elbow, “how wrong you are. There is still so much more of you to give. You are so full of vigor, so full of adventure. I want to spend every wakening moment exploring the depths of your spirit.”
I force a slight smile. I do not want to sound callous, do not want to breed cynicism, but he is asking for things he will never be given. Things I will not allow him to lay claim to. There is no one man I wish to share more than what I am willing to give him, a night or two of unadulterated, endless bliss. Anything more would be a lie chaining my spirit. I am not of this world to be tied down to matters of the heart. Not one to be hostage to emotions, or to expectations, or to vulnerabilities that come with opening up and giving of oneself—not in mind or heart, and definitely not to any one living, breathing being.
“This,” I say, running my hands all over my nakedness, “is all I wish to give. And when I have fulfilled your desires, I shall move on to someone else’s.”
He presses his lips against me, hard. Silences me from speaking what he does not want to hear, slipping his hand between my legs and stroking the front of my vagina, nuzzling two fingers between the spaces between each lip, then massaging my clitoris with his thumb.
“Mmm,” I moan. “Mmm…”
His fingers play a sweet melody against my clitoris, strumming along the opening of my vagina, causing drums to beat in and around and against my inner walls. I clamp my legs shut, and begin humping his hand, thrashing about the bed in a fit of unrequited ecstasy.
“Oh, yes…Oh, yes…Oh, yes…Mmmm…it feels…so…good…”
Horus plants his mouth over my nipple and sucks, then gently bites down. I scream. It is a sound not of pain, or agony, or discomfort, but of gut-wrenching explosions traveling from the bottom of my feet to the center of my being, transporting me from the here and now to another place, another time. I call on the gods, beg them, and plead with them, to keep me grounded, to keep me from slipping into another world. Horus’s hand, his fingers, his mouth, his lips, his rhythm takes me to the edge, pushes me over, then lifts me back up.
