| return to Softer Things The mist hung over the mountain as a body of smoke, thick, dense, gray. The night enveloped the mist, the mountain, the cabin, and the lovers. The year was 1872. The mountain folk had endured the sad war, watched their men leave, most not to return, they had watched their women starve and waste away in sorrow and grief, their children grow stunted with a hollow-eyed look, their land lay for seasons untended and wild. But in 1872 there was some hope of forgetting and making things right. There was no such hope for the black woman lying in the white man’s arms in the cabin amidst the mist. There was no such hope for the white man in love with the black woman even though she was free. Their bodies twisted in passion, turned in need and desire. Her dark slender figure rose above him in the dim candlelight, moving with a grace and assurance he had never seen. He lay there watching, loving her, not understanding how but loving her. She moved and smiled, her tongue moving over his skin. He flinched without thinking, her tongue tickling him. She laughed a low quiet laugh, and he whispered, "I’m sorry." "Shush, now," she told him, and began to lick his nipples again. She had his erection in her hand, her fingers softly circling him, black on white. Her kiss on his lips was something he had always loved, the feel of her, the flick of her tongue on his. "Please," he murmured knowing she’d understand what he hoped for. And she did, rising above him to take him inside her. He felt her thick lips kiss the tip, a wet kiss, a warm kiss so special he ached for it when he was alone. Her lips spread around the tip and moved down to take him, just the head at first. She smiled down to him, holding the head inside her, squeezing him in her special way. His hands came up to take her breasts, to gently pull and twist the dark nipples, white on black, but he never thought of it or cared. Down her hips came as she closed her eyes, down to him, down on him, down completely. She leaned down to him, kissing him again, while her hips moved hard into him. In that moment he knew he loved her, but it had nothing to do with the sex. The sex was only and expression of the love, he came to understand long ago. He closed his eyes and let her have him, let her do what she did so well for both of them. There were wet sounds, the sounds of passion and lust, the sounds of skin meeting skin without any sense or care for color. They orgasmed together, mingling liquids, such a simple, basic act, but one of no simple meaning. He held her and she relaxed onto him, letting him hold her full weight. "Can you stay?" he whispered. "No," she answered, moving to kiss him lightly, "My man, he expects me to be home when he comes home bout midnight." "She thinks I’m huntin tonight," he said, "The new baby been keepin her a mite busy." "You get anything huntin, I wonder," she chuckled. They both laughed quietly, each knowing their time together was short.
copyright, 1999 |