Black and Gold

 

Black and Gold

'Cause if you're not really here

I don't want to be either

I wanna be next to you

Black and gold, black and gold, black and gold

(Sam Sparro 2008)

 

 Chapter One. Part Two

Collapsing onto the now sweat soaked sheets, they entwined their bodies together, breathing slowly becoming normal. The air feels a little cool now.

 She speaks for the first time. “Have you the bottle of apple juice next to the bed?” He reaches down and passes it to her. She swallows greedily. He watched her guzzle and thought that only a few moments ago she had taken his love juice in such a fashion. She laid back, kissing his shoulder and with open mouth sucking hard to make a bruise.

“Now I have marked you as mine, and buy the way, I doubt if you noticed as you were rather busy trying to get my mother’s milk.  I brought you a present. I knew you would like this.”

Lying back, she clasped her hands behind her back, black varnished fingernails now speckled with flecks of dried semen. He looked down and gasped with lustful delight. Wet, slightly matted from their sexual exploits, was a small bush of baby finger long hair. The colour as intense as the curls surrounding the entrance to the very soul of her. His balls seemed to almost groan as they worked overtime to produce another load to  satisfy her again.

 With words husky from the fucking. “Don’t get excited now. I need to know more about you. Obviously, you are not in any way German. The way you talk and the way you write is weird! Answer me as you lick my armpits clean.”

 He bent over her to oblige, struggling the urge to be inside her again. He started to taste the very essence of her hormonal reactions to intense love making.“I am English born but from the age of two I was brought up in Africa. I am a Rhodesian -  one of the last,” he murmured as his exploring tongue rubbed the taste of  her deodorant and sweat against the inside of his mouth.

“Rhodesian? What is one of those?” She quizzed.

             Puffing little short, hot breaths whilst combing the now drying hairs, his fingers creating small curls.“A place that no longer exists except in history. A land now called Zimbabwe.”

            She pushed him away and sat up. “I need to go to the toilet. Have you a dressing gown for me?” From the back of the door he gave her a fluffy, grey flannel gown. She held it up  turning it around and smelt it,“I better not ask how many women have worn this. Come, watch me pee and tell me more.”

            He knelt between her open knees and watched her release a strong, hot stream of golden amber, making his brain saturated with sexual desire. He continued, “I went to school there, joined the Police and spent two years in the Bush War.” 

Deliberately not wiping herself, she wandered past him, giving him a deep kiss, and started to examine the small art studio he had created. She looked around amazed, “this is like a modern art gallery!” She bent over and guessing right, opened the fridge door and hitching up the mantel to expose her buttocks, she gave a wiggle.

“Ooh la la la, and exactly how did you intend to eat this?” She held aloft a banana. “And,” as she came over and fondled his eggs, whilst letting him suckle a swollen right nipple, “You obviously live alone. divorced?

He removed his mouth and watched his saliva dribble from the end of her mother’s milk tap.

“Yes, a long time now. I left Rhodesia before I got killed, went to England, hated it and whilst hitching around Europe I found out on the camping site in Munich that there was work on building sites.” Taking the banana, he started to remove her dressing gown. She tried to stop him.

“Stop it now, get dressed and make the dinner you promised. All that sex has made me hungry and I need my strength for our second session.” 

            He reached under the two-seater cream leather sofa and brought up a tissue wrapped gift. “Put this on,” and continued. “I landed up being in the west of Munich for over 30 years.”

            She handed him the dressing gown and unwrapping, she let out a gasp of delight. Twittering rapidly now, the small burs making every word sound like a dying Thorn birds’ last lamenting sounds of love.

“Tell me more and start cooking.” She slipped on the black wool dress with half of it covered with a leopard adorned in multitudes of  black and gold sequins.  Posing in front of the tall antique mirror. “Do I look better in this than the awful picture I put on mDates? What are you going to cook? Will it be crocodile?”

She giggled. He went to the fridge and replacing the banana started to take out objects for the feast he would prepare.

“It is called Bingo Bongo Congo Stew.” He looked at her and parted his lips and licking them, smiled evilly and said, “ AND the main ingredient is YOU!”

            She, startled, her befuddled brain made her burst out, “Oh my God, and I have just been freshly stuffed!”