She saw my deficits. My flawed masculinity. She knew the pivot triggers that unsettled my decorum and control. Through it all, somehow, I kept trying to maintain the semblance of normality, diplomacy and coolness. Even though inside, I struggled to own that I was different. Her body had youth and energy on its side. Lean, the tone of dark, rich coffee. Nipples, nubile and fierce. And she had cunt power, though never acted like one. She danced naked, she told me once. Painted and prayed to the spirits she said. She was sharp as a blade, astute and intuitive. A strong matriarch of a mother meant her standards were defined by women, not by men. In her, I saw goddess energy. She was the Orisha to me. We first met, 6 months ago, at a networking event. Introduced by a friend, I made some fidgety small talk that I can’t to remember to this day. Vivacious, she had a presence I could not ignore. I saw how rich in spirit she was. Though smitten, I thought she never even saw me, but as we left, she asked for my card. I didn’t expect a call. When she did it, was for coffee and advice for her business. As we sat there, I was butterflies and warm delirium. However, she had an ease. With an inner warmth and smile, she easily articulated her thoughts, and questions, always with eye contact. We connected on diverse topics and shared insights, though she always seemed to listen more, and I felt afterwards that I always rambled. And yet she kept in touch. Many seemed to know her. Few though, she seemed to let close. I could see men wanted her, often making weak advances. Their eyes on her, the veiled lust in their stare, tongues thick with want. She knew it, and broke them often, as they sometimes sought to intrude on our coffee meetings Her words carried deft power as she diplomatically blunted their approach, laying waste to the soul of fat white men. She could be fickle, but she was no fool I came to see. Always in control, always with dignity and class. To me, I was just like all the others bewitched by her, and my fate would be the same I feared. I knew I had nothing to offer her, let alone my repressed subservience. My submission I believed was weak, shameful, and yet I could not stay away from its dark comfort. And so. it remained in the shadows, the confines of my mind. Resident in the belly of my soul and the softness of my cunt. I was single. Fit. I played on Tinder, but just couldn’t connect. So, I let work and training run my life. I let books and cooking be my refuge. I was often seen, seldom heard. For months, I held back. I let it go. I chose to accept what is. And somehow, albeit at a distance or over coffee, she would keep connecting, ask me things, and listen attentively. Sometimes it would seem as if she was listening, and then with her acute observations, I’d see she was. Once, over coffee, she fed me from her hand, asking me to try something. It was an innocent gesture in public, between friends. I confess that it affected me. It warmed my belly and tugged deep within my anal cunt. I felt the heat in my breathe, the flush in my skin. The whole afternoon, I couldn’t concentrate. Her skin had a musk I could not capture and could not forget. Later at home, I came to that memory, humping the bed, arching my opening upward, as if praying to be filled by her. I released onto the cotton pillow, saying her name in my head over and over. And then, as the pulse faded, the emptiness opened up, and I cried, till my sobs faded me into the night. On this day, I sat in my apartment, staring at the blank screen, back aching, my mind blank. I was anxious. Shit was not going well at work and I honestly didn’t know what to do about it. My insides were in turmoil, my inner archetypes raging at each other, intentionally inflicting apon the other. As usual, I tried to compartmentalise, to detach into rationale. To suppress my urges and wandering thoughts. But truthfully, I just wanted to reach down inside my Bermuda’s, and stroke, letting myself be lost in the ecstasy. I wanted to plug my anal heat. To mount and come deep into the warm dark flesh folds of her nectar, giving me a moments peace and refuge. To fall into her arms, and confess all that I was, and all I wanted to be for her. To suckle from her breast and have my hair stroked. To be seen and known. I just couldn’t focus. I walked around the apartment, pacing. Needy. Desperate. At 3pm, out of the blue she called and said why don’t I come over? To her place? She needed help with something and would make dinner as reward. I said yes without thought, caught in my own mental quagmire of work. She gave me the address. And then was gone. 5mins later, as I closed my front door heading to my car, it dawned on me that never before had I been to her home. When I arrived, she had just come out the shower. Moisture here, a trickle there. Her black and gold short kimono, revealing her strident lean limbs, as she smiled and welcomed me into the open plan kitchen. She had impeccable taste. White clean surfaces with modern classics. A large canvas in the lounge, a piano further to the dining area, bordered by mirrors. And behind, in a place of prominence, an altar with a candle, copper items, a statuette and some food I thought. She saw me look and wonder. “For Oya, goddess of the Niger river and ruler of storms”, she said Leaning forward to get some tumblers, her kimono revealed the promise of those firm ebony nipples. I swallowed, transfixed for the briefest moment. My belly softened. She knew I looked and just smiled, pouring the bourbon and adding honey. I looked hesitant. “I’m out of coffee”, she said, “try it”. She just looked at me, a gentle smile, the offering in her hand again. Her body aglow with spirit energy, she slipped past me, and with the lightest touch led me to the deck, fingering the volume control on the sound system as she walked barefeet and beautiful, inviting me into side-by-side heavy colonial wicker chairs. I complied quietly. Flock of Seagulls, Depeche Mode, Cat Stevens, a Song for Zula… We just sat and listened, looking out to the blue late afternoon sky. With nothing to add or take away. Together and separate. Connected, sharing a moment. Grace Jones… Refill. And still no words. Sipping in silence, the sound’s vibration hummed into our bodies via the white marbelite floor. My nerves calmed and stress faded, as the honey-laden alcohol softened me. Dead can Dance… Time seemed to open and expand. I felt as if I’d slipped into the realm beyond my body as the sounds brought release the to the dark shadows of my soul. And then silence as the track ended… “Michael, what happened to you that day we had coffee?”, she said breaking the silence, in a light and direct manner. No excuse. No softening phrases. No hesitation in her voice. A question right into my core, which brought a quickening to my pulse. I knew what she meant. And she knew, I knew. Still I looked out at the blue. In my old classic diplomatic way, I said, “What day, what do you mean”? Slowly, I sensed her turn and looked at me, her eyes on me. Silence seemed to drum deep and primal, and my lower being went lame and warm. I felt my swelling. I swallowed. “I like you Michael, …tell me”, she said with no malice or coercion in her voice. My breathing deepened, driven by the pace of my heart. after what seemed eternal time, “You see me. “, she said, I didn’t know what to say. I felt I was at the slippery edge of my truth, of my feelings, and with it the revelation what I really was. A part I had so well kept hidden. Her words repeated over and over pulsing deeper and deeper into me. I looked within for the longest moment. I could lie. I could mumble and play stupid. But why, she never treated me that way. And it was not my best. She waited quietly. I turned slowly and our eyes connected. And then somehow, I it was okay. “I confess I humped.” I said, in calmness. Silence again, seemingly forever. And my anxiety grew. With fear, I realized I may have got it wrong. “I know”, she broke the quiet, “thank you for being honest. That is all I ask.” The moment slowed, everything intensified. “I like you too”, I said, “I just don’t want to be forgotten.” I couldn’t say more. I thought I’d just leave it there and turn back to the blue sky, find my balance and put it away, once again. “I know this too” she nodded. “Would it surprise you that, none of them make it to my bed, let alone my heart and soul. They used to. But then I met you.” She rose up, her glass quietly clinking onto the glass side table. Entranced, I watched her move with poise and grace. Every detail of her beautify etched into me as it had never done before. She came to stand in front of me, my eyes rising to meet hers once again. “Michael, I know what it’s like to not fit the definition of who the world wants you to be. Expects you to be. I know what it’s like to hide who you are. To be afraid. To carry, the shame others project, I know. And I know that doesn’t it define you.” “How” …, I began, my dry mouth croaking into fear. “Michael, I always knew. If you have walked my path, you know. You understand. I just needed to be sure. Not of who you are and what you are, but of you, your character, what kind of man you are. Your backbone. Your courage. Your kindness.” Fear broke to my surface. The shame and hidden voices flooded my mind, racing to reveal the implications of an extrapolated future. That my secret was out. I froze and wanted to run. Here she was in front of me, above me, tall and lithe. Knowing what I am. What I hide. I tried to stand; my arms weak. As I rose, I could feel the leak of precum, as its tendrils moved against the cotton fabric of my shorts. I tried to look away, my eyes began to well up. ‘Shhh, it’s okay,” she said, taking my head in her hands, her touch so soothing. “You are safe with me, as I have been with you. You never looked at me the way others do. You see me. And I see you.” Her tone calmed me, and I brought my eyes to her. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. She caressed it away. I became aware her kimono was open, hanging loose, revealing her fine black knickers, and the tumescence of her flesh contained therein “It’s okay”, she said. “It’s okay to look. It’s okay to touch. It’s okay to be what you are.” I came in that moment. I lost control and felt thick creaming into my shorts. My cock tightening spasmodically with each pulse, she felt my petit mort. Always her eyes on me, as lost control to delirium. Ordinarily I’d feel shame, but I didn’t care. I wanted her to see my vulnerability and neediness. To see what I really was. She held me through it. Till the tremors faded and I gained some composure. We both smiled, and broken into gentle laughter She stroked my hair the way I had dreamed and longed for. Her eyes shone kindness. My supplicant being opened its soul. Imperceptibly she leaned in closer, still standing above me. Eyes always on me, unspokenly giving me permission, guiding me every so deftly to let my gaze trace down the line of her belly. And then breaking the potential space between us, she drew me into her groin, gently nuzzling me into her warmth swelling against the French fabric. My lungs drank in her feral musk. Her rich deepness. I let go to the moment, to feeling. As my mouth traced against the fine grain of the fabric, the moisture of her head’s precum met my lips with the lightest kiss. And for the first time I felt her gentle tremor, as she said my name in quiet ecstasy. My arms, my hands still trembling came around her back in embrace, holding her, now drawing down along her sides till they came to the edge of the knicker fabric. I drew the fabric down, committed now to our mutual need. Held back at first by the mass of thickening cock, it released the massing of thick flesh free. I took a moment to take it all in. How beautiful this cock of my love was? Medium, but thick. How the veins coursed, one thick one to the side. How the head peaked, glistening pink between the sweet folds of foreskin, slowing being drawn tightly back as her meatus continued to swell As a man falls willingly on his sword, I took her in my mouth as if I supplicant prayer. She hardened into my wet mouth, saying my name over and over in sweet ecstasy. My wet sighs and moans edged her, to begin a slow purposeful pump into my mouth. With devotion and adoration my submissive gullet opened, sometime gagging and then continuing. She coaxed me deeper. And then slowed, her left hand stroking my forehead in away to guide my eyes upward. As we met with understand and love, she came in a deep spurt into my soul. And again. And again. I swallowed without hesitation. Always eye contact. Knowing between us. She was my first.