He set the stage, dropping a red gauze over the lamp and lighting a stick of sandlewood. She had spread the byzantine sweat-cloth in the middle of the floor. Her music was playing. A mesmerizing instrumental by Dead Can Dance. Drums, electronic keyboard, eerie chanting.
Sonya smiled and ate a pomegranite. Brother Ambrose toked on a new strain of weed being distributed around town. They kissed like feral children.
He helped her out of her black denim jeans. She tossed her Nine Inch Nails tee shirt across the room. It fluttered like a bat into a dark corner. She wore just bra and panties and felt groovy as warm honey on a muffin.
Brother Ambrose felt like his old self. Ziggy, aka Mister Zig-Zag. He could not describe the mood he was in. The pain of losing his wife had dimmed. There was only the movie in his mind. Cherry Blossom lay upon the bare dinng table, clothed like a San Francisco flower-child with garlands in her hair. In the owlight he could hear her weeping somewhere up in the rafters.
"Hey, boy-o. Why the far-away stare?"
"Sorry, babe."
And what did he have here? A palefaced Russian-Innuit goth chick half his age.
Sonya began ab-crunches, wriggling like a serpent. Muscles beneath taut skin were glowing hot.
Brother Ambrose watched, enthralled. Soon she was sweating, exhaling. This was like sex to her. His arousal began as her lips parted like a Bernini Theresa.
He knelt beside her and placed the palm of his hand upon her belly. He felt her constrictions and could stand it no more. She gasped, and then they were entwined as planned.
*
"This is so kinky," she said. Feeling his seed within her.
"Howzat?" Dreamily.
"Me doing a work-out before we do it."
"Eh."
He gazed upon her with renewed intensity. Her black bush glistened. He combed it and placed a moist finger upon her tongue. "This is what you wanted?"
"Yes."
"Well, then."
"Well, then."
Brother Ambrose felt a sermon blooming in his head. Sunday he would deliver it and it would be good he told himself.
No comments:
Post a Comment