“Coming Down” by Akati Khasiani

I come down slowly, woozily. I take in the sight of the pale blue curtain billowing into the room. It dances on a gentle midday breeze just strong enough to bring a chill to my dewy skin but too soft to cut through the thick scent of pussy hanging in the air.

My body comes back to me as multiple tensions are released. A vague throbbing persists in my clit—a thrum, a hungry whisper. I am parched.

I unfold me. Sex, even with myself, involves so much tangling, such intertwining of limbs, a sticky Mobius strip. Where did he stop, and only I begin?

My thighs are slick, tacky with unused wetness leaking down to my knees. I walk to the kitchen, stagger, shaking the cobwebs out of my head.

The water is cool and a little salty. Distracted, I let a few drops escape the edge of my glass, pour onto my chest—a shock, a chill. The rivulet runs down the space between my small breasts. They are pouting angrily away from one another, each one jealous of what the other has enjoyed.

One thirst quenched, I put a hand to my head and close my eyes—this other one defies sating.

I drift back to bed and collapse onto the ruby-red blanket, its soft, fuzzy warmth is an almost alive embrace. He gave this blanket to me, threw it on the floor and took me on it—a cave-man, his woman, their pelt.

Its softness caresses my back, my ass. I’m aware of its every inch touching me, loving me back.

I sigh.

Resigned.

Start over.

The girls in the videos always seem to dive right in—lick a finger or two and plunge deep into their splayed legs, spelunkers. Not me—I am a wanderer.

I relish the goosebumps of anticipation, each hair on my body straining, setting my caramel skin tingling. My own touch does that—even though I know it, anticipate it, still it teases me, still it pleases me.

My fingertips trace my mouth, the wrinkly softness of my lips plumping out, redder, warmer.

My breath is hot, my saliva pooling. I take in one purple-tipped finger, enjoy the silky soft wetness behind my lips before going past my teeth to my tongue.

I suck.

Another finger in. I lick between them, around them, dancing up and over, along and under, my cheeks hollow.

I remember the feel of him, hard and hot and smooth and ridged, musty with that ball-sack smell, plunging to the back of my throat.

My other hand dances unsteadily down my side—obeying the staccato rhythm of my choked breath—over my ribs—down—pirouette drunkenly—across my belly—my hand—a four-legged ballerina lingering—at my navel—before—leaping, and—landing—with a gasp.

In a grasp.

He always put his thumbs along my jutting pelvic bones: four fingers in the dimple above my ass and he’d lever me open, pivot me heavenward.

Heavenward.

I pop my fingers out of my mouth and let them slide down. They leave a dark trail over my chin and collarbone before fanning out to clasp my throat. Firm, clawing, angry. I struggle against myself to catch my breath, my pulse racing under my thumb. He’d bite me there till I screamed, mark me so hard the bruises would not fade for a week. Now, only I can hurt me.

My breasts heave, ever more annoyed. I ignore them, feel the clamour build up, the rage burning on, chocolate-drop nipples unmelting.

I miss his tongue—hot in my mouth, stiff then soft on my breasts, cool, somehow always cool on my clit.

My clit.

I bring my hand down and touch one finger around her, pet her, try to soothe her, douse the fire with her own slickness. She cries out all the more.

I trap her between two fingers, to calm her but, no, I have to smother her.

My thighs cross each other in a familiar dance, my ankles lock. The pressure builds, the tempo steady, solid. I flip onto one side and, at sweet last, barely touch one finger to the very tip of my hungry nipple.

I am empty. Yet I clench hungrily at the ghost of him, meet his every thrust sliding in, bumping against that sweetest of spots. My tongue thrusts in an imaginary duel, tasting him in the ether. I feel his weight pressing down on me, holding me still. His spectre chuckles in my ear as I draw him deeper even as I try desperately to pull away.

The ripple starts at the back of my quivering thighs. My calves are taut, gorgeous in the slanting light. My back arches, jerking off the mattress.

My eyes fly open.

My breath catches, stops.

I see nothing.

Sharp, quick.

My breath comes out of me in the only sound I will make before collapsing back into life, sweaty, spent, starving.

His name hangs in the air, its monosyllabic neatness attending my ragged, panting exhaustion.

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Akati (@aliasDi) is a city-bred, country-living, Kenyan doctor with a tendency to doodle. A reforming hoarder, she hopes to remember living as all her contradicting selves. Tea-drinker, compulsive nail-polish buyer, logophile, and recipe-tweaking savant, she believes she can cure anything with good food, belly-laughs, and kindness.