Raadha, an early encounter

The juices that wet the bilabials of her vulva
Brings her to life, sets me on fire.
As water nourishes the waiting earth,
I hunger after the wetness
As erection permits me to bend.

Her eye are closed, and her moanful rhythm
Calls to attention all lust
That assembles in each atom.
Her fingers of one hand crouch to a fist,
And the other holds firm my hair, in zest.

Raadha, I have had you, against all odds.
The tip of this hole that I burrow into
Is as far as the dreams of the world would get.
Tonight, I enter deep into you,
And you have made it my right.

The father that looked after you died, Raadha.
And now you are alone and you make
The choices that women must make.
Coyly you have let me in, against all your father’s teaching
And you have made me your master, spreading it out for me to have.

So, my lips rustling the side of your neck,
My weight pinning you down,
My hands possessive of the abundant flesh of your boobs,
I enter you, a heavy sodden root deep into earth,
As I release myself in you, making you mine.

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Radha, her father’s demise

You are from my class:
Your grandmother hauled sand on the beach
My father’s uncle massaged foreign-skinned women
And touched his groin with the free hand.
Your father broke away from the Folk,
He saved education and favours
And made enough money to make a life,
And wedded the class he had not,
When he bedded your mother that night.

What slid through the wet walls of your mother
Is the emancipated shaft of a low class,
Made big by money and status. The boy
Whose father plucked and threw the
Coconuts down from the crowned trees
Fed on your mother’s classed coconuts,
Making her come – impregnating her with new seed.

And today, three decades and two children later,
He goes to the cemetery on VIP shoulders.
You are in your funeral clothing and
Your grief has made you distraught and tired
That it adds to your voluptuousness
Making me want you more and more.
You give me orders to run errands as
The class status your father had made your birthright
Has taught you to do.

You, the grand daughter of a sand hauler of
My village, my class —
Very soon I will take you to the
Coldness of the storeroom where
One by one the guises you have been trained to take for granted
Must be slowly shunned —
Where the fragrance of your skin,
Anointed by powders too real for softness
Should be sucked off your golden skin.
Where, in the emptiness of a reverberating hollow,
Dumbed and dazed by the shock of an unfamiliar warmness,
You must be entered and fucked long, out and in.

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Shanika, her riding

I dreamed you ride me.
Your arms sank past me to the bed disarrayed
And falling, you rose on me,
Watching my eyes, caught in a gaze
As I received you trying to keep my breath in place.

Your mouth’s half open.
As you slide on what goes into you
Throbbing your inner walls to whimper,
Your mouth’s half open, you give out soft sounds.
Into my surcharged moans you want them to fall.

Your hair’s undone, and they flop about freely,
And you force the pressure on, and, then,
You slow down the pace. Your wetness, now infused
Into mine becomes mine, mine, yours.
You whip up the riding, and you pump up the craze.

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