“It’s gon’ be ah-ight.”
The gon’ rhymes with own, ah-ight is so smooth it is almost one syllable. He says it slowly, the drawl thick as the words ooze into my ear like syrup. “It’s gon’ be ah-ight,” an assumption at best, perhaps self-delusion.
But fuck me if that reassurance doesn’t feel good to hear, listening in the dark. It is whispered ever so softly, and I find myself as I almost always do when that voice joins me here in my bed, with my hand on my breast, between my legs, eyes closed so the real world no longer exists.
I can almost believe him, for a few hours, that it will indeed be ah-ight. That the obstacles between us are simply detritus that will be swept away like confetti, sucked up by sheer will. I know, when I wake in the light of day, that the odds of it actually being ah-ight are slim to none.
But, in the dark, in my bed, he tells me its okay, that we have no choice. That the foolish thing isn’t moving forward, its stopping, or even pausing to consider. So, I don’t.
He says the words he knows turn me on, what he will do when he is here. Not what he would do, but what he will do. He does not believe in if, but when. What it will be, when he sees me, when he pulls me to him, when he tastes my pussy, when he puts my legs over his shoulders, when he fucks me.
He says that will be ah-ight. And so I listen, and let him tell me, my fingers moving, matching the cadence of his words. I was wet from the moment my phone rang, by the time he describes the acts he sees as inevitable, I am beyond want – I need to come, I need release, I have to have this. I can’t sleep, hell I can’t be until I do.
“I want you so bad baby,” there is anguish in his voice. “I’m gon’ fuck you, then stay there while we sleep, inside you. I’m gon’ wake up makin’ love to you.”
When he says my name its almost musical, so soft, while using hard, filthy words. How deep he’s gon’ fuck me, details of how he will eat me, how far up my pussy his fingers will go. He tells me what is happening there, in his bed, how hard his beautiful cock is and how it is just for me. He sends blurry dark video, mesmerizing.
I fuck myself without mercy, but I cannot tell him this, words don’t come. Just this, my fingers pushing into my cunt, so wet it drips down onto my new sheets, then out over my clit. I just listen to his voice, I tell him its for him, that it is him touching me, and there is nothing else there in the dark but his voice.
And then I come and I can feel him listening, I can feel him out there, feeling me. I share this, give this to him, it is his after all. I hold nothing back, I cry out, groan, growl, grip my phone so hard my hand is sore the next day.
The next day when there is light, and reality and issues and an entire world that tells me it is definitely not alright, not by any stretch of the imagination. All is not right with the world, the world will defeat us. What seems in the dark like nothing more than a cloud of dark thoughts to be fanned away shows itself to be quite insurmountable in the daylight.
But then the night comes. Then he is there, in my ear. Then there is the relief, the confirmation that maybe things are not that bad. That we can do this.
That its gon’ be ah-ight.