A naked goddess at the witching hour

Leila’s ebony skin glistens in the gloom. She’s regal, a queen of the night, her darkness and my light contrasting in a way that seems too perfect, too beautiful to be real. My fingers burrow between her thighs, spreading her open, her interior vividly pink, eerily bright in the moonlight. Her bush is springy and damp as I lean in to lick her, a vibrant tang on my tongue. She quivers, her cries rising like an incantation…

I’m staying in a hospital hostel, which is every bit as creepy as it sounds. My obsession with zombie movies has given me an apocalyptic sense of foreboding. The hostel — actually a small group of converted offices — is in the old, unused wing of the hospital, and it’s virtually deserted. The corridors are echoing, with vintage tiled floors and dim flickering lights. Once in a while I see the chaplain stalking around; he looks exactly like the priest in “The Walking Dead,” which does nothing to relieve my rising unease. Are the screams coming from the street below from revellers or victims? This is officially the most unpleasant and yet weirdly appropriate Halloween weekend of my life.

On Halloween night I’m woken by fireworks in the early hours, and go into the shared kitchen-common room to make some tea. The room is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator, so I turn on the TV and sit there a while, freaked out by the thought that there’s not another living soul in the building. I guess I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, someone has taken my hand and is gently shaking me awake.

I open my eyes; it’s my friend Leila. She looks stunning in the ghostly blue light of the TV; a powerful, gorgeous black woman, looking more African goddess than the cool urbanite she really is.

Drowsy, muddled, I know there’s something odd about this. Why is Leila here? I’m overseas, I caught a plane in a huge rush, nobody back home even knows where I am. I try to ask her, but with a mischievous grin she puts her finger to my lips — silence — and pulls me to my feet.

We kiss. Her lips are cool and refreshing, but I can feel her heart pounding like a drum as she holds me close. Her hand is around my waist, sliding down to grip my ass, pressing me tighter against her. We are pussy to pussy, and I feel her heat through her flimsy dress as she grinds against me.

Leila unties my robe, letting it fall open, hand moving to squeeze my breast, pinch the nipple stiff; and then down between my legs. Her fingers go straight to the hot, creamy entrance to my cunt, dabbling in the juice collected there for only a second before bunching together and thrusting up into me, hard, like a cock. I feel stretched, utterly penetrated, shockingly full. Girls don’t often make love this way, preferring a more delicate approach, and I find it exciting that she’s fucking me like a virile guy, making me feel it, making me scream for more.

She kneels to suck my clit forcefully, fingers hooking to hammer my G-spot with every thrust, her other hand gripping my ass cheek hard enough to bruise. She’s kneeling to me, worshipping my cunt with her lips and tongue, but she’s the weaver of magic here, the high priestess of yoni; I am hers to command.

Leila’s fingers rub and press and stroke, her tongue laps and flicks, and I feel the ecstatic rush build within me until sudden screams and cascades of juice and blasts of pure bliss gush from me. Her face is shiny with my wetness when she rises to kiss me again.

Now she’s unleashed the primal passion inside me, everything I’ve kept dammed up in the past few days, and I’m desperate to taste her, to feel the wildness in her rise to the surface. As if reading my mind she shrugs off her dress and stands naked before me, proud and perfect, like an obsidian statue in the flickering half-light.

She sinks to her hands and knees and I move behind her, spreading her cheeks and licking a stripe from her asshole to her clit, making her call out in a language I don’t recognize, strange and guttural. Her cries rise in pitch and volume as I lick her again and again, harder each time, until they become a rhythmic chant. I feel the sound reverberate deep within me, swelling until it fills the whole room, the vibration almost unbearably intense.

Leila swings around and grabs me, wrestling me to the ground, thighs entwined with mine, and mashes her hot, slippery pussy against my own. Her coarse bush scratches my smooth mound, her fleshy cunt-lips rubbing mine like a lover’s kiss, her wetness mixing with mine in a thick gloss. My hips move involuntarily, rhythm synchronizing to hers in a wild dance, the words of her chant rising from my throat unbidden.

My orgasm builds from my molten core and explodes through me with enough force to shatter the windows. Leila utters a piercing scream, and I distinctly feel her liquid climax squirting into my cunt, her life force pumping into me, before everything goes black…

I wake as dawn breaks, in my bed in the hostel. Everything is perfectly still and peaceful.

There’s a message from Leila on my phone: “Hey Rose, are you ok? I just had the strangest dream about you!”

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