midnight voodoo

Midnight strikes. The witching hour begins.

You are in a darkened room filled with tight, glistening bodies. the lone light bulb is in a losing battle with the thick steam that clouds the mind, and heightens the senses. Sweat mingles with heat, heat mingles with intent. You are all three, now: sweat, heat and intent; as you find yourself the pulsating center of that tiny room filled with bodies drenched with lust.

A hand slowly tugs at you from under the covers of your towel; its cadence slowly sending sparks across your body as you moan that first moan. Fingers work your chest, bringing your nipples to the right amount of hardness. Moist lips flutter around your neck and your arms. You arch your back and stare into the mist; it hovers, observing the spectacle below; with you sprawled in royal adoration by your subjects. It hangs suspended, readying itself it seems, for the great dive. A hand grapples with your towel, loosening its hold along your waist—in seconds it will lie limp on the tiled floor; in seconds, higher rituals will commence.

You feel tongues now, playing in the hard, sloping grounds of your chest; rivers of saliva run copiously and freely on your thighs. The mists have come down now, playful, staring at you directly in the eye. It stings. You close your eyes for a moment to hold your ground. Until now this grey entity have not revealed its intents to you—is it another one of your admirers, or another queen bee in this damp and dreary place? Slowly, you open your eyes in time to see the mists parting; deliberately it seems, to reveal the faces of your ardent slaves. Not exactly of prince charming’s ilk; but more like heaving ogres readying for the kill.

In your mind you scream silent screams.

Clock strikes five minutes past midnight. You walk out of the darkened room with the flickering light bulb, still breathing.

ghosts in the mist

The steam floats like an eerie ghost blanketing you in the gloom. Behind you a lone light bulb flickers, red and unsteady. You squint a little to adjust your eyes; and in the corners of the room, out of the mists, gray figures emerge—huddled like crows drenched in rain, along tiled benches. You shiver. In excitement and anticipation. A lump thickens in your throat, like when you ready yourself for your first sip of black coffee. A hand tugs at you from behind, feeling your waist, brushing past the towel draped so precariously on it. you look behind you to find yourself drawn to the eyes attached to the hands; to that wicked smile that seem to say, “tag, you’re it”. you smile back. He says “wanna go up?” you let him lead you, out of the room of gray ghosts, up, toward that room of sliding adjacent doors. You walk past across endless stares, across vultures perched on their imaginary branches, sizing up each other til the first one gives in. you hear a sudden click and you realize, you are shut in with him--the owner of the hand that tugged at you, closing the sliding door. You clear your throat of that lump, and you fumble for words; while he, smiling still, pulls you free of your towel into his own nakedness.