Dalí in the Skies

My bailaor's pillaging, Moorish passion sends me afloat over Seville, my wiry pubes morphed into a black-and-silver wingspan. Any condensation on my sturdy wings is surpassed by the moist result of his square chin tapping against my flapping thighs. I push aside an effervescent cloud to spy wide-eyed on myself through a curtained window, which is drawn only to a sliver as if to seduce jet-packing voyeurs to cruise at breathtaking altitudes. Staccato thoughts trot through my mind as I watch us -- two nomads lost in a hypnotically choreographed dance. Feigned words of protest fail to leave my throat, so I lip-sync a jealous gypsy's melody.

Aboard the plane, we're an Andalusian illusion. My stack heels stomp out each little fire created by his knees rubbing through the holes in his peasant trousers against the carpeted floor. Red ruffles of my skirt rise and fall above my invader's forehead rocking against my gyrating pelvis as he hums and strums in the absence of guitar.

Re-emerging from my depths, he sings, "Cariño," viscously glistening from the tip of his generous nose to his prominent Adam's apple. He moans a guitar into existence but in the image of his dick, which he strokes until pre-cum tears turn into a raging rainstorm.

For the moment, he leaves me shuddering in his puddle of released anger, my skirt bunched around ample hips and my clit protruding from bushy lips. In his solo afterglow he forgets about the steel taps on my heels and that we have no rubber soles to keep us grounded, should lightning strike as violently as he had inside me. If I should get struck, so would he if he touches me.

And I know that he will touch, and taste, me again because he knows that my territory cannot belong to him. My terrain changes hands with every war waged over my soil and through my seas, not unlike the country over which we are flying. Ancient conquests are in my blood, variations on Muslim Moor and Sephardic Jew leaving their indelible marks on a land cloaked in Catholic ostentation.

No matter how often I cross myself, the sinner overshadows the saint. In this stranger's hands I'm the controversial, violated Black Madonna incarnate, robbed of my child while lactating breasts get suckled by men thirsty with lust yet yearning to be nurtured. Before I can sink deeper into these irresolvable issues, I sense my air companion's heat rising again in his eyes and feel his throbbing hands upon my thighs.

Where a short while ago he gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, I gasp from his thick cock's penetration. Staring inside the window at my earthbound self, my feathers stand on end from this spectacle of public fornication. Ditching Cloud No. 9's delusions for the heaven inside the cabin, I find my voice again. I delight in how it projects from the diaphragm with melismatic joy.

He invites me to his erotic dimension of infinity with, "Siempre quiero tu bonita negra chocha, mi amor."

I answer, on the verge of climax, "Siempre, mi capitán."

Out of thin air, a tricorn pirate's hat appears, but I place it on my head instead of his. "Aaargh!" I declare upon feeling my captain's tongue swim out of a slippery cove and snake the short distance to a black abyss. Bobbing on his invasive kiss, I am buoyant. We're both drunk with a swashbuckler's sexual joy and oblivious to goblets and life preservers alike. It's a mystery as to how I can keep my balance in this rough sea now that the captain's tongue has taken on an unfamiliar brazenness.

I grasp my black coral-tipped breasts for fear that intense knocking might shatter them. He relishes rimming my rear with gusto. Tugging at his matted dark curls produces sighs as ominous as a fiercely bowed cello. Digging my talons into muscular shoulders elicits an "Aiii, aiii!" that resounds through my opening and magically delivers cries from my own throat.

The stimulated areolas on my dark nipples threaten to squirt milk down his undulating back. "Oh, cariño," I moan over and over until only "Ohs!" remain. Bolts of lightning strike the airplane like curses from jealous gods, penetrating my back, legs and pelvis. Sent into a full-body spasm, I arrive again and again as if I'm a plane re-approaching the tarmac.

Ever the sadistic charmer, he refuses to let me taxi. He fingers my pussy while I spasm again, this time jerking his cock. He asks, "You want this bone, bitch?" in a pitch midway between a tenor and a contralto. Stunned out of my own aria, I'm beamed back to earth for a nanosecond, wondering where both his Spanish and his manners have flown.

We both switch gears, marveling at the grotesque dents in the seats from our lovemaking. My pussy is making squishy sounds as my body wrestles with his. Kneeling before him on the seat with a litheness that would impress my yoga instructor, I prepare to give him the best handjob on this side of the clouds. We've no time for tantric sex, so I tighten and slacken my grip on his lingam for the express purpose of ejaculation.

Within minutes, my left hand is a blur. I delight in his pained expression as his back tenses and eyes bulge from the terror of losing control to a Black woman. If he only knew how determined I am to taste his spunk, he might freeze the semen within his testicles. But I'm the conqueror in this round of our sex play, watching his White stare and listening to his breathing grow more rugged.

My victory is short-lived. I notice a wedding band on a finger that he eases between my succulent lips. His bejeweled digit simulates irrumatio as his sweat-slicked pelvis thrusts rapidly toward certain pleasure. The digital penetration forces me to accept his status, a callous convention that feels cold and hard in contrast to my lips' beauty – the texture of orange slices and the color of a Mediterranean bay at dusk. I trade one ritual for another, leaning down to kiss family jewels that must have blinded mistresses into affection.

In his excitement, he inadvertently brands my shoulder with his ring, causing me to bristle at the offensive symbolism of being a marked woman. Resigned to my fate, I slob his knob like a whore, switching up the rhythm to deep-throat him with abandon. When I pop his dick out my lips so I can give him a spiraling handjob, he's so close to blowing his load. I hunker down lower to suck and lick his blushing twins, fulfilling a fantasy of the jet-black courtesan from my earthbound dreams. My jester tastes of the sea, but also of the forest on the Canary Islands.

I greedily clamp my lips onto his veiny purplish crown. The suction becomes too much, though. He removes his dick out of my mouth and orders me to deepen my cleavage so that he can give me a raw tittie fuck. Not a minute goes by before he grimaces, his prick jerking up and spewing cum from neck to nipples. I rub his cream into my swinging eggplant tits while he slaps his dickhead on my extended tongue. Buttcheeks clenching, he wrings the last drops of cum onto my wagging tongue.

When the post-orgasmic shuddering is over, he rests his head between my thighs while I sketch hearts and stars with strands of semen around my emerald-hard nipples. As his cum drips down into his sweaty curls, I scoop a dollop of it with my thumb to spread across his lips and around the tip of his schnoz. He inhales, smiles up at me and I break into a vocalese rendition of "Granada," plucking acoustic-guitar notes on his earlobes while he lightly thumps the top of my wet clit.

"Excuse me, miss," I hear a voice say. Standing before me is an airport employee wearing a stern countenance framed by a dark bob and a navy blue turtleneck sweater. I manage to open only one eye, but a glance at my watch shows I've been asleep for several hours. So much for listening to well-meaning friends telling me to arrive four hours early, I muse.

The employee pipes up, "Your flight to Madrid will be boarding soon, miss. Please follow me to check your baggage." I'm stunned but instinctively rise to my feet, clinging to my briefcase. Accustomed to traveling light, I nearly leave behind my 24-inch upright. Before the employee can rescue my luggage, a tall man with dark, curly hair who has just exited the men's restroom wipes his hands on the sides of his baggy trousers, walks over to my upright and then rolls it in my direction.

"Ahem," says the efficient airport employee, breaking our spell. Then she turns to admonish the man with large pink hands, saying, "Now, now, Señor Valencia García y Fernández, you wouldn't want to miss your flight home. What would your circus troupe do without you?"

Between the Azul Books publisher and this clown, my mind spins of tapas and beer, laughter and fear, hands on silk stockings and bare-ass-spanking cheer. A dizzy spell twirls into the direction of a big red nose, whose owner sweeps me up in his arms and tickles my toes. He whispers of candy-apple-sweet, sticky lies. "Next stop: Madrid, by way of a grand trapeze in the skies."