Extract from The Tryst, the new erotic novella by award-winning Trinidadian-born British writer and memoirist, Monique Roffey, under World Poetry/Prose Portfolio, curated by Sudeep Sen
The dead of night, high summer. The kind of temperature before an earth tremor. The air was fragile, taut with lack of moisture. Lilah was half-naked, on top of me. I saw her run her fingers across her lips, as if to seal away those teeth. And then she plunged down on to my naked prick. Her mouth was firm and wet and tender, more agile and juicy than cunt, half oyster, half tiger, working me, milking me and using her hands too, kneading my balls, sucking my cock, her saliva was thick and viscous. Her mouth was more active than a woman’s quim, and this kind of sucking will make any man lose reason.
I could feel my cum loosen. She would drain me if I didn’t intervene and I wasn’t going to let her take whatever she wanted. I pulled her mouth from my crotch and kissed her savagely, saying stop you little prick tease, just one moment. I picked her up, bodily, and laid her out on my wooden table, pulled off her denim skirt. I remember her cherry-coloured panties, made from fine silk, trimmed with black lace, a whore’s undergarment. I peeled them from her and admired her creamy curves and her auburn tuft. She lay there all surprised. Pleased and ready, too, for a reversal of pleasure. She hadn’t expected it.
Lilah lay back, twirling tufts of her red hair, spread out stark naked on my long wooden workshop table. There, really there, and yet also a figurine, a piece of something else, a ship’s figurehead, maybe, or a neon motel sign. I knew how to touch her body, the leylines of delight, all there, under the skin. I trailed my fingers and my cock along these lines, danced my prick a little jig, the velvet tip leaking a little, a trail across her luminous skin. Her skin raised up in seizures. Her desire produced a patina of bumps, gooseflesh. A wondrous thing to see a woman so taken with desire, almost enough pleasure in that. In moments like these lust is related to spirit, to Godliness. But Lilah gave me a look from hell. I wondered who she was. It felt so natural to be with her.
I dripped cum all over her stomach and she was dripping too. We hadn’t fucked yet. I hadn’t entered her, even after all that time. We smiled a lot, laughed too, for this had been lengthy foreplay. I could feel I was weak at my centre, in my sternum and my loins had melted; my thighs were trembling. I climbed onto the table and slowly sank into her. Then we were fused physically and I faded mentally, whispering to her God knows what. Prayers? Obscenities?
Oh, my Jane, my wife, how I’d missed this with her. Never once had I laid her down like this and clambered on top. Our marriage had been chaste of lust. How? How can a man’s life can go by without this language, how can a couple survive without Eros, without these moments, this glue between man and woman? This muffled speech, these shocked gasps. They live in the wood of us, in the thick of us. I was silent for so long, and then, with Lilah, I spoke like a mute speaks, my tongue in knots, spitting out the sound of words which are so rarely spoken, the words for lust.
I slipped my fingers inside Lilah and found her spot, a small spongy raised up area in the wall of her cunt and I pressed it gentle-firm and she writhed and I swirled and circled my forefingers, and before I knew it I had her. She arched her back and gasped all kinds of curses in her language. When we both looked down at her quim we could see that it was glistening with serum and that she had released a small puddle of this liquid onto the table and also the floor. I gazed at her and saw she was undisguised. This raw, she was a creature of immense loveliness, a rarity. Her ears twitched, her face glowed; she was something a billionaire might collect for his private zoo.
And I too, wanted her. I could have kept her held in a crate or a coop. A sex slave for me and Jane. Lilah would have made our marriage happy again. Janey could frig herself quietly every morning and I could have this little imp. All for me, this Lilah who was squelchy inside, a lover to keep me company. I knew I could love this Lilahimp. I was delighted with her wetness, her lake inside. I was greedy for more of it and my cock was still hard as a tor of granite.
Quickly, we were on the floor and Lilah was on top of me, a fire between us. We clamoured at each other, artless, desperate, fucking like animals, hips locked and our bodies bathed in sweat. Lilah was physically more powerful than she appeared, pinning me down, swallowing my cock inside her. I’m surprised we didn’t wake the whole neighbourhood with all the noise we made. We shouted to the rafters, laughed and swore and bit each other and thrashed as we fucked each other.
God we fucked like demented teenagers, clambering over my worktable, under it, a tormented and tortuous experience and, God, I loved it. Lilah grinned at me, her eyes gleaming, feral again. The creature at the bar? In all that frenzy, for a few seconds her eyes went dark and her skin faded to a mottled blue-purple. Was I being violated? Was this some kind of sexual attack by a pervert? For those hours I was with Lilah I was released from that world I’d accepted, the dull, kept life of some domestic creature — a husband. I wanted none of it. I was in the wood, on my back, the sap in me risen up. My skin was on fire.
Fragments of that night are still part of me, still live in me. At night I sometimes wake with Lilah on top of me. I am simultaneously admiring of her beauty and cringing with terror, her body moving rhythmically, riding me. Often I still catch glimpses of that other creature too, another type of face lurched up from a swamp or an underground chamber, most unlovely; a small withered thing, hunchbacked and wart-ridden. I often wake sweating. Confused. Sometimes I take my head in my hands and shake it, trying to knock out the images which haunt me.
I slept heavily. I didn’t experience any guilt, didn’t think of Jane, or what I’d done, no thoughts of the consequences of those hours in my workshop with Lilah. I slept like a baby, in fact, like I needed to sleep and hadn’t slept throughout the years of my divorce and depression. I didn’t dream of my first wife, the bitch. I have never dreamt of her. It was a dead man’s sleep. A year’s sleep in one night. I was tired from sex, from giving and loving and this fatigue was welcome and new, the tiredness of vigorous lovemaking. We curled up on some foam I found in a corner, smattered with wood dust. I fell unconscious, with Lilah’s warm body in my arms.
Before falling into unconsciousness I was struck by a strange concern: Choo Choo. Where was he? I hadn’t seen him about — and this was odd. Choo Choo liked to sleep in my workshop and liked to greet us when we arrived home. Where was he? I worried about him, fleetingly, that he’d been hurt or trapped somewhere, that Lilah had scared him off. I worried that she’d laid her strong musk all over the house. I would look for Choo Choo the next day, bang his cat bowl with a fork. That always brought the bastard running.
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