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Pop This Pussy Like a Pimple (Black Man Magic)

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He was Black Man Magic. Glittering in the most masculine way possible, it seemed that when he inserted himself we would secrete sunshine and sparkles. I was convinced it was a pixie that was giving me back to back orgasms. Half pixie, half scientist at least. I’d holler tears compounded with carbon-man-don’t-leave-me and sodium-nigga-I-wish-you-would, as our chemical composition created more than Oxycontin; he finessed my logic.

If anyone was to sit back and watch us creating, they would think they were watching a tornado at midnight. Arms wrapped up each other’s gifts, lips sucking on all exposed flesh, sweat blended with saliva and orgasm. We were gods dancing horizontally on black sheets; we imitated our imaginations on our sheeted canvas. Each time my magical magician would bend me into yogic poses to tap my solar plexus, climbing another rung past my sacral,  I’d confess another sin until my throat was as raw as us.

 

 

 

 

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