Baby Sis

We must've grown up together.

The records you're spinning reminds me of the grown folks that stayed up past my bedtime.  Cigar smoke.  High-pitched wails.  Spades.  Funky bass lines.  Laughter.  Here we are, awake past midnight, playing the way grown folks play.  Drinking what grown folks drink.  Smoking what grown folks smoke.  We must've both walked in on Ma and Daddy...this looks mighty familiar.  Her floral dress hiked up past those juicy knees.  My pants, twisted and tangled around my left ankle.  

Yeah, this feels very familiar.
Grabbing the curly kinks on her head, there's no escape from my lips.  Wimpering, she tries to pull her neck away from my mouth.  Pressing her hands against my chest, her voice sizzles, "I have to work tomorrow; no hickies."  I recognize: nutmeg, vanilla and cinnamon.  Smells like Grandma's sweet potato pie is cooling behind her ear.  What's that?  Frankincense?  And, Brandy on her breath?  I may have just stumbled upon her secret ingredient.
Damn, Baby Sis: breasts big like the women on Mama's side of the family, but, dark like our cousins from down south.  Watching you down there makes so much sense.  Lip smacking.  Neck swiveling.  Impeccable rhythm.  I like the way those big earrings move like pendulums between my thighs.  Swinging in unison.  Her voice hums, vibrating, around my dick the same way Aunties hum hymnals while making breakfast.  Soulful.  Soothing.  Oh, shit.
Her hips spiraling up and down on my lap.  I recognize: hula hoops, dutty wine and walks to the corner store.  The Brandy on her whisper, "Oh, Daddy," fucks me up.  The weed smoke on her moan...  The peaches on her kiss...  Takes me back to those Friday nights.
No wonder we had to go to bed so early as kids.

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