Visit

A rolling thundercloud wanders under the evening’s waxing gibbous. There’s a deep rumble in the horizon, then a knock on your door.

Moka.

Her pale figure stands straight, unmoving, appareled in an oversized sweater and a thigh-high, free-flowing skirt. A head tilt once your eyes meet.

“You’re early,” you say.

She smirks; shows you her tote bag. “Brought snacks.”

“Popcorn?”

Her lips are all gloss but a flash of her teeth cuts through with her words. “Extra butter. And your favorite.”

“Chocolate almonds.” Regard the small nod.

A beat.

Moka raises a brow. “Are you going to let me in, or?”

“Do I really have to?”

You’re not a horror film kind of person, but Moka has been wishing for a marathon for so long now. Hand-picked classics, genre-defining pieces, personal favorites. She raves of it often—begs you to meet her at the cinema whenever a new one releases, to no avail. She’s too much of an endearing fanatic to refuse tonight, however.

It’s also the fact that she had the beguiling intellect to ask you point blank a fortnight ago, right after slipping your cock out of her mouth and swallowing so, so proudly—so audibly—and staring up at you with her big, round, lustrous eyes. The please wasn’t even necessary; you were going to accept, give in, at that point, regardless, though she was kind enough to stroke your length and offer little pecks at its base while doing so.

“I refuse to let you stall again.” She demands for it to be on Halloween. Another grumble from the darkened skies has you thinking it could not be more suitable. “And, what, are you just going to close the door on me?” She cutely twirls her lithe figure in anticipation.

You sigh theatrically just to see her smile; bow. “Welcome in, then.”

~~

Moka settles in your readied living room. Throw pillows, a weighted blanket, miscellaneous sweets on your coffee table. She finds her spot somewhere in between the plush sofa and the center piece, right on the carpet, cuddled next to cushions, and drapes a sheet of thick fleece over her long legs. Is quick, also, to nab the television remote and begin browsing for the films.

You find yourself eventually sitting next to her, under the same blanket, scrolling through a delivery menu on your phone. “It’s cheaper,” you say, while the digits on her thigh tap on her pale skin for attention, “if we add a side.”

Moka adds movie after movie to the queue—half of them slasher films, the rest supernatural, paranormal. “What are the options, again?” Her eyes are glued to the screen as she scrolls over bloody posters.

You turn the device to her, despite her gaze not turning. “Wings, or garlic bread.”

Though she does, near immediately. “Wings.”

“I’m leaning towards the other, to be honest.”

She stares blankly. “Pizza already has bread. Why eat more?”

“Because, I can?” You challenge.

She brushes your hand away from her thigh. “You are so not getting laid tonight.”

You stare at the television, then at her. “Moka, you have six movies on the list already. I wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

“If you get the wings…” Her shiny lips pucker, eyes narrow. “I’ll see what I can prune.”

“Sure, sure.” You sit up onto the sofa; lay yourself sideways. “You just started adding them.”

Moka turns to you and sits on her hip. “Ok, first.” She shows you a list on her own phone. “The fact that our backlog is this big is not my fault, and second.” She then laughs over her words. “Are you able to go without sex for a night?”

The answer is technically no.

You argue it’s impulse, temptation—your primal brain, human nature. It’s something you can’t control. She should be flattered, you also sneak in there somewhere. Moka’s irresistible, impossible to ignore, to not touch, to not kiss and not fuck. You’d be one to dare and accuse her of not being all too helpful in curbing your fancies, but it’s not something to try tonight.

She’s a willing accomplice in mischief, in succumbing and yielding to desire.

Though she rolls her eyes at the monotone humor and vague flattery; replies that you’re, simply, weak. Her side-eye indicates half jest though not entirely. Moka smirks, in the end, admitting and conceding that she does understand the feeling, the impulse—the fact that you’re both alone for the night again. Who wouldn’t mind some wanton distraction?

So, you order the wings. Somewhere around this time is also the moment where you figure it fine to kiss.

You unravel.

She climbs on top with a flash of lightning. The loose cotton top is off in an instant. Her hands are fast, doubly so. You touch each other everywhere: gripping, pulling, clawing. The kiss is loosely romance—you two don’t lack substance, but it’s at times atavistic and, in its entirety, feral. An I miss you wrapped in a bundle of irrupting emotions. You don’t get to see each other as much as you would like—it’s often during the late hours of the night, because she’s busy. She’s always busy, always slipping away, giving you enough of a taste to keep you locked in, but never enough to satiate. You, in her thrall eternally; you give her everything, drop whatever you’re doing at a moment’s notice to find yourself in her arms not long after.

And here you are again, more than just kissing. You taste, reminisce, revive that memory of each other; revive the want, the need. Your palms are all over her back, the length of her spine. Her frame is addicting. Your fingers occasionally hook on the clasp of her bra, whilst hers manage their way down the elastic of your waistband.

But Moka is coy about it. With the way her hand snakes its path between your sweatpants and underwear, she has you thinking it’s on purpose. A shy tease, keeping you there, having you moan a sweet, light breath right onto her lips when she brushes your length and curls her fingers.

You catch her smirk as she bites your lower lip. She has always been a biter; loves the mark, the ownership, the infliction. It’s about a certain level of control. She exerts her power quite often, quite easily.

“We can’t stall a lot.” Moka is not all selfish, thankfully.

(Though it doesn’t escalate past hands or mouths. It doesn’t climax, either. You’re kept in check; her bra miraculously stays on. It’s not exactly sweat, on your brow, but you wouldn’t say you’re not warm inside of your own clothes—the heated intimacy ramping your heart rate up to eleven and getting you all hot and bothered.)

You’re quick to iron out the indecent look when the television idles into a screensaver: Moka’s hair is a bit fluffed and your shirt is all wrinkly, but you laugh about it, patting everything down.

While you don’t see each other nearly enough, you’re also trying to be sensible about it, and not fall down the precipice within the first hour of meeting again.

It’s wholly ridiculous—destined to fail.

~~

Having left Moka alone some minutes ago in order to prepare snacks, you—

“Boo!”

You stand by the microwave, holding a bag of popcorn, a tad tense yet unenthused. “Funny. Nice try.”

“It scared you.” She fakes another lunge while approaching from the dark corner of the kitchen. Moka is surprisingly quick. “A little bit.”

“Just a little bit.”

You have been on edge, admittedly, all night. It’s not that you dislike horror movies, but you don’t like them, either. You feel the need to reiterate that in your head time and time again, though the opinion does skew towards the former.