Her body hurt from last night, broken and shattered by him and his primal desire to conquer her soul and body in their marital bed. She timidly watched him from across the living room while preparing his dinner. He was doing one-hand push ups. His short black wavy hair glistening under the ceiling light. Perfectly trimmed black beard framing his handsome face. His focused eyes glued to the Persian rug underneath. His body was unlike anything she had seen. His biceps alone were nearly the width of her stomach. She could make out the vascularity of the forearms and biceps as his muscles pumped under his weight. His rigid toned body covered in dark black hair, matted down by his sweat. She felt her nipples harden under her sundress, to watch him from this angle reminded her of their mating the night before. She pondered over how it would’ve looked with him mounted over her, after all he always took her in missionary position. He preferred no other way.
During the act of sex, she was only able to feel the overwhelming relinquish of her body, the defeat of her will, the weight of masculinity that glued her into the bed and impaled her senses. She was able to ponder in vivid detail the jabbing of his thick 10 inch Muslim cock hitting into the deepest parts of her like lubricated pistons smashing into the softness of her fleshy walls. Her nails clawing helplessly into the sheets and at other times into the rigid hardness of his bulging deltoid and biceps.
She was able to smell the intoxicating pheromones of his masculinity. It wasn’t his cologne or his sweat —- it was something animal, something chemical and intoxicating that rose from his warm skin, damp with effort, as he performed that impossible one-handed push-up. His scent was an invisible leash around my throat. I imagined it as a dark, velvety smoke curling from his muscles, particularly from the thick mat of hair on his chest and arms. It wasn't sour or musky in an unpleasant way; it was heavy and complex, like dark, aged leather mixed with rain-soaked earth, and just a ghost of something metallic, like the coppery tang of heated blood beneath the skin. Every inhale was a surrender. It bypassed my mind and went straight to a deep, hollow place in my belly that tightened with longing. That smell was the raw, undeniable proof of his power and dominance. It was the scent of a male animal, strong and focused, asserting his physical mastery over her frail body.
She stood there, watching Him, dazed in thought. She felt the piercing look of his eyes staring at her, framed magnificently by his thick eyebrows. His eyes fixed on her, like a tiger eyeing his kill. She swallowed nervously, her heart beating uncontrollably under her breast. Her face flushed red as her eyes briefly locked into his before they darted down coyly. That was all the time he needed to get his intentions across. He didn't need to speak a single command; the very air around him, saturated with that scent, was the order. It whispered of shelter and strength, of being utterly and completely taken care of.
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