The room is dim, lavender smoke curling in lazy spirals above her like whispered incantations. The only sound is her breath, slow, deliberate, and the gentle clink of her waistbeads kissing each other as her hips roll, slow and sure, over the man's pelvis.
That soft sound? It’s her lullaby. Her power song. Her body's percussion in a ritual only she was born to lead.
The beads cling to her like memory...warm, familiar, alive. Each bead a prayer. Each string a secret. Pressed lightly into the softness of her waist, they imprint tiny patterns into her skin, delicate but deep. Even after they're removed, their touch lingers like ghost fingertips. Like echoes of past lovers who never quite got to keep her.
As she moves, they shimmer, little flashes of color against the honey-glow of her thighs, catching candlelight and spilling it like blessings over her lover's chest. He watches, wide-eyed and helpless, as she takes him in...goddess made flesh, hips full of rhythm and raw grace. And when she grinds slow, teasing herself on his length, her beads chime softly. Not loud. Just enough. Like sacred bells in a holy temple, reminding him he is not fucking a woman....he is worshipping at an altar.
And she knows it.
She leans back, arching, and the strands fall just beneath her navel, tickling the soft curve of her belly. The beads shift with her breathing...rising and falling in divine cadence with the drumbeat of her pleasure. A soft smile curves her lips, smug and serene. She is not begging. She is not rushing. She is receiving. And the Earth holds its breath.
Later, alone in the afterglow of dusk, she lays on satin sheets, legs parted, hand between her thighs. Her beads are draped loosely now, sliding with each slow circle of her fingers against her clit. Her other hand...absentminded. Reverent drags along the side of her waist, and she feels the cool press of beads against her skin. A soft thrill ripples through her, beads brushing her forearm as her fingers work delicate spells over swollen flesh.
She moans, quiet and heavy. Her eyes close. This...this..is worship. Not just of her body, but of her birthright. Her pleasure. Her power.
Her black femininity is not ornamental. It is sacred. Rooted. Wild. Her beads don't just decorate her, they ground her. In her culture. In her skin. In her rage. In her beauty.
They remind her that she is woman before she is anything else. A Black woman, holy and dangerous. And every time they jingle, every time they glide over her hips, they say,
"You are magic made flesh."
"You are worthy of every orgasm, every whisper, every fucking ache."
She sleeps with them on. She wakes with them on.
She lives with them.
She loves with them.
And when she walks...they sing her praises
Nirvana