Chapter 33: Rhythm of ruin

She took a quick nap, but it wasn’t just a nap—it became a portal to a blissful memory. She had a dream.

“I’m a princess. I’m a princess,” Zara said in her childish voice and  gusto, wearing a pink ball gown and a crown tiara perched crookedly on her head.

“Oh! My little lovely girl,” came her father, in his truck driver uniform, who had just come home from work, dust still clinging to his boots. He smelled of sweat, metal, and home. He crouched down to her small stature, smiling. They shared the same olive skin and the same sharp-faced features.

“How are you today?” he asked gently.

Zara beamed. “Fine. I’m a princess,” she said again, showing off her crooked, unfinished teeth.

“Yes, you are.” He brushed her hair aside and kissed her forehead. “And you know what else you are?”

She looked at him expectantly.

“My queen,” he said.

She was jolted from her dreamy rendezvous by the sound of loud music coming from the next room—Isla’s room.

She got up, disoriented, and went toward her door, standing for a while, carefully listening. The sounds of drums, guitars, and cymbals echoed in the air, accompanied by a cracked-voiced singer singing nothing but a one-line chorus. The music was simply unharmonious and unconsummable.

Then she heard other sounds: sensual sighs and moans, the sound of a clapping ass, and sounds of sexual acrobatics. She stood in awe. Oh! It was her man, the rock artist, she realized. Too bad even the loud music couldn’t quell the sounds of their sexual fantasy.

Inside, fire was brimming over their copulation. Rodney had a lean body with hair all over it, like an animal.

He was white everywhere except for his dick which was slightly darker, long and huge. He used it well, stroking Isla deeply, fucking her as she laid flat, belly faced down on the bed, her hands

squeezing the bedsheet covers.

She gazed at him occasionally in the noisy room as if begging for mercy while he went on fucking her like a mad man.

Tattoos were dotted all over his body even his face, pierced rings on his nostrils and beside his eyes.

Sex with him was as crazy as his music. There was no romance, no chemistry, just wild, animalistic sex. Both were lips-swishing, her back arching in collapsed doggy, her toes curling.

Isla felt devastated by his complete colonization of his body.

“I’m….gonna….cum,” she said as he went inside her, now jumping up and down on her until she reached a climax.

“Not done,” he told her when she tried to get up. He turned her over. Choking her neck until Isla felt she was gonna die from suffocation.

She felt him hit every part of her pussy walls, pinning her hands on the top of the bed and going in, until he exclaimed like a Mongol warrior.

“Ahhhh!“ he jerked as he sprayed his cum on her.

Afterwards, there was no talk after the sex more suitable for a pornographic rough sex performance.

He just turned off the music box and headed for the shower. She lay still—coiled and deadened—satisfied and pleased nonetheless.

She reached for her drawer and lit a cigarette, the blanket draped over her.

Zara met them downstairs some moments later.

“Zara… this is Rodney.” Zara sneered at the man who had been destroying her friend just moments ago. She felt like slapping him.

He hugged her without smiling or uttering a word.

He smelled of dried exasperation and sea salt.

His face tattoos, multiple piercings, dirty flannel shirt, worn jeans, and grimy boots made Zara laugh at the thought that he just might be a low-budget Post Malone.

“Nice to meet you,” he said bluntly. Zara faked a smile.

Perhaps he was a drug miscreant at best, and an ex-convict at worst. She felt the urge to purchase security dogs for awkward guests like this.

“Sit on my lap,” he ordered Isla, and she did. They began kissing in Zara’s presence like she didn’t matter—like she wasn’t important.

“I want more of you, Isla,” he said. Isla gave a simpering smile.

To Isla, sex seemed more important than love. Or maybe physical touch was simply her most profound love language.

At least she had found someone who would make her no longer consider Nat, even in her drunk and delirious moments.

If nothing else, Isla looked happy—and that mattered.

“Zara,” Isla said suddenly, “would you come to Rodney’s concert?”

“It’s happening at the Toyota Music Factory in Texas this month,” Rodney added. “You should be there.”

“That would be nice,” Zara replied.

But her eyes lingered on Isla, full of words she wanted to say.

She decided to save them.

For later.