Dalston Desires
"Poet Chiamaka performs at a Dalston open mic night and catches the eye of Zara—a thick Ghanaian music producer who wants to collaborate in more ways than one."
Chiamaka's poetry was filthy. She knew it. The crowd at the Dalston open mic knew it. She wrote about desire, about bodies, about the things women do to each other when the lights go off.
But she wasn't prepared for the woman watching from the back.
Thick. Gorgeous. Dressed in gold that complemented her dark skin. She watched Chiamaka with an intensity that made the poet stumble over her own words.
After the set, she approached.
"I'm Zara. I want to work with you."
"On what?"
That smile was pure danger. "Everything."
Zara's studio in Dalston was intimate—soundproofed walls, low lighting, expensive equipment. She sat behind the mixing board like a queen on a throne.
"Read for me," she ordered.
Chiamaka read her dirtiest piece. About women. About hunger. About wet mouths and wetter places.
When she finished, Zara's eyes were dark.
"Come here."
Chiamaka had been with women before, but not like this.
Zara kissed like she produced—layered, intense, building to something overwhelming. Her hands found every curve, every soft place, every spot that made Chiamaka gasp.
"You write about desire," Zara murmured against her neck. "But have you ever felt it? Really felt it?"
"Make me feel it."
Challenge accepted.
Zara's mouth traveled down. Down past her breasts, her belly, her thick thighs. When she reached her destination, Chiamaka grabbed the mixing board for support.
"Oh God—"
"Not God. Just me."
She worked with precision, like she was fine-tuning a track. Building, building, adding layers of sensation until Chiamaka was begging.
"Please—I need—"
"You'll come when I say you can come."
Zara made her wait. Made her beg. Made her promise things she'd never promised anyone.
And when she finally let Chiamaka release, it was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Wave after wave, screaming into the soundproofed walls.
"Good girl," Zara praised, climbing up to kiss her. "Now. Your turn."
Chiamaka had never been so eager to learn a new art.
They spent the night making music of a different kind. Every surface in that studio got christened. Every fantasy Chiamaka had ever written got enacted.
By dawn, they had three new poems, two new songs, and the beginning of something beautiful.
"So," Zara said. "Shall we do this again?"
Chiamaka's answer was to push her back onto the couch.
Dalston's creative scene had never seen a collaboration quite like theirs.
And the poems Chiamaka wrote afterward?
Those were too hot even for open mic night.