The Book of Hagar

The lack of faith results in the most inconvenient of tragedies. Abraham was supposed to wait on God’s promise for a son with his wife, Sarah, but he didn’t and fucked Hagar instead. If you believe in that biblical shit, anyway.

Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, had borne him no children. But she had an Egyptian slave named Hagar, so she said to Abram, “The LORD has kept me from having children. Go, sleep with my slave; perhaps I can build a family through her.”

Abram agreed to what Sarai said. 3 So after Abram had been living in Canaan ten years, Sarai his wife took her Egyptian slave Hagar and gave her to her husband to be his wife. 4 He slept with Hagar, and she conceived.

I reach out to stroke his face, so young, the face of a tender babe, and he catches my fingers with his mouth, licking and nibbling them.

His mind turned to Hagar and how he had treated her at the end. Why did he never sit her down and talk to her? Honestly. And what ugly thing was it he said to her the last time she tried to kill him?...He was never frightened of her; he never actually believed that she would succeed in killing him, or that she really wanted to…He had used her --- her love, her craziness --- and most of all he had used her skulking, bitter vengeance. It made him a star, a celebrity…that he was one bad dude, that he had the power to drive a woman out of her mind, to destroy her, and not because she hated him, or because he had done some unforgiveable thing to her, but because he had fucked her and she was driven wild by the absence of his magnificent joint.

- Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison

I take his bottom lip between my lips while suckles softly on my upper lip, tongue darting in and out…

When she knew she was pregnant, she began to despise her mistress. 5 Then Sarai said to Abram, “You are responsible for the wrong I am suffering. I put my slave in your arms, and now that she knows she is pregnant, she despises me. May the LORD judge between you and me.”

6 “Your slave is in your hands,” Abram said. “Do with her whatever you think best.” Then Sarai mistreated Hagar; so she fled from her.

I pull his head down to my nipples to feel his tongue there, making circles of heat in the cool night air, my back arching instinctively against him, wanting him further down against my aching thighs…

Guitar spoke softly to her. “You think because he doesn’t love you that you are worthless. You think because he doesn’t want you anymore that he is right --- that his judgment and opinion of you are correct…You think he belongs to you because you want to belong to him, Hagar, don’t. It’s a bad word, ‘belong’…

I reach for your cock, rubbing the head thoroughly as it becomes red and flush. Your fingers delve between my netherlips to find my hidden button, teasing the pure, dewy flower between my thighs.

The angel of the LORD found Hagar near a spring in the desert; it was the spring that is beside the road to Shur. 8 And he said, “Hagar, slave of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?”

“I’m running away from my mistress Sarai,” she answered.
9 Then the angel of the LORD told her, “Go back to your mistress and submit to her.” 10 The angel added, “I will increase your descendants so much that they will be too numerous to count.”

My hips are rolling in circles desperately, ready for you in every way. You drop to your knees, nuzzling between my heated and swollen lips, clit engorged. Your tongue reaches out to taste my sweetness slowly, tonguing and lapping lightly, feasting on my slick juices. I orgasm easily and uncontrollably.

She lay in her little Goldilocks’-choice bed, her eyes sand dry and as quiet as glass. Pilate and Reba, seated beside the bed, bent over her like two divi-divi trees…

“Mama.” Hagar floated up into an even higher fever.

“Hmmm?”

“Why don’t he like my hair?”

“Who, baby? Who don’t like your hair?”

“Milkman.”

“Milkman does too like your hair,” said Reba.

“No. He don’t. But I can’t figure out why. Why he never liked my hair.”

“Of course he likes it. How can he not like it?” asked Pilate.

“He likes silky hair,” Hagar was murmuring so low they had to bend down to hear her.

“Silky hair? Milkman?”

“He don’t like hair like mine.”

“Hush, Hagar”

“Silky hair the color of a penny.”

I position you on your back, kissing your neck, working my way down to your belly where your stiff, and swollen cock arches against me, the tip of you head dewy with precum. I lick the tip lightly and then take the entire head into my mouth, sucking firmly. Your moans floating above me. My fingers pull your balls lightly as they tighten and throb while my fingers stroke firmly. Then I take the length of your cock in my mouth, lips fucking as hard as they can.

The angel of the LORD also said to her:
“You are now pregnant
and you will give birth to a son.
You shall name him Ishmael,[a]
for the LORD has heard of your misery.
12 He will be a wild donkey of a man;
his hand will be against everyone
and everyone’s hand against him,
and he will live in hostility
toward[b] all his brothers.”

13 She gave this name to the LORD who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.” 14 That is why the well was called Beer Lahai Roi[d]; it is still there, between Kadesh and Bered.

15 So Hagar bore Abram a son, and Abram gave the name Ishmael to the son she had borne. 16 Abram was eighty-six years old when Hagar bore him Ishmael.

The head of your cock is swollen at the back of my throat when you finally release a tiderush of cum. Your cock softens only for a moment as it is wedged between my lips, and then I feel the sturdy heat of lust coming back at the base of your pole. You pull me up and flip me on my belly, pulling my hips up to your groin as you grind against me.

Pilate put her hand on Hagar’s head and trailed her fingers through her granddaughter’s soft damp wool. “How can he not love your hair? It’s the same hair that grows out of his own armpits. The same hair that crawls up out of his crotch on up his stomach. All over his chest…It’s all over his head Hagar. It’s hair too. He got to love it.”

“He don’t love it at all. He hates it.”

“No he don’t. He don’t know what he loves, but he’ll come around, honey, one of these days. How can he love himself and hate your hair?”

“He loves silky hair.”

“Hush, Hagar.”

“Penny-colored hair.”

“Please, honey.”

“And ivory-colored skin.”

“Shhh.”

“And gray-blue eyes.”

Your hands are on my hips as you thrust brutally from behind. Your cockhead plunged so deep inside. Suckling my neck, fingers pulling at my nipples. I sway drowsily against the sweet circles your shaft makes inside my pussy, feeling your hips thrusting urgently now.

”My baby girl.” The three words were still pumping in her throat as she turned away from the coffin. Looking at the faces of the people seated in the pews, she fastened on the first pair of eyes that were directed toward her. She nodded at the face and said, “My baby girl.”

Your cock is now thrusting in my ass, the tiny ring milking precum from you as you start to climax, pumping harder. You are out and away from yourself. You are a machine of lust and need. You give one final thrust as your head explodes deep in my backside, filling me completely. We both collapse, and you plant a light kiss on my back as you disengage sweetly.

…he lay on the cool damp floor of the cellar and tried to figure out what he was doing there. What did Pilate knock him out for? About the theft of her sack of bones?...What could it be, what else could he have done that would turn her against him? Then he knew. Hagar. Something had happened to Hagar…What difference did it make? He had hurt her, left her, and now she was dead ---he was certain of it…

Milkman did not speak; he watched her long fingers travel up her dress, to rest like the wing of a starling on her face…She walked over to the table and lifted from it a green-and-white shoe box, its cover held down with a rubber band. “Joyce,” it said on the box. “Thank heaven for little Joyce heels.”

“If I bury Papa, I guess I ought to bury this too—somewhere.” She looked back at Milkman.

“No,” he said. “No. Give it here.”

When he went home that evening, he walked into the house on Not Doctor Street with almost none of the things he’d taken with him. But he returned with a box of Hagar’s hair.

When I am gone, all I ask is that you leave me in a place where I can be forgotten. Don’t take my hair, or my letters, or my pictures. Nothing else will matter on this earth because I know there was a god, for only a moment, who saw me. He saw me.