Rated 18+ (Adults Only)
As the icy water hit
her
skin like pine needles
and trailed down her
body, she had a
brainwave. Partially
clothed in soapsuds
and
dripping from face to
toe, she trailed a wet
path to her bed and
picked up her phone,
careful not to let the
water touch the screen
or slide through the
tracks in the keypad.
She minced back on
tiptoe and set the
phone atop a folded
towel on the toilet
tank.
Setting the timer to go
off in ten seconds, she
dashed back into the
shower stall, and
turned on the faucet
just in time to strike
the first pose, freeze
and count down the
last three seconds.
Several clicks followed
the first and with
lightning speed, she
exchanged seductive
posture for seductive
posture – hands placed
lightly on hips skimming
her pubes in a V;
fingers
loped around her neck,
lifting her bosoms like
the work of an
imaginary plastic
surgeon nip & tuck;
hands lifting bosoms
and offering them up,
generously, Tips
erect from the cold
morning air, the cold
water – and
excitement.
Her eyes were drifted
shut in some of the
pictures, half-open and
unfocused in others;
lips
lightly parted in some,
in
others the tongue
kissed the lower lip and
in yet others, her full
lips formed a pout. She
swiveled, braced, lifted
and moued in time with
the shutter sounds
click
click click.
She had to hurry.
Running late. But first,
she sent the pictures
off.
Just as she settled at
her desk at work and
kicked off her Jimmy
Choos, her Blackberry
emitted a pinging
sound.
When she saw his
name on the home
screen, she smiled in
anticipation. There was
work to do, but first
she would describe to
Yomi in detail, lurid
detail
what she had felt
when
she took the pictures;
and what she had done
afterwards. How she
had sat at the edge of
the tub, licked her
finger
to moisten it and
placed
it just so, where his
tongue would be. How
she had stroked and
rubbed, circled and
teased. She imagined
his growing excitement
as she painted the
picture with words.
He would call from
behind the closed doors
of his office, his voice
husky and demand
that
she tell him, and she
being an obliging
person,
would. With her velvety
voice, she would wrap
her words around him
like a mouth and urge
him on and as his
excitement mounted,
he would beg her to...
“...get on the next
available plane to
Abuja.
Tonight,” he would
pant. “No, no taxis. I
will
come for you.”
He would bribe
security,
storm the arrival
lounge
and drag her through
the hall, to the curious
glances of onlookers.
As
she giggled and
tottered on her heels,
he would race them
through the parking lot,
slam the car into
reverse and break the
speed limits getting
them home, his profile
grim.
Traffic would build, as
would his urgency and
unable to wait a
moment longer, he
would swing into a
deserted looking side
road which had
appeared quite
fortuitously. Ignoring
her questioning look, he
would reach across her
body, undo her seat
belt
while sliding his seat
backward. He would
pull
her onto his lap and
purely by instinct, her
body would take over.
She would hitch up her
skirt – of course she
will be wearing a skirt.
With the briefest of
movements, she would
roll her g-string to the
side and reaching
around behind her,
underneath her,
guiding,
she would impale
herself on his throbbing
rooster. He would place
his
hands on her hips and
shudder judder judder,
wordlessly.
She savoured the
thoughts for a few
seconds, then smiling a
mischievous smile, she
opened the message.
Her eyes ran down the
page without
comprehension. She
was an art student
studying Further
Mathematics, an
English
Major trying to name
Hydrocarbon Chains.
The words she read
made no sense and
they were funny from
being funny not at all.
“...you will be my wife
in
a few weeks and the
mother of my children.
I
do not expect such
indecent behaviour
from
you. Please delete
those
pictures from your
phone and never send
me such again. That is
for loose women with
questionable morals”.
A bag of Garri caught in
a flood and soaking
wet
could not have weighed
heavier than her heart.
Her palms got clammy,
despite the air
conditioner, and her
hands shook like
someone in the throes
of a caffeine overdose.
She cringed with the
embarrassment of a
teenage girl whose
classmates had
discovered her
desperate crush on the
class teacher. The
female class teacher.
She typed a simple
message, “Sorry,” then
erased it. Let silence
wash it all away. Best
to act as though it had
never happened. What
was there to say?
To take her mind off
things, she decided to
look through her email
to see if there was any
message from her
dressmaker in Malaysia.
There was an email.
He was sorry he had
not been in touch. He
had been out of the
country studying. He
had heard she was
getting married. He
thought they should
see one more time.
Just
a meeting of old
friends.
Lunch. Very safe.
Ah Temi.
Wahala.com. Temi of
the gentle eyes and
gentler hands. Temi of
the soft voice and
wicked ways.
Temi.
Of course she would
come. Where?
My house. I will cook
for
you. Have no fear. I
respect the fact that
you are soon to be
married. Invite me for
your wedding?
Sure. Come. Bring a gift.
Deal.
So she goes over after
work. It is past lunch
time, this is more like
dinner. Temi has laid
quite a spread. If only
he himself had spread.
He is still as lean and
compact and slow-
walking and slow-
talking and sensuous
and... oh god, mistake!
Stop it. Stop jumping
whenever I come close.
I told you I wasn’t
gonna touch you. Relax.
Which made it worse.
I am marrying Yomi
I am marrying Yomi
I am marrying Yomi
I am marrying Yomi
I am marrying. . .
A large gulp of wine.
Temi. Dance with me.
Hey, you sure about
that?
She is burning up.
Absolutely burning up.
Her first heavenly
feeling. Temi.
Her first Mouth Gig.
Temi.
Her first mouth action.
Temi. All the memories
come crashing down.
Her hands tighten
around his body, tug at
his Tee-shirt. Her
hands
drop to his jeans. His
eyes bore into hers.
Angry at herself, at
Temi, at Yomi, furious
at everything, she
pushes him to the chair
and straddles him.
Wordless.
She is still wearing the
skirt.
And this is the woman
Yomi is getting. Like it
or
not, she is wanton.
With questionable
morals.
Wife. Mother.
Somebody’s
LovePeddler.
A lifetime of lunches
will follow.
