The mother, the wife and the whore
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 breasts like the work of an imaginary plastic surgeon nip & tuck; hands lifting breasts and offering them up, generously, nipples 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 cock. 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.
Wahala.com. Temi of the gentle eyes and gentler hands. Temi of the soft voice and wicked ways.
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.
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 orgasm. Temi. Her first blowjob. Temi. Her first cunnilingus. 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 whore.
A lifetime of lunches will follow.