Lust For Breakfast

“About yesterday,” that was the first thing Flora said. The voice I heard could only be celestial. It sounded like a Heavenly soprano. It was a voice even the monks could not possibly resist. I became fully awake. For all the years I had known her, I never knew she had violin strings in her voice. Because my pupils dilated, I confirmed I was not dreaming. How it happened, I did not know but there was something in that voice that touched the storehouse of my adrenaline and my heartbeat became faster.
I took a second stare at her. Magical. The room temperature inflated; mine was not spared. But except for the brief on my waist, I had no clothes on and the air-conditioner was at 18 degrees.
Suddenly, she stopped talking.

Why would she be so wicked? What made her stop? It would have been better if she did not talk at all than to give me a sip of the wine, re-cork the bottle of wine and keep it directly in front of me.
She had to continue, I said to myself. Even if the gods had cursed her with the spirit of dumbness, I would cast out the demon.

“What about yesterday?” I queried.

The words from my mouth did not come out well. The more I wanted to add a command to it, the more it choked me. Flora continued. The words from her mouth sounded like the song of a tired robin. It was as if a complete orchestra were playing a master classical piece. But with every word she said, the room temperature increased. As I focused my gaze on her face, the sound became mute. She was still talking, but I heard nothing. Figuratively, I became deaf. I saw her lips – two black curves of luscious flesh – moving. They moved as if they were cymbals jamming together to produce song not meant for the human ears. That was the only thing that made sense to me because I heard no words.

Her face looked so different. Whoever took his time to cut out her facial features spent a whole lot of time on it. All the pieces were well positioned and proportional: the eyes – Bold and bright –positioned neither too far from her hair nor too close to her nose. Her eyelashes though bushy, created a hedge around those pretty eyes, both; symmetrical. Her nose was weighed before being attached to her face. A little more or a little less would have done a great damage. But it was perfectly sculptured like the ideal artwork from the ancestors of the sculptors from Igbo-Ukwu kingdom. I noticed she was still talking and tried to listen, yet I heard nothing. I tried to admire her beauty, but the timing was not right. Inversely, my brain couldn’t withstand parallel processing of the higher center. I couldn’t focus on any particular concept.

I lost concentration and in an attempt to disobey the rules that direct attention, I became an irreversibly divided personality.

Then again, she stopped.

Maybe she said something I had to respond to. Maybe her last words were weighty. I heard nothing and felt sorry for not following. How could I tell her that the only audience she had, for over twenty minutes, were the satisfied mosquitoes that had fed fat on my blood while I was enslaved by her magic? But she was looking at me expectantly, waiting for a response.

I tried one trick one could trust to work anytime. An ancient trick used by the elders in the village.

“Flora,” I swallowed saliva to allow the word come out from my belly, “All you are telling me is cock and bull.” I squeezed my face and prayed she would not ask me to repeat what she said. It worked.

“There is no other way to explain.” She went on. “Obie, I feel so, so dirty.”

She turned and stared directly into my eyeballs, I shivered and wondered if she could see what was on my mind. I was lucky, she had not looked into my heart only a few minutes before, she would have seen herself unclad therein. Yet, I was not comfortable, because she was still there, temptingly undressed in my mind’s eye. She was breathing on me and her hair was in my mouth. Dirty thoughts. My blood became hot.

Withdrawing my eyes to save myself from the guilt, I, mistakenly, placed them on the loose polo shirt; my undoing. Trapped inside were the twin balls; her breasts. Heavy and full, swinging with every slight move she made. They were sculpted in a fashion that would make them impossible to fall. Like a canoe, parabolic. And to excite my libido, two crown-like tits were placed on top of the pair. The shirt she was wearing was not my best shirt, but it hugged those bumps in a way that made me jealous. As funny as it might sound, I became jealous of my shirt.

I wished I could wrap her just like the shirt, or better still rip off the shirt from her body. She would look better without it. Garden of Eden was created for her likes. She was qualified to be unclad and unashamed.

I stretched my hands toward her. A gesture that was welcomed. I enveloped her and shared in the shirt’s blessing. Nevertheless, the shirt got the lion share. It prevented my bare chest from touching her bare boobs. But half bread, they said, was still manageable.
I sent my gaze southward to the boxers. Another slip and there was it. If I was in danger of losing control before, the sight in the boundary of the shirt and the boxers made me crazy. I would have allowed only my imagination to run wild on nothing, but I roped in my eyes. I saw it resting like a catapult before the boxers; right on her waist. It was her thongs which I knew wouldn’t take me a second to pull off.

As if she could read my mind, she leaned her head on my shoulder. Her hands went straight to my back and we amalgamated. I; the North, she; the South. We clung to ourselves as if our lives depended on how tight the hug would be. The braless lumps on her chest rested on me. It was so warm and so soft.

A great thing started happening to the little thing of mine. I felt the warmness of my bulge. I felt so randy and tickly down below. Softly, I pushed her face to an angle and planted a kiss on her dark lovely lips. A welcomed action. She responded. Then she pulled away and moved towards the bedroom. She couldn’t wait. Like a goat follows the man that drags the palm frond, I followed her closely.

She speedily pulled off the shirt and boxers. As I gasped for breath, my heartbeat stopped. My imagination was wrong, her attributes were more. The polo hid a lot from me. Then she stretched her hand and picked her gown. Maybe, to put it on the couch. She shouldn’t have bothered, I wanted to say. The game had no rules. She should leave the cloth on the bed, I did not mind. I watched as she speedily – without putting her bra on – dragged her body inside the gown and turned to me as if she were possessed and said “I have to go now.”

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