JOSEPH (Uncut)

Written by Owojuyigbe Michael A.

He watched as she lay on the bed, a servant carefully observing his mistress from the corner of one eye. Not that he had any reasons to distrust her, was she not the wife of his master? Yet, he could not trust her so much; at least not with the way her body lay so seductively on the water-bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could almost make out her exposed cleavage…nay, not entirely so, as she was clad in her underclothes. The mere thought of it almost sent him into overdrive as he went about his routine cleaning duties. His male organ down below in his uniform had begun developing other ideas; after all, he was a full-blooded male…it was just so natural…
She watched him as he went about his chores. He was gradually developing into a man. She watched as his biceps bulged, his neck muscles tauter with effort as he moved pieces of furniture about in the room. Handsome was not a word that could define what he was, because he was not just handsome, he was wickedly so. If only her husband was as handsome as this. Although paintings of the High Lord Potipher from his youth did suggest he had been beautiful enough for a man a long time ago, and it was whispered among the elderly ladies of the Pharaoh’s court that back in the day, only the Crown Prince (now Pharaoh) had been much more of a beauty to behold than the High Lord; now age was telling…taking its toll on the once handsome body…its once taut muscles replaced by fat, giving the High Lord a chubbiness a cherub would have found funny on a man of valour…and his addiction to the wine-gourd was not helping in any way, it made him even more repulsive. Besides, what real man would not as much as cast a look at his young and beautiful wife? When was the last time he touched her? His duties as the Pharaoh’s right hand man did not let him have so much time to spare, and when he did have a little time at hand, was it not spent at the drinking and LovePeddler-houses down at Goshen? She sighed to herself. If only she could get someone who would come to lie with her when she did indeed need about her a man’s warmth…someone who would not be able to tell or set tongues wagging…someone who was not only strong and young, but also handsome…someone like this servant-boy. Her eyes strayed towards his shorts, to where she knew only too well that his manhood lay…waiting to be awakened. And he would not be able to tell a soul…
As he dusted the frame of his master’s huge portrait, he thought he heard someone move behind him. Maybe it was Madam Potiphera making her way down to the bath…the heat was indeed oppressive. He felt hands clasping him around the waist…. pulling him in a warm embrace from behind. He could feel large breasts rubbing delightfully against his back. A hand found its way into his under-pants. Instinctively, he twisted, turning out of the close embrace of his defiler. He turned to face her…his mistress, Potiphera. He could not help it. He gaped. Her breasts were bare, full and firm…the nipples, erect. The hair around her pubic region was dark, rich, full and curly. God! He did not want to blaspheme, but he could not help it. She was beautiful. Not just facially, but all over. Fit for a god, a king, a Lord. For a second, he wanted to imagine himself deep within her…him thrusting, she moaning…they both sweating profusely. At this fleeting thought, the frontal part of his shorts grew out of proportion…an evidence of a male’s typical reaction in such circumstances. Aware he was before his mistress, he bowed his head in shame, dropping on one knee as was the custom of slaves before their masters. Potiphera smiled a telling smile. He would never tell a soul.
She had watched the expressions that played on his face with a smile on her lips, her heart singing to the Ancients…his expression changed again to something akin to shame. She had seen his indecision, his lust, his erection, now she saw his shame…shame, mayhap at being a slave. She watched him go down on his knee after the manner of all slaves doing obeisance to their Lords. She went down with him not on one, but on both knees as all African women in her day did to their men. She moved closer. She was going for the kill. She saw him shudder as all men who had seen her exquisite body did. Even her husband, the mighty High Lord Potipher whose fame was only exceeded by the fame of the Pharaoh he served, when he was not too far gone by an excess intake of booze with his vast experience with the female body always wondered at hers. True, she had inherited great genes from her mother, but she also took great care of what she had with herbs, fruits, rest and a great deal of ancient eastern exercises. She undid the ropes on his short-sleeved uniform with a great deal of care, gentility and a hint of sensuality. As the last of it came undone, she threw the shirt on the floor before covering his bare chest with kisses. He was indeed beautiful.
He stood there watching as she took off his shirt, and then covered his body with a thousand little kisses. As her tongue grazed his right nipple, he let out a groan; the shaft between his thighs straining hard against the front of his shorts. Dazed as he was, he let her draw him towards the huge mahogany water-bed. Beyond her, he could see to the head of the bed, the nightstand beside it…his master’s amulet on it. In that split second, he remembered all the kindness with which the great Lord Potipher had dealt with him; how he had raised him, almost like the son he never had, since he bought him from the Arab slave-traders; how the great Lord had made him the object of envy amongst all the slaves by naming him chief of all the servants in the house. In that same second, Joseph remembered the God of his fathers. How much more wicked could man be to his God and to his master if he did toe this path of lust and betrayal? He could not go through with this…for God…for his master…for himself. STOP!!!
As she pulled him towards the bed, she felt him stiffen slightly…his expression tense…she smiled. For a brief second, she thought she heard his voice urging her to stop. Yes, he had, but she could not stop, she had to have this boy in her bed. She had to be wrapped in his arms, to feel his heat on her skin. He tried to get out of her embrace, she held on. Eventually, her strength failed against his, he escaped her grasp and as she chased, he fled the room. She chased after him into the corridor. Only the realization that she was stark naked drove her back into the room. Thank Mother Isis no one had been loitering in the corridor at the time. Thanks to the gods no one had seen her shame. Then she saw it, on the floor where it lay as comfortably as if it belonged there…his shirt.
He ran into the servants’ quarters. He could only wish against wishes that he had dreamt up all that had transpired with Her Ladyship. To God, he wished it was a dream. Had his own blood brothers not called him the dreamer before selling him to the Arab slave-traders? But reality stared him in the face like his own reflection in the pond that served as the slaves’ bath. He could still feel the tingles on his nipples. By now, his short was wet, but only slightly. He groaned loudly as he headed toward the single pit that served the slaves for a toilet.
She sat on the bed clutching his shirt to her. Slowly, time and again, she lifted it to her nostrils. It reeked of manly sweat, yet she loved it and gripped it hard; her imagination going into over-drive. Slowly, the door opened…she threw the shirt under the bed.
He had come out of the toilet, his hands on his hips as he thanked his stars for helping him escape from her Ladyship. That was when he remembered…his shirt…it was still in the room. What if she did not remember to hide it, and it just so happened that the master found it? God forbid. How would he explain his not having on his uniform? How would he explain his uniform being found in the master’s room? He had to get it back. He had no choice. He had to return to the den where the seductress lay waiting…ready to spring…
As he watched her crying, begging him, he was almost tempted to do away with his resolve. Not only was she an epitome of beauty, she was letting down her guard, letting him see the weak side of her…she was begging him, making him so many huge promises. If he had been any other boy, he would have given in, but he was not just anybody, he was Joseph; a boy who would keep his vow till God made his name great. Or was this his ticket to greatness? No, it could not be. His God would most definitely frown at him if he went to bed with her. Had his father, Jacob, not warned him of the dangers lurking on the bosoms of the daughters of the uncircumcised? Of the hatred the God of Abraham, Isaac and Israel bore towards adulterers and those who coveted the belongings of others? He stood his ground, kept to his resolution. She would not sway him, he would not allow her.
She saw it in his eyes, in the trim line formed around his jaw…he would not cave in…she would deal with him…take him apart…bring down his world. Mustering all her strength she shoved him as forcefully as she could…
Out of the blues, he felt himself being shoved out of the room. He could hear her screeching threats from deep within her throat. He would not budge. He politely asked for his shirt hoping she would give it to him without much ado. He hoped she would realize that what she wanted just could not happen between them. It was when her screams for aid rent the air that he ran…because he could not afford to be found there. So he ran…as fast as his legs could…he ran…into the corridor…into an uncertain future...

OWOJUYIGBE M.A.O

(c) 2018

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Wow...dope write up
I actually felt like I was watching a movie
Ride on