"Nna men! I love ashi die." I couldn't help thinking as i thrust my turgid, latex-encased member into her hollow recess as she posed canine style whilst i watched her stretch mark -striped butt cheeks quake severely & enjoyed the sensuous clapping sound they made as they came in contact with my gyrating pelvis. Like a skilled musical conductor directing the performance of an orchestra, i increased the pace and changed the direction in which i 'moved' my 'baton' thereby increasing the crescendo and speed of the clapping music i was composer, conductor, performer and audience of until i got the note i desired; a soft moan escaped the prison of her lips & had me grinning ear to ear like a Cheshire cat. To me, it signified her reluctant surrender to & acknowledgement of my coital dexterity, a reluctant confession that she found sex with me pleasurable and not an affliction she had to endure because of the significant sum I coughed so I could do[i][/i] her and douse the torturous fires of konji that periodically inflamed my loins before they incinerated my being. Soon after, I detected the beginnings of what I knew would be a thunderous climax stirring deep within me. This served as a warning bell for me to slow my frantic pace because ejaculating would signify the end of this heavenly session and have me internally fuming about not getting my money’s full worth. “Mbanu! My 5 k no fit jona like that” I told myself as I employed the last tactic to delay the inevitable surrender to the throes of sexual ecstasy. It was an offshoot of a mantra many find cliché but is rich in meaning to me. “Mind over matter” is a saying that inspires in me the belief (some might qualify it with the adjective “absurd”) that my mentality is a powerful tool I could utilize in shaping my reality; that my mind could to some extent override the limits imposed by my body, environment or even other people. You may disagree but I would not like to digress from the topic at hand to argue my life philosophies with you. I slowly steered my mind away from all matters s3xual to more mundane affairs. As easy as it sounds, it is anything but that I assure you. I remember at my first attempt equating this method akin in difficulty to the Turkish art of wrestling with an opponent drenched in olive oil. I decided to focus on the who & why of what I was doing presently (banging the heck out of HER).
To be continued....

It's like I've done this ashi before. If it's her she's sadly a born-again Christian now.

Continued...
“Who was she (the female I was screwing)?” The instant answer that crossed my mind was that I had no idea but as I thought deeper, I began filling in the blanks with the little details I had noticed in less than an hour of meeting her starting from the most obvious. As i mentioned at the inception of my musing, she was an ashi, a short form for ashewo, a derogatory word many Nigerians and every person of Yoruba descent or resident in Lagos state knew to mean “prostitute”. To be labeled one was a low for any lady and likely to chase away intending suitors faster than an excreta-covered individual trying to snag an embrace would cause any normal human being to flee. However, she was a professional (if I could use the word). To women like her, any semblance of decency was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Her abode of operation (in which we were ‘getting at IT’) was a dinghy, stuffy, cell-like room located in one of the seedy bordellos of the notorious red lights district named empire. Empire was also a hotbed for not only prostitution but also petty theft, armed robbery, drug trafficking, cultist attacks and so on. Many a man have met their untimely end at empire. Police raids were a commonplace event and every now and then, the despicable atrocities perpetuated in this cesspool of human corruption were detailed in a national daily. I focused next on trying to guess her age… I concluded that she was somewhere north of thirty years therefore she was older than I was (mind you, I have no reservation about that; she wasn’t the first and hopefully wouldn’t be the last older woman i would bed; women being like wine that improves with age & all). Judging from her accent during our earlier haggling over her rates, I knew she was of igbo extraction. Finally, I devoted ample time to objectively examine and grade her physical attributes. Her face was plain in looks; nothing was drop dead gorgeous about it yet it would be a grave defamation to call it ugly. She was fair complexioned in that igbo way. Her naked body could be graded slightly below average by a benevolent examiner (which I think I am) . Her midriff in particular was particularly unattractive; it was bloated and heavily crisscrossed with stretch marks making me suspect that she had at a period of her life been heavily pregnant. She had little tufts of pubic hair on her groin that bristled when they were touched. Her vulva was darker in complexion than her other parts; it was currently slathered in liberal quantities of lubricant (no doubt an economic maneuver to conserve the long period that would have been employed to make her vag secrete the real thing). Her legs were just as her torso was, short and slightly stocky with feet ending with toenails painted with lilac nail polish.
To be continued...

COMe and continue ooo

Continued...
Her mediocre looks however faded into obscurity in the presence of two great assets she possessed – the first being an ample, well rounded, enticing derriere, which instantly sent blood surging to my nether region and had me clamping hard on my tongue so as to not whistle lewdly earlier on as she turned around to lead me to her room. The second (and in my opinion the deadlier ‘weapon’ in her arsenal) being one of the biggest (if not the biggest) & fullest set of breasts I have seen were located on her chest. It was obvious she knew their efficiency hence she ‘packaged’ them in a low-cut spaghetti top devoid of the stifling confining of a bra thereby intentionally revealing her impressive cleavage, which bisected those two balloon-like mounds like a valley between the mountainous peaks of the Himalayas & revealing outlines of her nipples prodding through its thin fabric (the thought of them still makes my ‘john thomas’ stand at attention). They (referring to the breasts) were the main reason why I selected her among dozens of her peers that paraded the frontage of the brothel ‘advertising’ their ‘wares’. That & a seductive, come-hither look on her that without the need of words promised great, erotic pleasures should I choose her and that I did. Those weapons were once again employed this time with a certain measure of ruthlessness as we haggled over how much she was to receive for her services. I was proving adamant to her named price which I felt were too steep and was about to issue an ultimatum that I would take my business elsewhere to her ‘competitors’ who I felt would jump at the price I was offering when suddenly she stepped in front of me and stretching her hands, grabbed my head and squeezed it against her voluptuous bosom. Any iota of resistance I previously experienced within withered as my face was being smothered in those super soft, pillows-like boobs. It was like being at the receiving end of a heavy knockout punch; my thinking faculty suddenly went AWOL. All I could remember was the steely urge to touch those irresistible breasts and work my magic on them. The prospect of suckling her nipples had me salivating just as Pavlov’s dog must have whenever it heard its master ringing a bell. In fact, I temporarily lost the ability to speak. All I could do was nod vigorously to whatever she was saying.
“That would be enough about her for now” I told myself as I decided to momentarily focus on the motive of my act.
To be continued...

Sorry for the wait. Battled with chronic writer's block.
Continued....
Why was I risking so much to acquire entry to the dangerous and unknown (in the biblical manner to me but undoubtedly familiar to numerous men) depths of puna land? The plain, unabashed answer to that question was that I (like many men) find the feel of warm, wet vag against my rod indescribably sweet. Nothing can sufficiently compare or compete with the pleasure obtained while hitting that kitty cat. So why, I asked myself again, couldn't I do what most 'normal' pple do? - get a gf & do it with her? The problem with that was that no female I've met seems interested in me that way. Shockingly, I am quite good looking (I'm not bragging o. It's just a statement of fact & observations by people around me, both male & females) but it seems that something about me (maybe genetic or in my body language) kills female libido. Women seem to only want my friendship and not that 'package'. It's just something I've learnt to come to terms with as previous attempts to take things to that erotick arena ended woefully leading to awkward feelings & an abrupt end to my friendships with the females involved. Also, I find the thought of pretending to like or love a female just to get into her pants quite underhand & nauseating and the idea of rape is a disgusting no go area. So here I was taking care of my need the way I knew how to. To those who still don't understand my reasoning, I would employ this analogy. Why would I go into the forest to hunt for Food when I can step into a buka / mama put joint and still satiate that hunger?
"Bros, you no wan release? Abeg release sharp sharp. You don dey Bleep pass the time you pay money for". Her voice jolted me out of my reverie. I had lost track of time and even started going soft (FYI I'm not afflicted with that male plague called erectile dysfunction so don't go thinking that way) similar to the way a vehicle with manual transmission goes off when the accelerator is not applied for some time. "no harm, no foul" I thought as I decided to reverse my philosophy. I focused every iota of my thoughts on the X-rated, dirty acts I had carried out with her, going into the sordid details.
To be continued.....