You stare at your naked figure in the mirror. You look just perfect. Wide perky breasts, a narrow waist, a rounded and firm derriere, and wide hips. Your flesh tuxedo is cleanly shaved and you are almost tempted to slide a finger or two in. You stop yourself. No. Tonight is for the hot Dr Femi. [/i]The corners of your eyes crinkle at your anticipation, and you fantasize having him inside of you, exploring the deep ends and taking you to paradise. These same ideas filled your thoughts the previous night, and you had orgasmed a trillion times whilst perusing pictures of his nine inch penis. The very ones he sent two nights ago when you first met on instagram.

[i]I just want to Bleep you. What would it cost? was what his direct message said accompanied with shots of his penis from different angles. Not the typical kind of direct message. But you were impressed. You liked it. And you played along.

Are you sure you can afford it?

Name your price.

100k for 2 hours.

Whoa! I find you worth more than that. So I'll give you 250k.

You contemplated your reply awhile before typing Day, place and time?

Saturday, the mangrove hotel, 10 p.m
was his immediate response

It's a date.

You were astounded at yourself. Had you just accepted going to Bleep a total stranger? Were you out of your mind? It's totally wrong, what were you thinking? Was it the money?

You kept questioning yourself without having any definite answers. You knew too well it wasn't the money, - at least your bank account made that glaring- it was something more. It was a desire, a hunger that needed to be quenched. Kola, your fiance, has been two months away and keeping to yourself wasn't an easy feat. And although you hate his offshore and onshore job, there's nothing you could possibly do about it. For pacification sake Kola did his best to satisfy you before and after each trip, and even got you intimacy gadgets which you helped yourself with on days like when Dr. Femi sent such alluring pictures.

You snap out of reverie and go about getting ready for the night. Your dress is a soft white bodycon, armless, cinched at the waist, and stops miles above the knee. Your hourglass figure well accentuated. Your shoes are the pair of Louboutin Kola got you for your last birthday, a seven inches stiletto, silvery, and with spikes. You keep the makeup mild with just your ruby woo lipstick and mascara. And your hair is packed in a bun. You glance at the mirror for the fourteenth time in five minutes and finally decide you look breathtaking.

As soon as you arrive his hotel suite, he grabs you into an intense kiss giving no time for hellos. You are startled but you love the urgency and you return his kiss in same intensity, driving away every sense of guilt. You let him feel you up. His touch rough. His love bites tingling. Causing your stomach to do flips. And everything in you screams for more. This is different from how you made love to Kola. There are no candlelights, neither are there any red roses, nor is there a soft music, save your quick uneven breaths, and now and then moans. But you prefer it still to the moments with Kola, whose gentle and conventional ways you never really appreciated.

As you are seated in the yellow cab headed home and reminiscing the previous night, –presumably feeling cheap and used, with no 250k because you had told him you weren't some hoe, and making resolves to never Bleep another man whose name isn't Kola –there's one thing you are most certain of: when next you will be making love to Kola it will be a lot easier getting to a climax because rather than see Kola, you will be seeing and feeling Dr. Femi.