It makes an interesting read though

Nice one

Melison:
A is for Apple

Lol... The hustle for fp is real.

ishilove ...u love vagina so much! after u go call am smelly kpekus unappreciably !

Anijay1212:

Lol...
The hustle for fp is real.

Lolzzz

https://happenings.com.ng/136954-2/

story is copied from here

Avoid MOVINGBET like a PLAGUE! Those behind the vitual name MOVINGBET are SCAMMERS! This WARNING is 100% true.

aoshea18:
How do you “bite the tip of his joystick” after pushing him off you? Edit that out please. Only blemish on an otherwise believable story

"scratch" would sound believable than "bite".remove it entirely sef.

Come and complete it...

[quote author=Ishilove post=72104221]All rights reserved-



“Ranti omo eni ti iwon se. Remember whose daughter you are,” My father’s parting words as I knelt down before him to thank him for all he had done these past days—the money for my fees, provisions and everything. My farewell.

The next day would be the beginning of a new journey for me. I would wake up on a strange bed for the first time in my life. I would wake to a new dawn as a university student. It also meant that for the first time in my life, I would make decisions for myself.

Far from home. The big prayer bell that sat on the television no longer rang. My Mum no longer bored me with the rigidity of the food timetable for the house. There was no more fashion police “that is too short!” “Dont wear make-up!”

My new found freedom excited me. The smell of my new clothes excited me more—filled me with great pride, making me walk a little slower. My chest pulled out a little more, my buttocks arched further backwards, my waist twisting, no curling like a snake that just discovered its twisting skills.

Lagos was where my eyes opened. Where I learnt the act of make up with brown powder and cheap lipsticks. Where I knew that you had to do more than lipsticks to be the centre of a man’s attention. Where I knew that my mother’s message of getting pregnant if a guy touches you was not true at all. Where I knew that a girl could protect herself, with condoms and common sense.

It was where my auntie’s advice made more sense to me. Auntie Abeke, my buxom aunty, the one with the large buttocks that made the chairs creak in pain; the creaks, a witness to our conversations.

“A girl who sleeps with a man before marriage is cheap,” she said, pronouncing “cheap” as “sheep”.

What of a girl who sleeps with more than one man? I wondered but never asked; I only nodded in agreement.

So each day, I held my head up, chest out, and glided gracefully around town proud to be ‘expensive’. I raised my nose at my roommates as they spoke of their sexploits—Expensive Hauwa, the one who would go every Friday to meet Alhaji for the weekend; Shameless Tola, who had no shame and kept female condoms in different parts of her bag; Happy Happiness, who boasted that all the happiness in the world dwelt between her thighs. I, untouched priceless, had nothing to say, until…

I met a fine suave dude. Very tall, well-built third year student. He had an easy laugh. It was that laugh that got me. It was that laugh that melted all the hardness within me.

My eyes were his first love.

“I love your eyes. I love the way they look when I look into them. The way I see myself in them, in you.”

“I love your eyes. I look into them and see my dreams become a reality.”

If his laugh got me, his words finished me. The words broke down the walls of Jericho I’d built around myself. Walls that brick after brick of words had put in place, year after year.

Then, he would come to Aunty Abeke’s house every day to visit me… always coming with gifts. For me and my Aunty.

“You know Adunni, you should begin to think about marriage.” She said one day.

“He is a fine gentle man.” She said on another.

Alone with him, he would touch me. He would start by staring into my eyes, and saying things about dreams and visions merging there. His words started melting my insides and things poured out “down there,” and made my pant sticky.

Then, his hands would stay long on my face, stroking it. Then, travel down my breasts. Then, I would begin to quake. Then, it would travel further down, down there. More stickiness down there.

Then, I would get upset because I did not know this thing that he was doing to my body. I did not know how to control it, or myself. So, I would get upset.

“I’m just playing, oya, I’m sorry.” He would say.

On a certain cold Tuesday, he came to take me out to see a play on the campus in a borrowed ride.

I wore my favourite orange dress. The one that ended right on my knees, with a little slit around the cleavage. “Small enough to tempt and not fall,” my room mates called such slits.

When we got on the university grounds, he swerved off into a narrow path which led us further into the darkness.

Then he stopped at a corner.

“Where are we?” I asked. He got down, opened the door on my side and started hitting my face while dragging me down forcefully.

“You think the gifts were for free?” He asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like stuck boiled egg unsure whether to go down into his stomach or come out through his mouth.

“The watches, the phone, just for me to touch you? Answer me!” The veins in his neck were like tiny serpents threatening to strike me. I had no chance to open my mouth as his blow landed on my left cheek, and shut my mouth.

The words that were forming in my throat were sent back to where they came from, scattered nothings. I remember having the sensation of having my mouth filled with eri, corn shaft.

Things happened so fast: the struggles, the blows, the ripped clothes and the screams. He spread my legs, and made to lower himself on me. I went berserk, bonkers, bananas, all at the same time, in the same moment. I fought with all the energy within me. Gave him a kick between his legs. Pushed his groaning body off me. I did not leave without leaving a reminder. I bit off the tip of his penis, and left him writhing in pain. I was so mad, I did not know what I did until I got home.

Aunty Abeke’s voice kept ringing in my ears, with each step, with each blast of the winds against my sodden bloodied face. My dirty legs and hands sweating profusely like a Christmas chicken.

“I will not be cheapened!” I muttered to no one.


Omotola Omolayo

A submission for #storyofmyvagina series.
“I love your eyes. I love the way they look when I look into them. The way I see myself in them, in you.”

“I love your eyes. I look into them and see my dreams become a reality.”[/i]
/quote] killer punch lines

Interesting

Okay let see, how this one goes

CooperJay:
Why not name your book appropriately so you can at least upload it on google books SMH .... 9ja Writers and Mediocrity !!


Sourcing for Novels E books and Educationals and course materials was a stress , we just thank God for threads like This One Here Selling Ebooks cheaply we didn't have such luxury in our time

Seconded

Wait?.. The story don "pinish"?...

Ishilove:
All rights reserved-



“Ranti omo eni ti iwon se. Remember whose daughter you are,” My father’s parting words as I knelt down before him to thank him for all he had done these past days—the money for my fees, provisions and everything. My farewell.

The next day would be the beginning of a new journey for me. I would wake up on a strange bed for the first time in my life. I would wake to a new dawn as a university student. It also meant that for the first time in my life, I would make decisions for myself.

Far from home. The big prayer bell that sat on the television no longer rang. My Mum no longer bored me with the rigidity of the food timetable for the house. There was no more fashion police “that is too short!” “Dont wear make-up!”

My new found freedom excited me. The smell of my new clothes excited me more—filled me with great pride, making me walk a little slower. My chest pulled out a little more, my buttocks arched further backwards, my waist twisting, no curling like a snake that just discovered its twisting skills.

Lagos was where my eyes opened. Where I learnt the act of make up with brown powder and cheap lipsticks. Where I knew that you had to do more than lipsticks to be the centre of a man’s attention. Where I knew that my mother’s message of getting pregnant if a guy touches you was not true at all. Where I knew that a girl could protect herself, with condoms and common sense.

It was where my auntie’s advice made more sense to me. Auntie Abeke, my buxom aunty, the one with the large buttocks that made the chairs creak in pain; the creaks, a witness to our conversations.

“A girl who sleeps with a man before marriage is cheap,” she said, pronouncing “cheap” as “sheep”.

What of a girl who sleeps with more than one man? I wondered but never asked; I only nodded in agreement.

So each day, I held my head up, chest out, and glided gracefully around town proud to be ‘expensive’. I raised my nose at my roommates as they spoke of their sexploits—Expensive Hauwa, the one who would go every Friday to meet Alhaji for the weekend; Shameless Tola, who had no shame and kept female condoms in different parts of her bag; Happy Happiness, who boasted that all the happiness in the world dwelt between her thighs. I, untouched priceless, had nothing to say, until…

I met a fine suave dude. Very tall, well-built third year student. He had an easy laugh. It was that laugh that got me. It was that laugh that melted all the hardness within me.

My eyes were his first love.

“I love your eyes. I love the way they look when I look into them. The way I see myself in them, in you.”

“I love your eyes. I look into them and see my dreams become a reality.”

If his laugh got me, his words finished me. The words broke down the walls of Jericho I’d built around myself. Walls that brick after brick of words had put in place, year after year.

Then, he would come to Aunty Abeke’s house every day to visit me… always coming with gifts. For me and my Aunty.

“You know Adunni, you should begin to think about marriage.” She said one day.

“He is a fine gentle man.” She said on another.

Alone with him, he would touch me. He would start by staring into my eyes, and saying things about dreams and visions merging there. His words started melting my insides and things poured out “down there,” and made my pant sticky.

Then, his hands would stay long on my face, stroking it. Then, travel down my breasts. Then, I would begin to quake. Then, it would travel further down, down there. More stickiness down there.

Then, I would get upset because I did not know this thing that he was doing to my body. I did not know how to control it, or myself. So, I would get upset.

“I’m just playing, oya, I’m sorry.” He would say.

On a certain cold Tuesday, he came to take me out to see a play on the campus in a borrowed ride.

I wore my favourite orange dress. The one that ended right on my knees, with a little slit around the cleavage. “Small enough to tempt and not fall,” my room mates called such slits.

When we got on the university grounds, he swerved off into a narrow path which led us further into the darkness.

Then he stopped at a corner.

“Where are we?” I asked. He got down, opened the door on my side and started hitting my face while dragging me down forcefully.

“You think the gifts were for free?” He asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like stuck boiled egg unsure whether to go down into his stomach or come out through his mouth.

“The watches, the phone, just for me to touch you? Answer me!” The veins in his neck were like tiny serpents threatening to strike me. I had no chance to open my mouth as his blow landed on my left cheek, and shut my mouth.

The words that were forming in my throat were sent back to where they came from, scattered nothings. I remember having the sensation of having my mouth filled with eri, corn shaft.

Things happened so fast: the struggles, the blows, the ripped clothes and the screams. He spread my legs, and made to lower himself on me. I went berserk, bonkers, bananas, all at the same time, in the same moment. I fought with all the energy within me. Gave him a kick between his legs. Pushed his groaning body off me. I did not leave without leaving a reminder. I bit off the tip of his penis, and left him writhing in pain. I was so mad, I did not know what I did until I got home.

Aunty Abeke’s voice kept ringing in my ears, with each step, with each blast of the winds against my sodden bloodied face. My dirty legs and hands sweating profusely like a Christmas chicken.

“I will not be cheapened!” I muttered to no one.


Omotola Omolayo

A submission for #storyofmyvagina series.

^^^^^^
^^^^^^
OK... #StoryofMyVajajay Series. All Rights Reserved Worldwide...

I hope you update frequently to keep the zeal in your readers.
Nice one though

well done OP

[quote author=olurich01 post=72129010][/quote]

Fu*ck you too!!!

"#StoryOfMyVagina: Pekele Pekele"
I believe this book needs a better tittle

so deep and wide
Keep it up

You're much better than who you think you're
Stop looking down on yourself.. Give your dream a chance!
You're Extraordinary!


Rise Up!

Subscribe, Watch, Like & Share this video!

Link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cf5XJ0KKYEI

Ishilove:
All rights reserved-



“Ranti omo eni ti iwon se. Remember whose daughter you are,” My father’s parting words as I knelt down before him to thank him for all he had done these past days—the money for my fees, provisions and everything. My farewell.

The next day would be the beginning of a new journey for me. I would wake up on a strange bed for the first time in my life. I would wake to a new dawn as a university student. It also meant that for the first time in my life, I would make decisions for myself.

Far from home. The big prayer bell that sat on the television no longer rang. My Mum no longer bored me with the rigidity of the food timetable for the house. There was no more fashion police “that is too short!” “Dont wear make-up!”

My new found freedom excited me. The smell of my new clothes excited me more—filled me with great pride, making me walk a little slower. My chest pulled out a little more, my buttocks arched further backwards, my waist twisting, no curling like a snake that just discovered its twisting skills.

Lagos was where my eyes opened. Where I learnt the act of make up with brown powder and cheap lipsticks. Where I knew that you had to do more than lipsticks to be the centre of a man’s attention. Where I knew that my mother’s message of getting pregnant if a guy touches you was not true at all. Where I knew that a girl could protect herself, with condoms and common sense.

It was where my auntie’s advice made more sense to me. Auntie Abeke, my buxom aunty, the one with the large buttocks that made the chairs creak in pain; the creaks, a witness to our conversations.

“A girl who sleeps with a man before marriage is cheap,” she said, pronouncing “cheap” as “sheep”.

What of a girl who sleeps with more than one man? I wondered but never asked; I only nodded in agreement.

So each day, I held my head up, chest out, and glided gracefully around town proud to be ‘expensive’. I raised my nose at my roommates as they spoke of their sexploits—Expensive Hauwa, the one who would go every Friday to meet Alhaji for the weekend; Shameless Tola, who had no shame and kept female condoms in different parts of her bag; Happy Happiness, who boasted that all the happiness in the world dwelt between her thighs. I, untouched priceless, had nothing to say, until…

I met a fine suave dude. Very tall, well-built third year student. He had an easy laugh. It was that laugh that got me. It was that laugh that melted all the hardness within me.

My eyes were his first love.

“I love your eyes. I love the way they look when I look into them. The way I see myself in them, in you.”

“I love your eyes. I look into them and see my dreams become a reality.”

If his laugh got me, his words finished me. The words broke down the walls of Jericho I’d built around myself. Walls that brick after brick of words had put in place, year after year.

Then, he would come to Aunty Abeke’s house every day to visit me… always coming with gifts. For me and my Aunty.

“You know Adunni, you should begin to think about marriage.” She said one day.

“He is a fine gentle man.” She said on another.

Alone with him, he would touch me. He would start by staring into my eyes, and saying things about dreams and visions merging there. His words started melting my insides and things poured out “down there,” and made my pant sticky.

Then, his hands would stay long on my face, stroking it. Then, travel down my breasts. Then, I would begin to quake. Then, it would travel further down, down there. More stickiness down there.

Then, I would get upset because I did not know this thing that he was doing to my body. I did not know how to control it, or myself. So, I would get upset.

“I’m just playing, oya, I’m sorry.” He would say.

On a certain cold Tuesday, he came to take me out to see a play on the campus in a borrowed ride.

I wore my favourite orange dress. The one that ended right on my knees, with a little slit around the cleavage. “Small enough to tempt and not fall,” my room mates called such slits.

When we got on the university grounds, he swerved off into a narrow path which led us further into the darkness.

Then he stopped at a corner.

“Where are we?” I asked. He got down, opened the door on my side and started hitting my face while dragging me down forcefully.

“You think the gifts were for free?” He asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like stuck boiled egg unsure whether to go down into his stomach or come out through his mouth.

“The watches, the phone, just for me to touch you? Answer me!” The veins in his neck were like tiny serpents threatening to strike me. I had no chance to open my mouth as his blow landed on my left cheek, and shut my mouth.

The words that were forming in my throat were sent back to where they came from, scattered nothings. I remember having the sensation of having my mouth filled with eri, corn shaft.

Things happened so fast: the struggles, the blows, the ripped clothes and the screams. He spread my legs, and made to lower himself on me. I went berserk, bonkers, bananas, all at the same time, in the same moment. I fought with all the energy within me. Gave him a kick between his legs. Pushed his groaning body off me. I did not leave without leaving a reminder. I bit off the tip of his penis, and left him writhing in pain. I was so mad, I did not know what I did until I got home.

Aunty Abeke’s voice kept ringing in my ears, with each step, with each blast of the winds against my sodden bloodied face. My dirty legs and hands sweating profusely like a Christmas chicken.

“I will not be cheapened!” I muttered to no one.


Omotola Omolayo

A submission for #storyofmyvagina series.

that guy is a learner

AnalQueenluci:
ishilove ...u love vagina so much! after u go call am smelly kpekus unappreciably !

Why won't I love vagina when I'm an owner of one?
Ioannes, come and carry your property

Really nice. More pls!

kechywillz:
What is pekele pekele?

wonders shall never End

"Despise the Free launch.wat is offer for free is dangerous- it usually involves a trick or a hidden obligation"
Robort Greene- law 40..."48 laws of power"...
The Machiavellian Theory also warns of Free tinz...
Bt guess wat!!! Nigeria Ladies Theory will practically Argue against dem both...
Oya ride on... We here to stay....

EgusiShankly:
what is the meaning of pekele??...

pekele pekele...

you can roughly translate it to 'see me see trouble'

Ishilove:

Why won't I love vagina when I'm an owner of one?
Ioannes, come and carry your property

Lol. Abeg no kee me with laff dis morning o.