₦airaland Forum

She was pointing at something on the bed, holding it up between two fingers like a piece of evidence. I stood up, my heart skipping just a beat as I recognized it.

It was a bra.

A black, lacy, padded bra.

My eyes widened.



---

“What! How come?”

The words escaped my mouth before I could even think. My voice trembled, half in disbelief, half in mounting panic. There, right in front of us, partially tucked between two of my folded shirts on the bed, lay a black bra—its lacy edges and padded cups glaring up at me like some scandalous relic unearthed from a crime scene. I froze.

Damilola’s expression shifted rapidly from curious to horrified, then hardened into something far worse—betrayal.

I felt my throat tighten. “But… but how did it get there?” I stammered, eyes darting from the bra to Damilola and back, as though by looking at it long enough, I could will it to vanish.

Damilola’s eyes flashed with a fury I had never seen before. Her voice, when it came, was low but charged with indignation. “You’re asking me?” she snapped. “Dave, are you seriously standing there, acting confused? So this is it? This is what you’ve been doing behind my back?”

“Wait… what? No! It’s not what you think!” I cried, my hands raised as if to ward off her judgment. “I swear to you, that bra got in here by mistake!”

But Damilola wasn’t buying it. Her nostrils flared as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Mistake? A bra just accidentally found its way into your bed? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Please, listen,” I begged, stepping toward her, desperate to calm the storm that was building in her. “Ms. Kay—my neighbor, you know the nurse? She came here this morning, looking for a missing bra. She said she had left it outside to dry, and maybe, just maybe, I packed it along with my own clothes by mistake. I didn’t even see it when I brought in the laundry last night!”

Maybe it was her laugh, or the way she always seemed thoughtful even in silence.

We watched the movie for a few minutes in comfortable quiet before I turned to her.

"You know," I began, lowering my voice slightly so it wouldn’t break the stillness of the room, "I’ve been meaning to say something."

She turned to face me, eyebrows slightly raised. “What’s that?”

"I think I’m starting to like you," I said, keeping my eyes on the screen at first, then turning to her again. "More than just as a family acquaintance. I mean... I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately."

There was a pause. Then she smiled — not the kind of smile that brushed things off, but one that held a hint of nervousness, maybe even hope.

"Really?" she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That’s... unexpected. I didn’t think you saw me that way."

"I do," I said, more confidently this time. "I like the way you think, the way you talk. You’re kind. And funny, when you let yourself be."

She looked down for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the pillow beside her.

"But we’re kind of related… aren’t we? Through marriage, at least."

"Technically," I said, shrugging. "But not really. There’s no blood relation. It’s not like we grew up calling each other cousins."

She considered that, then glanced at me again.

"It’s just… people might talk."

"Let them talk," I said with a half-smile. "They don’t get to decide how I feel. And I think being close to you — really close — would make me happy."

She gave a soft laugh, her eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Are you saying you like a fat girl like me?"

I chuckled, surprised at how directly she put it. I looked at her with sincerity. "Yes, you’re a little chubby, sure. But you’re also beautiful. And soft. And warm. That’s not a bad thing at all."

These are more illumination on lesbianism in Nigeria:



1. Legal Status

Lesbian relationships are criminalized under Nigerian law.

Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act (SSMPA), 2014:

Prohibits same-sex marriages and civil unions.

Criminalizes public displays of same-sex affection.

Bans LGBTQ+ organizations and advocacy.

Penalties include up to 14 years in prison.


Under Sharia law (enforced in some northern Nigerian states), same-sex relations, including lesbianism, can carry even harsher penalties — including death by stoning, although such sentences are rarely carried out.



---

2. Cultural and Social Attitudes

Nigerian society tends to be deeply conservative, influenced by both Christian and Islamic values.

Lesbianism is often regarded as taboo, and individuals may face:

Family rejection

Violence or abuse

Social ostracism

Blackmail and extortion




---

3. Visibility and Expression

Due to the hostile environment, many lesbians live in secrecy.

Public discourse on lesbianism is limited, and positive representation in the media is rare.

Despite this, underground communities and support networks exist, often connecting online or in safe spaces.



---

4. Activism and Resistance

LGBTQ+ activists in Nigeria work under great risk.

Groups like TIERS (The Initiative for Equal Rights) and Bisi Alimi Foundation advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and safety.

Some individuals have gone into exile to escape persecution.



---

5. International and Diaspora Influence

Nigerian LGBTQ+ diaspora and international human rights groups continue to push for recognition and decriminalization.

Foreign governments and NGOs occasionally clash with Nigeria’s stance, leading to diplomatic tensions.



---

6. Human Rights Concerns

Several organizations, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, have condemned Nigeria’s treatment of LGBTQ+ people.

Many argue that the SSMPA violates basic human rights: freedom of association, expression, and protection from discrimination.

Lesbianism (i.e., consensual same-sex relationships between women) is legal in most countries around the world. Unlike male same-sex relations, which have historically been more frequently criminalized, lesbian relationships have often been either overlooked by law or explicitly decriminalized. Here's an overview:


---

✅ Countries Where Lesbianism Is Legal

As of 2025, lesbianism is legal in over 150 countries, including:

🌍 Africa (Mixed Legal Status)

Legal: South Africa, Mozambique, Angola, Botswana, Rwanda, Seychelles

Illegal or Unclear: Nigeria (in some states), Somalia, Sudan, Mauritania, Uganda (harsh penalties in some areas)


🌎 Americas

Legal in all countries, including:

United States, Canada, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Mexico



🌏 Asia (Mixed Legal Status)

Legal: Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Thailand, Nepal, India, Israel

Illegal or Restricted: Saudi Arabia, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan (though enforcement varies), Malaysia


🌍 Europe (Legal Throughout)

All European countries have legalized lesbian relationships, including:

United Kingdom, France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Poland, Russia (though Russia criminalizes “LGBT propaganda”)



🌏 Oceania

Legal: Australia, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Fiji, and most Pacific island nations



---

❌ Countries Where Lesbianism Is Illegal

While fewer than those targeting male same-sex acts, some countries still criminalize or socially suppress lesbianism:

Middle East & North Africa: Iran, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Mauritania

Africa: Sudan, Somalia, parts of Nigeria and Uganda

Asia: Afghanistan, Pakistan, Malaysia (laws may be vague but are sometimes enforced)


Penalties range from fines and imprisonment to, in extreme cases, the death penalty (typically under broad morality or religious laws).


---

🟡 Key Notes

Social stigma persists even where laws permit lesbianism.

Enforcement varies: in some places, laws are rarely enforced; in others, women face arrest, "corrective" violence, or discrimination.

Gender bias in laws: Some countries historically criminalized only male homosexuality, not lesbianism—often due to cultural invisibility of female sexuality.

The Bible contains only a few references that are sometimes interpreted as relating to lesbianism, and the interpretation depends significantly on the translation, context, and theological lens used. Here's a breakdown of the key passages often cited in discussions about this:

1. Romans 1:26–27

This is the most commonly cited passage:

> “Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another...” (NIV)



Interpretation: Some see this as a condemnation of same-sex relationships, including female-female relations.

Context: The passage is part of a broader critique of idolatry and what Paul viewed as the moral decline of Roman society. Some scholars argue it's more about excess, lust, or ritual practices than a blanket condemnation of same-sex love.


2. Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13

These verses explicitly forbid male-male sex, calling it an "abomination."

No mention of lesbianism: These passages do not mention women at all, leading some to argue that lesbian relationships are not addressed here.

Interpretation: Levitical laws are part of the Holiness Code, which also prohibits things like wearing mixed fabrics or eating shellfish—raising questions about which laws still apply to Christians today.


3. Silence in the Gospels and most of the Bible

Jesus does not speak directly about same-sex relationships, and there are no explicit references to lesbianism elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible or New Testament.


---

Summary:

Explicit condemnation? The Bible barely mentions lesbianism directly, if at all.

Romans 1 is the only passage that may be interpreted as such, and even that is debated.

Interpretation varies: Some Christians interpret Romans as condemning all same-sex acts, while others see it as referring to excessive lust or cultural practices unrelated to committed lesbian relationships.

The Accidental Lover


Tayo goes through hassles to learn what real affection is. He has his ups and downs, which include great disappointment. It is by chance he finally picks his desirable life partner.






This story is partly factual and partly fiction. Real names and places have been changed to protect privacy.



Happy reading.









It was a few minutes past eleven at night, and the house was quiet except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of crickets outside. Everyone else had gone to bed. I was in the large sitting room, the kind with too many throw pillows and a big old rug that softened every step. I had settled in on the three-seater couch, remote in hand, ready to watch the late-night movie. It was one of those action-packed thrillers, full of car chases, intense music, and dramatic one-liners.

I had just started getting into the plot of the movie when I heard soft footsteps coming down the passageway. Fiyin appeared at the doorway, silhouetted by the passageway light. She hesitated for a moment before stepping in.

"Uncle Tayo, you're watching a movie this late?" she asked, her voice gentle but curious.

"Yeah," I replied with a smile. "I decided I’d stay up a bit. Couldn’t sleep. It’s one of those fast-paced ones. Want to join me?"

She nodded and walked into the room, her oversized T-shirt falling just past her knees. She looked relaxed, comfortable. She made her way to the couch and sat on the far end, keeping a polite distance. Still, we were on the same seat, and I could feel her presence — a calm warmth that made the night suddenly feel less ordinary.

Fiyin was eighteen, around six years less my age, and a distant relative of my uncle’s wife — technically family, but not closely so. We’d only recently started talking more whenever we were in the same space. There was something about her that had been quietly drawing my attention. Maybe it was her laugh, or the way she always seemed thoughtful even in silence.

Calm down.

It is always good to remain cool in all situation.

Especially for a senior citizen.

I heard a soft knock at the door, followed immediately by it swinging open.

“Hello, darling,” came a familiar voice as Damilola stepped into the room, smiling.

Before I could get up, she leaned over and placed a light peck on my cheek. She was radiant, as usual. Her hair was braided and neatly packed back. She wore a simple summer dress in a floral print that made her look even more graceful. Damilola had a way of lighting up a room without trying too hard.

“Hi,” I said, smiling back at her. “How lucky am I to have you? You look dazzling, as ever.”

She laughed and gave me a playful roll of her eyes, though the brightness in her smile betrayed her pleasure. One of my few natural talents was my ability to string words together in a way that made women smile—and Damilola was no exception.

“So,” she asked, easing herself onto the edge of the bed, “how’s your weekend going so far?”

I stretched dramatically and gave her my best poetic response. “It has been dull and lifeless. A barren desert with no hint of water or song. But now that you’re here? It’s transformed into a lush forest—vibrant, alive, filled with wildflowers and sweet fragrances.”

Damilola gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “Na wa o. All these your romantic speeches. Are you sure you didn’t study Literature in university?”

She was clearly enjoying it, though. She always did.

She looked around and immediately spotted the pile of clothes I had left on the far end of the bed—the same ones I had brought in the night before. Her forehead creased slightly as she sighed.

“Oh dear, must you always pile your clothes on the bed like this?” she asked, picking up a shirt as though it offended her. “What’s the point of having a wardrobe if you won’t use it?”

Damilola was many things—charming, spirited, affectionate—but above all, she was obsessively tidy. She couldn’t tolerate disorder, even for a second.

“I was actually just about to pack them before you came in,” I said defensively, even though we both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

She gave me a knowing look, then began picking up the clothes one by one, folding them as she went. I turned my attention back to the TV, deciding to switch to a channel I knew she liked—one of those lifestyle shows that featured cooking, fashion, and celebrity gossip. I had barely clicked the remote when I heard her voice again.

“Wait—what is this?” she said sharply.

Her tone had changed. She was no longer teasing or casual. I turned quickly to see what had caused the reaction.

She was pointing at something on the bed, holding it up between two fingers like a piece of evidence. I stood up, my heart skipping just a beat as I recognized it.

It was a bra.

She worked as a nurse at a private hospital nearby, often seen in her crisp uniforms, sometimes returning late in the evenings with that hurried, purposeful stride of someone who had been on her feet for hours.

Despite the proximity of our rooms and the shared facilities of the BQ, our relationship remained distant—cordial, yes, but formal. She rarely smiled, and even when she did, it often felt like something she offered with effort. She wasn't rude, but there was always a barrier, an invisible wall that kept her interactions brief and clipped. In the months we had been neighbors, our conversations had never gone beyond greetings and the occasional exchange of utility bills.

So when she knocked on my door that morning and spoke in a tone that suggested discomfort, I was immediately intrigued.

“Sorry to bother you, Dave,” she began, her voice low, as if reluctant to continue. “But I happen to be looking for one of my... brassieres.”

I blinked.

For a second, I thought I hadn’t heard her correctly. But her expression remained composed, if slightly flushed. My surprise must have been evident, because she continued quickly, as if to clarify the nature of her visit before it became any more awkward than it already was.

“I left it outside yesterday to dry. It’s black, with padded cups and lacy edges. I think maybe, by accident, you might have packed it in with your clothes?”

There was a pause. A rather thick silence hung between us for a second or two. I didn’t know whether to laugh, apologize, or just shut the door and pretend this was all a dream.

I finally sighed and shook my head gently. “I’m sorry, Sister Ms. Kay, but I didn’t see anything like that. And I’m quite sure I didn’t take it by mistake.”

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer, as though trying to assess the truthfulness of my statement. Then, without saying anything more, she gave a short nod, turned around, and walked back to her room.

As I closed the door and returned to my bed, I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to myself. So, Sister Ms. Kay was missing a bra—and she thought I might have it? It was funny and absurd at the same time. There was no way I would have missed such a distinctive item if I had packed it along with my clothes. And frankly, there was no scenario where I wouldn’t notice a lacy, padded bra among my T-shirts and briefs.

Still amused, I switched the TV back on, letting the familiar buzz of a talk show fill the room. I sat for a while, aimlessly flipping through channels, before deciding to freshen up. It was time to brush my teeth and take a proper bath.

I pulled a clean towel from the wardrobe, grabbed my sponge case, toothbrush, and a tube of mint toothpaste, and headed out to the bathroom. The BQ's shared bathroom wasn't luxurious by any means, but since only Ms. Kay and I used it, we had managed to maintain a decent level of cleanliness. The tiled walls were a bit stained from age, and the showerhead had seen better days, but the water pressure was good and the tap, at least, worked.

After brushing my teeth and taking a refreshing shower, I returned to my room feeling more awake and human. I towel-dried my skin, applied a bit of lotion, and threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a plain, soft T-shirt. The time was edging past nine when I heard a soft knock at the door, followed immediately by it swinging open.

That meant I wouldn’t have to wake up at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, and that simple fact filled me with quiet joy.

At twenty-seven, I was still a bachelor, living a fairly routine life and praying that someday soon, I would find stability—not just in my career but in my personal life as well. There was someone, of course. Damilola. She had been in my life for a while now, not exactly my girlfriend in the official sense, but certainly more than a friend. I still held on to the hope that she might someday become something more permanent. A life partner. A soulmate, if fate would have it.

Earlier on my way home, I had stopped by a roadside vendor and picked up two large loaves of bread, a few tins of sardines, and some other basic items to get me through the weekend. Dinner that night would be simple—sliced bread and a tin of sardines. Not the most exciting meal, but filling enough. I reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of soft drink, the condensation cold against my fingers. It would make a decent companion to my modest meal.

As I sat on the bed eating, my thoughts wandered, inevitably, to Damilola. She had promised to come around the next day. Her visits were always something I looked forward to, not necessarily because she was an excellent cook—because truthfully, she wasn’t. Nor was she particularly neat in that stereotypical “wifely” sense that some people still clung to. But her presence filled the room with warmth. She laughed easily, teased me endlessly, and made the small space feel less lonely, even if only for a few hours.

After eating, I wiped my hands, leaned back on the bed, and turned on the small television set I had managed to mount on the wall. I flipped through the channels and settled, as I often did, on one of the movie channels. An action film was playing—one I had seen before—but I didn’t mind. There was something comforting about revisiting familiar stories, especially on evenings like this. Before long, fatigue overcame me, and I drifted off to sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark except for the flickering light from the TV. The clock on my phone read 11:03 p.m. I groaned slightly as I sat up, suddenly remembering the clothes I had hung out to dry earlier that morning. They would be perfectly dry by now. I stepped outside into the cool night air, which felt good against my skin. The compound was quiet, save for the distant barking of a dog and the occasional hum of a passing car. I pulled the clothes off the line quickly and returned inside, dropping them on the far end of my bed.

I sank back into the sofa and watched the last few scenes of the movie. Sleep returned shortly after, and this time, I welcomed it without resistance. I must have slept deeply because when I woke up the next morning, it was already bright outside. A quick glance at my phone told me it was 8:08 a.m. I lay on the bed for a few more minutes, enjoying the rare luxury of not having to rush off anywhere.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

I sat up, surprised. Who could it be this early? Damilola? That seemed unlikely. She usually came around in the afternoon. I reached for my phone again to double-check the time. Still 8:08. The knock came again, a little firmer this time.

Yawning, I stood up and stretched. I was still in my boxers, and my hair was tousled from sleep. I walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.

Standing there was Ms. Kay, the second occupant of the boys’ quarters. She smiled politely.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” I replied, blinking in the light.

We had been neighbors for months, exchanging occasional pleasantries but not much more. This was the first time she had come to knock on my door. I wondered, curiously, what could have brought her here this morning.


I gave her a small nod and a polite smile. “Good morning, Sister. Kay.”

Though I was fairly certain that we were close in age—perhaps just a year or two apart—I sometimes addressed her as "Sister." Not out of any deep cultural obligation, but more as a form of quiet respect and perhaps a subtle buffer. Ms. Kay carried herself with a certain aloofness that made her feel older than she looked.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman—tall, fair-skinned, with sharp features and a graceful elegance that made her stand out. She worked as a nurse at a private hospital nearby, often seen in her crisp uniforms, sometimes returning late in the evenings with that hurried, purposeful stride of someone who had been on her feet for hours.

Something Fishy About Ms. Kay





Titoo



© 2025


Living with Ms. Khadijat Abdulrazak, also known as Ms. Kay, as a neighbor is peaceful and harmonious until an underwear goes missing and every thing turns upside. The end result is beyond what Dave could have imagined.




This story was formerly titled 'The Missing Soulmate.'
It has been revised and enlarged.







As the rickety yellow-and-black commercial bus, popularly called a “danfo,” rumbled down Opebi Road, weaving through the early evening traffic with the typical recklessness of Lagos drivers, I leaned forward slightly and tapped the conductor on the shoulder. He was clinging to the bus’s open door as usual, half in and half out, his arm wrapped tightly around the door rail for balance. His T-shirt, once white but now a dingy shade of grey, clung to his back with sweat.

“Next bus stop,” I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the blaring noise of the city – the honking cars, the cries of hawkers darting between lanes, and the roar of the bus’s own protesting engine.

The conductor gave a brief nod without looking back, his mind likely more focused on counting his crumpled naira notes and making sure he didn’t miss the next wave of passengers. Moments later, the bus lurched to the side, tires squealing as the driver swerved sharply, and I grabbed the backrest in front of me for support. As soon as the vehicle came to a near stop—since danfos rarely ever fully stop—I stepped off quickly, careful not to get caught by the sliding door or hit by the swarm of motorcycles that buzzed by like angry bees.

I adjusted my backpack and took a deep breath. The sun was already retreating, casting long shadows on the road and bathing the buildings in a soft orange hue. I turned down Aderiye Crescent, a relatively quiet street compared to the madness I had just escaped. The air was slightly fresher, and the faint scent of jollof rice cooking somewhere in the distance teased my nostrils. I walked with purpose toward Number 13, the house I had come to call home.

The building was a modest storey house, painted white—though time and Lagos weather had dulled its brightness, giving it a somewhat tired look. The structure was functional rather than beautiful, with its sharp edges and plain design. It stood squarely on its plot, surrounded by a low fence topped with rusted iron spikes. Inside the compound, a small cemented courtyard separated the main building from the rear quarters.

There were four flats in total—two on the ground floor and two directly above them—each consisting of two bedrooms, a small living room, and a kitchen. These were occupied by tenants who kept mostly to themselves, except for the occasional greeting in the mornings or on weekends. Behind the main house stood the boys’ quarters, a smaller structure painted in the same now-fading white as the main house. It was built with practicality in mind, a simple block of three rooms arranged in a row, each one opening into a narrow corridor that ran along its front.

Of the three rooms in the BQ, one had been converted into a shared kitchenette—a humble space with a single electric stove, a few old pots and pans, and some shelves cluttered with spices and provisions. Another served as a communal bathroom with a faded shower curtain and a constantly dripping tap, while the third functioned as the toilet, which we all used with silent tolerance.

My room, the last on the left, was where I had been staying for nearly a year now. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I had managed to make it comfortable—a single bed with a decent mattress, a small fridge in the corner humming softly, a wooden stool that doubled as a nightstand, and a secondhand sofa I had bought from a colleague at work. A small wall shelf held my books, a few framed photos, and a radio that had seen better days. On the far side of the room was a portable wardrobe that stood slightly lopsided.

When I stepped into the room that evening, it was just a few minutes to 7:00 p.m., and I felt the fatigue of the day crash over me like a wave. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the bed with a deep sigh. My back ached, my feet were sore, and my head was still buzzing from the noise and chaos of Lagos traffic. Commuting daily between Opebi and Apogbon on Lagos Island, where I worked as a junior accountant in a medium-sized firm, was draining both mentally and physically. But it was Friday. That meant I wouldn’t have to wake up at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, and that simple fact filled me with quiet joy.

The manufacturing company also promised free international discreet packaging, two weeks of processing time and one week for shipping, making a total of three weeks’ delivery time.


The cost was over 2,000 US dollars. Eddie mentally calculated that in naira. Even if he could make the payment and do the order that very moment, he would still have to wait for about three weeks to get it.

On impulse, he decided to check if there could be a shop here in Nigeria that sold the dolls. His on-line search yielded fruit. One Amorisia Stores at Ikeja sold the items. The mobile telephone contact numbers were there on the website. He called the first number.

'Hello. Good evening. Is that Amorisia store?'

'Yes. Good evening,' a female voice answered him. 'How can I help you?'

'I just visited your website, now. I understand your company imports and sells sex dolls.'

'Yes, that is true,' came the prompt answer. 'We also sell different intimacy gadgets and sexy wears.'

He sighed. 'I'm only interested in the dolls. Like how much is one?'

'It depends on what you want. We have varieties of them. You need to visit our store to see their catalogues and samples of the dolls.'

He nodded. 'Aright. I'll do that tomorrow. Who am I speaking with?'

'The name is Linda. I'm the Manager.'

'Alright, see you tomorrow, Linda.'

Eddie grinned to himself as he cut the line. Tomorrow, unfailingly, he must visit that shop.

* * *

Wendy watched in satisfaction as the man she had come to meet became limp on the bed in sleep. She smiled to herself. She had heard a lot from the students about what a philanderer the man was.

Now, it was payback time. She had decided to prey on him, just as she had done to several other randy men.

She jumped to her feet as there was no time to waste. Just look at the yeye man who, moments ago, was gladly running his tongue all over her boobs! What he didn't know was that she had coated her organ with a powerful sleeping drug which she had powdered.

He would be asleep for a couple of hours. She put her boobs back in the cups of her bra and fastened the bra. She then wore her top.
He had not removed his clothes. She quickly searched through her pockets.

She found his wallet, some currencies and two phones. She put these in her handbag and searched to see if there was any other valuable on him. Apart from his car key and a bunch of keys, there was nothing else.

Silly and stupid, randy man, she thought again.

I paused for emphasis. "I was not supposed to break my resolve. We were not to have sex. Not for now."

"Oh, that," she said dismissively. "Tayo, forget it. We've gone past that stage."

"But we can still practise it. We can decide that no sex again till we're married."

She laughed shortly and derisively.

"Oh, come on, Tayo, stop being so childish. What makes you think I want to marry in the first place?"

I was surprised to hear this.

"Is this relationship not moving towards marriage? I thought that was the agreement we had when I said we should observe no premarital sex."

She shook her head.

"I'm not the marriage type. I thought I've told you. I don't need marriage. If I needed it, I would have married long ago.

"Then, I had been deceived into thinking that my relationship with her would lead to marriage! My mind screamed.

"So, you're not the marriage type," I said."No, I'm not. It's obvious, isn't it?"

"Hmm."

She wrapped her right hand round my neck, pushing her breast against my side. "Give me love, baby boy."

"I will, my darling."I kissed her waiting lips gently.

"Let's go to the bedroom," she whispered.

I nodded and agreed without a question. Like a real loverboy, I carried her to my bedroom.

"UnCloth me," she said.Once again, I totally obliged her. I removed her t-shirt and jeans trousers.

She was now left in only black bra and pant.She was certainly bewitching. Even at her age, she looked enthralling as she lie on my bed.

"You too UnCloth," she instructed.

Yemite132:
My name his Ola from Lagos single cause girls always leave me cause I have a high sex drive..love having sex everyday and can go for more than 4 rounds in a role and would like to meeting someone so my contact is 09030623315

Sex is overrated.
You can consciously do without it.

Like a baby sucking at the breast of his mother, Joe Sabada slept off.


* * *



Right after his dinner, Eddie returned to his bedroom. In the comfort and privacy of the room, he brought out his lap-top computer and went on-line. He had decided that he must learn about sex dolls and would probably use the service.

Google availed him as much information on the sex object as he desired. There were various pictures of the objects and there was a particular one that caught his attention. The sex doll, made of Thermoplastic Elastomer (TPE) material had B-cup boobs.


It stood at 5 feet 2 inches tall (156 cm). The manufacturer asserted that with the doll, vaginal, anal and MouthAction was possible. It had steel skeleton with movable joints and weighed 95 lbs (43 kg). He also gleefully read the other details of the doll which included the fact that it had 31.5 inches at the bust, waist size of 25 inches and hips size of 43 inches.

The manufacturing company also promised free international discreet packaging, two weeks of processing time and one week for shipping, making a total of three weeks’ delivery time. The cost was over 2,000 US dollars. Eddie mentally calculated that in naira.

Even if he could make the payment and do the order that very moment, he would still have to wait for about three weeks to get it. On impulse, he decided to check if there could be a shop here in Nigeria that sold the dolls. His on-line search yielded fruit. One Amorisia Stores at Ikeja sold the items. The mobile telephone contact numbers were there on the website. He called the first number.

'Hello. Good evening. Is that Amorisia store?'

'Yes. Good evening,' a female voice answered him. 'How can I help you?'

'I just visited your website, now. I understand your company imports and sells sex dolls.'

'Yes, that is true,' came the prompt answer.

'We also sell different intimacy gadgets and sexy wears.'

He sighed. 'I'm only interested in the dolls. Like how much is one?'

'It depends on what you want. We have varieties of them. You need to visit our store to see their catalogues and samples of the dolls.'

He nodded. 'Aright. I'll do that tomorrow. Who am I speaking with?'

'The name is Linda. I'm the Manager.'

'Alright, see you tomorrow, Linda.'

Eddie grinned to himself as he cut the line. Tomorrow, unfailingly, he must visit that shop.






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Her leather bag still remained in booth of the car as she took only her handbag.

I stopped to look at her.

"Let's go to the bedroom," she said.

I preceded her to my bedroom. Now, I was all curious as I stared at her again. She deliberately took her time, opening her bag slowly.

She brought out a bottle of perfume and sprayed it into the air. The scent was exotic and erotic. She then started removing her cloth.

"I want to see the surprise you have for me," I said gently.

"Sh-sh-sh," she hushed me.

After the jacket, she removed her blouse. From there, her hands went to her skirt to unzip it and pull it down. Her hands moved up to bust to remove her white bra.

The nipples of her jaunty breasts stared back at me. The pair was indeed a sight to behold.
Her hands moved down again to the tight shorts she was wearing. Gingerly, she pulled it down and stepped out of it.

Ms. Morgan was now standing completely naked before me.

"This is what I want to show you," she cooed.





A couple of hours later, I drove Ms. Morgan to her Ilupeju residence. She held on to my right hand, even as I drove. She was looking like someone who had finally got what she had been longing for. At the gate of her residence, I didn't bother to drive in.

She kissed me goodnight, went to carry her bag from the booth and walked inside her compound. There was a look of contentment on her face. I started to drive the car back to my residence. I was angry with myself. I was angry because I had failed in adhering to my principle. I had failed.

I had allowed Ms. Morgan's enchanting body to ensnare me. I had fallen for her charming looks and body! I believed I had made a blunder and I must stop it henceforth. There was no way I would ever gloat over what I had done. Rather, it riled my heart that I had become weak.

That evening, I didn't feel like eating that evening. I didn't even feel like watching the t.v. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. The image of Ms. Morgan popped up. It was her naked body as she stood before me.

That was the most daring moment I had ever faced from a woman. I could have said no. I could have said I would not breach my moral code.

But, I did not.






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