₦airaland Forum

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!”

But Damilola took a step back, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, so you did pack it? I see. Now the story begins to unfold.”

My mouth opened in shock. “No! I mean yes—I packed my clothes! But I didn’t realize her bra was among them! I wasn’t looking out for bras. I was half asleep when I collected the clothes from the line last night!”

She shook her head slowly, her voice now a mix of pain and rage. “Dave, I’ve been ignoring the signs. You’re too smooth, too charming. I kept telling myself you were different, but something in me always whispered otherwise. And now this—this—confirms everything.”

“No, Damilola, please. You’ve got it all wrong,” I said, my voice cracking with desperation. “We can go talk to Ms. Kay—right now! She’ll confirm what I’m telling you. She’s the one who came looking for it!”

But she wasn’t listening. She reached for her handbag on the center table, her every movement stiff and final.

“You know what?” she said, her tone icy. “I’m through with this relationship. I won’t let anyone play me for a fool. It’s over. Goodbye, Dave.”

I felt my heart sink, like a stone plunging into deep water. “Damilola, no… You don’t mean that. You can’t just walk away like this. At least let me explain properly—”

But she turned, already walking toward the door.

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."

Her eyes searched mine, as if trying to find any trace of sarcasm or pity, but I held her gaze firmly.

"You really mean that?"

"I do."

The movie kept playing, but the action scenes faded into the background. I slowly shifted closer, bridging the gap she’d left between us on the couch. She didn’t move away. In fact, she adjusted slightly, almost leaning in without meaning to.

"Can I kiss you?" I asked, barely more than a whisper.

She didn’t speak at first — she just looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a slow, almost shy nod.

And I leaned in.

It started as a slow kiss — hesitant, almost testing the waters. Her lips were still at first, soft and unsure, as if she was waiting to see if this was real or some kind of joke. But I didn’t rush it. I kissed her gently, with patience, letting her know that I meant it — that this wasn’t some moment of boredom or impulse. I wanted her, and I wanted her to feel that.

At first, she responded cautiously, her lips moving with mine in a quiet rhythm, like someone walking into the ocean one step at a time. Then I let a little more desire show — the way I lingered, the way my hand found hers and gave a soft squeeze, the way I breathed her in. And something in her shifted.

She took a breath and kissed me back more purposefully, her hand rising from her lap to rest lightly on my shoulder. Her lips began to move with more confidence, no longer just following but exploring. She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss, her hand brushing up against my neck.

There was a pause, not because we wanted to stop, but because we had to catch our breath. She looked at me, eyes wide and searching.

"That was... unexpected," she murmured.

"Yeah," I said, my voice low. "But it felt right, didn’t it?"

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!”

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.

I removed all my clothes, remaining only the boxers and lie by her side. We went back to kissing each other earnestly. I had not forgotten my avowval and I could never forget it. For now, I would play along with my lover.

My hand fondled her butt. The hand moved to the thighs, the waist, the belly and all the way to her bust. At this point, she paused in her cuddling to unhook her bra and remove it.

I had unhindered access to her jaunty boobs. I caressed and gently squeezed them.
She had a fun-filled time too. Her hand was busy handling my body within the axis of my chest and crotch. We engaged in our lustful exploration for a long time until she suddenly stopped.

"Tayo, what's the problem?" she demanded.

"Problem? What problem?"

She gently shook my shaft. "Why has this thing refused to rise up?"

I didn't look surprised a bit. "Oh, that; but there's no need for it to do so?"

She frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

I shrugged. "There's not going to be sex between us again, so that thing should remain inactive."

As if stung by a bee, she sat upright on the bed.

"What kind of joke is this? Stop it."

I didn't say anything.

"Any way, I know what to do." She held my dick and put it in her mouth. It felt so warm as she licked my organ. I would never have contemplated that she would ever do this to me. I closed my eyes. My mind was seriously warning me that I must not fail. Not matter what, I must never fail again.

After several minutes, she stopped.

"I can't believe this. I can't believe you could go blank like this. If we hadn't had sex yesterday, I would have said you're impotent. But, Tayo, why are you doing this to me?"

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."

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.

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.