Hey You

By Nnenna Marcia

I knew when I saw you across the lobby that I wanted to taste your pussy. How had I even missed you the whole three-day conference? I must have been a zombie. You shook my hand firmly, said ‘Hello’ in your gorgeous East African accent and I came to life. You held it for a fraction of a second too long. Awareness thrummed in my veins. You wanted me like I wanted you. When you let go of my hand it suddenly seemed like an extraneous appendage, useless, swollen. It vibrated where you touched and I did not know what to do with it so I stuck it in my trouser pocket.

“So, where is your company based?” you asked, taking over from our go-between. I liked that you didn’t wait for him to continue speaking for you. In any other woman it might have seemed rude but with you, it was natural. I did my spiel. I felt my lips move, my tongue formed the words born of practice. I was only aware enough to notice that I was speaking in English and not my mother tongue or French, Twi, – any of the other languages I had acquired for work and travel on my part of the continent. The rest of my brain was preoccupied with watching you sip the amber liquid in your glass, nod, the throbbing in the hollow of your throat, your greige nail polish. You smiled and I stopped, checked myself that I was saying something genuinely smile-worthy. What had I been talking about? I have no clue. I only wanted you and I was afraid it showed.

“I’m sorry, what was I saying?” I laughed a little laugh, thanking the fates for a cocoa complexion that hid the flush heating up my face, making my armpits sweat.

You started to say something but one of the guys beat you to it. The conversation moved on. But when I glanced at you, you had a smile curling around your lips. There was a riot of sound as acquaintances laughed and joked. I excused myself then. I needed to take a breather, strategise. I needed to get back to my room.

I was settling into my real posture, shoulders slouched, when your hand slipped in between the lift doors to stop them from closing. I recognised that nail polish and popped up straighter than I ever have in my life.

“What floor?” I asked. My voice came out croaky with desire. You looked at the panel. Number 15 lit up brightly.

“It’s pressed already.” You didn’t say anything else.

I could smell your perfume – something spicy. I cursed myself for not speaking to you, for letting the silence stretch so that by the time we got to the fifteenth floor, all I could say was ‘Bye’. You turned left with me. I raised an eyebrow but you looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice. Blood whooshed in my head as you kept step with me. When I stopped at my door, so did you. The key card flashed red twice. You took it from me, rubbed in on your chest. My nipples hardened.

“Try again,” you said. I did. The door opened.

Before it had even closed behind us, my lips were on yours, ravenous. I clawed at your tight, peplum jacket, peeled your skirt upwards like a banana skin.

“She lives,” you said. I heard the laughter in your voice. My blood sang your name and my pussy throbbed in chorus. You seized my shirt in your hand and jerked. Buttons scattered. You slipped your heels off, as you slid the chain in the lock, as you gripped my waist, a tangled foxtrot of discarded clothing and limbs and then the cool, cool sheets. I flipped you over and kissed you, fencing with my tongue. You moved my panties to the side and without ado, slipped a finger in my burning slit. I didn’t mind. I was more than ready.

I latched onto a nipple, poking through the lacy bra and you moaned, offering me the other. I suckled and nibbled until your finger-fucking rhythm was off. I unhooked your bra with one hand and flung it across the room. It landed on a lampshade, a papal hat. I attacked your naked breasts with gusto, baptising your nipples the colour of darkest chocolate with my spittle. You writhed, hair fanned out behind you in glorious waves. I kissed down your body, paid obeisance to the outie belly button, the dip before your hips flared out. I grasped your panties – stopping for a long sniff – and pulled them down your legs. They left a trail of moisture on your inner thighs and landed heavily on the carpet.

I followed the trail up and up and up until I reached your pussy. Clean, trimmed. Perfect. Your clit extended in an insolent gesture from the slippery pout of your lips. I met the gesture with one of my own. You shuddered.

“Ahhhhh-ah-ah,” you moaned.

I spread your lips on either side with my hands and buried my face in you. I stuck a stiffened tongue in you and ate you out in a manner rightly befitting a last day, a last meal. I couldn’t breathe. I did not care. The hot wetness of you filled my nose, threatening to drown me. I licked and I sucked but still you came, flooding my senses until I could take it no more. I needed no other stimulation. I came with you. Your puckered back door winked as you spasmed. You held your juddering breasts, squeezing, cappuccino skin spilling out between your fingers.

“More,” I straddled you.

“Yes.”

I held your ankles up on either side of me, rolling you slightly on your shoulders, melding my sopping pussy with yours, grinding.

But when I woke up it was to a thick darkness. You were nowhere. The AC hummed forlornly. I thought we had till morning? Come back. I miss you.

This was first published on Adventures from the Bedrooms of African women

For more sensual stories check out Heat in a Head Space, Four Women One Continent and this little one about Reuniting with a lover.  There is also Tastes of a continent: When four women meet and Three women, a bottle and sunny place. There is also Summer Dungeon Nights. There is even some poetry: ‘I want Sex’ and Joy. There is also a piece about period sex (sex on your period, just in case you wondered). 

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