Throughout my years growing up in the village, relocating to Lagos, and hustling my way through life as a somewhat lower-class citizen, I had faced a host of fortunate and unfortunate experiences, but none of them compared, even in the slightest, to this.

It began a month ago – or two, I really couldn’t recollect; I was at the market purchasing food stuffs for the modest eatery I ran at the Lagos State University. I had procured most of the ingredients I needed, and with just some yam tubers left to tick off my list I navigated the crowded, raucous market paths, in search of the stall I normally patronised when I needed yam. The trails were narrow, and bumping and the occasional grinding were a common occurrence. Naturally, my buttocks were on the receiving end of quite a number of furtive pinches.

All my life, as far as I could remember, I had always attracted the wandering eyes of men. At thirty-nine my body was a bit on the thick side, particularly my chest and backside. I used to think that, perhaps, the interest my body garnered would diminish if I dressed more conservatively. Yet, no matter how roomy my skirts and blouses were, my buttocks and breasts still managed to thrust out and attract all manner of attention.

Especially my buttocks.

A lady friend once joked that when I walked my buttocks shook as though both butt cheeks were locked in a perpetual battle to be rid of the other. If that was the thought she – a woman – entertained, imagine what went through the heads of men who watched me pass by.

I wasn’t ashamed of my body. Yes, sometimes the attention it brought me was a bit too much to tolerate, but the truth was my body was probably the reason my business hadn’t packed up years back. I had customers who came day in day out to eat at my restaurant in hopes that I might let them have their way with me. Some came just to be around me and ogle. Of course, I never allowed things stray out of hand. I kept my dignity intact.

Well, that was, until recently.

On that day at the market, I was wearing a black skirt, tight around my hips, and a white and black checked shirt. That my buttocks rolled and jumped about in my skirt as I traversed the market was no surprise to me, neither were the men who went as far as touching them without my consent.

In the past, I was always alert to such infuriating juvenile behaviour, and I had caught some men in the act and started a few public fights. But these days I let it happen with wanton disregard. I did swipe at the incessant hands, but only intermittently, and simply because I didn’t want to give off the wrong impression.

Why allow some men get away with touching me? Simple: I was an unsatisfied, frustrated woman. As far as sensual fulfilment went, grabby hands seeking out my buttocks was the most action I got nowadays, and I wasn’t going to stave them off like they meant nothing. I was married, and while most of my friends thought with the body I possessed my husband couldn’t get enough of me, the irony was I was probably the most sexually starved woman in the country. A cockroach had better luck getting my husband to have sex with it than I did.

So, in all honesty, I looked forward to my market trips, or any outing that put me in crowded places, in the midst of randy Nigerian men eager to make a grab at me. And when they did, my body came alive. I tingled all over, sizzling like a juicy piece of cod in hot oil. I longed for the oh-my-mistake hand brushes on my buttocks, or the did-she-feel-that pinches. The infrequent yes-I-did-that squeezes got my knees weak and made walking a most arduous task.

But most of all, I yearned for the bold, feel-me-right-on-you grindings. Those ones knocked down my flood gates and had my inner thighs drenched. They were rarer than the others, and that made them special.

I recalled a particularly hot Wednesday afternoon; I got into a BRT, en route to Yaba, and as fewer passengers disembarked and more got aboard, the large stuffy bus became so congested I could hardly move an inch where I stood. A little while later, there he was against me. The outcome was inevitable. My buttocks were too big and we were sandwiched together, with no place to sit or shift to. I expected nothing less than what ensued next.

As the bus bumped along the dilapidated road, I was forced into a wobble, which in other words was saying, my buttocks were forced to rub on the poor man’s crotch. At first, his erection was soft and dismissible, but as the journey progressed, his erection became a rock I was all too aware of. Though I was extremely tempted to, I refused to glance back just to glimpse his face for fear of scaring him off. My God, he was huge! His dick was the size of a thick banana, the oversized kind. My knees turned to jelly, my nipples stiffened like iron arrowheads, and my inner thighs moistened.

I didn’t chastise him, and so that gave him ample reason to squeeze his dick on my backside, even when the bus wasn’t jolting. I followed in his footsteps, stroking his massive sex however way I could, left-and-right, up-and-down. My actions were so subtle none but he noticed. His hands later fell on my hips, holding me in place to aid and intensify our clandestine grinding. Just as the bus got to my bus stop, he shoved himself hard against me and my pussy squirted a good amount of cum. My sharp sigh was drowned by the noise from other passengers, thankfully.

I never saw his face, but I never forgot what we shared on that bus.

At the market, I had experienced a few pinching and grabbing here and there, nothing overly exciting, yet still welcoming. As I closed in on the stall where I would buy my yams the crowd grew. I got stuck in a human traffic.

That was when it happened.

He was standing behind me and his dick, hard as metal, bore down on my buttocks like a pin on a magnet. Shock and exhilaration stole my heartbeats. I was reminded of that lovely bus incident.

The girl in front of me shifted a tad back, causing me to move as well, and I used that opportunity to feel him properly. I pressed my buttocks on his dick and discovered an alarming similarity between the size of this man’s erection and that of the man on the bus weeks ago. Even their perfumes were alike, a fruity flavour that brought a feeling of light-headedness to me.

Over the clamour of market folks, I heard him whisper: “You didn’t say goodbye on the bus.” His words might have been a trigger, because the instant he said them I became wetter than I had ever been all week. I couldn’t believe this man was the same man I had encountered on the BRT! Ever since that day, I had fantasised about him, wondering what it would have been like had he and I got off the bus together, stole off to a secret location and fulfilled our carnal desires.

“What are you going to be buy?” he asked. His voice was deep, the comforting kind, like music, and he had to lean to talk to me, so I knew he was tall.

My heart thudded. I licked my suddenly dry lips and replied in a diminutive voice: “I want to buy yam.”

“Don’t worry I’ll buy the yam for you. Come first,” he said, taking me by my waist.

I didn’t have the strength to refuse him. How could I? I had longed for him since our brief tryst, like a starving refugee would food, and now here he was. My chest heaved, heavy with anxiety and anticipation. Where was he taking me to? I told myself I shouldn’t be following him unquestioningly – I was a married woman, after all. And besides, what if his intention was to harm me?

Yet, I was convinced that wherever we were headed, he wasn’t going to hurt me. I couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was the way he held me, like I was something too important to toy around with, too precious to mishandle. Plus, his self-confidence – that he could get me to go with him with no trouble at all – made him even more irresistible.

My yams all but forgotten, we cut corners, steering deeper into the market. His hand occasionally drifted from my waist down to my buttocks, squeezing, and each time he did that my heart leaped and in my head I got a glimpse of what lay at the end of our journey. I was no fool. I knew what was transpiring. I knew what he wanted from me. And he would surely get it.

At last, we came upon an abandoned stall in a rather secluded area of the market, and after quick glances to ensure we weren’t being watched we slipped inside. By now, my thundering heart was in my throat. I was about to break the sacred oath of fidelity I had taken before my husband, my pastor, the congregation of my church, my people and my husband’s people. I was about to satisfy the dangerous urges that had been throttling me for the past couple of months now.

God help me, I couldn’t wait.

Almost immediately, he had me against the wall, backing him, and grabbed my buttocks, squeezing them, smacking them. He fell to his knees and pressed his face on my backside, kissing, biting, and nibbling. Lustful moans rushed out of my mouth in a way that shocked me. There was so much urgency in his touches. I arched my waist, pushing my buttocks on his face, begging him to do with them as he pleased. I wanted him. I needed him, more than he could imagine. He attempted dragging my skirt up to my waist, but my buttocks wouldn’t let him – they were too big. So he tried a different approach, unzipping my skirt and dragging it down. I helped him. He pinched my right butt cheek and gave it a resounding slap. It jiggled. My moans grew feverish. How long had I waited for a man to take me? How long had I craved for the unyielding strength of a dick inside me?

My skirt discarded, I spread my thick, sturdy thighs for him. He didn’t bother taking off my panties. He simply lifted my ample right butt cheek, shifted my panties a bit and planted the bulbous head of his dick on my damp nether lips. My eyes welled up. My whole body trembled. I gave small, strangled cries and grinded my buttocks on him, forcing some of his dick inside me. Just as I had suspected, he was thick – very thick – and years of celibacy had made me tighter than a virgin.

His voyage to the depths of me was not as smooth as we thought it would be, given my extreme wetness. I was perhaps too tight for him, and so he had to put in a bit of effort. There was no pain involved, though, and as his big dick loosened me up my body went into spasms. I let out a ragged sigh as I experienced at least four small simultaneous orgasms.

Finally, he was lodged inside my pussy, filling every bit of me up. With a hefty grunt, he pulled back and rammed my buttocks, much to my elation. I cried out in ecstasy. He did it again, and again, and again, and soon it became a slow and steady rhythm.

“Madam,” he moaned, breathless, “your yansh… My god, your yansh…”

“Yes!” I replied, eyes shut, waist working hard to flick my buttocks back and forth. I had to keep up with his hastening tempo.

Hands clamping on my hips, fingers digging into my skin, he ramped up the speed of his thrusts, and I wailed. I told him things I never thought I was capable of saying – nasty things – all the while bucking my buttocks to his intense rhythm. I had to plant my fist in my mouth to check my wild moans, my ravenous groans. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention from outside. But even if anyone walked in on us, I doubted I had the power to stop.

The only pause to our passionate fucking came once when he removed his dick from me so I could squirt some cum, and then he was back to ravaging me in seconds.

Ten minutes or so later, with my splayed fingers on the wall and my upper body horizontally aligned, he unleashed his seed inside me, a fountain of thick warm cum flooding my pussy like a tsunami. I appreciated and returned this great gesture with an equally loud and earth-shattering orgasm, powerful enough to knock me off balance. Thankfully, he was strong enough to stop me from plummeting to the ground.

He kept grinding on me for a few seconds before pulling out. Then we got dressed and left the stall.

I saw his face for the first time then. He was a handsome man.

As promised, Nnamdi – his name – bought me my yam tubers, and despite my polite refusals, he dropped me off at a street nearest to my restaurant to avoid any unnecessary scandal. We exchanged numbers, and then he was gone.

That was a month ago.

Since then, we’d spoken on the phone about a million times, but only met twice. Our first meeting, an unforeseen one, was at my restaurant – he dropped by to try out my cooking, and commended it to the point that I couldn’t stop blushing all day. Our second meeting was a week ago – I got a text from him at around nine-thirty pm saying he was outside my compound, in his car, and I should come out and meet him. I wore a pleated skirt and a sweater, told my husband I was off to buy some snacks at the local store, and strolled out to the next street where Nnamdi was parked. He drove me round the neighbourhood a few times while we chatted about my restaurant.

Not long after I had stopped laughing at one of his jokes, he parked his Mercedes jeep by a huge tree and convinced me to come out of the car with him. At the time I didn’t know what he was planning. It wasn’t until I was with him by the giant tree trunk that I became privy to his true intentions, but by then there was nothing I could do to discourage him. We were like rabbits. I gripped the trunk for support while Nnamdi pummelled my buttocks, fucking me like he wanted to do nothing else his entire life. Anyone could have stumbled upon us, and that certainty simply made our fucking even more passionate.

Nnamdi was the best thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow.


2 thoughts on “Touch, touch, tap!

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