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CuteCute LoveLove

I MET, TOUCHED, FUCKED COMPLICATED

This week, I met Complicated. Different. Weird.

I touched him. Tasted him. Fucked him

So Different, on our first date he gifted me a book

That, with his lingering hug and piercing squint eyes got me hooked

The gazes he stole at me wrapped me in comfort

A slow speaker with a mien that showed his comport

Inquisitive ridden conversation like he’s an expert

He undressed me in passion

His strokes soothing like a song

Drove me crazy all night long

Became my pillow when I needed one

Cradled me in his ebony arms

I knew I would fuck him the first time I met him in person. Though I had known him a year or so earlier. As a colleague. It was a competitive acquaintance with undertones of animosity. He is strong-willed. I am hardheaded.

It was a chance meeting at the home of my former, (his current) boss. Tension eased with every sip of whiskey. He dropped me at home and we kept in touch. Sporadically.

Two months later. I invited him over. He obliged. Came bearing a book. I was intrigued. He challenged literally everything I said with a question. But I was always armed with answers. He called me corky as fuck- we laughed. Mine was a guffaw. His was sharp giggle but short.

I never knew a kiss would hurt yet feel so good. His kisses built like a tornado. Subtle at first but they grew wild. Deep. Almost menacing. He did not take my lips into his, he owned them. Drew them into his. Sharply. Hungrily.

He was big. My thoughts found a route in my mouth. “Damn, you are huge,” I breathed. He chuckled. Then drove into me. I cried out. His girth filled me. I became delirious. Then I heard him moan and I almost lost my mind. And when he leaned forward and filled my ear with a manly, gruffly grunt of “Aoko,” he had to slap me back to consciousness.

I could literally feel my pussy walls give the feel of his cock a standing ovation. With every thrust, they tightened around him in supplication and glee. ‘look at me,” he demanded- nay, bellowed. Choked me subtly. Alternated his rhythm.

And when he flipped me over, my whimpers turned into oxymoronic pleas- Stop-if you stop I’ll die. Fuck this feels good-shit it hurts.

“Tell me you want me. Say you want this cock. You wanted this right.”

I knew a verbal answer would not suffice. So I lifted my legs and pulled him further in me. Locked him in with my thighs and took charge. Seconds late, he was cursing- “Oh fuck.”

And then he exploded.

Don’t ever do that again, he breathed. I giggled.

When he had withdrawn

himself and the magic, when

only the smell of his love lingered between

my breasts, then, only then, could I greedily consume his presence,

Only for him to tell me the obvious- We aren’t meant to be anything.

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Written by Aoko Otieno

For Aoko Otieno, writing is her raison d'être. Why so? It guarantees her freedom. Freedom to love, live and relieve through her very own and other people's lives.

"A person is a fool to become a writer. Her only compensation is absolute freedom. She has no master except her own soul, and that, I am sure, is why she does it.” Roald Dahl

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