Monday, 12 May 2014

The Day I Laid my Landlady

I'm just going to say it - I have a hot landlady. Despite her being slightly over 45 years, she is yet to lose her youthfulness. She still has an exotic look and is appetizingly sexy just like a freshly minted campus damsel. I also admired how her sassy and sexy cute curvilinear dress sinfully exposed her Mary Magdalene juicy figure, while allowing her to exhibit just enough cleavage to fuel my curiosity, inspire my imagination and appeal to my raging African hormones.

From the day I moved into one of the many apartments she owns, I could tell that she had a thing for young men. The way she slapped me with little pornographic smiles that were seductively complimented by her sinful laughter, I could tell she was dying to lick my night stick. Well, it didn't take long before something gave. It began hardly a week after I had moved into my new humble abode. She would call almost on a weekly basis to check on me. You know, whether I had settled in well, and how I was keeping up. Of course, being a guy who could use all the love in the world, I didn't mind her intrusion. 

After a month of phone calls, sextexting, and flirtings, perhaps unable to control her testosterone, she had finally asked me out. Though she was quick to insist that it wasn't a date, everything about it screamed otherwise. 

She wore her skirt seven inches above her knees, so that it cropped up her thighs when she sat down. (My mama used to say that big-legged women were going to kill me). And here I was flirting with my sexy landlady, and not because she was single and rich, but because she was simply irresistible and ravishingly hot. Do you normally flirt like these with older women, she had asked girly. Certainly not, except with a good cause that concerns my livelihood. I had replied with an air of audacity that only a circumcised village elder could master. With that, the die was cast, her boat burnt and my unprecedented fairy-tale date with my new landlady formally flagged off.

She was scary smart and crazy beautiful. My first impression of her was those egocentric, control-freak, corporate career women who had no time for sex, masturbation, children or men. She had this exclusively stately ambiance of sophistication, elegance and classiness. Her hair was pricey done and fell on her shoulders perfectly.

She spoke hopeless Swahili, but spoke ‘proper’ English with a twang and sparkling of richness. She was of medium height, though her short skirt and high heels gave her the impression of added height. To perhaps cap her status and desire for the finer things in life, she had reserved a table for two in one of the Sarova Hotels in the City. As I pulled a seat for her, she generously slapped me with a blowjob smile. I must confess sheepishly that I was a bit nervous, and not because the Hotel was way beyond my league. But because she was dressed in a flimsy skirt and a seductive lavender-coloured bra that seemed helpless to hold her boobs that were threatening to literally spill off, while exposing her juicy cleavage that were mercifully begging to be oiled.

My attempts to understand the vastness of her investment portfolio, particularly in real estate were met with dodgy, un-coordinated answers. Like a wise village rabbit, she was cautious in her conversation, flamboyant in her attitude and generous with her smile. I tell you, it’s easier to squeeze a loan out of any bank in the world than to squeeze information out of this pretty thing.

I swear with the poorly coordinated hairs growing on my dry chest, I was smitten by her. For the most part, she had caught me literally staring at her as if she was the source of the air I was breathing. She was wickedly voluptuous. Her smile was contagious. Her face magnetic. She diplomatically ate Mexican steak and French fries with her mouth closed. She drank sweet red-wine, caressing the glass delicately to avoid spilling on her sexy dress. She was simple without being simplistic. Her talk was methodical and her confidence disarming.

As we wined and dined on the finest cuisine, I couldn’t help but notice that she kept implying now with increasing frequency about how her cleavage hadn’t been oiled for sometime. Known to be a gentleman with necessary bad boy attributes, I had tried not to comment, though if you ask me, I swear my heart was literally dancing on my tongue. My father used to say that you need three things in life: a good doctor, a clever lawyer and a forgiving priest. The first two, I have never had a need for. In fact, if you ask me, I think a man needs only two things in life: a forgiving priest and an intelligent, rich, sexy and single landlady.

By now as the expensive wine was flowing presciently, she was busy singing along with Mbilia Bel’s hit Nadina. Feeling slightly intoxicated, I clearly couldn't control my raging hormones anymore. Mastering the confidence of a village witch doctor, I had stealthily slipped my right hand under the table right into her warm thighs. They say if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door. Caught unaware, she had taken a moment to catch her breath. Capitalizing on her reluctance to push my hand away, I decided to extra-judiciously execute her nervousness by gently leaning forward and planting a large, soft, wet, and passionate kiss on her succulent strawberry lips.

It’s at this moment that I realized the magnitude of what she kept insinuating about her cleavage not been oiled for ages. After the kiss, she was now magically oozing with sexual appeal, while her body language began to change. On the other hand, her breath was heavy, and she smiled with salubrious eyes and lusty look.

Your place or my place? She had suddenly asked. Your place, I answered tactfully, yet with the boldness of my Bantu people. As we made our way out of the Hotel, the security guard outside had slapped me with that disgusted look strippers reserve for broke clients perhaps to register his disapproval. Not to be cowed, I had slapped him back with a sarcastic smile pastors reserve for church members who never tithe.

She lived in leafy Muthaiga. Her house, a homely and charming address in a leafy suburb estate in Nairobi, oozed a rustic and artsy vibe that reveals wealth characterization. Her house had a solely stately ambience with an authentic African touch. After causal chit chats downstairs where I learned that as the only child she inherited her parent's vast business empire after they were killed in a road accident, we had made our way upstairs. 

Her bedroom was impeccably arranged and looked pretty much wealthily related. Her king-sized bed was enchanting and absorbing. As I scanned across the room with my heart dancing seductively in my testicles, she had looked at me with an unbearable longing, as she slipped her flimsy skirt right down her big legs, exposing her expensive lingerie. As I stood there all the while genuinely flabbergasted like an uncircumcised villager who has never seen a naked woman, she suddenly threw herself into my arms, her slight weight crashing onto my chest. Then she zealously rained my face with needy kisses that had me insistently gasping for air.

We kissed hungrily, straining to devour each other’s lips, mouths open to receive plunging and twirling tongues, our breaths mingling, our life force pounding through our arteries. Inhaling her mouth-watering scent, I dropped my head to nip her neck repeatedly, pulling the skin away from the curve with my teeth, nibbling at the soft flesh before letting it snap back. Meanwhile, while I continued my heated journey down to her shoulder blades and back, where the straps of her seductive lavender-coloured thong displeased me with its imprisonment of her translucent curves from my hungry gaze.

Meticulously applying the skills I gathered over the years from watching uncensored backstreet Uzbekistani adult movies, I tore her thong’s delicate lace, causing it to slither down at her feet. And like an arrogant Zebu bull, I then leaned back to let my scorching eyes move over her pleasing form. Then I placed my palms on her waist and let them travel to chest level to pull her for my waiting holmberry lips, simulating the pleasuring of her breasts as she threw back her head in ecstasy.

I couldn’t resist her eyes, and I subtly groaned as I caved in to her beseeching requests. Mumbling off some foreign dialect, perhaps to register her ecstasy, she had clawed my shoulders hungrily with her manicured nails, causing me to pull her closer to my hardening structure, and letting her feel my burgeoning desire. My physical response had only served to encourage her as she opened her legs to grip my waist, tightly pressing herself against me, intensifying me further.

And just like a well oiled newly imported second-hand Japanese juggernaut, she had then begun to move her hips urgently against my firm night stick, making me howl at her daring to undemocratically take advantage to satisfy herself. But, as I was the only tree in her forest, so I let her gratify her pulsing slit with my straining night stick, even putting my hands on her hips to aid her movements as continuous little moans trembled from her succulent lips.

She had then gently bowed her body, possibly to savour the moment. Consequently, pressing her charged body more insistently against my arm. The nipples of her breasts strained to push away their covers so that they could scrape naked against my skin, while the fleshy curve of her bottom rubbed insistently against my groin. Fearing that she was almost going to consume herself, I had clamped my other arm across her thrashing hips, my fingers clenching her tender flesh, while my lips strived to control her urgent intense twisting. I had then slowly and carefully, lowered myself so her legs could bestride my hips. I swear, she tasted like sugar cane dipped in Scotch-blended vanilla ice cream. 

As she gripped my forearm and turned her head to the side to sink her teeth into my chest, I knew she had reached her summit, and the slight pain from her bite made me reach out to the left side of the headboard, my grip wresting out the weakened wood. As she shuddered in orgasm, I quickly planted a large Anglo-leasing kiss on her juicy lips, as she struggled to put her legs together, evidently to hide the flow of pleasure that was physically exhibiting itself. It took her exactly seven minutes to regain her consciousness. And when she did, we kissed tenderly in the aftermath of our breathtaking pseudo encounter, as she confessed to feeling ten years younger. You can tell a ripe corn by it's look, goes an African proverb.

5 comments:

  1. Douglas you can write. So many adjectives......... i enjoyed reading the stuff

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    1. Thanks Hezbourne for reading the article and for taking time to comment. Much appreciated.

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  2. This short story should be in one of the set books examined in secondary schools and i would have registered a clean A+ in literature... great read daggyfresh. keep them coming

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  3. Kuddos, great work, i enjoyed reading the story

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