ONOJA’S ORGASM

Onoja's Orgasm
Onoja's Orgasm
Onoja’s Orgasm

Hello Yarners, trust your week is going very well and for those of us in Lagos, Nigeria – how are you ‘liking’ this rain?

Here’s a flash from moi and I trust you’d like it – Do drop a feedback if you don’t and drop a feedback if you do *winks*.

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My heart beat violently against my chest as I turn into the dusty paths of Freedom Street. My steps are swift and angry, pounding the earth beneath my feet with as much fury as I feel for my father.

That liar!

I can picture him sitting down in his chair; the one opposite the entrance, his glasses hanging loosely on the ridge of his nose and The Guardian newspapers spread open in his hands like Carolina was in mine some hours ago.

And to think that he never wanted me to attend the party because I failed my SSCE exams and by ‘failed’ I mean, seven credits and one distinction.

‘Education est omne in omnibus,’ my father would usually announce, picking the remote control from the table and chasing us from the front of the television back to romancing our books.

If only I had spent those times romancing Carolina.

Her breasts were welcoming like the twin hills of Naasa-Hablood, soft to my skin and causing tremors to my being like I’ve never experienced before.

No surprise my distinction was in geography.

‘You’re a virgin,’ she whispered as she felt the vibrations of my body as soon as her nipples bristled against my chest.

‘No, I’m not,’ I cough out pitifully in semblance of Peter’s denial of our saviour.

As the landscape of our bodies merged to the point of our eruption, the only words I could hear myself mutter was ‘Papa lied, Papa lied…’

‘So you have finally run mad?’ my father’s voice boomed from behind me, rousing me from my reverie as I freeze with fear on the street, shaking like a leaf in the harmattan.

I lick my lips endlessly, unable to articulate a word as hot urine run down my legs in my orgasm of horror.

 

The End

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