If you love erotic and explicit stories, this one is for you.

Once I had him deep inside, 

I began a slow rotation of my hips.

 I grimaced at the pale white wall.  

I put my hands on it to help push back into him, 

get his dick to fill up my body until 

there was nothing left of me inside.

I gasped, choked, and placed my hand on my chest. I glanced up at him and replied, “I am married. My husband, on a good day is a dog!”

“You can never have good sex from a drunk.”

“No, it depends on the person.”

“I agree but sometimes good sex is hard to come by! That is not easy, you know.” He began to rub my shoulder gently. He added, “Sweetie, not every problem is spiritual. You cannot solve physical problems with spiritual solutions.”

Before I could blink, his hand travelled slowly down my chest. He was within the reach of my bra. He made a push that left me vulnerable. He grabbed my breast and squeezed it gently. I turned my head away from him. I thought, I do not have to do this. I can stop right now. I can straighten up and walk out. But I did not. He pinched and twisted my nipple and I felt a unique feeling travel through my entire body. The pastor was within the walls of my temple. We were in the closet. Free from the troubles of this life. Just the two of us, there was no end to it, no end to our iniquity. He pulled the nipple, slowly build anticipation, then apply direct pleasure to every area and I was overcome with pleasure. He pretended he was trying to break free. I held him down. How could you travel this far and abandon me?

He stroked my head gently with a hand and pleasured my nipple with the other. My husband was the least of my worries. I just wanted to be free. I wanted a breath of fresh air. Dalmos rested my head on his thigh; he was hard and I was weak. We were both swimming in iniquity. I unzipped his trouser, took out his penis and put it in my mouth. I felt his body growing big and hard inside my mouth. With a long tongue, tender as the sweet movement of the morning breeze, I wrapped it around his penis. He was clean. No stench hung in the air, no rotten banana peel and no sour taste obstructed. I felt I had lemonade in my mouth and it was great.  Even though I hated the thought of another woman sucking my man’s penis, the pleasure outweighs any greed. Now we can actually share and allow Lady Tranquility to reign.

He pulled me up. We kissed as I squeezed his balls. He groaned in pain and pleasure. He was not comfortable; I must have squeezed them too hard. He gently pulled me to a corner where he pinned me with my face to the wall. He pulled down my underwear and rose up my skirt. He took me from behind. I pushed back, forced more of him into me. Once I had him deep inside, I began a slow rotation of my hips. I grimaced at the pale white wall.  I put my hands on it to help push back into him, get his dick to fill up my body until there was nothing left of me inside. The back shots were strong and he sustained it.

I suspected the pastor was on drugs. There was no slowing down. Soon I was out of control. As I began to moan aloud, he covered my mouth with his hand. “Please don’t put me trouble. This is where I get my daily bread. You must not jeopardize it. Let me have my honor. The usher is still in the building!” he whispered. “You cannot moan aloud this time. Don’t worry we will do it in someplace else next time.”

I nodded in agreement, barely muttered words that he could hear.

He was right. Moaning aloud could put the both of us in trouble. He was the resident pastor and I am a member of his congregation. Keeping me quiet was hard because I was under his spell and I doubt if I could ever recover. His penis was bigger than that of my man and he knew how to put it to use. The pastor knows how to make a tough woman crack. I was broken. He was my healer. This could be the reason why I have the nightmares. Each time we had sex, he has left me yearning for more. This is a terrible curse and I am finding it so hard to break. I was on fire and I could feel the heat on my face. “My vagina is yours. Fuck me like a dog!” I whispered to him, tears rolling down my happy face.

My vagina felt warm and at the same time cold. I was very wet. I tried to envelop him, to draw him in, and at the same time to press him out. His erection grew larger and harder. I felt I was about to burst wide open. It was the strangest sensation, something that went beyond simple sexual pleasure. With all the years I have been with Jimmy, he has never managed this. He was a mediocre but I love him. This pastor is a solid man and he knows his job inside out. He knocked me over and over.

There was a sudden and powerful release of sexual tension. He managed to leave his loads out of me. My hips were sprayed with hot sticky mess. It was beautiful because I had also reached orgasm. I think I had it two or more times. He kissed my neck, stroked my hair, he said, “Lizzy, thank you for reaching out today. I have wanted to see you. I nearly stopped at your house this morning. I have been worried about you because you were not returning my calls since we met over a month ago.”

“I deliberately did not want to pick your calls. You were calling too frequently and most of the time, Jimmy was there,” I shot back. “You forgot that I am married.”

“I must confess, I love you with all my heart. Jimmy is my friend but he is a terrible man! He drinks too much. He cannot satisfy you...”

I interjected. “Dalmos, I didn’t come here for sex. I came to see you because I have nightmare and I cannot sleep.”

He laughed and commented, “No, you don’t have any nightmares, my love. You were missing me and I understand.”

"Love Birds" from 

the unpublished

   book by 

Omoruyi Uwuigiaren.

You can 

read one 

of Ruyi's books here.

WORK IN PROGRESS: The Dark World by Omoruyi Uwuigiaren

It is cruel to negotiate some roads. One could spend several hours and who cares if you die trying. It is a silencer. It hurts. It could bring a man to his knees. The loser is a meal to the bald vultures. In the weakness, I was strong, tough and mean.

Regularly counting the cost of my valor has helped my poor soul to tread cautiously. My loss if I ever had any was taken into consideration because smart people draw strength from their fall. The cost of finishing strong and staying alive against all odds is mine to bear.

I drove through Lawanson road, an old narrow way leading off Itire and I had my first sight of the Palace of the Itire Monarch. It was old-fashioned. It was African with a fine red painted threshold. It was old. Things had changed. Here the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Every day is a journey. The day we close our eyes upon the light of the world, the journey ends. Most times, it is out of our hands to choose how we will embrace the next world. There are forces that rule in the affair of men but fate would place a man where he truly belongs.

Now I am on a journey that looks like a formality. Sadly, in this ever-changing world, there are no formalities. We only have change and challenges and a reasonable man must bend any circumstance to his favour.  

READ:Las' Las' We'll Be All Right by Joy Isi Bewaji

The Lawanson road connects Oshodi-Apapa expressway. If you are in a hurry to embrace silence and get out of a third world misery, you are welcome to this part of the world. You can never have enough of the misfortune on this highway. Trucks queue on both sides, trapped in a constant battle to outsmart one another. There are dilapidated buildings along the road and their numbers scary.

Most of the buildings have no occupants because they are like a dead man bound by horrible tradition that made it difficult for his people to commit him to mother earth without any offence. The cost of maintenance and travelling back and forth from the buildings would leave a deep hole in any pocket. The implications are damning and grievous. Weight of which tied to a large man and tossed overboard a ship into the sea would drown him. Death has no joy.  

No matter how frugal, miserly or clever a man is, he can hardly recover all of the loss of wasting his time. You cannot live out your life in happiness in a city that is poorly organized. It is bad and tragedy to born in such a place.  

The beauty of the city is only a figment of some people’s imagination. The city is overrated. Bizarrely awkward and could cut any destiny short. It is delusional and fraud to put yourself where you are not. Paradise is arguably city of excellence. Is Lagos paradise?

Sanity is a very expensive commodity. You risk raising weak people. When weak people are more in number, they are powerful. If unhindered, they could also raise for themselves a leader. You will think like the people with whom you spend most of your time. The world will perish under the feet of the weak.

The gridlock never dies. The dark nights never end. There is no charity in the air. The cruel hands of fate snatched it. In those buildings are economic losses. Weakness is also borne out of stress. There is no point to prove. You can never live out your life in happiness and freedom in a city under siege. It is tragedy to train up a child in this creepy kind of place.

It is easy to be a prophet of doom when the young men emerging from the college after a hard five years were faced by a world indifferent to their enthusiasm and bursting knowledge. Results that is never palatable. Those who lack courage and a will to survive, leaves the troubled world behind. Others take to vices, which leaves them less human.

Trying to live at all cost, they end up paying the price. The cost of breaking the law far outweighs the price of obeying it. The horror stories of heartless and vicious people cannot be undermined. Tales by young people who managed to secure employment only make one hardened and embattled.

Some were just little bits of dirt to be starved and worked into the ground by the employers who are heartless. There is never a day off. Some to wash the car, dig the garden, feed the dogs, and push trucks and do family shopping for the boss. What about others who are forced to render services to keep their job? Many stretched beyond limit, broken and left for dead. No human is carved out of stones.