I got home to the sound of our trusty lawn mower in the back yard. Okello was pushing it. A sheen of sweat covered his dark skin glistening in the late afternoon sunlight. I watched him from the kitchen window walking the mower back and forth pausing every now and then to wipe the sweat from his brow. I had seen him shirtless many times at the beach and even in this very yard while playing soccer with my husband but not quite the same way. I had now experienced that body as a woman experiences a man, I’d watched that back in the mirror working to give me pleasure, grasped those muscled arms. No, this was not the same man of days long gone. Thanks to my husband, this was a fantasy come true.
I poured two glasses of lemonade and walked out to the patio just as he was storing the mower into the shed. He strode towards me with the usual bright smile on his face and took the glass from my outstretched arm, his fingers grazing mine slightly. The slight touch sent warmth coursing through my arm, tightened my nipples and started a throb between my legs. I wondered whether he noticed the effect he now had on me. He gulped down the lemonade, adam’s apple bobbing, sweat glistening on his dark skin, eyes piercing into mine from behind his glasses. I don’t think he missed anything with those eyes. He was at once enticing and intimidating. This was the first time he had come over since Kioko left and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.
“I’m preparing a light dinner, would you like to join me?” I hoped he did not hear the slight tremble in my voice, “It’s chicken salad.”
The answer was yes, he would stay for dinner and share a bottle of wine. That called for a quick shower and a change of clothes - my husbands clothes, so he would be comfortable. I hoped I wasn’t too presumptuous showing him to the master bathroom instead of one of the others in the house but I figured it would be OK since he had used it before. His proximity, the heat off his skin and the sweaty scent from his body after working outside was almost overwhelming as I went through the closets finding him one of my husband’s shorts and a t-shirt. But he stood there, calm, watching me, perhaps aware that I was leaking like a faucet between my legs, remembering what we had done in this very room. I handed him the clothes and made a quick escape back into the kitchen to deal with dinner.
“Ahh ... Feel so much better after that shower.” He said as he walked back into the kitchen, “would you like help with anything?”
“I’m almost done but you can do one thing” I handed him the bottle of wine, “uncork this for us.” I was relieved that the earlier tremor in my voice was now gone.
We settled down to eat and with the previous tension seemingly eased, the conversation was as effortless as it usually was when my husband was present. The sound of his laughter filled the room, and the story-telling went on long after we finished our meal. He had always been easy to talk to and I found myself hanging onto every word, observing every expression, marveling at the way he became animated by the subjects he was passionate about. I also noticed him watching me. His gaze on my lips when I talked or took a sip of wine, the swing of my hips as I moved around the kitchen when we cleaned up, my knotted nipples through the light fabric of my dress. I only hoped he couldn’t smell the wetness pooling down under making my panties a sticky mess. I excused myself to use the guest bathroom and took them off when I saw how wet they were. I was even surprised the wetness hadn’t leaked through to my dress.
When I got back to the living room he was fiddling with the music and soon the room was filled with one of the new Nigerian songs he and my husband liked dancing to. I wasn’t much of a dancer and prefered to sit and watch them try the many moves that accompanied the songs, but here he was gesturing for me to join him, taking my hand when I wouldn’t and twirling me around the room, laughing at my mis-steps. I was glad when the music slowed down because then I could at least catch my breath and remember my steps. Only, with the slower music he drew me closer, his hands low on my waist moving me with him to the music.
“Is this better then?” He asked laughing.
“Yes, it is, you know I love zouk.” Dancing with him had always been easy. He was good at it.
“Of course, I know that and many other things about you Wanja.” He tipped my chin up with his finger and with his other hand skimmed my hip over my dress.
“I know you are not wearing anything under this dress,” he arched an eyebrow, “why is that?”
I protested. Claimed to be wearing sheer panties. Ones he couldn’t feel through the dress. “Really?” It was a dare but for some reason I felt committed to my initial response.
“Really! Why would I walk around without panties.” I could feel my heart racing as I said it.
“Hmm … I doubt it. I think I should check just so I’m sure.” With that I felt my already short dress get shorter as he slowly bunched it around my waist while his gaze held mine. Even then I could feel the wetness continue to pool between my lips sure that it would drip down my leg as we had this battle of wits.
We’d long stopped moving and were lightly swaying to the slow music as my dress went higher and higher. Until the hem stopped at the edge of my bottom. “So, panties or no panties?” He queried, eyes on mine.
“Panties.” My voice cracked.
“OK, I guess I have to see this for myself.” He lowered himself then, eye still on mine until he was on his knees before me. Then he turned his gaze to the pantiless, throbbing junction between my legs. I’m sure he could see how wet I was. Smell it even. I was almost embarrassed. The man hadn’t even kissed me since he’d arrived and here I was turned on and pantiless.
He drew himself toward me. Drew a deep breath. Then with his tongue, delved into the folds and licked the wetness that had been collecting there all evening.
“No panties.” He looked at me then. “Very tasty, but no panties that I can see.” He then dove back in. Tongue stroking between the folds, finding my clit and slowly lapping at it. Slowly driving me up the wall. Knees buckling despite his arms holding me up. He licked still. As I moaned and wound my hips. As I ground myself into his face. He licked and sucked and kept on and on until the tremors took over and my hands on his shoulders gripping for dear life. Until I screamed his name. Then when I couldn’t stand the pleasure he let me crumble against him and we lay there on the rug, me flushed and panting, reaching for the buttons on his shorts and him, kissing me, giving me small tastes of myself on his lips and keeping my hands from the very thing I wanted so much right then.
“shhhh … this is for you” the hoarseness of his voice had me believing otherwise. He rolled us on our sides, his clothed thigh snugly against my unclothed center. I ground myself on him. I wanted him. I wanted him to fill me but he held me back. Held me against him as the slow music played on till we dozed off.
I woke up later to find his eyes on me. “So, where are those panties?”
“In the guest bathroom.” I managed to whisper. He stood up and pulled me up to him. Kissed me and then walked to the bathroom and got the wispy yellow piece of clothing I’d abandoned in the bathroom earlier.
“Still wet. I’m going to keep these.” He crumpled my panties into his pocket before walking out the door.
