The intermittent buzzing of the refrigerator often keeps sleep away before bedtime because the LG apparatus is an arms’ length from my bed. The buzzing lasts minutes and then silence follows allowing me to slowly shut my eyes. As I count sheep silently, sleep begins to creep onto me but the buzzing soon resumes. More minutes pass and I suffer through another buzz session and meaningless sheep counting.
I have always been an easy sleeper but I am still adjusting to the sounds in my room in Kyanja. The most disturbing noise is that of the refrigerator. There is also an occasional scuffling I sometimes hear but whose cause I cannot explain. I always imagine it is a little rat playing with paper or polythene bags under the bed. On some days I am convinced it could be a snake.
As I lay waiting on the refrigerator to go silent, my fingers recall a quick sedative that clouds my eyes with sleep instantaneously upon administration. I shut my eyes and begin constructing sensual scenes in my mind.
One scene is set in a night club where magic crystal ball lamps render the dimness of the dance floor into a kaleidoscope of colours. Men and women are lost in dance and I am in a corner with Marcus against the wall, my bottom against his crotch. Dancehall reggae is playing from blaring speakers with an enveloping assertive sound. I have on a conveniently short skirt and as I rub against Marcus’ crotch in gyrating motion, the skirt lifts further up my thighs. He clutches onto my waist with one hand and with the other pushes my back forward and lower so that I am now bending – my posture pronouncing the roundness of my backside.
I continue to gyrate, looking back over my shoulder at Marcus. His hands are resting on either side of my hips, feeling the ripples that come with each jiggle. His eyes are dreamy and I can see that he is obsessed with the curves of my body.
My skirt goes further up and though I am safely covered by the skimpy clothe at the front, the back begins to reveal secrets that should not be seen in public spaces.
Is a corner of a dimly lit night club a public space? There is hardly attention to focus on such moral questions because instead of a bulge beneath Demin, I start to feel a bulge clothed in flesh. I am not startled. I am excited. The lace string beneath the skirt is pushed aside by Marcus’ finger and then my moist warmth meets a hard warmth.
Marcus’ most beautifully sculptured, fully erect hardness is knocking at parted gates begging to be let in. The gates are oiled and his entry into a tight warmer tunnel is smooth. The walls of the tunnel welcome him with an embrace that sucks his full length into me. In the background Wizkid’s Daddy Yo is playing,
“1-2. I like the way you dance
I love your kitty-dance, I love the way you dance am
3-4, knocking on the door
Whine fimme baby gyal, gimme whine slow, girl
5-6, tip on ya toe
Time fimme dance am, quater-to, dance am
7-8, don’t be late
Do what the teacher say, don’t come late, gyal
9-10, open and close
Dance fimme down gyal, oya, wine am
11-12, wine up-close
Do what the teacher say and put on repeat, ahn-ah”
Gasps escape my lips and chorus with the buzzing refrigerator. My fingers snake down my torso to a fruit that is now oozing with juices. I find a little hard bud that I stroke in circular motion, lubricating each circle with water from a well between flaps of flesh that are my lips. Gasps turn to moans and my eyes become heavy with sensual bliss.
My other hand goes to my chest and finds other hard buds to rub and squeeze. I cup and massage the soft mounds on my chest. Eye lids partly close in a possessed-like stance and I am returned to the dance floor with Marcus.
My index finger circles the bud beneath my belly in more elaborate strokes. I cross my legs at the ankles in a failed attempt to quell the itching lust ignited by motion and imagination. The index slides further down between flaps of flesh that are gates to an enchanting tunnel.
Although it is only my index, the sensation I get is similar to what I get from a ride with Marcus. I release the mounds on the chest and my second index joins the other between my legs. The second index continues the elaborate strokes on the now engorged bud while the first index slides in and out of a tight walled oiled tunnel.
More juices ooze.
Slurps become louder.
More moans are sung.
Gentle waves of ecstasy rock my body followed by strong vibrations that come along with an orgasm.
Sleep descends upon me like a spirit upon a consecrated child of god.
Copyright © 2016-2017 by Daphine Arinda
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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