Romantic story: My wonderful neigbour

[Admin]

He was sitting at the edge of
my bed.
Most nights we talked in my
room, or at a corner in the
compound that housed the
main building and the quarters.
There were times we ‘gisted’
till 10 p.m., once, 11 p.m.,
discussing varied topics from
politics to marriage.
We never lacked anything to
say to each other.
He was a good gentleman, one
of the most gallant men I’ve
ever met. He was tall and
handsome; though outspoken,
sometimes appearing to be
shy.
I met him the first day I came
into the compound, and we
quickly became close, closer as
each day passed. We had been
drawn to each other like
magnets.
That fateful day, it happened
that we were the only ones in
the
compound; well, just us and
the gate man.
It was election period and the
landlord and other tenants had
travelled with their families,
scared there might be crisis.
As he sat there in my room
that calm night, we suddenly
became
quiet. For the first time ever,
we ran out of things to discuss.
I glanced his way; he appeared
lost in thought. I wondered, for
a brief second, what he was
thinking.
I waited to hear “Miss, have a
lovely night” as he usually did
before rising to leave, but it
didn’t come.
He spoke with a tribal accent
that was sweet to the ears.
Then I felt him shift. The next
moment, I felt his hand on my
face.
He was touching my lips,
running his thumb over them,
his eyes
dim with focus.
Men are always usually
fascinated by my lips and I
kept
wondering why.
With his thumb, he continued
to caress my lips, moving
round the
entire outline.
My eyes narrowed in curiosity.
Then he moved to my ear and
started to stroke it too,
touching
it like he would a baby.
I was quiet still.
With great care he continued,
lovingly.
He kept on at it until I
whispered to him, as if afraid
someone
else would hear, ‘What are you
doing?’
‘Sshh,’ he said. ‘Just enjoy it.’
I remained quiet, still
wondering what was there to
enjoy in his
stroking my face. I didn’t
remember asking him for a
facial
massage. Nothing on my face is
sensitive enough to bring
pleasure.
Just so I thought.
Truth is, I’ve never trusted a
man with anything before, my
body least of all.
But I allowed him. I liked him.
His hands travelled down to
my neck, stroked it a while and
then down to my breasts.
He slipped his lips into mine as
he cupped one breast.
For once, I felt something. A
sudden twitch, as if from cold.
Through the flimsy fabric of my
nightie, he stroked the tips of
my breasts, ever so gently.
He took them in turns now,
working with experience. For a
man
in his thirties, his hand was
surprisingly smooth.
He would hold one breast tip
between his fingers and then
twist
gently. Had my mouth been
free, I’d have thrown out a
moan.
Then he pulled out his lips. He
looked at me, great emotion in
his eyes.
Seeing him that way, a sudden
warmness flowed through me,
swiftly spreading round every
nerve in my body.
My heart started to beat faster.
I could feel the intense arousal
starting to build up within me.
He drew down my nightie to
bare my breasts; he cupped
each
breast with his hands and kept
on teasing the tips.
I began to moan quietly.
Then his lips descended on one
rock-hard nipple, covering it,
soft
and wet.
I felt a sudden vibration all
round my body. My knees
knocked
together.
With a combination of his
sweet, fleshy lips, tongue and
teeth, he
gave me a feeling that was
close to magic. He worked on
me
with ripe experience—one
hand covering one breast, his
lips
covering the other.
He switched style with a
delicious rhythm.
My body was now warm, every
nerve in me was stretching,
pulling away as I breastfed
him.
He kept on at my tips till it
became sweet torture. But he
knew just when to stop.
He was skilled. Obviously.
His hands went down to my
stomach. He stroked my navel
lightly and then moved down
to my spot.
I was already filled with fluid.
He palmed my womanhood
and began rubbing that little
pleasure
nub at the entrance.
I started to convulse.
He kept on rubbing for a while,
and then he slipped two
fingers
into me.
My mouth burst open.
As he moved his fingers round
my wet warm self, the pleasure
soared to a tremulous height.
‘This is wrong!’ a voice
whispered to my ears.
He was married; he’d told he
has a wife in the village.
But I quickly brushed off the
voice and gave myself
completely
away to the flight.
However could I have resisted?
I was already in Wonderland,
he’d sent me there. Right then,
if you ask me my name, I
would scream Alice!
I was now writhing to every of
his movement, moaning his
name
repeatedly.
Something kept enlarging in
me, I could feel it strongly now.
Intense and deep. Like a huge
ball of pleasure, one that could
explode soon and leave me
swimming in a sugary syrupy
river.
He just sat there, calm, quiet,
all his concentration in making
me
feel amazing.
Now my breath came in
labored gasps.
My legs were jerking.
I held him, my fingers digging
into his back.
He kept on at it.
My hands were moving all over
his back now, as if searching
for something to hold.
Something to grip before I
pour away.
He didn’t let go, instead he
kept up faster.
I let out a great loud moan as
my body raked to the
explosion.
I have never had a wet arrival
before. It was my very first.
Sweet and lovingly filling.
He continued stroking my wet
area as if to make sure I
savored
every drop of the wonderful
feeling.
He wanted to take me through
another ride, but I had to make
him stop.
I was getting sore and
sensitive.
I began to feel guilty and I told
him.
He assured me that it was
okay, that he had wanted to do
it
all along. That I didn’t seduce
him.
He didn’t ask for anything in
return like most guys would;
all
he wanted was just to please
me.
Now as I stare at that
particular spot on my bed
where he sat
that night, now empty with no
sign of him anywhere around,
neither in my room nor
anywhere in the compound, I
couldn’t
help but feel low.
His presence, his scent, his talks
about money and Nigeria and
the bad government, his
laughter, his infectious toothy
smile—they
are all gone now.
There is this emptiness I feel in
his absence.
Though it has been some days
since he left, I still feel vacant,
like a house stripped of all its
furniture.
The compound suddenly
became too quiet, lifeless.
I feel lonely.
I feel scared at night.
But I smile at every thought of
you.
My wonderful neighbour.

[Admin]

create your own topic, and get my recognition.