Ngozi’s voice came out thin and unsteady. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that to me.’
John tilted his head, amusement flickering across his face. ‘I said you have beautiful eyes. Is that also wrong?’
‘No. I mean, yes. I don’t know,’ she stammered.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ he said, still holding her hand around the bottle. ‘I know what I want from you.’
She stood trapped before him, the beer growing warm in her grip.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, her throat tight.
‘I want you to do something for me. One thing. Then I’ll leave your son alone.’
‘If it’s reasonable,’ she said carefully. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘So you agree to obey me?’ he pressed.
His voice seemed to rumble through her chest, rattling her bones. She nodded before she could think.
‘Yes. I’ll do anything to protect my son.’
‘Then listen well,’ John said. ‘You do as I say, and I won’t touch Chuka again. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I don’t understand what you’re asking,’ she said, her voice rising.
‘It’s simple,’ he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. ‘You obey me. In return, your son is safe. That is the deal.’
‘But what must I do?’ she pleaded.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he took both her hands and guided her downward. Her knees buckled, and she found herself kneeling before him on the soft carpet. The beer bottle slipped from her fingers, spilling its contents across the floor and soaking into the hem of the t-shirt.
‘Pull my cock out,’ he said quietly.
Ngozi blinked. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
Her stomach dropped. The words registered, but her mind refused to accept them.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I can’t. That’s not—I didn’t agree to that.’
‘You said you’d do anything,’ he reminded her. ‘Were you lying?’
‘I’m a married woman,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m a mother. You can’t ask me to do this.’
He reached down and unzipped his jeans.
‘Stop whining and prove you meant what you said,’ he ordered. His hand closed around the back of her neck and pulled her head towards his lap.
The heat of him pressed against her cheek. She flinched, a whimper escaping her lips.
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘I can’t. I’m old enough to be your mother.’
He slapped her.
The sound cracked through the room like a whip. Ngozi’s head snapped to the side, her cheek stinging. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she did not move. She knelt there, frozen, her mind blank with shock.
John gripped her chin and turned her face back towards him.
‘You will do as you’re told,’ he said. ‘Or your son pays for it. Do we understand each other?’
‘Get on with it,’ John ordered, his hand still heavy on the back of her neck.
‘Please,’ Ngozi whimpered. ‘You don’t have to hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want.’
The words left her mouth before she could stop them. And even as she spoke, a cold dread settled in her chest. What had she just agreed to? What else could he possibly demand? She babbled something incoherent, a stream of half-formed pleas that meant nothing.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered the truth she had been avoiding: bullies do not negotiate. They do not compromise. They take, and they take, and they take. There was no deal to be struck here. There was only surrender.
She should have clamped her mouth shut. She should have screamed, or bitten, or run. But she did none of those things. Perhaps she still could not believe this was happening to her. Nothing like this had ever touched her world. Her life had been soft, protected, comfortable. And now this.
Her lips parted, and he pushed himself inside.
‘Mmmph…no!’ The sound died in her throat, swallowed by him.
Her mouth was full. She gagged, her eyes watering, her hands flying up to his thighs to push him away. But her palms met solid muscle, and she might as well have been pushing against a wall.
Her thoughts grew slow and strange. The taste of him was not what she expected, not bitter or foul, but faintly sweet, like overripe bananas. The absurdity of it almost made her laugh, and she choked again.
She tried to detach herself, to float above what was happening, to become someone else watching from a distance. He gripped her head with both hands and moved her up and down his length, using her mouth as though she were a thing, not a woman. She had never done this before…not with her husband, not with anyone. Uche had never asked, and she had never offered. She did not know what to do.
But it seemed she did not need to know. He was entertaining himself with her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. This was not what she had agreed to. This was not protection. This was degradation. She was on her knees in a stranger’s house, her mouth full of a boy young enough to be her son, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
A low moan rose from her chest, mournful and muffled. Her tongue pressed against him, tentative at first, then firmer. She told herself it was to end it sooner. The faster he finished, the faster she could leave. She moved her head, sliding her lips along his length, and he released her head, letting her set the pace.
She drew a deep breath through her nose and tried to take him deeper. Her throat convulsed, and she pulled back, gagging. One cheek bulged with what she could manage, and she stayed there, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to be over.
Her hands moved without thought, gripping him, working him as though her body had betrayed her mind. The world narrowed to the weight of him, the heat, the shame coiling in her belly. She hated herself for every second she did not pull away.
He grabbed her hair suddenly, yanking her head back.
‘Please! Don’t hurt me,’ she gasped.
Her eyes clamped shut. Then she felt it: warm, thick spurts across her face, into her mouth. She kept her lips parted, afraid to swallow, afraid to spit on the carpet she had already ruined with beer. She knelt there, frozen, his seed pooling on her tongue.
‘Swallow,’ he ordered.
She did.
He scooped the rest from her cheek with his fingers and smeared it across her lips.
‘Lick them clean,’ he said.
She obeyed. The taste was salt and something else she could not name. The tears she expected did not come. Perhaps they would have been a relief, washing her face, tasting just as bitter.
‘Good girl,’ he laughed. ‘You learn fast.’
He stared down at her, still on her knees. The smirk on his face was unbearable. She could see him savouring it: the respectable Mrs Ngozi Okonkwo, wife of Uche, mother of Chuka, kneeling at his feet in his mother’s house.
Then he frowned. He sniffed the air, then leaned closer to her. Before she could react, he pushed his hand between her legs.
She gasped and tried to jerk away, but his grip was like iron.
‘Well, well,’ he said, his voice thick with amusement. ‘You’re soaking wet down here.’
She closed her eyes. He was right. Her body had responded in ways she could not explain, could not excuse. The shame of it burned hotter than anything he had done to her.
John pulled her to her feet and half-dragged her to his bedroom. He positioned her in front of a full-length mirror.
‘Open your eyes,’ he commanded. ‘Look at yourself.’
She did. The t-shirt clung to her, transparent from the spilled beer. Her braids were matted with drying fluid. Her face was a mess. The smell rising from her was a mixture of beer, sweat, and something muskier, her own arousal.
‘Do you want to go home like this?’ he asked, picking a crusted strand of hair from her cheek.
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please don’t send me home like this. Let me have my clothes. I’ll do anything.’
‘You already promised that,’ he said. ‘And you promised to obey.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll obey. I submit.’
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