He led her to the bathroom and turned on the water. He soaped every part of her, his hands thorough and unhurried. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but soon she was gasping. One hand slid down her back, between her cheeks. Another moved over her stomach, then lower.
When his fingers found her, she cried out. Her legs buckled, and she slid down the wet tiles. He caught her under the arms and held her up.
‘You enjoyed that,’ he laughed. ‘There’s more where that came from.’
He wrapped her in a towel and patted her dry, then half-carried her back to the bedroom. He dropped her onto the bed.
‘You can get dressed now,’ he said. ‘You have my permission.’
The words stung. Permission. As though she were a child. As though she belonged to him. Yet she obeyed.
The panties were too tight. They cut into her hips and disappeared between her cheeks. She felt exposed in a way she had never experienced. There was no bra. The top tied beneath her breasts, pushing them up into a deep cleavage. The skirt was little more than a strip of fabric, sitting low on her hips and barely covering her upper thighs.
She looked at herself in the mirror and barely recognised the woman staring back. Her midriff was bare. The skirt was shorter than anything she had ever dared wear, even in her youth.
‘Please,’ she said, her voice small. ‘I’m a woman, not a girl. These clothes are too young for me.’
‘Nonsense,’ John said, his eyes bright. ‘You look amazing. Really sexy.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But I can’t go home like this. Please.’
She heard the desperation in her own voice. She was begging. Pleading. And she knew, from years ago in secondary school, that bullies did not respond to pleading.
She tried another approach. She put a finger to her lip, swung her hips, and batted her eyelashes. ‘Please, sir. I would love you to find me a longer skirt. You don’t want everyone to see my panties, do you?’
She lifted the hem. The gesture was meant to be flirtatious, but the look in his eyes told her she had miscalculated.
John watched her, amused. The woman had given him an idea. Why send her home when he could keep her? She had submitted to him completely. She had done everything he asked. Why not enjoy her a little longer?
‘I couldn’t find anything else that fits,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’ll take you shopping. We’ll find something together. How does that sound?’
Ngozi’s heart sank. She should have known better. He was a bully by nature, not by circumstance. He was not going to go easy on her.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she heard herself say. ‘I appreciate it. I really do. I’ll do anything for you, sir.’
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. She was calling him sir. A boy. Her son’s classmate. And yet, as the word left her lips, it felt right. He was in charge. He had taken charge of her. He had taken her.
The thought should have horrified her. Instead, a strange warmth spread through her chest. She belonged to him. The realisation was unsettling, and yet it brought a peculiar sense of peace. Was that why she called him sir?
Ngozi rose from the floor and followed him into the kitchen without a word. Her legs felt foreign beneath her, as though they belonged to someone else. The shock of what had just happened should have paralysed her. Instead, a strange warmth lingered in her belly, spreading through her limbs like honey.
She hated herself for it.
He glanced at her, and a wide smile broke across his face. Before she could stop herself, she smiled back. Then she caught herself and looked away, feigning shyness.
‘Make the tea,’ John said, settling onto a stool. ‘Then we’ll go out. I’ll buy you a proper outfit. A dress, underwear, the works.’
‘Thank you,’ she heard herself say. ‘Thank you so much.’
The words tasted bitter on her tongue. She had almost added sir. Almost promised to do anything he asked. The urge was there, lurking beneath her skin like a fever. She pushed it down and busied herself with the kettle.
But the gratitude remained. And why? What had he given her? Sex?
The thought made her stomach flip. She was still floating in the aftermath of it, her mind fogged with hormones she had not felt in years. Her body hummed with a satisfaction she had long forgotten was possible. Uche had never made her feel like this. Not once in eighteen years of marriage.
No wonder she felt so warm towards the boy. It was chemistry. Biology. Nothing more.
She stood by the counter, a cup of coffee in her hands, and stared at him.
He was handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a confidence that sat easily on him. If she had met him in secondary school, she would have been giddy with excitement. She would have written his name in the margins of her notebooks. She might even have given herself to him without a second thought.
Would her life have been different then? Would she have married someone like him instead of Uche? Someone who made her feel alive, instead of settling into a quiet, predictable routine?
The thought was disloyal, and she knew it. Uche was a good man. Quiet, yes. Unassuming, certainly. Not exciting, not romantic, not the kind of man who set her blood on fire. But he was decent. He provided. He did not hit her or humiliate her.
Yet standing here now, her body still trembling from another man’s touch, she could not honestly say she regretted it.
That frightened her more than anything John had done.
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