The final seminar of the conference wrapped up at noon, and soon after, the participants gathered for one last meal together—a hearty lunch of jollof rice, peppered chicken, and chilled Chapman to wash it all down. As plates were cleared and goodbyes began, Njideka found herself surrounded by colleagues, each one singing her praises like a choir at a Sunday service. “Ah, Njideka, your presentation was fire!” one exclaimed. “Sister, you shut it down—no be small thing!” another laughed, fanning herself for dramatic effect.
But soon, the crowd thinned, and one by one, her fellow attendees scattered like pigeons, off to catch afternoon flights back to Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt—wherever home called them. Now, she stood alone in the city, anonymous, just another beautiful face in the crowd. And that was perfect. Because no one here knew her. No one knew what she was about to do.
A sly smile curled her lips as she felt that familiar throb between her thighs, warm and insistent. Abeg, let’s see how this plays out, she thought, crossing her fingers—and her legs—just for a second.
To pass the time, she strolled through the mall attached to the hotel, her heels clicking against the polished tiles. Then she saw it—the dress. Black, sleek, and sinful, the kind of dress that could make a pastor whisper “God forgive me” under his breath. She snatched it up without hesitation. After all, she had the perfect excuse: “Darling, I bought it for Aunty Bisi’s wedding in July!”
And what a dress it was! The fabric clung to her like a lover who refused to let go, hugging every blessed curve the good Lord had given her. The neckline dipped just low enough to tease, showcasing the kind of cleavage that made men forget their own names. The waist nipped in, emphasising her full hips. And the hem? Perfect. Not too short to be “ashawo vibes,” not too long to scream “mama put.” Just right—sophisticated, seductive, and ready for trouble.
This was no ordinary little black dress. This was a statement. And she couldn’t wait to see who’d be reading between the lines
What truly sold her on the dress was its versatility—the kind of two-faced charm. It came with a delicate sheer overlay, as light as a harmattan breeze, designed to drape over her shoulders and fasten with a tiny jewelled clasp at the neck. With it on, the dress transformed into something “family-approved”. The sheer fabric would coyly veil the lush curves of her cleavage, softening the bold display of her full, heavy breasts into something “appropriate.”
Appropriate. What a funny word.
Because tonight? That flimsy little cover-up would stay exactly where it belonged—tucked away in her suitcase like a secret. Tonight, her cleavage would be on full, unapologetic display, soft and inviting, like ripe mangoes begging to be plucked.
After bagging the dress, she strutted—yes, strutted—into a high-end shoe boutique, her confidence high and her standards higher. The pair she chose was pure sin: sleek black stilettos with dagger-sharp toes and heels so tall they could double as murder weapons. Five inches. Higher than any shoe she’d ever owned. Higher than her husband’s blood pressure if he ever saw them. But oh, she loved them. The way they made her legs look endless, her stance powerful, her backside perkier. These weren’t just shoes—they were weapons. And she was ready for war.
⁕⁕⁕
Back in her suite, she ordered room service—something light, something “innocent”—grilled chicken and a salad, as if she needed to balance the scales of temptation. Then, she began the sacred ritual of preparation. The shower steamed, the razor glided, and when she was done, her skin was smoother than a newborn’s cheek—everywhere. She’d been keeping her most intimate areas silky bare for years now, ever since she noticed how the women in those “special films” always looked so… untouched. There was something deliciously naughty about it, something that made her feel like a sleek, forbidden fruit—even if her husband barely glanced her way anymore.
But tonight wasn’t about him.
Wrapped in the hotel’s plush robe, its fabric soft against her skin, Njideka took delicate bites of her dinner, careful not to smudge her freshly painted nails. She had chosen a shade of cherry-red. Still, as she admired the glossy finish under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, her mind wandered—no, galloped—into dangerous territory. She imagined her hand, elegant and deliberate, wrapped around a thick, throbbing cock, her crimson nails standing out like warning signs against his heated skin. Slowly now… up… down… Her fingers, usually so proper, so wifely, now moved with sinful purpose, coaxing out soft groans from the man beneath her touch.
And then—her lips, already parted in anticipation, inching closer to the swollen head, glistening with need. The biggest she’d ever had. The thought alone sent a shiver down her spine. She would worship this one properly, take him deep, until his thighs trembled and his voice cracked her name like a prayer. Until he flooded her mouth with his release, thick and claiming, and she swallowed every last drop like a woman starved.
Abeg, let tonight be the night, she thought, crossing her legs tightly—but not from restraint. No, this was the kind of itch no amount of shifting could soothe. Only one thing would. And she was more than ready.
⁕
Njideka had always known, deep down in her bones, that she was made to serve men. That hunger to please, to obey, to kneel—it wasn’t just a kink, it was in her blood. Maybe it had been there since girlhood, simmering quietly beneath her Catholic-schoolgirl innocence. But it wasn’t until university in Nsukka that the truth clawed its way out, raw and undeniable.
That was where she met him—her lecturer, a man in his 40s with the kind of confidence that made her knees weak. Tall, salt-and-pepper beard, voice like smooth whisky. The kind of man who didn’t ask, he commanded. And oh, how she ached to obey.
She played the perfect “teacher’s pet,” batting her lashes, hanging on his every word. He knew her game—of course he did—and he played along, letting her call him “Doctor” in that breathy little voice of hers. Even now, years later, she still thought of him that way. Doctor. The man who ruined her for anyone else.
She’d been infatuated from day one, but when he started giving her extra lessons—long, private sessions where his eyes lingered a little too long on her curves—she fell hard. Not in the silly, romantic way. No, this was something darker, hungrier. She didn’t dream of white weddings or forever. She wanted knowledge. And he educated her.
The first time he took her to his bed, it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was a revelation. He peeled back every layer of her innocence, showing her exactly what her body was built for. The way she gasped when he gripped her waist. The way she moaned when he told her to get on her knees. The way her lips—those full, sinful lips—wrapped around his cock like they were made for it.
He saw right through her. She knew she was dying to submit, be used, and be the perfect little plaything for a man who knew how to handle her. And handle her he did. He taught her how to please, how to beg, how to take whatever he gave her and thank him for it.
By the time he was done with her, Njideka wasn’t just a girl anymore. She was a woman—one who knew her place. And damn, did she love it.
That first night? The man treated her body like his personal playground—no hole left untouched, no inch of her skin unclaimed. He drilled into her like a man possessed, taking what he wanted with the kind of greedy hunger that made her toes curl. And the best part? He didn’t give a single damn about her pleasure. Not one.
But that was what drove her wild.
The sheer disrespect of it—being used like a cheap fleshlight, just a warm, wet hole for him to dump his load into—sent her crashing into orgasm after orgasm. By the time dawn broke, she was a sticky, dripping mess, his cum painting her thighs, her belly, even her face like some kind of filthy masterpiece.
A full pint of the man’s seed, inside her, on her, everywhere. And as she stumbled home the next morning, legs trembling, one thought burned in her mind: “I need more.”
And he delivered.
For the rest of the semester, that man ruined her. He fed her so much cock, so much cum, that she lost track of how many times she swallowed him down, throat working like a seasoned slut. Her pussy stayed sore, her plump backside permanently marked by his rough grip, her body shaking from the brutal, gut-wrenching climaxes he wrung out of her.
He trained her—taught her how to worship a man’s dick with her mouth, how to arch her back just right, how to take every inch without gagging (well, too much). And she? She was the perfect student. Eager. Obedient. Addicted.
By the time it was over, she wasn’t just a woman anymore. She was his cum dumpster. And she loved it.
Sadly, their wild ride came to an end when destiny threw a big “check out” in their faces—some fancy foreign university offered him a position. But before he jetted off to chase dollars and degrees, they had one last night to turn the hotel room into a war zone.
And oh, what a night it was!
He fucked her like a man possessed—no, like a man who had just heard “fuel don cost N1500 per litre” and decided to take out all his frustration on her poor, willing body. His thick, angry cock hammered into her pussy like a jackhammer, pounding her so deep she saw heaven, hell, and her late grandmother waving at her.
When he flipped her over and claimed her tight ass, she screamed. But she loved it.
And just when she thought he was done, he’d grab her by the hair, shove his still-hard dick between her lips, and growl, “Suck me back to life, baby girl.” And suck she did—like her life depended on it, like it was the last suya on the stick.
Over and over, she drained him dry, only for him to rise again, harder, meaner, ready to wreck her all over again. Sleep? Abeg, who needs sleep when you have a cock like this to worship?
Even now, she still misses him like crazy. Missed the way he handled her—rough but right, like a man who knew exactly how to turn her into a trembling, begging mess. He was the one who unlocked her inner “yes, Daddy” and showed her the sinful joy of complete surrender. No man since had made her feel that way—like a well-fucked queen, a submissive goddess, a woman who knew her place was on her knees, dripping with pleasure.
Damn. Just thinking about it made her thighs clench.
And now, here she was in Victoria Island, Lagos—the land of fast money, faster cars, and even faster men. Njideka wasn’t just looking for any man tonight—no, she wanted a big-dick god to ruin her life in the best way possible. Someone who could make her knees weak, her voice hoarse, and her pussy beg for mercy by sunrise. Someone like her ‘Doctor’—but this time, with a monster cock she could choke on, worship, and ride until her thighs gave out.
With a final glance in the mirror, she patted her luscious wig—30 inches of Brazilian magic— smacked her glossy lips together, and grabbed her little black clutch (the one that matched her even littler black dress). Time to hunt.
Her destination? Kaly Bar Lounge. The kind of place where big boys sipped Henny like water and flashed Rolexes like they were handing out candy. She wasn’t here for small talk or wasted time—she wanted a man who could fuck her stupid the way she’d seen in those filthy pornos she secretly binged.
Oh, she’d fantasised about rough, gutter sex—maybe getting snatched up by some area boy with rough hands and no patience. The thought alone made her clit throb. But no, not tonight. Her first time cheating had to be classy—at least on the surface.
She needed a man who could play the gentleman in public and an absolute animal in private. Someone successful, commanding, and—most importantly—hung like a stallion.
She’d scoped the place out earlier in the week. The men here? Chef’s kiss. Suits sharper than a Lagos hustler’s tongue, watches worth more than her annual salary, and that cocky, I-own-the-world swagger that made her panties damp. Tonight, she’d find one—preferably one with a third leg that could split her in two.
And when she did? God help her, because she planned to suck, ride, and scream her way to heaven.
When Njideka stepped up to the entrance of the bar, the place was already buzzing—and it wasn’t even 7 PM yet! Clearly, people were thirsty in more ways than one, eager to drown the stress of the workweek in alcohol and bad decisions. Well, who was she to judge? She was here for the same damn reason.
Sucking in a deep breath—and willing her common sense to take a backseat—she strutted inside, her hips swinging with every step like a pendulum of temptation. She slid onto a barstool, then ordered a Mai Tai with a voice smooth enough to melt butter.
As she sipped her drink, her eyes roamed the room like a predator scanning for prey. Then—bam!—her gaze locked onto a group of men huddled around a high table. Four of them, all sharp in tailored suits, looking like they stepped straight out of a “Rich Men of Lagos” calendar. But one in particular had her thighs clenching like a vice.
Holy mother of Jesus.
Tall—6’5″ —with shoulders so broad they could carry the weight of her sins. His navy suit clung to him like it was begging for mercy, hugging every muscle like a second skin. God forbid this man wear a sack—he’d still look like a damn snack.
His chest was a whole national treasure, deep and powerful, tapering down to a waist so trim it made her want to bite it. And his backside? Ah-ah! Even under that expensive fabric, she could see the curve of an ass so firm it deserved its own praise and worship session.
“Wow,” she muttered under her breath, taking another sip of her drink to cool the sudden fire between her legs. This man was built like temptation itself.
His head was shaved smooth—cleaner than a newborn’s backside—and his skin glowed like pure honey against the crisp collar of his designer shirt. Njideka had a serious weakness for bald men. There was something raw, untamed, and downright animalistic about them that sent electric shocks straight to her core. And this towering god of a man? He wasn’t just checking boxes—he was tearing up her whole damn list!
Then, like a scene from a Nollywood romance, one of his colleagues cracked a joke. The group erupted in laughter, and finally, he turned.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—
His face hit her like a punch to the chest. High, razor-sharp cheekbones that could slice through excuses. Deep-set eyes, dark and glinting with mischief, like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. A jawline so strong and defined, it looked like it was carved by God Himself, probably on a good day when He was feeling extra creative.
And his mouth—oh sweet heaven—those lips. Full, soft-looking, sinful. The kind of lips that could preach in church on Sunday and make a woman scream blasphemies on Monday. When he laughed, his teeth flashed—white, perfect, Colgate-commercial-ready-and-that—that rough, three-day stubble. It gave him that “I’m too sexy to care” vibe.
Then she spotted it—the small gold hoop in his left ear.
Ah! This one na correct oloshi boy!
Her thighs clenched. Her pussy throbbed. If lust had a sound, hers would be louder at midnight.
This man wasn’t just fine—he was stupid fine. The kind of fine that made a woman forget her own name. His skin was smooth, black, and flawless, glistening under the bar lights like he’d been polished by angels. Who gave him the right?
Even from across the room, she could tell he was the type of man who knew what he was working with. Confidence oozed from him —natural, intoxicating, and impossible to resist. He stood like a man who had never second-guessed himself a day in his life, shoulders back, head high, like he was the king of some secret kingdom where women lined up just to breathe the same air as him.
Rugged but refined. Strong but sweet. The kind of man who could break you in half in the bedroom but would still make sure you got home safe afterwards. The kind of man who made other men look like bloody amateurs.
Njideka’s thighs clenched involuntarily, a slow, throbbing pulse building between them. God, this man was dangerous.
She forced herself to look away, pretending to be engrossed in her drink. But her eyes betrayed her, sliding right back to him like he was the only man in the room. And honestly? He might as well have been.
Then—oh shit.
As his friends yapped away, he turned, scanning the room with the lazy confidence of a lion who knew he owned the jungle. Njideka’s breath hitched. Her fingers tightened around her glass. She told herself to look away, but her body refused to listen.
And then—their eyes locked.
Time stopped.
The noise of the bar faded into nothing.
And those lips… Sweet Mother of Mercy. Plush, full, and wickedly curved into a grin as he lifted his glass to her. Lips that promised “I know 99 ways to ruin you, and I’ll use every single one before sunrise.”
She tried to play it cool—flashed a smile that said “Oh, me? I’m just here minding my business,”—but her trembling fingers betrayed her, clinking the glass against the bar like a rookie.
Bastard.
He had ruined her with just one look.
Thirty seconds. That’s all it took before her eyes betrayed her again, sneaking back to him like a thief in the night. He was laughing with his friends now, those broad shoulders shaking, that stupidly perfect profile making her mouth water.
Breath. Just breathe—
Then he turned.
And oh God—that smile. Slow. Knowing. Predatory.
Her brain short-circuited.
Then—wait, wait, WAIT!—he gestured toward the exit, murmuring something to his boys.
Njideka’s mind exploded.
“Is he leaving?!”
Instead of heading for the door like she feared, this walking, talking fantasy turned on his heel and came straight for her—drink in hand, hips moving with the kind of slow, confident swagger that made her panties spontaneously combust. That “I know what you’re thinking” smile still played on his lips.
He was massive up close. Built like a Calvin Klein model—shoulders so broad, arms thick enough. Yet he moved with the smooth, lazy grace of a panther… one that had clearly spotted its next meal.
Her.
“Hello, do you mind if I join you?”
His voice was sin wrapped in velvet—deep, rich, and laced with just enough Lagos boy charm to melt her spine into jelly. The sound of it sent a throb straight to her core, her juices flowing faster.
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