“Ah! This bloody bastard! This fucking idiot!” I screamed at my computer screen as the Find My iPhone app rubbed my nose in the truth. “Cheating, lying sonofabitch! God punish you!”
Just minutes ago, my sweet-talking husband had fed me his usual nonsense: “Baby, I’ll be working all night on this massive project—just gonna catch some sleep in the office before my 9 a.m. meeting.” As if! Did he think I was one of those foolish, gullible women who believe every cock-and-bull story? “Ode! Foolish man!”
Jokes on him—this time, I had activated the GPS tracker on his iPhone. “Third time this month, abi? You think say I no go catch you?” The app blinked back at me, his location screaming the truth: He wasn’t at the office.
Now, the real question hit me like a slap: What the hell was I going to do about it? Knowing your husband is a two-faced, dick-driven bastard is one thing. Deciding how to handle it? That’s where the pain lives.
My fury burned hot, then crumbled into ash. “What does she have that I don’t have?” I muttered, stripping naked as I faced the full-length mirror on our closet door.
I turned slowly, eyeing my 34-year-old body like a market woman inspecting ripe mangoes. My breasts? Still standing at attention—no sagging, no disgrace. My stomach? Flat and toned—four days a week at the gym and regular swimming no be for play. I dragged my hands down my waist, over my hips.
“That fucking idiot go explain tire!” I hissed, yanking the closet door so hard the mirror nearly shook loose. I angled it toward the floor-to-ceiling window, turning my naked backside to the glass. The reflection didn’t lie—my butt was still sitting pretty, no sag, no shame. I gave one cheek a sharp slap, “Pah!”, he sound cracking through the room like a whip. “So what the fuck was wrong with that man? Him dey craze?!”
His side chick? That fine-fine ashewo from his office? Yeah, she was younger—ten whole years—but since when did age mean shit when my mouth game was legendary? I swallowed his stress like holy communion, deep-throated his problems like a fucking vacuum cleaner. And our sex was fire! We fucked in elevators, bent over balconies, even once in his damn car like reckless teenagers. So why this one dey chase after small girl like dog wey see bone?!
I let out a frustrated groan, my chest tight. “Fuck this shit.” A swim. Maybe the cold water would shock some sense into me. I grabbed my silk robe—the expensive one he bought me last anniversary, the bastard—and stormed downstairs.
The sliding door practically jumped out of my hand when I shoved it open, slamming shut behind me like a gunshot. “Only God knows how angry I am now!” I muttered.
“Ah! This useless night!” I hissed, standing bare-ass naked by the pool, the cool air biting at my skin. “Stupid husband, stupid life!” With one sharp move, I kicked off my robe and let it slump to the ground like the worthless marriage I was stuck in.
I glanced toward our neighbor’s house, that nosy old man, Mr. Adebayo, always peeping like a goat in heat. But tonight, there was no movement. Good. Let him see me now if he wants! Maybe he’d run and tell my cheating husband, “Oga, your wife dey outside like mad woman, swimming naked!” Fuck them all.
I dove in, the water swallowing me whole, rushing over my skin like a lover who actually gave a damn. “Forget that bastard,” I growled, slicing through the water like a woman possessed. Fast, angry strokes—each one a curse, each kick a middle finger to that idiot and his twenty-something-year-old ashawo.
After a few furious laps, I flipped onto my back, floating like a discarded plastic bag in the lagoon. Breathing. Trying not to scream. But no matter how hard I swam, I couldn’t outrun the images in my head—his hands on her, his lies in my ear, their stupid, sweaty bodies tangled up like bush meat in a pepper soup.
“Eleven years!” I spat into the night. Eleven years of cooking his food, washing his stupid boxers, pretending to laugh at his boring stories—for what? So he could go and spread his yansh like cheap butter for some small girl?
“Fuck him!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the silent walls. “Fuck his lies! Fuck his dick!”
But then, reality. If I confronted him, was I ready to burn down our marriage? And if I stayed quiet, would I become that woman—the one who swallows disgrace like eba, smiling like a fool while her husband fucks everything in a skirt?
“Not me!” I snarled, climbing out of the pool, water sluicing off my body. “I’m not a fool!”
I grabbed my robe, yanked it on, then WHAM! The door refused to budge. “Eh?!” I shoved again. Nothing.
“Ahhhh! This useless fucking door!” I yanked the handle like I wanted to rip it off. “Chai! See as I have locked myself outside like mumu!”
The bitter irony hit me like a slap—here I was, standing ass-naked in my own backyard like some lunatic, while my bastard husband was across town, pumping some ashawo like his life depended on it. I wanted to scream into the night. “Fuck my life !”
Now what? Every other door was locked. We’d talked about getting keyless entry for the garage, but of course, Mr. “I’ll Do It Later” never got around to it. Typical!
Next door, Adebayo’s light was on. “Ehn ehn… so I will just go there naked like market chicken?” I grabbed the flimsy silk robe draped over the outdoor chair. I clutched the damn thing shut like my dignity depended on it (it did) and tiptoed across the sidewalk like a thief. “God please, don’t let Adebayo think I am giving him a midnight offer!”
The cold air slapped my bare legs as I rang his bell, shivering like a soaked cat.
Adebayo, a man we only greet at the gate when we’re pretending to be good neighbours, opened the door. His eyes flicked down for half a second (bastard) but his face stayed calm. Either this guy was a saint, or he’d seen crazier shit in this neighborhood.
“Ah-ah! Mrs. Chidinma!” Adebayo’s voice oozed fake surprise, like I was some aunty who just popped in for garri and groundnuts instead of standing at his door at night, looking like trouble. “Good evening o! What bring you here this night?”
“Adebayo, abeg stop all this ‘Mrs.’ nonsense, just call me Chidinma,” I said, my voice dripping with enough sweetness to make a diabetic run. My eyes flicked down—because of course this man wasn’t even trying to hide where he was looking. The night breeze had turned my nipples into two stubborn peaks, and my silk blouse was transparent like pure water.
“Ehm… Chidinma,” he finally said, flashing a smile that could melt butter. “So… what happened?”
“I lock myself out of my house,” I sighed, shifting slightly just to see if his eyes would follow. Spoiler: They did.
Then I got a proper look at him—Jesus Christ! Adebayo wasn’t just standing there; he was serving whole buffet. Trousers hanging so low on his hips, I could almost see the damn family lineage. His chest was black, hard, and looking like it was sculpted by God when He was showing off.
” Chidinma, you… ehm… you…” Adebayo’s words stumbled out like a drunk man on a Lagos highway, his eyes glued to my chest like I was serving jollof rice at a buffet. Water dripped from my body onto his tiles—tiny drops of temptation—and I pulled the robe tighter, not because I was shy, but because I wanted him to look harder.
After the bullshit my husband fed me earlier, this man’s hungry stare was the ego boost I needed. At least somebody still knows the value of what I’m carrying.
“I was swimming, and… the stupid door just locked itself!” I uttered. “I don’t even know what to do. Maybe I will call locksmith—”
“No need!” He cut me off. “Come inside, make yourself comfortable. I’m going to bring a towel.”
As he turned, Jesus Mary Joseph! His back muscles flexed like they were introducing themselves to me one by one.
“God forgive me, but Adebayo’s bare chest was doing unholy things to my mind.”
I’d never been the type to fantasise about having adulterous sex—until this exact fucking moment. Maybe it was the way the robe clung to my damp skin, barely hiding a damn thing. Or maybe it was the fresh sting of my husband’s betrayal still burning in my chest. But as I sat there, thighs pressed together, I could feel that slow, sinful heat building between them.
Stop it! I scolded myself—right up until Adebayo walked back in.
And oh. Sweet. Jesus.
That man wasn’t just carrying a bulge in those trousers. He was smuggling a whole damn weapon. Thick, heavy, impossible to ignore. At least somebody’s body still reacted to me like I was a full-course meal.
He handed me the towel, and for a second, I fumbled—how the hell was I supposed to dry off without giving him a free show? His dark eyes tracked my every move, amused, like he already knew how badly I was struggling.
“Why don’t you go upstairs?” he suggested, voice dripping with fake innocence. “More privacy.”
Privacy my ass. I could feel his gaze burning into me as I climbed the stairs, his eyes eating up every sway of my hips, every peek of skin the robe didn’t quite cover.
“Second drawer’s got some shirts,” he called after me, casual as hell. “Take whatever you want.”
Then, lower, rougher: “I’ll go check that door. Sometimes those sliders… don’t latch all the way.”
I stepped into Adebayo’s bedroom, all dark woods, heavy fabrics, and pure, unfiltered testosterone. The massive king-sized bed dominated the room, its dark blue blanket looking like it had been made for sin. Then I caught my reflection in his dresser mirror and nearly choked.
“Holy fuck!”
My robe might as well have been made of fucking cellophane. My nipples—dark, hard, and begging for attention—were on full display, like two perfect targets. Lower down, the silk clung just enough to give a teasing glimpse of my pubic hair, but thank God it wasn’t completely obscene. Small fucking mercy.
I let the robe drop, and as the cool air hit my bare skin, my pussy gave a shameless little throb. Here I was, buck-ass naked in another man’s bedroom—my cheating husband’s neighbor, no less—and instead of guilt, all I felt was a dirty, pulsing thrill.
“Na wa for me o,” I muttered, towelling off with shaky hands. “Which kind of movie script is this?”
I rummaged through his drawer, pulling out one of his extra-long V-neck tees. The man was built like a damn basketball player, so the shirt swallowed me whole, falling to mid-thigh. The neckline plunged just enough to show a sinful amount of cleavage, but fuck it—he’d already seen the goods.
Now “properly attired” (if you consider wearing nothing but Adebayo’s shirt and my own damn audacity proper), I let my nosy ass wander around his bedroom like a detective at a crime scene. The air was thick with his scent—a mix of musk, cologne, and temptation. My nipples betrayed me again, hardening against the soft fabric of his shirt as I inhaled deeper.
I was busy admiring some fancy bookends (who the hell even uses those?) when movement outside the window caught my eye. “Wait… what the—?”
I crept closer, pressing my hands against the glass like some horny Peeping Tom. There he was—Adebayo, strutting into my backyard like he owned the damn place. He disappeared behind my house, but not before I got a full view of my pool… and the glaringly obvious fact that my bedroom light was still fucking on.
“Oh shit. Oh shit. OH SHIT.”
That meant
No. Fucking. Way.
I bolted out of his room like my ass was on fire, skidding down the corridor before barging into what looked like a home gym. But I wasn’t here for the treadmill, abeg. I beelined for the window—and my stomach dropped.
Clear. View. Of. My. Entire. Backyard.
Including the fucking pool.
“This bastard has been WATCHING ME?!” My heart hammered so hard I could hear it in my ears. Okay, calm down. From up here, he couldn’t have seen that much, right?
Then I took a step back.
And froze.
Because sitting right there on a small table, like the star witness in a court case against my dignity, was a pair of binoculars.
“Blood of Jesus!”
My hands trembled as I snatched up the binoculars, pressing them against my face like they held the secrets of the universe. Slinking back to the window, I adjusted the focus—and there he was. Adebayo, muscles flexing like a movie action star, working on my sliding door like he wasn’t the biggest fucking pervert in Lagos.
“So this one has been feasting on free shows abi?” My pulse went wild, thighs squeezing together as the truth hit me: This wasn’t some innocent glance—this man had been STUDYING me. How many times had I floated in that pool, breasts to the sky, while he watched from this very window? How many times had I stretched, bent over, or—God help me—touched myself in the water while this dark chocolate Adonis got a hard-on from his gym room?
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