If you didn’t know her, your first impression of Omotola would be that she had descended from a long and particularly prestigious line of beautiful models. Agile, stunning, and sporty—she struck that perfect balance between fit and curvy. But she didn’t get her figure from dancing at some football game, no sir. She got it from lawn tennis. She had a gift for it.
That’s how we first met, actually—she joined the university tennis team with me during our second year. The guys and the girls competed separately but trained together, and I’m happy to say that I fell in love the very first time we had a tennis match. She beat me without giving up a single point.
“You’re really good,” she said, further charming me with her adorable Yoruba accent.
I was still trying to figure out how I had been so thoroughly bested by an opponent six inches shorter than me. “I know I’m good. You’re just much, much better.”
Omotola scrunched up her face into a guilty smile.
“I’m Ikenna,” I said, extending my hand. But instead of accepting the handshake, Omotola raised her tennis bat, taunting me:
“You wanna try again? Who knows, you might get lucky.”
I DID get lucky. Not in the next match, mind you (she kicked my ass again, just as thoroughly as she had before), no, I got lucky later that night, after she invited me back to her hostel to watch a movie.
We hit it off so well, we wound up hardly paying any attention to the movie. I couldn’t believe how compatible we were. We could practically finish each other’s sentences.
She was like a wild, glowing ball of light. Feisty and earnest. Bouncy, flouncy fun. Filled to the brim with art and ideas and an endless supply of energy. And for whatever reason, she was every bit as smitten with me as I was with her. I had never been so happy to lose a tennis match.
By two in the morning, Omotola and I were busy practising a very different type of thrusting. She was moaning incoherently while I plunged into her from behind, pounding myself to the hilt inside her warm body. I scooped up those deliciously soft breasts in my hands and squeezed…
Omotola cried out in sharp ecstasy—her voice so fucking sexy—that boiling hot body, trembling in my arms—
I pulled out, roaring like an animal as I erupted all over her perfectly round ass.
When Omotola and I both drifted back down to earth, we turned and saw her roommate standing awkwardly in the doorway, still clutching her keys. Eyes wide open…
At that moment, something snapped inside of us. Suddenly, having somebody else to watch became the biggest aphrodisiac imaginable. The following evening, right after tennis practice, Omotola dragged me into the girls’ shower room, plopped me down on the bench inside, and promptly straddled my cock with her beautiful, naked body. Not a second later, all the other girls on the team strolled innocently inside and found Omotola riding me. Most of them ran off, giggling and shrieking, but two of the girls got such a kick out of our little exhibitionist display that they actually stayed to watch us finish.
After that, our little “shows” became commonplace around campus. We became minor celebrities at school.
Omotola was the love of my life, and we were inseparable for the remainder of our university years. We studied together, we ate together, we even tried to survive that awful workout thing together—so it went without saying that we were gonna move in together after graduating.
But then, at the last minute, the school randomly changed its mind and determined that two of Omotola’s credits would no longer count towards her degree.
We were kind of fucked. The news came so late in the semester, Omotola and I had already signed the year-long rent on our new apartment—across the country in PORT HARCOURT. I had a job there, waiting for me to start in a matter of weeks.
So, much as it sucked, our only option was to date long-distance for the time being. Actually, it wasn’t even for few days, it was eight weeks. It was far from ideal, but we would survive. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out. VERY hard. Like, throbbing, engorged, non-stop Viagra-type hard. I found that out on my very first day on the job.
*
They called me the “Inter-Departmental Admin,” but really, my responsibilities were basically limited to hauling cartons up and down the stairs and driving them back and forth across town, because the two guys who owned the company refused to work in the same building as one another.
Still, I couldn’t complain. The pay was absurdly high for what I was doing, and for a guy just out of university, it was a great entry-level opportunity to learn the business, meet the vendors, get the lay of the land, and get a sense for how things worked in the real world.
Like I said, I had two bosses, in two different offices, on opposite sides of town. My boss at Site A was Ogbe—an older guy who actually made the effort to personally introduce me to everybody. Most of them acknowledged me with little more than a small, monotone, “Hey.” I wasn’t particularly taken with any of them.
At least, that’s how I felt until Ogbe introduced me to—
“Ikenna, this is Tamara, my assistant. She’ll be your primary contact here at Site A.”
Holy shit.
I tried to play it cool as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life rose from her desk to greet me. She swept back a few strands of short hair and smiled thinly, giving me a quick once-over with her piercing eyes. Maybe five or six years older than me, Tamara had a cool sophistication that would have looked right at home on the cover of a fashion magazine.
“Nice to meet you, Ikenna.”
There was something cold about the way she smiled at me. Sure, it was polite—but it felt deliberately polite. As if she wanted me to know that it required actual effort for her to be nice to me.
Regardless of her frosty personality, there was no denying that the woman was a knockout. Tall, slim, immaculately dressed in a tight pencil skirt that showed off long, exquisitely toned legs. And—because Tamara had apparently won the proverbial Puberty Lotto—she was top-heavy as well, filling out her designer blouse with a set of big, succulent breasts, wholly undeserved on such an otherwise slender body.
The more I thought about it, I decided maybe it was a good thing Tamara wasn’t warmer towards me. Given that my girlfriend would be out of town for the next two months, the last thing I needed was some gorgeous woman flirting with me for four hours a day.
Which, of course, is exactly what I got with Ginika.
She was my contact across town at Site B.
Having grown up in Lagos, Ginika brought with her a fun-loving sense of style. She was about 25 years old and as you could possibly imagine: wild, friendly, and incorrigibly flirtatious.
She also had curves like you wouldn’t believe. A soft, voluptuous body with a nicely plump ass and—
And… and…
Damn.
Her breasts were huge. Like, same-size-as-her-entire-head huge. Ginika had the sort of breasts that invited comparisons to the largest available items at your local fruit market.
I silently reminded myself not to drool.
“Hi, I’m—”
“Ikenna, right?”
She jumped up from her desk and bounced across the room to meet me. I extended a hand to greet her, but Ginika just swatted it aside and instead gave me a full-on hug—crushing the entirety of those unbearably soft breasts against my body.
If you’re interested in the Oniranu Weekend Brunch, please fill in your location below
Norway/Netherland – Fill Norway/Netherland Form
Canada – Fill Canadian Form
United Kingdom – Fill UK Form
United States – Fill U.S Form
Buy Oniranu Books on Selar.co from anywhere in the world
This post has already been read 7010 times!
