God forgive my mouth, but life is a funny thing. I was a late-comer when it comes to sex matter. While other girls were chasing boys and causing trouble, my mind was on higher things. My family no get money at all.
If I wanted to escape—unlike my sister Chinyere who was still squatting in my parents’ house with her university dreams—I had to use my head and get those grades that would slap a scholarship on any university’s table.
So, sex was not even on my list. I had tried to play with myself before. People talk about how it’s natural, how e dey sweet, blah blah. For me, nothing happened. My body was just there, minding its own business.
Then, one night, as I was just casually touching myself between my legs, the way I normally do to relax to sleep, something shifted. Holy Moses! A fire just catch. One minute I was just there, the next, a strange and serious current of pleasure started to run through my body. I was shocked, but my hand refused to stop.
Why would I stop? My butt was lifting from the bed on its own accord. I could feel my inside had become like a river, and that small button of flesh at the top had swollen to a serious, sensitive bead.
I rubbed that thing like my life depended on it. I was not gentle. And then, e don burst! Waves of fire and sweet, sweet madness just washed over my entire body, from my head to my toes. My legs were shaking like a leaf for hurricane.
So this is the thing they have been shouting about? This is the commotion? Chai! I lay on that bed, my chest rising and falling, and I knew one truth: I had stumbled upon a secret pot of gold.
After that first time, my body became my own private discovery channel. I was fingering myself damn near every single night. Some evenings, I wouldn’t just settle for one climax; I’d wrung two or three shuddering orgasms out of myself before my head even hit the pillow.
My mind was constantly buzzing with thoughts of sex, a deep, gnawing curiosity about the whole messy, glorious business.
My mom, being a proper Nigerian nurse, had sat me down for “The Talk” when my period started. She gave me the whole clinical rundown—a sterile diagram of ovaries and fallopian tubes, a warning about pregnancy that could curdle your blood. It was fine for what it was, but Jesus Christ, it was like someone explaining the thrill of a pepper soup by listing the ingredients.
I didn’t just want to know how not to get pregnant; I wanted to know about the fire, the pleasure, the good-good that made the risk worth it.
Frankly, the boys in my school weren’t lighting that fire. And why would they? I was a bloody oddity. I felt like a giraffe someone had forced into a school uniform—towering over most of the guys in my senior class.
My ass and hips were a lost cause, stubbornly wide no matter how many miles I ran, as if they had a mind of their own. And my top half? God was playing a cruel joke. While my sister was blessed with this magnificent, proud chest, I was working with what felt like a pair of meek, underachieving cousins. To crown it all, I had these glasses, a nose I had busted in a bike crash that never quite straightened out, and I was always buried in a book, collecting A’s like they were going out of style. Let’s just say the boys weren’t exactly forming a queue.
*
My friend Edima lived just up the road. We were the same age, joined at the hip since junior high. Edima, half-Naija and half-Oyibo, was still built like a small child. She was short, with a head of stubborn curly hair, and her chest was even flatter than mine. From the back, you would swear you were seeing a twelve-year-old boy.
Puberty had looked at her and just kept on moving.
We never really ventured into talking about sex, but one evening, her voice crackled through the phone, urgent and low. “Ngozi, get your ass over here now! I found something we need to see!”
Tucked away in a dusty box in her parents’ store, Edima had uncovered a stack of old, porn magazines.
That night, with her parents gone, we huddled on her floor and cracked one open. I put on a show, giggling and squealing
“God, that’s disgusting!” like I was supposed to. But secretly, my entire body was buzzing. I was mesmerised by the sight of these women, so boldly naked and unashamed. I loved their heavy breasts and their full, round backsides, even though I thought their shaved pussies looked strange.
Then we saw it—a spread of two women tangled up together, doing things I had never even dreamed of. The idea hooked itself deep in my brain, and I found it… intriguing. But the best part, the part that stole my breath, was the picture of a man and a woman actually fucking. I had never seen a naked man, and there he was, in all his glory. A hard, thick dick, poised to push its entire length into that lucky woman’s wet, waiting hole.
By the time I left, I was a mess—soaked, sensitive, and throbbing with a need I barely understood. I practically ran home, my mind racing, desperate to get to my room and rub my clit until this fire died down. Maybe I could convince Edima to lend me one of those magazines. Or maybe, just maybe, she would want to try out some of those pictures for ourselves.
The house was supposed to be a ghost town. Mama, on her night shift at the hospital, and Chinyere… ah, Chinyere, my 21-year-old sister, was supposed to be out on a date with that Felix boy.
My sister, the saint, the one who always clutched her pearls and told me sex was a painful, disgusting punishment from God that she would only endure after a ring was on her finger. I thought that was a whole pile of bullshit. I had plans to explore that particular topic much, much sooner.
So when I saw that strange car in our driveway, my brain short-circuited. The whole place was dark. I slid inside like a thief, locking the door behind me, and was about to make a dash for my room when a sound from the living room froze me solid.
It wasn’t a loud sound. Just a… movement. My curiosity, damn it, got the better of me. I held my breath and crept down the hall like a bloody ninja, peering around the doorway.
And there they were. On the very sofa where Mama hosted her prayer group meetings, was my holy-than-thou sister, Chinyere, and her boyfriend, Felix.
*
Felix was twenty-four, built like a NEPA pole—tall and slim—with those serious, thick-rimmed glasses that made him look like a fine, intelligent professor. I had seen him plenty of times, and each time, a silent war broke out in my belly. The boy was fine, no be small thing. But to him, I was just “Chinyere’s small sister,” a child wey dey follow them for house. Invisible.
But tonight, on our good living room sofa, invisible was the last thing he was. Him and my “holy” sister were trying to swallow each other’s faces. Chinyere’s shirt was flung open, her bra unsnapped and hanging loose like two useless pieces of cloth.
Her massive breasts—the ones I prayed to God for every night—were completely out in the open. Felix had one in each hand, squeezing and kneading them like dough, and my sister, this certified saint, was pushing her chest into his hands like her life depended on it. Her nipples were erect, stiff and dark like ripe udala seeds.
My own hand had somehow found its way between my legs, pressing hard against my jeans. My eyes were glued to the massive bulge straining against the front of Felix’s trousers. A thick, jealous heat flooded my body.
See this fucking luck, I thought, my fingers moving in a slow, desperate circle. *If I were that girl, I would not be wasting any fucking time.
My eyes were practically popping out of my head. I watched, rooted to the spot, as Chinyere’s skirt inched its way up her thighs like it had a mind of its own. There they were, her white panties, stretched tight over her pussy like a second skin.
Then her legs just fell open, and Felix’s greedy hand dove right in, rubbing and pawing at her through the cotton. The whole scene was so raw, so shameless, I could feel my own panties getting soaked right there in the hallway.
Then, just like that, the switch flipped. Chinyere shoved his hand away. “Biko, stop! That’s enough!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. My jaw nearly hit the floor. This girl was a bloody paradox! Felix looked like he’d been slapped. He started begging, his voice a low, desperate whine.
“Please, nne, just a little more…”
But her mind was set in concrete. “No! And anyway, my small sister will soon show up. You want that sharp-eyed witch to find us looking like animals?”
My own heart started pounding like a talking drum.
Felix, looking genuinely pained, tried a new tactic. “At least… just use your hand, abeg. I’m so hard, I’m going to mess up my trousers.”
“God forbid!” Chinyere recoiled like he had asked her to touch a rotten corpse. She let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind Mama gives when we’ve disappointed her. “Look, I know you men and your… urges. If it’s that serious, go and sort yourself out inside the bathroom.”
Jerk off in the bathroom?! Is it the Holy Ghost that will come and help you? This fine, fresh fish like Felix, and she is sending him to go and be wrestling with himself inside the toilet! What a wicked waste!
A man like this, with shoulders that could carry a family and a smile that could melt butter, and she is giving him a lecture instead of affection. If I had been the firstborn, this kind of foolishness would not be happening in this house.
The plan clicked in my head, fully formed. Before I could even think twice, I had walked into the bathroom just down the hall and perched on the closed toilet lid, my heart beating like an talking drum.
The door opened a moment later. Felix blundered in, flicked on the light, and shut the door before his eyes adjusted and landed on me.
“Ngozi!” he hissed, his voice tight with panic. “What kind of nonsense is this? What did you see?”
“Ssh! Keep your voice down,” I whispered, my own voice low and smooth. “I heard what my sister said.
That’s a mean trick to play on a man. Don’t worry, I can help you with that problem.”
His eyes nearly popped from his head. “What? Are you mad? You’re just a small girl!”
“Small girl where?” I shot back, my gaze dropping pointedly to the very obvious tent in his trousers. “I’ll be nineteen next year. Now bring that thing out before my sister starts calling your name.”
Argument was a language Felix’s body had already forgotten. His hands, clumsy with urgency, went to his jeans. He fumbled with the button and zip, shoving them down to his ankles. And just like that, his prick, thick and hard and eager, sprang free from his boxers, standing at full attention.
Jesus! My eyes nearly jumped from their sockets. This thing was a proper weapon. All of that was meant to disappear inside a woman? The thought alone sent a shiver through me. Still, I couldn’t deny it was a beautiful sight.
My hand closed around it, and my fingers couldn’t even meet. The heat coming off it was shocking, like holding a living coal. It was solid as steel, yet it pulsed and trembled in my grip. The head was an angry black, glistening with a clear drop that leaked from the tip. I gave a tentative stroke, amazed at the skin—softer than the finest velvet, yet stretched taut over all that rigid hardness. It felt sinfully good to touch.
My eyes drifted down to his balls, drawn up tight and high. What a strange and wonderful design for a man, to have all this power and vulnerability just dangling there.
“Hurry up, abeg!” he whispered, his voice strained. “Before your sister starts wondering if I’ve fallen into the pit.”
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