If only I could take her home that afternoon..lord knows the things I would have done to her. While fake sobbing, with my right arm wrapped around her wide curvy hips, I had made my request.
‘Be with me’. I asked her.
She blushed then chuckled. Seductive sounds like whispers spurred me on.
‘I’m in love with your body’, I continued, sitting forward. Removing my cheek from the curve of her hip to rest my small chin on it. I stared up into her face while the world buzzed around us. My best friend chuckled at my confession. He drew us out of our reverie even though he handsomely stood at arms length. I breathed against the smooth black fabric of her skirt pulling away from it. One last sniff stored away her floral, slightly earthy scent. This sent pleasure waves across my big soft breasts peeping through the V in my white short sleeved dress. Wrinkles form a step of lines at my waist and hips as I sat perched on the steel chair. I couldn’t look at my chuckling best friend while she went on to ask questions. With each question she stroked my small glittering earlobe and poofy, kinky, nape bun. It was torture having her voluptuous butt so close to my left arm while answering intelligently.
“What would your Mom say? People would bash us!”, her rushed words voice her founded worries. “Who cares about what people would say? My mother is supportive.” I answer quickly. As usual, she didn’t discourage my advances. Neither did she outrightly say she was mine. As the intoxicating coffee coloured beauty she is, she flirted. Which was worse. Blissful torture.
• • •
If I took her home that afternoon. I would love her. I’d cook whatever little thing I had in those large, clear, plastic food containers. Maybe eba and some bitter-spicy ofe nwugo . We’d giggle as we slip out of our work clothes of peach velvet, half shoe and burgundy mules, white cotton dress, black skirt and wine chiffon shirt. Maybe we’d leave the clothes on the tiny white fur rug way from the grease smeared glass bowls on the left tree stomp stool. My petite palms held by her dark knuckled palms guiding mine to her waist.
To gently peel off her panties while she wiggles her hips and smiles,
to kneel on tickly fur before her clit and lap at it till it tweaks,
to ease her nude coffee body unto my cotton soft bed and pastel pillows. Pillows that cradled my lustful dreams of her body every other night.
To cup—massage her small breasts,
to bend my brown-pink soft lips to litter feather kisses on her dark chocolately nipples,
to follow my kisses with warm tongue lapping and swirling,
to pump desire that I feel into her while sucking her budded nipples.
To hear her moan as my tongue retracts into my moist mouth and
stamp soft kisses from her erect left nipple to her right breast.
If I could get her to bend on her knees and palms. I’d savour my delicacy, her upturned vulva, labia lips, clit, vestibule and butt cheeks. It would be a feast of licks, dripping juices, moans, nibbling, gentle sucking, licks, pumping a finger or two into her vagina. I’d increase my tempo then slowly savour her. And when repeated oragsms make her thick brown thighs quiver weakly. I’d pull her to sit on my thick caramel coloured thighs. I’d stroke her dark tummy as her back heaves against my full breasts.. My lips would whisper in her ears.
“Did you like that? Would you like something to drink? Should I do that again. Would you like to touch me more? Your skin is smoother than it looks. You taste delicious and creamy. I want to be with you again. Stay the weekend please.”
Or maybe I’d maneuver our thick thighs, press my perky nipples into her smooth back while we cuddle then sleep on my cool, brown Binti-afrofuturism themed golden art-etched tiles.
If I could.. but I can’t. Till I can, I’ll take her for the food festival thus weekend. She has wanted to attend. “Afrobeats, fellow food lovers, vendors of scintilating taste, sunshine filtered by smoky heat, fashionistas, debit card swipes and us. Won’t that be amazing?!” I ask looking into her brown gold flecked eyes.
“It will!”, she agrees slowly withdrawing her hand from my earlobe.
•IF I COULD is a ZAZA entry. ZAZA is a heartfelt queer memoir of self love, sensuality, erotic sex and romance.