How To Make Her Scream Your Name In Wonderland

He was sitting at the edge of my bed. Most nights we talked in my room, or at a corner in the compound that housed the main building and the quarters. There were times we ‘gisted’ till 10 p.m., once, 11 p.m., discussing varied topics from politics to marriage. We never lacked anything to say to each other. He was a good gentleman, one of the most gallant men I’ve ever met. He was tall and handsome; though outspoken, sometimes appearing to be shy. I met him the first day I came into the compound, and we quickly became close, closer as each day passed. We had been drawn to each other  like magnets. That fateful day, it happened that we were the only ones in the compound; well, just us and the gate man.

It was election period and the landlord and other tenants had travelled with their families, scared there might be crisis. As he sat there in my room that calm night, we suddenly became quiet. For the first time ever, we ran out of things to discuss. I glanced his way; he appeared lost in thought. I  wondered, for a brief second, what he was thinking.

I waited to hear “Miss, have a lovely night” as he usually did before rising to leave, but it didn’t come. He spoke with a tribal accent that was sweet to the ears. Then I felt him shift. The next moment, I felt his hand on my face. He was touching my lips, running his thumb over them, his eyes dim with focus.

Men are always usually fascinated by my lips and I kept wondering why. With his thumb, he continued to caress my lips, moving round the entire outline.

My eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Then he moved to my ear and started to stroke it too, touching it like he would a baby.

I was quiet still.

With great care he continued, lovingly.

He kept on at it until I whispered to him, as if afraid someone else would hear, ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Sshh,’ he said. ‘Just enjoy it.’

I remained quiet, still wondering what was there to enjoy in his stroking my face. I didn’t remember asking him for a facial massage. Nothing on my face is sensitive enough to bring pleasure.

Just so I thought.

Truth is, I’ve never trusted a man with anything before, my body least of all.

But I allowed him. I liked him.

His hands travelled down to my neck, stroked it a while and...

then down to my breasts.

He slipped his lips into mine as he cupped one breast.vFor once, I felt something. A sudden twitch, as if from cold.

Through the flimsy fabric of my nightie, he stroked the tips of my breasts, ever so gently.

He took them in turns now, working with experience. For a man in his thirties, his hand was surprisingly smooth.

He would hold one breast tip between his fingers and then twist gently. Had my mouth been free, I’d have thrown out a moan.

Then he pulled out his lips. He looked at me, great emotion in his eyes.

Seeing him that way, a sudden warmness flowed through me, swiftly spreading round every nerve in my body.

My heart started to beat faster. I could feel the intense arousal starting to build up within me.

He drew down my nightie to bare my breasts; he cupped each breast with his hands and kept on teasing the tips.

I began to moan quietly.

Then his lips descended on one rock-hard nipple, covering it, soft and wet.

I felt a sudden vibration all round my body. My knees knocked together.

With a combination of his sweet, fleshy lips, tongue and teeth, he gave me a feeling that was close to magic. He worked on me with ripe experience—one hand covering one breast, his lips covering the other.

He switched style with a delicious rhythm. My body was now warm, every nerve in me was stretching, pulling away as I breastfed him.

He kept on at my tips till it became sweet torture. But he knew just when to stop.

He was skilled. Obviously.

His hands went down to my stomach. He stroked my navel

lightly and then moved down to my spot.

I was already filled with fluid.

He palmed my womanhood and began rubbing that little pleasure

nub at the entrance.

I started to convulse.

He kept on rubbing for a while, and then he slipped two fingers into me.

My mouth burst open.

As he moved his fingers round my wet warm self, the pleasure soared to a tremulous height. This is wrong!’ a voice whispered to my ears.

He was married; he’d told he has a wife in the village.

But I quickly brushed off the voice and gave myself completely away to the flight.

However could I have resisted? I was already in Wonderland, he’d sent me there. Right then, if you ask me my name, I would scream Alice!

I was now writhing to every of his movement, moaning his name

repeatedly. Something kept enlarging in me, I could feel it strongly now.

Intense and deep. Like a huge ball of pleasure, one that could explode soon and leave me swimming in a sugary syrupy river.

He just sat there, calm, quiet, all his concentration in making me

feel amazing.

Now my breath came in labored gasps.

My legs were jerking. I held him, my fingers digging into his back.

He kept on at it.

My hands were moving all over his back now, as if searching for something to hold. Something to grip before I pour away.

He didn’t let go, instead he kept up faster.

I let out a great loud moan as my body raked to the explosion.

I have never had a wet arrival before. It was my very first.

Sweet and lovingly filling.

He continued stroking my wet area as if to make sure I savored

every drop of the wonderful feeling. He wanted to take me through another ride, but I had to make him stop.

I was getting sore and sensitive.

I began to feel guilty and I told him.

He assured me that it was okay, that he had wanted to do it

all along. That I didn’t seduce him.

He didn’t ask for anything in return like most guys would; all he wanted was just to please me.

Now as I stare at that particular spot on my bed where he sat that night, now empty with no sign of him anywhere around, neither in my room nor anywhere in the compound, I couldn’t help but feel low.

His presence, his scent, his talks about money and Nigeria and the bad government, his laughter, his infectious toothy smile—they are all gone now.

There is this emptiness I feel in his absence.

Though it has been some days since he left, I still feel vacant, like a house stripped of all its furniture. The compound suddenly became too quiet, lifeless.

I feel lonely.

I feel scared at night.

But I smile at every thought of you.