Emily was freshly massaged, skin glowing from head to toe, right under her white towel. Laying next to her, Anne-Marie drew her close, their lips almost touching, while her hand traveled down south to her pot of gold. Her movements were deliberate; nimble fingers lingering on Emily’s clitoris while their lips drew closer together. Just when she thought her clitoris was about to be given some good good loving, she felt Anne-Marie’s middle finger plunge into her depths just as her lips captured hers. Bliss. Emily dug her fingers through Anne-Marie’s hair, pulling her head closer to her, while Anne-Marie drew Emily even closer to her chest while she inserted two of her fingers into her and thrust. She was moist and warm, inviting, just like her mouth was. She kissed her back with wanton abandon and lustful fervor, her clitoris throbbing mildly in invitation for what could come next. Anne-Marie broke the kiss, briefly. 

“Can we use your vibrator?”

“Yes. What else do you want?”

“Blindfold. Handcuffs.”


Emily got off the bed and presented Anne-Marie with the tools of her oncoming punishment, suspecting she would enjoy it much more than she anticipated, if previous experience was anything to go by. She sat while Anne-Marie blindfolded and cuffed her, then lay her down on her back. Kneeling between Emily’s thighs, she hooked them in her arms and pulled her closer, then leaned in to drop a benign kiss on her parted, anticipating lips, down to her neck, and finally her already erect nipples. Emily wondered what kind of voo doo Anne-Marie had over her; her entire skin felt electrified by her breath and presence, and her touch was something else. There she lay, blindfolded and cuffed, at her mercy, with only anticipated pleasure coursing her consciousness. Anne-Marie took her left nipple in her mouth and sucked, twirling her lips around it before clamping her teeth down on her. Emily moaned and arched her back as if to beckon Anne-Marie to take more, to bite more. She bit harder, then soothed by suction when Em started writhing. Moving to her right while her fingers pinched her heft nipple, Anne-Marie went hard, biting and eliciting a rather loud moan from Em. Hands above her head, Em arched towards and writhed away, cursing repeatedly, sweet pain coursing from her right nipple throughout her nervous system, right down to her clitoris. 

“Red! Red!” 

Em couldn’t contain an over load of pleasure on her freshly massaged body. Anne-Marie let go of her nipple and went down to her clitoris, kissing her way down her belly and finally settling for her meal. She ran her tongue up and down, tasting her clitoris, her wetness and back to her clitoris. She then latched on, taking her clitoris between her lips, sucking gently, while her tongue went to work flicking up and down, left and right, in circles, teasing the soft, sensitive flesh of Em’s clitoris to the point of arousal. And just as she started twitching and quivering, an orgasm beckoning, Anne-Marie ceased pleasuring her, edging her, then kissing her as she moaned and writhed while her clitoris was left hanging over the orgasmic cliff. Fuck. Why though? Why not let her just cum anyway? Why edge her thus?

In that same breath, Anne-Marie powered the vibrator and placed it over Em’s clitoris. And moved it gently, in circles, alternating the vibrator’s intensity. That sudden switch of sensation from tongue to vibrations confused the fuck out of Emily, yet still in an infinitely pleasurable way. Same way Anne-Marie’s tongue moved in Em’s mouth, is the same way she moved the vibrator on her sensitive clitoris. Em moaned into Anne-Marie’s mouth, winding her pelvis to counter her movements. Until her climax hit. She arched her back and moaned, releasing whatever energy she could through her lips as the rest coursed her body like the volcano once swept through the streets of Pompeii. Anne-Marie took advantage and latched her lips onto Em’s clitoris again, tasting her orgasm and preparing her for another, stronger one. Em moaned, and rode Anne-Marie’s face, feeling the vibrator dance dangerously close to her vulva where it had been abandoned, still vibrating, on her sheets. She reached her hands up to cup Em’s breasts and pinch her nipples, while her lips and tongue wreaked havoc on her womanhood. 


Skin covered in arousal, orgasm and tantric sexual energy, Em let herself go wherever Anne-Marie led. Whether it was off the edge of a cliff or out of a plane, 30,000 feet above sea level, she went. That tongue – Lorde, that tongue! She felt her orgasm coming again, this one more intense than the first one of the afternoon, her blood rushing so fast down to her clitoris along with all her nerve endings. Anne-Marie tasted her orgasm on her tongue, the pulse, strength and intensity of it, while Em struggled to find her voice to scream. It seems her voice had traveled down to her clitoris with the rest of her cognitive abilities, because, in the midst of that decadent orgasmic sensation, Anne-Marie kept pleasuring her and groaning on her arousal, her flower dripping the sweet-smelling nectar of female arousal. She let her clitoris go and ran her tongue along the rest of her womanhood, tasting the nectar and the spot right below her clitoris. Em’s body quivered and shook, her breath coming in staccato, her fingers clasped into fists above her head, and head as far back into the pillows as her neck could possibly crane. Anne-Marie kissed her way back to Em’s lips from her belly, removed the blindfold, took the cuffs off her wrists and cradled her in the crook of her arm, holding her until the post orgasmic tremors racking Em’s body subsided and her breathing went back to normal.  




He thought of her, often, her smile and voice creeping into his thoughts every now and then, pleasantly interrupting his daily work routine. Sometimes, he smiled to himself, whenever he thought of something she may have said or done at some point or other that was uniquely her. She intrigued him; her hunger for life, her rare naked moments of vulnerability, her insatiable craving for him and her lust for love. That, as well as her hard exoskeleton in stark contrast to her soft insides; a truth not many were able to see beneath her beautiful. The taste of her lips was still fresh – always fresh – on his own. In a perfect world, he would have done anything and everything he could for her, but theirs was imperfect. So he did what he could for her; from, being a sounding board, a confidant, a friend, the lover and the one who saw her, when everyone else didn’t. And he said what he could say, without freaking her out and without sending her into a tailspin of wild conjecture. But words were her thing, and he knew, so whatever he said to her, he knew she would find meaning in it and either respond by asking questions or by sending her own song to him. 


On one such cold, rainy morning, he thought of her skin. What she might have been doing that very moment; if she was already awake reading, writing, meditating or doing yoga, or if she was getting ready for an early work day. He wondered what color her socks were, what color her bed sheets were. He wondered what shower gel her skin faintly smelled of from her routine scrub-down before bed; was it flowery, fruity or milky? He wondered which moisturizer she used the night before, and what color water bottle she had beside her bed. He wondered what chemise she slept in the night before, and if she fell asleep with her laptop, notebook, spectacles and pink vibrator occupying the empty half of her bed. He wondered if she would wake up to his soft kisses on her skin; on the back of her ear, the side of her neck and her shoulder. If she would stir awake as he caressed her skin, from her shoulder to her elbow, down her silky chemise to her soft thigh. And if, as she woke, she would push her chest forward as his hand made its way up her belly to cup her breast and tweak her nipple under her chemise. If she would moan “Bonjour, Papi” as he bit her neck. She would sigh, undoubtedly, and either place her hand over his as he molded her breast, or reach for the back of his head to keep him in place, as she wriggled her bottom on his groin and felt his morning wood try to bore through the fabric of his boxers and her chemise, to feel the warmth of the diamond nestled at the meeting of her thighs. 

He would trace his fingers back down to her thighs and over her rounded, perky bottom, down to where her thighs met from the back, and dip into her to test how  ready she was for him. Thing is, she was always ready for him; his touch was magic to her. She would be soaking, and he would dip the tip of his middle finger inside her then work up to her clitoris and rub it in circles, alternating the pressure between hard and soft, until he could feel her own orgasmic pressure begin to rise to dangerous levels. He would then turn her over to face him; he wanted to see her first climax of the day on her face and feel it on his fingers. He would then slide his index and middle fingers into her honey pot, deep, and place his thumb on her clitoris, and do what her vibrator did every morning in his absence. He would watch her come undone, through narrowed eyes, voice caught in her throat, head thrown back, eyeballs rolled into her skull, and as she exploded for him, he would slide his fingers out and replace them with his throbbing manhood, sliding deep and kissing her, sending her moans into his own mouth. He wasn’t worried about morning breath; her dental hygiene routine was rigorous and effective. 


Feeling her tremors on his manhood buried deep, he would thrust slow and deep, her thighs wrapped around him, her hands on his face, her lips and tongue submitting to his own. Her thighs would start to quiver, her walls vibrating around him, her already labored breath coming in shorter staccatos, her heart, against his chest, thundering like a racehorse beneath her rib cage. Her legs would clench his waist, to imprison him, and he would oblige her for that one, and he would break the kiss to choke her as she came again, so quickly after the first one. He would watch her again, and feel her flesh give in to him as she crumbled, mind, body and soul, mouthing his name, involuntary tears rolling down the sides of her face. He would let go of her throat, and hold her right thigh up as he thrust hard and deep, still slow, however, until her head hit the headboard and in turn, the headboard hit the wall behind them. He would thrust long and deep, hitting her cervix and making her gasp and moan with each thrust, as he started to groan and will his own climax to come ashore. His rhythm would be relentless, unforgiving yet loving, rubber-stamping his dick print on her walls and leaving no room for doubt. Her third successive climax would be what he was aiming for, feeling her walls clench hard around him and her ejaculate squirting out in jets each time he pulled out. But he would not be pushed out, no. He would keep thrusting as she came all over his belly, thighs, her own thighs, and just as she peaked, he, too, would gush inside her, and as she quivered like a leaf in the wind and moaned beneath him, he would share his essence with her. He would then kiss her gently, softly, as her quivers started to subside with the morning rain, and against her lips, he would whisper. 

“Bonjour, mon petit chat.”



I’ve been on a journey to rediscovering myself, reclaiming myself and consciously choosing myself, my peace of mind and my happiness on a daily basis. Part of this journey included forgiving myself and forgiving others, and also learning to love my body eight years into being a mother, and twenty four years after being involved in a freak accident that left the right side of my belly, my right elbow and right hip scarred for life. In terms of forgiveness, I could write a list of people that would be hundreds of miles long but let’s not get into that. Let’s talk about my body positivity journey. One would look at me and ask themselves; why on earth would anyone as stunning as her not be confident about her body? For the simplest of reasons – I never felt enough. Until, I was reassured, reaffirmed and reminded that I am enough. And my body is enough. Unique in frame, adorned by scars and tattoos, draped in the most glorious skin. Even though I got all this reassurance from many others, I had to reassure myself for it to mean anything. 


This morning, my dear, darling friend Liz sent me a YouTube link to Luvvie’s TED Talk. She opens by saying that she is a professional troublemaker, and this is something I strongly resonate with. By speaking my truth, being unashamed by my past or my choices, most of which make so many people uncomfortable. Like taking tastefully artistic photos and posting them on my social media platforms, for instance. The internet, and specifically the infamous KOT (Kenyans On Twitter), can be a vicious machine. On Monday night, I posted one such photo (see below) and the backlash I got was tremendous. Name-calling (whore, slut, prostitute and the predictable lot), ridiculed and shamed by men and women alike went on for a little over 38 hours. They even dragged my ex-husband into this mess and decided I created a fake account just to prove I was once married! I was even called a “burnt offering” and the clincher is one such idle mind went ahead and posted my pictures on PornHub. As if that wasn’t enough, some nefarious people have been using my photos to further their own dark agendas on Telegram and Craigslist, and sometimes using my e-mail address.


It is usually at this point that a normal human being would break. Delete all social media, sink into depression, contemplate suicide and become a shadow of themselves. Unsurprisingly, I’m still here, and still whole. And I can bet my bottom dollar that that simple act of defiance – not breaking – makes the very same people that are pressed by my unapologetic existence very uncomfortable. Well, get comfortable being uncomfortable, because as far as my legacy is concerned, no human being who interacts with my work will ever be ashamed of their bodies or their appearance. And by sharing some of my photos, this is me making a bold statement and saying to every  man or woman everywhere, that they don’t owe anyone a flat stomach, flawless skin or whatever else society (read cyber trolls) thinks is their standard of acceptable appearance. They don’t hold the monotony on that. Matter of fact, they don’t own the monotony to anything at all! They do, however, need to fix their lives and their attitudes – their self loathing is showing. 


I am definitely not the first woman to be shamed for her self love, body positivity and lack of shame with regards to her sexuality. And I may not be the last. But I choose to yell in a world that demands I speak in whispers. I choose to make trouble and make everyone uncomfortable to a point where they simply can’t remain neutral. I choose to effect change by speaking up, saying it with my chest both online and offline,  and being a domino. By showing the world that the more they spill their negativity my way, the more convinced I am that I am most certainly doing something right. By staying defiant and unburnt (I am, after all, the Khaleesi!) by their acidic words and online actions which they fail miserably and spectacularly to defend in person. By showing them that I have bigger balls than they will ever have, and an even bigger dick. Yes, they’ve called me a man too but so what? I am more than they will ever be, and I will be more for the millions of people who feel afraid and voiceless in the face of keyboard warriors. I will be the first domino to fall, so that the effect we cause will ripple much further than the digital space and go well beyond their comfort zones and right in their faces. They may have called me a burnt offering, but I am one heck of a burnt offering and I’m coming to burn everything they hide behind. I am not unafraid of the consequences of speaking truth to power, but someone has to do it; right? The table must not only be shaken; it must be broken and burned for kindling, and replaced with a newer, sturdier one. One where those who speak truth to power have a much bigger impact than the naysayers. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum!



She sipped her wine from the bottle. She knew he didn’t like it, but she did anyway. And she loved it especially when he was there, watching her in that heated way of his, disapproving, and mentally punishing her before he translated his thoughts into action. Her defiance was a turn on to him. She had made them dinner, a rare occurrence. He had this belief that cooking was a chore to her and she kept telling him she loved it because it was therapeutic. So she asked him to come to dinner, and she cooked. Nothing fancy; just roast potatoes with salt, black pepper and rosemary, sauteed vegetables, garlic and lemon prawns and grilled chicken. Paired with sweet white wine, to open up the flavors. Admittedly, he was impressed by her skills, and she was glad he felt the way he did. He kept looking at her, sitting there, next to him, in that simple black dress, barefoot, make-up free, subtle wisps of her scent wafting towards him. He watched her put a bite of her prawns in her mouth, watched her swirl the wine around her tongue, watched her close her eyes and truly savor the taste of her own food. He watched her. 


When they were finished with dinner, she cleared the table, soaked the dishes and sat on the carpet with the rest of the wine. He joined her, glass in hand, on the sofa, and they talked. About anything, everything, and nothing in particular. They just talked. Then the conversation became loaded with innuendo, and she struggled to maintain her composure. He had a way of making her come undone in the simplest of ways; a simple word, a gesture. A slight tug at her thread and she came undone. She emptied her wine glass, topped his off and sipped from the bottle. Reckless, petulant and defiant. She dangled her defiance in his face like a shiny object, and he pulled. Much as he had the uncanny ability to unravel her so very simply, she, too, knew what triggers to pull for him to come undone. Her petulance, for instance. Punishment (and gratitude) would surely follow suit. She got up on the sofa and sat next to him; close enough but not too close. He took her hand and placed it on his thigh, where his manhood was nestled, throbbing and aching for her. She inhaled through her slightly parted lips, eyes never leaving his, and pulled her hand away. 

“I’m trying my best to keep it together. You’re not helping.”

“I’m not?” he asked, in that devilishly low tone. 

“No, you’re not. And you know it.” 

She got up, walked to the balcony and slid the doors open, letting the cold air cool her flushed face. She turned around and finished the last of the wine from the bottle, watching him, knowing what would take place next. He finished his wine too, and they momentarily watched each other in the silence; empty wine glasses and an empty bottle.

“Should we get more wine?” he asked.

“Do you want to get more wine?” she countered. 

“Yeah, for later, maybe.” 

“You know I’ll drink it by myself as soon as you walk out of my door.” 

“It’s meant to be shared, and I know you’ll drink it straight from the bottle, you petulant child.” She smiled and walked towards him, picking her empty wine glass on the way. 

“Let me get that for you,” she said, reaching for his empty wine glass. She took them all to the kitchen, soaked them in the sink, and walked slowly back towards him. He stretched out his hand to her, she placed her palm in his, and he guided her to straddle him. He was still fully dressed, but in the short time it took her between him, the sink and back, he had already unzipped his pants and freed his throbbing manhood. He was ready for her; he wanted – nay – craved her. To no surprise, she wore no panties beneath her dress. He ran his palms up her thighs and cupped her ass cheeks, while she rubbed her already ridiculously wet mound on his glans. Fuck, she thought, and sighed. He wasn’t even inside her yet but her body was on fire. His face was nestled between her small breasts, his breath searing her skin as he inhaled her scent and exhaled desire. He moved his hands from her ass, up her waist, round to her rib cage and finally to her breasts, and cupped them. They fit so perfectly in his hands, she thought, and while he kneaded and molded them, she slowly lowered herself onto him. It was time for his inches to inspect her walls. Time for her to devour him, as he had her cooking. It was time. 

She started moving, up and down, front and back, round and round, in slow motion, sighing with every other breath, her hands gripping the back of the seat on either side of his face, as if to keep him in place. He slid his hands back to her ass, slid lower into the sofa so she took more of him, and moved with her. In her. Meeting her halfway, thrusting at her tempo, going deeper each time. Fuck. She was wet, so very. He held her in place, then she held his face upturned to kiss him. She needed his tongue doing those things it did to her multiple times before. She needed to taste him, swirl him in her mouth as she did the wine at dinner. She kept moving him inside her, tongue and manhood, moaning softly, needing freedom from both their clothes. She unbuttoned his shirt, and some pesky buttons proved stubborn. She was desperate to rip it off him, but willed her fingers to keep unbuttoning and not rip, and they cooperated. Shirt finally off, she pushed it off his shoulders and was slightly disappointed to find a vest underneath. That meant more clothes to get rid of. She got on with it quickly, pulling the vest from his back, up over his head, breaking the kiss just long enough for him to get rid of it. His hands came down with such strength and clamped on her waist and ass, moving with her while she pulled her own dress over her head and discarded her bra. Then she felt it. She was losing herself to him. Climax. Fuck. She gripped the back of the sofa while the waves washed over her, as if to keep a firm grasp of reality and not get lost in pleasure. Her thighs and ass quivered wildly around him, her heart racing, and he took the opportunity to turn one climax into a double. He clasped her ass cheeks and counter stroked, then felt her come undone again until she collapsed on his shoulder.


She slid off him and onto the carpet, breathing hard, her heart beating out of her chest. He took his pants, boxers and socks off all in one motion, while she caught her breath. He joined her on the carpet, crawled till his dick was right above her face, and she took him in her mouth. She watched him get lost in her. She watched him as she took him into her mouth, his eyes closed, lips parted, soft groans coming from his chest through his lips in ohs. He pulled out of her mouth, helped her up and perched her on the sofa’s armrest. It was time for her to feel his wrath and gratitude in full equal measure. She lay back, thighs parted, knees up, legs on his shoulders, and felt him slide into her and thrust. He was deep. It didn’t take long for her to unravel once again, and this time a flood was coming too. In between moaning, breathing and trying not to die from pleasure, she tried to warn him but the words just couldn’t formulate themselves into coherence. Her floodgates opened and she started to squirt, then he suddenly pulled out and led her to the dining table, bending her over it and going hard on her. Her legs shook, breath caught, her orgasm shooting out in one, endless stream, on him, on her thighs, spilling onto the floor in a pool between her legs. His hands never left her hips, he never stopped thrusting, she couldn’t stop quivering or calling out his name and desperately looking for something to hold on to, to keep her in the present. Eventually her legs gave way, and he supported her as she fumbled back onto the carpet, breathing heavily while he seemed not to have even broken a sweat. How unfair! 


He perched her up on the cushions and opened her legs again, her legs on his shoulders and he on his knees. She took him in, once again, and felt him further up than before. This man kept unlocking levels of her vagina she didn’t think existed, but there he was, exploring new corners of pussy town. Fuck. Could any single human be this sexually effective? And could she be hungry for anyone else as she was for him? She felt him start to throb inside her, his own climax looming over them, and knew where she wanted to be. Right there, in the present, his seed spilling inside her while she flexed her walls to drain all of it into her waiting receptacle. He exploded into her, then collapsed on her chest, holding her close and listening to their breaths and wild heartbeats, kneeling between her thighs and worshiping her even in post coital bliss. 


I remember in my birthday post v3.0 I talked about opening myself up to love in its purest form. I believe September was my love month in some way or other. It started by me accepting myself and loving myself deeply, unapologetically and unconditionally. Confessions, declarations, actions and affirmations seemed to flow my way throughout the month. Literature spoke to my soul, Rafiki the movie broke my emotional walls and music led my heart to places that were long abandoned. And finally, a tweet from my dear friend Emma made me realize that what I had been feeling through September meant I had started believing in love again. Genuinely.

Getting to this point meant I had to cut out a lot of bullshit. I made the intentional decision to choose myself and my own happiness first, always. I reclaimed my body, mind and soul. I have and continue to deliberately reclaim my time (I’m not responding to “hi” messages: state your business and if it’s worth my time I may respond) from being wasted by people who don’t value me. I am purposefully interacting and spending time with people who build me as a human, a woman, a mother and a friend. I am reading books that open my mind up more, and having conversations that add to my existing knowledge. I have created a self audit system where before I engage in anything, I assess its value and my stance in the issue; and if my stance is privileged then I seek more knowledge before engaging. I forgave those who wronged me, especially my son’s father, and mended fences. Most importantly, I forgave myself.

As September wore on, being intentional about my decisions from June made me realize that I was in the path I have always meant to walk. The chips are falling in place and I couldn’t be happier about it. I think, in many ways, experiencing Kenny Lattimore this weekend was the final nudge that sent me down the love path. I have been an ardent fan of his since I was a child; my most distinct memory of his music is of me fantasizing about a boy I liked in my neighborhood with Never Too Busy as the soundtrack. And a few years ago, someone I hold very near and dear to me reminded me that he was never too busy for me and to date, that has not changed. So, Kenny Lattimore may have had a singular mission in Nairobi – to speak to the hearts of women and the minds of men. Well; mission accomplished. He spoke to my heart that night. Also, I danced with him.

I guess this blog post is not the usual stuff I churn out, but in all honesty, if I’m to champion honesty and vulnerability in sex, love and relationships, I might as well be vulnerable with you and true to myself. That doesn’t make me any less of who I am; it gives me strength and courage to write this. I am empowered. Maybe love is the wind I need beneath my wings to make me soar.


I’m borrowing the title heavily from Ariana Grande’s hit single from the album Sweetener. That’s mainly because, over the past seven days, and most of my adult life really, I have witnessed time and again that God indeed is a woman. Why the title, you may ask? It all started with a Twitter thread I did last Monday on the various male sexual partners I’ve experienced from across Africa. You can follow my escapades here; just in case you missed that train. And right on cue, the patriarchy was frothing and foaming at the lips, incited by my brazen sexuality. Even some women came at me with insults to insinuate the size of my vagina may be unnaturally wide. Last night, I followed it up with my female sexual escapades across Africa here and as usual, there was backlash. This time less than the first thread. I suspect it’s because most of the men were silently holding me in awe and the women were genuinely happy someone came out with their pansexual experiences without fear or shame. Liberating!

Referring to God as a woman is because of one thing – as evidenced in the thread, I had some lackluster and unremarkable experiences with men. But with the women, there was a sacredness to it, and all my experiences were remarkable. And that is simply because women are love. Doesn’t matter how you look at it; God created women to be nurturers, and to nurture, one requires love. A woman’s ability to be polyamorous comes from the magic deep inside her frame, tattooed on her DNA. The women I was involved with showed me such love and acceptance; there were a few awkward moments but never an uncomfortable one. Whereas unlike with most men, the sexualization and objectification of my person and body as well as their assumed entitlement to it made for very many uncomfortable experiences that I really would rather not recount. And on very rare occasions did I feel unconditional love from men; it was lust for lust. Always transactional. Functional and uncomplicated, but cold, sometimes callous and mechanical. But with women? Love radiated from their pores into the atmosphere. So if God is Love and Women are Love, God Is A Woman. You feel me?

As mentioned earlier, women were created to nurture. Women, even the most powerful ones, are genetically predisposed to love more wholly, flawlessly and unconditionally – your fave could never. We have seen instances where men are unable to access and show their deepest vulnerabilities because “it’s not manly” thereby making themselves susceptible to emotional unawareness and stagnation, as well as possible mental health issues. Their inability to be vulnerable and the way the patriarchy is set up, a woman is not allowed to be herself with whomever she chooses or to be sexually liberated. Women are just supposed to give men sex, and that’s that. A woman is not allowed to share her body with whomever she chooses. A woman is not allowed to be unapologetic about her sexuality, and if she has a more impressive body count than men, or if she tells the truth of their lackluster sexual behavior, she’s branded a whore, a liar, a slut and every other colorful name in the book. Fuck that, and fuck them.

Women are magic. Women, especially black women, are made of earth, wind, fire, melanin and gun powder. Women are love on legs. Women are love in human form. Women are God’s living, breathing, manifestation of love, and insurmountable, unfathomable power. Women are life, and without women life would not exist. Whether Eve was created second, or from Adam’s rib, without Eve there would be no continuation of life. Therefore, women are sacred, and any act of love from women, by women, to the universe, is a sacred act. They shouldn’t be boxed into small, diminutive corners so men feel a semblance of control and importance. Get this clear; women and men are both important and need each other and I for one can attest to that. If my sexual experiences are anything to go by. I love women, and I love men. I love whoever the fuck I choose to love because I am a woman, and God is A Woman.

Thotimus Prime.


It had been several weeks since he made love to her. And he wanted to – so bad. So when he heard she was taking a trip to Hotel EnglishPoint in Mombasa for work, he took the opportunity to surprise her. He booked the first flight to Mombasa and didn’t mention a thing until he got to EnglishPoint Marina. He knew she needed a bikini so besides himself, he picked out a gorgeous blue two piece bikini for her to put her at ease. Then he called her.



“What are you doing?”

“I’m done with breakfast so we’re setting up by the pool.”

“Did you get that bikini you were looking for?”

“Not yet!”

“Sorry… anyway you said you’re by the pool?” He started walking towards the pool.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Turn around.”

She was standing by the poolside bar, then she turned. There he was, backpack over his shoulder, black bag in his left hand, phone pressed to his right ear. Her jaw dropped to the floor and she couldn’t move her limbs momentarily. Then it hit her – he was in Mombasa. He surprised her in Mombasa! She ran to him and jumped on him, hugging him so tight the force of her jump almost toppled both of them into the infinity pool.

They went up to his room, his hand barely touching her ass but touching it in the elevator. He pinned her by the door when they got in, dropping his backpack and the bag with her bikini to the floor as he kissed her. He captured her lower lip in his own and sucked on it, then her upper lip, while her hands held on for dear life on his neck. She wanted him naked, right there and then, so she reached down to the hem of his T-shirt and tugged upward. He pulled away long enough to take it off while her hands frantically worked on his pants, unfastening the button and zipper and pulling them down with his boxers to free his pulsating erection. His clothes pooled at his feet, he unzipped her little pink number to discover something he had never before seen – she wore lacy lingerie! He already knew what was underneath that black lacy number but he simply had to admire her.

“Wow!” He breathed it out. “You’re in lingerie.”

“I bought it so I figured I had to wear it sometime.” She responded.

“Were you expecting someone?”

“Hah hah. I wore it for me. You’re the bonus.”

She took him by his erect penis and led him to the bed, where she lay on her back and he, between her legs, on top of her. She wrapped him up in her legs and kissed him, their tongues performing the fiery human mating dance as his hands roved all over her skin and his erection throbbed on her. Gingerly, and expertly, he reached his right hand behind her and unhooked her bra. He then slipped both straps off her shoulders and through her hands, then broke the kiss to slide her black thong off. He held it in his hand and looked at the center; it was drenched with the white fluid of her arousal. She was ready for him.

Hooking his arms under her thighs, he slid her to the edge of the bed, spread her thighs open and looked at the feast before him. Deliberately, he slid just his glans and teased her, feeling her moistness envelop him. Then without warning, he buried himself balls deep into her and elicited a moan from her that made him stay still. He then started moving, stroking her walls left, right and center, going deeper each time to graze her cervix. He put her legs on his shoulders and went buck wild. He thrust, going slow and high tempo. Hard and mellow. Giving her what she (and he too) had been missing, taking what was his. She lay there, at his complete mercy, receiving the strokes as they came, legs shaking on his shoulders.

“Did you miss that?” he whispered

“Yes.” She moaned in response.

“Cum for me.”

Mustering all her composure, she responded “Then fuck me harder.”

He needed no further instructions. Pulling her closer to him, he impaled her hard, crushing her cervix, and in no time she was shuddering beneath him. First climax in. He went in for the kill, holding her neck tight with his right hand and squeezing, while his left held her waist to steady her. Then he thrust. Short, deep, intense strokes, burying himself deep inside her, her warmth and moistness enveloping him, and he felt the tremors start to build up again. She started bucking, her hands flailing, her breath short, then it washed over her. She came so hard; the force pushed him out of her alongside a hot jet of squirt that had been kept far too long inside her. Still convulsing and squirting, he pulled her towards him again.

“Come here!” he whispered, as he pushed himself deep inside her again. He wasn’t giving her a moment’s rest; he was intent on making sure she climaxed repeatedly till she lost breath or count or both. It had been long overdue. Still moaning and still quivering, he stroked her hard, then turned her over and buried her face in the crisp white sheets. His hands on her hips, he thrust hard into her, hitting her g-spot and cervix at the same time in that maddening way of his. She knew she wouldn’t last like that. She chanted his name, feeling her climax overwhelm her from deep within, and somehow managed to get her feet on the floor with him still thrusting into her relentlessly. She felt it overwhelm her again. She came, screaming, quivering and squirting, gripping of the bed and making an oceanic mess on the floor that threatened their stability. He let go of her, went to the bathroom and came back with a towel to clean the mess that was her climax on the floor, lest either of them slipped and hurt themselves.

Taking that opportunity, she took him in her mouth and went deep. She sucked him and choked on him, like he was Vitamin D and she was deficient. He groaned, grabbed her ass then slipped a finger inside her vagina, feeling her moistness and tapping her g-spot with his middle finger. She moaned and throated him more, tasting her climax off him.

“Do you like the way you taste?” he whispered.

“Mm hmm,” said she, looking up at him with her mouth full of his bulge. Damn her, he thought. He groaned and she flipped him over, with him on his back, and went to town on him. Spitting on him, choking on him, taking him down her throat till he became harder than he was, twirling her tongue on his glans, running its tip along his veins like a map, grazing him with her teeth and tea bagging him, while maintaining eye contact the whole time, as if to tell him he should never stay away from her that long again. Then she lowered herself on his erection and rode him like a BMX, working her waist forward and backward, up and down, round and round, like a Coastal woman dancing “chekecha paka chini” on him. He groaned deep and guttural, held her ass, waist and breasts in turns, counter stroking to meet her waist’s rhythm, going nuts as she intended. She watched him, quietly and intentionally, feeling him get bigger inside her and missing all the signs of her own climax. In her mind, this ride was his, but her body betrayed her. She bucked and screamed, quivering on top of him, and he toppled her over and took control.

Lying on his side, he scissored her, and thrust wildly. It’s like each time she came, he was reenergized to punish her more than he already was. So he stroked deep and hard, taking her to places she had been and back, again and again. Moaning and groaning, dancing the intimate dance of intense lovemaking to the music of their basest souls, naked desire and lust. And finally, his own climax loomed closer.

“I’m about to cum,” said he, while she semi-recovered from her own climax.

“Do it!” She responded between moans, feeling his penis twitch inside her and his grip tighten on her thigh.

“You want me to?”


He thrust twice, then he came. Pulling himself halfway out of her and holding his deluxe penis, he came inside her, then thrust one more time and emptied himself inside her, groaning with the last of his ejaculation. They lay there, scissored, in the wetness of both their climaxes, hearts pounding through their chests and the sound of the Indian Ocean soothing their burning souls alongside the coastal breeze.


Their busy schedules and distance kept them from seeing each other as often as they would have loved to. They spoke every day, just to remind each other they were still there, whether for support, encouragement, venting, sharing ideas, picking each other’s brains or other extra curricular activities. On this particular evening, the stage had been set for extra curriculars since mid morning. He was on his way home, in the back seat of a car, when he dialed her number. Her phone rang five times before she answered and spoke first.

“Hey you!”

“Hey.” He smiled. Awkward pause. She could hear his smile and giggled.

“Hi. How was your day?”

“The usual. Putting out fires and staying above the fray. Yours?”

“Nothing spectacular. Reading, research, writing, setting a few meetings, hydrating and missing you terribly.”

“I miss you too.”

“When will I see you again?” He sighs.

“Eventually, life finds a way.” She giggles again.

“It does.” Another awkward pause. He speaks.

“What are you doing?”

“In bed, laptop open, tea on my bedside table and a lot of papers around me. Are you on your way home?”

“Yes. What are you wearing?” She smiles and exhales slowly.

“That’s weird… you never ask me that.”

“Is it something I’d take off easily?” Her voice lowers an octave, becoming sultry.

“Maybe. Maybe I’m naked. Maybe I’m in jeans.”

“You can’t be naked in this cold or in jeans in bed. You hate clothes but you hate being cold even more.”

“So what’s the tea for?”

“To keep you warm, not hot. I want to get you hot and bothered.”

At this point, the cab driver’s ears seem to perk up and he notices. He grins devilishly, then speaks.

“We’re on a conference call.”

“Cabbie perked up?” She smirks.

“Yes. So will you answer my question?”

“Grey sweats and socks, black tee.”

“Good.” Silence. She speaks.

“What now?”

“How warm is your bed?”

“Not nearly enough. Wish you were here.”

“Me too.”

“What would you do to get me hot and bothered?”


“On what, pray tell?”

“Where your Mac is.” She laughs hysterically, at the inside joke. He laughs too, then speaks again.

“I’d kiss you. Slowly, at first. Gently. Suck on your full lower lip, then the upper lip. Lick them with the tip of my tongue.” She breathes deeply, lowers her voice even more.

“And then?” He lowers his voice too, and with his free hand, discreetly tugs at the growing bulge in his pants.

“Linger on your lips, while my right hand finds your left nipple. Stroke it gently with my thumb, in circles, till it stands at attention.”

“Uh huh?”

“Pinch it gently, as I push my tongue in your mouth and taste you.”

“What do I taste like?”

“Rose tea. Your mouth is warm, your hands on my neck. I’m on top of you. Not pinning you down, not undressing you yet. Teasing, tantalizing. Tongue in mouth, swirling and tasting, darting and flirting. Hand on your breast, twirling your nipple.” She sighs heavily.

“What will you do next?”

“Kiss your jawline and neck, slowly, and go down to your left breast. Replace my fingers with my mouth, through your T-shirt while my left hand finds your right breast.”


“Suck on you, bite your nipples a little bit, tugging. Snake my right hand down to your ass and squeeze. Where are your hands right now?”

“Left on my boob, right holding the phone.”

“Switch hands. Hold your phone with your left.”

“Done. What do you want me to do now?”

“Wet your right index finger with your juices, use your middle finger to raise your hood and expose your clit.”

“Uh huh.”

“Have you done it?” She whispers breathily.


“How wet are you?”


“Good. Now rub your clit in circles, slowly, going clockwise and anti clockwise. And every 10 to 15 seconds, put your middle and index inside your pussy and touch your g-spot.”

“Fuck.” She sighs. “What then?”

“Taste yourself and tell me what you taste like.” She pulls her fingers out slowly from her wetness, puts them in her mouth and twirls her tongue around and between them, with her eyes closed.

“Tangerines.” He licks his lips.

“Good girl. Now, repeat the circular motions and inserting inside yourself.”

“How hard are you?”

“Bursting at the seams.” She moans, softly.

“Now put your fingers inside you and keep them there.”


“Bend your index slightly, and keep the middle one straight. Tap your g-spot for me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you feel the pressure?”

“Yes. I do.” She sighs deeply again.

“Tap faster, work your wrist to make your fingers vibrate. Don’t stop until I tell you to.” She starts to moan breathily into the phone.

“Fuck. I’m almost gushing…”

“Keep going.”


“Don’t scream. Keep going.”

“Fuck. I… ah… fuck…” She starts to tremble, and he can almost see her. Feel her losing herself into the orgasm.

“Let it go.” He hears her muffled moaning and the soft creaking of her spring mattress. She struggles not to moan louder, keeping the sound of her climax in her chest while she gushed out her juices across the room. He listens, eyes closed, until her stifled moans subside.

“How did that feel?”

“Incredible.” She manages, through staccato breaths.

“Good. Now unlock your door, I’m outside.”


Watching her pose during her nude shoot was a sublime experience. She was beautiful; stretch marks, scars and tattoos alike. She owned that shit. It made her all the more irresistible to him, the way she owned her skin and made love to the camera, her sex appeal permeating to frame. In his pants there was a bulge, one he intended to unleash upon her, not with the way she kept looking at him with those piercing eyes. He mentally canceled all the plans he had for the evening. She was his only plan. Her pleasure (or was it punishment?) his sole priority.

She could tell, from the way he looked at her, that she was getting it that night. He discretely tugged at the bulge in his pants to her delight, and she watched him shift in discomfort at the way his denims squeezed his manhood. The shoot was almost over anyway, so it was about to go down for them. Although the studio was already cold, her nipples stood more erect as her own arousal built up as she watched him watching her, telepathically sharing their thoughts through their eyes, unspoken words and undone deeds that led to tingly skin, slightly elevated heart rates, heightened lust and primal sexuality. And at last, the photographer announced they had captured more than enough shots from the three hour session. They smiled. The photography team left the studio, leaving the two of them together, in that electric air of their heightened sensuality.

He helped get her dressed, to quicken the pace. For what he was about to do to her needed that apartment kind of privacy; he was going to drench the floor and bed with her juices. That water she’d been drinking, those pineapples she’d been eating… he wanted it all. But first, he would tie her up, feed her pineapples and whipped cream, sip red wine off her supple skin, tease and punish her the way she did in that studio, before finally giving her what she craved. He whispered a silent prayer while helping her into her coat:

“Forgive me Father, for what I am about to do to her. Repeatedly.”

She turned and faced him, face flushed and warm, lips slightly parted. He was close, so close, yet so far. He stared at her with fiery intensity, opening the door for her so they could leave. They needn’t cause a scene at a professional work space. They left, said their appreciation and goodbyes briskly, got in the car and drove off.

That 20 minute drive felt like forever, especially because it was tense and charged. Sexually charged. They got to the apartment building, parked and sat still for a moment. Then he spoke.

“That was impressive. I’m very impressed by you.”

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”


Punishment was certainly on the menu. They rode up the elevator in silence, his hand gently squeezing her ass, and while she fumbled with the keys he kissed her neck so tenderly. She steadied herself and found the keyhole, then let them in. He locked the door behind them while she set her purse on the table and took her coat off.

“Strip, and kneel on the carpet.” he ordered. She did as was told as he went to the kitchen. She heard him open and close the refrigerator, then two cabinets. She then heard the faucet go on, heard him wash his hands, then it went off. Silence – he was probably drying them on the hand towel right beside the sink. He then joined her on the carpet, carrying a bottle of champagne, strawberries and whipped cream. He knelt opposite her, picked up a succulent strawberry and fed it to her. She bit into it, his eyes never leaving hers, and chewed slowly as he trailed the remaining half over her collarbone and down to her nipples before eating it himself. He took a second one and fed her, repeating his motions, and went down to her navel. And a third, going down to the diamond at the meeting of her thighs.

Next he took the whipped cream, sprayed some on his thumb, and fed it to her. She licked and sucked it all off, his thumb lingering, watching her suck on it like a child would a lollipop. More whipped cream, more thumb and tongue, and again. Then he kissed her, gently at first, then demanding that her tongue let him taste the strawberries and cream off her tongue. He abruptly ended the kiss, leaned in closer to her and pushed her onto her back slowly and deliberately. He then stood over her and took off all his clothes, finally freeing his erection from his denims. He spread her thighs and knelt, his erection pointing directly at her, as if to say “this is all for you.”

Sipping champagne, he let it swirl in his mouth then went down to her nipples, leisurely swirling the golden liquid over her left nipple while his tongue flicked on it. She sighed and raised her hands to hold his head in place. He gently disentangled them, swallowed his champagne and whispered,

“No touching, until I give you my permission.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It was going to be hard, especially with the way he teased her with his lips and tongue, and his hot skin felt on her. Fuck. Grabbing the carpet was the next best alternative. He worked his way, champagne and lips, alternating with strawberries, down to her mound, where he gently parted her folds with the tip of his tongue, to find her clitoris. She smelled fragrant – pineapples. Like what she had earlier. Using the tip of his tongue he teased her, working his way in up / down, circular motions from her clit to her labia minora, to her vulva, dipping the tip of his tongue inside her to taste more of her wetness. And my, was she flowing! He went back up to her clitoris, lifted the hood with his right thumb and launched an attack on the sensitive flesh with his tongue, his left index and middle finding their way inside her and going deep. She arched her back and moaned. She wouldn’t last like that and he knew. His tongue flicked and twirled, his fingers vibrating and making waves inside her, working her g-spot to fervent sensitivity levels. Her thighs started shaking, her moans coming out in staccato. She was about to climax. And just before she did, he stopped cold turkey and looked at her quivering body, and face crunched in passion.

“Why did you stop, Sir?”

“Not yet your time to cum.” He lowered himself onto her, placing her legs on his shoulders, then sank slowly and deliberately into her until he was lodged deeper than she had ever had him. He stroked her, long, slow and deep, feeling the pressure of her orgasm build up around his dick. He looked her in the eye, she was so close. Her breath was shallow, her body quivering under his, her hands desperately in need of his skin and muscle.

“Cum. Now.”

He ordered, and she came undone. The squirt came in endlessly hot squishy jets, her body convulsing, her hands fighting to touch him. He took them, one by one, placed them above her head and thrust as she squirted, going deep and tapping the bottom of her pussy, coaxing her to squirt it all out. It came in waves and waves, until she felt completely dehydrated. He then pulled out, got up and helped her up. Led her to the bedroom, laid her and spread her eagle on the foot of the bed, then sank into her once again. Then he went to town, choking and fucking her with his basest primal instincts, roaring as he reupholstered her pussy and made her lose all sense of self. She shuddered repeatedly under him, moaning and screaming, as he tattooed his dick print on her insides where he once had.

“Fuck! I’m coming again,” she breathed between moans.

“Don’t hold back.” he said.

“I can-” it came over her, took hold of her body, exorcised her soul as she gushed yet another ocean on the floor. Mind blank, nerves on high alert, body in his possession, soul hovering over and watching her arched body as he stroked and she came. She was completely owned, whether she liked it or not, and he had the key to all her locks.


It started as a business meeting. He had teased an idea a few weeks earlier, and she ran wild with it. Her findings led her to the bone of what could be a lucrative business and she had to share her vision for it with him. So they met, at a pub, over drinks and ideas. And some fish and chips, because as he joked, she was always hungry. The conversation was both enlightening and full of innuendo – he spoke with a slight lilt to his words that was difficult to notice if one had never heard him speak before. She knew it well, because she had heard it in the throes of passion whenever he urged her to let herself disappear into him. Even the way he held his wine glass – his lithe fingers seemed to suggest things that he would rather be touching and holding in that glass’s stead. She wanted those fingers on her skin, those hands on her flesh, molding and caressing.

She had whiskey with her food, and a bottle of water to stay lucid and hydrated. A gentleman at the table opposite them kept staring at her, as if to say she should have been with him because he was in a suit instead of that baseball wearing, hoodie sprinkled in animal fur wearing nerd. What he didn’t know is that that same nerd transformed into a beast in the bedroom, one that left her breathless and wanting more. In addition to his brilliant mind and ability to unpack the most complicated of concepts in the simplest yet mind fuckingly succinct of ways, that nerd was not his clothes. It was the entire package – from his mind, to his body and the way his cologne engulfed her and she had to keep reminding herself not to bite a chunk of his neck while her hand fished his dick out from his jeans. Suddenly, her bra felt too tight and she knew it had to go.

They took a cab to another bar, one “less crowded” where she had tea and he, another glass of wine. All talk of business was sealed for the night and she couldn’t help but think of how badly she wanted to kiss him. He could seemingly read her mind, and showed her the outline of his straining dick on his jeans.

“Did you take your bra off? he asked.

“Already!” she replied, and he snaked a hand across her back, under her coat and shirt and onto her nipple. With his index and thumb, he twirled her nipple, watching her intently with that I-dare-you-to-moan look, leaning in close. He then led her hand to his bulging penis, straining his jeans. She looked down at what her hand felt. Her mouth watered, her clitoris throbbed at the sight of his restrained arousal in his pants. She knew the night wouldn’t end without tasting him, so to compose herself she took a brief walk. When she went back, he teased her further.

“You should have worn a dress.”


“So you could sit on me right now, and try not to scream.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. Fuck. Her body was rioting.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” She asked, when she could finally speak. He signaled the waiter to clear their bill, and they walked out to the lot to wait for their cab. He held her hand and pulled her closer to him, pressing her against his length while his hand snaked down to her ass and squeezed. She tried to focus on her phone but couldn’t, wishing there wasn’t any fabric between them and his hand was on her bare ass. Their cab arrived at last, and they got in.

While he busied his mouth with giving the driver directions, her mouth found his veiny and throbbing penis (she had unzipped his pants while they waited) and took him in. Fuck. He tasted so good. His hand was on her neck, urging her motions, while her tongue flicked and licked him as her mouth got wetter. She sucked hard on him, ignoring that they were in a cab, taking all of him into her mouth and devouring him whole. He was smooth, hot, throbbing and delicious. He started thrusting his hips to match her suction and she could tell he was about to cum. She wanted it all in her mouth. Just before he could erupt in her mouth, they arrived at her apartment building…