Friday Freebie!

I know, I know, it’s been a while since I posted one of these! But it’s Friday, I’m at my desk and about to dig in to ‘The Eye Dancers’ by my friend Mike Fedison, and I thought I’d share some book love ….. of sorts! Here’s the introduction to Chama’s little issue with her husband Tola – happy reading!!

love-dashed

Chapter 2 – Chama

            So like any smart woman at war, I consider my options, right? If he hasn’t noticed the new M & S negligee and he’s in the straight-backed chair with the TV on, then he probably isn’t going to be open to what I’m offering tonight, either. And it makes no sense to get disappointed and pray – the only practical response is an ambush. Now. Before he finishes his dinner and goes upstairs or falls asleep or something. And since single, straight-backed chairs such as this one don’t easily allow an ambush (he’d see me coming from a mile off) I’m trying to think up a suitable diversion involving the element of surprise. This war requires some tactical strategising.

So I say, ‘I’m going on upstairs to bed, honey, I’m a little tired tonight, OK?’ because a woman at war knows that every good ambush needs a decoy. And I can see him almost visibly relax: his shoulders settle, his back rounds ….. I mean, can you believe it?

And he’s like, ‘Uh-huh,’ not even looking up, mind you, just devouring my hand-made tortellini (which actually came out looking like the one in the recipe book this time) like it’s from the Mc Donald’s 99-pence menu and I didn’t spend half the afternoon on it. I can’t even feel his eyes on me as I brush by him on the way to the stairs. And I blink back the tears that threaten the mascara I’ve taken to wearing at bed-time, just in case my 6-foot 7-inch, bald and bearded baby, finally decides he wants to get some.

So right at the bottom of the stairs Shapalo fenima I turn around and go for it, and all the while I’m thinking 999!999! and I tuck my head and hands under the plate he’s got suspended above his lap before he even knows what hit him. Before he can say anything, I’ve got my fingers in the fly of his boxers and I’m grabbing Mr. Sugar Stick, which is what I used to call it when it was my friend.

And my husband jumps like he’s been electrocuted because of what I’m doing to him with my hands and God knows it’s only the hot plate above my head and the cold glass of sparkling grape beside his feet that stops him doing the triple-jump out of there. So I’m thinking, I gotta work quickly. So I draw Mr. Sugar Stick into my mouth and I’m trying to coax him to life with my tongue, flicking light licks along the underside and sucking insistently on the top of it like he’s a favourite lollipop I can’t get enough of. Back in the day? Before we both recommitted our lives to Christ? This would have sent him over the edge in five minutes flat. Tops. But nowadays, nothing’s happening. I’m working my hands so hard my knuckles hurt, I’m softly scratching the upper inside of his thigh while I’m pumping him up and down. I’m thinking 999! and I’m refusing to consider what the other women on the Deaconess Board would say if they could see me now.

And …… nothing.

“Awww, Chama,” he begins, but I’m ignoring him cause he’s calling my name in that tone he gets when he’s trying to resist something I’m doing my level best to persuade him into. I’m relishing the taste of him instead, the heavy weight of him, finally hardening in my hands.

“What’s the matter, baby?” I’m saying, increasing the speed of my hands, feeling  (Oh Shabbe lack opre sima!) Mr. Sugar Stick start to lengthen towards my throat, “don’t you like it, don’t you like it when I do this?”

So I draw my mouth off of him, so we can both look at Mr. Sugar Stick, so I can remind my husband what he’s been missing in the many months since The Problem’s been in our marriage. Tola’s face is tense but he nods, and he’s speechless, dinner forgotten, although the plate’s still sitting there in his hands. And I’m thinking Thank you Jesus! And I’m getting that feeling I get in the pit of my stomach whenever I know we’re gonna do it. It’s like, something inside me gets unlocked, like someone removing a stone from the mouth of a spring and starting the water rushing. So I ease up for just one minute to take his plate and glass and put them at a safe distance beside us and then I get back to working on him, up and down, up and down like when we were newlyweds.

But then he starts to say “Chama,” and he’s more insistent now and although I’m trying to ignore him, although I’m licking and sucking his testicles, drawing each in turn into my mouth, although Mr. Sugar Stick is saluting me, stiff, spit-shiny and straining against his own skin, it’s getting harder and harder with each passing minute to convince myself that my husband is enjoying this.

Please, God, pleeeeeease?

And I’m thinking about Pastor Aaron and I’m thinking about Tola and I’m thinking 999! and then I’m thinking about the plaster I bought last month at Morrison’s when I broke my fingernail, and then I’m thinking about Morrison’s and the new supermarket they’re building in Greenwich and then I’m thinking that maybe what we need is a vacation from Greenwich and then I’m thinking when was the last time we took a vacation and soon I’m stumbling all over Mr. Sugar Stick and my mouth’s up and down isn’t the smooth ride it started out as.

So to get us back on track, I say, “You love it, baby,” and I’m thinking about the part of the sermon which advised to ‘speak the vision and make it plain’, “you can’t get enough of me, you can’t get enough of my love.”

And then I get up and stand above him, cause I might as well capitalise on it now that Mr. Sugar Stick is cooperating, and I ease up the skirt of the nightie in my best strip-tease and I slide over him and then I lift the whole thing over my head and watch it slink over his knees on its soft slide to the floor. And I’m thinking Thank You Jesus, and I’m triumphant and I’m lifting my thigh and hoisting it up and over, and I’m bending over to lick the dark spot on his earlobe where he once wore an ear-ring, and I’m lightly scraping my fingernails across the broad base of his spine at the top of the cleft where his buttocks begin.

And, Lord, I actually allow myself to begin to think about precisely what brand of love we will shortly be making. To start to lose myself in the mental kaleidoscope of erotic imaginings that come to mind in these moments.

But by the time I’m ready to lower my hips? By the time I glance down to determine the angle of descent unto my husband’s lap? There’s already a softening. And although I hurry down to meet him, it’s suddenly obvious that Mr. Sugar Stick is on the wilt.

“Speak the vision as if it is already in existence now!” Pastor Davis had screamed on Sunday, and something in my spirit had lifted in response, the way it always does when he says something my heart knows is the Spirit-filled, sent-from-heaven word of God.  And I tell myself for the umpteenth time that I can fix this. ‘Cause aren’t I a mighty Prayer Warrior, a certificated marriage counsellor of the Women’s Ministry of the Blessed Family Church and an all-round righteous Woman of God who can do all things through Christ? I tell myself that I actually believe that all I have to do is speak our sex-life back into existence.

So I say “It’s so hard and stiff, baby,” and I’m ignoring the fact that I’m fumbling to guide it in with my fingers, “it’s so big it fills me up each and every time,” and then I’m looking directly in the eyes of my husband of seven years with my best impression of Halle Berry in Catwoman, “yours is the best dick I’ve ever had.”

And I’m trying to ignore Tola’s tiny frown when Lord, forgive me, I say ‘dick’.

And just at the point when I start to wonder whether saying something which isn’t yet true isn’t just lying, Tola draws his thighs out from under me, and I come crashing to my knees in the plush pile of the carpet.

And my sexy, beloved husband, who used to have his way with me at least three times a week (not to mention the multiple daily romps of our first year of marriage) says “I’m not in the mood, Chama” and then he gets embarrassed, and my face collides with his lap and the boxer he’s hurriedly re-fixing. And I raise my head to come face to face with Mr. Sugar Stick, wrinkled and flaccid and shrinking before my very eyes.

Again.

Photo credit: helen sotiriadis / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

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About gettingsomethenovel

Kiki Terrell is a UK-based author, businesswoman and mother of three. When’s she’s not slouched over her desk writing and laughing her head off, she’s busy playing Sudoku, eating Nutella and exploring her latest business venture (often all at the same time).
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