Our next facilitator turned out to be a klutz who was as exciting as a flashy new doorknob.
He was fat, sweaty and kept saying “I think you get me”, which left me and Tola looking at each other and tittering like teenagers.
At a point, she passed me a drawing she had made.
“What’s this?” I wrote even though I had an idea
“A small dick,” she wrote in reply.
“I think you get me,” she wrote and pointed to the facilitator as I read.
We laughed, bending our heads over our tables. Then when the moment had passed, Tola reached under the table and began to stroke me then when I was beginning to really enjoy it, she took my hand, pulled it towards her legs, parted them and then guided my fingers to her kintus. I felt her spread her legs as my finger probed. She was wet.
“You are dripping wet,” I whispered.
“And what are you going to do about it?” she asked and not replying, I pulled my hand out, pushed my chair back and left the room.
We were kissing in the lift and all the way to her room.
I pushed her down on the bed and parted her legs.
She was as big down there as she was in person and I didn’t know which to direct there first, my fingers or my tongue. But finally I started with my fingers then when she was sufficiently lubricated, I nosed my way down there. She tasted good and I ate like a hungry child until she was opening her legs wider and wider and screaming in Yoruba.
Our lovemaking was slow but intense and I was happy to see that she wasn’t one of those women who lose interest once they come. Tola was a giver and she did not hold back.
“Let me ride you,” she cooed into my ear and then in one swift motion, flipped me over and mounted me and before I knew it, my whatchamacallit was nodding like an agama and pumping hard.
We showered fast and were down in time for the group picture and two days later when I got mine in the mail, I saw what looked like a satisfied smirk on Tola’s face.
I had trained my man eater.