Come to Mama

I wish I could say I noticed him the minute I saw him, but that would be a lie. I’m often a dumbass, head stuck in the clouds of my career and life and money, money, money, that for the three years after we’d spilled coffee down ourselves, we were just friends.

In hindsight, I’m not sure how I could not have noticed. In a world full of slick city boys, lean and predatory in their tasteful blue suits, his dreadlocked ass stood out, looking like a snack about to burst out of its packaging. He favoured blue suits alright, but they were always the wrong shade of blue; blue-green or cobalt in the summer and aubergine-tinged charcoal in the winter. But like I said, I’m a dumbass about shit like that.

Let’s skip the meet-cute. Your thirsty-ass is not here for that anyway. Plus, it’s so cliché, it makes my eyes water: both us, engrossed in our phones, spilling coffee over each other during the ten or so minutes that counted for a mid-morning refuel in the city. Luckily for me, he was having his iced and black. Unluckily for him, I was not.

“Ahhhh, hot, hot!”

“Well, it is coffee,” I said, neglecting the ‘Sorry’ that should have come in its place instead. Never one to turn down a bada-bing! and the applause from the audience in my mind which followed.

He swiped at his trousers frantically, until it cooled. The girl he was with made this squeal in her throat and grabbed a sheaf of napkins to help him dab at the spreading stain. She was that sort of cool, thin type that subsisted mostly on coffee and cigarettes, cocaine during the weekends. You don’t need to know about her. She’s not important to this story.

“Nah, it’s alright,” he said. “Apology accepted.”

“Sorry,” I said finally, handing him my card. “I’ll take care of the dry cleaning.” I took it in then. “Nice suit,” I said. In my head I thought ‘Stupid ass peacock’.

“It’s an Oswald Boateng,” he said, staring me in the face. I concluded that he didn’t work in the city.

I shrugged. “Doubly sorry, then? Here. I’ll take care of it, no matter the cost. I should have been looking where I was going.”

“No, I should have been honestly,” he said.

“Should I get you another cup then, Dyke?” asked the blonde. I raised my eyebrow. What the hell kind of stupid-ass name was that? He seemed embarrassed.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll clean up and get myself another.” At that moment, his phone buzzed. He unlocked it with his fingerprint and ooh, not fast enough, I saw the site he was on. He paused. “You know, as a predictor of current financial trends in Africa, she is quite spot on….”

“Blah, blah, blah. Save it.” I showed him my phone screen. We were on the same gossip site.  He hollered, a belly-laugh which obliterated eardrums and drew gazes. We fell into each other’s lives.

I never did know if the blonde chick got him coffee.

“You know,” he said, after the first time we fucked, “Our first meeting was not an accident.”

“You conniving ass!” I smacked him in the face with a pillow.



If I keep saying ass a lot, it’s because he has a great one.  His name is Dike.



Dike loves being clean. Everything about him glows with health and vitality; teeth, white and strong, skin glowing with shea butter, locs, twisted and styled, coconut oil gleaming on his scalp. He is strong and solid and tender. His love language is definitely touch and quality time and he loves, loves, loves when I oil the sections of his locs, running my finger, coated with cool coconut oil down the roads and streets of his head, the hair thick and even and unbroken. Dike is the most physical person I know, but he has no interest in occupying and filing every space the way a lot of men do. Perhaps being raised by a single mother has something to do with it, the way he can minimise himself and yet, be completely at ease in his body and surroundings.

This contrast is sexy as hell.

Clean, solid. Except when we fuck then he’s a dirty, dirty boy.  But I didn’t notice this. At first.


It was a few days after our first smash sesh. I’d taken a pounding, per my request and had gone to sleep as I usually did. A powernap really, but when I awoke, Dike was breathing deeply next to me, on his back, one muscular arm, thrown up defensively against the evening sun coming from the windows. I preferred rooms with colour and defiantly threw my coloured underwear around just to break up the monotony. So much white cleanliness hurt to watch. There’s that contrast again, see, between what he chose to wear and how he presented his home. He intrigued me at this point, my friend, whom I was now fucking. After the first few visits, I got him the most geometrically fucked up ankara cushions that I could find and even though he thanked me, I’d never seen them again.

So, he slept and, I don’t know, his body was just there, laid out for me, skin warm and alive. I crawled over and licked one tiny nipple. Dike moaned. I did it again. He opened his eyes.

“Can’t even let somebody sleep,” he said. When we were alone, we spoke in Nigerian English, which added to the intimacy.

“What are you sleeping for?” I smacked him and licked the nipple again. He moaned with his mouth closed, looking down at me through one rapidly-clearing eye. I tugged at the hairs on his armpit playfully, to stop him from staring at me so intently. The power in his gaze unnerved me. We were still new. It was supposed to be fucking and yet somehow, I could feel it changing shape, influenced perhaps by our years of friendship, our common culture. I wasn’t comfortable with seeing his soul. I turned back to the nipple.

“No,” he said. “Look at me when you do that.”

It was hard. My eyelids were made of concrete, but I dragged them open, challenged by the unspoken dare. I flicked my tongue at the nipple again and watched the rise and fall of his pecs, the muscles working in his jaw as he clenched. He really liked getting his nipple played with. I licked it a few more times and pulled myself upwards, closing my mouth around it, applying pressure.

His dick moved the sheets. Slowly, the arm over half his face came down and he pulled me closer, held me there. He growled and yanked me upwards. I’m not a small girl, okay. I’ve got thighs and curves and he yanked me like I was full of foam stuffing.

“Come sit on my face, come ride it,” he said. He didn’t have to ask me twice. Dike was rougher with it, sweeter. He grabbed both my ass cheeks and tore them open like he was eating an udala fruit. My juices were just as plentiful and sticky. I was – and am – something of a selfish lover so when I went to town on his thick lips, exfoliating his face with my pubes, all I was thinking was getting mine. It was so sweet, holding onto his head, slamming my butt down m-m-m, getting wetter and wetter, riding the tongue he stuck into me, grinding on his nose. It was so good. I wined my waist to a climax and Dike let me lick my girl-cum off his face because he knows I love myself that much.

When I stopped shuddering, threw back the sheets and opened the bedside drawer for a condom, he stopped me. “Wait.”

“You don’t want to reap the fruits of your labour?” I slid a finger in my pussy. The squelching of viscous moisture filled the room and Dike’s dick juddered.

“I do.”

“You want me to suck it?” Selfish or not, I was more than happy to oblige. Dike had a dick that was meant to be sucked and as he was always clean, it tasted divine.

“Not today.” He held my hand in his, doing the staring thing again. I met his eyes, widened mine comically. He smiled, slow, like I liked it and pulled me down. The kisses were too soft, too tender. They meant something. I drew back.

“Coward,” he said. “One of these days…” he didn’t finish the sentence. I allowed him to play with my hand until it began to feel uncomfortable then I pulled it away again. Dike looked me in the eyes. “I trust you,” he said.

“Okay, weirdo,” I made to jump off the bed but he flipped me over and held me there, my head sinking into his pillows, all that marshmallow white.

“No, T. I trust you.” He looked deeply into my eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” I asked.  Dike slapped my ass and the vibrations juddered into my pussy, igniting it. He did it again because it was Dike and he knew.

“Stop it, you’re going to make me cum,” I said. He spread my legs and tapped my pussy with four of his fingers, a light smack.

“Everything I do makes you cum.” His locs fell over his eyes, obscuring them for a moment. I chose that time to kiss him with all of me, to give him the answer he needed without having to say it. What? I’m not an ogre. I have feelings.

Dike smiled again. “Good.” He hopped off the bed, his erection swaying in front of him and went to his built-in wardrobe. He pulled open a door and pushed on a panel. I heard a click and sat up.

“Hey, how come I never noticed that bit before?”

“Because you were not designed to notice it, maybe?” He squatted, pulled out something, a guitar case and clicked the panel back in. His brown punctuating all the glossy white fixtures was a balm to my soul. Dike walked back over, all six-foot-one of him holding this case like it was the most precious thing he owned. I fidgeted, praying to Goddess that he was not about to start serenading me. I swore I’d blow up a condom and suffocate myself with it first, if he started plucking strings.

The harness was a surprise. Dike stared at me again, leaning towards me on the bed, his shoulder muscles rippling like waves under the surface of his skin. “T, I need you to fuck me,” he said.


As he explained what it was he wanted his dick rose and dribbled cum. The image of what he described excited me, intoxicated my senses. I came again without him touching me. He held me until the shuddering stopped, smug. “I thought you’d like that. God. You’re so predictable, T.”


We went gently, more for my sake than his. I set the harness aside and slathered myself with the coconut oil he provided until I was shiny. Dike watched me, laid back again against his pillows, one had behind his head, locs splayed like a mane, the other hand cupping his balls. “More,” he said. I emptied the jar on myself, slick and shiny as a seal. In response, he turned his back to me, bunched the pillows under his chest and buried his face in a groove. I walked over and lay on his broad back, rubbing myself up and down all over him. His buttocks clenched. The tubers of his calves knotted.

“Like this?”

“Like that.”

I rubbed myself all over his body, using my face, my knees, elbows, anything but my hands. I massage my skin into his, worked his muscles with my chin, avoided the knoll of his buttocks because I knew that if I focused on them, I would ride that ass until I came. Like I said, I can be selfish. I know my limitations.  Dike groaned and ummed and ahhed. I buffed his back with my breasts. It was quite the work out. When I was done, my sweat had mingled with the oil, sliding into the crevices behind his knees and into his crack.

I slid the edge of my hand into his bum crack and worked it gently up and down, pausing more and more around his anus. His cheeks were more muscular than mine and I kissed them. Even though we’d not discussed it, I was seized by the urge to open them up, to lick the puckered centre, in the hair-lined groove. Dike did not say anything, but I sensed him waiting…

A slight pressure with the pad of my thumb, round and round the exit.  “Stop torturing me,” he said. His voice was no longer the baritone of self-assuredness. It was husky, ragged. The waiting was getting to him.

Following instructions, I strapped the harness on, tightened it until if felt comfortable. It was not my first time using a strap-on. The rush of power to my head caused me to shake in pre-orgasmic excitement. There were a series of dildos in their fittings within the guitar case, all roughly the same 2-3inches.

“Why are they all glittery?” I asked.

“Exes,” he said. “Girls like glitter it seems.”

“Well, I don’t,” I said. I pulled out the only glass one, as long as a middle finger and roughly the same diameter and clicked it in. The gel lubricant was next. I was liberal with it. I smacked Dike’s runner’s ass and my hand bounced back. I tried to imitate him, the manly way he grabbed my hips, but I soon abandoned that. He was the most perfect specimen of a man, lying in front of me. I had to be the woman he needed.

I went low on the bed, spread my legs wide and thanked the goddess of 4-days-a-week yoga as I slid the glass finger into his asshole. We hadn’t discussed this either, but it seemed right, in the heat things, to wrap his rich, brown locs around my wrist and tug sharply.


I fucked a man and I liked it. The male smell, the salt in his sweat, the power and might of his buttocks, working, the strength of his arms and shoulders bearing him up. I started to cream and the harness slipped and frigged me until I almost came. But I held on, to please him, to fuck him the way he deserved to be fucked.

I guess I am not as selfish as I thought I was.

Dike’s moans filled the room, filled my head, vibrated my pussy. He was a majestic creature in his sexuality, lifting up to meet me, my short phallus creating such delight. I held on to his arms, I bit his back in passion, I reached under his balls to fist his dick, too big by far for my hand at this point. Even in the throes of passion, Dike was giving, assisting my fumbling around his slippery cock, wrapping a huge hand around us both.

“You’re going to kill me.”

Oh that voice, that lust-strangled voice. It drove me on. His balls tightened. Dike flipped. He pulled my harness to the side and buried his dick inside me deeply, thrusting and coming and screaming. I frigged myself, overwhelmed by the smell of him and the feel of his masculinity in my hands and I was coming too. His tongue silenced my screams. I slammed him groin into my spasming, contracting hole and held on to him for dear life.


We forgot the condom.


No, we will not be telling our daughter this story, at least, not like this. All she’ll need to know is that daddy and mummy love each other very, very much.


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