Nairobi Nights
Kenya, late 1990s. A warm, heavy night.
The city outside was chaotic, pulsing, almost aggressive - but the restaurant was a quiet cocoon of wealth. Richard had insisted on the best. The women were already waiting when John and Richard arrived, seated at the bar, perfectly presented. Both were stunning in very different ways - John’s was striking: tall, dark-skinned, braided hair falling over a halter dress that revealed her slender shoulders and hinted at large, full breasts. As they exchanged greetings her laughter was quick and practiced and she met his gaze with a quiet confidence that said she’d done this many times before.
They dined together first. Champagne flowed. Richard was loud, leaning into the role, clearly enjoying himself. John’s was quieter, smiling but observing. Watching Richard perform. Watching the woman across from him sip her drink, the way her mouth touched the glass. The way her bare shoulder brushed his arm as she leaned in to say something that made him laugh.
It wasn’t romantic. But it wasn’t cold either. There was an undeniable erotic tension, a flirtation sharpened by the knowledge of what the night would lead to.
She touched his thigh under the table. Not possessively. Just a reminder. Later.
The hotel. Two rooms.
He unlocked his, gestured her inside. She didn’t hesitate. There was a moment - just a moment - where he stood still, watching her walk in ahead of him. The light caught her skin, her back bare, her figure lithe but strong. He felt the weight of it all then: the wife back home, the colleague next door, the lies already forming in his head.
She turned, smiled. Stepped out of her shoes.
And he followed.
———————————-
The door shut behind them with a solid, echoing click. John felt his pulse hammering in his throat. The air was thick with Nairobi night heat, the curtains pulled but a sliver of streetlight cut across the bed. She moved past him without a word, tall, dark, gliding with a predator’s poise. He caught the faint scent of her skin, a musky sweetness laced with spice and sweat.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Not a smile, not even an invitation - just expectation.
John’s shirt clung to him in the humid air. He undid the buttons with fumbling fingers, each one feeling louder than it should. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed and Richard’s voice carried in a muffled bark of laughter. John froze for a second, then forced himself forward, tugging his shirt free, trousers off, shoes kicked aside.
When he looked up again, she had already stripped. Her dress lay crumpled on the chair, her underwear draped over it like an afterthought. She was magnificent. Long legs, skin gleaming like polished mahogany, breasts heavy and pendulous with wide, dark areolae like secrets meant to be tasted. His breath hitched.
She stood and came toward him, pushing him back onto the bed with a single, deliberate hand. Her palm was firm, commanding. John sank into the mattress, hearing it groan as his back hit the sheets.
She straddled him without ceremony, thighs gripping his hips. He gasped as her weight settled. She guided him inside her with one
steady movement, no hesitation, no tenderness. The heat of her swallowed him whole, tight and merciless.
She started to ride him. Long, slow, deliberate strokes at first, grinding down deep, then lifting until he nearly slipped free before dropping back down hard again. His breath came in ragged bursts as she worked him, shocked at her power and presence, the bed frame took up the rhythm with its own insistent creak, a drumbeat to her dominance.
She picked up pace, grinding harder now, leaned down, braids brushing his chest, tongue licking his ear, her breasts swinging over his face in heavy arcs. John’s mouth opened without thought, catching one, then the other, his tongue circling the nipple, teeth grazing lightly. She gave a low sound - not quite pleasure, not quite approval - and cradling the back of his head, forced his face harder into her chest. Her nipple filled his mouth, thick and rubbery, her breast so heavy that he almost felt smothered, dizzy with the closeness.
He tried to take her in - this woman so utterly unlike any lover before her. Catherine - always in control, but through cunning games. Christine - vivacious, enfolding, making him feel safe. Deborah - youthful, statuesque, still learning. All of them had their own power, their own demands. But none had ever ridden him like this, without compromise, without room for negotiation. This was something different - raw, elemental, unstoppable.
She dictated, and he obeyed.
And still she kept the merciless tempo. His hips rose to meet her, the bed frame protesting with a loud, rhythmic creak. He could hear his own moans, her sharp breaths, the slap of skin on skin. Every time her chest swung within reach, he latched on instinctively, groaning against her body like a starving man.
Her skin gleamed under his hands. He cupped the swell of her backside, felt the flex of muscle beneath the softness. His palms roamed up her stomach, brushing the under-curve of her breasts before his fingers closed around them, squeezing their weight, slick with sweat. She was heat and strength incarnate, and she was using him.
He gripped her waist next, tried to slow her, but she slapped his hands away. He was hers now - not a lover, not a husband, not even a man with a name. Just a body to be used.
Sweat trickled into his eyes; he blinked, but her body blurred above him, all motion and heat and power. His chest heaved. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might tear free. Every nerve was alight, every muscle taut.
She rode him like she was breaking him open, grinding down, her nails raked down his chest, sharp enough to sting, leaving trails that burned in the sticky air. He could feel his control slipping, the pressure coiling tight, unbearable.
Suddenly she stopped, leaned down, her lips at his ear, her breath hot and faintly sweet.
“Big,” she whispered, accent thick, words almost mocking. “For a white man.”
The line shot through him like fire. Half taunt, half praise. His cock throbbed harder inside her, answering before his mind could. She smiled against his cheek as though she knew - then drove her hips faster, harder, grinding down on him with ruthless control.
“That’s it, baby,” she breathed, voice low, coaxing. “Give me that big white cock.”
The words pushed him over the edge.
His body began jerking helplessly beneath hers, spilling deep inside her as she ground down mercilessly squeezing every pulse and spasm out of him. His cry was strangled, desperate, almost boyish. She looked down on pleading eyes and didn’t let up until he was emptied.
When the spasms finally ebbed, he lay gasping beneath, chest heaving, utterly spent. She lingered only a moment more, rolling her hips one last time before lifting off, silent, unhurried.
She pulled her dress from the chair and slipped it back over her shoulders, fastening it with the same calm detachment she’d had at the start. Shoes on, hair smoothed, she glanced at him once - unreadable - and then was gone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The door closed behind her with a soft click and the silence rushed in to replace her.
John lay sprawled, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. For a moment he felt vast, spent, triumphant. Every nerve still hummed.
He stared at the ceiling fan, its blades turning lazily above him. The room smelled of sex - thick, unshakable. His cock still damp with their juices, his chest raw, pulse still pounding in his ears.
John closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt ridiculous. Used. Like he’d been nothing more than a body.
But the silence thickened. The room still held her scent, but otherwise she left nothing of herself behind.
Patricia’s face flickered in his mind - folding laundry, moving through the routines of their life back home with his little family. The gulf between that quiet kitchen and this sticky hotel bed felt infinite.
Down the hall came a muffled shout of laughter - Richard’s voice, brash and careless. John shut his eyes. He felt suddenly absurd, sprawled naked on a foreign bed, his cock still damp, his chest streaked with scratches like a boy showing off scars he couldn’t explain.
Shame crawled up his spine, sharp and insistent. He pressed a hand over his face. He had been used, consumed, discarded - and he had paid for it. But the worst of all was how much he’d actually wanted it.
And as he lay there processing exactly what just happened, one final realisation dawned on him.
He’d never even asked her name.
------------------------------------------------------
For context :
The trip happened.
The girls happened.
The meal happened.
Richard came home with an STD.
My Dad claimed he just shared a couple of drinks with his ‘companion’.
Given prior history, I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between…?
But as always, I’d welcome your thoughts… ?
The city outside was chaotic, pulsing, almost aggressive - but the restaurant was a quiet cocoon of wealth. Richard had insisted on the best. The women were already waiting when John and Richard arrived, seated at the bar, perfectly presented. Both were stunning in very different ways - John’s was striking: tall, dark-skinned, braided hair falling over a halter dress that revealed her slender shoulders and hinted at large, full breasts. As they exchanged greetings her laughter was quick and practiced and she met his gaze with a quiet confidence that said she’d done this many times before.
They dined together first. Champagne flowed. Richard was loud, leaning into the role, clearly enjoying himself. John’s was quieter, smiling but observing. Watching Richard perform. Watching the woman across from him sip her drink, the way her mouth touched the glass. The way her bare shoulder brushed his arm as she leaned in to say something that made him laugh.
It wasn’t romantic. But it wasn’t cold either. There was an undeniable erotic tension, a flirtation sharpened by the knowledge of what the night would lead to.
She touched his thigh under the table. Not possessively. Just a reminder. Later.
The hotel. Two rooms.
He unlocked his, gestured her inside. She didn’t hesitate. There was a moment - just a moment - where he stood still, watching her walk in ahead of him. The light caught her skin, her back bare, her figure lithe but strong. He felt the weight of it all then: the wife back home, the colleague next door, the lies already forming in his head.
She turned, smiled. Stepped out of her shoes.
And he followed.
———————————-
The door shut behind them with a solid, echoing click. John felt his pulse hammering in his throat. The air was thick with Nairobi night heat, the curtains pulled but a sliver of streetlight cut across the bed. She moved past him without a word, tall, dark, gliding with a predator’s poise. He caught the faint scent of her skin, a musky sweetness laced with spice and sweat.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Not a smile, not even an invitation - just expectation.
John’s shirt clung to him in the humid air. He undid the buttons with fumbling fingers, each one feeling louder than it should. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed and Richard’s voice carried in a muffled bark of laughter. John froze for a second, then forced himself forward, tugging his shirt free, trousers off, shoes kicked aside.
When he looked up again, she had already stripped. Her dress lay crumpled on the chair, her underwear draped over it like an afterthought. She was magnificent. Long legs, skin gleaming like polished mahogany, breasts heavy and pendulous with wide, dark areolae like secrets meant to be tasted. His breath hitched.
She stood and came toward him, pushing him back onto the bed with a single, deliberate hand. Her palm was firm, commanding. John sank into the mattress, hearing it groan as his back hit the sheets.
She straddled him without ceremony, thighs gripping his hips. He gasped as her weight settled. She guided him inside her with one
steady movement, no hesitation, no tenderness. The heat of her swallowed him whole, tight and merciless.
She started to ride him. Long, slow, deliberate strokes at first, grinding down deep, then lifting until he nearly slipped free before dropping back down hard again. His breath came in ragged bursts as she worked him, shocked at her power and presence, the bed frame took up the rhythm with its own insistent creak, a drumbeat to her dominance.
She picked up pace, grinding harder now, leaned down, braids brushing his chest, tongue licking his ear, her breasts swinging over his face in heavy arcs. John’s mouth opened without thought, catching one, then the other, his tongue circling the nipple, teeth grazing lightly. She gave a low sound - not quite pleasure, not quite approval - and cradling the back of his head, forced his face harder into her chest. Her nipple filled his mouth, thick and rubbery, her breast so heavy that he almost felt smothered, dizzy with the closeness.
He tried to take her in - this woman so utterly unlike any lover before her. Catherine - always in control, but through cunning games. Christine - vivacious, enfolding, making him feel safe. Deborah - youthful, statuesque, still learning. All of them had their own power, their own demands. But none had ever ridden him like this, without compromise, without room for negotiation. This was something different - raw, elemental, unstoppable.
She dictated, and he obeyed.
And still she kept the merciless tempo. His hips rose to meet her, the bed frame protesting with a loud, rhythmic creak. He could hear his own moans, her sharp breaths, the slap of skin on skin. Every time her chest swung within reach, he latched on instinctively, groaning against her body like a starving man.
Her skin gleamed under his hands. He cupped the swell of her backside, felt the flex of muscle beneath the softness. His palms roamed up her stomach, brushing the under-curve of her breasts before his fingers closed around them, squeezing their weight, slick with sweat. She was heat and strength incarnate, and she was using him.
He gripped her waist next, tried to slow her, but she slapped his hands away. He was hers now - not a lover, not a husband, not even a man with a name. Just a body to be used.
Sweat trickled into his eyes; he blinked, but her body blurred above him, all motion and heat and power. His chest heaved. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might tear free. Every nerve was alight, every muscle taut.
She rode him like she was breaking him open, grinding down, her nails raked down his chest, sharp enough to sting, leaving trails that burned in the sticky air. He could feel his control slipping, the pressure coiling tight, unbearable.
Suddenly she stopped, leaned down, her lips at his ear, her breath hot and faintly sweet.
“Big,” she whispered, accent thick, words almost mocking. “For a white man.”
The line shot through him like fire. Half taunt, half praise. His cock throbbed harder inside her, answering before his mind could. She smiled against his cheek as though she knew - then drove her hips faster, harder, grinding down on him with ruthless control.
“That’s it, baby,” she breathed, voice low, coaxing. “Give me that big white cock.”
The words pushed him over the edge.
His body began jerking helplessly beneath hers, spilling deep inside her as she ground down mercilessly squeezing every pulse and spasm out of him. His cry was strangled, desperate, almost boyish. She looked down on pleading eyes and didn’t let up until he was emptied.
When the spasms finally ebbed, he lay gasping beneath, chest heaving, utterly spent. She lingered only a moment more, rolling her hips one last time before lifting off, silent, unhurried.
She pulled her dress from the chair and slipped it back over her shoulders, fastening it with the same calm detachment she’d had at the start. Shoes on, hair smoothed, she glanced at him once - unreadable - and then was gone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The door closed behind her with a soft click and the silence rushed in to replace her.
John lay sprawled, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. For a moment he felt vast, spent, triumphant. Every nerve still hummed.
He stared at the ceiling fan, its blades turning lazily above him. The room smelled of sex - thick, unshakable. His cock still damp with their juices, his chest raw, pulse still pounding in his ears.
John closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt ridiculous. Used. Like he’d been nothing more than a body.
But the silence thickened. The room still held her scent, but otherwise she left nothing of herself behind.
Patricia’s face flickered in his mind - folding laundry, moving through the routines of their life back home with his little family. The gulf between that quiet kitchen and this sticky hotel bed felt infinite.
Down the hall came a muffled shout of laughter - Richard’s voice, brash and careless. John shut his eyes. He felt suddenly absurd, sprawled naked on a foreign bed, his cock still damp, his chest streaked with scratches like a boy showing off scars he couldn’t explain.
Shame crawled up his spine, sharp and insistent. He pressed a hand over his face. He had been used, consumed, discarded - and he had paid for it. But the worst of all was how much he’d actually wanted it.
And as he lay there processing exactly what just happened, one final realisation dawned on him.
He’d never even asked her name.
------------------------------------------------------
For context :
The trip happened.
The girls happened.
The meal happened.
Richard came home with an STD.
My Dad claimed he just shared a couple of drinks with his ‘companion’.
Given prior history, I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between…?
But as always, I’d welcome your thoughts… ?
5ヶ月前
