I was sitting at the veranda savouring the cool breeze having escaped from the heat inside the house because for some weird reasons, electricity has been nonexistent. I was cutting my nails when her mother walked by.
“What are you doing outside?” she asked.
I told her there was nothing to do at home, so I came out to enjoy the fresh air.
“Okay, your wife is at home, and she is also not doing anything.” With this information, I rushed into my room, changed into the new jeans my mother bought for me and left for her house.
We lived in the same block but hers was three houses away. However, our paths crossed so often that we were inseparable. It was all kiddies’ play where we shared occasional blushes. We did not understand what was happening, but everyone called us husband and wife. When her mother sends her on errands, she ensures that I tag along as her escort; the same for whenever I was going out. It was pure; it was simple; it was fun.
I remembered we held hands only once – and that experience was etched in my memory. My whole body went into overdrive. We were playing with other kids in a game where someone is placed in the middle and the other kids hold their hands in a circle. We dance around until the person in the middle taps another kid to step into the circle. That was when we held hands and I lost the sense of time until it was my turn to dance.
I knocked on her door and as soon as she saw me, the smile on her face was inviting. She dragged me by the arm into the sitting room, and we got talking. In no time, we were staring at each other’s face, and then she asked me to shift a bit so she could rest her head on my laps. Everything was reduced to slow motion. She laid face up and I cradled her like a baby and then my free hand started moving all across her body. It was scary; it was new; it was beautiful! I got to her chest area – the mounds were barely a teacup size, and I saw that she closed her eyes. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing, but I realised that my jeans was suddenly tight around my crotch and her head was directly on it. A moan escaped her lips when I reached for one mound and began to grope and make circles around it. Still shaking, and with eyes closed, she reached for my face and started stroking gently. I got encouraged to move to the other breast and repeated the same. She raised her hips with each circle and groping. I decided to reach under her shirt so I could touch flesh. As soon as I moved my hands, the door creaked open, and her mother shouted when she saw us.
It took several days for my wounds to heal after my father took his time to give me severe beatings. We were both given instructions to stay away from each other, and while we both said yes to our parents, we still found occasions to meet. It was agreed that that experience was beautiful – too beautiful in fact, that we would prefer another round of beating, just to do it again. Even though it took several years before we had the chance, we did it again, and like a cone of ice cream, every lick was a relish.