Short Stories

Fatal Attraction by Okunomo Damilola

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

I once met a girl.
Black, tall and very beautiful.
She was saying something, talking to a friend, while her hands moved all around.
Every word was accompanied with extravagant body gestures.
She’d tilt her head to the side when she laughed.
I kept staring at her eyes, that was how I knew she was laughing. It was just an amazing experience I couldn’t dare look away.
Beautiful girl…
Beautiful smiling girl talking to her friend and foolish me just standing here staring at her.
I was mesmerized — everywhere she went, I followed with my eyes. I stared until I was no longer looking too far away.
“Hey! Can you just uhm…” She was talking to me now and all I could do was gape. She probably thought I was stupid, retarded or something similar.
I would say something, I would smile back and tell her something sweet. If only I knew just how to start.
She was talking again, talking to me again and yet I was transfixed. I was still looking like a deer caught in headlights.
My roaming eyes accidentally got pinned on her boobs — they looked really good.
Small, firm and really round. It was easily the best female chest I had ever seen in my life.
She squinted her brow, as signs of a frown already forming on her perfectly sculptured face. Her lips thinned with obvious impatience.
I knew that I had to say something before she left.
“They don’t belong there” I said wearing a goofy smile on my face.
“What?” she asked looking even more perplexed than I was.
“The frown you’re wearing It doesn’t belong there”
She looked at me for a long time, up and down. Then down and up. Finally her dancing eyes landed on mine. I was looking back at hers too.
There was a wicked glint sparkling in her eyes, and I loved every part of it. Once again — I couldn’t look away.
“They don’t belong there either ” she hissed at me.
“What?” Now I was confused, what was she possibly talking about?
“You! Dumb ass. You’re blocking the way”
“Oh, am i?” I replied happy that I could get a reaction out of her.
“Yes! Dumb ass. Move already” It looked like she was already losing her patience.
“What’s your name?” I asked smiling again.
Her obvious anger only made her look much more attractive.
“If I tell you will you finally fuck off?”
“Maybe…” I was enjoying this conversation way too much to stop.
She looked skywards, like she was contemplating something. After a while she shook her head.
“Naaaaah…” She said drawled. “That’s way too easy.”
“Now please excuse me I’m late” she whisper-yelled and shoved me out of the way. So hard I heard my butt crack as it hit the ground.
She strutted away looking like a model on a runway, turned and looked at me for a while — obviously fighting off a smile.
“See ya around bud” She whispered.
I smiled all through the day. Went home and masturbated to her face.
I spend all night mulling over what I’d say when I get to see her again. When I finally gave in to my tiredness and slept, I dreamt about her, about us, about how it would feel to touch her boobs, how it would feel to kiss her sassy lips, to taste her juices, to bury my finger in her wet, gleaming puss…
Shit! It was morning already?
I couldn’t help myself. I masturbated thinking of her face again.
God! What I’d give to see her again. I masturbated thinking of her face every other day — the first and last thing on my mind with each passing day.
Until one morning I woke up and couldn’t remember what she looked like anymore.
Then I was crying — sobs, whimpers, everything.
I cried. I cried because…
I cried because it had been 15 years now. I cried because I was now married with two lovely kids of my own.
I cried because I never did get to see her again. I cried because I couldn’t picture her face anymore yet had a hard-on thinking about her.
I cried because I knew I was still going to masturbate thinking of her — Face
or no Face.

Copyright Okunomo Damilola

About The Author

Damilola is skilled at having good conversations, dressing like a boy and stealing chocolate.

She likes to read, write, think, dream, talk, and listen.

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