THE SECOND SIGHT EPISODE 1
THE NAKED WOMAN
Location: BOAT’S APARTMENT
Yaw Boat wakes up in the middle of the night on a huge, comfortable bed, the room cooled by the air-conditioner to dispel that tepid October heat in Ghana.
As he tries to come fully awake, he becomes aware that there is a naked woman in bed with him.
He goes rigid, lying in the darkness in some kind of perplexed terror.
He can feel her hand on his naked thigh, inching up slowly, lingering around his right inner thigh sensuously, and then moving upwards gently and purposefully.
It is her persistent touches that had woken him up from what had been an obviously restless sleep.
The room is dark, the only source of light coming from the display screen of the huge Sony music player way down against one wall, and the soft blue lights surrounding its various knobs. Soft music comes out of the advanced speaker system he has fixed around the room.
He can feel her alive, a sinuous fluid mass of soft tender curves that keeps moving, and his body sort of shudders with a touch of horror when he suddenly feels her hot lips on his left ear, and then a tiny moan of disbelief shoots out of his lips when her wandering hand finds and grips the suddenly inflamed reckless erection between his thighs.
He cringes with a muted cry of horror, and almost knocks her hand away as it suddenly dawns on him, with the force of an enraged mule’s kick, that he doesn’t know who she is, and how she had gotten into his bed!
He is in his room, in his bed, in darkness, and a woman he doesn’t know and can’t even see, is lying beside him, exploring his body with sweet little fingers, finding spots of dead fire and rekindling them with maddening sweetness, playing so sweetly with his erection.
As her fingers float on his body, bringing him up higher and harder into that lustful haven, he feels the muscles of his belly knotting up with something close to terror and he tries, tries, tries to remember who the hell she is and what she is doing in his bed!
She is not allowing him to focus, though.
She slides a thigh that feels as smooth as fine silk across his hips, and moans again.
She seems to glide in the darkness, a heated flow of passion that knocks his silent pleas out the door and replaces them with inflamed passion.
Who are you, lady? Who the hell are you?
He opens his eyes so wide that his eyeballs hurt, trying to make out her facial features in the gloom, praying to see a tiny distinguishing feature that will help him recognize her, but he sees only faint smoothness, and then she glides on top of him, a dark silhouette that looks almost spectral as tiny shafts of light filters in from the edges of the drawn blinds and play silvery dots of irregular rhythm on her body.
She leans forward and her hair cascades into his face in a wavy mass, and her lips find his. She kisses him deeply, lustfully, almost brutally. Her lips are full and moist and sweet, her tongue a restless seeker that wakes up every primitive desire in him.
Boat groans with unrestrained pleasure and lust as his hands roam over her body, hesitant, unsure, seeking answers. She feels smooth, finely-moulded, with all the rises and grooves of an exotic beauty.
Dude, that lass is finely-bended! She is so curvy!
She rears up with a frenzied little moan, angles her lower body up, and lowers herself down slowly but firmly on his erection.
Boat gasps at the sudden pleasure, and his hands seek her waist and holds her, revelling in the waves of pleasure engulfing his body.
And thus, in darkness, she writes a special brand of erotic music on him, expertly pulling both of them towards a mutual climax.
Who’re you? Who the hell are you, lady?
In the darkness she does not speak, only increases the thrusts of her waist, riding him with frenzy now, her breathing laboured, the tense muscles of her body bracing all around him as she races forward.
Her fingers sink into his chest and grip fiercely, her thighs gripping tighter, and then the breath explodes out of her lips in a guttural jarring chord of pleasure, and then he is also breathing out his pleasure in choked grunts.
She falls on top of him, holding him fiercely with arms and thighs, trembling almost as violently as he is in the throes of their mutual orgasm.
Her breath is hot and harsh in his ears.
He wants to speak to her so badly, to ask her only one question:
Please, tell me, for the love of hades, who the hell are you?
Her back is slick with perspiration even though the room is icy cold from the gently-whirring air-conditioner. Her heavy breathing slowly returns to normal.
He pats her back gently in the darkness, and wonders, in a moment of idiotic irrelevance, how her face looks like.
She makes a contented purring kind of sound. She is becoming quite heavy as she begins to drift off to sleep, so he gently eases her down onto the bed.
She makes a little protesting sound and turns on her side. Her hand came back and takes his right hand, and then she pulls his arm around her.
They lie there in the darkness, her back curled into his body, her legs angled to take his form. He roams his hand across her side, down the groove of her waist and up the smoothest hip he has ever felt.
Absolutely bended right, he thinks in another explosive moment of idiocy, and almost giggle. She grabs his hand and plants it on her right breast. He grips it gently and rubs a thumb across her nipple.
She shudders and a small sound escapes her lips.
A few minutes later she begins to breathe gently and he knows she is asleep.
Boat’s eyes become heavier, and soon he drifts back into a restless sleep.
Who’re you? Who the hell are you? Damn it, what’s happening to me? Who are you, lady?
For a very brief moment Yaw Boat seems to come to the present, and it dawns on him that something really bad is just around the corner…
Location: BOAT’S APARTMENT
Yaw Boat comes awake with a splitting headache.
His head feels as if somebody is trying to rip it open with a blunt hammer.
Sunlight filters in through the partially drawn blinds. He feels ravenously hungry, and cannot recollect the last time he had taken a meal.
The girl is gone.
She had probably left in the morning whilst he slumbered on, leaving only a trace of faint perfume on his bedsheets.
Now that the effects of drugs and booze he had taken in have worn off a little, he faintly remembers chatting up a girl at a party he had attended the previous evening.
Had he brought her home? Possibly, but he still cannot remember anything about the previous night. With a grimace he gets off the bed, shutting his eyes tightly because of the headache and the face that he feels suddenly very dizzy.
After a while the faintness passes, and when he opens his eyes he sees the crow for the very first time.
It is a black crow with very black eyes.
It seems a little too huge for a normal crow, or so his mind tries to tell him.
It is perched on top of one of the tall speakers against the wall.
For a very split second his heart stops beating. Yaw Boat cannot remember the last time he had seen a crow, especially one this black and this huge.
Not in the sky, not anywhere, but in his bedroom! He can see specks of fine dust on its feathers, as if it had come from a long way.
Boat stares at that crow and for a long time he cannot formulate a single thought. He looks from that bird to the locked door to the locked windows, and he just cannot see from where it has materialized from.
The crow just stares at him, immobile, with its black eyes. It does not twitch, or bat an eye, or sway. It is just there, a huge black crow, perched still, glaring at him.
And where the hell did you come from, you vile bird?
The sound of his whispering voice seems to break the bizarre spell that the crow seems to have woven in his room.
The moment Boat whispers the crow flaps its dirty wings and takes off towards the huge French windows to the left of the bed which leads to a protruding balcony outside.
Boat’s eyes are riveted on the faint plume of dust that shoots into the air when the crow takes flight.
He turns his head, and sees that the crow is almost at the windows, and for a moment Boat expects it to smash into the glass with a thud, but it just seems to glide through the glass, and its head turns, and its dark eyes fix Boat in a stare once more, as if it is sending a final message.
Boat is stunned.
Has the damn bird flown through the glass?
Shivering, he moves towards the window, and finds to his relief that the glass is partially open, and the strange crow had flown through the space.
He gives a shaky laugh.
That had been scary, he thinks.
That had been damn scary!
He trudges into the bathroom, and by the time he finishes emptying his bladder, brushing his teeth, shaving and taking a cold shower, he had put the appearance of the crow out of his mind.
He returns to the bedroom and notices for the first time that his clothes are sprayed around the room, and that an almost empty bottle of wine is lying on its side on the rug, and the last drops of its content had drawn a big patch of red wetness on the beautiful floor mat.
He looks away from the small empty packet on the small table beside the bed with the tell-tale white smears around it.
Damn, he had obviously used that drug with the mystery woman of the night, mixed it with wine, and that is why he simply cannot remember a thing about her!
He sits on the edge of the bed, and for a moment that voice deep down speaks again, in a firmer voice, reminding him that he is living in abject debauchery, wallowing in the mud once more, living a life not befitting the only son of a God-fearing businessman.
Yaw Boat is twenty-two years old.
He is really living life in the fast lane. his father is the founder of GOLGOTHA HEIGHTS INTERNATIONAL, a multimillion giant company that rakes in millions of cedis across Africa, with a solid two-prong focus on oil and mining.
Golgotha Heights International also has tentacles in other profitable ventures in real estate and telecommunication.
Boat has never really bothered to get into the hum of his father’s company, but I know that his father is one of the richest men on the globe.
Pampered from birth, respected as a wealthy Christian’s son, school had been a mere formality, but surprisingly Boat is a bright student, and presently pursuing a degree in engineering at the SPECTRUM UNIVERSITY, one of the best private Universities in the world.
The only sad blot in his life is that he had not met his mother. Portraits of her hung on every wall in his father’s mansion. They all show one constant thing: she had been a beautiful woman!
She had died within an hour after giving birth to Yaw Boat. Her death had been bizarre, to say the least, something that had haunted Boat’s father for a long time.
She had been in hospital, cared for by the best doctors money could afford. She had gone through the pregnancy as strong as an ox.
She had gone through delivery smoothly, almost happily. She had been wheeled to the ward and had been waiting happily for them to bring her new-born baby to her.
Mr. Joe Boat, her husband, had been at her side, talking gently to her. She smiled into his eyes, closed her eyes… and she was gone.
It is a story Boat’s father used to tell him a lot when Boat was growing up. Maybe narrating it to his son brought him some inner peace.
Boat grew up loving her with fierce passion, and wished above all else, that he had known her.
The culminating effects of the good looks of his parents ensured that Boat is a very handsome young man.
Standing well over six feet, with a well-toned body to match, carefully achieved through dedicated workouts and measured body-building, he is a sight that has thrilled many a female eye.
His father had tried his best to bring Boat up as a Christian, but his dream had however received a poisonous injection in the bud because, at the age of sixteen, Boat had been introduced to the pleasures of the flesh by their housekeeper, who had been thirty or so years at the time.
She had entered Boat’s room one weekend – when Boat’s father had travelled on one of his business trips – and she had seduced the innocent teenager, taking him through one hell of a sexual adventure.
I convinced himself, as the years passed, that she had probably been sexually frustrated, and that she was probably one of those women who found joy in seducing younger boys.
Whatever her reason, she permanently changed Boat’s life that weekend.
She took him on an erotic sexual adventure, and inducted him into the world of lust with relentless dedication.
Boat had not wanted that weekend with Miss Naana to end, but it had ended rather badly. Mr. Joe Boat had returned home quite unexpectedly and found his son in bed with the older house-help.
Neither of them had heard him entering.
And there was Yaw Boat, lost in the thighs of a full-blown woman, working away in absolute abandon, whilst Miss Naana was making those explosive throaty groans adult movie actresses made, and Boat had felt like a legendary conqueror because he could give such a mature woman that extreme feeling of buoyant joy, and then suddenly he became aware that she was quiet and staring over his shoulders as if she had just caught a glimpse of hell.
Boat had turned his head, and there was his father, standing huge in the doorway, his face shell-shocked at first, then quickly changing into the most fearsome mask of fury Boat had ever seen.
That was the one time that Boat saw his father really in a rage.
It also was the first and only time that Boat had seen him reacting violently to any situation.
Mr. Joe Boat’s fist had flown, straight against Boat’s right cheek, the blow flinging him off the woman’s body. Mr. Joe Boat had then back-handed Miss Naana, and the slap had torn the poor woman’s lip and broken her nose.
The enraged father had screamed at her with such thunderous and vociferous fury, and cursed her with such base language, that she had fled naked from the room in tears.
The last view Boat ever had of her was the delicious twin mounds of her derriere wriggling enticingly out the door.
The old man had glared at his son, and in that brief instant the young man had seen a disgusted disappointment in the depths of his father’s eyes, a look of rejection, a look filled with the dirtiest shade of revulsion, and that look had cut Boat to the bone.
That was probably the only thing Boat regretted about the whole incident. He loved his Daddy very much.
His father’s opinion was the most important thing to him, and to see that look of loathing on his face had almost caused Boat’s tears to flow.
Almost, but not quite.
The words that followed however, had done the trick.
You’ve disappointed me, son.
He had whispered, and yet to Yaw Boat’s ears it had sounded like a million stampeding buffaloes.
The floodgates opened, and that had been the last, sincere bout of tears Boat remembers ever shedding in his life.
In the end Mr. Joe Boat had thrown out the housekeeper, and began the arduous task of spending preaching time with his son, in an effort to drag young Yaw Boat into a Christian life.
It had all been in vain.
Miss Naana’s erotic tutorials had driven a mighty hunger into the young man’s loins, and all he could think of was sex!
This urge has stayed relentlessly the last couple of years of Boat’s life. He is now addicted to women, and never tries to cure himself of the uncontrollable urge.
It is an integral part of him now, a relentless craving of his body, a bottomless cesspit of craving that cannot be filled, a demanding thirst that cannot be satiated.
At first Boat had tried to curb this terrible urge for sex, for his father’s sake.
His father is rich and a respected Christian. Boat did not want to disgrace his father, and so he tried to live the urge for sex down, to lie low and protect his father’s reputation.
But all to no avail, especially when he started using drugs and alcohol too.
On one level he is the pious son of a wealthy Christian, and on the other level, he is the fornicating, drug-using, alcohol-drinking Master of the Town, a complete contrast to what his father knows.
It is a seedy double life which has held Boat so violently in its grasp that there seems to be no escape for him.
To be continued tomorrow. This story would be posted on week days only
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