Prior Warning to the Reader
Dear reader,
Satan’s Seductress–actual title of the piece–is a narrative containing graphic scenes, some of which are extremely pornographic. While not strictly a sex tale, it contains a few paragraphs with such scenes.
Readers who are extremely religious or preoccupied with protecting their emotions are, therefore, advised not to read. It’s a love tale with a sexual tinge.
You were warned.
It’s self-edited, hence, any grammatical error, typo, or wrong sentence structuring, if not knowingly done for narrative effect, can be laid at my doorstep.
Here’s to your reading pleasure, anyway.
I remain,
S. Stanley.
Prologue
They were asking questions upon questions, gradually and craftily, leading me to the point of voluntary confession. I almost did. I held out, however. I was chief suspect in the case, but nobody caught me with bloodied hands, and no one was going to cull out a confession from my lips. I was innocent until proven guilty. But the two thaw-faced police detectives were doing a damn good job at it, and I had to calm myself from within and not let the apprehension and tension become evident on my face. Hell! They were after evidences.
“You said the quarrels between you and the deceased were just girlish banters, Miss. Coldhart?” the more handsome of the two resumed.
“Indeed,” said I.
“How came you both once exchanging slaps then?”
“Things boiled over at the time,” said I.
“And spilled onto the bathroom floor?” the less handsome detective jumped in. How I wished I could have grabbed his thick neck and strangle it like I did that bitch of a girl. She was a boyfriend snatcher, and the ugly-faced detective looked like a brother of hers. He was driving me nuts with his unorthodox attempt to force a confession out of me.
I, nevertheless, maintained my cool and remained silent. If he was trying to take my innocent answer to a question, furnish it with a parochial but pretty continuation, and connect it to the murder in an allusion to the blots of blood found on the bathroom floor then he was in for a game. I wasn’t budging. Not in a million years.
That girl was stupid enough to fall onto pieces of broken mirror on the bathroom floor as she swooned into the ever ready arms of death. Curse her.
“And spilled onto the bathroom floor?” he really repeated the question, big-headed at his flash-in-the—pan witticism and clever questioning. How I wished I had a lawyer around to lecture him on the inappropriateness of asking such prejudicial questions when interrogating a mere suspect. Yes, a mere suspect. I didn’t do it. I am innocent until proven guilty. Keep that in mind.
“Answer the question, Miss. Coldhart,” the handsome one said with a handsome smile.
“I am unable to answer,” said I.
The ugly cop flashed an ugly smile, perused his writing pad, and came up with the deadliest question of all—one I wasn’t prepared for. He knew it. Curse him.
I remained silent, thinking fast and furious. Hell. For the first time in my life, I wished that I had never felt anything for Peter. I wished that I had never laid eyes on Peter Hectorelite.
Love at Second Sight
When he first ambled into my class, Peter Hectorelite was dressed in a greenish dark shirt of sleeves short, which rested gracefully on his chiseled frame. A deep, black pantaloon clothed his not too short legs, also, and hanged above a pair of tanned shoes. He was to be our new Biology teacher in place of Mr. Karim Kroma, who passed away three weeks earlier. He introduced himself, and listened to the class as we, in turns, sang out our names.
Appraising his physique, I rated him as the most sinfully handsome chalk-pusher I ever laid eyes on. Wasn’t feeling anything for him, however. Yet, I didn’t, at the time, begrudged his having a sort of manly aura and facial firmness, which could move a woman’s heart and cause her to burst out in admiring applause. He had it. Good looks.
The second time I beheld him, I fell in love. Believe it or not. It started with a sudden surge in my heart rate, which gradually inflamed my blood, causing pleasurable warmth I never experienced before in me. I felt hot and humid down there. It was the real thing. Love.
I, Nymphia Coldhart, was in love—an emotion altogether alien to me; sugar I never sampled before. Never knew such fire existed. I was smitten. I was vanquished. Sir Peter stood tall and strong—in dazzling aura—a knight in shining armour. I was in love with him and fantasized about it. Making sure no other student was likely to look in my direction, with all their attentions riveted on Sir Peter, I slid an arm down my dress, in between my thighs, stuck the three middle fingers together, pulled aside my panties, and expertly crammed them in and out, all the while, imagining that the new Biology teacher was making passionate love to me.
Of course, I had never been in love, but, with enough sexual experiences between my thighs, I considered Sir. Peter the perfect male any horny slut could fall in love with at last. Ah.
Those muscular arms of his closing around me in an amorous hug, and his lips searching for and worshipping every sweet spot of my body while his turgid manhood pushes against my pelvic area became a dream deeply desired. Imagine the pain, the pleasure, and the glory. Rough, rocking, rude sex effected by amore. Glorious sandwiching in a candle-lighted room—heaven on earth, paradise in the throng of pleasure; I craved it!
To make myself conspicuous I asked a question.
“Sir,” said I.
“Yes?”
“Where do you come from, please? Seems as if I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Well,” he said, “I used to live in Ho before I came here.”
‘Oh, then it must have been somebody else who looked like you,” I said and rolled my eyes at him. He spoke and taught in a deep, rich voice, which reverberated round and round the room. His voice was music to my ears—authoritative, clear and loud, and pleasing to listen to. I imagined how it’ll boom in a bedroom while he was in the throngs of pleasure.
His was the last lesson of the day, and I stalked him as soon as he stepped out of the class.
I maintained a cautious distance until we reached the Methodist Estates, which housed a church, a mission school, a hospital, a morgue, and a number of bungalows and apartments for rent. He entered, and I followed.
“Sir,” I called out in my most melodious intonation.
He stopped. He turned. “Hello,” he said.
“You’re living here?”
“Yes.”
I smiled. “You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“A few days,” said he. “Why do you ask?”
I was now walking beside him. I laughed, and replied not.
Sir Peter’s apartment was littered with his possessions and boxes of books, which made the room hot. He pulled off his shirt and began sampling and placing some of them on two large shelves fixed in the room. I pulled off my school uniform and made to help him. He strengthened up and stared at me.
I was wearing an undergarment, which wasn’t all that short and covered my panties, but much of my boobs were bared. I never felt comfortable in brassieres, and my boobs were firm enough to do without them. Same with panties; I only wore them during menses.
When we finished packing the books, and took care of other works available, I grasped his hands, waved aside his enthused expressions of gratitude and told him: “I’m happy to have helped you, Sir, and I’ll always be available anytime you need help around here. In anything. Anytime. Just let me know.”
“Thank you, Nymphia,” he said and favoured me with his biggest smile.
A Problem
Three fortnights had passed, and, within that time, we had grown very close, but Sir. Peter was yet to make any move to indicate his being aware of my more than friendly interest in him. He had been asking questions about me and my family, but none of them touched on love, and he never seemed to be much moved when I visit him in clothing ensembles that leave my most attractive features exposed.
I often wondered whether he was being coy or just taking his time. As far as I knew, mine was a body the most obstinate men may find hard not admiring. I was a carbon copy of my mom—more than six feet tall, full breasted, soot skinned, and not facially unattractive, with my most seductive asset behind. A pair of peerless buttocks that were ever rounded, ever clapping each other, and ever rolling with every step I take. And who, which male with an inquisitive manhood—almost all of them have it, won’t want to take a trip down there to scavenge for the fabled G-spot?
I was yet to find a man who could resist my sexual charm, and getting Sir. Peter was just a matter of time. Others had fallen, and he’ll soon be among them.
First to fall prey to my seductive prowess was, Jared, my step brother. It was the day I caught him in the house, alone, watching porn. I, without any words said, undressed myself before him then proceeded to take off his cloths. He was speechless and could only stare at me in sexual stupefaction as I licked him sweet. When we started, he was so slow and frustrating, and I had to stop him and take things into my own hands. I rode him sore.
Another was the assistant head of Honeycomb High. He was a noted pervert and rumours abounded about his nocturnal flings with some of the younger teachers living on campus, and a few students. His continual observation of my booty anytime I was in his presence became an open secret, and he had the shock of his life when I walked into his office, one day after school, shut the door, and uplifted my dress to favour him with a view of my bushy pelvis and asked: “How long will you continue dreaming about taking a bite?”
You wonder at my sexual fecundity? Haha. I’m no nympho, but I do love having sex and think that no pleasure compares to an elongated male genital inside a woman’s most sensitive spot.
“Sir Peter will be mine,” I swore. Just a matter of time. Yes.
Love at Last
It was raining outside, and the cold winds crept through every available crevice and chilled the four corners of the bedroom, but our immediate surrounding was warm, hot actually. Sir. Peter was in his underpants and seated in an armchair while I, naked and ever ready, sat on his lap with my soft bottom resting on his hardened manhood. He, soon, lolled out his tongue and licked round my neck then to the space between my boobs while his nervy but sure fingers worked wonders between my thighs. I, also, slid a hand into his underpants and tenderly played his balls. The foreplay was long; titillating, poetic, and steamy—being commanded by a master of the art.
It lasted for close to 20 minutes.
Afterwards, he shifted me to fully face him, and unleashed his manhood. I sat on it and rolled and wobbled there for almost half an hour. We rested for a few minutes then brought on the sequel. He pushed me faced down onto the bed, with two pillows placed beneath my pelvis, and drove in from behind. Oh, pleasure of pleasures. I was in love and in bed with a real man—one who knew the value of foreplay to passionate and prolonged sex, and wasn’t ignorant in the art of devouring a woman’s sweetest spot. The horny truth was obvious—this was a man who knew the stuff good sex’s made of.
We rested for six or so minutes and brought on the sequel.
He switched of the electric bulb, lighted a candle, and asked me to position myself faced down with hips raised on the floor. The light from the candle reflected our shadows, and I got much pleasure from looking sideways and watching them quiver on the wall as I did from his tentative excursions in and out of my other hole.
“You lazybones, aren’t you going to school today?” I heard my twin sister’s voice floating into my still sleepy brain. I opened a pair of drowsy eyes. “Get up!” she screamed.
“Where’s Peter?” said I.
“Peter? Who’s Peter?” she retorted and looked at me quizzically. A mischievous smile soon played on her lips as she went down and looked under the bed. I gasped, now fully awake. It had all been nothing more than a dream. A damn dream.
A Problem Different
I found it difficult concentrating in class, and worst of all, Sir Peter wasn’t having a lesson with us. Yet, the dream occupied my thoughts and made me wet all day long. If he could be that good within a dream, what won’t he do without one?
The mere remembrance of the dream stirred my womanhood and I crave it being stuffed with a full cock. Soon. Less I masturbate and moan before the class and the theology tutor, who would, probably, die on the spot, fatally shocked.
Ah. Peter. Peter. Peter.
I hastened to the staff common room as soon as the school clock struck midday. The room was bare save an unknown teacher with his eyes glued to the screen of an Apple Macbook. The noise from the system was tuned low—but it was one my ears were not unfamiliar to. He was watching porn. I shifted my feet to make him aware of my presence.
“Where’s Sir Peter?”
“He….isn’t…here,’ he said. “They all are at lunch, I think.”
I moved toward him. He said nothing, but looked ruffled as I glanced over his shoulders and at the screen; a teacher ashamed at being caught by a student watching such silly videos. I calmed him down, however.
I loosed his trousers and fingered him, and then raised my dress and sat on him; heaving and hovering—satisfying an immediate want on both sides. It was quick but worthwhile. Juicy too. I moaned in pleasure, pretending and fantasizing that he was Sir Peter.
Before lunchtime was over, I got up and made to leave.
“Thank you,” he said lamely.
“Anytime,” said I and dashed out of the room.
It was dusk when I packed a few things to move to Sir Peter’s place. He was bathing when I arrived and halted outside the bathroom door, contemplating whether I should barge in naked and lock us in. It would happen then—what my heart and womanhood had been yearning for since my second sighting of him and falling in love.
I thought otherwise, however. I controlled my emotions, fingered down there for awhile, and went away from the bathroom door. Patience was needed. And no matter how long it takes, Sir. Peter will be mine. I swear it. Soon I will have his hands all over me, and his manhood bulldozing in and out of my already juicy pot. Yes.
When he came out, I lied to him about my parent’s expecting visitors, whom I wanted to avoid and asked to stay at his place for two or three days. He agreed.
Seeing him getting dressed in his best cloths, I asked: “You’re going out?”
“Yes, Nymphia.”
“Where to?”
“An all night service, “said he. I stood looking at him with my annoyance barely concealed. He bid me goodnight and left. Damn.
When Sir Peter came back in the morning, there was a woman with her. She looked like a girl. Actually. “Good morning, Nymphia,: he said as they entered.
“Morning, Sir,” said I.
“Meet my girlfriend, Lily.”
I gasped for breath. After spending the whole night, alone, because of some damn all-night- service, and hoping that things will even out at the break of dawn, he comes home with a girlfriend? Damn.
Here I was. Faced with a problem different. Sir Peter was already having a woman.
Upon all his good looks and mental astuteness, he turned out to be a man who was naïve enough to have a girlfriend to whom he wants to be faithful and not have anything doing with other girls. Such stupidity. In a man like Peter. Damn.
“Welcome, Lily,” I said. I, all the same, maintained my composure and acted as coy as possible. Shouldn’t let them know that I was jealous and prone to having fantasies about Sir Peter getting into my panties and holing me.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile, revealing white but quite large teeth that made her look not too beautiful. But a tiny gap between her front teeth redeemed her. She looked just pretty.
She was short but slender, and due to that, had the false appearance of appreciable tallness. There wasn’t much to her physique save a pair of petite boobs that were becoming on her and lovely to look at. Wished I could suck them for her. She also had an almost flat bottom, and wouldn’t have made much of a rival. But she was already having him and wasn’t competing with me.
Moreover, Peter was already in love with her, despite her bleached beauty looks, the lack of a sumptuous bottom, and an overly wide mouth that made her look unbecoming anytime she smiled. But I have to confess this—she had a sort of tender loveliness to her appearance, and I could very well imagine a gentleman like Peter loving her wholeheartedly.
How much he loved her became obvious in the next few days, when I chanced on them in the sitting room. The delicate creature was snuggled in the arms of my heart desire.
Yet I still retained hope of my dream becoming reality. Even if Peter never loves me, his making love to me once in a while will be enough. But he appeared to be no such man.
I will make him do that, all the same. Soon.
I am Nymphia Coldhart
While moving further and further away from the school, I recalled a story my grandma once told me. About a man who was pursued by a hungry lion. A man who was small of stature and not one to even face a mouse in a fight, a man who couldn’t be brave; he was. It was only when the lion chased and cornered him that he discovered himself, his strength, and the killer within.
The lion, fierce, furious, and ferocious, stood and roared and prepared to pounce. The man squared his shoulders, squatted for a second, sprang up, and killed the beast.
Recalling the tale, my blood run hot in me in contrast to my heart, which remained as cold as ever. A killer needs a cold heart, and I, Nymphia, was going for the kill. She was my rival and must be eliminated if things should improve. Come hell or high-water, she’ll die.
You marvel at my cold-heartedness? Do not. As my grandma used to say; “any slutty bitch is capable of the most heinous sins.”
I am capable. I am Nymphia Coldhart. Yes.
Lily was in the bathroom when I arrived. I looked through the keyhole; she was covered in foam and furiously scrubbing her bleached face.
I entered. She died. I killed the beloved of a man I lusted after and never loved.
END OF STORY
Stanley Courage Dugah is a self educated writer and poet based in Ghana. Besides writing online (where he had won multiple writing contests), he’s working on a number of novels, novellas, short stories, screenplays, and a poetry collection. His current work-in-progress: “A Love Tale, a Political Satire, and a Thriller,” will be published in July, 2013.
You can connect with him on facebook or follow @StanleyCDugah.
