Erotica

The Dirty Old Man

Mr. Kamulu had been in worse situations before, and there was no doubt he would be in worse in the future. But he could handle it. All these guests walking around in expensive outfits and shiny jewelry would never make him sweat. They’d never know that he had recently gotten a heart attack while having vigorous sex with a girl from Mount Kenya University and that the incident had put a huge dent on his health. It happened when she was giving it to him via the reverse cowgirl sex position and calling him ‘daddy’. Suddenly a sharp pain hit his chest. Her ass and everything around him became blurry. Before he knew it, he had passed out.

The young lady had continued shouting “Come inside me daddy,” only to realize a few minutes later that Kamulu was unconscious.

But he was here now – back on his feet. He surveyed the crowded ballroom with grim tolerance as he sipped at the Cabernet Sauvignon wine to cover the fact that he was uneasy. It was only by force of will that he’d managed to last this long at this gala. His head was pounding a vicious cadence that made it hard to down the swallow of wine without his stomach heaving it back up.

“Bro, you can manage it,” his friend Mr. Karanja murmured next to him. “You’ve put in enough time. No one suspects a thing.”

Kamulu swiveled to see his three best friends—Karanja, Mboya and Mbiyu—standing protectively at his back. There was significance there. They were always at his back. They always stuck together, ever since they were freshmen in college decades ago, determined to make their mark on the business world. Now they were titans. Kamulu was a tycoon in the construction industry. He built luxury houses, sky scrapers and resorts for billionaires and investment firms. His three friends didn’t have the insane amount of money he did but they were still doing very well. Karanja was the Managing Director of an insurance company, Mboya owned a betting company and Mbiyu was a car importer who ran several dealerships across Kiambu road and Langata Road.

The three of them had been there for him when he was lying in the hospital, a yawning black hole in his memory.

“I’ve been told I never leave a party early,” Kamulu said as he tipped the wine toward his mouth again. “But I really have to leave. I am not feeling so well.”

“Alright. You go and have some rest buddy.“ Karanja hugged him before walking away. The other two guys did the same.

As Mr. Kamulu was walking out, his right hand man Odhis stopped him.

“What is it now Odhis?” He was desperate to get out of the place.

“Sir, I’ve gotten another woman for you.”

“I told you I don’t want these young girls anymore. They will kill me. Have you forgotten that the last one rode me so hard until I collapsed?”

“No this one is a decent woman sir. You will love her.”

Odhis always sourced beautiful women for his boss to sleep with. Mr. Kamulu was one of the most famous businessmen in the country so Odhis didn’t really have a hard time getting the right candidate. He would just approach random beautiful women in any of the popular nightclubs or youth events and table the offer to them.

He kept it simple.

“My boss Mr. Kamulu would like to sleep with you. I’m sure you know him. He will reward you handsomely. If you are interested, give me your number. He will call you. If not, just walk away.”

Most of them never walked away. They gave out their numbers quicker than a Ferrari Tributo’s dash from zero to sixty.

“So, tell me about this new woman.” Mr. Kamulu shot a firm gaze at Odhis.

“Miss Wanza is thirty-five years old, though she looks but twenty-seven. She’s a divorced mother of two. Her features are gentle and delicate. Her skin has the lightness of a lily, and her chestnut-brown weave reaches down to her waist. Her mouth is fresh, most pleasantly adorned, the very image of a springtime rose. She is rather tall, but she has such a lovely figure, there is so much grace in her movements, that her height, which otherwise might make her appear somewhat hard, is of no consequence. Her arms, her neck, her legs, are all pleasingly molded, and hers is a kind of beauty that will long resist the onset of age.”

“Interesting. Tell me more.”

“As for her conduct, her extreme regularity may perhaps not please you. She is not much given to mundane activities and leads a most secluded life. She is extremely pious, assiduous in her devotion to the duties of the church which she attends, and if she is a source of edification to all those around her by her religious qualities, she also is a source of delight to all who behold her, because of her mind and the charms of her character… . In a word, she’s an angel on earth, whom Heaven has reserved for your pleasure.”

‘‘Wow. Now I don’t know what I like more – the woman or your English.” Mr. Kamulu coughed.

“I just try sir.”

“Try? You Luos speak like you grew up in Nottingham or Aberdeen.”

“Haha. Thank you sir. So when should I tell her to come over?”

“Tomorrow morning. Maybe some gentle sex with her might ease this pain.”

“Very well sir.”

Kamulu nodded as his gaze swept around the room. His nape was prickling again, and he squelched the urge to rub it.

He noticed another woman looking at him. Her stare was drilling holes through him. It was unflinching and steady even when his eyes locked with hers.

It was hard for him to discern why he was so arrested by her. He knew he generally preferred tall, leggy light-skinned women. He was a total sucker for pretty faces and soft, pale skin.

This woman was petite, even in heels, and had a creamy olive complexion. A wealth of inky black curls cascaded over her shoulders and her eyes were equally dark. She looked at him as if she’d already judged him and found him lacking. He’d never seen her before in his life. Or had he?

He cursed the gaping hole in his memory. He remembered nothing of the weeks before his heart attack and had gaps in his memory preceding the weeks that he remembered nothing of. It was all so…random. Selective amnesia. It was complete and utter bull. No one got amnesia except hysterical women in bad soap operas. His physician suggested that there was a psychological reason for the missing pieces of his memory. Kamulu hadn’t appreciated such a suggestion. He wasn’t crazy. Who the hell wanted to lose their memory?

He remembered his three friends. Every moment of the past decade. He even remembered the time they had gang-banged a popular socialite. They gave her dick, all four of them at the same time. Dirty old men. And she had handled them all easily. She had taken their cocks in the mouth, pussy, ass and hand, all at the same time. They paid her 500k for the night.

Kamulu also remembered most of the people who worked for him. Most. But not all, which caused him no end of stress in his offices. Especially since he was trying to close a resort development deal that could make him and his partners billions.

Now he was stuck not remembering who half his investors were and he couldn’t afford to lose anyone at this stage of the game. The woman was still staring at him, but she’d made no move to approach him. Her eyes had grown colder the longer their gazes held, and her hand tightened perceptibly on her small clutch.

“Excuse me,” he murmured to the Odhis. With a smooth smile, he disengaged himself and discreetly made his way in the direction of his mystery woman.

His security team followed at a short distance, but he ignored them. They didn’t shadow him for fear of his safety as much as his partners feared it getting out that he’d lost his memory. The security team was an annoyance he was unused to, but they kept people at arm’s length, which served him well at the moment. The woman didn’t pretend to be coy. She stared straight at him and as he approached, her chin thrust upward in a gesture of defiance that intrigued him. For a moment he stood in front of her, studying the delicate lines of her face and wondering if in fact this was their first meeting. Surely he would have remembered.

“Excuse me, but have we met?” he asked in his smoothest voice, one that he knew to be particularly effective on women.

Likely she’d titter and then deny such a meeting. Or she’d blatantly lie and try to convince him that they’d spent a wonderful night in bed. Which he knew couldn’t be true, because she wasn’t his type.

His gaze settled over the generous swell of her breasts pushed up by the empire waist of her black cocktail dress. The rest of the dress fell in a swirl to her knees and twitched with sudden impatience.

She did none of the things he’d supposed. When he glanced back up at her face, he saw fury reflected in the dark pools of her eyes. “Met? Have we met?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he felt each word like the crack of a whip. “You bastard!”

Before he could process the shock of her outburst she nailed him with a right hook. Her nails scrapped off a decent chunk of his skin. He stumbled back, holding his bleeding nose.

“You biiiitch—” He yelled.

Before he could demand to know if she’d lost her damn mind, one of his guards stepped between him and the woman, and in the confusion accidentally sent her reeling backward. She stumbled and went down on one knee, her hand automatically flying to the folds of her dress.

It was then, as she cupped her belly, that the realization hit him. The folds had hidden the gentle curve of her body. Had hidden her pregnancy and the evidence of a child.

His guard went to roughly haul her to her feet.

“No!” Kamulu roared. “She’s pregnant. Do not hurt her!”

His guard stepped back, his startled gaze going to Kamulu. The woman wasted no time scrambling to her feet. Her eyes flashing, she turned and ran down the marble hallway, her heels tapping a loud staccato as she fled.

Mr. Kamulu stared at her retreating figure, too stunned to do or say anything. The last time she’d looked at him, it wasn’t fury he’d seen. It wasn’t the fiery anger that prompted her to hit him. No, he’d seen tears and hurt. Somehow, he’d hurt this woman and damned if he knew how.

The vicious ache in his head forgotten, he hurried down the hallway after her. He burst from the hotel lobby, and when he reached the steps leading down to the busy streets, he saw two shoes sparkling in the moonlight, the silvery glitter twinkling at him. Mocking him.

He bent and picked up the strappy shoes and then he frowned. A pregnant woman had no business wearing heels this high. What if she’d tripped and fallen? Why the devil had she run? It certainly seemed as if she wanted a confrontation with him, but at first opportunity, she’d fled.

At least she’d had the common sense to ditch them so she wasn’t running down some street on a pair of toothpicks.

“What the hell is going on, sir?” Odhis demanded as he hurried up behind him.

In fact, his entire security team, along with his three friends, had followed him. Now they gathered around him and they looked as though they were concerned.

He blew out his breath in frustration and then shoved the pair of sparkly, ultrafeminine shoes at Odhis, his head of security.

“Find the woman who wore these shoes.”

“What would you like me to do with her when I find her?” Odhis asked in a sober voice that told Kamulu he’d definitely find the woman in short order.

Odhis didn’t typically fail in any task Kamulu set him to.

Kamulu shook his head. “You aren’t to do anything. Report back to me. I’ll handle the situation.”

He was treated to a multitude of frowns from his friends.

“I don’t like it, bro,” Karanja said. “This screams setup. It’s not impossible that your memory loss hasn’t already been leaked to the press or even a few confidential sources who haven’t yet gone wide with it. A woman could manipulate you in a thousand ways by using it against you.”

“Yes, she could,” Kamulu said calmly. “There’s something about this woman that bugs me, though.”

Karanja’s brow lifted in that imperious way that intimidated so many people. “Do you recognize her? Is she someone you knew?”

Kamulu frowned. “I don’t know. Yet. But I’m going to find out.”

About Philip Etemesi

I am the sheriff in this town. Writing is my joie de vivre. I am a superman thanks to God. Need to discuss a thing or two with me? Shoot me an email via philipetemesi@gmail.com
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