African girl

RUMUIGBO HAD RECENTLY worn a sort of heady newness. It was not the newly tarred roads with chipped edges and smooth surface that never seemed to lose its heat and scalded the feet of people wearing footwear with thin soles. Nor was it not the brightly-coloured streetlights that lined the streets in perfect rows like disciplined school children and transformed them into miniglorious ghostly scenes Addis girlsat night, a momentary sophisticatedness that was all too flattering, all too ironical. It was, perhaps, this new feeling for Folake. I met Folake in the bank, where I worked. She had come to withdraw money from her account and had ended up in a heated argument with a staff who could not match her signatures. I was in the habit of not interfering with people’s business, especially as the said staff was not particularly a pleasant colleague, but I stepped in and confirmed the signatures weren’t so different, and I noticed  escort girl addis ababa Folake looked at me briefly in surprise. As she walked away, I felt a sudden possessiveness overwhelm me, a strange irritation towards the young men who turned to give her prurient glances. The slip of paper in my pocket with her phone number warmed me. She was not my kind of girl, with her unabashed voyeurism, or her uncouth vulgarity, the flimsy dresses she wore that barely covered her cleavages, and the deliberately brazen air about her, but I found her interesting and I sent her a text afterwards requesting for a date. She was outspoken, in a way that was not very comfortable. Her ordinary phrases were lined with bawdy undertones. She would stare at me intently, unflinching, not even when I faltered under her gaze to make her look away. The very first time we had dinner together, at an eatery along AdaGeorge road, with bland, over-priced food, she reached out, while I was speaking, to grab my crotch. I was stunned into silence. I held my breath, sick with apprehension, slightly expecting her to realize what she was doing and stop, and slightly hoping nobody would look in our direction. She did not pull 66 away, not until she had traced several patterns along my bulge and smiled at me with unabashed fulfillment. She would repeat it again in a crowded supermarket, while I spoke with the cashier to make payments for the clothes I had just purchased. Folake watched both of us, her expression bored, and spontaneously, she leaned close and grabbed my crotch, making me come to an abrupt halt. The cashier watched us from where she sat, stunned at first, and then she coyly lifted her handkerchief to cover her face. The day she left, a few days after we met, I woke up to a sticky feeling in my underwear, the sign of a blowjob, and a small note with wrongly spelt words that said she had found my engagement ring in the drawer and was not interested in getting married to me.