Exposed by Nyar Afrika
short story

I feel her eyes on me, staring, gauging, taking me in.

I look at her through the corner of my eye, obviously trying to be subtle about it so as to get a good view of her.

In as much as this club is dimly lit, I take in her feature with lots of ease.

She is dressed in tight black pants and a loose white shirt. She has leather boots on and her hair is braided in the middle, both sides having been shaved.

A septum ring sit comfortably on her nose where another gold stud is, adding that full rebel look to her face.

She has a full bossom and her ass is round and soft. A screaming shade of red paints her lips and I don’t know if it’s my own own imagination but is she batting her eyelids at me?
Okay. This is crazy.

I feel her eyes on me yet again and this time, I pretend to be deeply engrossed in my friends’ mindless banter.

The ache between my legs increases and I can already feel the dampness in my knickers.
Truth be told.

I want this mysterious woman to have me. To take me in a way known to her and make me moan endlessly. To touch me in places that crave for touch; a woman’s touch and make me moan. To bend me over a table and eat me out until I squirt all over her face. I want this woman so bad.

I want this mysterious woman to have me. To take me in a way known to her and make me moan endlessly. To touch me in places that crave for touch; a woman’s touch and make me moan. To bend me over a table and eat me out until I squirt all over her face. I want this woman so bad.

I look at her again.

She lights up another cigarette, inhales deeply, blows out a thick cloud of smoke, whips out her phone and idly scrolls through it.

She downs her third glass of rum while still looking at me. Or so I think. Wait, am I drunk? Is she really looking at me or is this another figment of my imagination? A game my intoxicated mind is trying to play on me?

No. This is real.

She is looking at me again.

Her stare has an amazing effect of on me for that dull throbbing ache that is slowly torturing my clit becomes intense.

I almost end up yanking my panties my way and fingering myself on this bar stool right in the middle of a club. This thought makes me moan lightly.

I am horny. I need a fuck and I need a fuck fast!

“Universe, help me through this.” I silently pray as she hurriedly drinks her last bit of alcohol and starts heading my way.

“Hello I am..”

“What the fuck!”

I exclaim as she stretches out her hand to greet me.

“Beryl?” She shouts, surprise written all over her face.

I let out a disgusted snort as I head towards the washrooms.

I can’t deal. I can’t deal with this.

This. is. fucked. up.

Exposed

illustration by Elizabeth Watkin

Nyar Afrika is a radical feminist. Human rights defender. Activist. Writer. QUEER NON CONFORMIST. BLACK GIRL MAGIC.

Elizabeth Watkin is based in Asheville, NC. She dabbles in writing, art-making, and local activism.

2 Responses

  1. Verena says:

    Thank you for sharing your story Nyar Afrika and thank you for the illustration Elizabeth!

  2. I find your prose pretty!

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