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Weighty 'n' Worthy African Proverbs - Volume 1

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Vincent Okay Nwachukwu

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“Carrying her over to his bed, he slowly laid her on it. She sank into the mattress with a dreamy murmur of a sigh. Though the protective impulse he had felt toward her earlier had returned full force, the soft and sensual moan from her lips filled him with a moment's blinding lust. Dear God. A tremor of hunger ran through him. His stare traveled over her lax face and down her white neck to her creamy chest. He swallowed hard, gazing at her breasts. Somehow, he became fixated on them again. Heart pounding, he moved slowly and with caution sat on the edge of the bed. Desire slammed through his veins, but he only meant to look. She was a harlot, she wouldn't care, as long as he had money, which he did, lots of it. Yet it amazed him that such beauty could be purchased for the taking. She was exquisite, with the dusky fringe of her lashes fanned above her cheeks in sleep. The thick and wavy cloud of her satiny brown hair flowed back from the pale oval of her face and spilled across his pillow. He marveled at the creamy shimmer of her complexion in the firelight, her flushed cheeks like delicate pink-tinted porcelain. His gaze traveled over her smooth forehead, the delicate twin arches of her light brown eyebrows, and her small, prettily formed nose. He would not have guessed her any common sort of wench. Then his attention strayed to her pink lips in ever-growing desire, a gathering smolder darkening his eyes. She had a very charming chin, slightly pronounced, and hinting at a firm stubbornness of character. He wanted to nibble its smooth rounded curve.”

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“The glow intensified. She reached out with a tentative hand, aching to touch one of the jagged edges, unsure of why she had an overwhelming urge to do so. Her finger inches from a colored spike, the silence in the room turned dense, her ears beginning to ache with the pressure. Cracks appeared in the air, like a shattered mirror, reflecting the light along its fractured edges. The light reached into the cracks, filling them up, then a blinding flash . . .”

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“He could see her breasts lift and fall gently with her breathing. She'd thrown off her blanket. He watched now. Feeling like an adolescent. Just as ridiculous, just as enthralled. He imagined going to her, lying next to her on the bed, pulling her into his arms, waiting for her to stir awake. He imagined the feel of the fine, fragile fabric of the night rail against his hands---it would be warm, fragrant from her--- and the whisper of sound it would make as it slid over her body when he lifted it from her. He imagined his hands gliding over the curve of her shoulders and hips; over the petal skin of her breasts, and her softer-still nipples. He imagined her lithe body rippling beneath his touch as he discovered her again, and thoroughly this time, he imagined his mouth finding, tasting every bit of her, the hollow of her belly, the musk between her legs, her soft cries of pleasure as he did. He imagined the slow final taking of her, moving inside her as she clung to him--- Oh, God. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.”

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“On the day of the christening, Elizabeth, with Tomas by her side, carried her daughter, who was swathed in a lace robe, towards the priest who stood in the main hall. As she looked around the assembled guests, smiling, one in particular caught her eye and she stumbled, staggering with the baby in her arms. Damien Chegwidden. She couldn't help but to be reminded of the tale of the bad fairy at the christening of Sleeping Beauty, a story that had fascinated her as a child. She had often wondered what it must be like to sleep for a hundred years and then wake to find a world utterly changed. Was his presence to be a bad omen for her daughter?”

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