THE AFFAIR AT NO 12
PART 6
The secret phone became Adaora’s heartbeat. Its silent vibrations under her pillow, in her purse, were the rhythm of her new, double life. The Wednesday and Friday afternoon meetings with Michael were the sun around which her week revolved. Everything else—the charity committee calls, the lunch dates with Yemi and the girls, the weekly calls with the children—felt like a pale, boring dream.
Emeka returned from Ghana, a whirlwind of tired energy and imported gifts. He brought her a new necklace, even more elaborate than the last. As he clasped it around her neck in their bedroom, Adaora’s skin crawled. Her mind flashed to Michael’s fingers tracing that same spot, his mouth on her collarbone. She forced a bright, grateful smile.
“It’s beautiful, darling. Thank you.”
“You deserve the best,” Emeka said, patting her shoulder before heading to his study to catch up on work. He didn’t notice the new, hidden spark in her eyes, the subtle glow on her skin that wasn’t from any cream. He saw his beautiful, quiet wife, a perfect fixture in his perfect home.
The arrogance of his blindness fueled her. It made the secret sweeter, more powerful.
The following Tuesday, the old gateman left for his long lunch. The main house was quiet, with Mary humming in the laundry room downstairs. Adaora’s secret phone buzzed.
“Library. 2 mins.”
A new location. Her pulse skittered. The library was Emeka’s inner sanctum, a place even she rarely entered. It was filled with his first-edition books, awards, and the smell of his expensive cigars. The ultimate violation.
She slipped in, closing the heavy door behind her. The room was dark, the blinds drawn. She could barely make out the shapes of the large leather armchairs and the towering bookshelves.
Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her against a hard, familiar chest. Michael’s lips found the sensitive spot below her ear.
“You came,” he murmured, his voice a dark thrill in the dim room.
“You called,” she breathed back, melting into him.
This time, it was different. There was a new edge to his hunger, a possessiveness that went beyond passion. He turned her around, his eyes gleaming in the slivers of light. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling over the expensive linen dress she wore.
“Take it off,” he said, his voice low and commanding.
There, in her husband’s most prized room, Adaora obeyed. She let the dress pool at her feet. She stood before him in just her lace underwear, the diamond necklace cold against her heated skin.
Michael didn’t move. He drank her in, his expression one of dark appreciation. “You are even more beautiful when you are disobedient,” he said.
Then he was on her. He guided her back against the edge of Emeka’s massive, antique mahogany desk. The encounter was slower, more deliberate than before. It was a lesson in control. His control. He dictated the pace with his hands, his whispers, the relentless, worshipful attention of his mouth on her body. He made her beg in choked whispers. He made her say his name, not “Michael,” but the name his mother called him, “Micheal,” until it was a prayer on her lips.
After, as she lay breathless across the desk, papers crumpled beneath her, he dressed her. With gentle, meticulous care, he put her lace and silk back on her trembling body, then her dress. He zipped her up, his fingers trailing her spine. It was an act of profound intimacy and domination. He had unraveled her, and only he could put her back together.
“Tonight,” he whispered, fastening the diamond necklace back in place, his lips brushing her ear. “Your balcony. Midnight. Leave the door unlocked.”
Before she could answer, he was gone, slipping out the library’s side door that led to the garden.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. At dinner with Emeka, she was a masterpiece of calm. She discussed the children’s school reports, listened to his market analysis, all while her skin still hummed from Michael’s touch and her mind raced towards midnight.
When Emeka fell asleep shortly after the news, his breathing deep and regular, Adaora’s real night began. She waited, counting the seconds. At five to midnight, she crept from the bed, slid open the balcony door, and let the warm, humid night air kiss her skin.
He appeared like a shadow from the corner of the balcony, scaling the wall with a terrifying, silent grace. He stepped inside, smelling of the night jasmine and danger.
This meeting was not about hungry passion. It was about possession. He led her not to the bed, but to the full-length mirror in her dressing area. He stood behind her, his powerful frame enveloping hers, his eyes locking onto hers in the reflection.
“Look,” he commanded, his hands sliding over her silk nightgown. “Look at who you belong to when he is sleeping right there.”
In the mirror, she saw his dark hands on her pale silk, his jaw set with a fierce pride. She saw her own face, flushed with a mixture of shame and exhilaration so intense it bordered on madness. He was marking her, not with bruises, but with a truth she could never unsee.
It was the most potent, the most addictive moment yet. She was split in two: the dutiful wife in the bed, and the wild, owned woman in the mirror. And the woman in the mirror was alive.
The risk was astronomical. One sound, one creak of the floorboard, and it would all explode. But the danger was the drug. As Michael finally led her away from the mirror, down onto the thick rug beside the bed where her husband slept, Adaora knew she was past saving. She was a ghost in her own marriage, haunting it with the flesh-and-blood sin of her lover.
He left as silently as he came. Adaora slipped back into bed, her body humming, her skin carrying the scent of him. She lay inches from her unknowing husband, staring at the ceiling, a silent scream of triumph and terror lodged in her throat.
The next morning, over breakfast, the first crack appeared.
Emeka looked up from his tablet, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her across the table. “You seem different, Adaora.”
Her blood ran cold. She took a slow sip of orange juice. “Different? How?”
“I don’t know. Restless.” He shrugged, going back to his screen. “Maybe you need another trip. London, maybe. Go shopping.”
The old solution. Throw money at the symptom. He didn’t see the disease writhing inside her.
“Maybe,” she said softly, her foot gently rubbing against the leg of the table, remembering where Michael’s hands had been just hours before.
Later, as she passed the gatehouse on a pretend walk, Michael was polishing the company SUV. He glanced up, his expression neutral for the cameras.
“Morning, Madam.”
“Good morning, Michael.” She paused, as if making small talk. “The car is shining.”
“Yes, Madam. Must maintain standards.” His eyes met hers. In their depths, she saw the reflection of the mirror, the memory of the midnight rug, the shared, devastating secret. It was a look that said, I own the truth of you.
As she walked on, she realized the most addictive part wasn’t the sex. It was this: the seamless, terrifying, glorious dance between the two worlds. It was being his “Madam” in the sun, and his “Adaora” in the dark. It was the constant, heart-stopping brinkmanship of almost getting caught.
The affair was no longer a flame. It was the air she breathed. And she knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and blissful, that she would let the whole perfect, sterile world burn before she would give it up.
To be continued… #nigeriafolktales #kenyanfolktales #ghanianfolktales #zambianfolktales #ugandanfolktales #gambianfolktales #storytellingtime #viralvideos #explorepage #trendingreel #StorytellingMagic #drambox #storyteller #talesbymoonlight #fypage #fictionalstory #fictionalstorytelling #africanstorytelling #africantales #africanstoryteller #fictionalwritter #fictionalwritter #fypchallengeシ゚viralシfypシ゚viral #africanfolktaleswithmorallessons #storytime #africanfolktales #africastories
PART 6
The secret phone became Adaora’s heartbeat. Its silent vibrations under her pillow, in her purse, were the rhythm of her new, double life. The Wednesday and Friday afternoon meetings with Michael were the sun around which her week revolved. Everything else—the charity committee calls, the lunch dates with Yemi and the girls, the weekly calls with the children—felt like a pale, boring dream.
Emeka returned from Ghana, a whirlwind of tired energy and imported gifts. He brought her a new necklace, even more elaborate than the last. As he clasped it around her neck in their bedroom, Adaora’s skin crawled. Her mind flashed to Michael’s fingers tracing that same spot, his mouth on her collarbone. She forced a bright, grateful smile.
“It’s beautiful, darling. Thank you.”
“You deserve the best,” Emeka said, patting her shoulder before heading to his study to catch up on work. He didn’t notice the new, hidden spark in her eyes, the subtle glow on her skin that wasn’t from any cream. He saw his beautiful, quiet wife, a perfect fixture in his perfect home.
The arrogance of his blindness fueled her. It made the secret sweeter, more powerful.
The following Tuesday, the old gateman left for his long lunch. The main house was quiet, with Mary humming in the laundry room downstairs. Adaora’s secret phone buzzed.
“Library. 2 mins.”
A new location. Her pulse skittered. The library was Emeka’s inner sanctum, a place even she rarely entered. It was filled with his first-edition books, awards, and the smell of his expensive cigars. The ultimate violation.
She slipped in, closing the heavy door behind her. The room was dark, the blinds drawn. She could barely make out the shapes of the large leather armchairs and the towering bookshelves.
Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her against a hard, familiar chest. Michael’s lips found the sensitive spot below her ear.
“You came,” he murmured, his voice a dark thrill in the dim room.
“You called,” she breathed back, melting into him.
This time, it was different. There was a new edge to his hunger, a possessiveness that went beyond passion. He turned her around, his eyes gleaming in the slivers of light. He didn’t kiss her. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling over the expensive linen dress she wore.
“Take it off,” he said, his voice low and commanding.
There, in her husband’s most prized room, Adaora obeyed. She let the dress pool at her feet. She stood before him in just her lace underwear, the diamond necklace cold against her heated skin.
Michael didn’t move. He drank her in, his expression one of dark appreciation. “You are even more beautiful when you are disobedient,” he said.
Then he was on her. He guided her back against the edge of Emeka’s massive, antique mahogany desk. The encounter was slower, more deliberate than before. It was a lesson in control. His control. He dictated the pace with his hands, his whispers, the relentless, worshipful attention of his mouth on her body. He made her beg in choked whispers. He made her say his name, not “Michael,” but the name his mother called him, “Micheal,” until it was a prayer on her lips.
After, as she lay breathless across the desk, papers crumpled beneath her, he dressed her. With gentle, meticulous care, he put her lace and silk back on her trembling body, then her dress. He zipped her up, his fingers trailing her spine. It was an act of profound intimacy and domination. He had unraveled her, and only he could put her back together.
“Tonight,” he whispered, fastening the diamond necklace back in place, his lips brushing her ear. “Your balcony. Midnight. Leave the door unlocked.”
Before she could answer, he was gone, slipping out the library’s side door that led to the garden.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. At dinner with Emeka, she was a masterpiece of calm. She discussed the children’s school reports, listened to his market analysis, all while her skin still hummed from Michael’s touch and her mind raced towards midnight.
When Emeka fell asleep shortly after the news, his breathing deep and regular, Adaora’s real night began. She waited, counting the seconds. At five to midnight, she crept from the bed, slid open the balcony door, and let the warm, humid night air kiss her skin.
He appeared like a shadow from the corner of the balcony, scaling the wall with a terrifying, silent grace. He stepped inside, smelling of the night jasmine and danger.
This meeting was not about hungry passion. It was about possession. He led her not to the bed, but to the full-length mirror in her dressing area. He stood behind her, his powerful frame enveloping hers, his eyes locking onto hers in the reflection.
“Look,” he commanded, his hands sliding over her silk nightgown. “Look at who you belong to when he is sleeping right there.”
In the mirror, she saw his dark hands on her pale silk, his jaw set with a fierce pride. She saw her own face, flushed with a mixture of shame and exhilaration so intense it bordered on madness. He was marking her, not with bruises, but with a truth she could never unsee.
It was the most potent, the most addictive moment yet. She was split in two: the dutiful wife in the bed, and the wild, owned woman in the mirror. And the woman in the mirror was alive.
The risk was astronomical. One sound, one creak of the floorboard, and it would all explode. But the danger was the drug. As Michael finally led her away from the mirror, down onto the thick rug beside the bed where her husband slept, Adaora knew she was past saving. She was a ghost in her own marriage, haunting it with the flesh-and-blood sin of her lover.
He left as silently as he came. Adaora slipped back into bed, her body humming, her skin carrying the scent of him. She lay inches from her unknowing husband, staring at the ceiling, a silent scream of triumph and terror lodged in her throat.
The next morning, over breakfast, the first crack appeared.
Emeka looked up from his tablet, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her across the table. “You seem different, Adaora.”
Her blood ran cold. She took a slow sip of orange juice. “Different? How?”
“I don’t know. Restless.” He shrugged, going back to his screen. “Maybe you need another trip. London, maybe. Go shopping.”
The old solution. Throw money at the symptom. He didn’t see the disease writhing inside her.
“Maybe,” she said softly, her foot gently rubbing against the leg of the table, remembering where Michael’s hands had been just hours before.
Later, as she passed the gatehouse on a pretend walk, Michael was polishing the company SUV. He glanced up, his expression neutral for the cameras.
“Morning, Madam.”
“Good morning, Michael.” She paused, as if making small talk. “The car is shining.”
“Yes, Madam. Must maintain standards.” His eyes met hers. In their depths, she saw the reflection of the mirror, the memory of the midnight rug, the shared, devastating secret. It was a look that said, I own the truth of you.
As she walked on, she realized the most addictive part wasn’t the sex. It was this: the seamless, terrifying, glorious dance between the two worlds. It was being his “Madam” in the sun, and his “Adaora” in the dark. It was the constant, heart-stopping brinkmanship of almost getting caught.
The affair was no longer a flame. It was the air she breathed. And she knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and blissful, that she would let the whole perfect, sterile world burn before she would give it up.
To be continued… #nigeriafolktales #kenyanfolktales #ghanianfolktales #zambianfolktales #ugandanfolktales #gambianfolktales #storytellingtime #viralvideos #explorepage #trendingreel #StorytellingMagic #drambox #storyteller #talesbymoonlight #fypage #fictionalstory #fictionalstorytelling #africanstorytelling #africantales #africanstoryteller #fictionalwritter #fictionalwritter #fypchallengeシ゚viralシfypシ゚viral #africanfolktaleswithmorallessons #storytime #africanfolktales #africastories
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