The Seductive House Girl

CHAPTER 1 Mr. Adewale had sworn off complications after his wife’s death. At thirty-eight, all he wanted was peace, order, and someone who could cook decent jollof without burning the pot. The agency sent Fatima—twenty-three, polite on paper, and dangerously curved in person. From day one, she had trouble wrapped in a sky-blue uniform two sizes too small. “Sir, your coffee,” she’d say every morning, leaning over his bed just enough for the top buttons to fight for their lives. Her breasts strained against the fabric like they had personal grudges. Adewale would stare at the ceiling, mentally reciting the Nigerian national anthem to keep from looking. By the end of the first week, he was losing the battle. One afternoon he walked into the kitchen and found her on all fours, reaching under the sink. The uniform had ridden up completely. Smooth, round ass barely covered by black lace. She glanced back, innocent as a church girl. “Cockroach, sir. Very stubborn one.” Adewale fled to his study, muttering, “This girl will kill me before my next birthday.” The tension grew daily. She “accidentally” brushed her breasts against his arm while serving dinner. She hummed seductive songs while sweeping. Once, she asked him to help her reach the top shelf, then pressed her entire body against him when he did. He nearly dropped the blender. But there were odd moments too. Sometimes he caught her on the phone speaking quietly in a dialect he didn’t recognize, her voice sharp and commanding—nothing like the soft “Yes sir” she used with him. Once, he found a expensive-looking watch in her drawer while looking for a screwdriver. When he asked, she laughed it off. “My uncle’s. He’s very rich.” He wanted to believe her. He also wanted to bend her over the dining table. --- On a rainy Thursday night, everything changed. The power went out. The generator refused to start no matter how many times Adewale kicked it. Candles cast long, flickering shadows across the old colonial house. Rain hammered the roof like impatient fingers. Fatima appeared in the living room carrying two glasses of cold Chapman. The candlelight made her skin glow. Three buttons were undone. Again. “It’s too hot, sir,” she whispered, voice husky. “I can’t breathe in this uniform.” Before he could reply, she turned, unzipped the dress in one smooth motion, and let it fall. She wore only a tiny black thong that had clearly given up on its job. Her full breasts sat high and heavy, n*****s already hard. Adewale’s brain short-circuited. “Fatima… we shouldn’t—” “You’ve been hard for me for two weeks, sir,” she cut in, stepping closer. “Every time I bend over, I feel your eyes f*****g me. Don’t lie.” She dropped to her knees, pulled down his trousers, and took him into her mouth with wet, hungry sounds. Adewale groaned, fingers in her braids. She sucked him like she was starving—sloppy, deep, and enthusiastic—pausing only to look up with mischievous eyes. “You taste better than your cooking, sir.” He almost laughed at himself. He pulled her up, bent her over the couch, and thrust into her tight, soaking heat in one stroke. Fatima moaned loudly, pushing back. The sound of rain mixed with wet skin slapping. He f****d her hard, one hand gripping her waist, the other rubbing her c**t until she came shuddering, cursing in that strange dialect again. Adewale was close—dangerously close—when he heard it. A loud knock on the front door. Three sharp raps. Then silence. Then three more. At 11:47 p.m. in heavy rain. Fatima froze beneath him, his c**k still buried deep inside her. Her voice dropped to a whisper, suddenly serious. “Sir… don’t answer it.” Another knock. Louder. Adewale’s heart pounded. He was still rock hard, buried in his seductive house girl, but a cold dread crept up his spine. Who the hell would come at this hour? And why did Fatima look… scared? She turned her head, eyes wide in the candlelight. “Whatever you do,” she breathed, clenching around him involuntarily, “don’t open that door.” The knocking stopped. Then came a voice from outside—deep, calm, and dangerous. “Fatima. I know you’re there. Time’s up.” **To be continued...**