“Remind you of someone?” My husband asked as our waiter walked away with the dishes.
“What- who?” I managed, raising my wine glass to mask my embarrassment. It was no use, I was caught.
Hakeem chuckled, “Don’t be demure Folake. The waiter.”
I felt the heat of shame on my face, and that shame soon turned into frustration, mostly over my poor luck. I wasn’t the type of wife who was overly flirtatious, nor the type of woman who got caught ogling random men.
The truth was, the waiter did remind me of someone, and I guess I had been staring enough throughout the dinner for Hakeem to have noticed.
“Mr. Alabi, maybe a little bit.” I reluctantly admitted.
****
Mr. Alabi, Hakeem’s boss, was perhaps the one exception to my previous statement. He was in his mid-fifties, making him roughly twenty years older than Hakeem or I. He was a tall man, with a masculine face, bald, and with a goatee that had a mild hint of grey beginning to accent his already distinguished look.
He was readily attractive, although not necessarily in an obvious, male-model-type way. It was more so in the commanding way that he carried himself. He controlled a respect that most men didn’t, and his charisma was extraordinary. Those things in themselves, however, shouldn’t have been enough to draw my conservative and faithful eye.
The catalysts for my budding, begrudging, attraction to Mr. Alabi, were his persistent flirtations towards me, and stranger, my husband’s seeming approval of them.
Hakeem wasn’t necessarily a shy man. He was confident in his work, confident in social situations, confident in his ability to provide for me, and confident in several other areas in his life (like his football game).
However, for whatever reason, reasons beyond your standard employee-employer relationship, Hakeem was noticeably subservient to Mr. Alabi. He was so subservient that when his boss would openly flirt with me, Hakeem would mostly just smile in acceptance.
My husband’s reactions to his boss’s advances were even stranger when I considered how jealous and protective Hakeem was with seemingly every other man who made a pass at me. Early in our marriage, he even got into a fistfight with someone who flirted with me during a night out clubbing.
I used to question Hakeem on his adulation towards his boss, especially as it related to the complacency he showed when Mr Alabi would flirt with me. “You heard what he said about my dress. Right?” or “He had his hand on my waist during introductions. You weren’t mad?”
Sometimes Hakeem would be embarrassed, but mostly he was steadfast. He would easily reply with something like, “It’s only Mr. Alabi, Folake. I just take it as a compliment.” Thankfully though, Hakeem would also consider my discomfort, as a good husband should. Sometimes asking, “Do you want me to ask him to stop? Does it bother you?”
At first, it did bother me. I found his behaviour inappropriate on a number of levels, professionally, and ethically. However, over time, I suppose Mr. Alabi’s charisma began to work its charm on even me.
Worse, I eventually began to enjoy the previously unwanted attention. I think, subliminally, my husband’s overwhelming respect for him rubbed off on me, and I too began to take note of how impressive a man he was. Further, his flirtations towards me increased my own confidence.
It was admittedly fun to have the attention of the attractive, popular male, even if nothing was to ultimately come from it.
Why did I have Mr. Alabi’s attention in the first place? Well, that was easier to explain.
I grew up as your typical Rich Nigerian Princess, spoiled and girly. I probably would have been considered attractive starting back in high school, though I didn’t really grow in sexual confidence until university.
I’m a classic beauty. I have nice lips, and a delicate, feminine nose. I have lovely eyes that tend to draw a lot of attention, or at least they used to when I was younger. Older men tend to appreciate more obvious assets, like my ample curves.
I guess there’s no other way to put it, I have large breasts and a big butt. To be honest, I’m not sure where either came from. My mother is skinny, and none of the women on my dad’s side are particularly curvaceous. I suppose my curves are a blessing, but only recently have I come to appreciate them.
Through most of my twenties, I actually thought they looked ridiculous on my five-and-a-half-foot frame.
I was raised conservatively, as my mother frowned heavily on promiscuity. Even through university, I preferred to maintain a steady boyfriend over the thought of sleeping around. Maybe I’m weird, but I’ve never really considered sex to be all that amazing. My university boyfriends fumbled around nervously, often finishing before I could.
Hakeem too, usually failed to make me orgasm during our lovemaking. I began to believe that I simply wasn’t the type of woman who could orgasm easily, and even when I did, they were very mild. On the positive side, Hakeem and I had recently decided to work on starting a family, and I did notice an uptick in my libido since dropping my birth control.
****
“I guess he does look a bit like him.” I heard my husband say. “Maybe I should keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t try to slap your butt.” Hakeem smiled, in juvenile fashion.
The comment surprised me, “Oh really? So we are joking about that now?” I felt a pang of anger flash through me as I replied.
****
It was last month, at the company’s July party. It was customary for company parties to feature huge amounts of liquor, but the holiday events were especially loose. Most of the guests had already left the apartment, and Hakeem, Mr. Alabi, and I were drunkenly cleaning up in the kitchen at around one in the morning.
I remember leaning over Mr Alabi’s island counter as I wiped the marble with a paper towel. I was suddenly startled as I felt the fabric of my dress being pulled over my butt, the conditioned air of the apartment hitting the bare skin of my butt. Suddenly a large hand gently slapped down on my skin, and squeezed me.
My eyes darted wide, and my heart quickened in a momentary panic. I then heard the deep baritone voice of Mr. Alabi, as he spoke to my husband. “Hakeem. I hope you are taking care of this beautiful woman. She deserves the absolute best.”
I looked at my husband, hoping he would know what to do. I remember his embarrassed face and his drunken smile. “I try my best, sir.”
Mr Alabi’s large hand continued to caress my butt for a few moments longer, moving across the lace of my panties and squeezing the other side of my rear. He then asked of me, “Is that true, Folake? Is your husband taking care of business?”
I couldn’t believe that Hakeem was willingly watching his boss grope me, worse, he was smiling about it. I could tell he was very embarrassed by the situation, but I could also sense that he didn’t want to say anything to Mr Alabi to deter him.
Still, despite my anger, I was the ever-dutiful wife, and I replied, “Hakeem- takes care of me.” I awkwardly chuckled, mortified.
“Good.” Mr Alabi let my dress fall back into place and continued to move about the kitchen as if nothing ever happened.
I remember feeling furious and to be honest, most of my anger was directed towards my husband. My mind raced, I thought of harassment, and I thought to scream. I shot the most disgusted look my face could conjure towards Hakeem, and walked out of the kitchen.
The car ride back to the house was hellfire. I unloaded on Hakeem as he carefully made his way back to our home.
“That’s it! You are fucking done working for that man!”
“How could you watch him grab me like that!?”
“You just stood there, smiling like an idiot!”
Hakeem was clearly regretful and embarrassed, “I’m really sorry babe. We were all drunk, and I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to cause a scene.”
“Better to let your boss grope me! God Hakeem, I cannot fucking believe you!” I rarely cursed, but the situation, and the alcohol, had me inflamed on a level I rarely reached.
“You’re lucky no one else was in the room! What if someone else had seen?”
“He wouldn’t have done it if anyone else was there.” Hakeem replied.
His response only angered me further. “Oh so no big deal then! Only my husband got to see!”
It wasn’t until later, in the shower, that I managed to calm down a fraction. As the water splashed across my naked body I felt a horrible shot of arousal, my nipples stiffening, and my pussy dampening at the infuriating memory. Yes, I was absolutely livid at my husband, for allowing such an intrusion to take place. Deeper, though, the real root of my anger was myself, because as Mr. Alabi’s momentarily explored my butt, I was taken aback by a terrifying heat that developed between my legs.
I disliked boisterous men, cocky men, arrogant men. Why then, had such a bold, inappropriate move, from such a confident man, turned me on in such a scary way?
When I returned to the bedroom, I mounted my husband, inflamed with arousal. “Shut up and fuck me.” I told him, as he looked up at me in confusion. It was a torrid session of love making, and one of the rare times when Hakeem was able to bring me to orgasm.
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