She called me chocolate. Here is exactly what she said after a flurry of texts.
“Sleep well chocolate”
I am nowhere near chocolate but I don’t mind a chew. I hope you get my drift. So I was amazingly dumbfounded. I had never been called chocolate before. Was it demeaning? Was she trying to be funny? Does it mean she likes me? Am I that fluid? Or does she want to suck me completely?
You see, I am 25. She is 30 plus. Don’t ask how we ended up here but the first time I had seen her was on a consulting assignment, she was the lead consultant. It was something to do with Curriculum evaluation. She has a Master’s degree from some reputable university in Australia. I was the company liaison and as such, we had quite some time to interact. It was professionally done and she didn’t quite catch my eye.
That was 2 years ago. She isn’t what you would call beautiful or stunning but she was smart, intelligent and interesting. She was up to date on current issues and that turned both my heads. I wanted a piece of that awesomeness. She had a killer body also. She wasn’t tall but just shoulder high. She was in a light green A-Line Dress and matching heels. Her laptop bag was black and the way it hangs on her shoulder is like its life depended on it. Her breasts looked supple and round. They were full. I could tell.
There was no evidence of fat anywhere on that body. The way her backside flowed meant that the ass was as ample as her knowledge. I was hooked. I was more like intrigued. I didn’t know her age but it didn’t matter. I knew she was much older though.
Now, here I am today being called chocolate… That gets me confused. I am rarely confused. She is on her way to Eldoret. I am struggling to finish up Fast Lane and that text disorients me. The same way I have never been hit by lightning is the same way I have never gone through this.
Haha ati chocolate…
What would Chocolate man think of that? It’s intriguing though.. the thought of being a chocolate.
If I was, I would prefer to be a chocolate bar, or a pellet and not choco primo…
If that happened, Cadbury would own me. I would be responsible for a huge percentage of their earnings. This also means that I would be tasted by a million plus ladies every month.
More like sucked… Can you imagine that? Being inside the mouths of a million ladies. I would hate some mouths.. this is primarily because of their bad breath… Also, some other ‘stuff’ would have gone into these mouths making my experience there scary. I wouldn’t have an option though.
On the flip side, I would enjoy being in other mouths. Like Avril’s…haha.. in these mouths I wouldn’t melt.. I would linger as long as possible. I would move around and around.. which means she would suck more fervently. That would be an indescribable feeling. It is the definition of awesome vulnerability. My survival and lingering would be at her mercy… I would disappear after a while but I would be back in the same mouth because she can’t get enough of me.
Anyway, I text her back and ask..
“What did you call me?”
In a response, she sends me this 😍.
I don’t even know what that means so I let it go.
I am scheduled to meet her today for lunch. I am not nervous but considering this is the first day we are meeting unofficially, I should be. I don’t know what she expects out of this. Heck, I have no idea myself. She is running late so she texts and asks me to accord her some 30 more minutes.
I have not left the office, so I continue finetuning the IFAD proposal I am working on as I wait for her to call. She is coming from Eastside so I know 30 minutes means an hour plus. Those peeps have no congruence point with timekeeping.
45 minutes after the text she still hasn’t called. I am hungry, let me go to the hotel and if she doesn’t show I will take my lunch and head back to the office. It will save me money too haha…
“I am hungry, let me go to the hotel and if she doesn’t show I will take my lunch and head back to the office. It will save me money too…” I whisper to myself.
I leave and 10 munites later, I am sitting upstairs at The Mug. I am the only customer on the upper side of the restaurant. I like that. I prefer it. Everyone else prefers the lower side. Maybe they are scared of the stairs.
I order some passion juice.
“I am waiting for someone. After 15 minutes I will be ready to make an order” I tell the courteous waitress.
5 minutes into my stay she calls. I direct her upstairs through a pin and wait. I shift in my seat nervously, not knowing who to be or how to act. I have dealt with girls before. I have never dealt with a woman.
She is in a woolen sweater like dress. When I stand to hug her, I feel the entirety of her body. There’s nothing inside other than the obvious. I am intrigued. Its purple so is her lipstick and eyeshadow. I prefer sitting with my back to the table; this way, all the light is on her face and she cannot look at me directly.
She asks for some salad and I order lamb chops…
“Why chocolate?” I quip.
“I don’t do 20 something-year-olds. But I prefer to look at you, not like a 20 something-year-old but like a bar of chocolate,” she responds coyly.
I almost choke.