Lewisham Loving
"When Chioma's washing machine floods her flat, her fit Irish neighbor Declan comes to help—and discovers the thick Igbo accountant has been fantasizing about him for months."
The water was everywhere, and Chioma was panicking in nothing but a towel when the knocking started.
"Hello? Everything alright in there?"
She yanked open the door to find Declan—the fit Irish plumber from 4B—standing there in a vest that showed off every muscle.
"My washing machine exploded!"
He was inside before she could think about her state of undress, shutting off the water supply with practiced hands. Chioma stood there dripping, towel barely containing her thick body, watching those forearms flex.
"Got it sorted," he said, turning. Then he saw her properly. His eyes went wide.
Chioma knew what she looked like. Thick from head to toe, curves that her traditional mother called "childbearing hips," breasts that never fit properly in any bra. She'd been ashamed of her body until she'd moved to London and discovered that some men—some men—looked at her like she was a feast.
Declan was looking at her like that now.
"I should... let you get dressed," he said, but his feet didn't move.
"Should you?" The words came out before she could stop them. Months of fantasizing about this man, listening to him through the walls, imagining those hands on her body. "Or should you stay?"
He crossed the room in three steps and kissed her hard.
The towel fell. She didn't care. His hands were everywhere—gripping her soft belly, squeezing her wide hips, cupping her heavy breasts like he'd been dreaming about them.
"Jesus Christ," he groaned against her mouth. "Do you know how long I've wanted this?"
"Tell me."
"Since you moved in. Every time I saw you in the hallway. That body. Those curves. I've wanked thinking about you more times than I can count."
She pulled at his vest. "Then stop thinking and start doing."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing—and she was not a small woman. Carried her to the bedroom, laid her on the bed, and just stared.
"What?"
"Just... appreciating." His accent thickened. "You're fucking gorgeous."
Then his head was between her thighs, and Chioma stopped thinking entirely.
He ate her like a man starving, tongue working her with an intensity that had her gripping the sheets and screaming in Igbo. When she came, her thick thighs clamped around his head, and he just kept going until she came again.
"Please," she begged. "I need you inside me."
He obliged.
The feeling of being filled by him was everything she'd imagined and more. He took his time at first, letting her adjust, then began to move with a rhythm that made the headboard bang against the wall.
"Yes! Declan! Just like that!"
Her nails raked his back. Her thick legs wrapped around him. She was so wet the sounds were obscene, and she loved every second of it.
"Gonna come," he warned.
"Inside me. I want to feel it."
Afterwards, they lay in her flooded flat, laughing at the absurdity.
"I should fix that washing machine properly," he said.
"Tomorrow."
"What about tonight?"
She rolled on top of him, her thick body pinning him down. "Tonight, you fix me."
The washing machine stayed broken for a week. Neither of them minded.
When Chioma's mother visited and asked about the Irish man constantly in her flat, Chioma just smiled.
"He's very good with his hands, Mama."
Her mother didn't need to know just how good.