Mottingham Magic
"Fortune teller Mama Nneka reads palms at the Mottingham summer fair. When skeptic Marcus sits at her table, she shows him some futures can be created rather than predicted."
Marcus didn't believe in fortune telling. He sat at Mama Nneka's table on a dare, expecting ten wasted pounds and generic predictions.
What he got was unexpected.
She was Nigerian, sixty-ish but ageless, thick curves draped in colorful fabrics, eyes that seemed to see through him. When she took his hand, her touch sent electricity up his arm.
"You don't believe," she stated. "But you want to. Something in you is searching."
"Generic."
"Is it?" She traced his palm. "Come to my wagon after the fair closes. I'll show you something not generic at all."
Her wagon was a portable palace—silk and candles and the smell of incense. She'd transformed into something different—less costume, more real, her thick body in a silk robe that showed her age was a blessing, not a curse.
"What you seek isn't the future," she said. "It's connection. Someone to see the real you."
"And you see me?"
"I see someone lonely. Someone who uses skepticism to protect a tender heart." She moved closer. "Let me read you properly."
Her hands traced his body like they'd traced his palm—finding meaning in every line, every muscle, every response.
"Here, you hold fear. Here, desire. And here..." Her hand found his arousal. "Here is where possibility lives."
"Mama Nneka—"
"Nneka. Tonight, just Nneka."
She kissed him with wisdom—knowing exactly what he needed, giving it freely.
"Age is magic," she said, revealing her thick body in the candlelight. "Every year adds knowledge, power, skill. Young women have energy. Women like me have everything else."
She wasn't wrong. Her body was soft and strong at once, her movements practiced, her confidence total. She took him with the certainty of someone who'd done this before and knew exactly how.
"Yes... surrender to it... let fate take you..."
She rode him like destiny—inevitable, overwhelming, perfect. Her thick body moved in ancient rhythms, her voice chanting something that might have been prayer.
"That's it... give me everything... let go..."
He came harder than he had in years, and she followed, collapsing against him with a satisfied sound.
"Did you predict that?" he gasped.
"I didn't predict. I manifested." She smiled mysteriously. "The best futures aren't foretold. They're created."
"Come back," she said at dawn. "I have more to teach you."
"About fortune telling?"
"About life. About magic. About what happens when someone chooses to believe." She kissed him softly. "You're a skeptic who wanted to believe. I gave you something to believe in."
"You."
"Us. The story we're creating." Her eyes sparkled. "Now go. But return. The cards say we have much more to explore."
His Mottingham magic had converted a skeptic. And Marcus had found something worth believing in.