African Seduction Continues...
Copyright© 2023 by afrsed
Chapter 2: Realization sets in
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Realization sets in - A continuation of the work from Expatdad,Angel is confronted with the growing realization of her powerlessness in the matter,as her family becomes more entangled in the mess.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Coercion Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Zoophilia Cuckold Wife Watching Wimp Husband BDSM DomSub Humiliation Rough Group Sex Interracial Black Male White Female
“You weren’t supposed to see that.” Amanda’s mother tightened her grip on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dashboard lights. The car hummed too loudly for the silence between them.
Amanda pressed her forehead against the cool passenger window, watching streetlights smear across her vision like dying fireflies. She could still smell the sharp tang of copper clinging to her mother’s sleeves, a scent that didn’t belong.
“Then why did you do it where I could find you?” The words tasted like broken glass. Her mother’s fingers twitched.
Angel exhaled through her nose, the sound uneven. “Some needs don’t make sense, Amanda. Not even to the person feeling them.” she carefully avoided looking at her as she adjusted the rearview mirror with unnecessary force. The reflection showed her lips pressed into a thin line, smudged lipstick making her look like she’d been drinking cheap wine.
Amanda dug her nails into her thighs. The image wouldn’t leave her, her mother kneeling on hardwood floors, wrists balanced up against the walls, head bowed under the weight of the beasts hulking away above her at Igwe’s command. The way Angel had gasped as they rutted, not in pain but something darker, hungrier. “Dad would—”
“Your father hasn’t made me feel alive like this in fifteen years, and he’s not starting anytime soon” Angel cut in, voice low. The car swerved slightly as she adjusted her grip. Amanda noticed the faint tremor in her mother’s fingers for the first time; not fear, but the aftershocks of whatever hunger still pulsed under her skin.
Amanda’s own thighs still ached pleasantly where Ngorro had bitten her during their shower—before he too had exited, bidding her to wait and relish the sight beyond the glass facade. The scented oil he had used to pry her open clung to her skin, mingling with the memory of his laughter when he’d pinned her against the tiles.
The car hit a pothole, jolting her teeth together. Angel’s perfume. usually crisp bergamot, now carried the musk of someone else’s sweat underneath. Amanda suddenly understood why Igwe had pulled Ngorro away; her entire world operated on unspoken rules, these invisible lines no one crossed, but these men, they were different, rules meant little to them. She swallowed against the sour taste rising in her throat. The pleasure Ngorro and the twins had wrought were now a fleeing memory as she looked outside, watching the streets pass her by.
Outside, neon signs flickered dead as they passed, a store’s display gone dark, a seedy shack with men pooled around it flashed a vacancy sign sputtering like a dying heartbeat. Amanda traced a finger along the window’s condensation, drawing circles within circles. Her skin still tingled where Ngorro’s teeth had marked her, but the memory felt cheap now, a consolation prize beside whatever raw hunger her mother had bared in that room.
“What does it feel like?” Amanda asked finally, her voice smaller than she intended. The question hung between them like wet laundry, heavy, dripping with things unsaid. Angel’s grip on the wheel loosened slightly, her manicured nails leaving crescents in the leather.
A truck roared past, its headlights illuminating the sweat at Angel’s hairline. When she spoke, it wasn’t the practiced religious voice Amanda knew from before. “you don’t think at that moment, you are lost to the feeling, its animalistic, hard, heavy, relentless, you zone out, and you cant stop wanting ... more” she murmured. The dashboard lights turned her pupils into vertical slits for a heartbeat—just long enough for Amanda to wonder if she’d imagined it.
The car slowed at a deserted intersection. From the glove compartment, Angel fished out a pack of clove cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands. The first exhale curled around them like a confession. “Your father gives me tenderness. But Igwe—” She stopped abruptly, watching embers eat through rice paper.
Amanda pressed her knees together, suddenly aware of how her skirt stuck to the backs of her thighs. The bite marks throbbed in time with her pulse. She wanted to ask about the bite marks, the bruises, what had gone unseen, about the way Angel had arched into it all like a willow in a storm, but her tongue felt leaden.
Angel flicked ash out the cracked window. The ember reflected in her pupils—two pinpricks of hellfire in a face that still carried Sunday school teacher softness. “Igwe knows what I need to remember I’m alive, and he’s capable of delivering it,” she continued, voice roughened by smoke. The admission settled between them with the weight of a funeral shroud.
Amanda’s breath hitched as she noticed the faint bruising peeking above her mother’s collar four precise ovals where fingers had pressed too hard. The same pattern Ngorro left on her hipbones, though she’d hidden those considerably. The realization slithered through her gut: they were more alike than she’d ever admitted.
The clove smoke thickened when Angel took another drag, her French tip tapping the filter in a nervous staccato. Amanda watched her mother’s throat work around the inhale and wondered if Igwe’s hands had circled that same delicate column of bone and tendon, if Angel’s gasp had sounded like Ngorro’s when she’d dug her nails into his shoulders. The thought sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly, chased immediately by shame.
Outside, a billboard for a divorce lawyer flickered to life, “Irreconcilable Differences?” in cheerful neon pink. Amanda’s fingers found the tender crescent marks under her dress hem, pressing until the sting cleared her head. Would Ngorro expect her to kneel on hardwood now? To bare her spine for the kiss of the beast? The fantasy unspooled before she could stop it: his calloused palm smoothing over the backs of the beasts, the approving murmur as he tested her limits, “W-Will they want me to...”
“Different hungers, different meals,” Angel said abruptly, watching her, as she crushed the cigarette against the dashboard. The smell of charred cloves mixed with spilled perfume and something muskier underneath. Amanda watched her mother’s throat move as she swallowed, the tendons standing out like violin strings. “Igwe’s tastes run ... darker than most.” A pause. The traffic light turned their skin corpse-pale for three long seconds. “But he wants you for himself. It won’t be the same.” Angel would not let her be used like that, no, her daughter’s purpose was to lead Igwe to her, letting Amanda be seen to by those ... beasts, would not serve her at all.
Amanda’s fingernails found the seam of the car seat, picking at a loose thread. She imagined her father folding laundry in their sunlit bedroom, humming along to Marvin Gaye—oblivious to the bruises ripening under his wife’s silk blouse. “Does Dad know?” The question tasted like betrayal. “Will you tell him?”
Angel’s grip spasmed around the wheel again, her wedding band catching the streetlights. The silence stretched long enough for Amanda to count seventeen passing headlights before her mother spoke. “Some truths stay buried for a reason.” A car’s horn blared as they merged onto the road leading towards their home, drowning out whatever else she might have said.
Amanda watched raindrops distort the neon outside—first stretching, then snapping back into perfect spheres. “Did you ... like it?” The words tumbled out half-formed, sticky with implications. She immediately wanted to claw them back, but the damage was done. Her mother’s perfume turned cloying in the confined space, bergamot curdling into something medicinal.
Angel’s fingers stilled on the gearshift. A muscle jumped in her jaw. The dashboard lights painted her lips violet when she finally answered, “The first time? No. I felt like a...” her words trailed off, not wanting to speak her mind. She smoothed a hand over her skirt, though the fabric showed no wrinkles. “But then you realize some fires need oxygen to burn properly.”
Amanda swallowed hard, her own pulse thudding in her wrists where Ngorro had pinned them. She studied the way her mother’s earlobe glowed translucent in the passing headlights, the delicate silver hoop swinging with each breath, how could those same ears have flushed crimson under Igwe’s whispered degradations? The dissonance made her stomach twist. “And now?”
Angel’s chuckle was a dark, wet sound. “Now I bring my own matches.” She tapped the cigarette pack against the steering wheel, dislodging a single clove that rolled into Amanda’s lap like a dare. The spice filled her nostrils, conjuring images of altar smoke and secret rituals, things she’d only glimpsed through cracked doors until tonight.
Amanda crushed the clove between her fingers, releasing a burst of oil that stung her cuticles. Everyone had warned her about men like Igwe, his too-sharp canines, the way his Yoruba incantations curled around her name, but no one mentioned how alluring her mother’s collarbones would look bruised by moonlight. The hypocrisy tasted bitter, like swallowing a lie she’d been force-fed for years. What other secrets had they kept from her?
Her thighs stuck to the leather seat as she shifted, the bite marks pulsing in time with the streetlights. All those admonitions from her sister about purity, the way her father would change the channel when kissing scenes came on, had they been protecting her, or locking her in a gilded cage? Had her father himself not delivered her to witness and experience this weekend for herself? What would he do if he found out just how far it went?
Amanda pressed her thumb into the clove until it split, releasing a scent that made her think of church incense and Ngorro’s teeth at her earlobe. The memories spliced together, communion wine on her tongue while his fingers dug into her hips, Sunday school parables about forbidden fruit while she learned how to arch into his grip. Her mother’s hands flexed on the wheel, tendons standing out like piano wires under skin still damp with someone else’s sweat.
“I want to...” Amanda’s voice faltered as their mansion’s iron gates loomed ahead, wrought-iron vines casting spiderweb shadows across the windshield. The words curdled in her throat—ask how long this had been happening, demand to know if her father’s soft-spoken bedtime stories were just covers for their hollow marriage. Headlights washed over the portico, illuminating her father’s silhouette in the foyer window. His shoulders slumped in a way that made her wonder if he’d always carried that invisible weight.
She bolted upstairs before the garage door finished rising, skirt whispering against her thighs like a guilty secret. The third step creaked, the one her dad kept promising to fix, and she froze mid-step, half-expecting some servant to call out with their usual “Amanda-girl?” But only the grandfather clock answered, its pendulum slicing through the silence. At the landing, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror: pupils blown wide, lips swollen from where she’d bitten them. For one dizzying second, she mistook the flush on her cheeks for her father’s stare.
Her bedroom door clicked shut with finality. Amanda pressed her back against the wood, sliding down until her bare knees hit the cold hardwood, noticing for the first time the carpet burns from her ministrations. From how Igwe, then Joseph had urged her to service them, the images came back unbidden, unwanted.
Downstairs, her father’s slippered feet shuffled across the kitchen tiles. The familiar rhythm of him making chamomile tea should’ve been comforting. Instead, the clink of porcelain sounded like a countdown.
Amanda pressed her palms against the floorboards, imagining she could feel vibrations from her parents’ bedroom down the hall, Angel’s jewelry box snapping shut over Igwe’s gifts, the hiss of shower water erasing evidence. Her own clothes smelled like Ngorro’s scented oils and something darker, a musk she’d once mistakenly asked her mother about, which she now knew was the culmination of a man’s efforts between her legs.
The shower kicked on downstairs. Amanda pressed her ear to the floor, catching the muffled hitch in her mother’s breathing between water bursts, not crying. Not quite. The same jagged rhythm she’d heard through closet doors at Igwe’s estate, when Angel thought no one was listening. Her stomach flipped. Had Mother tasted copper on her lips then too?
Outside, cicadas screamed in the magnolia trees. Amanda rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling cracks that mapped like lightning over her bed. Her skin still hummed where Ngorro had traced Enochian sigils with his tongue, and her body was aching, the exertions of the night and of taking the four men beginning to take their toll as Amanda felt the soreness and unbridled a similar hitch escaped her lips. The realization settled heavy between her ribs: they weren’t just hiding from Dad. They were hiding from themselves.
Down the hall, Angel’s shower cut off abruptly. Amanda counted the seconds until her parents’ bedroom door sighed shut, eighteen this time, a new record. Through the wall came the muffled rasp of a zipper, the clink of belt buckles hitting hardwood. She imagined her mother peeling off stockings sticky with sweat and other fluids, her hands trembling as they cataloged fresh bruises in the vanity mirror. Tired. So tired.
The grandfather clock ticked louder in the sudden quiet. Amanda pressed her palms to her eyelids, but the images kept coming, Igwe’s stare, the rutting beasts, Ngorro tracing lazy figure-eights across her butt, the way her mother’s hips had jerked forward like a marionette with its strings cut. How could a woman enjoy that sensation? The thought slithered through her, hot and shameful. Her own thighs clenched around nothing, Ngorro’s phantom teeth sinking deeper.
The night air tasted stale when she finally cracked her window. Somewhere beyond the manicured hedges, a stray dog howled, raw and unfiltered, the kind of sound her father would’ve called “unseemly.” Amanda wondered if her sister, a continent away in that ivy-covered dorm, ever woke gasping from dreams of teeth and trembling hands. Had she known about Mother’s hunger when she had told Amanda to behave herself? Had she flown off to enjoy it all too away from the watchful eyes of father? The suspicion settled like a stone in Amanda’s gut, how many of the family knew except her?
Her fingers itched for the rotary phone in the downstairs hall, but a memory kept her rooted. Last weekend, when she’d tried to slip down to the gardens for a treat, her father had found out. He’d appeared in the garden like a specter, bathrobe hanging open over pajamas ironed into perfect creases. he’d asked something from her, voiced a question she had scurried away from, voice still soft with sleep. She’d murmured an excuse while feeling his eyes tracing the cum dripping down her thighs from the neighbor’s help. Had he seen her in the act and kept quiet? Had the trip to igwe been his attempt to divert her from her exploration?
The pillowcase stuck to her cheek when she turned over. Amanda imagined her sister sprawled across some dormitory twin bed, maybe flipping through Kierkegaard with one hand while the other absently twisted the silver ribbons in her hair. she had stayed behind, preferring to head to co-op housing with her boyfriend. Had she known? The question gnawed at Amanda like a stray dog with a bone. She had always watched their mother with that peculiar half-smile, as if privy to some inside joke the rest of them couldn’t hear.
Downstairs, the refrigerator hummed to life with a shudder. Amanda imagined her father’s slippers lined up neatly by the back door, still damp from his midnight stroll through the rose garden, his only vice since the cdoctors warned him about scotch. She pressed her face into the mattress to muffle a hysterical giggle. Daddy with his chamomile tea and pressed handkerchiefs, Mother with Igwe’s teeth marks flowering under her silk blouse. The dissonance made her ribs ache. Then her ears perked up.
Outside, the gardener’s baritone wove through the magnolia branches, an old Yoruba lullaby her classamates had once translated for her, giggling all the way through. The melody curled around her like smoke, conjuring images of his hands kneading her hips while he murmured the lyrics against her throat. Amanda dug her nails into her palms. She’d always assumed the nighttime serenades were for her alone, but now she wondered how many other bedroom windows that voice had slid beneath.
Her body ached in conflicting rhythms, the sting of Ngorro’s teeth fading just as the phantom slap of Igwe’s dick against her face bloomed across her imagination. She pressed her knees together, fabric catching on half-healed marks. The gardener’s song hit a wavering note, the way it always did when he spotted movement in her bedroom. Amanda knew he would be watching her window, paused underneath for a brief moment to see if she slipped through.
Her thighs stuck to the bedsheet as she rolled over. The gardener’s humming shifted key, a question tucked between the notes. Amanda dragged her nails down her own ribs, testing the give of skin that had tonight known the sharp bite of Ngorro’s nips. Outside, the cicadas pulsed in time with the headache building behind her eyes. She imagined her mother’s ritual, the cold cream smeared over bruises, the way Igwe’s scent would cling to the hollow of her throat no matter how vigorously she scrubbed. The thought should’ve repulsed her. Instead, her pulse jumped at the memory of Angel’s gasp when the crop found its mark. Would the gardener want her hiding her marks too?
Two floors below, the grandfather clock wheezed its way toward one AM. Amanda pressed her cheek into the pillow, inhaling the ghost of Ngorro’s oils trapped in her skin. Through the wall, her father’s snoring stuttered—that telltale hitch he got when pretending to sleep. She wondered if he’d lain awake counting the minutes between Angel’s shower and their bedroom door closing, if he’d cataloged the new bruises with the same clinical detachment he used for quarterly financial reports. The mattress springs creaked as she curled tighter, her spine a question mark against the moonlight.