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February 21, 2019

Samantha's Chronicles: Sweet or diabolical?

That man, the VIP, who made my body feel that way, surely cannot be responsible for kidnapping me. He can’t! Not unless he believes I will reveal his secret.

“I am intersexual,” he had revealed to me after my fifth orgasm. “Perhaps that is why I have such a good understanding of the female anatomy and how to satisfy you.”

I didn’t say anything about his condition. I already knew, of course. Mr N had told me but I wasn’t prepared for him to just come right out and say it.

At that point, he had moved away from me and turned on the light. He was ready to reveal himself to me, to be vulnerable.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t bad at all. He was almost… normal.

“When I was born the doctors could not decide whether I was a boy or a girl. They wanted me to undergo surgery, to make me all-female,” he revealed.

“My parents refused, preferring me to choose what sex I wanted to be when I was old enough. Thank God for that, because I identify with being a male.”

I stood up and walked towards him as he continued to explain.

“I’ve had surgery thrice to reposition my scrotum and extend the urethra to the right position. It’s not perfect but this is the end-result.”

The doctors had done an amazing good job on him. I run my hands over him and gave him a smile.

“You look pretty perfect to me,” I said with a smile.

“I would appreciate it if you would keep this to yourself,” he had said.

And I did. I never told Mr N. I never told anyone. I’m not quite sure why I lied to Mr N. Perhaps it was his boorish attitude. Or maybe it’s how nice the VIP has been to me, but when Mr N sent a text asking, I denied the rumours. I remember the VIP asking who was on the phone. I actually told him the truth!

“It’s a boyfriend with whom I’ve hatched an evil plan to dominate the world,” I had said, jumping back into bed and pulling a sheet over me.

“An evil plan, huh?” he asked softly, jumping in after me and nuzzling my ear.

“Diabolical…” I responded breathlessly.

It’s interesting. Nine out of ten times, when you tell someone the truth, they don’t believe you.

“What would a sweet girl like you know about diabolical?” he had asked in what was clearly a rhetorical question as he disappeared under the sheets.

A sweet girl, indeed. My thoughts are thrust back to the present. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, locked up. I have a hard time believing that the VIP has done this, but who else? The only thing keeping me together is the knowledge that Mr N knew I was with Nabil last night and he will try and find me. But if this is the work of the VIP, will I ever be safe? I remember that evening in his office when I blackmailed him.

“Two million is for me NOT to keep the baby,” I had told him. “A child that you will have to provide for – for a good 18 years! Not to mention the drama when you pass away and he or she demands a piece of their inheritance.”  

“Why, you conniving little bitch!” he had spat out.

“Please, Waziri. No theatrics. Two million is a bargain. Think of your family. Just write the cheque,” I responded, with much more confidence than I thought I would have.

Clearly at this point, I wasn’t being sweet at all but the diabolical person I had told him I was. I wonder if that irony ever struck him.

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