• Pleasure unexpectedly turns to pain, leading to cries for mama
“Sign the contract,” I say, gesturing towards it with my head and continuing to play Chris’ trumpet with my hands.
“Yes, yes, I’ll sign it,” he says.
“Sign it now,” I say, bending over slightly and softly licking around the crown of his instrument.
“Now?” he asks.
“Now. Since we’re all clear that this is what you’re buying,” I say, taking him fully in my mouth again.
He grunts again, this time much louder, but he does as I say, freeing his right hand from my hair and reaching for the contract and appending his signature on the document.
I don’t stop. I keep going. He signs the other copy. I feel like I’m not really present. I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m hovering somewhere on the ceiling, watching myself down on my knees, blowing this guy.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is corporate Kenya. How many knees have been chaffed, on how many carpets, in how many offices across Nairobi?
The feeling in the pit of my stomach has been growing steadily. The definition of rage is anger or aggression associated with conflict arising from a particular situation. That doesn’t quite describe how I’m feeling.
Wikipedia describes it as intense, uncontrollable anger that is an increased stage of hostile response to a particularly egregious injury or injustice. That’s more accurate.
That feeling is so strong, it’s choking me. Or is it Chris’ trumpet? I have peripheral vision due to my out-of-body state. Let me describe to you how I’m seeing things from the ceiling.
The signed contracts are next to us. He has thrown his head back in pleasure. I’m down on my knees with rage boiling over. And then it happens. I don’t how, I didn’t anticipate I would ever do this, or even plan it. It just happens. I clamp down on his manhood with my teeth, hard. As hard as I possibly can, my jaws clamp down and stay shut.
It’s like I want to literally bite the damn thing off. It’s like it represents all the crap I have taken all my life from men like him. He is like an animal, caught in a snare. He can’t move. But he can scream out in pain and boy, does he.
I observe him from above, his expressions changing drastically, pleasure turned into excruciating pain. He is in agony. Eyes bulging out, frothing at the mouth.
“Arrrrgggghhhhhh. You bitch!!!! Aaaaarggghhhhhhhhhhhh.”
I see myself biting down harder, not moved by his cries for help.
“LET GO!!! Mummy, oh mama, help me. HELP!!!”
Blood is now flooding my mouth. Wait, did he just call out to his mum for help? If I didn’t have my mouth full, I may have laughed out loud. Is she in the next office or something? Or is it instinct from when we were kids to cry for our mummy?
I have a random thought of how as a kid, your mum would spank you and you would cry, calling out her name and then remember she is the one who inflicted the wounds and try to say ‘daddy’ but it never felt right.
When in pain, you need your mum. Ever seen someone with a crazy hangover assume the foetal position?
“MUMMMY! Make it stop!!!” Chris groans.
I continue, unfazed, waiting for mummy dearest to come through the door and save her drunk-with-power son. I’m sure it will be quite a sight, me on my knees, blood trickling down my mouth and him, hands flapping around helplessly.
Perhaps I’m no longer floating around in the ceiling because I don’t see what happens next, but I definitely feel it.