Just a Slice

Written By: Ponny White ( short story for a class)

Slice 

Press

Slice 

Grip

Slice

Kiss 

Slice

Lick

Slice

Suck

Slice

"Can I kiss those lips? Say please." 

Slice–

"Konah! You cutting the onions all wrong. Where is your head today? Move!" Aunty Mama barked, hips swaying like thunder as she barreled into me.

She shoved my slender frame aside with one firm push. The knife, that I forgot was glued to my right hand, escaped and clattered to the bark cutting board with a sharp–echoing rattle. Being snapped from my trans by the push, I stared down at the jagged, uneven slices of onion—perfect for blending maybe, but definitely not for plating beside a steaming plate of attiéké—and winced, anticipating Aunty Mama’s verbal wrath.

Not looking in my direction, Aunty Mama seized the cutting board like a battlefield and lunged into one of her signature rants.

"Look at this—look at this! You didn't even peel off the second skin!" She sucked her perfectly white teeth with precision while snapping her head side to side at the massacred onions.

"You won't find husband cooking like this...food is the way to a man's heart, but the way you cook you'll only ever live in his eyes." 

"Sorry, Aunty." My voice cracked. 

Aunty Mama was only in her thirties, but at nineteen years old when my parents died, she assumed guardianship over four-year-old me. Though her physique remained youthful and her face smooth, perfectly proportioned and beautiful––forced motherhood had aged her spirit. Whenever people would mistake us for siblings, she would venomously shut it down with a sharp, “I’m not a small girl. I’m a big woman. And this is my child, a small girl.” She always spoke like that, half-pride, half protective instincts, overcompensating for youth she could no longer afford because she spent that value raising me.

"My head's hurting today, that's all." I mumbled, watching her usually gentle eyes narrow with suspicion. The steady rhythm of her slicing halted abruptly.

Knife still taut in her right hand, she pivoted her short, voluptuous frame to face me.

After studying my face and body up–and–down, she asked, "What’s making it hurt?" Her tone straddling the line between accusation and concern.

I didn’t dare look away from her suspicious gaze as I tried to quickly convey a response. A silent panic rummaged through my head. I didn't know how to explain that my head didn’t hurt as much as my body still trembled from last night. A fog lingered in my mind––thick and consuming, cast down like a storm from a god of a man. The aftershocks rippled through me, aching in places I never knew could ache.

I had gone maybe too far last night, but I couldn’t tell her. At best, she’d scold me for becoming a hopojo; at worst, she’d ship me back to Liberia for doing "man business."––What the older women in my family called it when a young girl started dating before finishing college. 

Aunty Mama wouldn't understand that it wasn't technically sex… I think? Regardless, Kofo didn’t just want me for my body, in fact he didn’t even enjoy my body…I don’t think? It couldn’t really count, because he didn’t put his penis inside of me...although... I wanted him to. 

"I was studying late with Cynthia for our test tomorrow. The screen and lack of sleep is probably why my head hurts." I lied, finally breaking eye-contact to focus my gaze on the marble flooring.

The answer satisfied her. She turned back to the board, motioning with the knife for me to leave the kitchen. "Go rest.” She called over her shoulder with a sigh. “ This American school will kill these children," she muttered with her usual distrust of anything American coating her tone.

"Thank you, Aunty." I said, faking exhaustion. Before she could see the relief washing over me, I bolted out of the kitchen, and straight to the other end of our three bedroom townhouse, to get to my room.

—-

In my room, I pulled out the oversized grey T-shirt I’d hidden under my pillow, and gently pressed it to my nose. Kofo’s scent flooded my senses.

‘This must be what those cologne commercials with the model on the beach, against the ocean smell like —light, clean, bright, and blue.’ I thought to myself curling my lips in a smile as I drifted into thinking about him. 

Kofo was a 19-year-old Nigerian-American boy who attended the same predominantly West African pentecostal church as me. We grew up going to that church, but we never spoke. I was two years younger than him, and while he was the outgoing drummer boy and junior deacon, I was the shy, quiet orphan who would often miss youth service to babysit my much younger cousins. Maybe once in a while, we would greet one another during the opening service, but for the most part, we never acknowledged each other–until last month. 

Over Christmas break, Kofo came home from college. He had changed, and I guess, so had I. My breasts had swelled from an A to a C cup. Aunty Mama finally let me wear wigs and makeup, so I embraced the UK Black girl aesthetic. With college looming around the corner, I started putting myself out there more to secure good scholarships. I was talking more and attending more youth service activities with the other members my age. 

On his first Sunday back, Kofo approached me for the first time in twelve years. He invited me to a youth hangout at his house.

After two group gatherings—where we laughed in synchronized zeal at each other’s jokes—I began to feel a familiar pull toward him. At the second event, I accidentally spilled malt on my white top. I tried to play it off so no one would notice how clumsy I was. But somehow, Kofo noticed.

While everyone else was deep in a debate about colorism, Kofo disappeared from the group. He returned a few minutes later holding a neatly folded grey t-shirt. He found my eyes through the crowd and motioned with his head for me to meet him in the corner.

As I made my way over, he leaned in—his scent hitting me for the first time—and whispered, “I saw Joel bump your arm, and the malt stain your shirt. I brought you this.”

He slipped the shirt gently against my stomach, his knuckles grazing the underwire of my bra. My breath caught.

“You can change in the bathroom,” he said softly. “Down the hall, second door on the right…if you’d like.”

All the air drained from my chest. I just looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. Then, just as casually, he let go of the shirt and walked back into the group, as if nothing had happened.

A week later, he showed up at my job and asked me on a real date.

On our first date, he took me to Applebee’s. We shared our wildest dreams over onion rings and lemonades. Kofo spoke of the man he wanted to be in the future—an ophthalmic surgeon who planned to open a clinic in Nigeria by the time he turned forty, to help reduce glaucoma and cataracts in his village.

That man sounded so handsome, so kind. I wanted adult me—the immigration lawyer—to marry adult him. But I pushed the thought aside as fantasy babble. 

On our second date, I lied to Aunty Mama again. I told her I’d be studying with Cynthia. But really, Kofo’s parents were out of town and he’d invited me over to watch a movie.

I drove nervously across Maple Grove, to the wealthier side of town—where affluence glowed through manicured lawns and over-the-top Christmas decor. Each home sparkled like a postcard. And with each light I passed, I was reminded just how different Kofo’s world was from mine. He had college-educated parents, and an older sister studying at Oxford.

I had Aunty Mama, Uncle Joe, and my two younger cousins, Erik and Manu, who shared a cramped bedroom in our modest home. Aunty Mama had dropped out of college when she took me in. Uncle Joe worked as a nurse––yet he was always groaning about how expensive everything was.I wondered if Kofo’s parents ever complained about how expensive their world was.

As I pulled up to his massive driveway, I saw him already waiting outside—wearing a replica of the grey t-shirt I had under my pillow at home, with dark blue jeans, and Timberland boots to shield his feet from the snow.

A heat bloomed in my chest as he stood there shivering and grinning. It was that big-open smile that made me feel welcome.

I looked at him through the windshield, feeling nostalgic flutters tap against my heart. Our first date had ended in a warm hug. And now, as he walked toward my car, I let myself admit that I wanted him to hold me again.

Pulling open my door, Kofo leaned his tall frame down, reached across the dash, and twisted the key from the ignition. His face lingered close to mine, and in a low whisper, he said, “Hey.”

A cool puff of breath, smelling of mint gum, escaped his lips–clouding the space between us, and for a brief moment, I was grateful not to see him too clearly.

“Hi,” I replied, my voice tight with nerves.

He reached down and unbuckled my seatbelt. His thumb pressed into my right hip while his fingers found the release, holding it down until we both heard the soft click. Then, with care, he tenderly drew the seatbelt away from my body.

“How was the drive?” he asked calmly.

“Great!” I laughed, awkwardly.

Once I was free of the seatbelt, he stepped back and extended a bare, toned and waiting arm toward me. I slipped my ungloved hands into his, feeling the contrast of his cold hands. He steadied me as I scooted out of my seat–doing my best to keep my mid-length skirt from riding up and revealing the blue panties I’d chosen with far too much thought, for a virgin like me. 

Inside Kofo’s movie room, we chose The Notebook.

"Have you seen this?" I asked, grinning.

"No," he chuckled, returning my smile.

His laughter stirred something low in my belly. He was beautiful. His thick, naturally arched brows gave him the air of a villain or a Vogue model—if only he didn’t laugh so much. He towered over my 5’5 frame, but his kindness made him feel smaller, more approachable. And his lips were dark on the top, but a deep reddish, pink hue on the bottom– so full–you couldn’t help but imagine them on every part of you. 

I wanted to kiss him after our first date, but I had never kissed anyone before, so I prayed he wouldn’t try, just so I wouldn’t look foolish. And I guess God listened, because he didn’t.

Sitting in his living room, Kofo pressed play on the TV remote as he dropped onto the couch beside me. His hand landed perfectly on my exposed thigh. My skirt had ridden up, and like his hand, I never adjusted it. 

We watched the first 15 minutes in silence; save for the quiet rasp of his thumb grazing my skin, his palm gripping the underside of my thigh, and my nose betraying me by making my pull of deep breaths–I was practicing to keep calm–audible.

Each minute, I willed his hand to move higher, like in the movies. I wanted him to kiss me–to touch me. A slow, aching heat spread between my thighs. My throat dried. A thin sheen of sweat pooled between my legs. I was unravelling. Desperate for relief, I shifted away from his touch.

Kofo noticed. "You good?" he asked, smiling.

"Yeah." My voice trembled. A dead giveaway.

His concern deepened. "You sure?" He leaned in, bringing our eyes level. My gaze flickered to his lips—just a breath away.

"Yes, I’m good," I exhaled.

His smile widened, teeth white against his dark skin. "Okay. Do you mind if I rest my hand on your thigh?" He laughed softly.

My eyes, still locked on his lips, betrayed me. "Please."

As the word slipped out, I recoiled in shock.

"Please?" He chuckled. "I like that." He placed his hand back on my thigh.

"Now, do you want me to keep it here, or do you want it higher?" His fingers inched upward.

"You can go higher," I whispered, heat rushing to my face.

"I can go higher, what?" He furrowed his brows, feigning confusion.

I swallowed, my voice barely above a breath. "You can go higher, please."

His grin widened. "Good. How about I keep going, and you say please when you want me to stop?"

My throat, dry as desert sand, refused to form words, so I nodded instead.

Kofo’s hand climbed my thigh, fingers slipping beneath my skirt. My pulse pounded—loud, between my legs, as if my heart had relocated to my crotch just to feel Kofo’s touch too.

Locked in eye contact, with my lips firmly under my teeth–I let Kofo keep going until he touched the soft blue cotton panties. 

He paused, waiting for the please that wasn’t coming from me, and smiled in amusement. 

With just his index and middle finger, he began brushing against me–dampening the cotton as he carved at the slit in the middle. 

The heat that was being harbored down there soared throughout my entire being. I let my shoulders rest into the sofa.

Kofo, pressed his fingers firmly against my slit and rubbed gently up and down. I finally released my lips from being pinned under my teeth and let out a hushed moan. 

Breaking a part piece by piece under his touch, I noticed Kofo’s eyes had gotten serious, as if he was a painter focused on his next masterpiece. His fingers were his brush and he continued gliding it against the canvas between my thighs. 

Looking up at me, he smiled  and said, “does this feel good?” I nodded between the moans I tried to push down. 

“Good, is it alright if I kiss your lips?” 

“Which ones?”–I whispered absentmindedly  with a light smile. 

Shocked by my question, Kofo threw his head back and laughed, his whole body shaking with amusement. "Wow, Konah! A quiet, virgin church girl like you?"

The joke landed like a slap, embarrassment scorching through me smothering the ecstasy he had been building. My stomach twisted, and instinctively, I reached down to push his hand away. But before I could, he stiffened his grip, holding me there—not forcefully, but firmly enough to make me pause.

"Nooo, nooo, no—I was just kidding," he said quickly, his voice softer now, laced with sincerity. "I promise, I was just joking. I really like you." He searched my face, his brows knitting together as if worried he'd gone too far.

His fingers traced small, soothing circles where they rested, grounding me. "Here’s the deal," he continued, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. "I’ll kiss and touch you anywhere you want me to…  but I won’t fuck you, and I’ll let you touch whatever you want on me, as long as you say please, what do you think of that?” 

“So, you get nothing out of this really?” I said back confused. 

His head arched up, brows furrowed, and the right side of his mouth angled up in a disbelieving smirk, “I am having an amazing time taking care of you.  Now…” he let the word linger in the air as he rubbed my clit more intently. 

“Can I kiss you on those lips?” He said pointing to my face with a look of sincerity on his face. 

“Please,” I said behind eyes that wanted to roll back into my soul and see the celebration taking place within me. 

As he leaned in to kiss me, his hand that rested on my vagina went back to painting, but this time he snuck his fingers under the cotton, stroking my bare skin. 

Against my mouth, his lips were warm, soft and took charge of the kiss. He led me through the motions, moving smoothly up and down–lightly gliding his tongue over mine once in a while–leaving the taste of mint and yearning on my lips.

I  felt lit on fire from head to toe. The ache intensified across my breast, and deeper into my groin. As if feeling my yearning, he plunged his fingers fully into the wetness of my slit–and with the other hand, he swiftly pushed up my blouse, crawled under my bra, and cupped my breast, pinching gently at the nipple.

I let out a moan against his lips, and threw my arms against him–I wanted to be closer, I wanted for him to be inside of me. 

Responding to my movement, he released my breast, and slid his hand around my back and pulled me up and onto his lap. I straddled each of my legs across his thighs, sending  my skirt up higher–exposing my partially covered ass. 

He eased his fingers from inside of me–and with my assistance he eagerly removed my blouse and bra. Resting both hands on my hips, he rocked me steadily against his lap like a wave brushing against the shore. In perfect rhythm, his mouth dipped away from my lips–finding first my neck, and then my breast. As he suckled my nipples, I could feel him harden against my open legs, and I wanted to touch him.

I wanted so badly for the clothes that separated his erection and my wetness to be ripped off. I wanted our bare skin to synchronize like our laughter. 

But my mind was racing with lust and first time anxiety, so I didn’t try to overplay my hand. I kept my arms up–cradling his face. 

We stayed like that for what felt timeless.

Until Kofo pulled away from my breast, breathless, swallowing down a groan, he kissed my lips quickly, before briskly placing me back onto the sofa. His dark eyes burned into mine as he pointed downward, his expression more concentrated.

"Can I kiss those lips now?"

Heat shot through me. "Please," I whispered, nodding eagerly.

In a swift movement, Kofo laid me flat against the huge brown sofa in his parent’s tv room. He kneeled his tall frame in front of my open legs and wiggled off my underwear. 

My mind whirled in disbelief as the pulsing ache between my thighs deepened. Kofo’s gaze locked onto mine–he ran his hands along my hips, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of me.

"God, you’re so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence as he studied my naked silhouette as if it truly was art. 

Bowing his head before me,he first kissed around my thighs. The kisses trailed up long and sweet building heat as it went further in–until his lips were right next to my clit. He paused, and as if unfreezing a decade of time, placed a gentle kiss against those lips.

Before I could absorb the electricity of his kiss–I felt the slickness of his tongue flick across me, and I shivered. As if out of impulse, my back arched up and away from the nerve baiting sensation that his tongue was eliciting from my body.  But Kofo’s hands, which were already holding my hips, pulled me closer to his mouth and kept a shivering me stabilized. 

Under his hold, he teased my clit licking and sucking––sending me into a frenzy, I couldn't hold back the need for release. My hands reflexively reached out, gripping the softness of his hair, my fingers tangled in the curls as I pulled him closer.

I willed myself to look down to try and understand how and what he was doing, and to my surprise my eyes met his. His eyes were calm, concentrated, watching me.I felt a flush of embarrassment from being acutely aware of how unguarded my face must have appeared to him.  

I wanted him to look away, yet strangely, the intensity in his gaze only deepened my desire for him. I wanted him inside of me–and just when I thought I would break eye contact first, it was him who backed down.  

Clenching his eyes shut, he released a moan against my pussy, and just like that my muffled cries broke free, escalating into loud gasps of 'Oh my God.' Each one seemed to fuel him, urging him on, and inducing a careful aggression. 

He removed one hand from my hip, and drove his finger into me as he continued drawing me up with his tongue. 

With every movement he made, the ache gradually faded, replaced by an unfamiliar sensation that consumed me. 

Suddenly, my mind went blank, my stomach and abdomen tensed in response to the overwhelming pressure. With my thighs tightly folded around his head–I shut my eyes, and before I could process what was happening, my body was trembling uncontrollably.

'Am I having a stroke?' I thought, as waves of pleasure coursed through me.  

Even with my thighs threatening to suffocate him, Kofo didn’t stop. His grip tightened, his mouth latched onto my clit––relentlessly––pushing me further into the unexplainable sensation.

I cried out, my voice trembling with desperation, “Kofo, please—please—please”—until, finally, he removed his fingers, wet with me on it, and laid his head against my left thigh.

His breath ragged as he rested. I exhaled, spreading my legs apart in defeat. 

Kofo looked up at me, licked his fingers and smiled.