Revenge Of The Mrs.

I love hair and I adore women with great hair because it allows me near their necks. Allows me to breathe them in, kiss them tenderly; to run my tongue ever so lightly along the nape of their neck and watch them purr, shiver and shudder. At some point in my life I ran a women’s hair salon and I did learn pretty much everything about women’s hair. I could do everything right through from washing to setting, and styling. Out of courtesy and as matter of private appeal I never did the “retouch“. As the only guy in a salon in our little trading centre of Seguku, I was the main attraction. But it was, against what I believed to go into my customers’ private business which is what retouching women’s hair is all about.

You can tell an awful lot by what hides in there; the night she slept without bed sheets and her amour cajoled her into love play, there’s sponge layers for that; the night she frolicked in the sand on the beach left seaweed or sand, [not to be confused with the building sand pile up from the roof; different textures, coarseness and weight] and more recently her experimenting with hair products melted all the above into an impenetrable maze, even fleas and lice cant get it, but neither can the dandruff get out.

The only thing I love more than hair is making love to beautiful ‘IT‘. ‘IT‘ = Hair.

The most amazing feeling of all is when you run your hand through her hair; or for our kinky-haired sisters, when your hand passes on top of her hair. What? No, it can’t pass. It won’t go through unless your fingers are as straight as rods. Say what? Yes finger hardening is what I said. That is what you have to go through. For emphasis, the first statement of this paragraph was referring to women of a non-African extraction. Now that that’s cleared…

But I digress, so before the Mrs. {I am kicking the bitch out} went on rampage and decided to infect me with something from South America, I must, in fairness say, I triggered it off.

You know those moments when you are so heated in passion. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, had texted back and forth furiously, and had promised each other long passionate kisses and yes, a firm “chao.” In the goings and comings of life, as in all sad movies, we kept missing each other; by minutes, by hours and then by days. To put an end to this drama I decided I was going over to hers. Just to see her. Like a man should.

The drama begins.

She was in the house when I got there, and immediately hot things were afoot. Kissing passionately, rubbing and grinding, her nearly ripping my buttons off (No, unlike you guys, I like my buttons on my shirt, where they came on) and me quickly and blindly untying the wrapper around her body. No underwear. Yay!

So we twist and turn and play cat and mouse until finally we are both exhausted and we settle in our mutual favorite position. Me in my socks, kneeling behind, she up against the wall with legs slightly apart. At first it was a slow motion; tender, loving, spice and everything nice. As the Mrs. got closer to nirvana she bent more and more towards the wall. Basically to allow for deeper reach.

In my excitement I grabbed onto the only thing I could find/ hold onto coz if you have been back there, fact is your stomach has to do a lot of work to keep your torso from keeling over; and my abs are not what they used to be.

So I reached, and I grabbed. I tugged to make sure it was firm, and it felt fine. Her head bucked and her back arched, in my view, in pleasure.

It snapped.

I froze. The moans went dead silent in her throat. I know a Ferrari can accelerate from 0-100 Km/ph in under 10 seconds but there should be a measure for the fastest erection decelerator. Seriously!


Am kneeling behind her in my socks, with her weave in my hand and my mouth open, so open it’s falling by gravity. Am in shock! I didn’t know she had extensions!!!


She turns and looks at me slowly. Takes me all in and, with a sigh of amalgamated despair and disgust, slumps onto the bed.


is what I am. Kneeling there, knowing nothing, my arm slowly falling to my side, fist tightly clenching “the IT

Now you know how you hear of old tales of revenge and fury. I now know where deep-rooted feuding comes from. It’s from moments like these. Out of fear I feel my anus release a little ‘doti; the little one that’s like a far away steam engine whistle. I am about to faint….


But in my defense she told me she never wore make up and there was nothing unnatural about her body. She never oils, or cleanses or does any of that “girly shit,” she said to me. She can’t lie to me and get away with it. Not me!

13 thoughts on “KILL SPARTAKUSS II

  1. What a mood killer! Lol!

    Naye nawe… for all your love of hair, you had never figured out she has extensions?


  2. @emarys: dude thanks…but it is astrange world.
    @Ashy: huh? why am i the one to shoot?! shoot the Mrs. she’s teh liar.
    @sleek:btwn the two of us, you know you’re the magazine starter. and you haven’t even read the raunchy blog.
    @petesmama:there are things you take on facevalue and trust me, i had my suspicions. yeah, a real mood killer…
    @normzo: no swinging on the ponytail no matter how strong it feels like.


  3. Lol, well double shock on me. . . I too have a female hair fetish of sorts. . .theres just something remotely erotic about strocking a well-relaxed mane or fiercely hot Afro puff for that matter. . .

    Anyways, my former misus suddenly turnd up with lotsa long hair tied back in a ponytail (twas a long distance thing so this came as a wonderful surprise) bt then when she was dressing down to enter the Theatre of Dreams (my rickety bed) wow, wait a second! Suddenly, shes holding the ponytail in her hand! ! Stranger than fiction. . .bottom line is these extensions suck big time!


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