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Intimate Stories, 9 Mbonu Ojike Street, Owerri (2026)

Name: Intimate Stories
Address: 9 Mbonu Ojike Street, Owerri, NG
Telephone: +2348038798153

23/05/2025

Figments
How does he feel it
so deeply
when I am not even there?

Not really.

Not in the way he wants me.
Not in the way he swears his soul touches mine
through the screen,
through the silence,
through the stories he builds
in the dark corners of his mind.

He says we’re making love.
That when he closes his eyes,
he can feel my breath in his mouth.
My skin is on his.
My name trembled at the edge of his moans.

He says he feels it.
All of it.
So much that he cries sometimes
like it’s real.
Like I’m real.

But I am not there.

I am a still body on the other side of the day.
A name he shaped into a longing.
A voice that once hummed into his hunger,
But never really fed him.

He is making love to figments.
To echoes.
To wishbones and shadows.

And maybe that’s the cruelest thing
That his body believes the lie.
That his heart bleeds for a phantom.
That his tears fall for a story
he wrote
alone.

27/04/2025

***When My Body Forgets to Say No***

The way he looks at me unravels something deep inside.

It’s not just a glance, it’s a claiming.
Like he sees through the skin, past the practiced smiles, down to the wild, beating animal underneath.
And when his eyes catch mine, the world stutters, stops, breathes in and forgets how to exhale.

The way he touches me is worse, and better.
A slow burn along my skin, like a secret only he knows how to tell.
Every brush of his fingers feels deliberate, reverent, cruelly slow, like he's memorizing me one trembling inch at a time.

And my name,
God, the way he says my name.
Like a prayer. Like a curse.
Like he’s tasted it and can't ever spit it out.
I hear it fall from his lips and everything inside me folds, melts, kneels.

When I’m around him, time becomes a useless thing.
Minutes stretch and collapse.
Reality fades.
There’s only him, only the way my body reaches without permission, the way my breath catches without warning, the way I ache without shame.

Around him, my brain forgets how to think.
My body forgets how to be patient.
It begs, shameless and raw, for his touch, for the fire of it, the weight of it, the right-ness of it.

I am glued to him.
By want.
By need.
By the sacred, unstoppable gravity of his hands, his mouth, his gaze.

There is no world without him.
There is only this
us,
this endless ache,
this sweet, helpless surrender.

And I never want it to end.

26/04/2025

**On When S*x Becomes a Chore**

I remember when just the sound of him breathing would make my thighs clench.
When the heat between us was wild, reckless, and holy.
When one looks from him across the room would undo me completely — my skin prickling, my breath catching, my body begging before a single word is spoken.

I craved him like hunger.
I needed him like breath.

And then it started.

The first slap was almost tender, the way a storm first kisses the earth before it rips it apart.
The first insult was almost a joke, something I could laugh off, until it wasn't funny anymore.
Until it stuck.
Until it buried itself inside me.

And the beatings came after.
The bruises hidden under sleeves, the blood swallowed down with shame.
The nights of silence.
The mornings of pretending.
The thousand tiny ways he taught me that my body was not my own.

Now...
s*x is no longer a homecoming.
It’s a chore.

A sickening script I know too well.
The way he grabs without looking.
The way I freeze and disappear, piece by piece, until only my body remains, performing.

I pray, not for passion, not anymore, but for peace.
For a night without hands.
For sleep that isn’t interrupted by the weight of obligation.
For mornings without the hollow ache of being used.

It’s a special kind of death, this.
The death of desire.
The death of wanting.
The death of yes.

What once made my toes curl and my heart race now makes my stomach turn.
Where there was once fire, there is now dread.
Where there was once surrender, there is now survival.

And still, somewhere deep, deep beneath the wreckage, a flicker remains.
A stubborn, pulsing truth:

My body was not made for suffering.
It was made for love.
For pleasure.
For joy.

One day, I will reclaim it.
One day, I will feel the breathlessness again — not from fear, but from being truly, fiercely wanted.
Loved without bruises.
Touched without obligation.

Until then, I pray:
Not tonight.
Please, God. Not tonight.

Address

9 Mbonu Ojike Street
Owerri

Telephone

+2348038798153

Website

facebook.com

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