“MY DRIVER’S TONGUE KNOWS MY BODY MORE THAN MY HUSBAND DOES”
Episode 1: The Night It All Began
It started with a storm—literal and emotional.
My husband had just left for another offshore trip—six weeks on the oil rig, leaving me alone in our duplex in Port Harcourt. The silence in the house was always louder when he left. No affection. No goodbye kiss. Just a nod and a suitcase.
Enter Tony—our new driver.
Tall. Built like a man carved from hardwood. Dark-skinned with a tribal mark that only made his eyes more intense. Quiet. Respectful. But there was something under the surface. A tension. A hunger.
He never said more than “Good morning, ma” or “We don reach, ma.”
But his eyes?
They said everything.
One Thursday evening, the rain started early. Heavy. Loud. My car broke down at Genesis Junction, and Tony came down, shirt soaked, muscles pressing against the thin fabric.
“Madam, the fan belt don cut,” he said, breathless.
I was cold. Shivering. Drenched.
“I can’t sit here in this rain. What now?” I snapped.
“Make we go hotel small, make rain stop,” he offered.
We checked into a small place—one bed, one fan, no questions.
I changed into the only dry thing available—his white shirt.
No bra. No shame.
He watched me from the corner. His hands in his pockets. His jaw clenched.
“You want to keep pretending you’re not looking?” I asked.
He said nothing. Just walked toward me slowly.
When he reached me, he didn’t ask permission.
His lips met mine with a force that melted the cold away.
His tongue—hot, commanding—searched me like he had studied my body in dreams.
I gasped as he carried me to the bed, shirt open, nipplés already begging.
He knelt before me, spread my thighs like scripture, and began to worship.
He took his time. Like he knew no man had ever done it right.
And when I came, legs trembling, fingers clutching the sheets, I knew…
Tony wasn’t just a driver.
He was a deliverance.
Part 2: Rainy Day Confessions
We stayed in that room for hours.
Thunder rolling outside, but the real storm was inside me.
He didn’t rush. He explored.
With his tongue.
With his hands.
With every slow stroke that reached places my husband never found.
I lay on his chest afterward, too weak to move.
He brushed my hair back and whispered, “Madam, if na sin, then I no wan repent.”
My heart stopped.
Because I felt the same.
Back home, I tried to act normal. But every time I sat in the back seat, memories of that night between my thighs made me shift uncomfortably.
Then it happened again.
And again.
On the stairs.
In the car.
On the washing machine.
Tony became my escape. My addiction.
And now, every time my husband leaves—
I no longer feel lonely.
I feel… expected.
To be continued.
Written by Relationship Solutions
Enock Akonnor is a seasoned Ghanaian journalist, serving as CEO and Managing Editor for www.leakyghana.com. His gravitas, which is mirrored by many years of proven and enviable experience in the field of journalism has positioned him among the most sort after media practitioners in Ghana.
Contact: +233 541921562
Email: enockakonnor2013@gmail.com
