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RORO AYU, Sampangan (2025)

24/06/2025

"Until We Burn"

The sun was high now, but the curtains stayed closed.

Elena sat on the edge of Marcus’s bed, her bare back to him, a sheet loosely clinging to her hips. Her skin was marked—his stubble had kissed red lines along her inner thighs, his teeth had left small, desperate reminders along her collarbone.

"You’re staring again," she said, her voice low.

"I always stare when something ruins me," Marcus said from behind, walking toward her.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. His presence was heat, gravity.

The sheet slipped from her lap. She let it fall.

Marcus dropped to his knees behind her.

His hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him. His lips trailed down the curve of her spine—slow, reverent kisses that turned to open-mouthed worship. He stopped at the small of her back, exhaling a hot breath over her skin before biting her lightly. She gasped.

"You think I got my fill last night?" he growled.

She shivered.

He spread her legs from behind, hands firm on her thighs, and without hesitation, buried his face between them. There was no warm-up this time—just hunger. He devoured her like a man possessed, his tongue licking, sucking, circling her c**t until she was whimpering, trembling, pushing back against his mouth.

Her moans filled the apartment.

He reached up, grabbing a fistful of her hair, tugging gently to hear her gasp again. Her body obeyed without thought, hips rocking toward his face as he sucked harder.

"Marcus—God—please—"

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening.

"Not yet. I want to feel you break again."

She could barely breathe as he stood, flipped her effortlessly onto her back, and climbed over her. He pinned her wrists above her head, his body hot and hard against hers.

Then he slid into her again—slow, excruciating, every inch deliberate.

Elena gasped, her nails raking down his back as he set a brutal pace—deep, rhythmic, almost punishing. Her legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his back, urging him closer, harder, deeper.

"You feel that?" he whispered into her ear. "You don’t make those sounds with him. Only me."

His words made her hips jerk—made her pulse throb. She was close again, already on edge, and he knew it.

Marcus released her wrists, only to flip her onto her side, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder as he fu**ed her from behind—each thrust hitting deep, hitting that sweet, aching place that sent shockwaves through her core.

She bit her lip hard, but she couldn’t stay quiet. She didn’t want to. Her cries were ragged, desperate.

"Come for me," he commanded, voice thick with lust. "I want to feel you fall apart."

She did—again. Shaking. Gasping. Crying his name.

And as she pulsed around him, still throbbing, he buried himself one last time, releasing with a guttural groan, her name a broken prayer on his lips.

Afterward, they lay there. Breathless. Sweaty. Silent.

Elena rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving.

"You ruin me," she said.

He turned to her, eyes dark. "You let me."

゚viralシ

24/06/2025

"What We Touch in the Dark"

Elena hadn’t moved for a while.

The sweat had cooled on her skin, but Marcus’s hands hadn’t left her. One rested lazily at her waist, thumb tracing lazy circles over her hipbone. The other wandered—drifting down the line of her stomach, stopping just beneath the sheet that clung to her lower belly.

"You’re not finished with me," she said quietly, not as a question.

His lips brushed her ear. "Not even close."

He pulled the sheet away, exposing her slowly, like a secret he’d been dying to see again. His hand moved lower, fingers parting her, sliding through the slick warmth he’d already coaxed from her body. She was still sensitive, but that only made it better—every stroke a jolt of pleasure too sharp to handle, too delicious to resist.

She writhed under his touch, her thighs instinctively drawing together. He pushed them open again, forceful but gentle. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “Not here.”

And she didn’t.

He dipped a finger inside her, slow and deep, watching her face twist with need. Then another. His thumb circled her c**t, softly at first, then harder when she lifted her hips in silent pleading. Her moans filled the room again—raw, breathy, vulnerable.

"Marcus…" she gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

"No. Look at me."

She opened her eyes.

And there he was—his gaze fixed on her like she was some priceless work of art. Her body pulsed around his fingers, the heat building again, sharper this time, hotter. She was close already—too close. But he didn’t stop. He wanted her on the edge. He wanted her undone.

She came again, harder this time, back arched, a sharp cry leaving her lips. He didn’t let her come down gently—he kissed her through it, let her feel every second of the aftershock.

Before she could catch her breath, he was already moving—sliding down her body, his mouth replacing his fingers. Her thighs trembled as he licked into her, unrelenting, tongue teasing her c**t while his hands gripped her hips, holding her in place.

She begged, pleaded, cursed—and he just moaned against her, like she was feeding him something he couldn’t live without.

When she came again, it wasn’t graceful. It was messy, loud, shaking, her hands gripping the headboard as if it might keep her anchored.

Marcus rose above her, hard again, his arousal pressed against her soaked thigh.

"Do you want me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Say it like you mean it."

"I want you, Marcus. I want all of you."

He didn’t hesitate. He thrust into her in one smooth motion, deep and slow, and she cried out again—body already so overworked it blurred the line between pain and ecstasy. He kept his pace measured, hips rolling, his mouth devouring hers between every breathless moan.

Every movement said what neither of them would: I need this. I need you. I don’t care what it breaks.

He flipped her onto her stomach without warning, pulling her hips up. She gasped as he entered her from behind, the angle deep and perfect. His fingers laced with hers, pinning her hands to the mattress.

"You’re mine like this," he whispered, thrusting harder now. “No lies. No pretending.”

Elena cried out, face pressed into the pillow, body shaking with every thrust until she came again—violently, breath catching in her throat.

Only then did Marcus let go, burying himself inside her one last time with a low groan, pouring all of his tension, his longing, his confusion into her.

They collapsed together, tangled, wrecked, wordless.

And in the silence, Elena realized something terrifying:

She didn’t know how to go back to a life where this didn’t exist.

゚viralシ

24/06/2025

"No One’s Name"

The early morning light was just beginning to spill through the window blinds, golden and hazy. Elena stirred under the sheets, skin flushed, legs tangled with Marcus’s. She hadn't slept—how could she? Her body still thrummed from the night before, nerves raw, heart aching in a way she couldn’t name.

Marcus was already awake, watching her. He always looked at her like that when he thought she wouldn’t notice—like he wanted to say a thousand things but didn’t know how to start.

"You kept me up," she whispered, teasing.

A lazy smirk. “You didn’t exactly fight me off.”

His hand slid over her hip beneath the sheets, slow and deliberate, fingers finding the familiar curve of her thigh. She sucked in a breath.

"You’re insatiable," she said.

"You’re addictive."

He leaned down to kiss her—no longer with hesitation, but hunger. His tongue brushed her lips, then deeper, coaxing another soft moan from her. She rolled onto her back, pulling him with her, already feeling him harden against her thigh.

"I should go," she whispered, but wrapped her legs around him anyway.

"I know," he said, but kissed down her collarbone.

The sheets slipped down her chest. Marcus paused, eyes locked on her as he kissed the swell of her breast, then took her ni**le into his mouth, warm and slow. Her back arched into him. His hands were everywhere—firm, confident, worshipful.

When he slid lower, between her thighs, she gasped his name.

He took his time. His mouth moved with patient precision, tasting her like he’d waited months to do it again—and maybe he had. Her fingers curled in his hair, hips rising to meet the rhythm of his tongue, the teasing flicks that made her legs tremble.

She tried to muffle her moans, but when his fingers joined his mouth, stroking her just right, there was no point in pretending. Her climax built quickly—tight, hot, almost too much—and when it hit, she cried out, breathless, lost.

He moved up to kiss her as she came down, and she tasted herself on his lips.

"You make me forget everything," she whispered against his mouth.

He looked at her for a long, quiet second. Then he pushed inside her again, slowly, stretching her, filling her in a way that made her gasp all over again.

They moved in rhythm—no rush, no games. Just the sound of their breathing, the press of sweat-damp skin, the unspoken question hanging between every thrust: What does this mean?

Her nails scratched down his back. His hands pinned hers above her head. His name left her lips in a broken whisper when he pushed deeper, harder—driving her to the edge again, taking her with him when he finally came with a groan, buried deep inside her.

They collapsed together in silence, bodies slick with heat, limbs tangled.

"Tell me this is the last time," she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Because they both knew—it wasn’t.

゚viralシ

24/06/2025

"The Space Between Us"

Marcus kissed her like he was claiming something he thought he’d lost forever.

The kind of kiss that started slow—mouth brushing mouth, breath mingling—before deepening into something that made Elena forget her own name. Her back met the cool wall of his apartment as his hands roamed her waist, her hips, the curve of her spine like he was memorizing every part of her all over again.

"God, I missed this," he murmured against her throat, voice rough, reverent.

Elena tilted her head back, letting him taste the skin just below her jaw. He kissed it softly, then with a little more hunger, the kind that made her knees weak. She wasn’t sure when her coat hit the floor. She didn’t care. All she knew was the feel of his fingers slipping beneath her blouse, drawing a line up her stomach, pausing just beneath the lace of her bra.

Every touch was a question she didn’t want to answer. Every sigh she gave was a confession she couldn't take back.

He lifted her—easily, like he always did—and carried her to the bedroom. The city lights flickered outside the tall windows, but inside, there was only the rhythm of hearts racing and the hush of old lovers finding each other again.

Clothes peeled away like secrets. Her dress slid down her thighs; his shirt unbuttoned with trembling fingers. When he finally pressed against her, skin to skin, there was a sharp inhale—hers, his, maybe both.

"You’re shaking," he whispered, forehead resting against hers.

"Because I know I shouldn’t be here," she breathed. "But I’ve never wanted anything more."

He kissed her again—deeper, slower—and guided her down to the bed. The way he touched her was careful at first, as if asking for permission with every move. But once she pulled him closer, no more words were needed.

They moved together like muscle memory. Every sigh, every gasp, every press of lips to shoulder, to neck, to breast—familiar and electric. Her body arched to meet his as he entered her slowly, and a soft moan escaped her lips. His name. Only his.

Time unraveled. Nothing existed but heat and skin and the way he whispered her name between gasps. He worshipped her with hands and mouth, tasting every inch like it was a holy ritual. And when they came together—her nails digging into his back, his breath hot in her ear—it wasn’t just pleasure.

It was a breaking point. A surrender.

They collapsed into each other, tangled in sheets and silence. Her head rested against his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles along her bare shoulder.

He didn’t ask her to stay. And she didn’t promise to leave.

But as the night deepened, Elena realized something terrifying: she didn’t just miss Marcus’s body.

She missed the way he made her feel alive.

゚viralシ

24/06/2025

"The Room We Never Left"

The door clicked shut behind them.

Elena stood in the middle of Marcus’s apartment, a place she'd told herself she would never return to. But it was too late for good decisions now. The late hour, the wine, the memory of his hands—it had all blurred her better judgment.

Marcus didn't speak. He simply stepped behind her, slid his fingers down her arms like he was reading a language only her body spoke. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

"This is wrong," she murmured.

"Then why does it feel like home?"

His words struck something deep—something raw. With Daniel, everything was neat and planned. A joint bank account. Wedding venue checklists. Monogrammed towels.

With Marcus, it was jazz playing softly from an old record player. The smell of leather and ink. A sense that the world could fall apart and he’d still kiss her like it mattered more than survival.

He turned her to face him. His eyes—deep, unreadable—searched hers, but didn’t demand anything. That was always the danger: he never asked her to stay. He just made it impossible to leave.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She should have. She could almost hear her conscience banging on the door behind them. But instead, she reached up and touched his face, tracing the faint scar along his jaw he’d gotten in Barcelona—another story she'd never tell Daniel.

"I can't," she said. "Not tonight."

Their kiss wasn’t urgent. It was slow, reverent—like trying to remember something forgotten. His hands on her back, her fingers tangled in his hair, the city’s hum far below them. Every inch of closeness reminded her of the nights they'd once had, of the fire that had never really gone out—only smoldered quietly, waiting for her to strike the match again.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, the rest of the world disappeared.

Later, lying beside him, the moonlight carving shadows on the sheets, Elena whispered, "What happens now?"

Marcus didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling like it held all the questions they were too afraid to ask.

"We wake up," he finally said, "and pretend this didn’t happen. Like we always do."

She closed her eyes. Her heart ached.

Because pretending had never been harder.

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23/06/2025

"Between the Lines"

Elena sat at the corner table of the quiet café, swirling the coffee in her cup as if it might reveal the answer to the question she hadn’t dared ask herself: What the hell am I doing?

Across from her, Marcus lit a cigarette with the same elegance he brought to everything he did—his tailored coat, the way he read poetry aloud, even the way he left Elena’s bed at dawn with a kiss on her forehead and no promises.

"You look beautiful," he said, exhaling smoke. "Does he know you're here?"

Elena’s fingers tightened around the ceramic. "No. I told Daniel I was working late."

A pause. That kind of silence heavy with guilt and lust.

Daniel—her fiancé. Loyal, warm, steady. He loved her with his whole heart, in a way Marcus never did. Or couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

"You know this won’t end well," Marcus said quietly.

"I know," she whispered.

But she also knew that when Marcus touched her, her skin remembered for days. With Daniel, there was comfort. With Marcus, chaos. And yet… she kept coming back.

Maybe it wasn’t even about love anymore. Maybe it was about the parts of herself she didn’t want to lose. With Daniel, she was the woman she was supposed to be. With Marcus, she was the woman she was afraid to admit she still was.

"I’m marrying him in two months," she said, eyes not meeting his.

He stubbed out the cigarette, leaned forward, voice soft. "Then why are you still here, Lena?"

She hated how he used her nickname. Hated that it still made her stomach twist.

"Because," she said, voice cracking. "You’re the one thing I never figured out how to quit."

Marcus reached out, brushed her hand. Just that. And suddenly, the air between them wasn’t just heavy—it was dangerous.

A vibration buzzed from her coat pocket. Daniel. She let it ring.

She wasn’t ready to go home yet.

゚viralシ

23/06/2025

A NEW KIND OF LOVE
I didn’t expect Tope.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t chase. He showed up slowly.

He brought snacks to my meetings. Helped fix the fan when it broke. Listened without interrupting.

One day, after helping me rearrange chairs at the Fire Room, he said:

“You’re a storm in a woman’s skin. But the good kind—the one that clears the sky.”

I looked at him.
“Not everyone likes storms.”

He grinned.
“Then not everyone deserves rain.”

We didn’t kiss.

But something opened between us.

Soft. Unrushed. Safe.

A new kind of fire.

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23/06/2025

FIRST BRICK
With a small grant from a women-led foundation—and a thousand naira from my own pocket—I rented a small flat beside a print shop.

Painted the walls. Set up plastic chairs. Made flyers by hand.

The Fire Room was real.

The first Saturday, only four girls showed up.

Shy. Quiet. Guarded.

But by the end of the session, they were laughing. Writing poems. Sharing things their mothers didn’t even know.

And I thought: This is what becoming looks like.

Not loud. Not viral.

But steady. Brick by brick.

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23/06/2025

MOTHER, DAUGHTER
I took a trip home.

My mother didn’t say much when I arrived. Just watched me quietly over dinner.

Then, as we washed dishes together, she said:
“You’re not the same. You walk like someone who knows her place in the world.”

I smiled. “I’m still learning.”

She paused.
“I didn’t raise you to chase men, Laural. But I also didn’t raise you to fear love. Just… choose someone who sees your fire and doesn’t ask you to dim it.”

It was the closest thing to a blessing she’d ever given.

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23/06/2025

THE SPARK
The podcast was growing. Fast.

Girls from secondary schools were writing in, asking questions. Wanting advice. Craving space.

That’s when the idea came.

A space that wasn’t just digital—but physical. A real room.

Where girls could come. Sit. Write. Speak. Be heard.

A place called: The Fire Room.

Not fancy. Not big. Just theirs.

I scribbled the plan in Jude’s old notebook. A dream now forming into blueprints.

Something was beginning.

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23/06/2025

THE LETTER I NEVER SENT
Late one night, I opened a blank page and wrote:

Kenny,

I forgave you long ago. Not because you asked.
But because I had to empty you from my chest to make space for my own name.

What you broke taught me how to build.
What you couldn’t see in me—I now see clearly.

I hope you grow.

– Laural

I folded the paper, then set it on fire in a metal dish on my balcony.

As the flame consumed the ink, I whispered, “Goodbye.”

And just like that, I felt lighter.

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21/06/2025

THE RETURN OF JUDE
One evening, I heard a knock.

Jude.

Taller. Tired-eyed. Holding a paper bag and a soft smile.

“I came to return your pen,” he said.

We both laughed. Then sat under the mango tree like we used to.

There was no kiss. No fireworks.

Just a long conversation about growth, change, and the versions of ourselves we were still becoming.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

“I’m proud of me too,” I replied.

Because sometimes, closure isn’t about getting someone back.

It’s about getting yourself back—and realizing you never really lost.

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