By Oreva Godwin
A dance with the devil. Please drop your rosary, no exorcist needed. This is erotica. Set aside the holy water, the religious cape, the borrowed piety.
Let’s set the mood.
Amanda was married to her high-school lover, Yemi. She gave him a son. But somewhere between pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding, she became invisible.
To Yemi, Amanda had lost her beauty. She was no longer the slim model he married. She had become chubby, soft, full, overflowing. Too curvy for his liking. Her body irritated him.
Amanda noticed the shift immediately. She tried, God knows she tried. She pressured herself to lose weight, but as a breastfeeding mother, hunger was unavoidable. Her body demanded nourishment.
Yemi mocked her every chance he got, especially when he saw the portions of food she ate. Each comment chipped away at her.
Yemi won a long-standing case against the government. The money came in heavy. He bought a house in the most expensive estate in the state. Life, finally, was good.
When they moved in, Amanda met Nana, the next-door neighbor. Nana was married too. They connected effortlessly, like women who recognized familiar wounds in each other. They shared their pains, their disappointments, their silent suffering.
Is it our pain that attracted us to each other? Amanda wondered. They took their children out together. Nana introduced Amanda to other women in the estate. Some of them refused to associate with Amanda and Nana. Housewives, they said, were lazy women. Useless women.
Amanda and Nana decided to reclaim their husbands’ attention. They went shopping, buying clothes that hugged their new bodies, tight, bold, unapologetic. But Nana’s attempt ended in disaster.
Her husband, Nelly, looked at her with disgust. “Were you like this when I met you?” he asked coldly.
“If I liked chubby women, I wouldn’t have looked your way. Stop blaming childbirth. Haven’t you seen your mates? They’ve given birth and still maintained their bodies. You eat too much.” Nana broke down.
When she told Amanda, Amanda was shocked. She had thought her pain was the worst, until she heard Nana speak. For the first time, Amanda hated men. She regretted marriage. She cursed motherhood. When does the joy of motherhood begin? she wondered.
They held each other and cried. Nana confessed she wanted a divorce, but how could she leave? She had nothing. Nelly controlled the money. She had only three million naira saved, hardly enough to rebuild her life. Amanda was almost impressed. She only had five hundred thousand naira to her name.
That same week, Nelly and Yemi met at a restaurant. They bonded quickly, neighbors, brothers in entitlement. They complained about their wives, body-shamed them, laughed about how stuck they were. “They have nowhere to go,” they agreed. “No money. No options. With time, they’ll wake up and fix themselves.”
Amanda and Nana chose themselves instead. They embraced their bodies. Nana recounted how she once fainted from extreme dieting. She refused to risk her life for male approval. She chose health. She chose sanity.
Nana and Amanda were invited for a pool party. A lady in the estate hosted a pool party outside the estate. Coincidentally, their husbands were out of town.
The party had slipped into something feral. Bodies moving without shame, laughter too loud, pleasure too careless. There was molly, ecstasy, and different pills and alcohol. It soon turned into an orgy party. Nana and Amanda were like the only sane ones there.
And then the air shifted. A chill crawled over their skin. Goosebumps rose without invitation. The fine hairs on their arms stood to attention, as if warning them. Amanda felt it first, the sense that something had entered the space, something heavy, deliberate, watching.
Then they saw them.
Two men stood at the entrance, tall and imposing, carved from shadow and confident. They did not announce themselves. They did not rush. They simply arrived.
And in that moment, Nana knew, this was the devil. Not horned or red, but seductive, dangerous, and certain. The men greeted the celebrant politely, scanning the crowd like hunters assessing terrain for prey. Their eyes finally settled on Amanda and Nana. They smiled, not kindly, not cruelly, but knowingly.
They walked toward them. “Dance?” one asked. Shock. The two women froze, with thoughts of refusal in their throats. But, reason soon dissolved. It felt less like a choice and more like a pull. A surrender. It turned out to be a dance with the devil.
The men’s presence was intoxicating; dark, controlled, magnetic. Every rule they had been raised with, slipped away. Home training vanished. Shame evaporated.
One of the men placed a pill on his tongue slowly, deliberately, then leaned in, feeding it into Nana’s mouth with teasing intimacy. Alcohol followed, warm, burning, sealing the pact.
Minutes later, the world softened. Heat bloomed low in their bodies, spreading like wildfire. Desire surged, raw, aching, undeniable.
It wasn’t just lust. An urgent need. The need to feel like women again.They let go.They knew these men were dangerous. They knew this was ruin. But they also knew they were starving.
The men spoke to them as though they had studied them, naming their loneliness without words, touching places neglected for months. Hands explored with reverence. Mouths followed. Kisses burned, slow and claiming, as though rediscovering bodies that had been abandoned.
If not for the thunderous music, their moans would have betrayed them. It had been over six months since they had been touched with desire, since they had been made to feel chosen.
When mouths closed over their breasts and milk spilled freely, the men did not pull away. They drank without hesitation, eyes locked onto theirs, challenging, seducing, daring them to look away. Amanda gasped. Nana trembled.
And when the strangers settled at their honeycomb, the world fractured into sensation. Time disappeared. The men moved in perfect synchronization, touching them as if wired to the same thought, the same hunger.
Every caress landed together. Every pause was shared. Tongues traced thighs, slow and deliberate. Legs parted willingly. What followed was relentless, precise, and devastating. Pleasure built until it became unbearable. The men were huge, but it was the best they have ever had.
Amanda and Nana clutched each other’s hands, their moans merging, bodies shaking as release tore through them.
They shattered.
Later, much later, reality crept back in. Trips to the restroom. Water. Breath. The drugs loosening their grip.
By morning, it felt unreal.
They called each other, laughing softly, asking the same question:
Did that really happen?
The last words the stranger had spoken echoed like prophecy: “You look like women who build empires.” But they knew such words must be buried in the deep. They swore it would die with them.
Life soon returned to its dull unhappiness. Wedding rings shone over empty marriages. They never spoke of the incident, though their bodies remembered. But something had awakened.
Those words refused to fade. When they met the party host again, her eyes lingered knowingly. She smiled before they could speak. “What happens in Vegas,” she said calmly, “stays in Vegas.”
Amanda and Nana were interested in dropshipping her fashion brand. They made effort to sell themselves to the lady. The woman studied them for a moment, then smiled, the kind of smile that recognized hunger and ambition. She agreed to supply every piece at a twenty-percent discount.
That was how it began. They created a social media page. Private, discreet, unknown to their husbands. They modeled the outfits themselves, standing before mirrors that slowly began to reflect women they barely recognized. Confidence replaced hesitation. Posture replaced apology.
They reached out to a bag brand. Then a shoe brand. More negotiations. More alignment. They learned to curate desire, editing photos, replacing accessories, matching aesthetics, selling not just clothes but a life.
They paid for ads. They studied numbers. They adjusted strategies.
And then, sales came. Orders multiplied. Messages flooded in. What started as secrecy became a momentum.
Within two years, they were making real money. Good money. Their husbands never noticed. The men only saw distracted wives, women who were always out, stared into space, slept deeply. Women who no longer begged for attention or sex. Women who did not compete for validation.
That absence unsettled them. But pride kept them silent. Asking questions would mean admitting loss of control.
For Amanda and Nana, the shift was profound. For the first time, they felt accomplished. Money did something marriage never had. It restored dignity. With their own income came freedom. With freedom came self-respect. They no longer embarrassed their families before their husbands by pleading for small mercies. They no longer exposed their vulnerabilities to men who enjoyed withholding. They covered their families’ nakedness quietly. Elegantly. Without noise. And in that silence, power grew.
They never regretted the dance with the devil. Yes, they had sinned, but not against themselves. That night did not destroy them. It revealed them. Just one dance opened a world of opportunities.
*Oreva Godwin, The Southerner
REDEFINED
