Strangers on the Seventh Floor

Reading Time: 3 minutes

 

It started with a faulty elevator and ended with her lips pressed against mine like we hadn’t just met three minutes ago.

I was staying at a modest hotel on the outskirts of Nairobi, waiting for a late-night meeting to be confirmed. She walked in just as I was pressing the elevator button for the seventh floor. Short black dress. Heels. No expression. But her eyes scanned me, slowly, like she was deciding whether I was worth her time.

The elevator stalled halfway up. The lights flickered. We jolted, and she stumbled into me—soft body, firm grip on my jacket.

“Well,” she said, completely unbothered, “either this is fate, or Nairobi wants us to get to know each other better.”

I grinned. “I vote fate.”

We talked while the maintenance team worked on the elevator—casual stuff at first. Her name was Lana. She was in town from Nakuru, “taking a break,” she said. Her laugh was warm, but her voice had the undertone of a woman used to getting what she wanted.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“I entertain,” she replied with a wink.

That could’ve meant anything. But the way she said it, slow and deliberate, left little to the imagination. I didn’t push further. I didn’t need to.

When the elevator finally moved and the doors opened, I followed her out. “Walk me to my room?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question.

Room 713.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Lana leaned in—no hesitation. Her kiss was full of heat and hunger, like she’d been waiting all day for this. She tugged my shirt over my head, dragged her nails down my chest, and whispered, “You look like you need a release.”

My hands wandered down her back, and she moaned softly, grinding against me.

“I usually charge for this,” she murmured in my ear. “But tonight, I’m just bored and horny.”

What followed was a blur of teeth, tongue, and twisted sheets. She rode me like she had something to prove—like Nakuru women had a reputation to uphold. If this was how a seductress from Nakuru spent her weekends, I suddenly wanted to explore Rift Valley a whole lot more.

She took control of every second—pinning me down, flipping positions, teasing with her tongue until I begged. And when we both finally collapsed, panting and drenched in sweat, she turned to me and whispered, “You’d be surprised how many men travel just for girls like me.”

The next morning, she was gone. Again. No number. No note. Just a faint trace of perfume on the pillow and one of my buttons missing.

Weeks passed. I traveled to Eldoret for work, and something about Lana lingered in my mind—her confidence, her bite. Late one night, I went online and found myself staring at a lineup of sensual companions in Eldoret. And damn if some of those girls didn’t have the same fire in their eyes.

I didn’t book anyone that night—but not because I didn’t want to. I was just nervous. Not about the girls—but about how easily I was getting addicted to this thrill. The chase. The mystery. The release.

Then came Pipeline.

A week later, Nairobi again. This time in the heart of the city, near a chaotic street known for its nightlife and scandalous whispers. I stepped into a small lounge, sat at the bar, and ordered a drink. That’s when I noticed her—slim, curvy, dark eyes rimmed with gold.

“Looking for company?” she asked, resting a hand on my thigh like she owned it.

Her name was Zoe, and she didn’t waste time. Five minutes later, we were in an Uber. Ten minutes later, we were pressed up against the wall of my hotel room.

She was fast, wild, and wicked with her mouth. The kind of girl who moans your name in one moment and slaps your chest in the next. That wild encounter in Pipeline changed how I viewed Nairobi nights.

By sunrise, I was wrecked—in the best way.

I still think of them. Lana from Nakuru. Zoe from Pipeline. The tease of Eldoret.

Different names. Different styles. One common thread—Kenyan women who know how to take.

 

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