After the school academic year ended, that summer our mothers shoved us into the same church camp in Mangochi. Tadala had been my neighbor for years; our moms' decision seemed pure and right, since they knew nothing suspicious would happen between us.
The very first day passed, and we shared the same bed, one mosquito net, and with zero supervision after lights-out. Every single night she'd spread her thighs above me, fingers moving slow, wet sounds dripping through the wooden slats like warm rain.
I'd lie rigid, cock throbbing against my stomach, counting her breaths until she shattered: one… two… three silent spasms that shook the whole bedframe.
One morning, I woke up with her soaked panties draped across my face like a red flag of surrender. I pretended to be bored even though I craved her company.
I survived every test and passed them all, but in my mind the story was different. Wild fantasies of Tadala raw, relentless, full of heat and hunger wove a much heavier plot. I swore to myself that if another chance ever came, I'd bed her without hesitation.
But fate had other plans. Our paths twisted apart, and every thought of claiming her body got buried under the weight of time, distance, and the lives we were forced to live.
It was one day morning during breakfast, when our mothers caught us staring, eyes locked, lips swollen from biting back moans. They separated us before the tea got cold. They were right to be terrified, and fate just laughed louder.
One year later, she ended up with my old friend, Tafadziwa. I stayed away and nature stayed silent until one night, drunk on cheap red wine and old ghosts, she broke:
"I haven't cum in years," she whispered, thighs clenched so tight, I could see the pulse in her neck.
"Not once. Not with him. Not since Mangochi, since you listened to me fuck myself above your face every night."
I leaned closer. "You still fake every moan?" "Every. Single. One." Her voice cracked like a schoolgirl's.
I slid my phone across the table and opened the private link:
The Crimson Veil Society
"Read this," I said, voice rough. "Then tell me if you still want to fake it for the rest of your life."
Three nights later, 02:17 a.m., my phone lit up. Tadala wrote: "I just came so hard, I squirted through my knickers and ruined my mother's couch. I hate you. I'm touching myself again just typing this. Send more."
I smiled into the dark and whispered: "The girl who once charged airtime for silence just paid the ultimate price, her whole fake little life, for one real, screaming, soaking orgasm."
I didn't know much about the Crimson Veil Society no one really did. At the University of Malawi, people only whispered about it in hushed corners of Chancellor College, pretending it didn't exist at all. Yet those women who struggled with their own pleasure in bed, who faked every moan or felt nothing at all, somehow found their way there. And somehow, they came back changed freer, bolder, finally able to claim what had always been denied them.