NewStats: 3,264,426 , 8,183,704 topics. Date: Wednesday, 11 June 2025 at 04:48 AM 465p6g

Common Challenges in Age-Gap Romantic Relationships

1. Social Stigma & Judgment

Society tends to be more critical of relationships where the woman is significantly older—especially if she’s dating a younger man. You might encounter assumptions, double standards, or even dismissive attitudes (e.g., “cougar” stereotypes).

How to handle it:
Be confident in your relationship and communicate openly. The more secure you both are, the less outside noise matters. Surround yourselves with ive people and ignore outdated thinking.


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2. Different Life Stages

You may be in different phases—one person might be building a career, while the other is established or even thinking about retirement. This can affect energy levels, priorities, or long-term plans.

How to handle it:
Talk about goals early on. Align on what you want from the relationship in the short and long term. Respect differences without trying to force one another into a specific life stage.


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3. Family or Peer Disapproval

Friends or family might not understand or the relationship. Sometimes, their concern is rooted in love—but often, it’s based on bias.

How to handle it:
Educate where appropriate, but don’t feel obligated to justify your relationship. Healthy boundaries are essential. Ultimately, your happiness matters more than others' approval.


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4. Future Planning

Issues around aging, health, and finances can be sensitive but important. For example, the older partner may be thinking about retirement while the younger one is just hitting their stride.

How to handle it:
Have candid conversations about what the future looks like—emotional needs, financial security, and even long-term care, if relevant. Mutual respect and realism are key.

Having an older woman as a lover can offer a range of emotional, psychological, and even physical benefits, depending on the individuals involved and the nature of the relationship. Here are several commonly reported advantages:


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1. Emotional Maturity

Older women often have more life experience, which can lead to greater emotional intelligence and stability. This can translate into more honest communication, less drama, and healthier conflict resolution.

2. Confidence and Self-Awareness

Many older women are more confident in their bodies, desires, and boundaries. This self-assurance can make sexual and emotional experiences more fulfilling for both partners.

3. Sexual Experience

Older women may have a clearer understanding of their own sexual preferences and what pleases their partner. This can lead to a more open, relaxed, and satisfying sexual dynamic.

4. Less Pressure

Often, older women are less focused on issues like marriage or starting a family, which may reduce pressure in the relationship—particularly for younger partners not looking for long-term commitment right away.

5. Mentorship and Perspective

They can offer insights and life perspectives that come from experience. For some, this can be intellectually and emotionally enriching.

6. Appreciation of Youth and Vitality

Older women often genuinely appreciate the energy and enthusiasm of a younger partner, creating a dynamic of mutual iration and respect.

7. Clearer Communication

Many older women are more direct and less likely to play games, which can make relationships more straightforward and authentic.

He stared at the screen.

Then typed:

I’ll be there. And pressed send.

---


The sun dipped below Aguda’s skyline as Kole pulled up outside a sleek, high-rise apartment building. The kind of place with polished marble floors, security guards who smiled politely but didn’t trust you, and elevators scented with a fragrance Kole was pretty sure cost more than his last three months’ rent combined.

He checked the address again — no mistake. This was definitely Ms. Edith Edewor’s.

Taking a deep breath, Kole adjusted his tie and stepped inside.

The building was quiet, sterile. No crowd. No balloons. No loud music.

He buzzed her apartment number.

A moment later, the door clicked open.

“Welcome,” Edith said, smiling in a way that was both warm and a little mysterious.

The apartment was bathed in soft amber light, a carefully curated playlist humming in the background. There was a bottle of expensive wine half-empty on the coffee table, a small platter of suya skewers, and two glasses — one of which Edith poured herself a generous measure from.

Kole blinked.

“Where is everyone else?”

Edith shrugged, settling into a velvet armchair like a queen in her lair.

“I’m afraid you’re the only one who made it,” she said with a sly grin. “But honestly? I prefer it this way.”

Kole wasn’t sure if he should laugh, leave, or run for the door.

He sat down cautiously across from her.

“So… this isn’t really a birthday party?”

“Nope,” she said, raising her glass. “It’s a test.”

“A test?”

“To see if you’re as interesting without an audience.”

Kole raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help smiling.

“Well, consider me tested.”

They talked — at first carefully, then more freely. She shared stories about the chaos of running a company, her struggles as a single mother, and the absurdities of Lagos traffic. He told her about his dreams of starting his own agency and his love-hate relationship with Yaba’s streets.

The wine loosened their words, and the distance between them shrank.

Edith laughed, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You know, Kole, it’s rare to meet someone who isn’t dazzled by the spotlight or afraid of the shadows.”

He caught himself staring.

“Ms. Edith…” he started, but she cut him off with a mischievous smile.

“Call me Edith when it’s just us.”

The clock ticked past midnight. The bottle was nearly empty. The line between boss and man blurred.

She was wearing see through blouse with miniskirt. Edith knew what her mission.was, and he soon knew too.

She adjusted on her seat. Her thighs were now more bare that covered. But the young man needed more that this. He needed physical prodding.

"Have you ever made love to an older woman before?" She asked.

Silently, Kole shook his head.

"Will you be afraid to do it if you were given the opportunity?"

What a question! It was a strong one; so strong it could break a wall.

"I want you to be sincere," she said Coolly.

"No. I will not be afraid to explore

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson.”

“Hmm.” She looked at me again, this time more directly. “You seem quite knowledgeable. Have you worked here long?”

“Yes, ma. Going on two years now. I assist in supervising sales and floor operations.”

She gave a small, approving smile. “You carry yourself well. That’s good.”

“Thank you, ma,” I said, bowing my head slightly.

She moved on, picking a few more items with quiet efficiency—dried herbs, balsamic vinegar, a bottle of wine I wasn’t familiar with. I didn’t hover, just stayed a polite few steps behind in case she needed anything else. There was something about her presence—it demanded respect without saying a word.

At the checkout counter, she didn’t fumble with her purse like many do. Her card was out before the cashier could finish bagging. Then, just as she turned to leave, she paused and looked in my direction.

“You’re attentive, Femi. That’s rare.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept it formal. “Thank you very much, ma. It’s always a pleasure to assist.”

She reached into her handbag again—this time, not for her card. She pulled out a thin, ivory-colored business card and handed it to me.

“You may call me in case you need anything,” she said. Her tone was still calm, but there was something intentional in her words. Like she meant more than she was saying.

“Thank you, ma,” I replied, taking the card with both hands, as my father taught me. Always receive things with respect.

As she walked out, I looked down at the card.

Naomi Ajayi
Managing Partner, Ajayi & Cole Legal Consult
Direct Line: [a number I wasn’t going to call anytime soon]

The name didn’t ring a bell. But something about it—it felt like it should.

I slipped the card carefully into my wallet and finished my shift. At 9 p.m., after the store had quieted and the last was closed, I boarded a bus to Surulere. The ride was long, the city still restless with weekend noise, but my mind kept circling back to the tall woman with the steady eyes and the crisp voice.

Naomi Ajayi.

I didn’t know what it meant yet—but I had a feeling this wasn’t the last I’d hear of her.

Kole walked out slowly, heart thudding, unsure whether he’d just been invited to a party… or into a story he wasn’t ready for.


---



That night, Kole found himself back in Yaba, where the roads were uneven, the power lines tangled like gossip, and the air tasted like roasted corn and unfinished dreams.

He stood outside Teniola’s design studio — a converted boys’ quarters with string lights, mismatched furniture, and a large painted sign above the door that read “Omo, Just Create”. It was peak chaos inside, as usual.

“Is that my favorite almost-famous ad man?” Teni shouted as he stepped in, brushing chalk dust off his shoulders.

“Teni, you’ve got paint on your face again,” Kole replied, grabbing a bottle of malt from her mini fridge without asking.

“I’m in the zone. Don’t interrupt a genius during divine .”

She was wearing joggers, a paint-stained tank top, and a head wrap that looked like it had survived three wars. And yet, somehow, she still looked better than half the influencers clogging Lagos traffic with ring lights and Range Rovers.

“So, how’s the land of slogans and sexual tension?” she asked, flopping onto a bean bag.

Kole froze, mid-sip. “What?”

“You’re trending on the office gossip blog, my guy. I have spies. One of them is on the Bext WhatsApp group chat as ‘Blessing from HR,’ but that’s a long story.”

He rolled his eyes. “People are bored. Nothing happened.”

Teni raised a brow. “Did she invite you to her birthday yet?”

Kole turned, eyes wide. “How did you—?”

“Ah! You think you’re special? That woman runs on mystery and mischief. She once invited a junior copywriter to brunch and ended up giving him a month of paid leave — without HR approval. My point is: Edith Edewor is not normal.”

“She said it’ll be a small hangout,” Kole muttered.

“Right. With just one guest. You.”

Kole didn’t respond.

Teni sighed, softer now. “Look. I’m not saying don’t go. I’m saying... go with your eyes open. Edith doesn’t just flirt for fun. She flirts like she’s testing a prototype — to see how much power she still has.”

There was a silence. Heavy, but familiar. The kind that often filled the room when Kole didn't want to it she was right.

“Besides,” she added, leaning back, “if you’re going to fall into anything, it should at least come with jollof and soft lighting. Not career-ending consequences.”

Kole chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re in denial.”

He looked around the studio — the art, the clutter, the energy. It felt safe here. Real. No glass walls. No agendas. Just Teni, chaos, and unfiltered truth.

And yet… something in him was curious. Curious enough to wonder if the boss’s invite was more than just a trap. Or maybe that’s exactly why he wanted to find out.


---

Later that night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning above. A new message blinked on his phone.

Ms. Edewor:
Saturday. 7pm. Come hungry for good wine and better conversation.
(Location pinned)


He stared at the screen.

Then typed:

I’ll be there. And pressed send.

OT2024:
She worked as a nurse at a private hospital nearby, often seen in her crisp uniforms, sometimes returning late in the evenings with that hurried, purposeful stride of someone who had been on her feet for hours.

Despite the proximity of our rooms and the shared facilities of the BQ, our relationship remained distant—cordial, yes, but formal. She rarely smiled, and even when she did, it often felt like something she offered with effort. She wasn't rude, but there was always a barrier, an invisible wall that kept her interactions brief and clipped. In the months we had been neighbors, our conversations had never gone beyond greetings and the occasional exchange of utility bills.

So when she knocked on my door that morning and spoke in a tone that suggested discomfort, I was immediately intrigued.

“Sorry to bother you, Dave,” she began, her voice low, as if reluctant to continue. “But I happen to be looking for one of my... brassieres.”

I blinked.

For a second, I thought I hadn’t heard her correctly. But her expression remained composed, if slightly flushed. My surprise must have been evident, because she continued quickly, as if to clarify the nature of her visit before it became any more awkward than it already was.

“I left it outside yesterday to dry. It’s black, with padded cups and lacy edges. I think maybe, by accident, you might have packed it in with your clothes?”

There was a pause. A rather thick silence hung between us for a second or two. I didn’t know whether to laugh, apologize, or just shut the door and pretend this was all a dream.

I finally sighed and shook my head gently. “I’m sorry, Sister Ms. Kay, but I didn’t see anything like that. And I’m quite sure I didn’t take it by mistake.”

Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer, as though trying to assess the truthfulness of my statement. Then, without saying anything more, she gave a short nod, turned around, and walked back to her room.

As I closed the door and returned to my bed, I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to myself. So, Sister Ms. Kay was missing a bra—and she thought I might have it? It was funny and absurd at the same time. There was no way I would have missed such a distinctive item if I had packed it along with my clothes. And frankly, there was no scenario where I wouldn’t notice a lacy, padded bra among my T-shirts and briefs.

Still amused, I switched the TV back on, letting the familiar buzz of a talk show fill the room. I sat for a while, aimlessly flipping through channels, before deciding to freshen up. It was time to brush my teeth and take a proper bath.

I pulled a clean towel from the wardrobe, grabbed my sponge case, toothbrush, and a tube of mint toothpaste, and headed out to the bathroom. The BQ's shared bathroom wasn't luxurious by any means, but since only Ms. Kay and I used it, we had managed to maintain a decent level of cleanliness. The tiled walls were a bit stained from age, and the showerhead had seen better days, but the water pressure was good and the tap, at least, worked.

After brushing my teeth and taking a refreshing shower, I returned to my room feeling more awake and human. I towel-dried my skin, applied a bit of lotion, and threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a plain, soft T-shirt. The time was edging past nine when I heard a soft knock at the door, followed immediately by it swinging open.

..

Saturdays are the busiest days at the store. By noon, the aisles are packed, the air buzzes with voices, and the smell of fresh produce and cleaning agents lingers just enough to remind you that everything's been prepared for the crowd.

I’ve worked at TrolleyMart in Ikoyi for almost two years now—started as a floor assistant, moved up to assistant sales supervisor after some months of staying sharp and avoiding trouble. It’s a big store, shiny floors and all, with security guards at the door and customers who wear expensive perfume and drive big SUVs. You learn quickly to keep things professional. Polite. Precise.

I was restocking a shelf in the gourmet section that afternoon when I noticed her.

She walked in like she owned the place. Not with arrogance—but with the kind of calm confidence that makes people instinctively give way. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse, neatly tucked into navy blue high-waisted tros. Not flashy, not loud—just clean, deliberate elegance. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, gold stud earrings catching a bit of the store's lighting. I couldn’t have said why, but I stood a bit straighter when I saw her.

She moved with purpose, scanning the signs above each aisle, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She wasn’t just browsing—she knew what she came for.

I stepped forward, as we’re trained to do.

“Good afternoon, ma. Welcome to TrolleyMart. May I assist you?” I asked, my hands behind my back, my tone formal.

She turned to me, just slightly. Her eyes met mine—sharp, observant, but not unfriendly.

“Yes, actually,” she said. Her voice was low and measured. Confident. “Do you still have the De Cecco brand pasta? Tagliatelle, specifically. And the French olive oil—what’s the name… Clarette?”

“Clarette, yes ma. We keep both items in aisle 7. I can walk you there, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

As we walked, I noticed other staff discreetly looking in our direction. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the fact that people like her didn’t often ask for help. They expected it.

At the shelf, I pointed out the pasta options.

“This is the Tagliatelle, ma. Fresh stock. And here’s the Clarette olive oil. Imported batch—came in on Wednesday.”

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson

The popular saying is that money cannot buy love. Femi strongly believes this. He has love for Lola his childhood sweetheart.
When he meets the sultry, calculating and manipulative Ms. Naomi Ajayi, his principle is seriously tested. He stands firm, but not for too long.



Loading.....

Before he could overthink it, a familiar voice rang out.

“Morning team! Conference room, now. Bring your brains — and coffee.”

It was her.

Ms. Edith Edewor glided across the open floor in her usual monochrome ensemble — high heels clicking against the tiled floor, a structured black blazer hugging her shoulders, and confidence leaking from every pore. Kole stood up quickly, tucking his phone away as he followed the rest of the team into the glass-walled meeting room.

Inside, the lights were a little too bright, the AC a little too cold, and the tension — just right.

She started the meeting like always: brisk, sharp, all business.

Until…

“Kole, why don’t you walk us through the Amstel brief again? You had some… interesting angles.”

There it was — the pause, the smile, the slow blink. Subtle, but intentional.

He cleared his throat. “Sure, ma. The angle we’re proposing is less about the product and more about the lifestyle. Urban freedom, soft rebellion, shared moments. We want to shoot it in Yaba, actually — let the brand speak from the street level up.”

She nodded slowly, then looked around the room. “See? Fresh. Real. Not everything has to be Eko Atlantic and drone shots. Let’s go gritty for once.”

Chuks coughed dramatically. “Kole’s making gritty look sexy these days.”

The room laughed. Ms. Edewor smiled, eyes still on Kole.

“Meeting adjourned. Except you, Kole. Stay a minute.”

Everyone filed out. Kole stayed seated, pulse in his ears.

She walked to the window and stood there, arms folded, the light catching the gold accent in her hair.

“I like how your mind works,” she said finally, not looking at him. “I like it a lot.”

He smiled politely. “Thank you, ma. I’m just doing my job.”

She turned to face him, and this time her expression was softer — almost unreadable.

“It’s Edith. At least when it’s just the two of us.”

A beat ed. Then another.

“I’m having a small birthday hangout this weekend,” she added casually, walking toward her desk. “Just wine, music, and a few interesting people. You should come.”

“Oh. Okay. Uh… yeah. I can try.”

“Don’t try. Come. I’ll send the address.”

With that, she picked up a folder and sat, signaling the conversation was over.

Kole walked out slowly, heart thudding, unsure whether he’d just been invited to a party… or into a story he wasn’t ready for.

Nice work

Good day, dear friends.


This is another exciting story for you.

Happy reading:




Love Beyond Borders







Kole experiments with love before he finally finds it. From Edith to Rukayat, his ion learns a lot. Then, he meets the sultry Dofi in Ghana and he realizes that things don't have to be ideal, but they have to be real.

Caution: The story contains some steamy scenes.










The elevator smelled like desperation and vanilla air freshener — the kind that tried too hard to cover up the truth. Kole Olusola stepped in anyway, adjusting the sleeves of his navy blazer as he hit the button for the 6th floor.

Kole Olusola was a 28-year-old man known for his kindness, boundless energy, and sharp intellect. He approached life with enthusiasm and a positive spirit that inspired those around him. Brilliant in both thought and action, Kole firmly believed that hard work was the key to success and never shied away from putting in the effort needed to achieve his goals. His combination of warmth, determination, and intelligence made him both well-respected and well-liked.

Bext Advertising Company was already buzzing by 8:30 a.m., and he had exactly five minutes before the Monday strategy meeting started.

The doors opened with a ding, and Kole stepped out into the open-plan office, greeted by the familiar hum of keyboards, ringing phones, and the voice of Chuks, the company’s self-appointed town crier.

“My people! I heard somebody’s pitch got approved o,” Chuks sang, standing by the water dispenser with a toothpick between his teeth. “Dem say Ms. Edewor smile like say she see husband.”

Kole gave a short laugh and kept walking. He wasn’t in the mood. That comment was too close to home.

He took his seat at his desk, a corner near the windows with a view of the parking lot and the banana seller who somehow always showed up at the same time he did. His inbox had thirteen unread messages. His phone buzzed — a WhatsApp notification from an unknown number. He clicked.

Ms. Edewor:
Morning, Kole. Still thinking about your pitch last week. You have a very strategic mind... and something else I can’t quite place. Let’s talk soon. 🌹



He blinked at the screen.

“Ahn ahn. Is this how we’re doing it now?” he muttered, nearly choking on his bottled water.

“Kole, you good?” It was Mariam, the intern who handled client presentations.

“Yeah, yeah. Just reading something… surprising.”

Surprising was putting it lightly. Edith Edewor didn’t just message people. She summoned. She declared. She scheduled meetings via her PA, or by staring at you long enough until you followed her into her glass office like a hypnotized puppy.

And yet, here he was, with a rose emoji sitting in his notifications.

Before he could overthink it, a familiar voice rang out.

Nice one.

Bukky sighed happily, her left arm holding me tight while her right cinched around the back of my neck. We kissed and kissed and kissed some more. My conscience went to war with my heart, telling me this was inappropriate. My heart fought back, the sound of my cousin’s “Please” echoing over and over and over again.

And hell, kissing her felt good. I hadn’t been kissed like this since the last time I saw Beauty face-to-face. I’d spent almost two months only experiencing self-inflicted orgasms, never feeling the touch of another human being in a sexual way except for my own right hand. And even though I couldn’t compare the stress I was under to What Bukky had been Going through pretty stressful to be under lockdown for this long, painfully aware that if I were to screw up and catch the virus outside from someone else, it may not kill me but it certainly could kill someone I loved.

It’s not like we were having sex. This was just kissing. Brothers and cousins kiss each other all the time...

But this wasn’t such a big difference, right? I’d pecked both Bukky and Arin on the lips lots of times ... although it had probably been a few years since the last time. Still ... this was just kissing.

And then Bukky’s hand slid into my pajama tros and wrapped around my boner.

I broke the kiss again, “My goodness.”

My big cousin kept kissing me, although her lips werenolonger on my mouth. While my eyelids fluttered and I gasped in surprise, Bukky nibbled on my chin, walked her lips down my jawline, and sucked on my neck a little bit. Her cool hand encircled my rod, pumping back and forth along its length while she audibly groaned into the crook of my neck. And I was powerless to resist her.

This is soooo much better than stroking myself, I thought.

“I love your cock, little brother,” she crooned before sucking my neck again, not quite enough to leave a hickey but getting pretty close. “It’s so hot. It’s so big.

“Bukky...” I breathed, not believing this was happening.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a cock in my hands?”

“Bukky...” I groaned. “We shouldn’t.”

“Please, little brother?” Her hand sped up its pumping.

“Oh goodness ... Bukky...”

I managed to recover first. “Uh ... well...” I began uncertainly, not sure how to respond but desperate to cover the awkward silence. “Thank you? I think? For the compliment?”

Bukky snorted, cracked a smile at my weak joke, but then buried her face in both hands and looked ready to cry.

Seeing my big cousin so weak and pathetic, my familial instinct kicked in and I was suddenly out of the chair. I moved to sit beside her and wrapped both arms around her in a fierce hug. She had managed to keep it in so far, but the moment I held her the waterworks started. And she buried her face into my upper chest to cry her poor little heart out.

Wordlessly, I let her shudder and sob while she sagged deeper into my embrace. I adjusted my grip, hugging her tighter. The headboard wasn’t far behind me, and I reclined against it with her pillows ing my lower back. that allowed Bukky to truly rest her head against my chest, and I was able to look down at her, brushing locks of hair back from her pretty face, beautiful even though her expression was one of abject misery.

I don’t know how long she cried, but I held her until she’d let it all out. Even when her sobs went silent, I squeezed my arms, willing her to understand that I loved her. She was my big cousin, after all. And after a while, she lapsed into such stillness that I wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

But just when I started to think about how to escape, plotting out how I’d gently lower her head to the pillows and slide myself laterally across her bed, her eyes opened and she looked up at me, my love for her mirrored in her eyes. Yeah, she could be a real bitch sometimes, but I understood the stress she was under and didn’t really hold it against her. I told her with my eyes that I would al way s be here for her, and I’d like to think she understood.

That was when she kissed me. One minute, I was smiling down at her, wordlessly just reminding her I was here for her. The next, she had closed the gap between our lips, molded hers around mine, and hummed rapturously as her tongue parted my teeth and pushed in to tease mine.

At first, I responded in kind. I’d kissed quite a few girls over the years and had lots and lots of practice. My arms instinctively pulled her closer to me and I tilted my head to the side to pull my nose out of the way . Bukky moaned and scooted up the bed a little closer to get a better angle on me, but as I felt her right hand slide off my belly and start to head further south, I suddenly realized exactly What I was doing, and WHO I was doing it with.

Breaking the kiss, I pulled my head back while my eyes flew open in shock. “Bukky? What are we--?” I began in confusion.

Her right hand darted up behind my head and tugged it so that my forehead was pressed against hers. Her eyes closed and she husked in a low voice, “Please?”

That’s it. just one word, pregnant with all kinds of meaning. She didn’t need more than one word, because I already understood What she was asking. She needed this right now. She needed me right now. She needed to kiss me and feel love, and was that really so much to ask?

Nodding slowly, I bent my lips to hers and renewed the liplock.

Bukky sighed happily, her left arm holding me tight while her right cinched around the back of my neck. We kissed and kissed and kissed some more. My conscience went to war with my heart, telling me this was inappropriate. My heart fought back, the sound of my cousin’s “Please” echoing over and over and over again.