Dada wa Kazi
"His parents hire a new house manager — a thick Swahili woman in her forties, efficient and stern. When she catches him with a girl in his room, she sends the girl away. Then shows him what a real woman does."
Mama Rehema runs our household like a general runs an army.
She arrived six months ago, after my parents decided their Mombasa mansion needed a proper manager. Someone to supervise the staff. Someone to maintain order. Someone to keep an eye on things while they traveled.
Someone to keep an eye on me.
I'm twenty-one. Finished with school, waiting to start my father's business, spending most of my days doing nothing productive. My parents worry. They think I'm wasting my life. They think I need structure.
So they hired Mama Rehema.
She's forty-six. Widowed. No children of her own. She lives in the staff quarters, runs the house with iron efficiency, and treats me like an irresponsible teenager.
Which, to be fair, I often am.
But there's something else about Mama Rehema. Something my parents don't see.
She's thick.
Not fat—that word feels wrong for her. She's built. Solid. The kind of woman who carries two hundred sixty pounds like it's nothing, who fills doorways without apologizing, who wears her body like armor.
Her breasts are heavy beneath her house uniforms—always modest, always professional, but straining against the buttons. Her hips sway when she walks. Her ass is a phenomenon—two massive globes that hypnotize me when she bends to inspect something.
She's caught me looking.
More than once.
Each time, her eyes flash with something—not anger, exactly. Something more complicated.
Tonight, everything changes.
I brought a girl home.
Stupid. Reckless. My parents are in Nairobi, but Mama Rehema is always watching. Still, Jamila from university was willing, and I was bored, and we ended up in my bedroom with the door locked.
Or so I thought.
Mama Rehema has a master key.
"Ya Allah!" Jamila scrambles for the sheets. We're both naked, caught mid-act.
Mama Rehema stands in the doorway like judgment incarnate. Her eyes take in everything—our naked bodies, the condom wrapper on the floor, the evidence of exactly what we were doing.
"Get dressed." Her voice is ice. "Both of you."
"Mama Rehema—"
"Now."
We dress in silence.
Mama Rehema watches with her arms crossed, her face expressionless. When we're decent, she nods toward the door.
"You." She points at Jamila. "Out. The driver will take you home."
Jamila doesn't argue. She grabs her purse, shoots me an apologetic look, and flees. I hear the front door close, the car starting, the sound of my evening's plans disappearing into the Mombasa night.
Mama Rehema closes my bedroom door.
Locks it.
"Sit down."
I sit on the edge of my bed.
She stands before me, arms still crossed, her considerable chest pushed up by the gesture.
"Your parents left you in my care." Her voice is low, dangerous. "They trusted me to maintain this household. To keep you out of trouble. And I find you—" She gestures at the rumpled sheets. "—acting like an animal."
"I'm twenty-one. I can—"
"You can what?" She steps closer. "Bring girls into your parents' house? Disrespect this home? Make a fool of me in front of the staff?"
"No one saw—"
"I saw." Another step. She's looming over me now, her presence filling the room. "And now I need to decide what to do about it."
"What can you do? I'm not a child."
"No." Her eyes travel down my body. "You're not."
She reaches for the buttons of her uniform.
"What are you—"
"Quiet." The first button opens. Then the second. "You want to act like a man? Fine. But if you're going to have women in this house, they're going to be real women. Not skinny university girls who don't know what they're doing."
The uniform falls open.
She's wearing a plain white bra underneath—struggling to contain her. She reaches back, unclasps it. Her breasts fall free.
"Mama Rehema—"
"I told you to be quiet."
She shrugs off the uniform completely. Stands before me in just her underwear—plain cotton, stretched tight over hips and ass.
"I've seen you watching me." She hooks her thumbs in the waistband. "Every day. When I bend to check the floors. When I reach for high shelves. When I walk away."
"I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." The underwear slides down. "And tonight, I'm going to show you what you've been fantasizing about."
She's a landscape.
Her breasts hang heavy—dark nipples thick and hard in the air conditioning. Her belly is round and soft, three rolls of flesh that make my mouth water. Her hips flare wide, her thighs are thick and powerful, and between them—
She's covered in dark hair. Natural. Untrimmed. Glistening wet.
"You've never had a woman like me." She walks toward the bed. "You've had girls. Skinny, inexperienced girls who don't know what they want."
"And you do?"
"I know exactly what I want." She pushes me onto my back, climbs on top of me. Her weight settles onto my thighs, crushing, overwhelming. "I want to show you what you've been missing. And then I want you to never bring another girl into this house again."
"And if I do?"
"Then I do this again." She reaches down, finds my cock through my pants—already hard despite my shock. "As punishment. As many times as necessary."
She undoes my zipper.
"Now shut up and learn."
She takes me in her mouth first.
Not gentle. Not teasing. She swallows me whole, her throat opening around my cock, her lips pressing against my base. I grab the sheets and try not to scream.
"Fuck—"
"That girl would have done this for ten minutes and called it good." She pulls back, strokes me with her hand. "I'm going to do it until you beg me to stop. And then I'm going to keep going."
She dives back down.
I lose track of time. She sucks me, licks me, deep-throats me until I'm seeing stars. Every time I get close, she stops. Waits. Then starts again.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I need—"
"Need what?" She climbs up my body, straddles my hips, positions me at her entrance. "Tell me exactly what you need, mtoto."
"You." The word tears out of me. "I need you."
"Good boy."
She drops onto me.
She's tighter than I expected.
Impossibly tight, impossibly wet, impossibly hot. Her weight drives me deep—deeper than I've ever been—and she doesn't move. Just sits there. Adjusting. Letting me feel every inch of her wrapped around every inch of me.
"This is a real woman." Her voice is steady, controlled. "This is what you've been dreaming about. Now—"
She starts to move.
"—learn."
She rides me like she runs the household. Efficient. Purposeful. Every roll of her hips designed to maximize sensation. Her breasts swing above me. Her belly presses against mine. Her thighs grip my waist like a vice.
"Touch me."
I grab her breasts. Massive, heavy, overflowing my hands. I squeeze, and she moans. I find her nipples, pinch them, and she cries out.
"Yes—like that—harder—"
I give her harder. She rewards me by moving faster.
"That girl—" She's panting now. "—she would have finished in two minutes and left you unsatisfied. But I—" She slams down on me. "—I'm going to drain every drop from you."
"Mama Rehema—"
"Call me mama." She grabs my face. "Say it."
"Mama—"
"Good boy." She kisses me—deep, hungry. "Now make mama come."
I flip her over.
She gasps as her back hits the mattress—surprised by my strength, by the sudden shift in power. I rise above her, pin her wrists to the bed.
"You want to teach me?" I thrust into her hard. "Then learn this."
She screams.
I fuck her the way I've been imagining for months. Hard. Deep. Relentless. Her body bounces beneath me, all that flesh rippling and shaking. Her breasts roll. Her belly jiggles. Her thick thighs clamp around my waist.
"Yes—yes—that's it—"
I lean down, take a nipple in my mouth. Bite. She arches off the bed.
"Harder—more—don't stop—"
I give her everything. Every fantasy. Every month of watching her walk through this house while I imagined exactly this.
"I'm coming—ya Allah—I'm—"
She shatters.
Her pussy clamps around me. Her whole body shakes. She screams so loud the staff must hear—but I don't care. I fuck her through it, don't slow down, drive her straight into the next orgasm.
"Too much—I can't—"
"You can." I thrust harder. "You're a real woman, remember? You can take it."
She comes again.
And again.
On the fourth one, I finally let go. I fill her with everything I have, pump into her while she screams, collapse onto her soft body when I'm finally empty.
We lie there for a long time.
Her hands stroke my hair. My head rests on her massive chest.
"You've ruined me," she finally says.
"What?"
"For other men." She laughs—a warm sound I've never heard from her. "I haven't been touched since my husband died. Ten years. And now you—"
"I learned from a good teacher."
"You didn't learn that from me." She tilts my face up, kisses me softly. "That was in you all along. You just needed a real woman to bring it out."
"What happens now?"
"Now?" She shifts, and I feel myself stirring against her thigh. "Now we establish some new household rules."
"Such as?"
"No more girls in this house." She reaches down, wraps her hand around my hardening cock. "Only me."
"That seems... restrictive."
"You'll have access to me whenever you want." She strokes slowly. "Morning. Night. In between. Your parents travel constantly. We'll have plenty of time."
"And when they're home?"
"Then we'll be discreet." She guides me back to her entrance. "But right now, they're not home. And I believe you have more to learn."
My parents return two weeks later.
They find the household running perfectly. The staff efficient. Their son focused and responsible.
"Mama Rehema has been wonderful," my mother says. "Whatever you're paying her, it's not enough."
"I agree," I say, catching Mama Rehema's eye across the room. "She's exactly what this house needed."
That night, after my parents are asleep, I slip into the staff quarters.
Mama Rehema is waiting.
"Lock the door," she commands. "And take off your clothes."
I obey.
Some lessons, I've learned, are worth repeating.