Daktari wa Nyumbani

Doctor Rashid has been bedridden for six months.

Stroke. The great physician of Lamu—forty years of practice—now unable to walk, barely able to speak. His patients still need care. Someone has to make the house calls.

His wife, Bi Mariam, volunteers.

"I'm not a doctor," she tells the patients. "But I've watched him for forty years. I know what he would do."

What she does is something else entirely.

I'm her first house call.

Chronic back pain from construction work. Doctor Rashid used to give me injections, massage therapy, advice. When his wife arrives instead, I expect disappointment.

I get something else.

Bi Mariam is fifty-six years old.

Married to the doctor since she was sixteen, she's spent a lifetime absorbing medicine by osmosis. She's also thick—massively so—with heavy breasts, wide hips, and a presence that fills my small house.

"Remove your shirt," she says, setting down her medical bag. "Let me see the problem."

I remove my shirt.

Her eyes go places that have nothing to do with my back.

"The pain is here?" she asks, pressing my lower back.

"Yes—right there—"

"Muscle tension." Her hands are warm, strong, practiced. "My husband would recommend massage. Heat therapy. Relaxation."

"Can you do that?"

"I can do many things." Her hands slide lower, past my waistband. "Things my husband never thought to try."

"Bi Mariam—"

"Shh." She's unbuttoning my trousers. "Doctor's orders. You need to relax. Let me help you."

She undresses me completely.

Lies me face-down on my own bed, straddles my legs. Her thick thighs press against mine, her weight a comfort.

"The tension is everywhere," she says, massaging my shoulders. "You carry your stress in your body."

"I work hard—"

"You need release." Her hands work lower, kneading my back, my ass, the backs of my thighs. "Real release. Not just medicine."

She flips me over.

I'm hard.

Impossible not to be—her thick body on mine, her hands everywhere, her breath warm on my skin.

"This is where the tension lives," she says, wrapping her fingers around me. "This is what needs treatment."

"Your husband—"

"Is home in bed." She strokes slowly. "Unable to move. Unable to do this."

She lowers her mouth.

She takes me deep.

The doctor's wife, on her house call, sucking me like it's a medical procedure. Her technique is precise, thorough, years of watching her husband translated into something else entirely.

"Bi Mariam—I'm going to—"

She pulls back.

"Not yet. The treatment isn't complete."

She stands, undresses. Her body emerges—fifty-six years of marriage, of cooking, of living—and it's magnificent.

"Your back pain," she says, mounting me. "I know a cure."

She rides me like a prescription.

Her thick body bouncing, her massive breasts in my face. She's wet—has been since she walked in—and I fill her completely.

"This is what my husband can't give me—"

"Is that why you're here?"

"I'm here for your back." She clenches around me. "The rest is therapeutic. For both of us."

We fuck for an hour.

On my bed. Against the wall. Bent over my kitchen table—her thick ass in the air while I take her from behind. She comes repeatedly, screaming things no doctor's wife should scream.

"Harder—cure me—cure everything—"

I give her the cure.

Fill her while she shakes, while she screams, while somewhere across town her husband lies immobile in his bed.

"Your back," she says afterward, dressing professionally.

"Feels better." It actually does. "Much better."

"I'll need to check on you. Weekly." She picks up her medical bag. "For ongoing treatment."

"The same treatment?"

"More intensive." She kisses me at the door. "Recovery takes time. Multiple sessions. You understand."

"I understand."

"Good." She steps outside. "See you next week, patient. Same time. Have the bed ready."

She has other patients.

I discover this when I see her leaving Mzee Bakari's house one afternoon. When she visits me the next day, I ask.

"Bakari has heart problems," she says, already undressing. "Needs close monitoring."

"What kind of monitoring?"

"The same kind you get." She pushes me onto the bed. "Why? Are you jealous?"

"Should I be?"

"My husband has six patients who need house calls." She straddles me. "Six patients who need... intensive care."

"All men?"

"All men." She sinks onto me. "All lonely. All grateful. All mine."

She has a rotation.

Monday: Bakari. Tuesday: the merchant with diabetes. Wednesday: the fisherman with arthritis. Thursday: me. Friday: the teacher with hypertension. Saturday: the imam's brother with gout.

"Six patients," she tells me. "Six treatments. Six men who give me what my husband can't."

"And if he finds out?"

"He can barely speak." She rides me harder. "And even if he could—what would he do? I'm caring for his patients. Keeping his practice alive. If my methods are... unconventional..."

She comes on me.

"...that's just good medicine."

Doctor Rashid dies two years later.

The whole island mourns. The great physician, gone. His practice shuttered.

But Bi Mariam continues her house calls.

"The patients still need care," she explains. "I'm all they have."

She's all I have.

Every Thursday, she comes to my house. Examines me thoroughly. Treats me completely. Leaves me exhausted and pain-free.

"You're my favorite patient," she tells me one day.

"How many patients do you have now?"

"Twelve." She's riding me in my bed. "Word got around. Men with complaints their regular doctors can't treat."

"And you treat them all?"

"I treat everyone who needs it." She comes, shaking. "That's what my husband would have wanted. I'm continuing his legacy."

Bi Mariam is sixty-three now.

Still making house calls. Still thick. Still insatiable.

"I'm training an apprentice," she tells me one Thursday.

"Apprentice?"

"My niece." She smiles. "Twenty-eight, recently widowed. She wants to learn the family business."

"The medical business?"

"The house call business." She pulls me on top of her. "You'll meet her next week. I'm bringing her for a joint... consultation."

"Both of you?"

"Both of us." She wraps her legs around me. "Think of it as advanced treatment. Two healers. One patient. Comprehensive care."

I think I need more back pain.

I think I need it immediately.

"Next week," she says. "Be ready. The consultation will be thorough."

They always are.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.