Dereva na Bibi
"Long drives to the countryside. Madam sits in back, then moves to front, then climbs on top of him at every rest stop. The company pays for the car. She pays for everything else."
I drive for the Mwangi family.
Mr. Mwangi is a busy man—meetings, trips, never home. Mrs. Mwangi is a neglected woman—wealthy, bored, always needing to go somewhere. I take her wherever she wants.
Lately, where she wants is very specific.
Bi Esther Mwangi is forty-eight years old.
Married to the richest man in Kiambu County, she has everything money can buy—and nothing money can't. Her husband hasn't touched her in three years. He has "business" in Nairobi that keeps him busy.
I know what business.
She knows too.
She's thick in the way wealthy women become.
Good food, no labor, years of comfort. Heavy breasts beneath designer blouses. Wide hips that require the Mercedes' largest seat. A belly soft from years of sitting in this very car, waiting for destinations that never satisfy her.
"Take me to Nyeri," she says one morning.
"Yes, Madam."
"The long way."
The long way takes four hours instead of two. I don't ask why.
She shows me why.
"Pull over here."
We're on a deserted stretch of road, coffee plantations on both sides. No traffic. No witnesses.
"Is something wrong, Madam?"
"Something is very wrong." She opens the partition between front and back. "I'm bored. I'm lonely. I'm sitting in a car with a handsome young man who pretends not to notice me."
"I notice you, Madam."
"Then stop pretending." She climbs through the partition, her thick body filling the space between the seats. "And start acting."
She mounts me in the driver's seat.
Pulls up her dress—nothing beneath—and sinks onto me while I grip the steering wheel. The Mercedes rocks gently on its suspension.
"I've been wanting this for months—"
"Madam—"
"Don't call me Madam." She's riding me now, her massive breasts in my face. "Call me Esther. Call me what you think about when you look at me in the mirror."
"What do I think?"
"What every man thinks." She bounces harder. "That you want to fuck me. That my husband is a fool. That if you had me, you'd never leave me alone."
"He's a fool."
"Then don't be one too." She comes on me, shaking. "Take me. Here. Now. Every time we drive."
The trip to Nyeri takes six hours.
Four rest stops. Four times she climbs into the front seat. Four times she rides me on the side of the road while coffee farmers work obliviously in the distance.
"This is why I travel," she gasps at stop number four. "Not for destinations. For this."
"For me?"
"For feeling alive." She comes again. "For being wanted. For mattering to someone."
Every trip now follows the same pattern.
She calls for the car. I bring it around. We leave through the gates of her estate—professional, proper, the driver and his madam.
Then we find a quiet road.
"Here," she says.
Or: "Not yet. Keep driving."
Or: "The back seat this time. I want to stretch out."
The back seat becomes our territory.
Leather seats, tinted windows, privacy from the world outside. She spreads across the back while I climb through, take her while the car sits silent on some forgotten road.
"My husband bought this car—"
"I know—"
"I want you to fuck me in everything he bought." She pulls me deeper. "This car. My house. Our bed. Make it all ours."
"The bed might be difficult—"
"He's never home." She comes, screaming into the leather. "He's never, ever home."
The first time I take her in her marital bed, I'm nervous.
She's not.
"He's in Mombasa," she says. "Some business deal. He won't be back for three days."
Three days of her.
In the bed. On the floor. Against the wall of the master bedroom. She's insatiable in a way that suggests years of denial.
"This is what I needed—"
"What about the staff?"
"The staff see nothing." She mounts me on her husband's side of the bed. "They're paid to see nothing. Just like you're paid to drive."
"I'm also driving you—"
"Yes." She clenches around me. "You are. To places my husband never could."
The arrangement continues for two years.
Every drive. Every trip. Every excuse she can find to need the car.
"Shopping in Nairobi." We fuck in the parking garage.
"Visiting mother in Nakuru." We fuck at three rest stops each way.
"Spa weekend in Nanyuki." We fuck at the spa while her masseuse waits outside.
"He's divorcing me," she says one day.
We're in the back seat, somewhere outside Embu. Her voice is flat.
"Divorcing?"
"Found someone younger." She laughs bitterly. "I knew about the business in Nairobi. I just didn't know it would end in divorce papers."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." She mounts me, her thick body moving with familiar rhythm. "He's giving me the house. The cars. Including this one."
"Including me?"
"Including you." She comes quickly—practiced, efficient. "You're part of the assets. And I intend to use every asset fully."
The divorce is final in three months.
Bi Esther Mwangi becomes simply Esther—wealthy, single, free. She keeps the Mercedes. She keeps the house.
She keeps me.
"You're no longer my driver," she tells me. "You're my... companion. My escort. My whatever I need you to be."
"And what do you need?"
"Everything." She pulls me into her bed—our bed now, no longer anyone else's. "Everything my husband couldn't give. Every day. Forever."
I've been Esther's companion for four years now.
We still take drives—long ones, scenic routes, rest stops where we steam up the windows. But now we always come back to the same place.
Home.
"The long way?" I ask when she wants to go somewhere.
"Always the long way." She climbs into the front seat, straddles me before we even leave the driveway. "And maybe an extra stop or two. For... sightseeing."
We never see any sights.
Just each other.
Just the road.
Just endless miles of everything her husband threw away.
His loss.
My gain.
The Mercedes runs forever on that kind of fuel.