Kept Quiet
"His cousin catches him with their aunt. Her silence has a price—she wants the same treatment. Now he serves two women who know each other's secrets."
Zainab catches us at the worst possible moment.
I'm inside Aunt Amara—our shared aunt, our mothers' sister—when the bedroom door swings open. We freeze. Three bodies locked in a tableau of sin: me buried to the hilt in our aunt, Amara's thick legs wrapped around my waist, and Zainab standing in the doorway with a water glass that shatters on the floor.
"Astaghfirullah."
Aunt Amara screams. I scramble backward, pulling out, grabbing for clothes. Zainab just stands there, staring, her face cycling through shock, disgust, and something else—something I can't name.
"Zainab—" Amara starts.
"Don't." My cousin's voice is ice. "Both of you. Don't say anything."
She turns and walks away.
The Kisumu compound is too small for secrets.
But somehow, Zainab keeps ours. The next morning, the morning after that—she says nothing. Doesn't look at us strangely. Doesn't pull me aside. Just... waits.
On day five, she corners me in the kitchen.
"We need to talk."
"You're fucking our aunt."
No preamble. No softening. Just the fact, laid bare.
"I can explain—"
"Can you?" She crosses her arms. At twenty-nine, Zainab is thick like all the women in our family—two-thirty, maybe more, with her mother's wide hips and her father's sharp eyes. "Can you explain why you're sleeping with our mother's sister? A woman who's technically old enough to be your mother too?"
"It's complicated."
"It's haram." She steps closer. "If I told anyone—our parents, the elders, anyone—you'd both be ruined. Outcast. Finished."
"Are you going to tell?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you make it worth my silence."
I understand immediately.
"You want money."
"I don't want money." She laughs, bitter. "I want what she gets."
"What?"
"I'm twenty-nine years old, Hassan. I've been married and divorced. I haven't had a man touch me in three years." She moves closer, and I smell her—jasmine, anger, desperation. "I saw what you were doing to her. The sounds she was making. I want that."
"You want me to—"
"I want what you give our aunt. Equal treatment." Her hand finds my chest. "You satisfy both of us, and I keep quiet. You refuse, and I burn everything down."
I find Amara in her room.
"Zainab knows."
"I know. She told me her terms this morning." Amara looks tired. Fifty-two years old, widowed too young, and now caught in a trap of her own making. "She wants both of us."
"Both?"
"She wants me to share you. Openly. In the same room, sometimes." She meets my eyes. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her I needed to think."
"And? What are you thinking?"
I'm thinking about Zainab's body. Thick like Amara's, but younger—firmer, less marked by time. I'm thinking about what it would be like to have them both. To switch between aunt and cousin. To sin so completely that there's no coming back.
"I'm thinking yes."
That night, they summon me together.
Amara's bedroom. Both of them waiting. Aunt and niece, two generations of thick Swahili women, dressed in kangas that do nothing to hide their curves.
"The rules," Zainab says. "I go first tonight. Mama Amara watches. Tomorrow, we switch. After that, we share."
"And the silence?"
"As long as you satisfy us both, no one ever knows." She begins unwrapping her kanga. "Now show me what I've been missing."
Zainab is different than Amara.
Younger. Hungrier. Three years without a man, and she takes me like she's owed back interest. Her body is heavy but firm—breasts that bounce without sagging too far, a belly that's round but taut, thighs that squeeze me like a vice.
"Harder—harder—I want to feel it for days—"
I give her harder. Aunt Amara watches from the corner, her hand between her thighs, pleasuring herself to the sight of her niece taking what she took.
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
Zainab comes screaming. And when she's spent, Amara takes her place.
"My turn."
Watching changes things.
Aunt Amara is rougher now—competitive. She rides me while Zainab watches, moaning louder than she needs to, putting on a show.
"Is this what you wanted, niece? To see how your aunt takes him?"
"I wanted to see if he was worth the risk." Zainab moves closer, sits on the edge of the bed. "He is."
"Then come here." Amara pulls her niece toward us. "Help me make him work for it."
They share me.
Aunt on my cock. Cousin on my face. Switching, rotating, passing me between them like a toy. I worship both—tasting Zainab while Amara rides, fucking Amara while Zainab takes my mouth.
"This is better," Zainab gasps. "Better than keeping quiet for nothing."
"This is what you should have asked for from the start," Amara agrees.
They kiss above me—aunt and niece, lips meeting while I'm buried in one and tonguing the other. The taboo layers until I can't tell where one sin ends and the next begins.
We establish a rhythm.
Three nights a week—one for each of them alone, one together. The rest of the household never suspects. We're just the devoted nephew, the helpful cousin, spending time with our widowed aunt.
"You're getting better," Zainab tells me.
"At what?"
"At keeping us both satisfied. At the beginning, you'd wear out. Now..." She smiles. "Now you last."
"I'm motivated."
"By desire? Or by fear of exposure?"
"Both." I pull her close. "Is that a problem?"
"No." She kisses me. "It's what keeps this interesting."
Months pass.
The compound buzzes with rumors—distant ones, about other families, other scandals. But ours stays hidden. Locked behind Amara's bedroom door. Guarded by the two women who know everything.
"What happens when you marry?" Amara asks one night.
We're tangled together—aunt on one side, cousin on the other. The question hangs.
"Who says I'm getting married?"
"You will eventually. Your mother will insist."
"Then my wife will have to accept that I have... obligations."
"You'd keep us?" Zainab sounds surprised. "Even after marriage?"
"You're blackmailing me. Remember?"
"At this point, it's more of a... standing arrangement." She grins. "But if you insist on calling it blackmail..."
The word loses its power.
Blackmail becomes routine. Routine becomes need. And need becomes something none of us name.
Three years later, I marry a girl from Mombasa. She moves into the Kisumu compound.
My wife never understands why I spend so much time in my aunt's wing.
She doesn't need to understand.
Some secrets are kept quiet.
Some silences have sweet prices.
And some men are lucky enough to pay them.
Kimya.
Quiet.
Worth every sound.