Nyumba ya Wake
"The old sultan dies. His nephew inherits the estate—including four thick wives who refuse to leave. Islamic law allows four wives. Tradition says they belong to whoever provides for them. He provides."
Sultan Yusuf bin Said was the last of his line.
No sons, no brothers, no direct heirs. When he died at eighty-three, his estate passed to me—his sister's grandson, the only male Abdallah left.
The estate included a mansion, a fortune, shipping interests.
And four wives.
The wives refused to leave.
"We were married to the Sultan," Zuhra said. She was the first wife, fifty-two years old. "This is our home. You cannot cast us out."
"I'm not trying to—"
"Good." She crossed thick arms over thicker breasts. "Because we're staying."
The other three stood behind her. Jamila, forty-six. Khadija, forty-one. And Amina, the youngest at thirty-eight. All thick. All formidable. All watching me with calculating eyes.
"There is a tradition," Zuhra continued. "When a man dies, his male relatives may inherit his wives. Provide for them. Protect them."
"I'm not going to—"
"We're not leaving." She stepped closer. "So either you inherit us, or you live with four women you cannot touch but must support. Your choice."
The first month was awkward.
Four wives in a house with one man. They cooked my meals, cleaned my quarters, tended to my needs. But every night, I slept alone while they retreated to their separate rooms.
"This is ridiculous," I told Zuhra. "I'm not the Sultan. I didn't marry you."
"But you're providing for us. Sheltering us. In the eyes of tradition, that makes you responsible."
"Responsible for what?"
"Everything." Her eyes held mine. "Including the things the Sultan could no longer do."
"He was eighty-three—"
"And we are not." She moved closer. "Jamila hasn't been touched in five years. Khadija, seven. Amina, three. And I—" she paused, "I haven't felt a man inside me in eight years."
"That's—"
"Tragic. Criminal." Her hand found my chest. "Unless you intend to fix it."
Zuhra came to my room that night.
She entered without knocking, wearing nothing but a silk robe. Her body was everything I'd been trying not to imagine—heavy breasts, thick belly, wide hips.
"The Sultan used to rotate," she said. "First wife on Saturday. Second wife on Monday. Third on Wednesday. Fourth on Friday. The other nights he rested."
"I'm not—"
"You're young. Strong." She untied her robe. "I don't think you need rest days."
Her body emerged—fifty-two years of living, of waiting, of wanting. She was thick in ways the Sultan must have loved when he could still appreciate them.
"This is your first night as our husband," she said. "Tradition says you start with the first wife."
She climbed onto my bed.
I took Zuhra like she hadn't been taken in eight years.
Worshipped her body the way the Sultan had forgotten to. My mouth on her breasts, her belly, the thick heat between her thighs. She came on my tongue—sobbing, screaming—before I even entered her.
"Finally—someone who—oh Allah—"
I thrust into her.
She was tight from disuse. Clenched around me like she'd never let go. Her thick legs wrapped around my waist while I drove into her.
"More—please—eight years—"
I gave her eight years of compensation.
Pounded into her until the bed shook, until she screamed loud enough for the other wives to hear. Filled her while she wept with release.
"Welcome," she gasped, "to the nyumba ya wake. The house of wives."
The next night was Jamila's turn.
Forty-six, the second wife. Thicker than Zuhra—her belly more pronounced, her breasts heavier. She'd been waiting five years.
"The Sultan used to be quick," she said. "In and out, like a business transaction. He never—"
I silenced her with my mouth.
Ate her until she came four times. Then fucked her until she forgot the Sultan's name, forgot her own name, forgot everything except pleasure.
"Why didn't he—why couldn't he—"
"He was old and tired."
"You're not."
"I'm not."
I filled her while she screamed.
Khadija was next.
The third wife, forty-one, thick and hungry. Seven years since a man had touched her. She didn't want tenderness.
"Fuck me," she demanded. "Hard. Now. No games."
I gave her what she wanted.
Bent her over the bedroom furniture and pounded into her. She came screaming, demanding more, getting everything she'd been denied.
"The Sultan was a fool—he had us and he didn't—"
"His loss."
"Your gain." She pushed back against me. "Again. Harder."
Amina was the youngest and the most desperate.
Thirty-eight, only three years without touch, but the most demanding. She had the thickest body of all—enormous breasts, belly that cascaded endlessly, hips that could birth armies.
"I was his favorite," she said. "Before he couldn't anymore. He used to spend extra nights with me. Now I spend them alone."
"Not anymore."
"Prove it."
I proved it.
Took Amina for hours. Worshipped her massive body like she was the only woman in the world. Made her come so many times she lost count.
"You're better than he ever was—"
"Different."
"Better." She pulled me deeper. "Don't ever stop."
I didn't stop until dawn.
By the second week, I'd abandoned the rotation.
"Why wait?" Jamila asked. "Why one wife per night when you could have all of us?"
"All of you? At once?"
"The Sultan couldn't." Her eyes glittered. "But you're not the Sultan."
That night, all four wives came to my room.
They undressed together.
Four thick bodies, four different flavors of abundance. Zuhra's experienced curves. Jamila's heavy breasts. Khadija's demanding flesh. Amina's overwhelming presence.
"Nyumba ya wake," Zuhra said. "The house of wives. Tonight, the wives come together."
They approached the bed from all sides.
I lost myself in flesh.
Four mouths, four pairs of hands, four thick bodies surrounding me. They took turns—on my mouth, my fingers, my cock. They pleasured each other while I recovered, then demanded my attention again.
"Here—" Zuhra positioned herself.
"No, here—" Khadija claimed me from Jamila.
"Share—" Amina pulled me between herself and Zuhra.
I took them all.
One after another. Side by side. On top of each other. Four thick women, four inherited wives, all mine to satisfy.
"The Sultan never—" one gasped.
"He couldn't—" another moaned.
"This is what we needed—" a third cried.
"Don't stop—" the fourth begged.
I didn't stop until all four were satisfied.
Until I'd filled each of them at least once.
Until the house of wives became truly mine.
I live in the Sultan's mansion now.
His fortune is mine. His business is mine. His wives—all four of them—are mine in every way that matters.
Some nights I choose one. Some nights I take two. Some nights—the best nights—all four come to my bed together.
"You're a better husband than he ever was," Zuhra told me on the one-year anniversary.
"I'm not your husband—"
"You provide for us. Protect us. Satisfy us." She kissed me. "That makes you our husband. All of us."
The other three nodded.
"Nyumba ya wake," Amina said. "The house of wives."
"Mume wa wake," Khadija added. "The husband of wives."
"Ours," Jamila finished. "Forever."
Four wives.
Four thick, demanding, insatiable women.
Four inheritances that turned out to be worth more than all the Sultan's gold.
I came expecting an estate.
I found a family.
Some legacies, it turns out, are meant to be continued.