The Elder's Wives

Mzee Salim has four wives.

That's not unusual in Stone Town. What's unusual is that all four are unhappy—and I'm the only man left when he travels.

I'm the driver. Twenty-six years old, hired to chauffeur the household. I live in the servants' quarters, take them shopping, ferry them to prayers. A nobody in the grand hierarchy of this ancient house.

But when the Mzee leaves for his quarterly trips to Oman—

I become something else.

It starts with Mama Layla.

The first wife. Fifty-eight years old, the matriarch, two hundred and seventy pounds of disapproval. She summons me to her quarters the night the Mzee's ship sails.

"Close the door, Juma."

I close it.

"My husband has not touched me in three years." Her voice is flat. "He rotates between the younger wives. Leaves me aside. I'm first in name only."

"Mama, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry. Be useful." She stands, and her caftan falls open. "The Mzee is gone for six weeks. In that time, you will come to my room every night. You will give me what he hasn't. And you will never speak of it."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll tell him you touched me anyway. Who do you think he'll believe?"

I have no choice.

That's what I tell myself as I undress her. As I worship her body—massive, soft, marked with decades of living. As I taste her and hear her moan for the first time in years.

"Yes—finally—someone who knows what to do—"

I have no choice as I sink inside her. As I make the first wife of the Mzee come on the bed she shares with her husband.

I have no choice.

But God help me, I want this.

The second week, Mama Aisha finds out.

The second wife. Fifty-two, two-forty, sharper than Layla. She corners me in the kitchen.

"I heard Layla last night. Through the walls."

"I don't know what you—"

"Don't insult me." She steps closer. "If she's getting hers, I want mine."

"Mama Aisha—"

"Equal treatment. That's how this household works. What one wife gets, we all get." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "Come to me tomorrow night. Or I tell Layla you've been inappropriate with me, and the two of us have you thrown out."

Now I serve two.

Layla on Mondays and Thursdays. Aisha on Tuesdays and Fridays. Both of them demanding, competitive, checking each other for signs of favoritism.

"Did you kiss her breasts like you kiss mine?"

"Did you make her come as many times?"

I satisfy them both. I have to.

Week three, Mama Fatima.

The third wife. Forty-seven, two-sixty, the quiet one. She doesn't confront or threaten. She simply appears in my quarters one night, wearing nothing but a wrapper.

"I know about the others."

"How—"

"We wives talk. Eventually." She drops the wrapper. "I don't want to be left out."

Now I serve three.

Adding Fatima to my rotation. She's different—gentler, less demanding, grateful in ways the first two aren't. She thanks me afterward. Holds me close.

"The Mzee never thanks us," she murmurs. "Never shows appreciation."

"What about you? Do you appreciate what you get?"

"More than you know."

Week four, the fourth wife.

Mama Rehema. Thirty-nine. The youngest, the most recent, the Mzee's favorite when he's home. She's two-thirty of curves and fire, and she's been watching me all month.

"The others think they're being subtle." She laughs when she corners me. "They're not."

"Mama Rehema—"

"I'm not here to threaten. I'm here to negotiate." She traces a finger down my chest. "I want what they get. Plus more."

"More?"

"I want all of us. Together. One night before the Mzee returns."

"They'll never agree."

"They already have." She smiles. "I organized it. The four of us, sharing you. A proper household affair."

"That's—"

"Dangerous? Insane? Absolutely haram?" She pulls me closer. "It's also happening. Next Saturday. The Mzee returns Sunday morning."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Then we all go down together." Her lips brush my ear. "But it won't go wrong. Because you're going to satisfy all four of us. Aren't you, Juma?"

Saturday night.

Mama Layla's quarters—the largest in the house. All four wives present. All four in various states of undress. And me, standing in the middle, wondering how I got here.

"The rules," Layla says. "One night. All of us. Afterward, we return to the rotation until the next trip. Agreed?"

"Agreed," the other three chorus.

"Then let's begin." She looks at me. "Undress."

I undress.

Four pairs of eyes watch. Four women—ranging from thirty-nine to fifty-eight, from two-thirty to two-seventy—evaluate me. My cock is already hard.

"Who first?" Aisha asks.

"Seniority," Layla decides. "I start. Then by order of marriage."

She approaches. Kneels. Takes me in her mouth.

The first wife sucks me while the others watch.

She's practiced—decades of marriage, even if the last few years have been neglected. When she's satisfied that I'm ready, she lies back on the bed and spreads her massive thighs.

"Mount me."

I mount her.

I fuck the first wife while the other three observe, their hands between their own thighs, preparing.

"Make her come," Aisha commands. "Properly. So we see what we're getting."

I make Layla come. She screams.

Aisha is next.

She pushes Layla aside, takes my cock in her hand, examines it for signs of weakening. Finding it still hard, she turns around and braces against the headboard.

"From behind. Hard."

I take the second wife from behind. Her massive ass ripples with every thrust. She comes twice before she's satisfied.

Fatima is gentle.

She wants me on top, wants to look in my eyes while I fill her. She wraps her arms around me, her legs around my waist, and pulls me deep.

"Thank you," she whispers when she comes. "Thank you."

Rehema is fire.

She pushes me onto my back and mounts me, riding with an intensity that suggests she's been waiting for this her whole life. She screams without shame, comes without warning, and demands I fill her.

"Inside—now—"

I come inside the fourth wife while the other three watch.

That's the first round.

There are three more.

By dawn, I've taken each of them multiple times. I've had them in pairs—Layla and Aisha together, Fatima and Rehema together. I've had them all at once—two on my cock in succession while the other two share my face.

They've competed. Cooperated. Kissed each other. Fought over me like the prize I've become.

When the sun rises, we're exhausted.

"Well?" Layla asks.

Four wives, tangled on the bed. Me, somehow still conscious in the middle.

"Well what?"

"The Mzee returns today. We go back to normal." She looks at me. "Until his next trip."

"And then?"

"Then we do this again." Rehema's smile is satisfied. "A household tradition."

The Mzee comes home.

He sees nothing wrong. His driver is polite. His wives are content. The household runs smoothly.

He never knows that every time he leaves, I become the elder in all but name.

He never knows that his four wives have found a new husband within the old house.

And he never knows that once a quarter, for six weeks at a time—

I have what he couldn't keep satisfied.

Ndoa.

Marriage.

Four of them.

All mine.