Wake Wawili
"The old merchant dies, leaving two thick co-wives and a business in chaos. His nephew arrives to settle the estate. Both wives want him. Both wives get him. At the same time."
Mzee Hamisi was a wealthy man.
A spice merchant in Zanzibar's Stone Town, he owned warehouses, ships, a mansion in the oldest quarter. He also had two wives, both younger than him, both thick, both suddenly widowed.
I'm his nephew—his brother's only son—and the executor of his estate.
I arrived in Stone Town expecting paperwork.
I found something far more complicated.
Safia is the first wife.
Forty-five years old, married to Hamisi for twenty years. She's the senior wife, the one who runs the household. Thick in the traditional way—heavy breasts, wide hips, a belly that speaks of prosperity. She's beautiful, commanding, accustomed to authority.
Nasra is the second wife.
Thirty-eight, married to Hamisi only eight years ago. Younger, competitive, always trying to prove her worth. Also thick—maybe even more so than Safia. Her body is softer, rounder, every curve more pronounced.
They hate each other.
Or at least, they did.
"The estate is complicated," I tell them on my first day.
We're sitting in the mansion's formal parlor. Both wives in mourning white, both watching me with interest.
"Complicated how?" Safia asks.
"Mzee Hamisi divided everything between you. But he didn't specify what goes to whom. The warehouses, the ships, the property—it all needs to be split, but there's no guidance."
"So we decide?" Nasra's eyes brighten. "Between us?"
"With my help. As executor, I have to approve the division."
The wives look at each other.
Something passes between them.
"Then you'll be staying with us," Safia says. "Until it's settled."
"I suppose I will."
The first week is tense.
Both wives are constantly in my presence. Safia brings me tea in the study. Nasra brings me meals in my room. They compete for my attention, my favor, my approval of the estate division.
"She'll take everything if you let her," Nasra whispers one evening. "Safia is greedy. She was always first—first wife, first in his affection. She thinks she deserves more."
"And you?"
"I was his comfort in his later years. I earned my share." Her hand finds my arm. "I'll earn yours too, if you let me."
"Nasra—"
"I'm just saying." She leans close, her thick body pressing against mine. "I can be very... appreciative."
Safia's approach is more direct.
"I know what she's doing," she says the next morning. We're alone in the study. "Nasra thinks her youth and her curves will sway you. But I know things she doesn't."
"What things?"
"What a man really needs." She moves closer. "Not a girl's tricks. A woman's experience."
"You're propositioning me?"
"I'm offering a partnership." Her hand finds my chest. "Side with me in the estate division, and I'll make sure you're... satisfied. In ways Nasra can't imagine."
"And if I side with neither of you?"
"Then you're a fool." She smiles. "And you don't look like a fool."
Day ten.
Both wives have grown bolder. Nasra "accidentally" walks in on me bathing—apologizes profusely while staring at everything she can see. Safia has taken to wearing thin house dresses that hide nothing.
I'm caught between two thick, desperate widows.
And I'm not sure I want to escape.
"We need to discuss the ships," I tell them on day fourteen.
Both wives are in my study. Both are dressed in mourning that somehow manages to be revealing. They sit on opposite sides of the room, eyeing each other with cold suspicion.
"The three ships are the most valuable assets," I continue. "My recommendation is—"
"Who cares about ships?" Nasra interrupts. "Let's discuss what's really happening here."
"Which is?"
"She's been trying to seduce you." Nasra points at Safia. "Since the day you arrived."
"I've been trying?" Safia laughs. "You walked in on him naked!"
"That was an accident—"
"Was wearing that dress last night an accident too? I could see everything—"
"At least I'm subtle! You've been pressing those old breasts against him—"
"Old? I'll show you old—"
"Stop." My voice cuts through their argument. "Both of you."
They fall silent.
"If you want to discuss what's really happening," I say, "let's discuss it. You're both competing for my favor. Both offering the same thing. Both pretending the other isn't doing exactly the same."
"What are you suggesting?" Safia asks.
"I'm suggesting we stop pretending." I look at each of them. "You both want me. I want both of you. Why should I choose?"
The silence stretches.
Safia and Nasra look at each other. Something shifts in the air—the hostility transforming into something else.
"Both of us?" Nasra says slowly. "At the same time?"
"At the same time."
"I've never—" Safia starts.
"Neither have I." Nasra's voice is breathless. "But..."
They look at each other again. Years of competition, of jealousy, of fighting for one man's attention. And now a different offer.
"If I'm willing," Safia says carefully, "are you?"
Nasra swallows.
"I'm willing."
They undress together.
Standing on opposite sides of the study, both removing their mourning dresses at the same time. Watching each other as much as they watch me.
Safia's body is experienced—heavy breasts with large dark nipples, belly soft from years and children, hips wide and powerful.
Nasra's body is softer—her breasts even heavier, her belly rounder, her curves more pronounced. Younger but thicker.
"Which of us is better?" Nasra asks.
"I won't know until I try both."
I start with Safia.
The senior wife, the one who expects to be first. I pull her to me, kiss her deeply while Nasra watches. My hands find her breasts, her belly, the thick heat between her thighs.
"Finally," she gasps. "I've been waiting since you arrived—"
I push her onto the desk. Spread her thick thighs. Lower my mouth.
She screams while Nasra watches.
Then I take Nasra.
Push her against the wall while Safia recovers, her thick body pinned beneath my hands. I kiss down her neck, her enormous breasts, find her nipples and suck.
"Ya Allah—he's even better than Hamisi—"
I eat her standing up, her thick thighs on my shoulders, her weight against the wall. She floods my face while Safia watches with hungry eyes.
"My turn again," Safia demands.
I fuck Safia on the floor while Nasra watches.
Her experienced body takes me easily, her thick legs wrapping around my waist. She knows what she wants—adjusts her angle, controls the rhythm, uses twenty years of practice.
"Yes—right there—don't stop—"
Nasra crawls closer. Watches from inches away as I thrust into her co-wife.
"Touch her," I command. "Show me you can share."
Nasra hesitates.
Years of competition, of jealousy. But desire overcomes hesitation. Her hand finds Safia's breast—tentative at first, then more confident.
"Oh—" Safia gasps. "What are you—"
"He told me to." Nasra's voice is throaty. "Let me."
She pinches Safia's nipple. The older wife cries out, clenching around me.
"More—don't stop—both of you—"
I thrust harder while Nasra plays with Safia's body. The senior wife comes screaming, her thick body shaking.
Then I take Nasra while Safia participates.
The younger wife on her hands and knees, taking me from behind while Safia lies beneath her. The senior wife reaches up, plays with Nasra's hanging breasts, whispers instructions.
"Arch your back—yes—let him deeper—"
"How do you know—oh God—"
"Twenty years of practice." Safia's voice is smug even as she participates. "Let me teach you."
They compete through me.
Each trying to make me come first, each trying to prove she's better. I move between them—Safia's experienced body, Nasra's eager thickness—taking what I want from both.
"Together," I finally say.
I position them side by side on the desk. Two thick asses, two wet pussies, two widows waiting for me to choose.
I don't choose.
I take one, then the other. Alternate between them. Make them wait, make them beg.
"Please—finish in me—" Safia begs.
"No—in me—I need it—" Nasra counters.
In the end, I fill them both.
First Safia—exploding inside the senior wife while she screams. Then recover and take Nasra—fill her too while Safia watches with satisfaction and envy.
Both wives. Both satisfied. Both mine.
"The estate," I say later.
We're tangled together on the floor—two thick bodies, one lean one between them.
"Split evenly," Safia says. "Equal shares."
"Agreed," Nasra adds. "No more fighting."
"And me?"
They look at each other over my body. A silent communication passes between them.
"You'll stay," Safia says. "In Stone Town. With us."
"Both of us," Nasra adds. "As our... advisor."
"Advisor?"
"Among other things." Safia's hand finds me, strokes slowly. "We've spent years fighting over one man. Now we can share a better one."
I never left Stone Town.
The estate was settled. The co-wives became partners—in business and in bed. Every night, I have them both. Some nights they serve me together. Some nights they compete. Either way, I win.
"Wake wawili," Nasra says one evening. "Two wives."
"Mke mmoja," Safia counters. "One husband."
"Not technically your husband," I remind them.
"Technically." Safia laughs. "But in every way that matters..."
She's right.
In every way that matters, I inherited two wives along with the estate.
And I've never been more satisfied with my inheritance.