Irresistible

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Husband!” giggled the new bride, “do you want me to stain my wedding boubou?”

  “Not at all. Come here, girl.” The two wives were not so terribly different in age, yet Xolani felt old as she watched Amara coquettishly lift her white kaftan over her head. Their husband clucked appreciatively at the girl, wasting no time in peeling the thin underclothes from Amara’s skin. The giggles continued, but became softer, sulkier. This was no virgin, as Xolani had been on her wedding night. Amara swayed her wide hips with practiced ease as she stepped between Babatunde’s knees, pressing his balding head between her breasts. His hands sweeping up and down her back seemed to Xolani to know their path already. Babatunde had not simply picked this girl—they were already lovers. Xolani cursed under her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still recall Babatunde’s hands on the small of Amara’s back, her foot sliding lazily up and down his calf, his hands kneading her full, sweet bottom.

  “You like what you see?” asked the new bride as she pressed her knee against the front of her husband’s kaftan suit. “I see that you do,” she growled, squeaking when Babatunde pulled her down into his lap. Xolani knew that squeal; it was the same for her when he grabbed her, wanted her, needed her, no matter the time of day. It bothered Xolani that she still needed this man so much, when he obviously did not feel the same. Could his desires be so great that one wife could not meet them? Was the need of an heir truly more enticing than the gifts she’d been bestowing upon him for nearly five years? How many nights had she lain awake while he disappeared to one of his dalliances, leaving her to find ways to quiet the longing within her alone? Before, he always came back to her. Now, he would have no need.

  Once she’d had enough, Xolani wiped angry tears from her cheeks, and prepared to take one last look. She’d seen her co-wife around a few times, always dressed in the richest, most flattering fabrics. Never before had she seen the young woman completely naked. Her mahogany skin glowed against the flickering light of the oil lamps illuminating the house. She lay back on the low bed, long arms and legs at all angles, not at all shy of her new husband’s gaze. Xolani wanted to cry again; she’d never been so carefree.

  Babatunde’s hands looked large and clunky as he explored his new wife. Xolani watched through tears as her husband fondled Amara’s breasts. Xolani’s skin itched as she watched her husband’s greedy tongue search out Amara’s nipples, large and dark and perfect for nursing.

  “Enough…stop this.” Xolani wasn’t sure to whom she was whispering. No one was forcing her to witness this consummation, yet she continued, despite the ache developing in her head, her eyes, her belly. Best to know the enemy, she told herself. Only then could she outsmart, outlove her co-wife. “Yes,” she told herself, her gods, her ancestors, “that is the only way.”

  Wiping away the last tears, Xolani leaned closer, resting her head and arms on the damp windowsill, a reluctant yet attentive student. She observed how Amara stretched and arched her back, pushing her breasts into her husband’s waiting mouth, feeding him her erect nipples. Amara ordered Babatunde to rid himself of his pants, lest she do it for him. Xolani told herself she would have to be demanding as well, especially if such forthrightness elicited such an emphatic response from their shared husband. Shimmying out of his clothes, Babatunde grasped the thickness between his legs and spread his wife’s thighs. Xolani ducked to get a better look. The hair between Amara’s legs was sparse, her outer labia full and dark, and her kuma seemed to open and glisten when Babatunde teased it with his cock. Amara purred happily, slid a hand down to stroke at her inner lips, the hood of her clitoris, but her husband pushed her hand away before she could penetrate herself, like Xolani wanted her to, she was disgusted to realize.

  With no additional preparation, Babatunde pulled Amara to him, his cock filling her with ease. He pressed down on top of her, riding her with all the speed and strength that Xolani recognized from their own lovemaking. She wondered, in her anger, if Amara was enjoying this, being pounded into the bed with little regard for what looked like quite an erection of her own. Xolani crossed her legs, not wanting to think too hard upon Amara’s sex, or her full breasts, or her wetness sticking to their husband’s swollen cock. They made such noise—Babatunde’s huffing and puffing, Amara’s high moans— that Xolani wondered if the whole village could hear them.

  When she heard footsteps nearby, she was sure she was right, that the elders had come to stop this overindulgence. But it was only Jomo, Babatunde’s favorite servant and near-constant companion. When he approached the house, Xolani hissed at him, and he skulked away, head lowered, into the night. The triumph was momentary; Xolani bit back a curse at the newlyweds’ changing position. With Amara on top, Xolani could better see her tiny back arching, his hands squeezing her ass, her vagina swallowing his dark shaft, all the time with Amara squealing and moaning like an animal.

  Xolani wondered as she toyed absentmindedly with her nipples poking through her kaftan, is this what Babatunde likes? His climax, full of noise and vigor and squeezing of breasts, was answer enough. Xolani pressed her nails into her palms, punishment for watching, for not running away, for wanting to see more. And for the dampness she could not ignore between her legs. She watched them part and fall onto their backs, wife catching her breath, husband quickly falling to sleep. For all her previous vocalization, Amara appeared unfulfilled, and quite used to it. Xolani couldn’t quite bring herself to feel sorry for her co-wife, but she understood.

  Xolani rushed to her small private house as quietly as she could and threw herself on her bed. Only after she’d ripped her kaftan off and masturbated through tears could she finally fall asleep.

  The night was crisp, almost cold, but Amara left her warm shawl behind as she ventured out into the wilderness. It had been nearly two weeks since her husband left her on business, and her skin was feeling its neglect. She’d become accustomed to his constant attentions in their short marriage, and even though he was nearly twice her age, she looked forward to his affections, perhaps more than she’d expected. So she decided to surprise Babatunde on his return home, and perhaps enjoy some time alone with him near the cool river, away from the constant prying eyes of the servants, the other villagers and his other wife.

  The more she thought about how happy Babatunde would be when he found her, the more excited Amara became. She covered her mouth, holding back the girlish giggles that might give away the surprise. He would be off the path, closer to the river, with his new purchase of livestock. His growing wealth made him even more attractive to her…and to other women in their tribe. Amara knew it was too early for her to worry about competition. It was enough that her husband still wanted her…when he wasn’t otherwise occupied.

  Once enough stars lit the sky, Amara could see far enough down the river to discern a campfire. Closer, and she could hear and smell the cattle. At fifty cubits from the fire, she finally found her husband lounging on the ground atop a makeshift bed of straw and branches. Smiling hopefully, she crouched down and crept silently through the tall grass, waiting for the perfect moment to make her presence known and initiate their reunion.

  She didn’t think anything of it when Jomo appeared out of the darkness, naked from the waist up. Babatunde’s pet followed the man practically everywhere. Amara sometimes teased her husband that the young man hoped that by ingratiating himself to his master over the years, he would earn a large reward upon Babatunde’s death, or better yet, be released from his servitude early. Her husband always laughed at her then shut her up with his mouth, or his firm hand on her bottom. Amara watched the young man strip down to his undergarment and still thought it only slightly odd. Why would Babatunde allow his servant to share his bed, no matter how crude, no matter how remote? She crept closer, never taking her eyes off the young man’s strong chest and arms. Crouching down behind a large rock, she stared and waited, her heart thumping in her chest. The big cats had nothing on her.

  “The night air chills,” she he
ard her husband say. With outstretched arms, he smiled like one of the kings of old, awaiting tribute from faithful servants. “Warm me, Jomo.” It angered Amara that her husband would use on this minion words he so often used on her, when he beckoned her to his bed instead of Xolani. She was already smarting from that when Jomo slipped quickly out of his garments and flopped down on top of her husband into a long, silent kiss.

  “Has the boy gone mad?” Amara whispered to herself, as if by speaking the words, that would make it true, and explain why her husband was, right before her eyes, kissing and stroking this young peon. That it was a man, a servant, or anyone besides his first wife: she did not know which of these hurt more. She’d heard whispers about men who’d take as lovers males on the cusp of manhood; one seeking renewed youth, the other seeking a mentor, or protection. It never occurred to Amara that her husband held such predilections, yet he appeared quite comfortable and practiced in the art of love with a man. Her knees digging into the hard earth, she watched with a mixture of fascination and abhorrence as Babatunde stretched the youth out before him, running his pale palms over Jomo’s chestnut skin. It frightened her to watch, and it frightened her not to watch. What would happen if she stopped watching?

  “Your beauty has not faded,” Babatunde cooed as he lifted the boy’s limbs one by one to inspect in the firelight. “Not yet… not yet.” Amara fumed; shock aside, it maddened her to think that her husband would scrutinize her the same way, looking for signs of aging even when she was still so young. She hated Jomo, but a part of her felt sorry for him, the way his eyes stayed constant on her husband, the way his body was compliant for Babatunde’s every touch. She recognized that look on the boy’s face—he was in love, and Babatunde probably didn’t notice or care. Amara shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut and slapped the ground with her small hands, as if it would do any good.

  “Did you hear something, sir?”

  “I hear nothing but the river,” Babatunde replied, calming his young lover with a rough kiss. Amara wanted to crawl away home. She wanted to run to them, kicking and screaming and cursing their ancestors. She wanted to die. What she didn’t want was to keep watching, but somehow she couldn’t look away. So she sat back and watched through her fingers, grudgingly fascinated at the way her husband looked grinding his body against this young man. It was so odd: the long, strong legs that wrapped around her husband’s hips. She cried silently, not just for herself, but, uncannily, for Xolani as well.

  She was already rocking back and forth, dismayed and captivated, when her husband suddenly jumped to his feet and snatched off his undergarment. His mboo was long and full, and Amara wondered just what he planned to do with it. Her breath caught when Jomo, ever eager, crawled to his knees and gratefully accepted Babatunde’s penis into his mouth. She could barely keep herself from crying aloud; this was an act considered almost taboo to her people. The elders warned that such things were dirty, only to be attempted when a man was too infirm for sex, or his wife too heavy with child. The younger generation was less likely to conform to such traditions, and Amara had several times offered to love her husband this way. He would always brush her away without explanation, only to then flip her over and slide his angry cock into her. She would then soon forget the offer. But she wouldn’t soon forget this, how Babatunde breathed deep and loud as Jomo sucked him, how he pulled on the boy’s thick curls as he pulsed his hips, driving his penis farther. Amara stared with rapt fascination as Jomo pressed back the foreskin and lapped at the head of her husband’s penis. Babatunde grumbled his approval, deep and gravelly, like Amara had never heard. She’d never seen her husband grow so hard so fast. It shamed her, it pained her and it excited her. Always had her husband’s erection come from her hand, the friction against her belly or thigh, or from the slick lips of her kuma. If she had known how much Babatunde enjoyed this, maybe she would have insisted on being given the chance to try again. Could it be that it looked like…fun?

  “Nothing feels as good as the warmth of your mouth,” Babatunde growled, smiling as he rubbed his testicles. Amara could just make out a subtle smile around the corners of Jomo’s mouth. She leaned closer to get a better look, and yes, he was smiling as well as he could, with her husband’s thickness sliding long and slow down his throat. Amara wondered what it tasted like, if it was anything like her fingers after she was forced to give herself pleasure because her husband was sharing his other wife’s bed. Now she realized that he was most likely with Jomo on those cold nights.

  When Babatunde shoved the boy away, Amara hoped the torment would cease, that he would take his mboo in hand and bring himself off right there, and be done with it. Her hope was dashed, her unease continued, when her husband clucked his tongue, and Jomo, as if by rote, flopped onto the makeshift bed on his belly, his ass perched high, waiting. Amara gasped. If they heard her, they did not stop. She recognized the look in her husband’s eyes well enough to know his intention. Wetting his palm with saliva, Babatunde kneeled behind the young man as he stroked his glistening cock.

  “Did you bring the oil?” he asked, his voice shaky with desire. “Did you?”

  Jomo looked nervous. “I am sorry, sir. I’ve forgotten.”

  “So pretty, and yet so forgetful.” Babatunde shimmied up against Jomo’s raised backside and slid his wet cock into the cleft of the boy’s buttocks. “Shall I take you anyway?” Jomo, now breathing fast and anxious, looked over his shoulder.

  “If that is your desire, sir.”

  “My desire.” Babatunde laughed heartily, thrusting with more vigor against the young man’s body. “I suspect that would be your desire, my young friend. Since you disappoint me with your ineptitude, I think that tonight I will not give in.” Jomo squirmed like a spoilt child, but Babatunde merely clucked his tongue. “No. I shall not fuck you tonight.”

  Amara’s mouth went dry. Her husband…Jomo…that. She watched in a daze as Babatunde thrust his cock between Jomo’s tightly squeezed thighs. The boy gasped, from relief or disappointment, she was not sure. As she watched her husband ride Jomo faster, spearing his thighs as he kissed and bit the skin underneath him, Amara was unsure whether she was disappointed or relieved. That Babatunde would…could…make love to this boy was never in her conception. They had obviously done it before, and they would do it again. She asked herself: Could she live with this? Could she stand for this?

  Could she stand to look away?

  She was not surprised when her husband’s grunts and thrusts sped up, and he called out into the night his impending release. Jomo moved along with him, whispered to him, encouraged him, but his own cock lay neglected against the branches of their bed. Amara managed a bit of pity for the young man. Babatunde could never be accused of being generous in the act of love, even with her. It was something she’d always hoped for, that he would reciprocate with his hands or mouth after he found his own pleasure. More often than not, Babatunde would fall asleep on top of her, leaving her unsated and sticky. She couldn’t help wondering…what will Jomo do afterward?

  He was louder than she expected when he came, thrusting like a wild horse between his servant’s thighs, crowing like a rooster to the sky. For his part, Jomo did not ask for anything, nor did he push Babatunde off of him when the man fell atop him, exhausted and happy. She cursed him as much as she pitied him—was that what Babatunde wanted? Did he resent her repeated begging for her own pleasure? Could anyone, even a servant, live so unsatisfied and unappreciated?

  Amara’s new tears were a surprise. She wiped them, looked at them, wondered for whom they were shed.

  The stars did not follow her home, and in the darkness and the blindness of tears, Amara stumbled into her co-wife sleeping in the master bed.

  “What do you want?” Xolani hissed. “Isn’t it your night with our husband?”

  “I thought it was,” Amara replied ruefully. “I went out to surprise him, for I have great news, but…apparently, he makes his bed with Jomo tonight.”

  Xolani
curled into a tight ball under her covers. “I know. Get used to it.”

  Jomo walked awkwardly through the village, an erection brought on by his master’s affections left to scratch uncomfortably against his sticky clothing. If he had any time to himself, he would disappear into the night, spill his seed to the earth and find a few hours peace before work began anew at sunrise. But Babatunde had one last command before he fell asleep, and Jomo rushed to have it realized.

  Normally it would only take a moment for Jomo to place the wild herbs atop Amara’s doorstep. The elders told Babatunde that this was a surefire way to ensure the baby his second wife was carrying would be male. Since Amara started showing, Jomo had spent nearly half his day collecting the plants. On this night, though, the swelling in his sex was too great, and he had to stop momentarily to catch his breath. When he happened to look up, he caught a glimpse through the open door of Amara preparing to bathe. Jomo quickly looked away; he could be soundly punished for such an invasion. But the night was still, and Babatunde was out cold in the communal house. Jomo dared to look back, and was shocked to find his mistress naked. Her belly was full and solid, and she still had several months to go. Her breasts had filled out, along with her thighs and backside, and she looked at once like sculpted images of fertility goddesses. He smiled sadly at her beauty.

  He hadn’t noticed Xolani until she came forward with a basin and soapy cloth to wash Amara’s back. He shrank back, as he was admittedly a little afraid of the first wife. She had yet to warm to him, as Amara had done, slowly, ever since she became pregnant. He watched Xolani scrub the younger wife’s skin, roughly at first, a look of disgust on her face. That it would pain Xolani to be confronted with her own wifely failures at such close range pleased Jomo. He watched Xolani wash the small of the back, the full bottom, the backs of the thighs, the calves. Amara simply closed her eyes. There was serenity about the scene that belied the brewing anger in Xolani’s face, or the still-stirring prominence in Jomo’s pants.