The view from my corner office in Umhlanga is breathtaking, but my eyes aren't on the ocean today. I’m staring at this mahogany table, a beast of a desk that costs more than some people's cars. I remember the day Ubaba bought it for me. He walked into that manufacturer's warehouse like he owned the floor, his Zulu pride radiating off him in waves. He didn't just buy the table; he conquered it, bartering the price down from 86,000 to 50,000 just because he could.

What a man.

I reach over and click the lock on my heavy office door. The silence of the law firm settles around me, but my blood is screaming. I’ve realized lately that I don’t just carry his seed inside me; I carry his spirit. When I’m in court, tearing down a witness or dominating a boardroom, I’m using his brutality. I’ve learned to win cases using the same cold, calculated aggression he uses to run his taxi empire. I am the Makoti by day, but I am his creature through and through.

I hike up my skirt, the fabric bunching at my waist to reveal my yellow bone thighs. My black silk underwear feels like a hot wire against my skin. I’m already sopping wet, the mere memory of his voice enough to make my body betray my professional exterior.

As I start to play with myself, leaning back against that cold, expensive mahogany, I close my eyes and imagine the door bursting open. In my mind, it’s not a colleague or a client. It’s him. He wouldn't say a word. He’d just see me like this exposed, desperate, and begging for his brand of discipline. I imagine him towering over me, his voice a low, terrifying rasp, as he uses those Zulu words that strip away my dignity. "Sifebe ndini," he would growl. "You think you are a big lawyer, but you are just a bitch for my rank."

My fingers move faster, sliding deep into my heat. I pull them out, slick with my own juices, and bring them to my lips. I taste myself, the salt and the musk of my desire for him filling my senses. In a moment of sheer, thirsty desperation, I grab my phone. I record a video, my breathing ragged, showing him exactly what I’m doing to myself on the desk he bought me. I hit send, my heart thumping against my ribs. An hour passes. Two. I see the "read" receipt. He viewed it.

Nothing. No reply. No "I’m coming over." Just silence.

By the time the sun starts to set over Umhlanga, a cold wave of shame washes over me. I look at the video again and feel sick. Why did I think Ubaba is a boy who likes videos like this? He is a man of power, not a teenager on an app. He doesn't play digital games. I delete the video quickly, my hands shaking. I feel like a fool, a little girl trying to get the attention of a lion with a piece of string.

The drive home is a blur of panic and guilt. I’m terrified that I’ve overstepped, that I’ve lost the respect of the only man who truly owns me. But even in the middle of that fear, the guilt starts to turn me on in a sick, twisted way. The idea that he’s judging me, that he’s disgusted by my neediness, makes me even wetter.

I walk into the house, trying to keep my face neutral, only to stop dead in the hallway. My husband is on the couch, laughing into his phone.

"Yeah, Baba, she just walked in now," he says, smiling at me. "She’s been working so hard lately. I’ll tell her."

My heart stops. He’s talking to Ubaba.

"Greet Ubaba for me," I whisper, my voice barely coming out.

My husband nods into the phone. "Baba, she says hi. She’s looking a bit tired but she’s here." He listens for a second, then looks at me. "Ubaba says, 'Tell my favourite Makoti we appreciate her in this family. She is the glue that keeps us together.'"

The blood rushes to my face. I know exactly what he means. It is code, a dark, hidden message just for me. He isn't talking about family values. He’s telling me I am his favorite cum-slut, the one who keeps his dark side satisfied so he can play the role of the patriarch. He isn't mad. He’s just in control, as always.

I smile, a small, secretive curve of my lips, and head toward the kitchen. I start preparing dinner, moving with the quiet grace of a perfect wife, exactly as Ubaba expects me to be. Underneath my clothes, my body is still throbbing, but I am at peace. I am the glue, and I know exactly what I have to do to keep this family from falling apart.