Naughty Makoti: Part 2
After Ubaba had his way with her and her husband arrived to whisk her away, Makoti’s darkest desires had finally crystallized. She had officially become the glue holding the family together but the weight of that secret was a jagged edge. If it ever surfaced, the consequences would be ruinous.
The dynamic shifted. Calls from Ubaba to his son became more frequent. Even Umamazala seemed transformed, miraculously recovering, cleaning the house, and tackling the hand wash laundry like the woman of old. Acting the part of the doting daughter in law, you voiced your concern to your husband.
"Ma shouldn't be doing all this heavy lifting while she’s recovering. I’ll head over every Friday afternoon to handle the heavy work... you know, just to help out."
You watched his face, gauging his reaction. He smiled, completely oblivious. "The angels are really smiling down on me," he said. He bought it. But in your mind, the only angel you were thinking of was the man whose voice alone made your breath catch and your skin flush.
Friday arrived, though the week had been a blur of high stakes pressure at your law firm. Being the boss required a cold, calculated focus, but as you pulled up to the gate, that persona crumbled. You called your mother in law.
"Hello Ma, I’m at the gate. Can you please open?"
"I’m not home, my child," she replied. "Someone from church lost their husband and I must be there. I’ll call Ubaba to see if he's home."
Your heart did a somersault. The house. Just you and the old man.
The gate buzzed open, shattering your daydream. You drove in and saw him: Ubaba, standing by the door in blue overalls, the uniform of a handy man. You stepped out, clutching your cleaning supplies as a shield to mask the surge of adrenaline.
"Hello, Baba. Nice to... have you," you stammered, cursing the blunder.
He chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated in your chest. "Sondela, Makoti. Come in. There is something I want you to do for me."
You followed him, heart racing, convinced he was leading you straight to the bedroom. But he stopped at the guest wing, pointing to a mountain of clean, unpressed laundry.
"My wife is a stubborn Zulu woman," he said. "She heard you were coming and washed everything herself. I just brought it in from the wind. This is what I need your help with."
The disappointment was a physical ache. "Oh. Okay, Baba. I’ll have this ironed in an hour and then I’ll head straight home."
It was a strategic move, setting a timeline to see if he’d try to break it.
"No problem," he said coolly. "I’ll be in the garage working on my first taxi. It’s going to be my daily driver, but the brakes are giving me trouble. Just let me know when you’re leaving so I can lock up."
And just like that, he walked out.
Why is he being so cold? The question looped in your mind as you attacked the pile of clothes. Was I too formal? Did I do something wrong? Has he moved on? You caught your reflection in the window, young, slim thick, exactly his type. The confusion only fueled the fire.
The hour flew by in a blur of steam and resentment. Finally, only a few items remained. You picked up a pair of his boxers. You hesitated, then brought them to your face, inhaling deeply. All you smelled was Sunlight soap and fabric softener, but your imagination filled in the gaps with the scent of his skin and the memory of his weight.
Shivers raced down your spine, settling in a dull, throbbing ache between your thighs. His distance was doing exactly what he likely intended: it was making you crave him even more.
You switched off the iron and sent a quick text to your husband: "About to leave. Missing you " a necessary lie to ensure you had an outlet for this frustration when you got home. You stepped out of the guest room, dousing the lights. The house was silent. You walked toward the garage.
The heat in the garage was stifling, thick with the smell of oil and the metallic tang of a workspace. You found him under the white Toyota Quantum.
"Baba? I’m finished with the ironing," you say, your voice steadier than your heart. "I’m heading out now."
The sound of the creeper board rolling out followed. He slides from under the vehicle, wiping grease stained hands on a rag. He stands up, towering over you. He hasn't zipped the overalls all the way; they hang open to his waist, revealing a vest soaked through with sweat.
"Finished already, Makoti?" his voice is a low rumble. "A law firm boss shouldn't be so rushed. Detail is everything in your line of work, isn't it?"
He takes a slow step toward you. He doesn't stop until he’s deep in your personal space. He reaches out and grips the hem of your expensive silk skirt, bunching the fabric upward until he feels the lace of your panties and the dampness that’s already soaked through them.
"Look at this," he mutters, his voice turning dark. "Ready for the mechanic before I even touched the engine."
He doesn't waste time. He spins you around with effortless strength, slamming your palms against the cool, hard metal of the Toyota’s hood.
"Baba, please..."
"Thula, Makoti," he commands. He unzips the rest of his overalls with a slow, deliberate rasp. When he enters you, it’s not a request. He’s thick and uncompromising. You cry out, the sound echoing off the corrugated iron roof, but he catches the sound by leaning over and biting softly on the nape of your neck.
"Quiet," he murmurs, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythmic, punishing force. "Indoda sibili iyazi ukuthi ingamthokozisa kanjani owesifazane wayo... a real man knows how to please his woman. Your husband is just a boy playing with toys. I am the one who keeps this engine running."
Every thrust is a reminder of his power. He handles you like the machinery he fixes. He reaches around to grab your hair, pulling your head back so he can see the look of pure surrender on your face.
"Is this what you wanted while you were sniffing my clothes, Makoti?" he growls, his pace quickening. "Is this the help you promised your husband you’d give?"
The shame and the pleasure mix into a cocktail that leaves you sobbing quietly, your fingers clawing at the hood of the taxi. He doesn't stop until you’re shaking, your body collapsing against the metal as he finishes inside you with a final, possessive surge.
He stays there for a moment, his heavy chest heaving against your back. Then, just as quickly as it started, he withdraws. He pulls up his overalls, the cold mask returning to his face.
"Hamba manje, go home now," he says, patting your hip with a hand that still has your scent on it. "Your husband is waiting. Make sure you don't miss any spots when you wash up. I’d hate for him to find grease on his favorite Law Firm Boss."
