BECOMING
CHAPTER 17
MESULI
The sky is turning that deep indigo that comes just before full dark, and the pool lights are already on, turning the water into a glowing turquoise rectangle. It’s just past 6:00 p.m. Kungawo is in the shallow end, floaties on his arms, kicking his legs like he’s trying to run underwater. He’s laughing, real, belly-deep giggles every time a ripple hits his chest. “Splash! Splash!” he yells, slapping the water with both hands. Droplets fly everywhere, catching the light like tiny sparks.
Chulumanco is beside him, sitting on the steps, legs in the water up to her knees. She’s in the black one-piece again, hair tied up in a messy bun, a few curls escaping at her neck. She’s smiling at Kungawo, encouraging him, saying “Good kicking, baby,” but every few seconds her eyes flick to me.
I’m floating on my back in the deep end, arms out, letting the warm water hold me. Board shorts cling to my thighs. The night air is cool on my chest. I try not to look at her.
I fail.
Every time she leans forward to steady Kungawo, the swimsuit pulls tighter across her breasts, the fabric outlining the soft swell, the faint shadow of her nipples when the light hits just right. When she stands to adjust his floaties, water streams down her stomach, disappearing into the suit where it hugs her hips. When she bends to pick up a toy, the suit rides up slightly, showing the curve of her ass, the way it fills out the fabric. I watch longer than I should. My throat goes dry.
Kungawo squeals again, kicking harder. Water splashes Chulumanco’s face. She laughs, real, unguarded, and wipes it away. “You’re getting Mama all wet, baby.”
“Wet!” he echoes, delighted.
She glances at me. Our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us looks away. The pool lights reflect in her pupils, making them shimmer. My pulse kicks up.
I look away first.
I swim over slowly, pretending it’s for Kungawo. I scoop him up, hold him high so he can “fly” above the water. He laughs, arms out like wings. “Fly! Fly!”
Chulumanco watches, smiling softly. “He loves you so much.”
The words land heavy.
I lower him back into the water, let him cling to my neck. “I love him more.”
She nods, eyes soft. “I know.”
We stay in the water a while longer. Kungawo between us, holding one of my hands and one of hers. Every time our fingers brush underwater, accidental, innocent, my mind flashes: those fingers sliding up her thigh, under the suit, finding her wet and ready. I pull back fast, overthinking the touch like it’s a live wire.
She does the same. I see it, the quick inhale, the way she shifts her legs closed, the way she looks anywhere but at me.
The tension is thick, electric, unspoken.
Kungawo yawns, head dropping onto my shoulder.
“Let’s take him to bed,” Chulumanco says quietly.
I carry him out, wrap him in a towel. She follows, towel around her shoulders, water dripping down her legs. We walk inside together, silent, careful not to brush against each other.
Upstairs, I lay Kungawo in his bed. He’s already half-asleep, mumbling “Water” one last time. Chulumanco tucks the blanket around him, kisses his forehead. We step into the hallway together.
Our eyes meet again.
The air crackles.
I clear my throat. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she whispers.
She turns toward her room. I turn toward mine.
We don’t touch.
We don’t speak.
But the want follows me down the hall like a shadow.
I close my bedroom door, lean against it, breathing hard.
This is fvcked.
She is the mother of your son.
She is living in your house because you begged her to give him stability.
She trusts you.
And here I am, aching because I can’t stop imagining what her ass would feel like in my hands.
I walk to the bed, drop onto the edge, and scrub both my hands over my face.
Stop.
I know I should stop.
But my hand moves anyway, slides under the waistband of my shorts, wraps around myself. I’m already le@king. I gr0an low in my throat, eyes falling closed.
I see her again: rising from the water, droplets sliding down her cle@vage, n!pples faintly visible through the wet fabric.
I imagine stepping behind her, pressing my chest to her back, sliding both hands down to grip her hips. She gasps, soft, surprised. I squeeze her @ss, knead the soft flesh, feel it fill my palms. She arches into me, head tipping back against my shoulder. I k!ss the side of her neck, bite lightly, grind against her until she’s whimpering my name.
My fist moves faster.
I picture turning her around, lifting her onto the pool ledge, spreading her thigh$. The suit pulled to the side. Her wet for me, not just from the pool. I imagine t@sting her, slow, deep, until her hands are in my hair and she’s saying please, Mesuli, please.
The rhythm is punishing now. My breathing is ragged. I see her on her knees in front of me, looking up with those dark eyes, lips parted, taking me in. I see her on top, riding me on one of the lounge chairs after everyone’s gone, bre@sts bouncing, head thrown back, m0aning my name over and over.
I see her bent over the kitchen counter tomorrow morning, shorts pulled d0wn just enough, me behind her, deep, steady, one hand wrapped around her thr0at while she bites her own arm to stay quiet.
I c0me hard, spilling over my knuckles with a choked gr0an, her name locked behind my teeth so it doesn’t escape.
The room spins for a second.
Then shame crashes in like cold water.
I sit there, chest heaving, hand sticky, staring at the wall.
She’s downstairs.
She trusts you.
And you’re up here jerklng off to the thought of fvcking her against every surface in this house.
I drag my clean hand over my face, then force myself to stand. Tissues from the nightstand. Trash bin. Wash hands in the en-suite, cold water, hard enough that it stings.
When I look in the mirror my reflection looks guilty as hell.
I can’t keep doing this.
I change into fresh boxers and a T-shirt, sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands.
Tomorrow I’ll be normal.
Tomorrow I’ll smile when she walks into the kitchen, ask how she slept, offer to make tea.
Tomorrow I’ll keep my hands to myself and my thoughts locked down.
But tonight the shame sits beside me like an old friend, because at least it’s honest.
I lie back, stare at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles, and wonder how long I can keep lying to both of us
***************
I wake up with guilt heavy as a stone on my chest. The room is bright with morning light. The clock says 7:23 a.m. I lie there, staring at the fan, replaying last night’s shame in high definition: the way I came thinking of her bent over, the way I bit my lip to keep from saying her name.
I can’t face her.
Not yet.
I get up, dress fast, jeans, shirt, sneakers, grab keys and wallet, slip downstairs without lights. The kitchen is empty. They’re still asleep.
I write a note on the whiteboard: “Had to head to the office early. Back for dinner. Call if you need anything. – Mesuli.”
I leave it where she’ll see it, then walk out the front door before I can change my mind.
The drive is quiet. No radio. Thoughts screaming.
She’s probably waking up now. Making tea. Getting Kungawo dressed. Seeing the note. Wondering why I left without saying goodbye.
Guilt twists harder.
I get to the office, unlock, sit at my desk. Empty building, Monwabisi won’t be in for hours. I open my laptop, stare at spreadsheets.
All I see is her.
The way her swimsuit hugged her curves last night, the way her breasts moved when she laughed, the way her ass looked when she bent to pick up Kungawo’s toy earlier this week, leggings tight, hips swaying. The way she’d feel under my hands, soft, warm, yielding.
I shift in my chair. Hard again.
I curse, stand, pace.
This is insane.
She’s home now, confused, maybe hurt.
And I’m here thinking about how she’d sound if I pushed her ag@inst this desk, lifted her sk!rt, slid ins!de her slow and deep.
I sit back down, head in hands.
The day drags like that, trying to work, failing, thinking about her body, her laugh, the way she looks at Kungawo like he’s the world.
By late afternoon I’m exhausted from fighting.
I need a release.
Not her.
Not yet.
Someone else.
Anyone else.
I pull out my phone, scroll to Inga’s number. She’s in the accounting department, and she’s been wanting me ever since she was hired two years ago. We’ve never crossed the line, but the line has been thin.
I text: “Still in the office?”
She replies in under thirty seconds: “Yes. Need something?”
“Come to my office.”
A minute later there’s a soft knock.
I open the door.
Inga stands there, tight pencil skirt, white blouse unbuttoned one too many, hair pulled back in a low bun, red lipstick, knowing smile already in place.
“You wanted to see me?” she says, voice low.
I step aside. “I need your services.”
She walks in, hips swaying, closes the door behind her, and locks it without being asked.
The room feels smaller.
She steps close, close enough that I can smell her perfume, sweet and heavy. Her eyes flick down to the obvious bulge in my pants.
“Looks like you do,” she murmurs.
She dr0ps to her knees right there on the carpet.
Her fingers work my belt, unzip me, pull me out. I’m h@rd, thr0bbing. She looks up at me, smirks, then t@kes me into her m0uth.
Warm. Wet. Perfect.
I gr0an, hand fisting in her hair.
She svcks slow at first, teasing licks along the underside, tongue swirling around the he@d, then deeper, taking me to the back of her thr0at. I watch her lips stretch ar0und me, watch her eyes water slightly, watch her hand slip between her own th!ghs under her sk!rt.
But in my head it’s not Inga.
It’s Chulumanco.
Chulumanco on her knees, dark eyes looking up at me, Iips wrapped around me, m0aning softly around my c0ck. Chulumanco’s t0ngue swirling, her hand str0king what she can’t fit in her m0uth. Chulumanco’s other hand is between her legs, t0uching herself while she svcks me.
I gr0an louder, hips jerk!ng.
Inga hums around me, thinking it’s for her.
It’s not.
I pull 0ut, breathing hard.
“Up,” I say, voice rough.
She stands, smiling, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
I l!ft her onto the desk, papers scatter, laptop pushed aside. She spre@ds her legs, skirt riding up. I tug her p@nties aside, black lace, already d@mp.
I kneel, put my m0uth on her.
She g@sps, hands in my hair.
But it’s Chulumanco I taste. Chulumanco’s th!ghs trembling around my ears. Chulumanco’s fingers tightening in my hair. Chulumanco’s m0ans filling the office.
I l!ck her slow, deep, relentless, t0ngue flat, then pointed, circling her cl!t until she’s bucking against my face.
She c0mes fast, crying out, th!ghs squeezing my head.
I stand, wipe my mouth, pull a c0ndom from my wallet, and roll it on.
I pvsh into her, slow at first, then deep.
She m0ans, legs wr@pping around my waist.
I thrvst, hard, steady, chasing rele@se.
But in my mind it’s Chulumanco’s legs around me. Chulumanco’s nails digging into my back. Chulumanco’s bre@sts bouncing under her T-shirt. Chulumanco saying my name over and over.
I svck her tits through her blouse, fabric wet from my mouth, n!pples hard. She arches, m0ans louder.
I thrvst faster, deeper.
She c0mes again, clenching around me.
I follow, hard, sudden, spilling into the c0nd0m with a gr0an that’s half pleasure, half pain.
I pull out, dispose of the c0ndom, help her off the desk.
She fixes her skirt, smiles. “That was… intense.”
“Yeah.”
She kisses my cheek. “Call me anytime.”
She leaves.
I sit in my chair, head in hands.
It didn’t work.
She’s still in my head.
Chulumanco’s face on Inga’s body.
Chulumanco’s m0ans in Inga’s mouth.
Chulumanco’s thighs around me.
I’m fvcked.
I don’t even know when and how these feelings started. Maybe Monwabisi put them in my head. Maybe I made a mistake by wanting them to live I the same house as me. I need to get rid of these thoughts and feelings asap.
***********
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