Owned by Masika

Owned by Masika

The Ugandan woman hired cheaply to be the housekeeper of a semi-retired, semi-reclusive Englishman, for his new home on the Kentish coast, soon proves herself capable of taking over the domestic reins and running the household.

Unfortunately, for her handsome and divorced middle-aged employer, the powerful African woman has an agenda that includes running him also.

And in the most domestic and sexually dominant ways imaginable!



As had become their nightly ritual, Roy Medwin was sprawled upon the floor at the foot of what he still considered his bed, in his bedroom, and in his home. Above him, snug and cosy beneath the snug weight of a heavyweight and expensive quilt, the real owner of that home – if not legally, then metaphysically for sure – slept without care. One perfectly tended black foot protruded from the quilt, the sole staring down at him a lighter tone than the coal black instep above it and the electric blue nails he himself had painted only that previous morning.

Wholly unable to resist a thrill of submissive longing he had not been aware existed in his psyche before the advent of the woman into his employ, he slid from under the blanket she so graciously allowed him and craned his neck upwards that he might place a reverential kiss upon the lowest extremity of an African woman the world saw as his housekeeper and was in reality, he realised with a frisson of terror, coming to take greater control of his life in almost all its aspects.

The cock that had been rock hard virtually the whole of his restless night twitched yet again and he could only marvel at the extent of the power this… creature… now wielded over him that he felt unable to resist the natural imperative and relieve his own longing.

For to do so would be to flagrantly disobey her.


“Disobey her?”

The woman from Uganda he had employed to be his…

As the tangy aroma of her salty flesh pervaded his nostrils and he darted out a tongue to better savour it, he once again marvelled at the extent to which his life had been changed by the advent of her into his home not five months before…

“…It says here that you arrived in the UK only a month ago,” he asked the thirty-something African woman seated opposite him in the Starbucks on Lower Regent Street, not five minutes’ stroll from the offices of the agency that had set-up the meeting between them. 

“That is right, Mr Medwin, sir,” she told him, obviously, and much to his self-conceit, being somewhat in awe of sharing a table with a man of his standing and looks in what, to her no doubt, was a rather glamorous setting when placed next to that of the small town in Uganda she had known for most of her life. Her accent was thick and heavy with her African roots and, had he not been interviewing her for a domestic position in 

his new home facing the sea on a relatively secluded plot in Kingsgate, a short drive from Broadstairs on the Kent coast, he would have felt a little embarrassed to be seen in her company.

It did not strike him that a casual observer would have no idea what their business was with each other, of course and that, for all they knew, he could have been just another middle-aged man meeting a prospective mail-order wife for the first time.

Given his perception of himself as a handsome and successful writer still; despite being in his mud-forties and not having had one of his “out-of-vogue”, and pseudonymously written, spy-thrillers published in the past seven years, along with an agent who only rarely answered or returned his calls these days; the above view of his meeting would have caused him much in the way of anger. 

The lack of political correctness; together with the benign, if no less insulting and stupid, racial superiority permeating his works, adding another reason for the reading world’s neglect of him.

Though the royalties still accruing from his old work was, if not often and prolific enough to make him stinking rich, enough anyway to ensure he had money to live on and did not have to dip too often into the remaining capital from what had been, if not his glory years, then easily his most lucrative. 

“If I were to give you this position,” he told her, unaware of just how patronising he sounded, “it would mean the complete running of my home. You would be responsible for all domestic duties as well as balancing the household budget from the amount I would allocate on a weekly basis.” 

If she was offended by his patronising airs she gave no sign of it.


“I was educated in Jinja College, Mr Medwin, sir, in my hometown of Jinja. The school was founded many years ago by the Missionary fathers and was upgraded A’ level status in the 1980’s, long before I studied there. You will see on my resume that I gained a qualification in both maths and the sciences as well as the nursing skills that came later and enabled me to receive a visa to work in your country. I think you will see that I am more than capable of managing your household for you. 

He scanned the resume before him and noted the qualifications mentioned, even if the qualifications themselves had been gained only by the skin of her teeth. Not that this bothered him. Nor the fact she had been given a visa in order to nurse and would, in fact, be doing nothing of the sort if he took her on. 

The main thing for him – being as the wife who had divorced him some three years before had told him: “a bone fide tight-arse” – was that overseas domestics were cheap and, because of their fear of being forced to leave, extremely hardworking. 

It had been the appeal to his pocket, after all, that had attracted him to the Oxford Street agency from their online blurb in the first place.

That and the promise that all the domestics on their books spoke fluent English – even it was spoken in a thick and oft times impenetrable accent.

She was also no long-necked, trim-limbed, type African of the type favoured by certain rock-stars.

On the contrary, this example of African womanhood seemed built more with the abattoir than the boudoir in mind. 

Physically, he felt tiny before her; despite being a respectable five-feet-and-ten-inches in his shoes and, though not muscular and heavy-set, he was lithe rather than skinny and in no way what people of a certain intellectual capacity, or lack of such, would call typical nerdy writer material.  

Masika Nabudere was a powerful and sturdily built woman who would, no doubt, run to fat in her later years and the tight blouse beneath a heavy grey jacket did nothing to deflect that fact and was not helped by a pair of monstrous breasts he glimpsed straining beneath the fabric concealing them. Her skin was coal-black and flawless; which was more than could be said for features that, along with deep-set and piercing brown eyes, were pinched and flared above a pair of lips that were large even for a woman from her part of the world. She was wearing trousers for their meeting, but he would discover later that, despite being well-shaped, her calves and thighs were big enough to almost be construed as caricatures of the female form.

There was, in that first meeting, not one iota of sexual desire from prospective employer for prospective employee. – which was exactly what he was seeking in his live-in factotum for his cost-cutting seclusion by the sea. If he wanted female company, there was a certain lady in London’s Camden more than happy to oblige him. And without breaking the bank.

Though, in regard of sexual desire from her towards him, the complete reverse of his feelings, even if he were not to know it at the time, was the case.

Not that it was the usual desire of a woman for a successful man. 

Nothing like it, in fact.

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