Baada ya Isha | NEON LIT

The call to Isha echoes across the old town.

I hear it from my bedroom window—the muezzin's voice rising over Mombasa's coral stone rooftops, calling the faithful to the final prayer of the day. Somewhere in this house, my stepmother is preparing herself. Washing. Covering. Becoming the devout woman my father married.

Amina.

She came into our lives eight months ago, after my mother's death left my father hollow and searching. A widow herself, introduced through family connections. Respectable. Pious. Everything a Swahili man could want in a second wife.

And thick.

Ya Allah, she is thick.

I've never seen her body—not really. She wears the full buibui whenever she leaves her room, black fabric covering everything from crown to ankle. Even in the house, she keeps her hijab on, keeps herself modest. But cloth cannot hide everything.

I've seen the way her hips sway when she walks. The way her chest strains against her dress when she bends for prayer. The way her backside fills the kitchen doorway when she cooks.

I've imagined what lies beneath that piety.

Tonight, my father is in Nairobi. Business. He'll be gone for a week.

And after Isha, after the house falls silent, I will learn what she's been hiding.

She comes to my room at eleven.

No knock. Just the creak of my door opening, and then the rustle of fabric, and then her—a shadow in the darkness, the faint scent of oud and something muskier underneath.

"Jamal." Her voice is low. Careful. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, mama." The word feels strange. She's only twelve years older than me. But it's what my father expects me to call her.

"Don't call me that." She closes the door behind her. "Not tonight."

Moonlight filters through the wooden shutters, painting stripes across the floor. As my eyes adjust, I see her more clearly.

She's wearing a nightgown. Thin cotton, white, reaching her ankles but hiding nothing. Her hijab is gone—the first time I've seen her hair. It's black, thick, falling in waves past her shoulders. And her body—

Her body is a revelation.

Breasts like ripe mangoes, heavy and full, nipples dark circles visible through the fabric. A belly that swells soft and round beneath them, the curve of it catching the light. Hips that flare wide, thighs that press together with every step.

She is fat. Not curvy. Not thick. Fat. Two hundred and fifty pounds at least, maybe more, all of it soft and warm and straining against the cotton.

"I've been watching you," she says. "Since I came to this house. Watching you watch me."

"Mama Amina—"

"I told you not to call me that." She reaches the edge of my bed. "Tonight I am not your father's wife. Tonight I am just a woman who hasn't been touched in three years."

"Three years?"

"My first husband was sick for two before he died." She sits on the mattress. It dips under her weight. "And your father... he performs his duty. Once a month. Quickly. In the dark." Her hand finds my leg through the sheet. "That's not enough for me, Jamal. Not nearly enough."

"What are you asking?"

"I'm not asking anything." Her hand slides higher. Finds my thigh. Squeezes. "I'm taking. The way a woman takes when she needs."

She pulls the sheet away.

I'm wearing only shorts, and she can see what her touch has done to me—the bulge straining against the fabric, the evidence of every fantasy I've had since she entered this house.

"Mashallah." She breathes the word like a prayer. "I knew you wanted me. I felt your eyes on my body every time I walked past. Every time I bent down. Every time I prayed."

"You knew?"

"A woman always knows." Her fingers trace the outline of my cock through the cotton. "I waited because I had to. Because of your father. Because of Allah." She grips me suddenly, firmly. "But I'm done waiting."

She pulls my shorts down.

My cock springs free, hard and aching. She stares at it for a long moment, her lips parting.

"Your father is not built like this." Her hand wraps around me, stroking slowly. "Your father is quick and small and finished before I feel anything."

"Amina—"

"Say my name again." She strokes faster. "Say it while I touch you."

"Amina."

"Yes." She leans down—all that weight shifting on the mattress—and her tongue finds my tip. "Yes, mpenzi. Just like that."

She takes me in her mouth.

Slowly at first. Tasting. Learning. Her tongue swirls around my head while her hand works the shaft. She moans—a low, hungry sound that vibrates through me.

"I've thought about this," she breathes. "Every night after prayer. On my knees for Allah, and then in my bed, touching myself, imagining your cock in my mouth."

"That's haram."

"This whole thing is haram." She sucks me deeper. "That's what makes it good."

Her mouth is hot and wet and skilled. She takes me to the back of her throat, holds me there, swallows around me. I grab her hair—thick, wild, finally free of its covering—and pull her down.

She moans louder.

"Yes—use me—take what you need—"

I fuck her face. Thrust up into her mouth while she chokes and drools and makes sounds no pious woman should make. Saliva runs down my cock, down my balls, soaking the sheets.

"I'm going to—"

She pulls off. Gasping. Lips swollen and wet.

"Not yet." She stands, reaches for the hem of her nightgown. "I need you inside me first. I need to feel you where your father has never reached."

She pulls the gown over her head.

She is magnificent.

Her breasts hang heavy, falling to her waist, nipples thick and dark as dates. Her belly cascades in soft rolls, a landscape of brown flesh that makes my mouth water. Her hips flare wide—child-bearing hips, my grandmother would say—and between her thick thighs, I see the dark thatch of her pubic hair, untrimmed, natural.

"You're staring," she says.

"You're beautiful."

"I'm fat." She climbs onto the bed, straddles my legs. "Your father reminds me every week. When he looks at me with disappointment. When he fucks me through my nightgown so he doesn't have to see."

"My father is a fool."

"Yes." She positions herself over me. "He is."

She sinks onto my cock.

I enter paradise.

She's tight—impossibly tight—and wet, and burning hot. Her weight settles onto me, two hundred and fifty pounds of forbidden flesh driving me into the mattress. I can't move. Can't thrust. Can only lie there while she consumes me.

"Allah—" The word tears from her throat. "You fill me—ya Allah—you fill me completely—"

She starts to move.

Grinding. Rolling her hips in slow circles, clenching around me with every rotation. Her belly presses against mine, soft and warm. Her breasts sway above me, heavy pendulums that I grab with both hands.

"Worship me." Her eyes are closed, head thrown back. "Worship this body your father doesn't want."

I pull a nipple to my mouth. Suck hard. She cries out—a sound that echoes off the coral stone walls—and her hips move faster.

"Yes—yes—like that—bite me—"

I bite. She screams. Her pussy clenches around me so tight it almost hurts.

"I'm going to come—" She's shaking now, all that flesh trembling. "Going to come on my stepson's cock—is that what you want? You want mama to come on you?"

"Yes—"

She shatters.

Her whole body convulses. She throws her head back and wails—a sound halfway between prayer and profanity—while her cunt grips me like a fist. I feel her pulsing around me, feel her wetness flooding over my cock.

She collapses onto me.

Breathing. Shaking. Her weight pinning me to the soaked sheets.

"Don't stop," she whispers. "We're not done."

I flip her over.

She gasps as her back hits the mattress, as her legs spread wide, as I rise above her. She looks up at me with those dark eyes—eyes that prayed at the mosque just hours ago—and she smiles.

"Take me. The way your father never has."

I thrust into her.

Hard. Deep. Burying myself to the hilt while she screams. I pull out and slam back in, again and again, fucking her into the mattress while her body bounces and ripples beneath me.

"Harder—God—don't hold back—"

I give her everything. Every fantasy. Every month of watching her walk through this house in her modest coverings while I imagined this exact moment.

Her breasts roll with every thrust. Her belly shakes. Her thighs clamp around my waist, pulling me deeper.

"I've wanted this—" she gasps. "Since the wedding night—I watched you watching me—wanted to drag you to my bed—"

"Why didn't you?"

"Because of Allah—because of your father—because—ah—because I was afraid—"

"And now?"

"Now I don't care." She grabs my face, pulls me down for a kiss. "Now I just need you to fill me."

I fuck her harder.

The bed slams against the wall. The headboard cracks. The whole room fills with the wet slap of our bodies, with her screams and my grunts and the creaking of wood that was never meant for this.

"I'm going to come again—" She's clawing at my back. "Don't stop—please—"

I reach between us. Find her clit. Circle it while I thrust.

She explodes.

Her back arches off the bed. Her legs lock around me. She screams so loud I'm certain the neighbors can hear—and I don't care. I fuck her through it, fuck her until she's begging me to stop, until she's too sensitive to take any more.

"Inside me—" She's barely coherent now. "I need you to come inside me—"

"But—"

"I don't care." She pulls me deeper with her legs. "I need to feel it. Need to carry your seed where your father's has never taken root."

I let go.

I explode inside her—my stepmother, my father's wife—pumping jet after jet of cum into her womb while she shakes through another orgasm. I fill her until I'm empty, until I collapse onto her soft body, until we're both gasping in the darkness.

We lie there for a long time.

Her hand strokes my hair. My head rests on her chest, rising and falling with her breath. Through the window, I can hear the last stirrings of the old town settling into sleep.

"This is haram," I finally say.

"Everything that feels this good is haram." She tilts my face up, kisses me softly. "But I've spent my whole life being good. Praying five times a day. Covering my body. Denying myself."

"And now?"

"Now I take what I need." Her hand slides down my body, finds me already stirring. "And I need so much, Jamal. So much that your father never gave me."

"He'll be gone for a week."

"I know." She strokes me slowly, bringing me back to hardness. "That's seven nights. Seven nights of baada ya Isha—after evening prayer—when the good woman goes to bed and the real one comes out to play."

She pulls me on top of her again.

"Seven nights," she whispers. "Let's not waste them."

Night Two

She comes to me after prayer, still in her prayer clothes—the loose dress, the white hijab. She makes me undress her slowly, unwrapping her like a gift.

"You're so wet already," I say when I reach her underwear.

"I was wet during prayer." She steps out of them, kicks them aside. "I was thinking about you inside me while I prostrated before Allah."

I eat her on my bed.

She sits on my face, her full weight pressing down, suffocating me with her pussy while I lick and suck and thrust my tongue inside her. She comes three times before she lets me up for air.

Then she rides me again. Slower this time, grinding deep, making it last.

"Your father is a fool," she says again. "If he knew what he had... if he bothered to look..."

"He doesn't deserve you."

"No." She leans down, her breasts smothering my face. "But you do."

Night Three

I come to her room.

She's waiting in her marriage bed—the bed where my father fucks her once a month in the dark. She's naked, spread open, fingers already working between her thighs.

"I couldn't wait," she breathes. "I started without you."

I join her.

We fuck in my father's bed, in the sheets that still smell like him. I take her from behind, watching her massive ass ripple with every thrust. I take her missionary, her legs over my shoulders, folded in half while I pound into her. I take her standing, pressed against the wall, her weight supported by my arms while she screams.

We fall asleep tangled together.

In the morning, I wake to her mouth on my cock, soft and slow and worshipful.

"Good morning, mpenzi," she whispers. "Time for Fajr prayer. But first..."

She climbs on top of me.

We make the dawn prayer late.

Night Seven

My father returns tomorrow.

We both know it. We both feel the weight of it—the end of something that can never be spoken, never be acknowledged, never be repeated.

Except we both know it will be repeated.

"When he travels again," she says, lying in my arms after our third round of the night. "Whenever he leaves. This is ours."

"And when he's home?"

"Then I'll be his good wife. His pious wife. The woman who prays and cooks and covers herself." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring again. "But I'll be thinking of you. Every time he touches me, I'll imagine it's you. Every time I pray, I'll be counting the days until he leaves again."

"This is dangerous."

"Everything worth having is dangerous." She shifts, straddles me, guides me inside her one more time. "Promise me, Jamal. Promise me you'll never stop."

I thrust up into her.

"I promise."

She rides me until dawn.

My father comes home.

He looks tired. Distracted. He barely glances at Amina as she greets him in her full buibui, modest and proper and invisible.

"The house is in order," he says. "Good."

"I took care of everything," Amina replies. Her eyes meet mine over his shoulder. "Jamal was very helpful."

"Good boy." My father claps my shoulder without really seeing me. "I'm going to rest. It was a long trip."

He disappears upstairs.

Amina watches him go. Then she turns to me.

"He travels again next month," she murmurs, so quiet only I can hear. "Two weeks in Dar es Salaam."

"I'll be here."

"I know." She brushes past me, close enough that I feel the heat of her body through all those layers. "And I'll be counting the days. Baada ya Isha, mpenzi. Always baada ya Isha."

She follows my father upstairs.

The good wife. The pious woman.

I watch her go, already imagining next month.

Some prayers, it turns out, are answered in ways the faithful never expect.