Khalti Mombasa
"His aunt visits from Mombasa for his sister's wedding — thick, divorced, bitter about men. Through thin walls, he hears her at night. She hears him too. On the third night, she stops pretending."
My aunt arrives on a Tuesday.
The whole house is chaos—my sister's wedding is in five days, and every relative within a thousand kilometers has descended on our family compound. Cousins in every room. Uncles arguing in the courtyard. Grandmothers giving contradictory orders.
And Khalti Salma, my mother's younger sister, claiming the room next to mine.
"It's the quietest," she tells my mother. "I need quiet. I've had enough noise to last a lifetime."
She means her ex-husband. The divorce was finalized three months ago—ugly, public, the kind of scandal that Mombasa's old families still whisper about. He cheated. She found out. She took half his money and all of his dignity.
Now she's here, in the room next to mine, with nothing but a thin wall between us.
And ya Allah, I can hear everything.
Khalti Salma is forty-four.
She looks nothing like my mother—where my mother is thin and nervous, Salma is thick. The kind of thick that Swahili men used to celebrate before Western ideas poisoned everything.
Her hips are wide, her ass is massive, her breasts strain against every blouse she owns. Her belly is soft and round, visible through the kangas she wears around the house. Her face is beautiful—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes that always seem to be judging.
She's been judging me since she arrived.
"You've grown," she said when she first saw me. Her eyes traveled down my body in a way aunts' eyes shouldn't travel. "The last time I saw you, you were a skinny boy. Now look at you."
"I'm twenty-three, Khalti."
"I know how old you are." She brushed past me, close enough that I felt her hip against my thigh. "I was at your circumcision."
She's been doing that all week. Touching me casually. Standing too close. Looking at me when she thinks I'm not watching.
At night, through the thin wall, I hear something else.
The first night, I think it's crying.
Soft sounds, muffled by fabric. The creak of a bed. I tell myself she's grieving her marriage, adjusting to her new life.
The second night, I realize it's not crying.
The rhythm is different. The breathing is heavier. And occasionally, between the soft sounds, I hear words.
"Yes—there—oh God—"
My aunt is touching herself.
In the room next to mine. Three feet from where I sleep. And once I realize what I'm hearing, I can't unhear it.
I lie in bed, hard as stone, listening to her moan through the wall.
The third night, she gets louder.
"Fuck—yes—I need—"
I'm stroking myself now. I can't help it. The sounds she makes, the desperation in her voice—it's more erotic than any video, any fantasy. This is real. This is my aunt. This is forbidden.
"Harder—please—someone—"
I come with her name on my lips.
And then I hear her voice, clear through the wall:
"Tariq. I know you're listening."
I freeze.
My hand is still on my softening cock. My breath is still ragged. Through the wall, I hear her bed creak—the sound of her sitting up.
"I can hear you too," she continues. "Every night. Your breathing changes when I start. You try to be quiet when you finish." A pause. "You're not quiet enough."
I should apologize. Should pretend I don't know what she's talking about. Should do anything except what I actually do.
I go to her door.
She opens it before I can knock.
She's wearing a silk nightgown—short, thin, clinging to every curve. Her nipples are hard points against the fabric. Her thick thighs are visible below the hem. Her eyes are dark with something that isn't anger.
"Come in," she says. "Close the door."
I obey.
Her room smells like her—jasmine perfume and something muskier underneath. The bed is rumpled, the sheets twisted. On the nightstand, I see what she's been using: a thick candle, the wax warm from her body heat.
"Sit," she commands, pointing to the bed.
I sit.
She stands before me, arms crossed, breasts pushed up by the gesture.
"My husband cheated on me for three years. Three years of lies while I kept his house and raised his children and spread my legs for him every night."
"Khalti—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm looking for revenge."
"Revenge?"
"On men. On my husband. On every man who's ever looked at my body and decided it wasn't enough." She uncrosses her arms, reaches for the hem of her nightgown. "But you... you don't look at me like I'm not enough. You look at me like you're starving."
"You're my aunt."
"I'm a woman." She pulls the nightgown over her head. "I'm a woman who hasn't been properly fucked in five years. And you're a man who's been listening to me touch myself through a wall." She stands before me, naked, magnificent. "Now. Are you going to keep listening? Or are you going to do something about it?"
She is everything I imagined.
Thick everywhere—breasts heavy and swaying, belly soft and round, hips flaring wide, thighs dimpled and spreading. Her pussy is covered in dark curls, wet and glistening in the lamplight. Her skin is brown and smooth, scented with jasmine.
I reach for her.
She steps forward, lets my hands find her waist—so much flesh, warm and yielding. I pull her closer, bury my face in her belly, kiss the soft skin while she runs her fingers through my hair.
"Tariq—"
I kiss lower. Through her pubic hair. Down to the wet heat of her.
She gasps and grabs my head.
"Yes—"
I lick.
She tastes like everything forbidden.
Salt and musk and family secrets. I find her clit and suck, and she cries out—loud, too loud for a house full of wedding guests.
"Quiet—" she hisses. "They'll hear—"
"Let them hear." I slide two fingers inside her. "Let them know what Khalti Salma sounds like when she comes."
"Tariq—"
I work her. Tongue on her clit, fingers curling inside her, my free hand grabbing her massive ass to hold her in place. She's shaking now, her thighs trembling on either side of my face.
"I'm going to—God—I can't—"
She comes on my tongue.
Floods my face with her release while she bites her fist to muffle her screams. I don't stop—I push her through it, lick every drop, drag another orgasm from her before she can recover from the first.
"Stop—please—"
"No." I stand, push her back onto the bed. "You've been teasing me all week. Now I'm going to take what you've been offering."
Her eyes widen.
But she spreads her legs.
I strip quickly.
She watches my cock spring free, and her breath catches.
"You're..."
"Bigger than you expected?"
"Bigger than my husband." She reaches for me, wraps her hand around my shaft. "He was small. Quick. He made me feel like there was something wrong with wanting more."
"There's nothing wrong with you."
"Then prove it."
I climb between her thighs.
She's wet—dripping—and when I push inside her, she screams.
I clap a hand over her mouth.
"The whole house, Khalti." I thrust deeper. "Is that what you want? Your sister to hear you getting fucked by her son?"
Her eyes roll back.
She nods.
I take my hand away.
She doesn't scream this time—she moans, low and guttural, as I fill her completely. Her walls grip me like she's never letting go.
"So big—you're so—ah—"
I start to move.
Slow at first, letting her feel every inch. Her hands grab my back, her nails digging in. Her thick legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Faster—"
I give her faster.
The bed slams against the wall. The same wall I listened through for three nights. Now anyone on the other side can hear us—the wet slap of flesh, the creak of springs, the sounds of a nephew fucking his aunt.
"Yes—yes—fuck me—"
I grab her hips, change the angle. Her eyes go wide.
"There—right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I pound into her while she writhes and moans and begs for more. Her breasts bounce wildly. Her belly ripples. Her whole body shakes with every thrust.
"I'm coming—oh God I'm—"
She shatters.
Her pussy clamps down, milking me, trying to pull me over the edge with her. I fuck her through it, watch her face contort with pleasure, feel her body spasm around my cock.
"Inside me—" She pulls me closer with her legs. "Come inside me—"
"You're my aunt—"
"I don't care—" She's crying now, tears of pleasure streaming down her face. "I need it—need to feel a real man—please—"
I let go.
Explode inside her, fill her with everything I have, pump jet after jet of cum into my aunt's hungry cunt while she shakes through another orgasm.
We collapse together.
Panting. Trembling. The room smelling like sex and jasmine and family secrets.
We fuck twice more before dawn.
Once with her on top, riding me like she's making up for five years of neglect. Once from behind, her massive ass bouncing against my hips while I grip her waist and take what I want.
When the first light comes through the windows, she's curled against my side.
"The wedding is in three days," she says. "I'm here for a week after that."
"And then?"
"And then I go back to Mombasa." She traces a finger down my chest. "But I'll visit. Often. My sister misses me."
"And when you visit?"
"I'll take the room next to yours." She shifts, and I feel myself stirring against her thigh. "The walls are thin. I like thin walls."
"What if someone finds out?"
"Then they find out." She climbs on top of me, guides me inside her once more. "I'm a divorced woman, Tariq. Ruined already. What's one more scandal?"
She starts to move.
The wedding happens.
My sister marries a man who doesn't deserve her. The family celebrates. The guests drink and dance and gossip about everyone's business.
No one mentions the sounds they heard from Khalti Salma's room.
But I see the looks. The whispers. The way my mother glances between me and her sister with something like suspicion.
I don't care.
When Salma leaves, she kisses my cheek in front of everyone—just a fraction too long, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth.
"See you soon, nephew." Her hand squeezes mine. "Take care of yourself."
"You too, Khalti."
She smiles.
And I start counting the days until she visits again.