Mama Harusi | NEON LIT

Mama Aisha does not approve of me.

She's made this clear since the day her daughter Zara brought me home to meet the family. I'm not from the right Stone Town lineage. My family trades in fish, not spices or property. I don't have the connections, the wealth, the pedigree that a woman of Zara's standing deserves.

But Zara loves me.

And despite her mother's objections, we're getting married in seven days.

The wedding celebrations have begun. The week-long festivities that consume Swahili families—henna nights and feasts and religious ceremonies. I'm staying in the family compound, surrounded by Zara's relatives, constantly under Mama Aisha's disapproving gaze.

She watches me like a hawk watches prey.

And despite everything, I can't stop watching her back.

Mama Aisha is fifty-three years old.

She's a widow—her husband died five years ago, leaving her the head of one of Stone Town's oldest families. She runs the household with iron authority. Everyone defers to her. Everyone fears her.

And she is magnificent.

Thick in the way wealthy Swahili women become—decades of good food and no manual labor creating a body of impossible abundance. Her breasts are enormous, straining every caftan she wears. Her hips sway like a ship in harbor. Her belly is soft and round, her ass the kind that breaks chairs.

She covers herself modestly—always in long dresses, always with her hijab when guests are present. But I've seen glimpses. When she thinks no one is looking. When her caftan shifts wrong.

She's caught me looking twice.

Both times, her eyes held something that wasn't quite anger.

On the fourth day of wedding week, she summons me.

"My study. After dinner. We need to discuss... expectations."

The family watches me walk to her study like I'm walking to an execution. Zara squeezes my hand.

"She just wants to make sure you understand our traditions," she whispers. "It will be fine."

It will not be fine.

I know this the moment I enter the study and she closes the door behind me.

The study is her domain.

Carved wooden furniture. Persian rugs. A massive desk where she handles family business. She moves behind it, sits in a chair that looks like a throne.

"Sit."

I sit across from her.

"You're marrying my only daughter." Her voice is cold. "My daughter, who could have married anyone in Stone Town. Who had proposals from the sons of merchants and diplomats. And she chose you."

"I love her—"

"Love." She spits the word. "Love doesn't pay bills. Love doesn't maintain a household. Love doesn't satisfy a woman when she's old and her husband is distracted by younger things."

"I would never—"

"All men say that." She leans forward. Her caftan shifts, revealing the deep valley of her cleavage. "Until they do. Until they find some thin girl who makes them feel young. Until they break their wives' hearts the way my husband broke mine."

I say nothing.

"I was beautiful once," she continues. "Young. Desired. My husband worshipped me. Until he didn't. Until my body changed—" She gestures at herself. "—and he looked elsewhere."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be honest." Her eyes lock on mine. "Tell me what you really think when you look at me."

"I don't—"

"Don't lie." She stands, walks around the desk. "I've seen your eyes when you think no one is watching. At dinner. In the courtyard. When I bend to speak to the children."

She stops directly in front of me.

"Tell me, fisherman's son. When you look at my body—at this fat, old, unwanted body—what do you really think?"

I should lie.

I should give her some diplomatic answer about respecting my elders. About seeing her only as family. About appropriate boundaries.

But she's standing too close. And she smells like jasmine. And her body is right there—thick and soft and challenging me.

"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Her breath catches.

"I think your husband was a fool. I think any man who looked elsewhere while you were in his bed was insane." I stand, close the distance between us. "I think I've been imagining what's under those caftans since the day I met you."

"I'm going to be your mother-in-law."

"I know."

"This is haram. Forbidden. Wrong in every way."

"I know."

"If anyone found out—"

"They won't."

She stares at me. Something shifts in her eyes—the coldness replaced by heat, the disapproval by hunger.

"You're either very brave," she says, "or very stupid."

"Maybe both."

She reaches up and removes her hijab.

Her hair falls in grey-streaked waves to her shoulders.

Without the hijab, she looks different. Softer. More human. The imperious matriarch becomes a woman who hasn't been touched in five years.

"My husband stopped wanting me when I gained weight," she says. "When my breasts grew heavy. When my belly softened. He said I was too much. Too big. Too old."

"Your husband was an idiot."

"Perhaps." She reaches for the clasp of her caftan. "But you're about to marry my daughter. If you're disgusted by what you see—"

"I won't be."

The caftan falls.

She is everything I imagined and more.

Breasts like heavy fruit, dark nipples thick and hard. A belly that cascades in soft folds, stretch marks tracing its surface like rivers. Hips that flare impossibly wide, thighs that could crush a man, an ass that turns when she moves like two worlds in orbit.

She's wearing nothing underneath.

Just brown skin and curves and the grey thatch between her thick thighs.

"Well?" Her voice wavers. "Is this what you imagined, fisherman's son?"

I fall to my knees.

She gasps when my mouth finds her belly.

"What are you—"

"Worshipping you." I kiss her soft flesh, trace my tongue along the folds. "The way your husband should have."

"Ya Allah—"

I kiss lower. Through her pubic hair. Down to the wet heat of her.

"Wait—no one has—since my husband—"

"Then he didn't deserve you." I part her with my fingers. "Let me show you what you've been missing."

I lick.

She screams.

Not a quiet gasp. A full-throated scream that must carry through the walls, into the house, to every relative gathered for my wedding to her daughter.

I don't stop.

I lick and suck and feast on her while she grabs my hair and grinds against my face. She's wet—dripping—like five years of denial flooding out at once.

"Don't stop—please—don't—"

I thrust my tongue inside her. She bucks. I find her clit and suck.

She shatters.

Comes so hard she nearly collapses, her weight falling onto my face. I hold her up, keep licking, push her through that orgasm into another.

"I can't—too much—"

I look up at her, my face soaked with her release.

"I'm not done."

I stand, lift her—all two hundred eighty pounds—and set her on her desk.

"We can't—" She's panting, trembling. "Zara—my daughter—"

"Is going to be my wife." I unbuckle my belt. "And you're going to be my mother-in-law. My family."

"This is haram—"

"Everything worth having is haram." I push down my pants. Her eyes go wide at my cock—hard, thick, aching for her.

"You're—"

"Bigger than your husband?"

"Much bigger."

I step between her spread thighs. Position myself at her entrance.

"Your daughter is going to be very happy," I say.

And I thrust inside.

She screams again.

Louder this time. Her whole body arching off the desk, papers scattering, her massive breasts bouncing as I fill her completely.

"Ya Allah ya Allah ya ALLAH—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Letting her feel every inch. Her legs wrap around my waist—thick, soft, pulling me deeper.

"More—please—I need—"

I give her more.

I fuck my future mother-in-law on her own desk while my bride waits in the other room. I make her scream, make her beg, make her come again and again while I pound into her.

"I haven't—in five years—never like this—"

I grab her hips, lift her off the desk, spin her around. Push her face down onto the wood, her massive ass presented to me.

"I'm going to fuck you properly now," I say. "The way you deserve."

"Yes—please—"

I slam into her from behind.

The desk shakes.

The walls shake.

She shakes—her whole body trembling as I take her hard and deep. Her ass ripples with every thrust. Her screams become wordless, primal, five years of denial pouring out.

"Harder—more—don't stop—"

I reach around, find her clit. Circle it while I fuck her.

She explodes.

Comes so hard she squirts onto the Persian rug, her pussy clenching around me like a fist. I fuck her through it, don't let up, drive her straight into another orgasm.

"I'm going to—again—I can't—"

"You can." I thrust harder. "You will. As many times as I want."

She comes four more times before I finally let go.

I pull her up against me, bury myself to the hilt, and fill her with everything I have. She shudders, screams, collapses against the desk with my seed flooding her womb.

We stay there for a long moment.

Breathing. Trembling. The sounds of the wedding celebration filtering through the walls.

"This changes nothing," she finally says. "About the wedding. About my disapproval."

"I understand."

"But—" She turns to look at me over her shoulder. "After the wedding. When you're part of this family. When you visit this house..."

"Yes?"

"This study is private." Her eyes gleam. "I often work late. Alone."

"I'll remember that."

She straightens, begins gathering her clothes.

"You should go. Zara will wonder where you are."

I dress quickly. At the door, I pause.

"Mama Aisha?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to make your daughter very happy."

"You'd better." She pulls on her caftan, becomes the imperious matriarch again. "But not as happy as you made me."

The wedding is three days later.

Zara is radiant. The family celebrates. Mama Aisha gives a speech about welcoming me into the fold—cold, formal, appropriately disapproving.

Our eyes meet once during the reception.

She looks away first.

But I see her smile.

We've been married three years now.

Zara never suspects. Why would she? I'm a devoted husband. I work hard. I come home to her every night.

I just visit her mother's study first.

Once a week. Sometimes more.

Mama Aisha opens the door, closes it behind me, and becomes someone other than the imperious widow. Someone hungry. Someone satisfied only by her daughter's husband.

"You're late," she says, already removing her hijab.

"I was with your daughter."

"And now you're with me." She drops her caftan. "Make it worth my while."

I always do.

The mama harusi—the mother of the bride—got more than a son-in-law.

She got everything her husband never gave her.

And she's not giving it back.