Mama na Binti
"The wealthy merchant's daughter is too young, too slim for his tastes. But her thick mother negotiates the marriage—and offers to 'train' her future son-in-law herself. The training takes months."
Aisha is beautiful.
Twenty years old, slim as a reed, educated in the finest schools. The daughter of Mzee Karim, one of Mombasa's wealthiest merchants. When my father arranged the marriage, I should have been grateful.
But Aisha is not what I want.
Her mother, Fatima, is.
Bi Fatima is forty-eight years old.
Married to Karim for thirty years, she's become exactly what I desire—thick in the traditional way, heavy with prosperity and contentment. Her breasts strain her modest dresses. Her hips require doorways to acknowledge them. Her ass is a phenomenon.
When I first met them to discuss the marriage, I couldn't stop staring at the mother.
She noticed.
"You like larger women," she says.
We're alone in the parlor. Aisha and the men are discussing business terms. Fatima pulled me aside for "a private conversation about the household."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I saw where your eyes went during dinner. Not to my daughter." She moves closer. "To me."
"Bi Fatima—"
"It's fine. Aisha is young, slim. Many men prefer... more." Her hand finds my arm. "I understand your dilemma. You've agreed to marry a girl you don't truly desire."
"The marriage is business—"
"All marriages are business. But that doesn't mean you have to suffer." She leans close, her thick body brushing mine. "I have a proposal."
"Aisha is innocent," Fatima explains.
We've moved to a private sitting room. She's poured tea, but neither of us is drinking.
"She knows nothing of men. Nothing of pleasing a husband. If you marry her as she is, your wedding night will be... disappointing."
"And you're offering to help?"
"I'm offering to train you." Her eyes hold mine. "A young husband who knows what he's doing is worth more than gold. If I prepare you properly, Aisha will have a good marriage. Even if her body isn't what you'd choose."
"Train me how?"
"By showing you." She reaches for the buttons of her dress. "What a woman needs. What a body like mine responds to. So when you touch my daughter, you'll know exactly what to do."
"This is... unusual."
"This is practical." Her dress falls open. "Do you accept?"
Her body is everything I imagined.
Heavy breasts, dark and pendulous. Belly cascading in soft folds. Hips wider than any woman I've touched. She's twice Aisha's size, three times her presence.
"I'm what you wanted," she says. "Admit it."
"You're what I wanted."
"Good." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "Then let's begin your training."
The first lesson is touch.
How to handle a thick woman's body. Where to grip, where to stroke, how to worship curves that don't exist on slim girls.
"Here," she guides my hands. "The belly. Don't avoid it—explore it. It's sensitive everywhere."
"Like this?"
"Exactly like that." She moans softly. "Most men are afraid of flesh. They want bones. But this—" she presses my hands deeper into her belly, "this is where pleasure lives."
The second lesson is taste.
"A woman's pleasure starts with the mouth," she teaches. "Not yours—hers. Your mouth on her body."
She lies back on the divan, spreading her thick thighs.
"Aisha will be shy about this. Inexperienced. You'll have to guide her, reassure her." She beckons me down. "Practice on me first."
I lower my mouth to her.
She teaches me rhythm, pressure, angles. How to read a woman's body, how to know when she's close. She comes on my tongue three times before declaring the lesson complete.
"Good," she gasps. "You learn quickly."
The third lesson is endurance.
"Aisha will be overwhelmed on her wedding night," Fatima says. "She might not last long. But you need to learn control. Patience."
She positions herself over me, her thick body a weight I welcome.
"Stay still. Let me move. Learn to delay your pleasure until the woman has taken hers."
She rides me while I grip the sheets, fighting to control myself. She's too good—her experienced body knows exactly how to move. But I hold on.
"Impressive," she says when she finally comes. "Most men break by now."
"I'm not most men."
"No." She smiles down at me. "You're not."
The training continues for three months.
Every week, I visit the Karim household for "dinner with the family." Every week, Fatima pulls me aside for "discussions about the wedding preparations."
Every week, she trains me in a different way.
Positions Aisha has never imagined. Techniques that make Fatima scream into pillows. Ways to please a thick body that would be wasted on her slim daughter.
"You're ready," she finally says. "More than ready."
"Ready for Aisha?"
"Ready for anyone." Her hand traces my chest. "But especially for me."
The wedding is elaborate.
Three days of celebration. Aisha in gold and white, beautiful in her slim, innocent way. I play the devoted groom, thinking only of her mother.
Then comes the wedding night.
Aisha is terrified.
She lies on the bridal bed, trembling, uncertain.
"I don't know what to do," she whispers.
"I'll show you."
I use everything her mother taught me. Gentle hands, patient mouth, careful attention. Aisha responds slowly, then more eagerly. She comes for the first time in her life with a shocked cry.
"How did you—how did you know—"
"I learned from the best."
She doesn't ask who.
Three months into the marriage, Fatima visits.
"Checking on my daughter," she tells her husband. She finds me in the garden, alone.
"Aisha is happy," I report. "She says I'm the best husband she could imagine."
"My training worked."
"Your training was thorough." I move closer. "I've been thinking about our lessons."
"As have I." She doesn't step back. "I told myself it was just training. That once you married, it would stop."
"And?"
"I was lying to myself." Her hand finds my chest. "I want you, mkwe. Son-in-law. Even more than before."
"Your daughter's husband?"
"My student." She kisses me softly. "The best one I ever had. I'm not ready to stop teaching."
We find an empty room in my own house.
The room where I store old furniture, where no one ever goes. Fatima locks the door behind us.
"This is wrong," I say.
"This is inevitable." She's already undressing. "Tell me you haven't been thinking about me. Tell me Aisha's body satisfies you the way mine did."
I can't tell her that.
Because it would be a lie.
I take my mother-in-law in my own house.
While her daughter naps in our bedroom, I pound into the thick body that trained me. Fatima comes screaming into her hand, her massive body shaking.
"More—please—I've missed this—"
I give her more.
Fuck her against the wall, on the floor, bent over a dusty table. Give her everything I've been saving, everything I learned from her and perfected on her daughter.
"Inside me—fill me—please—"
I fill my mother-in-law while my wife sleeps a hundred feet away.
It becomes routine.
Fatima visits once a week to "check on Aisha." Every visit, she finds time alone with me. Every visit, I take her body in some forgotten corner of the house.
"Your daughter would be devastated," she gasps one afternoon.
"Would you stop?"
"Never." She kisses me desperately. "I trained you too well. I can't give you up."
Years pass.
Aisha gives me children. She's a good wife, a good mother. She never suspects what happens when her mother visits.
And Fatima keeps visiting.
"Grandchildren," she says one day, her thick body pressed against mine. "I come to see my grandchildren."
"Is that all you come for?"
"You know it isn't." She pulls me toward our usual room. "The children are sleeping. Aisha is in the market. We have an hour."
An hour with my mother-in-law.
An hour that's become the highlight of every week.
"Mama na binti," she whispers as I enter her. "Mother and daughter. Both satisfied by the same man."
"Aisha doesn't know—"
"Aisha doesn't need to know." She wraps her thick legs around me. "What she doesn't know keeps her happy. And what I know—"
She gasps as I thrust deep.
"What I know keeps me alive."
The training never truly ended.
Twenty years of marriage, and I'm still learning from my mother-in-law. Still coming back to her thick body, her experienced touch, her insatiable desire.
Aisha thinks we're close because I'm a good son-in-law.
She has no idea how close.
Some lessons, it turns out, last a lifetime.