Shaah iyo Sheeko
"The Somali phrase means 'tea and stories.' His father's new wife invites him for afternoon shaah, but the stories she tells are nothing like the ones from back home. The thick stepmother has needs that her elderly husband cannot satisfy."
"Kaalay, shaah cabbo—come, drink tea."
My stepmother's voice drifts from the kitchen. Soft. Musical. The kind of voice that makes men do stupid things.
I've been doing stupid things since my father married her three months ago.
Her name is Fadumo. She's forty-four years old, a widow from back home who came to America looking for a new start. My father is sixty-eight, half-retired, more interested in his mosque and his qat sessions than in his new wife.
A wife who is thick.
Wallahi, she is thick.
I find her in the kitchen, pouring chai into small glass cups. She's wearing a dirac today—deep blue, the fabric clinging to every curve. Her garbasaar is draped loosely over her hair, framing her round face.
"Mahadsnid," I say, taking the cup she offers.
"Sit. Drink." She settles into the chair across from me. "Your father is at the mosque. He'll be there for hours."
"I know."
"You came anyway."
"You invited me."
She smiles. Takes a sip of her tea.
"In Somalia," she says, "we call this shaah iyo sheeko. Tea and stories. The women gather in the afternoons, share their troubles." Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her cup. "I have no women to share with here. Only you."
"What troubles do you have, Fadumo?"
"You know my troubles." She sets down her cup. "You've known them since your father's wedding night."
I remember that night.
The party was over. The guests had gone home. My father—exhausted from the celebration—had retired early, leaving Fadumo to clean up.
I'd stayed to help.
She was bending over to pick up dishes when I first noticed. The way her dirac rode up. The way her massive ass strained against the fabric. I stared too long, and she caught me.
She didn't look away.
She smiled.
"Your father is tired," she murmured, straightening. "Old men get tired easily."
"He's not that old."
"Old enough." She moved closer. "I'm his third wife, you know. The first two left him. Want to know why?"
"Why?"
"Because he couldn't satisfy them." She was inches from me now. "Because he's quick and small and falls asleep before a woman can feel anything."
"Why did you marry him then?"
"Because I needed to get to America. Because I had no other options." Her hand found my chest. "But now I'm here. And I have... options."
She left me standing in the living room, harder than I'd ever been.
We've been dancing around each other ever since.
"Three months," she says now. "Three months of sleeping beside him. Three months of his hands on my body, trying to wake something he can't wake."
"Fadumo—"
"He hasn't made me come once." She says it matter-of-factly. "Not once. I lie there while he... tries... and then I go to the bathroom and finish myself. Thinking of you."
"You think of me?"
"Wallahi, I dream of you." She stands. "I dream of what you would do if your father wasn't here. If there were no rules. No xaaraan. No consequences."
"What would I do?"
She unclips her garbasaar. Lets it fall.
"Show me."
I cross to her in three steps.
My hands find her hips—wide, soft, overflowing my grip. I pull her against me, let her feel what she does to me.
"Ilaahay weyn—" She gasps. "You're hard—"
"I've been hard for three months."
"Poor macaan." Her hand slides between us, cups me through my jeans. "Let me help."
She sinks to her knees.
Her mouth is hot and wet and hungry.
She's clumsy at first—my father clearly never taught her this—but eager. So eager. She takes me as deep as she can, gagging, drooling, making sounds that echo through the empty apartment.
"Like this?" she gasps, coming up for air.
"Deeper."
"I can't—"
I grab her hair. Pull her down.
She chokes. Her eyes water. But she doesn't stop. She lets me fuck her face, lets me use her throat, and moans like she's the one being pleased.
"I'm going to come—"
She pulls off. Gasping. Saliva coating her chin.
"Not yet." She stands, reaches for the zipper on her dirac. "I need you inside me. Where your father has never reached."
The dress falls.
She's naked underneath.
No bra. No underwear. Just Fadumo—two hundred and fifty pounds of forbidden flesh, every inch on display.
Her breasts are massive, hanging heavy, nipples dark and thick. Her belly cascades in soft waves. Her hips flare wide, and between her thick thighs, I see the dark thatch of her pubic hair.
"Disgusting, yes?" She gestures to herself. "This is what your father sees. Why he can't—"
"My father is blind."
I pull her to the kitchen table.
I lift her onto the edge.
She gasps—surprised by my strength—and her legs fall open. I drop to my knees between her thick thighs.
"Warya, what are you—"
My tongue finds her clit.
She screams.
She tastes like heaven.
Musky and sweet, the taste of a woman who's been neglected too long. I lick her slowly, learning her, finding the spots that make her shake.
"Haa—haa—Alla—" She's gripping my hair. "Don't stop—ha joogin—"
I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—so tight—and soaking wet. I curl them upward, find her spot.
"I'm going to—" She's shaking. "I've never—not with a man—"
"Come for me."
She does.
Her thighs clamp around my head. Her back arches off the table. She screams—a sound that would wake the neighbors if the walls weren't thick—and floods my face.
I don't stop.
I give her another one.
And another.
"Inside me—" She's gasping, begging. "Ku soo gal—I need you inside me—"
I stand.
Strip off my clothes.
Position myself between her thick thighs.
"Say it," I tell her. "Say what you want."
"I want my stepson's gus." Tears stream down her face. "I want you to fuck me on the table where your father eats. I want you to fill me where he never could."
I thrust inside her.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me, tight and hot and impossibly wet. I bury myself to the hilt, her soft belly pressing against mine.
"So big—" She's clawing at my back. "You're so big—your father is nothing compared to—"
"Forget my father."
I start to move.
I fuck my stepmother on the kitchen table.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust. She screams with abandon—Alla, Alla, Alla—not caring who hears.
"Harder—" She wraps her legs around me. "Adkee—break me—"
I give her everything.
Every fantasy I've had since the wedding night. Every glance at her body when no one was looking. Every time I heard them through the walls, heard her fake moans, knew he wasn't giving her what she needed.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming on my stepson's cock—"
She shatters.
Her pussy clamps down. She convulses beneath me, screaming my name. But I don't stop. I fuck her through it, fuck her until she's coming again.
"Inside me—" She's barely coherent. "Ku shub—give me what he can't—"
I let go.
I come inside my father's wife.
Flood her womb while she moans and shakes. When I'm empty, I collapse onto her soft body, both of us gasping.
"Macaan," she whispers. "My sweet boy."
"This is xaaraan."
"Everything good is." She strokes my hair. "Your father will be at the mosque for another hour. Then qat with his friends. He won't be home until midnight."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we have time." She shifts beneath me, and I feel myself stirring. "Time for more shaah iyo sheeko. More tea. More stories."
"What kind of stories?"
"The kind that end with you inside me." She pulls me down for a kiss. "The kind I'll be thinking about every night while your father snores beside me."
I give her what she needs.
Six Months Later
My father suspects nothing.
He's happy with his mosque. His qat. His obedient wife who cooks and cleans and never complains.
He doesn't know that every afternoon, while he's gone, I come home for shaah iyo sheeko.
He doesn't know that his wife moans my name into her pillow at night.
He doesn't know that I've given her more pleasure in six months than he's given her in a lifetime.
Some stories are meant to be kept secret.
Ours is one of them.