Shangazi Wawili
"Two thick aunts, both widowed, both wanting him. The Eid visit becomes a competition—who can claim him first, who can keep him longest. In the end, they decide to share. Everybody wins."
I have two aunts on my father's side.
Shangazi Halima—fifty-one, widowed three years, the older sister. Shangazi Jamila—forty-eight, widowed two years, the younger. They've been competing since childhood.
This Eid, they compete for me.
The family gathers at the ancestral home.
Cousins, uncles, grandparents—everyone returns for the celebration. But both my aunts are curiously attentive to me.
"You've grown so handsome," Halima says, adjusting my collar.
"So tall," Jamila adds, her hand lingering on my arm.
"Your wife couldn't come?" Halima asks.
"We divorced last year."
The aunts exchange a look.
Something shifts.
They're both thick.
Family trait—the women in our line grow substantial with age. Halima is heavier, three years more of widowhood feeding her appetites. Jamila is curvier, younger, more desperate to prove she's still desirable.
"Come help me in the kitchen," Halima says after the morning prayers.
"I asked him first," Jamila counters. "He's helping me set the table."
"I can help both—"
"I need him more," Halima insists.
"I called him first," Jamila argues.
They glare at each other.
I'm caught between them.
Exactly where they want me.
Halima gets me first.
The kitchen is steamy, crowded with cooking. She pulls me into the pantry—barely enough room for two, definitely not enough for her thick body and mine.
"Your Jamila thinks she can have you," she whispers. "But I'm the older sister. I claim first."
"Claim—"
She kisses me.
Deep, hungry, three years of widowhood in her tongue. Her thick body presses against mine in the cramped space.
"Tonight," she breathes. "After everyone sleeps. Come to my room."
"Shangazi—"
"Just Halima." She squeezes my hardness through my trousers. "Tonight."
Jamila intercepts me an hour later.
The veranda behind the house, during the afternoon lull. She corners me against the railing.
"I saw you go into the pantry with Halima."
"She needed help—"
"She needed something." Jamila presses against me. "But I need it more. I'm younger. More energetic. She's practically old."
"She's only three years—"
"Three years makes all the difference." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "Feel that? Still firm. Still ready. Halima is sagging."
"You're both—"
"I'm better." She squeezes my hardness—just like her sister did. "Tonight. My room is next to hers. Choose wisely."
Night falls.
The family sleeps—cousins in the children's wing, elders in the main house. My aunts' rooms are in the guest wing. Side by side.
I stand in the hallway.
Two doors.
Two thick aunts waiting.
Both doors open at once.
"You came," Halima says.
"He came to me," Jamila counters.
They see each other. The rivalry ignites.
"I asked him first—"
"I'm better—"
"You're younger, that's all—"
"Younger means more stamina—"
I'm still in the hallway.
They're still arguing.
"Both," I finally say.
They stop.
Look at me.
"What?" they say together.
"Both of you. At the same time. I can't choose. I won't."
The aunts look at each other.
Something passes between them.
"Fine," Halima says.
"Agreed," Jamila adds.
"My room," Halima declares. "It's larger."
They pull me inside.
They undress competitively.
Racing to show me their bodies, racing to prove who's better. Halima's massive breasts. Jamila's curvier hips. Both thick, both substantial, both everything I've been imagining.
"Look at her," Jamila says, pointing at her sister. "Old and saggy."
"Look at her," Halima counters. "Desperate and obvious."
"I'll show you desperate—"
They climb onto the bed from opposite sides.
I'm in the middle.
They use me like a battlefield.
Jamila on my mouth while Halima rides me. Then switch. Then both kissing me at once while fighting over who gets to stroke me.
"He likes me better—"
"He's harder for me—"
"Watch this—"
Jamila takes me first.
Mounts me triumphantly while Halima watches, glaring. She rides me hard, proving her younger stamina, coming with exaggerated screams.
"See? See? He loves it."
"My turn." Halima pushes her sister aside.
She rides me with experience. Slower, more deliberate, drawing it out. Making me gasp where Jamila made me grunt.
"This is how a real woman does it."
They compete through me for hours.
Each trying to be the one who makes me come, each trying to prove superiority. By the time I've filled them both twice, they're exhausted.
"Who was better?" Jamila demands.
"You were both—"
"Choose."
"I can't—"
"Choose."
I look between them.
"Halima has experience. Jamila has energy. Together, you're perfect."
They consider this.
"Together?" Halima says slowly.
"Both of us?" Jamila adds.
"Both of you. Whenever I visit. No more competing. Sharing."
The sisters exchange a look.
Then they smile.
"Deal," they say together.
Every Eid after that.
Every family gathering. Every excuse I can find to visit the ancestral home. Both aunts are waiting.
"The bedroom," Halima says when I arrive.
"Both of us," Jamila adds.
They've stopped competing.
They've started collaborating.
"We practiced," Jamila admits one night.
We're tangled together—three bodies, two aunts, one nephew. Both of them satisfied. Me, barely conscious.
"Practiced what?"
"Sharing." Halima strokes my chest. "We realized—why compete when we can cooperate?"
"Cooperate how?"
"When you're not here," Jamila says, "we keep each other company."
"You mean—"
"Sisters share everything." Halima kisses her sister over my body. "Including pleasure. Including you."
The aunts are fifty-five and fifty-two now.
Still thick. Still insatiable. Still sharing me every time I visit.
"Eid is coming," Halima says on the phone.
"Will you be there?" Jamila adds on the extension.
"I'll be there."
"Good." They speak together—they've learned to coordinate. "We've been practicing something new."
"New what?"
"You'll see." They hang up.
I book my ticket immediately.
When two thick aunts promise something new, you don't ask questions.
You show up.
And you let them compete.
Or cooperate.
Or whatever they want.
Because with Shangazi Halima and Shangazi Jamila, everyone wins.
Especially me.