Siri ya Pwani
"His father rents a beach house for the family holiday. His stepmother brings her sister — both thick, both unsatisfied, both watching him. On the last night, after his father passes out, the sisters come to his room together."
The beach house is my father's idea of a family holiday.
A week in Malindi, away from Mombasa's business pressures. Sun and sand and fresh fish every day. Quality time with the family.
What he doesn't mention is that "family" now includes my stepmother Jamila—his second wife of three years—and her sister Fatima, who's visiting from Dubai.
Two thick Swahili women.
One beach house.
One very uncomfortable week.
Jamila is forty-one. She married my father for security after her first husband's death. She got security. She didn't get satisfaction.
My father is sixty-two, overweight, and exhausted from running three businesses. He falls asleep by nine every night, snoring loud enough to rattle windows. He hasn't touched Jamila in months.
I know this because she's told me.
Not directly. But in comments. In glances. In the way she looks at me when my father isn't watching.
"Your father works too hard," she says at dinner. "He comes home, he eats, he sleeps. He barely knows I exist."
I nod sympathetically. Try not to stare at the way her caftan clings to her curves.
Her sister Fatima is worse.
Fatima is forty-four. Divorced. Bitter. She lives in Dubai now, where she says the men are "all money and no stamina."
She's thicker than Jamila—the older sister who got the more generous curves. Her breasts are enormous, her hips are wider, her ass is a monument. When she walks on the beach in her modest swimwear, heads turn for miles.
She's also been watching me.
Both of them have.
Since we arrived at this beach house, I've caught them exchanging glances when I swim. When I eat. When I stretch after a run. They look at each other, then at me, then back at each other.
Something unspoken passes between them.
Something that makes me nervous.
Something that makes me hard.
The last night arrives.
We've had a week of careful distance—me avoiding being alone with either of them, them maintaining sisterly decorum. But tonight, my father makes a mistake.
He drinks too much palm wine.
By nine o'clock, he's passed out on the sofa, snoring loud enough to wake the ancestors. Jamila tries to rouse him, fails, and covers him with a blanket.
"He'll sleep until morning," she sighs. "He always does."
Fatima catches my eye.
"I'm going to bed," I announce, fleeing to my room. "Early morning tomorrow. Packing."
"Of course, mpenzi." Jamila's voice is sweet. "Sleep well."
But her eyes say something different.
I lie awake for an hour.
The beach house is quiet except for my father's snoring from the living room. The ocean whispers through my open window. The ceiling fan spins lazy circles.
I'm almost asleep when the door opens.
Two figures in the darkness. Two bodies outlined against the hallway light.
Jamila.
And Fatima.
"We need to talk," Jamila says quietly.
Fatima closes the door behind them.
They're wearing matching nightgowns.
White cotton, thin enough to show shadows beneath. Nipples pressing against fabric. The outline of hips and bellies and everything they usually keep hidden.
"What is this?" My voice comes out strangled.
"This is what we've been discussing all week." Jamila sits on the edge of my bed. "My sister and I."
"Discussing what?"
"You." Fatima sits on the other side, trapping me between them. "The way you look at us. The way we look at you."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie." Jamila's hand finds my thigh. "I've seen how you watch me. When your father isn't looking. When you think you're being discreet."
"And me," Fatima adds. Her hand finds my other thigh. "On the beach. At dinner. Every time I bend over, I feel your eyes."
"You're my stepmother. And my aunt."
"And we're both women who haven't been properly fucked in far too long." Jamila's hand slides higher. "Your father is useless. My sister's ex-husband was worse."
"So we've decided to share." Fatima's hand matches her sister's movement. "One night. Here. Where no one will ever know."
"What happens at the coast," Jamila whispers, "stays at the coast."
I should refuse.
This is my father's wife. Her sister. Women who are supposed to be family. Women I'm supposed to respect, not desire.
But their hands are on my thighs. Their bodies are inches from mine. And I've spent a week imagining exactly this.
"One night," I say.
Jamila smiles.
Fatima smiles.
They reach for their nightgowns in unison.
They're magnificent together.
Two thick Swahili sisters, naked in the moonlight from my window. Jamila's breasts are heavy and swaying, her belly soft, her hips curved like art. Fatima is bigger everywhere—breasts that hang to her waist, belly that cascades in folds, ass that defies physics.
They stand before me like offerings.
"Well?" Jamila reaches for my shorts. "Are you going to stare all night? Or are you going to worship?"
I let them undress me.
Four hands explore my body.
Jamila strokes my chest while Fatima finds my cock. They work in tandem, synchronized, like they've done this before.
"Have you—" I start.
"Shared a man before?" Fatima laughs. "Once. When we were young. Before our marriages." She strokes me slowly. "We've been waiting for the right opportunity to do it again."
"Why me?"
"Because you want us both." Jamila kisses my neck. "Most men would be ashamed to desire their stepmother. You're not ashamed. You just... want."
"And we want too." Fatima lowers her mouth to my cock. "So let us take."
Fatima takes me in her mouth while Jamila straddles my face.
I'm surrounded by thick flesh—Fatima's mouth hot and wet on my cock, Jamila's pussy hovering above my lips. I grab her hips and pull her down, tongue finding her clit.
"Ya Allah—" Jamila cries out. "He's good—Fatima, he's so good—"
Fatima moans around my cock in response.
I lose myself in sensation. Licking Jamila while Fatima sucks me. Tasting one sister while the other devours me. They work in rhythm, building together, moaning in harmony.
"I'm close—" Jamila's thighs are shaking. "God, I'm going to—"
She comes on my face.
Floods my mouth while she screams, her thick body trembling above me. I don't stop—I push her through it, lick her until she's begging.
"Enough—I need—Fatima, take him—"
The sisters switch.
Fatima straddles me while Jamila kneels beside us.
"Watch," Fatima commands her sister. "Watch me take what you're too scared to claim."
She sinks onto my cock.
Allah, she's tight. Tighter than she has any right to be, wet and clenching around me as she takes me inch by inch. Her weight settles onto my hips—all two hundred eighty pounds of her—and she doesn't move. Just sits there. Full.
"Oh—" Her eyes flutter. "I forgot—forgot how this feels—"
She starts to ride.
Slow at first. Grinding. Her massive breasts swaying in my face, her belly rolling against mine. I grab her hips, help her move, watch her face contort with pleasure.
"Yes—like that—deeper—"
Jamila reaches between us, finds her sister's clit. Circles it while Fatima rides me.
"Jamila—that's—oh God—"
Fatima comes screaming.
Her pussy clamps around me, milking me. She shakes and sobs while her sister keeps touching her, while I thrust up into her from below.
"Don't stop—please—more—"
I flip her off me.
Push her onto her hands and knees.
Enter her from behind.
I fuck Fatima while Jamila watches.
Hard. Deep. The bed slams against the wall. Fatima's screams fill the room. Her massive ass bounces against my hips with every thrust, waves of flesh that hypnotize me.
"Harder—please—I've been waiting years for this—"
I give her harder.
Her whole body shakes. She comes again—squirting onto the sheets—but I don't stop. I fuck her through it, drive her into another orgasm, make her scream until her voice breaks.
"Your turn—" I look at Jamila. "Get under her."
Jamila obeys without question.
She slides under her sister, faces up, mouths meeting Fatima's dripping pussy. I feel her tongue join my cock, licking where I enter her sister.
"Oh fuck—" Fatima is incoherent now. "Both of you—I can't—"
I pound into her while Jamila licks her clit. She comes so hard she collapses, but we don't stop. We keep going until she's a sobbing, trembling mess.
Then I pull out.
"Your turn," I tell Jamila. "On your back."
I take my stepmother while her sister watches.
Missionary. Her thick thighs spread wide. Her massive breasts rolling with every thrust. Her eyes locked on mine—her stepson's eyes, her husband's son's eyes.
"This is so wrong—" she gasps. "So wrong and so—ah—so good—"
Fatima positions herself over her sister's face.
"Lick me," she commands. "Taste him on me while he fucks you."
Jamila obeys.
She licks her sister's pussy while I pound into her. The room fills with wet sounds, with moans, with the creaking of a bed that was never meant for this.
"I'm coming—" Jamila screams into her sister's cunt. "I'm coming on my stepson's cock—"
She shatters.
I feel her clench around me, feel her body arch off the bed. I fuck her through it, harder, faster—
"Inside me—please—give me what your father never could—"
I explode.
Fill my stepmother while her sister watches. Pump everything into her while she screams, while Fatima comes on her face, while all three of us shake through orgasms that seem to last forever.
We lie tangled together.
Three bodies. One bed. The sounds of the ocean through the window, my father's snores from the living room.
"This never happened," Jamila says.
"Never," Fatima agrees.
"But if it were to never happen again..." I look at them both. "When?"
The sisters exchange a glance. That same glance they've been sharing all week.
"We visit each other often," Jamila says. "Fatima comes from Dubai. I go to Dubai. Your father is always traveling."
"And next year," Fatima adds, "we're already planning another beach holiday."
"Same house?"
"Same house." Jamila kisses me softly. "Same secret."
"Siri ya pwani," Fatima murmurs. "Secrets of the coast."
We return to Mombasa the next day.
My father remembers nothing of the last night—just palm wine and sleep. Jamila is the dutiful wife. Fatima is the visiting sister. We are the perfect family.
But I catch their glances at the airport.
Catch the way they look at each other, then at me.
And I know.
Next year.
Same beach house.
Same sisters.
Same secret that the coast will keep forever.