Vizazi Vitatu
"He marries into a family of thick women. The grandmother approves him first. Then the mother inspects him. By the wedding night, three generations have tested his worthiness. They decide to share."
The Abdalla women are legendary in Lamu.
Three generations of thick, powerful women who run the family's trading business. When I asked to marry their youngest, I knew I'd need approval from all of them.
I didn't know what approval would require.
Bibi Maryam is the matriarch.
Seventy-two years old, widowed twice, the grandmother who built the family fortune from nothing. She's still thick despite her age—heavy breasts, wide hips, a presence that fills any room she enters.
"You want my granddaughter," she says at our first meeting.
"Yes, Bibi."
"Many men want Layla. Few deserve her." She studies me with ancient eyes. "The Abdalla women are... particular. We must be certain you can satisfy our standards."
"I'll do whatever it takes."
"Will you?" She smiles. "We'll see."
Mama Salma is the mother.
Forty-nine, divorced, Layla's mother and the current head of the family business. She's the thickest of the three—massive breasts, belly that commands attention, hips that have launched a thousand fantasies.
"My mother has agreed to consider you," she tells me. "But consideration is not approval."
"What else do I need to do?"
"Prove yourself worthy." She circles me like a shark. "The Abdalla women have needs. Standards. We must know you can meet them."
"How do I prove that?"
"First, you meet with Bibi. Alone." Her eyes glitter. "She'll determine if you have potential."
The meeting with Bibi Maryam happens at midnight.
I arrive at the family compound as instructed. A servant leads me to the grandmother's private quarters—rooms I'm told no man has entered since her second husband died.
Bibi is waiting in a silk robe, her white hair loose.
"Close the door," she says.
I obey.
"The Abdalla women have a tradition," she explains. "When a man wishes to marry into our family, we test him. To ensure he can satisfy... everyone."
"Everyone?"
"I am seventy-two years old. I have not been touched in fifteen years." She stands, moves toward me. "If you can please me—an old woman, demanding and experienced—then perhaps you can please my granddaughter."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to prove yourself." She unties her robe. "Starting now."
Bibi Maryam's body tells stories.
Decades of living written in flesh. Heavy breasts that have nursed children and grandchildren. Belly soft with age and prosperity. Skin weathered but warm.
"This is what seventy-two looks like," she says. "Are you afraid?"
"I'm honored."
"Good answer." She takes my hand. "Show me what the young ones do these days."
I worship her like a goddess.
My mouth everywhere—her neck, her shoulders, breasts that have fed generations. She gasps with every touch, every kiss.
"The young ones don't—they never—"
I kiss lower. Her belly, soft and giving. Her thick thighs. Lower still.
"No one has—not in years—"
I taste her.
She screams loud enough to wake the compound.
She comes three times before she pushes me away.
"Enough—enough—" She's gasping, trembling. "You have potential."
"Does this mean—"
"This means you've passed the first test." She catches her breath. "Tomorrow, you meet my daughter. She's more demanding than I am."
"What does she require?"
"Everything I did." Bibi smiles. "And more."
Mama Salma receives me two nights later.
Her quarters are more luxurious than her mother's. She's waiting on a massive bed, wearing nothing but gold jewelry.
Her body is overwhelming.
Breasts like melons. Belly cascading in endless curves. Hips that could birth nations. She's thick in ways that defy description.
"My mother was impressed," she says. "That's rare."
"I tried my best."
"Your best with an old woman." She beckons. "Let's see how you handle a woman in her prime."
Mama Salma is insatiable.
She demands everything—my mouth, my hands, my body. I eat her for an hour while she comes repeatedly. Then she climbs on top of me.
"Now we see if you can last—"
She rides me like she's trying to break me. Her thick body bouncing, her massive breasts in my face. I grip her hips and hold on.
"Most men break by now—"
"I'm not most men—"
"Prove it—"
I prove it.
Flip her onto her back and take control. Pound into her thickness while she screams. Make her come again and again while I hold back, waiting.
"Inside me—fill me—"
I fill her while she shakes.
"You—you're—" She's gasping. "You passed."
"I can marry Layla?"
"Almost." She smiles. "There's one more test."
The final test involves all three.
Bibi Maryam, Mama Salma, and Layla herself—my intended bride. They receive me in the family's private salon, dressed in sheer robes that hide nothing.
"You've satisfied the grandmother," Bibi says.
"And the mother," Salma adds.
"Now you satisfy all three," Layla finishes. "Together. To prove you can handle the Abdalla women."
Layla is twenty-three.
The youngest, the thinnest—though still thick by any standard. She's been watching me for months, waiting her turn.
"My grandmother and mother have prepared you," she says. "Now show me what you learned."
I start with Layla.
Take her on the salon floor while the older women watch. She's eager, less experienced than her elders, but responsive. She comes quickly, crying out.
"Good," Bibi approves. "Now show her what else you can do."
I move between all three.
Layla, then Salma, then Bibi. Different bodies, different needs, different responses. I give each what she requires.
"Together," Salma commands. "Take us together."
I position myself between them.
Bibi beneath me, her ancient body welcoming. Salma beside us, my hand between her thick thighs. Layla above, my mouth on her while I thrust into her grandmother.
"Ya Allah—" someone cries.
"Don't stop—" another begs.
"More—please—"
The night becomes a blur of thick flesh.
Three generations of Abdalla women, all demanding, all satisfied. I lose count of orgasms—theirs and mine. The salon floor becomes a tangle of bodies.
"He's worthy," Bibi gasps at dawn.
"More than worthy," Salma agrees.
"Mine," Layla claims. "Finally mine."
The wedding happens a month later.
But marriage to Layla doesn't end my obligations to the family. The Abdalla women share everything—including me.
"Family dinner," Salma announces every Sunday.
Family dinner always ends the same way.
"Vizazi vitatu," Bibi says one evening.
We're tangled together—grandmother, mother, granddaughter, and me. Four bodies, three generations, one family.
"Three generations," Salma translates.
"All satisfied by one man," Layla adds.
"Is this... normal?" I ask. "For your family?"
"There's nothing normal about the Abdalla women," Bibi laughs. "We take what we want. We share what we have. And now—"
She traces a finger down my chest.
"Now we have you."
I've been married to Layla for five years.
Given her two children. Built a life with her. But every Sunday, I still serve all three generations.
Bibi is seventy-seven now, still demanding.
Salma is fifty-four, still insatiable.
Layla is twenty-eight, still possessive.
And I'm still proving myself worthy.
"Until one of us dies," Salma told me once. "You belong to all of us. That was the agreement."
"I didn't agree to—"
"You married into the Abdalla family." She kissed me deeply. "That's all the agreement we need."
She's right.
When you marry an Abdalla woman, you marry all of them.
And I've never been happier to keep my vows.