u/Brief_Philosophy_567

My experience with somali women,the two of them,was entirely smooth. None ever asked me for money whatsoever. We never argued about mysoginism,feminism or even religion. We just lived for experiences. They both had smooth hair on their armpits which was quite an interesting niche for me. And They didn’t wear wigs. But the most important thing that has made me write this post,was the buoyancy. Akiamungu unajua ile wasichana,sijui ni maziwa ya ngamia ama ni nini,they have so much water. They got wet so fast. Unavuruta mapaja namna hii kama unawasha tuktuk,kabla uwachilie West pokot ishaapata climate ya Kiambu buana. Kitendo inawesa fanyika ata siku mbili nonstop. These guys are natural squatters. Sijui ni shetani mgani aliniingia nikakucheat aki my dear Fartuun,mimi bado penda wewe zana if you’re seeing this. Ni kim ule alikua DJ

#stolen

Tell me your story how was your journey?

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The afternoon sun beat down on the endless sea of sugarcane in Mumias, turning the tall stalks into a swaying green maze. I had come out here for some quiet scouting—family land, old harvest talk—but the heat and the isolation had other plans.

Her name was Mama Rose, a thick, heavy-set woman from one of the nearby farms. Wide hips, heavy breasts straining against her kitenge, and a laugh that rolled like thunder. She was helping bundle cane when I passed. One teasing comment about the sweat on her neck turned into lingering eyes, then bold hands. Before I knew it, we were pushing deeper into the plantation, the stalks closing behind us like a secret door.

No bed. No walls. Just the rustle of dry leaves and the distant hum of a tractor somewhere far off. She pressed me against a thick bundle of cut cane, her soft, heavy body molding into mine. “Hapa ni wapi?” she whispered with a wicked grin, already hiking up her dress. “In the middle of the shamba? You’re crazy.”

Crazy felt right. I grabbed handfuls of her warm, fleshy ass as she wrapped one thick thigh around me. The ground was uneven, dusty, and the sugarcane scratched lightly against our skin, but that only made it hotter. She was wet, eager, and surprisingly strong—pulling me in deep with every roll of her hips. Her big breasts bounced heavily against my chest while I thrust up into her, the wet sounds of us mixing with the wind through the leaves.

Every time a truck rumbled past on the distant road, we’d freeze, her pussy clenching tight around me, both of us stifling laughs and moans. The risk made it filthy. She rode me harder, sweat dripping between her tits, whispering dirty Swahili in my ear until her whole thick body started shaking. I felt her cum hard, soaking my thighs, and I followed right after, burying myself deep as I filled her.

We stayed there for a minute, breathing hard, tangled in the sugarcane like animals. She adjusted her kitenge with a satisfied smirk. “Best harvest I’ve had all season.”

I left the plantation that day with dirt on my knees, cane leaves in my hair, and the memory of the weirdest, sweetest fuck of my life—right in the middle of Mumias, where nobody would ever guess.