Mother Daughter Time

Your sister could move quite briskly despite how pregnant she was. You caught up to her just as she entered the kitchen to find your mother tending to a collection of bubbling pots and pans. Fareeha edged closer to the woman who was dancing from pantry to kitchen counter to stove via some kind of complex motherly ballet.

“How can I help, Umi?” she asked, to which your mother paused briefly to regard her two children suddenly invading her domain.

“Fareeha don’t even think about it,” she said in her chiding manner. “You’re the size of a bus! Go sit and I’ll get you something to drink.”

You snorted at the bus comment and your sister flashed her annoyance at you.

“Umi jahan…” she said, the insistence in her ‘_mother deares_t’ not quite a whine, but close to it. Fareeha wasn’t the kind of woman who liked feeling useless. She hadn’t been raised to be. “We used to always make kabsa together,” she reminded her mother. “I’ve missed cooking with you.”

Your mom had to pause at this admission and put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart.

“Oh fine, of course,” she said, conceding easily to her daughter. “You can start on the rice, I already have it in that pot.” Your sister spotted said pot and smiled. It was a sweet little slice of domestic harmony that you got to witness as your mother and sister worked in the kitchen. They seemed content to ignore you idly hanging by the doorway, observing in your leery way. But a quiet observer you were not.

“Don’t forget to pray,” you said then, the interruption almost making your mother miss the bottle of cumin Fareeha had been told to hand her. “It’s important to perform all domestic duties with prayers and love in your heart… and to show it as well.” You had become quite the expert in holy scripture and though your mother blinked dumbly at you for a second she nodded. You saw your sister drying her hands on a towel.

“Of course,” your mom agreed. “Fareeha, why don’t we- Oh! Mmm!”

Fareeha had no hesitation and kissed your mother urgently. The surprise from the matron melted away as she experienced her daughter’s tongue. For several seconds they stayed embraced and liplocked, quietly simmering against each other. A pot on the stove started to hiss. “Haa... Fareeha you taste like…” your mother gasped when they broke the kiss momentarily. Her eyes darted to you, your familiar flavour on her tongue. Her gaze stayed on you as her daughter leaned forward and took her lips again. The softness between them was too enjoyable to completely break apart. Their mouths never lingered far from each other.

“Did you ever imagine your son and daughter would become so devout, Umi?”

Your mother’s focus returned to your sister, who had been the one to asked her the question. “Ahyan fed me his cum first thing this morning, and I sucked down every drop,” she went on. Fareeha was stroking her mother’s arms as she told her about the morning. “And I bet he’s been praying with you as much as he can hasn’t he? Being good Muslims together while I was away. How many of my little brother’s loads have you swallowed, Umi?”

Your mother was lost for words, Fareeha’s sudden extolment of your holy sanctioned depravity still somehow a shock to the woman. She gasped and had to hold onto your pregnant sister’s shoulders as a slender hand slid up your mother’s dress and between her legs. “How many times has he cum inside your wet little pussy?” Fareeha wondered, a hint of envy in her growl. “You’re still fertile aren’t you, mother? And you still let him do these things to you…”

“It… it is written!” your mom stammered in a panic, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter she had been backed into. Instead of defending her actions further she lett out a moan as your sister’s fingers worked their way inside her. Knowing you were watching the show, Fareeha used her free hand to roll up your mother’s dress up to her stomach. Her lovely legs trembled. “The son’s holy seed should bless a mother’s womb…” the mother in question managed to whimper. “As it… aanhnm…. Ahhhha… as it commands in the Quran! Annh!”

Your sister’s fingering was making quick work of your mother. Fareeha was no stranger to making another woman cum. She had gone away to college after all, and you did always suspect some things.

“What else does the Quran command?” she asked, the questioning as relentless as her fingers. “What about mothers and daughters?”

Instead of answering, your mother kissed your sister instead. Fareeha allowed it, her own moans muffled by her mother's mouth, but when they broke again she shoved her fingers in deeper as if demanding an proper recitation of the scripture.

“Milk!” your mother cried out, voice strangled with pleasure. “My daughter’s milk should be supped in prayer! All of my children’s fluids are...Ahh! Holy! And to be taken into my body!”

“Since you asked so nicely, Umi Jahan,” Fareeha smirked. She shifted part of her headscarf in front of her neck to one side then pulled down her shirt. The material stretched easily, her neckline opening to reveal one of her gorgeous, swollen breasts with the same big brown nipples as your mother. Her tits were perhaps slightly smaller, but they were probably still growing. What a body she had. Primed for breeding. At six and half months pregnant she was already producing breastmilk. You could see it leaking out of her already. If she hadn’t been wearing such a dark top, the two wet spots on her shirt where it had soaked through would have been more obvious.

Your mother’s mouth hung open seeing such a delicious sight revealed to her. Your sister brought the woman’s head down herself and pressed her face into the soft warm, exposed flesh. There was a sigh and you watched your mom’s lips close around that tasty teat.

“That’s it mother,” Fareeha breathed, fingers on one hand digging into her mother’s headscarf, the fingers on her other hand curling in and out of her mother’s sopping cunt. “I’ll feed you like you used to feed me. Like you used to feed us.”

Your sister locked eyes with you, her open mouthed smile absolutely captivating. Then her face twisted in a moment of blissful agony as your thirsty mother sucked harder for her daughter’s milk. She drank deep. You could almost hear her gulping over the bubbling pots. The woman was lost in her finger riding, tit sucking, prayers, and only when her orgasm crashed through her did she unlatch from Fareeha’s breast. There was no praising Allah or holy cries. There was just the animal howl of a woman climaxing, the sound echoing in her family kitchen, her pussy squelching around her daughter’s busy fingers.

There was a heartstopping clatter of saucepans and cutlery as the women fell away from each other, but luckily it was only the sound of some unused utensils being shifted. That your mother was still able to stand, leaning heavily on the kitchen cabinet, seemed a miracle. She seemed not to care that one of the pots on the stove was boiling over, needing to catch her breath instead. Your sister had to pull up a chair and eased herself into it, her face pink and her still exposed nipple looking redder and wetter than before.

Best cooking show ever.