The Henna Night
"The night before the wedding, women gather for henna. His wife's younger sister pulls him into a back room. Tomorrow she'll call him brother. Tonight, she wants something else to remember."
The henna night is women's territory.
I'm supposed to be on the other side of the house with the men—my brothers, my friends, drinking kahawa and pretending I'm not terrified about tomorrow. About marrying Amira. About becoming a husband.
But Layla caught my eye across the courtyard.
Layla, Amira's younger sister. Twenty-two to Amira's twenty-six. And everything her sister is not.
Where Amira is thin and delicate, Layla is thick. Where Amira is quiet and demure, Layla is loud and bold. Where Amira covers herself in modest layers, Layla pushes every boundary—her dresses too tight, her necklines too low, her eyes always finding mine across crowded rooms.
Tonight, she nodded toward the back of the house.
And despite every warning in my head, I followed.
She's waiting in the storage room.
Among the sacks of rice and the jugs of oil, she stands with her back to the shelves, her arms crossed under breasts that strain her kanga. Henna patterns crawl up her arms—fresh, still drying. The smell of it fills the small space.
"You came," she says.
"You knew I would."
"I hoped." She pushes off the shelves, walks toward me. "Tomorrow, you marry my sister. Tomorrow, I have to call you brother. Tomorrow, everything changes."
"Layla—"
"But tonight is still tonight." She's close now, close enough that I can smell the henna and the jasmine oil in her hair. "And I've been watching you for two years, Omar. Watching you look at me when you think no one notices. Watching you try not to look."
"You're Amira's sister."
"I know what I am." Her hand finds my chest. "I also know what I want. And I want something to remember when I watch you marry her tomorrow."
"This is wrong."
"Everything worth doing is wrong." She rises on her toes, brings her lips to my ear. "One night, Omar. One night before you belong to her forever. Is that so much to ask?"
Her hand slides lower.
Finds me already hard.
"Your body knows what it wants," she whispers. "Even if you won't admit it."
I should walk away.
I'm marrying her sister in twelve hours. The women are in the other room, painting henna on Amira's hands, preparing her for me. If anyone found us—
Layla's hand wraps around me through my pants.
"Don't think." She strokes slowly. "Don't plan. Just feel."
She pulls me toward the back of the room, toward the shadows where the lamplight doesn't reach. Her other hand finds her kanga, unwraps it with practiced ease.
Underneath, she's wearing nothing.
"I came prepared," she says. "I've been wet since I saw you arrive tonight."
She's magnificent.
Thicker than Amira in every way—breasts heavy and swaying, belly round and soft, hips flaring wide enough to birth nations. Her skin glows brown in the dim light, the henna patterns on her arms making her look like a painted goddess.
"Well?" She stands before me, naked, challenging. "Is this what you imagine when you look at me at family dinners?"
"Yes."
"What else do you imagine?"
"This." I fall to my knees, bury my face in her belly. "Tasting every inch of you."
She gasps as my tongue finds her flesh.
I worship her the way I've imagined for two years.
Kissing her soft belly. Tracing the stretch marks with my tongue. Moving lower, through the thick curls between her thighs, down to the wet heat of her.
"Omar—"
I lick.
She cries out—too loud—and claps a hand over her own mouth. Through the walls, I can hear the women singing, the sounds of celebration. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could find us.
I don't stop.
I eat her with two years of denied hunger. She's sweet and musky and dripping for me. My tongue finds her clit and she bucks, nearly falling. I grab her massive ass, hold her steady, keep licking.
"I'm going to—please—don't stop—"
She comes on my face.
Floods my mouth while she trembles, her hand barely muffling her screams. I drink everything, then push my tongue inside her, start building her toward the next one.
"Wait—I need—I need you inside me—"
I stand. Spin her around. Push her against the rice sacks.
"Quiet," I command. "Or everyone hears."
"Then make me be quiet."
I thrust inside her.
She screams into the rice sack.
Her whole body arches as I fill her—thicker than her sister, tighter than I expected, gripping me like she'll never let go.
"Ya Allah—you're so—oh God—"
I clamp a hand over her mouth.
"I said quiet."
Her eyes roll back. She moans against my palm.
I start to fuck her.
Hard. Deep. The rice sacks rustle with every thrust. Her ass ripples against my hips—so much flesh, so much softness. I grab it with my free hand, dig my fingers in.
"Mmmmph—"
She's trying to scream. My hand muffles everything. Through the walls, the women keep singing, oblivious.
"You wanted this." I thrust harder. "You've wanted this for two years. Every dinner. Every holiday. Every time you brushed against me accidentally."
She nods frantically.
"Tomorrow I marry your sister. Tomorrow you call me brother. But tonight—" I pull almost all the way out, slam back in. "—tonight you're mine."
She comes.
Screams into my hand, her whole body shaking, her pussy clenching around me. I don't stop. Don't slow down. Fuck her through the orgasm and straight into the next one.
"Mmmph—mmmmph—"
I feel her squirt against my thighs.
I spin her around again.
Push her back against the shelves, lift her thick thighs, wrap them around my waist. She's light like this—adrenaline giving me strength—and I enter her again with one thrust.
"Omar—"
"Quiet." I kiss her, swallow her moans. "I want to watch your face when I make you come again."
I fuck her against the shelves.
The wood creaks. Jars rattle. She's biting her lip, trying desperately not to scream, tears of pleasure streaming down her face.
"I love you," she whispers. "I've always loved you—"
"I know."
"I should be the one marrying you—not her—I saw you first—"
"I know." I thrust harder. "But you're not. She is. And this is all we get."
"Then give me everything." She pulls me closer, buries her face in my neck. "Fill me up. Give me something to remember."
I let go.
Explode inside my future sister-in-law while she shakes through her final orgasm. Pump everything I have into her, fill her womb with the seed that should be going to her sister.
We stay there for a long moment.
Pressed together. Breathing hard. The sounds of celebration continuing through the walls.
We clean up in silence.
She wraps her kanga around herself, covers the evidence of what we've done. I straighten my clothes, try to look like a man who wasn't just fucking his fiancée's sister.
"Tomorrow," she says, "I'll stand next to her while you say your vows. I'll smile. I'll throw flowers. I'll pretend to be happy."
"Layla—"
"And every time I see you after that—every family dinner, every holiday, every celebration—I'll remember this." She touches her belly where I finished inside her. "I'll remember what we did on the night before."
"Will you be okay?"
"No." She smiles, but there's no joy in it. "But I'll survive. I'm good at that."
She walks to the door, pauses.
"For what it's worth—you're marrying the wrong sister." She looks back at me, henna patterns glowing on her arms. "But we both know that won't change anything."
She slips out.
The singing from the henna party continues.
And I'm left alone, the smell of her still on my skin, the taste of her still on my tongue.
The wedding is beautiful.
Amira is radiant in her white dress and gold jewelry. The families celebrate. The imam pronounces us married.
And across the aisle, Layla stands in her bridesmaid's dress, thick body barely contained by the fabric. She smiles at all the right moments. She cries at all the right moments.
Our eyes meet once during the ceremony.
She touches her belly briefly.
Then looks away.
Three months later, Layla announces she's pregnant.
No one knows the father. She refuses to say. The family whispers about shame and scandal.
I know the truth.
And when I see her across the room at family gatherings—her belly growing rounder, her body changing—I remember the henna night. The storage room. The way she felt around me.
She catches me looking once.
Smiles.
And I realize some secrets are meant to last forever.