Madrasa Nights
"He teaches Quran to children by day. The thick headmistress calls him to her office after hours. Her lessons aren't in any holy book."
Bibi Amina runs the madrasa with iron discipline.
Fifty years old. Widowed. Devoted to education and the Quran. She's been headmistress of the Zanzibar Islamic School for fifteen years, and in that time, she's never missed a day.
She's also thick.
Thick in ways that her conservative dress can't hide. Heavy breasts beneath her abaya. Wide hips that sway when she walks the corridors. An ass that has become legend among the male teachers, though none dare comment.
I started teaching here six months ago.
I've been watching her ever since.
"Brother Yusuf." Her voice stops me in the corridor. "My office. After the children leave."
"Yes, Bibi Amina."
The other teachers give me sympathetic looks. A summons to the headmistress's office usually means criticism. Correction.
They don't know what I know.
I've seen how she looks at me.
During assembly, her eyes find mine over the sea of children. At staff meetings, she positions herself to watch me when she thinks I'm not looking. Once, in the teachers' room, she brushed against me unnecessarily—soft flesh pressing through layers of fabric.
She wants something.
Tonight, I find out what.
Her office is dim when I enter.
She's at her desk, the last light of sunset filtering through the window. Her abaya is loosened—not proper, not in front of a man. Her hijab frames a face that might once have been beautiful and still is commanding.
"Close the door," she says. "Lock it."
I obey.
"You've been watching me."
"I could say the same, Bibi."
"Don't call me that." She stands, moves around the desk. "Not here. Not now."
"What should I call you?"
"Amina." She's close now, close enough that I can smell her—rose water and something warmer. "Just Amina."
"I was married for twenty years," she says. "To a scholar who thought a woman's pleasure was haram. Who touched me only for procreation. Who died leaving me... unsatisfied."
"I'm sorry—"
"I've run this madrasa for fifteen years since. Dedicated myself to education, to piety. Buried every desire." Her hand finds my chest. "But then you came. Young. Strong. Looking at me like I was still worth wanting."
"You are worth wanting."
"Show me." She pulls at her abaya. "Show me everything my husband never did."
She's enormous beneath the modest clothing.
Breasts like heavy melons, dark and soft. Belly cascading in folds of brown flesh. Hips wider than the desk she's been sitting behind for fifteen years. She's not young, not slim—she's substantial.
"This is what I am," she says. "Old and fat and—"
I silence her with a kiss.
Then I pick her up—all two-eighty of her—and set her on her own desk.
I worship her the way her scholar husband never did.
My mouth finds her breasts, her belly, the thick folds of her thighs. She gasps with every touch—not practiced sounds, but genuine shock.
"No one has ever—"
"Then your husband was more foolish than I thought."
I part her thighs and lower my mouth.
She screams loud enough to echo off the madrasa walls.
I eat her on her headmistress's desk.
The desk where she disciplines students. Where she meets with parents. Where she runs the school with iron authority. Now she's lying back, thick thighs spread wide, my face buried in her pussy.
"Right there—Yusuf—oh God—"
She comes three times before I stop.
Then I stand, strip off my clothes, and show her what a real man looks like.
"Subhanallah." She reaches for me. "My husband was nothing like—"
I thrust inside her.
I fuck the headmistress on her desk while the madrasa sleeps.
She's tight—impossibly tight—and wet, and burning hot. Her heavy body bounces with every thrust. Her moans echo off the walls.
"Harder—please—twenty years of nothing—"
I give her twenty years of compensation.
Pound into her until she's screaming. Until she's crying. Until she's begging me to stop and keep going in the same breath.
"Inside me—fill me—please—"
I explode.
Fill the headmistress of the Islamic school while she screams her release. Collapse onto her soft body as the call to Isha echoes in the distance.
"Every night," she says afterward. "After the children leave. Come to my office."
"People will talk."
"People always talk." She kisses me softly. "But the doors lock, the walls are thick, and I'm tired of being empty."
"Yes, Amina."
"Good boy." She smiles. "Class dismissed. But there will be more lessons tomorrow."
Every night for two years.
The madrasa sleeps.
And in the headmistress's office, I learn things no holy book could ever teach.