Mke wa Imam
"The imam is old, pious, consumed by his duties. His wife is thick, forty, invisible to the congregation. He tutors their children after school. She watches. She waits. Then she teaches him."
Imam Khalil is a holy man.
Everyone in Old Town says so. He's led the mosque for thirty years—pious, learned, respected. His prayers are beautiful. His sermons are wise. His devotion to Allah is beyond question.
His devotion to his wife is another matter.
Halima is forty years old. She's been married to the imam for twenty-two years, has given him four children, and has become invisible in his eyes. He sees the mosque. He sees the congregation. He sees the texts he studies late into the night.
He doesn't see her.
But I do.
I tutor the imam's children.
It started as a favor—their youngest two are struggling in school, and I have a teaching degree I've never used. The imam asked if I could help. I agreed. Now I spend three afternoons a week at his house, teaching math and English to Hassan and Fatima.
And watching their mother.
Halima is thick.
Twenty-two years and four children have transformed her from the slim bride in their wedding photo into something altogether more substantial. Her breasts are heavy, straining the modest dresses she wears. Her hips sway when she walks. Her belly is soft and round beneath her clothing.
She covers herself properly—hijab when guests are present, loose dresses that hide her curves. But I notice. I notice the way she moves. The way she bends to pick up the children's books. The way her eyes linger on me when she brings tea.
I notice everything.
The imam is never home when I arrive.
He's at the mosque, preparing for evening prayers. The children and I work at the dining table while Halima moves around the kitchen, always present, always watching.
"You're patient with them," she says one afternoon, setting down a tray of tea. "More patient than their father."
"The imam is busy with his duties."
"The imam is busy with everything except this family." Her voice is carefully neutral. "He married me when I was eighteen. For two years, he saw me. Then the mosque expanded, and I became furniture."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." She pours the tea, and I notice her hands trembling slightly. "I have my children. I have my home. I should be grateful."
"But you're not."
She looks at me sharply.
"No," she finally says. "I'm not."
The children finish their lessons early one Thursday.
"Mama, can we go to Amina's house?" Hassan asks. "She has the new video game."
Halima hesitates. "Your tutor is still here—"
"I don't mind," I say. "We finished the lesson plan."
"Please, Mama?"
She looks at me. Something unreadable in her eyes.
"Fine. Be back before Maghrib."
The children run out, leaving us alone.
The silence is deafening.
"More tea?" she asks.
"Thank you."
She pours. Her hand brushes mine when she passes the cup. Neither of us mentions it.
"May I ask you something?" she says.
"Of course."
"Why do you look at me the way you do?"
My mouth goes dry. "I don't—"
"You do." She sets down the teapot. "Every time you come here. Your eyes follow me. You watch me when you think I don't notice." She pauses. "I always notice."
"I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't." She moves closer. "No one has looked at me that way in twenty years. My husband sees through me like I'm glass. But you..."
"I see you."
"Yes." She's standing directly in front of me now. "You do."
"This is dangerous," I say.
"Everything is dangerous." She reaches up, removes her hijab. Her hair tumbles free—black shot with grey, longer than I expected. "Living in a house where no one sees you is dangerous. Spending your life invisible is dangerous."
"The imam—"
"Is at the mosque. Will be at the mosque until after Isha prayer." She reaches for the buttons of her dress. "That's four hours, Mahmoud. Four hours where I'm not the imam's wife. I'm just a woman who hasn't been touched in longer than I can remember."
"If anyone found out—"
"Who would find out? The children are gone. The imam doesn't come home until late. The servants are off today." She opens her dress. "Allah sees everything, they say. But Allah has watched me suffer in silence for twenty years. Maybe He understands."
The dress falls to the floor.
She's wearing nothing underneath.
Her breasts are heavy, the weight of motherhood and time. Dark nipples thick and soft. Her belly cascades in gentle folds, stretch marks silvering her brown skin. Her hips are wide, her thighs thick, and between them—
"I prepared for you," she whispers. "I've been preparing for weeks. Every time you came to tutor the children, I wondered if today would be the day."
"Halima—"
"Don't talk." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. "Don't think about the imam or the mosque or what's proper. Just feel."
I feel.
Soft flesh overflowing my hand. Heat radiating from her skin. A heartbeat racing beneath my palm.
I stand.
And I take the imam's wife in my arms.
I worship her the way her husband never has.
My mouth on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She gasps like she's forgotten what this feels like—maybe she has. I suck her nipples while she moans, while her hands grip my head.
"Ya Allah—Mahmoud—"
I kiss down her belly. Worship every fold, every stretch mark, every inch of flesh her husband ignores. When I reach the heat between her thighs, she's already trembling.
"No one has—not since—"
"Then let me."
I lick.
She screams.
She tastes like devotion rewarded.
I eat her on her husband's dining table, in the house where he leads prayers every dawn and dusk. She comes in minutes—flooding my face, her thick thighs crushing my ears. I don't stop.
"Too much—please—"
I push her through that orgasm into another. And another. Until she's crying with pleasure, until her voice is hoarse, until she's begging.
"Inside me—please—I need to feel—"
I stand. Strip off my clothes. Watch her eyes go wide.
"My husband is..." She reaches for me. "You're so much more."
"Your husband doesn't deserve you."
"No." She lies back on the table. "He doesn't."
I enter her.
She screams with every thrust.
Loud, shameless, twenty years of silence breaking at once. I fuck her on the table where her family eats dinner, where the imam says his daily prayers, where everything is supposed to be sacred.
"Harder—please—make me forget him—"
I give her harder.
Her thick body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll. Her belly ripples. She's coming again—clenching around me, pulling me deeper.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I fuck the imam's wife until she's sobbing with pleasure. Until the table shakes. Until I'm sure the neighbors must hear. Then I lift her, carry her to the marital bedroom, throw her on the bed she shares with her holy husband.
"Here—Mahmoud—in his bed—"
I thrust into her again.
We fuck in the imam's bed until the call to Maghrib.
Three hours. Countless orgasms. Her thick body beneath me, on top of me, in every position I can imagine. By the end, we're both exhausted, sweating, the sheets destroyed.
"He'll be home soon," she whispers.
"I should go."
"Yes." She doesn't move to release me. "Same time next week?"
"The children's lessons—"
"The children will have appointments. Somewhere else." She kisses me softly. "This is my lesson now, Mahmoud. Teach me. Every week. Until I've learned everything my husband never showed me."
"And if we're caught?"
"Then we're caught." She looks at me with those dark eyes—no longer invisible, no longer furniture. "But I'd rather burn knowing I was seen than freeze in his shadow forever."
I leave before the imam returns.
The house looks exactly as it did when I arrived. No evidence of what happened. No trace of the imam's wife crying out in pleasure where her husband says his prayers.
But I know.
And she knows.
And every Thursday, when I come to "tutor the children," we add another chapter to our secret education.
The imam preaches about sin and redemption.
His wife learns about pleasure and being seen.
And I teach them both—one in words, one in flesh—what devotion really means.