Mwalimu
"The new Quran teacher is a thick, widowed woman who covers everything but her eyes. Her lessons are private. She teaches him surahs. Then she teaches him what the texts never mention."
My mother hires a Quran teacher the summer I turn twenty-two.
"Your faith is weak," she tells me. "You skip Jumu'ah prayers. You don't fast properly during Ramadan. Before you shame this family completely, you're going to learn the Quran properly."
I don't argue. It's easier to let her think she's won.
Besides, the teacher she's hired is... interesting.
Mwalimu Khadija arrives on a Monday afternoon.
She's covered completely—black abaya from head to toe, niqab revealing only her eyes. But those eyes...
Those eyes are dark and sharp and see everything.
"Salaam alaikum," she says. Her voice is low, musical. "You must be Rashid."
"Yes, mwalimu."
"Your mother says you've forgotten your faith." She studies me through the narrow slit of her niqab. "Have you?"
"I was never that faithful to begin with."
Something flickers in her eyes. Amusement? Interest?
"Honest. Good. I prefer honest students." She moves past me into the house, and despite the flowing abaya, I catch hints of the body beneath. The sway of hips. The shift of weight.
She's thick under those layers. I'm sure of it.
"Lessons will be in the study," she says. "Every afternoon. Three hours. Your mother has prepared the texts."
"Every afternoon?"
"Every afternoon." Those eyes find mine again. "We have much work to do, Rashid. Your soul is in danger."
She walks toward the study.
And despite myself, I watch her go.
The first week is hell.
She's strict. Unforgiving. Every mispronunciation, every mistake in tajweed, every fumbled verse earns a sharp correction. She sits across from me in the study, completely covered, completely controlled, drilling the words of Allah into my reluctant mind.
But I notice things.
The way her hands move when she corrects my pronunciation—soft, graceful, showing glimpses of brown skin at her wrists. The way her eyes crinkle when I finally get something right. The way she shifts in her chair, the abaya outlining curves that the modest fabric can't entirely hide.
She's a widow, my mother told me. Her husband died three years ago. No children. She took up teaching to occupy her time.
She's also, I estimate, about forty-five. And thick in ways the abaya can't conceal.
On the fifth day, she catches me looking.
"Your eyes wander," she says.
"I'm sorry, mwalimu."
"Are you?" She leans forward, and the abaya shifts. "Or are you trying to see what I'm hiding?"
I say nothing.
"Thought so." She stands. "Lesson's over for today. Tomorrow, we work on Surah Al-Baqarah. Be prepared."
She leaves.
And I spend the night imagining what's under all those layers.
Week two, she tests me.
"Recite the verses about lowering your gaze," she commands.
I recite them. The passages about modest dress. About guarding one's chastity. About avoiding temptation.
"And have you been lowering your gaze, Rashid?"
"I try, mwalimu."
"You don't try hard enough." She stands, walks around the study. "I feel your eyes on me during every lesson. Trying to see through my clothes. Imagining what I look like beneath."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize." She stops behind me. I can feel her presence, feel the heat of her body. "Tell me what you imagine."
"Mwalimu?"
"Tell me." Her voice is lower now. "I want to know what thoughts distract you from Allah's words."
I shouldn't answer. This is a test. A trap. A pious woman trying to expose my weakness.
But her breath is warm on my neck. And I'm tired of pretending.
"I imagine you're thick," I say. "Under all those layers. Thick and soft and beautiful."
She says nothing for a long moment.
Then: "You imagine correctly."
She walks around to face me. Reaches up. Removes her niqab.
Her face is beautiful.
High cheekbones, full lips, skin the color of dark honey. Grey streaks through black hair that tumbles free when she removes her hijab. Lines around her eyes and mouth—marks of age, of experience, of a life fully lived.
"My husband never appreciated this body," she says. "He married me thin. When I grew after childbirth—children who didn't survive—he stopped wanting me."
"Then he was a fool."
"Perhaps." She reaches for the fastenings of her abaya. "But I've spent three years teaching young men who don't want to learn. Who look at me and see only an obstacle to their freedom."
"And me?"
"You look at me and see a woman." The abaya falls open. "So I'm going to show you what you've been imagining. And then you're going to decide if your faith is worth preserving."
She's everything I fantasized.
Her breasts are massive—heavy, dark-nippled, straining against a plain bra. Her belly is round and soft, cascading in folds to her waist. Her hips are wide, her thighs thick, her ass visible even from the front—the kind of ass that fills doorways.
She unclasps the bra. Her breasts fall free.
"Well?" She stands before me in only her underwear. "Is this what you were imagining during my lessons?"
"Yes."
"And what would you do with it? If you could."
I stand. Close the distance between us.
"This."
I kiss her.
She melts into me.
For all her control, all her religious authority, she melts the moment my lips touch hers. Her arms wrap around my neck. Her body presses against mine. I feel every curve, every fold, every inch of what she's been hiding.
"Rashid—"
"Don't talk." I walk her backward toward the divan. "You've been talking for two weeks. Now let me show you something."
I push her down onto the cushions.
She goes willingly—this woman who teaches the Quran, who covers herself in piety, who corrects my pronunciation of Allah's words. She spreads her thick thighs as I kneel between them.
"No one has touched me—since my husband—"
"Then it's time someone did."
I pull down her underwear. She's covered in dark hair—thick, natural, glistening wet. I lower my mouth to her.
She screams.
I worship her.
Tongue and lips and fingers, learning every fold, every sensitive spot. She's gripping the divan, moaning the names of God in ways He never intended, her thick thighs clamping around my head.
"Ya Allah—ya ALLAH—"
I find her clit and suck. She bucks against my face, nearly smothering me in flesh. I don't stop. Don't slow. Eat her like she's the only sustenance I'll ever need.
"I'm going to—oh God—coming—"
She floods my face.
Screams loud enough to shake the walls. Her whole body convulses, all that thick flesh shaking and trembling. I lick her through it, push her into another orgasm before the first one ends.
"Stop—please—I need—"
I look up at her.
"Need what, mwalimu?"
"You." She's crying now, tears of pleasure. "Inside me. Please."
I climb up her body.
I enter her slowly.
She's tight—impossibly tight for a widow—and wet, and gripping me like salvation. Her eyes are locked on mine, her mouth open, her whole body trembling.
"You're so—oh God—I forgot—I forgot what this felt like—"
I start to move.
Slow at first. Savoring. Her breasts bounce gently with each thrust. Her belly ripples. Her thick thighs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper.
"Faster—"
I give her faster.
The divan creaks beneath us. The study fills with the sounds of our bodies—wet, obscene, blasphemous. She's moaning constantly now, prayers and curses mixing together.
"Harder—I need—please—"
I grab her hips—so much flesh, overflowing my hands—and let go.
I fuck my Quran teacher like Allah Himself is watching. She screams, claws at my back, begs for more and more and more. Her pussy clenches around me as she comes again, and again, and again.
"Inside me—" She pulls me closer. "Fill me with your seed—give me what my husband never could—"
I explode.
Pump everything into her while she shakes through her final orgasm. Fill my teacher with everything forbidden, everything haram, everything we've both been denying.
We lie on the divan afterward.
Her thick body soft against mine. The Quran open on the study desk, forgotten.
"Your lessons continue tomorrow," she says finally.
"You still want to teach me?"
"I have much to teach you." She traces a finger down my chest. "And not just the Quran."
"What else?"
"How to satisfy a woman properly." She shifts, and I feel myself stirring against her thigh. "Today was a good start. But we have the whole summer."
"My mother hired you to fix my faith."
"Your mother hired me to teach you." She smiles—warm, satisfied, nothing like the severe mwalimu who arrived three weeks ago. "She didn't specify what."
The summer becomes ours.
Every afternoon, the study door closes. Every afternoon, my mother thinks I'm learning surahs. I am—in between, Khadija makes sure I can recite properly. But most of the time...
Most of the time, I'm learning different lessons.
How she likes to be touched. How she tastes when she's close. How her body responds to mine in ways her husband never earned.
"I'm going to tell my mother you're an excellent teacher," I say one afternoon, lying in her arms.
"I am an excellent teacher." She kisses my forehead. "You've learned more this summer than you've learned in your entire life."
"Not about the Quran."
"About what matters." She pulls me closer. "About desire. About pleasure. About finding the divine in forbidden places."
"That sounds blasphemous."
"Everything worth feeling is blasphemous." She smiles. "Now—recite Surah Al-Rahman for me. And then show me what the verses about blessings really mean."
I recite.
And then I show her.
Again and again and again.