Picha za Siri
"He finds photos on a lost phone—the thick married neighbor in compromising positions. She'll do anything to keep them hidden. Anything. As many times as he wants. For as long as he wants."
I find the phone in the parking garage.
Expensive. Latest model. No lock screen—the owner must have disabled it. I should turn it in to building security. Instead, I check for contacts, trying to find the owner.
That's when I find the photos.
She's my neighbor.
Bi Halima, apartment 7B. Married to a serious man who works in government. Respectable. Religious. The kind of woman who wears hijab and looks away when men pass.
The photos show a different woman entirely.
Naked on a hotel bed.
Thick body spread wide, heavy breasts exposed, face clearly visible. There are dozens of photos. Different poses. Different days. And videos—I don't watch them, but I see the thumbnails.
Someone has been documenting Bi Halima's secret life.
Someone who lost their phone.
Someone who isn't me.
I knock on 7B the next morning.
Her husband left for work an hour ago. She opens the door in modest house clothes, the respectable wife.
"I found something," I say. "Something you'll want to see."
Her face goes pale when I show her the phone.
"Where did you—"
"The garage. It's not locked." I scroll to the photos. "Someone was careless."
She looks like she might faint.
"Please—my husband—if he sees—"
"He won't see." I pocket the phone. "If we can come to an arrangement."
"What do you want?" she whispers.
We're inside her apartment now. She's shaking. The respectable facade crumbling.
"The same thing whoever took these photos wanted."
"Money? I don't have—"
"Not money." I move closer. "You."
She stares at me.
"You want—"
"I want what the camera saw." I gesture at her covered body. "I want to see what's under that modest dress. I want what you gave to whoever owned this phone."
"I can't—"
"You can. Or these photos go to your husband. Your family. The whole building."
She cries while she undresses.
Tears streaming while the hijab comes off, while the dress falls, while her thick body emerges exactly as it appeared in the photos.
"Happy now?" she asks bitterly.
"Not yet." I sit on her husband's couch. "Come here."
She comes to me.
Kneels between my legs like she knows what I want. Her hands shake as she reaches for my trousers.
"I've never—my husband doesn't ask for—"
"The photos suggest otherwise."
"That was different—"
"That was someone else blackmailing you." I grip her hair gently. "Now it's me."
She takes me in her mouth.
Clumsy at first—maybe her husband really doesn't ask—but she learns quickly. Desperation is a good teacher.
"Like this?"
"Better."
She works harder. Deeper. The respectable neighbor, on her knees in her husband's living room, paying for her secrets.
"Enough." I pull her up. "The bedroom."
I take her in her marriage bed.
Where she sleeps beside her government husband. Where she pretends to be pious. I spread her thick thighs and enter her while she cries.
"Please—just this once—"
"That's not how this works." I thrust deeper. "This happens whenever I want. As often as I want. Until I decide the debt is paid."
"What debt?"
"Your secrets." I pound into her. "Your reputation. Your whole life is in my hands. And I'll hold it as long as I want."
She comes despite herself.
Hating me, hating herself, but her body responds. She shakes beneath me, thick flesh rippling, screaming into a pillow.
"I hate you—"
"But you'll do this again."
"Yes." She's crying. "Whenever you want."
"Good." I fill her. "I'll want often."
The arrangement continues for months.
Whenever I knock, she opens the door. Whenever I want her, she gives herself. The photos are my insurance—she'd lose everything if they surfaced.
"You're evil," she tells me one night.
"I'm opportunistic." I'm inside her again, in the bedroom, her husband working late. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"The person who took those photos—they were blackmailing you too. What did they want?"
She's quiet for a moment.
"The same thing you want."
"Then I'm just continuing their work." I thrust harder. "Be grateful I'm only one person."
Six months in, something changes.
She stops crying when I arrive. Stops fighting. Starts... responding.
"You're different," I observe.
"I'm tired of pretending." She mounts me voluntarily—first time. "Tired of acting like I don't want this. I've been hiding for years. With you, I don't have to hide."
"Because I already know your secrets."
"Because you accept them." She starts riding. "My husband would divorce me. My family would disown me. But you—you just want me. The real me."
"I deleted the photos," I tell her one year in.
She freezes mid-stroke.
"What?"
"They're gone. The phone is wiped. I have nothing on you anymore."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because this should be your choice now." I look up at her. "You can walk away. Never open your door to me again. Or..."
"Or?"
"Or you keep opening the door. Because you want to. Not because you have to."
She thinks for a long moment.
Then she resumes riding.
"The door stays open."
"Why?"
"Because you're right." She bounces harder. "I've been more alive this year than in fifteen years of marriage. I don't want to go back to being dead."
"Even without the blackmail?"
"The blackmail was just permission." She comes, shaking. "Permission to be who I really am. Don't take that away now."
Her husband discovers us eventually.
Comes home early, finds us in his bed. The divorce is ugly. The scandal is worse.
But Bi Halima doesn't hide anymore.
"You ruined my life," she says.
"I freed your life."
"Same thing." She pulls me into her new apartment—smaller, poorer, hers. "Now finish what you started."
She's fifty-one now.
Still thick. Still mine. No longer a secret—everyone knows about us, everyone disapproves.
"Any regrets?" I ask.
"About losing my marriage? My reputation?"
"About any of it."
She climbs onto me, her thick body familiar as my own.
"The only thing I regret is the years I spent hiding. The years before you found that phone."
"Before I blackmailed you."
"Before you set me free." She sinks down onto me. "Now stop talking. I have years to make up for."
Some secrets are worth exposing.
Some photos change everything.
And some blackmail leads exactly where you need to go.