The Imam's Wife
"While the imam preaches to his congregation, his wife preaches something different to their houseguest. Some sermons happen behind closed doors."
The imam's voice echoes through the compound.
Friday khutbah. Two hundred men listening to Sheikh Mahmoud speak of righteousness, of resisting temptation, of the fires that await the sinful.
I should be there. I'm staying in his house, eating his food, studying under his guidance. Instead, I'm in his kitchen, watching his wife.
Mama Safiya.
She's fifty-five. Heavy. Devout.
And she's been looking at me since I arrived three weeks ago.
"More chai, Yusef?"
"Thank you, Mama Safiya."
She pours. Her caftan shifts, reveals the curve of her breast. She doesn't adjust it.
"My husband speaks beautifully, doesn't he?" She sits across from me. "All those words about sin. About temptation."
"He's a wise man."
"He's a hypocrite." Her voice drops. "Do you know what happens after he preaches about fidelity? He visits his second wife. His secret one. The young thing he keeps in Likoni."
"I didn't—"
"No one knows. Except me." She sips her tea. "Thirty years of marriage. Three children. And he still thinks I'm blind."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Her eyes meet mine. "Be useful."
The mosque is five minutes away.
The khutbah lasts forty. Followed by prayer, followed by socializing. Sheikh Mahmoud won't return for at least two hours.
"Come with me," Safiya says.
I follow her to the bedroom she shares with the imam.
"You've been watching me too," she says, closing the door.
"Mama Safiya—"
"Don't deny it. I've seen the way you look at me. At my body." She begins unwrapping her caftan. "My husband hasn't touched me in years. Hasn't looked at me the way you look at me."
"He's the imam. If anyone found out—"
"Who would tell? You?" The caftan falls. She's massive beneath—two-sixty of soft, neglected flesh. Heavy breasts, round belly, thick thighs. "You're a student in his house. You have as much to lose as I do."
"This is wrong."
"So is keeping a secret wife while preaching about fidelity." She moves toward me. "I've been faithful for thirty years. I've earned one sin."
I should leave.
Walk out. Go to the mosque. Pray for forgiveness for even considering this.
Instead, I let her undress me.
She's hungry.
Thirty years of diminishing attention, of being set aside for younger women, of hearing her husband preach virtue while practicing vice. She takes my cock in her hand like she's reclaiming something stolen.
"He doesn't get hard anymore. Not for me. Not without pills." She strokes slowly. "But you—you're already ready."
"Mama Safiya—"
"Safiya. Just Safiya." She kneels. "Let me taste what my husband can't provide."
The imam's wife sucks my cock while the imam preaches.
I can hear his voice through the walls—distant, muffled, speaking of hellfire and paradise. His wife's mouth is hot, wet, skilled in ways that suggest she learned before he neglected her.
"Does that feel good?" She pulls back, strokes. "Does his student enjoy his wife's mouth?"
"Yes—God help me—yes—"
"Good." She stands, pulls me toward the bed. "Now take me. In his bed. While he tells the ummah how to be righteous."
I fuck the imam's wife on the imam's sheets.
She's tight—years without use—and wet, and desperate. She wraps her thick legs around me and pulls me deep, her moans barely muffled by the pillow.
"Yes—na'am—this is what I needed—"
I can still hear the distant murmur of the mosque. Two hundred men learning about sin while I commit the worst one imaginable.
It makes it sweeter.
"Harder—he'll be back soon—harder—"
I give her everything. Every thrust a desecration. Every moan a prayer of a different kind.
When she comes—clenching around me, sobbing into the pillow—I let go too. I fill the imam's wife in the imam's bed while the imam finishes his sermon.
We dress quickly.
She remakes the bed with practiced efficiency. By the time Sheikh Mahmoud returns, we're in the kitchen, drinking chai, discussing hadith like proper student and mentor's wife.
"Ah, Yusef!" The imam smiles. "I missed you at Jummah."
"Stomach troubles, Sheikh. Mama Safiya was kind enough to make me tea."
"She's a good woman." He pats her shoulder absently. "The best wife a man could ask for."
"Yes," I agree. "She certainly is."
Safiya's eyes meet mine over the imam's shoulder.
Tonight, they say. After Isha.
It becomes our pattern.
Every time he preaches, she takes. Every time he speaks of sin, we commit it. His bedroom, his office, the storage room behind the mosque where he keeps his books.
"You're corrupting me," I tell her one night.
"You were already corrupt. I'm just... revealing it." She pulls me close. "Besides, this is his fault. If he'd been a proper husband, I'd be a proper wife."
"And now?"
"Now I'm his wife who fucks his students while he pretends to be holy." She kisses me. "And I've never been happier."
I finish my studies six months later.
Sheikh Mahmoud gives me a glowing recommendation. Praises my diligence, my character, my devotion.
"You're always welcome in my home," he says at the farewell dinner.
"Thank you, Sheikh. I'll treasure the memories."
Under the table, Safiya's foot finds my leg.
"Come back anytime," she adds. "You're family now."
I visit quarterly.
"To pay respects to my mentor," I tell people.
The imam welcomes me like a son. Shows me his new books, discusses theology, treats me to meals prepared by his devoted wife.
Then he goes to pray.
And his devoted wife takes me to bed.
The imam's house.
The imam's wife.
The imam's greatest hypocrisy—
And mine.
Munafiq.
Hypocrite.
Both of us.
Together.