The Jilbab Next Door

I've lived next to the Ahmeds for two years.

Never seen Mrs. Ahmed's face properly. She wears full jilbab—black fabric covering everything from crown to ankle. Gloves on her hands. Niqab across her face. Only her eyes visible, dark and shy.

She's the most pious woman in the building.

Her husband is an imam at the local mosque.

And she's been watching me through her window.

It starts with small things.

A note under my door: Can you fix my faucet? My husband is traveling.

I'm not a plumber. But I know my way around pipes.

I knock on her door.

She opens it—fully covered, even inside. Only her eyes visible.

"Mahadsnid for coming." Her voice is soft through the fabric. "The kitchen sink. It leaks."

"I'll take a look."

She leads me through the apartment.

It's modest. Clean. Islamic calligraphy on the walls. A prayer rug by the window.

And then I'm under the sink, fixing a simple washer, when I feel her watching.

"Is it difficult?" she asks.

"No. Just needs a new seal."

"You're very handy."

"I try."

Silence.

Then:

"My husband is never handy. He's busy with the mosque. Too important for broken sinks."

I slide out from under the cabinet.

She's standing close. Too close.

"He's been traveling a lot lately," she continues. "Dubai. Saudi. Conferences for months at a time."

"That must be lonely."

"Haa." Yes. Her eyes meet mine through the niqab. "Very lonely."

She invites me back.

The dishwasher. The garbage disposal. The toilet handle.

Always something broken.

Always when her husband is away.

I fix everything she asks.

And then one night, she asks for something different.

"I need you to understand something," she says.

We're in her living room. I've just fixed a squeaky door.

"Understand what?"

"I am a good Muslim woman. I pray five times a day. I fast. I cover myself completely." Her hands tremble as they reach for her niqab. "But I am also a woman. With needs my husband has never satisfied."

"Mrs. Ahmed—"

"Halima." She pulls the niqab away.

Her face is beautiful.

Round and soft, full lips, dark eyes that shine with desperation.

"My husband married me when I was eighteen. I've never known another man." She steps closer. "I've never been touched the way I need. He's quick and small and thinks my pleasure is xaaraan."

"What do you want from me?"

"Teach me." She grips the edge of her jilbab. "Teach me what I've been missing."

She pulls the garment over her head.

Underneath, she's thick.

Thicker than I imagined. Two hundred and fifty pounds of soft brown flesh that the jilbab has been hiding. Heavy breasts. Round belly. Wide hips.

She wears nothing underneath.

"Wallahi, don't judge me—"

"You're beautiful."

She stares at me.

"No one has ever—my husband says I'm too fat—he makes me cover up because he's ashamed—"

"Your husband is a fool."

I cross to her.

I kiss the imam's wife.

She melts against me—years of repression collapsing. Her hands grip my shirt. Her mouth opens to mine.

"Xaaraan," she whispers.

"Everything worth having."

I guide her to the couch.

I worship her the way her husband never has.

My mouth on her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. She gasps and moans—sounds she's probably never made before.

"No one has—" She's shaking. "He says this is xaaraan—"

I find her pussy.

Lick.

She screams.

"ILAAHAY—" Her thighs clamp around my head. "What are you—ALLA—"

I lick her slowly. Learn her. She's never been touched like this—never known it was possible.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"

She explodes.

For the first time in her life.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—I need—"

I strip.

Her eyes widen at my cock.

"Subhanallah." She reaches out, touches me. "My husband is—nothing—a fraction—"

"Forget your husband."

"He's an imam—"

"Not in here." I position myself between her thick thighs. "In here, there's only us."

I thrust inside.

She screams.

Her walls stretch around me—impossibly tight, never properly filled before.

"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"

I start to move.

I fuck the imam's wife.

Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust. She screams—loud and free, nothing like the silent woman in the jilbab.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"

I pound her.

The couch slides across the floor. She comes again and again, a lifetime of repression shattering.

"Inside me—" She's begging. "Ku shub—fill me—"

I let go.

I flood the imam's wife.

Pump her full while she shakes and moans. When I'm empty, I collapse onto her soft body.

"Macaan," she whispers. "Why couldn't I have married you instead?"

"Would you give this up? Your life? Your position?"

She's quiet for a moment.

"Maya." She strokes my face. "But I can have both. Him in public. You in private."

"And if he finds out?"

"He won't." She pulls me for a kiss. "He's too busy being pious. Too busy saving everyone's soul except mine."

"Xaaraan."

"The best kind." She shifts beneath me, and I feel myself stirring. "Now—teach me more. Everything he said was forbidden."

Six Months Later

I still live next door to the Ahmeds.

The imam still travels. His wife still covers herself from head to toe.

But now, when he's gone, the jilbab comes off.

And I discover everything it's been hiding.

"Macaan," she moans every time. "My secret. My sin."

She prays five times a day.

On her knees.

I have her on her knees too.

Different kind of worship.

Same desperate devotion.