The Masjid Maintenance
"He volunteers to maintain the mosque on weekends. The thick widow who cleans the women's section has been there even longer. When they're both working late one Friday night, she shows him a room the congregation doesn't use—and what happens there."
The masjid needs constant care.
Plumbing. Electrical. Cleaning. The old building demands attention, and volunteers are always needed. I signed up because my mother asked.
I keep coming back because of Hibo.
She's the cleaning supervisor. Fifty-three years old. A widow—her husband died of a heart attack at Friday prayers five years ago. Right here, in this mosque.
She never stopped coming.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of devoted service. Wide hips that sway when she sweeps. Heavy breasts beneath her cleaning clothes. A round face that's both pious and sad.
"Warya, you're here late," she says when I arrive.
"The toilet in the men's wudu room won't stop running."
"Ilaahay." She sighs. "Always something breaking."
"I'll fix it."
"Mahadsnid." She touches my arm. "You're a good boy."
I work for hours.
The plumbing is old, stubborn. By the time I'm done, the mosque is dark, the worshippers gone. Only Hibo remains, finishing her rounds.
"Done?" she asks from the doorway.
"Haa. Finally."
"Come. I'll make tea. The kitchen is still open."
I follow her through the empty mosque.
The kitchen is tiny.
Just a stove, a sink, some cabinets. She boils water, prepares shaah with practiced hands.
"My husband used to volunteer here," she says. "Every weekend. Just like you."
"I know. Everyone speaks well of him."
"They don't know the truth." She turns to face me. "He was a good man to the masjid. Not to me."
"What do you mean?"
"He was... cold. Pious, yes. But cold." She sets down her cup. "He thought the body was xaaraan. That pleasure was sin. He touched me for children, nothing else."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. It's been five years since he died. Five years of cleaning this mosque, remembering where he fell." She meets my eyes. "Five years of wondering what I missed."
"What did you miss?"
"Feeling something." She steps closer. "Being wanted for more than my service."
"You're wanted."
"Wallahi?"
I answer by kissing her.
She freezes.
In the mosque kitchen. Where anyone could walk in.
Then she melts.
"This is xaaraan," she gasps against my mouth. "In the house of Allah—"
"Allah knows your loneliness." I grip her hips. "Maybe this is His answer."
"Blasphemy—"
"Truth."
I pull her toward the storage room.
The storage room is dark.
Chairs stacked for events. Tables folded. A space the congregation doesn't use.
She undresses with shaking hands.
"My husband never saw me naked," she confesses. "Always under the covers. Always in the dark."
"I want to see everything."
She lets her clothes fall.
Her body is thick and soft.
Heavy breasts. Round belly. Wide hips. The body her husband ignored for decades.
"I'm old. I'm fat. I'm—"
"Beautiful."
I push her against the stacked chairs.
I worship her in the mosque storage room.
My mouth traces her body—every inch her husband refused.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel before her. "He never—not once—"
I bury my face between her thighs.
She screams.
In the house of Allah. Where her husband died. Where she's cleaned for five years.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "I've never—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Give her what her husband refused.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming for the first time—ALLA—"
She explodes.
Her first orgasm ever.
I give her a second.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—I've never felt—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She touches me reverently. "My husband was nothing like this."
"I'm not your husband."
"Alhamdulillah." Thank God.
I push her against the chairs.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"I've been waiting fifty-three years."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
The first time she's been properly filled. Ever.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the mosque cleaner.
In the storage room. In the house of Allah. Her massive body bounces against the stacked chairs.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Show me what I've been missing—"
I pound her.
The chairs shake. Her screams echo off the walls.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Hibo.
Give her what her husband never did. She moans as she feels it—her first time being filled properly.
We lie tangled among the chairs, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Worth fifty-three years."
"This was wrong."
"Haa." She pulls me for a kiss. "But it felt right. For the first time in my life."
"What do we do now?"
"Now we clean up. Pretend this didn't happen." She strokes my face. "And next Friday, you volunteer again. And we find ourselves... alone."
Six Months Later
I still volunteer at the masjid.
Still fix the plumbing. Still help with maintenance.
Still find myself alone with Hibo in the storage room.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My secret prayer."
Her husband served the mosque.
We serve each other.
Different worship.
Same devotion.