Haram

The first time you saw her, you knew she was the one.
Your hijabi princess.
With her kohl-lined eyes and long dark lashes, she drew you in.

It was the eyes, you would later say, over and over when people asked. She bewitched me with those eyes you would say and smile. That idiotic smile that people in love always had. Lopsided, goofy, boyish, shy. That was what it looked like.

It took three months of seeing her everyday at restaurant in the Faculty of Sciences you went to for your moimoi fix, before you noticed anything else about her. You didn’t get it. You were an ass man. She drowned her body in loose fabric and you couldn’t make out what shape she could possibly be hiding.

But that day, you noticed her hands, dainty, little mocha-coloured things, covered in purple henna. You reached out to touch her hand before you could stop yourself. She jumped when your skin connected with hers. The electricity between you was almost palpable. She took a step back. You apologized and kept talking. You said anything and everything and she giggled. That’s when you noticed her lips. Soft, pink and perfect, and the oh-so white teeth they concealed. You longed to be her teeth so you could feel the slight caress of her lower lip every time her mouth stretched into a smile.

You got her talking. Everyday, as you both waited in line for your food, you would make her laugh. One day you asked for her number and you were surprised and pleased when she wrote eleven digits out on a sheet of paper and handed it to you. She seemed excited when you called. You started to call her often. Soon you were waiting for her every evening outside her Chemistry lab. You’d walk her to her hostel or to one of the parks on campus where you could talk.

One evening you were telling her about a test you’d failed when she suddenly took your right hand in her little palms and kissed it, before laying it against her cheek and planting more kisses on your wrist. Your heart rate tripled. You didn’t think when you reached for her face and kissed her. She tasted like cherries and she kissed you back before she suddenly pulled away, gasped and ran off. You watched her run off, the fabric of her too large clothes and scarf, billowing in the wind.

You called her and apologized. She came to see you at your room in the boy’s quarters at the back of a lecturer’s house.  You were surprised when she came in and locked the door behind her.

She took of her scarf and let down her long flowing hair. It fell in a single braid down the middle of her back, and you asked to touch it. Instead she kissed you and your hand ran over the length of the braid. She took your hands and put them over her breasts. You were too scared to move, so you just stood and watched her, till she took your hands off, unbuttoned her blouse and displayed her breasts to you. Perfect C-cup beauties, covered in a white, lacy bra. You thought you were in heaven.

The first time you brought her to an orgasm with your fingers, she cursed loudly in a mixture Arabic and Hausa. The next time was with your mouth and your landlord, the Professor, had to ask you about the “ungodly” noises coming from your room.

She was an innocent, shy thing, but the most responsive woman you had ever been with. Her touch was electric and her moans made you shiver. When she took you in her mouth, you swore you were in heaven.

The first time you slid into her, she went still as a statue and you wondered how bad you’d hurt her. You tried to slip out and she locked her legs around your waist and begged you not to.

You started moving inside her and she soon stopped biting her lower lip so hard you were worried she’d bleed.
She surprised you by moaning. She moaned so loud you had to cover her mouth with your palm. It was afternoon and the Professor’s children were home. She bit your palm instead.

You watched her face.
Her fair, fair skin red as a tomato. Her heart was beating so fast. Sometimes when you’re alone you still hear it in your ears.

You tried to control it, to be gentle for her sake, but the closer she got, the more she slid against you; slow, badly timed, nonrhythmic movements that almost tipped you over the edge twice. She had no idea what she was doing. She did what felt natural to her, so you had no idea what she would do next and her unpredictability was dangerous.

You remember how she’d gyrated her hips suddenly, taking all of your considerable length in her.
She’d bit into your shoulder to keep from screaming the room down as she came.

She said no to you when you asked her to marry you, two years later. You knew your corper’s salary couldn’t support the two of you. But her tales of the rich suitors that frequented her father’s den, bearing gifts and hoping for her hand were starting to worry you.

She belonged to you, not some fat, old Alhaji, however fat his bank account. She looked at you with her beautiful eyes, one tear rolling down her face. You knew when she left your house that day you would never see her again.

Six months later, you saw her. One of the gossip rags, her wedding pictures splashed across the cover. It was no fat Alhaji who’d stolen your queen. It was a young, handsome CEO with royal blood, golden skin, and the tall, lithe body that was partial to men from the North. She looked like she belonged on his arm. She looked happy. You hated him.

Six years have gone by and your hard work has finally paid off. You have made it to the league of the big boys.
Real estate had been your ticket to wealth as well as women. They came in an endless supply. Tall, short, fat or thin. A different flavor to warm your bed each night.

None had gotten close to your heart. It had been carted away by your hijabi queen. And instead of beating, you heard the whirring sounds of a mechanical circulator everyday.

The invitation had come in the mail. The 50th Anniversary Alumni Dinner for your university. You’d tossed it aside at first, but your assistant had pestered you about it. There were important people to network with, who would attend the event. Never one to miss a business opportunity, you put on your tuxedo and set off for the event.

You were trading stories with a former coursemate-turned-oil-magnate, laughing boisterously and wiping tears away from the corner of your eye when you saw them.

Those eyes.
You could spot them in a sea of bodies. They stopped dancing about and held your gaze. You excused yourself and went to say hello.

You had expected a burqa.
Instead, she wore a long black tunic with heavy gold embroidery and a black hijab with gold trimmings. You had always imagined her as a veiled wife. You were pleasantly surprised to see her face, still as beautiful, untouched by age and her delicate hands, fingers weighed down by gold rings. She oozed opulence.

You stood feet apart and smiled at each other. You spoke briefly but formally about life and said your goodbyes. You would later find the note she’d dropped in the pocket of your tux.

A date, time and a room number.

You were waiting when she came in. Her husband only fucked her missionary.
Whenever he came home from his monthly trips to his mother country of Yemen. She would lay there and fake moans till he finished and rolled off her. He believed her every time. She announced all this as she took off her clothes.

She’d come veiled with dark glasses and a suit. She stood naked in front of you now and you thanked your good fortune. Her breasts were bigger and rounder, slightly less perky from breastfeeding. Her hips were wider, but her tummy was still flat as ever, with only a little rounded curve on her lower abdomen that only made her look more womanly.

Her lips were on your cock before you realized it, taking you full in her mouth and sucking like her life depended on it. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, blood roaring in your ears. Your heart was back.

Each time was more adventurous than the last. She wanted to try a new position every time. She seemed to want to break every religious law she knew. She was just as unpredictable as always.
There was a glow in your eyes, a bounce in your step. You were the happiest man alive.

One day a knock came at the door.
Room service.
You opened it, wearing only your jeans. You were rewarded with a kick in the gut and several blows to your head. You heard her shrieks in the background, as you lay on the floor, your vision hazy.

The face of the man you knew to be her husband came into view behind your assailant. The fury in his eyes was tangible. The blood trickled into your eyes but you kept your gaze on him, daring him. You felt something metal connect with your skull and you were out cold.

You woke up in a damp, dark warehouse, suspended from the ceiling by chains. Your joints ached and your vision was blurry. You were unsure of what had happened and where you were until you heard the cries.

She was being dragged by her hair, bruised and bleeding. The man stood her to face you. You saw the welts in her fair skin and tears pooled in your eyes. They had been smart. They’d carefully avoided her face. She wept even harder when she saw your broken body, and tried to look away. Her hands bound behind her, the man who dragged her in, held her head straight. They wanted her to watch.

Her husband seemed to materialize from thin air. He was holding a long, sharp-looking sword. Very expensive, very old; you could tell. He kept walking towards you, speaking rapid Arabic. You could not be sure if he was cursing, praying or just venting.

You felt cold steel come to rest at your side. You ground your teeth against each other and stared into her eyes, burning her memory into your soul.
The cut was swift. Your abdomen sliced open neatly as your guts spilled. For a second you felt no pain. Your eyes still trained on her now wild eyes. You could not hear her screams. Your blood pumped too loud, your heart beat too fast. And then it stopped.

Your lifeless body hung, swinging from the chains. Her eyes were the last thing you saw.

@AneeUche

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13 responses to “Haram

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