PIOUS WIFE FATIMA

[Lordsnow]

The fourth day arrived without rain, only a thick, still heat that settled over the lane before noon.

Amina woke earlier than usual. Fatima heard the spare-room door open while the sky was still grey. By the time she reached the kitchen the older woman was already seated on the sofa, abaya perfectly arranged, the small religious book open in her hands. She did not look up when Fatima entered.

“Today we will not waste time,” Amina said. “After prayer we will go through every account, every cupboard, and every piece of clothing in this house. A house that hides things becomes dirty even if the floors are swept.”

The words were calm. The meaning was not.

They prayed. Amina’s voice was precise enough to cut glass. Sameer joined them with his hair still wet from a hurried wash. Amina corrected the angle of his hands without raising her voice. Fatima kept her own movements exact, the black lace and sheer stockings beneath her salwar already warm against her skin from a night of shallow sleep and unfinished need.

Breakfast was taken in near silence. Amina ate slowly, eyes moving between Fatima and Sameer as if measuring the space between them. When the plates were cleared she asked for the household ledger. Fatima brought it. For the next hour Amina turned each page, asking questions about small expenses, about money given to the vegetable seller, about the cost of the last cylinder of gas. Fatima answered. Sameer sat on the edge of a chair and spoke only when spoken to. The lace under Fatima’s clothes felt heavier with every passing minute.

At mid-morning Amina closed the ledger and stood.

“Now the almirah.”

They went into the bedroom. Sameer remained in the doorway. Amina opened both doors of the cupboard and began removing stacks of clothes with methodical care — ordinary salwar-kameez sets, two older abayas, a few folded dupattas. She checked seams, held fabric up to the light, and set aside two kameez that she declared too thin for proper wear.

“These will be given away,” she said. “A married woman in this family does not need cloth that shows the shape of the body when the light is behind her.”

Fatima folded the rejected pieces without comment. At the bottom of the almirah, under the winter clothes, the rolled black abaya from the cancelled poker night remained hidden. Amina’s hands did not reach that far. She closed the doors herself.

“Acceptable for now. But I will look again before I leave.”

The heat in the flat grew. The ceiling fan only moved the warm air around. Amina sat on the sofa and asked for the telephone. She made two calls to the women’s centre — short, firm conversations about ration cards and a widow who had been denied her share. When she finished she looked at Fatima.

“I told them I will return next week. The work does not wait because a niece has become careless in her own house.”

The word *careless* hung in the room.

Afternoon prayer was performed. Afterward Amina said she would rest, but she left the spare-room door half-open. Fatima could see the edge of the bed and the corner of the religious book on the side table. She and Sameer moved through the flat like people walking on thin glass. Every sound — a cup set down, a cupboard closed, the scbang of a chair — felt too loud.

At twenty past three Fatima’s phone vibrated once in her pocket. She waited until Amina’s breathing from the spare room sounded steady, then locked herself in the bathroom and read the message.

*Fourth day. The list of men has grown by one. When she leaves you will not ask questions. You will only arrive.*

Fatima deleted it, washed her face with cold water, and came out. Amina was standing in the bathroom doorway.

“You take a long time for a simple wash,” the older woman said.

“The heat,” Fatima answered.

Amina’s eyes moved over her face, then down, as if she could see through the cotton salwar to the lace beneath. She said nothing more. She simply turned and went back to the sofa.

The rest of the afternoon passed under that same watchful quiet. Fatima cooked. Amina watched. Sameer was sent to buy ice when the water became too warm, and the ten minutes he was gone felt longer than they should have. When he returned Amina checked the bag as if he might have brought something else besides ice.

Evening prayer. The four of them — Fatima, Sameer, Amina, and the weight of everything unsaid — stood on the mats while the heat of the day finally began to soften. Amina recited in the same absolute voice. Fatima followed, the black lace wet against her by now, the sheer stockings clinging to her thighs. She could feel Sameer’s awareness of it even though he kept his eyes on the floor.

After the final prayer Amina did not go to the spare room at once. She sat on the sofa and spoke as if continuing a conversation that had been running in her head all day.

“When my husband left, the first thing I lost was the ability to be careless,” she said. “People watched how I walked, how I spoke, how I raised my daughter. One wrong step and the whole family would have said, ‘This is what happens when a woman is not controlled.’ I decided I would never give them that satisfaction. I controlled everything. Including you.”

She looked directly at Fatima.

“I see the way this house has changed. I see the way he looks at you when he thinks I am not watching. I see the way you hold your body as if something underneath your clothes does not belong to the life I taught you. I do not know the name of it yet. But I will not leave until I do.”

Fatima met her eyes for the first time in four days and held them. The soft, obedient voice she had used since childhood was still the one that came out of her mouth.

“There is nothing to find, Aunty.”

Amina’s expression did not change.

“Then it will not trouble you if I stay until I am certain.”

She rose, took her religious book, and went into the spare room. This time she closed the door fully.

Fatima stood in the centre of the front room until Sameer came to her. She did not speak. She only took his hand, led him into the bedroom, locked the door, and lifted her salwar so he could see the state of the black lace. The fabric was dark and soaked. She made him clean her slowly, thoroughly, while she stared at the wall that separated them from the spare room. When he finished she did not allow him any release of his own. She only pointed to the floor mattress and sat on the mat to whisper the old words one more time.

The heat of the day had broken, but the pressure inside the flat had not.

Four days of Amina’s eyes.  
Four days of Rakesh’s cold counting.  
Four days of the lace worn like a secret that was beginning to sweat through the cotton that covered it.

Fatima finished the whispered lines and remained on the mat long after the final word.  
Tomorrow would be the fifth day.  
She did not yet know whether Amina would leave at the end of it, or whether the pressure would find another way to break.


The fifth morning arrived with a hard, clear light that made every corner of the flat look sharper than usual.

Fatima woke before the others. She sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, feeling the black lace and sheer stockings that had not left her body for five days, then rose and prepared the kitchen in silence. When Amina came out of the spare room the older woman’s face looked rested for the first time since her arrival, yet her eyes remained the same — measuring, patient, unfinished.

They prayed.  
Amina’s voice was steady. Fatima’s responses were exact. Sameer kept his gaze on the mat and made no mistakes. The ordinary rhythm of the house continued as if the previous four days of pressure had been imagined.

After breakfast Amina drank her tea slowly and then set the cup down with a small, definitive sound.

“I will leave this afternoon,” she said.

Fatima looked up. Sameer froze in the act of clearing a plate.

Amina continued as if she had not noticed their reactions. “The centre called early this morning. There is a problem with the widows’ list that cannot wait another day. I have already delayed them long enough. My suitcase is small. I will take the three o’clock train.”

The words should have brought relief. Instead they settled in Fatima’s chest like a held breath that had nowhere to go yet.

“I will pack food for the journey,” Fatima said, the soft voice automatic.

“Only simple things. I do not need much.” Amina rose. “Before I go I will look at the almirah once more. And the accounts. Then I will be satisfied for now.”

The final inspection was quieter than the ones before it. Amina opened the cupboard, ran her hands over the stacks of clothes, checked the two thin kameez she had already set aside for charity, and closed the doors without comment. She glanced at the ledger again, asked one small question about a grocery entry from the previous week, and accepted Fatima’s answer with a nod. When she finished she stood in the centre of the front room and looked at both of them.

“I still do not know what has changed in this house,” she said. “But I know something has. I am leaving because the work requires me, not because I am finished watching. When I return for the longer stay I will come without warning, the way I did this time. It is better that way.”

Fatima inclined her head. “Yes, Aunty.”

Amina’s gaze rested on her for another moment, then moved to Sameer.

“You will make certain she does not become careless while I am gone.”

Sameer answered in the respectful tone required of him. “Yes, Aunty.”

The hours until three o’clock moved with a strange, stretched quiet. Fatima prepared a small packet of food. Amina washed and changed into a fresh abaya for travel. Sameer was sent to arrange an auto. Throughout it all the black lace remained against Fatima’s skin, damp from five days of unbroken tension and denied need. Every time she passed the closed almirah she thought of the rolled poker-night abaya still hidden at the bottom and of the message she would send the moment the train left the station.

At half-past two the auto arrived. Amina stood at the door with her suitcase, adjusted her veil, and looked at Fatima one last time.

“Remember what I taught you,” she said. “A woman who loses control of her own house loses everything else after it.”

Fatima met her eyes and kept the soft, obedient voice intact.

“I remember.”

Amina stepped out. Sameer carried the suitcase down the stairs. Fatima stood in the doorway and watched until the auto turned the corner of the lane and disappeared. Only then did she close the door, rest her forehead against the wood for a single breath, and lock it.

The flat was theirs again.

She walked into the bedroom, closed that door as well, and took out the phone. The message to Rakesh was short.

*She has left. Train is gone.*

The reply came within a minute.

*Tomorrow night. Same place as the practice flat. Nine o’clock. The list is longer than before. You will wear exactly what I told you. Sameer will hold the abaya from the first moment it leaves your shoulders. No discussion.*

Fatima read the words twice. The black lace under her salwar felt suddenly louder. Five days of Amina’s eyes had ended. The harsher night Rakesh had promised was now less than thirty hours away.

She called Sameer into the room. He stood waiting while she lifted the cotton salwar and showed him the state of the lace — darker and wetter than it had been on any of the previous mornings. She made him clean her slowly, thoroughly, while she stared at the space where Amina’s suitcase had stood only minutes earlier.

When he finished she spoke in the same quiet voice she had used throughout the five days, but the obedience in it was gone.

“Tomorrow night it happens. The night she interrupted will be harder because she came. You will hold the abaya. You will watch everything. You will clean whatever he tells you to clean. After that we will have only a short time before she returns for the longer stay. Do you understand?”

Sameer’s answer was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Fatima lowered the salwar, adjusted her veil, and sat on the mat. The old words came out correctly, but the body beneath them was already turning toward the next night — the longer list of men, the colder instructions, the abaya that would leave her shoulders and not return until strangers had finished with what lay underneath.

Outside, the lane continued its ordinary afternoon sounds.  
Inside the flat the pressure of Amina’s presence had lifted, only to be replaced by the sharper, more certain weight of what had been promised in its place.

The aunt was gone.  
The debt remained.  
And the night that had been postponed was now racing toward them without any further delay.

[Lordsnow]

Big update coming tonight ? lot of images too

[Lordsnow]

The service flat was already warm when Fatima stepped inside.

The heavy black abaya brushed her ankles. The veil sat tight under her chin. Underneath, the black lace bra and high-cut panties were already sticking to her skin from the heat and the slow wetness that had started on the ride over. The sheer stockings clung to her thighs. Sameer walked in a step behind her, quiet, eyes lowered. He knew his place tonight: hold whatever came off her and stay out of the way.

Seven men sat in the main room with Rakesh. Cards on the low table. Bottles. Glasses. The yellow light made everything look closer. The air smelled of cologne, smoke, and closed windows.

Rakesh shut the door and turned the lock.

He looked at the men first.

“This is her. Married. Still wears the full abaya like a good woman when she walks outside. Underneath she’s already wet — I checked before we left. Her husband is the quiet one by the wall. He holds the clothes. He doesn’t speak unless I say. Everything else is open tonight.”

A few of the men chuckled low. One of them, thicker in the chest and arms, dragged his eyes slowly down the shape of the abaya.

“Still playing holy, is she?” he muttered.

Rakesh didn’t smile.

“She cancelled the first night. That cost her. Tonight she pays properly.”

Fatima kept her gaze down. The words landed between her legs like a finger pressing there. Five days of Amina’s eyes had left her aching and restless. The lace was already damp. She could smell herself faintly every time she moved.

“Serve,” Rakesh said.

She moved. The abaya swayed across her heavy breasts with every step. When she bent to place a glass the cloth pulled tight across her ass. One man watched the movement openly. Another let his eyes drop to the soft hollows under her arms when she reached for a bottle on the higher shelf. The sleeves of the abaya slipped just enough to show the dark, smooth skin there. He didn’t look away.

Hands were dealt. Glasses emptied. Fatima refilled them in silence. The ache between her thighs grew thicker. The plug was still in the bag, waiting. She could feel the weight of it in her mind already.

After the third hand Rakesh leaned back in his chair.

“Loser chooses. Open the abaya to the waist, or the veil comes off for a while. She doesn’t get to decide.”


The thick-shouldered man lost. He looked at Fatima for a long moment, eyes on the place where the abaya covered her chest.

“Open it,” he said, voice low and rough. “I want to see what she’s been hiding under all that holy cloth. Slow. Let us watch.”

Fatima’s fingers found the front edge of the abaya. She pulled it apart from the throat down to her waist. The heavy cloth fell open. Warm air touched the upper curves of her breasts above the black lace. The bra was already dark in the centres where her nipples had tightened. A thick silence settled for a second, then one of the men let out a slow breath.

“Fuck… look at those. Heavy. Just like I thought.”



Fatima kept serving with the abaya open. Every time she bent, the lace shifted and her breasts moved inside it. The smell of her own wetness was starting to rise. Sameer stood against the wall with empty hands, watching, jaw tight, but no one spoke to him.

Another hand. The same man lost again.


He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.



“Veil. Off. I want to see her face while she walks around like this. And leave the hair down. No pinning it back.”

Fatima reached up. The pins came free one by one. The black cloth slid away. Her long dark hair fell heavy over her shoulders and down her back. Sameer stepped forward when Rakesh nodded and took the folded veil. He returned to the wall with it. Fatima’s cheeks burned, but the heat between her legs burned hotter. The open abaya and the lace left her half-exposed under the yellow light. One of the leaner men crooked a finger at her as she passed with the tray.

“Come here a second.”



She stopped. He reached up, slid two fingers under her arm, and dragged them slowly through the soft, warm hollow of her armpit. The skin there was already slightly damp from the heat of the room. He brought his fingers to his nose, breathed in, then looked up at her face.

“You even smell clean and dirty at the same time. Keep your arms a little higher when you pour from now on. I want to see these again.”

Fatima’s stomach clenched. She did as he said. The next time she reached for a bottle both armpits were open to the room. Another man leaned in and ran his tongue flat through the left hollow, slow, tasting the salt of her skin. She shuddered hard enough that the tray trembled. Wetness leaked into the lace.

Rakesh watched it all without speaking for a while. Then he stood, picked up the small bag, and took out the slim dark plug and the bottle of gel.

“Enough serving for now. Table. Hands flat on it. Legs apart. Ass out.”

Fatima turned and bent. The position lifted her arms and opened both armpits completely. Cooler air touched the wet trails left by the man’s tongue. Rakesh stepped behind her. He hooked the lace panties to one side with two fingers. The blunt tip of the plug pressed against her. She was still tight, untouched there.

“Breathe out,” he said, voice close to her ear. “You’re going to take this. You’ve been walking around wet for days thinking about what was coming. Now you feel it.”

He pushed.




The stretch burned. Fatima’s fingers curled hard against the table. A thin, broken sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Her body tried to close against the intrusion, thighs tensing, but the gel and the steady pressure forced her open. The widest part dragged through her in one long, aching push. She felt every millimetre. When the base finally seated flush against her the fullness was sudden and deep. She clenched around it helplessly and more wetness spilled out around the plug, soaking the lace completely.



Rakesh fixed the panties back over the base and gave the plug a small twist that made her knees weaken.

“She keeps it in. From now on every step she takes, she feels it. Serve the next round like this.”

Fatima straightened slowly. The plug shifted inside her with the movement, pressing deep. Her tits felt heavy inside the open abaya and the half-pulled lace. The smell of her own cunt was unmistakable now. She picked up the tray again.

One of the men stopped her, took a glass, then reached out and yanked both cups of the bra down so her breasts spilled free. He squeezed one hard, thumb scbanging the nipple, then spat directly onto the dark tip and rubbed it in with his palm. Another man did the same to the other breast. Spit ran down the soft undersides. Fatima’s breath came short and uneven. Her hips shifted without her meaning to, the plug moving inside her with the small motion.

The thick-shouldered man caught her chin and made her look at him.

“Look at me while you’re dripping like this. You’re supposed to be the modest wife, aren’t you? Walking around in the full abaya, praying, keeping your eyes down. And now you’ve got a plug in your ass and spit on your tits and you’re still wetter than before. Say it. Tell me what you are tonight.”



Fatima’s voice came out low and rough.

“Yours… I’m yours tonight.”

He smiled slowly.

“Good. Now keep serving. And keep those arms up when you reach for anything. I want to see those armpits every time.”

She moved among them with the tray, tits bare and shiny with spit, the black lace soaked between her thighs, the plug seated deep, the smell of her rising in the warm room. Sameer stood against the wall holding the folded abaya and the veil, watching every step she took.

Rakesh sat back down and picked up the cards again.

“Next hand,” he said, voice calm. “The forfeits get bigger from here.”

Fatima felt the plug with every movement, the wet lace clinging, the cool trails of spit drying on her breasts, and the eyes of every man in the room fixed on the body she had brought them.

The night had properly begun.

[Lordsnow]

The plug sat heavy inside her.

Every step Fatima took made it shift and press against places that had never been touched before. The black lace between her thighs was soaked through, clinging to her cunt and the base of the plug. Her bare breasts hung out of the pulled-down bra, still sticky with spit, nipples tight and dark. The warm air of the room carried the smell of her own wetness mixed with cologne and smoke. Sameer stood against the wall holding the folded abaya and the veil, silent.

*This is what I wanted*, she thought, the words rising unbidden even as shame burned under her skin. *Five days of nothing and now this. I should hate it. Why does it feel so—*

Rakesh dealt another hand. The thick-shouldered man won. He leaned back, eyes moving over her exposed body.

“Come here. On your knees between my legs.”

Fatima set the tray down. Her legs felt unsteady. The plug moved with every step, a constant reminder that she was already open in a way she had never been. She knelt. The position pushed the plug deeper and drew a soft, involuntary sound from her throat. He opened his trousers and pulled out a thick, dark cock, already hard and heavy. The musky smell of him filled her nose.

“Open.”

She opened her mouth. He pushed in slowly at first, then deeper, until the head pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, eyes watering. He held her there, one rough hand twisted in her hair, the other reaching down to grip the base of the plug through the wet lace and give it a slow twist. The dual sensation — cock stretching her mouth, plug shifting inside her ass — sent a sharp, confusing wave through her body. Her cunt clenched hard around nothing, leaking more.




*I should bite. I should pull away. Instead I’m letting him… I’m getting wetter.*

He began fucking her mouth in short, steady strokes. Spit ran down her chin and dripped onto her bare breasts. One of the other men moved behind her, reached under, and rubbed the soaked lace firmly against her clit while the plug stayed buried. Fatima’s hips jerked forward against his hand before she could stop them. A muffled, needy sound vibrated around the cock in her mouth.

The thick-shouldered man pulled out, a thick string of spit still connecting her lips to his cock.

“Up. Over the table. Ass out.”

She rose on shaky legs and bent over the low table again, hands flat. The position opened her body completely. Only one of the men — the leaner one who had touched her earlier — stepped close to her side. He lifted her left arm higher, exposed the soft dark hollow of her armpit, and dragged his tongue through it slowly, tasting the salt and heat of her skin. He did it again, deeper, breathing her in. Fatima shuddered hard, a helpless sound escaping her.

*Why does that feel so filthy… and why is it making me drip more?*

Rakesh moved behind her. He hooked the lace panties further aside, gripped the base of the plug, and began working it in short, twisting thrusts. Each movement forced a wet, obscene sound from her body. Her cunt dripped openly onto the floor between her stockinged feet.

“Still tight,” Rakesh muttered, voice calm but edged. “But she’s taking it. Listen to how wet she is.” He pushed the plug deeper for a moment, then almost pulled it out, then shoved it back in. Fatima’s forehead dropped against the table. A broken moan spilled out of her before she could swallow it.

*It burns… it fills me… I can’t stop clenching around it. I cancelled the first night and now I’m bent over with this thing in me and I still want more.*

One of the men crouched in front of her, grabbed both of her bare breasts roughly, and squeezed them together. He spat between them and pushed his cock into the slick channel, fucking her tits while Rakesh kept working the plug. The dual rhythm — cock sliding between her spit-slick breasts, plug thrusting in her ass — made her thighs tremble.




“Look up,” the man ordered, voice rough. “I want to see that face while we use you. Don’t hide it.”

Fatima lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy, mouth wet and open, hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. Shame and heat warred behind her expression. The man grinned and thrust harder between her tits, the head of his cock tapping her chin with every stroke.

The thick-shouldered man moved to her head again, fed his cock back into her mouth, and held her there while the others continued. Spit, the heavy smell of her cunt, the wet sounds of the plug, the slap of skin against her breasts — the room filled with it. Sameer stood silent against the wall, the abaya and veil still in his hands, watching every detail.

*He’s watching me like this. All of them are. And my body is still pushing back for more.*

Rakesh finally pulled the plug out slowly. The sudden emptiness made Fatima whimper, a soft, lost sound. He set the shiny, wet plug on the table, then pushed two thick fingers into her cunt, feeling how open and soaked she was.

“She’s ready. Who wants her first while the plug goes back in?”

The thick-shouldered man pulled out of her mouth with a wet sound.

“Me.”

He moved behind her, lined up, and drove into her cunt in one long, heavy thrust. The stretch was sudden and deep. Fatima cried out against the table, the sound raw. He fucked her hard and steady, each stroke forcing the air from her lungs. After a dozen thrusts he stopped, reached for the plug again, and pushed it back into her ass while his cock was still buried deep in her cunt.



The double fullness locked her body up. A long, broken moan tore out of her throat. Her arms almost gave out. The man behind her gripped her hips harder and started fucking her again, the plug shifting and pressing with every thrust.

“Feel that?” he growled, leaning over her back, mouth close to her ear, voice thick with satisfaction. “Cock in your cunt, plug in your ass, spit drying on your tits, and your husband standing there holding your holy clothes while you take it like a proper slut. This is what you get for cancelling. This is what you needed all along, isn’t it?”

Fatima could only moan, continuous and helpless, as he used her. Another man stepped in front, lifted her head by the hair, and pushed back into her mouth. She took it, drooling, eyes half-closed, body rocking between them while the plug stayed locked inside her.

*I should hate this.*  
*I should feel ruined.*  
*Instead I’m dripping down my own thighs and pushing back onto him.*

The night was no longer about serving drinks.

It had become exactly what Rakesh had promised — harder, wetter, and without any of the slow mercy of the original plan.

[Lordsnow]

The plug came out slowly.

Rakesh twisted it once, then pulled. Fatima felt every inch leave her. The sudden emptiness made her whimper against the table, a soft, broken sound she couldn’t stop. Her cunt was still stretched around the thick-shouldered man’s cock. He hadn’t pulled out. He just kept her filled while the plug was removed and set aside, shiny and wet.

“Look at that,” he muttered, voice rough. “Asshole twitching. Never been touched before tonight, has it?”

Fatima’s face burned. She could feel cool air against the place that had just been forced open. Her thighs were slick. The lace panties were ruined, shoved to the side and soaked.

*It’s empty now… and I still feel open. I shouldn’t want anything else in there. Why do I keep clenching?*

Rakesh stepped closer, one hand resting on the small of her back.

“She’s ready. First time. We do it properly.” He looked at the thick-shouldered man. “Stay in her cunt. Keep her pinned. I’ll take the rest.”

The man behind her gripped her hips harder and pushed in deep, holding still. Fatima’s breath hitched. Rakesh coated himself with more gel, then pressed the blunt head of his cock against her freshly opened hole.

“Push back against me,” he ordered, voice low and calm but edged. “Don’t tighten. You’ve been dripping for this all week. Take it.”

Fatima tried. Her body resisted at first — a sharp burn, a tight ring of muscle fighting the intrusion. She let out a long, shaky moan, forehead pressed to the table.

“It hurts—”

“I know.” Rakesh kept steady pressure. “Breathe out and push back. Now.”

She did. The head forced its way inside. The stretch was deeper, thicker than the plug, hotter. A raw cry tore out of her throat. Her arms trembled. The man in her cunt groaned at the way she clenched around him from the double invasion.

“Fuck… she’s squeezing so tight.”

Rakesh pushed further, slow but relentless, until he was buried halfway. Fatima’s mouth stayed open, sounds spilling out with every breath. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but her cunt kept dripping around the other cock.

*Too much… it’s too much… I can feel both of them… I’m so full I can’t think…*

“That’s it,” Rakesh muttered, voice rougher now. “Taking it like a good slut. Your holy ass is stretching around me. Say it. Tell me what it feels like.”

“Full…” Fatima’s voice cracked. “So full… please—”

“Please what?”

“Please… more…”

A dark chuckle moved through the room. Rakesh gave her the rest in one steady thrust until his hips met her ass. Fatima cried out, body shaking. The two cocks inside her — one in her cunt, one in her ass — left no space. Every breath made her feel them both.

The leaner man (the only one who had focused on her armpits) moved to her side again. He lifted her right arm, exposed the soft hollow, and dragged his tongue through it slowly while the two men began to move. He licked deep, tasting the salt and heat, then spoke against her skin.




“Even your armpits taste dirty now. Keep this arm up.”

Fatima kept it raised, trembling. The dual fucking started slow — the man in her cunt pulling back while Rakesh pushed in, then switching. The rhythm built. Wet, heavy sounds filled the room. Spit and her own slick ran down her thighs. Her bare breasts swung with every thrust.

One of the other men stepped in front, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and pulled her head up.

“Open. You’re not done with mouths yet.”

He pushed into her throat. Fatima gagged, drool running down her chin and onto the table. Three men used her at once — throat, cunt, and ass — while the fourth kept her arm raised and his mouth on her armpit. The black lace was a ruined scrap. The stockings had laddered. Sameer stood against the wall holding the abaya and veil, watching everything in silence.




*I can’t… I shouldn’t be able to take this… but my body is pushing back onto them… I’m moaning like a whore while they fill every hole…*

Rakesh’s voice stayed close to her ear even as he fucked her ass deeper.

“This is the price of cancelling. Longer. Harder. More of us. Your husband is right there holding your modest clothes while you get your virgin ass stretched open. Feel that? That’s ownership. You’re not going home tonight. You’re staying until I’m done with you tomorrow.”

Fatima could only make broken, wet sounds around the cock in her mouth. Her eyes were glassy. Her body rocked between the three men, the burn in her ass slowly mixing with a dark, spreading heat that made her cunt squeeze harder.






The man in her throat pulled out, slapped his wet cock against her cheek, and spoke low.

“Look at me. Tell me what you are right now.”

Fatima’s voice came out hoarse and wrecked.

“A slut… your slut… please don’t stop…”

He smiled and pushed back into her mouth.

The rhythm grew heavier. Rakesh started fucking her ass with longer, deeper strokes. The man in her cunt matched him. The wet sounds turned louder, filthier. Fatima’s arms finally gave out. She collapsed onto her elbows, ass still raised, taking everything they gave her.

One by one the other men moved in closer, waiting their turn, stroking themselves while they watched her get opened completely.

The night had gone past any of the original forfeits.

It had become exactly what Rakesh promised when Amina ruined the first plan — harder, longer, and without mercy.

[Lordsnow]

The night did not end when the last man finished.

Rakesh pulled out of her ass slowly, leaving her open and dripping. Fatima collapsed forward onto the table, chest heaving, bare breasts flattened against the wood, the ruined lace panties still hooked around one thigh. Her hole twitched, empty and sore. Cum ran down the insides of her stockinged legs and pooled on the floor. Her voice was already hoarse from the sounds she had been making.

Sameer stood in the same place against the wall. The folded abaya and veil were still in his hands. His face was flushed, breathing heavier than before. The front of his trousers showed a clear, hard outline. He had been hard for a long time. He never touched himself. He just watched, eyes fixed on the wet, used state of his wife’s body.

Rakesh looked at him once.

“You stay hard. You don’t finish. Not until I say.”

Sameer gave a short nod, jaw tight. His cock twitched visibly against the fabric.

Fatima turned her head weakly. Her voice came out rough and cracked.

“Sameer… you’re hard watching them use me…”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The proof was right there.

Rakesh wiped his cock with a cloth and spoke to the room.

“She’s not leaving tonight. Anyone who wants more can stay. The rest can go. We continue until tomorrow evening.”

Three of the men left. Four remained, plus Rakesh. The thick-shouldered one, the leaner armpit-focused man, and two others. The air in the flat grew heavier, thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and Fatima’s open body.

They moved her to the bed in the next room. Simple mattress, no sheets worth mentioning. Rakesh cuffed her wrists loosely to the headboard with soft rope — not painful, just enough that she couldn’t cover herself or push anyone away. Her legs stayed free. The position kept her arms raised, exposing the soft hollows of her armpits again.

The leaner man immediately took advantage. He climbed onto the bed, straddled her chest lightly, and lowered his face into her right armpit, licking deep and slow while one hand squeezed her breast. Fatima whimpered, body shifting under him.

“It feels dirty…” she whispered, voice trembling. “Your tongue there… I can’t hide anything anymore…”

He only licked deeper, then moved to the left armpit and did the same. The others watched and stroked themselves back to hardness.

Ramesh— no, the thick-shouldered man — moved between her legs, pushed them wide, and sank back into her cunt with a wet sound. She was swollen and sensitive. Every thrust dragged a broken moan out of her.

“Still so wet,” he muttered. “Even after all that. Say it, Fatima. Tell us what you need.”

Her eyes fluttered. Shame and addiction tangled in her voice.

“I need… more. Please… my ass is empty again… fill it… I don’t care how it burns…”

Rakesh coated himself once more and pressed against her used hole. This time she pushed back onto him herself, a soft, desperate sound leaving her throat as he slid inside. The double fullness returned. Her cuffed wrists pulled against the rope. Her back arched.

“Yes… both… please both…”

They fucked her like that for a long time — one in her cunt, one in her ass, the leaner man still focused on her armpits and tits, the fourth man feeding his cock into her mouth whenever she had breath. Sameer stood at the foot of the bed, still holding the abaya, still visibly hard, eyes never leaving the place where two cocks disappeared into his wife’s body.

Fatima’s voice came in short, wrecked fragments between thrusts.

“Harder… don’t stop… I can feel you both so deep… Sameer is watching… he’s hard because of how you use me… please don’t let me rest…”

When the first man in her cunt finished, another took his place without pulling the one from her ass out. They kept her filled. Cum leaked around the cocks and down onto the mattress. Her stomach was slick with it. Her hair stuck to her face. The rope at her wrists had left faint marks.

Hours blurred.

Sometime deep in the night Rakesh pulled everyone off her and made her rest on her side, still cuffed, plug pushed back into her ass so she wouldn’t close up. Sameer was ordered to clean her mouth and breasts with a wet cloth. He did it carefully, hands slightly shaking, his own cock still straining against his trousers. Fatima looked up at him while he wiped her.

“You’re still hard,” she whispered. “Even after watching them fill me for hours. Do you want to taste what they left?”

Rakesh’s voice cut in, calm.

“Not yet. He waits.”

Sameer only nodded, throat working, and continued cleaning her.

They used her again before dawn. Then again in the mid-morning light that filtered through the curtains. Rakesh kept the plug in between sessions so her ass stayed open and ready. Every time someone new pushed into her she moaned louder, the shame thinning under the raw need.

“I can’t stop dripping…” she said once, voice almost wondering, while the thick-shouldered man fucked her ass slowly and the leaner one licked her armpit again. “Even when it hurts I get wetter… I’m a slut… I’m your slut… don’t send me home yet…”

Sameer’s breathing stayed uneven. A dark wet spot had formed at the front of his trousers from the constant arousal. He never touched himself. He just held the abaya and watched his wife take cock after cock, her body soft and open and begging for more.

By late afternoon the remaining men finished one last time. Rakesh was the last one in her ass. He fucked her deep and slow while she lay on her back, wrists still loosely bound, legs spread wide, looking up at him with glassy eyes.

“Tell me what you are,” he ordered.

Fatima’s voice was wrecked but clear.

“A complete slut. Your slut. I cancelled the first night and this is what I needed. My ass is yours. My cunt is yours. Even my armpits… please… leave something in me when you send me home…”

He came deep inside her ass with a low groan, held himself there, then pulled out slowly. Cum followed. Fatima’s hole stayed slightly open, leaking.

Rakesh untied her wrists. Her arms dropped, sore. He looked at Sameer.

“Clean her. Properly. Mouth, tits, cunt, ass. Everything. Then help her dress. She goes home now.”

Sameer finally moved. His cock was still rigid, the wet spot on his trousers larger. He cleaned Fatima with long, careful strokes of his tongue and the cloth, tasting every man who had been inside her. Fatima watched him through half-lidded eyes, one hand weakly stroking his hair.

“You’re so hard it must hurt…” she whispered. “You watched them take my virgin ass… you watched me beg for more… and you’re still holding my abaya like a good husband…”

When she was as clean as she could be, they dressed her. The ruined lace was left behind. Only the sheer stockings remained, torn in places. The full black abaya went back over her body. The veil was pinned. From the outside she looked almost the same as when she arrived — modest, covered, quiet.

Underneath she was sore, open, and still dripping slowly down her thighs.

Rakesh walked them to the door.

“Next time will be harder if you make me wait again,” he said simply. “Go home. Rest. You’ll feel this for days.”

The auto ride back was silent except for the city noise. Fatima sat with her hands in her lap, the abaya heavy, the slow leak of cum still moving inside her. Sameer sat beside her, still hard, the abaya she had worn earlier folded in his lap now.

When they finally stepped into their own flat and locked the door, Fatima leaned against the wall, pulled the abaya open just enough, and looked at her husband.

“You’re still hard,” she said softly, voice raw. “Come here and finish. But only from watching me. Don’t put it in. Not tonight. I want to stay open from them a little longer.”

Sameer stepped close. Fatima wrapped her hand around him through the trousers, then freed him, and stroked him slowly while she kept the abaya open so he could see the faint bruises, the bite marks, the wetness still shining on her inner thighs.

He came hard within a minute, spilling over her fingers with a broken sound, eyes locked on the evidence of everything she had taken.

Fatima wiped her hand on the inside of the abaya, closed it, and pinned the veil again.

“Tomorrow I’ll still feel them,” she whispered. “And I’ll want more. You know that now.”

Sameer only nodded, breathing hard, the last of his release still dripping from him.

Outside, the lane was ordinary again.
Inside the flat the debt of the cancelled night had been paid in full — longer, harder, and without any of the mercy of the original plan.

Fatima walked to the mat, sat carefully because of the soreness, and began the old whispered words while her body still pulsed with the memory of every cock that had opened her.

[Lordsnow]

The lace was too tight around her thighs, digging in with a persistent, rhythmic pinch every time she took a step. It was a secret, breathless sort of friction that existed only beneath the heavy, airless dbang of her black abaya.

Fatima adjusted the veil of her veil, ensuring not a single strand of hair escaped the fabric. To the world—and especially to her Aunt Amina—she was a portrait of piety and submission. But as she walked toward the living room, the subtle slide of nylon against skin reminded her that she was carrying a hidden, illicit architecture beneath her modesty.

"You're staring, Sameer," Fatima said, her voice dropping an octave as she entered the room. She didn't sit on the sofa; she leaned against the doorframe, allowing the abaya to shift just enough to reveal the sliver of a deep-red kameez peeking out from the neckline.

Sameer didn't look away. He couldn't. He was perched on the edge of the armchair, his posture rigid, eyes tracking the way the fabric clung to her hips. He had spent the last few hours in a state of quiet, vibrating tension, knowing exactly where she had been and what had been done to her. The memory of the previous night—the sheer number of men, the cold precision of Rakesh’s commands, and the visceral shock of her first anal experience—hung in the air like an electric charge.

"I can't help it," Sameer whispered. His gaze dropped to her feet, where the hem of the black robe barely brushed the floor. "You look... different. Even when you're covered."

Fatima let out a slow, shaky breath. Her body felt heavy, bruised in places that didn't show, and her insides felt permanently open, a lingering sensation of being filled and discarded. The addiction was a physical ache now, a craving that made her skin itch. She walked toward him, the rhythmic pinch of the lace stockings guiding her steps, and stopped directly in front of him.

"You’re shaking," Fatima noted, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She reached out, her fingers trailing lightly over his shoulder, though her mind was still echoing with the sounds of Rakesh’s laughter and the weight of several men pressing her into the mattress. The contrast was intoxicating—the timid, devoted husband before her and the ruthless efficiency of the men who had spent the last twenty-four hours dismantling her modesty.

She stepped closer, the scent of her expensive perfume mingling with the faint, muskier aroma of sweat and sex that she hadn't been able to scrub entirely from her pores. "My back is killing me, Sameer. Rakesh... he had me in positions I didn't know were possible. I feel like I’ve been broken in half."

Sameer’s breath hitched. The admission didn't repel him; it fueled him. He stood up slowly, his eyes wide with a mixture of reverence and desperation. "Let me," he whispered, "Let me help you."
e bedroom, the sanctuary of their marriage that had slowly become a dressing room for her double life. Fatima shed the abaya with a fluid motion, letting the heavy black fabric pool on the floor like a discarded skin. Underneath, she wore only the deep-red lace kameez, the side slits riding high up her thighs, exposing the sheer stockings that clung to her legs. She climbed onto the bed, lying face down, her hips slightly elevated.

Sameer’s hands were trembling as he applied the oil. He worked in slow, reverent circles across her lower back, his palms warm against her skin. Every time his thumbs pressed into the small of her back, Fatima let out a low, guttural moan that vibrated through the mattress. It wasn't a sound of relaxation; it was a sound of arousal, a physical echo of the brutality she had endured the previous night.

"You're so tense," Sameer whispered, his voice thick. He could see the faint, reddish imprints of fingertips on her hips—marks left by the men who had held her down while she was taken. Instead of jealousy, he felt a surge of vicarious heat. He loved her, but he was captivated by this new, ruined version of his wife. He loved that she belonged to him in the mornings, even if she belonged to a dozen other men by night.

Fatima shifted, her cheek pressed against the pillow, her eyes half-closed. The massage was merely a catalyst. The emptiness inside her was screaming to be filled again. She didn't want his gentleness; she wanted the feeling of being owned, of being a vessel for someone’s desire. She thought of Rakesh’s cold, commanding gaze and the way Kabir had gripped her hair, and she felt a sudden, sharp pulse of need between her legs.

"Harder, Sameer," she commanded, her voice losing its softness. "Stop being so careful with me. Do you know how they treat me? Do you know how they push me into the mattress?"

Sameer froze for a heartbeat, his hands pausing on the curve of her waist. The raw honesty of her words acted like a spark to dry tinder. He had spent years treating Fatima like a fragile porcelain doll, a sacred entity to be approached with caution. But the woman beneath him now was something else entirely—she was a map of conquests, a body that had been claimed and reshaped by men who didn't believe in caution.

He shifted his weight, his grip tightening. He didn't just massage her; he pressed his palms into her flesh with a sudden, desperate strength, trying to mimic the dominance he had witnessed from the sidelines. Fatima let out a sharp, jagged gasp, her back arching instinctively. The pressure felt right; it felt like a continuation of the night's brutality, a ghost of Rakesh’s control manifesting through her husband’s trembling hands.

"Tell me," Sameer breathed, his voice cracking. "Tell me what they did. Tell me everything."

Fatima turned her head, her eyes glazed with a mixture of exhaustion and hunger. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the sheer, pathetic desperation in his gaze. It empowered her. The modesty of the morning was gone; she was the one in control of the narrative now.

"They didn't ask, Sameer. They just took," Fatima whispered, her voice a low, rhythmic hum of confession. She shifted her weight, the red lace of her kameez sliding provocatively against the sheets. "Rakesh had me on my knees before I could even breathe. He told me exactly how a girl like me should behave when she’s being used. And Kabir... he didn't even wait for a signal. He just gripped my hair and pulled my head back so he could see the look on my face while he..."

She trailed off, letting the silence stretch, watching the way Sameer’s pupils dilated. He was shivering, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. He wasn't just listening; he was absorbing the imagery, allowing the thought of other men claiming his wife to ignite a fire that his own timid nature could never produce. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her shoulder, though he didn't dare kiss her yet. He was waiting for her permission, a habit of submission that now felt like a prerequisite for their intimacy.

"I felt them all, Sameer. Every single one," she continued, her tone shifting from confessional to commanding. She reached back, her fingers gripping his wrist and forcing his hand down toward the heat of her thighs. "And the worst part—or maybe the best part—is that I couldn't get enough. Even when it hurt, even when I felt like I was disappearing into them, I wanted more. I wanted them to break me."

The admission broke the last of Sameer's restraint. He surged forward, his body crashing into hers with a clumsy, desperate hunger. He didn't have Rakesh's cold precision or Kabir's raw power, but he had a frantic, starving energy that felt honest in its desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his voice a muffled groan of surrender. "You're a slut, Fatima. My beautiful, modest slut."

Fatima let out a sharp, triumphant laugh that sounded foreign even to her own ears. She arched her back, pressing her hips firmly into him, savoring the way his desperation made him clumsy. This was the new equilibrium of their marriage: Sameer provided the adoration and the aftercare, while other men provided the erasure of her identity.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice humming with a newfound arrogance. "A slut who still knows how to dress for her aunt. A slut who can sit in a circle of women and discuss charity while imagining Rakesh’s hands on my throat."

The mention of Rakesh acted like a switch. The intimacy of the moment shifted from romantic to transactional, a shared fantasy where Sameer was the curator of her corruption. He moved with a frantic energy, his hands wandering over the red lace of her kameez, treating her body not as a sanctuary, but as a trophy he was lucky enough to hold in trust. As he worked himself into a fever, Fatima felt a familiar, pulsing void opening up inside her. Sameer was enough for the morning, but the memory of the group night—the weight, the noise, the sheer volume of men—was already making her crave the next descent.

By the time the sun had fully climbed the horizon, Fatima was dressed once again in the armor of her modesty. The black abaya was zipped tight, the veil pinned with surgical precision. As she looked in the mirror, she saw the pious daughter-in-law the world expected, but beneath the fabric, her skin was still humming. She could feel the slight soreness in her thighs and the lingering sensitivity of her core, a secret map of the previous night’s geography.

The phone buzzed on the mahogany nightstand, a sharp, demanding vibration that cut through the morning stillness. Fatima didn't need to see the screen to know who it was. Rakesh didn't call to chat; he called to claim.

"Answer it," Sameer whispered, his voice still raspy from the morning's exertion. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching her with a mixture of awe and submission. He liked the danger of it—the way a single phone call could shift the power dynamic in the room.

Fatima picked up the phone, her voice instantly shifting into that breathless, compliant tone she reserved for the dominant man. "Yes, Rakesh."

"You're late with your check-in," Rakesh’s voice came through, cold and clinical, yet laced with an underlying current of possessiveness. "I hope you didn't spend the entire morning making Sameer do the work I started. Tell me, are you still sore? Or do you actually need a reminder of who owns that body?"

Fatima’s breath hitched, her chest heaving against the restrictive fabric of her abaya. The contrast was electric; she was dressed as a paragon of virtue, yet her voice was a low, desperate thrum. "I... I'm still sore, Rakesh. Every time I move, I feel you. I feel all of you."

"Good," Rakesh replied, his tone devoid of warmth but heavy with authority. "That soreness is a receipt. It’s a reminder that your modesty is just a costume. Now, listen carefully. I’m bored of the city for a few days. I’ve rented a farmhouse outside the suburbs—plenty of space, no neighbors within earshot. I want you there by tomorrow evening. And don't even think about bringing the abaya into the bedroom."

Fatima glanced at Sameer. He was watching her, his eyes wide, his own arousal rekindled by the sheer boldness of the conversation. He didn't look jealous; he looked hungry for the details.

"Will Sameer be coming?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"He can come," Rakesh replied, his voice devoid of warmth, "but only if he understands his role. He isn't coming as a husband, Fatima. He’s coming as a valet. He carries the bags, he pours the drinks, and he watches from the corner while I do whatever I want to you. If he can handle being a spectator to his own marriage, he’s welcome."

[xbiilove]

No reason for the husband to be so shameless. Shit.

[fuckandforget]

After these many fuck She is not pregnant

[Lordsnow]

After these many fuck She is not pregnant

I guess not, will be writing about it later