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(This post was last modified: 7 hours ago by domondaemon. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
**Chapter 5: The Empty Return**
(~5,000 words)
One full week passed without a single word from Abdullah.
I kept my phone on silent, buried in the bottom drawer of my almirah, afraid even to look at the screen. Every time it vibrated I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs, expecting the worst. But it was only Ammi asking if Ayesha had eaten, or a neighbour wanting to borrow sugar, or my husband sending a quick “miss you, habibti” from Dubai. Nothing from my brother. No late-night knocks at the door. No new videos. No messages threatening to ruin my life.
By the fourth day I started breathing again. I prayed five times a day plus tahajjud, forehead pressed to the sajjada until my knees bruised. I fasted on Monday and Thursday even though I wasn’t supposed to because of the… leftover soreness. I scrubbed my body raw in the shower every morning and every night, whispering istighfar until my throat ached. The bruises on my hips faded to yellow. The bite marks on my breasts turned faint. The constant ache between my legs slowly dulled to a memory.
I told myself the nightmare was over.
,.' had heard my endless pleas. Abdullah had come to his senses. The video was probably deleted. I was safe. My marriage was safe. My soul was… damaged, but perhaps salvageable if I never spoke of it again.
On the seventh morning my phone buzzed while I was folding Ayesha’s clothes.
**Abdullah:**
Chinna, I am so sorry. What I did was unforgivable. I was drunk on my own madness. I have deleted the video. Every copy. It is gone. Please forgive your brother. I will never contact you again. Never touch you. I swear on Ammi’s life. Be happy with your husband. You deserve peace.
I read the message ten times, tears blurring the screen. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. Relief flooded me so hard my knees buckled. I sank to the floor, pressed my forehead to the cool tiles, and sobbed with gratitude.
“Ya ,.', shukr… shukr… You saved me. You stopped him. You took the video away. I am free.”
I typed back with trembling fingers:
**Me:**
Thank you, anna. I forgive you. But please… never speak to me again. Never come near me. I am married. I have a daughter. Let us pretend it never happened. For the sake of our family. For the sake of ,.'.
He replied instantly.
**Abdullah:**
Understood. Deleted. Gone forever. Salaam.
That was the last message. My phone stayed silent after that. I deleted the entire conversation, cleared the cache, and felt the chains around my chest finally loosen.
I was safe.
My horror was over.
My husband returned exactly one week after that message.
He walked through the door at 9:17 p.m., suitcase in one hand, a small gift bag for Ayesha in the other. He looked tired but happy, the same gentle smile I had fallen in love with six years ago. I ran to him, threw my arms around his neck, and buried my face in his shoulder so he wouldn’t see the tears that weren’t only from missing him.
“As-salāmu ʿalaikum, jaan.”
“Wa ʿalaikum as-salām, habibti. I missed you so much.”
Ayesha squealed and demanded to be picked up. We spent the next hour being a normal family—dinner, bath time, bedtime stories. I kept touching his arm, his hand, his face, reassuring myself he was real, that my life was still mine.
When Ayesha finally slept, he pulled me into our bedroom and locked the door.
“I need you, Nasreen,” he whispered, voice thick. “Three months is too long.”
I nodded, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. I wanted to want him. I needed to want him. This was my husband. My halal. My safe place.
He kissed me softly at first, the way he always did—respectful, almost shy. His hands slid under my nightie, cupping my breasts gently. I closed my eyes and tried to feel something. Anything. But his palms were smaller than I remembered. Softer. They didn’t pinch or bite. They didn’t leave marks. They simply… touched.
I guided his hand lower, between my legs. I was dry. Embarrassingly dry. He didn’t seem to notice. He rubbed me with two fingers, slow circles, the way he always had. It felt… polite. Mechanical. Nothing like the relentless, filthy pressure that had made me scream and squirt and beg against my will.
He kissed my neck. “You’re so beautiful.”
I whispered, “I missed you,” and it was only half a lie.
He entered me after only a few minutes of foreplay. Five inches. I felt the difference immediately. The stretch was… nothing. A gentle pressure, then fullness that didn’t reach anywhere important. He moved slowly, lovingly, hips rolling in the same careful rhythm he had used on our wedding night.
I waited for the spark. For the heat. For the building wave that used to come even with him, years ago.
It never came.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, tried to angle my hips, tried to find that spot Abdullah had ruined me with. Nothing. My husband’s cock slid in and out, pleasant but distant, like someone stroking my arm. My clit throbbed uselessly. My walls clenched around almost nothing. I felt empty.
He groaned softly after six or seven minutes. “I’m close, jaan.”
I whispered, “Come inside me,” because that was what a good wife said.
He thrust a little faster, breath hitching, and spilled. A few warm spurts. Shallow. Thin. I felt them land somewhere near my entrance, barely inside. Nothing like the thick, endless floods that had painted my womb, leaked down my thighs for hours, left me swollen and dripping for days.
He kissed my forehead, rolled off me, and was asleep within minutes, one arm dbangd across my stomach.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly above us.
My body was on fire.
Not from pleasure. From frustration. From hunger. From shame so deep I wanted to claw my own skin off.
My pussy ached—empty, fluttering, still wet but not from him. From memory. From the ghost of 7.5 thick inches stretching me open, battering my cervix, forcing orgasm after orgasm while I screamed no. From the way Abdullah had filled me so completely I could feel him for hours afterward, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky trails that marked me as his.
I pressed my thighs together. A small, involuntary pulse answered. My clit was swollen, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I could feel the ghost of his cock dragging over that spot inside me, the wet slap of his balls, the way he had made me ride him until my thighs burned and I came so hard I blacked out.
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.
“Ya ,.'… forgive me. I am lying next to my husband. He just made love to me. And all I can think about is my brother’s cock. What is wrong with me? Why does my body remember him like this? Why does it crave the sin?”
I turned my face into the pillow so my husband wouldn’t hear the broken sob that escaped.
My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. Fingers brushed my clit—already slick, already aching. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood and pulled my hand away.
No. I would not touch myself thinking of him. I would not.
But the ache only grew.
I remembered the way Abdullah had pinned my wrists, the way he had pounded into me for hours, the way my body had betrayed me with orgasm after orgasm even while I begged him to stop. I remembered the thick head stretching me, the veins dragging along my walls, the way he had flooded me so deeply I could feel it sloshing when I walked the next day.
My husband’s five inches had barely touched the sides.
I pressed my face harder into the pillow, whispering prayers under my breath.
“Astaghfirullah… astaghfirullah… astaghfirullah…”
But the words did nothing to stop the heat pooling between my legs. My nipples were tight, aching for a mouth that would suck hard enough to hurt. My pussy clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled the way only one man had ever filled it.
I hated myself.
I hated my body.
I hated Abdullah for breaking me.
And still… I wanted him.
The desire was a living thing now, curling low in my belly, whispering filthy things in the dark.
*He would be inside me in seconds. He would stretch me until I screamed. He would make me come so many times I would lose count. He would fill me until it leaked out for hours. He would make me ride him again, force me to take every inch while I cried and begged and came anyway.*
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of my husband. Of Ayesha. Of Jannah. Of anything pure.
It didn’t work.
My hand drifted down again. One finger circled my clit—light, guilty. A tiny spark. I snatched it away as if burned.
“No. I will not. I am married. I am a mother. I am a '. woman. This is shaytan. This is the punishment for what he did to me. I will fast tomorrow. I will pray extra. I will make my husband touch me again in the morning and I will force myself to feel it.”
But even as I made the promises, my hips rolled once, helplessly, against the mattress.
I turned onto my side, back to my sleeping husband, and curled into a tight ball. Tears soaked the pillow. My pussy throbbed steadily, empty and angry.
Abdullah’s last message echoed in my head.
*Never contact you again. Never touch you.*
I should have been relieved.
Instead, the words felt like a cage door swinging open… and me standing on the wrong side, staring at the lock I suddenly wanted to break.
I whispered into the darkness, voice cracking.
“Anna… why did you stop? Why did you apologise? Why did you delete the video? I was starting to forget… I was starting to heal… and now all I can think about is how empty I feel without you inside me.”
My hand pressed between my thighs, not moving, just cupping the heat. I didn’t stroke. I didn’t come. I simply lay there, trembling with need and shame and the terrifying knowledge that the horror was not over.
It had only changed shape.
And tomorrow, when my husband left for the office, I would be alone again.
Alone with this new, aching hunger that had my brother’s name written all over it.
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength I no longer believed I possessed.
“Ya ,.'… protect me from myself. Protect me from him. Protect me from the sin I am already craving again.”
But deep down, in the place where guilt and desire twisted together like lovers, I already knew the truth.
The video might be deleted.
The messages might be gone.
But the memory of his 7.5-inch cock stretching me open, filling me, ruining me… that was never going away.
And tonight, lying next to my gentle, loving, five-inch husband who had just fallen asleep without making me come even once, I realised something that terrified me more than any blackmail ever could.
I was no longer afraid Abdullah would come back.
I was afraid he wouldn’t.
(~5,000 words)
One full week passed without a single word from Abdullah.
I kept my phone on silent, buried in the bottom drawer of my almirah, afraid even to look at the screen. Every time it vibrated I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs, expecting the worst. But it was only Ammi asking if Ayesha had eaten, or a neighbour wanting to borrow sugar, or my husband sending a quick “miss you, habibti” from Dubai. Nothing from my brother. No late-night knocks at the door. No new videos. No messages threatening to ruin my life.
By the fourth day I started breathing again. I prayed five times a day plus tahajjud, forehead pressed to the sajjada until my knees bruised. I fasted on Monday and Thursday even though I wasn’t supposed to because of the… leftover soreness. I scrubbed my body raw in the shower every morning and every night, whispering istighfar until my throat ached. The bruises on my hips faded to yellow. The bite marks on my breasts turned faint. The constant ache between my legs slowly dulled to a memory.
I told myself the nightmare was over.
,.' had heard my endless pleas. Abdullah had come to his senses. The video was probably deleted. I was safe. My marriage was safe. My soul was… damaged, but perhaps salvageable if I never spoke of it again.
On the seventh morning my phone buzzed while I was folding Ayesha’s clothes.
**Abdullah:**
Chinna, I am so sorry. What I did was unforgivable. I was drunk on my own madness. I have deleted the video. Every copy. It is gone. Please forgive your brother. I will never contact you again. Never touch you. I swear on Ammi’s life. Be happy with your husband. You deserve peace.
I read the message ten times, tears blurring the screen. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. Relief flooded me so hard my knees buckled. I sank to the floor, pressed my forehead to the cool tiles, and sobbed with gratitude.
“Ya ,.', shukr… shukr… You saved me. You stopped him. You took the video away. I am free.”
I typed back with trembling fingers:
**Me:**
Thank you, anna. I forgive you. But please… never speak to me again. Never come near me. I am married. I have a daughter. Let us pretend it never happened. For the sake of our family. For the sake of ,.'.
He replied instantly.
**Abdullah:**
Understood. Deleted. Gone forever. Salaam.
That was the last message. My phone stayed silent after that. I deleted the entire conversation, cleared the cache, and felt the chains around my chest finally loosen.
I was safe.
My horror was over.
My husband returned exactly one week after that message.
He walked through the door at 9:17 p.m., suitcase in one hand, a small gift bag for Ayesha in the other. He looked tired but happy, the same gentle smile I had fallen in love with six years ago. I ran to him, threw my arms around his neck, and buried my face in his shoulder so he wouldn’t see the tears that weren’t only from missing him.
“As-salāmu ʿalaikum, jaan.”
“Wa ʿalaikum as-salām, habibti. I missed you so much.”
Ayesha squealed and demanded to be picked up. We spent the next hour being a normal family—dinner, bath time, bedtime stories. I kept touching his arm, his hand, his face, reassuring myself he was real, that my life was still mine.
When Ayesha finally slept, he pulled me into our bedroom and locked the door.
“I need you, Nasreen,” he whispered, voice thick. “Three months is too long.”
I nodded, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. I wanted to want him. I needed to want him. This was my husband. My halal. My safe place.
He kissed me softly at first, the way he always did—respectful, almost shy. His hands slid under my nightie, cupping my breasts gently. I closed my eyes and tried to feel something. Anything. But his palms were smaller than I remembered. Softer. They didn’t pinch or bite. They didn’t leave marks. They simply… touched.
I guided his hand lower, between my legs. I was dry. Embarrassingly dry. He didn’t seem to notice. He rubbed me with two fingers, slow circles, the way he always had. It felt… polite. Mechanical. Nothing like the relentless, filthy pressure that had made me scream and squirt and beg against my will.
He kissed my neck. “You’re so beautiful.”
I whispered, “I missed you,” and it was only half a lie.
He entered me after only a few minutes of foreplay. Five inches. I felt the difference immediately. The stretch was… nothing. A gentle pressure, then fullness that didn’t reach anywhere important. He moved slowly, lovingly, hips rolling in the same careful rhythm he had used on our wedding night.
I waited for the spark. For the heat. For the building wave that used to come even with him, years ago.
It never came.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, tried to angle my hips, tried to find that spot Abdullah had ruined me with. Nothing. My husband’s cock slid in and out, pleasant but distant, like someone stroking my arm. My clit throbbed uselessly. My walls clenched around almost nothing. I felt empty.
He groaned softly after six or seven minutes. “I’m close, jaan.”
I whispered, “Come inside me,” because that was what a good wife said.
He thrust a little faster, breath hitching, and spilled. A few warm spurts. Shallow. Thin. I felt them land somewhere near my entrance, barely inside. Nothing like the thick, endless floods that had painted my womb, leaked down my thighs for hours, left me swollen and dripping for days.
He kissed my forehead, rolled off me, and was asleep within minutes, one arm dbangd across my stomach.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly above us.
My body was on fire.
Not from pleasure. From frustration. From hunger. From shame so deep I wanted to claw my own skin off.
My pussy ached—empty, fluttering, still wet but not from him. From memory. From the ghost of 7.5 thick inches stretching me open, battering my cervix, forcing orgasm after orgasm while I screamed no. From the way Abdullah had filled me so completely I could feel him for hours afterward, his cum leaking out in slow, sticky trails that marked me as his.
I pressed my thighs together. A small, involuntary pulse answered. My clit was swollen, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I could feel the ghost of his cock dragging over that spot inside me, the wet slap of his balls, the way he had made me ride him until my thighs burned and I came so hard I blacked out.
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.
“Ya ,.'… forgive me. I am lying next to my husband. He just made love to me. And all I can think about is my brother’s cock. What is wrong with me? Why does my body remember him like this? Why does it crave the sin?”
I turned my face into the pillow so my husband wouldn’t hear the broken sob that escaped.
My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. Fingers brushed my clit—already slick, already aching. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood and pulled my hand away.
No. I would not touch myself thinking of him. I would not.
But the ache only grew.
I remembered the way Abdullah had pinned my wrists, the way he had pounded into me for hours, the way my body had betrayed me with orgasm after orgasm even while I begged him to stop. I remembered the thick head stretching me, the veins dragging along my walls, the way he had flooded me so deeply I could feel it sloshing when I walked the next day.
My husband’s five inches had barely touched the sides.
I pressed my face harder into the pillow, whispering prayers under my breath.
“Astaghfirullah… astaghfirullah… astaghfirullah…”
But the words did nothing to stop the heat pooling between my legs. My nipples were tight, aching for a mouth that would suck hard enough to hurt. My pussy clenched around nothing, desperate to be filled the way only one man had ever filled it.
I hated myself.
I hated my body.
I hated Abdullah for breaking me.
And still… I wanted him.
The desire was a living thing now, curling low in my belly, whispering filthy things in the dark.
*He would be inside me in seconds. He would stretch me until I screamed. He would make me come so many times I would lose count. He would fill me until it leaked out for hours. He would make me ride him again, force me to take every inch while I cried and begged and came anyway.*
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think of my husband. Of Ayesha. Of Jannah. Of anything pure.
It didn’t work.
My hand drifted down again. One finger circled my clit—light, guilty. A tiny spark. I snatched it away as if burned.
“No. I will not. I am married. I am a mother. I am a '. woman. This is shaytan. This is the punishment for what he did to me. I will fast tomorrow. I will pray extra. I will make my husband touch me again in the morning and I will force myself to feel it.”
But even as I made the promises, my hips rolled once, helplessly, against the mattress.
I turned onto my side, back to my sleeping husband, and curled into a tight ball. Tears soaked the pillow. My pussy throbbed steadily, empty and angry.
Abdullah’s last message echoed in my head.
*Never contact you again. Never touch you.*
I should have been relieved.
Instead, the words felt like a cage door swinging open… and me standing on the wrong side, staring at the lock I suddenly wanted to break.
I whispered into the darkness, voice cracking.
“Anna… why did you stop? Why did you apologise? Why did you delete the video? I was starting to forget… I was starting to heal… and now all I can think about is how empty I feel without you inside me.”
My hand pressed between my thighs, not moving, just cupping the heat. I didn’t stroke. I didn’t come. I simply lay there, trembling with need and shame and the terrifying knowledge that the horror was not over.
It had only changed shape.
And tomorrow, when my husband left for the office, I would be alone again.
Alone with this new, aching hunger that had my brother’s name written all over it.
I closed my eyes and prayed for strength I no longer believed I possessed.
“Ya ,.'… protect me from myself. Protect me from him. Protect me from the sin I am already craving again.”
But deep down, in the place where guilt and desire twisted together like lovers, I already knew the truth.
The video might be deleted.
The messages might be gone.
But the memory of his 7.5-inch cock stretching me open, filling me, ruining me… that was never going away.
And tonight, lying next to my gentle, loving, five-inch husband who had just fallen asleep without making me come even once, I realised something that terrified me more than any blackmail ever could.
I was no longer afraid Abdullah would come back.
I was afraid he wouldn’t.
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