PIOUS WIFE FATIMA

[Lordsnow]

Friday morning felt heavier than the day before.

Fatima woke before the alarm and lay still for several minutes, listening to the ceiling fan and the distant sound of a pressure cooker in the next building. The short black kameez and the new darker one she had bought yesterday hung together in the almirah. She could already feel the difference in the air of the flat — the waiting.

Sameer was still asleep on his side of the bed. She woke him with a light push of her foot.

“Get up. Today you prepare everything before you leave for the bank.”

He sat up at once. “What should I do first?”

“Change the sheet. Put the dark towel at the foot of the bed. Glass of water on the side table. The new kameez and the sheer salwar — lay them on the chair, not folded. I will decide later which one.”

He moved without argument. She watched him work while she pinned her veil for the day. The ordinary cotton salwar-kameez she wore felt almost temporary, as if her body already belonged to the other clothes waiting in the room.

At the door, before he left for the bank, she stopped him with a single sentence.

“When you come back this evening you will not speak unless I ask. You will wash, change, and sit in the corner by seven-thirty. Kabir arrives at eight.”

Sameer nodded. His throat worked once. “Understood.”

After he left she moved through the flat with deliberate slowness — wiping the already clean counter, adjusting the curtain, checking the spare towel. The sensory details of the house pressed in: the faint smell of detergent from the fresh sheet, the dry heat that gathered near the window by noon, the soft scbang of her own sandals on the floor. Every ordinary sound seemed louder because of what the evening would bring.

At three o’clock a message came from Rakesh.

*Small walk first. Same corner. Abaya open to the waist under the new dark kameez. Ten minutes only.*

She changed at once. The darker short kameez sat tighter across her breasts. The sheer salwar clung the moment she stepped into it. She layered the long black abaya over everything and left it unbuttoned to the waist so that the shape of the kameez and the upper curve of her breasts remained visible if anyone looked closely. The veil stayed properly pinned.

Rakesh was already at the corner. He did not greet her. He only said, “Walk to the tea stall and back. Ordinary speed.”

The lane was alive with late-afternoon movement — a boy dragging a gas cylinder, two women arguing mildly over the price of coriander, a scooter with a delivery box. Fatima walked as instructed. Air moved through the open abaya and across the thin kameez. She felt the weight of eyes that might or might not have noticed. When she returned to the car Rakesh reached out, slid two fingers under the kameez for a brief, deliberate press between her legs, then withdrew.

“Enough. Go home. Be ready.”

She walked back to the flat with the pulse of that short touch still alive.

Sameer returned at the expected time. He followed the morning instructions exactly — washed, changed into a plain white kurta, and took his place in the corner armchair by seven-thirty. Fatima did not speak to him. She simply let him see her final change: the dark short kameez, the sheer salwar, the small black bra and high-cut panties beneath. She adjusted the veil once in the mirror, then stood near the window watching the lane until the doorbell rang at eight.

Rakesh entered first. Behind him came Kabir.

Kabir was broader, darker-skinned, with a thicker neck and heavier hands. He looked at Fatima once, slowly, from the veil down to the bare lower thighs where the short kameez ended. He did not smile.

Rakesh closed the door.

“This is Kabir,” he said. “He knows the rules. You may speak if you wish.”

Fatima’s voice was quiet but steady. “Assalamu alaikum.”

Kabir answered only with a short nod and the words, “You look better than the photograph.”

Rakesh placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the bedroom. Sameer remained in the corner as instructed. The door stayed open.

Inside the bedroom the light was low. Rakesh spoke first.

“Take the abaya off completely. Leave the rest.”

She did. The dark kameez and sheer salwar remained. Kabir stepped closer. His hand was rougher than Rakesh’s when it settled on her hip. He turned her toward the bed, pressed her forward until her palms met the mattress, and pulled the sheer fabric down only far enough. The first push of his body into hers drew a sharp, open sound from her throat. He was thicker. The stretch was immediate and deep.

Rakesh stood to the side and watched for several long strokes before he moved in front of her, opened his trousers, and guided her mouth to him. The room filled with the wet rhythm of both ends — the heavier sound of Kabir driving into her from behind, the softer, choked sounds she made around Rakesh. Her veil shifted with every movement but stayed on. Sameer’s breathing in the corner was audible in the gaps between thrusts.

Kabir spoke only once, low.

“Tight. He was not lying.”

He finished first with a deep, held thrust that forced a broken moan out of her. Rakesh followed soon after, holding her head until he was done. When both men stepped back, Fatima remained bent over the bed for a moment, the short kameez still pushed up, the sheer salwar tangled at her thighs, breath uneven.

She turned her head toward the corner.

“Sameer. Now.”

He came forward on his knees. She watched him clean her carefully, then move to each man in turn. No extra words were required. The taste, the smell, the residual heat of two different bodies — all of it passed through the quiet room without needing commentary.

Afterward the men dressed without hurry. Rakesh rested a hand briefly on the back of Fatima’s neck and said, “Next time we stay longer.” Kabir only looked at her once more and nodded.

When the door closed behind them Fatima stood in the centre of the bedroom for a full minute before she adjusted her clothing. The new dark kameez was wrinkled. The sheer salwar was damp. She did not change out of them at once. She walked to the mat, sat, and whispered the old words while Sameer remained on his knees nearby, waiting.

Outside, the lane continued its ordinary night sounds. Inside the flat the second man had come and gone, the rules had held, and the days until Amina’s visit continued their quiet countdown.

Fatima finished the whispered lines, opened her eyes, and spoke one last sentence to her husband without turning around.

“Wash the towel. Then sleep on the floor tonight.”

The new order had taken another clear step forward.


The door had closed behind Rakesh and Kabir only twenty minutes earlier, yet the heat in Fatima’s body had not gone down.

She stood in the centre of the bedroom still wearing the dark short kameez and the damp sheer salwar. The veil was slightly crooked. Between her thighs she felt the lingering openness and the slow trickle that Sameer’s tongue had not fully taken away. Her breathing had steadied, but the low, insistent pulse refused to quiet.

Sameer remained on his knees near the foot of the bed, waiting for the next instruction. He had washed the towel as ordered and returned to his place. His eyes stayed on the floor.

Fatima looked at him for a long moment. The addiction she had begun to recognise in herself — the need for more, for harder, for control — pushed against the last of her restraint. She had been taken by two men and still felt unfinished. That unfinished feeling needed somewhere to go.

“Stand up,” she said.

Sameer rose. She stepped close, close enough that he could smell the sex still on her skin, and reached down to press her palm against the front of his trousers. He was hard. The discovery did not surprise her; it only sharpened the decision.

“You have been good tonight,” she said, her voice low and even. “So you will get something. But you will get it the way I decide.”

She pushed him backward until his legs met the edge of the bed, then kept pushing until he sat. In one smooth motion she climbed onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, and pulled the sheer salwar and the small panties to the side. She took him out, guided him, and sank down in a single slow movement.

The sound that left her was open and unrestrained. Sameer’s hands rose instinctively to her hips. She caught both wrists and pinned them to the mattress.

“No,” she said. “You do not touch. You stay still and take what I give.”

She began to move. The short kameez rode up around her waist. Her veil brushed his face each time she leaned forward. She used him with steady, selfish rhythm — rising almost all the way off, then dropping down hard enough that the wet sound filled the quiet room. Every time she took him deep she let a low moan out, feeding the need that the two men had left burning.

Sameer’s breathing grew ragged. His hips tried to lift. She pressed her full weight down and stopped moving entirely.

“I did not say you could finish.”

He swallowed. “Fatima… please—”

“Quiet.”

She stayed completely still, holding him buried inside her, until the urgency in his body eased just enough. Only then did she start again, slower this time, grinding in tight circles that kept her own pleasure climbing while denying him any steady rhythm. The sensory details layered over each other — the heat of his skin under her thighs, the faint remaining taste of the other men at the back of her throat, the soft wet noise each time she moved, the controlled tremble in Sameer’s arms as he forced himself not to reach for her.

When she felt her own climax close she leaned down, mouth near his ear, and spoke in the same calm tone she used for ordinary instructions.

“You will finish when I say. Not before. And you will thank me after.”

She increased the pace only for herself, using his cock with short, hard movements until the pleasure broke through her in a long, shaking wave. She kept moving through it, drawing every pulse out, and only when the last tremor left her body did she look down at him and give the single word.

“Now.”

Sameer came with a broken sound, hips jerking under her while she held him deep and watched his face. She stayed seated until he had finished completely, then lifted off him in one clean motion and stood.

Sameer lay back against the bed, chest rising and falling. Fatima adjusted the sheer salwar and the kameez, smoothed the veil, and looked down at him without softness.

“Clean yourself. Then clean me again. After that you sleep on the floor.”

He moved at once. She stood still and let him do both tasks, her hand resting lightly on the top of his head while his tongue worked. The addiction in her body had quieted for the moment, replaced by a cool, satisfied dominance that felt almost as necessary as the sex itself.

When he finished she pointed to the thin mattress on the floor.

“Go.”

Sameer obeyed. Fatima switched off the main light, left only the small side lamp on, and lay down on the bed alone. The room still smelled of everything that had happened. Between her legs she felt used and claimed and, for the first time that night, almost settled.

Outside, the lane was quiet. Inside the flat the new hunger had found another outlet, and the rules had expanded once more without needing to be spoken twice.

Kabir had been the second man.
Sameer had been reminded exactly where he belonged.
And Fatima, still tasting both facts, closed her eyes knowing the addiction would rise again soon.