PIOUS WIFE FATIMA

[Lordsnow]

The morning after the other city, the flat felt smaller.

Fatima woke to the ordinary sounds — the fan, a scooter in the lane, the distant call of the vegetable seller — but her body still carried the memory of the light-blue shirt and the tight jeans and the way Rakesh had finished inside her on a dark service road. She rose, washed, and pinned her veil with the same neatness as always. The folded blue shirt and jeans remained on the chair like evidence that refused to be put away.

Sameer was already sitting on the floor mattress, waiting. She looked at him for a long moment before speaking.

“Four days,” she said. “After that night there will be only a few days left before Amina arrives. You will need to remember two different sets of behaviour. One for the men. One for her. We will practise both.”

He nodded. His voice was quiet. “Tell me what to do.”

She did not answer at once. She went to the almirah, took out the black lace set and the sheer stockings that had been reserved for the poker night, and laid them on the bed beside her ordinary cotton salwar-kameez.

“Today you will see me in these under my normal clothes,” she said. “You will check me whenever I tell you. If the phone rings and it is Amina, you will watch my face while I speak to her. That is the first practice.”

She changed slowly in front of him. The black lace bra first, the fine pattern already showing the darker skin of her nipples. Then the matching high-cut panties. The sheer stockings followed, smoothed up each leg until the waistband sat firm. Over everything she pulled a plain, slightly worn cotton salwar-kameez — the kind she had worn for years. From the outside nothing had changed. Underneath, the lace and stockings waited.

“Come here.”

Sameer stood. She took his hand and placed it between her legs, over the fabric of the salwar, so he could feel the lace and the heat beneath.

“This is what I will wear under the abaya in four days,” she said. “You will hold the abaya when it comes off. Rakesh has already decided that. You will not look away. You will not speak. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She held his hand there a moment longer, then released him.

The day moved with deliberate slowness. Fatima cooked, cleaned, sat on the mat at the usual times. Every so often she called Sameer to her and made him kneel so he could lift the hem of her salwar and confirm that the lace and stockings were still in place. Each check was brief, practical, and charged. The knowledge that Amina could call at any moment sat between them like a third presence.

At twenty past two the landline rang.

Both of them froze for half a second. Fatima wiped her hands, walked to the phone, and answered with the soft, obedient voice she had used since childhood.

“Walaikum assalam, Aunty.”

Amina’s voice came through clear and dry, asking about the spare room, about whether Sameer’s office would give him time to pick her up from the station, about the exact train she was considering. Fatima answered every question calmly. While she spoke she looked directly at Sameer and pointed to the floor in front of her. He came and knelt. She lifted the hem of her salwar with her free hand so that the black lace and the top of the sheer stockings were visible to him only, inches from his face, while her mouth continued giving Amina the polite, precise answers the older woman expected.

The call lasted eleven minutes. When it ended Fatima set the phone down carefully and kept the salwar lifted for another few seconds.

“She will arrive seven days after the poker night,” she said quietly. “You will have almost no time to make mistakes.”

Sameer remained on his knees. “I will not make mistakes.”

The afternoon continued. At four o’clock Rakesh’s message arrived.

*One of the five is a man Kabir recommended. Heavier hands. He has been told the woman serving is still shy and will need clear orders. The other four are quieter but will not stay quiet once the abaya opens. Sameer will sit where I place him and will hold whatever clothing is removed. Confirm you understand.*

Fatima read it once, then called Sameer to read it as well. She watched his throat move as he took in the words.

“Reply for me,” she said. “Write: I understand. He will hold the clothes.”

Sameer typed the message with steady hands and sent it. The phone was placed back on the table like a closed door.

Evening came. Fatima did not change out of the lace and stockings. She cooked in them, served Sameer his food in them, and later sat on the edge of the bed while he knelt between her knees and cleaned the day’s slow accumulation of arousal with his tongue because she ordered it. She did not allow him any release of his own. When he finished she pointed to the floor mattress.

“Two more days of this,” she said. “Then the final day of preparation. Then the night itself. After that we will have only a short time to put the house back into the shape Amina expects. You will not forget either version of the rules.”

Sameer lay down on the thin mattress without speaking. Fatima switched off the main light, left the small side lamp on, and stood for a while in the ordinary cotton salwar-kameez that hid the black lace and sheer stockings. She could feel both layers at once — the modest outer cloth and the deliberate erotic ones beneath — the same way she could feel both futures pressing closer: the five unknown men in four days, and Amina’s sharp eyes a week after that.

She sat on the mat, whispered the old words more slowly than usual, and stayed there long after the final line had been spoken.

Outside, the lane was quiet.  
Inside the flat the countdown had become a physical presence, tight and irreversible.


Two days remained.

The morning felt already half-consumed by the night that was coming. Fatima moved through the flat with careful ordinary gestures — boiling water, folding a dupatta that did not need folding, wiping the clean glass of the window — while underneath the plain cotton salwar-kameez she again wore the black lace set and the sheer stockings. Sameer had checked them twice before leaving for the bank, once at the door and once on his knees after she lifted the hem and simply waited.

At 11:40 a message arrived from Rakesh.

*Today 3:30. The same service flat near Gachibowli. Full abaya and veil when you arrive. Underneath exactly what you will wear on the night. Sameer stays home. Come ready to practise.*

She replied with a single word: *Yes.*

The hours until half-past three stretched and tightened at the same time. Fatima prepared the spare room even though Amina would not arrive for another nine days, changing the sheet, placing a fresh towel, arranging the pillow the way her aunt preferred. The ordinary task felt like a counterweight to the black lace against her skin. When she finished she stood in the doorway of the spare room for a long minute, looking at the neat bed, then closed the door quietly.

At three she changed. The black lace bra and high-cut panties. The sheer stockings smoothed slowly up each leg. Over them the full black abaya, heavy and familiar. The veil pinned exactly as she had pinned it for years — no loose ends, no modern adjustment. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw the woman Amina still believed existed. Only the knowledge of what lay underneath, and of the five men who would see it removed, made the reflection feel like borrowed clothing.

Sameer returned early. She met him at the door.

“I am going out. You will stay here. If Amina calls, the same answer as before. If Imran comes, you will not let him past the front room. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She left him standing in the doorway and walked to the end of the lane where an auto was already waiting.

The service flat was on the fourth floor of a quiet building. Rakesh opened the door before she could knock. He looked once at the full abaya and the neatly pinned veil, then stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The main room was sparsely furnished — a long sofa, two armchairs, a low table, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. A single bedroom was visible through an open door. Rakesh closed the front door and turned the lock.

“Stand there.”

Fatima stood in the centre of the room. He walked a slow circle around her, checking the fall of the abaya, the pinning of the veil, the way she held her hands.

“This is how you will enter,” he said. “Eyes down. You will not speak until spoken to. When I take the abaya from your shoulders you will let it go without reaching for it. Sameer will be the one who holds it after that. Practise the first movement now.”

He stepped behind her and lifted the abaya by the shoulders. Fatima let her arms hang loose. The heavy cloth slid down her body and pooled at her feet, leaving her in only the black lace, the sheer stockings, and the veil. The air of the flat touched her bare waist and the upper curves of her breasts above the lace bra. She kept her eyes lowered.



Rakesh picked up the abaya, folded it once, and placed it on the arm of a chair.

“Again.”

He made her put the abaya back on, pin the veil more carefully, and repeat the removal three more times. Each time the cloth left her shoulders the same low heat gathered between her legs. By the fourth time her breathing had changed.

“Now the veil,” he said.

He stood in front of her.

“On the night the second or third forfeit will be the veil. A man will say, ‘Remove it.’ You will take the pins out yourself, fold the veil once, and place it on the table. Practise.”

Fatima’s fingers found the pins. The veil came away. Her long hair fell loose around her shoulders and down her back. She folded the cloth neatly and set it on the low table. Standing now in only the black lace and sheer stockings, she felt the full weight of the exposure even though the room contained only one man.



Rakesh looked at her for a long moment.

“Sit on the sofa.”

She sat. He remained standing.

“On the night men will ask you to sit on their laps between hands. You will do it. You will keep your back straight and your hands on your own thighs unless they move your hands. Practise the position.”



He sat in the armchair opposite and waited. Fatima rose, crossed the small space, and settled on his left thigh as instructed, back straight, hands on her own legs. The lace panties and the sheer stockings made the contact immediate and intimate. Rakesh did not touch her yet.

“You will answer when spoken to,” he said. “Short answers. Soft voice. The same voice you use with Amina. If a man tells you to open your legs, you will open them. If he puts your hand on him, you will leave it there. If I tell you to stand and remove the bra, you will remove it. We will practise the voice now.”

He began giving short orders in the same calm tone he would use on the night.

“Open your legs.”

She opened them.

“Look at me.”

She raised her eyes.

“Tell me what you are wearing under the abaya on the night.”

“Only the black lace and the stockings,” she answered, voice soft and even.

“Tell me what Sameer will do when the abaya comes off.”

“He will hold it. He will not speak.”

“Tell me what you will do when a man finishes inside you.”

A small pause. Then the same soft voice. “I will wait for your instruction. If you tell Sameer to clean, he will clean.”

Rakesh’s hand finally settled on her inner thigh, high enough that his fingers rested against the edge of the lace. He did not stroke her. He simply kept the contact while he continued.





“One of the five is rougher than Kabir. He has been told you are still shy and will need clear, direct orders. When he speaks to you, you will answer the same way you are answering me. No hesitation. No covering yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He began to move his fingers then — slow, deliberate circles over the lace where she was already wet. Fatima’s breathing deepened, but she kept her back straight and her hands on her own thighs exactly as instructed. The psychological weight of the practice — the repeated removal of the abaya, the folded veil on the table, the soft obedient voice, the knowledge that five strangers would soon replace this single man — tightened every sensation.

Rakesh edged her with careful patience. Each time her hips began to move he stopped and made her repeat another detail of the night.

“Where will Sameer sit?”

“In the corner where you place him.”

“What will you do when the first man asks you to open the abaya?”

“I will open it to the waist and continue serving.”

“What will you say if a man asks whether your husband knows?”

“I will say yes.”

He brought her close three times and denied her each time, keeping his fingers slick and her body trembling on his thigh. The black lace was dark with wetness. The sheer stockings clung to her legs. Her hair, freed from the veil, stuck lightly to her neck.

Only after the third denial did he speak again.

“Stand up. Remove the bra.”

Fatima stood. She reached behind her, unclasped the lace bra, and let it fall. Her breasts were heavy and tight, the nipples dark and stiff. Rakesh looked at them without touching.

“On the night this will happen in front of five men. You will do it with the same hands and the same face. Put the bra back on.”

She obeyed. The rediscovery of the lace against her sensitive skin made her exhale sharply.

Rakesh rose from the chair.

“We are finished with practice. Turn around, hands on the arm of the sofa.”

She turned. He positioned her carefully, pulled the lace panties to the side, and entered her in one slow thrust. Fatima’s forehead dropped against her hands. He fucked her with deep, controlled strokes, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the back of her neck under the loose hair. He did not speak until she had come once, the orgasm drawn out and shaking because of the long denial.




“Again,” he said, and kept the same steady rhythm until a second climax left her knees weak.

He finished inside her a minute later, held himself there, then stepped back.

“You will keep it until you reach home. Sameer will clean you. Tell him everything we practised. Then tell him he has two days left to prepare himself for what he will see.”

Fatima straightened slowly. The lace panties sat crooked. The stockings had slipped slightly. She put the abaya back on with careful hands, pinned the veil exactly as before, and stood once more as the modest woman who would enter the poker night.

Rakesh opened the door.

“Two days,” he said. “After that the only new instructions will be the ones I give you in the room itself.”

She walked out into the corridor with his cum still warm inside her and the full sequence of the coming night fixed in her body as well as her mind. The lift doors closed. The abaya felt heavier than it had on the way up.

Outside, the afternoon light was ordinary.  
Inside her the countdown had dropped to two days, and the practice had made the future feel already present — five unknown men, the abaya falling, the soft obedient voice answering strangers, and Sameer in the corner holding whatever clothing she was ordered to remove.

She raised one hand, stopped an auto, and began the journey home to the husband who would clean her and listen to every detail.