PIOUS WIFE FATIMA

[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.