15
Z ayn
“Drop me at Temple Street, if you would.”
Tony glances across. “Ah, yes. It’s Friday. You should have said earlier.”
“No sweat. Prayers don’t start until twenty-one minutes past.” I know, I checked today’s Salah time earlier on the app on my phone. Most devout Muslims pray five times a day at prescribed times. It’s vital to be accurate, and to make sure no one gets it wrong the Imam broadcasts an alert from loudspeakers on the roof of the mosque. The wailing sound is the call to prayer, and most men within earshot respond. Women, too, though they generally don’t attend the mosque but pray in private at home.
I’m somewhat casual about religious observance, but I make an occasional effort, especially after a busy night like we just had. At such times I do feel a need to make my peace with my Maker, but I rarely get along to the main prayers, Salat al-Jumu’ah , on Fridays because it is always held in the afternoon, not usually a convenient time for me. I generally prefer the Fajr , early morning prayer time. Before dawn suits me fine. It’s the best I can manage, and so far, the Almighty seems satisfied.
“How will you get back?” Tony asks me as he pulls in close to the mosque.
The wail of the mosque speakers fills the air.
“I’ll get an Uber,” I reply. “See you later.”
The four-by-four drives off, and I join the handful of men making their way into the ornate Masjid al-salam mosque on Temple Street. The building is new, built by public subscription and opened about a year ago. I chipped in the princely sum of fifteen thousand pounds towards the building fund, so I prefer to come here rather than frequent one of the more traditional places of worship around the city.
I trot up the six or so front steps to the grand entrance, decorated with green tiles, gleaming in the artificial predawn fluorescent light. Within the main entrance is the ablutions room and shoe racks. I take off my shoes and leave them with the dozens of others lined up on the metal shelving. My socks go in my pocket, then I step into the tepid foot bath. I don’t linger there too long. My final preparations are to join the men clustered around the trough-like sink in the centre of the room and wash my hands, face, and hair in the fast-running water. It’s important to present myself in a state fit to be before my Maker.
I’m the last one to enter the main prayer room. It’s an opulent space, thickly carpeted in a pattern incorporating individual prayer mats, embossed in gold on a dark-crimson background. There are no pictures or statues, Muslims don’t make images of their god, but no shortage of gold leaf.
Men stand in three rows at the far end of the hall, the Imam positioned at the front with his back to the assembled faithful and his face to the qibla , an ornately decorated nook at the front of the building. This faces Mecca, as closely measured by an accurate compass during the construction phase.
All the rows are full, so I take my position behind. A few heads turn to acknowledge my presence, and two men step back from the line in front to stand on either side of me. Muslims pray shoulder to shoulder, no one stands alone.
The Imam’s voice soars above us, filling the huge space. We’re off.
I, and every other man there, touch my forefingers to my ears, a sort of internal signal that I am in the presence of my god and all external distractions are now excluded. Silenced. It operates a sort of mental switch, and my mind-set is instantly transformed.
The Imam leads us in prayer. We join in as required, drop to our knees or even lie flat, facedown. I am in no doubt about my place in this world when I lie prostrate before God. The prayers take perhaps twenty minutes, but I generally lose track of time. Suddenly, the prayers close, and we all drift back out into the ablutions room. There’s lots of chatting, relatives greeting one another, business deals beings struck while we reclaim our footwear. We exit into thin morning sunshine, and the crowd disperses quietly.
I pull up my Uber app to learn that my driver, Eric, is just four minutes away. I summon him, then stroll to the end of the road to meet him.
“Just drop me at the gates,” I tell him when we draw close to Caernbro Ghyll.
He does exactly that. I hand him a twenty-pound note and get out without waiting for change.
The gates are locked, obviously, but I let myself in with the key code and jog to the house. There, I use my key to get in and meet Tony in the hallway. He’s balancing two mugs of tea and is on his way upstairs.
“Feel better for that?” he asks as he passes me.
“Yeah, I guess. Is anyone else up?” I’m pretty sure he waited until he saw me come in, though he says nothing about that.
Instead, “No. Kettle’s still hot, though. See you at two.”
Two in the afternoon is our usual briefing and debriefing meeting. Everyone attends, unless they have a good excuse. In general, there are no good excuses.
I raise my hand in acknowledgement and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of something warm and wet.
Leila
I stir at the sound of the door closing. I wasn’t really asleep, more dozing, half listening for him to come home. The soft click was enough to disturb me.
I roll onto my back and open my eyes. “You’re here. I was getting worried…”
He deposits his cup on the bedside table and drops a light kiss on my mouth.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous, all half-asleep and mussed up. Sorry to be so late. I was working.”
“Till now?” I don’t mean it as an accusation, more an expression of sympathy and surprise.
He seems to take it like that.
“We don’t keep regular hours,” he replies, dragging his T shirt over his head.
Momentarily distracted by the glorious display of ink, I have to gather my wits. “I know, but…”
“Neither do doctors,” he reminds me. “You have all of this to look forward to.”
He’s right. I wriggle over to make more room for him in the bed. He slips in beside me, naked but still warm. I move in closer again and wrap myself around him.
“I see you abandoned those sweet silk pyjamas.” He nuzzles my hair. “You’re a treat to come home to. I shall be keeping my late nights to a limit as long as you’re here.”
“How long will that be, do you think?”
He hesitates, then, “Not long. A few days, perhaps.”
“Will you speak to my cousins? And do you think they’ll listen this time?” The warnings haven’t worked so far, but I can’t let those idiots control my life. “I was thinking, maybe I could transfer to another medical school. Just…disappear.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls.
“Or maybe, the police… We do have evidence, after all. The video…”
“And explain why you didn’t go to them two years ago? Don’t worry, we already had a word with Dumb and Dumber, and you can start going to the college again whenever you like.”
“Oh.” I push myself up on one elbow. “And can I go home yet?”
“Do you want to?”
“Not especially, but…”
“Then stay a while longer. We have some…work to do on your flat.”
“What work?”
“Security,” he tells me after another few moments’ hesitation.
I gaze down at him. He’s not telling me everything, I’m sure of that. “What did you say to them?”
He rolls me onto my back and kisses me again. “Not your problem. Just believe me, they got the message.”
I have more questions, but somehow, I struggle to call them to mind right now. Instead, I tunnel my fingers through his hair and give myself over to the kiss.
“Do you have condoms?” I gasp when I get the chance.
“Of course I have fucking condoms,” he murmurs before he disappears under the duvet.
His fingers explore my abdomen, sliding lower to slip between my legs.
“So wet.” The words are muffled, but I hear him clearly enough. “So fucking beautiful.”
He traces his forefinger around the entrance to my pussy, then spreads my lips wide. The flat of his tongue sends me arching, already preparing to soar.
I throw off the duvet to leave the pair of us writhing on the mattress. I wriggle my position, stretch out my arm to caress his buttock, then reach between his legs and cup his balls.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, then redoubles his attentions to my aching, swollen pussy.
It’s not easy to concentrate on my own efforts, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I grasp his balls and squeeze, then reach a little further to wrap my fingers around his stiff shaft. They barely meet, but again, who cares? I caress him with perhaps more enthusiasm than skill, loving my own reckless abandon.
This man brings out the worst in me. Or maybe the best.
My uncle would so not approve, and this knowledge makes everything so much sweeter.
I lose the plot somewhat when he slips two fingers inside me, then curls them to increase the friction. Pleasure surges, and I’m close to losing it.
“Roll over,” he murmurs against my pussy.
“What? Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Oh, well… I manoeuvre myself onto my stomach, trying somehow not to break the intimate contact. I peer back at him over my shoulder. “I’m close…” I gasp.
“Hold that thought.” He reaches for the bedside drawer and locates a tube of something. “Lube,” he informs me.
“Do we need lube?” I can actually hear the sounds of my wetness.
“Oh, yes.” He sounds pretty certain, so who am I to argue?”
Somehow, he continues to drive those wonderful two fingers in and out of my channel whilst he reaches out again and finds something else.
“Is that…?”
“A dildo,” he replies. “Yes.”
“But I want you,” I protest. What is he thinking of?
“Not quite yet, may-ri-jaan. Soon.”
He kneels behind me. “Raise yourself up on all fours.”
I’m beginning to get the idea but still I ask him what he’s doing. What he’s planning.
“Do you trust me?”
“Well, yes. Obviously.”
“Right, then.” He gives one, final, tantalising thrust then withdraws his fingers to squeeze a generous dollop of lube onto them.
I’m past asking questions. I’ve worked out what comes next and I’m trying to process it. Anal. A new experience to me, but not for long, I expect.
He uses the fingers of his left hand to gently part my buttocks.
I gasp at the intimacy of it but remain motionless.
“Okay?” he checks.
“Yes. Yes, I think so…” I’m living dangerously, but it’s absolutely wonderful. My curiosity is almost as rampant as my lust.
“Tell me if that changes.” He smears the lube around the entrance to my rear hole, then, slowly, inserts his fingertip.
I start. The lube is cool, but the intrusion is not painful. Yet.
He withdraws to reload, then inserts his finger again, deeper this time.
I bite on my lower lip, and I can’t help tensing.
He pats my buttock, not hard but firmly. “Don’t clench up. Let me in.”
I nod and make an effort. I do want this. I do .
“Good. That’s good, may-ri-jaan .” He presses harder and slides the entire length of his digit into me. “So far, so good. Now for a second one.”
Oh Lord…
More lube, and that second finger slides in almost as easily as the first. I’m stretching, the whole experience is so intimate, so…so…sinful. And the friction is beyond delightful.
“Still doing okay?” he whispers.
I manage a nod. “It feels strange. I’m not sure…”
“We can stop you want to.”
“No! Oh, no, I don’t want to stop.” That’s something I most definitely am sure of.
“Right, then.” He reaches for the dildo.
I have limited experience with these gadgets, but in comparison to the real thing it looks relatively modest. I prefer not to say so, though. He might have a bigger one hidden somewhere.
He coats the toy in the lube gel, then positions it at my entrance. “It’ll go in easier if you help.”
“How?” I croak.
“When I push forward, you relax and push back. Don’t tense up or try to resist.”
“O-okay.” I will try. Really. I know I can stop this with a word, but I can’t deny I’m scared.
The pressure starts, gentle at first, then increasing. I’m aware of my entrance stretching to accommodate the toy. It starts to burn; I must be close to my limit.
I let out a low groan. It’s hard not to stiffen up.
Zayn pauses, allows me a few moments to adjust, then he continues.
The worst seems to be over. Seconds later, the dildo is fully seated.
Zayn pats my buttock again and tilts his head to admire his work. “Beautiful,” he breathes.
I’m not sure how I would describe it. I settle for, “Oh. What now?”
“Now, we play.” He grasps the end of the toy and withdraws it about halfway, then slides it back in.
I groan again, but not in pain. The sensation is exquisite, intimate and shameful, while exciting and exhilarating at the same time.
He repeats the action, and I groan again.
Is that good?”
I nod eagerly. “It is. It is good…”
He fucks me slowly with the dildo. In, out. In, out. Each gliding stroke intensifies the feeling. My arousal soars.
“I never knew, never imagined…”
He shifts his position to enable him to reach under me, to find my quivering clit and squeeze it.
“Oh my God.” My voice comes out as a sort of strangled scream. The sensation is intense, almost unbearable. My orgasm rushes up from my core, threatens to overwhelm me.
He releases my clit, and the dildo goes still. “Calm down, sweetheart. We’re not there yet.”
“What? Not where? I don’t understand…”
He withdraws the dildo entirely. I could weep, I feel bereft. Empty.
Another shift in position, a swift daubing of lube over his massive erection, and his dick is at my entrance. My first, my only thought, is that it is so very much bigger than that dildo.
“I’m not sure. What if it doesn’t fit?”
What am I babbling about? It can’t possibly fit.
“It’ll be fine,” he assures me. “Trust me.”
The drill is the same as before, and, well trained, I do my part without thinking. The crown of his cock enters me, and my body stretches helpfully to accommodate it.
“We’ll go slow, like before.”
Yay!
He inches forward, each cautious stroke taking him deeper into me. His hands are under my hips, holding me still as he advances.
I’m close to asking him to stop. No body stretches this far, it’s simply not possible. Any second now I’ll just split in two, and that will be that.
“Zayn,” I plead. “I… I can’t…”
He pauses again, waits for me. And, astonishingly, it’s enough. The sense of burning recedes. I’m full, ridiculously so, but able to continue. I manage to say so.
The relentless pressure starts again. It seems easier now; perhaps I’m becoming accustomed to it.
“There. That’s it. Well done.”
Is it…? I mean, are you…?”
“I am, and it’s glorious. You’re so tight.”
“I know that much,” I reply with feeling.
“Now for the fun bit.”
Is there one?
He rocks his hips to withdraw an inch or two, then slides back. I feel every tingle of the friction, but it isn’t painful anymore. Not quite pleasurable either. But he does have my undivided attention.
He withdraws again, a little further this time, then fills me again. And again.
Each stroke is more…more penetrating than the one before. My body relaxes, settles into the soft rhythm.
And pleasure starts. It begins with tentative tendrils, whispering softly from my core, gathering pace, growing.
“Aagh,” I moan. That’s so…so…”
“And, now?” He reaches beneath me again to caress my clit.
My groan is louder, verging on a scream. The punch of sensation is a shock, startling in its intensity. The combination of stretching, pressure, and sweet intimacy is an overload to the senses, and I give myself over to it entirely.
As if I had any choice…
My orgasm is swift, powerful, and on me in moments. I don’t even have time to tell him, it’s just there. I’m thrusting back against him as eagerly as he fucks me, gasping my delight and riding the wave of ecstasy.
He lets out a shout, something obscene, I’m sure. His semen surges into me, hot and wet. A fleeting thought about the condom—or lack of it— drifts through my head, to be dismissed instantly. This is not the way to get pregnant, medical school taught me that if nothing else.
We lie together; both facedown on the mattress. The discarded flannel that Zayn used to clean me lies on the carpet, along with the dildo and the lube. For the first time since he returned, I think to check the time.
Almost six. It’s after sunrise, but it’s not yet entirely light. I roll over onto my side to face him.
“You must be exhausted. You were up all night.”
No reply. I peer more closely.
“Zayn?”
Still no answer. I sigh and let him sleep.