Offensively Transparent
AK AK
AlKamal Household Noor’s Bedroom 2020
“Is that the dirtiest you’ve got pretty boy?” One of Noor’s better-crafted lines, but no matter how sexually intricate, her moanful melodies will always linger in the air, waiting on me to scramble for a response adequate enough to maintain her wetness. I look up at her, perched on that comically large bed where she lays ass up, her legs freely dangling in the air.
I bite my lips in an attempt to buy myself a few more moments, “Umm I wanna like—” shit, what should I say, “uh, touch your ripe vagina.”
I look down at my nonexistent bulge in hope of inspiration, “and, um, bite those cloudy thighs?”
Without a moment of hesitation, she whines, “Mmm, yes Daddy, what else do you wanna do to your little girl?” She’s getting lazy. Dumping the burden of imagination on me. Or perhaps she’s testing the integrity of my lust.
“Hmm yeah, like fondle your breasts and taste your cherry lipgloss,” okay, that was good, I’m cooking, “Yeah, fuck yeah, I’m Daddy!”
She sighs ambiguously, “okay, that’s enough sex talk for the week. Now come up here. Let's pray. Inshallah, we’re granted forgiveness.”
Our perversion is newly founded; not even a month ago we were on track to be ordained for sainthood. Unfortunately, Noor exposed my sickening proclivity for the dark arts of hardcore pornography. A crime that didn’t go unpunished, with Noor acting as prosecution, judge, and executioner. My punishment? Banishment to a purgatory of purely mechanical penile milking, where stimulation is confined to my imagination and Noor’s sexual verbal lashes.
“Quick! Before the filth of your sins reaches my soul,” Noor sternly calls from the bed, breaking me out of my stream of thoughts.
We kneel atop her meticulously made bed, blessed by the divine spotlight fracturing across her heavenly room. The ceilings are infinitely tall, the walls deeply white, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offensively transparent. And while we recite our prayers, so close to Allah’s presence, all I can think of is how badly I want to be touched. Ideally by hands larger and stronger than mine. My fantasy is brought to an end by Noor slowly opening her eyes and asking with a grin, “What did you pray for?”
“Um, world peace,” I respond. “But Noor there is something I need to tell–”
“I prayed that Baba accepts our union,” she cuts me off excitedly, “I can't wait till we’re married and you can actually touch me.”
I instinctively reach for her hair. It’s the only thing I’m allowed to touch since, apparently, it’s “technically not part of her body.”. It is curly, but also sometimes somehow straight? I like it both ways. It’s easier to like both. She could dazzle in pretty much any hairstyle, largely thanks to the surgical precision of her cheekbones, two carefully angled garlic cloves. It’s hereditary, like most things I love about Noor. The only exception is her body, she gets that from her aunt.
And damn does she have a body: a freshly polished marble statue, so pure it melts to the touch, submerging any grasp in a porous glob of white custard. Endlessly exhaling a seductive blend of spiced vanilla, saffron, and all that is sweet and delicious, only to crystalize back to stone at the dullest bite. Yet, no matter how hungry I am, I never challenged her chastity, as I know her nectar is unable to quench me. I’m just happy to be here. Inshallah, in time, I’ll develop a taste for her. Or if I’m lucky she might curdle into mac & cheese. Then I’ll finally eat.