Under a Crescent Moon

The smell of dinner still hangs thick in the air, filling the bedroom with the fragrance of spicy potatoes. My hands are chained to the bedpost, my ankles tethered apart, leaving me spread eagle on my marital bed. I'm blindfolded and gagged but I can still hear the children playing after

jumah

, running in and out of the house in a bizarre game of racetrack tag.

Even though he doesn't make a sound, I can feel my husband's presence only a meter or two away: the weight on his feet subtly shifting the carpet beneath, the air passing over my exposed body as he exhales, his undeniably male smell. He has been standing there for how long? A few seconds? Five minutes? An hour or more?

He lets out a drawn out sigh, then touches me roughly, running his calloused hand over my belly and down my legs, gripping and pulling the flesh. Is he angry? Indifferent? Eager? I don't know and the lack of knowledge excites me, my nipples straining, pinched hard under the attached clothespins. His hands touch the clasps pierced to my womanhood, tugging on them quickly and releasing. I try to gasp but I cannot through the gag. Then he withdraws.

I have no way of determining the time he is gone and my senses, on edge after the stimulation of his touch, slowly dull as the minutes pass. I blame this for my failure to distinguish my husband's silent presence again. He announces himself with crack of his flogger on my chest, one tail hitting the bottom of my breast. I gurgle at the pain, tugging at the restraints around my wrists, twisting my body away.

He hits me again, this time across the thighs, for my disobedience. I still squirm in my bondage and he whips me once more and yet again, my stomach the focus of his punishments. I'm sweating now, my skin aflame. Did the flogger's tails leave marks?

I hope they did.

Suddenly the bed bends at my feet. My husband is in amid my thighs, pulling the clasps between my legs, slowly but relentlessly spreading my womanhood open for him. He attaches rings, small ones, to the clasps, holding them apart; it's a wonderful debasement. Finally he spits on my face and slaps me as he enters, the sting of the slap and crush of his member inside me making a mess of my feelings. He twists the clothespins with his hands as he ruins me from the inside out; long and deep and fast strokes, I feel myself stretching around him. He spits on me again and holds himself deep.

I feel his seed fill me.

He rolls off me, but the bed remains inclined at my feet and a soft tongue licks my spread ankles delicately, slowing working its way up my calves, my knees, my thighs. It glides away before going any higher and the first wife enters me with her member. Hers is lengthier and broader than our husband's. She is not silent; she calls me

taghut

, a transgressor, one who goes beyond the boundraries. She tells me our husband's seed is wasted on a barren field and leans against me, her child-full belly pressing against mine, my body supporting her weight.

Her bosom is large and expansive, bumping against the clothespins which in turn abrade my nipples. I try to roll onto my side, seeking any relief, but the first wife is a cruel woman and slaps me, telling me I am a

sharmuta,

a prostitute, provided for the pleasure of the household, to be cast out as useless once they've bored of me. My body is wet with sweat. I start to quiver. She grinds harder.

She lifts from atop me and I'm grateful for the relief - but only for a second. The first wife is cruel and the flogger cracks upon me again, this time my breasts and nipples taking the brunt of its fury. One of the clothespins falls away and another whip scorches across the flesh laid bare by its absence. I try to scream but cannot, tugging at my bonds until my wrists burn and ankles ache. The first wife thrashes me as she distends my womanhood with her girth, faster and deeper. A heartless woman, she begins to laugh at my pain.

I love her like a sister.

I continue screaming until I'm hoarse, then screech until her arm tires and she lays the flogger across my throat, her hands accosting my tender breasts, holding and massaging them, not for respite, but to enrich the hurting. My eyes are watering; for how long have I wept? The blindfold feels wet around my temples - a good while then. The first wife slaps me again and rams herself as deep as she can. I'm a shallow woman and cannot take her all, but she tries anyway. My agony is her indulgence, my tears her nectar.

I cum under her, feeling as if she's ruined me as a wife with her size. I'm flailing and bucking, the sheets under me wet with my exertions, my throat too sore to scream, but too animated to stay silent. It carries on for a half minute, a minute, two minutes. Even without the blindfold I cannot see, nor can I hear or even feel. For that brief time I am myself and myself is all I am.

Someone throws cold water over me, leaving me captive while fulfilling the admonishment to cleanse oneself after unclean acts. Slowly the waters around me warm, my skin dries and I drift into a deep, satisfied sleep.