Arfa stirred to find the entire room dark. She rose up and looked around. Her gaze fell on the clock mounted on the wall. It was a simple one, a round glass sphere etched to a wooden carving that spelt 'Nikah Mubarak', a gift from relatives on her husband's side. The time was 7:15 in the evening. She realized both of them had slept through the afternoon. And what an afternoon it was.
She fell back on the bed, one of her leg hanging out of the bed and looked sideways at her sleeping son. He was blissfully sleeping, unlike his father who constantly snored loudly. She stroked his back with the outer sides of her palms. Both mother and son were still naked after the evening's activities, their bodies soaked in sweat and perspiration from the midday heat. Though sweaty, Arfa still wanted to hold her son, so she scooted over to him and draped an arm and a leg over him. Not wanting to wake him him, she breezed her fingers on her son's hair, soon closing her eyes and beginning to drift into endless thinking.
Her first thoughts were to her son's prowess in bed. He was obviously inexperienced and had quickly finished dumping his load inside her. She had felt him struggle to hold but had ultimately given up after a few forceful thrusts. She had also waited for the full force of the guilt to come upon her, but it never arrived or at least it didn't materialize. The whole incident felt weirdly normal to her, if she could bring herself to ignore the fact that the boy who was making love to her, was her own biological son. The same son she had carried within her for months, before delivering him in the claustrophobic maternity ward of the General Hospital. The same son whom she had breast fed and looked at adoringly as he suckled her. The son whom she had bathed countless times, naked, without ever experiencing any sort of embarrassment, instead taking joy in her son's innocent smile and high pitched yells. And now she was lying naked with her son in bed, just having had sex with him and stained the bedsheets with both of their love juices. Arfa kissed her son, Salim on his shoulder and removed herself from the bed.
She stood on her toes and arched her back, cracking a few joints here and there, and yawned heavily. Her eyes immediately fell on the mirror which was attached to the almirah and she took time to admire herself. Her sister Nafisa, had told her about sagging breasts and even showed it, much to her chagrin. But it appeared to be needlessly feared, as Arfa saw hers were perfectly in good shape. They had grown instead, but retained their shapes. She felt them with her hands and pressed them. Softer, not tight too. She flicked her long, wavy hair and stroked her neck, then turning partially, looked at the reflection of her ass. They used to be tight, when she was younger, but after Salim's birth, her hips had widened pretty much everything beyond her waistline, giving her a ass filled with fat. Was this one of the reasons why her husband left her for another woman, Arfa always asked herself. While washing her face and vagina in the bathroom, she kept pondering the questions regarding her husband's leaving her. But thinking them pointless now, she headed for the kitchen.
Feeling the kitchen too hot, she opened one of the smaller windows above the stove and immediately heard the sound of snare drums at a distant. She peeked through the tiny gap between the rails and saw a procession passing through the main road, which was just a street ahead of them. She came back to her world and found herself stuck in her mind again. Perhaps she wasn't strict enough, with her husband, with Salim. If she had been just a bit adamant she might have stopped her husband from leaving, but then again did she really want to stop him or was she secretly relieved he had done so?
Even with Salim's education, when her son had expressed his displeasure and boredom at school, he was sent to the local Madarasa by her husband saying that they imparted 'real' education. Much to her unhappiness, she had allowed but ultimately Salim had stopped going there too. Somehow passing his school, when the time came for college, Salim had just warded off the topic till it was too late to enroll and he ended up staying in the house, his presence hardly noticed with the marriage problems Arfa had found herself facing. Arfa never wanted to be a strict woman, she would be, but not always.
Salim stretched himself on the bed searching for his mother's body and when he didn't, he looked around in the darkness for her. He got up to check the bathroom, seeing her not there, he urinated then went to the kitchen hoping to find her there. Sure enough she was there. Still naked, her exposed skin, reflecting the pale yellow street lights. He went behind and embraced her, cupping her breasts and rubbing between her ass cheeks with his erect dick.
"Slept nicely, Salim?"
"Yes ammi. By Allah, are you wet already?"
"I believe it's just you rubbing against me that's got me excited. But enough, I need to prepare dinner first."
"I'm not hungry." Salim said, pulling on his mother's waist and turning her around to face him.
"Hmm, sach kahun to (truth be told), even I don't feel like being in the kitchen for a minute longer." Arfa smiled and tried to prevent her son from plastering her face with kisses, as he held onto her.
Salim parted away, then placed his lips on his mother's softly, just enough to feel them. He did it again. Then he dove into her mouth and locked her tongue with his, swirling inside her mouth both mother and son stood in the kitchen. His mother was shorter by a few inches, so Salim had to bend down to kiss her.
When they parted, both were panting for breath. Salim noticed his mother's face, for the first time since the afternoon. She looked flushed with color, her eyes a bit teary, her oval face white like the rest of her body and dark hair that fell on her shoulders. Her lips looked redder than usual. Touching them with his fingers, he parted them and brushed it across her teeth, while gauging his mother's reaction.
"Ammi, is that lipstick you have on you?"
"Hmm, why, doesn't it suit me?"
"No, it's just that I haven't seen you do so before."
"Salim, I have applied it before, it's just that seeing me differently has probably changed your mindset about me."
"I don't think so..."
"No? Aren't you already wondering about how you want your mother to dress up hereafter? How you want her to look, after today? Has that thought already crossed your mind or is it beginning to?"
"You mean what I think, according to me, about you and the way you dress, is it Haram or not? Is that what you're asking?"
"We both are way past thinking about Haram, now that we are a sexually involved couple, are we not?"
"There you have it. I still believe you have some misgivings about our relationship after today."
"Of course I do. Every minute after I was awake, my mind has been numb by constant questions. For instance," Arfa crossed her legs as she stood against the kitchen platform, looking at Salim who was sitting in a chair, "Will I be treated like a whore by you, for the rest of my life? Or whether you will ever come to terms with the fact that our new relationship, though highly immoral, can end once you get married? Or will the prospect of fathering a child, which is possibly taking form in my womb for your senseless and impassioned act of impregnating me, scare you away to finally abandon me?"
Salim sat quite dumbstruck by the questions and a brief moment of silence passed.
"Ammi, firstly, I can never think of you as a whore. Please. I do want you. I want to fuck you, my dear mother. I want to fuck you senseless. Ammi, tujhe patak ke chod ne ka mann karta hai (a vulgar slang to denote hardcore sex). But also believe me when I tell you that if you don't want to certain things, I will stop. And about my marriage, I really don't know, but keeping it aside... Ammi, if you are truly pregnant, with my seed in your womb, then trust me I will not leave your side. Ever."
Arfa tucked her hair behind her ear as she heard her son finish speaking. She turned to the half open kitchen window and looked outside.
