Goosebumps

Samira left her dress on the floor, opened the bathroom door, and strode across the narrow hallway. Her hijab sat perfectly. Anyone who looked at her face saw only the Muslim woman. Decent, neat, modest, untouchable.

But under the carefully tied headscarf, beneath the softly flowing folds, she wore nothing. Cool air caressed her naked body. From her shoulders to her toes, only delicate brown skin. A thick triangle of curly black hair hid the delicate blossom of her femininity. Seen and touched only by her husband until now. Until now.

It felt exciting and unfamiliar. A new, never-before-experienced sensation. Samira welcomed it.

The soft carpets swallowed every sound as Samira approached the computer. The screen glowed with blue light. The LEDs on the router, which David had meticulously checked earlier that day, flashed as if they were nervous. A feeling Samira shared with them.

She sat down in the office chair, the seat cold beneath her thighs. Goosebumps ran up her back.

Her hand grasped the mouse. Hesitantly. Her eyes wandered to the browser icon. She clicked.

The page history loaded.

A knot formed in her stomach. She imagined her husband sitting here. At night. In the semi-darkness. His eyes fixed on the images. Images of other women. Indecently exposed. How he stared at them while his wife waited for him in the dark bedroom, under the covers, in her opaque nightgown, hidden from the world. Invisible even to herself.

Night after night she had waited for him. Longed for his touch. For a little tenderness. She hadn't dared to touch herself, for fear of committing a sin.

And him? Had he touched himself? Had he sinned with women he could only look at, who only existed in his imagination?

The thought disgusted her. And at the same time, she couldn't get it out of her head.

What did her husband feel when he looked at the pictures? She had to find out. She opened a random page. Clicked on one of the stamp-sized pictures. Enlarged to fill the screen, it jumped out at her.

Samira gasped. The stranger's pose, her gesture, every detail about her was so offensive. Samira reflexively closed her eyes. But the woman's expression was burned into her retina. She showed no shame. She looked inviting, almost provocative.

How could that be? Were they all like that? Samira clicked on, one photo after another. She didn't count them. She let the images flow, absorbing them with her eyes. Unconsciously, she began to imitate the postures, the gestures, the facial expressions. She compared the bodies depicted with her own. She traced the contours of her figure with her hands. She cupped her breasts. Stroked her hips. Intuitively spread her legs. Touched her lap.

“Huh?”

Startled, she pulled her hand back as if she had burned herself.

She hadn't expected this wetness.