A Son’s Studies

You left your mother alone for most of the day. Even during prayer times you let her be alone, just making sure she was praying the right way. Properly frigging herself the requisite number of times per day. Her go to move was to be on her knees then drag the hem of her tunic up to her waist with one hand while working on her pussy with the other. It was efficient but sexy, mostly just one leg bared with her half lifted dress as she quietly moaned in the prayer room. You told her you would pray in your own room after watching for a few minutes.

The book was opened on your desk and you were reading the passages you had just rewritten. You were making the son the center of the world. At least for the family. You were refining the language, wanting it to be poetic in a way but straightforward in interpretation. Explicit. And Explicit. The effect of these changes on people was fascinating too. You could see from their expressions and their body language that they sensed something was wrong about what you were doing with her, and what you made her do. There was a delicious thrill to it, as if someone might see through the veil one day. Realise this wasn’t right. What would happen if your mother woke up to your manipulations? It was a fun thought, but you knew she wouldn’t.

You brushed your fingers over the cover of the Text. Its power was true and ironclad. And you were also sure your mother didn’t completely hate what she was doing now, in the name of her religion. Her instincts to appear demure and obedient were ingrained, but there was an underlying sensuality to every act. In every gasp and moan, there was real… enjoyment.

You wondered when your obsession with your mother began. Why having her was the first thought that occurred to you once the book had come into your possession. She was a soft woman, but stern when she needed to be. She used to hug you a lot as a child, doting sort of mother that she was. She did so less as you were grown but still let you linger in those rare embraces. Just seeing the way she dressed told you she liked the attention. Long and flowing dresses, but often a size too small, allowing her fashion to hug a bit tighter than the other, more prudish muslim women you knew dressed. You wanted to keep that part of her, just a little slutty in her own way. Well… relatively speaking.

You shut the book, satisfied, for now, with what you had planned for Friday. Because as any muslim knew, that was an important day of the week for praying.

But until then…

You groped her at lunch. And you felt her up at dinner. You played with her ass as she washed the dishes again, rolling her dress up to her waist and rubbing yourself (still fully clothed) against her. She seemed more pliable when your father wasn’t around, melting more and moaning louder as you dry humped her in the midst of her chores. You heard the television volume rise from the living room.

“Ahyan,” she murmured, hands sinking into the water as you grabbed her waist and pulled her into your pelvis. “You’re… very hard…” You were driving yourself a little mad just grinding on her. The best part was how she let you, and wiggled her ass a bit in her own tiny, frustrated way. The reward was seeing how wet she got, how soaked her panties were while you grossly fondled her.

“Tonight is the night,” you whispered into her ear. “Come to my room for the last prayer. I’m ready to pray as father did.”

There was a clatter as she dropped soapy cutlery into the metal sink and she shuddered against you. Yes. You had been patient enough. Tonight you wanted to be truly devout. You wanted to fill your mother with Allah’s grace.

“Okay,” she breathed, as you pulled away. She was left shivering in the kitchen, heartbeat thundering in her ears. Praise be to Allah, she thought. Have mercy on me.