Friday Prayers

There was a clearing of the imam’s throat, the volume of which allowed it to echo from the front of the hall to the back. It wasn’t intended to be a quieting gesture, since there was no other sound anyway, but it did serve to bring focus to the man. He didn’t seem to like that, but what’s done was done. He gave the watching congregation a curt nod.

“Let us begin,” he said, almost testing his voice, then turned to face the other way. Everybody in the room now stood looking at the direction Mecca would be. Imam Khalil proclaimed that Allah was great, in his clear, melodic Arabic. You glanced sidelong to the other congregates as they closed their eyes with intention, but you sensed the nervousness around you like a quietly humming beehive. The prayer leader went into more musical scripture, most of which you understood. It was good to know that although you were writing your amendments in the Quran in English, it was translated into Arabic too if the text was written so.

There was a motion, the Imam bending at the waist and you, along with the congregation, did the same. Then everyone straightened, and there were more singsong prayers. Near the end of this verse there was a slight stutter but the devout man powered through. He had told everybody to take their positions. And to begin true worship.

It was impossible to directly see what the Imam was doing, which was probably why his hesitation was slight. As was the ritual, he loosen his cotton trousers and they dropped to the rug. There were a few gasps in the crowd, but Khalil murmured then raised his voice, spouting more lyrical Arabic. His long thobe allowed his butt to be shielded from view, but it was clear, based on the bend of his elbow and the movement of his shoulder, what the Imam was doing now. How he was worshipping.

And so everybody followed, in their own way. You didn’t care to only stare straight ahead like the imam was doing. You cast your gaze around to watch as nervous men and women started to make themselves more… accessible. To your right, on the rug next to you, was a short woman in a red hijab who had dropped down to her knees and was shyly hitching up her dress. You watched her pull down some grey underwear and start to touch herself. Her pussy was of course shaved clean and she was hiding herself with her hand as much as she touched herself. Pointedly she stared straight ahead, not looking at you, then when she figured it was too hard to ignore your eyes she closed her own. She was pretty in her way, her eyelashes long and flickering with uncertainty. Next to her was a young man, also on his knees, most likely her son. He glanced at you and scowled, but the Quran allowed you to gawk, so that was all he had for you. He tried to concentrate on himself then, grey pants halfway down his thighs, his half stiff dick in his hand. He tried not to look at the woman he came with for a few seconds, but his nerves demanded he needed more stimulation to pray properly so he turned his head and watched his mother. He got harder and his strokes became more confident.

And the scene was similar all around you. Men and women, mostly on their knees since everyone else seemed to think that was a good idea, were openly masturbating under the domed roof of this holy mosque. There was heavy breathing, some cut off gasps. You saw many pretty mothers debasing themselves in public, red faced and embarrassed but steadily working themselves into compliant arousal. Some were very attractive in their conservative clothes, now rendered useless when they were exposed from the waist down. You wondered what kind of writings you could introduce in order to have the women for yourself. To make them like your mother… The problem was you didn’t quite want to share. So far your edits of edicts had been mainly to make the son the centre of worship and sexual control. It made things clear within a family, but the hierarchy was less clear outside of it.

You didn’t want to write yourself in as some kind of prophet. Both Muhammad and Jesus featured prominently in the original writings but you decided that being a messiah was a bit too much. It carried a responsibility and risk that you didn’t crave. All you really craved was a bit of deviancy. So to speak. You looked upon your main craving now, your mother on her knees with a dress hitched to her hips, not unashamed but certainly less shy than the other women around you. Perhaps she knew she was the most gorgeous woman in the room. Even from here you could see her glistening fingers working her mound. She noticed you in her periphery, then saw that you had not started praying yet. You were just kneeling as well and staring at her. She raised her eyebrows at you with insistence. It was time to pray, they said. Having entered the mosque it was important that you did worshipped here, and with intention. You smiled and started taking off your pants, which at first made her relax. But then she saw that this was unlike everyone else. Everyone else had their junk out just enough so that they could openly touch themselves, but were ready to quickly pull up their pants or drop their dresses to cover themselves at the drop of a taqiyah. As if the spell could be broken at any moment and they would need to hide their engorged shame. You had no shame and removed your pants completely, your engorgement standing proud. Upon laying eyes on you your mother became a little breathless. Then, shuffling on your knees, you moved behind her.

You wished you could see her expression, but her sudden stillness as you put your hands on her hips made you smile. You rolled up the back of her dress, her bare ass so round and ready. You heard some gasps from behind you, which rippled out to the sides as people turned and saw what you were doing. None of them would be certain if what you were doing was proper for the first few seconds, until their new memories caught up to them and they understood just how devoted you were to Islam. You guided her to rise slightly and got a nice view of her dripping vulva, eliciting more hushed surprise from the congregation.

“You’re very wet, umi,” you declared, just loud enough for those in the immediate area to hear you. Before your mother could say anything, the Imam chanted loudly and melodically.

“Allahu Akbar…” he droned, and the congregation, including you and your mother, chorused automatically to declare that God was indeed great. You used this moment to get your mom into position, lifting her hips, pushing her shoulders gently forward, downward. She was on her hands and knees now, her breath rising as she continued to stare straight ahead. From the waist up the woman was concealed and modest, wrapped in her headscarf and long sleeves. Her bare ass and legs were on display. You even waited a little to one side so that everyone behind you got a good look. You let them see your obedient, devout mother presenting herself like a bitch in heat. She was dripping.

You studied the faces around you, the majority open-mouthed in shock. In horror. In awe. Of course, they all knew this insanity was fine. You were well within your rights. In fact, worshiping this way was encouraged. Only, nobody else was daring to move now. Only a few of the randier men continued stroking themselves. They were slow though, eyes locked on your mother. They were waiting for more. You grinned, ever ready to lead by example. You moved in behind your waiting mother and pressed your grip. You lined yourself up, the perfect height and angle already achieved, like she was made for you. With care and deliberation you rolled your hips forward, the tip of your cock tapping against her moist hole, and the whole room held its breath. You slowly parted her lips, sinking into her, flared head vanishing as intermittent gasps and groans were made around you. And that was it… your mother succumbed, letting herself ease back, taking you into her velvety warm slickness. She let out the most satisfied sigh as you filled her with cock and you couldn’t be more proud of her. Every inch was finally absorbed and you were flush against her ass, and for a few seconds you simply basked in her squeezing depths. Her blazing heat. She was twitching around you but her limbs were steady. She was solid. She was present. You prayed. You pulled away, heard her breath and her seeping wetness, then pushed back in.

The woman next to you was stunned into complete stillness but was staring openly. Her focus was entirely on where your flesh met your mother’s, and as you drew in and out of her again, your neighbour’s brow creased in more and more confusion. You thrust with a bit more **** and made your mother moan. This snapped the witless witness from her daze and her eyes found yours.

You nodded at her politely and at first she was surprised, then her gaze fell back down onto your quietly panting mother who on her own had started backing up in rhythm to your deepening thrusts. Her soft but obvious enjoyment turned something in the woman, and almost blindly she reached out to the man next to her. You watched with interest as the pair saw each other again finally, and the woman had her hand around the young man’s cock. She was obviously his mother, and she had obviously served him as prescribed by the Quran at home to some degree. She was starting to stroke him and her son straightened his back, his smile wide. They weren’t going to go as far as you had, but they were going to show their joint worship under the eyes of Allah and the rest of the congregation so that they could properly give praise. The woman ‘prayed’ for them both, jerking her son with one hand while playing her her own clit with the other. And they kept watching you.

You turned your attention to the other rows. Where there were men and women near each other, in obvious family gatherings, the communal worship began in earnest. Sons were fingering their mothers. Mothers were stroking their sons. Fathers were being serviced by daughters. Brothers and sisters were rubbing each other. None of them dared to be as devout as you and your mother still. The most pious couple you saw were a young woman and young man near the back right corner of the hall. She wasn’t even facing mecca any more, instead only her husband was as she sucked him off with concerted enjoyment. The man saw you watching, nodded an acknowledgement then closed his eyes and praised the heavens.

By now the sound of loving worship, the whispers and gasps and soft groans, were starting to filter through the melodic droning of the imam. His own breath was growing ragged, and it was clear he had been concentrating hard on himself for most of the prayer. You had refocused on your mother. On your animal rutting of the woman who you had down on all fours in front of everyone. The mother you were plunging in and out of. She was on the verge, you knew, holding on for dear life, fists gripping the rug. She was dripping all over it, each thrust of your cock causing her cramped pussy to spill her lurid juices. She lifted her head and stole glances to her right and to her left, saw that people were watching her. Judging her. She was thrilled and horrified and so fucking wet for you. Her arms trembled, the effort of enduring your hammering cock for the next several minutes making her moan louder and louder. She praised Allah. She asked him for protection. Begged him for forgiveness. She wanted his blessing, oh so desperately. She came before the Imam’s reading finished. To her credit, she lasted longer than a lot of the other muslims in the room.

You let them marvel at your stamina and at your mother’s arching back. You slowed down as she orgasmed on you, as the Imam gave one last mighty “GOD IS GREAT” in strained, throaty Arabic as he spilled his seed onto his rug. You squeezed your eyes closed and nutted, right into your mother’s spasming hole. She cried out again, not so much joining the chorus declaring “Allahu Ackbar!” again but simply singing out her joy with another climax. You thrust with deliberate, exaggerated motions. There was no mistaking what was happening to anyone around you. You pumped your mother’s cunt with every hot spurt of sperm you had in you. She received it with unbridled, almost gleeful zeal. She collapsed onto her shoulders, your grip holding her hips up still, your thick dick staying wedged inside her and not quite done injecting her with your holy essence. You gave one last, profoundly unnecessary shove of your cock into her then released the woman.

The imam put himself away before turning back to his congregation. His eyes widened and he took a half step back before collecting himself. Before that gaze landed on you it saw the sea of pink, embarrassed faces and the dark damp patches of stained rugs in front of them. Barely half of the men and women had thought to cover their exposed genitals again, although once they realised the imam had spotted them they began to sheepishly draw up their trousers and pat down their dresses. When he finally saw you and your mother again he swallowed. Your mother’s prostrate position and your sitting proudly behind her with no pants on made it clear what you had done. How you had worshipped. He nodded in approval, then went to address the rest of the crowd.

“Thank you for coming today,” he said.