Take Note

You almost ran upstairs as soon as you got in the house, leaving your mother a little confused and frustrated at the door. The book was in your desk and you took it out and flipped through its crisp pages. On the rest of the drive home your mind had filled with ideas. Ideas that you needed to make reality. Make into truth. Make into scripture. You smiled as you found a spot that you had at the read and put pen to paper.

Fareeha was your older sister by three years. Your mother told you about the call in the car. A storm had hit the East Coast. Pretty serious. A lot of property damage. Your sister’s house lost most of its roof. The tree in the yard only narrowly missed crushing their station wagon. Storm had passed but repairs were going to take months with the amount of destruction done to the neighbourhood. It was a small miracle nobody was killed. Now she was headed back home, and in a few hours would be at the door.

You had always been close with your sister growing up. She had been protective during your early years, standing up to your bullies. She made sure the couple of kids that picked on you for being brown went home crying, and after the third grade you went through school with relative ease. Her strength rubbed off on you, and you even became good friends with one of your early antagonists.

It had been sad but inevitable when Fareeha moved away after she married Ibrahim. Your brother-in-law was a pretty cool guy, and your parents approved. He liked to surf and with that came an almost stereotypically laid back, relaxed attitude. They had met at work, which eventually took them both to settle on the East Coast. They had a nice house, but it was a long way to travel, so you rarely saw them any more outside of major holidays. You were excited to see her again. To reconnect. You smiled as you wrote your scripture.

Your mother was busy preparing for your sister’s arrival. The guest room had been Fareeha’s room, and despite it being larger than yours you never moved into it. They would need the space. Now there were fresh sheets on the bed and your mother just finished vacuuming the already pristine carpet. When she saw you in the hall she had to quickly look away, a bundle of towels in his arm. You gave her the berth she wanted. There was a lot more that she needed to do and you didn’t want to distract her with prayers, despite how obvious her lip biting was.

She couldn’t avoid you forever though. She couldn’t deny herself either. You had trained her to cum multiple times a day. Before dinner you found her in the prayer room. Her moaning had been obvious, like a broadcast, and once you stepped into the space she perked up.

“Alhamdulillah!” she breathed, praising Allah at the sight of you. She was unashamed, stopping her open masturbation so that she could shuffle to you on her knees. She unbuckled your belt, needy, fingers shiny and slick. Her initiative was telling of her devotion. Or something. It wasn’t important. She had your cock out and was visibly thrilled that you were already hard. Her hands were gripped around your base and she pressed her pretty face against your shaft. “Abnay alhabib,” she muttered, kissing my tight skin. My beloved son. “Astaghfirullah!” Allah forgive me. And she took your cock into her mouth. You groaned and held onto her headscarf as she scarfed you down. She was loud and sloppy. She was making a mess of you and herself. Her worship was thorough. She was frigging herself as soon as she had you in her mouth. The taste of your dick already had the horny slut on edge. You grabbed the back of her head then and rolled your hips forward. She let you do whatever you wanted, and you simply tilted her onto you, your meat sliding down to fill her airways with ease. The slight shudder to her body was from her furious rubbing, the woman about to bring herself to orgasm with her son in her throat. There was a muffled gurgle, your mom unable to moan, unable to breathe. She could only cum and she came hard. She vibrated on you, jaw slackening, thick spit dribbling down her chin. Tears streamed down her red cheeks. After several seconds you finally withdrew yourself and there was a bubbling gasp from the woman and she flopped backwards onto the rug.

You gave yourself a few idle strokes as you watched her, laying there, occasionally sputtering as she tried to regulate her breathing. You shook your wrist, flicking your mom’s own spit onto her face, as you pulled up your pants. You hadn’t cum yet. You didn’t want to. Making your mother orgasm had been the priority in that session. You pulled her upright by the hands and she seemed to finally emerge from her daze and looked lovingly at you.

“That was a good prayer,” you told her, grinning at your work. “Now you can go make dinn-”

She almost tackled you. You had to hold her and in the next second your mother was pressing her lips to yours. The woman was panting, licking your mouth and moaning against you. Showing you her appreciation and desire with kisses of a **** lover and a depraved mother. You were a bit stunned and breathless when she broke away.

“Yes… dinner time,” she nodded, then got up to go prepare a meal for her family.