Sunset Prayer

The fourth daily prayer was to happen after sunset, and you could barely wait. Your father seemed eager too, perhaps inspired by your newfound devotion, and had gone to the prayer room not long after finishing dinner.

You went to the kitchen, finding your mother at the sink, finishing the dishes. Seeing the back of her, that shapely form that her dress was wrapped around, made you glad for all the brilliant ideas you put for your convenience in your edited Quran.

Walking up behind her you placed your hands firmly on those hips and your mother froze.

“It’s time for prayer,” you told her and she stiffened even more, but nodded.

“I’m just finishing up here,” she said, deliberately clanking some plates together under the water.

“That’s fine Umi,” you said. “With Allah’s blessing, the son can pray for the mother, wherever it is convenient, and speak the prayers unto her.” The words were remembered by the woman and you heard her swallow. You often started writing the new scriptures in a vaguely poetic way, but always followed it up with explicitly direct explanations beneath it.

So when you started pulling up your mother’s dress, she had no cause to complain or stop you. When you exposed her ass, pulling down those smelly sticky panties off of her, she knew this was all part of the rituals she had always known about. You caressing her bare ass as she stood there at the kitchen sink, a mother exposed by her son, was not just allowed by the Quran, it was encouraged. You pulled her heavy ass cheeks part, looking at that tantalising mound and tightly puckered knot.

Dinner was delicious, but you couldn’t wait to eat your mother’s ass for dessert.

You dove in, nose buried straight into her crack, mouth all over her. You heard her gasp. The sound was barely audible coz your ears were ringing. The taste of her flooded your senses, the remains of yourself and the stench of her sweat mixing together in a foggy, intoxicating pungency. You lapped it up like crazy, the cups and bowls hitting the bottom of the sink as your mother gripped onto the side of the kitchen counter. Her legs were trembling, your tongue probing her asshole impatiently. You could feel the heat of her cunt on your chin, your saliva dripping. She was dripping too, you could taste it as you dragged your tongue up and down. Her delicious ass had you growling with need.

“Ahhnhh… Allah give me strength!” moaned your mother as you tongued her loosening sphincter. She couldn’t deny a you second longer, your eager mouthwork finding every nerve it could, lighting her afire. “Ahyan! Ahhh!” she screamed, unable to hold it in. You buried your slippery muscle inside, as far as you could reach. You slurped and sucked and tongued that tight pipe, holding her squirming thighs. Her orgasm hit hard, unlike any she’d ever experienced before, squeezing you out. She clenched in pulses, moaning incomprehensibly, the sound echoing in the sink and you heard water splashing. You kept licking that contracting ass hole, felt the juices she was squeezing out of her pussy. Finally you pulled your head away, your entire face from the cheeks down were a sticky wet mess. But you weren’t done playing with your mother.

You shoved two fingers into her already sopping pussy and she cried out in surprise.

“Keeping cumming for me, mother,” you commanded, working her like a finger puppet. She was bent over the counter now, getting fucked down to the knuckles by her son.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ahyan! Please! Ah! Ahyan!” she moaned obscenely, unable to tell you to stop… her body riding the relentless waves of pleasure you were forcing upon her. The sloppy wet noises rang out around the kitchen and the way she squeezed down your fingers was thrilling. She came crying out your name again, throwing her head back, her knees skewing but you held her up as she gripped the side of the sink. Her pussy clamped down on your deep fingers, those pulses matching the convulsions around her shoulders… thump after body shaking thump... Then they sagged. She found her footing and you let your busy hand drop, splattering a mess onto the kitchen floor.

She turned, leaning onto the kitchen counter, clearly out of breath. Her face was pink but her expression was placid, almost serene, then her eyes widened. You saw her looking past you and you turned your head.

There stood your father in the doorway, his own copy of the Quran gripped tightly in one hand, his eyes unblinking and his lips tight. He looked to his wife, then to his son, then back to his wife, and back again to you. You smiled at your father, then put your wet fingers into your mother’s mouth.

Your father’s eyes were plates, and you expected him to be angry but he looked like he couldn’t quite get there.

“I… I guess… you and your mother have done the prayer already,” he said, his voice low but clear.

“Yes father,” you confirmed, managing to not grin as your mother quietly tasted herself on your fingers.

“Very good. Right well… I shall… go to the prayer room myself… then,” he said, turning slowly, the confusion on his face still evident, but he stumbled away regardless.

When you pulled your fingers out of your mother’s mouth she gasped, as if she had been holding her breath while sucking on your digits.

“I’ll help you with the dishes tomorrow, Umi,” you told her. She stared at you, nodding dumbly, then turned back around and regarded at the soapy water in the sink. Looking down on the floor you saw her used, soiled panties, decided to leave them there, and walked away.