The Midday Prayer

One of the facets of the Islamic faith that some people did know about were the obligations a Muslim had to pray at least five times a day. More accurately this was the act of worship, or Salah, one of the pillars of the religion, and you had your fun making some minor tweaks to this very familiar and established practice in every Islamic household.

You wondered what your mother had done for her morning prayers, usually performed around sunrise. Had she already started following the new rituals you had written? The thoughts made you smile as you descended the stairs and headed to the prayer room. It was now time for Dhuhr, the midday prayer.

The room in your house specifically designed for the worship of Allah was of course facing Mecca as you walked through the door. There were no windows, just two shelves on opposite walls holding some religious texts and objects. Aside from the matching set of rugs and cushions on the floor this room had no other furniture. It was a comfortable place, minimally decorated and meant to be simple as the entire point of this room was to pray in it. Your mother was already inside, still wearing her full coverings, kneeling on a rug just big enough for herself. Another was setup next to her which obviously was meant to be your spot.

“Mama,” you greeted her, and she turned at your presence and smiled serenely at you. She was at ease here in this safe warm space, where she could focus on her devotion and remembrance of Allah. It was calming and meditative, and strengthened one’s belief.

“It’s been a while since we prayed together,” your mother said, sounding wistful but happy that you were joining her. She watched you, then her brow furrowed slightly as you moved your rug from the spot next to her. Instead you placed the rug directly behind your mother and she tilted her head.

“I’m of age now remember?” you began by way of explanation. “It’s time I started the next level of rakats with you yes?”

“Right…” your mother side, still staring at you over her shoulder a little confused, her new memory not quite yet caught up.

“Should I remind you of the steps?” you suggested helpfully, and she nodded, still wracking her brain. You stood and she did too, which was a normal part of this. Then you stepped up behind her and put your hands on her hips. She jumped and was about to pull away from you but you held her more firmly than she was expecting. You were about half a head taller than your mother. Lord she smelled good. Even under all these layers of clothes you got a hint of what was like flowers and warm spice that made your mother’s scent.

“You still have your arwah covered, Umi,” you told her softly, and it took a few moments for this to sink in and for the nervous woman to ‘recall’ the conditions and preparations one was meant to undertake before an act of worship. Your mother was frozen in front of you, your bodies close but still separated by the layers of modesty. “The son shall inspect his mother’s arwah to ensure her cleanliness…” you recited as you slowly began to gather up your mother’s long blue dress with your fingers, raising the hem off the ground. In this context, ‘arwah’ referred to intimate parts of the human body, which were usually required to be covered before engaging in prayer. For what you wanted to engage with that obviously had to change.

Gradually you exposed your mother’s bare feet, then her legs, which were long and smooth. From this hind angle you could study the tapered curve of her calves, but soon you were drawn to view the thickness of her thighs. She was an active woman, your mother, rarely sitting still as she went about her daily tasks. The prayer times were probably the only moments she really got off her feet during the day. You could tell she was holding her breath because you were holding yours too, you were only an inches away from revealing her glorious backside to the world. As you had noticed all through puberty, your mother’s behind wasn’t easily hidden by the dresses she wore.

You pulled up the rest of the dress, bunching the material above her waist. She trembled a little, realising she was totally resigned to her fate now, as Allah’s glory willed it. Speaking of glory… your mother wore a plain beige coloured but surprisingly modern designed underwear. It wasn’t meant to be sexy, but by simple virtue of your mother’s form down here this looked incredible. You had always caught hints of its upsidedown heartshape when she went up the stairs, but now, after years of imagining, you could see the nice round glory of your mom’s ass… and there was still more to see.

“Hold this, Mama,” you said, indicating her dress and wordlessly she traded grips with you, her clammy hands brushing yours. She was staring ahead at the blank wall, feeling so strange standing here in the prayer room, holding her dress up around the waist for her son to bare her ass. You licked your lips in anticipation for this next bit and then slowly hooked your fingers onto her underwear.

“Do you have to do this?” she asked, finding a sudden urgency in her voice. She still wanted to hold onto her modesty, it seemed, even though she should have known that this was now an inevitability.

“I need to make sure you’re perfectly clean,” you reiterated, teasingly pulling at her waistband. “As it commands in the Quran.” To this tried and true line she couldn’t really stop you, so she stayed silent, gripping onto her bunched up blue dress tighter. You took a moment to savour this time before the first time… then, bending as you did it, slowly slid your mother’s underwear off. You took care to not touch her great butt too much yet, just the incidental sweep of the back of your index fingers over her skin in the process of slipping the panties down. You let the undies drop to the rug and your face was now only inches away from your mother’s nice round naked ass. You couldn’t help but take in the smell of her skin, and it should be noted that by this point you were fully erect. But you had more important things to take care of than yourself and dropped to your knees.

Your mother jumped, feeling your hands grab hold of her thighs. She made herself stay still however, not voicing any complaints or concerns even if inside she was confusedly screaming them. You slowly ran your hands up her meaty legs until the warm soft flesh of each ass cheek was in your grip. There was the new smell you’d never associated with your mother before, a pleasant musk and dry sweat. You got more of it as you gently parted those so squeezable cheeks. And there she was, your mother’s warm womanhood from behind, and her tightly puckered butthole. And she was clean. You went in for a closer look, more of her mouth watering aromas filling your nostrils.

Your mother was, unsurprisingly, completely clean shaven down here. You didn’t even have to alter the Quran for that. Cleanliness was a big deal in Islam, and removing body hair from the armpits and public area was all part of it. Your mother’s perfect vulva looked so smooth, her petals inviting and pink.

“Are you ready for prayers?” you asked her, able to pry your eyes (if not your hands) away from her exposed arwah to look up at her. The woman turned her head over her shoulder to meet eyes with you, and you could see her almost welling up. The distress and conflict was apparent on her face, but as a devout Muslim she had to fight her doubts. She could only nod, and you wondered how profusely she was sweating under that head wrap.

“For the son shall examine his mother’s intimate places, and clean them as she worships,” you recited.