The Mosque

It seemed like you had unlocked something in your mother. She was more than receptive to your casual groping now, often turning her attention away from whatever chore she was in the middle of to allow you proper access to her body. As far as the teachings of the Quran were concerned you had every right to it. Even if your father was in the room she apparently no longer cared if he bore witness or not. Sometimes he did stay, furtive glances given while he concentrated on the book he was reading or the TV show he was watching. For your part, your favourite thing to do was to slip your hands beneath her dress and finger her until she was dripping and gasping. She had decided to stop wearing underwear around the house because of this, and by now she was trained to leave her moaning mouth open once you were done coating your knuckles in her honey so you could feed your fingers to her. She was deriving increased enjoyment to her own taste, perhaps developing an addiction to it. They were holy fluids, she would remember.

On Friday morning you caught her indulging in it herself. The way she stood in front of the kitchen sink, dress gathered at her waist, fingers digging into herself, mimicked what you would do to her. She took her covered digits and licked them clean, shivering as she savored herself. You crept up behind her, though your presence was easy for her to detect now. When you caught her wrist she didn’t flinch. She watched you sample her down, tongue running from finger tip to ball of her palm, that familiar flavour riling you. Though she had grown accustomed to this depraved (but wholly sanctioned) relationship, there was a new nervousness in her eyes.

“Tell me your worries, Umi,” you said magnanimously, reaching up to adjust her headscarf despite it being perfectly wrapped around her hair. There were considerations made by the woman as she stood there, and she couldn’t stop her sharp intake of breath as you dropped to your knees without a word. She still had her dress raised like a curtain, gathered in a fist by her waist. The smell of her naked, dripping pussy had your mouth watering. You dove in, kissing her pussy lips, then slipped in your tongue. The woman controlled her breathing as she tried to collect her thoughts, while at the same time her son was eating her out in the middle of the kitchen.

“We haven’t gone to mosque since… since we started praying like this,” she said, clenching her fists as you lapped at her slit. “Everything is… different now.” It was odd to say out loud because her ‘truth’ told her something else. This wasn’t different, it was how it was supposed to be. You managed to pull away from her delicious pinkess to take a breath and speak.

“Everything is as Allah commands it,” you reminded her. Of course. She nodded, rolling her head back and letting out an unbridled moan of pleasure as you pressed your mouth into her cunt again. She was devoted.

Your father had been extra quiet that morning as well, courteous to his son and wife as they displayed their casual obscenity at the breakfast table. He almost didn’t want to go to work, but living in a non-islamic country had its own challenges. Where Friday would have usually been a day off, he had to go to work instead. He left, saying as little as possible, eyes on the floor. As usual, he would need to pray during a lunch break at work instead of going to the congregation.

You loitered at home until it was time. When you saw your mother again, dressed in her modest grey dress and dark hijab, you were thrilled. She was made up very faintly, as she usually would be for the Friday prayers, and looked like an absolute gift. You couldn’t wait to unwrap her. You had decided to dress more traditionally as well, your long linen tunic white and pure, unlike your thoughts. Your cotton pants were wide bottomed. You enjoyed how breezy the outfit was.

“Let’s go, mom,” you said then, dropping into a more casual tone. She followed you to the car with trepidation. It had been a while since you had been eager for a trip to the mosque, so this should have made your mother happy. She was, in a way. You sensed a mixture of excitement and dread from the woman and kept your smile to yourself. You had to wonder how wet she was.

--

You lived in a quiet town and the muslim population wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination. That there was a mosque this close by at all seemed a small miracle. You believed in miracles now of course. The congregation wasn’t huge either. Not any more. You saw maybe two dozen people greeting familiar faces outside as you got out of the car. You had to think it was because the demographic of the area was simply shifting. The arab population had slowly gotten smaller as families moved away. Even your sister had moved to the East Coast when she got married a couple of years ago. Those who stayed behind were a steadfast community.

For the very important congressional Friday prayer, that happened mid-afternoon on a weekday, it meant most attendees would be stay at home mothers, many with a put upon air that you recognized. There were a few guys your age too, looking nervous and excited, also a familiar feeling to you. There were a few elderly and only a couple of children. As people milled into the building, a largely square thing, its concrete construction painted a sandy colour and topped with a bulbous minaret, you saw the older men and women usher the children into an adjoining room. A heavy door shut them away from the main hall, where you and your mother now entered.

The hall was deliberately spartan. The floor was clean swept tiles with long rugs laid out in rows across it. Before each person entered the room they paused a moment, silently declaring their intent to pray, then moved in to find a spot to kneel. A little on autopilot, your mother wandered to her usual spot and stood there in the first row, front and center. It would be right before the imam, whose spot was on the same level as everyone else at the front of the congregation but there was a larger square rug for him to lead the prayers from. He wasn’t there yet. That may have been part of why your mother hadn’t realised the mistake she made. Once you were next to her she pulled her eyes away from the domed ceiling. She saw you, then saw the other people gingery gathering around the place. There were mostly women. Mothers. Daughters. You recognised some that may have been friends with your mother. There were about a dozen women with their sons, paired up and standing about looking anxious and awkward. A handful of older men stood near the back. Probably to get the best view.

The imam stepped out of an archway, a tall man with rectangular glasses in a long grey thobe. He was relatively young, but was greying in this cropped hair and beard. You recognized him, but he looked a lot less confident than the last time you saw the man leading prayers a few years ago. Imam Khalil. The nervous murmur of the gathered devotees, which was already quiet in its solemn, sober way, settled into complete silence. It was time to pray.