Breakfast.

“Baba, good morning, ” you said, seeing your father at the kitchen table sipping his coffee.

“Bright morning,” he replied in Arabic as per his usual response and a smile. You looked a lot like him, except he had a greying beard and greying temples, his face a little wider and with a squarer jaw. You sat next to him, the simple breakfast spread already prepared on the table, and dug in.

About halfway through your bite of pita dipped in labneh yoghurt your mother returned to the kitchen. She was wearing a light blue hijab now, which looked to be wrapped about her head a little looser than usual, and she still had her deep blue dress on. Apparently you hadn’t managed to make a mess of that, and you saw that your mother’s face was clean and clear too. Her makeup had even been reapplied, but possibly lighter. The woman wouldn’t make eye contact with you even though she sat down on the direct opposite side of the table.

For a few quiet moments there was just the soft munching of breakfast and sipping of coffee or juice. You wondered what your mother was thinking. She seemed supremely focused on her food, but you were content to just watch her occasionally squirm on the other side of the table for now, no doubt remembering the events of the morning between gulps of coffee. There was a sudden squeak of chair legs moving, causing your on edge mother to echo the noise, and your father was on his feet.

“I better get going,” he told his wife and son as he picked up his bag that was on the floor next to him. “I have late shifts all week, save me some dinner yes?”

Your mother nodded quickly, watching with a worried expression as her husband left for work. The distant sound of the front door closing echoed back to the kitchen. She spared you a tight lipped glance before keeping her head down to finish her light toasted pita bread. Allowing the heavy silence to linger for just a minute longer, you broke it with a question.

“Can we talk about what happened this morning, Mama?”

The woman froze in her seat, then looked up at you and your innocent face. She blinked, remembering herself, remembering you, and seemed to straighten.

“Th-this morning?” she said, coughing a little and playing forgetful.

“Yes, when you used your hands to make me ejaculate,” you reminded her, deciding to make the language rather clinical as if to soften the blow. There was a splutter from your mother as she swallowed her sip of coffee too fast.

“What is there to talk about?” she said dismissively, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “It was just… dutiful … business.” The words sounded uncertain and she frowned at herself. You let her stew in her thoughts for a bit before going on.

“You just seemed… ****, is all,” you said, trying to sound offhanded. “Like you didn’t want to masturbate your son.” A horrified face flash across your mother’s face and she closed her mouth quickly. She bit her lip.

“No no that isn’t…” she started, straining to match words to jumbled thoughts. “I was just… not used to… seeing your… thing.”

“You mean my penis?” you clarified. There was more blinking, your mother’s long eyelashes almost making a fluttering sound.

“I don’t think we should talk about this,” stated your mother. She appeared to have come to a conclusion on the topic but you knew how to finagle the conversation. You’d often discussed the teachings of the Quran with both parents as most families of the Islamic faith would do. This should be no different.

“But doesn’t the Quran say: discussion of men and women’s genitals should be free and open between parent and child once they reach that curious age?” you said. It didn’t, that is not until yesterday when you added that in. “That the parent shall enlighten the child on all curiosities of the sexual organs.” Your words penetrated the membrane of embarrassment shielding your mother’s brain and her eyes opened at your apparently perfectly recited scripture.

“Have you been studying?” she asked you, impressed by her son’s renewed devotion to Islam scripture despite herself. “That’s very good, Ahyan.”

Taking that as the all clear you surged ahead.

“Thanks, Mama. So, I want to know,” you continued. “So is mine much different from Baba’s?” At this you saw the pink flushing into your mother’s cheeks. She had trouble looking you in the eye and you could see a million thoughts running through her head. “Am I bigger? Thicker? Longer?” you tried helpfully.

“Yes. I mean no!” she blurted, your probing and her desire to get out of this uncomfortableness making her answer too quickly. When she saw your placid face however, and those inquisitive eyes, she seemed to calm herself a little. She blinked, feeling conflicting urges to answer. “Your father is… I suppose… not as … large,” she finally admitted. “Overall.”

You had to wipe the dumb grin off your face at the peculiar look your mother shot you.

“Okay. Did you like it? My penis?” you asked. Your mother’s eyes widened more and she swallowed. She had her hands clasped together so tightly in front of her on the table her knuckles were growing white.

“It is… just your penis,” she said, getting the word out quickly, almost spitting it out.

“Just my penis? But the Quran says ‘a woman should look upon the man’s penis and find joy in the vision of it’.” There was a smirk on your face as you watched the reminder dance through your mother’s brain. It did say that, your mother remembered now.

“Your penis … is nice,” she tried, although she didn’t sound too convincing.

“It is sinful to dislike a penis you have held, Mama,” you reminded her additionally.

“I know!” she responded quickly. “I don’t… dislike yours I’m just… just not used to it.” That was a fair excuse to be honest. Well there’d be plenty of opportunity to get used to it...

“I see I see,” you said finally, nodding and letting her off the hook. You then cast out another baited line. “I guess you’re more used to giving Baba handjobs and stuff,” you said, as casual as one could on such a topic. Again your mother squeezed her hands together and she swallowed.

“Actually… I have not done such things… too often at all with your father,” she admitted, much more openly than you had expected she would. You supposed that having lived in the Western world for so long made the conversation flow just the slightest bit easier. “Your father doesn’t often… have urges he needs taken care of,” she finished. It was difficult to tell what kind of tone your mother was using here. She spoke of the lack in your father’s sex drive rather flatly, but there was a wistfulness to her expression. She appeared to catch herself mid-daydream, shifting to a flicker of shame which she swallowed again.

“Ah is that so,” you nodded understandingly. A question reared its head in your depraved mind and flew out of your mouth. “So then was that the first time you had cum on your face?”

Those eyes again, grey green, almost like emeralds mixed with silver somehow, went wide. Her cheeks flushed and she hid her hands beneath the table. She nodded timidly. “Wow, your first load to the face was from your son,” you said, slightly awed. The look of mortification on your mother’s downcast face was priceless. **** but pretty. “How did it feel, Mama? My fresh semen on your skin?”

There wasn’t an immediate answer, your mother shifting slightly in her chair, obviously uncomfortable and reliving the morning event in her mind.

“Warm,” she said finally. “And… sticky,” she added. You smiled at your mother’s choice of words. She would never say that it was disgusting or gross. Never. Because in the Quran you had declared that, to a mother, her son’s semen was one of the holiest of holy substances. Her natural revulsion towards it would have to be tamped down as she tried to rewire her mind and her feelings. It would take time to relearn things.

“I never would have guessed that Baba had such low… urges,” you said, redirecting the subject slightly. “What with his wife being so stunningly beautiful.” She wasn’t expecting such a straightforward compliment from her son and she stared at you, blinking twice and not saying anything. It was the Allah-honest truth though. How your father wasn’t fucking this woman every night was beyond your comprehension.

“I… um… thank you Ahyan, that’s sweet,” she managed to mutter. You nodded, smiled and stood.

“Thank you for breakfast, Umi,” you said. “I’ll join you for midday prayer today okay?”

The befuddled mother looked up at you, nodding slowly. Her mind was steaming in embarrassment, but she also felt a building apprehension. She didn’t understand why this apprehension was there. She already knew what to expect for the midday prayers, as it was always going to be the case according to the Quran. How odd.