Letting Herself Drift

Vague memories floated up from her subconscious, unwanted but not unwelcome. For years, Samira had not touched herself down there, in that impure place—except to wash herself, of course. It had been a long time since she had done so for any other reason. Back then, before she understood that it was a sin to explore her own body. At night, alone, under the covers. With a guilty conscience, but curiosity had been stronger. She had shamefully suppressed the sensations she had awakened in herself back then. Now they were pushing back with ****.

Tentatively, she guided her hand back to the source of the nectar. Searching and gently, she felt the delicate lips under her curly hair. She listened to her inner voice. It felt... good. She caressed herself as she wished a lover would.

Her fingers had not forgotten how it felt best. They instinctively found the places that made Samira sigh and lean back with her eyes closed. The young woman sank into a sea that enveloped her warmly and comfortably, gently rocking her and swallowing the cold reality around her. But her journey did not end there. She let herself drift further in these waves, which were becoming increasingly troubled. Her hand became more demanding. Her breathing faster. Heat flared up in her lap.

She drifted further and further. Her sensitive skin burned. The center of her pleasure sent electric shocks through her stomach and down her spine. Her whole body trembled with anticipation. Her breath rattled. Sweat. Light. Yes. Soon...

Yes!

She reared up. Collapsed. Slipped off the chair.

She woke up on the soft carpet. Disoriented, she looked around, not knowing at that moment whether she had slept for seconds or for hours.

She felt exhausted, her throat was sore, her arms and legs were shaky. But she also felt happy and wonderfully relaxed. She sighed contentedly.

She would have loved to just stay lying there, but she resisted the temptation. She had to get dressed. Take a shower first. She pushed herself up.

The mirror was waiting for her in the bathroom. It showed reddened cheeks, a slightly open mouth, trembling lips. Her forehead was shiny with sweat. Her headscarf was crooked, cheeky strands of hair had slipped out from underneath it. Samira lowered her eyes to avoid her reflection looking at her reproachfully.

With deft fingers, she loosened her hijab. The fabric slid down from her hair over her shoulders. She let it fall carelessly to the floor. It should have been a symbol of her honor and modesty. Had she betrayed these values?

She turned on the shower faucet and waited for the water to run hot. Steam billowed through the small room and fogged up the mirror. The image Samira had seen of herself became blurred.

The heat of the water pouring over her made her skin tingle. She held her face in the hard rain, her eyes closed. She washed her hair, her body. She knew that this would not be enough to cleanse herself. The images she had seen, the sensations she had felt, could not simply be washed away.

And beneath that, another realization had taken root. A thought that amazed her and at the same time was as obvious as the light of the sun. She had a wish:

If only I could be as free and self-confident as the women in the pictures.

She leaned her forehead against the tiles. The rushing water shielded her from the world outside. She let her tears flow freely. Were they tears of sadness over her lost innocence? Or were they tears of happiness over her liberation from constraints and unjust morals?

Behind her closed eyelids, she saw numbers. Numbers that David had typed on the screen.