Chapter 2: Notes
A few days after banging the brunette, the memory was a quiet, satisfied hum in Areeba’s muscles. It had been a clean, hard fuck, a conquest that proved her prowess. Now, she was in the Galleria, a different kind of hunter, tasked with buying school shoes for her two chattering daughters.
The jewelry store was a glittering trap of light. As her girls pressed their noses to the glass, fascinated by a spinning display of birthstone necklaces, Areeba’s gaze drifted. It landed on a woman at the counter. A hijabi.
She was young, perhaps Areeba’s age, with a husband standing beside her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. They seemed newly wed, that particular bubble of quiet, focused attention around them. The hijabi was examining a gold bangle, her profile elegant. For a fleeting second, her eyes—large, dark, and lined with kohl—lifted and met Areeba’s in the reflective glass. Areeba looked away first, a habit born of caution.
Being Muslim herself, Areeba understood the complexities, the layered fortifications around a woman who wore her faith so visibly. The hijab was a wall, a statement, a commitment. Seducing a hijabi seemed a different calculus altogether. The potential for catastrophic offense, for a scene, was high. Even if the interest was there, the logistics of actually getting one into bed felt nearly impossible. Areeba had always filed them under ‘too difficult,’ a category she usually enjoyed dismantling, but this one came with social and spiritual tripwires she wasn’t sure she wanted to navigate. She shepherded her daughters away from the jewelry, putting the beautiful stranger out of her mind.
An hour later, in the vast, echoing food court smelling of greasy pizza and pretzels, she saw them again. The hijabi and her husband, carrying trays. They found a table not far from where Areeba was distributing chicken nuggets and apple juice. As Areeba wiped ketchup from a small chin, she felt a presence. She looked up.
The hijabi was looking directly at her. And she smiled.
It wasn’t a polite, generic smile. It was a slow, deliberate curve of full lips, her kohl-rimmed eyes holding Areeba’s for a heartbeat too long before she turned to say something to her husband. Areeba’s pulse did a slow, heavy thud. Intrigue, sharp and sudden, cut through her.
The woman was stunning. The hijab, a beautiful slate-grey chiffon, was draped with an effortless style that spoke of being born and raised here, likely Palestinian or Syrian from her features. Beneath it, her face was a perfect oval with high cheekbones and that mesmerizing mouth. Her attire was modest—a long, tailored coatdress over trousers—but it clung to a figure that was undeniably lush, hints of curves hidden beneath the fabric. A total hottie. Exactly the type of woman Areeba would fuck.
But was she reading this right? Areeba knew her own vibe; when she was on the hunt, she projected a predatory energy that certain women sensed and either fled from or gravitated toward. But today she was just a mom in stylish jeans and a silk blouse, her hair down, looking good but not hunting. So why the looks? Why the smile?
The hijabi glanced again, another quick, searing connection as her husband scrolled on his phone. This time, Areeba held the gaze, lifting a brow a fraction. The hijabi’s smile returned, softer, before she looked down at her food. A careful, deliberate pattern. Only when the husband was distracted.
The idea, once it entered Areeba’s mind, took root with ferocious speed. Bang the hijabi. The forbiddenness of it, the sheer audacity, sent a thrill through her that was more potent than any cocktail. But speculation was worthless. She needed data, proximity.
“Okay, my little monkeys,” Areeba announced, gathering trash. “How about some play time?”
The supervised play area was a godsend. She paid the fee for three hours, kissed her daughters, and watched them vanish into a colorful maze of slides and ball pits. The moment the gate clicked shut, her posture changed. The maternal slouch straightened into a prowl. She was free.
She found them in the Louis Vuitton outlet. The husband looked bored, hands in his pockets. The hijabi was tracing a finger over the grain of a leather handbag. Areeba moved in, pretending a deep interest in a wallet display right behind them. She could smell the hijabi’s perfume—something subtle and floral, like jasmine and sandalwood.
Then, she heard the voice. Soft, accented with the faintest lilt of Arabic underneath American English. “You know, I have a few more things I need to look at. Maybe you should go to your work meeting? You can just pick me up in a couple of hours.”
The husband sounded relieved. “You sure? I can stay.”
“No, go. It’s boring for you. I’ll be fine.”
A brief discussion, a peck on the cheek, and he was walking away, weaving through the racks towards the exit.
Areeba’s blood sang. This was the signal. The husband was being removed. The window was cracking open. It was now or never.
Her mind worked with a cold, swift logic. There was no time for the usual dance, for coffee, for whispered promises. The hijabi had bought herself a window, and Areeba had to fuck her within it. The car. It had to be the car.
It was insane. Reckless. She knew nothing about this woman—not her name, not her story, only the dark fire in her eyes and the daring act of sending her husband away. But the urge was a physical force, a tightening in her gut and a throbbing between her legs. She had to have her. The note was a reckless gamble, but it was the only move.
She scribbled on the back of a receipt with a lip liner from her purse: Rooftop parking. Silver Honda Accord. Now. As she passed the hijabi, who was now examining a keychain, she let the folded paper fall neatly into her lap without breaking stride. She didn’t look back.
In the mall’s grandiose, marble-lined restroom, Areeba locked herself in a large accessible stall. Her hands were steady, practiced. She removed her jeans and panties. From her oversized tote bag—always prepared—she pulled out the harness. Black nylon this time, simpler. And the strapon: dual-ended, a smooth, realistic silicone shaft designed to pleasure both women. She inserted one end into herself, a familiar, filling pressure that made her gasp softly as it seated against her cervix. She secured the harness, the other end jutting out from her body. She pulled her jeans back on over the apparatus, the bulge disguised by the baggy denim. She tucked her blouse in. A final check in the mirror: a flushed, beautiful woman, eyes blazing with intent. No one would know.
The drive from the basement to the rooftop level felt interminable. The Texas sun hammered down on the concrete, creating visible heat shimmers. As she had hoped, the rooftop was nearly deserted, just a few cars scattered far away. She parked in the farthest corner, against the low wall, overlooking the freeway. She kept the engine running, the AC blasting. She put up the sunshades on every window, turning the interior into a private, dim cockpit.
Then, she waited.
The engine’s purr was the only sound. One minute. Two. Five. Doubt, cold and greasy, began to uncoil in her stomach. She replayed the glances, the smiles. Had it just been friendly recognition? A shared cultural ‘salaam’ expressed without words? Had she, in her predatory arrogance, constructed an entire erotic narrative from simple politeness?
The hijabi was a married woman. A religious woman. She’d just sent her husband to a work meeting, not to a cuckold’s fantasy. Areeba’s face burned with a humiliation far deeper than any she’d felt at the birthday party. This wasn’t cock-blocking. This was self-delusion on a spectacular scale. She was sitting in a boiling car on a rooftop, wearing a strapon, waiting for a pious stranger who was probably happily buying scented candles right now, utterly oblivious to the depraved script Areeba had written for her.
Ten minutes. No one came. The elevator doors at the far end of the lot remained shut.
The thrilling insanity of it all curdled into something pathetic. She had misread everything. She was about to undo the harness, to drive away and try to forget this profound miscalculation, when a movement caught her eye.
The elevator doors slid open.
A figure emerged, alone. The grey chiffon hijab fluttered in the hot rooftop wind. The woman paused, scanning the rows of cars. Then, she turned and began walking, with purpose, directly toward the silver Honda.
The hijabi’s stride was quick, the flats of her shoes making soft, sure sounds on the hot asphalt. Areeba’s earlier doubt evaporated, replaced by a electric current of certainty. She killed the engine. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by the distant hum of the freeway and the hammer of her own heart.
As she walked towards the car, Areeba got out.
The Texas heat wrapped around them, a thick, visible blanket. They exchanged smiles. Areeba’s was a flash of pure, predatory victory. The hijabi’s was smaller, tighter, a fracture in her composed facade that revealed a deep, terrified hunger. Without a word, Areeba opened the back seat door for the hijabi. The hijabi slid in, a whisper of grey chiffon against the leather. Areeba followed her, pulling the door shut with a solid thunk that sealed them in the dim, air-conditioned silence.
Areeba didn’t waste time.
She locked her lips with the hijabi’s in a fierce, devouring kiss. There was no softness, no exploration. It was a claim. The hijabi moaned into her mouth, her hands coming up to clutch at Areeba’s blouse. Areeba’s own hands were already moving, pushing the long coatdress up, fumbling with the drawstring of the trousers. The hijabi helped, her movements frantic, yanking the fabric down over her hips. Within seconds, they were completely naked from the waist down, their tops barely dangling, pushed up and aside. The hijabi’s thighs were soft and full, a stark contrast to the crisp fabric of her hijab, which remained miraculously in place, a frame for her flushed, desperate face.
Areeba positioned herself between the woman’s splayed legs. She was already wet, her own arousal slicking the base of the strapon buried inside her. She guided the other silicone tip to the hijabi’s entrance, which was tightly furled and clenching with anticipation. Areeba entered her with her strapon in one brutal, unyielding thrust.
The hijabi’s head slammed back against the door panel, a choked scream tearing from her throat. She was impossibly tight, a hot, gripping pressure around the shaft. Areeba groaned, the sensation of filling her coupled with the intense friction on her own clit from the base. She began to move.
Areeba then fucked the hijabi hard in various positions for an hour.
She pulled her onto the floor, the woman’s back against the seat, and pounded into her with shallow, brutal jabs that hit her cervix. She flipped her over, pushing her face against the leather, and took her from behind, each deep drive forcing a ragged gasp. She hauled her up onto the seat, the hijabi straddling her, impaling herself again and again with a frantic, sobbing rhythm. There was no talking. Not even a word. Just raw, hard sex, the only sounds the slap of skin, the creak of the car’s suspension, and their ragged, open-mouthed breathing.
The hijabi was tight, but Areeba did not go easy on her. She brutally drilled her, chasing her own peak with a single-minded ferocity that turned the other woman’s body into a tool for pleasure. Despite the AC blasting, they were dripping in sweat. It beaded on Areeba’s forehead, soaked through the hijabi’s underscarf, made their skin slide together with a wet, filthy sheen.
Areeba had multiple orgasms, sharp, lightning-like spasms that made her vision blur, but she fucked through them, using the contractions to drive herself deeper, harder. The hijabi came twice, her body seizing in silent, shuddering waves, her nails leaving crescent moons in Areeba’s forearms.
After an hour, she had her final orgasm. It ripped through her with a force that emptied her lungs, a deep, core-deep unraveling that made her bones feel liquid. She collapsed on top of the hijabi, their sweat-slicked bodies sticking together in the cooling air. The hijabi’s arms came around her, holding her with a surprising, desperate strength.
They lay like that for a few minutes, the only movement the frantic rise and fall of their chests. The digital clock on the dashboard ticked forward, a mute witness.
Slowly, disentangling, they both put their clothes back on. The silence continued, now weighted with the enormity of what they’d done. The hijabi smoothed her hijab, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the folds. She looked at Areeba, her beautiful face a mess of smudged kohl and spent passion.
“This never gets out,” the hijabi finally said, her voice husky and raw. It wasn’t a question.
Areeba nodded, once. A business transaction concluded.
The hijabi opened the door. The outside heat rushed in, a shocking contrast. She stepped out, not looking back, and walked towards the elevator, her gait slightly stiff. The elevator doors swallowed her.
Areeba waited. After a few minutes, she started the car. The cool air began to battle the new warmth their bodies had left behind. She checked her reflection, fixed her hair, wiped a smudge of lipstick from her chin. She then started making her way to pick up her daughters.