Chapter 1: The Driver's Room Beside the Garage
The side door clicked shut behind her, and the sound of it echoed through the garage like a gunshot. Souad stood there for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The garage smelled of oil and dust and something else—something masculine that she couldn't quite name. Two cars sat in the shadows, a Land Cruiser and the Mercedes she rarely used. The driver's quarters were through a narrow doorway at the back, past the water heater and the stacked boxes of things Abu Khaled had forgotten they owned. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Not from fear. From something else.
The door was unlocked. Of course it was. He knew she was coming.
Othman sat on the edge of his narrow bed, elbows on his knees, watching the door. He didn't stand when she entered. Didn't smile. Just watched her with those dark eyes that always seemed to know more than they should. The room was small—claustrophobic, really. A single bed pushed against the wall. A plastic chair. A wardrobe that had seen better decades. The window was covered with a bedsheet, blocking out the afternoon sun and the prying eyes of the neighbors.
"You came," he said.
She didn't answer. Instead, she reached for the buttons of her abaya, fingers trembling slightly. No. Not trembling. She was not a nervous girl. She was a woman in her forties. A wife. A mother. She had no business being here.
The black fabric pooled at her feet.
Underneath, she wore a simple housedress, cotton, faded blue. Nothing seductive. Nothing special. But the way Othman looked at her made her feel like she was wearing silk and diamonds.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
Souad wanted to laugh. She wasn't sure about anything. Not her marriage. Not her life. Not the choices that had led her to this cramped room behind her own garage. But she was sure about one thing—she was tired of being empty.
"I'm here," she said. "That's answer enough."
He stood then. Slow. Deliberate. He was tall, taller than Abu Khaled, with shoulders that filled the doorway and hands that had done labor. There was nothing soft about him, nothing refined, nothing polished. He was raw in a way that made her mouth dry.
He crossed the small space in two steps.
His hand found her waist, pulling her against him. She felt the heat of his body through the thin cotton, the hard planes of his chest, the unmistakable pressure of his desire against her stomach. His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and then his mouth was on hers.
She kissed him like a woman drowning.
His tongue pushed past her lips, demanding, tasting. She moaned into his mouth, a sound she didn't recognize as her own. Her hands found the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it up, needing to feel skin. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head, and then her palms were flat against his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle, the coarse hair, the heat.
"Bed," he said. Not a question.
He guided her backward, and the mattress dipped under their weight. It creaked. She didn't care. He pushed the housedress up over her hips, and she raised her arms, letting him pull it off. Her bra followed. Her underwear. Each piece of clothing stripped away felt like shedding a skin she had worn for too long.
He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes traveled from her face to her breasts to the curve of her hips, and something shifted in his expression. Not hunger alone. Something deeper. Something that made her chest ache.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm old."
"You're a woman." He lowered himself over her, bracing his weight on his forearms. "That's all that matters."
His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts. She arched beneath him, fingers digging into his back. His lips closed around her nipple, and she gasped, the sensation shooting straight to her core. He sucked hard, then soft, alternating until she was squirming, hips bucking against his thigh.
"Please," she whispered.
He didn't make her wait.
His hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her slick and ready. He circled her clit with his thumb while two fingers pushed inside her, and she cried out, the sound swallowed by the dusty air. He worked her with a rhythm that was almost cruel in its precision, bringing her to the edge and then pulling back, again and again, until she was clawing at the sheets.
"Fuck me," she said. The words felt foreign in her mouth. She had never said them before. Not to Abu Khaled. Not to anyone.
Othman smiled.
He shifted, positioning himself between her thighs. She felt the head of his cock against her entrance, thick and hot, and then he pushed inside.
She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
He was bigger than she expected. The stretch burned, a sweet pain that made her eyes water. He paused, letting her adjust, his breath hot against her ear.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes. Move."
He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in. The bed frame groaned. Souad wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he set a pace that was brutal and perfect. Each thrust hit something inside her that had been asleep for years. Her breasts bounced with the force of it, and she grabbed at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor herself.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The world narrowed to this room, this bed, this man. The sweat-slick slide of skin on skin. The wet sound of their bodies meeting. His grunts. Her moans. The way he said her name like it was a prayer.
"Turn over," he said.
She obeyed without hesitation.
He pulled out, and she flipped onto her stomach, face pressed into the thin pillow. He straddled her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, and then he was inside her again, deeper than before. She cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He moved differently now. Slower. More deliberate. The angle hit a spot that made her see stars, and she pushed back against him, chasing the feeling.
"Like that?" he asked.
"Don't stop."
He didn't.
His hand slid beneath her hips, lifting her slightly, changing the angle again. His thumb found her clit, and between that and the relentless rhythm of his cock, she shattered. The orgasm rolled through her like a wave, clenching around him, and she sobbed into the pillow.
"Again," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
He pulled out once more. She whimpered at the loss, then felt his hands on her hips, positioning her differently. He kneeled behind her, pulling her to her knees, her chest still pressed to the mattress. It was a position she had never tried, had never even imagined. His cock found her again, and this time he held her steady, driving into her with a force that pushed her forward with each thrust.
The "hammer." She had heard of it in whispers, in jokes, in things she wasn't supposed to know. She understood now why it had a name.
The pleasure was almost too much. Almost.
He reached around her, fingers working her clit again, and she came for the second time, her body convulsing, her voice breaking on a sound that was half scream, half moan. Othman fucked her through it, not slowing, not stopping, until she felt him tense behind her, heard his breath catch.
"Where?" he gritted out.
"In me," she said. "I told you. In me."
He came with a groan, burying himself as deep as he could go, and she felt the hot pulse of his release. It was intimate in a way she hadn't expected. Vulnerable. She had never let Abu Khaled finish inside her. Not once in eighteen years of marriage.
When he finally pulled out, she collapsed onto the bed, boneless and spent. He lay beside her, chest heaving, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
She was supposed to leave. She knew that. The girls would be home from university soon. Abu Khaled would return from work. The window of opportunity was closing.
But she didn't move.
"I didn't know it could be like that," she said quietly.
Othman turned his head to look at her. "Like what?"
"Like... I don't know. Like I was actually there. Present. Not just lying there waiting for it to be over."
Something flickered in his eyes. Something she couldn't read.
"That's the way it should be," he said. "For everyone."
She laughed, but it came out bitter. "You don't know my life."
"You're right." He sat up, reaching for his jeans. "I don't."
She watched him dress, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his dark skin. There was something almost animal about him, she thought. Not in the sense of being uncivilized, but in the sense of being completely at home in his own body. He knew what he was. What he wanted. What he could do.
She envied that.
She sat up, reaching for her clothes. Her body felt different. Loose. Used, but in a good way. She pulled her housedress back on, then the abaya, not bothering to button it properly. She would fix it outside.
When she reached the door, she turned back.
"You have a girlfriend," she said. Not a question.
Othman shrugged. "I have many."
"And yet you're here with me."
He stood, crossing to her in two steps. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
"You're not like the others," he said.
"Because I'm married? Because I'm older?"
"Because you know what you want." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "And you're not afraid to take it."
She pulled away, but she was smiling. For the first time in years, she felt something that might have been happiness.
"Next time the house is empty," she said, reaching for the doorknob. "I want you inside me. Not just here. Inside the house. In my bed."
Othman's eyebrows rose. "That's dangerous."
"I know."
"If Abu Khaled finds out—"
"He won't."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "And the girls?"
"They have classes. I'll make sure."
She opened the door, stepping out into the garage. The light was harsh after the dimness of his room, and she blinked, adjusting. The Land Cruiser sat silent and watchful in the corner. Somewhere outside, a car horn blared.
"Until then," she said, and walked away.
She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She could feel his eyes on her, following the sway of her hips, and the knowledge made her spine straighter, her step lighter.
For the first time in eighteen years, Souad felt like she was living.
And she wasn't going to stop.
The house was silent when she slipped through the side door, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. She glanced at her watch. Forty-five minutes until the girls returned. Enough time to shower, to change, to disappear the flush from her cheeks and the smell of his skin from hers.
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, stripping off the abaya as she walked. The fabric caught on the banister, and she yanked it free, leaving it in a heap on the floor. She would pick it up later. Or not.
In the bathroom, she turned the water as hot as she could stand, then stepped under the spray. The water sluiced over her body, washing away sweat and evidence, but it couldn't touch the memory. She pressed her palm flat against the tile, letting the steam cloud around her. Between her thighs, she still felt raw. Still felt him. That fullness. That stretch.
She closed her eyes and smiled.
By the time the girls bounded through the front door, chattering about exams and boys and whatever else occupied their nineteen-year-old minds, Souad was sitting in the living room, a book open in her lap. She looked up as they entered, calm and composed.
"How was your day?" she asked.
"Long," Lina said, dropping her bag on the floor. "Professor Al-Rashid gave us a surprise quiz. I think I failed."
"You didn't fail," Souad said. "You never do."
Lina rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She disappeared into the kitchen, followed by her sister, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of domestic life.
Souad stared at the page in front of her, unseeing.
Downstairs, in his room, Othman was probably doing the same thing. Lying on that narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way she had come apart under him. The taste of her skin. The sound of her voice when she said his name.
She shifted in her seat, squeezing her thighs together.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
She needed more. She needed him. She needed to feel that alive again, and she needed it sooner than she had promised. Tomorrow. The next day. She would find a way. She would make sure the house was empty. She would slip through that side door and into his arms, and she would let him take her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but the pleasure and the release and the sweet, sweet oblivion of forgetting.
The book fell closed in her lap.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The call to prayer echoed from the mosque down the street, and Souad rose to perform wudu, to pray the maghrib, to do all the things a good Saudi wife was supposed to do.
But her mind was elsewhere.
Her mind was in that cramped room behind the garage, with the sheet over the window and the smell of oil in the air. Her mind was on his hands, his mouth, his cock. Her mind was on the way he had said her name like it meant something.
She washed her face and hands and feet, and she knelt toward Mecca, and she recited the words she had known since childhood. But her heart wasn't in it. Her heart was somewhere else entirely.
And she knew, with a certainty that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure, that it would never go back.
The prayer ended. She rose.
Tomorrow, she would find a way.
Tomorrow, she would be alive again.
Tomorrow, she would be alive again.
The words stayed with her through the evening, through dinner with Abu Khaled's muted complaints about the new project manager at his firm, through the girls' chatter about a professor who was too strict and a classmate who was too annoying. Souad nodded in all the right places. She laughed when Lina imitated the professor's monotone voice. She passed the rice when Abu Khaled held out his plate. She was a ghost at her own table, going through the motions while her mind drifted downstairs, past the garage, into that cramped room with the sheet over the window.
That night, she lay beside her husband in the dark, listening to his breathing settle into the heavy rhythm of sleep. He reached for her once, his hand landing on her hip, a question he had asked a thousand times before. She pretended not to feel it. After a moment, he rolled away, and soon the room filled with his snoring.
She stared at the ceiling and touched herself.
It was quick and quiet, her fingers moving under the covers with practiced efficiency. She thought of Othman's mouth on her neck, his hands gripping her hips, the way he had filled her so completely that she forgot where she ended and he began. She came with a muffled gasp, biting her lip hard enough to taste copper.
Still not enough.
The next morning, Abu Khaled left for work at seven, as always. He kissed her forehead on his way out, a habit from their early years that had long since lost its meaning. She stood at the window and watched his car pull out of the driveway, then watched the driver's quarters through the blinds. The door stayed closed. The windows stayed dark.
The girls left an hour later, bickering about whose turn it was to sit in the front seat. Souad stood in the doorway and waved them off, smiling at their familiar squabble. When the car disappeared around the corner, she closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding.
The house was empty.
She had planned to wait. Had told herself she would give it an hour, two, to make sure no one forgot anything and doubled back. But her body had other ideas. Her feet carried her through the hallway, past the kitchen, past the laundry room, to the door that led to the garage.
She stopped with her hand on the knob.
What was she doing? This was madness. This was the kind of thing that destroyed families, that ruined reputations, that ended in blood and shame and exile. She was a wife. A mother. A woman of standing in the community.
She opened the door.
The garage was cool and dim, the concrete floor cold against her bare feet. She had forgotten to put on shoes. She had forgotten everything except the pull, the need, the hunger that had taken root in her chest and refused to let go.
She knocked on the door to his quarters. Three quick raps.
"Come in."
She pushed it open.
Othman was sitting on the edge of the bed, just as he had been the day before. But something was different. He wasn't watching the door with that patient, knowing look. He was smiling—a real smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"I didn't think you'd come so early," he said.
"Neither did I."
She closed the door behind her and reached for the hem of her dress.
"Wait." He stood, crossing the room in two strides. His hand caught her wrist. "Slow down."
"Why?"
"Because we have time." He pulled her toward him, his other hand finding the small of her back. "For once, let's not rush."
She looked up at him, confused. Yesterday had been frantic, urgent, two bodies colliding in desperate need. Today felt different. The air between them was charged but patient, like the pause before a storm.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to taste you."
The words sent a shiver down her spine. Abu Khaled had never done that. Had never offered. Had never seemed interested in anything beyond the basic mechanics of their marital duty.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. "I want to."
He guided her to the bed, and she sat, watching as he knelt in front of her. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the dress higher, inch by inch. She lifted her hips, letting him pull it over her head. The bra followed, then the underwear, until she was naked, exposed, vulnerable.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm nervous."
"Don't be." He pressed his lips to her knee. "I've got you."
He spread her legs, his palms warm against her inner thighs, and lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue made her gasp. He licked her slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring the taste. His tongue traced circles around her clit, then dipped lower, pushing inside her.
"Oh, God." Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his short hair.
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting through her core. His tongue worked her with a skill that bordered on cruelty, bringing her to the edge and then backing off, again and again, until she was writhing on the thin mattress, begging for release.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"You. Inside me. Now."
He pulled back, his chin glistening. "Not yet."
He stood, and she watched as he undressed—shirt, jeans, boxers, each item discarded with deliberate slowness. His body was a study in contradiction: thick muscle softened by dark skin, strength tempered by grace. She had seen it yesterday, had felt it pressed against her, but now she could look. Really look.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're worth staring at."
He laughed, low and warm. Then he was on her, his body covering hers, his weight pushing her into the mattress. He kissed her deeply, and she tasted herself on his lips, an intimacy that made her dizzy.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her mouth.
"I want you to fuck me."
"I thought you wanted me inside you."
"Same thing."
"It's not." He pulled back, looking down at her. "There's a difference between fucking and making love."
Her breath caught. "What's the difference?"
"Fucking is what we did yesterday. Good. Necessary. But this..." He pushed inside her, slow, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. "This is something else."
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. "Show me."
He moved.
Not the frantic, desperate pace of the day before, but something slower. Deeper. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, his hips rolling against hers in a rhythm that built gradually. He watched her face, reading every flicker of pleasure, every sharp intake of breath.
She reached up, touching his face. He turned his head and kissed her palm.
"I want to be inside you every time the house is empty," she whispered.
"I want that too."
"Not just here." Her nails dug into his shoulders. "In the house. In my bed. I want you in every room."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything about us is dangerous."
He increased his pace, and she arched beneath him, meeting his thrusts with her own. The bed creaked. The sheet covering the window billowed slightly, letting in a sliver of morning light. She could hear a car passing on the street, distant and irrelevant. The world outside kept moving, but here, in this cramped room, time had stopped.
He was buried deep inside her, his breathing hot and uneven against her neck.
"Do you want to come?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Not yet."
He slowed, almost stopping. She groaned in frustration.
"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
"I want to try something."
Before she could ask what, he pulled out and flipped her onto her stomach. She felt his hands on her hips, lifting her, positioning her. The pillow was soft under her cheek. His knee pushed her thighs apart.
"This okay?" he asked.
"Yes."
He entered her from behind, and the angle was different, sharper, hitting something that made her gasp. He found a rhythm quickly—hard, fast strokes that pushed her forward with each impact. She clutched the sheets, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
The pleasure built in her core—a tight, coiling pressure that demanded release. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, and that was all it took. She came with a shuddering cry, her internal walls clenching around him.
He didn't stop.
He kept going, riding her through the aftershocks, and the sensitivity was almost too much. Almost.
Then it was. The sensations sharpened, losing their edge, and Souad clenched her jaw and endured. Othman's breathing grew harsh. His rhythm faltered. He wasn't close, she could tell, and the knowledge settled over her like a cold cloth.
He rolled off her. His back hit the mattress. The old frame creaked in protest.
"Come here," he said.
She went. Straddling him, she guided him back inside without hesitation. This position was different—he was deeper this way, or maybe it just felt that way. She planted her hands on his chest and began to move.
He watched her. His eyes tracked the bounce of her breasts, the roll of her hips, the way her body moved above him. She liked that. Liked being on display for him, liked the hunger in his gaze.
"You're going to make me come," he said, his voice strained.
"Good."
She rode him harder, faster, losing herself in the rhythm. He didn't rush her. He didn't buck beneath her. He lay there and let her have her way.
When his hands gripped her hips and his rhythm became jerky, a spike of excitement shot through her. She worked him harder, faster, her thighs burning with the effort, and fell forward until her forehead pressed against his. They breathed the same air, open-mouthed, sharing heat.
She felt him swell, felt him tense. That was all the warning she got.
He pulled her down hard, burying himself to the hilt. His body arched beneath her, a low groan escaping his throat. The first pulse of his release made her gasp. He came inside her, thick and hot, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.
She should have climbed off.
She didn't.
She stayed there, still straddling him, keeping him inside her, her face tucked into the curve of his neck. Her breath was hot against his skin. The taste of salt was on her lips. Neither of them spoke.
The room was quiet except for the rough drag of their breathing and the distant hum of a refrigerator. Her knees ached. Her thighs trembled. Still, she didn't move.
Othman's arms came around her. His hand traced slow circles on her lower back. It was a gentle touch—so gentle that it didn't feel real.
"You okay?" he asked.
She lifted her head. Met his eyes. The dark centers were soft in a way that made her throat tight. She nodded.
"Will you get in trouble?" he asked. "If someone comes home?"
"No one's coming home." She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "Not for hours."
"Then stay."
She should have. She wanted to.
But a clock was ticking somewhere outside. Obligations waited. The supermarket run for dinner. The dry cleaning she'd promised to pick up. The face of the perfect wife that had to be smoothed back into place before anyone noticed it had cracked.
"I can't," she said.
He let her go—no argument, no persuasion. She climbed off and stood, collecting her clothes from the floor. She dressed quickly, her limbs still loose, her body still humming. She caught him looking when she paused at the door.
"What?" she asked.
"I was just thinking," he said.
"About what?"
He was still sprawled on the bed, naked and unashamed. "About how you said I'd have you every time the house was empty."
"And?"
He smiled. That slow, knowing smile from the first day—the one that had hooked her before she had even known what she was walking into.
"I'm just wondering who seduced who here."
She rolled her eyes. But the insult died on her tongue. He had a point.
"I'll see myself out," she said.
She let the lock click shut behind her. The garage hit her with cool air and the smell of oil. She leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closed, letting her breathing even out.
Across the room, the side door stood closed. Beyond it, the rest of her life waited. She would walk back into that house, and she would be a wife again. She would be a mother. She would be the woman everyone believed her to be.
But she wouldn't be that woman. Not anymore. Not ever again.
She pushed off the wall and crossed the garage, her bare feet silent on the concrete.
Behind her, in the dim quarters, the sound of running water started up—Othman in the shower. Soaping away evidence, or just washing off the sweat.
Her skin prickled at the thought.
The next day, everyone went out as usual, and it was Othman's turn.