Chapter 8: Spit, Tongue, and the Open Door
The bathroom door didn't lock. It hadn't locked in three years—the mechanism had broken sometime before they moved in, and the landlord had never bothered to fix it. Mohammed had learned to live with it. They all had.
He stood at the sink, both hands gripping the chipped porcelain, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The fluorescent bulb above him flickered—once, twice—casting his face in alternating shades of sickly yellow and shadow. He'd just gotten home from work. His shirt was still tucked in, his tie loosened but not removed. The day had been long. A client in Al Barsha had spent two hours arguing about commission percentages, and Mohammed had spent those two hours smiling and nodding and imagining what it would feel like to walk out.
But he was home now.
The apartment was quiet. Zainab had gone to the market—he'd seen her shoes missing from the rack by the door, her purse gone from the hook. Mahra was somewhere in the house, probably in the bedroom, probably reading or scrolling through her phone or doing any of the hundred small things she did when she was alone.
He turned on the tap. Cold water. He splashed it on his face, let it drip down his chin, his neck, into the collar of his shirt. The water pressure was weak—a thin stream that barely wet his hands—and the temperature never quite got cold enough. Everything in this apartment was just slightly less than it should be. The AC. The shower. The locks on the doors.
He heard footsteps behind him.
Didn't turn around. Didn't need to.
Mahra's reflection appeared in the mirror beside his—her face, then her body, the jalabiya hanging open over her bare shoulders, her bare chest, the soft curve of her stomach. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. She never did when she was home.
"You're back," she said.
"Obviously."
She stepped closer. Her hands found his waist, slid around to his stomach, pressed flat against the fabric of his shirt. Her chin rested on his shoulder.
"Long day?"
"The longest."
She hummed—a low, noncommittal sound—and her hands began to move. Down. Lower. Her fingers found his belt, worked it loose with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of doing exactly this.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I know."
She undid the button. The zipper. His slacks loosened, and she tugged them down just enough, just past his hips, and then her hands were on him—warm and sure and exactly where he needed them to be.
He exhaled.
The mirror showed him everything. Her body pressed against his back. Her breasts flattened against his shoulder blades. Her hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, the way she knew he liked.
"I missed you," she said.
"You saw me this morning."
"That was hours ago."
She kissed the back of his neck—a soft, open-mouthed kiss that sent a shiver down his spine—and then she was gone. His hands gripped the sink harder. He watched in the mirror as she dropped to her knees behind him.
The tile was cold. He knew that from experience. But she didn't flinch. She never did.
Her hands found his hips, turned him around. The sink dug into his lower back, the edge of the counter biting into his skin, but he didn't care. He was looking down at her now—at the top of her head, at the dark hair spilling over her shoulders, at her face tilted up toward him with that expression she got when she wanted something.
She didn't say anything.
She just leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
The heat of it hit him first—that wet, enveloping warmth that made his knees weak and his breath catch. Then the pressure. Then the motion. She moved slowly at first, her lips sliding down his shaft, her tongue flat against the underside, her throat opening to take him deeper.
He reached down and gathered her hair in his hand. Not pulling. Just holding.
She hummed around him—that same low sound from before, but different now, vibrating through his skin, through his blood, through the base of his spine.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She pulled off. Just long enough to look up at him, her lips wet, her eyes dark.
"You like that?"
"You know I do."
She smiled—that small, knowing smile that meant she was about to do something he wasn't expecting—and then she ducked her head lower. Her tongue traced down his shaft, over his balls, and then further back. He felt her hands on his ass, spreading him open, and then—
Her tongue. Wet and warm and impossibly soft. Right there.
His hips jerked. His hand tightened in her hair. The mirror fogged slightly from his breath, and through the haze he could see her—on her knees, her face buried between his cheeks, her tongue working in slow, deliberate circles.
"Sit still," she murmured against his skin.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He laughed—a short, breathless sound—and then she did something with her tongue that made the laugh die in his throat.
He closed his eyes. Let his head fall back. The flickering light danced against his eyelids, red and yellow and black. The tap was still running—he'd forgotten to turn it off—and the sound of water hitting porcelain filled the small room like static.
He didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway.
Didn't notice the shadow that fell across the doorway.
But Mahra did. He felt her pause—just for a moment—and then she kept going, her tongue pressing harder, her hand reaching around to stroke his cock in time with her mouth.
Mohammed opened his eyes.
Zainab was standing in the doorway.
She was wearing her house dress—the blue one with the faded flowers—and she was holding a glass of tea. Cardamom. He could smell it from here. Her face was unreadable. That same careful mask from this morning, the one that meant she was thinking something she didn't want to say.
She didn't leave.
She just stood there. Watching.
Mahra pulled back. Her chin was wet. Her lips were swollen. She looked up at Mohammed, then followed his gaze to the doorway.
Silence.
The tap dripped. The light flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared.
"Don't stop on my account," Zainab said.
Her voice was flat. Matter-of-fact. The same tone she used when she commented on the weather or the price of vegetables or the neighbor's new curtains.
Mahra's hands were still on Mohammed's ass. Her fingers pressed into his skin—not hard, just present. Grounding.
"You're back early," Mahra said.
"The market was crowded."
Zainab took a sip of her tea. She didn't move from the doorway. Her eyes traveled over the scene—her daughter on her knees, her son-in-law pressed against the sink, the two of them tangled together in a way that left no question about what was happening.
"The cucumbers were wilted," she added. "I didn't buy them."
Mahra laughed. A real laugh, low and genuine, and Mohammed felt it vibrate through his skin. She stood up slowly, her knees cracking, and turned to face her mother.
"You want to watch?" Mahra asked.
Zainab's eyebrow twitched.
"I'm not watching. I'm drinking tea."
"You're standing in the doorway."
"This is my house."
"It's my house too."
The two of them looked at each other. Mohammed stood there, his pants around his ankles, his cock still hard, and wondered if this was the moment everything fell apart. If this was the moment Zainab finally said the thing she'd been holding back for years. If this was the moment Mahra pushed too far and broke something that couldn't be fixed.
But Zainab just took another sip of tea.
"Finish what you started," she said. "I'll be in the kitchen."
She turned and walked away. Her footsteps faded down the hallway. A door opened. Closed.
Mahra looked at Mohammed.
"That was—"
"I know."
She was smiling.
"She's not angry," Mahra said.
"She's not happy."
"She's adjusting."
She turned him around—back toward the sink—and dropped to her knees again. Her mouth found his cock, still wet from before, and she picked up where she'd left off. Faster this time. Harder. The kind of rhythm that meant she wanted him to finish, wanted to feel him come undone, wanted to taste it.
He grabbed the sink. Held on.
"Mahra—"
She hummed. Kept going.
"I'm close."
She pulled off. Looked up at him with those dark eyes.
"Then come."
She opened her mouth wide. Tongue out. Waiting.
He came with a shudder—his whole body convulsing, his hands white-knuckled on the porcelain—and she caught every drop. Swallowed it. Licked her lips.
"Good?" she asked.
"Good."
She stood. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Pulled her jalabiya closed—not that it mattered, not that it hid anything—and reached around him to turn off the tap.
The silence that followed was different now. Softer. The air was thick with the smell of sex and rose-scented soap and the faint, lingering trace of cardamom.
"You should shower," Mahra said.
"I know."
"I'll make dinner."
"What about your mother?"
"She'll come around."
She kissed him—a quick peck, almost chaste, the kind of kiss that felt obscene after everything else—and walked out of the bathroom, leaving him alone with the mirror and the flickering light and the taste of his own sweat on his lips.
He looked at his reflection.
The man staring back at him was a stranger.
He turned on the shower. Cold water. The faucet sputtered, coughed, and finally released a thin, pathetic stream. He stepped under it anyway.
Down the hall, he could hear Mahra's voice. She was talking to Zainab—not about what happened, about something else, something mundane, something about dinner. And Zainab was answering. Her tone was normal. Relaxed.
He pressed his forehead against the wet tile.
They'd figure this out.
They had to.