Chapter 3: Talks
The scent hit Lama first as she pushed open the heavy wooden door of Al-Rawabi. Cardamom, rich coffee, and something deeper, warmer – cloves? Cinnamon? A sanctuary of scent and sound. The low hum of Arabic, punctuated by laughter and the rhythmic clink of tiny porcelain cups on saucers, wrapped around her like a familiar shawl. Vibrant tapestries depicting desert landscapes and intricate geometric patterns covered the walls, their colours bleeding together in the warm, low light. It felt miles away from Jack’s damp, chaotic flat, miles away from Omar’s quiet, predictable warmth. Here, she could almost forget the phantom ache still lingering between her thighs, the echo of Jack’s guttural groans.
"Lama! Yalla, over here!" Nadia’s voice, bright and sharp, cut through the murmur. She waved from a corner table piled with delicate pastries – baklava oozing honey, ma’amul dusted with icing sugar. Huda sat beside her, elegant as always in a tailored abaya, her dark eyes watchful, a slight frown playing on her lips as she stirred her coffee with meticulous slowness.
Lama slipped onto the plush velvet cushion opposite them, the scent of her own expensive perfume momentarily clashing with the coffee spices before being swallowed. She unwound her silk hijab, letting her dark hair fall free, a small act of rebellion in this space. A waiter appeared instantly, placing a steaming cup of thick, fragrant Arabic coffee in front of her. The bitter aroma grounded her. Mostly.
"You look… different," Huda stated, her gaze sweeping over Lama. "Rested? Or restless? I can't decide."
Lama stirred her coffee, watching the thick foam swirl. Restless. So restless it felt like her skin was vibrating. The memory of Jack pinning her to his grimy sheets, the brutal stretch, the sheer force of him… it flooded her, hot and sudden. She took a scalding sip, letting the bitterness burn away the tremor in her hands. "Just busy," she murmured.
Nadia snorted, leaning forward conspiratorially, her gold bangles chiming. "Busy doing what, habibti? Omar’s been telling Ahmad you’ve practically moved into the university library." Her eyes glittered with knowing mischief. "But Ahmad said he drove past the library twice last week when you were supposedly buried in archives… and your car wasn’t there."
Lama’s heart lurched. Ahmad. Omar’s ever-helpful cousin. Of course. She forced a casual shrug, reaching for a piece of baklava. The sticky sweetness felt cloying. "Parking’s a nightmare. I use the multistorey down the road now." The lie tasted like ash. Again.
Huda’s frown deepened. "Lama…" Her voice was low, serious. "Is everything alright? With Omar? You seem… distant. Jumpy."
The concern in Huda’s eyes, the genuine worry, was almost worse than Nadia’s playful probing. Lama looked down at her coffee cup. The ornate pattern blurred. The silence stretched, thick with the cafe’s comforting sounds suddenly feeling like an intrusion. The phantom ache pulsed, a traitorous reminder. The scent of Jack’s sweat seemed to rise from her skin despite the shower she’d scrubbed herself raw in after leaving his flat.
"No," Lama whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it. She looked up, meeting Huda’s gaze, then Nadia’s suddenly alert one. Her voice dropped even lower, barely audible over the clatter from the kitchen. "Everything is not alright."
Nadia’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by sharp curiosity. She leaned even closer. "What is it? Tell us."
The confession tumbled out, clumsy and raw. "There’s… someone else." She couldn’t say his name. Not here. Not in this space smelling of cardamom and home.
Huda’s spoon clattered against her saucer. "Allah yahdeek, Lama! Are you serious? Who? How?" Her voice was a shocked hiss, eyes wide with scandal and disbelief.
Nadia’s reaction was different. A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face. "No! Habibti! Details! Who is he?" Her eyes sparkled, not with judgment, but with avid, fascinated hunger.
The dam broke. The weight of the secret, the illicit thrill, the suffocating guilt – it all surged up, demanding release. In this sanctuary of women, under the vibrant tapestries, surrounded by the scent of spices and tradition, Lama found herself whispering the forbidden details. She started hesitantly – the skate park, the first time in his car, the roughness, the sheer wrongness of it that felt so desperately right.
Nadia listened, rapt, occasionally gasping, "Astaghfirullah!" but her eyes were bright with vicarious excitement. "And Omar? He suspects nothing?" she breathed.
"Clueless," Lama whispered, the word heavy with both relief and a new pang of guilt. "Utterly clueless. He worries I’m working too hard." A bitter laugh escaped her.
Huda remained silent, her expression unreadable, stirring her cold coffee endlessly. Her earlier disapproval seemed to have frozen into something more complex.
Encouraged by Nadia’s reaction, the words spilled faster, less guarded. "He’s… rough," Lama confessed, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, colour rising in her cheeks. "Not like…" She trailed off, unable to compare him to Omar’s gentle, almost apologetic fumblings. "He just… takes." The memory of his size, the initial shocking stretch, the way he pinned her, flooded her. "And he’s… big." The crude word felt alien on her tongue in this refined setting, yet utterly necessary. "Really big. Like…" She fumbled, gesturing vaguely with her hands near the sugar bowl before snatching them back, heat flaming her face.
Nadia choked on her coffee, coughing and laughing simultaneously. "Lama! Ya amar! You cannot just say that!" But she was beaming, leaning so far forward she was practically on the table. "How big? Describe! Omar isn't...?"
Lama shook her head vehemently, a strange mix of shame and defiant pride warming her. "No. Nothing like Omar. It’s… intense. Almost too much. At first." She remembered the breath-stealing fullness, the way her body had screamed in protest and ecstasy. "But then… ya Allah, Nadia… it’s like being…" She searched for a word, failing. "Obliterated." The vulgarity, the sheer physical honesty of it, felt like shedding a skin. She took a shaky breath. "And he's... not gentle. Doesn't ask. Just... does what he wants. And I..." She trailed off, the raw truth of her own complicity, her own desperate craving for that brutal possession, hanging heavy in the fragrant air.
Huda finally spoke, her voice tight, strained. "Lama, this is dangerous. What you're describing... it's sin. It's hellfire. This boy, this... kalb... he's using you. Trashing you." Her knuckles were white where she gripped her cup. But there was a flicker in her eyes too, not just condemnation. Something darker. A spark of… curiosity? Repressed fascination?
Nadia waved a dismissive hand, dripping with gold. "Oh, relax, Huda! Live a little! So she found a stallion! Good for her! Omar is a sweet man, bless him, but let's be honest, habibti," she turned her dazzling smile back to Lama, "he wasn't exactly setting the sheets on fire, was he? This Jack sounds... visceral." She savoured the word. "Exhausting, probably filthy," her nose wrinkled slightly, "but Allah, the stories! You have to tell us everything next time!"
The waiter appeared, refilling their cups. The interruption was jarring. Lama sat back, suddenly aware of how loud her own heartbeat sounded. The warm sanctuary felt different now. The spices smelled sharper, the colours of the tapestries more garish. She had spoken the unspeakable. Shared the obscenity of Jack’s touch, his size, his roughness, in this place of tradition and propriety. And instead of being cast out, she’d been… celebrated? Encouraged? Nadia’s avid curiosity was a drug, feeding the forbidden thrill. Huda’s conflicted silence, the flicker beneath her disapproval, was its own strange validation.
Lama lifted her coffee cup. Her hand was steady now. A strange calm, cold and hard, settled over her. The guilt was still there, a dull ache, but it was muffled, drowned out by the echoing memory of being utterly filled, utterly claimed, and by the illicit satisfaction of sharing it. Nadia winked, raising her own cup in a silent, scandalous toast. Huda looked away, staring at the intricate patterns on the wall, her expression unreadable, but the rigid set of her shoulders spoke volumes.
Lama took a slow sip of the bitter coffee. The warmth spread through her. She imagined Jack’s blue eyes, his mocking smirk. She pictured the chaos of his flat, the smell of him. The phantom ache intensified. She didn’t flinch. She welcomed it. Obliterated. Yes. That was the word. She was being obliterated. And the terrifying, exhilarating part? She was helping him do it. One filthy, thrilling confession at a time. The vibrant tapestry behind Nadia seemed to pulse, the geometric patterns twisting for a second into something chaotic, unrestrained. Just like her.
The sticky sweetness of the baklava clung to Lama’s fingers, a stark contrast to the illicit thrill coiling low in her belly. Nadia’s eyes, bright and predatory, locked onto hers. "So, this stallion," Nadia breathed, leaning so close Lama could smell her expensive rosewater perfume mingling with the coffee, "when are you seeing him next? You need a plan, habibti. A better story for Omar."
Huda finally stirred her cold coffee again, the spoon scraping the porcelain like a tiny accusation. "Nadia, this is madness," she murmured, her voice tight, though her gaze flickered, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the scandal. "Playing with fire." Yet, the faintest flush high on her cheekbones betrayed something else entirely – a morbid, captivated fascination with the forbidden details Lama had spilled.
"Fire keeps you warm, ya Huda!" Nadia retorted, flicking her wrist dismissively, gold bangles chiming. "Lama’s been freezing for years. Omar’s a good man, truly, but good men don’t make you feel… obliterated, do they?" She savored the word Lama had used, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Tell us," she pressed, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "where did he take you last time? Somewhere thrilling? Dangerous?"
"The skate park," Lama admitted, the words tumbling out easier now, fueled by their reactions, by the heady mix of shame and liberation. "Late. After dark." The memory of the cool night air on her flushed skin, the distant clatter of a skateboard, Jack’s rough hands pushing her against the graffiti-scrawled concrete wall, surged back. "Against the half-pipe." She saw their eyes widen, Nadia’s with delighted shock, Huda’s with a dawning, horrified understanding of the risk, the exposure. "He didn’t care who might see."
"Allah!" Huda whispered, genuinely aghast now, her knuckles white on her cup. "Lama, that’s… reckless! What if someone did see? Ahmad drives everywhere!" Panic warred with that undeniable spark of prurient interest in her dark eyes. "Think of the scandal!"
Nadia just laughed, a low, rich sound. "Scandal? Habibti, that's the point! A little danger makes it sweeter, doesn't it?" She nudged Lama’s foot under the table. "And Omar? Still thinks you’re buried in dusty books?"
"Completely." Lama traced the intricate pattern on her coffee cup, the phantom sensation of Jack’s grip on her wrists vivid. "He asked if I wanted takeaway last night. Said I looked tired from 'studying'." A bitter-sweet pang twisted inside her – Omar’s gentle concern a stark counterpoint to Jack’s demanding possession. "I told him I just needed an early night."
"Perfect!" Nadia declared, seizing on it. "Use that. 'Early nights' are your new best friend. Library? Pfft. Too obvious now Ahmad’s snooping." She tapped a crimson fingernail against her teeth, thinking. "Volunteering? A new fitness class? Something wholesome Omar wouldn’t dream of interrupting. Something that gives you… windows." Her gaze was sharp, strategic. "This Jack, he’s available? When Omar’s at that engineering conference next month…"
Huda sucked in a sharp breath but remained silent, her gaze fixed on the swirling dregs in her cup. The rigid disapproval was still there, a shield, but it was visibly cracking under the weight of Nadia’s practical encouragement and the raw, electric energy radiating from Lama. "You’re really encouraging this?" Huda finally asked Nadia, her voice strained, almost pleading. "It's haram. It’s… destructive."
Nadia met her gaze, unflinching. "I’m encouraging her to feel, Huda. Truly feel. For the first time in… how long, Lama?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "Life isn’t just prayers and propriety. Sometimes it’s… skate parks and stallions." She leaned back, a satisfied gleam in her eye. "So, windows. Find them. Use them. And don’t you dare feel guilty." She pointed a playful finger at Lama. "Omar gets his dutiful wife. You? You get obliterated." She winked. "Seems fair."
Lama felt a strange, cold certainty settle over her. The guilt was a dull throb now, easily ignored beneath the intoxicating rush of their complicity, Nadia’s blatant encouragement, and Huda’s conflicted silence that felt like tacit permission. Huda finally looked up, meeting Lama’s eyes directly. The judgment was still present, but beneath it swam a turbulent sea of curiosity, perhaps even a flicker of envy. "Just… be careful," Huda murmured, the closest she would come to endorsement. "This 'stallion'… where did he… touch you first?" The question was barely audible, laced with shame and a desperate need to know. "That night?"
The coffee shop hummed around them, a cocoon of normalcy holding their explosive secret. Lama met Huda’s gaze, saw the crack widen, and felt a surge of dark power. She recalled Jack’s calloused fingers, surprisingly gentle at first, tracing her jawline in the dim car before they claimed her. "My neck," Lama whispered back, the memory a live wire. "Right here." She touched the spot just below her ear, a spot Omar’s soft hands rarely found. "Then he didn’t ask. Just took."
Nadia beamed, triumphant. Huda looked away quickly, but not before Lama saw her swallow hard, a flush spreading down her throat. The encouragement wasn’t just verbal; it was visceral, woven into their shared breath, the unspoken understanding. Lama pushed her chair back, the scrape loud in the sudden quiet at their table. The scent of cardamom felt suddenly oppressive, suffocating. She needed air. Needed movement. Needed the promise of that obliteration waiting beyond the ornate wooden door. Nadia’s plan echoed in her mind: Find the windows. Use them.
Lama stood, winding her silk hijab with fingers that no longer trembled. "I should go," she said, her voice unnervingly steady. "Omar expects me home." The lie tasted different now – not bitter ash, but a necessary tool. The phantom ache between her thighs flared, not with guilt, but with a fierce, demanding hunger. Huda’s conflicted eyes followed her, Nadia’s satisfied nod felt like a push. Omar’s soft hands and gentle voice seemed impossibly distant, faded like an old photograph. Jack’s blue eyes, his brutal possessiveness, the marks he left – that was the sharp, blinding present. The path was clear, dangerous, and utterly compelling. She stepped out into the humid afternoon, the vibrant chaos of the street mirroring the turmoil and fierce resolve hardening within her. Obliterated. Yes. And she would be again. Soon. She started walking, her steps quickening towards the bus stop, towards the skate park, towards the next reckless window she’d carve out of Omar’s trusting world.
The humid city air felt thick in Lama's lungs as she wove through the afternoon crowds, the vibrant chaos of the street market a stark contrast to the quiet sanctuary of Omar’s world. Vendors shouted prices for figs and spices, their voices blending with car horns and distant Arabic pop music. She barely registered it. Her mind flickered between Jack’s demanding hands pinning her against cold concrete at the skate park and Nadia’s glittering, encouraging eyes. Find the windows. Use them. The phantom ache throbbed, a persistent reminder and a promise. Obliterated.
One week later, the scent of cardamom and roasted coffee welcomed her back into Al-Rawabi. It felt different now, charged. Less sanctuary, more conspiratorial den. Nadia was already there, radiating energy in a sharp, modern abaya, two ornate hookah pipes bubbling fragrantly between the plates of knafeh on their table. "Lama! Took you long enough! Huda’s practically vibrating." She grinned, patting the plush cushion beside her.
Huda sat opposite, meticulously arranging the edge of her sleeve. She looked up, her dark eyes meeting Lama’s. The judgmental frown from the previous week had vanished. Now, her gaze held a startling intensity, a focused curiosity. "We’ve been waiting," Huda stated, her voice lower than usual, almost husky. "Well?" A faint flush crept up her neck. "Did you find a window?"
Lama unwound her hijab, a familiar gesture of shedding restraint. "He texted," she said, the simple words heavy with implication. She slid onto the cushion, accepting the tiny porcelain cup of coffee Nadia pushed towards her. "Yesterday."
Nadia clapped her hands softly. "And? What did the stallion want? More skate park acrobatics?" She leaned in, her eyes alight. "Or somewhere new? Tell me you went somewhere new. With a bed, preferably. Less concrete rash."
A slow, secretive smile touched Lama’s lips. She recalled the frantic energy, the risk. "His place. Finally." She took a sip of the scalding coffee. "Omar was at the mosque committee meeting. ‘Deeply important community planning,’ he said." She mimicked his earnest tone, a spark of dark amusement in her eyes. "I had two hours." Her friends stared, rapt. "It was… messy. Clothes everywhere. Takeaway boxes. And this… smell." She wrinkled her nose slightly, but the memory wasn't unpleasant. "Weed. Strong."
"Astaghfirullah!" Huda breathed, but there was no shock in it, only a fascinated scandal. "He smokes? Right there with you?" Her earlier rigid piety seemed a distant memory, replaced by this hungry absorption of the illicit.
Nadia laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "Even better! Adds spice. Did you?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, gesturing towards the hookah hose she held. "Share a little… relaxation?"
Lama nodded, a sliver of defiance in the gesture. "He offered. After." She remembered the shared joint, the way the smoke curled in the dim, cluttered room, softening the edges of her guilt, amplifying the lingering buzz of him. "It was… different. Made everything… slower. Floaty." A slight haze seemed to cloud her own eyes at the memory.
"Details, habibti," Nadia demanded, waving her hand impatiently. "Forget the weed for a second. Him. Did he live up to the hype? Or was the skate park adrenaline doing the heavy lifting before?" She took a long, deliberate pull from the hookah, exhaling a plume of fragrant smoke. "Don’t spare us. Especially now Huda’s finally stopped clutching her pearls."
Huda shot Nadia a look, but didn’t deny it. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her coffee forgotten. "Was he…" She paused, searching for the word, a tinge of pink high on her cheeks. "As demanding? As… big?"
Lama felt the heat rush to her own face, but also a strange, heady power. They were hanging on her words. "Bigger," she murmured, the word vibrating low in her chest. She saw Nadia’s grin widen. "And yes. Demanding. No gentle asking. Just… took what he wanted." She glanced down at her hands, remembering them clutching the crumpled sheets. "Harder than before."
"Ya Allah," Huda whispered, her eyes wide. Not with horror now, but a kind of awe.
"Poor Omar," Nadia sighed dramatically, drawing out the 'poor', her tone dripping with affectionate mockery. "Bless his sweet, oblivious heart. Still thinks his wife is composing groundbreaking theses in the library while this… this force of nature is rearranging her insides?" She chuckled, a low, dark sound. "The contrast is almost beautiful. His gentle little questions about her day, his careful hands… then boom. Obliterated by the white stallion." She said ‘white stallion’ with deliberate emphasis, a mischievous glint in her eye. "They simply have a different… drive, don't they?"
Lama flinched internally at the direct comparison, at Nadia's casual cruelty towards Omar. But the thrill of the shared secret, the validation of her own reckless desire, was stronger. She found herself nodding slowly. "It is different," she admitted, her voice low. "Jack doesn't... fumble." The word hung in the air, loaded with disdain for her husband's careful, often hesitant, affection. "He knows."
Huda let out a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on Lama. "And... how did he... take you this time?" The question was blunt, raw. Gone was the pious friend. In her place sat a woman utterly captivated by the explicit details she’d once condemned.
Lama looked from Huda’s intense, dark eyes to Nadia’s expectant smirk. The coffee shop hummed around them, the scent of apple-flavored hookah smoke mingling with spices. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a near whisper, painting a vivid picture. "Pushed me onto the bed. Face down." She paused, letting the image settle. "Didn't even take his jeans off all the way. Just… unzipped. Yanked mine down. One hand tight here," she touched the back of her neck, "forcing me down. The other…" She trailed off, the memory visceral, the phantom pressure making her shift on the cushion. "No talking. Just… claiming." She looked at Huda. "Rough. Exactly what I needed."
Nadia let out a low whistle of appreciation. Huda’s lips parted slightly, her breath coming faster. The last vestige of disapproval had evaporated, replaced by a raw, almost envious fascination.
"Omar," Nadia scoffed, shaking her head with theatrical pity, "would probably ask permission to hold your hand." She took another deep pull from the hookah, exhaling slowly. "Thank God for white men who don't bother with the paperwork."
Lama’s phone buzzed silently in her bag. She ignored it. Probably Omar, checking in with his gentle concern. A flicker of that familiar guilt surfaced, but it was instantly drowned by the intoxicating memory of Jack’s possession and the electric complicity crackling at the table. Her friends weren't just listening; they were cheering her on, mocking the gentle man who trusted her implicitly, celebrating the foreigner who treated her with brutal ownership. She reached for her own hookah hose, the gesture an acceptance, a commitment.
She took a long, deliberate inhale, the sweet, smoky apple flavour filling her lungs, blurring the edges. Her phone buzzed again, insistent this time. She finally pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Not Omar. Jack. Two words: Skate park. Now?
A jolt, electric and undeniable, shot through her. Nadia saw the shift instantly. "Him?" she mouthed, eyes gleaming.
Lama nodded, a slow, reckless smile curving her lips. The coffee shop, the friends, the comforting scents – they all receded. Only the text, the promise of that obliterating force, mattered. She typed back quickly, her fingers steady. Yes. 30 min. She shoved the phone back into her bag, the decision made, the guilt a distant, irrelevant murmur.
"Window found?" Nadia asked, already knowing the answer, her voice thick with hookah smoke and vicarious thrill.
"Window used," Lama replied, standing up. She didn't re-tie her hijab. She left it loose around her shoulders as she grabbed her bag. "Omar thinks I’m helping you pick fabric, Huda."
Huda just nodded, her dark eyes following Lama with unsettling intensity. "Be careful," she murmured again, but it sounded like a ritual now, devoid of its former warning, almost a plea for more stories later.
Nadia grinned, raising her hookah hose in a mock salute. "Go get obliterated, habibti. And remember the details!"
Lama pushed through the heavy wooden door, back into the humid afternoon. The city noise assaulted her, but she was already moving, her steps purposeful, faster than before, heading straight for the bus stop. Towards the chipped concrete and the graffiti, towards the roughness, the smell of weed and sweat, towards the force waiting to claim her again. The echo of Nadia’s mocking laughter – Poor Omar – chased her down the street, fueling her stride. Obliteration beckoned, and she ran towards it, the taste of apple smoke still sharp on her tongue.