Chapter 1: The First Hijab
The room was dark, the only light a pale blue wash from the laptop screen. It smelled of bergamot and black tea, steeping forgotten on the desk, and the faint, ever-present dust of old books. Rifki’s knee bounced under the desk, a frantic tremor against the quiet. Posters of obscure indie bands watched from the walls, their faces blurred in the gloom.
They shouldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not after Maghrib prayers, the words still a soft echo in their mind.
But the urge was a physical itch beneath their skin.
Rifki stood, the chair scraping too loud. They walked to the closet, their heartbeat a drum in their throat. The door opened on a sigh of hinges. On the left, neat rows of modest shirts and trousers. On the right, hidden behind a hanging winter coat, the secret.
Fingers brushed against different textures. Cotton. Silk. Lace. They pulled out the hijab. It wasn’t theirs. It was hers—their sister’s, left after a weekend visit. A soft, slate-grey chiffon with delicate silver embroidery along the edge. The guilt was a sharp stone in their gut. They shoved it down.
They lifted it. The fabric whispered as it unfurled. Cool. Light as a breath. They brought it to their face, inhaling. Detergent, and a faint trace of her perfume.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
The thought was a weak protest, dissolving as they moved to the mirror. Their reflection was a shadowy outline: close-cropped hair, a slight build lost in a baggy hoodie. They looked like what they were supposed to be. A good son. A devout student.
Rifki slid the hoodie off. Let it pool on the floor. Their chest was bare, pale and narrow. They traced a collarbone, feeling a shiver that wasn’t from the cold.
They picked up the hijab again. Hands trembling, they draped it over their head, arranging the fabric with a practiced, obsessive care. They tucked strands of short hair away, pinned it clumsily beneath their chin. The transformation was instant, and electric. Their face softened. The eyes in the mirror looked bigger, darker, someone else’s eyes. Someone pretty. The stone of guilt melted, replaced by a warm, liquid thrill that pooled low in their belly.
A soft, shuddering breath escaped them.
The phone on the bed buzzed. Once. A scalding vibration in the quiet.
Rifki flinched, almost tearing the hijab off. They stared at the glowing screen. A message from Kai.
Kai: You hiding from me, pet?
The warmth in their belly tightened into a knot of want and fear. They licked their lips, typed.
Rifki: No.
Kai: Prove it. Show me how pretty you are for me.
Rifki’s thumbs hovered. The screen went dark. They tapped it, the light returning, the demand just sitting there. A command. They were still for a long moment, caught between the person in the mirror and the person they prayed to be. The mirror won.
They lifted the phone, turned the camera on themselves. They angled it, a practiced tilt of the chin. They took a picture. Just their face, framed by the grey chiffon. Their eyes were wide, lips parted just slightly. They sent it before they could think.
Three pulsing dots. Rifki’s breath hitched.
Kai: Good girl. But I want to see more. Show me what you’re wearing under it.
A hot flush crawled up Rifki’s neck. They looked down. Just their jeans. It wasn’t enough. They knew it wasn’t enough. They went back to the closet, moving quickly now, the initial hesitation burned away by a need to please, to be seen. They found the other things, the things bought online in a panic of shame and excitement.
The silk was cool and slippery against their skin. The lace scratched a little. They put them on, movements hurried, fingers fumbling with clasps. They looked in the mirror again. The fragile, pretty face under the hijab, and then the absurd, thrilling contrast below. Their legs looked thinner like this. Exposed.
They took another picture, lower this time. Just the lace, the silk, the sharp angle of their hips against the dark fabric of their jeans, which were still partly undone. They sent it.
The response was immediate.
Kai: All of it. Now. I want to see your pretty little cock. Bet it’s so hard for me already, isn’t it?
The word was a jolt. Crude. Demeaning. It made them flinch and throb at the same time. They were rock hard, straining against the lace. They were pathetic. They were beautiful. They were sinning.
They obeyed.
The jeans fell. They took the final picture, a dizzying shot from above, the hijab still perfectly in place, the sacred framing the profane. They sent it and dropped the phone on the bed like it was on fire, wrapping their arms around themselves.
The phone buzzed again. And again. Insistent.
Kai: Look at that. My pretty little girl is all dressed up with nowhere to go. You’re so fucking desperate for it.
Kai: You’re touching yourself, aren’t you? Be honest.
Rifki was. Their hand had slid down without them even deciding. They nodded, as if Kai could see.
Rifki: Yes.
Kai: Say it. Say “I’m touching myself for you, Kai.”
“I’m touching myself for you, Kai,” Rifki whispered to the empty, tea-scented room. Their voice was hoarse.
Kai: Louder. Type it.
They fumbled for the phone, humiliation a sweet burn.
Rifki: I’m touching myself for you, Kai.
Kai: Good pet. Now get on your knees. I want to see that hungry mouth. And keep the hijab on. It’s the only pretty thing about you right now.
The instruction was a wire, snapping something tight inside them. They slid off the bed, knees hitting the rough carpet. They positioned the phone on the desk, looking up at the lens. The hijab slipped a little; they fixed it with a frantic hand. They parted their lips, eyes wide and watering already from the strain, from the sheer debasement of the pose. They took the picture.
Silence.
The dots pulsed. Stopped. Pulsed again.
Rifki knelt, shivering, the lace digging into their skin, the weight of the hijab suddenly feeling like a crown of thorns. The thrill was curdling, the high fading, leaving a cold, sharp clarity. What were they doing? Who had they just become?
The phone buzzed, a final, decisive sound.
Kai: Not bad. You’ll do better next time. I’m going out. Don’t message me.
And then, nothing.
Rifki stayed on their knees, the cold from the floor seeping into their bones. The laptop screen flickered, casting a sickly light over the stolen hijab, the ridiculous lace, their frail, trembling body on the floor. The tea on the desk was now stone cold. From the street outside, a car door slammed, and laughter floated up, clean and bright and real.