Chapter 3: Rifki's breath hitches as Kai's latest message vibrates against their thigh: 'Slide two fingers into your wet cunt when they say Allahu Akbar - let your hijab hide how sinful you are'. The scent of musk grows thick between their legs as they obey, biting their lip to stay silent amid the holy recitations.
The recordings.
For three days, the knowledge lived inside him like a parasite. It fed on every moment of quiet, twisting his stomach into slick, anxious knots during lectures, turning the sight of his own phone on the bedside table into a thing of cold dread. Kai had said nothing more. The silence was a held breath. Rifki moved through his routines—classes, meals, obligatory family calls—feeling like a glass figure, transparent and terribly fragile. Any moment, the wrong word, the wrong look, and he would shatter, exposing the filth swirling inside.
On Friday morning, the silence broke.
A single text, arriving as Rifki was pulling on his plain, dark trousers.
Kai: You will go to Jumu’ah prayers today.
A normal instruction. A pious suggestion. But from him, it was a landmine. Rifki’s thumbs hovered over the screen.
Rifki: I was planning to, Sir.
Kai: Good. Wear your abaya. The black one. And beneath it, you will wear what I send you. Nothing else. You will be at the mosque, in the men’s section, on your prayer mat. And you will do exactly as I say.
A second message arrived. An image. Rifki opened it and a sharp, electric shame shot straight to his groin. It was a screenshot from their last video call, a frozen moment where he was spread on the bed, the hijab askew, his face a mess of tears and ecstasy. Overlaid on the image, in Kai’s stark text, were the words: MY PROPERTY.
Rifki’s breath left him. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The abaya. He owned one, a simple, flowing black garment he’d bought online in a fugue of confused longing, never daring to wear it outside. It was meant for privacy. For fantasy. Not for this.
Kai: The humiliation is the offering. Your devotion is now to me. I want you dripping with the fear of discovery when you bow your head to your god. Now dress. I will message you there.
The room felt airless. Rifki moved to his secret drawer. The black abaya was silk, heavier than it looked. He slipped it over his head. It cascaded to his ankles, a pool of inky darkness, the sleeves covering his hands. He felt swallowed by it. Beneath, as instructed, he wore nothing. The silk whispered against his bare thighs, his cock, a constant, maddening caress. He fastened the hijab—a simple white one today, modest, pure. The contrast was a sick joke. He looked in the mirror. A devout young man. A complete and utter fraud.
The walk to the local mosque was an exercise in sustained panic. Every rustle of the abaya against his skin was a scream. Every passing glance from another pedestrian felt like an x-ray. He kept his head down, his phone burning a hole in the deep pocket of the garment.
The mosque was quiet, peaceful. The familiar scent of oud and clean carpet washed over him. He performed wudu with robotic precision, the cold water on his wrists and feet doing nothing to cool the fever underneath. He found a spot near the back of the men’s hall, unfurled his prayer mat, and sat on his heels, trying to make himself small.
The khutbah began. The imam’s voice, gentle and wise, spoke of purity of heart, of guarding one’s modesty, of the sweetness of faith. Each word was a needle.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He flinched.
Slowly, agonizingly, he slipped his hand into the pocket, shielding the screen with his body and the fall of the abaya.
Kai: Are you in place, my little hypocrite?
Rifki: Yes, Sir.
Kai: Good. Put your hand under your abaya. Touch yourself. Just once. Just to feel how exposed you are.
Rifki’s vision blurred. Around him, men were bowed in concentration. The imam spoke of resisting temptation. His hand, trembling violently, crept under the heavy silk. He found his own flesh, already half-hard from the terror and the forbidden thrill. He gave one slow, aching stroke. The sensation was magnified a thousand times by the context. A soft gasp escaped him, lost in the murmur of the sermon.
Kai: I know you did it. I can feel your heartbeat from here. Now keep your hand there. Don’t move it. Let it rest on your pathetic cock. Feel it throb against your palm while you listen to all this talk of sin.
Rifki obeyed. His palm grew damp with sweat and pre-come. His cock twitched, fattening under his touch. The heat was unbearable. He was distantly aware of the imam’s words, but they were just noise. The only real thing was the violent pounding of his heart and the insistent pulse between his legs.
“Oh God,” he thought, the prayer utterly profane. “I’m getting hard in a mosque. I’m touching myself during the khutbah.” The thought should have sickened him. It did. But beneath the sickness, a dark, sluttish excitement uncoiled. He was doing it. He was really doing it. Because Kai told him to.
Kai: You love this, don’t you? You love knowing you’re the filthiest thing in this holy place. That’s all you are. A filthy, fucking sissy in a dress, getting off on his own defilement. Squeeze it.
Tears of shame welled in Rifki’s eyes. He blinked them back, hoping they looked like tears of pious emotion. His fingers tightened. A jolt of pleasure-pain made his thighs tense. He bit his lip so hard he tasted copper.
The congregation rose for the first rak’ah. “Allahu Akbar.”
Rifki stood mechanically, his hand still trapped, holding himself through the silk. The movements of prayer—standing, bowing, prostrating—became a lewd dance. Each bow brought the fabric taut against his back, reminding him of his nakedness beneath. Each prostration pressed his trapped, aching cock against the heel of his own hand. He was in a state of perpetual, trembling stimulation, a live wire of shame and need.
Between positions, as he sat back on his heels, another text.
Kai: I want you to edge. Right there. On your knees. Get yourself so close you can taste it, and then stop. Do it now.
“I can’t,” Rifki’s mind screamed. But his body was already moving. Hidden by the voluminous abaya, his hand began to move in a steady, desperate rhythm. He kept his head bowed, his lips moving in silent, mimed prayer. In reality, he was reciting Kai’s words in his head. Filthy fucking sissy. Hijabi slut. My property. The insults were a lubricant, smoothing the path to his degradation.
He focused on the feeling. The slick glide of his own fist. The coarse hair against his knuckles. The impossible secrecy of the act. He watched the men around him, their faces pressed to the ground in sincere submission, and a dizzying wave of power crashed over him. They had no idea. He was invisible. He was getting away with it.
His balls tightened. Heat coiled in the base of his spine. He was there, teetering on the precipice. A sharp, silent inhale. He stopped, his hand becoming a vise, holding himself back from the edge. The denied release was a physical agony. He whimpered softly into the quiet hall.
Kai: Good girl. Now do it again.
And he did. Through the second rak’ah, he brought himself back to that trembling brink, his whole body singing with tension, sweat beading under his hijab and trickling down his back. He stopped just in time, his cock throbbing with furious, neglected need.
The final tasleem. “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.”
The prayer was over. Men began to rise, to chat softly, to embrace. Rifki stayed on his knees, paralyzed. The physical need was a torment, but deeper than that was the shocking realization. He’d done it. He’d enjoyed it. The shame had not diminished the arousal; it had fused with it, creating something new and terrifying inside him. A hunger.
His phone buzzed a final time.
Kai: Go home. Do not come. Wait for me. I have a use for that frustration.
Rifki stumbled to his feet, his legs weak, the abaya clinging to his damp skin. He avoided eye contact, shuffling out of the mosque, the imam’s parting words about community and peace ringing in his ears like a taunt.
The walk home was a blur. He fumbled with his keys, fell into his bedroom, and tore the abaya and hijab off as if they were on fire. He stood naked, trembling, his cock still painfully erect, angry and red. He wanted to finish. The urge was a physical scream.
But Kai had said no. Wait for me.
Rifki sank to the floor, his back against the bed. He wrapped his arms around his knees, rocking slightly. He was a good student. A dutiful son. Or he had been. Now he was a thing that edged itself in mosques, that got wet from being called property. The recordings proved it. They were the undeniable truth.
He reached out a shaking hand and dragged his laptop over. He opened it, his heart hammering. He knew it was madness. He typed Kai’s name into the search bar, adding the city Kai had once casually mentioned. Social media profiles, a linked professional website for a consulting firm. Kai’s face smiled back at him, clean-shaven, confident, handsome in a polished, corporate way. A normal man. A successful man.
Rifki stared at the photo. This was the person who owned videos of him sobbing, begging, coming, licking his own spend. This was the man who could, with one click, unravel his entire life.
The terror should have been absolute. It was.
But as he sat there, naked and aching, staring at the Dom’s professional headshot, another feeling surged up, viscous and dark, mixing with the fear. It was want. It was a desperate, slavish need for the very hand that held the knife to his throat. He was afraid of Kai. He was addicted to him. The two things were now inseparable.
He closed the laptop. He didn’t touch himself. He waited, as instructed, the unspent desire a slow fire in his veins, a prayer of anticipation to a new and ruthless god.