Chapter 9: Kai presses Rifki face-first against the cold bathroom tiles, yanking the sheer hijab tight around his throat while his other hand spreads Rifki's slick ass cheeks - 'Say Alhamdulillah when my cock stretches your haram hole, sissy.'
The final “salaam” echoed through the mosque hall. Rifki’s hand jerked away from his groin as if burned, a slickness on his fingers that felt like acid. He rose with the others, the movements automated, his body a shell humming with aftershocks. The rough lace of the bra was now a familiar torment, a second skin of shame. He kept his eyes downcast, avoiding the peaceful, satisfied faces of the men around him, sure his sin was written in neon across his forehead.
His phone buzzed once more in the inner pocket of his abaya.
`My apartment. Now. Don’t change.`
The drive to Kai’s was a blur of rain-smeared windows and the frantic hammering of his own heart. He parked crookedly in the visitor lot, the black abaya flowing around him as he hurried to the building’s entrance, a spectre of piety entering a secular space. Each step made the bra’s padding shift, a relentless reminder.
Kai opened the door before he could knock. He was in dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his expression unreadable. His eyes swept Rifki from head to toe, lingering on the modest drape of the robe. “Inside.”
The apartment was cool, minimalist. It smelled of sandalwood and clean linen. A direct contrast to the incense and sweat of the mosque, to the cluttered contradiction of Rifki’s own room. Without a word, Kai took his hand and led him down a short hall, not to the bedroom, but to the bathroom.
It was a scene already staged. The shower was running, steam beginning to fog the large mirror above the twin sinks. Exotic perfumes—oud, jasmine—hung in the moist air. LED strips under the vanity glowed a soft, unreal pink. On the counter lay a hijab, not one of Rifki’s simple ones, but a gorgeous cascade of chiffon and lace, in a deep midnight blue.
“Take off the abaya,” Kai said, his voice a low command that vibrated in the steam-filled room.
Rifki’s fingers fumbled with the front closure. The robe pooled at his feet, revealing his trembling form in the plain t-shirt, trousers, and the obscene outline of the bra beneath. Kai stepped close and pulled the t-shirt over his head. His gaze was clinical, hungry.
“Look,” he said, turning Rifki toward the mirror.
The reflection was fractured. The top half showed his face, flushed, eyes wide with fear and need. The bottom half, below the gathering steam, showed his torso: the pale pink bra with its black lace, his soft stomach, his narrow waist. A devout boy’s face atop a slut’s body.
Kai’s hands came around from behind, cupping the lace-covered breasts. Rifki gasped, his head falling back against Kai’s shoulder. “See what you are?” Kai whispered into his ear, his thumbs circling the already-hard nipples through the fabric. “You prayed in this. You came in this. Your god heard your prayers while your fucking tits ached for my hands.”
He unclipped the bra with a single, practiced motion. It fell away. Rifki’s breasts, fuller now from the hormones, sensitive and tipped with deep pink, were bare in the mirror. Kai’s rough palms covered them completely, squeezing, molding them.
“Watch,” Kai growled.
One hand slid down, past the trembling belly, popping the button of Rifki’s trousers, dragging the zipper down. He shoved both trousers and cotton underwear to the floor. Rifki stared at the reflection of his own nakedness—the feminine curves of his hips, the soft thatch of hair, his cock lying small and limp against his thigh. A whimper escaped his throat.
Kai’s right hand dipped between his legs from behind. Two fingers slid along his perineum, back to the tight, hidden furl of his asshole. It clenched instinctively.
“Not there,” Kai murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. His fingers moved forward, tracing the sensitive skin of his taint, then further, to find the slick, swollen flesh beneath his balls. The small, hidden opening that had become the focal point of every secret shame and desperate need. Rifki had been using the dilators Kai sent him, nightly, stretching himself open in the dark, imagining this.
“Look at your face,” Kai commanded, his fingers circling that forbidden entrance. “Look at your slutty face, baby.”
Rifki forced his eyes up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. His lips were parted, his eyes glassy with steam and tears. He looked ruined. He looked beautiful.
“Those lips were made for sucking cock,” Kai said, his voice a gravelly promise as he pushed one thick finger slowly inside Rifki’s waiting hole, “not reciting Quran.”
The intrusion was exquisite, a burning fullness that screamed through his nervous system. Rifki cried out, his hands slapping against the cool marble counter for support. His head dropped, but Kai’s other hand fisted in his hair, yanking it back up.
“Watch. Watch yourself get fucked.”
Kai worked the finger in and out, a slow, brutal mimicry. The sound was obscenely wet. Rifki could see it all—the intense focus on his own reflected face, the way his body shuddered with each inward stroke. Kai added a second finger, stretching him wider. Rifki’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, a strand of saliva connecting his lips.
“You love this,” Kai hissed, twisting his fingers deep, scissoring them. “Your fucking cunt is dripping for it. You prayed for this. Admit it.”
“I… I can’t,” Rifki sobbed, but his hips were pushing back, fucking himself on Kai’s hand, his small cock jerking pathetically.
“You did. In that mosque. You prayed to be my girl. And I answered.” He curled his fingers, rubbing over a spot inside that made Rifki’s vision whiten. His legs buckled. Kai held him upright, fingers pistoning faster now. The steam from the shower fogged the mirror around the edges of Rifki’s reflection, as if the world was dissolving, leaving only this: his own face, twisted in ecstasy, being opened up from behind.
Kai’s free hand snaked around, grasping Rifki’s tiny, hard cock, jerking it in time with his thrusting fingers. The dual sensation was unbearable. Rifki babbled, a stream of nonsense and please and yes.
“Come for me, Rifki,” Kai commanded, his voice like stone. “Come like a girl. Make a mess on this mirror for me to see.”
The orgasm ripped through him with a violence that felt like annihilation. It wasn’t a pulsing release from his cock, but a deep, convulsing wave that seemed to originate from where Kai was spearing him open. His juice spilled over Kai’s fist, streaking the mirror in pearly ribbons as his body shook uncontrollably. A high, broken sound, utterly feminine, tore from his throat.
He sagged, utterly spent. Kai withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to Rifki’s mouth. “Taste your worship,” he said.
Eyes closed, Rifki obeyed, sucking his own salt and bitterness from Kai’s skin.
Kai turned him around, sinking to his knees so they were eye to eye. He took the midnight blue hijab from the counter and, with tender, deliberate motions, draped it over Rifki’s hair, framing his tear-streaked face. He adjusted the folds under his chin, his touch suddenly reverent.
“There,” Kai said softly, looking up at him. “Now you look like the good girl you are. My good girl.”
He stood, leading the boneless Rifki into the hot spray of the shower. The water washed away the sweat, the tears, the physical evidence of his fall. But under the streaming water, with the chiffon hijab plastered to his head and shoulders, clinging to his new contours, Rifki knew nothing was washed clean. It was etched into him now, deeper than faith, older than fear. Kai washed him with a cloth, soaping his breasts, between his legs, his touch now cleansing, claiming.
After, wrapped in a fluffy towel, the hijab still perfectly in place, Rifki sat on the closed toilet lid. Kai leaned against the sink, regarding him.
“The boy who walked into the mosque this morning,” Kai said, lighting a cigarette. “He didn’t walk out. I left him on that prayer rug. You understand?”
Rifki looked at the mirrored cabinet, fogged with steam. He could barely make out the shape of himself—a wrapped head, a slender form in white terrycloth. He couldn’t see his own eyes.
He nodded.
“Say it.”
Rifki’s voice was a husk of sound. “He’s gone.”
Kai smiled, exhaling a plume of smoke that merged with the steam. “Good girl. Now, let’s get you dressed. I have a new outfit for you. Something pretty for the house.”