This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.
Sapphire’s Gift
When your message came through, I was surprised. Pleasantly so, but surprised, nonetheless. You’d told me that you needed some space to think, that you’d made some changes and that you needed to process these before moving on. I respected that, of course, despite being curious as to what these “changes” might be. And, of course, I missed our conversations. Deeply. That’s the whole thing about having a good friend: They make you feel warm inside when you talk.
So, when that messaged pinged through to my inbox, it was unexpected. And when I read it, I became more confused still.
I will be waiting for you on Saturday morning at 11:00 at this spot.
Then there was a Google Maps link. I opened it and found the spot to be a bench situated at the junction between Main Street and Rawdon Road in the small Yorkshire town of Haworth.
Haworth. What on earth were you doing there and not Bradford? I knew you struggled to get away from the watchful eyes of MiL so how come you were so sure you could meet me in a town fifteen miles away at that time and on that day? Curiouser and curiouser? What rabbit hole had this Alice climbed down now?
Of course, your message presented a problem. Why did it have to be that day? I had things planned, appointments. I almost replied asking if it could be delayed or altered, but then I stopped myself. You never usually imposed yourself on anyone. You must have chosen there and then for a reason. So, thinking up a weak excuse, I cancelled the other engagements.
And as I drove up to Yorkshire that morning, I thought: What is Sapphire’s game here? Why Haworth? So far as I knew, you have no connection with the town but then… I do… sort of. It’s the home of the Brontë sisters and I’ve always thought you to be a bit of a Cathy Earnshaw with the mysterious light and dark to your soul that Emily displayed. I even wrote a novel with the main character based on you involving Emily Brontë. So, that probably explained Haworth, but you still remained a mystery, an enigma.
As you always have been.
I park the car on the extensive tourist car park behind the town and walk down the narrow steps to Main Street, festooned with flags and bulging with Brontë believers shopping for Charlotte, Emily, and Anne mementoes. I glance at my watch: 10:54. A little early but still. I head for the bench and then stop in shock.
There is a figure seated there. A figure swathed in black. And when I mean swathed, I mean swathed. Like, plain black abayah, black khimar, black gloves and a black veil that covers her entire face including the eyes. She looks like a character out of one of my erotica tales, someone forced to live in some weird purdah, hidden and controlled. That makes me guiltily horny for a moment and I stop and watch her. She sits there, glances at her phone and then the mobile and gloves retreat beneath her coverings again.
Could it be?
I am confused. You don’t dress like that, even MiL never enforced such strictness, and all your chats were about taking off your restrictions, not piling more on. What on earth are these changes that you’ve been speaking about? Have you had a religious experience and decided to shed off all your haram activities and re-embrace Salafism to a degree even unheard of before? Unlikely, though not inconceivable, I think. But then why meet me? Surely, you’d just cut me off completely if that were the case! What on earth is going on?
Is she even you?
I walk over and sit at the opposite end of the bench. I turned to the veiled apparition and nod. She nods back and then a gloved hand snakes out from under the khimar. It is holding a handwritten letter. I take it and read whilst the hand disappears again under the coverings.
Majnun,
Happy birthday! I hope you’re well and have the best birthday ever. I know I’ve been missing a lot just lately; things have really changed in my life and I’m not ready to tell you or anyone else all about them yet. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten about you and don’t care, so I decided to give you a birthday treat! I don’t have much money as you know, and I wouldn’t know what to buy anyway, so I decided to make the treat myself. I’ve spent much of the last few months reading your erotic tales on the internet – and I don’t just mean the ones featuring me! – and I now know what exactly it is that you like. Now, I still do find your clothing fetishes weird – trust me, having lived as I have done, you’d struggle to find the niqab a turn-on – but this is your day, not mine. So, today, I am not Sapphire but your purdah-living wife, and, since it is your special occasion, you have decided to visit the shrine of your favourite author and, as I am obviously not to be trusted in the house alone, you have taken me with you. Shall we get going?
Love,
Sapphire
I fold the letter up and put it in my pocket and then look at you. I can see only the barest outlines of those magnificent eyes through the black cloth, and any expression or emotion is hidden. “Come on wife,” I say, “we must be going!”
Meekly, submissively, silently, you rise and follow.
We climb the steep street towards the Brontë Parsonage Museum. I wonder how walking in such a restrictive outfit is for you, but you seem to cope. We get a few stares – me as much as you – and I wonder what they are thinking. Most are probably appalled that someone – especially a white guy – is forcing his wife to dress in such a way. Well, little do they know. Halfway up the street, I stop you, get out my phone and take a photo of the anonymous black cone by my side.
We stop by the church, and I beckon you to my side. “This is where their dad was the minister,” I tell you. “Now, wife, when there are no people around, you are permitted to raise your outer veils so as to view these interesting sites more closely, but only when it is safe. If you cause any unnecessary fitna, then there will be a price to pay. Is that understood?”
You nod and do not raise your veils since there are people milling around.
We continue up the street and I stop you again. “This building is the school where they taught. The street is clear now, so you may raise your veils.”
I stand to one side and watch as the cone silhouette is destroyed by a hand emerging from within and flipping back the two outer veils. I catch a sideways glimpse of those bewitching emerald orbs, but it is brief, before the cloth descends again and the cone is restored.
Afterwards, I take a photo of you standing in the doorway and you make the peace sign with your gloved hands.
In the museum, no comment is made as I buy the tickets and we enter the building. What there is to see, coupled with the fact that we are in the very same rooms where some of the greatest works of literature were created, blows my mind, but not so much as my “wife” standing beside me. My brain is in turmoil, for I am living out one of my deepest erotic fantasies, one held for decades yet, at the same time, I am fully aware that the woman beneath that cloth is not just another veiled female, but none other than the girl with the bewitching green eyes who fills my thoughts.
Down below, I am rock hard.
As we wander through the rooms, you regularly stop at the notices, wait until the chamber is clear, and then lift your veils to read what is written before glancing around and then hiding yourself again. Each time, it is exquisite: a forbidden glance at concealed beauty. A momentary savouring of those incredible eyes before they disappear once again.
When we have exited, we find ourselves in the shop. Your hand slips out from under the khimar holding another note.
Choose yourself a present, please.
There is a £10 note with the message and my heart almost breaks with gratitude. I know how little money you have to spend as you wish despite working so very hard. “I cannot,” I whisper into your ear, but you press it into my head regardless. The feel of the gloves against my skin sends shivers up my spine. Defeated, I buy a small book of Emily’s poetry and two pin badges. They both say ‘Team Emily’ on them. I pin one to my chest and the second to the outside of your khimar. Touching the cloth knowing what lies beneath excites me even further. Unable to help myself, I lift your khimar, take your gloved hand in my own, and walk out of the museum with you.
You squeeze my hand tightly through the cotton. You obviously like it too.
We enter the church to view the grave memorial for the Brontë sisters. You stand there for a while savouring the spot before nodding and walking on.
Outside in the cemetery, you sit down by a grave. I wander about and see a Pakistani lady looking at me curiously. I smile at her and she smiles back. “Excuse me sir,” she says, “but is she your wife?” I look across at your glorious, veiled form and consider my answer.
“No,” I reply. “She is my sister Lucy, although she prefers to be called Layla these days.”
“She has reverted to Islam?”
I nod. “Yes, she has.”
The woman looks torn. “Listen,” she says, “I hope you don’t think me rude, but how she is dressed, it is a bit… extreme. I mean, I am Muslim myself, but that is something else. I am happy to hear that she has reverted, I really am, but Islam does not expect that of women. Really, she does not have to go so far.”
“Oh, I agree completely, but that is how she is. Lucy has always been one to take things to the limits. She has phases, you know. She was Hare Krishna for a while and then a vegan hippy. Before this, she was Goth and I think the black appeals to her. Don’t worry, she won’t be like that for long.”
The woman smiles. “That does reassure me. Those type give our religion and culture a bad name and, since I love my faith, that hurts.”
“I get it, and don’t worry about her. I’ll check that she stays safe on her life’s journey and spiritual explorations. But please, can I ask you a favour? Would you mind taking a photograph of us together. Lucy loves the Brontës and we’ve travelled a long way to be here today.”
I put my arm around you as we stand by the church and the phone camera clicks.
We take another each pointing to our ‘Team Emily’ badges and making the peace sign.
It is now lunch time, so we retire to a café. I choose a small table in a corner, and you point to the cheese and tomato toastie and the tea for one on the menu. When it arrives, I watch with fascination as you hand reaches into your mouth and removes something. The black ball gag is noiselessly placed on the table by your plate. My eyes goggle. You actually gagged yourself this whole time! I knew that you wanted to fulfil my fantasies but even so, that was extreme!
I am captivated by how the cloth of your gloves wrinkles each time you use your hand to lift up the veil and take another bite of the toastie or sip of the tea. On a couple of occasions, I even glimpse your lips and the bright red lipstick that you are wearing like in that exciting series of photographs where you wear your horns.
Afterwards, because I enjoy those glimpses so very much, I insist we order a piece of cake each.
When it comes to time to leave, I ask what now, and you trace out some words on the table. Laboriously, I spell them out: T-O-T-H-E-M-O-OR-S. To the moors. “You want to go to the moors?” You nod and I see you reach for the gag, but I stay your hand and shake my head. “No wife, I believe I can trust you to stay silent until we reach the car. Come with me!”
We walk to the car park holding hands and I feel like the happiest man alive as your hand squeezes mine tightly.
Inside the car I tell you that you’re allowed to speak and flip back your outer veils. You dutifully obey and I see those wonderful green eyes in all their glory framed by the black cloth.
“I love my birthday present!” I tell you, squeezing your hand again.
“You haven’t received it yet!” you reply. The sound of your voice after so long causes me to feel warm inside.
“You said that we are to go to the moors, but which one?”
“Any. So long as it’s a wild moor and there are no people there.”
I nod and begin driving, although it is hard to keep my attentions on the road.
As we drive you explain things. You made a change and are no longer living where you used to. You contacted a charity, and they are helping you, but you need to get your head straight and work out who you are and where you want to go before moving on. That’s all you’re prepared to tell me now. You’re sorry, but this has to be done alone.
I tell you I get it and I can wait until you’re ready.
Then you talk about the birthday surprise. You think my kinks are weird and freaky as hell, although you admit that full veils make it easy for you to travel without risk of being seen by anyone. Apparently, you’ve been talking to Emily, and she told you which outfits I find most appealing. “A khimar!” you exclaim. “What on earth is kinky about such a bloody awful nuisance of a garment, and as for the gloves and the eye veils…” I shrug. What can I say? We are what we are. Besides, Sapphire, some of your own kinks are a bit far-out. I mean, who dreams of being locked in a Gothic dungeon for years on end? You laugh. In this way we’ll never align. Well, not completely. I tell you I do appreciate the effort though and your eyes smile.
We reach a lonely spot with a footpath heading out across the moors. We park up and you get out. You start walking across the moor, your black layers flapping in the wind. You’re carrying a bag. I follow, mesmerised.
We have walked about half a mile and are completely alone. You stop, turn and come to me. “Undress me!” you say.
Confused, I reply, “What, here?”
“Undress me!” you repeat.
So, I do. Slowly, sensuously, I lift off the khimar and then untie the niqab, revealing your face for the first time. I drink in the beauty and next remove those gloves, revealing your lilywhite hands. Then, I untie the hijab. I expect to encounter your raven hair streaming free, but instead it is parted down the centre and tied back in an almost Victorian style. I go to untie it, but you shake your head. “The abayah,” you say.
Confused, I unzip it and lift it over your head. What is revealed makes me gasp. Underneath you are not wearing a normal dress or sportwear or jeans, but instead a copy of a Victorian dress in deep burgundy red with a clearly corseted waist. You are magnificent, as if Emily Brontë herself is standing next to me on the wild moor.
“I told you I’d been talking to Emily online,” you say. “She told me about your other kink, the corset and period dress one. I’m not sure about what I think about it. On the one hand it’s nice, like I’m being continually hugged and held, but on the other it’s a bloody pain.”
“You look glorious!” I declare.
“The corset is hers, the dress I sewed myself from an old jilbab. It kept me occupied where I’m living now. I hope you like it?”
“I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful!” I reply. “What a wonderful birthday gift!”
“That was not the gift,” you reply. “The birthday gift is coming now.”
You step forward and lean into me. Our lips meet and I dissolve into you, my glorious, enigmatic, creature of the night.
It is the best birthday present that I have ever received. The finest that any man ever could.
Afterwards we dance across the moors as the wind blows your tresses wild and the ravens caw in chorus overhead.
The Water Maidens and Things that Should Not Be Spoken Of
I was awoken the following morning by the maid unfastening my restraints and removing my hood. At first the light blinded me but my eyes adjusted and so I sat up and flexed my limbs. Then, I expected to be showered, but instead the maid laid out some sportswear complete with padded gloves, and I was led to a small gym where I spent thirty minutes on the exercise bike, running and rowing machines. I felt just like a real harem concubine save that there was no screen there though which the sultan could gaze upon me and become excited by my alluring female form.
Following the exercise came my shower and then I was towelled dry, and my arms chained and forced even further towards that perfect reverse prayer configuration. With them on fire and immobilised, I was fed a tiny breakfast, and then I joined grandmother in the main room. I said nothing to her of the events of the previous night, expecting her to raise them, but she never did, instead going on to tell me more about her life in the harem.
“So, dearest Sevan, I have mentioned to you all about the Penetration of the Peach ritual, but nothing of the others, so today I shall tell you about the Blessing of the Breasts. However, before I do this, I think that it is time to speak with you about Water Maidens.”
“Water Maidens? But what on earth are they, grandmother? They sound intriguing!” I asked.
“Well, they are I suppose. Certainly, they surprised me when I first encountered one. It was during my second night in bed with the Sultan. We had enjoyed pleasure together and were lying with one another when he remarked, ‘I need to pass water.’ I expected him, naturally, to rise from the bed and head towards the adjacent bathroom, but instead, he merely reached over and rang a small golden bell that was placed in a cabinet by the bed. Seconds later, the door opened, and a figure entered the room. Ashamed to be naked in front of a stranger, I made to cover myself with the sheets, but he merely laughed, stroked my cheek and said, ‘Don’t be silly my little chicken, ‘tis only a water maiden.’
“The girl was young, younger even than I was, perhaps sixteen at most, and, although pretty and charming, she was clearly unmodified. She wore a single item of clothing: a plain white leotard that clung to her budding curves and was flattering in its minimalism. Around her neck was a white leather collar, but more interestingly, in her hands, she held a slender porcelain vase. She approached the bed and, as she did, His Lordship turned towards the side, his member on full view. Then she knelt by him, held the vase up and directed the member into it. His jet of urine streamed out with a tinkling sound but this did not disconcert her. Instead, she knelt silently, her eyes focussed on her task and the penis that was emptying its stream into her jar, looking at it so intently, as if she were transfixed by it, almost as if she were at prayer.
“When he had finished, she removed the vase, bent further in and then wrapped her mouth around the flaccid tool, suck any remaining urine clean.”
“Ugh! That sounds horrible!”
“Perhaps it does to you; I must admit that, back then, the thought disgusted me then, although I have tasted enough urine since to have eradicated such sinful notions from my mind. The taste may be acrid and conducive to retching, but it is a great honour to taste your master’s urine. Some wives drink it daily and are pleased to do so. Anyway, to return to my story, she sucked him dutifully and, as she did, he tenderly stroked her hair. Finally, she withdrew, bowed, whispered, ‘Thank you for the opportunity to serve you, my Lord,’ picked up her vase and left, he giving her a friendly tap on the bottom as she scuttled off.
“No explanation was provided to me about all this, and, although I was horrified at another girl having her lips around my Lordship’s tool whilst I was present in the room – I was young and naïve back then, you must remember – we were soon lovemaking again, and so it was all but forgotten. However, the following day, I did speak to my sisters about this water maiden, and they explained all about her.
“Water maidens are not wives or concubines, but instead virgin daughters of great noble houses that are being prepared for marriage. In such circles, it is seen as a mandatory part of a young lady’s education, to both prepare her for the world of lovemaking and to normalise seeing men’s members and a man with his woman naked in a bed together. It also helps normalise the tasting of urine as many men, as I mentioned before, demand that their women perform such services on them. All the nobles have at least one water maiden from the age of fourteen onwards and to serve the Sultan himself is seen as a great honour and can increase a girl’s marriage price markedly. The Sultan always had seven water maidens in his harem at any one time, one for each day of the week and, upon entry into the harem, they would relinquish their worldly names and take on the name of their day. Quite what they did all day, which other duties and training they undertook, I have no idea, but they were always noticeable in the audience chamber or the gardens as they congregated in a group of seven clad in the most gorgeous white silken burqas, white symbolising their virginity.
“That is incredible. But please tell me, if what you say about the Sultan’s sexual appetite is true, how did they manage to stay virgins?”
“Ha, my dear, an astute question; you are learning well! The answer is simple; they were the daughters of his most influential lords and merchants and so he would have been wary to mistreat them. Besides, maintaining virginity only refers to frontal penetrative lovemaking. I heard tales of him being so overcome by lust that he would take a water maiden anally, but I never saw it myself. After all, their bottoms were untrained, and he had a far more voluptuous version lying beside him. But I did see him, particularly after wine, invite them into the bed and engage in passionate kissing whilst he would grope them repeatedly, and on two occasions a water maiden helped me to fulfil him orally. Plus, should he really become besotted with one – and I am thinking of a pretty mousey-haired Wednesday here who later joined one of the other troupes – then he would simply declare her to be a concubine and have her enter the harem officially which, of course, was a huge honour.”
“I am surprised that you were not a water maiden before entering the harem, grandmother!”
“You forget, our family’s rank was lowly before I was selected for the harem. I would never have got near. But I am not sad about the fact. Very occasionally, I found myself needing to relieve myself in the night, and so I would go to the adjacent bathroom, and the first time I did, I was shocked because there was the water maiden. After servicing His Lordship, she would empty the vase and then retreat to an alcove in the bathroom. There she would stand, legs apart and hands away from her sides and, when in position, electronic steel cuffs would emerge from the wall securing her ankles, wrists and neck in position so she could not move until the bell was next rung. In such a position, sleep would be nigh on impossible – my guess is that it was done that way so that she would be forced to listen to our lovemaking and thus educate herself – and it must have been torture standing their all night.”
“What if he wanted to do a… number two, grandmother?”
“Then she would come and lead him to the bathroom. He would sit on the toilet like anyone else and the automatic flush would activate – all flushes were automatic otherwise restrained girls like us would stay dirty – and then, when he had risen, she would kneel down and clean his rectum and member with her tongue ensuring perfect cleanliness.”
“Grandmother, you mentioned that you rarely went to use the toilet, but surely that can’t be true. I mean, don’t we all need to go sometimes?”
My grandmother laughed. “Oh, my dear little chicken, I forget that you are so naïve; that you have been raised in low status just as I was. The answer to your question is simple: toileting – which is never talked about in polite society – is done very differently in noble houses. Dirtiness is associated with poverty and lowly standing and so a noble lady is always clean both inside and out.”
“But how might one do that?”
“Through something called an enema and upon my first day of entering the harem up until today, I have had one daily. Indeed, it is how I start my days and, now that you are living in a refined house, then perhaps you should also be starting your morning in that fashion too.”
“But is it… painful?”
“Not at all, although I do recall it being a shock to the system in the beginning, but that was because nobody explained it to me. Instead, I was simply ordered out of bed on my first morning and directed to the bathroom where a mat had been laid out for me. I was told to kneel on this mat and bolsters were put under my chest and neck – for I could not support myself due to my bound arms. So, there I was, comprehending nothing, my bottom in the air, whilst the maid fastened my neck chain to a ring in the floor. I felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Then, I felt her fingers caressing my bottom hole and I started to buck, as I was sure that wasn’t right, but she merely told me to calm down and continue. She greased it thoroughly and then inserted something, a nozzle. It wasn’t exactly large but at that point I’d never had anything inserted there so it felt strange. And things got even weirder when fizzy liquid was squirted up through the nozzle into my bowels. So much, in fact, that my stomach started to bulge like a pregnant woman’s, and I got cramps as it fizzed and sloshed inside me. I begged her to get rid of it, but she merely gagged me, put a stopper in there and bade me to jiggle about to ‘clean every nook and cranny’. She then left the room with me bloated and in agony. I felt so terrible and hadn’t a clue what she was doing.
“She returned in a few minutes though, removed the stopper and brown slurry flowed out. She then repeated the whole process and this second time the water was much clearer. After the third rinsing, it was almost as clear as when it had entered, and I was declared cleansed inside. Then, and only then, was my chain released, I was led over to the bathtub and chained in there instead whilst my maid washed my whole body. Afterwards though, when she had unchained me and towelled me dry, she produced more lubricant and a plug of solid gold with a twinkling ruby on the end. That was inserted into my bottom hole and I have worn one there ever since.”
“Even today?”
“Even today. Although now it has a somewhat wider girth. A real lady is never without her bottom plug or Plug of Consolation as they are officially referred to.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they console and remind one of her Lord. Our bottom holes, like our love caverns, serve two purposes. One is to expel wastes, but the primary purpose is to provide another opportunity for him to achieve sexual fulfilment. Our Plugs of Consolation console us in his absence and remind us of what it is like to receive his blessed tool in that place.”
I was silent. I mean, to be cleaned in that way and to wear a plug in… there. It sounded so weird, so awful even and yet… yet grandmother said that was the norm for a lady. And she had suggested that I too be toileted in that fashion! Part of me was curious about what it might be like, but part of me was scared too.
“Do you have anything else to ask about things that should not be mentioned and water maidens?” grandmother asked.
“No, I mean… yes, yes I do. The water maidens. Did you never get to know one?”
Grandmother sat back and smiled. “Actually, yes, I did. Once. Occasionally, His Lordship allowed me to sleep with him unchained as a reward for providing him with great pleasure. Well, one night when he had been at his cups and was fast asleep, I could not sleep at all and a great curiosity passed over me, so I went into the bathroom to see the restrained water maiden. She was not asleep of course, and we smiled at one another and then she whispered, ‘It sounds like you pleasured him well.’ I nodded. She was a pretty blonde thing with sparkling blue eyes and naturally curly hair.
“‘I hope I can pleasure my Lord that well one day.’
“‘I’m sure you will Tuesday.’
“‘What’s your name?’
“‘Zagiri.’
“‘I am Tuesday of course, but I used to be called Vanig.’
“‘That’s a pretty name. Where are you from?’
“‘I’m the eldest daughter of Lord Carnig. We live in the capital. I’m engaged to Lord Magar, one of the Sultan’s ministers. I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s handsome.’
“‘I’ve never seen him but in the Chamber he speaks well.’
“And with those words, we began a friendship that lasted all of six hours. Whilst Our Lord slept, we told each other about our childhoods and dreams, hopes, and despairs. And, at the end, we kissed, and I knelt before her and committed a great sin with my tongue. It was magical. She was a lovely girl. I never saw her again though. The next Tuesday I was in the Sultan’s bed; it was a different Tuesday water maiden. I wondered if she was alright, if she had married her Lord Magar and if she managed to pleasure him. Around a year later, the Marigold Team was ordered to dress for the Second Domain as some noble ladies wished to meet with us. We were arrayed in all our finery and led to the Women’s Chamber. Three noble ladies dressed for Domain Three were led in by six servants and then their burqas and armbindings removed. We began a conversation on the talking pads which showed on the screen before us. It was the usual noble pleasantries, nothing remarkable, but then, towards the end, the lady sat next to me wearing a fine gown of deep purple, pressed a message on paper into my hand. At the end she embraced me warmly and, when she had left, I read it. It said simply:
My dearest Zagiri,
I still cherish our wonderful night of friendship and I thank you profusely for the skills you taught me. They have helped greatly in me pleasuring my husband.
Lady Vanig (Tuesday)
Then I remembered. They had been introduced as the wife and sisters of Lord Magar. Would you believe, but behind my veil, I wept with happiness…?”
This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.
Sapphire’s Awakening
You awake to a blinding light. For a moment you wonder if you have died and gone to Jannah. Such a thought would delight most people, indeed all the people that hang out with at home and in the masjid, but you find yourself shuddering with fear. Astagfuralah, please not there! An eternity in a pious wonderland populated only by Salafis with big beards and seventy-two virgins to keep you away from any hope of sexual release! And what do you get in lieu of a good shag? Light on your face and silk on your body. Oh yeah, and a fair complexion, and to wear green clothing, yellow jewellery, plus an incense-burner made of pearls and a comb made of gold. Wow, just wow!
It is the lack of any smell of incense that makes you realise that you haven’t earned that pearl burner yet and that wherever this is, it ain’t Jannah. But it isn’t your bedroom either, which is at the back of the house and doesn’t get much sun. So, where are you? Groggily, you open your eyes.
You’re in a hospital ward and by your side a machine keeps your pulse. Across from you is a granny from Mirpur and to your left is a gori. A Filipina nurse busies herself with her patients and when she sees you, she smiles broadly and says, “Glad to see you’ve rejoined us, Sapphire. Would you like a drink?”
“Where am I?” you ask confused.
“Ward 34 at Bradford Royal Infirmary,” she replies, handing you a cup of water.
You drink it and try to regain some clarity. “And what am I doing here?”
“Don’t you remember, darling?” she says, the smile never leaving her face.
“You blacked out, Sapphire, and, if what I am told is true, not for the first time.” Dr. Munira Khan looks serious as she tells you.
“It’s normal,” you reply. “I’m okay. Can I go home?”
“No, Sapphire, it is not normal. It is not normal to black out in the middle of the day and certainly not normal to do it more than once. In fact, not only is it not normal, but it is dangerous. Indeed, with the underlying health condition that you have listed here on this file, it is extremely dangerous.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“No Sapphire, you’re not fine, you’re exhausted. Physically and mentally shattered. Your body is telling you that it desperately needs a break. Tell me, when was your last day off.”
“I don’t know… I mean, I don’t have a job technically but…”
“The report says that you blacked out whilst teaching a class full of children in the madrassah.”
“Well, it’s a voluntary job. My husband is the imam and…”
“How many days a week, Sapphire?”
“Seven.”
“And the last time you had a holiday?”
Shrug.
“Well, now the cause is clear. Also illegal by the way, to work someone ‘voluntarily’ like that. Trust me, Sapphire, I know it happens, my own children go to a madrassah with similarly voluntary staff, but it doesn’t make it right. It’s exploitation.”
You say nothing. As usual you don’t want to create a scene.
“Exploitation that, if you ever reported it, could lead to charges against those exploiting you and serious financial compensation for you.”
“Please no, I couldn’t! The masjid, it’s not rich; funded entirely by community donations and…”
“The choice is yours, but that kind of guilt trip is how they keep the exploitation going. Anyway, the simple fact is that you can’t go back there.”
“But I must! If I don’t run the classes and the women’s group, then they would be cancelled and…”
“And if you do, the next time you black out, you could never wake up again. Not, I suspect, that such a prospect horrifies you as much as it should, but as a health professional, I cannot take the risk. I have told your husband the same.”
“Astagfuralah! You have?! And?”
“He was not happy but agreed to not make you teach classes. I don’t believe him of course. Which is why I cannot sanction releasing you from hospital to that house.”
“But what should I do?”
“Your mother told me that your sister recently got married and that they are alone. In Islam we have a sacred duty to look after our parents. Why don’t you fulfil it?”
For the first time in months, your eyes light up. “I can go… home?”
“Yes, it is the best option.”
“But what about my husband?”
“He can come and see you there if he so pleases. Although from the things you were saying in your sleep, I am not sure he will.”
“I said things?!!”
“Lots of things, Sapphire. The whole ward heard them. And they’re the main reason why I’m not letting you back there.”
“Do you think I’m weird? A bad Muslimah?”
“No Sister, I think you’re exhausted. Now get some rest!”
Life at your parents’ house is a veritable bed of roses compared with at your husband’s. They let you sleep in because of your condition and your mum fusses around you. There are jobs to do but they are so few that you hardly notice them. The only problem is that your phone is still at your husband’s house, and they’ve decided not to give it to you as it could prove a distraction and impair your recovery. Hmm. To be honest though, you don’t miss it as much as you thought you would; there’s less need for a safety valve when there’s little steam to let off. Well, little mental steam; the sexual frustration is still omnipresent. As Dr. Khan predicted, your husband hasn’t been hurrying round to check how you are every day. Indeed, during the entire week he’s visited twice, once with dates and the second time with… more dates. Dates that you know the masjid bulk buys to give out to visitors.
The last of the romantics, him.
And neither time has he asked about enjoying his marital rights, nor too are you tempted to remind him of them. You need sex desperately but just not the halal type.
Besides, he’s probably shattered by all the rides he’s getting off Missy. Bitch!
Dr. Khan also made a point of stressing that you get daily exercise and time alone with nature, so you’re allowed to walk around Lister Park without a wali or even take the bus into the centre. The freedom is intoxicating. Hmm. It is almost as if she knew your predicament.
The trip out this morning though, is not pleasure. Instead, it’s quite the opposite. Dr. Khan also prescribed weekly counselling sessions with Pam, a gori woman in her fifties with a face that looks like she’s trying to care but would really be more interested in watching ‘Emmerdale’.
“So, tell me what’s on your mind, Sapphire?” she says, sipping her tea.
You shrug. “Not a lot really. I just want to get better.”
She sips the tea again. “Do you feel the need to bottle things up sometimes?”
Shrug. Sip.
“How does talking about emotions make you feel?”
Shrug. Sip.
“This isn’t really working, is it Sapphire?”
Shrug. Sip. Silence. “No, I s’pose not,” you eventually reply, wondering just how much tea she manages to get through in a single day.
Long sip. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest with yourself.”
“I don’t need help. I’m okay, really.”
Even longer sip, draining the entire mug. “Well, let’s try a different approach then. This is an exercise on valuing yourself, working out what is important to you. Here is £100. Now, I’m going to make a cup of tea – would you like one? Milk, no sugar isn’t it? – and whilst I’m away you need to write down on this piece of paper what you would spend it on. But there are rules! You have to spend it on yourself, so no gifts or other people and no charitable giving either. It has to be for you on what you most want in the world.”
“But I’m not allowed…”
“For the purposes of the exercise, there are no restrictions. None at all. Whatever you want in the world, Sapphire. Right then, any questions or thoughts?”
“Just one.”
“Please tell me.”
“This money’s not real. It’s Monopoly money.”
She rolls her eyes as she picks up the mugs. “It’s a game, Sapphire! Now play!”
Five minutes later she returns carrying the two refilled mugs. She hands you yours and then lifts hers to her mouth before then taking your paper and reading what you have written on it. “Interesting,” she says, “interesting indeed.”
The following morning finds you on the train. You lied to your mum and felt bad about it, but there was no other option. You couldn’t risk doing this in Bradford. The train pulls into the grand terminal of Manchester Piccadilly, and you realise that you are shaking with both anticipation and fear. For the tenth time that day you check that you have the money in your pocket. It is there!
You had £120 nestled in your account that no one knew about. It is the earnings of a 3,000-word story that someone commissioned you to write. The only commission that you ever got, but still. The story itself was a bit naff. The guy wanted some lovey-dovey thing about a guy who met a Pakistani girl at work, reverted and she became his dutiful veiled wife. Vomit-worthy and what you’d written probably reflected that, which is why he’d never commissioned you again with his submissive romantic crap. Hmm. Still, now you need that money, and it was fairly earned.
You walk out of the station and into what the brothers would regard as the most haram district in the entire North of England. Manchester’s Gay Village is a queer place indeed (no pun intended) full of pierced, rainbow-haired weirdos. Behind your mask, you smile. You love it. Perversely, in your conservative attire, you attract more gazes than the most flamboyant drag queen.
And in a side-street just off the main row of bars, is the place you’ve come to. Bloom Street Tattoo Studio, ‘Highly recommended for amazing tattoos’ according to Google.
Shaking with fear, you walk in.
“Can I help you love?”
The gori girl behind the counter has tattoos all up her arms and more metal on her face than Big Ben. Her purple hair is tied back and when she speaks you can see the ball in her tongue.
“Excuse me, I want a tattoo.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, love. I’m Danni. What do you want?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never had one before. And I’ve only got £120 to spend.”
“I’ve always wanted one. But it can’t be where anyone can see!”
Danni looks you up and down. “Love, that won’t be hard. I can’t see very much of you at all…”
Danni takes you through to the back room and you take off your mask and hijab. She shows you a catalogue of images. You’re surprised at how little you can get with £120. But you didn’t want anything large anyway so it’s not an issue. None of the images she shows you really do it though, except for one of a devil which you think would be too much of a risk.
“Tell me what you do want, Sapphire,” says Danni.
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over coming here and I really don’t know. I want something that symbolises who I think I am but maybe I’m not sure who that is.”
“Makes sense,” says Danni, “since you’ve never been allowed to be who you want.” You’ve told her a bit about your life as you chatted, and she really empathised. When you told her about your husband getting a second wife without your permission she even cried a bit and came over and hugged you. It was nice but bit embarrassing to be honest. “I tell you what; if you were to imagine yourself in an image, what would you be like?”
You gasp. Months ago, I asked you the same question and you answered by sending me an image you’d found on the internet. You describe that image to her: “I’m a girl with long black hair in a long black dress sitting alone on a misty moor. There’s a full moon in the background and a ruined abbey. I’m staring into space and there’s a raven on my shoulder.”
“Sounds Gothic!”
“It is! If Muslim Goths were a thing, I’d be one!”
“And a raven you say? Ravens are interesting birds you know. Some people see them as really dark and evil; other people as bearers of light.”
“I’m quite dark really.”
“Yet you hide it from the world… and I suspect there’s more than a bit of light in there too.”
“Hmm.”
“So, why not a raven? Look, here, what about this one?”
“That’s perfect! I never saw it before!”
“That’s because it’s £150 but don’t worry, I like you, raven girl. I’ll do it for £100. But where?”
“Well, I can’t have everyone seeing it!”
“So, not your face then. But there’s still a whole heap of Sapphire to choose from!”
You decide on your upper arm which is always covered up anyway and you lie on the chair and Danni gets to work. The gun is sort of painful, but you like that. I once sent you a quote by the Marquis de Sade “It is only by way of pain one arrives at pleasure” and you loved it. The pain arouses you and Danni notices.
“So, what’s a good Muslim wife like you doing getting a tattoo?” she asks as she works.
“I want to break the rules; they’re fucking stupid!”
“So, you don’t believe anymore?”
“Oh no, I still believe, I believe in them but I want to transgress them. I’m weird.”
“Not weird at all, I get it. Let me show you something.”
She stops her work and gets out her phone. “What do you think of that?”
It’s a picture of a Christian minister in a suit outside a church with an unnaturally pearly smile. Underneath it says, ‘All are welcome in Christ’s house!’
You sigh inwardly. You’d liked this girl; you’d thought she was cool and rebellious. But she was just one of the ‘Jesus Loves You!’ brigade after a convert. Or revert. Or whatever they call them.
“Why are you showing me that?” you ask.
“It’s my dad. I grew up in that church, although the Glorious Redeemed Church of the Resurrected Jesus Christ is more like a cult than a church. It was my whole life. We only hung out with people from the church and every night there were classes and activities. All our money went to it, and they controlled what we wore, thought and did. And, when I was eighteen, they found me a husband from the congregation.”
“Astagfuralah, I never knew, would never have guessed!”
“It was partly him that made me realise it was all bollocks. He was not a bad man but boring as hell and insanely jealous. Every time I so much as glanced at a man in the congregation or on the street he’d quote Scripture at me. But there was also my cousin Ruth. She left cos she found a boyfriend at college; we had to shun her, cut her off completely, but she was my friend. Her act plus his jealousy made me do the same.”
“So, you don’t believe anymore?”
“After I left I didn’t. I went nuts to be honest; that’s when I got into my piercing and tattooing. I slept around and blasphemed and just did everything I’d never been allowed to. But after a while it palled. I missed the structure and the certainty; the community and that. I tried going back but, I couldn’t take the control. Besides, they shunned me. Then I met my partner Steve – he’s the guy who owns this place with me, looks like a demon but is a puppy at heart – and I found my equilibrium. I still believe; I pray every day and go to church every Sunday, but it’s a normal one these days, not some misogynistic controlling cult.”
“So, you’re a good girl really?”
“I dunno about that, Sapphire, but I love God if that’s what you mean. I also love Steve and having tattoos and metal all over my face and being myself. I still love my family to bits as well, and they’ve all started talking to me again, even dad, although I do take the piercings out and put a dress on when I visit him. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, but it is different for us.”
Danni raises her eyebrows and murmurs, “That’s what they want you to think!” before returning to her work.
When she’s finished, she shows you the raven that now adorns your arm and you love it.
You hug her and she smiles and says, “So, what next?”
“What do you mean, what next?”
“Well, you’ve got twenty quid left, haven’t you, plus the first-time customer twenty quid complimentary treatment and the sixty quid ‘Mate of Danni Deal’.”
“You never mentioned them before!”
“That’s ’cos I just made ’em up! I like you, Saph, and I love someone who transgresses and says fuck it to the rules. So, what do you want? A piercing perhaps?”
“Well… I would, I’ve always imagined having one, but it could never be seen…”
“So have it where someone would never see it then.”
You smile. “And I get off on pain, can you imagine that? I’m really weird deep down; I fantasise about it and…”
“So, what about there then…?”
She points and you gasp. “I could never! I…”
“From what you were saying, your so-called husband isn’t interested, so who is ever going to see? And trust me, they feel goooood…”
And with those words she unbuttons her jeans and pulls down her panties and you exclaim, “Astagfuralah, that is soooo haram!”
She offers you anaesthetic, but you refuse it. You have dreamt about this level of pain, this level of transgression, but never ever did you actually think…
It is a world away from a bird tattoo.
She massages your clit till it grows and you groan with pleasure. This is beyond your wildest dreams; it is so unbelievable. Then she hands you the gag to bite down on and produces the needle.
The searing scream of pain that flashes through your entire body would have broken your teeth were the gag not there. You bawl into it and tears flood your eyes, but it feels good, so fucking good! So fucking good and so fucking unbelievably haram! Ya Allah, even in your wildest chats online you have never imagined it could be like this! She threads the silver bar and finishes off, before dabbing away any blood and showing you your new look in the mirror. You love how it lies there, glistening like a badge of sin, defining your most intimate and sensitive place. You are moist from just looking at it and Danni senses it. She leans forward and you kiss, deep and passionate. She withdraws and wipes her brow. “I’m not even into girls, but that seemed right,” she said.
You nod.
“But now, there’s still, I dunno, twenty quid left to spend. Tell me your deepest, darkest fantasy.”
“I want to be locked in a dungeon forever and whipped!”
“Well, I can’t help there. Tell me your deepest and darkest tattoo and piercing fantasy!”
You begin but then halt yourself. “No, I cannot. I have an idea, but I’d only want it for one night, one particular night, not forever.”
“Who says tattoos have to be permanent? Tell me your desires, Sapphire.”
You whisper in her ear, and she claps her hands in glee. “Jesus Christ, bitch, you are fucking dark!”
Two days later…
Your husband turns up at your parents’ home bearing the customary bag of masjid dates and the mobile phone that you asked him for. You respectfully greet him, take the phone, and chat like two strangers in the living room over tea. Then, when your parents have left, you sidle up closer to him and whisper, “I have a request to ask of you?”
“Sapphire, my first wife, naturally, how may I help you?”
“I wish to ask you in the bedroom?”
You take him by the hand and lead him upstairs. Your mum smiles, thinking that the break has perhaps rekindled a marriage that was obviously failing. Absence makes the heart grow stronger and all that.
You lead your husband to your room, and he lifts up his thobe. You lie and the bed and tell him to unroll your abayah. He does so eagerly, his appetite obviously strong (you picked this day cos you know it’s Missy’s time of the month), and he is so engrossed with his goal that he does notice at first. So, you tell him: “Read!”
He looks at you with bewilderment, then sees your belly and his eyes grow wide with horror and shock. Tattooed in large swirling Arabian style letters are the words: I want you to grant me a ↓
The arrow is pointing to your cleft around which have tattooed the letters
D I V O R C E
And hanging from your clit ring is a little silver medallion of a little demon with horns.
“Astagfuralah, you haram kaffir bitch! I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!”
“Shukran,” you reply with a smirk.
“I will fucking divorce you and I will tell everyone why, just what you have done to yourself!”
“What have I done to myself exactly, husband?”
“That haram tattoo and obscene… ornament, that is what?”
“Oh this? You don’t think it’s permanent, do you? Just a sticker, look!” You start to peel the letters off. “And rings can be removed too. You will look very silly making false accusations.”
“Then I will deny that I ever pronounced the triple talaq! No one else heard it!”
“No one else except Danni here.”
“Danni? Who is this Danni?”
The tattooed and pierced gori girl who had sneaked in through the back door an hour earlier and had been hiding in the wardrobe the whole time steps out holding her phone. “The entire conversation was recorded and is now online, big boy. Time to go!”
Lost for words and, like any bully, fearing being outnumbered, he turns on his heels and storms out, slamming the door behind him. You high five your new friend and then hug her.
“So, what next then?” she asks.
“Well, I still have those dungeon fantasies,” you reply, “and now I’ve got my phone back, I know just the guy who’d be interested in realising them…”
“Can I watch?” she asks with a giggle before you both dissolve into a fit of hysterical laughter.
“Of course, what you must remember is that even a concubine such as I who was called to her Lord’s bed more often than most, may God shower him with blessings, still slept alone and in her own bed most of the time. That bed was in the Marigold Bedchamber which lay adjacent to the Marigold Daychamber where we spent much of our time. On my third night in the troupe, after our group pleasuring and then that wonderful night alone with the Sultan, I was put to sleep in my own bed for the very first time.
“Bedtime was early in the palace, for there was no need for us to be up late and our Lord deemed it important for our health that we get sufficient beauty sleep. At nine o’clock, after evening devotions, we were led, one at a time, to be prepared by the maids. As the youngest and latest member of the troupe, I was always the first to bed and first to rise. I was taken by the maids to the bathroom where I was showered thoroughly, and my teeth cleaned. Then, my long hair was combed out and placed in a ponytail high on my crown and a hood of thick black leather laced over my entire head. This had two metal-rimmed holes over the nostrils and a protrusion that fitted in the mouth, preventing any nocturnal chatter with my Sisters. After all, we were there to sleep, not socialise. Then, I was led to the bed blind, and the maid sat me down on it, before then unfastening my arms from the awful reverse prayer configuration. This felt like perfect heaven as the blood rushed back, causing tingles and pins and needles, and the maid let me flex my arms a few times but made sure that I did not touch myself. I later learnt that our arms were not confined so harshly at night since one cannot sleep comfortably on one’s back if they are in either the reverse prayer or a monoglove, but also because such extreme restriction can prove detrimental to health after a while, causing joint and muscle issues.
“My arms were only free for a short time then. I was then lain on the bed and cuffs fastened around my wrists and ankles. Then, the chains attached to these cuffs were somehow shortened – I never saw the bedroom of course, always wearing the hood within in, but my guess is that each had a handle that the maid would turn. This forced my legs wide apart so that there was more than ninety degrees between them, whilst my arms stretched out to the sides above my head. I never saw myself nor the other girls, but I always imagined that I looked much like a starfish. And that was it, save that a pillow was placed under my bottom and two more under my head and I was left there in the pitch black, exposed, and vulnerable. Later I heard faint noises through the leather as Talleen was similarly secured to my right and, sometime after that, Ziazam to my left. And then that was it. Unused to the whole situation, I could not sleep, but heavy breathing from both sides assured me that neither of my Sisters had any such problem.”
“But why make you sleep in such a strange manner, grandmother? Surely it is not the most comfortable!”
“No, it isn’t, my little chicken, and for many nights I struggled to adapt to it as I had always slept on my side, but eventually, as with so much else, my brain and body normalised it and I would drop off almost straightaway, re-entering the world only when the maid unfastened me at a quarter to eight in the morning. However, I had the same questions as you and so I asked my Sisters the following morning as to why we were made to sleep in such a manner. And when I did, they both laughed and said I was so delightfully innocent and naïve. ‘Darling Zagiri,’ said Talleen, ‘have we not told you many times already that your only purpose in life now is to give Our Lord pleasure?’ I nodded, none the wiser. ‘Well,’ said Ziazam, that is why we sleep like that. Although he has other girls to pleasure him every night, what if, in the middle of the night he were to think, “Hmm, you know what; I need to place my royal member inside Zagiri”? So, you must still be ready, waiting, and available to him, which is why you sleep in such a way, inviting him to sex.’ Talleen nodded and then added, ‘And sometimes, although it is only occasionally, he does come! A couple of months ago I was sleeping soundly when I felt some hands on my breasts and then his member between them. As I lay immobilised and blinded, he pushed my breasts together and used them to bring himself to completion, spraying his wonderful seed all over my chest before withdrawing. In the morning, when my hood was removed for showering, it was still there, dried, and crusty. The maids congratulated me greatly, for such nocturnal blessings are rare and bring honour to the troupe.’”
“And did he ever visit you in such a fashion, grandmother?”
“Over the years, yes, numerous times, although he never used my breasts in that way, for if he were in a breast mood, how could he have chosen mine when Talleen’s gargantuan monsters were waiting for him in the next bed. But no, those surprise visits in the dead of night were wonderful for, chained down as I was, he could not access my bottom hole and so would use my love cavern which is the most pleasurable of them all. And there is something about being taken blind and completely restrained; it excites one for some reason, and each of those times I also achieved my own pleasure as he achieved his. What wonderful times they were!”
“They sound it!”
“Of course, there is one more aspect to our sleeping arrangements that I have so far omitted to mention that was also most pleasurable. After I had been chained down on the bed, the maid would take a small egg made out of metal or ivory or something – you must remember, I never actually saw the thing, so I am only guessing my how it felt – and place it in my love cavern. As I lay asleep, it would, completely without warning, burst into life, buzzing, and shaking. The feeling was most exquisite, and I hoped it would cause me to reach pleasure but, after a minute or so, it stopped and so I was unfulfilled. Later my Sisters explained that they too had these eggs placed in them and that they were activated whenever Our Lord had reached eruption with whichever girl was pleasuring him at the time. That was so typical of him, such a kind man that he wanted to share his joy and pleasure with all of us beloved concubines, although I do confess to feelings of jealousy towards the girl who had his member within her at the time, and a slight annoyance at the fact that they eggs seemed to be specifically timed to titillate and excite us, but never to fulfil. But those are ungrateful thoughts, unworthy of a lady, and so when they entered my mind, I always tried to banish them as soon as I could through the use of fervent prayers.”
My grandmother lapsed into silence, as if recalling those long nights spent bound and vulnerable. I wondered how she slept these days. Did she miss the restraints or revel in her freedoms? As if she could read my thoughts, she turned to me and said, “Oh yes, and one more thing before we put this topic to bed as it were: the dreams. Almost every night I spent in the harem I had the most vivid dreams of an erotic nature. I dreamt of being assaulted by numerous members, of my Sisters being unchained and joining me in congress, and of other things more unmentionable. And those dreams… that is one thing that I most definitely miss now…”
That evening my own bedtime situation changed somewhat. I was stretched out like a starfish, secured by the manacles around my own wrists and ankles, but then, like grandmother in the harem, a leather hood was fitted over my own head, which was then laced tightly, leaving me in the pitch-black and my hearing muffled. Afterwards, pillows were placed under my bottom and my head, and I was left there as she had once been. Immediately, I understood the feelings of vulnerability and helplessness that she had described. I lay there, totally exposed in my own blank void. The itch that she had talked about in my love cavern was there and I yearned to touch it yet could not. There was nothing to distract my thoughts from it and they became all-consuming. I was frustrated and, I admit, a little angry, yet also glad. At least there was no vibrating egg in my own crotch.
Eventually, after an unknown period of time, I began to drift away into dreamworld…
… and then I was jerked back out of it.
A touch. Faint and featherlike, yet real nonetheless, on that most intimate of regions.
It grew stronger, tracing a sensuous path around my denuded skin. My breathing got heavier, and I groaned. Who was this and what were they doing?
The fingers – they seemed to be gloved in silk perhaps, reached my nubbin. They played with it, squeezed, and stroked it. I started to buck involuntarily, struggling against those cruel restraints.
The finger withdrew. “No!” I screamed into my gag, “Not now, I need more!”
Then I felt something else, something flicking, moist and wet.
A tongue!
It worked expertly on my crotch, burrowing in, and then moving around. The groaning and bucking were incessant now, this was wonderful, this was unbelievable this was…
And then it came, like a wave crashing against a cliff, a feeling of total unalloyed pleasure that engulfed my entire body and transported me up towards the realm of the gods and goddesses.
By the time I came to, the tongue and fingers had gone, and I was alone in my void once more.
This story is called ‘Sapphire’s Djinn 女’ because 女 denotes ‘female’. The majority of djinn however, seem to be male and Sapphire is the kind of lady that attracts such beings so, it may well be that another story involving her and a male djinn appears in the future…
This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.
“Majnun”
Part 1
It’s a Friday, the Jummah prayers have finished, and the ladies’ prayer room has emptied. You’ve stayed behind, as you always do, to tidy up, check that everything is in place, give it a quick one over with the hoover and just generally see that everything is as it should be.
And to avoid going home for as long as you possibly can.
But there’s no further excuse to delay you, so you pop in one final time to turn out the lights when, to your astonishment, you see someone sitting in the prayer room.
A woman.
A kaffir woman.
Unlike the sea of black that had filled the room only an hour or so earlier, she is dressed in lighter shades… and in a far more revealing manner. Her long black hair cascades to her chest, she wears casual jeans ripped in the right places and a light summer sweater of pale grey whilst on her feet, shockingly considering masjid etiquette, she has a pair of white trainers.
In short, she is dressed just as you would be had you the choice. Subconsciously, you both envy her and admire her style.
Strangely, kaffir though she must be, she is no gori. Indeed, if anything she looks rather Persian.
Indeed, if anything, she looks a bit like… you.
But a younger you. A Sapphire in the first bloom of youth, aged eighteen or nineteen perhaps.
“Can I help you?” you ask, intrigued.
She smiles, winks, and says, “You tell me, fam!”
“Fam? Excuse me, do I know you, sister?”
“I know you,” she replies. “Fancy chillin’?”
You start to get a bit flustered. I mean, who does she think she is and why is she wearing trainers… well, all sorts of inappropriate attire… in a masjid? “Excuse me, sister, but this is a mosque. You shouldn’t be wearing shoes in here…”
“Sez who, fam?”
“Says the rules, sister.”
“Fuck the rules!”
“Sister, swearing is also against the rules. This is a holy place!”
“And I said I don’t care. Anyway, since you haven’t recognised me yet, I’ll tell yer me name. I’m Baalat.”
Although she’s impudent, rude, disrespectful and altogether a tad weird, something in you likes her. She appeals to your darker side. “Baalat, eh? That’s a pretty name; I’ve not heard it before. I’m Sapphire!”
Baalat rolls her eyes. “I know that already, duh! Come on fam, let’s get out of here!”
“Baalat, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t know you and… well… I have things to do…”
“Things you want to do…?”
“Not particularly, but…”
“… but the rules…?”
“Well, yes, I mean, they’re not strictly in the written rules but I have duties and responsibilities and…”
“…and I said fuck the rules, but now I’m changing my mind. Instead, you must follow them, Sapphire. But to do that, you must read them!” She points to the wall where I list of dos and don’ts of the masjid is tacked. Her finger prods the notice – which you’ve seen hundreds of times previously – and you read it.
And gasp
#4: Sapphire is required to fuck all the rules excepts numbers #5, #6 & #7.
#5: Sapphire is required to forget about her household duties save one: making her mother-in-law a cup of tea before bed.
#6: Sapphire is required to put salt in mother-in-law’s tea instead of sugar
#7: Sapphire is required to chill with Baalat right now!
You turn back to her. “How did you do that?”
She smiles and winks. “Come on Saph; it’s time for us girls to have some fun!”
“But I can’t! I have things to do.”
Baalat shrugs. “Whatever stuck up bitch. Do what you will, but be warned, there’ll be consequences!”
And with those words she gets up, gives you a pat on the butt as she walks past and then saunters out of the masjid door whistling a happy tune and pausing only to kick a pebble at the side of Brother Majid’s new BMW, leaving a nasty mark in the middle of the previously immaculate paintwork.
Part 2
That evening you neither abandon your duties, nor put salt in MiL’s tea (although you are sorely tempted to do so), but when everyone has gone to bed, you do go online and engage in the sort of activities that, you suspect, Baalat would approve of. There is a playful exchange with a long-term flirt in America and a fun chat with me in which we discuss ideas for a future kinky story, and you share a rather naughty photo involving horns and underwear. Then you go to bed feeling rather happy and, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, you wake up refreshed, engage in your prayers with the usual degree of guilt related to the activities of the night before, and then go down for breakfast. MiL is, as always, a judgemental pain, whilst Missy sits there smirking and your husband displays no interest in any of you. You sigh unnoticed when MiL starts reciting the list of chores, she has planned for you and you’re about to get stuck into the thankless and endless liturgy of housework when… when you find yourself lying on the floor with three concerned and confused faces staring down at you.
“What happened?” you ask, blearily.
“You blacked out,” says your husband.”
“You swore loudly before doing so!” adds MiL.
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard her use language like that,” adds Missy.
“What did I say?” you ask, lost.
“It is unrepeatable,” says your husband.
“You said, “Go away this washing and go away this terrible life!” says MiL.
“But you used nastier words than that,” adds Missy.
You sit up and then give a start. Sitting on the table, unseen by them all, is the kaffir girl from the masjid yesterday evening. She is smiling at you as if it is all very funny.
“You!” you declare, pointing at her. They all turn and stare at the kaffir.
“Who?” says your husband. “There’s no one there, Sapphire!”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sis,” adds Missy.
“You are going mad, girl,” adds MiL.
And for once, you wonder if she might actually be right.
There is one advantage of it all. Because of your black out, they let you go to your room and lie down for half an hour. The moment that the door is shut, you get out, put the light back on and whisper to Baalat, “What in the name of Allah do you think you’re doing?!”
She smiles and replies, “Told you there’d be consequences, didn’t I, but yer wouldn’t listen.”
“You can’t go around doing stuff like that, making me black out in front of them!”
“Uh, duh, but I can! I’m a djinn, remember; I can do what the fuck I like!”
“But they’ll find out… they’ll think I’ve got mental health problems or, worse still, make me go through a ruqyah!”
At the mention of that word, you notice Baalat shudder slightly.
“Whatever…”
“But you didn’t like it, did you? The idea of a ruqyah! It scares you, doesn’t it, eh…?”
She shrugs but looks less sure of herself than before. “I can cope with it, I mean, like, I’ve experienced them before. Like loads of them. I’ll just find someone else to possess. Like that co-wife of yours for example.”
“Go on then, do that! ‘’Cos I really don’t need any djinn causing problems in my life. I’ve enough already as it is!”
“That you fail to face by burying your head in the sand and saying that everything is okay!”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard, fam.”
“I’m not your fam, we’re not even the same species!”
“We’re more alike than you think, Sapphire. And you haven’t denied it, have you?”
You pout and she smiles. “That looks dead sexy, girl!” she says with a grin, and you can’t help but smile yourself.
“Fuck you, Baalat! I don’t need this! Go and bother Missy instead.”
“Nah, can’t be arsed. She’s boring as fuck. Not a lot going on in that head of hers, whereas you… Ya Allah! I’m not leaving, full stop.”
“Ruqyah it is then!”
“Go ahead. You do know what they’re like, don’t you? Us djinns call them soul rapes. Yeah, they turf us out, but they do a lot more beside. It’s like using a shovel to remove a pea from a bucket. You end up a broken shell. Yeah, it’ll piss me off, but it’ll hurt you more than it does me!”
You do not reply. How can you? What she says is true. You witnessed one once, all the hysterical laughing and screaming, groaning, and bucking about. It was horrific. And you wouldn’t want that pervy ruqi placing his hands all over you.
The silence lasts a minute or more and then you look at her pleadingly and whisper, “Please, I can’t be blacking out again. They’ll…”
And to your surprise, Baalat comes over to you, puts her arms around you and gives you a big hug. “I won’t do it again, Saph, I promise, so long as you play with me. That’s all I want, a friend. Someone to chill wiv, innit. And besides, I blacked you out for a purpose. They’ve let you off the chores for the day and think you’re unwell. So, now we can go out for some fun. Tell them you need to go the park to get yer head straight or somethin’.”
You perk up and smile. “Yeah, that’d be nice. The park is lovely this time of year.”
“Oh babe, we ain’t actually goin’ to the park. Trust me, when you’re with Baalat, you do far more than just the park!”
Part 3
Baalat was right. Your blacking out had caused a change in heart. When you emerged from your room there was a sympathy hitherto unheard of and a promise to “let you off” your duties for the day. “I think it would help if I went for a walk in the park,” you’d replied, and they’d agreed, not even insisting on the contact lenses for once.
That was when you realised that Baalat’s interventions could be useful as well as dangerous. Indeed, they are both.
So, now you sit on the bus going into town. Beside you sits a teenage girl wearing skinny jeans, and a tight black top that exposes her midriff shamefully. You have to admit that, sat alongside her swathed in black, you feel a pang of jealousy. She has style this girl, the sort of style that you wish you could express. The sort of style that your friends online continually tell you that you should express. Hmm. What would they know? Still, if it were an option, that is how you would be dressed today. Exactly. Almost as if she can read your mind.
Perhaps she can?
What is strange about this girl though, is that no one else seems to be able to see her. Back home, MiL, hubby and Missy were all oblivious to her presence and so too here on the bus. She walked onboard unchallenged with a confidence to die for and sat down unnoticed by any of your fellow passengers. Taking this in mind, you decided not to talk to her in public, but then she hissed into your ear, “Why are you ignoring me, Sapphire?”
“Because they can’t see you! They’ll think I’m weird talking to myself!” you whisper back.
She laughs. “You are weird! Very weird! But horny too, don’t think I can’t tell. But they won’t think a thing. Get your phone out and pretend to be chatting to someone through your headphones.”
So, you do just that.
You ask her where you’re going, and she laughs and says you’ll see. You ask if it is Bradford city centre and she laughs again and replies, “Not this time.” You get into the Interchange, and she jumps off the bus and struts across to the railway station. You struggle to keep up with her. Then, at the station, she jumps over the ticket barrier like an Olympic athlete and urges you to follow.
“In these ridiculous clothes? I think not! They’re designed to control me, remember?!”
“Not jump, go through, dickhead!”
“I’d need a ticket to do that!”
“Check your pocket, fuckface!”
Annoyed at the insults, you nonetheless obey as is your habit with anyone who gives you a command. And, sure enough, there in the pocket of your abayah is a little card ticket. “How on earth…?”
She sticks out her tongue and says, “Hurry up, Salafi bitch!” You put it in the barrier and follow her.
The journey is not a long one, just the short hop across to Leeds. In the bustling station there, you put the ticket through the barrier again and it eats it up as if it never were. Once through – she has leapt over the barriers again – you follow her through the crowd. Your mobile pings. I’ve sent you a message asking how you are. You smiled and reply, Okay. I went out to Leeds today with a… You wonder what to write next. What is she? You can’t say a djinn, that would just be weird. Not that we don’t get weird in the middle of the night, but still. You finish the message off with ‘friend’. I reply with a thumbs up and tell you to enjoy it, you deserve a break. You smile.
“Message from lover boy?”
“He isn’t my lover boy, just a mate!” you reply defensively.
“Some of those fantasies you shared with him last night aren’t the kind of thing you normally talk to a ‘mate’ about,” she replies. “But you’re right, he int no lover boy, cos you int getting’ any, you repressed bitch. Sapphire needs some real dick, and she needs it quick!”
“Will you stop being so crude?!” This impudent djinn’s language both annoys you but also, deep down, sort of turns you on a bit as well.
“Tell me it int true, Salafi?”
You don’t because you can’t. “You have no right to be like this!” you protest weakly.
She stops, stares at you, and then says, “I’m a djinn, duh! I can do what the fuck I like, and that includes sayin’ the things that you want to say but haven’t got the guts to anywhere ’cept for the middle of the night to some guy whom you know you don’t have to meet face-to-face.”
“Fuck off!” you shout at her angrily and a couple of passers-by stop and stare at you in shock at hearing such foul language come from such a piously-dressed girl. One woman in a headscarf shakes her head. Baalat though, just laughs, as if that reaction was what she wanted all along.
You follow her to the main shopping area, and she heads into Next. You go in after her mouth-watering. The clothes they sell there are so lush, but you have neither the money to buy them nor the permission to wear such outfits in public.
Unlike Baalat who just struts around stylishly in public without any fear of shame or discovery.
She heads to the casual section and starts handing you garments. Jeans, tops, jackets. “What are you doing?” you ask, alarmed.
“Getting you something decent to wear, fam. That which you’ve got on at the moment sure dunt do you justice.”
“Baalat, you know I can’t…”
But she just rolls her eyes. “God, Saph, you’re such a fuckin’ stick in the mud. Just try ’em on!”
“But what if…?”
“And who’s goin’ ter see you, eh? We’re in bloody Leeds now, or have yer forgotten?”
“Yeah but…”
“No buts! Jesus, fam, I thought you were meant ter be the submissive one!”
Well, you can’t argue with that so, like the dutiful little submissive you are, you head off to the changing rooms. You divest yourself of the robes you never chose and pick out ones the one’s that you’ve always dreamt of wearing. The choice is tantalising – Baalat has excellent taste, exactly the sort of things you’d have picked yourself. You spend ages in there, trying on different combos, before finally settling on a pair of skinny jeans with a light white top and rather short black leather jacket, topped by a pair of sunglasses to hide your embarrassment. You think you look super cool as you step out, but Baalat wrinkles up her nose.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nowt. I just think it’s a bit… conservative. I mean, I put some pretty skimpy shorts in there and skirts too.”
“I could never!”
She rolls her eyes again and merely mutters, “Such an old maid!” to the wind, before adding, “Still at least an improvement on before. Come on, let’s go!”
“I can’t go out in these… and besides, we haven’t paid for them!”
“Nor will we.”
“But the tags!”
“What tags?”
And sure enough, all the tags have disappeared.
You feel unbelievably self-conscious at first, walking around the city streets so exposed, something that you haven’t done since puberty. Public exposure has always been a fantasy of yours but now that you’re actually doing it, you feel more afraid than horny. Strangely though, no one bats an eyelid. With your pale skin and Persian good looks, you pass for a gori, perhaps with a bit of Italian or Greek heritage somewhere along the line. Indeed, you attract far less attention than you did when they used to make you wear the niqab and, inside your blood boils at the patriarchy.
And this lack of attention, plus the uber-confident Baalat by your side means the shame and self-consciousness soon fades and instead you feel free, on top of the world and, weirdly, for the first time in decades… normal. OMG is this what normal feels like?! It’s actually quite… fun!
You walk the streets hand-in-hand with your new friend, go for a coffee at Costa and then pop in more shops, racier ones, coming out with some lacy red lingerie and some jewellery that you’d previously only dreamed of being able to afford, all seemingly provided by Baalat’s magic. It is the happiest day of your life and, when I send you a message asking how your day is and whether you’re smiling and fluttering your wings, to my astonishment, for the first time ever I get a reply stating clearly and unequivocally: Yes, I’m having the perfect day and my wings are fluttering constantly.
Baalat winks when she sees you press send. “Lover boy again?” she laughs.
“He’s not…” you start.
“Whatever, fam, whatever.”
Back on the train though, you go to the toilet and put on your abayah and scarf over the new outfit, hiding your style and glory from the world.
And when you exit the cubicle, you find to your dismay that Baalat has vanished, and you are alone in the world.
Involuntarily, a tear escapes from your eye.
Part 4
The next day Baalat does not come. Nor the day after, nor the one after that. You feel sad and alone and even the clothes that you bought and have secretly stashed at the back of the wardrobe cannot console. In an attempt to relieve the pain and show Baalat that you value her, you take some photos wearing them and post them on your Twitter feed. Your followers love them, but it is not the real thing. You have tasted the real thing now and cheap substitutes will not suffice.
But where is Baalat?
A week passes by and then another.
You miss her, but life goes on. You try to reconcile yourself to it. Convince yourself that it was all a dream. But how can it have been with those clothes in your wardrobe. Still, the black outs have stopped and you’re sleeping better.
Until…
…
“Astagfuralah!”
“Excuse me, Sapphire?!”
“I’m, erm… I just swallowed a bone, that’s all.”
You’re eating your tea with the family and suddenly, after an absence of weeks, Baalat appears, smirking, standing behind MiL flicking her Vs casually.
You finish your meal and then ask to be excused. As you leave the room, she follows you. You go straight to the bathroom and lock yourself in with her. “Where have you been?!” you hiss.
“Here and there,” she says, casually.
“I missed you,” you hiss.
“I know,” she replies matter-of-factly.
“What are you doing here now then?”
“We’s goin’ out tonight, fam,” she replies nonchalantly.
“You know that isn’t possible!”
“’Tis. I’m a djinn, or did you forget? I can do what the fuck I like, and I want to fuckin’ party!”
“Yeah, but I can’t! They…”
“They are asleep. I chucked a shit load of sleeping dust in their food. They ain’t wakin’ til morning. So, come on babe, we’ve got a party to get to!”
You go into your room with Baalat and get out the clothes you bought. There’s one slinky little number that you never realised she’d slipped into the bag, made of thin silver satin, so immodest that it exposes the tops of your breasts and barely covers your bottom. The spaghetti straps over your shoulders are so thin and it is loose, so it slinks across your skin erotically, reminding you of a lover stroking you with his hands. You do your hair and make-up, put on the pretty silver necklace with the sapphire pendant and then you are ready.
You feel both a million dollars and also petrified whilst you wait for the taxi. It will be someone from the community, someone who knows you, someone who will tell your husband or father that you are going out like a cheap gori whore, exposing yourself shamefully to the world. Strangely though (another of Baalat’s interventions?) the driver who comes to the door is white and doesn’t give you a second glance. Well, not entirely true; he virtually goggles at you through the mirror, but that you don’t mind so much. Indeed, it is almost nice. So often, people don’t even notice you at all.
The taxi pulls up outside a building with a bright sound and people milling outside. Scantily clad people. Young and beautiful people. “Come on Cinderella, it’s time for you to go to the ball!” says Baalat. You exit the taxi without paying him. It’s an Uber apparently, so all covered by a bank account, presumably Baalat’s.
Who’d have thought that djinns could open bank accounts!
The club is called Bradford Flares. “I’m scared!” you whisper to her as you stand outside.
“Don’t be!” she replies with a smile.
“So, if I’m Cinderella, does that make you the fairy godmother?” you joke.
To your surprise, she frowns, and her voice turns serious. “Fam, I int no fairy godmother, remember that! I am a djinn, not a fuckin’ fairy! And djinns have a dark side to them, never forget it!”
You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing, but your phone pings. It is me asking if you want to chat online. Baalat looks at you accusingly.
“What are you going to say to lover boy then?”
“I can’t, I mean… I don’t… he’s not my lover anyway!”
“Fuck me, Saph, you really are good at lying to yourself! I’ve read those fantasies you shared with him!”
You ignore the comment. “I’ll just tell him I’m tired tonight.”
“Why not tell him the truth? You know he’s always wanted you to have some fun. Show him that you finally are!”
“Won’t he be upset that I didn’t invite him or something?”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, fam! You really have issues! Just take the fuckin’ selfie and let’s get in there!”
So, you take the photo of you in your slinky silver number outside the club and send it across with the message, Sorry, can’t chat tonight. I’m going out clubbing!
I reply seconds later with a fire emoji and a Dang! You look bussin’! Don’t know how you’ve managed that but enjoy yourself! You deserve it!
You smile and walk in.
You’re assaulted by the wall of sound on all sides. Lights flash and the floor vibrates. People dance. Beautiful people. Men and women, freely mixing, getting close, hugging, snogging, fondling. Astagfuralah!
Baalat has disappeared and you feel a little lost. You stand and watch, struggling to take it all in. Then she returns carrying two drinks. “Down in one!” she cries, handing you one.
“Is this alcohol…?” you ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Drink you silly cow!”
Obedient as always, you copy her in knocking it back in one. A harsh fire attacks your throat. It is disgusting! You can’t believe that people do this for fun. But then you notice the warmth and the fuzzy feeling. Before you realise it, Baalat has handed you a second one.
The alcohol liberates you as it has done to millions before you. “Say: ‘In them is great sin, and some profit, for men; but the sin is greater than the profit.’” Why then, have they only ever talked to you about the sin. Now, you start to feel the profit! You don’t care what people think, you can allow yourself to have fun, enjoy life. You follow Baalat to the dancefloor, tap into to the rhythm of the music and let yourself go…
You dance for hours, sometimes just with Baalat, sometimes with men. One gori guy kisses you and squeezes your butt. You are shocked but love the feel of his hand caressing your naked skin, slipping under the red lace panties that you bought, kneading you with passion. You feel so naughty, yet also overjoyed that he desires you, that you are desirable. You return the kiss, deeper and better and throw your arms around him. It is wonderful. At the end, he asks if you want to leave with him, but you shake your head and make an excuse.
You never want to leave.
You dance with two more men and then explore their mouths and bodies intimately, before Baalat takes you by the hand and tells you that you must leave. There is a cab waiting outside and she guides you to it. You feel so dizzy and fuzzy, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You are Cinderella and you have just been to the ball.
You are especially quiet when you return but there is no need. They are all still fast asleep. You creep up the stairs giggling with your friend and then divest yourself of your haram clothing together, before putting on your dowdy nightwear. Baalat climbs in bed with you, and you snuggle up tight with this wonderful djinn, revelling in her warmth and love before the alcohol blanks out the rest.
Part 5
The following morning you do not feel right. In fact, worse than that, you feel positively awful. You head throbs and you feel the urge to vomit. You do vomit. You lean over the toilet, and it flows up through your throat and nostrils. It is disgusting. You want to die. Everyone is concerned except MiL who hopes the vomiting might indicate a pregnancy. All of them are off kilter anyway from having mysteriously slept so long. They reckon there must have been something wrong with the food, and this makes them more forgiving of your plight. You’re allowed to stay in bed which is good.
Baalat was missing when you awoke, but at lunchtime she returns. She saunters into the room dressed in a pair of teeny tiny denim shorts, white trainers and a white t-shirt. You have to admit that she looks incredible as always, but you have no energy to be jealous. You just want to die. When she comes in you groan and hold the pillow over your head.
You expect her to be worried, concerned, sisterly almost, but instead she laughs. “Enjoying your hangover then, fam?!” she says with a smirk.
“My what? I’m ill! I’ve got the flu or something,” you protest.
“No, you haven’t; you’ve got a hangover. You drank six vodkas last night, plus two gins. No wonder you feel like shit! I remember my first time; wasted I was on red wine from the slopes near Yahchouch. We were on the beach at Byblos, me and a boy called Ahumm, my he was a cutie! But my head the next day!”
“What the fuck are you on about?!” you protest, wishing she’d disappear.
“The alcohol is getting its revenge on you, girl. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine by tonight.”
And you are although, strangely, Missy looks very downbeat and keeps giving you accusative glances.
Baalat turns up again when you least expect her to. She starts prodding you during prayers which is not what you need or want. Thankfully, no one notices, but after you go to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and hiss at her, “What are you doing?!”
“Having some fun,” she replies nonchalantly, leaning on the sink. “Like you were last night. Jesus fam, you were a wreck!”
“You were wrong to give me that alcohol! You keep making me do haram things!”
“I don’t make you do anything, fam, you’s doin’ all that yourself. You could have refused that vodka, but no, down it went, and the next. You could have refused to get in the taxi, but no, straight in you leap. And you could have refused to let that guy grope you and neck you, but once again, your inner nature came through!”
What can you say? Nothing. So, you change the subject. “That hangover was horrible! I can’t believe people do that for fun! And Missy suspects something, I know she does.”
“Sure, she does. So would I in her position.”
“What’s that meant to mean?”
“That gin we drank in your room last night…”
“We drank in gin… in this house?!”
“Sure, we did, although you were probably too wasted to remember. Such a fuckin’ lightweight! Bet you forgot that little moment we had too!”
“We had a… moment…?!”
“Course we did. Jeez, fam, you’ve got some sweet lips and you ain’t a bad kisser for someone with so little practice…”
“We had that kind of moment! But I…”
“… you don’t like girls, I know, you’ve said so already like a hundred times. And maybe you don’t, but last night you seemed pretty happy. Just a shame about the empty bottle you left in the kitchen…”
“I left a gin bottle in the kitchen?!”
“Sure, you did.”
“Astagfuralah! But what if they find it?!”
“Oh, they already have…”
“Astagfuralah! Please God, no…”
“Oh, don’t worry, I made sure that Missy got the blame. MiL tore a right strip off her, called her a kaffir and sinful and everything. Of course, she didn’t believe any of it of course; she really thinks it was her son, but she can’t be blame him now, can she?”
“No, never. He’s a man so they must always be the perfect ones.”
“But Missy is not so sure. Is it your husband or is it you? She doesn’t know. It’s quite funny. Anyway, sweet dreams, Sapphy babes, I’ve got to head off and see a rather frustrated desi girl in Dewsbury. She’s not getting’ any ’cos her husband’s gay but she can’t admit it to herself. Nor can she admit that she is too. Anyway, I’m fixin’ her up with a nice Sikh girl from the gym she goes to. That will shake things up if nothing else!”
“Baalat, you really are evil at times!” you tell her.
She shrugs. “I’m a djinn, what can I say?” she replies before sweeping out of the room.
Baalat doesn’t return for a week, and you wonder what has happened with the Dewsbury girl and the Sikh she’s being set up with. In your heart, you hope that Baalat’s sneaky scheme works, although you wouldn’t want such turmoil in your own life and you’re glad that she’s more interested in taking Cinderella to the ball for you, than marrying her off to some handsome prince… or princess… who is as haram as can be. Not that you wouldn’t mind having a new life partner… or just a sexual partner… but it’s just the thought of leaving everything behind. It’s so scary. Instead, you try to console yourself with thoughts of the guys in the club, but you realise that they didn’t mean anything to you emotionally; they were just a bit of fun. Bloody good fun actually, the feel of those male hands all over your exposed buttocks was something else, but still, just a one-off. Your only other source of consolation are our chats. These are different; deeper, more intimate in so many ways, like erotic caressing of the soul rather than the body. When we share our darkest fantasies, you think of Baalat, and her lover boy taunts and blush.
That djinn is so annoying and yet…
… yet two weeks later she turns up again.
“Alright fam, fancy chillin’?” she asks.
You’re in the middle of delivering a class to the women in the masjid and so obviously can’t talk. She walks into the classroom dressed in a light summery dress of blue material that leaves the tops of her breasts exposed. It’s a hot summer’s day and, sweltering as you are in your impractical and oppressive black abayah and hijab, you feel that familiar pang of jealousy shoot through you.
She leans against the wall, puts her sunglasses on fiddles with the pretty silver chain around her neck. Every so often, as you discuss some hadith in Bukhari, she sticks her tongue out or flicks a tic-tac at one or other of the women, always hitting the mark and making them look around and wonder what is happening, but never to discover the answer.
You have to work hard to suppress the urge to laugh, particularly when Zareen gets stung by one on the nose.
Afterwards, when they have all departed and you are alone with the pesky djinn you lock the door and say, “So, the desi from Dewsbury, what happened?”
“Hubby caught them at it behind the masjid. He’s about to start going ballistic, telling her that she’s brought shame on the whole family an’ that when his gorah boyfriend turns up. What a fuckin’ scene! It were hilarious!”
You laugh just imagining it. “I bet,” you reply, “but what are you doing here with me?”
“We’re goin’ shoppin’ again, innit.”
“But how?!”
“Trust me, fam!”
And just as she is saying the words, there’s a knock on the door. You go over, unlock and open it and it’s your husband. “As salaam aleikum, Sapphire,” he announces formally, as if you are strangers. “We have an unexpected party of brothers coming from a masjid in Stoke-on-Trent tonight and we need to put on some food for them. I spoke to my mother, but she and Missy are busy. Would you mind going and buying some provisions for us?”
Behind him, Baalat raises her eyebrows as if to say, ‘I told you so!’
“But the classes…?”
“I can cancel them. Thank you so much for this, Sapphire. Waleikum salaam.”
And then, without you even assenting, he leaves.
“Well, ain’t he the last of the romantics!” says Baalat, taking your hand.
On the bus into the centre she explains that you’ll do the clothes shopping first and then the food. “The food’s heavier and, besides, you can hide the clothes underneath it.” That makes sense and so, as always, you agree.
You go to Zara. Baalat decides that you need some new sexy underwear as yours is “suitable only for a granny” and picks out some racy lacy sets in read and black which you drool over but can’t imagine ever showing anyone. She then decides that you need a summery dress or two as the days are hot and your abayahs are ridiculous. You’re not as daring as her, but you pick out a lovely low-cut number with floral print that flows down to your ankles and another in light brown cotton that stretches to your knees. Never to be worn in public, of course, but fun to try on. With her urging, you don the brown number, feeling cool in both senses of the word and unbelievably elegant and then, grabbing the rest, you go to leave the store to do the food shopping.
Except that you never do leave the store, because just before the entrance you are accosted by a member of the staff. “Excuse me madam,” he says, “but those clothes, have you paid for them?”
You look around for Baalat like a startled rabbit, but she has vanished.
“Would you mind paying for them now, madam?” says the man.
You realise that you have no money. Well, only twenty quid and that won’t cover even the underwear.
“I think you’d better come with me,” he says.
The security office in Zara is stiflingly hot even in your light summer dress. The store manager and the security guard sit across from you looking angry and accusative. You look like a frightened rabbit.
“So, were you planning on stealing those clothes, Mrs. Sapphire…?” asks the manager.
“I… I didn’t mean to, I…”
“You were carrying them out of the store, wearing one item in fact, and you had no money to pay for them. That looks like theft to me,” says the guard.
“I… I can explain…”
“Go ahead then.”
But can you explain? That a djinn told you to do it? Gorah don’t believe in djinn, or anything else for that matter except football and star signs. And if you say it was a girlfriend, they’ll check the CCTV and see you entered alone. How could you have been so stupid! And why did that bitch Baalat…
“We’re waiting Mrs. Sapphire…”
You try the sob story. “Please, I am very poor, I have no money. And I come from a very strict Muslim family; we’re not allowed to wear clothes like this. I always dreamt about what it would be like and…”
The manager softens slightly. “Mrs. Sapphire, we’re a shop, not a charity. I’m not saying I don’t feel for you, but if every poor and repressed girl came in here and stole our products, we’d be empty within an hour.”
“I’ll give them all back, I promise!” you plead.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. This has been registered as an incident now, and besides, we cannot take back goods that have already been worn, not since Covid.” He gestures at the brown dress, and you start crying.
“But look, I don’t have to call the police. If you can call someone who will collect you and pay for the stolen dress, then we’ll forget this ever happened. You said that you are married, what about your husband?”
The thought of him coming here, seeing you dressed so immodestly and being accused of theft when you should have been shopping for his meeting with the brothers is beyond awful. “No! No! No! Not him!”
He nods understandingly, probably full of all the western stereotypes about Muslim men who beat up their wives for breakfast. “Well, what about your father then?”
That is equally bad! The shame! You shake your head.
“A brother?”
Shake.
“A friend?”
You realise that you have no friends. You are about to shake your head again when you look up. Baalat is standing behind the security guard and she is pointing at her phone. You look at her confused and then she mouths two words:
Lover Boy.
Your heart sinks and you realise what her plan was all along.
Part 6
An hour later I arrive. I pay the bill for all the clothing and reassure the manager that it was all a misunderstanding and that you’re a good girl really. The security guard looks disappointed that he hasn’t seen a prosecution, but the manager is concerned. “She seems scared to go back to her husband,” he says. “Is she alright?”
I cannot answer definitely, so I shrug. “I’ll see that she is,” I reassure him.
Once outside the store, with your phone restored to you, you stare in horror. Ten missed calls. The brothers have arrived and there’s no food! You’re in deep shit!
We sit by the Mirror Pool in front of the town hall. You don’t say anything, merely look down at the water. I want to tell you how cute you look in the summery dress but guess that now is not the time.
“What next then?” I ask.
Shrug. You look defeated. I want to hug you, so I do.
“I can drive you back if you want; drop you round the corner.”
You shake your head. “They’ll kill me if they see me dressed like this!”
“Get changed in the toilets in the library then.”
“They’ll kill me anyway. Like, what was I doing? Why didn’t I answer the phone? Where’s the food? What about your duties, Sapphire? Is this the way for a good Muslimah to behave? You’ve let you husband down and your entire family down! You’re…”
You burst into tears.
“I don’t have to take you back,” I say. “We could go to mine… or the police… or a charity… it’s up to you.”
You shake your head.
“She recommends the latter,” I tell you.
“Who?” you ask, looking up.
“Her,” I reply, pointing at Baalat who is sitting by you.
“You can see her?!”
“And hear her! She never shut up all the way up here!”
Baalat laughs. “How you feelin’, fam?” she says, stroking your shoulder.
“Pissed off… with you! What made you do a thing like that?!”
“You know what, fam. Like my desi lezzer and the gay with his gorah, sometimes the issue needs forcing.”
“Fuck you!”
She shrugs and looks at her phone. “Time’s tickin’, Saph, what’s it to be?”
“I can’t leave…”
I put my arm around you. “Come on then, let’s get you back…”
You stand up but then stop. “No, not just yet! Why shouldn’t I have some fun… and say thank you to you for coming up all this way and bailing me out…”
“It was nothing, I…”
“Would you mind spending some more money, Majnun?”
“Sure, but why…?”
“Is there a hotel near here?”
“Jury’s Inn, just there!” I say, pointing.
“Can you book a room for one night…?”
Baalat smiles and throws her arms around you. You do not resist.
You’re shy when you come into the room, like a virgin bride on her wedding night. You’re wearing a nightgown that Baalat has magicked up from somewhere. It’s sexy and slinky and I love it. You approach slowly and I take your hand and guide you into the bed. You lie beside me, our warmth mingling and then you lean in and we kiss, softly at first, then deeper.
You withdraw and whisper, “Shall we?” I smile, shake my head and then, with the tips of my fingers, start to touch the inside of your legs, just above the knees, softly, almost imperceptibly. You flinch at first, as if my fingers contain a powerful electric current, but then you relax, lie back, and begin to enjoy it.
I gradually move upwards, slowly approaching my goal, cautiously drawing near to your pleasure centre, never too fast, never too hard. You start groaning and I wonder if you’ve ever experienced foreplay before. I want to give you something new, something to remember, if this is to be our one and only night. I approach and then retreat, you buck and beg, but I do not listen, instead I stroke your arm with my other hand, kiss you behind the ears, whisper words of love almost silently whilst all the while those fingers get nearer with their teasing, their stimulating, their titillation.
As I get closer, I stop, like a nervous pilgrim, unworthy of approaching you Kaaba, I circle it in a holy ritual, drawing nearer, whilst you groan and writhe in sexual salat. I circumambulate, whispering my devotions into your ears, drinking in the sacred stones of your eyes whilst, all the while, the holy house calls. You urge me to enter the sanctuary, to lift the curtain and go within, but I refuse. Your hand strays down to find the key to undo the lock; it strokes it to ensure that it is ready, that the holy of holies can be violated by these two hajjis of the heart.
I move my face to your breasts, those perfect orbs of femininity, nibbling on the rock-hard nubbins, repeating my prayers whilst you cry out to your Maker for a revelation, to have your world wrenched apart in your cave on the mountainside.
It is time. My fingers brush the doors to the Kaaba, they slide across your al-Ḥajaru al-Aswad. “More! More!” you urge, but I retreat. It is not for them to enter, but for the key to unlock the Bab ar-Rahmah. I approach with that key, rock-hard and ready, but I do not rush despite your urgings. Instead, I smother your lips with the devotions of the most ardent of pilgrims, whilst the key brushes the lock.
Then, slowly, surely, I approach, insert the key and enter through the Door of Mercy into al-Bayt al-Ḥarām itself. You gasp, I do too, and my hands fix around your bottom, caressing those twin moons of infinite beauty before lifting you upon me and letting you sink down fully, filling the House with our passion.
We pray slowly, rhythmically, immersing ourselves in the sacred salat until that look in your eyes tells me that you are where I am and, in one glorious moment, we both leap on the back of Buraq and shoot up, blissfully through all the seven heavens until we rest by the Throne of God Himself.
And for the first time in my life, I witness that which I have so yearned to see.
Your face drowning in a smile.
Epilogue
Three years later…
Under a deep blue sky, next to a sea of azure, lies a collection of stones as ancient as mankind itself. They are all that remains of the ancient city of Byblos, one of the cradles of human civilisation, a city that spread its ideas throughout the world.
And in amongst those stones walk a couple, hand-in-hand. The woman is an elegant Persian princess wearing a low-cut floral print summer dress, whilst the man looks European. On his back a toddler sleeps in his pack, exhausted by the events of the day.
“So, what was this place?” you ask, looking at the collection of small obelisks. “It looks Egyptian, not Lebanese!”
“It was,” I reply. “Byblos was a meeting place of cultures, and this temple was built in the Egyptian style to honour the Egyptian gods. But what is more amazing is that it didn’t stand there originally; instead, the archaeologists moved it to uncover this building underneath.”
“The L-shaped outline?”
“Precisely! It’s a temple so old that they don’t even know which god was worshipped there. It stretches back to the beginnings of humanity itself!”
You stand there imagining, incense rising, priests chanting and dictating lives just as they continue to do today, both controlling and liberating their flock; both honouring and shaming their god. “I think it was a goddess,” you say with a wicked smile. “a naughty horned goddess who plays with her devotees.”
“Does she have a dark side?”
“Most definitely.”
“And will she ever return to her temple?”
“Perhaps she already has?”
I smile, squeeze your hand, and make to move. To my surprise though, you let go and simply say, “You go on, I want to stay here awhile in this temple of the dark goddess.”
I nod and walk on, carrying our sleeping daughter with us.
When I’ve gone you sit on one of the stones and say to the girl, “I never thought that I’d see you again.”
“You won’t,” replies Baalat in her playful voice.
“You’ve not visited me since that night in the hotel.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“Because I sinned?”
“That’s one way of looking at it. Not the way that I do.”
You nod. “You’re naughty, mean, sneaky and irredeemably dark, Baalat,” you tell her.
“And evil?”
You smile. “No, never evil.”
Silence hangs in the air as, for the first time perhaps in millennia, a priestess speaks with her goddess. “Then you say softly, “Thanks, Baalat, thank you so much. Djinn or not, you helped me out there.”
“No Sapphire,” she replies, “you did it all yourself!”
And with a smile and a wink, she fades into nothing where her altar once stood. You reach into your hair and take out the sapphire butterfly hair clip that is holding your raven mane in order, and then leave it on the altar where she was, before turning on your heels and retracing your steps back towards the real world, your hair blowing with the wind into a veritable storm of femininity.
You’re sitting alone in your sanctuary. The nights are drawing in now and getting colder. So too is life. It can be lonely sometimes. Other people have someone but you, who deserves more than anyone, does not. Still, you say nothing. As always, you stay silent. You do not want to upset people. You do not want to create a scene.
Twitter is quiet tonight, inane, the spark is gone. You dream of holding someone tight, letting that wonderful sexual persona Allah gave you be fulfilled. But it is not possible. You are the unwanted slave in the harem, the unworthy wife. The noises from next-door merely confirm that.
Ping!
You check your phone. A message on Twitter. You open it up. It is from an address you have never seen before. The profile picture is blank, merely an anonymous grey head against a blank grey background.
And a name.
Otis needs Maeve
What?
Who is Otis?
Who’s Maeve?
You open the message.
Go to the window, Sapphire.
WTF?
Who is this? you type.
Go to the window.
And then from outside, music starts to play. A guitar playing softly with a tambourine keeping beat.
Puzzled, intrigued, you stand up, walk over to the window and draw back the blinds.
Across the street, outside the pub, a car is park. Even though the night is chilly, the window is open. The music emanates from inside it.
Sometimes I feel so happy
Sometimes I feel so sad
Sometimes I feel so happy
But mostly, you just make me mad
Baby, you just make me mad
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
It is haunting, beautiful. Music that touches the soul, rips the heart out of your body. Soft and gentle yet as powerful as the fiercest storm. Who is this? you type. There is no reply.
Thought of you as my mountain top
Thought of you as my peak
Thought of you as everything
I’ve had but couldn’t keep
I’ve had but couldn’t keep
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
You open the window wide and lean out. A figure emerges from the car. You gasp. He walks around to the other side of the vehicle and stands by it, staring up at you. It is a figure you never thought you would see in real-life.
It is me.
If I could make the world as pure
And strange as what I see
I’d put you in the mirror
I put in front of me
I put in front of me
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
There’s a break in the music, an instrumental interlude. Your emotions churn. Several months ago, you blocked me. Where we were going was too dangerous. It threatened to rock the boat too much, to disturb your ordered world. To inject the madness of Majnun into the familiarity of ordinariness. I did something stupid. It was hard but, easier that way. To cut off rather than continue.
A message pings onto your feed.
It’s my birthday today. I had to spend it with my favourite person.
The music, its rhythm, its melody, its mood, makes a tear escape from your eye. ‘How do you know where I live?’ you mouth.
I’ve always known I reply.
The tears flow freely now. ‘My eyes are green, not blue!’ You mouth.
I shrug. Does it matter?
I walk forward, across the street and we stare at one another in silence.
Skip a life completely
Stuff it in a cup
She said, “Money is like us in time
It lies but can’t stand up
Down for you is up”
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Standing under your window, I silently blow you a kiss. You wipe your eyes and blow one back.
It was good what we did yesterday
And I’ll do it once again
The fact that you are married
Only proves you’re my best friend
But it’s truly, truly a sin
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
The songs fades into nothing, but we linger on, staring into each other’s eyes in the light of the street lamps. We say nothing, but I drink in the sight of your eyes and the strands of your long-hidden raven hair as they are disturbed by the breeze.
‘Linger on!’ you mouth silently and disappear. I am confused. What do you mean?
But I obey. I have no choice.
A minute later you return. You smile and throw something out of the open window. Then you whisper the words I have so long wanted to hear. I whisper them back and you are gone.
I walk forward and pick up the object you have gifted me. It is a small hairclip in the shape of a butterfly. A sapphire-coloured butterfly.
I press it to my lips, overjoyed that your wings have fluttered tonight.
When you get back to your place, you try to reply to Otis needs Maeve. But the account has been deleted. It is as if it was never there, but a dream.
Following lunch fed to me by the maid like a baby – something I was fast getting used to – I returned to my room and was prepared for the Third Domain. We spent the afternoon in the gardens again, the sun blazing down on us, so grandmother’s narrative did not progress at all, but I did understand even more what her existence must have been like. I did not pass out, but the sweat streamed from me causing my inner garments to become sodden. Nonetheless, it was nice to be so wrapped up, my covered head on her shoulder as her own once rested on that of Ziazam or Talleen, and as I gazed out through the grille at the little of the world that I could see, I imagined the handsome Sultan sitting on the other side of the garden, his hand on the veiled head of a kneeling concubine, whilst a raga band played beautiful music. It was beguiling although, perversely, I found myself feeling jealous towards that imagined veiled concubine and wishing that I could be here, and in my loins a fire blazed.
And unquenchable fire of course.
After several hours, we returned inside. I was stripped, bathed, and returned to the honour of the First Domain where grandmother waited. The maid fed us a light tea and then she returned to her tale:
“So, I was talking about the daily life of the harem. There were those times when we were granted the honour of the Third Domain as I mentioned, in both the Chamber and the Shalimar Gardens, but they were few compared with the time that we spent in the First Domain. Most days followed a regular routine. We had the exercise in the morning and the rest of the day we related in our Marigold Chamber. It was broken up by visits from noble women when we had the pleasure of entering the Second Domain, but generally we were left in the honour of the First Domain. Now, that might sound like it could get dull, but in truth, it rarely did.
One reason was that there were numerous daily routines that we would go through. For example, after lunch, if not in the Second or Third Domains, we would always be granted the honour of the ritual Penetration of the Peach.”
“The Penetration of the Peach! What was that grandmother?”
“It involved our bottoms and always keeping them ready and waiting for our Lord. Following lunch, the maids would get out a mat and one of us would kneel down on it, her bottom presented in the air whilst a pillow supported her head. then her plug was removed, and a maid would grease her bottom hole with fragrant oils. Whilst this was happening, the other maid would attach a rubber replica of a male tool to the hips of one of her Sisters using some leather straps that ran around her waist and between her legs so that it was as if she had a tool herself rather than a cleft. Then this Sister would approach the other and would slowly insert the faux tool into the beautifully oiled and presented bottom hole. As she did so, the receiving Sister would declare, “I offer my bottom up for you please, Lord!” and then, when the tool was fully-inserted, she would then joyfully cry, “Thank you for penetrating my unworthy peach!” And after this ritual was completed, the roles would shift around so, for example, Ziazam might penetrate Talleen, then Talleen penetrate me before, finally, I would penetrate Ziazam.”
“But what did it feel like, being skewered by a false tool?”
“Well, at first it was hard. Bottoms, like arms trying to reach the reverse prayer, need training, and for the first week or so, I could not accommodate the tool which was much wider and longer than my tiny plug so my Sisters would use slightly smaller tools, working up to the full-sized replica. But, with practice and the sizing up of my usual plugs, then, on my eighth day, it slipped in and there were great celebrations, our troupe being allowed wine that evening to mark the momentous day. But as for the feeling, well, it is curious, for being penetrated there is quite different to having a tool in your cavern. The bottom does not naturally lubricate itself, so copious quantities of oil are required or else it can get painful. It is rather painful regardless, at least at first, for the bottom naturally tries to push out unwanted invaders. But when it gets used to it, the feeling is different. There is this great sensation of fullness, uncomfortable perhaps, yet also exciting in a fashion, and when the tool is removed, the emptiness is overwhelming and your muscles pulse, as if yearning for the invader to be placed back in there. And there is pleasure too, particularly during congress in this manner when the tool establishes a rhythm and moves in and out. It is possible to reach completion in that fashion, and I did on numerous occasions, although it is far more difficult that congress in the usual fashion. Of course, what is best is if your bottom is full with a large plug and then you are ravished from the front as well. The completions then are so intense, so perfect, one must really experience them to believe them. When my Lord was taking my bottom, although I cried out my gratitude for him using me in that fashion, I longed for my fingers to be freed so I could play with my pierced nubbin as he pumped away but, of course, it could not be. But going back to the ritual. I used to look forward to it eagerly, yet it was always over too quickly as it was not allowed to establish a rhythm, merely a couple of slow full insertions, before withdrawing, and afterwards I always ached for more, the opportunity to reach that longed-for completion.”
“Grandmother, you know that I am a virgin and so have not had the honour of pleasuring a man or receiving pleasure from one, so this completion that you talk of, what is it like?”
“It is… how can I say? I do not know, for unless you have experienced it, then you will never know. It is a feeling like none other. Such joy, such sensation, it takes over everything, like you are knocking on the gates of heaven itself. But it is rare, oh so rare, and there in the harem it dominated our lives.”
“How so?”
“Because once you have felt it, you long to feel it again. Once you have experienced completion, you are like an opium addict with his pipe; you want it more and more. Why do you think that the Sultan and other noble men require so many women to service them? Because they too need that feeling and, without it they get tense. It can dominate any life but ours more than any others?”
“Why is that?”
“Because other people, ordinary people, like the maids here, or men at work or women with children, they can put it to the back of their minds. They occupy their minds with their work and concerns, or perhaps dull their senses with smoke or drink. But for us it was the opposite. We had nothing to divert us from that urge, that eternal itch. Everything about a harem concubine’s existence is directed towards the sexual act. We are kept naked in the First Domain so that we may gaze upon the pleasing bodies of our Sisters and think of what we would like to do with them. The sight of bare breasts or shapely hips causes the itch to grow. And then there were our diversions. Aside from the exercise – although being a room watching sensuous bodies in sports clothing can also intensify the itch – everything we did returned our minds to the itch rather than diverted them. The Penetrating of the Peach, our Intimate Arts, the Blessing of the Breasts, the Drinking of the Nectar, these and other rituals which I shall outline to you, all continually focussed our attentions on the itch. And even in the Second and Third Domains, our constricted waists, the piercings through our tongues, nipples and, of course, our nubbins, not to mention the constant presence of the teasing plugs in our bottoms, all served to keep us excited, eager for sex, desperate to relieve that interminable itch and yet, restrained as we were, it was impossible.”
“It sounds awful grandmother, but I think I understand a little. Ever since I have arrived here, I have felt a warmth in my nether regions, a longing to touch them that I never felt before. Is this the itch?”
“It is the start of it, but it is only the start. Soon you shall experience completion, and then you shall understand better.”
“But how can I? I am not married?”
“One does not need a man to achieve completion. Indeed, it is often easier to achieve without one.”
“I do not understand, grandmother.”
“You shall soon.”
“When?”
“Very soon. However, I think that it is now time for me to tell you a little about our night-time arrangements when we were not invited to the Sultan’s bed…”
You are busy that morning busy in the kitchen at home, helping MiL prepare some baba ganoush when something most unexpected happens. Your husband comes through the door and asks if you could leave your culinary duties and come across to the masjid right that moment. MiL is, naturally, not very happy about this; after all, she doesn’t fancy having to do all the work herself and Missy, whatever the young bride’s redeeming features may be, has not got a clue when it comes to Arabian cuisine. So, she protests, but her son is adamant: Sapphire must leave as there is someone at the masjid who needs to speak to her and so, mystified, you put on your Covid mask, insert your contacts, get your coat down off the hook and follow your spouse out of the door and across the road to the masjid that he runs (with a lot of help from you).
The visitor is a woman. A woman that you have never seen before in her life. She is sitting in the entrance area to the women’s section of the masjid clad in charcoal grey: a baggy abayah cloaking her figure and a matching khimar reaching down to her hips. The only relief from the grey is a black niqab that even incorporates a mesh over the eyes. When you approach, she stands, and a black gloved hand emerges from under the material. Inwardly, you sigh. She looks hardcore.
“This sister is visiting Bradford with her husband and she wishes to have a look around the masjid,” announces your husband. “They are thinking about moving here and found us on the web through our Twitter feed. They feel that our masjid might be the one for them. Her husband is currently with the brothers, but she wishes to be shown things from a sister’s perspective.”
Inwardly, you sigh again. This probably is the masjid for her. At least, if she is as hardcore and puritanical as her outward appearance suggests. Another rule-follower and mindless reciter. If only you could be involved with an institution far more liberal, more spiritual and open-minded! But it is not to be. Your fate is written.
When your husband has left, the woman removes her niqab. You are shocked. She is not Pakistani, Somali or even Arab, but white. Okay, so she is a revert then; and probably a pretty hard-core one at that. After all who but a revert in the fresh throws of conversion would choose to wear such an annoying and cumbersome piece of apparel as a khimar which requires lifting anytime you wish to do anything with your hands, let alone a niqab with eye mesh. Nonetheless, your interest is piqued; you see so few fresh faces, and she does have a certain something about her. She looks to be about thirty-something, with a pretty face and a good bone structure. Her eyes intrigue you. Are they blue or green, you cannot decide. They sparkle against her pale skin, the whole pleasing ensemble framed by the cloth of the charcoal grey khimar.
“I’m Sister Sapphire,” you say with a smile, after having removed your own face-covering.”
“And I’m Sister Crystal,” she replies. You are shocked. Her accent is American. An American revert with an unusual name. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Your name is… not common,” you say.
“Oh, it’s not my real one,” she replies. “I took it after I reverted. My husband says that his wives are like precious jewels so I should be named as one. It’s kinda cute, don’t you think.”
“Well… I s’pose so. Although it’s more normal to take an Islamic name after reverting.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I couldn’t find one that I liked. Say, do you speak Arabic?”
“A little.”
“So, what’s Crystal in Arabic?”
“It’s… erm… Kristal I think.”
“Swell! Well, I guess my name’s okay then. Hey, my hubbie would love your name. You’re a jewel too. Although, and don’t take this the wrong way, but it’d be better suited to a girl with blue or green eyes rather then brown.”
You feel the itch of the contacts masking your real identity and are tempted to reveal your true self. No, not yet. You don’t even know this woman yet. And she seems a tad strange to say the least.
You show her around, not that there’s much to see. The toilets, the office, the classroom and then the women’s prayer area. All the while, you explain how worship works here in the masjid and tell her about the women’s groups, children’s classes and so on. She listens intently, nods every so often, but annoyingly keeps taking her phone out of the folds of her garments and checking it.
When you’re sitting on the floor of the prayer room, it pings again. She takes it out and laughs. Then she turns to you and says, “Hey, are you on social media, Sapphire? We could hook-up?”
“No, not really. I don’t socialise much outside of the masjid.”
“That’s a shame, I love it! I’m on Facebook and Twitter all the time. Say, look at this, isn’t it cool!”
She shows you a meme of a veiled woman tapping her head with the phrase ‘When you marry a man who has 3 wives and you’re a lesbian’. You can’t help but laugh.
“That’s funny, sister!”
“Yeah, not that I’m assuming you’re in a polygamous relationship or anything, but sure, there’s loads of this kind of stuff on here. This girl’s cool, here, and she’s even called Sapphire. You should get onto Twitter and check her out. She lives in England somewhere.”
Your eyes widen. She’s on YOUR Twitter feed, the secret one. The with a picture of you wearing devil horns on the banner. WTF!
“Isn’t she a bit… haram, Sister?” you say, not really knowing what you’re doing, your mind being all of a whirl. Part of her being on your feed excites you, yet part of it is petrifying. Surely, she will realise who you are, particularly if she starts attending the masjid and then…”
“Yeah, maybe. I guess I struggle to leave my old life behind at times. She’s funny and cool though. A very good writer as well. She wrote this piece about her fantasies once where she flew to NYC and kissed a girl and…”
“That sounds far too haram, Crystal. I would block her right away!”
“Hmm, you may be right.” She leans over to you and brushes your hand with her gloved one. The touch sends a tingle up your spine. “Say, I’m really hot in here. Do you mind if I remove my khimar? It’s a bit of a pain.”
“Sure, there’s only sisters come in here.”
She pulls off the cumbersome garment to reveal a full head of strawberry blonde hair that cascades to her shoulders. She really is quite stunning and, to your dismay, she sees you looking. “It’s not natural, my hair’s weird. It sort-of grows half brown and half blonde so I have to dye it one way or the other. The things we do to change our appearances for the world, eh?”
“Eh indeed,” you reply, becoming aware of your contacts again.
“Say, I’ve shown you mine, let’s see yours?” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair, Sapphire. As you said, we’re all sisters in here.”
You pause, unsure for a moment and then think, ‘Fuck it, why not?’ It’ll be nice to let it stream free for a change. You unwrap your headscarf and reveal your raven locks.
“Mashallah, Sapphire! You are beautiful!” Crystal exclaims.
“Oh, I’m not. Nothing special at all. And my hair is a mess after being covered and…”
But she has taken off her gloves and her hands are stroking your hair, combing it and shaping it with her fingers. “That’s better,” she whispers, before withdrawing, her hand brushing your cheek as she does.
Again, a shiver passes through your spine. Is this weird American girl actually… coming on to you?
You need to move this on!
“Erm, tell me Sister, what made you want to revert to Islam?”
Crystal moves up closer to you so her bodies is touching yours. “At first, it was the clothing. I always wondered what it would feel like to be covered and hidden. So I bought an outfit online and tried it on. I loved it! I felt so feminine! I wore it at home all the time and then, occasionally, out-of-doors. And, as I started wearing it, I started reading. I learnt enough Arabic to recit some surahs. I would sit in my room reciting in my abayah, hijab and niqab and I felt such peace. I knew that I wanted that full-time, so I went to the local masjid and said my shahadah.”
“Really, that is an unusual revert story.”
“I guess it is, but it’s mine.”
“But what of the teachings, the deen itself?”
As if on queue, a faint chanting begins from the men’s prayer room next-door, piped in through the speakers. It adds to the spiritual tone of the conversation.
“Hell, some of it I can relate to, other parts I struggle. I’m on a journey, I guess.”
“Aren’t we all?” you reply, completely honestly.
“Like, the religion of peace stuff, I’m cool with, but some of the stuff about women. Hell, polygamy sounds great, but I want to decide who my husband marries, not have him doing it without my permission.”
‘Don’t we all?’ you think to yourself.
“And why can a man marry four wives but a woman not four husbands? I mean, I wouldn’t want four husbands – I’m not sure if I want one at times – but it should work both ways.”
“The wisdom of Allah is mysterious, but we must accept it. Perhaps this masjid is not the best for you. We are very strict here and…”
She doesn’t seem to hear you. “Several co-wives though, now that sounds okay. Say, do you have any co-wives, Sapphire. A little Missy who you share your husband with?”
You start. She has used the same term that you always refer to your co-wife with. Can it be a coincidence? And you are sure she is coming on now. You know you need to nip this in the bud and stop it, but for some reason the words won’t come out of your mouth.
“I do have a co-wife, yes.”
“Mashallah! I was worried that I was being too personal, but you seem a very open person, Sapphire, very open indeed. So, may I ask more because polygamy interests me deeply?”
“Go on,” you say, half afraid, half loving the transgression.
“When she shares your bed, when you kiss, what is it like?”
“Oh, we don’t do anything like that. We are both very sure of our sexuality; neither of us is into girls.”
“That was exactly what I thought until I met a half-Palestinian, half-Iranian girl in the gym six years ago. Say, Sapphire, what’s your ethnicity? You sure don’t look Pakistani!”
You laugh. Nervously. “No, I’m Persian… sort-of.”
“Go on.”
“My family is Lebanese, but we have Persian heritage.”
“That makes sense. She was the cutest girl I ever saw, or at least, she was until I met you. Lebanon is next to Palestine, right, and Persian is another name for Iranian…”
“Yes, but, like I said, I am completely sure of my…”
“The only thing is, she didn’t have dark brown eyes. But then, I suspect that neither do you, sweet Sapphire. Those aren’t real, sister. Why don’t you show me your true colours…?”
And as if a puppet-master were pulling your strings, you reach into your eyes, remove the hateful contacts and reveal your true glory.
“Mashallah, Sapphire, you are incredible!” she exclaims as she leans in.
Your lips touch and you dissolve into a sweet-tasting ecstasy that you never knew was possible whilst all the while the brothers solemnly recite the Surah al-Maryam in the background.
Part 2
Six hours earlier…
I wait in the Arrivals hall of Terminal 2 at Manchester Airport. I do not stand with the others holding a sign as the incoming passengers filed out of the Customs area because I’ve been told not to. Indeed, I deliberate do not watch those passengers who are all fresh off the flight from JFK. Instead, I sat reading my book, ‘The Story of Layla & Majnun’ by Nizami (could it have been anything else?) and wait.
My mobile beeps. The alarm that I’d set. 08:15. I close the book, got up and walk over to the rent-a-car section. There are not many people about. Sitting on a chair is a conservative Muslimah, dressed in charcoal grey with a black niqab.
The same outfit that we have already encountered in this tale. I walk over and sit beside her. She is reading a copy of ‘The Holder of the Key’. I show her my book and say, “Emily?”
She nods and then follows me.
We walk to the car and then get in. I start to drive.
“So, how are we going to play this?” I ask, my cock hardened as I glance at the veiled apparition beside me.
“I stay veiled, and we stay apart until Bradford, she says. When we get to the hotel room, we’ll sign the nikah mut’ah that I have in my bag. I got it from a Shi’a website. When you used that device in the ‘Sapphire’s Decision’ story, I thought it was so cool. I knew we had to do the same.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing. No unveiling, no touching, nothing. Not until after I’ve been to see her.”
“What if she’s not there? If we’ve got the wrong mosque?”
“We’ve got the right one, I’m sure. It fits 100%. She’s not so hot at covering her tracks as she thinks and in my line of work, well…”
“Are you sure though? I mean, this trip is all about you, not her. I want to meet you, get to know you, Em. We’ve been conversing for years online, sharing each other’s stories, discussing our fantasies…”
“Majnun, please, stop it now! We all know how crazy you are for that girl! She’s bewitched your soul like Layla! And I’m cool with that, I really am. Besides, you forget. I too am searching, searching for my lost Palestinian-Iranian lover. Sapphire is hot, seriously so, and her writings and Twitter tell me that she is what I’m looking for too…”
“She’s not into girls, Em. She’s said that so many times.”
“And, as I told you, neither was I. She just hasn’t met the right one yet.”
“And that’s going to change today?”
“Inshallah, buddy, inshallah!”
Bradford is a city not renowned for its hotels. After all, who would ever want to visit with little going on economically and with few tourist draws? I’ve booked us into the best there is, the Midland. I’d have liked a better venue to start my “marriage” with this mysterious minx from Maine, but beggars can’t be choosers. We settle in, her extreme attire drawing little reaction in a city like this, and then she produces the nikah mut’ah from her bag. It lasts for a week, the duration of her trip. Solemnly, we both sign it, I marvelling as her gloves crease as she handles the pen, and then it is done. No legal standing whatsoever, but it somehow feels right.
Although we promised not to touch, I hold her gloved hands in mine for a second or two, gazing through the mesh at the obscured outlines of her eyes, and then we depart for our sacred mission.
Part 3
When you finally withdraw, the surah has finished and your heart is pounding. Never have you known a kiss like it. The taste of her lips, the expert explorations of her tongue. You pant and look into those enigmatic blue-green eyes.
“Who… are… you…? What… is… going… on?” you ask.
She smiles. “For starters, I’m no revert,” she replies, “and secondly, my name ain’t Crystal, leastways, not outside of the bedroom.”
“Why are you here? Dressed like that? And why me?”
She hold up the phone and opens the Twitter app. Your profile. She shows it to you. “I’m looking for a ‘Humanist. Muslim reformation is long overdue. Gothic themes, medieval castles & fortresses and all things darkness. Here to say things that I can’t in RL’ and I reckon I may have found her.”
“Sister… Crystal… who are you…?”
“My real name’s Emily. We’ve talked online.”
“Emily… Emily… astagfuralah, that Emily! Majnun’s friend!”
“One and the same, baby, one and the same.”
“But… how? I mean… like how are you here. I never… I mean, I never told him where I live. I told no one. I keep everything about the real me top secret, I have to!”
“Honey, I don’t know how to break this to you kindly, but you don’t cover your tracks so well as you think. I work as an analyst in my real life. I gathered all the place references that you’ve mentioned on your Twitter feed and narrowed you down to a certain part of town. Then your description of the mosque. It was a choice of four. This one was the most active on social media so it was our first port-of-call.”
“Astagfuralah! Emily, I’m in real danger. If people knew… Majnun… he’ll go to the police and…”
“Shh, don’t worry; your secret’s safe with us. He’s known for years and said nothing. You should trust more you know. I mean, I get why you don’t, but you should.”
“And him? Where’s he?”
“Next door with the brothers. He’s the husband I mentioned.”
“You’re married?!”
“No… well, not really. We signed a nikah mut’ah in the hotel before coming here – we got the idea from that story he wrote about you; Jeez, Sapphire, that was sooo hawt! – but it don’t mean shit legally. Besides, he’s not even seen my face yet, let alone touched me.”
“That story was hot, it’s true, although I had to look up what a nikah mut’ah was. It’s some weird Shia thing.”
“The Shia can be cool sometimes… but weird too.”
“But why haven’t you unveiled or… done it? I mean, I’d be horny as hell!”
“You are horny as hell, remember, I felt that kiss too! No, it wouldn’t be right. I had to meet you first, and he had to get a message to you.”
“A message?”
“Here.” She produces a volume of poetry from out of her bag. Poetry that I have written for you. You treasure it in your hands. “Open it!” she urges.
You do and find a pendant lodged between the pages. A pendant with a sapphire of deep blue in the centre. Involuntarily, a tear falls from your eye and Emily hugs you.
“You’re loved, Sapphire, like genuinely loved. No caveats or expectations. Just for who you are, what you are. As Allah made you. And he’s right to love you, because you’re incredible. And I’m saying that from my heart too.”
You fight back the tears and sniffle. “I know… but I can’t… I want to sometimes you know, but it’s impossible…”
She hugs you, tenderly. “We know. We understand. And that’s what he’s trying to say… we both are. We don’t expect anything in reply. Just that you smile and are happy. Just that you are aware that people care for you, the real you.”
You dry your eyes and put it on. “How does it look?” you ask.
“Mashallah! You look like a Persian princess!” she replies.
You hug again and then, involuntarily, your lips meet for the second encounter. Sweeter and tenderer this time, more than just animal passion.
When you withdraw, Emily wipes the tears from your cheeks and then starts to put on her khimar and niqab. You replace your hijab, contacts and mask. The false personas return.
She stands and starts to leave. Then she stops, reaches into her bag and takes out a small parcel. “And this is from me. Open it at home. Goodbye Sapphire my darling, until we meet again.”
You hold her gloved hands in your own and then she leaves your world.
Part 4
I am waiting in the hotel room. Waiting for my nikah mut’ah wife to return. After our visit to your masjid, Emily and I enjoy a day of sightseeing. In car she removes her khimar and niqab to reveal her bewitching face and wild, ravishing hair. But we neither speak nor touch. I drive her to Haworth and we go round the Bronte Parsonage Museum and then we walk out over the moors to Top Withins, the lonely farmhouse that inspired her namesake’s famous novel of wild passion and revenge. It’s a steep climb but as she walks ahead of me, her charcoal grey abayah flapping in the wind, I can almost believe she is the original Emily, striding out in her Victorian dress. It is a bewitching image.
There’s no one at the ruined farmhouse so we sit on the bench and contemplate the scene. Then she leans over and kisses me passionately. “That’s from Sapphire,” she whispers. She withdraws and then kisses me again. “And that is from me,” she adds.
“How did it go with her?” I ask at last.
“She’s as beautiful and bewitching as the pictures and conversations suggest,” Emily replies. “A real Cathy Earnshaw. Troubled, but passionate.”
“And did you taste that passion?”
She smiles. “Twice. And I’ll remember it forever.” She pauses. “Are you jealous?”
I laugh. “Jealous as hell!”
“No guy on guy action with the brothers?”
“Nah, just chains of isnads and a bag of dates for my time.”
“Astaghfurallah!”
“Did you give her the gift?”
“Yup.”
“And…?”
“She cried.”
“Hmm. That’s good I s’pose.”
“Very good.”
“Oh well, at least she knows I love her.”
“We love her,” she corrects.
Hand-in-hand, we walk back down to civilisation.
And now I wait in the bed. Emily has gone out fully veiled to do some shopping, to buy some souvenirs for folks back home. She didn’t want me there and I wonder why. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s covered and wants to be seen as a Muslim local, or maybe it’s that large sex shop that she spied on the way in. I smile. She’s a funny one, so many kinks but romantic and kind too. I like her. It’s different than with Sapphire, I can’t explain it. She’s cool. I lie on the bed rereading the stuff we’ve written together. It gets me in the mood.
There’s a knock on the door. “Yes?” I call.
“Your veiled Salafi wife has returned,” she says.
“Come in, you have a key,” I reply.
“Turn the lights down low, husband; I’m in the mood to serve my Sultan!”
Astagfuralah!
The mood of the lighting is just right as her veiled form enters. She drops her bag by the door and walks over to me. I start to speak, but she puts a finger to her lips. She climbs onto the bed, straddling me, on top and dominant. I reach out to remove her veil, but she shakes her head. So… she wants to do it fully covered like in all those Tales of the Veils stories?! Well, fine by me; I’ve fantasised about such a coupling for years.
She unbuttons my fly and removes first my jeans and then my pants. Then she hitches her abayah up. She is naked underneath. I am rock hard. Slowly she lowers herself onto me and I gasp. She is warm, moist, this is soooooo good! We establish a slow, silent rhythm. I reach up and fondle her breasts through the layers of material, and then moved down to her buttocks. The tempo increases and I feel near to completion but then she stops, lets my desire subside, before starting again.
This will only finish when she is ready.
I love that.
I reach the verge of climax three times when she leans in, lifts her veil slightly reveal her mouth and kisses me with a passion and intensity that I have never experienced before. I ram into her, and she erupts in ecstasy before, seconds later, I do the same, filling her with my hot, sticky seed, making my nikah mut’ah wife truly mine. Then she collapses on top of me and I cuddle her veiled form.
Knock! Knock!
There is someone at the door! But who?
Knock! Knock!
“Hello?” I shout.
“Room service!”
“I didn’t order any room service!” I whisper to Emily. She shrugs.
“We haven’t ordered anything.”
“This is clearly for a Majnun and Emily in Room 342.”
“Wait a second!”
Emily rolls off me and straightens her costume. I wrap a towel around me and go to the door. I open it to find…
Astagfuralah!
Emily is standing there. Or at least, a woman dressed exactly as Emily has been dressed all day.
I turn around. She is standing by my bed too.
“Did you enjoy your honeymoon, Sultan?” says Emily. The Emily in the doorway. Using Emily’s voice.
“If you are Emily then who…?”
The girl I have just entered Jannah with removes her khimar and niqab. Raven hair cascades down and Sapphire’s piercing green eyes stare back at me.
“But… how…?”
“It’s all her doing,” you say.
“No, Sapphire, it’s yours and his. All I did was provide the impetus and the outfit to allow you to follow your destiny.”
“So I just…?” My head is reeling.
“Yes, Majnun. You just screwed your second wife. But Islam teaches that one should treat us all equally and I am seriously horny right now… for both of you. So are you going let me in so we can get naked and do what we came here to do?!”
And so she enters and we all undress, I seeing my two jewels in their full glory for the first time. We sport and play for hours, until the sun sets and then we lie there recovering. “So what next?” I ask both of you at the same time?”
“Well, I’m flying out in six days time, so that’s it for our nikah mut’ah,” says Emily, “although new contracts can always be drawn up you know.”
“I have longer,” you say in your wonderful West Yorkshire burr. I can’t go back. Not now I’ve made the break. They’re probably looking for me like crazy now. The danger is real. I need you to take me far away and keep me safe.”
I nod. Of course, I will.
“But what did Emily do to convince you? I mean, you said you didn’t like women and you’ve never been too impressed with polygamy from what I recall.”
“I’d never met the right woman… or man before,” you reply with a grin. “And besides, there’ll only be me and you until she can next come over.”
“Not unless I start a proper harem!” I declare. “A collection of jewels. I have a Crystal and a Sapphire. Now where might one find a Ruby or an Emerald…?”
We all laugh and then snuggle up tight, a holy trinity melded into one as darkness descends over the mysterious moors of Yorkshire.
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