Sapphire’s Transformation: Part 1

This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

Sapphire’s Transformation

Part 1

When you unexpectedly come into a large sum of money, the usual situation is that you haven’t a clue with what to do with it. It’s unexpected after all. Therefore, when I received my significant windfall – for the sake of literature, let us say that I purchased a lucky ticket – at first, it did not change my life. Indeed, for almost a year, I told no one I had it and did nothing about it (nor spent any of it), save for going on a walking holiday during which I could clear my head and think. And then, when I was sure of the strategy going forward, I slowly but surely put it into action.

Had I been in the situation I was several years ago, then my route forward would have been simple. I’d have bought a house somewhere nice (probably the Balkans – I really like that part of the world) and then travelled, perhaps trying to tick off every country in the globe, before finally settling down to a life of ease and leisure.

But during the last twelve months, things had changed significantly, and I now had a problem on my hands. And, if you have read any of my other musings then you’ll be well aware that this problem was named Sapphire.

I knew that whatever route I chose going forward in life, I wanted her to be a part of it. Added to this, she was not happy in her current situation and so any change I could offer would improve her life considerably. But things aren’t so simple with Sapphire, if only they were! The problem is her submissiveness or, to be more precise, passivity. You could offer that girl the crown of England she’d refuse, bluntly replying that it is not possible so don’t think about it. She’d languish in her normalised misery and my millions would be useless.

However, passive people are by their nature, well… passive, which means that whilst they won’t act of their own accord, they generally don’t rebel if you act for them. In other words, if I wanted Sapphire, I was going to have to take her by force.

Which was a problem since Majnun isn’t much like that. I had a chat with Emily, but she wasn’t interested. There’s one thing fantasising about kidnapping helpless maidens and ravaging them, and quite another actually doing it. So, in the end I had to turn to Dave Potter, a man of no morals and great imagination. He contacted some of the people that he knew and suggested a few strategies. We agreed on one and the preparations were made.

Firstly, once I had my Sapphire, I’d need somewhere to keep the precious jewel. She’d long been obsessed by castles and all things Gothic, dungeons in particular, so I sought one out, eventually settling for a solitary tower in the Highlands of Scotland (she’d said that she liked cold weather so where could be better?), and then I set to work equipping said dungeon to my design (well, Dave’s) whilst also making the quarters for me habitable.

Then I met with Pierre, Dave’s procurer and told him what I wanted. He said that it was quite easy as soon as I had a pick-up point. That was a problem since Sapphire had steadfastly refused to share her address (perhaps wisely suspecting that I might try some scheme as crazy as the one I was now carrying out), so I hired a female PI and within a week she’d found me the masjid where Sapphire works, the house where she lives and even snapped some photos taken when she attended prayers in the women’s prayer hall.

So, all was set except for one key thing: what to do with the girl once I had her? Left to me, I’d have just kept her as she was, for she’s a 10, with the most enchanting eyes and alluring bottom that a man could ever dream of. But the problem is, she wouldn’t want that. She’s got some weird self-depreciation thing going on and a deep-seated desire to be transformed.

But transformed into what?

During our chats we’d talked through various scenaria. She was quite turned on by bimbo transformations, being made into a sex object whose purpose is public to the world. Similarly, the harem girl thing quite appealed to her: again, being reduced to an object for male pleasure to be used and abused (like I said, this girl is different), but at the same time she also has other offbeat fantasies running through her head. She has an obsession with blasphemy, wants her faith ridiculed and dishonoured whilst at the same time she wants to be publicly identified as a Muslim, hence her always wearing a headscarf, even in the raciest of photos. And then there was this thing with jinn. She believed that she was possessed by one and this turned her on. She had a Gothic, demonic vibe to her, best exemplified by a set of extremely sexy photos in which she wears a black velvet hijab, devil’s horns and provocative scarlet lipstick. I printed off my favourite of those images, the one in which she grimaces at the camera and propped it up by the computer. I’d use that as my inspiration, the base from which to paint my erotic masterpiece.

I wouldn’t make my Sapphire a harem girl; that had been done so many times before and was predictably orientalist. Nor too would I make her a mindless blonde-haired, blue-eyed bimbo. There are a million and one such stories on the net about such transformations already. No, I would create something unique, something completely Sapphire. I would make her the first of a kind. And then I had it:

A Jinn Bimbo.

A Jinnbo!

And so, all set, I contacted Pierre, and a date was set for three days’ time. I then flew out to Hungary, lounged about in the glorious spas of Budapest whilst he did his dirty work before driving out to the large castle on the Danube where he has his secret facility.

Just in time for her to arrive so I could witness the fun!

Part 2

The Three Domains: #17: Happy Birthday #1

Happy Birthday #1

Copyright © 2022, Dave Potter

Previous chapter: Breasts and Bottoms

“There was a break in the routine one day around three months after I arrived in the harem. One morning, during exercise, Talleen, who had not been called to our Lord’s bedchamber for almost a month, was extremely excited and happy during the morning exercise. Afterwards, when we were honoured to be sitting in the Marigold Chamber in the First Domain, I discovered why: it was her birthday and, in the harem, birthdays were a source of great celebration.

“We had a small party that morning with a cake which the maids fed to us daintily after Talleen had blown out the nineteen candles and we had politely clapped her with our bound arms. There was then some dancing to some recorded music provided most kindly by our Lord in his munificence, dancing that was only broken by the announcing of his regal presence. We quickly assumed our expected positions with our bottoms in the air, presented for his approval and use. And, whilst I dearly hoped that he would choose me to reveal his tension (although, I do confess that, shamefully, my hope was for frontal rather than rear usage), I prayed silently that he would pick Talleen on this most special of days. I need not have worried though, for our Lord was all-knowing as well as all-pleasuring and, far from forgetting the occasion, his knowledge of it was what had excited him so, and he chose her immediately and, not only that, but gestured for her to mount him as he sat on our sofa, choosing her cleft for his member rather than her bottom or breast valley, causing great groans of joy to emanate from her mouth as he rode her to his completion before withdrawing and depositing his seed on her willing face. We Marigold sisters were privileged to watch this and rub ourselves against him as he enjoyed her, clapping our hands eagerly as he erupted and, as a reward for our good behaviour, were then allowed to lick her face and his tool clean. What a glorious end to the party!

“But that was not all, for it transpired that within the harem a certain tradition existed around the birthdays of concubines that was most wonderful indeed. On her birthday, each concubine was allowed to choose a sister with whom she could take her pleasure that evening.”

“Take her pleasure?! But grandmother, surely that was adultery?!”

“Indeed, it was normally seen thus, my little chicken, but birthdays were an exception sanctioned in law by the Sultan’s grandfather. So, the concubine could choose which sister she desired, and that evening, instead of being bound as usual, the two female lovers were allowed to enjoy one another from sunset to sunrise!”

“By unbound, do you mean completely free?”

“Almost. We still had a single chain connecting one of our ankles to a ring in the floor, but that was all. Arms were free, legs were free, we could enjoy one another completely!”

“And were you chosen that day?”

“Of course, I was! After all, I was the new attraction and Talleen was as curious to try me out as the Sultan had been. Naturally, I tried to discourage her, insisting that Sister Ziazam was far prettier and more experienced, but neither would have any of it. ‘Talleen and I have enjoyed one another several times already,’ explained Ziazam, ‘and besides, the system evens itself out. When there was only two of us, I chose Talleen and she chose me, but now there is three, Talleen chooses you, your birthday is in four months’ time, so you can choose me and then I will choose Talleen on my own birthday, so each of us has two nights of pleasure to enjoy!’

“And so it was that that night, for the first night of my life – though far from the last – I experienced the full pleasure experience with one of my own sex. She worked on my cleft as I worked on hers and we entwined our bodies, relishing those precious hugs that were usually denied to us. And when we had spent our energies completely, we lay cuddling for several hours, whispering in one another’s ears, before returning to more energetic activities.”

“And the following day you slept most of the time?!”

“You are beginning to understand things, sweet Sevan! Thankfully, we were granted the honour of the Third Domain in the Shalimar Gardens and we simply snoozed on one another’s shoulders, completely exhausted. Time together to receive pleasure was so precious in that place that it was important to use every opportunity to the maximum and, I do confess, that even now, decades later, I still feel guilty if I have had the opportunity to reach completion that I have not fully utilised due to tiredness or laziness. After all, I above all know what it is like to be unable to do such a thing and, I imagine, that you are fast learning.”

I blushed which was answer enough.

“And, several months later, it was all repeated, yet this time sweet Ziazam, that houri from the epics was my bedpartner and her skills were, well… unmatched. I have always been attracted to men rather than women, but when there is no alternative, one is not picky, and when the women are of the calibre of Talleen and Ziazam, then it is very easy to forget that men even exist. And, because a woman has the same wants and needs as you do then, unlike a man – and I mean this as no disrespect to our Lord who had so many other, more important, things to think about – they know precisely how to fulfil those wants and needs to perfection. Yes indeed, those birthdays were something to look forward to indeed, although I do confess that when it was Ziazam’s celebrations and she was sharing her bed with Talleen, I did feel more than a twinge of jealousy!”

That night as I lay bound and cruelly titillated, imaginings of a raven-haired houri with enhanced breasts working away at my out-of-reach cleft with her magical pierced tongue almost drove me into a frenzy.

Unlike grandmother on Talleen’s birthday, however, I found no relief.

Missy’s Massage

This story is a standalone Sapphire story that I co-wrote with “Sapphire” herself. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

It’s been a hard day with you being forced to run around after your annoying little co-wife for hours whilst she does nothing, citing her baby bump as the reason. MiL, FiL and your husband have gone out in the car shopping as Missy has some cravings and needs certain foodstuffs, foodstuffs that you’re certain she was craving even when there was no baby to use as an excuse. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye and your emotions churn. She’s such a little madam, she lords it over you so completely and makes sure you always appear second-best in the eyes of the others, you hate her desi guts.

But at the same time, she brings other emotions up into your breast. She’s soooo pretty, devastatingly so, with those wide desi eyes, teeny tiny waist and those swollen, milk-filled breasts. You imagine kissing those full lips or having those juicy udders smothering your face and, shamefully, down below, you moisten. ‘Sapphire, what the hell is happening to you?’ you admonish yourself. You’re straight and have always been so sure of your sexuality and yet, at the same time, this ultra-feminine desi doll is causing you to get hornier than a demon in a dungeon. Hating yourself yet getting excited simultaneously, you decide that, whilst the oppressors are out, you’ll have a little fun. Why not? Life is dull enough as it is; you deserve it.

You look across at her and smile. She smiles back, eyes bright and shining as she rubs that perfect baby bump.

She is innocent. She suspects nothing.

You ask her if she wants a massage, after all her back must be aching carrying that perfect baby bump around all day. Of course, what you really want to do is punch her or slap her across her smug, little face, but that would not go down well. Besides, whilst you hate the condescending little cow, she is hot and that urge to kiss has not gone away. The massage is a good middle ground; if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to satisfy both urges and have some fun in the process.

She accepts the massage with a fake smile of sisterhood and lies down. You climb on top and start massaging but do it deliberately hard, knowing how to hurt.

You poke your thumbs right into her shoulders. “Ouch! Sapphy that hurt!”

“Oh sorry, I’m just trying to you know, get these knots, you’re so tense…” as you push again for authenticity

“Ukhti, you really are doing it hard today. Does it have to be so painful?”

“I’m just trying to help, it needs more pressure really, doesn’t that feel better hmm?” You push hard again, digging your thumbs into her shoulders.

“Oww! Please ukhti, I know you’re trying to help me but that really hurts, it’s making me cry!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to help, you need this, look at these knots,” you say as you circle and pinch areas of the top of her back. “I looked after Sabina the same way when she was pregnant.”

“Yes, maybe you’re right. I am sooo tired, it is sooo hard being pregnant. Not that you’d understand of course… I didn’t mean that in a bad way ukhti, obviously…”

“No, no it’s fine, I know what you mean, I wouldn’t understand,” you respond as you move your hands further in and near her neck pretending to strangle her whilst making a face at her which she obviously cannot see.

“Ahhh… that’s better, this is sooo relaxing…”

“I’m glad you think so, is it helping?”

“Oww! It was until you did that!”

“It’s all part of it, it’s good for you!” As you do it again, harder.

“Owww! Ukhti, please! Stop!”

“No, you need this, just lie still!”

“No, no, ukhti, I think we did enough. I can just lie here or sit with you on the sofa.” She tries to get up.

“What are you doing? Stay there!” you say as you sit on her. With all your weight, there’s not much chance of her moving.

“Oh, ukhti, what are you doing?!”

Having her under you, flesh against flesh is interesting. Something totally new and strange. You shove yourself backwards slightly and move your hands over her lower back. “You’ve such a tiny waist,” you purr.

“Oooh, ukhti… yes, it is nice, our husband loves it so much you know… but should you be touching it like that, isn’t it… haram…?”

“I’m sure he does! How do you keep it so small, even during pregnancy? It’s not haram, I’m just massaging you, it’s good for your pregnancy,” you say as you clamp your hands around her tiny little perfect waist.

“Oooh… well, if you’re sure… you know the hadith so much better than I do; you’re such a scholar…”

“Yes, I am.” You slide your hands around her waist and lower back.

“… and it is small isn’t it? You have your learning and I have my waist and pregnancy. Isn’t it wonderful how Allah swt blesses us both in different ways?”

“Yes, Allah has blessed us both in different ways, especially you.”

“Hmmm… it’s true… we both have so many blessings. But are you sure that it’s not haram, where you’re touching and everything…?”

“I’m simply massaging Missy, there’s nothing wrong with that, okay?” you say as I continue to stroke her little waist.

“Hmmm…. it does feel nice, but it is just that no one has ever touched me like that before… except for our darling husband of course…

… it feels almost, I don’t know…”

“I understand, but it’s just so perfect though.”

“Yes, it is. He loves it too. He likes to hold me there when… well, you know…” She blushes.

“Oh Missy!” you say as you press her waist, “Yes I know, I can hear you every night!” You laugh as she also laughs with you.

“Hmm… it is so gooood, I love it so much. Is that wrong of me, Saph?

I try to be quiet, but I can’t help it, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not wrong, it’s nice that you’re enjoying yourselves, both of you. I can hear you downstairs though, so you’re definitely not quiet!” you laugh.

“Can there be any greater pleasure than being with a man?” she asks, perhaps not entirely innocently.

“I guess not.”

“And our husband is such a greeeaaaat lover!”

“Do you think so?”

“Well, obviously I’ve never tried another man and never will, so I don’t have anything to compare with…” She shuffles around, wanting to turn around, you climb off her and let her turn so she’s facing. You kneel beside her, and she sits up. “… it would be interesting to be with someone else in one way but that is soooo haram, no I shouldn’t think such things.”

“Do you feel him kicking?” you say pointing at her large bump.

“Not now but he does sometimes…”

“Ah that’s good. Your bump is quite big now Masha’Allah!”

“Masha’Allah!” She pauses as if in thought and then says, “I do feel my heart beating though, probably because of that energetic massage.”

“Your heart is beating?”

“Yes, quite strong, maybe because the massage got the blood flowing, or maybe it is thinking about being with our husband, he, he, he!”

“Ha! Ha!” you laugh together.

“Is it beating hard?”

“Yes, feel.”

She grabs your hand and brings it halfway, you do the rest, resting your hand on her chest

“Can you feel?”

“Hmm… yes… oh… ha! Yes, it is, Missy!”

“Is yours beating hard too?”

“Umm, I don’t know… I mean, do you want to check?”

She leans in and you smell her scent. She rests her hand on your breath. It is warm as the blood is pumping through her veins due to the massage

“Can you feel it?”

“Yes… oh, yes.”

“Oh… he, he!” She leans in further. Her taut belly presses against yours. Your thighs also press.

“Oh, umm, uh…” you mumble in the awkwardness trying to find words

“Hmmm… surely this must be haram! It feels so haram, but then you are the scholar…”

“We’re just bonding, may Allah increase love between us like sisters, insha’Allah.”

She leans in further, your faces almost touch. She is pressed against you. “Yessss… insha’Allah…”

“How’s your heartbeat doing?”

“It’s getting faster.”

You begin to shake from nervousness, yet she’s so calm. “Ukhti, you…”

“Wh… wha… what…?” Your words trace off as she gets really close.

Your lips are almost touching. You stare into her large desi eyes.

“You… you’re… you’re beautiful, you know that?” you say as if it’s an involuntary reaction.

“Oh… Sapphy, I don’t know… this feels so wrong and yet…”

“What?”

“… yet it is also…”

“What, ukhti?”

“You are beautiful too… what’s happening…?”

“Oh, stop it!” you say as you shy away.

“I, I don’t know.” She tries to pull back but you draw her back to you

“Are you sure ukhti, I mean…?”

You’re breathing heavily. You swallow hard… and just nod back.

She pulls away again. “Sis, this, maybe we shouldn’t I mean…”

You pull her hand to your chest again. “Do you feel that?” you ask.

“Yes,” she replies, weakly.

You look into her big brown eyes and get closer again.

“Oh ukhti, what do we do? You’re the older sister…”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right… You’re right, I’m sorry.” But she does not pull away. Instead, she draws nearer.

You look into her eyes again as she stares into yours. “You’re making me nervous,” you say, as you edge closer to her.

You hear a noise outside, a car pulling up. She hasn’t noticed it. It could be them… this might be your last chance.

“Ukhti… I’m nervous too…”

You grab her face with both hands and lunge your lips onto hers, not even like a proper kiss, but just smothering her lips in a nervous and desperate manner.

“Mmmmph! Mmmphf, Sfff!”

She tries to pull away, but you don’t let her. Then she relaxes and her tongue reciprocates. It explores, it learns, for the first time ever, what a real kiss is. She pushes her long tongue deep into your mouth, and a bolt of electricity shoots through your body.

“Ahhh!”

It carries on, entwining with you, intimately exploring, feeling intimacy for the first time in her young life. You feel like you’re melting into her as her power takes over you.

“Ohhh!”

You hold her neck and she holds you by yours, forcing your faces onto each other’s. It is languid now, passionate, reciprocal. You took the lead but with her inhibitions unleashed, she is taking control.

Your cheeks press, your breasts press, your thighs press, your hearts pound as one. She pushes you down and presses herself onto you. This is new for her, but it is new for you too.

“Mmmm…”

She breaks away momentarily to look at you. She has transformed from the timid student to the rampant lion.

You stare back at her. “how’s… how’s your heartbeat?” you ask, desperately trying to catch your breath.

“Ya Allah, even with hubby it never beats that strong. What was that?!”

“It was…” you start, but she cuts you off mid-sentence.

“Have a feel” she says, as she pulls down her top from over her chest and lets loose her huge brown boobs.

You have never felt such things.

Pinned on the floor, you have no choice. You grasp them and grope like an animal “Wow… Missy! They’re so big! And beautiful!” you say as you reach up to touch them.

“Ahhh! Yes, Sapphire, do that again and again!”

Her voice has got louder, she is almost screaming.

You squeeze them in your hands, her huge tits too big for your large hands even.

She bends towards you, letting them dangle down onto your face. “Ooooh, yes!” she squeals.

They smother you, enveloping you in their warm firmness. Her huge brown nipples stroking your lips.

You take one and nibble softly. She squeals and screeches in delight. “Come on! Come on! Come Sapphy, take it… yes

… that’s it!” she pants.

You nibble and the squeal becomes a scream, scream of animal lust, the scream of a caged beast that has finally been let out to run in the wild.

You open wide and engulf her nipple in your mouth, though you can’t quite clamp your mouth around her huge areola. “That’s it! Good girl! she screeches.

She is insatiable, she pins you to the floor, unable to move, you are the passive recipient, she the active partner.

You struggle to breathe with that flesh pressed against you. You start to panic as you gasp for air. She notices and momentarily breaks away, but just before you can take a full breath, she shoves her other nipple into your mouth. “Yes, good girl!!” She shouts at you.

You obey and start nibbling suckling, like a child yearning for the mother that she soon will be.

“Do this every day, understand?!” she shouts as if she were the older, more dominant wife.

You are engulfed once more, swamped by her flesh. Your arms flail as you struggle to break free. You started this and yet you are now the prisoner! You cry out but it just comes out like “Mmmmpfh!” Defeated by her vivacious maternal femininity, you nod your head whilst your tongue circulates her nipple that’s deep in your mouth.

Your breath is short, you feel dizzy and then…

“Astaghfiru’lillah!”

That.

Is.

Not.

Her.

Voice.

She pulls back immediately.

“Missy! Sapphire! What on earth are you two doing?”

Your husband, MiL, FiL and, worst of all, your Baba are all standing there.

You gaze up stunned.

“We saw your baba in town and invited him back for tea. We never expected to come across… this!”

“Uh… oh…  we … we were just… nothing… just…” You struggle to find words as you get up patting yourself down.

“Missy! Sapphire! What on earth…?”

“No… it were just, we were, it’s nothing, just… come on in… err, some chai? Err, Missy, chai yeh?” you mumble, looking to your co-wife for help.

“She started it!” says Missy, accusingly, trying to look innocent.

All eyes are on you, and you realise that this will never be forgotten. Your true nature has been revealed at last.

And that unsated lust for Missy still needs to be quenched.

Written London, UK, 06/10/2022

Copyright © 2022, “Majnun” & “Sapphire”

The Three Domains: #16: Breasts and Bottoms

The Three Domains

Copyright © 2022, Dave Potter

Previous chapter: The Water Maidens and Things that Should Not Be Spoken Of

Breasts and Bottoms

“Anyway, my little chicken, since we have been talking about enemas, I suppose that it is high time for you to experience the same!”

“I am to be toileted in that way… now, grandmother?!”

“Is this not a noble house, Sevan? No, you must be introduced to it soon and why not this minute since you are in the First Domain. Maid, prepare the equipment!”

The maid scuttled off and I watched with intrigue and, I must confess, a little fear, as my next induction into the life of a noble lady was prepared before my eyes. A rubber mat was brought out and unrolled, and then a strange-looking collection of glass bottles featuring liquids of different colours with hoses attached to them. There was also a bucket.

When all was ready, I was asked to kneel on the mat and then put my bottom in the air. This was easier said than done since, with my arms restrained, I could not support myself. Grandmother said that, usually, enemas are completed immediately after waking, before the honour of reverse prayer has been embraced, but for the purposes of the day, pillows were brought out to but under my head and upper body. Thus prepared, with my bottom on full display in the air, I waited with trepidation. One of the anonymous maids approached with a hose and I felt her oiling my rectum with some lubricant before the nozzle of the hole was touching it and then, after some working which was not altogether unpainful, it popped in. Never before had I had something placed in there and it felt, well… weird.

But not as weird as what was to follow! Fizzy liquid gushed into my bowels, causing my stomach to expand until I looked like a pregnant lady. Then, when I felt so bloated and as if nothing else could be fitted in there, to my horror, the nozzle was removed, and a plug swiftly put in its place. I was then ordered to stand and jump up and down to ensure that the cleaning liquid reached all parts of my insides. This felt strange, my huge stomach so queasy and straining, but also because the fizzy liquid was now starting to burn. The burning grew and grew, and I began to groan. Grandmother said nothing though, although, after a tortuous minute or so (it felt more like ten!) she nodded, and I was instructed to squat over the bucket and the plug removed.

With a feeling of relief that truly has to be experienced to be believed, the liquid gushed out of me. The stench though, was vile and, when it was shown to be – basically, a bucket of human slurry – I almost vomited. But then the entire process was repeated and, the second time around, the water was much clearer and smelt little. And after the third time, it looked almost drinkable.

My bottom declared clean – and I do confess to feeling freshened in there – then grandmother then produced another surprise. “And to celebrate your first enema, Sevan, here is your first Plug of Consolation!” The maid held up the gold item with a large ruby on the tip, like an egg with a handle and, after lubricating it, the plug was inserted. Having it in there felt so weird, like I was continually full and caressed. This may sound crude, but you know when you are desperate for a poo, but you need to hold it in? Well, that is the closest to the feeling that I can describe.

But that was not all.

“I shall now describe to my granddaughter the ritual of the Blessing of the Breasts,” announced my grandmother to the maids, “but whilst I do, to celebrate her enema and plugging, I would like you to massage her there.”

The maid nodded and I made to stand but my grandmother shook her head and instead, had the maid blindfold me. Exposed and blinded, I knelt there with no choice but the listen to her story.

“The Blessing of the Breasts was another special ceremony and one that we all eagerly enjoyed. All harem girls have their breasts enlarged to announce their status and because our Lord loves a large, firm, taut, fake bosom, but there is a secondary purpose.

“For the ceremony to start, our troupe would be ordered to kneel in a line, our breasts thrust forward. Then, golden rings would be fitted around the base of each breast, and these would then be tightened, cinching the breast.”

“Ouch!” I exclaimed, not just because it sounded painful, but also because the maid was now doing something with my Plug of Consolation. She was moving it around and around, massaging my bottom hole, causing most curious sensations indeed.

“This cinching had the effect of making the breasts tauter and more sensitive. Indeed, it was quite painful, but to please our Lord we minded not, well… Ziazam and I did not, although Talleen had other opinions as usual.

“Once cinched fully and each breast red with blood, then our nipples were linked together with a chain shorter than usual, forcing them together. Then, our Exalted Lord would come. He would survey us all, stroke our cheeks perhaps and then, solemnly, take out his wonderful member and insert it between the first pair of breasts as he might in a bottom hole or love cavern, for the cinching and nipple bindings had created a new sexual orifice for his delight.

“He would then rub it up and down for some time before withdrawing and, after each of us had thanked him for using us, would move to the next concubine, going down the line until, after having sampled the entire troupe, he would make his choice.”

All the while that grandmother had been telling me this, the massaging of my bottom hole had continued apace and now the maid was vigorously pumping the plug in and out so that it felt almost like what I would imagine a male tool to feel like. I was groaning in pleasure and frustration non-stop, but she merely continued with her narrative.

“Having chosen the best breasts, he would then work away in the crevice before, just prior to completion, withdrawing and spraying his copious seed all over the bountiful breasts of the girl who had pleasured him. My, what an honour that was! To be so blessed with warm semen! A water maiden would then be called, and she would spread the semen all over the breasts and a strip of material containing gold thread was wrapped around my breasts. I say mine, although, of course, this honour I achieved but rarely; having the earth goddess Talleen in our troupe meant that I was not the natural first choice, but when I did experience it, it was glorious, particularly since my breasts would remain cinched for the remainder of the day in remembrance of the honour accorded to them and, when the cloth was unwrapped, the semen stuck it to my body like glue so that it was a curious sensation having it removed.

“And those cloths were highly prized. We concubines would donate them to the temple where they were sought after by infertile wives as a fertility aid, them licking the dried semen to enhance their chances of pregnancy. And our star was never higher than when we donated them.”

By this time, I was groaning and screaming nonstop, both from the exciting nature of grandmother’s story but also from the wonderful sensations being produced by the bottom plug. Wonderful as they were though, I did not seem to be able to reach completion that way but then, the moment grandmother finished, I felt fingers on my frontal hole whilst the Plug of Consolation was still being worked and, within seconds I erupted with incomparable bliss.

Without even removing my blindfold, I was taken to my chamber to recover, and I sank into a lust-filled sleep.

Next chapter: Happy Birthday #1

Majnun’s Wish

This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

High in the mountains of Albania…

My face streams with sweat and my breath is ragged as I climb over the boulders and stumble up the path. How much farther can this place be? I’ve been climbing for ages and yet still it is not in sight! The guidebook said it was a half-hour walk and yet I’ve been ascending this damned mountain for almost an hour now. Hmm. Guidebooks are always written by the physically active I suppose. This had better be worth it; I’m in agony!

I round a corner and there it is. The simple tekke of Baba Xhafer is breathtakingly beautiful, its ancient stones nestled against the mountain. As I approach a figure emerges, bearded and ancient, clad in white with a green headdress. At first, I wonder if he is Al-Khidr, that mysterious figure from the Quran and a number of other faiths including my own who guided me to you in the first place, but then I realise that he is probably just the hoxha, the keeper of the shrine.

“You have come at last!” he exclaims with a smile, offering me a glass of water.

“What do you mean? I told no one I was coming here!” I reply.

“But I knew that you would arrive. You have a particular prayer to make, yes?”

I stare into his intense blue eyes. “I do, Father, yes.”

He shows me in, and I kneel by the simple tomb of the saint. The candles flicker and Ali watches over protectively. I bow down and pray for you, my dearest Sapphire, that you may be safe and well; that your hardships may end, and that joy may fill your life, so barren that it is right now.

Eventually, after an untold time, I rise and return to the hoxha.

“Does the Baba answer all prayers?” I ask as we sit, and he hands we a glass of raki (for the Bektashis are one of the few Muslim sects that interpret the verse around alcohol as I do).

“The Baba guides and helps,” he replies, “but the real work is done by you.”

“But how can I do anything, separated as I am?”

“You have done much already, my son, even if you do not realise it. However, as I said, the Baba is always on hand to help those who have pure hearts and who believe. Sapphire will find the joy that she deserves if you act wisely.”

“I don’t understand, Father.”

He hands me a lamp, a small, simple, brass affair such as one might find in an Oriental bazaar, and then leaves. I look at it, examine it, and open the top. It is empty. It looks like something you’d expect Aladdin to find in the Cave of the Robbers so, jokingly, I rub it.

A cloud appears from the spout and the djinn appears before me in the smoke.

“Good day pilgrim, I am the djinn of the lamp and I grant you three wishes. Do not make them now, but think wisely, for it is through reflection that wisdom is gained. I have waited a long time and I can wait a little more. Be warned though, there are limitations. I cannot make anyone fall in love with you, nor will I fulfil a wish for death. And, be warned, any wish for wealth may not turn out as you hoped it would.”

I look at him, nod, and see that he is a kind djinn, not a trickster like Al-Ahmar who visits you, Sapphire, or even the naughty Baalat whom I wrote about in that story. This is a djinn of deep spirituality who would always be most happy in a remote mountain tekke. I nod and return to the shrine and kneel. Night falls and I stay in meditation. I feel tiredness overcoming me and then I realise. I return to the outer room where the djinn waits patiently.

“Have you reached a decision?” he asks.

“For my first wish, yes.”

“Go on.”

“Genie, I wish to swap places with Imam Abdul Raheem, the husband of Sapphire, for forty-eight hours.”

Smoke clouds my eyes and I fall to the floor in a stupor.

Sapphire’s House, Bradford…

I awaken to an awful wailing noise. I flail my arms to try and stop whatever it is and find myself touching the bare skin of a female asleep alongside of me. Shocked and disorientated, I sit up, locate the Azan alarm clock and press the dome down to shut it up. A young desi girl opens her eyes, yawns, and then sits up beside me. She then slides out of bed and puts on her abayah and hijab and gets the mats ready for Fajr prayer. I slip on the thobe that is hanging up by the bed and then join her. Luckily, she is so lost in her prostrations that she doesn’t notice that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I make a mental note to Google the prayer moves for salat.

After we’ve finished, she climbs back into bed and smiles at me. Missy is pretty, there’s no doubt about that, but she’s not the gorgeous beauty that you make her out to be in your writings. I mean, sure, the tiny waist is nice and I love her smooth brown skin but she is a bit… well… everyday. She leans over to kiss me and, I’m sorry to say, I reciprocate. After all, she is my wife and, well, it’s not often you find yourself waking up next to a cute eighteen-year-old.

We get down to it and I am reminded of your writings, of how you said she doesn’t even know how good sex can be. Well, if that is true, then maybe I can help her a little as well as you. She is grabbing at my embarrassingly rock-hard tool (well, it’s been a while…) and seems to think that one starts off by me just thrusting into her. I push her away, and then use my hands to gently caress the insides of her legs, softly stroking. She finds this weird at first, as well she might, but then grows to like it as I circle and tease, getting nearer and nearer to the goal. She groans and whimpers with a pleasure she has hitherto never experienced in her young life and so I lean in, kiss her on the neck and ear, all the while bringing my hands nearer to her pleasure centre which I refuse to touch directly, but instead circle as a pilgrim would the Kaaba, whilst my lips work on her now erect nipples and my fingertips finally find that bud of ecstasy and tease it until she is crying out with bliss and then, and only then, do I slowly insert myself so that she orgasms intensely almost the moment I enter her.

When we have finished, I cuddle her and she whispers in my ear, “Hubby, that were so good, that, I’ve never enjoyed it more!”

“Missy,” I reply, “you are a woman, and a woman deserves that pleasure every time she lies with her man. Never forget that!”

We perform our ablutions and then get back into bed. She nuzzles me and falls asleep in my arms, and I wonder at this first bit of fitna I have caused for, after that performance, his mindless, selfish rutting will never do the job again. Poor man, he’s going to have to up his game!

---

I come down for breakfast and you are serving the food on the table. You suspect nothing, but for the first time ever, we actually meet face to face. I have to stifle a gasp and a “Mashallah!” Although covered up aside from your face, you are soooo beautiful. Missy is cute, I’m not gonna lie, but cute in a ‘girl I used to fancy in the Science class’ kind of way (oh Jenny, why did we never end up together?!). She’s sexy in a schoolgirl manner whereas you are all woman. More than that though; those eyes that pierce the soul and the look that says you are somewhere else, somewhere darker, weirder perhaps. Beyond where ordinary humans can imagine. Well, most of us. As you sit and eat across from me, I keep glancing at you, but you do not notice; you are lost in your thoughts. Very soon though, that changes.

“Sapphire, I need you with me today!” I announce.

“But husband, I have classes…”

“Then they must be cancelled or perhaps Waheeda can do them?”

“Waheeda is busy. She…”

“Missy then, you must cover for your co-wife!”

“But husband, I don’t know how to, I…”

“She is needed here with me. Sapphire must teach her classes!” announces MiL firmly, in a voice that brooks no resistance.

“No,” I reply, equally firm. “My wife comes with me and that is final. Either cancel the classes, get Waheeda or Missy to cover them or, if they can’t you do it, Mother!”

She is aghast. Her son has never spoken to her this way before. Never before has she been challenged! “Son, I am your mother…” she begins.

“And I am both the imam and head of this household, therefore you will obey! Sapphire, with me, now!”

“I must get ready, put in my contacts and…”

“No, the contacts go in the bed. They are un-Islamic and you, mother, must pray for repentance for making her wear them. It was an act of barbaric cruelty on your part that you should be ashamed of!”

Everyone goggles. MiL has tears in her eyes. “So, you agreed, you…”

“And I was wrong to and am seeking forgiveness from Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala for the error of my ways. So must you! Sapphire, please, now. Salaam aleikum everyone!”

And with those words I depart from the room with you following in my wake. In the distance I can hear MiL burst into tears and Missy comforting her. I smile. It’s about time she learned what it feels like to be on the end of some bullying as opposed to dishing it out.

---

We go to the car, and you get in. I drive to a shop, stop and tell you to stay in the vehicle. Moments later I return and drive on. “Where are we going?” you ask.

“You shall see,” I reply.

We drive, out of the city and into the countryside. Eventually, in a car park by a lonely moor, I stop and tell you to get out. You obey dutifully as you always have, and I lead you to a picnic bench.

“Get out your phone!” I command.

You do. Once you’ve typed in the passcode, I take it and open Twitter. I show you the page with your secret account and the image of you wearing horns. “So, what does this mean?” you ask.

You burst into tears.

“Please don’t hurt me, don’t…” you sniffle.

I put my arm around you and then pull up your Medium page. “And these, did you mean them?”

You wail uncontrollably.

Then I go to the Majnun stories and show you them. “And these?”

“He… wrote… them…” you sniffle.

“And you had no input whatsoever? Be honest with me!”

You start wailing again. “Please, Ya Allah, forgive me, please, don’t hurt me, don’t…”

“I divorce you; I divorce you; I divorce you!” I pronounce and then smile. “Does that feel better?”

You look at me confused. “I…”

“You’re not happy Sapphire, and a husband should care about his wife’s happiness. However, you are not the only one with a secret. For whilst I may look and sound like your husband, I am not him.”

You look at me confused.

“It’s not only you that has had an encounter with a djinn, except that mine is kinder than Al-Ahmar and no naughty temptress like Baalat. I am not your husband; he has swapped bodies with me. I am Majnun!”

You look at me incredulous. “I don’t believe you!” you stutter.

“But it’s true! Would your husband act like this? Would he speak to his mother in that way?”

“No, but…”

“What would your husband never do?”

“Break Sharia law of course, all he thinks of is rules and regulations.”

I nod and bring out the beer I bought from the shop. “It’s a bit early for this but to prove a point…” I break it open and take a swig. Your mouth is agog. “Ham sandwich I ask?” getting out the other item I bought and unwrapping it. As I take a bit you stutter, “You… are… actually… Majnun?!”

“The one and only!” I reply with a smile and then hug you in my arms and you dissolve.

---

We sit on that bench and talk. I tell you all about my pilgrimage to the remote mountain tekke, the mysterious hoxha who looks like Al-Khidr, the lamp and the djinn and my desire to swap places with your husband for forty-eight hours.

“So does that mean that he is there, in some weird mountain shrine?!” you ask, eyes wide.

“I guess so, with Al-Khidr’s liberal twin brother for company.”

“Who drinks alcohol!”

“Yeah, I’m hoping he’ll lay off that, at least at the beginning. I’m kinda wanting him to chill your hubby out, get him thinking a bit more spiritually, and I’m not sure that handing him a raki will do that.”

“Hmm.”

“Talking of alcohol, I’m not really in the mood right now, do you fancy finishing this?”

You give me a dagger stare to say, ‘I might want to transgress but not like that!’ I shrug and pour the insipid lager onto the floor. “Actually,” I say, “I’m hoping that he does end up drinking. Unlike most Muslims, hoxhas in weird tekkes aside, I take a Quranic view on alcohol. ‘There is both good and bad in these things’, and I think getting him a bit pissed might chill him out.”

You look at me as if to suggest I’m crazy.

“Just sayin’,” I reply, “but enough of him, we’ve got bigger issues. I’ve divorced you Islamically, now we need to do it legally. We’re off to the solicitors.”

“But I…”

“Oh, so you’re happy in your illegal forced marriage, are you?”

“No, of course not but…”

“But nothing, this is your way out and it’s me that’s demanding it, not you!”

“But you’re not… you, I mean him… you know what I mean!”

“And no one else knows that, nor will they ever believe it. So, it’s happening. All that matters is that if you sign it too. Then it is immediate, and he can’t change it. Plus, you get half of everything, so you won’t be poor.”

“But…”

“No buts.”

“But… what about Missy?”

“What about her? I mean, I was thinking of divorcing her as well, but then I thought maybe he should do that, but then I thought again that, since it is essentially illegal anyway, it only being religious and her being underage when they wed… I’m undecided.”

“Hmm. She likes him, you know?”

“Does she? Does she even know what she likes?”

“Good point! But they bang away enough. In fact, only this morning… Astagfuralah! That wasn’t you, was it?!”

I look guilty and shrug my shoulders as if to say, ‘What could I do?’

You slap me across the face. It stings but I love the anger in your eyes.

“Would you believe me if I said there was method in it?”

“No!”

“You yourself wrote that she’s never experienced good sex, proper pleasure.”

“Neither have I!”

“Well, now she has, so when he returns with wham, bam, thank you ma’am, she won’t be satisfied anymore. He’ll have to change or…”

Your look changes. “You evil bastard, Majnun, that is very sneaky! Not that I’ve forgiven you mind, you always said that I…”

“And you are, and Missy will be the last one. Tonight, you’re in my bed. I’d like to do it here now but…” A car whooshes past and I shrug. “Besides, there’s a bigger problem!”

“Which is?”

“For the next day and a half, I’m an imam and yet I don’t even know how to perform salat!”

“Plus, tomorrow is Friday and you have to lead Jummah prayers!”

I nod slowly and there, on that lonely moor, you teach me the moves, I revelling in the shape of your tantalising bottom as you bend down in prostration, after which I fasten my lips to yours and we engage in a very different form of devotional activity.

---

We drive back to Bradford and head to the solicitor that you know your husband uses. They are shocked to see us, but show us in. The divorce is short and sweet; both parties agree, and I am most generous in my terms. Well, I can be. After all, it ain’t my cash I’m giving away. Then we return to the masjid, and you take over from Waheeda (who wasn’t as busy as first thought after all), and I lead the Zuhr Prayer without incident.

I stay in the masjid all afternoon, talking with some particularly brainless brothers and then trying, unsuccessfully to write my sermon for the following day, whilst you lead a women’s group. I lead Asr Prayer feeling more confident and then return home. MiL is cold with me, and I am cold back. FiL tries to say something, but I block him, making it clear where the power now lies. I think of the man occupying my body and wonder how he is faring in deepest, darkest Albania, and whether the hoxha has worked his magic on him yet. Then I return to the masjid for the Maghrib and Isha Prayers before returning home for the next confrontation.

Missy is getting ready for bed with me, but I stop her. “No, tonight I share our bed with Sapphire!” I announce. She looks downcast; this has not happened before, but she knows that she cannot argue and so slinks off to sleep in the back room with MiL. I feel for her. After what happened this morning where, for the first time in her life, her own pleasure was taken into account, then she was probably desperate for more. Well, darling, you’ll get it one day, though not from me…

You come into the room dressed in your abayah but with your hair wonderfully free. I ask you to take your clothes off and you hesitate as you have always slept with your husband covered. “It’s just that… you look like him, my mind…” you say.

I nod and guide you into the bed as you are. I fit a condom as, physically, I am still him and so, a child could really complicate things, and then we hold. I know you don’t want foreplay like other girls, so I climb atop you dominantly, slap your buttocks hard, the sound probably shocking MiL and Missy, and then place the tiny clamps I bought from the shop I visited after the solicitor onto your nipples. Your eyes widen and you have to stifle a scream and I produce to buttplug with a faux sapphire in the end and, after lubricating it, insert it into that hole that we once named so blasphemously. “Ya Allah!” you exclaim, and I then insert myself dominantly into your other hole grabbing hold of your hair as I do and using you roughly as you have dreamt of for so long but ensuring that you reach your climax as I do, and we erupt together. It is intense, special and we both fall fast asleep after ablutions.

---

On the morning of the big day I am woken for Fajr and then we get down to it again. It is gentler this time, more emotional. I guess no one has the energy for much else at such a stupid time. Afterwards, when you wash, I notice that the plug is still in your bum, and it looks amazing as you deliberately lift your abayah as you wiggle out of the room to the bathroom.

The morning is uneventful. You help me with the sermon I am writing, a sermon that will be remembered for years to come, and then I have to build up the strength to deliver it, a few swigs of vodka helping with that. Then, the Call to Prayer sounds and it is time.

I have decided to preach on An-Nissa, the Surah of the Women, as that provides the most references to what I want to get across. My issue with Salafism is that it is all about rules, a cold and dead spirituality, whereas I want to talk about love, a topic which it is hard not to think of with Sapphire so close by, but also because, with my Christian background and its whole ‘God is Love’ focus, I know I can go on about at great length. Nonetheless, as I prostrate, I am nervous. Nervous yet exhilarated. I had asked to swap bodies to save Sapphire, yet here I realise, I may be able to help countless other souls as well.

It is probably why the hoxha gave me the lamp. He knew what could come from it.

I step up, clear my throat and begin.

“He who does evil or acts against his own interest by disbelieving, then prays for God’s forgiveness, will find God compassionate and merciful.”

“Ameen! Ameen!” I hear echoing around the room.”

“Brothers and sisters, those beautiful words taken from the Surah of the Women,” (my God, I find I’ve even adopted that weird British Asian accent as I say the words!), “the words of Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala Himself, have you ever thought about what they mean? Forgiveness! Compassionate! Merciful! What are these words, brothers and sisters? We say them with our lips, but do we say them with our hearts, our actions?”

They’re loving it at the moment. Hmm… let’s see in a bit.

“Brothers and sisters, we see the kaffir, those beyond our doors. What do they say about us? Do they praise us for our piety, for our good deeds and actions, for the way we live? No, astaghfuralah, no they do not! To our faces they are polite, that is the kaffir culture, but behind our backs they whisper something else. Those Muslims, all those Muslims, they pray all the time, yes, they wear their beards and their hijabs and their thobes, but this piety is not reflected in their actions? They backbite about one another, they control and interfere with each other. They are hypocrites, brothers and sisters, that is what the kaffir say! Hypocrites! They pretend to believe, but it is all an act, a show! We, we do not believe as they do. Many of us do not even accept that God exists, but we are kind to animals, we are kind to our womenfolk, we do not interfere, do not judge. We help strangers, give to charity, help those from other communities. And, here is the hard truth brothers and sisters, are they wrong? Are they wrong, brothers and sisters?”

The silence fills the air. I guess I sound more like an Arab version of a televangelist, but to be honest, it’s working. They’re enraptured.

“No brothers and sisters, there is the sad truth, not at all. They who do not even believe in Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala, they do not even believe in Isa alaihissalam anymore, and yet they surpass us, brothers and sisters, they surpass us sometimes in giving charity, in helping one another, in not judging. They appear to us as the greatest sinners, drinking alcohol, wearing lewd clothing, and yet, at the same time, they commit pious acts, whilst we, we who claim to be believers, we so often fall short!”

The Ameens reverberate. Hmm, this is going better than I thought.

“How many of us can say that we have treated our wives fairly?”

Silence.

“How many of us have stopped our mothers when they have bullied our wives, or spoken to our in-laws when they bully our daughters?”

Silence.

“How many of us have asked the wishes of our children, listened to their fears and needs, before deciding what is best for them?”

Silence.

“How many of us have broken the law of the land, something forbidden by the way, because we felt we knew best, and then have complained when someone else breaks a different law? Someone deals drugs or steals our car and we go to the police, but we commit a different crime under the law and we turn a blind eye? No brothers and sisters, we have all fallen short of the glory of Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala. All of us!”

“Ameen! Ameen!”

“Myself included.”

Gasps.

“Yes brothers and sisters, your own imam, your own spiritual guide, has fallen short of the glory of Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala!”

Silence. They are gripped. What juicy gossip is coming next? I wish I could see into the women’s prayer hall!

“Sunan Ibn Majah 2443 It was narrated from ‘Abdullah bin ‘Umar that the Messenger of Allah said: ‘Give the worker his wages before his sweat dries.’”

“Ameen!”

“Sahih al-Bukhari 2270 Narrated Abu Huraira: The Prophet said, ‘Allah said, ‘I will be an opponent to three types of people on the Day of Resurrection: One who makes a covenant in My Name but proves treacherous; One who sells a free person and eats his price; and One who employs a labourer and takes full work from him but does not pay him for his labour.’”

“Ameen!”

“Sahih al-Bukhari 2280 Narrated Anas: The Prophet used to get cupped and would never withhold the wages of any person.”

“Ameen!”

“Islam is clear brothers and sisters; we must pay our workers their fair due! But do we do that? In our kebab shops and on our taxi ranks, in our restaurants and our shops, do we even pay minimum wage, let alone more? And our family members that work for us, do we even pay them all the time? If we hired a kaffir we would, we would have to do it legally, but with the believers, our own family, no, we take advantage, we treat them as our slaves!”

Mostly silence, a couple of ‘Ameens’.

“And I too! I am guilty, guiltier than you all! In our madrassah, my beloved wife Ustaadha Sapphire, does she not teach our children diligently every day? And yet, is she paid? No! It is called voluntary work, but does she have a choice? No! In truth, brothers and sisters, I am like Umayya ibn Khalaf the owner of Bilal ibn Rabah. I have mistreated those closest to me, those who deserve my protection. Therefore, I seek forgiveness from Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala! Therefore, I urge you to do the same and, as proof of my repentance, I hereby announce that from this day forward all teachers in our madrassah shall be registered with the authorities and be paid a wage in accordance with their work, a fair and just wage in line with the wages of a teacher in a school. If we are to show the kaffir that we are the Believers, the true people of Allah, then we must set the example! I will start and I urge you, brothers and sisters, to follow me!”

---

The hubbub following the sermon is palpable. This is not what they are used to. Pious words, yes, but concrete actions and being compared unfavourably to the kaffir, never that! I’d go on afterwards, about love, about listening to our children and not forcing our will on them. It is unexpected yet Islamically backed-up and justified so no one can argue. Even so, many noticeably avoid me at the end. Well, fuck you, hypocrites! I won’t be here again anyway!

The Lesser Jihad has been completed, now the greater one!

Back home, MiL and FiL are furious. “Son, what are you thinking! To shame us so publicly in that way! Sapphire is happy in her work, you have embarrassed her so, your own wife!”

I take a deep breath and say, “No, she is not happy; she is deeply unhappy, and we have all made her that way. You mother, bully her relentlessly and it is cruel! And you father look on her and Missy in a way that no father-in-law should! You are shameful! She is miserable and she is exhausted! She also does not love me, and I do not love her. She was forced into this sham of a marriage by her parents as you forced me. We agreed to please you and it has brought no joy to anyone. Which is why, this morning, I pronounced the triple talaq on her and we then went to the solicitor to divorce legally. Sapphire is no longer my wife!”

“Astagfuralah, Sapphire you wanton whore! How could you do such a thing to my son!”

“Mother, one more word from you and you are cast out of this house forever! This house is half mine and half my ex-wife’s, and your behaviour is putting your place here at risk! Do not cry like that, go and live with my brother if you are so unhappy! But do not ever blame Sapphire, the greatest of women, for this! It was my choice and mine alone! She tried to stop me even though it meant her own unhappiness!”

“But son…”

“Shh! No more. I need to talk to my wife!”

I turn to Missy who is staring goggle-eyed and shell-shocked. “Missy, I pronounced triple talaq on Sapphire earlier this morning and I shall now do the same on you. I divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!”

She bursts into tears.

“Why do I do this, Missy? Because I am cruel? No, quite the opposite; because I love Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala! As with Sapphire and I, you got no say in whom you wed. You were of an illegal age when we married and are barely legal now. That was wrong, ethically wrong. I should never have agreed to it, but my parents blinded me to the justice of Allah. I want you to return to your parents now and think. Do you really want to spend your days wedded to a man twice your age who, until this morning, has never even cared for your pleasure in bed? Would you not prefer a boy of your own age and background, to be an equal partner rather than a baby-making machine to please her? Go home, pray and think about it. Then, in a month’s time, come back to me. If you wish to remarry, we will do it properly, legally. If not, I bear you no ill will. Pack your things and go, I shall call a taxi to take you to your father’s house!”

“Son, you really must…”

“And you two also pray and repent! Stop trying to run the lives of others and think about your own place in Jannah. I need to take my ex-wife somewhere now, so goodbye!”

And with those words, I storm out. I use your phone (cos I don’t know the passcode to my own) to call a taxi for Missy and then grab you and head out to the car. The moment we’re in I turn to you and say, “And take that fucking hijab off will you, I want to see the woman I love!”

We drive and we drive, sitting side-by-side, across the Pennines on the M62 and then down the M6 to my house. I give you the key and show you in, before kissing you on the lips, whispering “I love you!” and then heading back north again.

It is dark by the time I return. I let myself into the house and go upstairs. I hear FiL wheezing in his bed and MiL snoring in hers. Missy is gone. It is for the best. Smiling, I turn in myself, sleeping alone in the bed made for two, letting the darkness take over.

High in the mountains of Albania…

I awaken in the back room of the tekke. I have a splitting headache which suggests that the hoxha did ply your ex-husband with alcohol. I rise, use the toilet, and knock back several glasses of water. Then I go to the shrine and give thanks to Baba Xhafer. As I pray, I am joined by the hoxha.

“So?” he asks.

“It was good,” I reply. “She is free now and much more besides. But what of him?”

Al-Khidr smiles. “I think I taught him something of the Way of Love. He resisted at first, but kindness and an open heart is hard to withstand for long. Baba Xhafer worked his magic. At the end he was even drinking raki with me. I don’t think he’s had so much fun in years!”

“I know, my head can feel it!”

We laugh and breakfast together. Then I rise and start to make my way back down the mountain. I’ve only made a few steps when the hoxha calls to me. “Majnun,” he says, “you’ve forgotten something!”

He holds out the lamp. “But it’s yours!” I protest.

“And you can return it here later, with her. But in the meantime, you still have two wishes left to use up!”

And with a smile I take it, put it in my pocket and then embark upon that long journey back to where my heart lies.

Written 26-27/07/2022, Smallthorne, UK

Copyright © 2022, “Majnun”