Amira Finds God

By Contingency

Submitted: March 11, 2020

Updated: March 11, 2020

Amira Shabani was a bored hijabi housewife, wandering aimlessly through life. Until she met her son's
hulking, handsome - and hung - bully.

PDF Link: Here (Highly recommend the PDF for better formatting!)

This is a somewhat dark son's bully NTR/cuckolding story paid for and loosely directed by an
anonymous client. It features mild raceplay (white male on Persian MILF), risky cheating, and a lot of
cuckolding.

Provided by Hentai Foundry.

http://www.hentai-foundry.com/stories/user/Contingency/40867/Amira-Finds-God

Chapter 1 - Chapter One 2

Chapter 2 - Chapter Two 20
Chapter 3 - Chapter Three 31
Chapter 4 - Chapter Four 42
Chapter 5 - Chapter Five 58
Chapter 6 - Chapter Six 73
 1 - Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Amira Shabani was bored.

She was bored — but that was fine, because to be bored was her role. Her role was to, as she did every
day, day in and day out, sit in her boring little sedan car, driving through the boring, unremarkable
streets of her boring, unremarkable American suburb, and drive to her son Rayan’s boring,
unremarkable high school to pick him up.

Amira Shabani liked to know her role in things. She liked to know where she belonged. She had been
taught, ever since she was very young, that the place of the Good Muslim Wife was to take care of her
family and perform all the menial tasks that her husband was too busy to do, like this one. And so, as
she did every day, she pressed down on herself, inside — she put a pleasant expression on her smooth,
matronly pale-skinned arabic face — and she performed her role. She watched the surroundings pass by
the windows of her sedan, watched time itself pass her by, and she pondered what boring,
unremarkable (but assuredly quite cost-effective) meal she would cook for her son and husband that
night.

She was bored, but that was fine.

“Bored?” Her Baba would scoff, when, so long ago she felt it was in another lifetime, she would dare to
vocalize such a complaint. Her Baba had been the kind of stern-faced, bearded man of the desert and
the Quran that was the very basis of every stereotype she’d encountered living here in the United
States. He might as well have been a stereotype for Amira, as well; even now, anytime she thought of
the sternness of her faith, of the lifestyle it demanded of her as a Good Muslim Wife and Mother, she
thought of her Baba, her father.

“What is it you want instead of this boredom, child?” She could practically hear her Baba’s gravelly,
sonorous voice intoning into her ear, anytime she was on the road, trying not to think. “Excitement?
Glamor? Drama?” A vague, indecipherable sound of cantankerous scorn at the very thought of those
things, accompanied, most often, by a dirty, sidelong glance at her, the sight that always seemed to
offend him, somehow, before driving home the message he had always been most intent to teach his
daughter: “Do not complain of this, child. These things are not your place. These things are not for you.
You will pray, and you will serve your husband one day, and you will raise his children, and that will be
enough for you, as it has been enough for your mother and all good God-fearing Muslim women.”

Many of the American women Amira had met over her adult life, when she would recount stories like
that, were appalled. They would coo sympathetically, the glint in their eyes that of any animal who sees
another who has been ensnared and is simply relieved it was not them, and tell her how awful that all
must have been. And they would always be surprised, for Amira would defend her Baba. Her Baba had
not hated her, she would assure them in her gentle, soft, mildly accented voice. He had simply been
preparing her for the humble life of faith and family that any daughter of his must have.

She did not tell them, of course, about those dirty looks he gave her all through her youth. She did not
tell them how those looks, over the course of years, like the tides crashing against the shore,
relentlessly, had worn her down, made her ashamed of the body that so clearly offended him, one she
had not chosen but been born into, made her ashamed of the voluptuous curves she grew into through
no choice of her own. She did not tell those other women about how her father had seemed to at once
fear and resent the fact his only daughter had turned out to be so beautiful.

She did not tell them how, when he had too much to drink, her Baba would sit at the dinner table while
his sons and his daughter and his worn-down, meek wife would sit staring into their plates, listening to
him mutter with increasing venom about what a profane whore’s body his god-damned wife had given
his daughter, making Amira layer herself more and more over the years under more and more
unadorned, boring hijabs to cover up the body that puberty gave her, with its shameful, melon-sized
breasts, defiantly perky and round in the face of a God who was no doubt disappointed in her for it just
as her Baba was; with its thick, shelf-like bubbly milky-smooth ass and long, obscenely curvy legs.

Amira did not tell those other women how she’d never had a chance to be like the other girls her age,
growing up in America. She did not pursue the looks of the handsome boys at school, no matter how it
would make her stomach flip and flutter and heat up when certain among them would give her those
looks. The one time she’d made the mistake of bringing one of those tall, handsome boys home with
her, captivated by the difference of a male sneaking sidelong looks at her not with disgust but with poorly
concealed desire, that boy had ended up never speaking to her again, for he’d been forced to sit there
and stare in shock as her Baba stormed in on them and yelled and thundered at her for trying to tempt a
man before marriage with her harlot’s face, with its thick supple lips and heavily lidded almond-shaped
seductress eyes. After that, none of the boys at school were willing to do more than glance at her and
then pointedly stare right past — and even if they’d looked, there was less and less to see as Amira grew
up, because by the time she was a woman, she made sure to always wear a formless black hijab and
bulky, bland dresses that draped over her and concealed the body that she had grown to resent almost
as much as her Baba did.

Because her Baba, and her Quran, had taught her where she belonged in this world, and her body with
its profane, heavy, jiggling breasts and prominent, protruding backside that bounced around every time
she so much as took a step was, on a good day, something to ignore, for at least when she was ignoring
it, she didn’t have to curse it — or hear Baba curse it.

—
The school was close, now. Amira felt her consciousness easing back into the present from the
comforting void of vague daydreams, conditioned from endless repetition driving this very route at this
very time, preparing to switch from one mindless routine to the next. She’d driven here. Now she’d flick
the switch, turn on the Welcoming Mother routine, and let her sweet, helplessly dorky son Rayan whine
to her, as inevitable as the ride to pick him up, about that horrible boy who bullied him every day.
Amira heard herself letting out a barely audible little sigh of disappointment and immediately felt guilty for
it, grateful no one was around to hear it. She could almost feel her Baba’s stern, judgmental glare for it,
and was even more grateful that he was an hour’s drive away the next town over, only a factor in her
life anymore on holy days when the whole family would gather.
She wasn’t disappointed in her son, not really. How could she be? He was just like this father, and
she’d known to expect that from the moment she’d married Fazhir.

Fazhir was not the kind of boy who would look at Amira and make her stomach flip, heat up, her cheeks
warming.

Was that the only reason her Baba had told her she was marrying him? Maybe. Maybe not. The only
thing that was certain was that she would marry him, because her Baba knew his family, and her Baba
said he was a good God-fearing man who would give her children, and the slow creep of
Americanization was no match at that point for the considerable weight of patriarchy and the Quran. And
so Amira Shabani had married Fazhir, who did not make her stomach flip or her cheeks heat up, to
hopefully earn even fewer of those resentful looks from Baba.

She was almost shocked when, in fact, it worked!

As soon as the marriage was sanctified, it was as if her father became a changed man around Amira.
For a time, it was even welcome enough to make her set aside the creeping sensation of dread that
came from her fledgling marriage to Fazhir — sure, she had just sworn to spend the rest of her life with a
man who spoke with a reedy, monotonous voice that either annoyed her or bored her at any given time,
who she was still debating whether or not he was inoffensive to the eye, who, despite her crushing
inexperience with men by that time, had still managed to leave some deep, primal part of her not just
dissatisfied but even disgusted on their wedding night… but her Baba was clearly pleased, so how could
it really be bad?

And, to be fair, it wasn’t bad. That was the truth. Fazhir treated Amira with respect. He did not turn out
to be a bad man, a violent man. He had no hidden vices. And though they’d married nearly as
strangers, he was a perfectly mild, polite stranger, who treated her with respect. He ordered her around
from time to time, with the docile expectation and disinterested voice of one who simply expects to be
obeyed because that is The Way of Things, but he was never bossy, never raised his voice.

He was just… boring.

That, Amira would realize, as she’d realized once that excitement and glamor and drama were not for
her, was why her Baba was happy. The daughter he’d feared would bring shame to his name with her
lewd, God-defying and man-tempting shapely body had ended up going undefiled under his watchful eye
through her youth, and now belonged to a good Muslim husband who would ensure she stayed far away
from unholy and indecent things.
This realization, unlike the last, had led to Amira, in the small hours of the morning after she’d found out
she was pregnant, burying her face in her pillow while Fazhir was brushing his teeth in the bathroom
down the hall — and screaming into it, a long, loud, sustained shriek of anger and fear and despair. The
sound, just like the busty, fat-assed body that had given her such discomfort over the years, was buried,
hidden, muffled almost entirely into the pillow.

And just like she had learned to ignore her body, a few moments later she was ignoring that she’d ever
vented the realization of her inevitable future of boredom and domestic servitude, smiling flatly at her
scrawny husband his bland, forgettable face as he joined her in bed.

Rayan was Fazhir’s son, but he was also her son. She loved him. By the time Rayan was born, Amira
had been long past her Moment in the bedroom, long past that blip on the radar where, for just a
Moment, she’d let herself feel rage and resentment and heartbreak over how she’d let first her Baba
and now the man she’d married but did not love railroad her into a life she hadn’t chosen. She’d long
since reminded herself that, if nothing else, knowing that all of this, the husband and the son and her
Baba, must be where she belonged, must be God’s will, and that was some comfort.

So she let Rayan into her heart, and raised him as the good Muslim mother she was expected to be.
That, at least, had some joy in it. Rayan was his father’s son, no doubt about it, but there were times he
reminded her of herself, too.

She just wished she’d had some backbone of her own to teach him, because Fazhir surely didn’t have
any to pass down to him. And that was why, every day, when she would drive into the school as she was
doing now, she knew to expect yet another sniveled horror story about how her poor pushover son was
harassed and bullied.

What Amira had not expected today, because it had never happened before, was as she pulled her
sedan into the parking lot, seeing her son by one of the dumpsters behind the school building, currently
getting shoved up against the brick wall by a hulking brute who looked as if he couldn’t possibly be the
same age as Rayan, judging from just how much larger he was.

“What in the—?” Amira gasped sharply, the vehicle swerving slightly as the sheer shock and surprise of
the situation led her to lose control of the steering wheel for just a moment. The tires screeched briefly.
The nightmare visage who had her son by his bloodied shirt collar turned to glance over his shoulder as
Amira hastily pulled the car up just past the dumpster. Her hands shook with sudden adrenaline, turning
the keys in her ignition, and she shoved her door open, the light breeze of the open air making her black
hijab flutter about her shoulders, a few locks of long black hair escaping to swing about her high,
dignified cheekbones, big hazel eyes glaring over at whoever was bullying her son in a way that might
have impressed even her Baba.

“What in Allah’s name is the meaning of this?!” she managed as sharply as she could, hating that there
was still a slight tremor to her noticeably accented voice, the unavoidable byproduct of growing up
around parents who still largely spoke Persian. Her black, low-to-the-ground heels clacked against the
pavement, feet stomping in an emulation of what she remembered from her own mother when she
would lose her temper with her children, but it only made her blush slightly in self-consciousness as her
considerable, matronly chest bounced around despite the bulky brown dress top currently trying so hard
to conceal it.

Judging from the crass way the hulking white brute currently manhandling her son leered at her chest in
a way that only made her blush even more deeply, it wasn’t doing a very good job at that concealment.

“Who the fuck’re you supposed to be, lady?” Somehow Amira’s blush deepened still more just at the
sound of this bully’s deep, rough baritone voice. It was utterly unlike anything she’d heard in years and
years, certainly utterly unlike anything she ever heard from her reedy-voiced Fazhir or meek young son
Rayan, who was currently looking back and forth from her to the brute as if he were watching a
particularly intensive tennis match, a nearly heartbreaking hope on his face. Inwardly, Amira found
herself cursing her husband, for raising a son so helpless that he would look so nakedly relieved at his
mommy showing up in this situation.

She’d been so caught up, both in that and in her strange, unintentional reaction to the bully’s voice,
that she hadn’t noticed she was just standing there with a flush on her pronounced cheekbones. Amira
cleared her voice, stepped up closer to the brute holding up her son — trying not to let the fact it only
made it even more obvious how he stood over a head taller than her and easily twice as broad as her
entire body — and gave a sharp slap to his shoulder. Her eyes widened, and the venom she’d been
gathering falthered in her mouth at the feel of the boulder-like sturdiness of this white monster, his warm,
solid shoulder practically sending her hand bouncing off of it like bulletproof glass.

“I… I could ask the same of you, young man!” She finally managed to sputter, planting her hands on her
hips. “Put my Rayan down, you… you great big thug! What is your name?” She made a show of looking
around, squinting toward the school’s cafeteria around the corner. “You are going to be in a world of
trouble when I find one of your teachers, do you hear me?” She slapped his shoulder again, trying to put
a little more strength into it, and felt her face heat up anew at how it felt just as useless. “I said, put him
down!”

For a long moment, the bully didn’t do anything, just kept staring down at her with dark, hooded eyes
that somehow made her feel exposed and vulnerable just from being under their inspection; it was hard
not to picture herself as some tiny prey animal being sized up by a great, snarling predator. But then, to
her relief so immense she felt her knees just about give out under her chaste calf-length dress, he gave
her a little sneer — and released his grip on Rayan’s shirt, letting him slump unceremoniously down onto
the grimy pavement.

“Oh, azizam!” Amira cried out, slipping unconsciously to using the Persian term of endearment she so
often called her son. She brushed past the brute standing before her and knelt down next to Rayan,
reaching into her purse and fumbling clumsily about in it until she found her kerchief. Rayan groaned
with a combination of pain and embarrassment as he sat there, his mother cleaning up the blood from
his split lip, her coos of sympathy intermingled with soft babbling in Persian trying to comfort him. “Are
you hurt anywhere else, my dear boy? Show mommy where he hit you, it’s all right — don’t you worry,
I’m going to make sure he gets in plenty of trouble for this, the gurdn kelft...”

Mentioning the bully who’d done this to him reminded Amira that he was still there. Her kerchief still
pressed to Rayan’s face, she turned back toward him — and was left briefly speechless. Not because of
the fact the hulking brute was very openly checking her out, his head tilted to one side to get a good look
at her ass while she tended to the son he’d just beaten up. No, what left Amira speechless was just the
sheer sight of him, now that she could finally get a good look.

Even when she’d been in high school herself, she couldn’t remember ever seeing such a huge
specimen of a white boy. The word ‘boy’ wasn’t even a fair application for this one — high schooler or
not, everything about him screamed Man. Unlike her sweet Rayan or her milquetoast Fazhir who she’d
learned to tolerate over the last nearly two decades of her life, there was not a single part of this bully
that could have been described as soft or weak. He towered over them like a walking, breathing ogre out
of one of the dark fantasy novels Amira would read at school, without her parents around to slap it out of
her hands and condemn it as blasphemous; every inch of his exposed skin in the baggy school sports
jersey and baggy gray athletic shorts he was wearing was hard and muscled. Beefy, powerful arms that
each looked as thick as her poor son’s torso were crossed over his equally beefy, powerful chest. His
legs, covered in a rich, dark coat of hair to match his arms, resembled tree trunks more than human
limbs. Short, messy dirty blonde hair framed a rough, brutish face with a strong, stubbled jaw, fierce
thick eyebrows shadowing his hooded dark brown eyes.

But most unnerving of all wasn’t the smirk on his face that seemed all too confident despite that fact
he’d just been caught red-handed by an outraged mother of his victim. It was the fact that, knelt down
on the ground like this, it was impossible for Amira to miss the fact the high school brute’s shorts were
bulging out obscenely at the crotch, what looked like the flaccid genitalia of a horse clearly outlined
under his shorts and draped along one thigh, so massive that it came just shy of peeking out the bottom
of one side of the shorts.

The fact she couldn’t help staring at it, speechless, only made it worse when she finally dragged her
eyes back up to the bully’s face and saw the gloating smirk on it, making it very clear he’d noticed her
gawking.
“Wait, wait, wait, let me get this shit straight,” he drawled in his deep, irritatingly overconfident voice. He
nodded his strong jaw at Rayan, in the process disinterestedly wiping some of the boy’s blood off on his
white sports jersey, leaving a faint red stain to match that on his victim’s shirt. “This is your
fuckin mom, loser?” He stared incredulously at Rayan, and then at Amira, and burst out laughing, a
loud, crass, undignified taunting laugh that would have fit any schoolyard bully, but which sounded
anything but childish coming from him. “How did some sad little punching bag like you come from such
a fine piece of ass, huh?”

Amira’s entire world screeched to a halt. Her heart pounded in her ears and she took in a sharp breath
like she’d just dived into ice-cold water.

A fine… piece of… ass?

In all her life, she’d never been referred to like that. There had only ever been the extreme on the
opposite side of the coin — her father shaming her for how she looked, for the ungodly crime of having a
body that could so easily ignite sexual desire, or Fazhir, never so much as acknowledging anything
about her body other than to occasionally remark that a button on her blouse had popped open because
of her considerable motherly breasts jiggling around, simply so she could conceal them again.

Not only had she never been referred to like that — now it was coming from this muscled, rough-looking
mountain of a boy — no, not a boy, a man, and one who could snap her maddeningly boring husband
over one knee like a fucking twig so he could never nag at her to button her blouse up agai —

For the first time since she was a girl, Amira’s stomach flipped, heated up, as it had all those years ago
when the handsome boys at school would look at her and smile. Before she learned to make them look
away, because it was not for her.

It was like taking a hit of a drug she’d quit long ago. For just a split second, Amira let herself bask in it.
She was only snapped out of the unexpected torrent of white-hot emotion by the sound of her sweet little
Rayan’s voice, so like his father’s, meek and high of timbre, feebly trying to retort the smirking brute
towering over them.

“C-C’mon, don’t talk about my mom like that, Duncan! Just… just go away, and I’ll… I’ll talk to her,
alright? I’ll… I’ll make sure she doesn’t… tell on you or anything…”

The deep shame Amira felt at those thoughts that had just flashed so viciously across her mind, brought
unbidden by the shock of hearing a man talk to her that way after decades of repression, was only made
worse by the horror of what she was hearing now. She looked sharply back at Rayan, her slender
eyebrows furrowing in consternation, kerchief pausing in cleaning up his wound. “What on… What on
earth are you on about, azizam? You can’t be serious!” She tried to ignore the snide snickering that
came from the bully she now knew was called Duncan in response to this, instead pressing a soft,
feminine hand against her son’s forehead and leaning in toward him intently. “I know you are scared,
child, but you can’t just… let him do whatever he wants, don’t you understand?”

“Sure he can,” Duncan drawled in that insufferably cocky voice from behind her. “Little dork knows his
place around here, doesn’t he, loser? He knows if he gets me in trouble I’ll just fuck him up even worse
after.”

Amira felt her shame turn, just as suddenly, into fury, converting itself into the fury of a mother protecting
her young. In a flash she was on her feet, glaring ferociously up at Duncan, whose smirk didn’t so much
as falter as she craned her neck to look up at him, jabbing a finger against his chest. She tried, very
hard, to ignore the faint tingling in her stomach when she felt how his chest was every bit as sturdy and
hard as his shoulder.

“You watch your mouth, you damned brute! Does your mother know you speak like this? Does your
father? Perhaps he should not have spared the rod in your case!” She paused, taken aback at
Duncan’s eyes very blatantly looking down from her own face to instead enjoy the view of her huge
breasts shaking around in her bland top, spurred to motion by her aggressive finger motions. “Hey! I’m
talking to you, young man!”

Duncan turned his eyes, just as deliberately, back to her face. He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “You
got some real nice big tits under there for a third-world cunt, you know that? How about instead of
flapping your lips you take that top off and let me smack em around like I smacked your kid around?”

Amira didn’t even know how to process the rush of emotions that his words brought on. Fury —
embarrassment — indignation — disbelief —

The flipping in her stomach —

Her hand delivered a slap across his face so sharply that it rang out like a gunshot in the quiet,
after-school parking lot.

The silence that fell over the three of them reminded Amira of those tense dinners of her youth when her
Baba would start drinking. That only made her angry breathing even heavier as she glared up at
Duncan. Rayan stared in abject horror from the pavement, very visibly not relieved at his mother’s
presence anymore, his face that of a weak animal that knows it’s only angered the predator trying to
maul it by fighting back.

“M—Maamaan… you… you shouldn’t have…”

“Go wait in the car, azizam.” Amira stared right up at Duncan, trying to stop the maddening way her
stomach was only flipping and heating all the more crazily as the towering white thug casually rubbed at
the slightly red spot on his cheek where she’d slapped him, his grin only looking even more wolfish than
before she’d done it.

“But—”

“Go! Now!” Amira felt bad for snapping at her son, especially after all he’d just been through, but she
was barely in control of her own tumultuous emotions now, and her confusion over why her stomach
was continuing to react as if some handsome boy from her youth was asking her to a dance was only
making it worse.

Rayan, if nothing else, crumbled as soon as anyone raised their voice at him — so like his father. No
wonder this Duncan walked all over him so easily if that was all it took… and he had so much more…

At least a little relief could be felt as Rayan stumbled to his feet and jogged away, looking from his bully
to his mother with an anxious expression. He and Amira locked eyes for just a moment before he
rounded the corner — and as he disappeared from view, Amira felt that white-hot heat flare up in her
stomach again, a very clear mental image flashing across her mind of her slap being directed at his
father instead of his bully for making him such a pushover that he was running away to leave his mother
to this brute instead of standing up for her, for himself.

“C’mon, don’t act like you aren’t disappointed every time you look at that limp-wrist runt,” Duncan
snickered, watching him go before turning his endlessly, infuriatingly cocky grin back to her. He took a
step toward her. She took a step back. He kept coming, and she kept slowly back up, the stern
expression faltering from her face as she found herself unsure what to do in the face of this high school
bully still taking the offensive after bearing the full brunt of an angry mother and all the threats it entailed.
“Bet he’s got a real fuckin limpdick of a father, too, don’t he, bitch? Can’t be much of a man if he’s
running off like a little pussy soon as mommy gives him the excuse.”

“Sh—shut up,” Amira tried to talk over him, but her voice came out as if she’d just been punched in the
stomach, weak and soft, her striking almond-shaped eyes widening as the bully she’d been so confident
was nothing but a brainless brute spoke her deepest, most repressed thoughts right back to her, like
he’d seen right through her.

“Yeah? You want me to shut up?” His footsteps thudded against the pavement like dead weights, his
sheer enormous size making his approach all the more intimidating. Duncan looked down his nose at
her with that arrogant, ferocious grin on his thuggish face, a look that made her sick, but at the same
time, somehow, made her feel more seen than she’d been in her entire life. “You sure that’s what you
want?”

Amira’s eyes flitted, before she could so much as try to stop it, right down to the stomping brute’s
crotch. Down to the enormous, flopping bulge that was wobbling heavily around with every step he took
toward her. Her belly didn’t just flip — it did a fucking somersault, unlike anything she’d ever felt.

It was as if this high school bully was the exact opposite of her husband. The exact opposite of her
father. The exact opposite of every male she’d ever dealt with.

The woman who, nearly two decades ago, had screamed into her pillow at the thought of bearing her
tiny-dicked, weak-willed Fazhir’s child, a woman who she thought he’d smothered into that same pillow
even as she screamed, was apparently not as dead as she’d thought. Amira heard that woman’s voice
speaking through her mouth as Duncan’s relentless approach finally backed her right up against the
dumpster, her shelf-like bottom cushioning her against it even as the other shelf-like cushioning on her
other side, her breasts, heaved with light, hot breaths, her eyes smoky and enticingly lidded as she look
up at this brutal man who spoke so crassly, so overconfidently… who looked at the body she’d hidden
for so long and did not look indifferently away; did not glare at it like it was something offensive; did not
look away from it, too nervous to admire something he shouldn’t.

“I could have you… expelled…” This other woman speaking through Amira’s mouth, to her distant,
academic curiosity, didn’t sound angry or threatening at all. In fact, it almost sounded leading. Teasing.
Like some slut at the clubs she’d walk by in the city on the rare occasions she went there, playing hard
to get for some stud trying to act tough for her, seeing how far she can get him to go.

“You’re not gonna do that.” Duncan placed one hand on the brick wall to their side, the other hand on
the dumpster, pinning her against it. They were so close now that she could feel his body heat
enveloping her like a warm blanket, intense and hearty. Body spray mingled with the faint body odor of a
healthy young man who’d been exerting himself tickled her nostrils, a strangely thrilling, foreign scent
that had been denied her for her entire youth. His deep voice vibrated through her when he spoke.

Amira tried to be embarrassed by the faintly needy little sound that escaped her as she swallowed
thickly, her heart pounding in her chest. It was like she was drowning inside herself, being eaten up by
this other woman who she’d tried so hard to drown the night she learned she was pregnant. “You’re…
nothing but… a big bully. My Rayan… is a better person… than you’ll ever be.”

“Your kid is a fuckin pussy who’s only good as a punching bag,” Duncan’s cocky, drawling voice
overpowered hers effortlessly, and unlike when her Baba tried something like that, she didn’t feel
resentment. Inexplicably, her belly did that somersault again. An insane thought crossed her mind that
she would be sure to hate herself for later: if God spoke, would he sound as strong and manly as this
white devil…?

“You wanna help him?” That voice pierced her increasingly foggy brain.

Amira nodded sluggishly, aware that she was giving this brute who just beat up her son bedroom eyes in
a school parking lot but powerless to stop it, because she was no longer herself. “I’m going to help
him,” she practically slurred, her eyes drifting to drink in Duncan’s powerful body… and lingering on
what was very visibly turning into an ominously massive tent in the high school bully’s shorts, twitching
and swelling before her eyes. An indecent sight that her Baba would have a heart attack over if he knew
his Amira was being exposed to something so unholy, let alone on such a violent, crass white brute.
That made her roll her hips. Her thighs rubbed against each other, and she wasn’t sure if she was trying
to clamp down on the yearning developing between them — or indulge it. “’M going to… going to go over
there… I will find your Principal… and I will... have you expe—”

Two enormous, powerful white hands, one of them still faintly stained with the blood from her son’s lip,
gripped her blouse — and ripped it open.

Two buttons from the chaste brown shirt fell to the pavement below. Amira stared, slack-jawed, as her
mountains of soft, pillowy brown cleavage came burst out into the open, jiggling so massively that they
almost fell right out of her modest black bra as well. They managed to stay in, but her breasts were so
large that the aerolae were dawning over the bra like a dark brown sunrise, slightly protruding over the
fabric. She observed, faintly, that her considerable nipples were hard as diamond and visibly poking out
under her bra.

She started to shake her head, trying to clear it, raising her voice slightly. “H—Hey, you can’t—”

“Shut the fuck up, fat-tits,” Duncan drawled imperiously over her. Even more shocking to her than her
breasts quite violently being brought out of her top was the fact that, without a hint of resentment boiling
in her, Amira obeyed him. Her mind was far too foggy right now to even begin to process why, but for
some reason, when this white thug ordered her around, she actually felt like it was simply the right thing
to do to obey him. Her Baba’s teachings, the Quaran — she didn’t even think about them. There was no
rule she was following, no tenet of Her Role. It simply felt natural.

“You said you wanted to help your loser son, yeah?” That deep, rough voice sent vibrations through her
that made her rub her thighs together even more feverishly under her dress. She noticed that she’d
placed one dainty pale hand against Duncan’s broad, muscled chest when he tore her top open — and
as one of his huge, powerful hands reached up and casually gave one of her milky, pillowy tits a
squeeze, she sucked in a sharp breath and clutched down on his shirt, biting her plump, unpainted lower
lip. She felt dizzy for a moment, the whole world seeming to spin. She’d known her breasts were
sensitive, once — she’d been a teenager, experimented with her own body, of course she had. But her
upbringing had made her ashamed of her large breasts for so long… and her husband never so much as
looked at them with any kind of desire in the bedroom, only ever occasionally humping her with all the
dexterity of a dying, beached fish before slumping off of her and falling asleep. To have such firm,
masculine warm hands squeeze down so domineeringly on one of her breasts after they’d gone
neglected for so long…

Her pussy, a part of her she never even really thought about anymore other than for hygiene, clenched,
spasmed. Her legs shook as she squeezed her thighs together. It was only biting down on her lip that
prevented an embarrassing moan.

“Well you’re in luck.” Duncan licked his lower lip as he felt up her married, motherly breast as casually
as most men would scratch an itch. Acting as if he were simply entitled to it because he’d decided he
wanted it, and he was the kind of man who should get what he wanted. It should have disgusted Amira.
Deep down, maybe the sane part of her that was currently drowning was disgusted. But all the woman
who had screamed into her pillow could think about was that here, finally, was a man who saw her body
not as something disgusting, but as something desirable… and he wasn’t afraid to show it. His powerful
fingers, fingers which minutes ago had been tormenting her son, she tried to remind herself and could
only manage a furrowed brow over, kneaded and juggled around her breast in his palm; his hand was so
big, so thick-fingered, that he could even manage to make her considerable bosom look like just another
plaything for him to abuse.

“Because here’s the thing, bitch. I like pushing around your kid. I mean, have you seen his fuckin
face?” He let out a dark chuckle. Abruptly, he stopped squeezing her breast - and gave it a harsh smack
instead. It bounced alarmingly around in her bra, jiggling against its opposite, both of them jiggling just a
little bit closer to falling right out of her bra, which was already struggling to contain so much soft,
mountainous titmeat to begin with. “I ain’t gonna lie to you. I’m gonna keep doin’ whatever the fuck I
want to him.” Just as abruptly as he smacked her breast, Duncan reached up and grabbed the top of
Amira’s head, clenching his fingers in her hijab to make her look up at him, their hot breaths mingling in
close proximity, her breasts brushing against his firm, hard chest as he leaned forward.

And then — down toward those parts of her that Amira had managed so successfully never to think about
anymore for decades — she felt something hard, hot, and throbbing rubbing against her belly. The tent in
his shorts had grown so large that it was prodding against her stomach… and now she could feel it
growing, right on her. Feel something utterly unlike what she’d experienced with her boring Fazhir.
Something enormous, powerful, downright threatening in its size.

Her eyelids fluttered. If Duncan hadn’t been holding her head, she might have collapsed, her legs
turned so jello-y.

“But maybe you give me something more fun to smack around,” Duncan breathed hotly, leaning in to
growl right in her ear, his deep voice sending those vibrations through her right down to between her
legs. “And things get easier for your little Rayan here at school…” He snickered darkly. “…but no
promises.”

Amira would tell herself differently later. She would try to tell herself that she’d misheard him, that she’d
thought he actually promised to leave Rayan alone from then on if she gave in to this crass, primitive
power play that should have ended in him arrested, not just for beating up her son but for tearing open a
woman’s shirt and molesting her behind a school dumpster. She would desperately try, above all else,
to tell herself that she didn’t let out a muffled, helpless moan at how bestial this absolute fucking stud
was, how utterly fucking different he was from the chaste and the boring and the holier-than-thou men
she’d been stuck with for so long.

But that was later.

What she did now — was to moan right back into Duncan’s ear, barely even aware of how she breathed
to him “You’re a monster” in a sultry, needy tone unlike anything Amira had ever heard with her own
voice, and reached down, both of her hands gripping the rock-hard, hot ‘monster’ she felt rubbing
against her stomach. And moaning even louder when she felt both her hands gripping around that
ungodly monstrosity, feeling it thrumming like a live wire through his shorts… and feeling that she could
barely wrap her dainty, soft fingers halfway around its still-growing girth.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned weakly, too far gone to even feel embarrassed for her language, her eyes
widening as she looked down toward it, her hands moving with a will of their own, feeling up the
aggressively throbbing battering ram this thug was apparently hiding in his shorts. “You’re not a
monster… you are Al-Shaitan himself…”
She could only gasp as Duncan roughly wrapped his arms around her sides and pulled her right up
against him, her hands still wrapped around his pulsating monster of a cock as her tits squished up
against his chest, both his big powerful hands smacking down, hard, on her ass. She let out a weak little
yelp, her eyelids fluttering again, and even though her heart started beating rapidly as though terrified,
she was distantly bewildered at the smile that broke out on her face for just a moment.

After having her body kept at arm’s length by the world for so long, though, was it so confusing that she
might feel a perverse happiness at finally having it touched so hungrily?

“Real fuckin shame they got you hiding all this away under those ugly-ass dresses and those rags on
your head, you jiggly old rapedoll,” Duncan snarled, his hands roughly hitching Amira’s dress up. She
felt the cool air brushing against her bare asscheeks briefly only for his warm, coarse hands to cover
them right back up by possessively squeezing and juggling her fat, doughy asspadding around. Amira
shivered, her breath shaky, the new sensations all threatening to overwhelm her — having her body
handled this way, feeling her most obscene parts exposed to the open air in a way completely foreign to
her…

“I oughta beat the shit outta your limpdick husband just for making you hide this fat ass of yours,”
Duncan grunted, and he gave her ass another slap, this time his palm hitting her bare flesh.

Amira didn’t yelp at that.

She didn’t make a sound, for a moment. She just stared at Duncan, her pounding heart going
completely still. The whole world seemed to freeze. His words echoed in her ears, over and over and
over, letting them sink into her reeling, vulnerable and confused mind.

The next thing she knew, she was squatting down in front of him, her soft, small hands holding his
throbbing, rock-hard cock through his shorts so that she could plant hot, wet, desperate kisses all along
its clothed, massive length.

“Haaaahaha, holy shit, what is this all about?” She barely even processed Duncan’s incredulous
laughter and his smug, arrogant voice ringing out over her. She was barely aware of anything right now,
other than this frenzied, uncontrollable urge to kiss and slobber and treat this loudmouth, violent horny
thug’s cock like it was her own personal God. Decades of repression, resentment, and most of all, lust,
were boiling and frothing within Amira’s very core like a volcano about to erupt. It was terrifying, on
some vague, distant level, to wonder what would happen when it finally did erupt. But right now, it didn’t
matter. Nothing else mattered. Not even the thought of her little Rayan, sitting in the car not twenty feet
away, just around the corner, no doubt wondering what was taking his Maamaan so long in dealing with
his bully.

Dress still hitched up around her hips, her huge, shelf-like ass wobbled, jiggled, shook as she let out
desperate, muffled little moans between loud wet kissing noises, her soft, plush lips making out with the
bully’s throbbing, fully erect cock through his thin shorts, her hot breaths showered all over it, her saliva
beginning to stain the fabric and dripping down onto her exposed cleavage as it bounced around almost
as freely as her ass.
“Guess I musta hit a fuckin nerve, huh?” Duncan breathed out, his own breaths starting to get a little
ragged as the sight of this married Muslim wife shaking her fat, soft ass around and squatting in front of
him to slobber on the powerful tent in his shorts. “What is it, huh, fat-ass? Wish it was your limpdick
hubby whose lip I split open?”

There was still just enough of Amira’s decency clinging on that she didn’t say anything. Instead, she
kissed her way along the protruding, endless length of the tent in Duncan’s shorts, both her soft hands
clutching the fat, rock-hard base of it. She looked right up at him with smoky, heavily lidded arabic eyes,
locked gazes with him. Her wet, pillowy lips slurped noisily as she kissed against the fistlike, drooling
head of his cock through the fabric clinging to it so tightly.

Perhaps, in some way, her Baba had been right to fear what a woman like her could do to a man.
Perhaps it was the kind of ferocious, animalistic snarl that came out of the high school bully towering
over his devoted Muslim daughter there behind his grandson’s school building, the big brute now driven
to the same kind of frenzy that she herself had been driven to. Perhaps it was the violent way he gripped
the top of her hijab, jerked her head away from his cock, and used his other hand to brusquely shove his
shorts down.

And most certainly what Baba had feared was the giant, veined, powerful uncut white cock that slapped
meatily down onto his daughter’s motherly face, the ungodly size of it making the contact of flesh on
flesh sound almost more like a punch than a slap.

Amira had spent decades pushing herself down, inside.

As she squatted there in front of her son’s hulking white bully, staring wide eyed up at the impossibly
huge, fat, sweaty teen cock draped over her face, obscuring her almost entirely from view under it, its
eye-watering, utterly masculine cockstank burning at her nose and melting what little was left of her
brain at that moment—

The volcano erupted.

Amira’s Baba and her Fazhir, her poor son Rayan, would have had trouble recognizing her now.
Desperate snorting, slurping, and wet smacking noises filled the air as Amira lunged her face forward,
moaning throatily and needily, feeling like a woman who had spent her entire life sustained only by
eating bread and of a sudden found a gourmet banquet laid out before her. She couldn’t believe this.
She hadn’t wanted to believe a man like this could exist, that a cock like this could exist — she could
only stop her frenzied, worshipful licks and kisses all over his proudly towering, throbbing shaft to hold it
up over her head, staring up at it with almost crazed reverence, staring as if she wanted to ensure it
wasn’t about to disappear and be replaced with her Baba’s stern, disgusted face.

“How is it… how is it even… so fucking… big…” Amira had to stop to swallow between words, wiping the
drool that hung sloppily from her slack lower lip. Her soft hands felt all over it, rubbing, squeezing, and
she tilted her head to one side, reverentially noting how tiny her hands looked compared to this
specimen of apex male sexuality. She closed her eyes, smacked it down against her own face, right
against the center of it, and her eyelids fluttered back open, a dumb smile spreading over her plump lips
as she stared, cross-eyed, up at Duncan’s obscenely overgrown white studcock. Her hands slid up his
thighs, found his bloated, low-hanging shaved balls, and she let out a long, throaty groan, licking her lips
in a way that made his cock lift up over her face and then heavily thud back down.

“God forgive me… I can’t… I can’t…” Amira’s eyes fluttered weakly to the side, toward where her car
was parked around the corner. “Rayan… maamaan is sorry…”

“Forget about that loser,” Duncan sneered from so far over her that it felt, for all the world, as if it might
as well have been God himself speaking to her. “Forget your God. You don’t need them, you stupid,
jiggly cheating bitch. Lemme show you what you do need…”

Amira had enough scraps of her own decency left to blush faintly at the needy, disappointed sounds that
came out of her like some anxious puppy as Duncan slowly pulled his hips back, letting her feel every
inch of his rock-hard white monstercock slide over her skin, hot and damp with sweat, leaving her
beautiful, matronly Persian features glistening with his steaming hot cocksweat. She followed the
progress of his cock wobbling around in front of her face, still, like that anxious puppy, a puppy watching
a toy being waved around in front of it. Her eyelids fluttered weakly. Her slimy wet tongue rolled out of
her mouth like a drooling red carpet, running slowly, lewdly all over the circumference of her soft lips.

Her eyes shot right back open, though, when Duncan rammed his hips forward — and buried half of that
unholy, homewrecking teen monsterdick right in her throat.

He might have buried the whole thing in there with that one brutal, domineering thrust, had her throat not
been so unprepared and his cock so clumsily huge. As it was, it was stopped from the sheer resistance
of the tight fit, her fat, pouty lips stretched thin instantly as her jaw creaked, widened eyes looking
frantically from her mouth up to Duncan, muffled groans and whimpers barely escaping her thoroughly
stuffed mouth. Her heaving, soft breasts jiggled appetizingly as she slapped her hands against
Duncan’s muscled thighs.

“C’mon, you fatassed old cheating cunt, I thought you Muslim bitches were supposed to be all devout
’n shit about worshiping your God!” Duncan snickered, half-growling with fierce satisfaction as the hot
wet sensation of Amira’s married mouth washed over his cock. He let that growl turn into an outright
groan of pleasure, luxuriously writhing his hips around, stirring his monstrous shaft around inside
Amira’s throat, making her eyes flutter and roll back, drool and throatslop spilling messily out of every
tiny gap between her lips and his meat. “Well, I got a new fuckin’ God for you right here…! Only thing a
fat-titty desert rapecow like you should be worshiping is big fat fuckin’ white cock! So get to it, bitch…!”

He pumped his hips forward powerfully, once. A muffled, wet, frantic GLRRRK! escaped Amira’s throat.
She felt her heart pounding, but she wasn’t afraid. What was this…? Why did she feel like…

Duncan pumped his hips again, burying another few inches inside her throat. Another
guttural GLRRRGH came out of her, her tits and exposed generously padded ass jiggling as her whole
body trembled. Her hands stopped slapping at Duncan’s thighs, instead simply resting against them,
her eyes lidding heavily again and fluttering around faintly.

She should have been terrified — she was getting her throat roughly punched in by her son’s bully and
his giant cock, right outside where any school staff could have showed up at any moment to toss out
trash, or sneak a cigarette break.
She should have been disgusted — this brute not only made her son’s life hell, but he’d threatened her
husband, and clearly saw himself as better than them. He was a foul-mouthed, sexist, prejudiced piece
of white trash, and if she had any sense, she would get far away from him, call the police.

Duncan slowly tugged his hips back, letting his throbbing, hard elephant trunk of a cock slurp wetly out
of her mouth a few inches. She tasted it on her tongue as it slid against it, and her eyes rolled back
slightly. An uncontrollable, guttural moan escaped her.

It was so…

It was so fucking good.

In the back of her mind, the image flashed: Fazhir coming into their bedroom after they’d married. His
body, skinny, scrawny, weak. His face nervous, like he was completely unprepared for what he had to
do as a man, as a husband. His manhood… barely a manhood at all. Barely peeking out of his scraggly,
dark pubic hairs.

Amira’s fluttering eyes looked up at Duncan, outlined by the fading sunlight, his powerful, rippling
muscles. The very picture of a young apex male, fit, strong, virile. His cock stretching her lips so thin she
felt like her jaw might break.

A cock demanding attention, demanding service. A man who said what he meant, took what he wanted…
even if it belonged to someone else.

Duncan thrust his hips brutally. Amira let out a loud, muffled cry as he buried himself balls-deep in her
throat, her entire neck bulging out obscenely as that massive size used her neck as a cocksleeve. His
huge, heavy ballsack slapped wetly into her chin, against her bulging throat.

Amira’s pussy erupted.

She’d never orgasmed in her entire adult life. Only a few times, as a teenager, unable to help herself,
had she masturbated to climax; afterward, as her self-repression became stronger and stronger, it was
too painful to even tempt herself to sexual pleasure by masturbation when all she could hope for in a
man was her boring, tiny-dicked Fazhir. Easier for her, then, never to worry about her own sexual
pleasure at all. Like excitement, glamor, drama, pleasure simply wasn’t for her. Baba would be proud.

And he would have been terrified to see his daughter, trembling and spasming like Al-Shaitan himself
had possessed her, squirting her hot, sweet fem-cum so explosively that it went right through her thin
white panties, splattering audibly down onto the pavement below.

She couldn’t even believe it. The sensation was so powerful, like a hot, cleansing heat rippling from her
pussy to every corner of her body, making her fingers and toes curl, her eyes rolling like a crazed
animal’s, that she couldn’t even think too hard on the fact she’d just climaxed harder than she had in
her entire life, simply from a few strokes of a powerful white alpha cock in and out of her mouth, simply
from the feeling of finally being treated the way, deep down, she’d longed for ever since she was a
teenager awakening to the needs of her ripe, curvy body.
“Aaaahahaha, Jeeeezus lady, you really were overdue for a real cock, weren’t’cha?” Duncan laughed
loudly from over her. She should have been nervous about the volume of his voice, knowing how nearby
her son was, but at that moment, she frankly didn’t give a shit about Rayan. She didn’t give a shit out
Fazhir, or Baba, or her faith, or her marriage, she didn’t give a shit about anything but the taste and feel
of that delicious, domineering monster cock giving her what she needed. Her hips rolled frenziedly. She
looked right up at Duncan — and let out a muffled, but pronounced, “Mmmmmhmmmmm~” around the
cock he’d buried balls-deep in her throat. She reached down and her tits bounced and jiggled as she
shoved her hand down her panties and started fingering herself, eyes rolling back again as she coaxed
a fresh wave of hot, sweet juices from her married pussy, savoring the sensation for the first time since
she was a girl.

Duncan needed no more prompting.

It was hard to believe no one heard the ruckus he made, pounding the ever-loving shit out of her throat
as he did for the minutes that followed. The quiet air was punctuated by a rhythmic, rapid-fire wet
slurping, Amira’s lips vacuum-sealed around Duncan’s giant white bully cock so that every animalistic
thrust of his powerful hips made them tug lewdly back and forth along his sloppy wet shaft, a muffled,
guttural GLKGLKGLKGLKGLKGLK announcing his battering ram of a dick pumping in and out of her
tight, hot, wet throat, his heavy sweaty ballsack slapping meatily and wetly against her chin nonstop.
Amira came twice more, the second time from the sensation of rubbing and fondling those virile, studly
alpha balls in her soft, dainty hands, feeling the potent seed sloshing around in them while he claimed
her mouth, the third time when he tugged himself out of her throat completely, leaving her gasping for
air, and simply slapped her, hard, on one side of her face with his wet, dripping horsecock, and then the
other side, before ramming balls-deep back into her throat and resuming his ruthless, powerful
throat-pounding.

And even after all that, Amira still, somehow, wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“Fuck,” Duncan breathed hotly, far over her, the sound of his voice going from grating and maddening
minutes ago to, now, almost a cherished sound, vibrating right through him all the way into her with his
pummeling monstercock connecting them by her ruined throat. “Fuckfuckfuck… take it, you nasty fuckin’
cheating old bitch… fuckin… take it!”

Her gripped her hijab roughly, jerked her head backward, and pulled his hips back at the same time.
Amira felt like her insides practically tugged out of her from how rapidly he displaced his massive shaft
from her throat, her lips squelching noisily along every inch; a torrent of hot, glistening saliva splattered
wetly down onto her heaving, bouncing pale cleavage and then onto the pavement.

Then the first rope of his semen hit her face.

She felt like she’d been slapped. She blinked rapidly as a copious, almost yogurt-thick blast of hot,
stinking teen bully nut literally splashed onto her skin, some of it oozing thickly down one eye’s thick
lashes. She could only stare, slack-jawed, at his cock as he used one hand to rapidly pump it, making
lewd wet shlickshlickshlick noises every time his big brute hand pumped through the thick sheen of her
spit coating his shaft, unable to quite believe the sheer volume of cum he’d ejected onto her face with
just one rope. It had to be ten times more than her husband’s tiny thing produced in a week.
And it kept coming.

Rope after rope of the stuff, slimy, hot, sludgelike in its thickness, the scent of it so potent and powerful
that, faintly, Amira realized it would be clinging to her the entire ride home with Rayan. Not that he’d
recognize the smell. He was no doubt a shrimpdick like his father, and wouldn’t know the smell of a real
load even if Duncan blasted it onto the little loser’s face himself.

She didn’t even hate herself for thinking that until, finally, the load stopped painting her face, leaving it
glazed so thickly over her features and her rising and falling, jiggling motherly breasts that it looked like a
bucketload of the stuff had been dumped onto her. And still, some oozed lazily out of Duncan’s giant,
veiny white cock as he gave a few last slow pumps, his big hand still clutching her hijab to make sure
she watched very thick, potent drop splash down to the pavement.

“Oh God,” Amira said faintly, a dazed look on her bully nut-painted face, staring at Duncan’s cock. The
overpowering stench of his alpha seed wafted all over the air between them like a too-strong cologne.
Finally released from the throes of her own decades of repression bursting out in the form of her
consecutive, messy squirting orgasms, finally without that accursed white cock preventing her ability to
use her brain… it began to sink in exactly what she had just done.

“Oh God,” she whispered, again, and she didn’t even register the irony of it as she looked up at
Duncan while she said it, her big, shapely arabic eyes gazing at him almost imploringly, like she wanted
him to say it was all a dream.

“Yeah, that’s right, you dumb old slut,” Duncan grunted, smirking down at her, running a hand through
his short, messy dirty blonde hair. “That’s me.” He snickered like it was some entertaining dirty joke
one of his cronies had just whispered to him in class. As Amira sat there, dazed, he leaned down,
reaching into her purse, and fished out her cell phone. She watched blankly, shell-shocked, as he
grabbed her hand, used her thumb to unlock it, and set to swiping around with one hand while his other
took his dripping, glistening — and, ominously, still rock-hard — cock, and draped it right over her face
again, this time with a disgusting, wet splorch as the massive load he’d sprayed all over her splashed
under its weight, sending it spraying down to her tits.

“Now, I ain’t done with you and that slutty fat-titty body of of yours yet, you hear me?” Duncan drawled
conversationally, and he trained the phone on her and his twitching, hard spit-slathered cock partially
covering her cum-glazed matronly face, her jaw slack and wide eyes staring helplessly up at him. “So
here you go, bitch. Little something to remember me by till the next time I see you.”

The phone speakers emitted the tinny digital photo-snapping sound of her camera capturing a picture.
Duncan admired his handiwork and sniggered again, turning the screen toward her. “Haaaah, this is a
good look for you! Way fuckin’ better than what your limpdick camel-humping hubby had you rockin’
before you met me, huh? Well, don’t you worry. I’ll have a nice long talk with him about how a bitch like
you should be treated soon enough…”

He carelessly dropped the phone, his still-steaming load of nut batter squelching as he turned and let his
monstrosity of a cock flop off of Amira’s face. She snapped out of her fugue at the sight of her
expensive phone dropping, her hands lashing out quickly to catch it — and almost regretting it, as she
stared down at it in her hands, confronted with the photo Duncan had just taken of her.
It had been one thing to act like another woman, swept up by instincts, impulses, repressed needs. It
was another thing to see who that other woman really was.

What she saw on the phone was exactly what Duncan had called her — a dumb, hijab-wearing slut,
coated in the potent, stinking load of the giant white bully cock draped over her flushed, sloppy features.
A bitch in heat, in the aftermath of giving in to all the basest, most forbidden desires she’d been taught
her whole life to tamp down on.

But what disturbed her more than anything wasn’t that she barely recognized herself, or even just the
simple fact of having to see the proof that she’d just committed one of the worst taboos of her faith,
cheating on her husband, let alone with such a depraved, brutal young thug, who was now casually
stomping away while still stuffing his overgrown manhood back into his shorts, leaving her there to stew
in his mess.

What disturbed her the most was that, confronted with the sight of Duncan’s big fat cock on her face…

More than disgust, more than shame, more than anything, she felt her stomach flip, tingle, her cheeks
heat up.
 2 - Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Home is where the heart is, the Americans liked to say.

Amira’s household growing up had not been one where American expressions held much sway. Her
Baba preferred stern Quranic and Persian expressions, ones that reinforced the moral system that his
family and his parents’ families and their parents’ families had revolved their lives around for centuries
— “Only God can judge,” for example, was one he’d been maddeningly fond of saying, precisely as he
was drunkenly judging her simply for being born with a voluptuous, curvy womanly body. Most often,
despite how apathetic to disgusted some deep part of Amira had long been about those traditional
Persian phrases her parents were so fond of uttering, they were still the ones that lingered the most in
her subconscious.

But of course, after living almost the entirety of her life in America, she’d heard plenty of their idioms
and expressions. Many of them sounded strange and clumsy to her. Mostly, she did not care about
them, other than one or two that would reflexively spill out of her mouth when holding conversations with
the neighbors and other local women she knew.

Except for home is where the heart is.

That expression, she hated.

Until today, she hadn’t even really grasped that she hated it. She’d spent so long wandering through
her life in a dull fugue, a sort of autopilot, muffling her passions and emotions under layer after layer of
fear and fatigue and resignation, that she’d never bothered to explore the little flare-up of tension in her
belly whenever she’d hear some other mother from her son’s school quaintly use the phrase.

It was only now, standing in her kitchen and patching up her son Rayan’s smashed, bloodied nose, the
taste of his hulking white bully Duncan’s hot sludge-like semen still lingering in her tightly pursed mouth,
that Amira could feel the long-repressed distaste for this house rippling through her, just as lust and
self-loathing in equal measure had been rippling through her in the school parking lot only half an hour
earlier.

Because what had happened in that parking lot had been awful — at least, that’s what Amira kept telling
herself now — but it had, if nothing else, finally battered down the wall she’d built up between her
conscious self and her subsconscious for decades. So many things that she’d pointedly refused to think
about, to consider, to admit to herself, had been tumbling about in her mind ever since, dazed, she’d
stumbled to the car where her freshly beaten-up son had been waiting for her meekly as his bully fucked
the ever-loving shit out of his mommy’s throat. And most succinct of all was the thought she’d shoved
deep into herself for so long whenever she would return home with her poor, frail, dorky son Rayan.
This wasn’t a home.

This was her prison.

“Ow,” Rayan whined, shaking Amira out of the dull, increasingly irritating thought pulsing through her
brain like a drumbeat (prison, prison, prison). His voice, she found herself openly reflecting for the first
time ever, was annoying. He sounded so self-pitying and weak that, for just a moment, Amira felt a
strange, resentful white-hot anger flare up in her. “Maamaan, you’re pressing down too hard…”

An impulse which, thankfully, disturbed her only a second after it hit her, to press the bloodstained
kerchief down even more firmly against her son’s bruised and bloodied face, came and went. Amira
pursed her lips, eased up the pressure of her dainty, soft fingers as she moved the kerchief around
Rayan’s features, cleaning up his injuries. Yet she could not keep the curtness out of her usually
soothing, maternal voice: “Stop whining, Rayan. And stay still.”

Rayan glanced at her sidelong, sulking. She rarely ever called him by his name, usually opting for the
term of endearment her own mother had used for her, azizam. Most often, it meant he was in trouble.
The self-pity radiated from him even more strongly. Amira once again felt that flare-up of irritation
simmer in her gut, irritation that only got worse when it reminded her of the heat that had boiled within
while the same brute who’d left her son so roughed up had instead been roughing up her soft, full,
pillowy pale breasts. Breasts that had gone neglected for so long, had never known a man’s rough,
coarse and domineering touch, until…

She felt Rayan’s eyes drifting, confused, down to her thighs, which were subtly rubbing together.

Amira pursed her lips more tightly and stopped herself, willing the heartbeat thudding in her ears to
subside.

God damn that Duncan.

God damn her weak, pathetic son that her weak, pathetic husband had given her.

And god damn her Baba for making sure she ended up here, in this prison of a home, forced to dote on
and take care of them.

Amira couldn’t quite believe that she was letting those thoughts, clear and fiercely succinct, run across
her mind, blasphemous in so many ways, to her faith, to her upbringing. But god damn it, after she’d
just been used as some horny, obnoxious white American teenager’s personal sextoy in a school
parking lot, was she not entitled to vent a little? Even in this place, this prison, where for so long she’d
denied herself that basic human release valve?

No one else would have understood her thinking of this home like that. Outwardly, it was hardly some
dark, depressing cage. It was a bit sparse, sure, modest in its design—material luxuries, after all, like
excitement, glamor, drama, boys, were not her place. But it was comfortable enough, a basic, suburban
American home, with a living room, a kitchen, an upstairs with three bedrooms, and a study that had
been converted into their prayer room, fitted with three simple prayer mats and a copy of the Quran.
Her husband Fazhir loved it. It was his own little Islamic haven, a place where traditionalist patriarchy
gave him a level of authority and comfort that, on a deep, fundamental primal level, Amira was
convinced even he realized a male as weak as him did not truly deserve. Authority granted by the sheer
momentum of centuries of tradition, not by any accomplishment or strength of his own.

She hated it.

It was thrilling, almost, to let herself think it. Heat flushed her cheeks even as icy coldness touched her
son’s, the icepack in her hand pressing down against his sore, raw skin. Strangely, unbidden, she heard
the voice of Duncan in her mind, that deep, grunting baritone that had made her belly flip, mocking her
son and husband so cruelly in that school parking lot, and with the tumultuous mess her emotions were
at that moment… she found herself smiling, just a little. A bitter, tight little smile on her normally still,
tranquil statuesque Persian features.

“Maamaan…? Your… your shirt…”

The smile froze on Amira’s soft, shapely lips. Rayan was staring at her chest. That, in itself, was not
new—he was a growing young man, and despite growing up with so many similar religious forces
pressing down on his burgeoning hormones as they had with Amira, he was still a boy, and she could
remember well how boys’ eyes would wander toward her generous, plump chest in her own youth. But
it was not the usual faint longing on her son’s face now, a face, she reflected vaguely, that was so
unfortunately similar to her boring, unattractive husband’s. It was a furrowed brow, a deepening frown,
confusion laced with concern.

Amira looked down herself. Her cheeks flushed crimson.

She’d been in such a haze after Duncan had stomped away from her at the school earlier. Her entire
world had been upturned in the space of mere minutes. A side of her which she’d thought she killed had
shown itself to be very much alive, so alive that it had consumed the Amira her family and friends all
knew. It had taken every ounce of her willpower just to clear her own head enough to take off her hijab,
using it to clean up the copious amounts of steaming bully nut that had been painted all over her face
and reddened, handmarked breasts, all the while cursing at herself for somehow only becoming more
aroused at the sheer volume of it all, so starkly different from the watery little loads her husband
produced on the rare occasion he worked up a lust for anything other than a reading of the Quran;
she’d turned the hijab in on itself, concealing the gooey, drying load of her son’s bully’s semen, and
put it back on, stumbling slowly back to her car and holding her blouse together with one hand,
haphazardly telling herself that as long as Rayan didn’t notice it had been ripped open until they got
home, she could simply change.

She was too busy replaying the sight of Duncan’s enormous white cock flopping out of his shorts over
and over in her head to remember to do that when they got home, though, faintly wondering if she was
simply misremembering his size somehow, if maybe she’d been so shocked by the unexpectedness of
the whole situation that she was exaggerating in her mind’s eye, because how in God’s name could
any manhood be that big?
And now her blouse was sagging open, the two top buttons missing allowing her cleavage to spill heavily
out of it. Her bra preserved her decency, to her intense gratitude at that moment, but that did nothing to
conceal the sight of two massive, pale, doughy breasts squeezed tightly together, hanging down heavily
thanks to the fact she was bent forward to treat Rayan’s injuries, and spilling out of her blouse more and
more by the second, jiggling around tantalizingly with every inch that popped out.

The intense gratitude that her bra was on was quickly replaced by heart-stopping terror: there was a
faint but visible string of leftover bully cum right between the top of her breasts.

Rayan didn’t even notice. He was too busy gawking at the rest of the display, hadn’t reached the cum
of the same snickering alpha male asshole who’d messed up his nose painted on his mommy’s
cleavage. But that somehow managed to be even worse, because as her eyes checked to make sure
her son hadn’t noticed, she noticed the tiny, twitching little tent in his pants.

Amira hated herself for it in that moment, almost hated it even more than she hated this house and her
husband and the weakness of her son—but she could not help comparing it to the monster Duncan had
smacked her around with earlier, and curling her lip in disgust as she stared at the tiny little thing trying,
and failing, to tent out her son’s pants.

The shock of catching herself doing that was enough to shake her out of it. Blushing fiercely, Amira
straightened up, hastily grabbed the top of her blouse, and pulled it together, her huge breasts wobbling
around heavily as she squeezed them together even more in the process. She turned away from Rayan,
breathing a bit harder, her free hand rubbing her temple, eyes closed. And in the blackness her world
became with eyes shut, she could see her Baba’s face, stern, disapproving, knowing about every
depraved, unwomanly, ungodly thought she was giving into.

For the first time since she was a girl, Amira did not know which was stronger—the shame, or the
resentment.

“This shirt, it is… old,” she managed, her voice faint. She cleared her throat, turned back to Rayan. His
brow was still furrowed. When he saw her expression now, though, it relaxed. His lips tugged upward
hopefully. The usual soothing calm was back on his maamaan’s face. “Be a good boy and go get your
mother her favorite blouse from the laundry room, would you, azizam? The one with the golden flowers.”

“Yes, maamaan!” The wooden chair was already scooting back on the kitchen floor as Rayan said it.

“Take the ice pack with you. Keep it pressed to that nasty wound. You poor thing, that boy must have hit
like the hand of God himself…” Amira let out a sympathetic, reflexive tsk, and wondered if it was just to
hide the disturbing somersault her stomach performed at the thought of Duncan’s rippling, beefy
muscles.

Rayan started to move away, only to freeze, along with Amira, as her phone buzzed loudly on the
kitchen table near the opened first aid kit. He turned toward it—

Amira’s hand lashed out faster than she’d thought she was even capable of, snatching it off the table
before her son could properly glimpse what was on the screen. Suddenly, it was all rushing back—the
way things had ended in the parking lot: her dazed, horrified muttering, the wet squelch of Duncan
smacking his unholy, overgrown white cock down onto her cum-drenched face, the snickering rumbling
from him as he swiped around her phone before taking a picture of her.
“Got it,” she managed, more than a little shrilly. She gave her son another smile that she knew was very
forced. “Go on, now, azizam. Maamaan needs her shirt.”

Rayan looked from the phone clutched so desperately in her hand, to the other equally desperately
keeping her shirt closed around her soft, protruding bust. His brow was furrowed again.

But he was his father’s son. For once, Amira was glad for it, because he meekly didn’t say anything.
He just turned and headed toward the laundry room, ice pack pressed to his cheek.

“Gayidan,” Amira swore under her breath. Despite herself, she felt herself blushing from the sound of
her own voice uttering such a foul word, used so rarely in her traditional, religious little world. She craned
her neck to the side, making sure Rayan was out of sight before slowly turning her gaze toward her
phone screen. Her heart was thumping in her ears again. It couldn’t be him. She’d overreacted. There
was no way he could have taken her picture and grabbed her contact information in the brief time he’d
held her phone in those huge, paw-like bully hands. It was probably just Fazhir, texting as he so often
did to tell her he would be working late, to make sure there was food waiting for him in the refridgerator—

Amira’s heart leapt into her chest the moment she unlocked her phone and the text message screen
opened itself with her new message. She let out a little scream before her hand clasped sharply to her
mouth, muffling any further sounds.

“Maamaan?” Rayan’s voice called from nearby, sounding concerned again. “Are you okay?”

Amira didn’t even process the words. Her shapely, smoky almond-shaped eyes were staring, wide and
wavering, at her screen—where a very detailed, high-definition photo of a familiar white monster cock
was staring back at her.

Duncan had grabbed her contact information, all right. And he hadn’t even let her get away from him for
an hour before sending her this picture, clearly taken in a bathroom mirror: only his lower face visible,
that infuriatingly smug self-assured grin on his strong features, his shirt pulled up to reveal a body that
she could hardly even believe belonged to a high schooler. She hadn’t gotten to see this much of him,
back at the school parking lot, and her heart pounded even more rapidly at the sight of his broad,
powerful chest, his thick but toned gut with its firm, defined abs, a thick trail of dark body hair guiding her
eyes down to his flaccid cock. Flaccid, and looking ten times more mind-bogglingly enormous than it had
been when merely outlined in his shorts. Even soft, spilling out of his underwear, it hanged down low
and heavy, almost to his knees, foreskin concealing its broad, kingly head, veins tracing along every fat,
wide inch.

He was using his free hand to point to a faint but distinct ring of her lipstick, right near the base of his
cock.

Amira heard herself gulp. It was the loudest thing she’d ever heard.

Her thighs were rubbing together again. She didn’t understand it, but there was a strange sensation of
emptiness between them, aching and intense.
Her belly flipped. A mental image flashed across her mind—Baba, yelling at that cute boy from her high
school, chasing him off.

Except this time, Duncan was the boy. And when her Baba yelled at him, he simply stomped up to him,
towering over him—he reared a huge, intimidating fist back—

Amira bit down so hard on her lower lip she tasted blood. A muffled moan escaped her.

“Maamaan?”

Rayan’s voice came from so close that it made Amira gasp loudly. Her eyes snapped open, stared at
her son as he stared right back at her. She became aware, far too late, that her blouse was open again.
She had been idly rubbing the stray rope of Duncan’s cum into her cleavage, her dainty fingers frozen
between her soft, faintly wobbling matronly breasts, the glow of her phone screen lighting her flushed
face.

It wasn’t flushed from embarrassment, however. Not this time.

Amira couldn’t remember the last time she’d yelled at her azizam, her sweet, dorky, weak little boy.

In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d actually ever yelled at him. Not before that moment in the kitchen.

Hours later, the guilt gnawed at her. She lay there, wide awake in the small hours of the morning, staring
up at the ceiling. Fazhir’s sporadic, occasional snoring was the only sound in the room, other than the
occasional ambient noise from outside, muffled by the bedroom windows.

It was in this very bedroom, on this very bed, that Amira had once tried to smother to death an entire
part of herself. Now, almost two decades later, that part of her was undeniably back from the dead—and
it was fucking mad.

That didn’t mean Rayan had deserved it. Far from it. He’d clearly just been concerned for her, and why
wouldn’t he be? The sight of Duncan’s dick pic on her phone had made her cry out. He was just
checking on her.
Maybe, if he’d been just a couple seconds later, she wouldn’t have snapped at him. But she had really
been enjoying that feverish, vivid mental image of the hulking, muscled brute from her phone screen
stomping right up to that stupid, stupid bearded old man who’d fucked her up so badly in so many ways,
who’d made her feel so shitty just for having big fat tits and a big fat butt and a slender belly, and
that stupid little shit had snapped her out of it just before he—

Amira groaned under her breath and buried her face in her hands. The bed creaked faintly under her.

She felt like she was losing her mind. She didn’t know who she was anymore.

She almost wished she had never gone to school to pick Rayan up that day. At least before the parking
lot, before that horrible, rude white boy and his horrible, mind-bending stinking white monstercock,
everything had fallen neatly into the boring, muted little world that had been constructed for her by her
Baba and then by her husband.

In that world, she never would have vented years of repressed frustration at her poor soon just because
he’d interrupted her in the throes of fucked-up, uncontrollable lust.

“Oh my fucking God, why are you still here?” She’d shrieked, holding her phone screen against her
bare cleavage to hide what was on it, her other hand gesticulating ferociously. “Can’t you just for
fucking once not be such a little mommy’s boy?! I tell you to go get me a shirt and now you come back,
is that it? Now you come back, and not when that giant white devil from your school has got me backed
against a fucking dumpster? Well fucking thank you, Rayan! You really are your father’s son! Now get
out of my sight before I do to you what I’m going to do to him the next time I see him!”

She didn’t even know what she’d meant. When Fazhir got home that night, she certainly hadn’t done
anything to him—she’d already been in bed, leaving a note that she was tired and putting together a
half-assed plate of food for him. Rayan hadn’t been there to greet him, either, since he’d closed himself
in his room and hadn’t come out.

The part of Amira that had raised Rayan felt terrible about her outburst.

But the other part of her… the part of her that had looked coyly up at Rayan’s bully in the school parking
lot, thrilled by his crude, male attention… The kind of attention she’d never really had the chance to
enjoy as a girl…
The perfect quiet of the bedroom was interrupted by the same sound that had led to her outburst earlier.
Her phone buzzed on her bedside table.

Amira’s long, flowing black hair shifted on her pillow as her head turned to the side, eyes staring at her
phone as the screen lit up the dark room. Not many people ever got to see her hair anymore, concealed
as it always was under her hijabs. The meticulous care she took with her hair was one of the few
luxuries she ever allowed herself in her spartan, modest life as a Muslim mother, wife and home-maker.
Her hair was luxurious, silky, shining, with full bangs that covered her eyebrows whenever she let them
loose. Yet another aspect of her femininity which her husband never even acknowledged. As far as the
man sleeping next to her was concerned, she was just a checkmark on a list of Things To Have, just a
provider of meals and children. He had never remarked on her soft, pleasantly scented hair, the same
way he never remarked on any part of her body.

Duncan’s voice, that voice that inexplicably made her stomach do somersaults and her cheeks warm,
echoed in her mind. A fine piece of ass, he’d called her.

It was far from romantic. It wasn’t even well-spoken. But it was the first time a man had shown such
naked, and decidedly masculine, interest in her female form… and what a specimen of a man to hear it
from…

Amira caught herself drifting into those thoughts again, winced, ran a soft, pale palm over her exhausted
face. Maybe she could have worked through the situation with Rayan earlier, if these constant texts from
Duncan hadn’t kept ensuring that the part of her that had moaned needily while her son’s bully
molested her wobbling, fat mounds of breastmeat kept vying for control with the part of her that had
accepted her boring, devoted lot in life to pamper the same son she’d felt such disappointment with
earlier.

She should have turned back over, closed her eyes, and gone to sleep, ignoring her buzzing phone.

But after decades of feeling so little, the heat in her belly whenever Duncan sent those pictures of that
bestial horse’s cock he was packing between his legs was becoming addictive.

Amira’s fingers shook as she reached over and grabbed the phone, opening it with her thumbprint. She
was faintly aware that, after hours of these periodic, wordless messages sent by Duncan,
communicating his perverse intent only with the increasingly lewd images he was sending, had left her
underwear thoroughly damp under her pajamas. She had barely managed to stop in time, earlier, when
Fazhir had come into the room to retire to bed, seconds away from catching his wife with her hand
between her legs, hesitantly rubbing her wet mound over her pants while she stared at a POV image
Duncan had taken from his own perspective of his rock-hard cock. She’d been unable to stop her mind
from drifting, wondering how she’d looked with her mouth stretched so wide open around such a crude,
destructive instrument of sexual destruction, making those guttural, wet gagging noises that she still
couldn’t quite believe had come from her—in a school parking lot, no less…

There was no scream this time when Amira was greeted by yet another escalation from Duncan. She
was too lost within herself to need that right now. But her eyes widened even more than they had in the
kitchen, on receiving his first text. She took a sharp, shuddering breath, glancing over at the sleeping
form of her husband to make sure he was still out before turning, raptly, back to what was on her
screen.

It wasn’t just a picture this time.

Duncan was sitting on the edge of a bed. The camera was turned back toward him at arm’s length,
capturing him from straight ahead. And even though the phone speakers were muted, she could
practically hear the dull, heavy thumping of those giant, low-hanging virile bully balls thudding against his
mattress in time with his hand pumping up and down his hard, colossal white bitch-stealing meat,
foreskin sliding along the powerful cockhead with every pump, a thick, translucent wad of pre-jizz slowly
oozing from the flaring piss-slit.

A sound did come out of Amira, now. A low, long, shuddering whimper as she watched the video loop,
over and over and over and over, unable to look away. Every bounce of his huge, smooth, heavy nuts
was like a death knell for the token resistance the Good Muslim Housewife within her was feebly putting
up.

Fuck this house—no, fuck this prison. Fuck being a Good Muslim Housewife. What had those things ever
done for her?

She didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t know anything—other than the fact that nothing in her entire life,
not her Baba, certainly not her husband or son, and not even God Himself, had made her feel such a
potent, aching fucking yearning deep in the core of her very being like this simple, looping video of some
stomping high school bully’s impossibly massive…delicious… drool-inducing white cock and balls.
For a woman who’d been deprived of allowing herself to indulge in lust for a real man for her entire life,
it was like plunging into a pool of fresh water after years in a dry, arid desert.

Amira became aware of a faint, vaguely familiar sound— a rapid, rhythmic, wet shlickshlickshlickshlick,
and the faint swaying of the mattress on its flimsy wooden frame.

She didn’t quite know when she’d shoved her hand down her pants, past her soaked underwear, but
she apparently had. And her arm was moving rigorously in pace with her frantic, desperate
masturbation.

“God forgive me,” she intoned thoughtlessly, on pure instinct, and the hate she felt for herself for saying
it, for her Baba for smothering her throughout her entire life to make her say such a thing now, for Fazhir
for being such a limp, droning extension of that same thing—it all made her grit her teeth, half-growling
and half-moaning as she shoved a second finger into her wet slit and pumped them rapidly in and out.
She started panting lightly, felt drool trickling down the side of her lips, eyes fixed raptly on Duncan’s
cock, trying to lose herself in the depraved sensations pulsing from her pussy as she toyed with it, in the
memories of her son’s bully having his way with her married mouth earlier.

“You fucking thug,” she murmured, throatily, under her breath, her heavily lidded eyes glaring at the
phone screen not so differently from how they’d glared at Duncan himself. “Think you can just…do
whatever you want… because you’ve got muscles… and a giant…fucking…prick…?” The word lapsed into
a needy moan, and Good Muslim Housewife Amira, now forced to the back of her mind the same way
this other part of her had once been, at least had the decency to be appalled when she caught herself
actually thinking those things meant Duncan should be able to do whatever he wanted, because one
thing was for fucking sure: ‘men’ like her Baba, her Fazhir, sure wouldn’t want a man like Duncan
having free reign.

The phone buzzed again.

Amira panted, her hand freezing between her legs. Momentarily shaken back out of heat, she once more
turned her face toward her husband’s. He was lying on his back. Still snoring.

She realized, as she’d realized so many things today, that she hated his snoring.

Amira turned back to her phone, brushing her bangs out of her eyes, noting they were damp with sweat.
Her heartbeat picked up again as she opened Duncan’s new text. She would have to confront, in the
cold light of morning tomorrow, the fact that she’d gone from wanting to put this crass white thug in jail
when she met him, to feeling like a giddy schoolgirl opening a Valentine’s note found pinned to her
locker every time he sent a picture of his cock to her. But that could wait. For now, all she knew was the
beating of her heart, and the faint, sweet female scent of her own arousal, and the tingling warmth
spreading from her toes and the tips of her fingers as she pleasured herself like she hadn’t done since
she was a teenager herself, and—

Horror.

Amira’s slender eyebrows furrowed, an embarrassing, simpering sound of frustration escaping her
before she could stop herself as she read and re-read Duncan’s text. Because it wasn’t a picture this
time. For the first time all day, he’d sent actual words.

Gettin bored bitch. Thought you’d be more fun. Send me back something good right now or maybe
we’re done after all.

Somehow, impossibly, this left Amira even more distressed than her outburst against Rayan.

That couldn’t be right.

Her eyes were wild as she ran a faintly shaking hand through her soft black hair. She looked around the
room aimlessly, from the ceiling to the door to the bedside clock to her stupid snoring husband and his
stupid clueless face.

This was it.

This was her way out.

Right?!

It was a no-brainer. He’d just given her the perfect out. All she had to do was not reply. Sure, it was
always possible he was bluffing, that he’d still harass her, but—if there was even a chance that it was
true—then all she had to do was ignore him, put the phone down, pull her fingers out of her wet pussy
folds, and go to sleep. He would get bored, go away, and she could apologize to her son in the morning,
put this all behind them. Things could go back to normal.

Back to normal.

Fazhir snored loudly next to her.

Amira looked over at him. And for the first time in their nearly two decades of marriage, she didn’t look
at him with flat neutrality or faint, domesticated warmth. For the first time, her hair a mess, damp with
sweat, cheeks flushed, her hand shoved down her pants to tend to the womanhood he had never done a
single fucking thing for, Amira looked at her husband with her true feelings—pure, acidic contempt. Her
eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, lip curling in distaste.

She kept staring at him as she pulled her hand out of her panties, out of her pants, and reached up,
slowly unbuttoning her pajama top until it was completely open. Her bare breasts spilled out, heavy and
soft, each nearly as big as her head, with plump, smooth brown aerolae nearly as large as her palms
and hard, protruding nipples.

“You never did know how to handle these, did you?” She whispered to her snoring husband.

She turned away from him. He would never know it, but that was the moment he lost his wife, truly lost
her, for good.

Amira took a deep, shuddering breath. Bit her lower lip, rubbing her thighs together, reveling in it as she
simply allowed herself to give in to the same urges she had tried so hard to tamp down on for her entire
life. And she turned her phone camera on, making sure to capture her teeth pressing down against
those plump, dickpillow married lips in the image she captured of her arm pressing inward against one
huge, wobbling breast, pressing it appetizingly against the other. She shoved her hand back into her
pants, letting Duncan know what she’d been doing with those pictures of his big fat bully cock he was
sending all night.

Amira pressed Send.

And in the same bed where she’d tried to suffocate her true emotions, the Good Muslim Housewife who
had tried to do the smothering died instead.
 3 - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Amira had read a book as a girl that taught her something — rebirth occurs in a blaze of fire. The
phoenix, erupting into heat, smoldering, and then reborn where it fell.

This must have been a rebirth, then, because one Amira had died in a different kind of heat, and now
writhed, different but the same, where she had fallen.

The hours lost their meaning, after making that fateful decision to reply to Duncan’s threat to end his
crass dick pic barrage if she didn’t reciprocate. The hours that followed were a blur, and
there werehours, minute after minute building and building, alternating between waiting with shaky, light
panting breaths for replies from this horrible, brutal young white boy like some high school girl waiting for
love letters from her sweetheart (but she wasn’t that, was so far from it, was a grown, middle aged
woman who should have known better yet was so sick of such moralizing that it felt like a ferocious,
violent victory over her Baba and her Fazhir and the Quran that pinned them all underneath its teachings
every time she opened a new video or image from Duncan) and using those equally shaky hands to use
her phone to provide an offering of thanks to her son’s bully for slapping her out of her decades-long
trance so unexpectedly.

Slapping her out of it with that unholy, gnarled, veiny homewrecking monster of a white cock that had
her writhing desperately on her mattress right next to her sleeping husband, moaning under her breath
but with increasing abandon as throes of a white-hot, all-consuming lust that she’d never known in her
entire life made her entire body an oven.

The burning fire that had eaten her from the inside out made her do things that, a mere twenty-four
hours ago, she never would have remotely fathomed she was even capable of. The Amira of yesterday,
the Amira that had accepted her borderline-arranged marriage with a flat, dead smile, the Amira that had
dutifully raised a son who had been given to her by a man she felt nothing for — that Amira was
paralyzed by the faintest hint of a lewd thought, a carnal impulse. That Amira would have seen the
grizzled, stern face of her Baba, glaring at her across the dinner table of her childhood home as if she’d
spat in his face for the insult of having such large, tempting breasts and a wobbly, thick rear that brought
thoughts of sin to good God-fearing men, and the desperate, long-instilled compulsion to do whatever
she could to just make him stop looking at her that way, to just please stop making her so ashamed of
her own female form, would make her clamp down, hard, on such compulsions as she had now, in the
dark surrounding her marriage bed.

Now, that mental image of her Baba’s face was replaced by the one she’d had in the kitchen the
afternoon before, the image of his stern, judgmental glare turning to shock and fear as the very
embodiment of naked, savage male appetite and aggression stomped up to him in the form of Duncan
and made it clear that Amira had a new Patriarch to please—and not in a way that repressed her
femininity, but demanded more and more of it.

And so the Amira of yesterday could only watch, fading, from the ashes, as this new Amira finally
rebelled against her Baba, her husband, her strict upbringing.

There had never been such filth on her phone. The photos album rapidly built up with the kind of
depraved images that she knew, distantly, so many phones were used for in this land that her Baba had
always drunkenly railed against as ‘godless,’ but had never seen for herself. Maybe, just maybe, the
sight of her own ample, softly jiggling melon-shaped breasts squeezed together on her phone screen,
captured for the horny satisfaction of a boy her son’s age (but not a boy at all, he was a Man, more Man
than any male she’d ever known, not at all like her Rayan), would have shaken some sense into her.

Duncan didn’t let that happen.

Every reply he made to her reciprocal pictures ensured that they kept coming, first hesitantly, with gaps
of minutes at a time—and then more and more instantly after his own pictures, until the back and forth
was hot and heavy, at most a couple of minutes passing between Amira sending a selfie of her slender,
feminine fingers soaked with her own creamy pussy excretions pressed against her soft lips, to Duncan
responding with a short video clip of his big, brutal Rayan-pummeling hand pumping the even bigger and
more brutal uncut monstrosity of a cock jutting so proudly from his firm crotch, making those enormous,
shaved balls bounce around heavily… and making Amira drool, literally drool, catching herself gaping at
the sight, chest rising and falling rapidly, heart thudding, fingers moving all on their own, filling the air
with a faint shlick-shlick-shlick of her fingers sliding in and out of her gushing, traitorous cunt.

Didn’t think you had it in you, Duncan texted at one point in the hot, wet, pulsing blur of it all. This the
same uptight old bitch with a towel on her head from the parking lot?

It should have offended Amira, but she’d caught herself smiling, cheeks blushing like a lovesick
schoolgirl’s, and as her husband snored next to her, she’d fumbled to type a text back, much slower at
it than Duncan’s replies had been—because unlike a schoolgirl of today, she was not used to texting
with cell phones—her bare, pale breasts bouncing along with the motions of her arms, her lower half idly
writhing on the sweat-stained sheets that, come morning, she would only be able to pray Fazhir would
not notice were splattered with ever more juices from her sweating, thick thighs and dripping pussy. But
then, she’d remind herself with a contemptuous little sneer, would Fazhir even recognize what such
stains could be? He’d never so much as fingered her down there. The core of a woman was as foreign
to him as the idea of plucking the stray hairs between his eyebrows.

Didn’t think you were paying attention to what was on my head

She’d watched the animated ellipses indicating Duncan was replying with bated breath, licking her lips
as she used a trembling thumb to scroll back up a bit and watch the last videos he’d sent, the one
where he made those delicious, impossibly big balls bounce with his hand-pumping, the one where he’d
held the camera at his own POV so that she could see his muscled, washboard abs glistening with faint
sweat as he lazily swayed his hips side to side, making his rock-hard cock wobble back and forth,
making her groan thickly, taking in a shaky breath, at the visible, almost clumsy weight of his capital-M
Manhood.
His next video came in. This one held the phone down around his crotch level, where she’d been
looking up at him the day before, turned up toward him as if from her own POV back then in the parking
lot. He held it far enough back that she could see almost the entirety of his veiny, monstrous white
dick—not all of it, it was simply too massive—and his low-hanging, virile bully nutsack, and he then set to
moving the phone as if it was her head, holding her first in place as he wobbled his cock around, took it
in his free hand and pretended to slap her face with it, moved the camera forward and back, toward his
crotch and then away, and it was all so vivid that she lost herself in it, panting raggedly there on her bed
as she imagined the firm, domineering weight of his hand on her head, making her worship at the altar of
the promise of wanton, depraved sexual release that such a powerful young cock could bring, after so
long… You right, the accompanying text said, her eyes having to scan over it several times just to
properly absorb it—she’d never really had many chances to get drunk, but this was awfully similar to
what it had felt like trying to read anything on those rare occasions, like her brain was drowning. Was too
busy smacking you around with all this dick while your loser son sat in the car and waited for you. Fuck
you looked hot with your tongue out, just fuckin taking it.

And as she frenziedly rubbed herself to the blurred, intense memory of that, another text: Bet your hubby
never sees you like that.

It was an awful, mean-spirited impulse that came over her then. The Amira of yesterday would have felt
the desperate compulsion to prostrate herself in the prayer room of her home and pray for forgiveness
from God just for letting such a thing cross her mind. But there was no room for God in her mind right
now.

That twitching, mind-bending teen monsterdick on her phone screen was clearly not the type to share a
woman’s devotion with something as quaint as God.

She held her phone off to the side of her a bit, angling it so that it caught her slightly parted lips, curled in
disdain, as well as her bare, milky breasts—and, just past them, her husband’s oblivious, snoring face.

As if, she texted back simply after sending the image.

The silence that followed from Duncan was the longest that he’d allowed since he made his ultimatum,
hours before. Amira’s breaths slowed back down to an almost normal pace. The flush of her cheeks
faded slightly, and though she kept helplessly rubbing her fingers against her slick, hot mound, watching
her son’s bully’s cock flop and smack and pump in his videos on loop, she felt a growing, gnawing
concern that she’d done something wrong.

Then:

You filthy, hot, cheating old bitch. You deserve a treat.

Amira’s breath hitched in her throat. Her heart started thudding again. The gnawing concern washed
away, melted by a fresh wave of that heat that started in her fluttering, somersaulting belly and spread to
her every extremity. Her mind reeled with the possibilities of what he’d send her next.

She’d only just managed to get her breathing going smoothly again when his next picture came
through—and made her breath catch in her throat again. This time she gasped so sharply that she had to
clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, glancing worriedly over at Fazhir to make sure he
hadn’t heard. She waited a long, tense moment, watching him raptly, making sure he was still sleeping,
before slowly, dazedly, looking back to the bright light of her phone screen.

It was a picture of her home’s front door, dimly lit by the soft twilight of pre-dawn early morning.

Bring that fat, perfect fuckpadding ass down here and I’ll give you what that limpdick can’t.

“Oh, God,” was all Amira could whisper, and this time, when her Baba’s face flashed across her
mind’s eye, it was not dispelled so easily.

It felt like some kind of strange dream, making her way through her home of the last two decades now.
Everything looked different, vaguely incorrect, like she was a stranger in someone else’s home. And
she had to be, because surely the woman who lived here would never be stumbling through a dimly lit
hallway in the small hours of the morning, reflexively fumbling to get a hijab onto her head, a pale blue
one that had been the first to reach her hand on the way out of her room, to meet the young thug who
was waiting at her door, waiting for her, waiting for—

What did the young people around here call it?

A booty call?

The thought that she was involved with such a thing simultaneously gave her a thrill and a fright.

Reaching the downstairs of her home, Amira realized it was later than she’d thought. She blinked
blearily, noticing faint daylight beginning to filter in through the closed blinds, looking around the modest,
spartan living space her husband had provided for their family

A family he doesn’t deserve

Limpdick

Amira stopped in the entryway, reeling from the the thoughts, one her own and one planted there by
Duncan’s text mere moments ago, shaken by how passionately they’d rampaged across her mind, but
also by that morning light seeping in. Where had the night gone? Had she really lay awake from the
moment she settled onto her bed all the way until the beginning of the next day, just… touching herself?
Fantasizing about this hulking teen bully’s cock?

The long-repressed heat that had taken over her body, breaking the dam of her resentment for Fazhir,
for her Baba—it had all let her ignore the reality of the situation, hiding in a pocket of lust and adrenaline
and the desperate satisfaction of finally letting herself tap into the sexuality she’d always been taught to
be ashamed of. She hadn’t had to think too much on who, exactly, was coaxing her down that
depraved, dark road. She’d been able to simply enjoy the view he gave her, and lose herself in the
debauched pleasure her fingers gave her while she drank in the sight of his godly, giant white cock.
But now, all she could see was her son, slumped against the brick wall of his school at the back of the
parking lot, his face slightly bloodied and fear in his eyes as he looked up at the hulking brute who was
everything he was not, practically designed by nature to prey on him.

This was wrong. No, this was far beyond wrong—this was fucked up. She’d just spent all night
exchanging dirty pictures and videos with the high school bully who made her son’s life a living hell
every day. And now—what? She was supposed to just… let him into her home? Rayan’s home? The one
place he was supposed to be safe from this thug?

Rayan’s scared, roughed-up face flashed across Amira’s mind.

It barely managed to stay there for a second before instead she saw Duncan’s cock, those hot, steamy,
bloated alpha male balls swaying as he jerked off…

The front door clicked open, and Amira stared dimly at her hand on the doorknob, a slight gape to her
lips as she tried to come to terms with what she’d just done.

“What a fuckin’ dump.”

Duncan’s loud, drawling baritone was plenty to shake Amira out of her fugue. Her eyes widened at how
loudly the teenager had just spoken, his cocky deep tone cutting through the tranquil, perfect silence of
the early morning like a hot knife through butter. She couldn’t help herself; years and years of
experience brought on a single reflex in response to a youth being too loud, and she could only blush
slightly as she reflected on the absurdity of her harsh, desperate “Shhhh!”

“Please—quiet!” She hissed, looking around in alarm to make sure her husband wasn’t suddenly
standing at the top of the staircase behind her. Blissfully, he wasn’t. She looked back at Duncan,
wringing her hands. She became acutely aware, on a concerning delay, that her haphazard impulse to
drape a hijab over her head and shoulders had inexplicably taken priority over making the rest of her
more presentable. Her pajama top was only half-buttoned, leaving her huge, matronly breasts practically
spilling out between the loosely-fastened lower buttons and an ample amount of cleavage jiggling
perceptibly with her every slight movement. Her pajama pants were, at least, pulled all the way up—but
had visible wet stains around her crotch and thighs. The cool air from outside her home tickled the bare
skin of her face, letting her know how warm her cheeks were, how damp with sweat. A few strands of
damp black hair escaped her hijab, fluttering idly around her forehead and the sides of her face.

And as Duncan stood there on her home’s doorstep, his massive bulk filling the doorway almost
entirely, his sharp, hungry eyes drank in every detail, lingering especially, once again, on her cleavage.
Amira’s stomach flipped in the face of his wanton, blatant teen lust for her. Her cheeks flushed even
warmer.

“Wh—What are you…doing here?” She managed to stammer, still keeping her voice low but abandoning
the absurdity of whispering. She awkwardly used one hand to try to pull the upper portion of her top
together, trying not to stew over the hypocrisy of sending this thug who’d beaten up her son so many
pictures of her breasts over the last few hours, only to shyly try to hide them now. Her entire world felt
like it was spinning. This was completely unprecedented, the kind of situation she’d never experienced
in her entire life. She was torn between a life of reflexive responses, and the tumultuous, raging new
urges that she’d been basking in all night.

“What am I doing here?” Duncan scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna pretend the last few hours
didn’t happen.”

Amira opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, not sure what she was supposed to say there. She
didn’t have to worry about it for long. Duncan abruptly stomped forward—and grabbed the upper portion
of her shirt that she was trying to close so feebly. That beefy, powerful arm of his flexed effortlessly, and
just like in the parking lot the day before, her buttons popped open, undoing her shirt. This time, at the
very least, she didn’t hear any buttons pattering to the floor, but the result was the same, and right there
in her own home, Duncan had ripped her shirt open, letting her tits bounce appetizingly out into the
open.

“Hey—!”

“I gotta say, I half-expected you not to answer anymore when I said I’d stop sending you pics of my fat
fuckin dick,” Duncan cut her off. His footfalls thudded loudly, heavily to the floor as he swaggered his
way in like he owned the place. Amira instinctively stumbled back before him, and her generously
padded rump stopped her right against the wooden table by their front door, where her and her family so
often tossed car keys, wallets, purses after getting back home while they kicked their shoes off. Amira
cringed at the thud the table made as the weight of her fat ass send it bumping loudly against the wall.
Once again, she looked toward the staircase, checking to make sure no one had woken up.

Still no one—but it was only a matter of time now, she thought with alarm. Judging by the growing light, it
was getting awfully close to when her husband and son would be waking up to prepare for work and
school, respectively.

Duncan, once again, didn’t give her time to reflect for long. Suddenly he was standing right in front of
her. His body heat, and that strangely alluring, earthy body odor, wrapped around her. There was
another scent, too, that she recognized. It was faint, concealed by clothing, but the athletic shorts he
was wearing were basically boxers, not very thick. The stench of his overgrown alpha cock, that damned
stench that had made her mind go blank the day before, was seeping through the fabric. Amira instantly,
momentarily felt her eyes roll back, nostrils flaring, legs going weak, the natural scent of a potent male
bringing the same heat that had consumed her all night flaring back viciously.

“Fuck, you are so fucking hot,” Duncan murmured, his baritone practically vibrating through her. She
felt her pussy clench just at the proximity of that rough, masculine tone, so very close. And then her legs
turned to jello as he pressed forward, sliding his big, muscular arms around her hips—and planting both
of those strong hands her son had learned to fear so badly on the swell of her big, pillowy rump, his
throbbing, massive crotch-bulge grinding up against her belly. “I am so gonna kick your hubby’s fuckin’
ass just for thinking he ever deserved to touch all this…”

Amira couldn’t have stopped herself if she wanted to. And in that moment, after a night of simmering in
her long-held resentment for Fazhir, and by extension her Baba, her entire upbringing—she didn’t want
to.
She threw herself at Duncan, moaning throatily as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her pussy
clenching yet again at the feel of how sturdy those broad shoulders were, how effortlessly he took her
weight against him, and she shoved her lips against his.

The quiet of her home at that desolate hour, one that for so long had been witness only to the family’s
sleeping before yet another monotonous day, was even more stark than the parking lot the day before.
Every slight sound the two of them made seemed monstrously loud. The wet, sloppy slurping noises of
their lips, the lips of a mother and the lips of a high school thug who tormented her son, smacking
against each other in the hot, wild throes of passion—the low, deep rumbling of Duncan’s hungry growls,
vibrating through her and making her stomach flip, mingling with her muffled, desperate whining and
groaning—the sound of his coarse skin rubbing over the flimsy fabric of her pajama pants, caressing and
squeezing and slapping at every inch of her pillowy, cheating mommy ass as if his very life depended on
exploring every last detail of it with his hands—

“God…I should…hate you…” Amira panted distractedly between slurps and smacks of varying length, spit
slobbering messily between them to fall down to Duncan’s white hoodie and her bare breasts, squished
against his chest, their tongues writhing between words. “Why… don’t… I hate you…?”

Duncan let out a low, dark laugh into her mouth. He gripped the back of her head, clenching down on
her hijab and the hair beneath it, forcing her head backward slightly, their lips parting with a loud wet
slurp, glistening saliva between them as she look up at him with dazed, lidded eyes.

But they weren’t just dazed.

They almost looked adoring.

“Because when it comes right down to it, you’re a bitch,” Duncan panted lightly, smirking with such
cock-sure arrogance that she at once wanted to slap him and kiss him, kick him out and worship that
life-ruining monsterdick in his shorts. “Deep down, a fine bitch like you only needs one thing. It ain’t
some backwards-ass religion. It sure as fuck ain’t taking care of sad little beta males like your kid or the
limpdick who saddled you with him.”
Hearing it all finally said out loud, no less by this deep, authoritative voice, was like what Amira had
always imagined a drug high to feel like. The pleasure from touching herself earlier was paltry compared
to thrill this gave her. She let out throaty, needy moans the more he said. She tried to go in for more
kissing—only to let out a shocked gasp that turned quickly into a delighted little yelp as Duncan shifted
his hands, sliding them down to her upper thighs, and bodily lifted her right off the ground, her arms
around his neck, her legs wrapping tightly around his hips, shifting from having to look up at him to
instead looking down at his arrogantly smirking, rough features, her breasts obscuring his strong jaw.

“You need a man who knows how to handle all… this…” Duncan grunted, locking hooded, intense eyes
with her before licking his lips and looking down toward her cleavage in his face. His arms shifted, one
beefy arm sliding under her ass to hold her up while the other slid upward, a freed hand sliding up her
bare back, warm, firm, the kind of strong caress that filled Amira, for the first time in her entire life, with a
deep, primal sense of belonging.

She’d never felt like she truly belonged before. Not in her repressive, stern family. Not with the husband
and son that had replaced them. Not in the religion that had dominated her life ever since she was a little
girl.

And now, in the strong hands of this white high school brute, who was holding her up like she weighed
nothing at all, who was confidently—if crassly—giving voice to so many doubts and frustrations she’d tried
to hold down for years—

There were no words that could express the uncontrollable, fierce surge of emotion she felt for Duncan
at that moment. Years of repressing her emotions had left her unused to such strong feelings. In the
maelstrom that flooded her now, she could only try to pick up on some of them before they went rushing
by: gratitude—hate—admiration—resentment—fear—liberation—

love—

But in the end, only one of them was stronger than all the others, stronger than anything she’d ever felt
for anything, for anyone.

Want.

She kissed Duncan, then, like she’d never kissed anyone, least of all her husband. It wasn’t just angry
lust at that moment. It was fierce, passionate, but there was a tenderness to it, too. Her soft, slender
fingers caressed his thick, sturdy neck, his shoulders, ran up through his dirty blond hair, stroking it with
the kind of protective affection that would have left her own son staring in jealousy. Duncan growled into
her mouth, her pussy squeezing and spasming just from the effortlessly display of strength he was
putting on by holding her up with one arm while the other hand rested against the small of her back. She
let him know exactly what she thought of it by humping her groin against his, feeling his now rock-hard
cock slide up and down against her clothed cunt, their combined heat venting just a portion of the
billowing inferno broiling around inside her.

Amira was so lost in it all that she didn’t even let her lips part from Duncan’s when she felt her feet
touching the floor again, his strong arm letting her go, sending a reflexive pang of sadness through her.
She wanted his arms to hold her up longer. She wanted them to hold her up forever. She wanted to die
held up against that strong, burly young body like she weighed nothing at all.

What she did not want was the sight that greeted her when she finally let their lips part, a low, guttural,
sensuous groan escaping her as she panted for breath and looked around foggily.

They were right outside her bedroom.

The shock of it cleared some of the haziness from her almond-shaped, long-lashed eyes. She stared in
shock, first at her cracked-open bedroom door—she’d thought she closed it, just to be safe, on her way
out, but had clearly not swung it far enough—and then at Duncan, looming over her, a maliciously
entertained grin on his maddeningly handsome brute face.

“Are you crazy?!” She whispered, using the back of her smooth hand to wipe some spit—whether hers
or his, it was hard to say—from her chin.

“C’mere,” Duncan grunted, at least having the decency to lower his voice slightly. He grabbed her by
the back of her head, and she could only gasp as he sent her stumbling ahead of him, right up to her
door. Her hand went up reflexively to stop a collision, and in the process, sent the door swinging open.

The dim light from the hallway entered the bedroom she’d shared with her husband for almost two
decades. Fazhir became visible. Their bed was sidelong from the door, and so they could see his face,
partially obscured by the pillow it was currently buried in, his mouth gaped open in a decidedly
undignified way as he snored faintly. Having Duncan’s huge bully paw on her head made him look even
more like a stranger than he had when she was laying next to him hours ago, finally letting herself
acknowledge that she didn’t love him. In the face of such a dangerous, aggressive alpha male towering
behind her, the disgust she’d felt for Fazhir earlier was replaced by a kind of grotesque pity, at the
thought of just how thoroughly outmatched he was in every single way.

“Haaah, he’s almost as scrawny as your faggy kid,” Duncan snickered, low and deep, behind her.
Amira felt her stomach flip, her cheeks heat up, and just like that, the pity was gone. It was alarming, in a
way she distantly recognized. That human moment of pity for her husband, washed away instantly by
the depraved, uncontrollable lust that this force of brutal nature that was her son’s bully brought on. It
was like those decades of dull, feelingless existence was making all those buried darker thoughts and
impulses erupt out of her, white-hot, now.

“Ughhh… you… would snap him like a fucking twig,” Amira moaned, the words practically slurring. She
felt a cruel, thrilled grin tug at her pillowy lips, her heart beating faster, her stomach flipping and flipping
and flipping again. She didn’t want that—not really. But fuck if it didn’t feel good, after being imprisoned
in this marriage for so long, to be able to stand by this muscular, horse-hung, superior male and talk shit
about the boring tiny-dicked manlet who had so unfairly been given control of her life.

Duncan’s free hand slid down her back, sending chills through her. Her breaths picked up as he
brusquely tugged her pants down around her thick, wobbling thighs, her even thicker, round mounds of
pale assflesh wobbling as well as they were bared to the air. There was no underwear between her and
Duncan this time. She heard him growl with a fierce, animal hunger as he drank in the sight of her bare,
married ass, mere feet away from her sleeping husband, and dug his powerful fingers into that soft flesh
to spread one cheek aside and let him see her winking, smooth brown asshole and her slick, dripping
pussy.

“God fucking damn,” he breathed hotly. She gasped as he gave her ass a hard, territorial smack that
rang through the hallway, a short, meaty CLAP that made her heart freeze.

But Fazhir only let out a snore, not even stirring.

“I bet whatever tiny little third-world dicklet he’s got down there can’t even get past all this assmeat,”
Duncan growled, his hand rubbing all around the raw, stinging spankmark he’d just left on her. His
fingers slid between her thick, wobbling ass-crack, and Amira’s whole body shuddered, an
uncontrollable moan escaping her, as he pressed down against her pussy and gave it a few casual rubs.
She’d been rubbing it almost raw all night, but just the sensation of a a man’s, a real Man’s, fingers on
her womanhood for the first time in her life, made her entire body shake like a leaf, made her—

“Ohmygod,” she intoned in flat disbelief, eyes widening.

She was cumming.

Amira hadn’t climaxed in so long that she almost hadn’t even recognized what was happening. She
clapped her hand to her mouth, desperately holding back the frenzied moans she could feel bubbling up
inside her, as her entire lower body shook and bucked wildly, juices spilling lightly from her convulsing
pussy, her round, smooth, pale fat asscheeks wobbling so pronouncedly that they literally made audible,
meaty clapping sounds as they slapped together, thigh fat jiggling and trembling.

She couldn’t believe this.

Eyes rolled back in their sockets, teeth clenched under her mouth, the thought rotated through her mind
like a mantra—

Fazhir had never made her cum even once.

Duncan had just made her climax with one touch to her poor, neglected, married cunt.

It wasn’t that simple, of course. She’d had hours of stimulation—she was so pent-up that the slightest bit
of stimulation was bound to have disproportional effect—hell, part of it was probably just the shock of
being felt up by her son’s bully in her own bedroom doorway while her husband was sleeping right in
front of them—

But none of that mattered.

All that mattered was, in that moment, Duncan had just given more to her with one touch than Fazhir,
than Baba, than God Himself had ever given her.

When a snickering Duncan used his grip on her to turn her back around to face him, she looked up at
him with naked, unabashed devotion. She looked up at him like a girl in a healthier, happier family might
have looked up at their Baba.

Duncan shoved down his shorts. That damned cock, the enormous, veiny, uncut white monsterdick that
had changed her entire life, came bouncing heavily into the open before her, his huge, bloated balls
sagging between his muscular thighs. The phone cameras didn’t do them justice. They weren’t just big,
not even just enormous—they filled her entire world. She looked down at his cock, the cock of this
foul-mouthed teen asshole who had beaten up her son hours ago, with the same devotion she’d just
looked up at his face with.

“Oh,” she said softly, sticking her tongue out unconsciously and wriggling it back and forth, a dumb
smile tugging her lips. She squatted down onto her haunches, her back and fat, bared, glistening ass
turned toward her sleeping husband as her hijab-clad head lowered to the crotch of the towering,
muscled white teen smirking so smugly in his home’s hallway.

Amira placed her hands on either of Duncan’s thighs. She turned that dumb, thoughtless smile up
toward her son’s bully, locking eyes with him as she pushed her face upward—right against his twitching,
hot, stinking teen cock, letting it drape over her face. Only this time, it wasn’t in the deserted school
parking lot. It was in her own home, where at any moment, her husband could wake up and see his wife
squatting in front of a stranger and more cock than any religious beta male wanted to believe existed in
the world resting on her face. It was where her son could open his bedroom door just a few feet down
the hall and see the same thing.

But that didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. For the first time, she agreed with her Baba on
something—only one thing, in the end, mattered.

“My… God,” Amira moaned throatily, nestling her face against Duncan’s giant, throbbing teen cock. She
opened her mouth wide, tongue extended, hooded, dick-drunk eyes turning very deliberately up toward
Duncan. The smirk was gone from his face. There was only a dark, imperious expectation on his brutish
young face.

Like a God awaiting supplication.

So like any good Muslim woman, Amira served her God.

 4 - Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Everything felt new.

It was like the entire world was something Amira had never experienced before. The sensations her
body processed — the sights, the smells, the feelings — it was all breathtakingly vivid.

The dim, dawn lighting of her home’s hallway.

The eye-watering, mind-numbing masculine fragrance of enormous, gnarled, veiny bully cock filling the
air, making her thick natural eyelashes flutter dreamily every time she huffed it in.

Every tiny, lewd, wet slurp and squelch of her soft, pillowy married lips lavishing sloppy love and worship
all over Duncan’s heavy, sagging ballsack in clear earshot of her sleeping husband. Every deep,
exhileratingly brutish grunt of pleasure and satisfaction that came from the hulking, towering high school
bully she was so sinfully servicing in her own home — the resulting, helpless, throaty moans of lust that
she heard coming from herself as she heard the approval she could earn from such a powerful, hung
incarnation of apex male sexuality. It filled her ears completely, filled her world, was the only thing in the
world.

Amira had been sleepwalking for nearly twenty years of her life. Even longer, if she counted the years of
embarrassed self-loathing her upbringing had inspired.

She’d never felt as awake, as alive, as she did now.

The absolute last thing in the world a mother should have felt for the loudmouthed, foul-mannered thug
who beat up her son practically daily was gratitude — yet in the course of a day, she’d gone from
slapping him in the face, to looking up at him through heavily lidded, dick-drunk almond-shaped eyes
with utter adoration and devotion, drinking in every detail of his rough, handsome rugged face sneering
down at her with the rapt attention of a loving dog looking up at her owner, a thrill shooting through her
every time her hot, wet mouth making out with his smelly, sweaty teen balls made him show the slightest
sign of satisfaction.

Duncan was a brute. He made her son’s life hell. He had just threatened to do the same to her
husband. She had no doubt that he exerted his unfair, natural advantage of size and strength on far
more less fortunate males than just the ones in her life.

And she didn’t give a fuck.

Squatting in front of him, serving him, her bared, milky-smooth, shelf-like ass wobbling subtly with every
small motion of her head as she licked and sucked and kissed his balls, his rock-hard, pulsating, hot
pillar of alpha manhood draped over her face and oozing thick, gooey pre-cum onto her hijab, she felt
like she was where she belonged, doing something she wanted, for the first time in her life. And this God
who had just saved her from her shitty, boring life deserved all the gratitude and worship she could give
him.

There was a lot of that for her to give, too. Decades of it, stored up, never used. Who the fuck would she
have given it to before Duncan? Her repressed, frequently drunk Baba, terrified by the very sight of the
kind of femininity a traditionalist Muslim man could never indulge in?

Fuck that, she thought fiercely, and moaned low, deep, sending pleasurable vibrations through
Duncan’s huge, churning balls as she suckled eagerly on one of them, making him groan and throw his
head back.

Fazhir? The successor of rote, undeserved patriarchal authority chosen by Baba himself to ensure his
daughter lived a mundane, joyless, loveless life of bleak domestic servitude? The man who could never
last longer than thirty seconds on the rare occasions he invoked his marital authority to hump her with all
the grace and enthusiasm of a dying fish?

Fuck that and fuck him. Amira’s heartbeat picked up, deeply, darkly excited at the safety to think such
things that she felt in the company of this hulking alpha brute who could so effortlessly overpower the
husband she’d grown to hate. A dumb, happy smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she let
Duncan’s spit-slathered, deliciously virile fat ballsack pop wetly out of her mouth. She stared dreamily at
it with his absurdly overgrown teen white cock twitching over her forehead, weighing down with a
demanding, overbearing weight and power that made her belly do endless somersaults. She slowly,
deliberately licked her lips as she drank in the sight of his low-hanging, smooth egg-sized balls, letting
out a whimper of need that she didn’t even intend.

“Fuck, look at you, you hot old cunt,” Duncan gloated from what seemed like so far above her that it
might as well be the sky, speaking to her with the voice of her God. The self-satisfaction and smugness
in every word should have made her want to slap him. Coming from any other man, it would have, at the
very least, killed some of the pleasant, mind-numbing buzz of her carnal urges. But somehow, coupled
with the sight of such divine, potent male power manifested in this violent young white devil’s massive,
uncut cock and sloshing, steaming, fat ballsack… it was more than just his right to say such things to a
needy, starved bitch like her. It only made her want to please him more.

She observed, faintly, that just the sound of him talking to her like that already had her fingers rubbing
feverishly at her wet, dripping, cheating pussy as she stared up at him adoringly, that dumb smile
stretching even wider on her once dignified, matronly middle-eastern features.

“You a bitch in heat? Huh?”

Amira moaned throatily. Her hips started to buck all on their own in an unconscious display of just how
desperately she wanted to be riding this godly, stinking gnarled monstercock Duncan was now lazily
sliding back and forth over her face. She stuck her wet, drooling tongue out, making sure that it felt as
good for him as possible, in the hopes this could continue forever. That this moment in time could be
frozen, her fat, pillowy, pale ass twerking and bouncing in her lewd squat, tongue leaving a glistening
sheen on her son’s bully’s big fat white cock as he marked her as his property in the most primitive,
animal way imaginable. The manly stench of his cock would be clinging to her skin all day, now. The
thought made her fingers rub at her cunt even harder, and she felt that euphoric tingling sensation
building from the tips of her toes and her fingers again.

“Fuckin’ say it.” Duncan lifted up his hard obelisk of cockmeat, its shadow casting over Amira’s dazed,
stupidly grinning face. He dropped it back down. It hit her with a heavy, meaty PLAP that made her eyes
roll back slightly, eyelids fluttering, her hips spasming as orgasm very nearly washed over her, simply
from the potency and raw animal power of that sound, a sound that described the power of his
enormous, weighty cock better than any words.

“Ngggghhhhh fuggg…” Amira slurred, and yet another thrill shot through her at the sound of her own
voice. It didn’t sound anything like the Amira of yesterday, the woman who had cooed over her freshly
beaten, scared beta male son at the feet of the towering, muscular brute who had exerted his
dominance over him. She no longer sounded like a woman who would go to her son’s side in that
situation. She sounded like the kind of simpering, brainless ditz who would see such a primal display of
superiority and go to the side of the brute instead, rubbing his broad, powerful chest and rewarding him
for his dominance with a wet, noisy kiss.

She realized that, as that mental image went through her head, she was already acting it out. She stared
dumbly up at Duncan, grinning like an idiot, licking noisily up and down the bottom of his pulsating,
veined monster shaft.

“’M just… ’m just a dumb fucking bitch in heat…” She murmured between slurps and whimpers, the
words sounding like they were coming from some drunken slag in the alleyway behind one of the clubs
in the city. She hadn’t even known she had that kind of language in her. Her stomach heated up,
flipped. She was almost as turned on by who she could be, now, as she was by the smirking, imperious
alpha thug bringing it out of her.

“Yeaaah, fuckin’ A you are,” Duncan growled ferociously, the almost angry lust in his voice all the
reward Amira could have ever wanted. That he rewarded her with even more than that — by reaching
down with one huge, thick-fingered hand, a hand that rained down pain and humiliation on boys like her
son, and brutally squeezing down on one of her big, motherly tits — made her want for him flare up like a
supernova, boiling and churning within every part of her. She moaned, loudly, with reckless abandon,
forgetting that she was in the hallway while her husband and son slept so nearby. She heard liquid
dribbing, audibly, down onto the carpeted floor below, observed her shaking, twitching hips and legs,
and concluded blearily that she’d just climaxed again. She’d gone from thinking the female orgasm
might be a myth after all, to being driven to it twice in a ten minute spam, merely from the touch and
crude, abusive dominance of a real Man. Her loathing for Fazhir — and, strangely, by connection, Rayan,
the son she’d been forced to raise, who would so clearly end up just as impotent and boring as his
father — flared up, too, mixing with her desire for Duncan in a heady, dizzying cocktail.

A dizziness that was cleared, blissfully, like so much uncertainty in the world: by an act of God.
Duncan’s hand wrapped around the throbbing, enormous base of his throbbing donkey dong, and he
slapped it directly down onto her tongue, holding it there lined up with her hot, wet, panting mouth.

“Suck my fuckin’ fat white cock, you fat-assed cheating slut,” he grunted, with the kind of careless,
demanding confidence that told her, on the deep, natural level of a woman sizing up a mate, he had
never had such an order disobeyed in his entire life. Her mouth closed eagerly around his fist-like, slimy
cockhead almost before he even finished saying it, her cheeks caving in lewdly as she sealed her lips as
tightly as she could and started noisily, wetly slurping, the cloth of her hijab swaying subtly where it was
loosest as her head bobbed in small, steady motions.

“Ahhhh shit… that’s it. And thank me for beating your loser kid up yesterday, too, while you’re at it…”

Amira didn’t even think about it. The thought recognizing this for what it was flashed through some
distant part of her brain — she knew it was Duncan rubbing in his depraved, unfair victory over what
society told everyone was fair and Good in the world. She knew he was practically daring her to snap
out of it, there, and refuse to go that far.

And still, her lips, sealed so tightly, lovingly, around his twitching teen monstercock squelched their way
up his tip, let it pop free with a strand of saliva flung messily into the air, and she panted lightly for
breath, looking right up into Duncan’s eyes as she reached up and caressed his wet, dripping, heavy
alpha male ballsack while his shaft swayed and glistened with her drool an inch from her mouth.

“Mmmmmnnnn… thank you for beating up my… loser kid… yesterday…” And, as that dark thrill of
exhileration shot through her at the sound of her strange, simpering new voice saying it, her voice and
yet not quite her voice, she planted a loving, wet kiss right on Duncan’s oozing, intimidatingly huge
cockhead.

She tried to tell herself it didn’t really mean anything to say it. That she would have said anything, at that
moment, just to keep sampling Duncan’s godly, stinking, massive cock with her married mouth that had
starved for a real Man for so long.

But if she didn’t really mean anything by it, why was she twerking her fat, generously padded mommy
ass even more pronouncedly, filling the air with audible, faint clapping noises every time those big
bouncing asscheeks slapped together?

Why was she rubbing her sopping wet pussy so hard and fast that her fingers were a blur?

And why did she moan with such genuine, mindless happiness when Duncan snarled and rammed half
of his entire monstrosity of a bully dick straight down her throat?

The guttural, muffled GLRRRRK rang out loudly in the stark quiet of the hallway that Amira normally
would have been sleepily stumbling through at about this time on any normal school and workday,
heading down just a bit earlier than her husband and son to make sure their breakfast was prepared by
the time they were up and dressed. But it was not the sleepwalking Amira in the hallway now. It was this
new Amira, awake for the first time in her life, her heartbeat filling her ears with excitement and fear and
joy as this awful, foulmouthed teen thug making her say such awful things started savagely fucking her
throat.

“I knew what you were… the second I saw you, bitch…” Duncan growled, low, deep, rough, his voice the
utter antithesis to every other man who had ever been in Amira’s life, and she couldn’t have loved him
any more for it. Duncan’s fingers clenched down tightly on her hijab, gathering up her hair beneath it,
sending a few waves of pain through her scalp that somehow only made her rub her pussy harder as
she listened to the disgusting, sloshing wet slurping and choking noises her new Man was forcing out of
her throat as he ravaged it with so much pumping, giant teen cock that her entire neck was bulging out
obscenely, only for his swinging, fat balls to slap wetly against it, over and over.

“A hot, stacked old piece of ass like you… saddled with some scrawny, whiny soyboy… who’s only good
as a punching bag at school?” Duncan grunted, his toned, muscular ass flexing, pistoning his cock in
and out of of Amira’s throat. Spit and throatslop, dredged up every time his shaft pulled up out of her
stuffed gullet only to slam back in, dribbled and splattered messily down from the corners of her
stretched lips, down onto her swinging, bouncing tits, onto the floor below.

“A bitch like you deserves better…”

GLUK. GLUK. GLUK.

“You knew it… your wimpy kid knows it…”

GLUK. GLUK. GLRRRGH.

“I guarantee your shrimpdick husband knows he doesn’t fuckin deserve you…”

Duncan didn’t even have to force his hips forward that time. Amira let out a muffled, long, rapturous
moan and shoved her own mouth down as far as she could on his perfect, domineering alpha bully cock.
Her torso spasmed. She horked up a sloppy wad of spit that sprayed messily from every tiny gap left
between her vacuum-sealed married lips and Duncan’s cock. Her eyes rolled back, and still he held
herself down, her hands sliding up his firm, hairy thighs to lovingly caress his smooth, muscular
buttocks.

Duncan sneered down at her. He ran his hand over the top of her head in something almost like an
approving petting motion, only to send pain shooting through her scalp again as he clenched down and
set to forcefully bobbing her head up and down. In that moment, it wasn’t her mouth anymore — it was
Duncan’s fleshlight, forced into shallow, rapid jerking motions that left only a couple inches of his veiny,
monstrous cock open to the air, the rest of it buried deep in her spasming throat, filling the air with
rapid-fire GLRKGLRKGLRKGLRK noises of a throat beeing deeply and shallowly fucked.

“Well, don’t you worry your pretty little cunt head… you’re mine now.”

All her life, men had tried to control Amira. Baba. Fazhir. God.

But none of them were men — not really. Her Baba and Fazhir had been scared pretenders, their gender
something merely assigned to them at birth but not something they ever really embodied, despite
helping themselves to the unearned privleges of that gender their culture arbitrarily gave them.

And God? Had she ever really believed in God? The Quran had not been something she ever felt any
real devotion to. Adhering to it, going through the motions of worship as it said to do, it was all just
routine, drilled into her from birth.
This was different.

For the first time, it wasn’t just a man trying to claim her based on her birth or her circumstances. For
the first time, she was being well and truly claimed, by a Man, as she willingly, eagerly, adoringly served
him — not because she had to, not because she had no choice, but because every instinct in her ripe,
fertile, voluptuous body screamed at her that she’d finally found a Man worth serving.

Amira’s eyes rolled back so far that they became nothing but whites. Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly.
Her hips spasmed, legs twitching, shelf-like phat ass wobbling and clapping, her fingers frenziedly and
lovingly caressing all over Duncan’s legs and rear, one hand reaching between his thighs to press his
ballsack forward so that she could shove her tongue out and start lapping it at his sweaty, massive nuts
as he savagely deep-fucked her throat.
It hit her then, very starkly, very clearly:

She was in love.

It was precisely as that realization crystallized in her mind that the alarm went off.

Duncan had made no secret of the fact he almost wanted to be caught. Why else would he have shown
up at her house, let alone just spent several minutes in the perfectly quiet, still home filling the air with
the lewd wet GLRKGLRKGLRK of his homewrecking monster cock pounding her gullet?

But that didn’t make the sudden sound of Fazhir’s alarm clock, a sound that Amira had heard at the
same time every single day, day in and day out, for so long, any less of a shock. Duncan let out a thick,
sluggish grunt of shock, his cocky grin snapping into a dully annoyed surprise as his head whipped up to
look toward the master bedroom of Amira’s home mere feet away. Amira reflexively tried to pull her own
head back to look over her shoulder, starkly positive in that moment that she would see her husband
sitting up in his bed, staring at them with wide eyes filled with heartbreak. She was just in the process of
feeling yet another of those dark, shameful thrills shoot through her at the thought when Duncan’s hand
tightened on her hijab and shoved her mouth back down his cock. Her own eyes widened instead,
staring straight ahead at her stud’s shaved white crotch, spluttering mutely, spit splattering all over his
lap and thighs.

She heard the bed creak behind her, the usual sigh of bleary, sleepy resignation that always came from
Fazhir when he woke up to start another day. She’d never realized how much she hated that sigh. Now,
unbound by the old fugue, she felt a dark, impulsive hope that Duncan would stomp into the bedroom
she’d shared with Fazhir for twenty years and deck him the fuck out, just as punishment for subjecting
her to such dreary monotony for all that time, starting every single day with the tired resignation of an
unremarkable man going through the motions.

The alarm was turned off, the bed creaking again. She could just about see Fazhir, eyes still closed like
always, robotically lifting himself to a seated position on his side of the bed.

“Oh shit,” Duncan whispered, half-laughing. Amira felt her heartbeat pick up, the pure reflexive fear that
maybe they really had been caught — pure reflex, because really, who the fuck cared if Fazhir did see,
what was he going to do to a towering mass of muscle and pure youthful power like Duncan, and that
only made her heartbeat quicken even more, exhilerated by the feeling of invincibility that the
intimidating presence of her son’s bully gave her—

Duncan’s monster cock pulled out of her throat so fast she momentarily felt like her insides would be
pulled up along with it. A sloppy wet SHLRRRP briefly filled the air, a torrent of saliva and throatslime
splashing down onto her breasts, and then those breasts were bouncing and jiggling alarmingly as she
was hauled bodily, awkwardly to her feet, and they were moving, Duncan’s steps surprisingly quiet
despite his size. The only sound, tormentingly enough, was the heavy, meaty smacking of his drooping
horsecock slapping from one thigh to the other.

“That little manlet almost saw me,” Duncan hissed gleefully as he pulled Amira down the hall with him
by the grip he had on her hijab. He sounded more youthful than Amira had heard so far, like he was
talking to some girlfriend from school after they’d just pulled off a particularly risky prank on a teacher. It
was juvenile, asinine — and Amira couldn’t stop herself from grinning and giggling herself, blushing hotly
as she stumbled down the hallway, half-naked, saliva dripping from her swaying, bouncing breasts.

It was all happening so quickly that she was already having a hard time processing it. It didn’t help
matters when Duncan, just as abruptly as they’d started moving, stopped. He was up against one of the
doors in the hallway, back pressed to it, and he pulled her up against him. Her breasts squished softly
up against his burly, wide chest, and he flashed a cocky, wolfish grin down at her that made him look so
roguishly handsome that she felt her heart jump into her neck. She heard herself giggling airily again.
She couldn’t have resisted returning that smile even if she’d wanted to, and she most certainly didn’t
want that, because he wouldn’t want that.

“He’s gonna see the mess you left on the floor, you know,” Duncan breathed, that deep, rough voice
rumbling through her and making her stomach flip. He was leaning in, mouth an inch from hers, one
hand on the back of her head and the other sliding down to give her wobbling, cushiony ass one of the
firm, territorial squeezes she was becoming rapidly addicted to, the kind of touch that made her not
ashamed of her thick, curvy body but euphorically happy she had it, to earn this fucked-up attention from
her new God.

“I don’t care,” Amira said sluggishly, eyes staring dreamly up into Duncan’s. She desperately pushed
her face forward to lock lips with him, and he smirked as he allowed it, their lips smacking wetly together
in one kiss, then another. She moaned between each, pushing her ass back into his grip, rubbing her
soft, chubby belly against his angrily pulsing, rock-hard cock. “My husband….nnnghh… he is a stupid,
repressed little man…” She gave a shy, naughty smile as she looked up at Duncan, biting her lower lip
softly. “He will never guess he just missed his wife sucking on the kind of big, juicy white cock he
probably has nightmares about stealing me away from him…”
It felt so good to say that she rubbed herself even more eagerly up against Duncan’s cock, practically
humping herself against him. Duncan let out a low, arrogant sneer, gave her ass a hard, sharp smack
that rang out in the hallway. Amira giggled, not even bothering to look over and see if there was a
chance Fazhir was there to hear it. More than that, though… now she, too, almost wished he wouldhear
it.

“C’mere, fatass…” Duncan growled into her ear, and he plunged his lips over hers aggressively,
shoving his tongue deeply into her mouth. She let a muffled, needy moan out right into his, and wiggled
her wide, curved hips, jiggling that very ‘fatass’ around for her new Man as he squeezed it, kneaded it
with his powerful, warm teen hands, bouncing it around with both his palms now. She noticed the door
they were leaning against was rattling around slightly as Duncan’s huge bulk shifted in the process of
their heated make-out session, and couldn’t have cared less — until the faint, bleary sound of her son’s
sleepy voice called out from beyond it.

“Maamaan…? Is that you…?”

Amira’s eyes fluttered open, her lips still smashed against Duncan’s, hips still writhing against his
throbbing, reeking alpha bully cock.

It was her son’s bedroom.

She was sloppily, eagerly making out with his bully, jiggling her ass around in his groping hands like a
dick-drunk slut, right against the door of her son’s bedroom while he was inside it.

Duncan looked like Christmas had come early. He broke off the deep, wet kiss, looking first at the door
over his shoulder with a widening, wolfish grin, then down at Amira, expectantly.

Amira panted lightly for breath for a moment. She had at least enough decency left, in some deep,
hard-to-reach part of her, to feel a little guilty about the fact she was still smiling dumbly right back at
Duncan as she cleared her throat and tried to sound ‘normal’ in her reply, with limited success — her
voice sounded higher than usual, almost too sweet, and there was a tone of condescension that she
couldn’t even control. “Time… time for school, azizam~!” The rest of it poured out unthinkingly, her
heart pounding as, desperate to keep that handsome, fierce grin on Duncan’s face, she added: “I
know… I know you’re scared to see your big bad bully again, but… you… you need to stop being such a
little… baby…! Okaaaay~?”

A good mother, she knew, would have felt terrible for saying such a thing to her son, let alone first thing
in the morning — or with her ass in his bully’s hands as she said it. But the way Duncan’s smile split
wide open, the juvenile, gloating I can’t believe this shit expression on his perfect, rugged face, the way
he looked down at her with renewed, fierce hunger and squeezed her ass even harder…

In that moment, she wasn’t even thinking about the effect her words might have on poor Rayan. All she
could do was smile shyly back up at Duncan, basking in the approval of her perfect, hung, white God, a
warm happiness flooding through her like she’d just taken a hit of a drug.

There was silence for a long moment from Rayan’s side of the door, before the response, more awake
than before but still sleepy-sounding, and with a pathetic tone of self-pity that prompted a visceral flash
of disgust from Amira in response. “Wh…whaaat? M—Maamaan, what are you… saying?”

Before she could reply, the sound of the toilet flushing from down the hall made Amira and Duncan
simultaneously turn their attention that way. “Oh shit,” Duncan hissed, that youthful, dark excitement on
his face like an overgrown schoolyard bully pulling something on a particularly old and doddering
teacher. “C’mon!”

He grabbed Amira by one of her arms and started dragging her along with him again, his cock slapping
around heavily between his thighs, those huge, sagging balls bouncing just as her own breasts started
to do in time with their movement. Amira distractedly, impulsively called back toward Rayan’s room,
“Just… stop whining and get up!”

Duncan looked back at her as he pulled her down the stairs, a dark, ominous expression on his
handsome face that made Amira’s heart stop — only for it to pick back up, skipping a few beats, in
excitement as he flashed that ferocious grin and said, simply, brusquely, the rough, brutish tone
conveying even more than the words: “Haaah, shoulda told him you’re about to get your cunt split open
by his bully’s big fat cock!”

“Oh,” Amira managed in a small voice. It hit her in waves — an initial, dull surprise at hearing it put to
words, and then, the shock hitting her like a freight train as it sank in more fully.

Her cunt…

Split open…

Her cunt!

Surely she should have always known that’s the only way this could go. As little experience as she had
with sex, she still knew enough that all the rough groping and making out and cocksucking was only ever
leading up to Duncan making good on claiming her as his, once and for all, in the most natural,
undeniable way a man could claim a woman.

But the fact that, all of a sudden, they were finally, really there…

Amira’s eyes stared, raptly, at Duncan’s bouncing, swaying, massive white cock. She felt her gut heat
up, as always, felt her lips gape in dumb admiration at the sight of it… but there was a new undercurrent
of fear, too, because — well —

How the fuck could all of that go inside her?

She became aware that they were no longer in the hallway, or on the stairs. They were in a bathroom. It
took her a moment to process, dazed as she was, that they were in the downstairs bathroom. Duncan
slammed the door behind them, locked it. Amira looked around, unconsciously backing up from the door
as Duncan stalked forward, stomping up to her with that unholy, veined, leviathan of teen bully cock
bouncing and swaying heavily from side to side with each step, naked youthful lust on the face she’d
just been staring at so dreamily a few moments before.

“This is… uhm…” Amira struggled to organize her thoughts. The shock of what she knew was finally
coming, finally, really coming, after hours of being lost in her outpouring of decades of repressed
horniness, of fantasizing about this very thing, was like a splash of cold water. A splash of cold water on
a raging wildfire, sure, a splash that ultimately was nothing compared to the flame burning in her core,
but enough to shake her so that, as she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she could only stare in dull
shock, not even recognizing the woman looking back at her. She stopped in her tracks, looking at her
own side profile, jaw slack, trying to process that this disheveled, flushed — harlot — in the mirror was
really her. Hijab rumpled, nearly coming off; her face a mess, smeared with saliva and cocksweat, drool
still glistening from the corners of her mouth; her bared breasts wobbling slightly, even more of a mess,
visibly handmarked and covered with long, shining rivulets of drool and throatslime that also stained her
pajama top and her soft, chubby belly; and her lower half, somehow, was even more of a mess, pajama
pants around her knees, her bared, big wobbling ass even more visibly abused than her breasts,
spankmarked all over, her thick, jiggling thighs completely covered with her own explosively squirted
fem-cum and juices of arousal, pants heavily and darkly stained by it all.

“My uhm… my son… uses this bathroom… to get ready,” Amira stammered faintly, still staring at herself
as Duncan entered the reflection. Her wide, exotic almond-shaped eyes looked dumbly at his reflection,
trying to process now, too, that this huge, muscled, white teen thug was actually here, not some figment
of her imagination, conjured up by her desperate dreams for a real Man in her life. Maybe it was —
maybe she was just imagining this — because how could that giant, perfect, fat white cock be real, the
sight of it compared to herself making her want to faint — how could anything that big, that demanding,
that bestial be real —

And then she felt it, its heat, its insistent, angry pulsing, so full of vigor and youthful alpha male power,
as he slid it right up against her stomach, smirking at their reflection in the mirror, rubbing it against her.
He placed his strong, warm, rough palm on the swell of one of her fertile baby-bearing hips, and slowly,
firmly ran it up along the contours of her body until he found one of her breasts, gathering up a greedy
handful and clamping down roughly. Amira moaned and slumped against him, hands landing on his
powerful, burly chest, feeling his own steady, vital heartbeat.

No — this was real.

This was going to happen.

And after this, there would really be no going back.

“You think I give a fuck about that?” Duncan sneered in response to her faint protests. He looked away
from the mirror, instead looking right down at her body, letting out a low, deep growl of very clear primal
intent as he drank her in. “Fuuuuck… the more I look at this body of yours, the more I wonder how such
a little dead-end of the gene pool came out of you…” He reached down with his spare hand, gripping the
base of his throbbing monstercock angled up against her belly, and slid it down, instead pressing it
between her thighs — and rubbing it against her pussy.

Amira shuddered, her entire body starting to shake, adrenaline and mind-shattering lust and fear
coursing through her all at the same time. She looked up at him with wide, desperate eyes, panting
lightly, mouth working mutely as she tried to find words.

“Look at me,” Duncan growled, reaching up and forcefully angling her head down so she was staring at
his cock instead. “Look at you. This is what a grade-A piece of fuckmeat like you is meant for, bitch.”

She felt his hand undoing her hijab, felt cool air hitting her scalp as he tossed it aside. Her rich, flowing
black hair came loose, falling about her shoulders, bangs falling over her brow.

“Breakfast,” she said stupidly, staring at the enormous, veiny white bully cock rubbing against her
pussy, every sensation of that hot, hard masculinity against her needy, hyper-sensitive cunt making her
entire body twitch and tremble. “I… they’ll be expecting… breakfast…”

The world shifted. Amira gasped as Duncan grabbed her by her hair and forcefully spun her around to
face the mirror fully, shoving her up against the bathroom sink. The cold porcelain sent a shiver up her
spine. Duncan bent her over, her sagging, heavy breasts cushioned against the sink, her big wobbling
shelf of an ass forced up and out toward him. Bent over like this, she could see him in all his towering,
brutal glory, looming over her, masculinity rippling in every inch of his likeness, from those broad
shoulders, to his trunk-like, beefy arms, his strong, rugged facial features…

And most of all, the life-ruining, cunt-destroying monster of a cock she felt him slap down between her
asscheeks, setting to firm, casual thrusting motions between them, his hips clapping faintly against her
thick thighs and pillowy, pale asscheeks as her jerked himself off with them, letting her feel his ominous
size and weight between them.

The feeling of him using her ass so lewdly — the sight of herself bent over the sink, her hair messily
clenched in one of his hands as he imperiously towered over her, the very image of an alpha male about
to breed his bitch —
There wasn’t even a hint of hope for the splash of cold water that the prospect of taking Duncan’s cock
had prompted in the face of the white-hot inferno that flared up deep inside Amira now. It was the same
kind of intense, all-consuming fire that had burned the old Amira to a crisp a few hours ago, laying there
in her bed, helplessly masturbating as she fantasized about the very cock, brutal, massive, radiating with
its potent, primal scent, that was poised to reshape her from the inside out now.

“Ohhhh, fuuuuuck,” she breathed throatily, that stupid grin from before stretching across her face. She
bit her lower lip, staring right into her own eyes in the mirror, and in that moment loved herself more than
she’d ever felt. Because you know what, Baba?

I look fucking hot.

I look like a slut.

His slut.

I’m not yours anymore. I’m not Fazhir’s. I’m not even his loser son’s mommy anymore.

Once he puts that big… fucking… white bully cock inside me…

“I want it,” she heard herself moaning, at the same time as she felt herself bucking her hips, popping
and locking — she’d never twerked in her life, it wasn’t smooth or practiced, but this wasn’t a dance, it
was nature; she was just a bitch in heat, after all, like she’d admitted earlier, and she couldn’t help
herself from clapping the fat, generous asscheeks she knew got her Man all worked up, primitively
coaxing him into giving her the superior alpha cock that she understood, now, was her purpose in life.

“Oh my God, I want it so fucking bad~” Amira heard herself saying it almost as if she was surprised to
hear herself admitting it out loud. Amira turned her hooded eyes in the mirror up toward Duncan, locking
eyes with his own reflection — and on an impulse that she didn’t even understand, she rolled her tongue
slowly, lewdly out of her mouth, like a drooling red carpet, keeping it extended as she bucked and
twerked her ass against his cock even more eagerly.

“Make me forget about them,” she cooed, letting her stream of long-repressed consciousness stream
out in a desperate, moaning voice that she could feel was making Duncan’s cock throb and buck more
and more aggressively with every word. His hips slapped against her bouncing, rippling ass faster and
faster, his cock plowing between her pillowy asscheeks like a hot knife through butter. “Make me forget
that stupid, boring little tiny-dick man I didn’t even want to marry~ Make me forget his loser son I never
wanted, either~ Make me forget this shitty boring life with them~ Make me forget everything but your big
fat fucking white coooock~”

Power was not something Amira had ever particularly wanted. She certainly wasn’t grasping for it now.
But it was also something that pretenders at manhood, like her Baba, like Fazhir, had actively notwanted
her to have, that all insecure, undeserving men fear allowing in women.

And that made her practically cum on the spot yet again when she saw the effect her words were having
on Duncan now, how every word of her depraved, filthy, slutty venting made his rugged face turn more
and more animalistic, nostrils flaring, lips curling as he grunted like a horny bull, his powerful chest rising
and falling faster and faster — there was no doubt who was in control here, but the power of her female
sexuality excited her almost as much as the power of his apex masculinity. She smiled even wider in the
mirror, extending her tongue again, and contorted her eyebrows in a perverse, pleading kind of look as
she kept her eyes locked with his reflection.

And then, Amira did cum, yet again — though it took her a moment that seemed to drag on forever before
she realized exactly why.

Her legs were shaking wildly, her juices splashing wetly all over Duncan’s legs, a strange, shuddering,
prolonged moan escaping her suddenly dumbly gaping mouth, before she even processed the fact that
something impossibly massive, hard as a rock, had just slammed so deeply into the very core of her
body that she felt her brain might literally shut down.

Duncan had slammed himself balls-deep into her pussy on the first thrust.

It was literally impossible for her poor, shocked brain to fully put it all together. There was too much. Her
pussy, accustomed to nothing wider than two fingers and nothing longer than those same fingers, for her
entire life, was practically virgin-tight. If it hadn’t been for the gratuitous, sloppy amounts of her juices
that had been leaking and squirting all night and into the morning, she was positive it would have been
far worse. As it was, between all of that and the thick coating of her saliva still on Duncan’s
monstercock, he was as well-lubricated as he possibly could have been.

And it still, in one thrust, utterly, irreversibly, and permanently broke her. She had just enough
brainpower left to understand that, on a deep, primal level, before the mind-shattering sensation of such
a massive, powerful cock stretching her most sensitive inner parts obscenely wide open, rubbing against
parts of her that she hadn’t even known were there — literally punching its way right into her womb on
the first thrust, like a brutal, animal declaration of utter conquest —

Like any system overloaded, Amira simply shut down.

And rebooted.

She became aware, as the world came back into focus, that she was screaming. A long, droning, shrill
cry of ululating pleasure, her lips curled into a stupid, shaky smile, eyes rolled back into her head, her
entire body shaking like a leaf as she simply stood there, bent over the sink, her hips bucking and
quaking as she splattered explosive orgasm all over Duncan’s groin and legs.

Duncan, swearing under his breath, glanced at the door, used his grip on her hair to pull her upright so
that he could clamp his hand down over her mouth. He looked back at the mirror as she continued
screaming into his hand, her new position allowing him to greedily watch her fat, heavy breasts bouncing
and slapping around wildly as her body shook. The cocky, shit-eating grin on his face let her know
exactly how accustomed he was to causing this reaction so easily, and she simultaneously wanted to
slap him and make out with him.

“Keep it down, fat-ass,” Duncan sneered, not even working his hips, just staying still and letting Amira
ride out the shockwaves of his overgrown alpha bully cock stretching her open more completely and
filling her more utterly than she’d ever thought was even possible. He gave the fat ass in question a
hard smack, the meaty CLAP! ringing out particularly sharply in the acoustics of the bathroom.
Combined with being so obscenely stuffed with his cock, the territorial, harsh slap made Amira’s
screams turn to loud, whorish moans into his palm, her hips gyrating — which in turn made his twitching,
rock-hard monster cock stir up her insides in a whole new way. Her legs set to rapid shaking again, a
few more squirts of climax splattering out of her newly stretched cunt. “Those little cucks out there are
gonna get to watch me have some fun with you sooner or later, but we need to get you used to a real
cock first, haah…”

In the throes of such deep, all-consuming lust, more all-consuming and white hot than she’d ever
experienced in her life, swallowing up every thought and memory in the wake of its intensity, the mental
image of her husband and son helplessly watching her bred by such a huge, manly white cock, too
terrified of the bully fucking her to do anything, made Amira’s eyelashes flutter rapidly and her smile
widen so much that her cheeks hurt. She reached down and set to rubbing and slapping at her sensitive
clit, her fingers randomly rubbing against what little was exposed of the leathery, gnarled monster cock
splitting her insides open, and she moaned loudly into Duncan’s hand.

And it was a damned good thing his hand was still there, because if either Rayan or Fazhir had even
heard a fraction of her screaming from before, it would have been nothing compared to what followed.

Duncan showed not a hint more subtlety with the follow-up to his initial, balls-deep battering-ram thrust
into Amira than he had with that. One moment, he was simply buried deep inside her, letting her ride out
the shockwaves. The next, the entire bathroom was filled with rapid, fleshy PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
PLAP! noises, nonstop, as he wrapped his free arm around her torso, warm and strong — and set to
slam-fucking her poor, unprepared pussy like the angry, horny alpha bull he was, the one she’d fallen
for.

Just as before, there was a long, eternal moment where it as as if Amira had simply shut down. She
stared, wide-eyed, up at the ceiling, heart stopped, trying to process the fact every thick, wobbly curve
on her mature body was bouncing as Duncan pumped his entire colossal teen cock in and out of her
pussy, hard and fast, her phat pillowy mommy ass rippling and bouncing in time with his firm, muscular
hips rapidly slapping into her cheeks every time he buried himself inside her convulsing pussy. She felt
his huge, heavy balls slapping lewdly against her thighs, sloshing with the virile young seed that he was
preparing to dump inside her.

And maybe it was that thought that snapped her out of it enough to start screaming again.

It wasn’t a scream of fear, or pain. It was a scream of pure, depraved, wanton joy.

“OH MY GODDDDDD YESSSSSSSS~! YES~! YESSSSSSS~!”

The words weren’t discernible for anyone but her, muffled into Duncan’s palm. But the fact she was
squirting again, her femcum hot and sticky as it ran in thick rivers down his muscular legs, told him all he
needed to know. He simply sneered imperiously, enjoying the view of this fucked-out, completely
delirious married Persian mother whose mind was shattering with every thrust of his rapidly pumping,
endlessly enthusiastic young alpha monster cock.

Amira had never been as happy for the modestly effective soundproofing of their home’s heavy wooden
bathroom doors as she was when the hesitant, lightly rapping knock rang out — and never as ferociously,
viscerally annoyed at the hesitant, uncertain high tremor of her son’s voice.

“Maamaan? Dad is still using the bathroom upstairs… Are you gonna be long?”

Amira looked at herself in the mirror, at this hot, free slut she’d been transformed into by her son’s
bully, her freely flowing black hair unrestricted by the usual hijab flying and swaying in time with
Duncan’s powerful thrusts into her gushing cunt, her considerable breasts bouncing so fast they were a
blur, her hips rippling from how hard he was slamming his crotch into her ass, the dull meaty clapping
noises still filling the air, and the pure animal instinct that consumed her now only knew borderline
violent annoyance at such a little beta male trying to interrupt her breeding by a superior alpha. She
snapped her reply with a cold disdain she’d never heard from herself in her entire life.

“Go away!”

Silence. Duncan sneered approvingly behind her, reached up and clamped a hand down on one of her
breasts roughly, shaking it around as he continued relentlessly using every bit of his natural strength and
vigor to pound her fat married pussy so hard that her shelf-like asscheeks were literally clapping against
each other, adding another layer of fleshy slapping noises to the slamming of his hips against them.
Amira bit down on her lip, moaning deep in her throat, and reached back with one arm running it
randomly, passionately, through Duncan’s dirty blond hair as she stared at herself in the mirror, more
and more turned on by the second by the sight of herself being bred by such a hung white brute.

Then the pathetic sniveling from the other side of the door, the telltale sign of Rayan becoming sulky —
the only response he ever had to anything going against him, since like his father, he was too meek to
do anything else. That visceral disgust flared up in Amira again and she rolled her eyes in annoyance as
her son’s reedy voice rang out again: “But… he takes too long! I’ll be late! And… and why isn’t
breakfast even ready…? Maaamaan, you’re acting wei—”

She couldn’t even bare to hear another word. She bucked her hips back almost angrily against Duncan,
and he smirked as he paused his own thrusting, letting her fuck herself on his rock-hard, twitching
stallion cock, venting her anger in her frenzied bouncing on his shaft at the same time as she vented it
with her sharply snapped words toward the door.

“Oh my God, are you a little baby?! Make your own fucking breakfast for once! Now go away!”

His footsteps could be heard practically running away. Dark satisfaction flooded Amira, and she smirked
right back at Duncan’s reflection in the mirror, loving how she looked with her dark bangs falling about
her hooded eyes, hair the freshly-fucked mess of a whore’s.

“He’ll go whine to his father like a little bitch,” she breathed sultrily, the last word turning into a moan as
she pressed her hands against the edge of the sink and used the firm grip to slam her hips back against
Duncan’s muscular groin even more aggressively. Duncan leaned back and watched, that shit-eating
grin on his rugged face only making her stomach heat up more intensely, gyrating her hips eagerly and
making her fat milky ass bounce and clap and twerk for him as she rode his godly white bully cock. He
slammed a big hand down onto one wobbling cheek, hard, making her throw her head back and groan
with such intense satisfaction that it almost sounded angry.

“Just enough time… for you to give me that fucking fat, hot load, baby…”

She’d never been able to practice dirty talk in her life. The part of her that was a shy schoolgirl with no
dating experience made her blush as she moaned the words out, only able to go on what she’d heard in
those rare forays into the world of pornography as a girl. But whether it was the words themselves, or
the all too genuine, desperate need of her smoky, mature voice as she said it — all she could say was
that Duncan clearly approved.

He slammed himself back into her so brutally that her whole body flew forward, roughly slumping back
over the sink. Her face came within a couple inches of the mirror, her hot breaths fogging up the glass
as she stared at herself in dim shock.

And then both of Duncan’s hands were harshly digging into her hips, getting a firm, inescapable grip —
and he showed her that, remarkably, in a sense, he had been going easy on her.

Amira had thought he was using all of his strength to ravage her before, but it was nothing compared to
this. It sank into her, all over again, just what a fucking huge, stomping brute had decided to make her
his bitch, because it felt, for the coming minutes, like an actual horse was mounting her, not just a teen
with a cock that would make a horse blush. She was helpless in the face of the brutal, pummeling
breeding he gave her then, grunting savagely, his hips slapping against her ass so hard and fast that her
pale cheeks were by now an angry, solid red as they rippled and bounced and clapped in raucous,
standing ovation. Her legs trembled, shook helplessly. And for the first time in her life, Amira knew
nothing but pure, utter bliss, eyes rolled back, tongue lolling stupidly out of her mouth, a dumb
monotonous “AH~! AH~! AH~! AH~!” bursting out of her lips every time Duncan slammed every inch of
that life-destroying monster cock balls deep into her squelching cunt.

“I… I love you,” she heard herself whisper. It thrilled her to say it. She said it again, louder. “I love you…!
I love you! God… oh, God… I fucking love you! I LOVE YOUUU~!”
And she was still babbling it, over and over, mindlessly, tongue out, eyes clouded and unseeing, as
Duncan pulled out, blasting the first few ropes of hot, yogurty alpha male nutbatter all over her abused,
spankmarked, reddened mommy ass. Just feeling it mark her as his territory so quickly after the violent
sensation of so much cock vacating her poor, ruined, obscenely gaped pussy made it gush a few thick
squirts of her own fem-cum, as Duncan grunted, smacking one side of her ass as he rapidly pumped his
cock with the other hand, painting her with blast after blast of voluminous, heavy, sticky teen bully cum,
leaving a thick, gooey white glaze all over her ass and back, running messily down her hips and legs.

“I love you… I love you… I love your coooock~”

“Yeah, whatever, fat-ass. Keep riding my fuckin’ cock like that and maybe I won’t get bored of you,”
Duncan grunted dismissively as he coaxed out a few last thickly oozing wads of his cum, even his dregs
far more heavy and virile than anything she’d ever seen from her little, boring husband.

Amira spun around, wrapped her arms around his sturdy neck, and moaned into his mouth as she
kissed him, long and deep.
 5 - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, after how quickly her life had been upended by a single, chance
encounter with her son’s bully — and yet somehow, it was still jarring just how fast things moved in
Amira’s life over the month that followed.

After an entire life where it had often felt as if she was stuck in quicksand, it was now like she’d been
plucked from that quicksand by Duncan’s huge, burly hands, and sent hurtling right down a highway
instead. In a car with its brake line severed, leaving her with no control over the speed at which she
traveled.

That should have alarmed her, but instead, she found, at every turn, that it only thrilled her.

That was why, as she stood in the cramped, public mall changing room that she found herself in now,
staring at herself in the body-length mirror, drinking in the sight of her mature, voluptuous body
squeezed tightly into the skimpiest outfit she’d ever seen, she could only blush and giggle, her cheeks
aching from how broadly she was smiling.

“God damn, it is taking every ounce of self-control I have not to just shove you up against that mirror
and fuck your brains out.”

Amira’s stomach heated and flipped in that heady, addictively pleasant way she was getting so
accustomed to now, a feeling she’d only been able to tantalizingly sample in her youth before her stern,
repressed Baba and the faith he wielded like a bludgeon had denied it to her for decades. She turned
her smile shyly toward the reflection of Duncan in the mirror, sitting behind her on the changing room
bench. The sight of him, so tall, broadly-built, young and strong and focusing his cocky, maddeningly
handsome smirk at her, made her belly broil even hotter. Even after a month of being with him, serving
him, daily, in more locations than she could count on both hands, it still filled her with an almost
reverential wonder that such a perfect young stud would pay an older woman like her any attention at
all.

“Do you like it, Daddy?” She purred, honeying her lightly Persian-accented, smoky voice in the way she
knew, by now, he liked so much. She pushed her backside toward him, her reflection as a result dipping
forward to show off her dangerously wobbling, spilling cleavage. Both ends of her were on shameful,
lewd display in this outfit she was wearing — it was, after all, designed for teen girls, a midriff-baring,
hot-pink halter top with a cutesy little heart symbol rendered right across the center of her matronly bust
that looked about ready to rip its way right out of the fabric, paired with a baby-blue mini-skirt which, on
her generous, shelf-like behind and curvy, fertile mommy hips, was turned into a micro-skirt. It didn’t
even cover half of her jiggling, milky-pale ass, showing the pink G-string that was swallowed up by her
phat, jello-y asscheeks. Cheeks that were popping out toward the teen, the Man, they served even more
outrageously than usual, thanks to the platform heels she wore on her feet. Various bracelets jingled
prettily on her wrists, hoop earrings catching the light.

Wearing such a thing, let alone in public, made her feel more free than she’d ever felt in her life. After
so long hiding the naturally thick, acutely feminine features that men ruled by fear of their own urges
feared even more, she could finally embrace it, flaunt it, enveloped in the warm blanket of safety that
being in Duncan’s stomping, hulking presence gave her.

What thrilled her even more, though, and what she continued to fixate on the most in her reflection, was
her freely flowing, platinum blonde-dyed hair, streaked black from her natural color beneath. She
couldn’t stop tossing her head from side to side, enjoying the sight of her long, eyebrow-covering
blonde bangs and shoulder-length, perfectly straightened hair swaying majestically, making her earrings
swing gently about.

The tiny, too-small outfit, her fat, melon-sized breasts and wobbly soft ass spilling out of it all over, were
the punctuation; the lack of her hijab was the statement, proclaiming her faith to a new God.

“Fuuuck,” she heard that new God growling under his breath, and she saw his nostrils flaring like an
angry bull’s in his reflection. She bit her soft, plush, glossy pink lip. She loved when Duncan did that.

“Clap that fat ass for Daddy, bitch,” he grunted thickly. She observed his powerful shoulder was flexing,
heard the tell-tale shlick-shlick-shlick that she loved even more. Her own nostrils flared as she picked up
the manly scent of his cock.

He was jerking off, right there in the changing room, as she showed off the new outfit for him.

Amira still sometimes felt stiff trying to play up her sexuality for Duncan — after being essentially sex-less
for her entire life, it was far from natural for her. But what was natural, the most natural thing in the world,
was the desperate, religious need to please him, this handsome, brutal God that had given her a new
life. And so she looked at Duncan in the mirror, her pretty, almond-shaped eyes hooded alluringly, long
lashes fluttering, and smiled, putting a finger with a long, painted nail to her lower lip, and started
working her hips just the way she knew all too well he liked.

The poor little micro-skirt never stood a chance. Already failing disastrously to contain her protruding,
massive pale middle-eastern ass, it was sent right up along her hips, reduced to little more than a belt,
as her asscheeks were sent swinging about, up and down, side to side, back arching to make sure to
put on the best show possible. And her Baba had been right to fear her body, because it was meant for
this — her ass was so thick, so phat, that the slightest motions alone sent it jiggling and clapping audibly
together, let alone this pronounced, slutty display. In no time, the changing room was filled with the
obscene, fleshy clapping of her fat mommy asscheeks smacking against each other, joined by the even
more obscene wet, subtle sound of Duncan’s foreskin sliding frantically up and down over his drooling
monster cockhead as he pumped his shaft to the sight.

“Like that, Daddy?” Amira cooed, her simpering-sweet voice one that neither Fazhir nor Baba nor her
own son, the one who was so tormented by this stud she was twerking for, would recognize in the least.
To them, it would be as if she was putting on a show. But to Amira, it was the voice she’d always used
with them, the voice of her previous life, that had felt like putting on a show.
Duncan didn’t even answer. He just let out a bestial, deep grunt. It made Amira’s stomach do
somersaults, because she knew that sound — it was the sound her Man made when he was devolving,
turning from a big, smirking brute to a literal animal, one that was driven only by his potent, alpha male
lust. It was the state he entered when she was doing her duty to please him properly. Nothing had ever
made her happier, more fulfilled.

Some distant part of her brain, a vestige of her former self, conjured up the memory of holding her
newborn son in her arms in the hospital on the day he was born, as if daring her to believe that a horny
teen bully’s attention could really be more fulfilling than that.

Amira couldn’t even focus on that stray thought for more than a microsecond before the tantalizing,
heavy thud-thud-thud of Duncan’s huge, heavy ballsack slapping against the changing room bench left
her mind blank, a little whimpering sound escaping her lips as she drooled over the sight of them in the
mirror, so fat and smooth and virile. The sight of them, combined with the gnarled, brutal elephant trunk
of a cock towering over them, never failed to leave her mind utterly, completely blank.

What chance did anyone, even her own flesh and blood, stand in the face of such perfect, delicious
manhood?

“Turn around.”

That deep, rough voice might as well have been an electric impulse shot straight through the blank
canvass of her dick-drunk brain. She was turning to face Duncan almost before he even finished
speaking, her wide, well-padded curved hips still shaking around as her asscheeks continued to bounce
and clap even after she’d stopped twerking them. She felt the cold glass of the mirror against her
jiggling ass flesh, the sheer size of her rear making it impossible not to bump against it.

Duncan’s face sent a fresh thrill up her spine. Amira felt her cheeks flushing hotly, her hands nervously,
excitedly moving absently about, one of them brushing her gently swaying, light blonde hair back, the
other adjusting her top, pulling the halter top up a bit and in the process making her huge, milky breasts
jiggle around. Her Man’s face was the picture of pure, raw carnal hunger, his dark hooded eyes hungrily
drinking in every inch of her, nostrils flaring, lip curled in an idle, unconsciously fierce snarl. The alpha
male, inspecting his breeding stock. The deep, animal part of Amira that corresponded to his couldn’t
help but feel thrilled, honored, scared all at once to have caught the eye of such a beast.

Duncan stopped pumping his cock, and let it droop, heavily, forward, its enormous, veined size slowly
lowering — but, despite that size, still managing not to simply fall between his legs, kept partially upright
by the vicious, endless energy pulsating through it. Amira stared blankly, adoringly at it, and became
dully aware that she’d slid one hand down her thong and was rubbing her pussy.

“Get the fuck over here,” Duncan grunted.

Amira was on her knees, again, almost before he’d even finished talking. Her hand came out of her
thong, and instead went to the floor as she got onto all fours like the well-trained bitch she was. She
looked up, shyly, at Duncan. Her heart thudded in her chest in response to the haughty, slight smirk he
gave her as a reward. Coming from him, it might as well have been a diamond wedding ring offered in
proposal.

And as this shameless, blonde, drooling bimbo, her lewd, thickly padded mature body squeezed into the
kind of skimpy outfit that would have been outrageous even on a particularly slutty teen girl, crawled
toward her teen bully Daddy’s twitching, imperiously waiting monster cock right there in a public
changing room, she could only reflect again, dazedly, on how fast it had all happened.

It still felt like, merely an hour ago, she’d been standing on the threshold between her home’s kitchen
and living room right after Duncan had fucked her in the bathroom, staring blankly at her husband and
son at the kitchen table as they stared right back at her, as Duncan had sneaked out of the front door,
still in the process of trying to shove his stubbornly still-erect horsecock into his shorts.

Amira had barely bothered trying to clean herself back up after that. She’d been left so hot and
bothered, feeling her new Man’s hot, potent seed oozing from her gaped, married cunt, tasting him on
her lips, that the thought of concealing it all hadn’t even really occurred to her.

Her pants were pulled back up, her shirt half-buttoned back together — but her cleavage, reddened and
sweaty, was still spilling out. Her pajama pants were so damp with sweat and fem-cum that they clung to
her thick, thundrous thighs and slender calves like a skin-tight pair of yoga pants. Her hijab was about
her shoulders like a scarf, showcasing her messy black hair.

In other words, for her gawking husband and son, she couldn’t have looked more different than she
usually did, at that hour on a schoolday, a workday.

As the awkward silence had stretched on between herself and her family, she felt no embarrassment,
however. She was too busy seeing them with her new eyes for the first time.

She saw her son, Rayan, sitting there, his clear surprise at her appearance fading into a resentful pout.
She remembered how she’d snapped at him as his bully thrust his giant, rock-hard cock back-and-forth
between her wobbling asscheeks. She found herself reacting, not with even a hint of regret — but disgust
at the passive-aggressive, bitch response he was giving her now. Amira felt her lip curl, and the thought
flashed across her mind: And you wonder why he walks all over you, little bitch?

She saw her husband, Fazhir. The way his poorly groomed, too-thick brows scrunched together with the
dim-witted curiosity of an ape, his brown eyes combing her over up and down like he was seeing her for
the first time and his jaw dropping as he was confronted with more sexuality from his wife than he’d
ever seen in their entire marriage. And all Amira could feel was a fierce, vicious satisfaction at his
confusion.

“Zan,” he’d started to say, reducing her, as he so often did, to the Persian term for ‘wife,’ and she had
to clamp down on an impulse to slap him. “Are you unwe—”

She realized, in that moment, with crystalline clarity, that she did not even want to hear his voice for a
second longer than she had to. Didn’t want to hear either of their voices. Didn’t want to see either of
their faces.
She was sick to death of them.

“I am going to shower,” she said breezily, cutting Fazhir off. “And then I’m going out.” She started
walking through the kitchen, past her husband and son, felt their eyes unconsciously staring at her
swaying, wobbling fat ass and the way her damp pajama pants clung to it so tightly. She looked over her
shoulder at Rayan. “Take the bus today.”

Walking up the stairs, leaving them in confused silence, so clearly at a complete loss without her
micromanaging their domestic needs in the morning, Amira felt her lips splitting open in a wide smile.

It was the best morning she’d ever had in this house.

Amira had been able to see him, from the school’s front parking lot, a week or two later — Rayan, sitting
in the front office, alternating between looking meekly down toward his lap and, with clear worry on his
face, over and over again, toward the clock on the wall. She’d seen the secretary giving him
sympathetic looks. Probably the one who had called her, over an hour earlier, to tell her that her son was
sick and needed to be picked up.

But he’d have to wait. She’d been busy applying her lip gloss as she observed her son, and then
getting out of her car, smoothing over the knee-length coat she was wearing. Looking down to make
sure it was buttoned all the way up to hide what she was wearing for Duncan. Because of course, when
the school had called, her first thought had been not for Rayan — but how she would have an excuse to
meet with Duncan.

And now, the thought of Rayan’s pouty, confused face, so irritatingly like his father’s, in the office just
down the hall, was making her moan extra loudly, pushing her fat bouncing ass back with extra
enthusiasm onto Duncan’s hard, throbbing white fuckpillar, his huge hands effortlessly ripping her
full-body black fishnet open wider to let her rippling, milky-smooth asscheeks wobble even more freely,
his hot panting and grunting echoing along with hers in the acoustics of the school bathroom.

“He almost woke up last night… while I was doing it~” Amira moaned, panting raggedly, letting out a
throaty, dark little laugh as she recounted it for Duncan. “Did you… notice, Daddy~?” She cried out in
delirious happiness as Duncan swatted her newly bared ass to reward her for using the title he’d
ordered her to start using for him recently, the sharp fleshy spanking sound resounding loudly across the
tiled walls. “How he… was stirring… while I let your creampie leak onto his stupid sleeping face~?”

Duncan grabbed her by her hijab and jerked her head back toward him roughly. Amira cried out again,
unable to help the dumb, euphoric grin on her face as her white teen stud manhandled her, loving the
feeling of her huge, flopping breasts swinging around in a school bathroom as her pussy went through
the usual seismic convulsions brought on by Duncan’s enormous, brutally thrusting cock. Even after
taking it so many times, she still felt like a virgin having her cherry popped every time he ravaged her. It
was just that fucking big.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Duncan panted, smirking approvingly down at her in a way that made her heart flutter
and butterflies explode into motion in her belly. Then again, that might have just been the explosive
orgasm that happened to ripple through her at the same time. Duncan laughed as she let out a low,
ululating “OooOOOoOoOOOoooOhhhhh~” from deep in her throat, eyes rolling back as her hot sticky
fem-cum splattered all over him. He reached down and started roughly smacking and rubbing at her clit,
and her eyes rolled back until they were all whites, her smile stretching so wide she thought her cheeks
might crack, her whole body shaking like she was having a seizure as her orgasm, in the process of
spluttering down, burst into renewed, sloppy frenzy.

“I noticed because it made you so horny almost getting caught… that you started bucking these slutty
MILF hips of yours over his face while you recorded it,” he panted.

Just the sound of his rough, deep voice made Amira delirious with want. The total, all-consuming effect
he had on her had occasionally scared her at first, over their first few days together, but like any drug,
after getting over the initial side effects, all she wanted to do was chase that initial high. She looked
lovingly, stupidly, up at him over her shoulder, wagging her tongue in a brainless, subsconscious effort
to reach his mouth for a kiss even though he was too far away for that, groaning throatily as she popped
and locked her hips, making her fat, bouncing ass clap and twerk for him as he pounded his hips into it
with that fleshy, savage rapid-fire PLAPPLAPPLAPPLAP sound that filled her ears so regularly now.

“Mmmmmmmnnn~ That’s because… I want him to catch us… Daddyyyy~” She moaned, her voice
fluctuating in pitch, going up and down, depending on whether Duncan’s giant battering ram of a cock
was pounding into her or pulling out on any given word. The constant back-and-forth of the intense
sensations, of being left so gapingly empty only to be immediately filled more completely than she’d
ever thought physically possible, was so intense that it left her limbs weak. “When I think of that
little cuck…” She all but spat out the word, one she’d picked up from Duncan’s constant snickering
put-downs of her son and husband and loved the sheer contempt she could communicate through it,
how it sounded when she let it drip acidically from her mouth. “…seeing you give me so fucking much
more than he can… how you’d make him sit down and shut up like a good boy while you show him how
a Man handles all of this~” She planted her hands on the school bathroom sink in front of her, arched
her back, and worked her hips even more whorishly than before. Her phat, shelf-like asscheeks bounced
around and around, clapping loudly and meatily against each other, rubbing around Duncan’s
nonstop-pounding monster shaft as he leaned back and smirked, enjoying the display. “It makes me
so fucking wet~”

Amira squealed with delight as Duncan, with a snarl of approval, wrapped both of his huge, burly arms
around her soft, chubby torso, hauling her effortlessly up off of her feet, and bounced her entire body up
and down on his hard, powerful teen cock like her entire body was nothing but a cheap toy for him to jerk
off with, clamping his lips aggressively over hers. She eagerly leaned into the kiss, lovingly caressing his
arms, moaning happily into his mouth, the big motherly breasts that had once sustained her son now
providing eye candy for his bully as he fucked her so brutally that every curve on her body was sent
rippling and wobbling.

Her phone buzzed on the sink nearby, showing the school office number. No doubt the office secretary
trying to reach her again. By now it had been almost two hours since they first called her.

Amira ignored it. She was too busy squirting all over the school bathroom sink for the third time that
morning.
—

“I am asking you a question, woman! What is this?!”

In the blur of heat and excitement and flesh that her life had become, Amira did not know how many
days later it was that Fazhir had confronted her with that same, torn full-body fishnet suit, waving it
angrily at her with one hand.

Amira hadn’t even looked at him. She rubbed her soft, pillowy lips together, puckering them for her
mirror reflection to make sure they looked good. She picked up her comb, idly started running it through
her rich, flowing black hair. Her hijab drawer hadn’t been opened for days. She was trying her third hair
style in the last week. She quite liked this one. It felt very Egyptian, bangs over her smoky,
mascara-heavy eyes, long strands framing her soft, matronly cheekbones. Her considerable cleavage,
about to spill out of a tiny red dress, wobbled and bounced appetizingly even with the small motions of
combing her hair. It would have been obvious to anyone, even her dumbass husband, that she wasn’t
wearing a bra. It was harder to tell about her underwear, but not by much, as the red dress only just
managed to cover her wide, curvy ass, showing off every inch of her smooth, long legs leading down to
cute matching red open-toe heels.

“Would you quiet down, Fazhir? You’re shrieking like a woman,” she said disinterestedly, tilting her
head to one side as she combed her hair. She couldn’t help smirking as Fazhir’s eyes were helplessly
drawn to her jiggling, pale tits, almost spilling out of her plunging neckline.

Fazhir visibly gulped, and tore his eyes away from the sight. He flushed like a chastized schoolboy,
looking down the hallway from their bedroom, seeing Rayan watching with the sulking uncertainty that
was becoming his standard look these days.

“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed, in his pronounced Persian accent. Amira felt that contempt welling up in
her again. Just once, she almost wished he would refuse — that he would actually keep yelling at her.
Show her even a fraction of passion, of masculinity, show her that she’d at least married a man who
could muster such a thing when the situation truly called for it. But instead, here he stood, meekly
backing off of his anger, showing his true colors. A beta male. Just like Duncan always sneeringly said.

She glanced at her phone, opened the screen with a press of her thumb. She smiled like a giddy
schoolgirl as she saw the text from Duncan.

“You should be,” she said briskly, putting the comb down. She picked up her phone, put it into her
purse, and turned toward Fazhir as she slung her purse over her shoulder. Her lip curled as his eyes,
helplessly, darted back to her jiggling, milky cleavage. She observed how tense his body language was
as he shamefully gave into his base urges, unable to help ogling her — how instinctively uncertain he
became around her, now that she embraced her status as a desirable, fertile woman that men should
compete for, not be entitled to.

And of course, deep down, he knew, just as Duncan said, that he’d never deserved her.

The knowledge that her real Man was parked right outside the house, that she was about to leave this
sad little shadow of a man behind and do things for Duncan that Fazhir would never have done for him,
by any woman, made the scorn on her face so acidic as she sauntered slowly up to him that he started,
eyes widening, stumbling back until he was pressed against the door behind him as his wife’s heels
clacked up to him.

“You don’t get to raise your voice to me anymore, little man,” Amira hissed, her heart pounding as she
vented just a fraction of what she’d always wanted to say to this boring vessel of her Baba’s will that
she’d wasted so much of her life on. Fierce satisfaction flooded her, the thought of how eagerly she was
going to ride Duncan’s perfect alpha monster cock after this, how he’d laugh and smack her ass while
she told him about it, making her own voice raise her voice steadily with every word. “I don’t answer to
you. I am so fucking sick of having to act like I do. So how about you be a good boy, run along, and
make dinner for your wimpy little son over there, because I’m going to be out again tonight.”

She ran her heavily made-up eyes up and down over Fazhir, once. Curled her lip. And made sure to put
plenty of sway into her hips as she walked away from him, letting him stare at her phat, wobbling cheeks
about to burst out of her tightly stretched dress along with Rayan, smirking as she heard her husband
struggling to find words.

“Wh—Wha—Again?! Where are you going this time?” He spluttered, the torn fishnet body suit in his
hands forgotten as he reeled from this newest blow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Amira called airily over her shoulder, heels clacked as she went down the
stairs.

Duncan’s car—or more accurately, his parents’ car—was idling in her driveway. She saw him whistle
approvingly in the driver’s seat as he saw her, all dolled up just for him, and she flashed him a dazzling,
shy smile that couldn’t have been more of a far cry from the treatment her husband had just received.

“What a fuckin’ shame you were hiding all this for all those years,” he breathed as she climbed into the
passenger seat, her breasts wobbling alarmingly. He reached over and casually squeezed one of them,
making her bite her lip, rub her thighs together at his firm, possessive touch. “You have gotta be the
hottest piece of ass on the whole coast.”

She leaned over the middle section of the front seat, breasts spilling out of her dress in the process, and
kissed him, long and hard, on his lips.

The cocky, roguish smile he gave her when she finally cut it off made her forget they were even in her
own driveway as she lowered her head to his lap — and filled the car, for the next ten minutes, with the
sloppy wet slurping sounds of her married mouth worshiping his powerful, white teen alpha cock.

Her family still couldn’t have known about her and Duncan — even though she barely paid them any
attention anymore, she was positive she would at least have picked up on that.

But there was no way Duncan’s parents didn’t know all about them. At least, not after the day not long
after, when her loud, shamelessly deprived moans and screams of pleasure, the creaking of his bed,
and the thudding of his bedframe against the wall filled his entire house.

Amira hadn’t been to Duncan’s house too often before that. He obviously didn’t give a shit if his
parents knew; after all, when she’d stumbled into his house the first time, heels almost falling off of her
feet, one breast barely stuffed into her crop top, he’d stomped right up to her with his parents staring at
them, and smacked her right on the ass.

“Ma, Da, this is Mira,” he’d snickered, and she’d blushed deeply as he groped her ass right on the
spot. She gave them a meek wave, acutely aware of the fact she was at least their age, twice their
son’s age. Only her deep, instinctive submission to Duncan stopped her from running out of the room in
a sudden rush of embarrassment.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was nonetheless, when his parents just gave her a
tired acknowledgment each — a nod from his father, a resigned little smile from his mother — and went
back to what they were doing. And it fell together in Amira’s mind, then: of course, with their son a
young adult now, they must have been more than accustomed to who he was. As a parent herself, she
could put herself in their shoes, see how worn-down they must have been by such an aggressive,
vigorous young thug like their son. No doubt they left him to his own devices, almost as scared of him as
all the other authority figures who were supposed to curb his worst behaviors. Or at the very least, just
too tired of trying to deal with him to bother anymore.

Back then, though, they’d been ending what had already been a long day of draining Duncan’s godly,
heavy teen ballsack. It had been a pitstop. Duncan had mainly kept to taking her to riskier and riskier
places to bend her over or gag her on his overgrown cock instead, ranging from restaurants to movie
theaters to public parks.

This was the first time she was spending the night with him. And he hadn’t let her stop riding his
endlessly hard, ready-to-fuck monster shaft for hours.

Amira hadn’t been home in two days. Duncan had ducked into her car right after she’d dropped Rayan
off at school two days before, making her slobber all over his cock while she was still pulled up right in
front of the school before she’d enabled him playing hooky, driving him off and renting a hotel room with
her husband’s credit card. After a full day of fucking all over town, buying slutty clothes, getting her hair
dyed blonde, they’d capped it off by going to a party with some of the more popular, wild kids from
Duncan’s school. She’d felt countless eyes on her the whole time, kids that no doubt were realizing she
was Rayan’s mother laughing and gossiping over the sight of her grinding on Duncan’s giant bulge on
the living room dance floor. She’d known there were phones filming them. Instead of stopping, she’d
turned, draped her arms over Duncan’s strong, broad shoulders, and made out with him in front of
several cheering teenagers while he smacked and groped her ass. For all she knew, her poor son had
seen the videos that very night, while she returned to the hotel room with Duncan and rode his cock into
the small hours of the morning, brainlessly screaming out her love for her son’s bully and his amazing,
giant cock until hotel staff had to knock on their door and yell at them to keep it down.

And now here she was, Duncan’s bed back at his house bouncing just as frenziedly as the hotel bed
had, sending his wooden bedframe THUMP-THUMP-THUMPing against his wall as he clasped one
hand behind his head on the pillow, and used the other to casually smack her ass, from side to side, as
if spurring on a horse, while she faced away from him, running her hands through her platinum-blonde
hair, tongue lolling out in a stupid, fuck-drunk smile as she put on a show of bouncing and clapping her
phat, pillowy asscheeks up and down Duncan’s cock.

“Who’s your fuckin Daddy, fat-ass?” Duncan grunted from behind her, giving her ass a particularly
harsh, ringing SMACK that mixed depravedly with her simpering-sweet cry of pleasure.

“Oh FUCK, Daddy, you are~!” She cooed, and she leaned forward, her soft, dainty hands gripping
Duncan’s strong, sturdy calves as she thrust her backside toward Duncan and worked her rippling,
bouncing phat ass up and down harder and faster.

“You love your Daddy’s cock, don’t you?”

“Aaaaaahhhhhnnnn~! I love it so fucking much, Daddy~! I love it more than anything~! Makes me feel
so fuckingggg gooooOOOooOOOd~”

“And what do you love even more than Daddy’s big fat white cock?”

Amira’s whole body locked up like she was having a heart attack, only for her thighs to wobble and
convulse wildly, head lolling back, damp blonde bangs falling messily over her eyes and sweaty blushing
cheeks, as she squirted her fem-juices a clear foot in front of her, leaving it to splatter messily onto
Duncan’s bed sheets. Her tits bounced and slapped against each other in circular motions as, not even
thinking about it, she planted her hands back on Duncan’s powerful, firm chest for stability, and kept
working her hips, addicted to the sound of her soaking-wet pussy folds squelching and slurping up and
down her God’s perfect monster cock like a hungry mouth.

“Oh my fucking GOD Daddyyyy~! You~! I love youuuuu~! Gawd, I love you so FUCKING much~!”

Never in Amira’s entire life had she been able to proclaim her love for anything and mean it so
passionately. And she did mean it. Despite it all — despite, even after so many weeks of Duncan’s
godly, veiny teen donkey dong fucking her brains out, knowing just how fucked up this whole thing was —
she loved it. Loved this. Loved him.

The bed felt like it was about to cave in on itself under them as, her world becoming a blur of motion,
Duncan hauled himself up from under her. His throbbing cock, pulsating with a boundless vigor and
carnal power that was almost mystical to Amira at this point, stayed in her pussy the whole time as he
flipped her down onto her back where he’d just been laying, the way his rock-hard shaft stirred up her
insides in the transition making her squeal and whimper, hips writhing. She felt the remnant of his
intense body heat on the mattress against her back, his earthy male odor making her giggle drunkenly,
licking her lips as she enjoyed the sight of his powerful, muscled frame looming over her, that cocky grin
she’d at one point wanted to slap off of his face now filling her with nothing but adoration.

She squealed again as he sunk his strong, demanding fingers into the soft flesh of her thighs, the bed
creaking as he literally pulled her down all the way on his cock, impaling her with her legs clinging to
either side of his hips. Her breasts bounced heavily, squeezing appetizingly together as she reached
down reflexively with trembling hands to rub her lower belly, where she could feel his monster cock
battering into her womb.
Amira lost track of time again as Duncan, her sweating, powerful, hulking teen fuck-God, resumed
turning her ruined, spasming cheating cunt into his personal fleshlight. The headboard of the bed
thumped against the wall. The mattress creaked. Amira’s thick eyelashes fluttered, eyes rolling back,
stupid, animal moans escaping her lips randomly as Duncan’s monster of a cock forced endless,
constant convulsions of pleasure to ripple through her. It was like some cruel example of natural, cosmic
unfairness, that such a brutal, crass young man could be endowed with so much fat, hard cock that he
could fuck a woman stupid by doing nothing more than thrusting in and out of her, his sheer size hitting
depths and sensitive parts of her that she’d never even known existed. The ultimate salt in the wound,
for poor little beta males like her son and husband.

It was almost as if the vague, disjointed thought running across her frazzled, short-circuiting bitch-brain
summoned it — her phone, tossed onto the bedside table, buzzing, ringing, her husband’s name on the
screen.

Duncan looked at it, first with reflexive annoyance, and then with a sudden, wolfish grin. He reached
over and picked the phone up, handing it to Amira, sniggering. “Pick it up.”

Amira didn’t even hesitate. She was so used to obeying every word Duncan said at this point, after two
days of nonstop groping and squeezing and sucking and riding, that she just smiled dreamily back at
him, giggled airily, and took the phone, holding it limply to one side as she answered the call and put it
on speaker. “Hiiiiii, Fazzy~!” She simpered in the same hyper-feminine, cooing voice she was so
accustomed to using with Duncan, but with a condescending edge to it that she didn’t even consciously
intend.

There was a long silence from the other end. For a moment, Amira wondered if she’d hit the speaker
phone button properly, squinting at the screen, and giggling as she had to give up, because the
headboard of the bed kept THUMPTHUMPTHUMPing, Duncan kept grunting, and her whole body kept
bouncing, fat, generous breasts swinging and slapping against each other, and she couldn’t see the
screen very clearly.

Then, her husband’s reedy, nagging voice came over the phone. Amira couldn’t help making a little
sound of childish disgust, making Duncan snicker over her. He reached across her stomach and gripped
one of her jiggling breasts, hard, kneading it as Fazhir spoke, making Amira moan carelessly. “Woman!
Your son and I are worried sick about you! I have called you tens of times! Where in God’s name are
you?!”

“His name is Duncan, dummy~” Amira slurred, the phone swaying in her hand so that the sound of her
words, no doubt, were far from clear. She flashed Duncan a dumb, adoring smile as he smirked down at
her, and her hand holding the phone plopped down onto the matress as he grabbed her hips roughly,
gritting his teeth and grunting like the horny animal he was as he set to pounding her even harder, the
bed bouncing and creaking loudly, headboard rattling against the wall. Amira let out a long, sustained,
simpering cry of pleasure, her free hand running through her hair, eyes rolling back, tongue lolling,
helpless in the face of the powerful sensations rolling through her like nonstop tidal waves.

“What?! What was that? I can’t hear you, zan! What is going on over there, what is all that noi—”

Another male voice came into the phone’s speaker, followed by what sounded like a muffled protest
from Fazhir. Amira thought, vaguely, that she recognized the other voice — but then Duncan gave one of
her sensitive, reddened breasts a smack, pinched one of her thick nipples, and her hips were
convulsing, a throaty, sustained moan escaping her lips, a few squirts of her juices splashing onto
Duncan’s hard, firm crotch as his monster cock pistoned in and out of her rapidly.

“Amira Shibani! Young lady! This is your father speaking!”

Amira’s moan cut off sharply. Her eyes came back into focus, eyebrows furrowing under her messy
bangs. For just a moment, her blood went cold.

“B—Baba…?”

In any other circumstances, it would have brought her whole world crashing down. The sound of Baba’s
voice had long maintained its tendrils, sunk deep into her psyche. It even started to do so now — she felt
herself transported, far from Duncan’s messy bedroom, far from the last two days of debauched, sinful
pleasure, all the way back to her childhood home, sitting at the kitchen table, staring ashamedly at the
table while her father drunkenly cursed about what a sinful body she had.

But today was different.

Amira was different.

And for the first time in her entire life, the spell Baba’s voice had over her was countered by something
even stronger — the spell Duncan had over her. The Man she actually wanted to obey.

“That your old man?” He grunted, and he shoved himself balls-deep into her. Amira gasped, and
Baba’s voice washed over her, washed away, leaving her smiling shakily, looking up at Duncan with
first shock and then that dreamy adoration as he smiled back at her, simply holding his perfect, fat cock
deep inside her and stirring it around, sending ripples of pure, warm pleasure through her entire body.

“Oh fuuuuck… Yes… Yes, Daddy…”

Baba’s voice shrilly rang out from the tinny digital speaker again. “Amira! Daughter! I am speaking to
you! Are you still there?”

Duncan glanced from the phone, to her. She realized, then, for the first time, that there was a sharpness
to Duncan’s eyes that she’d never really absorbed before. She’d been so caught up in his raw, bestial
male power that she’d not spent much time considering just how perceptive he actually was — and now,
thinking on it, it was clear that while he was far from book-smart, there was another, just as potent kind
of sharpness to him. The perceptiveness of an apex male for body language, for the little signals that the
other animals gave off for him to take advantage of.

In the moment it took for him to look from the phone to Amira’s face, it was obvious he’d pieced
together everything he needed to know.

“Well?” He grunted, that maddening, swaggering confidence in his voice. He nodded his strong jaw at
her, gave one of her breasts a squeeze that was at once harsh… and, unexpectedly, almost comforting.
Like he was simultaneously reminding her who she really belonged to — and that he was here, with her.
“Answer him.”

He reared back his hips, making Amira whimper as that colossal slab of teen fuckmeat tugged out of
her. Making her gasp as he slammed it back into her.

Everything fell back into place. His voice, his warmth, his scent, the feeling of his malehood stretching
her open, molding her. Her blood came rushing back, her smile tugged at her soft, pillowy lips again, and
she looked up at Duncan with a fresh, tender affection, moaning extra loudly for his benefit as he
resumed pounding in and out of her. She puckered her lips at him, licking her tongue around them, and
she reached down with her free hand, caressing his powerful, firm arm as he kept squeezing her jiggling
breast.

“What do you want, old man?” She cooed with a condescending coldness at the phone, a thrill shooting
through her, just as it had when she’d finally been able to speak to her limpdick husband the way she
wanted to for the first time.

Even though the phone went silent, she could vividly see her Baba’s face after she said that. Could see
the way his bushy eyebrows would arch in furious surprise, his lips tightening, the way he looked when
she’d, just once, showed up at her childhood home with a boy that had made her stomach flip, her
cheeks heat up. Before he’d chased the boy away and sentenced her to a youth without passion.

Once that memory would have instinctively, reflexively scared her.

But with Duncan’s powerful teen body looming over her, his cocky grin telling her just how unafraid he
was of blowhards like her father, his strong, warm grip telling her that no one had any claim to her
anymore other than him, the sensation of his godly, alpha monstercock helping itself to her wet married
pussy…

Just like that, her fear turned on its head, and she felt her smile twisting into a naughty little smirk as
white-hot arousal filled her.
“Did you hear me, old man, or are you going deaf in your doddering old age?” She said with a cold
sweetness, bringing the phone closer to her mouth so he could hear every word. She looked up, locked
eyes with Duncan, wordlessly urging him with her smoky, hooded gaze and that dark grin to give her
everything, her free hand reaching back to grip the pillow under her dyed-blonde hair.

Duncan didn’t hesitate to oblige.

And Amira didn’t hold back the moans as she hungrily watched her new Daddy, the one who’d
replaced her Baba, the only one who would ever have the title of patriarch for her every again, watched
his young, fit body’s muscles flex and sweat as he gripped her hips firmly and slammed his cock at full
speed and power in and out of her again. This time, the phone would make no mistake of the creaking
bed, the slamming headboard — the fleshy PAP-PAP-PAP of Duncan’s hips slapping against Amira’s
jiggling, thick thighs and ass. And least of all, the soft, whimpering, exaggerated slutty moans Amira let
spill from her lips as she got well and truly fucked with her father on the other end of the phone.

“How dare you,” her Baba’s voice started, quiet at first as he overcame his surprise, and then
thundrously loud as he raised his voice, falling into the most anger she’d heard from him in years. After
all, her entire family had been left cowed by him for years, living meekly and quietly to avoid arguments
with him. She’d almost forgotten how he sounded when he got this angry, but now, hearing him yell at
her, she was transported back to that day, with the boy from school staring in horror as her Baba yelled
at him just like this. Except this time, there was nothing he could do. And that made Amira bite her lip,
hard, as a fresh wave of hot arousal washed over her, made her buck and swivel her hips as Duncan
pounded his rock-hard teen horsecock in and out of her squelching, wet cunt.

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME THAT WAY, AMIRA?” Baba’s voice thundered over the phone as
she panted and moaned lightly, riding out the waves of pleasure. “HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN
YOURSELF? I AM YOUR FATHER! FAZHIR IS YOUR HUSBAND! DID I TEACH YOU NOTHING OF
THE QURAN AND THE ROLE OF THE GOOD GOD-FEARING WIFE? YOU WILL COME HOME THIS
INSTANT AND DO AS YOU ARE MEANT TO D—”

“No~”

Amira didn’t even say it loudly. She breathed it out, hotly, half-moaning the word, her hips twitching at
the arousal she felt from it. But she might as well have shrieked it as loudly as her father was shouting
into his phone, so unaccustomed to his daughter speaking back to him that the first sign of disrespect
had sent him exploding into rage.

But he was even more unaccustomed to resistance continuing after the yelling started. His voice went
quiet again. Not even dangerously quiet — just shell-shocked.

“…What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Amira purred. She reached down, running her hand slowly, sensually down her torso,
until she was rubbing her little pink clitoris, licking her lips as she watched Duncan’s cock turning her
pussy inside out. “I’ll come home when I’m good and ready, old man~ You hear me, too,
Fazhir~? Little guy~? Make sure that limpdick can hear me too, old man~”

“Oh, fuck yes,” Duncan grunted hotly, flashing that wolfish grin at her. Amira’s heart fluttered happily at
the sight, and she returned the grin just as viciously. She stuck her tongue out lewdly at him, gave him
her sluttiest, hooded-eyes come-hither expression, contorting her shapely eyebrows pleadingly.

“Harder, Daddy,” she moaned, not caring if the phone picked it up.

Duncan obliged. Amira giggled as he brusquely tugged his hips back, pulling out of her, leaving her
pussy throbbing and gaping as he flippd her over onto her stomach like she weighed nothing at all — and
she cried out loudly, lewdly, in depraved pleasure as he rammed himself back in, and the bed set to
bouncing even more frantically on its frame as he set to slamming his entire body weight onto her over
and over, looming over her with both his hands digging into the mattress on either side of her, her fat ass
clapping and rippling every time his firm hips slammed down at full force to bury himself balls deep into
her pussy.

“Ohhhhhyeaaaaaaah~ Yesssyesyesyesyesssss Daddyyy~” She babbled, tongue out, eyes rolled back,
her lips stretched in an uncontrollable, dark grin.
She didn’t even look at the phone. She didn’t know if they were still on the other end of the line or not.
She simply let the words pour out, sharp, cold, punctuated by random, slutty whimpers and moans of
unrestrained pleasure in time with Duncan’s powerful claiming of her cunt.

“You really think… ah~ ah~ ah~ …I’m scared of you anymore… you stupid old fuck~? Or that I
— oOoOoOOoohhhhfuuuuuuuckkk~ ….haaaah…. care anymore… about being a wife… to that sad little
sack~?” Amira clamped down on the bedsheets with her hands, panting raggedly as she looked back at
Duncan devilishly over her shoulder, setting to thrusting her hips back eagerly on his cock. He reached
down and ran a big, warm, strong hand through her soft blonde hair before wrapping it firmly around her
throat, making her moan deep in her throat at his effortlessly dominant, possessive touch.

That shell-shocked tone was all that was left for her Baba now. He spoke hesitantly, for the first time she
could remember at a loss for words. She knew she was going to choke herself nearly unconscious on
Duncan’s cock after this to thank him for letting her hear her father reduced to that, something she
communicated with the hot, smoky glare she shot over her shoulder at his confident, thuggish young
face.

“Amira… my daughter… you do not sound like yourself. Please. Just… come ho—”

“Didn’t you hear the bitch? She’s fuckin’ busy!” Duncan drawled in his deep, rough voice, effortlessly
cutting off her father. He reached down, grabbed the phone, and threw it to the side, letting it clatter to
the ground.

Amira felt such a white-hot rush of ferocious love and devotion to him in that moment that it left her
dizzy.

“Oh my FUCKING God, give me that fucking giant white cock, Daddy,” she growled, planting both
hands on the mattress and putting every ounce of her energy into writhing and bucking and twerking her
ass back onto Duncan’s cock as it pounded her so hard and fast that it was a blur of motion.
“Fucking cum in my pussy~ Make me a mommy… for a real Man~!”

Her words were cut off into a gasp that turned into a stupid, gargling sound of happiness as Duncan
brusquely wrapped one of his beefy, warm arms around her neck, her face going red as he leaned over
her and locked her into a messy, noisy kiss, the tongues and lips wetly smacking and writhing against
each other, all the while the creaking of the bed, the thudding of the headboard, and the meaty slapping
of his hips against her bouncing, wobbling fat ass filling the air.

And down on the floor, the phone screen stayed lit, the minutes adding up, second by second, on the
call that Fazhir had started.
 6 - Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

In another lifetime, Amira Shabani watched the eggs burn.

She watched them burn, but did not really see it. She was standing at the oven, as she did every
morning, day in and day out, without fail, cooking breakfast for her son and husband, fulfilling her duty as
the Good Muslim Housewife, while they both still slept upstairs. The small light of a gray morning filled
the kitchen, reinforced by the warmer lighting over the stove. The smell of eggs, souring by the minute
as she let them sit on the pan for too long, registered on her senses. She just kept staring at them,
watching them burn.

Amira wasn’t lost in thought. She wasn’t preoccupied with worry about anything facing her in the day;
after all, this was just another day in the life. There was nothing to anticipate other than the usual
mundane routine of accommodating her husband and her son, taking care of the house they lived in,
pantomiming the devout acts of faith that she had learned were expected of her since she was a little
girl.

She wasn’t, in fact, really thinking at all.

She just… didn’t care.

She’d been spacing out like this a lot lately. She was aware of it. On some level, she even knew why it
was happening, knew she was deadening herself to the world because if she didn’t she would scream
with frustration and possibly do something she’d regret. What that might be, she did not know — did not
care to follow the thought process to its conclusion, scared of what she might find. So she just… turned
off.

Until the smoke alarm started beeping, anyway.

Amira finally started, blinking like she’d just emerged from a coma, and saw, actually saw, that the eggs
were burning.

“Shit,” she hissed venemously, venting just a fraction of what she was tamping down on within her with
such stoic determination. She immediately blushed, and looked around with the air of a dog who had just
relieved itself on the carpet, half-expecting to see her Baba, bushy eyebrows furrowed, white beard
bristling, glaring at her for using such language. Such language, after all, was not very becoming of a
devoted, god-loving Muslim housewife.

Amira only became even more flustered at the fact that Baba was not there, hating the thought for
waiting so insidiously to spring up at the first opportunity. She glared back at the slightly burnt eggs,
lifting the pan and dumping them into the nearby trashcan as if they themselves were responsible for her
lifetime of conditioning.

Not long after, with the more appropriate — and expected — smell of properly cooked eggs wafting
throughout the house, Amira trudged upstairs, shivering and pulling her silk pajamas more tightly about
her body. It was a cold morning, in another lifetime. She checked her watch, making sure it was the
appropriate — and expected — time. Of course, it was. To the dot. Her family had this routine down to a
science. It never changed. The only thing that seemed to vary was how often, and for how long, Amira
would lose herself staring at burning eggs, or the wall, or the yard outside the kitchen window.

Amira opened the door she’d approached, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of Rayan’s
bedroom.

For a teenager, it was awfully sparse. Even Amira’s siblings had had more colorful, personalized
bedrooms, growing up, despite Baba’s stifling presence. But then, none of her siblings had been as
meek, as afraid to express themselves, as Rayan.

Her son’s light, rhythmic sleeping breaths were all she could hear as she quietly approached his bed to
wake him. She didn’t have to watch her step. There was nothing to trip over; his floor was perfectly
clean. The walls were bare, save for a couple simple scrolls baring passages from the Quran. A closed
laptop sat on an otherwise empty desk. His backpack, gray like so many of his simple outfits, leaned
against his single clothing dresser.

Amira stopped by Rayan’s bed and ran her eyes over his sleeping face.

The bedroom… his features…

He was so much like his father.

She did not feel the same cold void within her when she looked at him, as she did with Fazhir. That was
something, at least.

And yet… instead of warmth, all she could really feel was a vague, creeping dread. Because by the day,
he looked more and more like his father. Sounded more like him. Responded to her Baba, when he
visited or when they visited him, more and more as Fazhir did.

And Amira did not know if she could cope with the idea of bringing another Fazhir — another Baba — into
the world.

None of that was expressed on her face as she shook Rayan awake. She smiled at him, the Good
Muslim Mother, and gently told him it was time to get ready for school. He was of age now, by American
standards, could (and perhaps should) have taken care of waking up on time himself, but the house of
Fazhir was a house of routine and tradition. And Amira’s place, she’d been taught long ago, was to
follow routine and tradition.
As it was her place to keep that vacuous smile plastered on her statuesque, matronly middle-eastern
features when she left Rayan’s room and found Fazhir on the other side of the hallway, emerging,
freshly dressed in his bland, traditionalist clothing, from their bedroom.
There was an awkward silence as they both stood there for a long, interminable moment. Amira felt
something bubbling up inside her as she waited for the man who was supposed to be her husband, the
head of the household, to say something — anything — to distract her from the sheer inanity and
mundaneness of it all —

Fazhir adjusted his shirt, gave her a curt, stiff nod. Like she was a co-worker he’d run into at the office.
“Breakfast is ready, zan?”

Amira felt her smile might fall right off of her face and leave her without a mouth.

“Yes,” she said simply. Her voice sounded like it came from a thousand miles away. She did not trust
herself to say anything else. What else was there, even, to say to this ‘man’ she’d married at her
Baba’s behest? Looking at him stand there in their home’s hallway, she was convinced that everything
would look exactly the same if Fazhir spontaneously poofed out of existence. There could be no
absence when there was nothing in its place to begin with.

Fazhir seemed to consider her answer as if it had been more than a single word, and then gave her
another curt, officious nod. “Very good.”

He walked past her. Even his aftershave smelled bland.

Amira realized she was spacing out again, staring at where he’d been walking. She also realized that,
at least now, with that out of the way, she was finally feeling something again. Because this was the part
of the morning routine she actually liked.

For the ten blessed minutes that followed, she stood in the steam, the water, the heat of the shower, her
eyes closed as she angled her face up toward the ceiling, and let herself drift away.

But that had been another lifetime.

Amira Shabani didn’t want to drift away in this shower. She wanted to feel, to remember, every vivid,
white-hot moment.

“GAWWWWWWD YESSSSS~! POUND MY FUCKING FAT MARRIED ASS, DADDYYY~!”

Her voice, ululating, rising and falling in pitch as her entire body was bounced up and down like a
ragdoll, echoed loudly in the acoustics of her home’s upstairs bathroom. Even after many mornings just
like this, Amira still couldn’t quite get over just how recklessly loud it all was in here — or just how little
she cared, that every moan, every desperate, lustful scream that rippled from her stupidly grinning,
gaping, drooling mouth as her dyed blonde hair swayed freely around her face, was all perfectly audible
for her husband and son beyond the door.

Duncan let out that hot, horny little growl that her dirty talk always seemed to bring out of him, the one
she loved so much, because it meant she was turning on, pleasing, satisfying the Man who had given
her this new life. He tightened the grip of his huge, powerful hands on her head, his beefy arms flexing
as he hoisted her up more securely against his muscular teen body, her shapely fake-tanned calves
flailing freely over his forearms, her cushiony, wobbling bare breasts bouncing as much as they could
while squeezed tightly together between her thick jiggling thighs. He was holding her up against him,
full-nelson, like she weighed nothing at all, and her heart couldn’t stop fluttering in excitement at the
effortless display of his youthful, and often brutal, strength.

“Louder, you nasty, hot little cheating slut,” he breathed hotly behind her, his breath brushing over her
bare skin. His voice was almost obscured by the meaty PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP of his firm crotch slapping
against her bouncing ass as he slammed his rock-hard, godly white monster cock in and out of her
squelching asshole, the way his hands were angling her face downward letting her see his massive,
low-hanging balls swinging heavily even past her own cleavage, his voice almost obscured, too, by her
wanton, reckless, nonstop moaning, by the constant splattering of the shower water washing over their
bodies. But to Amira, his voice might as well have filled the entire world. “I want those fuckin’ losers out
there to hear you loud and clear, haaah…”

Amira’s thick lashes fluttered dreamily, smile splitting even more widely open, tongue lolling out
euphorically as if Duncan had just read her a romantic poem. She let out a long, throaty, slutty moan,
making sure to raise her sultry, simpering voice as loudly as she could. “AaaaAAAaaAAhhhANNNnn~ I
want them to hear it toooo, Daddy~ I want my BABYDICK HUBBY to hear you FUCK my tight, needy
little asshole with that BIG, FAT, GODLY WHITE BULLY COCK like he never couuuuld~!”

The extra honeying of her moaning, pleading voice, a voice that the Amira of another lifetime would
never have guessed could possibly come from her own mouth, had the desired effect. Duncan snarled
ferociously behind her, less the sound of a young man and more the sound of a stomping, hulking
predator lost in the throes of an alpha male’s breeding frenzy, and his strong, warm fingers clenched in
her wet blonde hair as he grunted and snarled and growled and made her view of the world a bouncing,
dizzying blur, every thick, pillowy curve on her body bouncing and wobbling and jiggling in a display of
her perfect feminine ripeness contrasted against his perfect masculine power, his colossal,
homewrecking teen cockmeat pistoning in and out of her lewdly stretched asshole hard and fast,
sending shower water flying and splashing.

It was hard to tell where the shower water ended and Amira’s messily squirted fem-cum began. She
had never so much as considered anal sex in her previous life, let alone considered that it might be
anything other than painful; even a couple months before, as she’d stared in shocked reverence at
Duncan’s throbbing, veiny uncut teen monster cock for the first time, the concept of taking it in her
asshole would have shattered the spell. But now she knew better. Knew how his brutal, obscenely
well-endowed size rubbed against her deep inside in ways that made her fragile brain shatter. Knew
how, as now, it made her let out a long, monotonous, simpering moan of rapturous pleasure, her lower
body twitching, a stupid smile on her tanned Persian bimbo face, riding out the explosive orgasms that
her Daddy’s enormous teen cock brought out of her seemingly no matter where he shoved it into her.

“Yeah? Make sure that dorky little fag kid of yours can hear it, too,” Duncan snarled behind her, and her
heart perversely fluttered in excitement at the sudden surge of real anger in his voice as he held her
whole bouncing, ripe body up against him so effortlessly. He was a force of nature, a towering, stomping
manifestation of primal male power and rage, and the intoxicating mix of fear and excitement it brought
on never failed to hit her like a potent drug. Especially since it clearly scared the shit out of the weaker
pretenders at manhood that she’d learned her husband and Baba — and yes, Rayan, too — were.
Duncan slammed his throbbing, pulsing teen monster particularly harshly up into her, making her body
twitch instinctively and Amira’s moan to climb in pitch, ending in a breathless, simpering feminine laugh
of perverse thrill. “Got a fuckin’ detention from beating up one of his mouthbreathing incel friends… you
know, the one who walked in on us in the math wing bathroom…? Showin’ him what he’d get ten times
worse if he snitched…” Duncan snarled again. He bottomed out inside her, and Amira’s eyelashes
fluttered rapidly, eyes rolling back, a surprised gasp turning into a low, throaty groan as he swiveled his
hips, letting every inch of his massive cock stir up her insides, rubbing right up against the thin
separation between her ass and her pussy — the latter of which she felt spasming convulsively, squirting
a long, sustained, spluttering stream of climax. “Think I’ll kick his ass again just for the detention,
anyway…”

Amira was still riding out her orgasm, barely even registered the simpering, cooing words that babbled
out of her in her brainless, instinctive gratitude for the white-hot pleasure rippling through her entire
body.

“Aaaaahhhhhnnnn~ Do it, Daddyyyyy~ Do whatever you waaant~! Little fucking sissies like my son and
his friends… AHH~! Mmmmnnngh… they need to learn to… just stay out of your wayyy~”

She didn’t even notice that Rayan had been standing there, right outside the shower — its curtain open,
as always — until she heard the telltale, gloating laugh from Duncan that he only seemed to reserve for
pushing around her son and husband.

Amira could only stare dumbly at him, that fuck-drunk grin still plastered on her fake-tanned face,
meeting her son’s eyes as she bounced and jiggled on Duncan’s endlessly pumping teen monster
cock, the moans still shamelessly spilling from her plump lips until Rayan couldn’t meet her gaze
anymore and simply looked, meekly, down at the floor.

“The FUCK took you so long, little man?” Duncan’s rough, deep voice boomed in the bathroom,
chiding her son like the father he might as well have never had, since Fazhir had barely ever raised his
voice on him. Duncan’s feet splashed in the shower water as he turned to face Rayan more fully —
giving her son a more direct view of his mother’s lewd, mature body, molded so completely for his
bully’s pleasure with its fake tan and dyed blonde hair, nipple rings glistening as they flopped up and
down in time with her squeezed-together, fat breasts bouncing. “What the fuck kind of son are you,
huh? Don’t you see how fuckin’ soaked your mom’s pussy is?”

Rayan’s mouth moved. It was impossible to hear him over Amira’s endless moans, the meaty slapping
of Duncan’s groin against her ass, the shower water splashing messily over their glistening naked
bodies, but it was clear enough what he was saying. It was what he almost always had to say when the
new Man of the house was around.

“Sorry…”

“You in that much of a hurry for me to give your mom a less pathetic kid? Or you just like the idea of all
this cock stretching her pussy open bareback?”

“Oh, GAWD yes~!” Amira moaned sultrily, eyes rolling back at the mere thought — and, of course, from
how Duncan’s ungodly horsecock had just battered against her G-spot yet again. She heard Duncan
snicker smugly from behind her, all too self-satisfied with his power over her, and it only made her pussy
spasm more eagerly.

Rayan winced at her moaning. “N-no…”

Duncan sneered. Amira’s whole body convulsed, then, as he slowly, luxuriatingly drew every inch of his
pulsing, veiny monster of a white cock out of her asshole, the tight pucker tugging outward along it
lewdly until he popped free with a wet squelch, leaving her gaping obscenely wide open as it struggled
to close itself, twitching, after being conquered so brutally. Duncan let his rock-hard slab of alpha
cockmeat sway heavily from side to side right under her bucking, spasming fat ass, her eyes clouded
and unseeing as she smiled dumbly at Rayan.

“Then put that fuckin condom on for me, you little cucky bitch.”

Rayan was staring, wide-eyed, at his bully’s naked, dripping cock. He’d seen it before — Duncan had
been pounding Amira’s holes all over the house ever since that fateful night when Fazhir had tried to
call her back from the hotel room she’d rented with her new Man, when the phone, still on and carrying
the sounds over to her family, let her husband, her Baba, and her son all know that they’d well and truly
lost her to the carnal rapture she screamed out while taking Duncan’s huge cock. But Rayan was rarely
so close to it. The clear, helpless mixture of fear, awe, and deep, primitive envy as he drank in the sight
of masculinity that he could never have inexplicably filled Amira’s gut with heat and hunger. Seeing the
son that had been hoisted on her by the joke of a manlet she’d married, forced to confront the failed
genes of his father in such a depraved, undeniable way, the sight of Duncan’s massive, powerful white
cock burned into the weaker boy’s mind…

“You heard him… cucky~” Amira cooed, simperingly sweet, licking her soft, plush smirking lips, and she
observed, faintly, that she was rubbing her gushing, audibly squelching cunt.

Rayan looked up at her, his eyes wide — and it didn’t look like it was simple despair or shock. He looked
how Amira imagined she had after confronting Duncan’s overgrown, mind-shattering bully cock for the
first time.
He looked like he was understanding something, something very important, about himself for the first
time.

Rayan walked slowly up to them, as if he as in a dream. His eyes were back on Duncan’s cock. As he
approached it, observing its endless, demanding steel hardness, how it twitched so eagerly and
aggressively under the gaping, throbbing mommy asshole it had just conquered, its enormous,
destructive size evoking such natural need to obey and please, she could see the tiny little tent in his
own pants.

“Ohmygod,” he whimpered in a small voice, barely audible, as he took Duncan’s twitching, hot shaft in
one comparably tiny hand to steady it. Amira smirked wider, giggling softly, observing how her sissy
son’s fingers almost immediately gave that powerful monster shaft a small squeeze as soon as they
touched it.

Rayan heard her and glanced up at her, blushing deeply. The sound seemed to snap him out of the
trance a bit. He gulped, holding Duncan’s aggressively pulsating shaft as steady as he could while he
struggled to slide the condom over it. It was the largest size they could buy, and it still barely covered
half of Duncan’s gnarled, womb-battering elephant trunk of a cock.

He wasted no time. As soon as the condom snapped into place, Duncan reached down with one hand,
grabbed his cock — batting Rayan’s frail little hand away in the process — and he angled himself up… to
plunge right into Amira’s pussy.

Amira immediately let out a loud, piercing sound of euphoria that was at once a scream and a moan, her
eyes widening, tongue lolling out, her whole body stiffening. Even after all this time, Duncan’s sheer
size refused to allow her to adjust completely. It made her feel like a virgin every time. Her considerable,
plump breasts shook like jello, her legs twitching wildly as her lips curled up into yet another fuckdrunk
grin — and Rayan could only gasp sharply as an explosive stream of hot, sticky fem-cum splattered out
of every tiny gap left between her stretched pussy folds and Duncan’s steadily plunging horsecock,
splashing all over her son’s shirt.

“YESYESYESYESYESYESYESSSSSS DADDYYYYYY~! JERK YOUR PERFECT FUCKING

STUD-COCK OFF WITH MY HOT LIL PUSSYYYY~!”

“Oh FUCK yeah,” Duncan grunted thickly behind her, growling out his hot, feral satisfaction.
Immediately the bathroom was filled with rhythmic squelching and slurping noises as he set to pumping
his monstrous, veiny white shaft in and out of her pussy, her folds tugged lewdly up and down with every
thrust, her orgasm spluttering down only to burst out again when he shoved himself into her balls-deep
and swiveled his hips, effortlessly sending another burst of mind-shattering pleasure through the body of
his bitch in heat. And another burst of hot motherly fem-cum all over the son that Amira forgot was even
in the room, long, loud, wavering moans rippling out of her stupidly grinning mouth, eyes rolled back, tits
bouncing appetizingly.

“The fuck are you still doing here, loser? Did I say you could watch?”

Rayan had been staring down at the mess of his mother’s juices all over his shirt, and jumped at
Duncan’s raised, dangerous voice. He started stumbling back, away from them.

“OHHHHFUUUUUGGGG~! I’M GONNA… I’M GONNA CUM AGAINNNNN~! DADDY’S COCK IS

FUCKING BREAKING MY BRAAAAAINNN~”

Amira wasn’t lying. Her whole body spasmed like she was having a seizure, drool oozing from her
gaping mouth as her juices blasted out around Duncan’s pistoning monster bully dick yet again.

Rayan didn’t even bother closing the door behind him as he stumbled out of the bathroom.

One thing, at least, had remained true in both of Amira’s lifetimes: the awkward silence in the kitchen
during breakfast.

The difference, though, was that in her previous lifetime, the kitchen had been mostly quiet due to the
fact her framily frankly did not have much to talk about. Rayan had no life outside of school; Fazhir had
no life outside of work; Amira had no life outside of quietly despairing at making a home that she had no
interest in making. And so they would sit, Fazhir reading the paper as he munched on hisSangak bread,
Rayan wolfing down his omelettes and desperately hoping no one would ask him about school where he
would have nothing to describe other than Duncan’s torment, and Amira staring blankly at her own
plate, waiting for time to pass so that she could move to the next step in the mind-numbing routine.

Now, the kitchen was silent because her husband and son still could not adjust to the sight of Amira,
wobbling around the kitchen nearly naked, high heels clacking sharply on the tiled floor as she prepared
a hearty breakfast for the smirking, naked white teen lounging back in a chair at the head of the table.

Amira had never enjoyed cooking. It was expected of her, obviously — just as glamor and excitement and
passion were not her place, cooking for her family was. And so she would always turn off her brain and
go through the motions, creating serviceable, but bland, meals for Rayan and Fazhir.

Her devotion to serving Duncan could not have been more different. For the first time in her life, she
enjoyed preparing meals. It wasn’t just cooking anymore. It was another way of serving her Man.

“How much bacon would you like, Daddy?” She called out sweetly over the sizzling of the pans on the
stovetop and her heels clacking away as she moved between tending to the food and buttering the toast.
She felt all eyes on her, and basked in it — for different reasons depending on which eyes were gawking.
Basking in the helpless staring of her husband and son because she knew they hated to see her so free
but were far too scared to do anything about it; basking in the hungry stare of Duncan for far more
straightforward reasons. She made sure to put an extra sway to her hips as she moved back to the
stove, making her enormous, phat tanned ass bounce and clap faintly but audibly just from her
movements alone, her thick thighs jiggling, the generous swell of her breasts visibly wobbling even from
behind. The skimpy maid costume she was wearing, one Duncan had bought for her using Fazhir’s
credit card, did nothing to conceal any of it. It was more lingerie than costume, a tiny, frilly maid’s apron
of white and black that barely covered her pussy from the front, tied with a ribbon around her broad,
fertile motherly hips that came together over her shelf-like ass in a way not all that different from the
ribbon over the Christmas presents Americans loved so much. With no bra beneath, her huge breasts
permanently threatened to spill out of the tiny black apron with frilly wide borders, both over the plunging
neckline and to the sides. Elbow-length white French maid gloves and a matching set of white leggings
that her thick thighs spilled out of lewdly completed the set, along with her shining black heels. Her
shining, freshly washed dyed-blonde hair swayed, shoulder length, shining large hoop earrings catching
the light pleasingly.

The mostly-naked bimbo clacking around the kitchen, with fake platinum blonde hair and fake, brown
tanned skin, couldn’t have looked less like the Good Muslim Housewife.

Amira heard Fazhir make the muffled, passive-aggressive sound of annoyance that she’d grown to hate
so much over the years at hearing his wife sweetly offer to cook bacon for the loudmouthed, godless
white American thug who’d turned his once proper and quiet wife against him. She looked over her
shoulder with hooded, coy almond-shaped eyes, painted heavily with smoky mascara, her already
naturally thick lashes dolled up even more so, her gaudy pink lip gloss shining wetly on her pillowy,
shapely lips. She caught Fazhir’s eye and gave him a dark little grin, all but wordlessly daring him to
speak up. Her husband swallowed visibly, glanced over at Duncan, so proudly naked at the head of the
table where Fazhir had once sat, the teen’s powerful, hulking young body still glistening from the
shower, his huge rock-hard cock in one lazily pumping hand.

Amira giggled as, just as he did every other day, Fazhir kept his mouth shut like a good little beta male in
the presence of the pack alpha.

“The usual,” Duncan drawled loudly, and the whole kitchen table shook as he slammed his freshly
emptied glass of orange juice down onto it. Both Fazhir and Rayan flinched in their seats. Duncan gave
them incredulous looks, a wolfish smirk widening on his rough, handsome young face, and he let loose a
gloating laugh. “Jeeezus, no wonder ’Mira was so quick to throw you two little pussies under the bus as
soon as I whipped out this big fat white cock onto her face! What, you gonna piss yourself, old man?”

Fazhir’s face turned red, but he just stared down at his plate.

Duncan laughed again, but then his attention was right back on Amira. She felt his dark, dangerous
young eyes drinking her in with typical youthful, endlessly horny hunger, and felt her blood quicken, her
skin heating up, as always — her body responding, naturally, to the attentions of such a virile, violent
alpha male, as always.

“Show him where I dumped my load earlier, bitch.”

Fazhir, as ever, furrowed his brow, betraying his silent, unending confusion over the fact this teen brute
could talk to his wife so crassly — and still only earn her shyly giggling, eager obedience. Like now. Amira
turned slowly to face the table, changing the lewd, wobbling view of her body from her fat protruding
tanned ass to her equally slutty front, her huge heavy breasts squeezed together all but spilling out over
the top of her apron, her wide hips and soft, chubby belly mostly bared, the apron ribbon digging
appetizingly into the perfect, cushiony softness of her hips. She was holding two trays, one in either
hand. The one to the left, bearing her family’s breakfast; two simple plates, each one with a burnt piece
of toast on it. The one to the right — laden to the brim, one plate heaped with bacon and eggs, a bowl
with hash browns, a smaller plate with perfectly browned and buttered toast, and a fresh glass of orange
juice.

“Yes, Daddy,” Amira cooed.

Her heels clacked loudly on the tiles as she sauntered up to the table, swaying her hips in a whorish way
for Duncan’s smirking benefit, her breasts bouncing alarmingly, fat ass shaking visibly even though they
couldn’t see it from the front, her long blonde bangs swaying softly over her brow as she gave her own
smirk right at her gawking husband. She relished in how he saw her now. He always looked at her lately
like he’d never really seen her, in her previous life. Like he was just now noticing what an incredible
body he’d lucked into marrying, only to completely squander it. It made the tortured frustration in his
eyes whenever she would worship Duncan’s cock in front of him like she’d never come remotely close
to doing for him all the better.

First, she jiggled and wobbled her way over to Duncan. She gently placed his tray in front of him, her
smirk turning to a tender, devoted smile as she opened his napkin to reveal his fork and knife. He gave
her ass a hard, possessive SMACK that rang out like a gunshot, sent her ass wobbling even more
pronouncedly. Rayan and Fazhir flinched. Amira giggled and leaned down, giving Duncan a sloppy, wet
kiss on the mouth as he groped and squeezed her ass. She moaned loudly into his mouth, feeling her
son and husband stare as she writhed tongues, open-mouthed, with the teen bully, deliberately letting
the tray with their food sag to the side in her hand, their toast falling to the ground below.

Amira let the kiss drag on for another long moment, her soft, pillowy lips smacking and slurping wetly on
Duncan’s, before she finally came up for air. Panting lightly, drool glistening on the corners of her
mouth, she feigned surprise as she saw the toast on the floor. “Oops,” she said sweetly, smiling
condescendingly at her husband. “I am just so clumsy after Daddy’s been fucking my brains out
for hours with his big… fat... cock~”

She could practically see Fazhir and Rayan’s faces flushing a deeper shade of scarlett as she dragged
out each of those last words, all but moaning out the last. Rayan shifted awkwardly, all too clearly trying
to cope with the tiny little tent in his pants under the table. Amira made a show of biting her lower lip and
staring needily at Duncan’s hard, towering, veiny white cock in his pumping hand as she slowly
squatted down and picked up her family’s breakfast, carelessly tossing it back onto the tray, not even
onto their plates, letting them know it was far more important to her to stare at her Man’s perfect
monster cock.

She rose back to her feet, jiggled her way to Fazhir — and tossed the tray, just as carelessly, onto the
table between him and Rayan. The toast flew haphazardly off the tray, both pieces landing haphazardly
on the table. “Take a look, hubby,” Amira coaxed her husband in a honeyed tone. She pulled the
plunging neckline of her apron down, the shoulder pieces falling about her thick, smooth upper arms,
and she leaned forward, letting her huge, partially freed breasts, squeezed deliciously together, move
toward Fazhir’s face — showcasing the creamy, thick glaze of Duncan’s load that he’d dumped right
onto them. It looked as if an entire bucket of the stuff was drying on her jiggling titflesh.

“His condom broke, you see~” Amira giggled, continuing to squeeze her fat milky breasts together with
her upper arms as she shook them around, making the drying, thick wads of cum subtly move around on
her cleavage as it wobbled around like jello. Fazhir stared with such naked envy and helpless frustration,
laid bare by her primal display, hating his own failed masculinity so much and so clearly that she almost
pitied him. Almost. “They always break. He’s just too… FUCKING… big~” The words came out in a
throaty, sultry moan, and she laughed teasingly as she noticed the tent in her husband’s pants. It was
every bit as small as Rayan’s. “So when he pulled out of my gaped… slutty little cheating pussy…” Amira
pouted through her smile, glancing down toward her groin as Fazhir instinctively did the same.
“He pushed me down onto my knees… like his personal whore… and blasted his hot, nutty, thick alpha
male load alllll over my soft, bouncy mommy titties~”

She heard a dumb little sound of amazement come out of her son nearby as he practically drooled onto
the table. She didn’t even look at him. Instead, she abruptly grabbed Fazhir by his head and shoved his
face right into her cleavage — and the thick, gooey pool of Duncan’s still warm, sticky semen coating her
breasts, a dull wet SPLAT announcing his face splashing into it. Amira laughed, a beautiful, musically
feminine sound that made the dark, taunting tone of it all the more depraved as Fazhir squirmed, his
sounds of protest muffled into her soft, wobbling breasts.

“Get the fuck over here, babe,” Duncan breathed out hotly from the head of the table. Amira’s heart
flipped in her chest at the sound of him calling her that; having gone from a repressed, loveless youth to
a repressed, loveless marriage, it was still so fresh for her to hear the Man she wanted, the
Man sheloved, calling her by a pet name.
Amira shoved Fazhir away, letting him reel back, coughing and spluttering, desperately trying to wipe the
hot, gooey cum of his wife’s young American bull off of his face with his bare hands — only to stare in
fresh horror as he realized it was just on his hands now, too. “That’s the closest you’ll ever get to
touching my titties again, babydick~” Amira cooed, unable to help rubbing it in. And then she obeyed her
Daddy, turning and swaying her hips to torment her husband with her phat, wobbling shelf-like ass as
she clacked her way over to Duncan.

“But Daddy can touch them whenever he wants,” she continued, still cooing, but now even more
simperingly sweet as she directed the words at Duncan. He grinned wolfishly up at her as she straddled
his lap, lowering herself down so that her ass was grinding against his twitching, rock-hard monster bully
cock, her huge soft breasts squishing against his firm, muscular chest. She slowly, seductively licked her
tongue along her lips, slinging her arms around his thick burly neck and leaning in against him more
closely, breathing onto his neck as she began planting wet, doting kisses along it. “My big… soft…
cheating slut titties… belong to you, Daddy~” She moaned between wet, noisy kisses. “I belong to you~”
She straightened back up to bring her face up to Duncan’s, resting her forehead against his as she
smiled naughtily, their hot breaths washing over each others’ skin. “I’m your fucking bitch.”

“Anyone forgets it, I’ll kick their fuckin’ ass,” Duncan murmured, smirking at her. There was yet
another resounding, meaty CLAP as he slapped both of his huge, powerful hands down onto either of
Amira’s asscheeks, his coarse skin against her smooth, cushiony flesh making an audible scratching
sound as he set to squeezing and caressing it, and he aggressively leaned forward, locking Amira into a
hot, passionate open-mouthed kiss every bit as territorial as his grip on her ass. She moaned, lovingly,
into his mouth, arms wrapped around his neck, lips smacking and slurping as she set to grinding her
hips in slow, slutty gyrations, rubbing her fat jiggling ass back into his hands and against his twitching,
eager cock.

“Mine,” he snarled between kisses, biting down on her lower lip and tugging it toward him, giving her
ass another hard smack that sent her phat cheeks bouncing against each other.

Amira moaned again and shoved her face forward, desperately locking him back into the kiss — and she
reached back, angling Duncan’s cock up just enough that she could lower her bare pussy right onto it.
Her Man growled into her mouth, squeezed his iron grip down on her asscheeks, and rammed his hips
upward, making her scream happily into their sloppily slurping lips as he set instantly to rapid, deep
pounding, a fleshy PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP beginning to fill the kitchen air, his huge, heavy balls thudding
audibly against his chair with every thrust, the table shaking wildly as Amira’s leg bumped carelessly
against it.

It occurred to Amira that something had felt off before; Duncan’s cock hadn’t been inside her. Now it
was, everything felt right again.

She breathed in deeply through her nose, gathering as much breath as she could, leaning forward and
lovingly clutching Duncan’s stubbled, strong jaw with both hands, deepening their wet frenzied kiss as
much as she possibly could, all the while bucking her hips up and down with all the energy she could
muster, twerking her fat motherly ass on his perfect towering cock as she rode it.

Fazhir and Rayan knew better by now than to excuse themselves before Duncan finished eating. They
 sat, awkwardly, and munched on their burned toast, trying and failing to ignore the sloppy, feverish
sounds of a bull and his bitch locked in the throes of passion mere feet away, the sight of what had once
been their wife and mother, respectively, dolled up like a slut and bouncing her whole jiggling body up
and down on the giant, intimidating cock of the worst person they could imagine her being so devoted to.

These days, it seemed to be the only sight and the only sounds that ever filled their once sleepy, devout
home.

As far as Amira was concerned, they would just have to get used to it.

It seemed only fair.

End

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