CHAPTER ONE

Amira Shabani was bored.

She was bored — but that was fne, 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 fne.

“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, defantly 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 fip and futter
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 fick 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
fip, 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 fip 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 sanctifed, 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 fedgling 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 dissatisfed 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 undefled 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, muffed 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 fatly 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 frst 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 briefy. 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 futter about her shoulders, a few locks of long black hair
escaping to swing about her high, dignifed 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 fush 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 fnally 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 fnd 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 briefy 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 fnally 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, ferce thick eyebrows shadowing his hooded dark brown eyes.
But most unnerving of all wasn’t the smirk on his face that seemed all too
confdent 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 faccid 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
fnally 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
overconfdent 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,
undignifed taunting laugh that would have ft 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 fne 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 fne… 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 frst time since she was a girl, Amira’s stomach fipped, 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 fashed 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 fash 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 fnger 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 fnger 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 wolfsh grin. “You got some real nice big tits under there for a third-world cunt,
you know that? How about instead of fapping 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 fipping 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 fghting
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 fipping 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 wolfsh 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 fare up in her stomach again, a very clear mental
image fashing 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 confdent 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 fitted, before she could so much as try to stop it, right down to the
stomping brute’s crotch. Down to the enormous, fopping bulge that was wobbling
heavily around with every step he took toward her. Her belly didn’t just fip — 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 fnally 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 overconfdently… 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 fnd 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 fsh before slumping off of her and falling asleep. To have such frm,
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, fnally, 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 fngers, fngers 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-fngered, 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 fngers in her hijab to make her
look up at him, their hot breaths mingling in close proximity, her breasts brushing
against his frm, 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 futtered. 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 muffed, 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 fngers 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 futtering
again, and even though her heart started beating rapidly as though terrifed, 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 fnally 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 briefy 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 fesh.
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 fnally
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, muffed 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 fstlike, 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 fesh on fesh 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 flled 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 futtered 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 futtered 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 futtered 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 ft, her fat, pouty lips
stretched thin instantly as her jaw creaked, widened eyes looking frantically from her
mouth up to Duncan, muffed 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 ferce 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 futter 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 muffed, 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
futtering around faintly.
She should have been terrifed — 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 fashed: 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 futtering eyes looked up at Duncan, outlined by the fading sunlight, his
powerful, rippling muscles. The very picture of a young apex male, ft, 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, muffed 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 terrifed 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 fngers 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 fnally 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 muffed, 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 fngering herself, eyes rolling back again as she coaxed a
fresh wave of hot, sweet juices from her married pussy, savoring the sensation for the
frst 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-fre 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
muffed, 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 frst 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, fnally, 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, fnally 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 fshed
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 fop 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 fushed, 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
stuffng 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
fip, tingle, her cheeks heat up.

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 refexively
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, muffing her passions
and emotions under layer after layer of fear and fatigue and resignation, that she’d
never bothered to explore the little fare-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, fnally 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 refecting for the frst time ever, was annoying. He sounded
so self-pitying and weak that, for just a moment, Amira felt a strange, resentful white-
hot anger fare 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 frmly against her son’s bruised and
bloodied face, came and went. Amira pursed her lips, eased up the pressure of her
dainty, soft fngers 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 fare-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
fercely 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, ftted 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 fushed 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 fip, 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 refected 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 fushed 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 fopping
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 fercely, 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 frst 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 fowers.”
“Yes, maamaan!” The wooden chair was already scooting back on the kitchen
foor 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, refexive 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 frst 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, horrifed 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, muffing 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-
defnition 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 frm, defned abs, a thick trail of
dark body hair guiding her eyes down to his faccid 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 fipped. A mental image fashed 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 fst
back—
Amira bit down so hard on her lower lip she tasted blood. A muffed 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 fngers frozen between her soft, faintly
wobbling matronly breasts, the glow of her phone screen lighting her fushed face.
It wasn’t fushed 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, muffed
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, fowing 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 fne piece of ass, he’d called
her.
It was far from romantic. It wasn’t even well-spoken. But it was the frst 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 fngers 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 frst 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 faring 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 fimsy 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 fnger 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 fxed 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 fngers 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 frst 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 bluffng, 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 fngers 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 frst time in their nearly two decades of
marriage, she didn’t look at him with fat neutrality or faint, domesticated warmth.
For the frst time, her hair a mess, damp with sweat, cheeks fushed, 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 faring, 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.
 CHAPTER THREE

Amira had read a book as a girl that taught her something — rebirth occurs in a
blaze of fre. 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 were hours, 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 fre 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 fat, 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 fnally rebelled against her Baba, her husband, her strict upbringing.
There had never been such flth 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,
frst 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 selfe of her slender, feminine fngers
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 frm 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, fngers moving all on their own, flling the air
with a faint shlick-shlick-shlick of her fngers 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
fngered 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 frst 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 frm,
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 fush of her cheeks faded slightly, and though she kept helplessly
rubbing her fngers against her slick, hot mound, watching her son’s bully’s cock fop
and smack and pump in his videos on loop, she felt a growing, gnawing concern that
she’d done something wrong.
Then:
You flthy, 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
futtering, 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 stife 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
fashed 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, refexively fumbling to get a hijab onto her head, a pale blue one that had
been the frst 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 flter 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
fnally 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 fngers 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 fashed 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 refex in response to a youth being too loud, and she could only blush slightly
as she refected 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, futtering idly around her forehead and
the sides of her face.
And as Duncan stood there on her home’s doorstep, his massive bulk flling the
doorway almost entirely, his sharp, hungry eyes drank in every detail, lingering
especially, once again, on her cleavage. Amira’s stomach fipped in the face of his
wanton, blatant teen lust for her. Her cheeks fushed 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 refexive
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 fexed 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 foor, 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 foor 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 refect 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 faring, legs going weak,
the natural scent of a potent male bringing the same heat that had consumed her all
night faring 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 fip, mingling with her
muffed, desperate whining and groaning—the sound of his coarse skin rubbing over
the fimsy 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 fne 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 fnally 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, frm,
the kind of strong caress that flled Amira, for the frst 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 confdently—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, ferce 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 fooded 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 ferce, passionate, but there was a
tenderness to it, too. Her soft, slender fngers 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 foor again, his strong arm letting her go, sending a
refexive 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 fnally 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, frst 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 refexively 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 undignifed 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, fnally
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 fip, 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 fipping and fipping and fipping 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 assfesh 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 ferce, animal hunger as he drank in the sight of her bare, married ass,
mere feet away from her sleeping husband, and dug his powerful fngers into that soft
fesh 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 fngers 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, fngers on her
womanhood for the frst time in her life, made her entire body shake like a leaf, made
her—
“Ohmygod,” she intoned in fat 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 flled 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 frst 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.
 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 flling the air, making her thick natural eyelashes futter 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 flled her ears completely,
flled 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 frst 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, terrifed by the very sight of the kind of femininity a traditionalist Muslim
man could never indulge in?
Fuck that, she thought fercely, 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 fsh?
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 fngers rubbing feverishly at her wet, dripping, cheating pussy as she stared
up at him adoringly, that dumb smile stretching even wider on her once dignifed,
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 fngers rub at
her cunt even harder, and she felt that euphoric tingling sensation building from the
tips of her toes and her fngers 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 futtering,
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, fipped. 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-fngered 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 fare 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 foor
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 — fared 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 confdence 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 fst-like, slimy cockhead almost before he even
fnished 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
fashed 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 fung
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, flling 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 fngers
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, muffed 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 frst time in her life, her heartbeat flling 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 fngers
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 fexing, 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 foor 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
muffed, 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 frm, 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
feshlight, 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, flling the air with rapid-fre 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 frst time, it wasn’t just a man trying to claim her based on her birth or her
circumstances. For the frst 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 fnally found a Man worth serving.
Amira’s eyes rolled back so far that they became nothing but whites. Her
eyelashes futtered rapidly. Her hips spasmed, legs twitching, shelf-like phat ass
wobbling and clapping, her fngers 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 flling 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 refexively 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 flled 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 refexive fear that maybe they really had been caught — pure refex, 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 briefy flled 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 fashed a cocky, wolfsh 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 foor, you know,” Duncan breathed, that
deep, rough voice rumbling through her and making her stomach fip. 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 frm, 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 would hear 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 muffed, 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 futtered 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 frst at the door over his shoulder with a widening, wolfsh 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, ferce 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 frst 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, ferce 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 fooding 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 fash of disgust from Amira in response. “Wh…
whaaat? M—Maamaan, what are you… saying?”
Before she could reply, the sound of the toilet fushing 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 fashed 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 fnally, 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 fnally coming, fnally, 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 wildfre, sure, a
splash that ultimately was nothing compared to the fame 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 profle, jaw slack, trying to process that this
disheveled, fushed — 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 refection. Her wide, exotic
almond-shaped eyes looked dumbly at his refection, trying to process now, too, that
this huge, muscled, white teen thug was actually here, not some fgment 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 refection 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, frmly 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
fnd 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, fowing 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 frm, 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 fared up
deep inside Amira now. It was the same kind of intense, all-consuming fre 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 refection — 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 not wanted 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, flthy,
slutty venting made his rugged face turn more and more animalistic, nostrils faring,
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 refection.
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 frst 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 fngers and
nothing longer than those same fngers, 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 frst
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 flling 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 frst,
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 terrifed of the bully fucking
her to do anything, made Amira’s eyelashes futter 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 fngers 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 flled with rapid, feshy 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 frm, 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, muffed 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 soundproofng 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 fowing black hair unrestricted by the usual hijab
fying 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
flling 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 feshy 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
fared 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 fooded
Amira, and she smirked right back at Duncan’s refection 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 frm 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 few 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
frm, 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
frst 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 frst 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.
 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 outft 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 fipped 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
refection 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 flled 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 refection as a result dipping forward to show off her dangerously
wobbling, spilling cleavage. Both ends of her were on shameful, lewd display in this
outft 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 fnally embrace it,
faunt 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 fxate on the
most in her refection, was her freely fowing, 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 outft, 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 faring like an angry bull’s in his refection. 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 fexing, heard the tell-tale shlick-shlick-shlick that she loved
even more. Her own nostrils fared 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
outft 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 futtering, and smiled, putting a fnger 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 flled with the obscene, feshy 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 fulflled.
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
fulflling 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 fesh 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 fnished 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
fesh, 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 fushing
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 faring, lip curled in an idle,
unconsciously ferce 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 fnished talking. Her
hand came out of her thong, and instead went to the foor 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 outft 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 refect 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
frst 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 fashed
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 frst 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 ferce, 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 offce, 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 frst
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 offce 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 fshnet 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 feshy 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, fopping 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 futter and butterfies 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 frst, over their
frst 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 feshy, savage rapid-fre PLAPPLAPPLAPPLAP
sound that flled her ears so regularly now.
“Mmmmmmmnnn~ That’s because… I want him to catch us… Daddyyyy~” She
moaned, her voice fuctuating 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 flled 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 offce number. No
doubt the offce secretary trying to reach her again. By now it had been almost two
hours since they frst 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 fesh 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 fshnet 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 refection to make sure they looked good. She picked
up her comb, idly started running it through her rich, fowing 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 fushed 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 fooded 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
fnd words.
“Wh—Wha—Again?! Where are you going this time?” He spluttered, the torn
fshnet 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 fashed 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 frm, 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 fnally cut it off made her forget
they were even in her own driveway as she lowered her head to his lap — and flled
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
flled 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 frst
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 fgures 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 frst 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 foor. She’d
known there were phones flming 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, frm 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 fipped 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 flling her with nothing but adoration.
She squealed again as he sunk his strong, demanding fngers into the soft fesh 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 refexively 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
feshlight. The headboard of the bed thumped against the wall. The mattress creaked.
Amira’s thick eyelashes futtered, 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, frst with refexive annoyance, and then with a sudden,
wolfsh 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 fashed 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 muffed 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, frm
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 frst 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 frst 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 frst 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 confdence 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 beneft 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, frm 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 fnally been able to
speak to her limpdick husband the way she wanted to for the frst 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 fip, 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, refexively 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 flled 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, ft body’s muscles fex and sweat as
he gripped her hips frmly 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 feshy 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 frst 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 frst 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, fashing that wolfsh grin at her. Amira’s
heart futtered 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 fippd 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 frm 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 frmly 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 frst 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 confdent, 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 flling the air.
And down on the foor, the phone screen stayed lit, the minutes adding up,
second by second, on the call that Fazhir had started.
 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, fulflling her duty as the Good Muslim Housewife, while they both still
slept upstairs. The small light of a gray morning flled 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 fnd. So she just… turned
off.
Until the smoke alarm started beeping, anyway.
Amira fnally 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 fustered at the fact that Baba was not there,
hating the thought for waiting so insidiously to spring up at the frst 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 stifing 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 foor 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 outfts, 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 offce. “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, offcious 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 fnally 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 fexing as he hoisted her up
more securely against his muscular teen body, her shapely fake-tanned calves failing
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 futtering 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 frm 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 flled the entire
world. “I want those fuckin’ losers out there to hear you loud and clear, haaah…”
Amira’s thick lashes futtered 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 fngers 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 fying
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 frst 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 futtered 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 futtered 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 foor.
“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 fopped 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-
satisfed 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 flled 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 frst time.
He looked like he was understanding something, something very important,
about himself for the frst 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 fngers 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 flled 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 his Sangak bread,
Rayan wolfng 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 foor 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 frst
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 muffed, 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 finched in their seats. Duncan gave them incredulous looks, a wolfsh 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 beneft, 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
finched. 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 fnally came up for air. Panting
lightly, drool glistening on the corners of her mouth, she feigned surprise as she saw
the toast on the foor. “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 fushing 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 few 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 titfesh.
“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 muffed into her soft, wobbling breasts.
“Get the fuck over here, babe,” Duncan breathed out hotly from the head of the
table. Amira’s heart fipped 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 she loved, 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
wolfshly 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 frm, 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 fesh 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 feshy PAP-PAP-PAP-PAP beginning to fll 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
fnished 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 flled
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