Hamza didn’t leave his room after that Friday afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him, and he stayed there, the walls pressing in, the air thick with his own silence. Her scream—Rida’s scream—still rang in his head, but it wasn’t just that. It was her ankle under his hands, the oil slick on his fingers, that pale stretch of skin he’d seen when her abaya lifted. Two, three inches, maybe—nothing to most people. Everything to him. He’d slumped onto his bed, face buried in the pillow, and hadn’t moved since.
The house kept going outside his door. Baba and Mama came home later, their voices filling the space.
“Baba, that truck’s fixed,” Baba muttered gruffly.
“Rida, set the table!” Mama called sharply.
Dinner smells slipped under his door—lentils, rice, the faint tang of yogurt—but he didn’t go. His stomach growled once, twice, then gave up. Mama knocked at some point, her voice sharp through the wood.
“Hamza, come eat!” she said.
“Not hungry,” he mumbled back, voice rough, barely loud enough.
She didn’t push—just huffed, “Stubborn boy,” and left. He couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face her. Not with this mess inside him.
Now it’s Saturday night, and Hamza lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Yesterday—Friday—he’d hidden away, but today he’d been out there, with them, and he can’t stop replaying it. Two days. That’s all it took to crack his world open. Two days ago, he’d been Hamza—quiet, good Hamza, the boy who prayed, who helped, who kept his head down. Women were shadows to him, cloaked in rules and distance, their bodies a mystery he’d never questioned. He’d never seen skin—not like that, not bare and smooth, not even a glimpse. Just walls, and modesty, and the life he’d always known. Then Rida fell, and everything tilted. Her leg—his sister’s leg—had been the first. The only. And now it won’t leave him.
That sliver of skin, hairless and soft, had glowed in the dim light of her room. It hadn’t been much—just an ankle, a calf—but to him, it was a flood. He’d lived nineteen years blind, and now his eyes wouldn’t shut. Worse, it was her. Rida. His sister. The one who’d taught him to tie his shoes, who’d nudged him to pray when he forgot. How could it be her?
Today—Saturday—had been different. He’d spent time with the family and couldn’t hide forever. And that’s when it hit him harder. She’d been in her loose clothes, the ones she wore at home, not the abaya she saved for outside. A long tunic, trousers, flowing over her, showing only her face, her hair, her hands, her feet. Modest, always modest. But his mind hadn’t let it rest there.
He’d started noticing—really noticing—today, and he couldn’t stop. Two days, and he’d seen her differently. She’d always been a shape under layers, a figure he’d never thought about, never had to. But she wasn’t shapeless, not really. The loose clothes had hidden her, sure, draped over her like a shield, never clinging, never bold—but they couldn’t hide everything. Not when she’d moved. Not when he’d looked. And he’d been looking then, too much, too close.
He remembered her bending to pick up a spoon today afternoon. The tunic had shifted—just a little—across her chest, the fabric catching for a moment, hinting at a fullness beneath, a soft curve that had pressed against the cloth more than he’d ever noticed, heavy and rounded before it fell loose again. It hadn’t been tight, hadn’t been revealing—nowhere near—but it was enough. Enough for him to see her chest wasn’t flat, wasn’t straight-lined like a child. Her chest had carried a weight, a swell that the tunic couldn’t erase, not completely, not when she’d reached or turned just right.
He’d seen more today, peeling potatoes with her in the kitchen, as Mama told him to do. She’d stood beside him, shifting her weight, and the trousers had brushed her calves, outlining them for a second, smooth, strong, curving up toward her knees with a solidness that the fabric couldn’t thin out. Not the whole shape, not even close—the cloth had been too loose, too long—but it was there, a whisper of form that had hit him hard. He’d never thought about his sister’s legs before, never had reason to. Now he couldn’t unsee them, couldn’t stop wondering what had lain under the folds, hidden but alive.
Hamza had realized she’d been built differently—fuller in places, curved where the loose clothes had tried to flatten her, though Rida wouldn’t let them reveal much. She’d moved with purpose, always covered, always careful, but doing chores—bending, stirring, reaching—the fabric betrayed her form in fleeting tugs and sways: hips rounding as she leaned, a tunic draping over a waist that wasn’t narrow but wasn’t shapeless either, her chest swelling subtly beneath it. It was nothing anyone else would’ve noticed, but he had—Hamza, who in just two days had turned into someone who saw. Now, lying there, the dark swallowing him whole, her shape burned into his head, that hidden fullness he couldn’t shake. His breath hitched, ragged, and his hand moved—slow, unsteady—down his stomach into his crotch, fingers grazing over himself through the cloth, pressing just enough to feel the heat, the throb, her face flashing behind his lids. Not hard, not fast—just a rub, a wretched, quiet touch, lust twisting tight with her name, his sister, her faith a wall he couldn’t climb. Shame choked him, thick and hot, warring with that dark pull, and he stopped—fingers shaking, chest heaving—trapped in the ruin of what he’d let himself become.
And there she was, his sister—so pious, so strict, cloaked in modesty like a second skin, every move steeped in faith. Yet his eyes crawled over her, this wretched shadow of a brother, unable to turn away even now, even when she was draped head to toe in loose cloth that left nothing bare. The heat surged through him, fierce and unrelenting, a dark fire that clashed against the guilt twisting deep in his gut, the embarrassment burning his face at what he’d become. A war tore through his mind—right against wrong, shame against this gnawing, forbidden pull—yet it wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t relent. She was untouchable, his sister who’d recoil in horror if she knew, and still this shameful need gripped him, a force so raw and powerful it fed on the taboo, dragging him deeper despite every scream of his conscience.
Hamza hadn’t slept since that Friday—two nights gone, and Sunday morning came heavy and gray. The ceiling stared back at him, empty, while Rida’s shape stuck in his head—her ankle warm under his hands, that pale bit of leg when her abaya moved, the soft curve of her chest he’d seen yesterday peeling potatoes. Last night, alone in the dark, his hand had pressed down low, her name cutting his throat like a sharp stone. Shame hit after, cold and sour, sitting in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the house—not with her there, filling every corner—so he slipped out early, streets quiet, feet dragging him to the mosque.
Inside, it was cool and still. An old man stayed back—sixties maybe, beard gray and messy, eyes hard like nails. Hamza didn’t know him, just felt his look, heavy and sharp. Words came out before he could stop them, rough and broken.
“I… think bad things. About a woman. Wrong things. They don’t stop,” he said, voice shaking.
The old man’s face twisted, like he smelled something bad.
“Weak,” he spat, voice hard. “You let dirt grow in your head. Clean it, or it eats you.”
No softness, just words that hit like a slap. Hamza nodded, eyes down, the sting sticking to him as he walked home, heavier now.
Days mixed together—one week, then two, then three. The house kept moving—Baba banging on some old truck piece, Mama stirring pots, Rida there always, steady and close. Hamza tried to look at the floor, follow the cracks in the tiles, but his eyes moved, her long loose skirt touching the ground, her hips shifting under the cloth. She’d reach for a jar, tunic pulling tight for a second, showing her chest before it fell loose. His blood went hot, tight down low, and he’d turn away, hands in fists, teeth hard together. She was his sister, his blood, the one who told him to pray since he was small. But now she was something else—something he felt deep, a want that scared him.
And then Hamza’s childhood friend Amir came back, and there he was—taller now, thin, hair short, grin big on his face. Old friend from when they were kids, gone since twelve when his family left, back now to see his grandparents. They met in the street, hugged hard, and laughed loud.
“You got big, yaar!” Amir said, hitting his shoulder, eyes shining. “Thought you’d stay that skinny kid falling over stuff.”
Hamza pushed him back, smiling. “And you still talk too much. They pull you back?”
Amir laughed quickly. “Yeah, family stuff. Come walk with me.”
They went through the streets, talking fast—old fights by the river, the goat Amir chased into mud, the wasp Hamza ran from.
“You cried like a baby,” Amir said, poking him.
Hamza laughed. “You ate dirt that day.”
Amir was staying a month, living with his family, and he nodded to his house. “Come see it. Been too long.”
Amir’s place felt strange—small, full of stuff, with a couch too new, a clock ticking loud. His mother met them at the door, older now, smile warm.
“Hamza! You got tall—thought you’d stay small forever,” she said, voice happy. “Come in, I got tea.”
Hamza looked down, face warm. “Thanks, Auntie,” he said as they went up to Amir’s room—books everywhere, a broken radio, a cupboard in the corner.
They sat, talking about old days and now. Amir told him about life away—cold streets, gray sky, working in a shop. Then his voice got low, eyes tricky.
“Over there, it’s not like here. Girls wear small clothes—legs out, shoulders bare, walking free. You’d stare all day,” he said.
Hamza’s stomach jumped—heat came fast, wrong—but he laughed small. “Sounds like trouble.”
“Best trouble,” Amir said, grinning. They talked more—shops, rain, a dog Amir fed once—then he leaned back, voice slow. “Here’s boring, though—no girls, nothing. What you do, yaar? Think about it sometimes?”
Hamza’s face got hot, throat stuck. “I don’t,” he said quietly, looking at the rug.
Amir laughed short, closer. “Come on, you’re not a saint. Everyone jerks off sometimes.”
Hamza moved, uncomfortable. “I just… keep busy.”
Amir’s smile dropped, then came back sharp. “Really? You’re tougher than me, then.”
He got up, went to the cupboard. “Wait, see this.”
He pulled out magazines—shiny, loud, pictures of skin on the front. Hamza’s stomach turned, heat up his neck.
“No—I shouldn’t,” he said quickly, but his eyes stayed, stuck on it.
Amir sat next to him, opened one. “Just look.”
Big asses spread wide, breasts hanging heavy, wet skin showing everything—bold, real, no shame. Hamza’s breath stopped, heart hitting hard, and Rida came in—her legs smooth, her shape under loose cloth—mixing with the pages, twisting together. Amir pushed him, voice low.
“See this—round ass, tight body, ready for it. You’d go crazy,” he said.
Hamza laughed loud, fake. “You’re crazy, no shame, Amir, I don’t like this stuff,” he said, pushing it back, but inside, his blood ran fast, hungry, strong.
He gave a little. “Alright, alright. I… think about things sometimes but that’s it,” he said softly, not saying her.
Amir’s eyes got bright, leaning back. “There you go! Knew you’re alive. Who—some girl from here? Tell me.”
Hamza shook his head fast. “Just… things. Nothing big.”
Amir smiled, easy. “Okay, fine. Everyone’s got something.”
Amir’s voice came back. “Take any girl in your head, yaar—imagine her under you, hot and close, doing it. Touch yourself, it’s normal. Everyone does.”
But Hamza’s chest tightened—it was haram, a sin, something dark he shouldn’t touch. He wanted to, bad, but the shame held him, pulling him back, leaving him stuck.
Hamza’s chest tightened hard, Amir’s words—lighting a fire he couldn’t put out. His heart banged loud, wrong, so wrong. His stomach twisted, sick with it.
“I… don’t know, yaar,” he said, voice low, shaking like a leaf in wind. “It’s a sin. My soul knows it’s not right.”
The old clerk at the mosque had carved him open—weak, filthy, damned. Amir laughed it off—normal, easy, alive. Hamza hung between them, days stretching on. He’d watch his sister now, hungry, barely fighting it now, knowing it was haram but sinking anyway.
Two weeks passed…
The midday sun burned high, a dry, heavy heat pressing down on everything. Dust hung in the air, thick and still, no wind to move it, just a quiet that made the world feel small and trapped. Hamza stepped out earlier, sent by Mama to grab groceries—some rice, a few onions, oil for the pot. His feet dragged through the streets, the plastic bag swinging in his hand, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. The day was lazy, hot, the kind that made people stay inside, voices muffled behind mud walls. He didn’t want to go back—not with Rida there, not with the mess in his head—but he had no choice.
When he pushed the door open, the house smelled of steam and spices. Baba was out in the yard, hammering at something.
“Rusted bolts,” Baba grunted loud.
Mama stirred a pot in the kitchen, her voice sharp through the heat. “Hamza, you’re back! Go help Rida with the rugs!”
His stomach sank, heavy like a stone, but he nodded, dropping the bag on the table, feet slow as he walked to the back courtyard.
Rida was there, bent over a tub, scrubbing a rug hard. Water sloshed in the bucket next to her, the stone floor wet and dark. She didn’t see him come in—just kept working, focused, hair slipping from her scarf. Then the bucket tipped, fast and clumsy, water spilling out, splashing over the rug and her long tunic. It soaked her quick, the fabric sticking to her ankles, heavy and dripping. Mama poked her head out, saw the mess.
“Hamza, help her with that! She can’t do it alone now,” she barked, then turned back to her pot, leaving them.
Hamza stepped closer, heart thudding. Rida sighed, shaking her head at the wet tunic—drenched now, clinging cold to her legs. She pulled it up, tugging it high and tying it at her waist. The courtyard had high walls, no one could see—not neighbors, not strangers, just her little brother Hamza there. It was safe, she thought. The trousers under were loose, still modest, hanging soft—until they weren’t. The water had betrayed her, seeping through, making them wet too, the fabric sticking tight to her thighs, her hips, her ass as she bent back to the tub. Hamza froze, breath catching hard. She wasn’t shapeless anymore—not here, not like this. The trousers hugged her, showing every curve—thighs thick and smooth, hips full, the swell of her ass round and heavy under the damp cloth. Flesh. Meat. His sister, his Rida, a feast he hadn’t known he was starving for until now. His mouth went dry, his pulse hammering, and he stared—hungry, wretched, the cleric’s words crumbling to ash.
Rida felt the heat more now, the sun baking her back, the wet cloth cold against her skin. She didn’t like it—her tunic heavy, her trousers sticking, uncomfortable and strange. She’d tied the tunic up to work better, knowing the walls hid her, knowing it was just Hamza, her brother, not some man from outside. It wasn’t wrong, she told herself—just practical. She trusted him, always had. He was family, safe. Still, a small tightness sat in her chest, a whisper of something she pushed away.
“Hamza, grab the other end,” she said, voice calm, steady, keeping her focus on the rug, not him.
He moved—slow, stiff—kneeling across from her, hands on the rug. Water dripped, the rug sagged, and they lifted together, pulling hard. Rida’s arms strained, her breath steady, her mind on the task—cleanliness, order, duty. Then her foot slipped—wet stone slick under her—and she tipped forward, a jolt of panic flashing through her. Hamza’s hands shot out, grabbing her waist, strong and sudden, yanking her back against him. Her body crashed into his—her ass pressed tight to his groin, soft flesh meeting something hard, unyielding. She felt it—his warmth, his grip, the solid line of him—her hips locked against his manhood, the damp trousers sliding slick between them. Her ass rubbed him as she twisted, a quick, firm press before she shoved off, heart jumping fast. A gasp broke from her, sharp and loud, heat rushing to her face—not pain, not fear, but something else, something wrong.
She steadied herself, stepping back quick, hands brushing her waist where he’d held her. “Careful,” she muttered, voice tight, turning to the tub like it didn’t happen.
But it did. Her mind spun—quiet, fast, sharp. That wasn’t right. His hands on her, too hard, too close. The way her body had fit against his, her ass on him—she’d felt something, a shape, a heat she shouldn’t have. Her brother. Hamza. Not a boy anymore, but still hers to guide, to keep pure. Was it her fault? The wet clothes, the slip? No—she’d been modest, careful, the walls high, no one else here. Yet her stomach turned, a small, sick knot growing. She didn’t look at him—couldn’t—afraid of what she’d see in his eyes. He was young, growing, maybe confused, she thought. She’d fix it—keep the lines clear, stronger now. Her faith hummed steady, a shield, but her skin prickled where he’d touched, and she hated it, hated the doubt creeping in.
Hamza staggered back, turning fast, hiding himself, heart slamming wild. He was hard—painfully, shamefully hard—his cock pushing against his pants, hot and insistent. She didn’t see, didn’t know, just kept washing, the rug sloshing in the tub.
“Finish this,” she said, voice flat, eyes on the water.
He nodded, mute, forcing his hands back to the rug. They worked quick, silent—her scrubbing, him pulling, the wet cloth heavy between them. When it was done, she stood, shaking water from her hands, and walked inside without a word. He bolted...
