I’m not the type to confess things. But today… I have to.
I’m a married Muslim woman. I wear my burkha every day, and most people think I’m the quiet, obedient type.
But the truth is… I was starving for touch. And my neighbor knew it.
He’s younger than my husband. Taller. And always looking at me when I go to hang clothes on the line.
I used to ignore him — until one day, I didn’t.
My husband was at Jumma prayer. I was folding clothes inside when the power went out. I opened the back door to let in some air, and there he was — standing in his courtyard, shirtless, sweating.
I didn’t look away this time. I just watched him.
He walked over, slowly, and didn’t say a word. I stood in my full black burkha, heart racing.
When he stepped inside, I should have told him to leave… but I didn’t.
He touched my waist through the burkha. My knees trembled. I whispered, “Close the door.”
And he did.
He pushed me against the wall, kissed through the fabric until I pulled it aside myself.
My breasts were already hard, nipples aching. His mouth went there first — and I let out a moan I didn’t know I had.
My burkha was still on, lifted just enough. He dropped his pants and slid into me from behind.
I screamed. Loud. Not from pain… from relief.
He fucked me like a man possessed. My choot was dripping, clenching, shaking.
When I came, I bit the burkha just to keep quiet.
After, I fixed myself. Looked at him and said:
“Don’t speak. Just come back next Friday.”
