The first time I met Zainab was in mosque, in prayer hall, which is decorated by Islamic Arabic calligraphy and Quranic verses on the walls to assist worshippers in focusing on the beauty of Islam and its holiest book, the Quran, as well as for decoration. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a dazzling smile. I had known her for years, and we had grown up together in mosque, in prayer hall, her family sitting a few pillars back from mine. She had a large family of seven – typical for a lot of Muslims – and even though she was recently eighteen, she was still living with her parents to help raise the younger children, who ranged from her sixteen year old sister down to the newborn twins. I always felt guilty about the thoughts that went through my head during the worship, looking back every few minutes at her studiously listening to every word the sheikh was saying while I imagined what she looked like naked. I had a good imagination too, because her dresses had always been long for even the most conservative of Muslim girls. The decorated gilded dome, the beautiful adorned wooden minbar which the sheikh is sitting on its seat, and the beautiful embellished mihrab all of them failed to distract my attention from my goddess Zainab.
But apparently her parents had decided since she turned eighteen to allow her to wear what she wanted. Having known her for years, it was quite a shock to turn around mid-service the week after her eighteenth birthday only to see a pair of panties peeking from beneath a very short yellow skirt. It was Zainab, and she was wearing make-up too – a first for her. Like her clothing, it must have only been permitted since her birthday. Her thin brows were furrowed in concentration and her luscious red lips pursed as she followed along with the sheikh's reading. Suddenly, without warning, her eyes darted over and caught me staring up her skirt. I thought quickly and boldly met her gaze before slowly running my eyes down her body. Her parents, seated to her left, were intent on the Quran in their laps and paid no attention.
Instead of closing her legs in horror, I saw a flicker of a smile on her face and a little pink tongue slowly lick her upper lip. Then, to my astonishment, her legs slowly parted. It was barely a movement, just a slight adjustment to anyone else, but it opened up a whole new world to my gaze. I could see the silky smoothness up her upper thighs, her satin pink panties, and, unless it was my imagination, a small wet spot soaking through. I felt a lump in my throat and turned back to the sheikh's melodic droning, my heart pounding in my chest. A moment later I heard a soft cough. Turning back, I saw that her hand had moved from the top of her Quran to her legs and she was slowly running her fingers along her thigh, her brilliant blue eyes glued to my face. Casting a furtive glance over at her parents, she gently lifted her heavy quran up from her lap and quickly slid her other hand beneath it, setting the Quran back down. This way, its heavy pages rested on both legs, but the front was tilted up giving me a look at something I never thought to see in mosque. Her fingers went straight to her panties, rubbing the smooth fabric with a slow back and forth motion. I saw her arch her back slightly, biting her lip and closing her eyes. I couldn't believe it. This young beauty was masturbating in mosque just for me! My cock was straining in my pants, but I dare not move, being that I was seated in the front row. The aching intensified as I saw her gently pull the panties aside, revealing two of the most perfect pussy lips I have ever seen, smooth and pink and now definitely glittering with moisture. She gently inserted one finger, first up to the knuckle, then all the way, and I heard a sharp intake of breath which she covered with another soft cough. Her mother glanced over absently, but saw nothing and returned to her Quran.
Zainab's eyes met mine and she nodded her head slightly in the direction of the back. I couldn't believe it: she was asking me to follow! I nodded once and turned back to the front, my breathing quickening, my heart now like a jack hammer in my chest. I heard her slowly rise and whisper something to her mother, before standing up barefeeted - as all of us in mosques - from the ground and getting out of the pool. I waited thirty seconds before doing the same, trying to do everything as slowly as possible, knowing someone would stop me at any second.
As I walked down the pool, I focused straight ahead, terrified of meeting anyone's eyes. I reached the back door of the pool (al-sahn) and stepped out into the hall which separate the worshipping part of mosque and its educational part and its bathrooms, exhaling sharply as I did so and realizing I had been holding my breath. I looked around for a moment before I saw her at the other end, glancing over her shoulder and disappearing around a corner, her dark hair floating about her head like a ghostly trail. I hurried after her, adjusting my cock in the tight confines of my pants, wishing I could pull it out right there. But I was surrounded by closed doors and the sounds of children in nurseries and Islamic school classes that told me I was not yet in the clear. I reached the end of the hall and found her waiting for me around the corner in front of an large, open room. She grabbed me by the shirt ad pulled me inside, shutting the heavy door behind me and locking it.