Chapter 16

Divya stepped into the opulent airport lounge, her form-fitting abaya clinging to every curve like a second skin. The overhead niqab draped over her head, the black fabric sheer enough in places to hint at the voluptuous body beneath, but opaque where it mattered—hiding her face entirely. No bra restrained her massive 38DD breasts; they bounced heavily with each step, nipples hardening against the rough material from the constant friction. Below, her pussy lips rubbed together without panties, already slick from the anticipation of submission. At 5’7”, she towered over Ahmed, the dark, ugly short man shuffling beside her in his ill-fitting thobe, his eyes gleaming with unearned pride. Passersby stared at the odd pair: the hefty, covered woman led by this unremarkable clerk. Whispers followed them—curiosity, envy, judgment—but Ahmed swelled inside, thanking Allah silently. This sexy slave, once a distant dream, was his reality, a cash cow he’d milk dry.

The imam had hooked them up with the client weeks ago: a 65-year-old Saudi tycoon with a harem of wives, seeking fresh meat for his depraved games. The fortune offered was staggering—enough to buy Ahmed loyalty forever. His marriage to Divya was a sham from the start, lust for the unreachable lawyer twisting into greed once Aliyah’s leaks handed him the reins. Now, she was no wife, just a doormat to fuck day and night, her body and career his ATM. When the Arab demanded Divya in Jeddah, Ahmed jumped, his first trip abroad a sacred pilgrimage to Mecca’s shadow. ‘I’ll go too,’ he’d insisted, voice thick with excitement. The tycoon agreed, amused by the greedy little man’s audacity.

Divya suggested the lounge, her voice muffled through the niqab. Ahmed blinked, clueless—a class 10 dropout who’d never seen an airport beyond Delhi’s chaos. ‘What’s that? Free?’ She nodded, explaining the perks of her elite bank card. His eyes widened at the spread: platters of grilled meats, fresh salads, gleaming bottles of whiskey and champagne. Though a Muslim, he drank with court buddies, cheap hooch in dingy bars. Here, it was paradise. He beelined for the bar, grabbing a scotch neat, then another, the burn lighting his greedier fires.

Divya craved a cocktail—her usual wine or whiskey to steady nerves—but Ahmed snapped, ‘No. You’re Muslim now, covered like this. Rich folk stare; they’ll think you’re a whore sipping booze.’ She bit her pierced lip, the metal tugging pain that pooled heat between her thighs. His first wife, Hajira, roamed bare-headed at home, rules bending for her. But Divya? Strict submission only, her masochistic core thriving on the hypocrisy.