dark!isu who doesnāt have the time to feel bad for following you home..
islam is just a man. a real manā dedicated to his faith, yes, but faced with temptation and inevitable haram. heās still a good man beneath it all, he believes. he knows this, his heart, his attempt at doing and making good in the world; even as he watches you climb out of your car from where he stands in the shadows.
he had followed you here, as he had many times before, but nothing more than watching had ever happened. with his hood pulled over his head and balaclava pulled up just below his eyes, islam felt like nothing but a silent watcher. he never took pictures, despite the shayateen whispering in his ear to do otherwise.
but tonight posed a different threat to his resilience. islam was used to watching you disappear out of sight from your bedroom window periodically, mostly to shower. it happened every time like clock work, the layout of your apartment burned like a factual memory in his head where youād walk off to the left where the bathroom was. when youād reemerge, youād be covered in silk and satin for no one but yourself and him.
oddly enough, you decided to strip your clothes in front of the open window. islam would have to think of a clever way to scold you for this tomorrow without making it obvious he was the one watching. the clothes you had been wearing earlier in the dayāthe ones he spent hours secretly staring at you inā were becoming a forgotten memory as you discarded them on the floor. one by one, inch by inch, your bare skin became more visible to islam.
what he didnāt like though was how possibly anyone could see you like this. how silly of you to strip in front of your large window. what if some creep just stood in the darkness and watched you? he tsked under his breath, hardly finding the strength within himself to look away when you reached back to unclasp your bra.
āoh, ŠŗŠ¾ŃŠµŠ½Š¾Šŗ..ā
when he returned his gaze to your window, you were gone. finally in the shower. so, islam felt it was safe enough to step forward; away from the shadows and into action. putting one foot in front of the other, he did just that. still with the cover over his face and hood over his head, he made haste towards your apartment building.
stepping in behind someone who gave him a sideways glance to which he paid no mind to, islam made the short trek up the stairs and to your floor.
when he saw the big sign, he knew he was where he needed to be. crossing the expanse of the slim hallway with the outside view in mind, islam counted the doors much like he would count the windows outside. this was important. any miscalculation could have him ending up exactly where he didnāt want to be. but he was used to this little game by now. never knowing what to expect, being on the edge of absolute certainty and all-consuming ambiguity.
he could smell your scent even from outside your door. pulling his most trusted knife from out of his pocket, islam went to work on the poorly made lock meant to protect you. it was so easy for him to break in, what if it had been someone else? he lingered there for a split second, hand engulfing your doorknob before pushing forward. he thought for a moment of weakness that he should turn around.
noā mawaddah forbid it. he must be with you, his love.
the door to your apartment opened without a creak and it was fragile, to say the least. islam felt good knowing breaking your door down would not be a struggle for him if necessary. he took in the view, each blind spot from outside finally filling out to make the complete picture. everything was warm and familiar, very distinctly youāislam liked that a lot.
water dripping could be heard throughout like white noise. stepping forward cautiously and slow, islam peeked around the corner of your doorframe to find that you were hidden behind the shower curtain, steam curling around your faint silhouette. now you were humming a sweet tune. he had never been able to hear things like that from outside. he pulled his balaclava down and ran a hand over his beard. he couldnāt let himself get distracted.
he walked deeper into your private space; once just shared with yourself, but now it was his too. he plucked your used panties off the floor and stuffed them deep in his pocket with an inaudible sigh. he thought about what to do next, which was weird. he had a plan in his head of exactly how this would go, but now he felt lost.
your place was littered with many things. he kept wandering about, staring intently at framed pictures and notes youād written to yourself. his fingers skimmed lightly over your furniture and countertops. it was a small space, but heād get used to it eventually.
when the shower cut off islam finally came back to reality and away from his thoughts. he had been eyeing a particular dark corner in your living room since he stepped inside, and gravitated towards it. like he was so used to doing outside, islam let the darkness shroud him as he took a quiet seat in a rather uncomfortable chair.
he knew your habits by now. he knew after your shower you put on just enough clothes to not be considered naked, knew you refilled your water bottle in the kitchen, knew you spent the rest of the night in your bed. well, thatās what you usually did anyway. tonight you seemed to have other plans.
not bothering to get extra water caught your watcherās attention. falling onto your bed with a sigh, islam could see your face tilted up to stare at the ceiling. he had a perfect view of you here. the soft light of your lamp splayed over your skin, over the rise and fall of your chest, over your delicate fingers dancing downā
manicured fingers that had occasionally touched islamās in passing just slipped past the waistband of your underwear. his palm slid over his mouth as to not make a reactive sound, your meanwhile your palm slid into forbidden territory. he couldnāt believe this was happening. he had never seen you do this before from outside. he couldnāt tell if he was lucky to be witnessing this or completely damned for watching.
it was hard to see everything clearly from where he was sitting, but he could definitely hear you. it was faint at first, a little whine or a whimper escaping past pursed lips, and then there was something elseā something wet sounding. your arousal was sloppy, unforgiving. islam had to dig his own hands into his thighs to keep himself in the chair, in the darkness where his presence was still unknown.
he couldnāt help himself when he started tugging on his sweatpants. he watched you, never himself; eyes closed, mouth now agape, hand moving fast back and forth over your clit, when he pulled his erection out of its confinement. biting down on his own knuckle, islam started to work his hand up and down his shaft. his eyes never left you once. his ears never stopped listening.
you, the sweet receptionist at AKA that was always so sweet, quiet but willing to jump into jokes, now had your own panties pulled to the side and two fingers deep into your core. islam worked over his length with the same fervor, so much so that sweat started to bead and drip over his temple. he couldnāt stop thinking about how wrong this was, while also trying to justify it in the name of his love for you.
when you become his wife, none of this will matter.
that thought had him reeling. his hips twitched into his palm, pre-cum lubricating his sins. you started to moan louder, and islam would kill to know what kind of thoughts spurred your actions. him, maybe?
filthy words spilled past your lips in the most innocent cadence. like you were hardly capable of this act. even from this distance, in the poor lighting, hardly able to see you, islam felt attuned to your body. felt as though you were close. your legs were wide and spread so nicely over your bed sheets, chanting and choking on your small pathetic breaths while you humped your fingers. islam watched your back arch off the bed, watched you dig your head into the pillow with a moan and a twitch of your legs.
did you just finish? islamās heart thrummed at the thought. he conjured ideas in his head that he was the one you were touching yourself to.
the things islam would do for just a second of your touch..
he treated his own infatuation similarly; thrusting into his hand wound tight around his cock. beet red and leaking. the tip crying out for you as he spilled out onto himself with a moan that ended up being smothered in his free hand. but, it wasnāt enough.
as lax as you were on your bed, fresh off an orgasm, your head snapped in his direction. there was nothing there, nothing you could see, but you couldāve swore you heard something..