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Jamilah Koury knew that it was all over the minute the stranger moved into the house across the street. It had all happened too quickly, too stealthily. The Qureshi family, who had lived there for decades, were there one day and gone the next. Most suspiciously, they did not take any of their furniture with them.

Jamilah had heard the rumours. They had been circulating for months–cities overtaken by Fulani Jihadists; their ruling elites efficiently replaced by the devotees of the zealous reformist, Usman dan Fodio. In Jamilah’s household, the rumours had been met with great fear. Her family enjoyed a comfortable status among the educated ruling class of the city, but their position could be easily unsettled by the Fulani invaders. Dan Fodio’s Islam was a newfangled brand of Islam, they said, one that had no room for old-fashioned practices like ancestor worship. Those unfortunates who still clung to the old ways–who, like Jamilah’s family, practiced a loose hybrid of Islam and indigenous religion–were being quickly dispossessed of their property and status. The fear of it hung in the air of the city of Katsina, as thick as a sandstorm.

What would she be without her house, Jamilah wondered? This house, with its white clay exterior and cool interior, its tapestries and pillows and books, had been a constant in Jamilah’s life. Sitting on the pillows in the main room, she had read its books voraciously, then then read them again. She had meticulously copied mathematical proofs from the books on the shelves and written her own. She had memorized pages from the ornate Qur’an that stood on the wooden stand in the corner. From this house, Jamilah felt as if she could grasp the whole world. Jamilah had had more than her fair share of failed romances, but her house and her books and her beautiful things had always been there. Until now.

The Qureshi family was gone. Would the Koury family be next? All evening, Jamilah’s father and brother sat in the back room, discussing their options: was now the time to get out of town? Where would they go if they did? What could they sell?

As they spoke to each other in hushed voices, Jamilah took the opportunity to spy out the front door at the new resident of the house across the street. After all she had heard about the fearsome Fulani invaders, she had expected this new neighbor to show obvious outward signs of his sinister nature. This man, however, seemed distressingly amiable. He smiled at his servants as they loaded his books and tapestries into the house and offered them water when they were done. He was a tall, thin man with bright, penetrating black eyes, made all the more prominent by the absence of ornamentation on his plain white clothing. Jamilah found the severity of his appearance striking, and as she watched him disappear into his house, she noticed that he did not seem to have a wife. Jamilah shook herself off and walked toward the back room.

“Would Kwaku have us?” Her brother was asking. “We could stay at his farm in the north.”

“No good,” her father replied. “Dan Fodio has already captured the northern provinces.” He looked up to see that Jamilah hovering in the doorway. “Go to bed, Jamilah. We’ll keep you safe, don’t worry.” His voice quavered as he said it, as if he were trying to convince himself that the words were true.

Jamilah bit her lip and turned away. She walked to the bedroom, where her mother sat, lighting an oil lamp for the ancestors. Her mother looked up when Jamilah came in and offered her a tight-lipped sigh. “I always thought we’d have married you away by now,” she said with resigned sadness. Jamilah looked down, guilty. “It was not in Allah’s plan.”

All that night, Jamilah tossed and turned in bed, kept awake by the fear of the reversal of her family’s fortunes. If only the jihadists could be reasoned with, she thought. If she could just talk to the man across the street, perhaps she could convince him to let her family stay where they were. And why not? He was human, after all, and all humans had their weaknesses. If only she could find out what his was, then maybe, just maybe, she could exploit it.

***

Yusuf sat in the main room of his new house, trying to get comfortable on the unfamiliar furniture. He held a quill in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, and on it he was writing a list of Muslim infidels who would have to be taken care of if the swift takeover of Katsina were to run smoothly. There were five family names written on the paper: Qureshi, Ahmed, Bangura, Musa, and Koury. He would pass along this list to the Emir, and each family would be relocated forthwith. It was a shame, really, but it must be done.

Yusuf sighed, set the list aside, and took up the book he had been reading: Thabit ibn Qurrah’s treatise on the geometry of conic sections. Mathematics made sense to Yusuf. Politics and theology were too messy for his taste. Even under the guidance of the Qur’an, there were far too many moral ambiguities in the world of politics. When he found himself too caught up in the porno details of political affairs (which happened quite often these days), he liked to return to the world of numbers and shapes. Here, it was clean and unencumbered by the dirt, sweat, and blood of everyday life. There were right answers, and there were wrong ones, and one did not have to feel guilty if the solutions one came up with displaced a few families from their homes.

He had just begun to reorient himself in his reading when the door of his living room burst open with a loud bang. Startled, Yusuf shrunk backward in his chair and shielded his face with his arms. A peek through his fingers, however, informed him that the intruder was not an armed assailant but a woman, armed only with a fiery, determined expression. Yusuf collected himself quickly, sitting up and taking on an expression of cool nonchalance, but he could see that it was too late to feign nonchalance: the woman had disarmed him with her sudden appearance, and she knew it.

He examined the strange woman, attempting to read her. She was clearly a woman of wealth, evidenced by her richly patterned dress, sash, and jewelry. And she was obviously not a particularly orthodox Muslim, as her hair was uncovered. Yusuf’s eyes lingered on the sight of her hair, braided elaborately across her head and into a thick knot at the top. It made him uncomfortable, the sight of it, a glimpse of forbidden beauty that stirred something within him he would rather have left undisturbed.

“You ought to cover your head,” he told her. “A nice girl like you would do well to comport herself more modestly.”

“Oh I am not a nice girl,” she replied, walking over to Yusuf and standing over him. If he stood up now, he would be taller than she was, he thought. He could easily overtake her physically. Yet for some reason, he felt threatened by her, as if this woman knew something he did not. He stayed where he was. “My name is Jamilah Koury,” she said. “Let me cut to the chase. I want you to let my family keep their house.”

He laughed. So this was it. She had come from the house next door, begging him to leave her family alone, in the most abrasive of ways. “I am Yusuf Noor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He crossed his legs and looked up at her amiably, making a point of not answering her query.

Jamilah was steadfast. “My family keeps their house,” she repeated.

“What makes you think I have the power to do that?”

“You’re from the new government, aren’t you?”

“I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.”

“Then enforce them differently.” Her conviction was unrelenting. She stared down at him, her eyes boring into him, apparently determined not to leave until she had won him over.

Yusuf felt guilt churn in his stomach. His job was easier when he did not have to stare into the faces of the families he displaced, particularly not the beautiful and intimidating face of this woman. He fidgeted in his seat, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I can’t help you.” Impulsively, he added, “Would you like some coffee? I can have the servant bring it up.”

Jamilah, however, was not to be drawn off her course. In answer, she squatted down in front of Yusuf in such a position that he could see underneath her skirts, straight at her uncovered genitals. Yusuf’s eyes widened. He drew in a sharp, involuntary breath and backed up in his seat, as if to escape the threat of Jamilah’s body’s magnetism. Even so, he could not bring himself to draw his eyes away from the sight of her genitals. They were beautiful–moist and pink and framed by smooth, fat legs. Yusuf felt his mouth water just looking at them. It was a crass move on her part, but an effective one. She had seen his discomfort at the sight of her hair and was now using this discomfort against him by baring this most potent of body parts.

Genital cursing was an ancient weapon, practiced very rarely nowadays and only in the most desperate of circumstances. Jamilah knew full well the shameful power of this particular region of her body, and she knew that a pious Muslim woman would never utilize its power. But she did not care. She wanted to disarm Yusuf, and she saw clearly that it was working.

“Have you no decency?” He faltered.

“None,” she smiled.

Yusuf began to regain his composure. He stood up, and Jamilah stood as well and looked into his eyes defiantly. By exposing herself, Jamilah had indeed temporarily disarmed him, but she had also made herself vulnerable. “Silly girl,” he said, “do you know what I could do to you for what you just showed me?”

“I have quite a clear idea, yes.”

“I could strike you right here and now; I could…I could take you right here on the carpet…” Yusuf’s threats were unconvincing, and he knew it.

“You’re not going to do that.”

“You think I won’t?”

“Yes.” Jamilah said this with utter conviction, although in truth she was only guessing. “I know what kind of man you are. If you really wanted japon porno to strike me, you would have done it by now. But that’s not what makes you hard, is it? That’s not what you think about at night when you think Allah’s not watching.”

Yusuf stared at Jamilah, not saying anything. How could she have known?

Jamilah pressed her advantage. “I’ve known men like you. You are powerful; you get your own way. But deep inside, all you want is for a woman to put you in your place.”

It dawned on Yusuf that Jamilah’s pronouncement had not only been an accusation–it had been an offer. He raised his eyebrows, entertaining the idea. She had, indeed, been spot on in her assessment of his desires. He was not only intimidated but aroused by her forwardness, by the crass and unashamed way in which she had wielded the power of her body against him. Could he allow himself to lean into this desire rather than away from it?

Jamilah saw the flicker of arousal play across his face, and her heart skipped a beat. Jamilah’s offer to Yusuf was strategic: an attempt to give him something he wanted in order to gain his support. But in truth, Jamilah was herself quite aroused by the idea of taking her new neighbor and dominating him. She had done it before with other men, and she was eager to try her hand at it again. For the entire length of the conversation, as Jamilah steadily established her dominance, she had been growing steadily more and more aroused. Each mistake Yusuf made, each moment of weakness he had shown, had made her moist with excitement. She reached out and touched his cheek, grazing his rough skin with her smooth fingers.

“Okay,” Yusuf replied. “Put me in my place, then.” He cocked his head downward and clasped his hands behind his back in a gesture of submission.

Jamilah smiled, surprised. She had guessed correctly. Yusuf evidently desired her dominance very much, and it had been easier than she had expected to win him over. “You’d like that? To let me do what I want with you? Toy with you? Hurt you?”

“Yes,” he responded, utterly sincere.

“Not particularly pious of you, I must say,” Jamilah smiled with feigned innocence.

In response, he offered her a guilty shrug. They both knew the significance of this expression. With it, Yusuf had admitted that his motives were not entirely religious; he had admitted that, like Jamilah and her family, he did not follow the rules of Islam to the letter. Jamilah stored this admission away to use against him later.

Jamilah decided to establish her dominance right away. “Very well,” she began, “now here’s how this is going to work. You are going to do what I say, and you are going to like it. Do you have a stable?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to fetch me several lengths of rope, a knife, and a horsewhip.”

His eyes widened, but he did not protest. If anything, he looked more eager than ever. He rang a small bell and called one of his servants to fetch the items. When the items had been retrieved, Jamilah set them aside and gave her next instructions.

“Undress me. Slowly, gently. Give my body the respect it deserves.”

Yusuf was more than happy to obey. He removed her sash and set it aside. Grazing the back of her neck with his fingers, he unclasped her necklace. Then he knelt down, grasped the end of her long dress, and lifted it up over her head. As he did so, he ran his hands across the profile of her body, feeling the peaks of her wide hips and the valleys of her waist. It was a deferent touch, steady but light, as if Yusuf could not believe his luck that he was allowed the privilege of touching.

Jamilah was naked underneath her dress. Her breasts and stomach overflowed onto each other in enticing bounty. She examined Yusuf’s reaction to her nakedness. He gawked at her shyly, his eyes glued to the forbidden parts of her body, as if he could not look away if he tried. It made Jamilah feel like a goddess. She felt her body radiating outward from itself, its intoxicating potency holding Yusuf in its grasp.

“What’s your favorite part?” She asked him.

He chuckled. “All of it. I like…I like the insides of your thighs. I like the place where your neck meets your shoulders. I like your breasts.”

“I’d like you to kiss them.”

“Okay.” He knelt down in front of Jamilah, held her legs with his hands, and gave each of her thighs a light kiss on the inside.

“Harder, like you mean it.”

Yusuf obeyed with alacrity. He buried his face in her thighs and worshipped each thigh with his lips and tongue, consuming their soft flesh. Jamilah listened to his moans with delight, her breath quickening as she felt his lips tickle her.

Yusuf was still fully clothed, his thin body covered from head to toe in a long white robe, his head covered in a white turban. Jamilah gazed down at him, taking note of his piercing eyes, the whites of which contrasted brilliantly against his dark, rough cut skin. She reached down, untucked the end of his turban cloth, lezbiyen porno and began to unwrap it, revealing his closely shorn hair underneath. He looked oddly naked with his head uncovered, smaller and more vulnerable. Jamilah ran her finger through the kinks of his hair. Then she took the cloth of his turban, folded it, and tied it around his eyes.

Yusuf drew in a sharp breath. With the loss of his vision, he felt his world shrink around him. As Jamilah guided his head back toward her legs, he felt as if there was nothing in the world but her, nothing to feel and taste but the multifaceted terrain of her body. Slowly, she guided his head up from her legs to her stomach, then across the expanse of her stomach to her breast. He let out a delighted whimper when he discovered that his mouth had made contact with her nipple, and he tongued it with deference.

“I want you to bite it,” Jamilah told him. “Suck on it like you mean it.”

“Yes!” Yusuf exclaimed. He bit down with gusto, enthusiastically but gently, teasing Jamilah’s nipple with his teeth and flicking at it with his tongue. It hardened as he licked it, taking on a distinct volcanic shape. Jamilah, in turn, moaned as the stimulation sent flickers of pleasure emanating from her breast throughout her torso. She tightened her grasp on Yusuf’s hair, and he bit down harder on her nipple.

She straightened him up. He was grinning underneath the blindfold. “Put your arms by your sides,” she ordered. “I am going to tie you up now.”

“Okay!” He did so. Jamilah took a short strand of rope and secured it around his chest. Yusuf felt the pressure of the rope hug him, compressing and containing his body, and he smiled with unexpected pleasure. Jamilah continued tying short strands of rope all the way down his body, at his waist, his thighs, his knees, and his ankles. With each further constraint, Yusuf felt further drawn into himself and the immediacy of the moment. He was blind, immobilized, and wrapped up in his white robe like a package–and he realized that he loved it. He loved the release of control, the security of the constraints. It put him in an almost meditative state of calm.

“Thank you,” he told Jamilah with utter sincerity.

“Jamila laughed. “Don’t thank me yet; I’m going to hurt you a little bit.”

“Do your worst,” exclaimed Yusuf with fervor. “I feel so…at peace.”

“It’s not too tight? Tell me if you start to lose feeling in any of your limbs.” As much as she liked toying with him, she had not want to actually hurt him.

“No, it’s good.”

Jamilah helped Yusuf onto the ground and made him lie down on his back. Then she picked up the knife from the table and knelt down next to him. It was a short blade, made for gardening, but it was sharp. She ran the tip of it across Yusuf’s chest, pressing down just hard enough that he could tell what it was. She saw with pleasure that his limbs stiffened at her touch. He clenched his fists and pursed his lips, but he did not protest or turn away. In truth, Yusuf was entranced by the danger of the encounter. Jamilah ran the knife down his torso and lingered around his genitals. Almost unintentionally, Yusuf let out a small whimper of protestation.

“Don’t move a muscle, now,” Jamilah warned, “or I could really hurt you.”

Yusuf kept very still. Jamilah used one hand to steady Yusuf’s clothing, and with the other, she slashed downward methodically, cutting not into Yusuf’s flesh but into his clothing. When she had created a small hole in his gown and underclothing, she reached in and pulled his genitals out so that his penis and testicles stuck out of his clothing.

He chuckled. “How ridiculous do I look?”

“Pretty ridiculous.” And, indeed, he did. Jamilah thought that his penis looked a bit like a worm, but like a very eager worm, sticking up out of his body with erect attentiveness. She stroked it affectionately, eliciting a delighted sigh from Yusuf. Then she let go. She sat down in his chair and placed her foot lightly on top of his testicles, keeping it there but not pressing down. The gesture communicated quite effectively to Yusuf that she could press down at any time. His pain was so easy, and at her complete discretion.

Jamilah reached down and picked up the book Yusuf had been reading before she had interrupted him. She skimmed the contents, recognizing the name of the 10th-century mathematician who had written it. “Thabit Ibn Qurrah!” she exclaimed. “He writes such beautiful proofs!”

Yusuf was surprised. “You…you read Arabic?”

“I am an educated woman, aren’t I?” Jamilah began to read to herself, her foot still balanced deliberately on Yusuf’s testicles. It was difficult going, as mathematical writing often was, but Jamilah enjoyed the challenge of learning how to understand the writer’s argument. There was beauty in the clean lines of his logic.

As she read, Jamilah’s attention was never directed completely away from the man lying on the floor in front of her. She played with his testicles with her toes, sometimes pressing down just hard enough to cause him pain, then retreating. Yusuf’s attention, meanwhile, was focused only on Jamilah, on the feeling of her foot on his genitals, the sound of the pages turning as she worked her way through the book.

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