I finally dragged my ass home around 11:30 p.m., campus event ran way too fucking late. The whole house was dark except for the faint glow from the living room lamp someone forgot to switch off. I kicked off my shoes, ready to crash, when I saw her.

Ummi Nabila. 

My aunt. My fucking holy, hijab-wearing, soft-spoken ustadzah aunt, passed out cold on the couch like an angel who accidentally drank half a bottle of cough syrup. She always crashes here whenever her late-night dakwah runs long. Mom lets her stay because of “family,” and I never complain.

She was lying on her side, one arm under the pillow, the other draped across her stomach. That light-grey hijab is still perfectly pinned, framing her sleepy face (those long lashes, the soft pouty lips that always say “Assalamualaikum” in the sweetest voice). Her cardigan had ridden up a little, showing the curve of her waist under that tight navy abaya. The fabric clung to her body like it was painted on: full, heavy tits rising and falling with every slow breath, hips wide and juicy, and that fat, round ass pushed out toward the edge of the couch like it was begging for trouble.

The lamp behind her painted everything in warm gold. I could see the faint sheen of perspiration along her collarbones, the way the abaya stuck to the small of her back, outlining the dimples just above her ass. She smelled like oud and rosewater mixed with warm sleepy skin, the scent hit me straight in the cock.

I shut the door with a soft click. Locked it. Mom wouldn’t be home until 7 a.m. We had hours.

My heart was hammering so loud I swore she’d hear it. I toed off my sneakers, peeled off my socks, and walked toward her barefoot so the floor wouldn’t creak. Every step made my dick swell harder in my jeans until it was painful. When I was close enough, I just stood over her and drank her in, letting the filthy reality sink in: my pious, married, hijabi aunt, the woman half the masjid calls “Ummi” with reverence, lying here helpless while her nephew’s cock leaked for her.

I dropped to my knees beside the couch, slow, reverent, like I was praying. My hands hovered an inch above her body, feeling the heat radiating off her. I started at her ankle (soft, dainty, a thin gold chain I’ve seen her wear under her socks). I trailed my fingers up the smooth curve of her calf, over the back of her knee, feeling the tiny shiver that ran through her even in sleep. Higher… along the plush underside of her thigh until the abaya bunched under my palm. The skin there was silkier, warmer, and when I reached the crease where thigh meets ass, I had to bite my fist to keep from moaning.

I let my whole hand settle on one cheek. It overflowed my palm, soft yet firm, the weight of a real woman. I squeezed gently and watched the flesh spill between my fingers. The abaya was so thin I could feel the lace edge of her panties underneath, and the heat pouring off her crack was making my mouth water.

She sighed in her sleep, lips parting, and shifted just enough that her ass pushed back into my hand, like her body already knew who it belonged to tonight.

That was it. Game over.

I unzipped with trembling fingers, pulled my cock out into the dim light. Nine inches, thick, veins pulsing, the head already shiny and angry-red with pre-cum. A fat drop hung off the tip and stretched into a long string when I leaned forward.

I was just about to press in when she sighed in her sleep (soft, deep, like a woman dreaming of something warm and heavy between her legs). Her body shifted on its own, slow and lazy: one knee sliding higher, hips rolling back until she was almost on her stomach, that legendary 47-year-old ass now perfectly presented to me like an offering.

The navy abaya rode up another inch with the movement, bunching at her waist and exposing the full, obscene swell of her cheeks. Those thick, honey-colored thighs parted just enough for the fabric to cling tight between them, outlining every curve, every dimple, every forbidden inch. The lamp behind her turned the material almost sheer; I could see the faint shadow of her white cotton panties wedged deep, the way they disappeared into that plush valley like they were swallowed whole. Her ass looked heavier like this, rounder, the weight of it pressing into the cushion and spreading wide, begging to be split open. One soft cheek spilled slightly to the side, revealing the damp little patch already forming at the center from her own sleepy heat.

I pressed the slick head right against the fabric stretched over the deepest part of her crack and just held it there, feeling her heartbeat through the cloth. The heat was unreal. I started moving, slow, filthy glides up and down that clothed valley, letting the abaya soak up every bead of pre-cum I was leaking. Each drag felt like velvet. I watched the wet spot grow darker, spreading across the navy material like I was marking territory.

I couldn’t stay gentle for long. I grabbed her hip with one hand, fingers sinking into that soft flesh, and started humping her harder, grinding my bare cock along the groove of her ass like I was trying to fuck her through the dress. The friction was perfect, dirty, forbidden. My balls dragged over the cushion with every thrust, heavy and tight, ready to explode.

I leaned over her, chest brushing her back, and buried my face against the side of her hijab. Inhaled deep. Whispered right into the fabric, “Ummi… you have no idea what you do to me.”

Her breathing hitched, just once, then settled again. But I swear I felt her hips rock back the tiniest bit, like her sleeping body was begging for more.

I lost control. I straightened up, gripped both hips now, thumbs pressing into those deep back dimples, and started fucking her ass crack in earnest, fast, nasty strokes that made the couch creak softly. My cock slid up and down that slick, soaked channel, the head popping out the top near her lower back on every thrust, leaving shiny trails of pre-cum across the abaya.

I could feel her getting warmer underneath, the fabric clinging wetter. I was dripping so much it looked like I’d already come. My balls tightened, that electric pull starting low in my gut.

“Fuck… Ummi… I’m gonna paint this holy ass,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

I shoved forward one last time, buried the length of my cock as deep into her clothed crack as possible, and let go.

The first rope shot so hard it splashed up under the hem of her abaya and hit bare skin. The second, third, fourth coated the fabric in thick white streaks, pooling right where her asshole was hidden underneath. I kept thrusting through it, sliding in my own mess, milking every pulse until her entire ass was glazed, cum dripping in slow rivulets down the backs of her thighs, soaking into the couch.

I stayed there, panting, cock twitching against the sticky heat, watching my seed claim her. A fat drop slid off the curve of her cheek and hung for a second before falling onto the cushion.She moaned, soft, needy, lips parting wider, and pushed her ass back again, grinding lazily against my spent dick like she was chasing the feeling even in her dreams.

I leaned down, pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the wet fabric right over her crack, tasting myself on her abaya, and whispered, “That’s my good girl.”

Then I fixed her dress as best I could, smoothed the hijab, and left her there, beautiful, ruined, and still perfectly asleep.

I couldn’t leave yet. Not without one last look.

I lowered myself again, slow, until my face was barely an inch from hers. The dim lamp painted her in soft amber and shadow, and fuck… up this close she was devastating in ways no hijab could ever hide.Her skin was that perfect Middle-Eastern glow: warm caramel with a faint olive undertone, flawless except for the tiniest sun-kissed freckles across the bridge of her nose that only show when you’re this close. Long, thick lashes cast delicate shadows over her cheeks, fluttering every few seconds like she was dreaming something that made her pulse race. Her brows were naturally arched, dark, and lush, framing half-lidded eyes that I knew were hazel shot through with gold when they opened.

But her mouth… that mouth was pure sin disguised as modesty. Full, swollen lips the color of crushed pomegranate, the lower one heavier, naturally pouty, glistening with the faintest trace of saliva where she’d licked them in her sleep. A single drop of moisture sat in the perfect bow of her cupid’s lip, catching the light like it was daring me to taste it. That tiny beauty mark just above the left corner begged to be sucked. I could already imagine those lips stretched around my cock, smudging her nude-pink lipstick, whispering “Astaghfirullah” between choked moans.

Her breath came in warm, sleepy puffs against my face: sweet, a little minty, mixed with the faint feminine musk that only mature women have when they’ve been sweating under layers all day. A loose strand of silky black hair had escaped the edge of her pashmina and curled against her damp temple, sticking there like it was framing a masterpiece.

She looked like a forbidden paradise. Like the kind of woman prophets warned about in the dark. I hovered there, lips almost brushing hers, drinking in every obscene detail while my cum cooled on her ass behind her.

Then I let the filth spill out, barely a breath against that perfect, pious mouth:

“Tomorrow night these pretty lips are gonna be wrapped around my dick while you’re still wearing your hijab, Ummi… and you’ll swallow every drop like it’s water straight from heaven.”

Her lower lip quivered again, fuller, wetter, like her body was already answering “amin.”

I pulled back before I lost the last shred of control, left her glistening and ruined, and walked away hard all over again.

Tomorrow morning she’ll wake up sore between her legs, panties glued to her skin, wondering why she feels so satisfied and so ashamed at the same time.

And I’ll bring her coffee, kiss her cheek like always, and watch her blush crimson when she realizes the scent lingering on her clothes is unmistakably mine.

Sweet dreams, Ummi.  

Your mouth was made for praying… and for me.