And before she could
willingly give herself to him like the chaste wife she wanted to be, he tore
her lilac nightgown off, pushed his hand on her mouth to drown her screams,
pulled her from the hair, and penetrated past her knickers through her hymen
like a derailed freight train. Never touching or caressing her. Never looking in her eyes. Never uttering
a single word. He fucked her like a worthless hooker, never once
stopping to tend to the excruciating pain of losing her virginity, or the
gushing blood on the bed sheet.
When
he was about to erupt, he withdrew quickly and emptied himself on her like she
was a sheet of toilet paper. He sullied her chest and face, then got off her
and slithered out of the room. Just before he walked out of the door, he turned
to her and said, “I can’t always do this,” without the slightest hint of
empathy in his voice.
“Do
what?” she whimpered through her muffled tears.
“Pull
out in time. You need to get yourself fixed so you don’t get pregnant. I don’t
want any children from you. I’ll arrange for it next week.”
Umayma
nodded, her own hand now covering her mouth.
A
week later she was sent to a gynecologist who implanted something in her to
halt her fertility. Like neutering a domestic pet.
From
that day onwards Kamal only ever came to her room to
rape her. It was as if she really was a maid and sleeping with her was a
shameless sin he could only commit in secret. Or maybe it was more exciting for
him this way. He ordered her to go to bed naked every night, just in case he
decided to take her on a whim, he wouldn’t have to bother with her clothes.
Because short of tearing her clothes off like he did the first time, the act of
undressing her had a certain tinge of tenderness he seemed intent on denying
her.
Rarely,
he would fondle her breasts or lick them until they would firm up and fill her
with forbidden excitement. Even the prickliness of his salt and pepper beard on
her starved areolas was a welcome taste of intimacy. And when he did these
things, she tried to engage with him in foreplay to make the act feel less like
rape and more like lovemaking. To endear her to him. Invoke some sense of sympathy for her. But it never worked. He always shunned
her with decisive brutality. As if anything other than
screwing her violently with little concern for her needs was a buzz kill.
And
the worst was when he took her from behind. That was real hell. How could a man
so devout commit a sin so forbidden in Islam? On the day of
resurrection, Allah will not look at a man who had intercourse with his wife in
her anus . She remembered the religious saying every time he pounded her
insides. Faith aside, this was one of the most painful things she had ever
experienced. With no lubrication or prior warning, it always left her feeling
plundered and even more ashamed of her lowly existence.
The
realization she was worth no more to Kamal than a
slave or a concubine was a gradual one. When it finally dawned on her, she was
devastated. A slow-burning fear spread through her heart, like a wounded, caged
animal would feel. What if the only way out was for her life to end prematurely?
Kamal had taken possession of her passport because she
“wouldn’t be traveling anywhere soon,” he had explained. A premonition of her
future bondage she later realized. He only disbursed her enough money to attend
to the house for one week at a time, and she had no credit cards or a bank
account to her name. Her daily existence was micro-choreographed by Kamal who kept her on a short leash. She had no friends or
peers to confide in. And his parents did nothing to suggest they believed her
status to be any higher than what their son had relegated her to.
Only
once a month was she allowed a few minutes to call her mother and sisters in
Damascus, always with Kamal hovering nearby. There
was no chance she could vent her true feelings without him finding out. Not
that it would have made a difference.
willingly give herself to him like the chaste wife she wanted to be, he tore
her lilac nightgown off, pushed his hand on her mouth to drown her screams,
pulled her from the hair, and penetrated past her knickers through her hymen
like a derailed freight train. Never touching or caressing her. Never looking in her eyes. Never uttering
a single word. He fucked her like a worthless hooker, never once
stopping to tend to the excruciating pain of losing her virginity, or the
gushing blood on the bed sheet.
When
he was about to erupt, he withdrew quickly and emptied himself on her like she
was a sheet of toilet paper. He sullied her chest and face, then got off her
and slithered out of the room. Just before he walked out of the door, he turned
to her and said, “I can’t always do this,” without the slightest hint of
empathy in his voice.
“Do
what?” she whimpered through her muffled tears.
“Pull
out in time. You need to get yourself fixed so you don’t get pregnant. I don’t
want any children from you. I’ll arrange for it next week.”
Umayma
nodded, her own hand now covering her mouth.
A
week later she was sent to a gynecologist who implanted something in her to
halt her fertility. Like neutering a domestic pet.
From
that day onwards Kamal only ever came to her room to
rape her. It was as if she really was a maid and sleeping with her was a
shameless sin he could only commit in secret. Or maybe it was more exciting for
him this way. He ordered her to go to bed naked every night, just in case he
decided to take her on a whim, he wouldn’t have to bother with her clothes.
Because short of tearing her clothes off like he did the first time, the act of
undressing her had a certain tinge of tenderness he seemed intent on denying
her.
Rarely,
he would fondle her breasts or lick them until they would firm up and fill her
with forbidden excitement. Even the prickliness of his salt and pepper beard on
her starved areolas was a welcome taste of intimacy. And when he did these
things, she tried to engage with him in foreplay to make the act feel less like
rape and more like lovemaking. To endear her to him. Invoke some sense of sympathy for her. But it never worked. He always shunned
her with decisive brutality. As if anything other than
screwing her violently with little concern for her needs was a buzz kill.
And
the worst was when he took her from behind. That was real hell. How could a man
so devout commit a sin so forbidden in Islam? On the day of
resurrection, Allah will not look at a man who had intercourse with his wife in
her anus . She remembered the religious saying every time he pounded her
insides. Faith aside, this was one of the most painful things she had ever
experienced. With no lubrication or prior warning, it always left her feeling
plundered and even more ashamed of her lowly existence.
The
realization she was worth no more to Kamal than a
slave or a concubine was a gradual one. When it finally dawned on her, she was
devastated. A slow-burning fear spread through her heart, like a wounded, caged
animal would feel. What if the only way out was for her life to end prematurely?
Kamal had taken possession of her passport because she
“wouldn’t be traveling anywhere soon,” he had explained. A premonition of her
future bondage she later realized. He only disbursed her enough money to attend
to the house for one week at a time, and she had no credit cards or a bank
account to her name. Her daily existence was micro-choreographed by Kamal who kept her on a short leash. She had no friends or
peers to confide in. And his parents did nothing to suggest they believed her
status to be any higher than what their son had relegated her to.
Only
once a month was she allowed a few minutes to call her mother and sisters in
Damascus, always with Kamal hovering nearby. There
was no chance she could vent her true feelings without him finding out. Not
that it would have made a difference.
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