The Devils Pact Tales from the Best Buy Incident Obsession
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The Devil's Pact Tales: A Good Muslim GirlChapter 2 free porn video
"Fatima," I murmured, rising up from my slumber and reaching for my lover.
After weeks of pining after Fatima, I finally got through to her, and my little Arab vixen was mine. After the support meeting for the "victims" of the Best Buy Incident, we came back to my apartment, and had the greatest, most mind-blowing sex of my life. Sure I hadn't had a lot of sex, but I'm willing to call that some of the best sex the universe has ever witnessed.
My hand reached and reached. I didn't find her. "Fatima?" I asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My bed was empty. I glanced at the clock and saw it was a little after three in the morning. I hadn't been sleeping that long, maybe an hour. I stretched and stood up. "Fatima?" I called louder.
I walked out of my bedroom into my living room/kitchen. My one-bedroom, basement apartment was so tiny that there was no separation from the kitchen and the living room. I frowned, wondering where she was. Did she go home? Panic gripped me.
Did she leave me?
Fear pumped through my body, compelling me to find her. I dashed outside to check if her car was still in the parking lot. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw it. And then my eyes widened. I was naked. Flushing, I tried to cover myself as best I could as I darted back down the concrete stairs.
I leaned against my door and breathed a sigh of relief. No one saw me. Luckily. So where was my lover? Then I noticed the light on in my bathroom, spilling out through the crack at the bottom of the door.
"Fatima?" I asked, knocking softly. "Are you in there?"
Silence.
I knocked harder. "Are you okay?"
Silence. My heart quickened its beat.
I pounded on the door. "I'm opening the door!" I shouted, worry pricking at my heart, urging it to beat faster and faster. My hand shook as I grasped the doorknob and swung it open.
My lover, my beautiful Arab vixen, was pale as she lay back in my tub. The water was rose coloured. The knife bloody on the white tiles of the floor. My heart stopped. I could only stare in horror. Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! My thoughts disintegrated in panic.
I slipped on the wet floor as I rushed to her. I didn't feel the pain in my sprained wrist. Only later would I even realize I'd hurt it. I just had to get to her. I grabbed her arm. She was still warm, her chest rising and falling slowly.
Thank god she was still alive.
My mind kept telling me I had to do something. I had to do something or she was going to die. I grabbed one of my towels, wrapping it around her arm.
Now what?
Get help, a voice screamed in my head. I rushed out of the bathroom, frantic to find my phone. I grabbed my purse and dumped its contents across my floor, throwing aside lipstick tubes, tampons, keys, change, and all that other crap in my purse before I found my phone.
"911 emergency."
"She's bleeding to death!" I shouted into the phone.
It seemed an eternity until the paramedics arrived. I had the phone pressed up against my ear as I held up Fatima's arm, keeping pressure on the wound. They calmly came into my apartment, and when one of them handed me a bathrobe, I flushed in embarrassment, covering myself as they went to work on her.
I retreated into my bedroom. They were going to take her to the hospital and I needed to get dressed. My mind whirled. What had happened to her? How was she cut? Was it an accident? Or did she... ?
No, don't think that. She wouldn't do that. Not after last night. She was so happy.
On my nightstand was a piece of notebook paper covered in crisp writing. I picked it up, my hands shaking as I read her flowing, cursive script:
Dearest Lucy,
Tonight was the happiest night of my life. I never felt more loved than I had tonight. It was a sweet dream.
But it is time I woke up. I am a good Muslim girl, and what we did was a sin. A sweet, pleasant sin. I cannot fight it. My heart aches for it too much. All I can do is wake up from this dream.
Know that I love you with all my heart.
Fatima
My tears stained the letter as they took her away on the gurney, guilt squeezing my chest until it felt like I was suffocating. "I didn't mean for this, Fatima. I just wanted us to be happy together. I'm so sorry."
Friday, June 21st, 2013 – Fatima Tawfeek
My eyes felt like they weighed a ton, refusing to open as I swam up to fuzzy consciousness.
A mask was on my face, around my lips. Sticky circles were stuck to my chest. Something pinching my right, middle finger, and what felt like a needle was stuck in my left arm. I struggled and struggled, fighting to open my eyes. With a great effort, I forced my eyes open.
Where am I? Paradise?
No, Paradise wouldn't smell so antiseptic.
Then I saw my father glowering down at me. I looked down, and saw the hospital gown covering me. I didn't die, I realized with a sinking feeling. Why was I still alive? I glanced again at my father; hatred and shame burned in his eyes.
He knows. He knows my great shame. I wilt beneath the intensity of his gaze, looking away. My mother sat demurely next to me in a dark jilbab and a colorful shaylah covering her head. She was a proper Muslim woman. Unlike me.
I felt the tears running down my eyes as I shamefully remembered how amazing being with Lucy had been. Why couldn't I have just died? It would have been so much easier than having to live with this crushing guilt and the hatred burning in my father's eyes.
"That girl was here," my father barked in Arabic. "That whorish girl you shamed yourself with!"
"I am sorry, Father," I said respectfully. "I was weak and—"
"Weak!" he roared. "You were her fucking whore! Now I know why you refused to date all those boys! You fucking lesbian! Do you know how much shame you have brought on your family?"
"I..."
Father just kept on yelling, not letting me get a word in. "If we were back in Lebanon, I would slit your whorish throat!"
An honor killing. I swallowed, fear gripping my heart. Why, oh why did I have to live? I should be dead. The family's honor would have been upheld and my shame atoned.
"You will never step foot in my house again, whore!" He glanced at my mom and barked, We are leaving!"
My mom looked at him and I saw a hint of iron. "Go. I will join you in a minute. Let me say goodbye to my daughter."
"She is not your daughter!. She's just a filthy, lesbian whore!"
My mother stared at him, Father's fists balled-up. Then he exhaled in disgust and stormed out. I had never seen my mom stand up to him before. She took my right, uninjured hand and kissed my palm.
"I wish I had your courage," she whispered to me. "Be strong, my dear. Be true to yourself. I love you!" Then she handed me a note. "Lucy left this for you before your father drove her off."
She stood up to leave. "Wait, what did you mean? What courage did you not have?"
She looked at me, smiling sadly at me. "I had my own Lucy, but I was too scared to be with her."
And then she swept out of the room. My mind tried to understand what my mother had said. It seemed impossible that she could be like me. It was easier to look at Lucy's letter than to consider my mother had the same shameful desires I possessed.
Dear Fatima
I cannot tell you how much I love you and how much guilt I feel for driving you to his desperate act. Our night together was the most amazing moment of my life, and I do not wish to give it up.
I wanted to tell you this in person, but your father would not let me see you, and sending a text just didn't seem appropriate. Your mother seems understanding, so hopefully she will deliver this to you. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart. I ache to be with you. But I need to give you up.
I've heard that if you really love someone, then you want what is best for them. And I want what's best for you, my love. Therefore, I will stay away. I do not ever want to be responsible for you hurting yourself. I could not live with myself if that happened again. You will always be in my heart, and I will treasure our night together until the day I die.
Farewell my love,
Lucy
I cried until I felt wrung out. I was so selfish that I had never even considered how Lucy would feel finding me dead in her bathtub. I could feel her pain through her words. I had cut her more deeply than I had cut into my own wrist. I had thought it was the easy way out. And maybe it was for me, but not for Lucy and my mother.
I had to spend the weekend in the hospital. Despite all the nurses, doctors, and counselors, I had never felt more alone in my life. I read and reread Lucy's letter while my mother's words echoed in my head. Was she gay? Is that what she meant? Did she want me to be with Lucy? I was so confused, and the counselors I talked to didn't help. I just couldn't open up to them and tell them what had happened.
Monday arrived, and I was discharged, my wrist bandaged up and a prescription for penicillin and vicodin in my hand. I had nowhere to go. My father had disowned me, and Lucy wanted nothing to do with me. All my friends were devout Muslims; they had probably heard all the scandalous details and would now shun me.
I found the slip of paper from Ashley tucked in my purse, the nice woman I had met at the support group. I had no one else to turn to, so I called her.
"Of course I can, sweetheart," Ashley promised as we spoke. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
"Thank you," I said in relief.
The nurse wheeled me out in a wheelchair like an invalid, and Ashley was waiting, a concerned smile on her beautiful face. She was much more conservatively dressed than the slinky, black dress she'd worn Thursday night.
"You look like hell," Ashley told me. "So, where to?"
"I ... I don't know," I said, and I could feel the tears burning as they ran down my face. "I don't have anywhere to go."
She patted my leg. I was wearing some clothes my mother had packed in a suitcase she'd left behind. I also found a wad of twenties totaling a couple of hundred dollars. It was her savings. She always kept whatever was leftover out of the household expenses that Father gave her—a rainy day fund.
"Let's get some coffee and talk," Ashley said.
She bought me a Chai tea and an iced coffee for herself and we sat down at a small table in the Starbucks across the street from the South Hill Mall. We were just down the street from the Best Buy where everything had gone so wrong.
"What happened to you?" Ashley asked.
I bit my lip, hesitating. Then I sighed. "I tried to kill myself."
Ashley nodded her head. "Because of the girl?"
"How did you know?" I asked in shock.
"I was there at the support group." She shook her head in exasperation. "It was clear to anyone that you two were in love. So what happened?"
Myra
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The Devils Pact Tales from the Best Buy Incident The Lesbian Cuckold
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