Amina (The hand) 01

AMINA (The Code)

Curiosity may be a flaw, but it can also make life more exciting. Louis had always been a serious young man. A top engineering school, an internship abroad, humanitarian work--he had followed the classic path of a corporate executive's son. That is, until the day he met Amina, the daughter of practicing Muslims. *Devoutly* practicing Muslims.

At nineteen, she radiated decency and faithfulness. One look into her eyes was enough to see that this pretty young woman of North African descent was a person of integrity, someone a future husband could trust implicitly. And trust would be essential, for Amina possessed the kind of beauty unique to women of Moroccan heritage--a beauty that made her a prime target for inveterate womanizers. Yet, with characteristic modesty, she attached no importance to her looks and preferred to stay out of the limelight.

Whenever shyness got the better of her, she would lower her head, her eyelids veiling her beautiful brown eyes--velvety eyes framed by perfectly defined brows. Long lashes justified her nickname, "Gazelle"--or *Ghzaala*. And her mouth! Her mouth was an invitation to a kiss. One might have thought her full, shapely lips had been artificially enhanced, but no--everything about her was natural.

Her bust, which strained against whatever she wore, drew gazes like an organic magnet. Her mother had insisted she concealed it beneath loose-fitting clothing. Amina had complied but refused to wear an *abaya*, compromising instead on a headscarf--a veil that covered her hair and draped over her upper body while leaving her face exposed. Having worn this scarf for most of her life, she continued to wear it at university, a choice that inevitably drew plenty of comments.

Standing a modest 5'7'', she possessed a violin-like silhouette. Her slender waist flared out into wide hips and a rounded posterior, set atop slender legs that she rarely revealed.

One day she had sat opposite Louis in the university cafeteria. Mesmerized by her beauty, he hadn't said a word, desperately trying to find an opening. She took this for respect, as boys usually hit on her in a very crude manner--"Are you a nun?" "Do you eat pork?" "My sausage is kosher." She would have liked to get to know this handsome, respectful young man, but her shyness held her back.

The next day, without really thinking about it, she scanned the room for that attractive boy who ate with such refinement. Well-dressed--no sneakers or tracksuits--this student belonged to a different world. Her father would never let him cross the threshold of their apartment; he wanted a Muslim man and had already chosen the lucky suitor. Yet, the forbidden fruit was so alluring. He was eating alone at a table in the back. With a pounding heart, she sat down across from him. She could have found a seat elsewhere; it was early and there were empty tables. Louis told himself it couldn't be a coincidence. Emboldened by this realization, he quickly found an opening.

"Hello, miss. If I may, I'd advise against this dessert; better eat a fruit instead."

He had addressed her formally, something she wasn't used to, given her culture and the casual familiarity that prevailed at university and in her neighborhood. He had also used a polite turn of phrase and avoided a paternalizing tone. Smiling, she asked him why. Her smile made him melt. "Only three to four percent of the container is recycled. The rest pollutes. And a fruit would be better for your health."

"Oh? Then I'll follow your advice. Are you an environmentalist?"

"No, but I think about the future--especially my children's future."

Incredulity froze her face.

"You have children?"

He smiled kindly.

"No, but I hope to have some later on."

For some reason, he added:

"Once I've found their mother."

A thought immediately crossed Amina's mind, making her blush: *What if it were me?* They didn't leave the table until the restaurant closed. And they lived happily ever after...

Well, not quite. To say their families opposed the union would be an understatement. Amina's parents had planned to marry her off to a distant Moroccan cousin--the future

muezzin of his small town. Louis's parents didn't have a "suitable match" to offer him, but the mere idea of ​​having a Muslim family-in-law made their hair rise as if they were setting off to find the Christ's tomb. However, the young couple's seriousness won after a few icy encounters. Amina's parents dropped their sine qua non condition that Louis convert to Islam, and Louis's parents gave up on the idea of ​​the young woman becoming a Christian. A new war of religion was averted thanks to the intelligence of the young couple, for whom the concept of an omnipotent God belonged to another century.

Louis's parents funded the purchase of a house in the Paris suburbs, while Amina's parents bought a Quran and a prayer rug--items Amina would bring out from the basement whenever they came to dinner. She pursued her studies in applied arts to become an interior designer, and Louis was hired as an engineer by a construction firm. They loved each other, felt confident about the future, and were beginning to think about having children. Life was going smoothly.

Amina had come to the marriage a virgin, which had strengthened Louis's trust in her. They made love regularly in the marital bed. After all, why do it anywhere else when you have a bed? Amina was very inhibited when it came to sex, but that didn't bother her husband who was almost just as inhibited himself.

Everything was fine until one fateful evening. Louis had just returned from work. Amina was typing away at her computer when he opened the door to their shared office room. She abruptly closed the document she was working on and turned toward Louis with a strange look that the young man couldn't quite decipher.

"Good evening, my love. Is something wrong?"

She seemed to hesitate.

"N... no, everything's fine. Did you have a good day?"

Louis thought nothing of it. His birthday was coming up, she was probably planning a party and didn't want him to see the guest list--best not to embarrass her with questions.

The same thing happened the next day. This time, Louis noticed a guilty look about her that piqued his curiosity. "What could she be hiding?" He decided to find out what she was writing. He got his chance a few days later on a Saturday morning, Amina had gone to buy spices at the local shop. To his great surprise, he discovered that she had locked her workstation! Why do that if you have nothing to hide? He needed to find the code. He decided to try only one combination so as not to arouse her suspicions, since the workstation would lock up completely after three failed attempts. "Let's try her bank card PIN."

He had barely entered the four digits when the desktop appeared on the screen. He scanned the folders within the documents but found nothing suspicious. Driven by a sudden hunch, he checked the box to reveal hidden folders. An icon named "My Diary" then appeared on the desktop. With a pounding heart, the young man opened it. "It's her private diary!" He felt a few qualms, which were quickly stifled by an unhealthy curiosity.

The diary began with their meeting at the university cafeteria. Amina might be back soon, he had to flip through the pages. The months flew by, leading up to the the present day. After reading just a few lines, Louis's heart gave a massive leap. He decided to copy the diary so he could read it at his leisure.

Amina's Diary

Saturday, May 15: I might regret this, but I have to write down what just happened. I need to understand what went on so it doesn't happen again. I would prefer to forget, but I keep thinking about it. The memory won't leave me. It's like a trauma--a trauma that doesn't hurt. My God, I am a horrible person.

This morning, I went shopping at Ali's--the Arab grocer who is the only one selling the spices I need for my cooking. The one I was looking for wasn't on the display rack. I asked him if he had any in stock, and he pointed toward the back room. Since he was busy with a customer at the register, he told me to go back there on my own. It was dark, so I couldn't spot the spice. Once he had finished with the customer, he came to help me find it using a flashlight.

At one point, he... oh, my God! He placed his hand on my hip... he asked me to move over. I had never been touched there like that before. He held me tight. It shook me up. I struggled to accept what I was feeling. To be honest, it was arousal! I'm so ashamed!

How is such a thing possible? That wasn't me; I'm not that kind of girl. I don't go to the mosque, but I'm a good Muslim. In my own way. Why did his hand trigger that reaction in me? When he placed it on my dress, I felt an electric shock go through my body! The fabric was thin; the heat of his hand felt like it was burning me.

I could feel his breath close by. His foul breath made me want to run away. But it also heightened my agitation. He was so close to me. It gave me shivers. I realized I was alone with him and that, if he wanted, he could do whatever he pleased with me. Instead of getting scared and running off, I stood frozen to the spot. Right now, I'm ashamed of it, but in that moment, it felt like an explosion of desire inside me. A desire to just let it happen. Me, feeling desire for a man old enough to be my grandfather--I'm sick, aren't I? If he knew, that's what Louis would say: "You're sick; go get help." Louis, my love, forgive me, I'm lost.

It lasted perhaps thirty seconds--just long enough for him to find the bottle. He had let go of me, yet I could still feel his grip on my hip. I even missed it! I had stopped breathing. A dull ache radiated between my thighs. All I wanted was to place my hand between my legs to soothe the pain. But I remained motionless. What was I waiting for? For him to throw me down on a sack of semolina like some cheap slut? I no longer belonged to myself, I was someone else.

Fortunately, his wife arrived. I hurried away and bizuera to home!

When I entered our house, I immediately took off my dress and underwears. I had to make the pain go away, so I threw myself onto the bed and caressed myself! For the first time in my life. I had never done it before, it's a sin. But I had to extinguish the fire that was turning me into a girl ready for anything. I had to banish the pain born of a forbidden touch. No sooner had I placed my hand between my legs that the fire spread through my entire body. I was nothing more than an animal with no will of its own.

My pelvis rose and fell in time with my fingers moving against my slit. Shame washed over me because I was literally gushing; an obscene sound was coming from between my legs. It was never like this with Louis. But the intensity of the pleasure made me forget my shame. My hips moved in rhythm with my hand--I had two fingers inside me! I thought of the hand on my hip and exploded, letting out a hoarse cry of satisfaction. Wave after wave of pleasure racked my body until I lay motionless on the bed. Only my heart, pounding wildly, told me I was alive.

Then I discovered that even though the fire between my legs had gone out, the pain lingered. In fact, it only came back every now and then. That's when I realized the suffering was all in my head! It wasn't a simple headache like the ones I get during my period and it wasn't as intense. The worst part was that the pain would gnaw at my brain only when I thought about Monsieur Ali's hand!

There is really something wrong with me. I don't know what to do to get rid of it. I try to banish the memory to oblivion, but it doesn't work. I want Louis to help me so badly, but that's out of the question.

The story ended there. Louis snapped back to reality and realized he had an erection. Amina's confession was the most arousing thing he had ever read. True, he was discovering that his beloved was not the saint he thought, but she had done nothing wrong. Yet. True, Christian morality screamed at him he should be appalled by his wife's impure thoughts, but, but, but... by the Holy Trinity, he couldn't wait to read the rest, whenever it might come.

He decided not to question his wife. For one thing she would realize he had opened her desk and read her private confessions. Besides, what good would it do?