My Spot (Part 3)

When the weekend came, I went with my husband to meet his friends. I had been wearing the outfit my husband got for me for the past few days prior to the meeting but it had been always been at home. I had never worn it out and I was nervous meeting people wearing it.

However I wasn’t someone who chickened out of things and when my husband kindly asked me if I was sure I wanted to go, I said I did. The trip there was different from the trip to the mosque though. Not only was I dressed “correctly” for the meeting, I was also told to sit at the back of the car.

My husband told me the people we were meeting do not believe that women should be allowed to sit in the front seat of the car, much less drive one, so he wanted me to seat at the back. I was also told not to speak unless spoken to, to call all the men there “sir”, and always to be respectful to everyone there, including the women. Even to my worthless mind, I could tell that the meeting was obviously very important to my husband and resolved to be on my best behavior.

My husband didn’t tell me where we were going but for some reason I wasn’t surprised when he drove out of the city into the suburbs. He finally stopped at a 2 storey house that was situated at the end of a dead end road. In short, it was isolated with no need to worry about nosey neighbors.

We were not alone as there were already several vehicles parked along the driveway and along the road in front of the house. After parking, my husband led me to the door and knocked. The door opened immediately and I saw the man I would later know as the Interpreter for the first time.

A jolly big man with a loud laugh, the Interpreter greeted my husband with a big hug before ushering him into the house. I quickly followed the 2 men into the house where my husband was greeted with further hugs by other men. Even though it was my first time there, I could feel the sense of brotherhood between these men and immediately began to understand why my husband had been with the group.  

However as hugs and banter were exchanged between the men, I began to feel more and more out of place. I was totally ignored and noticed that I was the only woman in a room full of men. I thought the women were in the kitchen but when two men came out of the kitchen wearing aprons, the thought was quickly replaced by bewilderment; both at the strange sight of two religious bearded Muslim men in aprons and the question if I was the only woman in the house.

As my husband greeted the men who came out of the kitchen, a young boy barely in his teens stepped up before me. We looked at each other before he shook his head in disgust and signaled me to follow him. I looked at my husband but he was clearly too involved with his friends to bother about me. Worthless that I was, a flash of anger overtook me but before I could embarrassed myself, the young boy was beside me whispering in my ear. Even now, years after the incident, I remembered what he said to me.

“Follow me, you disrespectful worthless bitch!”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Of course I now know how wrong I was and what offence I made but back then my worthless self was shocked and angered beyond words. This was a boy who was at most 14 and he was calling me a bitch! The boy did not wait for a response from me and instead turned around and started walking away.

Honestly, I don't remember why I did what I did but I followed the boy. It could be that I was so shocked that I just followed him but I like to think that even back then, my worthless knew the truth of his statement. I was/am nothing and I like to think that even back then, I knew in my soul the boy was right.

I like to think that I followed the boy because he was the first person who spoke the words of truth to me.

Whatever the reason, I followed the boy quietly to a door. There were 3 locks on it and they were not just simple locks; they were big padlocks with firm metal tinges. After unlocking the door, he opened it and I saw that there was a staircase leading down. At the bottom of the stairs was a woman in a niqab.

The boy stood aside, clearly expecting me to go down the stairs. Remembering what my husband told me about obeying, I went through the door and down the stairs. The door slammed shut behind me and I could hear the boy locking it. I walked down to the bottom of the stairs and looked at the other woman clearly for the first time.

She was dressed like me. A plain black long sleeved dress two sizes too big with thick black gloves and a black niqab on her head. Although I could only see from the outside, I was sure the dress was of a low quality, that it had a high-collared and that it was too rough to the touch. In short, I was sure her outfit was exactly like mine.

The woman nodded at me and I was about to greet her when she took me by the arm and turned me around. The stairs ended at the edge of the basement and the main floor was behind it. As I turned, I saw the women group for the first time.

The row of them were at the other end of the basement, all of them standing in a row facing the wall. The sight reminded me of my spots in the house, the place I was put whenever my husband was displeased with me, and it shocked me. Were all of them being punished or were they just...placed there?

Still in shock, I let the woman held my arm and guide me slowly across the basement towards the group. I remembered seeing the basement and thinking that it was sparse in the extreme. There was nothing there except for a blue stool and an overhanging light in the centre of the room. Outside the centre of the basement, the rest of the basement had a gloomy dark feel to it.

The woman guided me to the end of the row of women and tried to place me in the row. I glanced at the row and saw that all of them were dressed like us. Plain black dresses in niqabs, all the women not only looked the same, they were standing in the same position. Although the outfits hid some things, I could clearly see that their bodies and faces were all touching the wall.

The woman guiding me pushed me towards the last woman in the row, wanting me to stand shoulder to shoulder to her. I allowed her to do so, but she then pushed my back. As my body got closer and closer to the wall, I resisted. A resistance that was quickly met with a slap on the ass.

After the slap,  the woman pushed my back again. This time more forcefully.  I did not resist again. The woman was clearly the top bitch of the group and as the newcomer, I did not want to cause problems before I was even introduced. The woman pushed me till my body was touching the wall, then she pushed the back of my head. Before I know it, my face was touching the wall too.

Then the woman spoke for the first time. "Make sure your forehead, nose and chin are touching the wall. With no men around, we women are nothing but worthless meat. "

"We are worthless meat!"

The row of women replied as if in a chant and for the first time since I entered the house, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Then I felt the woman who guided me releasing my arm and standing beside me. Top dog she may be, but she was still a woman. I risked a quick glance and saw that her face was almost smashed to the wall. I remember half-wondering how she managed to breath but quickly got my face back into position. I admit, seeing her example made me push my face further into the wall.   

I did not know how long we stood there, but by the time I heard the locks of the basement being unlocked, my legs were tired and my face was numbed. I felt the woman beside me leaving my side. I knew she must have went to the base of the stairs to greet whoever was coming down like she did with me.

I waited patiently but in excitement. I heard a clap and I felt the other women in the row tensed up. I heard the woman who had guided me speak again, "Women, a man is in your worthless presence. Show your respect with your worthless bodies."

The row of women moved for the first time and I moved with them. Following their example, I threw myself to the concrete floor, my body prostrate on the ground with my arms outstretched above me. I now know that as a worthless woman, being on the ground is the only right position to greet a man but back then, I remembered feeling stupid doing this.

For a short while, the room was silent then there was another clap of the hands. The rest of the women started rising and I followed. Looking around, I saw that the man who greeted my husband and myself was now seated on the blue stool I saw earlier. I also saw that the other women were not standing up straight but instead were walking hunched over towards him. The women arranged themselves  in front of him and for the first time I did a quick count. There were 8 of us and we all knelt before the man.

The Interpreter then launched into his sermon and it was vastly different from what I heard from the iman from the mosque. There was no men around and the sermon was only for us women. The Interpreter focused strictly on the roles of women in this world and the relationship between us and men. He quoted from the Qur'an and Hadith, and gave detailed examples on how the holy Islamic scriptures clearly state that women were born to assist men, how we were here in this world to serve men, and how by simple logic, that meant that without men, we women were nothing.

We were worthless on our own.  We were worthless without men and if one day a woman found herself without a man to guide, protect and control her, she was worthless.  The Interpreter then went on, saying that women needed men and that not only were we worthless without men, it was nothing short of our holy duty to serve our man without question or hesitation.  We were here to assist men. We were born to serve men. We were nothing without men.

Women were born to be servants and slaves to men!

I was at the back of the group but there was no escaping the Interpreter's powerful sermon. He did not used words like "may" or "could" but instead used words like "must" and "would". As the sermons went on,  the Interpreter stood up and pointed down at the kneeling women in front of him. He launched into another section of his sermon on the impurity and weakness of women. He scolded us for the women of the world who believed they were as strong and as smart as men when all evidence said otherwise. Men were stronger and almost all advances in science were done by men. He said women must be grateful to be even allowed to be in the presence of a man because without men, we were nothing!

As he went now, I felt a feeling I had never felt before. It was the truth! A feeling exploded in my chest, my whole body shook as the truth of his words sunk into me. It was euphoric! That was our spot in life. Not as an ambitious career woman, not just as a wife, but as a servant and a slave because that's what we women were. This was the truth that I had missed throughout my life.

Women were born to be the servants and slaves to men!  

As the sermon ended and the Interpreter left, the women threw themselves to the ground again. I followed their actions, only this time I did it not in fellowship with them but in thanks to the man who had finally showed me the truth. He had delivered the truth of men and women to me, a lowly worthless woman, and for that I would be forever grateful! 

My Spot (Part 2)

What happened after that? Well not much really, at least at first. Both of us pretended like nothing happened, going about our lives as normal. For me, the only real difference at first was that I read more of my husband's books. Of course, this time only after getting his permission.

I know this may sound like a simple thing, but as unworthy as I was back then, this was major. Back then, what was mine was mine, and what was my husband's was also mine. I’m sure you know of women like that before and well…that was me. Looking back, it’s a minor miracle he didn’t left me for a more proper woman.

I think of it as a gift from God because the discovery of Islam did help us in our relationship, even back in those early days.  We now had something to talk about. I was curious about why my husband has decided to take an interest in Islam and as we were talking, I found myself more and more interested in it as well. As we talk, we would also talk about other random stuff and before we knew it, we actually started “talking”.

We spoke about each other and our lifeless relationship. We spoke about how things had gotten routine and discovered that neither of us liked it. It’s another sign of my worthlessness as a wife that I never knew my husband thought the same way I did. However as we continued talking, we naturally talked about how we were going to break out of our cycle. And just as naturally, the one thing that reconnected us was the thing that we decided to do together.

I found out that my husband has been a semi-regular attendee at a local mosque and he invited to go with him on his next visit. Of course I agreed but I had no idea what was expected of me so I went out of my way to drive past the mosque a few times during the week to observe the people. On the day of the visit itself, I dressed conservatively in a loose long sleeve shirt with a shirt that reaches my feet. I even wore a headscarf.

I was overdressed. Although all the women there wore the headscarf, not all of them conform to the dress code I read in my husband’s books. There were girls there who wore jeans and tight-fitting shirts, and when the sermon started, a few of the younger girls were more interested in their iPhones than what the iman was saying.

That however was something I can understand. The sermon by the iman was in a way pretty disappointing. He spoke about honor and living correctly according to Islam but his sermon was more like a speech than anything else. I didn’t really went to the mosque with any expectations but to me, the visit was a disappointment.

When I told my husband this, instead of being disappointed, he was silently pleased. Oh, my husband tried his best to hide it but when you are married for so long, you kind of know when your partner was happy. Now the correct reaction of a proper wife was to keep quiet and let your husband tell you about the situation when he felt it was time. However back then I was not a proper wife and immediately called him out on it.

Naturally, my husband wasn’t pleased but being the worthless wife that I was, I couldn’t let it go. After an hour of badgering, he finally lost his temper and gave me a good spanking. If this sounded abrupt, it is because it was.

I was in the midst of another tirade when he just calmly grabbed my arm, dragged me to the sofa, sat down, and placed me over his knee. He didn’t say a thing and I was so shocked, I didn’t fight back. In hindsight, that was probably a good thing as the spanking he gave might have been worse. As it was, my husband pulled up my shirt, pulled down my panties and firmly gave me twenty with his open hand, alternating between both cheeks of my bottom.

I think even back then, I knew that on some level I deserved it because I took my punishment stoically without crying. Some may argued that it was shock that allowed me to take my rightful punishment without bawling, but I don’t think so. When my husband was done, he let me up and grabbed my arm again. This time he firmly pulled me to my spot.

In case you were wondering, all this happened in the living room and my spot is a corner of the room near the TV. My husband made me faced the corner with my hands holding up my skirt. He refused to allow me to pull up my panties, instead ordering me to open up my legs. With my skirt high, my panties down, and my bottom red, I looked like a naughty girl who had just being punished.

Which was the case and I have the photo to prove it. My husband took a picture and the embarrassing photo was a constant reminder that I have to do better. In fact, taking pictures during “reflection time” is an established practice in our household. Whenever I got a punishment, my husband would put me in my spot and take pictures to prove what a worthless wife I am.

I didn’t know how long I was in the corner but it was long enough that when my husband finally allowed me to move from my spot, I had reflected on my actions and knew my mistake. This time I knelt in front of my husband and begged him to forgive me, deliberately not asking about why he was so silently pleased about me not liking my trip to the mosque.

It was the right thing to do. My husband petted me on the head and told me the truth. He was only a semi-regular mosque attendee because he was a member of a group of individuals who practiced a more extreme version of the Koran. He had brought me to the mosque as he wanted to slowly bring me into the religion.

Yes, my husband was thinking of my well-being and what did I do? I shamefully badgered him instead of respectfully asking him like I was supposed to; another sign of what a worthless wife I was. My husband say if I wished to, he would introduced me to his friends but warned that I would probably be shocked by them. I would admit that I was unsure if I was ready but I also knew that my husband wanted to meet the group. So I said I would love to meet them.

Looking back, this was the day when I truly started to become a wife; the day when I started to think of my husband’s feelings and wishes instead of my own. It may seem like a natural thing to most but back then, I cared only about my own wishes and feelings and this was a big step.

The next day, my husband bought me an outfit which he said I must wear to meet his friends. I’d read enough of his books to know it was an outfit that followed the rules of the Hijab. Hijab is the proper Islamic dress code, which is primarily intended to safeguard the modesty, dignity and honor of men and women. By wearing Hijab, women protect themselves from any lustful gaze or act that may expose them to temptation or harassment of any kind. On the other hand, it protects men from indulgence in vices and unlawful acts. The outfit my husband gave me came with a niqab which I had never wore before.

Thank Allah for Youtube.

Following instructions from a video I found on the site, I started by putting on the dress. A long sleeved dress two sizes too big, the high-collared dress covered me from my neck to the soles of my feet and came with a hood. I tied my long tresses into a tight bun before wrapping it up with a white cloth which cover almost all of my head except my face. Once my cloth was tightly in place, I pulled up the hood over my head and then put on the face-veil.

The niqab had a strap that I used to wrap around my forehead. Once I tied it in place, the veil flowed down over my face leaving only my eyes visible. Not only was my face covered, the veil also kept my hood secured on my head.

Like I said before, I had never wore this before and immediately complained to my husband that the dress was too big, too plain and rough. I have seen Islamic dresses before and they came in a variety of colors with various cuttings and styles. The one given to me was plain black with no designs on it whatsoever. I looked like a black ghost and I also found that the outfit was uncomfortable. The fabric of the outfit felt rough and was of low quality.

Yes, I was an ungrateful worthless wife. Instead of thanking my husband, I actually dared complained about the dress he had so kindly gave me. Again showing what a kind and gentle man he was, instead of punishing me for my outburst, my husband kindly explained that this was all deliberate. The rules of hijab state that a woman's clothing must cover the whole body and must not be tight or transparent. That was why the dress was so big and the fabric was rough to prevent the wearer from being too comfortable. I still remembered his exact words, “Women are creatures of sin whose whole body is all awrah.”

Awrah are sensitive parts of the body that a woman must cover in front of non-Muslims but I have never heard or read of the whole of a woman’s body being awrah before. Not only that, my kind husband now says that all women were creatures of sin!

It was a great shock but I was the one who told my husband I wanted to meet his friend so I knew it was too late to turn back now. When the weekend back, I wore the outfit again and went with my husband to meet his friends. It would be a life-changing day.

My Spot

I am a unworthy woman. I am a unworthy slave. And most importantly, I am a unworthy wife. How do I know this? Well...maybe I should start from the beginning.

I used to be called Faith and in college, I met my husband. Back then, he was called Adam and we were deeply in love. We married soon after graduation despite our parents' doubts about our age. Perhaps they were right because the marriage was soon in trouble.

We were both quite young and looking back, I was too headstrong to be a good wife. I was also too ambitious . I am ashamed to admit that back then my job was more important than my marriage and the gradual breakdown of the marriage was more my fault than my husband's.

The only good thing about the marriage was the sex which we had three to five times every week. When we got to it, my husband was loving, gentle, and attentive. However as our careers took over our lives, even that began to gradually lost its steam. Soon the two of us were living different lives and our relationship suffered accordingly.

It all changed one day when I discovered a Koran in the house.

When I asked my husband about it, he openly admitted that it was his and that he had been going for religious classes for weeks. He claimed it was due to a potential business deal his company was doing with a Middle Eastern company and the incident was just another case of showing my worthlessness as a wife back then.

My husband was studying religion and I didn't even noticed it till a chance discovery! However, this chance discovery was the beginning of happiness for us.

About two months after I found the Koran, I woke up to find my husband missing from our bed. I went out of the bedroom door and immediately heard noises from the study. It was soft but the house was so quiet that even with the closed door, the Islamic verses coming from the room could easily be heard.

Again showing my worthlessness as a wife, I silently opened the door of the study and looked in. I peeped in and saw that my husband performing prayers to Allah. I was shocked. The business deal had fell through and I could think of no reason why my husband would be praying. The fact that he could find and love God was something that I shamefully never thought possible.

The next day, I came home early and started to search through the study. I found my husband's books, discs and brochures. I knew almost nothing about Islam back then and as I read, I became more and more alarmed. The books and discs showed a strict religion with clear messages on good and evil, on clear differences between men and women, and on clear ways of conduct between the two genders. Not only that, there were many passages in the books that stated that women were inferior to men and were only on Earth to serve men and give them babies.

Some of the books went further. They declared that all women were "impure" and "sinful" and they must be closely controlled for their own good. The books declared that all women must remain dressed with the utmost modesty at all times, to protect themselves from sin and men from their sinful bodies. Some even declared that even women's voices were sinful, promoting that women must be gagged in public to prevent their voice from being heard by people. The books state that women should neither be seen or heard. I found that my husband had various pictures of women in burqa, niqabs and chadors, all looking serene and submissive. 

I was shocked but at the same time, I couldn't stop reading. I read everything I could get my hands on, totally forgetting the time and when my husband came home, he found me on the floor of the study with all his books around me. He was not pleased.

He screamed at me, rightfully scolding me for going through his things without his permission. His tone was angry but at the same time, I could heard that he was exasperated as well. Obviously, he had been bottling up his frustration about me for some time and for once, I felt shame.

My husband suddenly stopped with a look of surprise on his face and as I looked at him wondering why, I discovered the reason. Without knowing why, I had moved myself from my sitting position to my knees. I was kneeling in front of my husband and the act surprised both of us. Instead of being ashamed however, I felt "right".

That was the only way I could described my feelings. It was right. It was right that a woman like myself was on my knees in front of her husband. It was just right. Like the books said, it was the way all women should greet their husbands. However back then, I was prideful, stubborn and could not allow myself to believe my joy in discovering my submission.

I tried to grab back some pride by standing up, but suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. My husband was gripping my shoulder and pushing me down onto the floor. I glared at him and shouted.

"Let me go, you bastard!"

Struggling to free myself from under him, I heard my husband's cold reply.

"You're my wife," he said. "It is only right that you greet me on your knees."

That was actually what I felt as well and for a moment, my knees buckled. However like I said earlier, back then I was stubborn and I slapped my husband. Yes, I raised my hand against my lord and master. Even thinking of the moment now years later, I felt the justice of what happened next.

My husband slapped me back, causing me to fall on the ground, and as I tried to get up, he kicked me in the stomach. The kick took the wind out of me. My husband then grabbed my hands and took out a rope from somewhere. My hands were tied and I watched in shock as he pulled out his belt. Seeing the belt, my anger and rage quickly turned to fear and I pleaded with him not to do it.

Showing the pride and power of a man, my husband ignored me. He pushed me around so that my face would be against the floor and then stepped on me. With his foot on my back, he raised the belt over his shoulder, and then he started to strike my ass with the belt.

I screamed and pleaded but he was in another world. Looking back, I realized just how frustrated and unhappy he was. The business deal with the Middle Eastern company had fell through, he was in an unhappy marriage, and now his disrespectful wife had went through his things without permission. He was taking his frustration out on his wife and I now realized that this was his right.

When he finally stopped, I was in so much pain I could do nothing but lay on the ground. I was finally moved when my husband pulled me by my hair to our bedroom. I crawled quickly behind him and once we went into the bedroom, he pushed me onto the bed.

My husband wasted no time. He fell on top of me and entered me roughly. I felt his hand on my breast and for the first time ever, he squeezed. The pain was something I never felt in our love-making before and I discovered what I was missing. With his godly cock inside me, the pain caused me to reach my orgasm quickly. Usually, we would have stopped there but my husband continued on.  

He was following his own desires, using me as he wished and I let him. I did not complain, protested or fought; taking everything my husband was giving me. I did not know how long it took but my husband finally climaxed inside me. Showing my worthlessness as a wife, I remembered being silently worried about being pregnant.

Yes, instead of being glad of having his seed inside me, I was worried!

My husband must have read my mind because his rage was still not spent. He pulled me off the bed and made me stand in a corner of the bedroom. He warned me not to move and to look forward. He then went out of the room. A short while later, I heard him entering. The next thing I knew, a red cloth was cascading over me.   

I was blinded by the cloth but my husband was a good man. He kindly moved the cloth and before I knew it, I was looking through a grilled opening. I saw enough of my husband's books to realize that my husband had placed a burqa over me.

My husband slapped me on my ass and I jumped at the pain. However I remembered the whipping and did not move from my spot. Yes, I now think of it as my "spot". My husband warned me not to move again and went out of the roomn. I stood in my spot for the rest of the night and as my husband went to sleep, into the morning. The next morning, I called in sick and slept on the bed after my husband had left for work. I was still in the red burqa.

And it was a deep wonderful restful sleep.