Allah Forgive Me

I Let My Conservative Muslim Cousins Use Me Like Their Secret Little Slut During That Long, Sweaty Summer in India — And God, I Still Get Wet Thinking About It

Hi… it’s me, Lila. Twenty-five, curled up in my little apartment in a rainy Canadian city, laptop on my thighs, heart already racing as I type this. This isn’t some fantasy I cooked up for clicks. This is what really happened the summer I turned twenty-four and flew back to my family’s village outside Lucknow. I was the lonely one—the “good Muslim girl” everyone still treated like a fragile little doll even though I’d been living alone in Canada for years. And my cousins… Allah forgive me, they were all too eager to remind me I wasn’t a doll at all.

I stepped off the plane into that thick, humid air that smells like jasmine, diesel, and something sweeter I can’t name. My dupatta was already sticking to my neck. The moment I walked into the big family haveli, four pairs of eyes locked on me like I was prey. My cousins—Rizwan, Faisal, Karim, and little Zain (who wasn’t so little anymore). All of them between twenty-six and thirty, tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of men who work in the fields or the family cloth business and come home smelling like sweat and spice. They greeted me with the usual cheek kisses that lingered half a second too long, their hands brushing my waist “by accident.” I felt it instantly—that low, forbidden flutter between my legs. I told myself it was just jet lag. My body knew better.

The first week was all polite family chaos. Aunts pinching my cheeks, uncles asking when I’d get married, everyone pretending I was still the shy little Ayesha who left at eighteen. But at night, when the power cut and the house went dark except for the glow of mobile phones, the cousins started circling. They’d knock on my bedroom door with “innocent” excuses—bringing me cold water, asking about Canada, showing me old photos on their phones. Each time their eyes would drop to the thin cotton kurti I wore to bed, the way my nipples pressed against the fabric in the heat. I’d cross my arms, blush, and tell myself I was imagining the hunger in their stares. I wasn’t.

It started with Rizwan. He was the oldest, twenty-nine, married but his wife was back in the city for some work thing. One humid evening after iftar, the others had gone to the mosque. I was in the courtyard trying to get phone signal when he walked up behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off his chest. “You’ve changed, Ayesha,” he murmured in Urdu, voice low and rough. His hand brushed my hip, then stayed there. I should have stepped away. Instead my breath caught and I whispered, “Riz bhai… we can’t.” He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against my back. “No one’s here. And you’re not a little girl anymore.” His fingers slid under the hem of my kurti, tracing the bare skin just above my salwar. I was soaked already. My body betrayed me in under ten seconds.

That was the first time. He spun me around, pressed me against the cool stone wall of the courtyard, and kissed me like he’d been starving for it. His tongue tasted like the sweet paan he’d been chewing—spicy, minty, addictive. I whimpered into his mouth while his hand shoved inside my salwar, two thick fingers sliding through my slick folds. “So wet for your cousin already,” he growled against my lips. I came on his fingers right there, biting my own dupatta to stay quiet, legs shaking so hard he had to hold me up. When he pulled his hand out he made me lick his fingers clean, eyes locked on mine the whole time. I did it. I tasted myself on him and felt filthy and perfect at the same time.

The next night it was Faisal’s turn. He caught me in the upstairs storeroom where I’d gone to find an old trunk of my mother’s clothes. He didn’t even pretend it was an accident. He locked the door behind him, pushed me down onto a pile of old quilts that smelled like mothballs and incense, and yanked my salwar down to my ankles. “I’ve wanted this since you were seventeen,” he confessed, voice hoarse, as he freed his cock—thick, veined, already leaking. He didn’t go slow. He spread my thighs wide and sank into me in one long push, stretching me open until I cried out. The burn was so good I saw stars. He fucked me hard and deep, the quilts muffling the wet slap of skin, his hand over my mouth when I got too loud. I came twice before he pulled out and painted my stomach with hot stripes of cum. I lay there afterward, trembling, cum cooling on my skin, thinking this is so wrong and already aching for more.

Karim was the gentle one, or at least he pretended to be. He took me the next afternoon when the whole house was napping. We were in my bedroom, door barely cracked. He kissed me slowly, reverently, like he was worshipping something sacred and forbidden at the same time. His mouth moved down my body—neck, breasts, stomach—until he buried his face between my legs. The way he licked me… slow, filthy circles around my clit, two fingers curling inside me, humming against my pussy like he was praying. I came so hard I soaked his beard. Then he flipped me onto all fours and took me from behind, slow and deep, whispering how tight I was, how no Canadian boy could ever fuck me like family could. I believed him. When he finished he stayed inside me, softening, just holding me while I shook and cried a little from how intense it felt.

Zain was the youngest and the wildest. He cornered me in the outdoor bathroom at dusk, the one with the bucket shower and the cracked mirror. He didn’t ask. He just dropped to his knees, pushed my legs apart, and ate me like a starving man while the water from the tap dripped on my back. Then he stood up, spun me to face the mirror, and made me watch while he fucked me—his hand in my hair, the other pinching my nipple, telling me to look at how pretty I looked getting ruined by my cousin. I came staring at my own reflection, mascara running, mouth open in a silent scream. He pulled out and came across my ass, smearing it with his fingers like he was marking me.

But it wasn’t always one at a time.

The real breaking point came on the night of the big family wedding in the next village. Everyone left except the four of them and me. The power was out again. Candles flickered in the living room. They’d been drinking homemade tharra—strong, illegal, sweet. I could smell it on their breath when they surrounded me on the big charpai. Rizwan kissed me first, then Faisal took my mouth while Karim sucked on my breasts and Zain worked his fingers inside me. I lost count of how many times I came that night. They took turns, then two at once—Rizwan in my pussy while Faisal fucked my mouth, their rhythm perfectly cruel and perfect. I swallowed one load while another filled me deep. They flipped me, used me, praised me in Urdu and broken English. “Our little slut,” they kept calling me. “So good for your cousins.” I cried and laughed and came harder than I ever had in my life.

There were awkward moments too. The next morning I woke up sore, sticky, terrified someone would smell sex on me. I avoided their eyes at breakfast while they smirked into their chai. Guilt hit me in waves— this is haram, this is family, what if someone finds out—but every time one of them brushed past me in the hallway their hand would graze my ass and my pussy would clench all over again. My body had zero shame. It just wanted more.

The summer stretched on like that. Slow, filthy afternoons in the fields behind the house. Quick, desperate fucks in the car when they took me “shopping.” One night all four of them at once in the empty barn, me on my knees, then on my back, then riding one while another took my ass for the first time. It hurt and it felt like heaven and I begged for it. I laughed when they bickered over who got to come where. I cried after, curled against Rizwan’s chest, because I felt so full and so empty at the same time.

By the time I flew back to Canada I was ruined for anyone else. My pussy still throbs when I remember the way they smelled—sweat, spice, cum, and that faint hint of attar they all wore. I touch myself almost every night thinking about it. Sometimes I message them on WhatsApp late at night, just a single red heart emoji. They always reply with something filthy that makes me drip.

I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. Part of me is scared I will. Part of me is already counting the days until the next family wedding.

But that’s the truth. That’s what really happened. I let my married, conservative Muslim cousins fuck me raw and relentless all summer long… and every single time my body betrayed me so sweetly I never wanted it to stop.