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Hello, and welcome to The Very Best of Islamic Fundamentalist Erotica, Vol. 1.
Today I’m going to share with you a loin invigorating tale of sexual passion from the vast collection of erotica written by the finest sexually repressed minds of the Islamic faith’s more traditional, back-to-basics followers. Moderate Islamics or devil worshiping American heathen pigs need not apply.
Today’s tale is titled Ankles of Desire.
Ankles of Desire
Abdullah wandered in to a small Islamabad café to escape the blistering Arabian sun. He ordered a tea, but only so he wouldn’t get kicked out for loitering. Besides, his sheep’s bladder held more than enough water to keep his thirst quenched for the rest of the day.
He sat, occasionally wiping the sweat from his brow, and taking deep breaths, as if he were trying to release the heat from his lungs like a steam valve. It was hot. Steamy. Valve-y.
Off in the periphery of his vision was a black figure. He turned to get a better look. Standing at a market was a vision of burka-clad desire. This vision was a woman, and she stood at a street vendor’s shop covered head to toe in her oppressive garb, leaving only her dark, sultry eyes exposed to the world.
And what sultry eyes they were.
In them, even from a distance, Abdullah saw the wild, unrestrained passion of a woman yearning to be held in the grasp of a strong, dominate male authority figure. The sweat beads, which had just started to recced, came flooding back as his mind raced with impure thoughts – thoughts of a passion forbidden by society.
He looked over her body, watching closely as the burka did nothing to highlight her natural curves; draping them in such a way that it left nothing for the eyes to see…but everything for the mind’s eye to imagine.
His eyes continued to wander, this time down to her legs, or what was probably legs, because he couldn’t see them with all that burka hanging everywhere.
Suddenly, his eyes sprung wide open. The sweat beads on his forehead collected and turned in to a torrent of salty anticipation, soaking through his turban. “What’s this?!” Abdullah thought to himself. “An ankle?!”
And so it was. Peeking out just beyond the lower areas of the burka’s reach was a sandy patch of flesh. The boney contours of the ankle drove Abdullah wild with ecstasy; its shapely ridges and sharp points all seemed to be crying out to him, beckoning him to break free from the repressive shackles of society, and cave in to his most base sexual impulses. He was driven mad — wildly mad — by this display of raw, unbridled sexual ferocity. His mind became a theater of the sexual absurd, as he wondered what else could be hiding beneath that tantalizing black cloth. Was there also a lustful knee hidden within? Perhaps a sensuous calf was longing to expose itself to his eyes?
His imagination overflowed with thoughts of passion and love, love and passion! In just mere moments he had gone from a man burning in the scorching rays of the sun, to a man burning in the scorching rays of desire.
His mind could not handle the teasing any longer. He needed to do something. He needed to show this faceless, nameless woman just what her maddening flesh parade had done to his mind; to his very soul!
So he had her arrested and stoned to death in the town square.
Fin.
RIPEBREDFRUIT wrote:no wonder they have such an alarming high percentage of homosexuality, they surpressing the females so much that they starting to turn..................
Greypatch wrote:ah pack ah epic arse holes...
dan when is part 2 of The Very Best of Islamic Fundamentalist Erotica coming out >?
Scholastic Ecstasy
Naadir steered his rusty jalopy of a car through the dusty Kandahar streets, hoping his vehicle wouldn’t peter out and die in the middle of a road amid bicyclists and bustling market patrons. The car, an old three-wheeled tin can that looked like a cross between a VW Bus and a scooter, chugged along, occasionally spitting out plumes of smoke from the rear. It was on its last legs.
Knowing the motor, or something under the hood, wouldn’t last much longer, Naadir pulled it over to the side of the dusty road. The smell of burnt oil and smoke mingled with the steamy, sticky air. He stepped out of the car and popped the hood, hoping he would be able to instantly identify the problem. As the hood rose, so did the smoke. Naadir waved to dispel the smoke, but not before some of it reached his lungs, causing him to turn away as he hacked and wheezed for fresh oxygen. And that’s all he wanted – just a breath of rarified air streaming through his nose. But what he got instead was the sultry sting of scholastic enlightenment right in his eyes.
The smoke dissipated, and his vision became clear. Before him, standing beside a dilapidated building that was once a restaurant, stood a collection of women so tawdry, so naughty, that Naadir was taken aback. None of them could have been older than 21 — a ripe age for sexual deviancy and exploration. The girls all held the same books to their chests. One was green and featured a picture of the earth with the word Science slapped above it. The other, a smaller, daintier book, wasn’t as easy to make out, other than one word of the title: Poetry.
These were sexy little devils hoping to expand their minds so they may one day entangle a man in their webs of knowledge and education. These were school girls trying to have a little steamy woman-on-entry-level-earth-and-space-science action. Hard like a rock? You bet Naadir was – like sedimentary rock, which is probably what the girls were going to learn about that day in class.
Naadir had only heard fables of women taking it upon themselves to discover new facts about the world outside of what their men had told them, but he had never seen it for himself. The forbidden nature of a woman trying to fill her brain with the academic propaganda of The West titillated him beyond reason. His loins juiced with a passion he had never known. He imagined the women reading to him, teaching him the ways of Emily Dickenson (whoever that is), and regaling him with the tales of Watson and Crick’s discovery of DNA’s double helix, even though he didn’t even understand what a Watsoncrick was, let alone a DNA.
Feeling overwhelmed, he shied his eyes away from the school girls and back to his car’s engine. It was a mess. Everything that could have possibly gone wrong had. Motor oil leakage; a steaming, bone-dry radiator; and the battery was so caked in white, powdery battery acid he could have made a snowball out of it. He felt useless against everything around him.
The power and strength these young girls displayed by simply holding some textbooks outside of a building terrified him; it excited him. He felt a sudden passionate urge take him over, begging him to do something; to act before it was too late; before the moment had passed and the women were gone forever, leaving him to wonder how his life would have been different had he done something. He needed to express to these women how his genitals yearned for the touch of a lady that had taken it upon herself to soar beyond the prison-like intellectual confines of her society and achieve a greatness no man – no matter how powerful – could strip away from her.
So he threw battery acid on their faces and disfigured them for life.
Fin
it gets worse! 
~Vēġó~ wrote:I just read "Saudi women" and well......
