The Black Burqa part two
by Diana the Valkyrie



Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale;

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Rudyard Kipling




Sfiyah visited just now, and she was quite excited. "Ayesha, I have
a task for you." Uh-oh, I thought, she wants me to bake a cake,
and I'm a really rotten cook.

But that wasn't it. "You know Jawaria?" "You mean the one married
to Dawud?"  "That's right," said Sfiyah. "Well I was with her
yesterday, and she has a big bruise on her cheek." "How did that
happen?" "She said she bent over and hit it on a tap, but I don't
believe that's true." "Why would she lie?"  "To avoid the shame of
admitting that her husband beats her. You remember, you didn't tell
anyone when Raafid was beating you."

"So why is it your problem?" I asked. "It's a problem for all
of us," she replied. "We are all sisters, and so we must care
for each other."  "Maybe he had a good reason to beat her?" I
wondered. Sfiyah gave me a withering look. "Like Raafid had a good
reason to beat you?" "Good point," I admitted. "So what do you want
me to do about it?"

"I think you should Raafid him. Do what you did to Raafid." "But
that was different. He was going to marry off Maryam when she was
only thirteen, and I just lost my cool at him."

Sfiyah shook her head. "That was the trigger. But the real reason
was all the abuse you took over so many years. Well, now Jawaria
needs your help."  "Why me?"

But I already knew the answer. Raafid's beatings, over the years,
had made me stronger, because "what doesn't kill me, makes me
stronger". One punch from me had turned him into a pain-filled
sobbing wreck, and when I put him between my thighs and exerted
them like a nutcracker on his ribs, he submitted to a woman for
the first time in his adult life.

Yes, I could do the same to Dawud. But my piety meant that I couldn't
while maintaining my modesty of dress, and I told Sfiyah that. "I
see the problem," she said, "but I'm sure that your 75 centimetre
thighs will be able to change his bad understanding of the Quran."

I glanced down at my legs. "Yes. But." I answered. "Let me have a
think about this."

The next day, Sfiyah was almost dancing. "Eureka," she said. "What?"
"I have the answer!" she replied. "Here's how."

"Step one; Jawaria invites you to visit. You know that Dawud
will be there, so you turn up in full fig; niqab or even a head to
toe burqa. And then ..."  She told me the rest of her plan. "Yes,
that would work," I smiled.

So on the Thursday, I walked round to where Jawaria lived. I was
wearing a black head-to-toe burqa with gloves. Not an inch of skin
was visible, even my eyes couldn't be seen behind the head wear.

"And who are you?" asked Dawud; obviously he couldn't recognise me
in my burqa. I walked up close to him, drew my arm back, and flung
my fist at his unprotected belly, driven by my fifty six centimetre
biceps, biceps that were more than twice as big as his.

His breath left him with a whoosh, and because my punch had paralysed
his diaphragm, he couldn't breathe in. After less than a minute,
the lack of oxygen left him unconscious. "You've killed him," cried
Jawaria. "No, he's not dead. He's sleeping." "He's dead, he isn't
breathing." "No, he's just resting." "Look," said Jawaria, "I know
what a dead husband looks like, and I'm looking at one right now."

"No, look, he has a pulse," I told her, "he's just stunned. He'll be
OK in a while." Jawaria looked doubtful, but a man with a pulse,
is not pushing up daisies. "Jawaria, don't worry. I know what
I'm doing."

I took off one of his socks, and stuffed it into his mouth,
because soon he was going to want to scream, and I wanted him
muffled. "What are you doing?"  asked Jawaria. "Part two of the
plan," I explained, and I took off my head dress and put it over
Dawud's head backwards, so he couldn't see anything. "Now what
are you doing?" asked Jawaria. "I'm a pious, modest woman, and I
don't want a non-mahram to see my face. And I very much don't want
a non-mahram to see my legs. So the blindfold maintains my modesty."



Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com