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Incest Innocent Sin (Bro Sis)
- Thread starter Sameer Kapoor
- Start date
- 1,146
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(Hamza)
Hamza, a 19-year-old Muslim boy from Afghanistan, was a product of both faith and culture - not just raised within them, but shaped by them. In his world, religion wasn't a part of life — it was life. From the moment he could walk, he understood what was haram and what was halal, what was shameful and what was pure. In his home, modesty wasn't a suggestion - it was a law, an unspoken yet absolute rule woven into the fabric of daily life.
His mother and sister, like every woman he'd known growing up, wore loose, flowing garments even inside the house - never revealing the shape of their bodies, never letting their hair fall freely around men, not even family. It wasn't strange to him; it was the norm, a reflection of the conservative Afghan culture he'd inherited. Women weren't hidden out of shame, but protected
- sacred, untouchable. And so Hamza grew up surrounded by women, yet utterly blind to the feminine form.
He had never touched a woman, not even accidentally. Never felt the brush of a hand, never been embraced by anyone outside his mother as a child. And beyond the softness of a face - that too only in the privacy of family — he had never seen a woman, not the way boys in other parts of the world casually did. There were no short skirts, no television crushes, no western distractions. Just walls, and rules, and silence.
And yet, within that silence, something stirred.
Hamza wasn't rebellious. He prayed. He fasted. He respected the elders and kept his head down. But deep inside him was a quiet, aching tension - a hunger he didn't fully understand, yet couldn't ignore. It lived in his chest like a shadow, heavy and still. He didn't even know what he longed for, only that there was something missing, something more than the daily routine of obedience and discipline.
Sometimes, he would stare at the ceiling at night, alone in the dark, feeling things he couldn't name - urges, thoughts, guilt. Not because he had seen anything. Not because anyone had touched him. But because he was human, and his body was growing into a man's, even while his mind was still shackled by the fear of sin. He often wondered if anyone else felt this - this quiet war between purity and desire, between control and curiosity. But no one ever spoke of it.
So he didn't either.
In a world that never gave him permission to feel, Hamza was drowning in feelings. And that made him dangerous - not to others, but to himself. Because when you bury something long enough, it doesn't die. It waits.
Hamza, a 19-year-old Muslim boy from Afghanistan, was a product of both faith and culture - not just raised within them, but shaped by them. In his world, religion wasn't a part of life — it was life. From the moment he could walk, he understood what was haram and what was halal, what was shameful and what was pure. In his home, modesty wasn't a suggestion - it was a law, an unspoken yet absolute rule woven into the fabric of daily life.
His mother and sister, like every woman he'd known growing up, wore loose, flowing garments even inside the house - never revealing the shape of their bodies, never letting their hair fall freely around men, not even family. It wasn't strange to him; it was the norm, a reflection of the conservative Afghan culture he'd inherited. Women weren't hidden out of shame, but protected
- sacred, untouchable. And so Hamza grew up surrounded by women, yet utterly blind to the feminine form.
He had never touched a woman, not even accidentally. Never felt the brush of a hand, never been embraced by anyone outside his mother as a child. And beyond the softness of a face - that too only in the privacy of family — he had never seen a woman, not the way boys in other parts of the world casually did. There were no short skirts, no television crushes, no western distractions. Just walls, and rules, and silence.
And yet, within that silence, something stirred.
Hamza wasn't rebellious. He prayed. He fasted. He respected the elders and kept his head down. But deep inside him was a quiet, aching tension - a hunger he didn't fully understand, yet couldn't ignore. It lived in his chest like a shadow, heavy and still. He didn't even know what he longed for, only that there was something missing, something more than the daily routine of obedience and discipline.
Sometimes, he would stare at the ceiling at night, alone in the dark, feeling things he couldn't name - urges, thoughts, guilt. Not because he had seen anything. Not because anyone had touched him. But because he was human, and his body was growing into a man's, even while his mind was still shackled by the fear of sin. He often wondered if anyone else felt this - this quiet war between purity and desire, between control and curiosity. But no one ever spoke of it.
So he didn't either.
In a world that never gave him permission to feel, Hamza was drowning in feelings. And that made him dangerous - not to others, but to himself. Because when you bury something long enough, it doesn't die. It waits.
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Rida was 23, and in many ways, she had become the unspoken pillar of her home - not by force, but by presence. She carried herself with a calm certainty, a quiet discipline that didn't need to shout to be felt. She was beautiful, yes — anyone who saw her face would know it. But her beauty wasn't loud. It wasn't for the world. It was tucked away beneath layers of modesty, guarded not out of shame, but out of deep conviction.
In a culture where modesty was the standard, Rida embraced it not just as duty, but as devotion. She wore the abaya with pride - a flowing black garment that cloaked her form from neck to ankle, always loose, never clingy. When she stepped outside, her face disappeared behind a niqab, revealing only her eyes - calm, focused, unwavering. Even at home, where many women loosen their modesty, Rida remained covered, her body always concealed beneath long, loose clothing. She exposed only what her faith permitted - her face, her hands, her feet, and at home, her hair.
Her body, thick in the right places, curved like a woman fully grown - but it was never something she used or displayed. It was hers, and hers alone. Not even her younger brother had ever seen her in anything less than full modesty. And not because she feared him - but because she respected the boundary between man and woman, even within family. For Rida, modesty wasn't just what she wore. It was how she moved, how she spoke, how she existed in the world.
She was more religious than Hamza, by far. Where he sometimes struggled, she found peace in routine — in prayer, in silence. She wasn't just following rules. She believed in them. Her faith wasn't about control. It was her identity. And she was content in it. Unlike others who might have longed for a freer life, Rida loved Afghanistan. She loved the structure, the tradition, the simplicity of a life guided by certainty. She didn't crave the outside world. Her purpose was clear. Her heart was steady.
In a culture where modesty was the standard, Rida embraced it not just as duty, but as devotion. She wore the abaya with pride - a flowing black garment that cloaked her form from neck to ankle, always loose, never clingy. When she stepped outside, her face disappeared behind a niqab, revealing only her eyes - calm, focused, unwavering. Even at home, where many women loosen their modesty, Rida remained covered, her body always concealed beneath long, loose clothing. She exposed only what her faith permitted - her face, her hands, her feet, and at home, her hair.
Her body, thick in the right places, curved like a woman fully grown - but it was never something she used or displayed. It was hers, and hers alone. Not even her younger brother had ever seen her in anything less than full modesty. And not because she feared him - but because she respected the boundary between man and woman, even within family. For Rida, modesty wasn't just what she wore. It was how she moved, how she spoke, how she existed in the world.
She was more religious than Hamza, by far. Where he sometimes struggled, she found peace in routine — in prayer, in silence. She wasn't just following rules. She believed in them. Her faith wasn't about control. It was her identity. And she was content in it. Unlike others who might have longed for a freer life, Rida loved Afghanistan. She loved the structure, the tradition, the simplicity of a life guided by certainty. She didn't crave the outside world. Her purpose was clear. Her heart was steady.
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When it came to Hamza, her younger brother, she treated him with warmth — but always within lines. She was affectionate in a quiet way - bringing him food, reminding him to pray, asking if he was okay. But she was never playful, never touchy, never casual the way some siblings might be. She didn't sit too close. She didn't joke about inappropriate things. She didn't cross boundaries, and she expected him not to either. In her eyes, that was love too - love through respect.
Rida saw herself as a protector - of her modesty, her deen, and her family's moral foundation.
She didn't see Hamza as a boy anymore. He was becoming a man, and that meant the space between them needed to grow, not shrink. She didn't say it out loud, but her actions made it clear. Not out of coldness - but out of clarity. She loved him deeply, but from a distance. That was how she expressed care. That was her way.
To most, Rida might've seemed too strict, too quiet, too old for her age. But beneath her calm was a deeply rooted strength. She wasn't naive. She knew the world could tempt and twist people. She had seen it. But she chose to hold herself still, like a mountain - firm, unmoved, untouchable
Rida saw herself as a protector - of her modesty, her deen, and her family's moral foundation.
She didn't see Hamza as a boy anymore. He was becoming a man, and that meant the space between them needed to grow, not shrink. She didn't say it out loud, but her actions made it clear. Not out of coldness - but out of clarity. She loved him deeply, but from a distance. That was how she expressed care. That was her way.
To most, Rida might've seemed too strict, too quiet, too old for her age. But beneath her calm was a deeply rooted strength. She wasn't naive. She knew the world could tempt and twist people. She had seen it. But she chose to hold herself still, like a mountain - firm, unmoved, untouchable
dubukh
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nice starting of somehow - looks like a wonderful story bro. Writing an erotic story with religi0n is like walking on a knife, but you are doing such a good job. Story so far is great, in the sense that it is NOT far from reality like most sex stories, which is a boon as well as a great challenge as well. You have started showing the boundaries, strict nature of parents / community / country. Now how will erotica start between them is the trillion dollar question
So far, your writing is greatly encouraging to read more, gives high hopes, even though the plot selected is having very little room for erotica. That is the kind of challenge a great author will always take and WIN as well. Thanks for the great start bro and please continue this story, as our expectations are sky high now
So far, your writing is greatly encouraging to read more, gives high hopes, even though the plot selected is having very little room for erotica. That is the kind of challenge a great author will always take and WIN as well. Thanks for the great start bro and please continue this story, as our expectations are sky high now
Last edited:
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Thank you for taking the time to engage with my recent story thread.
I hope it offered you a thoughtful and emotionally resonant experience.
Exploring themes that are often considered taboo or socially forbidden is never easy—whether rooted in reality, desire, or imagination, these subjects demand both sensitivity and courage. They are, without doubt, among the most complex aspects of human experience.
This particular narrative is inspired by a close friend and her family. I’ve taken the liberty of expressing it in my own words, and I’m still awaiting the complete details to bring the full picture to life.
I hope you find the story engaging and meaningful. I will strive to present it with elegance—balancing sensuality with dignity—so it remains both erotic and respectfully written.
Your support and thoughtful feedback mean a lot.
Stay tuned for the continuation.