Incest Innocent Sin (Bro Sis)

[karthik90]

Lovely start to a wonderful story. The ethos is well described and the plot has many possibilities. Keep it up bro.

 

[Sameer Kapoor]

It was a quiet Friday afternoon, the kind that settled over the neighborhood like a blanket — still, warm, sacred. The streets outside had emptied after Jumu'ah prayer, and the echo of the imam's voice still lingered faintly in the wind.

Hamza walked beside Rida on their way home from the mosque, a few steps behind her, as was habit. The sun was high but soft, filtered through clouds, and the air carried that peaceful weight only Friday afternoons seemed to hold in Afghanistan.

Their parents had stayed behind to visit relatives and run errands, leaving just the two of them to walk back alone. It wasn't uncommon, but it still felt different — the silence between them stretched longer without the chatter of others to fill it.

When they reached the house, Rida unlocked the front door without a word and stepped inside. The soft rustle of her black abaya followed her through the hallway. She hadn't changed yet — the long, loose garment still draped over her body, hiding every shape beneath it. She had removed her niqab only to eat, folding it neatly beside her on the dining table. Her face, now uncovered in the privacy of home, was calm, unreadable, as always.

Lunch was simple — rice, meat, and yogurt. The kind of meal they'd had a thousand times before. Rida ate slowly, with quiet grace, taking small bites and drinking water only after finishing half her plate. Hamza sat across from her, his gaze mostly fixed on his food, but his eyes would drift — not rudely, just instinctively — to the folds of black fabric wrapped around his sister.

There was nothing new about it. She always dressed like this, even at home. Always covered. Always modest. But something about the silence, the closeness, the stillness of the empty house — made it feel more present. More noticeable.

Neither of them spoke much. Rida wasn't one for small talk, especially not during meal times. She focused on the food, occasionally asking if he wanted more rice or salt, her tone gentle but clipped. She carried herself like she always did — poised, controlled, completely unaware of how much space she took up just by being there.

Hamza nodded when she asked things, gave short replies, and tried to ignore the strange tightness in his chest. He wasn't doing anything wrong. She was just his sister. They were just eating lunch. And yet, beneath the surface, something stirred — quiet, confused, and unnamed.

The meal passed quietly, the soft clink of cutlery and the occasional murmur of Rida's instructions filling the room. Hamza, having finished his food, sat back in his chair for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the window as the light outside shifted.

Rida, after finishing her meal, neatly set her plate aside. She wiped her hands with a cloth before standing up, her abaya flowing gently as she moved. Hamza shifted in his seat, wondering if he should help, but Rida was already clearing the table without asking.

"You can take a break," he offered, unsure whether to offer help or let her handle it on her own.

Rida gave him a quick glance, her tone soft but firm. "No need. I'll do it."

Hamza nodded and stayed seated, watching her for a moment. There was no point in insisting — this was just how Rida was. She didn't like others to do what she could do herself. The quiet efficiency with which she went about her chores was something he'd seen all his life.

Rida moved around the kitchen, washing the dishes with steady, practiced movements. There was no rush, no impatience. She worked with a calmness that he envied. Hamza let out a soft breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

After a while, Rida finished the dishes, dried her hands, and folded the towel with careful precision. She stood there for a second, her gaze briefly meeting his. There was no need for words between them; a simple glance said everything. She didn't need to ask if he was fine, just a small acknowledgment that they shared the same space, that everything was normal.

"I'm going to rest," she said, her voice soft but firm. It wasn't an announcement, just a simple fact.

Hamza gave a small nod. "Okay."

Rida didn't wait for more. She turned, her movements as graceful as always, and walked toward the stairs. The sound of her footsteps was soft, her abaya rustling as she ascended. When she reached the top, she didn't look back, simply disappearing into her room.

Hamza sat still for a moment, the quiet of the house settling around him. He glanced at the door to Rida's room, feeling the calm that came with her presence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence — just the way things were. She was the older sister, the one who kept everything in order, and he respected that.

With a slight sigh, he got up from the couch, heading to his room to take a break before the evening prayers

Hamza's heart raced as he rushed into the room, his eyes immediately drawn to Rida on the floor. She was lying there, a pained expression on her face, her abaya askew around her. It was clear she had fallen, and his concern spiked.

"Rida!" he exclaimed, kneeling beside her. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Rida winced slightly as she tried to sit up, her hand resting on her twisted ankle. "I... I fell," she murmured, trying to brush it off with a faint smile. "I was changing, and my foot slipped." She paused for a moment, clearly feeling embarrassed by the accident. "It's not that bad."

Hamza's eyes immediately went to her ankle, which was swelling up, and his worry deepened. "Let me help you," he said, gently offering his hand to help her up.

Rida looked reluctant but accepted his support. Hamza carefully helped her to her feet, though her limp told him that she was in more pain than she was letting on. Slowly, he guided her to her bed and helped her sit down, propping a pillow behind her to help her lean back comfortably.

"Rest here for a second," Hamza said softly, his voice filled with concern as he knelt beside her. He gently touched her ankle, and Rida flinched slightly, but she didn't pull away.

"Does it hurt here?" he asked, his voice low.

Rida nodded, her eyes closing briefly. "Yeah, just a little. It's twisted."

Hamza's mind raced for a moment. Then, something from his childhood surfaced. "Wait, when I was younger, and I'd get hurt... Grandma used to rub oil on my bruises, heat it up, and it always helped. Do you remember that?"

Rida opened her eyes and nodded with a soft smile. "Yes, I remember. She'd always do that when I'd fall."

Hamza gave her a thoughtful look, his voice a bit hesitant. "Would you want me to do that for you? Heat up some oil and rub it on your ankle? It might help with the swelling."

Rida hesitated for a moment, her pride clearly trying to push the offer away. "No, Hamza. I'm fine. It's really not that bad."

But Hamza wouldn't be swayed. "Come on, just let me do this. It'll help, I promise." He gave her a gentle, reassuring smile. "You don't have to do anything, just let me take care of it for once."

Rida seemed to consider it for a moment, and then, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, she finally relented. "Alright, fine. But just a little. And only if you're sure."

Hamza stood up with a soft nod. "I'm sure. I'll be right back." He left the room and made his way to the kitchen, his mind still on his sister's hurt ankle.

Once in the kitchen, he grabbed the olive oil from the shelf and poured some into a small pan. He set it on the stove and turned on the heat, his thoughts drifting back to his childhood and how comforting that simple remedy had been. He let the oil warm up slowly, making sure not to overheat it, before turning off the stove.

With the oil in hand, Hamza returned to Rida's room, carefully holding the small dish. "I've got it," he said, walking back to her side.

Rida was still sitting up on her bed, her back against the pillow, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and mild amusement. "You really don't have to do this, you know."

Hamza smiled as he sat down beside her. "I want to." He placed the warm oil near her ankle and gently began to rub it on the swollen area, using his fingers to work it in slowly. The warmth of the oil seemed to soothe her, and Rida let out a small sigh of relief, though she remained quiet, her eyes closed.

The room fell into a calm silence, the rhythmic motion of his hands on her ankle providing a soothing contrast to the chaos of the outside world. It was a peaceful moment, one that felt timeless, like it could last forever.

As Hamza continued to gently rub the warm oil into Rida's ankle, his mind was still partially preoccupied with her fall. The quiet of the room gave him space to think, and his eyes unconsciously began to wander around the room as he tried to figure out exactly how she had managed to fall.

His gaze landed on the floor near the bed, where something caught his attention. It was a piece of cloth, something that seemed out of place, just slightly crumpled at the corner. Hamza's thoughts raced as he realized what it was. The fabric appeared to be a loose pair of trousers—Rida's trousers, the ones she wore under her abaya.

Hamza froze for a moment, his hand still resting on her ankle. He recalled what Rida had said earlier when he had asked her how she fell: "I was changing, and my foot slipped." The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his mind, and a sudden realization hit him like a jolt. If her trousers were there on the floor, then under her abaya—right now—she wasn't wearing them. His sister, always so guarded, so covered, was sitting there with nothing beneath the long black fabric but her bare legs. The thought shocked him, a rush of heat climbing his neck as his mind stumbled over the intimacy of it. She was still modest, still hidden, but the boundary he'd always known felt suddenly thinner, fragile in a way he couldn't grasp.

His heart thudded hard, and he quickly pulled his eyes back to her ankle, forcing his hands to keep moving, to stay steady. He couldn't let her see the shift in him—he didn't even understand it himself. "Does that feel any better?" he asked, his voice tight but controlled, though inside, he was reeling from the collision of concern and this strange, unbidden awareness.

Rida nodded, her expression unchanged. "Yes, it's better now. But don't make it a big deal."

Hamza nodded quietly, focusing back on the gentle movement of his fingers on her ankle. "I won't," he said, though in the back of his mind, he was still grappling with the shock of the moment, trying to bury it deep where it couldn't surface.

As Hamza worked the warm oil into Rida's ankle, his fingers slipped—just a fraction—brushing the hem of her abaya. A faint smear of oil darkened the black fabric, seeping into the weave just above her ankle. He didn't notice at first, too caught up in keeping his hands steady, his mind still spinning from the trousers crumpled on the floor and the bare truth beneath her garment. His fingers traced careful circles, the motion a lifeline to normalcy, but the oil was slicker than he'd anticipated. Another subtle streak bloomed on the fabric, a quiet stain spreading as he rubbed.

Rida's eyes stayed closed, her breathing soft and even, a faint ease softening her features as the warmth sank into her skin. She hadn't seen the mess yet. Hamza's chest tightened, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop—afraid to break the rhythm and draw her attention to his mistake.

Then her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly, glancing down, and her brow creased as she spotted the smudge. "Hamza," she said, her voice calm but carrying that firm edge he knew so well, "you're getting oil on my abaya."

His hands froze, hovering over her ankle, heat flooding his face. "Sorry—I didn't mean to—" he stammered, words tripping over themselves, his gaze snapping to the stain. It was small, just a sheen, but it felt like he'd marred something sacred, something hers.

Rida let out a soft, practical sigh, the sound of someone used to fixing things herself. She didn't scold him, didn't fuss. "It'll ruin the fabric if it spreads," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her tone matter-of-fact. She reached down with one hand, her fingers brushing the hem of her abaya. She didn't lift it high or carelessly—nothing so bold for Rida. She pinched the fabric just above the stain, tugging it up an inch or two to pull it clear of the oil-slicked spot on her ankle, a quick fix to keep the mess contained. The movement was precise, controlled, her modesty intact, but the shift revealed a sliver of skin—two, maybe three inches above her ankle—where the abaya had ridden up slightly on its own.

To anyone else, it was nothing—a practical adjustment, a fleeting glimpse of leg no one would blink at. But to Hamza, it was a revelation. His breath snagged in his throat as his eyes locked onto that small stretch of skin, pale and smooth like the curve of a crescent moon against the dark fabric. It glowed faintly in the dim room, hairless and flawless, a silken plane where no shadow of stubble dared to break the purity of its surface. Delicate yet strong, the faint outline of a vein traced beneath like a secret whispered in silence. It was beautiful—too beautiful—and that thought struck him like a blade, sharp and wrong. This was Rida. His sister. The one who'd always been a wall, a shield, a constant. How could he see her like this, notice her like this?

His mind recoiled, a storm kicking up inside him. What's wrong with me? he thought, the words clawing at him. She was just sitting there, trusting him, letting him help her, and here he was—staring, feeling things he shouldn't. His chest burned with guilt, thick and heavy, but it didn't stop the rush. He'd never seen her like this, not even close. All his life, she'd been cloaked, untouchable, a figure of rules and faith he'd never questioned. Now, this tiny window—barely anything—felt like a floodgate. Why was it her? Why now? He was a man, yes, but she was his sister—his blood, his boundary. The shame twisted in him, warring with a curiosity he couldn't kill, a hunger he'd buried so deep it scared him to feel it stir.

"Keep going," Rida said, her voice steady, oblivious to the chaos in his head. She smoothed the fabric down firmly, pulling the abaya back over her ankle with that quiet precision she always had, the glimpse of skin vanishing as if it had never been. "It's fine now."

But it wasn't fine. His hands shook as he forced them back to her ankle, the warmth of her skin searing now, a weight he couldn't shake. He rubbed the oil in, mechanical, his fingers trembling against her, while his mind screamed—a silent, jagged thing—torn between what he knew and what he couldn't unsee.

Hamza's hands trembled as he rubbed the last of the oil into Rida's ankle, her skin warm under his fingers, the memory of that pale, hairless sliver still searing his mind. She smoothed the abaya down firmly, pulling it back over her ankle with that quiet precision she always had, the glimpse vanishing as if it had never been. "It's fine now," she said, voice steady, oblivious to the storm raging in his head.

He nodded, throat tight, forcing his hands to stay busy. "Yeah—good," he managed, barely a whisper. The air felt thick, his pulse loud in his ears. He needed something—anything—to break this moment before it swallowed him whole.

Rida shifted slightly, wincing as she adjusted her leg. "Hamza," she said, her tone calm but expectant, "can you get my book? It's on the desk." She nodded toward the corner of the room, where a small wooden desk sat piled with a few things—papers, a pen, and a thick hardcover with a worn spine.

"Uh—sure," he said, grateful for the excuse to move. He stood, legs unsteady, and crossed to the desk. His fingers brushed the book—something about Greek history, the title in faded gold letters he didn't bother to read. He didn't care. It was just a thing, a distraction. He grabbed it and handed it to her, their fingers brushing for a split second. She didn't notice, but he did—his skin prickled, and he hated himself for it.

"Thanks," she murmured, already opening the book to a marked page, her eyes flicking over the text with that focused intensity she brought to everything. She settled back against the pillow, one hand holding the book steady, lost in tales of ancient wars and gods Hamza knew nothing about. He knelt again, returning to her ankle, his hands moving on autopilot, rubbing the oil in slow, mechanical circles.

But he wasn't there—not really. His mind was a mess, a tangle of whispers he couldn't silence. That glimpse—smooth, flawless, forbidden—kept flashing behind his eyes, and now, with her so close, so trusting, something darker stirred. His breath hitched as a wave of heat surged through him, unbidden and shameful. He felt it—a tightening, a rush below his waist—and his stomach dropped. A boner. Here. Now. Because of her. His sister. The guilt crashed over him like ice water, but it didn't stop the feeling. It grew, sharp and insistent, and he clenched his jaw, fighting it, hating it, hating himself.

She's my sister, the voice in his head screamed, loud and desperate. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? He'd never touched a woman, never seen one like this, and now—Rida? The one who'd raised him, guided him, kept him in line? His chest burned, his hands faltering, but the whispers wouldn't stop. Just her ankle. Just oil. It's nothing. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything, and he was losing control.

His eyes darted to the oil dish, still warm, sitting beside him. A reckless thought flickered—wild, impulsive, wrong. Before he could stop himself, he dipped his fingers in, letting a small drop cling to them. He shifted, pretending to adjust his grip, and let it fall—deliberately—onto her abaya, just above her ankle. A tiny bead of oil, dark and glistening, sank into the fabric.

Rida didn't notice at first, her gaze locked on the book, lips moving faintly as she mouthed a word—some Greek name, some distant story. The oil spread, a faint stain, and Hamza's heart pounded, waiting, watching, a mix of dread and something he couldn't name twisting inside him.

Then she saw it. Her brow furrowed, a small sound of annoyance escaping her. "Hamza, again?" she said, her voice sharp but distracted, not looking up from the page. She didn't pause to think—her hand moved on instinct, practical as ever, reaching down to stop the mess. She grabbed the abaya near her thigh with one hand, still holding the book with the other, and tugged it up—just a little, an absent-minded lift to clear the oil before it soaked through. She was so caught in the book, tracing lines of ancient battles, that her usual care slipped, just for a moment.

This time, it wasn't an inch or two. The fabric rose higher—five, maybe six inches—revealing more of her leg, smooth and pale, a gentle curve climbing past her ankle toward her calf. It was still modest by any other standard, still hidden beneath the long drape of the abaya above, but to Hamza, it was a flood. The hairless skin gleamed softly, untouched and perfect, a quiet beauty that hit him like a shout. His breath stopped, his hands stilled, the whispers in his head turning to a roar. He shouldn't look. He couldn't not look.

Rida didn't notice—her eyes stayed on the page, her mind far away in Greece, not here, not with him. She let the fabric drop a second later, smoothing it down absently, the oil forgotten, her focus unbroken. "Be careful," she muttered, turning the page, as if nothing had happened.

But for Hamza, everything had. The guilt choked him, the heat pulsed, and the scream—silent, raw, unbearable—tore through his skull. He was drowning, and he didn't know how to swim back.

Hamza's hands hovered over Rida's ankle, the oil slick on his fingers, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his chest. She didn't notice—her eyes stayed on the page, lost in the faded gold of her Greek history book, lips parting slightly as she traced some ancient name with a fingertip. "Be careful," she'd muttered, smoothing the abaya back down, the fabric settling over that smooth, pale curve he'd glimpsed—five, six inches of skin, hairless and glowing, a forbidden stretch that burned into him. Her voice was firm, distracted, pulling him back to the room, but it couldn't pull him out of himself.

He swallowed, throat dry as sand, and forced his hands to move again—slow, deliberate circles over her ankle, the warmth of her skin bleeding through his fingertips. The oil glistened faintly where he'd dropped it, that intentional bead sinking into the black weave just above her foot. He'd done it. He'd wanted her to lift it again, wanted to see more, and the shame of that clawed at him, deep and jagged. She's my older sister, the whisper hissed, loud now, a chant he couldn't silence. My sister. But his body didn't care—below his waist, the heat pulsed, tight and unyielding, a betrayal he couldn't will away.

Rida turned a page, the soft rustle of paper slicing through the quiet. Her abaya shifted faintly with her breath, the hem brushing his wrist as he worked, each touch a spark he couldn't douse. He kept his eyes down, locked on her ankle, but his mind replayed it—the way the fabric had risen, the slow reveal of her leg, smooth as moonlight, curving upward, hinting at more beneath the dark folds. It wasn't just skin. It was her—Rida—his older sister, untouchable, sacred, the one who'd taught him right from wrong since he could walk. And now, somehow, too close. His fingers pressed harder, just for a moment, feeling the give of her flesh, and his breath hitched, loud in his own ears.

She didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Her focus held, steady as stone, her free hand resting on the book, the other limp by her side. "Does it still hurt?" he asked, voice low, rough, a thread of control he barely grasped. He needed her to say something, to anchor him, to stop this slide.

Rida's eyes flicked to him, just for a second, calm and unreadable. "No," she said, simple, final, then returned to her page. "It's better." Her tone was gentle, but it cut—dismissive in its ease, as if nothing had shifted, as if the air wasn't thick with something he couldn't name.

But it was. His hands slowed, the oil nearly gone, and he let his fingers linger—too long, too still—against her ankle. The warmth pulsed under his touch, soft and alive, and the whispers turned to a scream inside him, silent but shattering. This wasn't just about seeing a woman's skin for the first time—some stranger's leg in a world he'd never known. No, it was her. His older sister. The taboo of it sank into him, heavy and dark, a line he'd never dreamed of crossing until now. He'd lived nineteen years blind to the feminine, cloaked in rules, and the first crack in that wall was Rida—his blood, his boundary, his sin. Stop. Stop now. He couldn't. Not yet. His gaze crept up, past her ankle, to where the abaya draped, heavy and loose, hiding what he'd seen—what he shouldn't want to see again. His chest tightened, a coil winding tighter, and he felt it again—that rush, that ache, sharp and wrong, pooling low in his gut.

Then she moved. Not much—just a slight shift, adjusting her leg to ease the weight on her ankle. The abaya slid, just a fraction, the hem catching on itself, exposing that same sliver—two inches, maybe three—before she reached down absently, smoothing it back with a quick, practiced motion. "You're done," she said, not looking up, her voice steady as ever. "Thanks, Hamza."

He jerked his hands back, the oil dish clattering softly as he set it aside. "Yeah," he muttered, standing too fast, his legs unsteady beneath him. His heart slammed against his ribs, his skin prickling with heat, guilt, need—things he couldn't untangle. He turned, heading for the door, but paused at the threshold, glancing back. Rida sat there, book in hand, the lamplight catching the curve of her jaw, the dark sweep of her abaya pooling around her like a shadow. She was still, serene, untouchable—his older sister, his constant.

But something had changed. Something he couldn't take back.

He stepped into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him, and the scream finally broke free—not loud, not heard, but a raw, trembling thing that shook him to his core. His hand pressed against the wall, steadying him as he stumbled toward his room, the image of her leg—smooth, bare, alive—seared into him. It wasn't just a woman's skin. It was Rida's. His sister's. And that made it worse—made it everything. What had he done? What was he becoming? And worse—what came next?

To be continued.....

 

[karthik90]

It was a quiet Friday afternoon, the kind that settled over the neighborhood like a blanket — still, warm, sacred. The streets outside had emptied after Jumu'ah prayer, and the echo of the imam's voice still lingered faintly in the wind.

Hamza walked beside Rida on their way home from the mosque, a few steps behind her, as was habit. The sun was high but soft, filtered through clouds, and the air carried that peaceful weight only Friday afternoons seemed to hold in Afghanistan.

Their parents had stayed behind to visit relatives and run errands, leaving just the two of them to walk back alone. It wasn't uncommon, but it still felt different — the silence between them stretched longer without the chatter of others to fill it.

When they reached the house, Rida unlocked the front door without a word and stepped inside. The soft rustle of her black abaya followed her through the hallway. She hadn't changed yet — the long, loose garment still draped over her body, hiding every shape beneath it. She had removed her niqab only to eat, folding it neatly beside her on the dining table. Her face, now uncovered in the privacy of home, was calm, unreadable, as always.

Lunch was simple — rice, meat, and yogurt. The kind of meal they'd had a thousand times before. Rida ate slowly, with quiet grace, taking small bites and drinking water only after finishing half her plate. Hamza sat across from her, his gaze mostly fixed on his food, but his eyes would drift — not rudely, just instinctively — to the folds of black fabric wrapped around his sister.

There was nothing new about it. She always dressed like this, even at home. Always covered. Always modest. But something about the silence, the closeness, the stillness of the empty house — made it feel more present. More noticeable.

Neither of them spoke much. Rida wasn't one for small talk, especially not during meal times. She focused on the food, occasionally asking if he wanted more rice or salt, her tone gentle but clipped. She carried herself like she always did — poised, controlled, completely unaware of how much space she took up just by being there.

Hamza nodded when she asked things, gave short replies, and tried to ignore the strange tightness in his chest. He wasn't doing anything wrong. She was just his sister. They were just eating lunch. And yet, beneath the surface, something stirred — quiet, confused, and unnamed.

The meal passed quietly, the soft clink of cutlery and the occasional murmur of Rida's instructions filling the room. Hamza, having finished his food, sat back in his chair for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the window as the light outside shifted.

Rida, after finishing her meal, neatly set her plate aside. She wiped her hands with a cloth before standing up, her abaya flowing gently as she moved. Hamza shifted in his seat, wondering if he should help, but Rida was already clearing the table without asking.

"You can take a break," he offered, unsure whether to offer help or let her handle it on her own.

Rida gave him a quick glance, her tone soft but firm. "No need. I'll do it."

Hamza nodded and stayed seated, watching her for a moment. There was no point in insisting — this was just how Rida was. She didn't like others to do what she could do herself. The quiet efficiency with which she went about her chores was something he'd seen all his life.

Rida moved around the kitchen, washing the dishes with steady, practiced movements. There was no rush, no impatience. She worked with a calmness that he envied. Hamza let out a soft breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

After a while, Rida finished the dishes, dried her hands, and folded the towel with careful precision. She stood there for a second, her gaze briefly meeting his. There was no need for words between them; a simple glance said everything. She didn't need to ask if he was fine, just a small acknowledgment that they shared the same space, that everything was normal.

"I'm going to rest," she said, her voice soft but firm. It wasn't an announcement, just a simple fact.

Hamza gave a small nod. "Okay."

Rida didn't wait for more. She turned, her movements as graceful as always, and walked toward the stairs. The sound of her footsteps was soft, her abaya rustling as she ascended. When she reached the top, she didn't look back, simply disappearing into her room.

Hamza sat still for a moment, the quiet of the house settling around him. He glanced at the door to Rida's room, feeling the calm that came with her presence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence — just the way things were. She was the older sister, the one who kept everything in order, and he respected that.

With a slight sigh, he got up from the couch, heading to his room to take a break before the evening prayers

Hamza's heart raced as he rushed into the room, his eyes immediately drawn to Rida on the floor. She was lying there, a pained expression on her face, her abaya askew around her. It was clear she had fallen, and his concern spiked.

"Rida!" he exclaimed, kneeling beside her. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Rida winced slightly as she tried to sit up, her hand resting on her twisted ankle. "I... I fell," she murmured, trying to brush it off with a faint smile. "I was changing, and my foot slipped." She paused for a moment, clearly feeling embarrassed by the accident. "It's not that bad."

Hamza's eyes immediately went to her ankle, which was swelling up, and his worry deepened. "Let me help you," he said, gently offering his hand to help her up.

Rida looked reluctant but accepted his support. Hamza carefully helped her to her feet, though her limp told him that she was in more pain than she was letting on. Slowly, he guided her to her bed and helped her sit down, propping a pillow behind her to help her lean back comfortably.

"Rest here for a second," Hamza said softly, his voice filled with concern as he knelt beside her. He gently touched her ankle, and Rida flinched slightly, but she didn't pull away.

"Does it hurt here?" he asked, his voice low.

Rida nodded, her eyes closing briefly. "Yeah, just a little. It's twisted."

Hamza's mind raced for a moment. Then, something from his childhood surfaced. "Wait, when I was younger, and I'd get hurt... Grandma used to rub oil on my bruises, heat it up, and it always helped. Do you remember that?"

Rida opened her eyes and nodded with a soft smile. "Yes, I remember. She'd always do that when I'd fall."

Hamza gave her a thoughtful look, his voice a bit hesitant. "Would you want me to do that for you? Heat up some oil and rub it on your ankle? It might help with the swelling."

Rida hesitated for a moment, her pride clearly trying to push the offer away. "No, Hamza. I'm fine. It's really not that bad."

But Hamza wouldn't be swayed. "Come on, just let me do this. It'll help, I promise." He gave her a gentle, reassuring smile. "You don't have to do anything, just let me take care of it for once."

Rida seemed to consider it for a moment, and then, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, she finally relented. "Alright, fine. But just a little. And only if you're sure."

Hamza stood up with a soft nod. "I'm sure. I'll be right back." He left the room and made his way to the kitchen, his mind still on his sister's hurt ankle.

Once in the kitchen, he grabbed the olive oil from the shelf and poured some into a small pan. He set it on the stove and turned on the heat, his thoughts drifting back to his childhood and how comforting that simple remedy had been. He let the oil warm up slowly, making sure not to overheat it, before turning off the stove.

With the oil in hand, Hamza returned to Rida's room, carefully holding the small dish. "I've got it," he said, walking back to her side.

Rida was still sitting up on her bed, her back against the pillow, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and mild amusement. "You really don't have to do this, you know."

Hamza smiled as he sat down beside her. "I want to." He placed the warm oil near her ankle and gently began to rub it on the swollen area, using his fingers to work it in slowly. The warmth of the oil seemed to soothe her, and Rida let out a small sigh of relief, though she remained quiet, her eyes closed.

The room fell into a calm silence, the rhythmic motion of his hands on her ankle providing a soothing contrast to the chaos of the outside world. It was a peaceful moment, one that felt timeless, like it could last forever.

As Hamza continued to gently rub the warm oil into Rida's ankle, his mind was still partially preoccupied with her fall. The quiet of the room gave him space to think, and his eyes unconsciously began to wander around the room as he tried to figure out exactly how she had managed to fall.

His gaze landed on the floor near the bed, where something caught his attention. It was a piece of cloth, something that seemed out of place, just slightly crumpled at the corner. Hamza's thoughts raced as he realized what it was. The fabric appeared to be a loose pair of trousers—Rida's trousers, the ones she wore under her abaya.

Hamza froze for a moment, his hand still resting on her ankle. He recalled what Rida had said earlier when he had asked her how she fell: "I was changing, and my foot slipped." The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his mind, and a sudden realization hit him like a jolt. If her trousers were there on the floor, then under her abaya—right now—she wasn't wearing them. His sister, always so guarded, so covered, was sitting there with nothing beneath the long black fabric but her bare legs. The thought shocked him, a rush of heat climbing his neck as his mind stumbled over the intimacy of it. She was still modest, still hidden, but the boundary he'd always known felt suddenly thinner, fragile in a way he couldn't grasp.

His heart thudded hard, and he quickly pulled his eyes back to her ankle, forcing his hands to keep moving, to stay steady. He couldn't let her see the shift in him—he didn't even understand it himself. "Does that feel any better?" he asked, his voice tight but controlled, though inside, he was reeling from the collision of concern and this strange, unbidden awareness.

Rida nodded, her expression unchanged. "Yes, it's better now. But don't make it a big deal."

Hamza nodded quietly, focusing back on the gentle movement of his fingers on her ankle. "I won't," he said, though in the back of his mind, he was still grappling with the shock of the moment, trying to bury it deep where it couldn't surface.

As Hamza worked the warm oil into Rida's ankle, his fingers slipped—just a fraction—brushing the hem of her abaya. A faint smear of oil darkened the black fabric, seeping into the weave just above her ankle. He didn't notice at first, too caught up in keeping his hands steady, his mind still spinning from the trousers crumpled on the floor and the bare truth beneath her garment. His fingers traced careful circles, the motion a lifeline to normalcy, but the oil was slicker than he'd anticipated. Another subtle streak bloomed on the fabric, a quiet stain spreading as he rubbed.

Rida's eyes stayed closed, her breathing soft and even, a faint ease softening her features as the warmth sank into her skin. She hadn't seen the mess yet. Hamza's chest tightened, but he didn't stop—couldn't stop—afraid to break the rhythm and draw her attention to his mistake.

Then her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly, glancing down, and her brow creased as she spotted the smudge. "Hamza," she said, her voice calm but carrying that firm edge he knew so well, "you're getting oil on my abaya."

His hands froze, hovering over her ankle, heat flooding his face. "Sorry—I didn't mean to—" he stammered, words tripping over themselves, his gaze snapping to the stain. It was small, just a sheen, but it felt like he'd marred something sacred, something hers.

Rida let out a soft, practical sigh, the sound of someone used to fixing things herself. She didn't scold him, didn't fuss. "It'll ruin the fabric if it spreads," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her tone matter-of-fact. She reached down with one hand, her fingers brushing the hem of her abaya. She didn't lift it high or carelessly—nothing so bold for Rida. She pinched the fabric just above the stain, tugging it up an inch or two to pull it clear of the oil-slicked spot on her ankle, a quick fix to keep the mess contained. The movement was precise, controlled, her modesty intact, but the shift revealed a sliver of skin—two, maybe three inches above her ankle—where the abaya had ridden up slightly on its own.

To anyone else, it was nothing—a practical adjustment, a fleeting glimpse of leg no one would blink at. But to Hamza, it was a revelation. His breath snagged in his throat as his eyes locked onto that small stretch of skin, pale and smooth like the curve of a crescent moon against the dark fabric. It glowed faintly in the dim room, hairless and flawless, a silken plane where no shadow of stubble dared to break the purity of its surface. Delicate yet strong, the faint outline of a vein traced beneath like a secret whispered in silence. It was beautiful—too beautiful—and that thought struck him like a blade, sharp and wrong. This was Rida. His sister. The one who'd always been a wall, a shield, a constant. How could he see her like this, notice her like this?

His mind recoiled, a storm kicking up inside him. What's wrong with me? he thought, the words clawing at him. She was just sitting there, trusting him, letting him help her, and here he was—staring, feeling things he shouldn't. His chest burned with guilt, thick and heavy, but it didn't stop the rush. He'd never seen her like this, not even close. All his life, she'd been cloaked, untouchable, a figure of rules and faith he'd never questioned. Now, this tiny window—barely anything—felt like a floodgate. Why was it her? Why now? He was a man, yes, but she was his sister—his blood, his boundary. The shame twisted in him, warring with a curiosity he couldn't kill, a hunger he'd buried so deep it scared him to feel it stir.

"Keep going," Rida said, her voice steady, oblivious to the chaos in his head. She smoothed the fabric down firmly, pulling the abaya back over her ankle with that quiet precision she always had, the glimpse of skin vanishing as if it had never been. "It's fine now."

But it wasn't fine. His hands shook as he forced them back to her ankle, the warmth of her skin searing now, a weight he couldn't shake. He rubbed the oil in, mechanical, his fingers trembling against her, while his mind screamed—a silent, jagged thing—torn between what he knew and what he couldn't unsee.

Hamza's hands trembled as he rubbed the last of the oil into Rida's ankle, her skin warm under his fingers, the memory of that pale, hairless sliver still searing his mind. She smoothed the abaya down firmly, pulling it back over her ankle with that quiet precision she always had, the glimpse vanishing as if it had never been. "It's fine now," she said, voice steady, oblivious to the storm raging in his head.

He nodded, throat tight, forcing his hands to stay busy. "Yeah—good," he managed, barely a whisper. The air felt thick, his pulse loud in his ears. He needed something—anything—to break this moment before it swallowed him whole.

Rida shifted slightly, wincing as she adjusted her leg. "Hamza," she said, her tone calm but expectant, "can you get my book? It's on the desk." She nodded toward the corner of the room, where a small wooden desk sat piled with a few things—papers, a pen, and a thick hardcover with a worn spine.

"Uh—sure," he said, grateful for the excuse to move. He stood, legs unsteady, and crossed to the desk. His fingers brushed the book—something about Greek history, the title in faded gold letters he didn't bother to read. He didn't care. It was just a thing, a distraction. He grabbed it and handed it to her, their fingers brushing for a split second. She didn't notice, but he did—his skin prickled, and he hated himself for it.

"Thanks," she murmured, already opening the book to a marked page, her eyes flicking over the text with that focused intensity she brought to everything. She settled back against the pillow, one hand holding the book steady, lost in tales of ancient wars and gods Hamza knew nothing about. He knelt again, returning to her ankle, his hands moving on autopilot, rubbing the oil in slow, mechanical circles.

But he wasn't there—not really. His mind was a mess, a tangle of whispers he couldn't silence. That glimpse—smooth, flawless, forbidden—kept flashing behind his eyes, and now, with her so close, so trusting, something darker stirred. His breath hitched as a wave of heat surged through him, unbidden and shameful. He felt it—a tightening, a rush below his waist—and his stomach dropped. A boner. Here. Now. Because of her. His sister. The guilt crashed over him like ice water, but it didn't stop the feeling. It grew, sharp and insistent, and he clenched his jaw, fighting it, hating it, hating himself.

She's my sister, the voice in his head screamed, loud and desperate. What am I doing? What's wrong with me? He'd never touched a woman, never seen one like this, and now—Rida? The one who'd raised him, guided him, kept him in line? His chest burned, his hands faltering, but the whispers wouldn't stop. Just her ankle. Just oil. It's nothing. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything, and he was losing control.

His eyes darted to the oil dish, still warm, sitting beside him. A reckless thought flickered—wild, impulsive, wrong. Before he could stop himself, he dipped his fingers in, letting a small drop cling to them. He shifted, pretending to adjust his grip, and let it fall—deliberately—onto her abaya, just above her ankle. A tiny bead of oil, dark and glistening, sank into the fabric.

Rida didn't notice at first, her gaze locked on the book, lips moving faintly as she mouthed a word—some Greek name, some distant story. The oil spread, a faint stain, and Hamza's heart pounded, waiting, watching, a mix of dread and something he couldn't name twisting inside him.

Then she saw it. Her brow furrowed, a small sound of annoyance escaping her. "Hamza, again?" she said, her voice sharp but distracted, not looking up from the page. She didn't pause to think—her hand moved on instinct, practical as ever, reaching down to stop the mess. She grabbed the abaya near her thigh with one hand, still holding the book with the other, and tugged it up—just a little, an absent-minded lift to clear the oil before it soaked through. She was so caught in the book, tracing lines of ancient battles, that her usual care slipped, just for a moment.

This time, it wasn't an inch or two. The fabric rose higher—five, maybe six inches—revealing more of her leg, smooth and pale, a gentle curve climbing past her ankle toward her calf. It was still modest by any other standard, still hidden beneath the long drape of the abaya above, but to Hamza, it was a flood. The hairless skin gleamed softly, untouched and perfect, a quiet beauty that hit him like a shout. His breath stopped, his hands stilled, the whispers in his head turning to a roar. He shouldn't look. He couldn't not look.

Rida didn't notice—her eyes stayed on the page, her mind far away in Greece, not here, not with him. She let the fabric drop a second later, smoothing it down absently, the oil forgotten, her focus unbroken. "Be careful," she muttered, turning the page, as if nothing had happened.

But for Hamza, everything had. The guilt choked him, the heat pulsed, and the scream—silent, raw, unbearable—tore through his skull. He was drowning, and he didn't know how to swim back.

Hamza's hands hovered over Rida's ankle, the oil slick on his fingers, his pulse a wild drumbeat in his chest. She didn't notice—her eyes stayed on the page, lost in the faded gold of her Greek history book, lips parting slightly as she traced some ancient name with a fingertip. "Be careful," she'd muttered, smoothing the abaya back down, the fabric settling over that smooth, pale curve he'd glimpsed—five, six inches of skin, hairless and glowing, a forbidden stretch that burned into him. Her voice was firm, distracted, pulling him back to the room, but it couldn't pull him out of himself.

He swallowed, throat dry as sand, and forced his hands to move again—slow, deliberate circles over her ankle, the warmth of her skin bleeding through his fingertips. The oil glistened faintly where he'd dropped it, that intentional bead sinking into the black weave just above her foot. He'd done it. He'd wanted her to lift it again, wanted to see more, and the shame of that clawed at him, deep and jagged. She's my older sister, the whisper hissed, loud now, a chant he couldn't silence. My sister. But his body didn't care—below his waist, the heat pulsed, tight and unyielding, a betrayal he couldn't will away.

Rida turned a page, the soft rustle of paper slicing through the quiet. Her abaya shifted faintly with her breath, the hem brushing his wrist as he worked, each touch a spark he couldn't douse. He kept his eyes down, locked on her ankle, but his mind replayed it—the way the fabric had risen, the slow reveal of her leg, smooth as moonlight, curving upward, hinting at more beneath the dark folds. It wasn't just skin. It was her—Rida—his older sister, untouchable, sacred, the one who'd taught him right from wrong since he could walk. And now, somehow, too close. His fingers pressed harder, just for a moment, feeling the give of her flesh, and his breath hitched, loud in his own ears.

She didn't flinch. Didn't look up. Her focus held, steady as stone, her free hand resting on the book, the other limp by her side. "Does it still hurt?" he asked, voice low, rough, a thread of control he barely grasped. He needed her to say something, to anchor him, to stop this slide.

Rida's eyes flicked to him, just for a second, calm and unreadable. "No," she said, simple, final, then returned to her page. "It's better." Her tone was gentle, but it cut—dismissive in its ease, as if nothing had shifted, as if the air wasn't thick with something he couldn't name.

But it was. His hands slowed, the oil nearly gone, and he let his fingers linger—too long, too still—against her ankle. The warmth pulsed under his touch, soft and alive, and the whispers turned to a scream inside him, silent but shattering. This wasn't just about seeing a woman's skin for the first time—some stranger's leg in a world he'd never known. No, it was her. His older sister. The taboo of it sank into him, heavy and dark, a line he'd never dreamed of crossing until now. He'd lived nineteen years blind to the feminine, cloaked in rules, and the first crack in that wall was Rida—his blood, his boundary, his sin. Stop. Stop now. He couldn't. Not yet. His gaze crept up, past her ankle, to where the abaya draped, heavy and loose, hiding what he'd seen—what he shouldn't want to see again. His chest tightened, a coil winding tighter, and he felt it again—that rush, that ache, sharp and wrong, pooling low in his gut.

Then she moved. Not much—just a slight shift, adjusting her leg to ease the weight on her ankle. The abaya slid, just a fraction, the hem catching on itself, exposing that same sliver—two inches, maybe three—before she reached down absently, smoothing it back with a quick, practiced motion. "You're done," she said, not looking up, her voice steady as ever. "Thanks, Hamza."

He jerked his hands back, the oil dish clattering softly as he set it aside. "Yeah," he muttered, standing too fast, his legs unsteady beneath him. His heart slammed against his ribs, his skin prickling with heat, guilt, need—things he couldn't untangle. He turned, heading for the door, but paused at the threshold, glancing back. Rida sat there, book in hand, the lamplight catching the curve of her jaw, the dark sweep of her abaya pooling around her like a shadow. She was still, serene, untouchable—his older sister, his constant.

But something had changed. Something he couldn't take back.

He stepped into the hall, the door clicking shut behind him, and the scream finally broke free—not loud, not heard, but a raw, trembling thing that shook him to his core. His hand pressed against the wall, steadying him as he stumbled toward his room, the image of her leg—smooth, bare, alive—seared into him. It wasn't just a woman's skin. It was Rida's. His sister's. And that made it worse—made it everything. What had he done? What was he becoming? And worse—what came next?

To be continued.....

fantastic story.