Ved Nagar: 12Posted: September 1, 2012
Imām Muħammad Ħasanmanaged to smile.
“Lady Robots? Well, Durgesh, my boy, I’m not a Vedic Monotheist Hindu. I’m a Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān. I don’t need lady robots at all.”
“Well, Abbū, Naåīmah herself has purchased these lady robots expressly trained to serve her. How can I remove them?”
“Okay. It’s all right I think. I’ll try to adjust myself to this new environment. How many humans, however?”
“None, Abbū, of course.”
We had just entered into a room, crowded from floor to ceiling with book films.
Three fixed viewers with large twenty-four inch viewing panels set vertically were in three corners of the room.
The fourth contained an animation screen.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan tried to keep his patience.
Yet, he himself realized he wasn’t quite successful in keeping annoyance absolutely out of his voice.
“Did my daughter kick everyone out just to leave me rattling around alone in this mausoleum, tomb, vault?”
“It’s meant only for Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan and me.” I said respectfully, “A dwelling such as this for one couple is customary at Ved Nagar.”
“Every couple lives here like this?”
“Every couple, almost I mean.”
“Allah Allah, I’ll be damned, my son. What the hell do you need all the rooms for?”
“It’s convenient to devote a single room to a single purpose, Abbū. This is the library. There is also a music room, a gymnasium, a kitchen, a bakery, a dining room, a machine shop, various robot repair and testing rooms, ten bedrooms―”
“Stop. Allah,who takes care of all of this?” Imām Muħammad Ħasan swung his arms in a wide arc.
“There are a number of household robots. They have been purchased by Naåīmah herself.”
“Allah, let her do whatsoever she damn pleases. I don’t need all this.”
Imām Muħammad Ħasan had the urge to sit down and refuge to budge.
Well, my nonstop lovemaking to Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī was no problem for him.
He was habitual now perfectly to see me fucking various extremely beautiful absolutely shameless, rather proud of it instead, Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān ladies.
Was I really Param Purush?
Imām Muħammad Ħasan wondered once more.
Do I really have my infinite bodies?
Am I really fucking infinite dazzling Musalmān Beauties in my infinite bodies?
Does our nonstop infinite ashvinātam lovemaking really produce the initial Eīshān Vaigyānic energy that makes the Multiverse?
He couldn’t believe it.
Yes, the Musalmān Beauties and many of their Musalmān parents and other relatives also back it now.
But it’s because they had their own vile vested interests behind it.
They were immensely shameless selfish persons that could do anything for their worldly benefits.
To hell with them.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan wanted to see no more rooms now.
“You can remain in one room, Abbū,” I said, “if you desire so. That was visualized as a possibility from the start. Nevertheless, the customs of Ved Nagar being what they are, it was considered wiser to honor you properly to allow this house to be built―”
“Built!” Imām Muħammad Ħasan stared at me as if I’d gone mad, “Built? Damn it. You mean this is built for me? All this? Specifically?”
“A thoroughly roboticized Eīshān Vaigyānic noble deeds centered economy―”
“Yes, I see what you’re going to say. What will you do with the house when all this is over?”
“Why, I said your own daughter Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan owns it. It’s her guest house.”
“Guest house? Hell. Does every couple here own such a guest house too?”
“Almost. The couples who are not as Shaktimān as we are have somewhat lesser standard dwellings however.”
“You want to say that the principle of Shaktipāt and Shaktixaý is really true?”
“That’s my best opinion. But I never impose my conclusions on others. You can take your own decision.”
“Well, isn’t it true that you Hindus believe in it?”
“Sure, but you aren’t a Hindu. You aren’t bound with our beliefs.”
“You mean I can refuse openly that what you Hindus believe in isn’t true? And I still can live here in Ved Nagar?” Imām Muħammad Ħasan couldn’t believe it.
He had been reported Hindus were more communal than even the Jews and the Christians were.
But if it was so−
“Sure,” I smiled affably, “why not? Ved Nagar, if it’s really Ved Nagar, shouldn’t it be even more Democratic than the rest of the cities?”*
Imām Muħammad Ħasan smiled ironically.
“We, Musalmīn, can’t even imagine such a Democracy in any Musalmān city/nation.”
“Abbū, what do you want to say? Islam isn’t a Democratic religion ab initio?”
“Well, my wives claim I’m a Pseudo Musalmān. Do you think they’re right?”
“You know better, Abbū. Your wives cuckolded you, I never did it.”
“That’s right, my boy. But why are you asking then whether I believe Islam isn’t a Democratic religion ab initio?” Imām Muħammad Ħasan smiled, “You’ve yourself written an article ‘Why did Islam face a Counter revolution at Karbala?’ You know very well the present day Islam found in most of the Musalmīn today is Pseudo Islam actually propounded by Yazīd Malåūn lånat ålayhi, don’t you?”*
I watched Imām Muħammad Ħasan gravely.
But to my immense surprise, Imām Muħammad Ħasan wasn’t actually paying attention to me or to what I was saying even.
Instead, Imām Muħammad Ħasan was watching, absolutely fascinated, Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī’s still extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt that was swallowing my legendary unique Uncut Hindu Lund ravenously.
This man couldn’t be communal ever.
If he were, he couldn’t watch extremely beautiful Musalmān ladies swallowing, so eagerly and so aggressively, my Uncut Hindu Lund in their Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān Cunts.
Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī, even at her undisputed eighty- sixth, aggressively fucking me ravenously.
Yes, I wasn’t fucking her.
She was fucking me.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan was himself watching it with his own eyes.
Well, why the hell shouldn’t she, if she wants/needs it?
Why shouldn’t it be a personal matter between Durgesh and Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī themselves?
Why the hell an entire society interfere in it, as the immense hypocrites Pseudo Musalmīn do?
If Durgesh is thirty three and he still enjoys fucking an eighty five years old, yet still incredibly, wonderfully capable to enjoy sex, well experienced Musalmān lady, why should Pseudo Musalmīn interfere?
Isn’t sexual intercourse an immensely private matter?*
Imām Muħammad Ħasan’s mobile started ringing suddenly.
He smiled at me.
“Excuse me.” He said and replied on the mobile,
“Hello, oh, yes, I’m speaking from Ved Nagar now… Yes, that’s right. …Let me ask my son in law first.”
He looked at me.
“Durgesh, one of my friends’ daughters, Al Waħīdah Al Tawħīd, wants to retain you. She had talked with me when I was on the way from Makkah Al Mukarramah to Ved Nagar.”
Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī laughed.
“Imām Muħammad Ħasan, you know Durgesh’s reputation among us Musalmān Beauties.”
Imām Muħammad Ħasan smiled cunningly.
“Well, Al Waħīdah Al Tawħīd is herself twenty eight. Why the hell shouldn’t we let her decide whether she needs Durgesh’s legal advice despite his Hindu husband of Musalmān Beauties reputation, his Hindu Al Buåūlatul Muslimāt image, or not?”
Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī was as if crestfallen.
“What? What did you say?”
Imām Muħammad Ħasan smiled cunningly.
“You think I’m really a Communal Musalmān. I’m really a Pseudo Musalmān. Don’t you?” *
Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī pushed back her still miraculously extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī glorious gorgeous Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān buttocks toward my nude Hindu lap and with a great proud exhibition she once more swallowed my entire Uncut Hindu Prick into her ever tight Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt.
“Your own Musalmān house ladies tell all of us that you are a Criminal/Criminal minded Musalmān, a terrorist Musalmān. Now, tell me if a true Musalmān can be a Criminal/Criminal minded Musalmān ever? And if it cannot be ever, what are you if you are not a Pseudo Musalmān?”
“Most of you, rather I must say almost all of you our own Musalmān house ladies spread such a drastic lie about your own Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān mankind. Why? Only to get sympathy from the rest of the world.”
“And you claim it’s a lie?” Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī looked at Imām Muħammad Ħasan contemptuously.
“Well, not in every case, I do agree.”
“Not in most of the cases?”
Imām Muħammad Ħasan couldn’t answer.
“Answer me. Not in most of the cases?” Imāmzādī Ħumairah Qāzī insisted.
“Do you agree?”
“Well, unfortunately ‘yes’.”
“Then how is it a lie?”
“Your Musalmān house ladies aren’t spreading any lie against their own mankind. They are only speaking the truth. Hell, why don’t you Pseudo Musalmīn acknowledge the truth, instead of blaming us Musalmān Beauties?”*
Imām Muħammad Ħasan stepped into the field.
He never knew whether it was a superstition, his self-hypnotism, hallucination, truth or anything else.
Yet, it was true he was watching me in my so many bodies simultaneously.
It was a hall.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan’s entire extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān Houseladies were present there.
He couldn’t believe his own eyes.
His grandmothers, both paternal and maternal, his Ammīs, his sisters, cousins, daughters, everyone was there in nude.
I was fucking all of them in different sex positions.
Every one of them had my separate body.
Well, they could have been humanoid robots too.
Ved Nagar was an extremely roboticized City.
All his extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān Houseladies had encircled him among them.
Some of them were playing with my Uncut Hindu Penis.
Some of them were kissing, licking and sucking it ravenously, yet sophisticatedly nevertheless.
They were giving me a marvelous blowjob.
The circles his Musalmān Houseladies made around him weren’t perfectly round.
They were playing with my Uncut Hindu Penis surrounding Imām Muħammad Ħasan.
It was said that my Uncut Hindu Penis with the Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān Houseladies set the controls.
Their play with my Uncut Hindu Penis worked as smoothly working starting lever.
He was feeling more and more energetic among them.
Imām Muħammad Ħasan wasn’t surprised.
It wasn’t anything new to him.
He was quite used to it now.
The energy, generated thus, if any, was making him more and more energetic with every passing fraction of time.
Durgesh had said him,
“Despite my utmost efforts I couldn’t make your Musalmān Houseladies not to cuckold you. They insisted you are very dangerous to humanity. Well, since I couldn’t stop your cuckolding I want you to get its entire benefits, at least. That’s the most I can do for you, sorry, Abbū.”*
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī gave his wife a final kiss before boarding the military aircraft.
“I don’t want you to go.” She whimpered.
“Honey, I have to…I’m sorry.”
Shamsah Salāħuddīn gazed up at him, her big green eyes full of tears.
“What if you get hurt…or get killed?”
“Babe, that’s not gonna happen…I promise you.” Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī said confidently.
As he boarded the plane with the rest of his battalion, Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī gave a final wave back at his family.
Shamsah Salāħuddīn forced a smile and waved back, her 28-year-old daughter Najmah Salāħuddīn stood by her side, holding her hand.
On the other side of her was Durgesh, her lean handsome 33-year-old son in law.
Shamsah Salāħuddīn treated me not as her Hindu Son in law in law.
She treated me as if I was her own son.
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī never disappointed his wife Shamsah Salāħuddīn.
She had deliberately dropped her father’s name and was using her husband’s name instead, with her own name too, as well as with her extremely beautiful daughter, Najmah Salāħuddīn’s name.
In the face, Shamsah Salāħuddīn looked like a 38-year-old version of the Najmah Salāħuddīn.
Her body was what many would call voluptuous.
It’s not that she was fat, or even chubby for that matter.
She just had all the right curves, in all the right places.
Everyone took her to be Najmah Salāħuddīn’s elder sister, instead of her real Ammī that Shamsah Salāħuddīn actually was.
Even with his mind full of uncertainty, Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī couldn’t help but admire her extraordinary Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān beauty from the door of the plane.
Her thin cotton baby-blue mini-skirt showed off the flowing contours of her extremely beautiful gorgeous exquisite Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān buttocks and left bare the golden brown glow of her long luscious Musalmān legs.
Her button up white satin stretch blouse hugged the enormity of her middle-aged yet still miraculously erect breasts.
Her sexy little feet were displayed in a pair of dainty sandals with a 4-inch heel.
A row of baby blue rhinestones lined the strap crossing her foot, right about her cute little toes with their painted toenails.
The site of her beautiful legs made Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī think about all those nights he had them wrapped around him.
All the times that Shamsah Salāħuddīn had clutched him with her silky softness while he bucked in the smooth warm flesh of her saddle.
While they did this, he would often look back in the mirror across from their bed and marvel at the way her strong legs were wrapped around his midsection, her tiny bare feet flexing and pointing towards the ceiling.
One of the other soldiers broke Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī from his trance.
“Commander Ayyūbī, we gotta move, sir.”
As the aircrafts door closed, Shamsah Salāħuddīn sniffled and wiped another tear away.
She slid her arm around her Hindu Son in law and leaned her head to one side, resting it on my shoulder.
It was nearly two month later that the roadside bomb rattled the humvee with Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī inside.
The vehicle toppled into the desert sand, its occupants SCREAMING in pain.
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī only remembered a few moments before blacking out.
He hung upside down.
The door had imploded from the blast and crushed his legs.
He could feel the blood trickling from a gash in his forehead.
“Shamsah Salāħuddīn.” He muttered.
As his body went into shock, he had a sudden vision of his extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān wife, her big beaming green eyes staring into his…full of love.
He saw her silky tan legs through the mirror, clutching around him, her little feet flexing…bobbing in the air from the power of his thrusts.
Then…everything went black.*
He heard his name being called.
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī’s eyes peered open and into the face of a military doctor.
“Can you hear me Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī? Can you hear my voice?” The man asked.
“Yes.” Came the reply.
“That’s good…that’s excellent.” The doctor smiled.
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī gazed around the room.
“Where am I?”
“You’re back home. You’re at the Base Hospital. You’re battalion took quite a hit. You’ve been in a coma for about six days.”
“Where’s my wife?” Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī asked.
“She’s been here a lot by your side, but it’s the middle of the night. I’ll have the nurse call her right away,” the doctor said.
Thirty minutes later Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī heard the rushing CLICK of his wife’s heels moving up the hospital hallway.
She stepped into the room, her beautiful face glowing with anticipation.
“Ohhh Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī.” She said in relief, rushing over and carefully embracing him on the bed.
“Hi baby.” He said, nearly in tears himself.
The early morning hours passed and after a series of scans and examinations of Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī, the doctor joined Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī and his wife in Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī’s room.
“So doc, my legs…are the done for good?” Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī asked.
“I’m afraid so, Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī. The force of that blast not only did severe damage to your legs, but also your spinal column. The good news is you still have healthy blood flow, which prevented us from having to amputate. However, it’s gonna be a long road to recovery,” the doctor explained.
Shamsah Salāħuddīn looked absolutely devastated.
“Will he have any chance of overcoming the paralysis, with the right type of physical therapy maybe?”
“I’m afraid at this point it looks permanent. The damage was just too severe. I’m sorry.”
The doctor left the room and Shamsah Salāħuddīn seemed to stare into space as if shocked by the news.
Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī squeezed her hand.
“I’m sorry baby.” He said.
“You lied.” She muttered.
She glared down at him, her eyes full of tears.
“You lied to me. You promised me nothing would happen to you over there. YOU FUCKING LIED!”
Shamsah Salāħuddīn stood up, pulled her hand away from Salāħuddīn Ayyūbī’s and began sobbing as she stormed out of the room.
“Shamsah Salāħuddīn…Shamsah Salāħuddīn, come back. Baby I’m…”*
It was nearly 5am when Shamsah Salāħuddīn arrived back home.
They chose a modest three-bedroom ranch in a middle-class neighborhood, just across town from base.
The middle aged, yet still extremely beautiful, Shamsah Salāħuddīn, moved up the hallway and peeked in on her daughter.
She found Najmah Salāħuddīn sleeping comfortably.
A few minutes later 33 year old Durgesh turned onto my side in bed.
My eyes peeked open and I saw my Ammī in law’s curvy silhouette in his doorway.
She was leaning with her hands against the doorframe and just seemed to be hovering there…watching me.
“Ammī, everything ok with Abbū?”
Shamsah Salāħuddīn slowly sashayed across the room and sat on her Hindu Son in law’s bedside.
“Thank you for staying here and watching your wife for me.”
“Oh, Of course…”
“Your Abbū’s awake, but I’m afraid his injuries are pretty extensive,” she said, then went on to explain the doctor’s findings.
“So when’s he coming home?” I asked.
“Not positive yet. The doctor said as early as a few days.”
“Wow, I can’t believe all of this has happened.” I muttered.
Tenderly, Shamsah Salāħuddīn had brushed her Hindu Son in law’s bangs out of my eyes with her long nails.
“That makes the two of us Durgesh, my dear son in law.” She said.
After a short silence, I heard my Ammī in law, Shamsah Salāħuddīn, sniffle.
“Don’t cry Ammī. It’ll be OK.”
She rubbed my strong shoulder.
“I know sweetie. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” I asked almost scolding her as if, yet still with immense respect.
I knew she was behind her daughter’s marriage with me.
There were strong rumors that she didn’t marry her daughter with me for her daughter actually.
She was herself after me.
My marriage with her daughter was only an excuse as she conditioned the marriage with asking me to let her daughter still with her.
It meant my frequent presence there nonstop.
Even in the dim early morning darkness, I could see my Ammī in law, Shamsah Salāħuddīn’s misty eyes, gazing down at me.
“Can I just…lay here with you for awhile? Do you mind?” Shamsah Salāħuddīn asked softly.
“No, not at all, Ammījān,” I said, scotching over on my small twin sized bed.
Shamsah Salāħuddīn slipped her little feet from their heels and curled her luscious legs up on her Hindu Son in law’s bed.
I was on my back.
She slid over close to me.
Lying on her side, she rested her head on my shoulder.
“Will you hold me, please?” She sniffled.
“Sure, Ammījān,” I muttered, curling my arms around her.
4. On History
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