Adel
It was Friday, a rare day off from the construction grind. The living room lay in disarray, the pull-out couch still unfolded, its sheets tangled from Adel and Reda’s night. A half-smoked joint smoldered in an ashtray on the table, its scent mingling with the lingering grease of yesterday’s takeout. The big bedroom door hung ajar, Nasser and Tarek’s snores rumbling faintly from within, while Karim sprawled on his mattress by the window, a limp sprawl of limbs lost to another haze. In the small bedroom, Sami knelt on a prayer mat, seeking a moment of peace amid the chaos he ruled.
A sharp rap at the door cut through the stillness, jolting the apartment awake. Adel, slouched on the couch, glanced around, no one else moved, Reda frozen mid-bite of a stale pita next to him, so he shuffled to the door, muttering, “Who the fuck now?” The peephole revealed Alexis. Pink streak glinting in the hall’s dim light, cropped tee riding up, nail polish flashing as he shifted a bag of groceries at his feet. Adel’s gut twisted, the choking sound that obsessed him ringing through his mind after three nights of hearing it, and the rest. He cracked the door, “What do you want, fag?”
Alexis’s lips quirked into a sly grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. The rudeness rolled off him like nothing. “Hey, neighbor,” he said in Arabic, voice light and teasing, no hint of an accent, “just a heads-up, there’s gonna be some noise tonight. I’m throwing a party, but I’ll keep it early. No more music and everyone out at one, max.”
Adel’s face scrunched, his curiosity spilling out in a rude jab. “What, a fucking gay orgy or some shit?” The faggot’s boldness pissed him off, but those gasps, fuck, he couldn’t unhear them.
The faggot was smirking at him, like his question was amusing.
Before Alexis could answer, a shadow loomed from the small bedroom. Sami stormed out, furious, his prayer interrupted. The mat still lay crumpled behind him, his moment of sanctity shattered by this fucking queer at his door. “Adel, are you fucking kidding me?” he barked in Arabic, shoving past to loom in the doorway, his tall frame dwarfing Alexis. His eyes blazed, locking on the pink-haired brat. “What do you want?” he switched to French, voice dripping with venom, not giving the faggot the dignity of exchanging in Arabic.
Alexis didn’t flinch. Sami’s anger was hot, and damn if it didn’t spark something in him. “Like I told him,” the fag said, nodding at Adel, “party tonight. Noise, but it’ll stop at one am. Didn’t want you caught off guard.” His tone stayed polite, almost playful.
Sami’s fists clenched, his disgust boiling over. “You’re interrupting prayer.” Stepping closer, towering over Alexis, “we don’t need your fucking warnings.” With a jerk, he slammed the door, the bang reverberating through the apartment and hall.
Inside, Sami turned on Adel, his voice rising to a furious pitch as he yelled in French, loud enough to carry through the thin wood. “I said no one talk to the faggot!” And he meant it, his righteousness the only shield against the intrusion. Adel shrank back, his ears red, stammering, “I didn’t! He just knocked!” but Sami’s glare silenced him.
Beyond the door, a laugh floated through the hall. Alexis, unfazed, his amusement a soft taunt.
Nasser
Nasser trudged toward the old townhouse, his tracksuit clinging to his sweaty skin, the three flights of stairs looming like a punishment. He’d spent hours at the hookah place, sucking on flavored smoke and scrolling hookup apps, his thumb swiping through a sea of bitches who never matched. Not one of them willing to swipe on his profile meant there definitely would not ever be one of them willing to take it up the ass like he wanted. Or even just give him a quick suck, for good luck. Sober now, the buzz long faded, he relished the idea of getting home, sparking a fat joint, and letting the hash melt his frustration into a haze.
He pushed through the building’s creaking door when Idriss stepped in, all wiry energy and flash, cornrows glinting with gold beads, Puma tracksuit loud against the drab walls. Nasser’s gut tightened, recognizing the thug from seeing him coming and going since Alexis moved in three days ago, and hearing those growls, that rhythmic thudding so fucking often. Idriss grinned, gold tooth flashing, and clapped Nasser on the shoulder like they were old pals. “Hey, man, you live up there too?” he asked in Arabic, his voice a smooth rumble as they started up the stairs together, boots thudding on the worn steps.
Nasser nodded, trying to match the friendliness, though his mind raced. “Yeah, third floor,” he said in English, keeping it short. Idriss kept talking, casual as hell: how long you been here, how many you got crammed up there?
Nasser answered in clips: “Like, a year. Six of us.” He didn’t spill much, wary of this guy. He’d seen Alexis flitting around, him getting fucked raw by this bastard, those slaps and gasps loud through the wall. Idriss seemed chill now, but Nasser’s street smarts prickled. What if he was the jealous type, or the angry type, the kind who’d bash your skull for looking at his fag too long or the wrong way?
They hit the second landing, Idriss still chatting, unfazed by the climb. “Alexis is throwing a party tonight,” he said, switching to French with a grin, “gonna be some noise, heads-up.”
Nasser’s ears perked and he seized the opening. “You need hash for it? I can hook you up, and I’m just next door, no messy deals outside where the cops can show up,” he asked, his mind already counting euros.
Idriss laughed, a loud, rolling sound. “Nah, man, I got Alexis covered,” patting his pocket where a bulge hinted at his stash. “But swing by anyway, I’ll buy fifty off of you, taste your shit. See if it’s as good as mine.”
“Alright, I’m in,” he said, enthusiasm slipping out, his earlier anger fading at the prospect of cash and a peek inside.
They reached the third floor, Idriss peeling off toward Alexis’s door without a knock, pushing it open like he owned the place. “Yo, princess, your dildo’s here!” he called in English, voice booming, and the door swung shut behind him.
Nasser stood there a beat, staring at the closed wood, curiosity gnawing. He’d heard them fucking, but seeing them together? That’d be something. Live porn. The faggot bent over for this flashy bastard, maybe right now, and Nasser’s dick twitched at the thought, half-hard from the promise of tonight. He smirked, heading into Sami’s place, already plotting. Fifty euros, a look at the fag’s place, and maybe a chance to stick it to annoy Sami.
Sami
Inside Sami’s cramped refuge, the walls felt they were closing in, squeezing tighter with every laugh and shout that seeped across the hall. The party was loud now, fucking faggots and their queer noise, Sami thought, his teeth grinding as he paced the worn linoleum of the living room. Only four of them remained tonight: Sami, Nasser, Reda, and Karim, the other two youngins scattered. Karim sprawled on his mattress by the window, high and mostly unresponsive, Reda perched silently on the pull-out couch, playing on his phone, and Nasser lounging against the wall, rolling a joint with that smug fucking smirk.
Sami’s blood boiled as he watched Nasser’s calm defiance. “You’re not going over there,” Sami snapped, cutting through the party’s din. “Not to that faggot’s place with his queer little friends.” His fists clenched, the memory of Alexis’s smug grin at the door that morning burning. Now the noise mocked him, every thud a reminder of that pink-haired bitch getting railed every damn day and night. Like he was celebrating it with a party.
Nasser didn’t even flinch as he met Sami’s glare. “It’s just a deal, man,” he said, lazy. “Idriss wants a fifty. Business, not fucking fairy shit. I’m not going over there to get my nails done.” His dark eyes glinted, daring Sami to push, relishing the chance to shove back. “But if they tie me up and force me to choose a color, it’s gonna be green, yeah? Anyway, I’m not going over there to see the fag, just to hang with Idriss.”
Sami’s temper snapped, his face twisting with disgust. “Idriss? That nigger’s a faggot too!” he spat in Arabic, loud enough for the walls to carry it. “I don’t care who’s fucking who, a fag’s a fag.” His chest heaved, the image of Idriss plowing Alexis making his stomach churn. It was a disease, a stain right across the hall, and now Nasser wanted to hang out there like it was the damn café. “How can you even think of being in that room, touching that furniture, when they’ve fucked all over it like the animals they are.”
The room crackled as the argument flared. Karim, rousing from his haze, propped up on an elbow, his voice slurring, “Sami’s right, man, those fags are trash. Stay here.” His support was half-assed, but Sami for once ignored Karim’s substance abuse.
Reda, though, said nothing, his gaze darting between them, lips tight. Just a kid still, barely 18, Sami didn’t expect much from him, except for respect. He simply hoped the kid was learning, and not from Nasser who hated every rule or Karim who couldn’t enjoy a single thing without doing it twice more as the average person.
Nasser’s smirk vanished, his posture stiffening as he stepped closer, the joint dangling from his fingers. “You’re not my dad, Sami, or our collective fucking dad, I pay you rent, utilities and groceries and I’m an adult, so I don’t need your fucking leash.”
The words hit like a punch. Sami liked to think himself the provider, the protector, and always tried to forget the apartment wasn’t his dictatorship but a participative democracy. His paper meant he was a name on a lease that could hide all five of the others, and he wouldn’t ever had used their citizenship status against them, so he had nothing to control them at all, especially if they truly wanted to ignore their culture, their people, their faith. All decency.
But Sami had a legitimate worry, still, which he could employ as a last resort. “Don’t you forget our situation, here, Nasser. That faggot can very well see we’re six people in a two bedroom the size of his, and he can deduce why, same as his boyfriend or whatever he is. That nigger could report us, turn us in to the cops, get me fined or jailed, and get you all deported.” His authority hung on that, the only card he had left.
Nasser laughed, an incredulous bark that grated on Sami’s nerves. “Idriss? Report us? The dude smokes as much as us, same as the fag, or can’t you smell ? They’re no snitches. You’re paranoid, man.” He crushed the joint in the ashtray and grabbed his satchel, putting his phone, stash, papers and cigarettes in, his movements deliberate, a fuck-you in every gesture.
Sami’s hands twitched, itching to slam him against the wall, but Nasser was already moving, brushing past him toward the door.
“I’m an adult,” Nasser threw back, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Not scared of you, or a few faggots.”
Tarek
The harbor stretched out beyond the pretty marina and the gleaming cruise docks, past the commercial sprawl of cranes and rusting freighters, into a grittier edge where the salt air turned sour. There Tarek prowled a small park, a no-man’s-land he knew the fags haunted, made entirely of dark corners, shadowed benches, alleys and bushes, places where deals went down and queers chased dick. He hadn’t come to Battery Park since the previous summer, when he’d had enough with fags offering him money and sex. Now he hung out nonchalantly around the canon that gave the park its name, like a murderer back at the scene of the crime. He couldn’t help himself.
The noises gnawed at him. Alexis’s high-pitched “Harder!” and those choked gasps as Idriss fucked him raw, night after night. His head was a fog of hashish, smoked heavy all afternoon after work, tired from construction and in the best disposition for any drug to hit, at the apartment and with mates, topped off by two hours of cheap vodka shots at some white people bar downtown. Now, half-drunk and wired, he stalked the night, restless and pissed at nothing, and everything. Just pissed.
He’d dressed for it. His tightest football jersey, a faded Tunisian red he’d worn from sixteen to seventeen, now two years outdated in size, that hugged his lean, muscled chest, showing off the bulk he still carried from his pitch days. Soccer shorts clung to his hips, cut high to flaunt his hairy, strong legs, thick with dark curls he knew turned heads. No socks, just slides slapping against his bare feet. He remembered some old fag years back, drooling to suck his toes, and fuck if that didn’t stick with him. The outfit screamed jock, but the bare feet hinted at something else, a bait.
Before Battery Park, he’d stumbled through that bar, full of blonde tourists and preppy French bitches sipping wine, trying to pull. First was a tall brunette, all legs, chatting with her friend. Tarek leaned in, breath sour with booze, grinning, “You look good in that dress,” in French, imagining her bent over the bar, dress hiked up, his 11 inches slamming her ass while she squealed. Her eyes widened, and she muttered, “Creep,” in French, turning away. Next, a curly-haired chick with a tight top. He slurred, “You’re prettier than your friends, you know,” picturing her gagging on his cock, spit dripping, her tits bouncing as he facefucked her. She recoiled, “Fuck off,” and grabbed her bag. Last was a petite blonde, giggling with her group. He growled, “Your body’s amazing, do you go to the gym or something?” in Arabic, seeing her on her knees, his foot on her back, pounding her cunt raw. Her laugh died, and she scurried off, whispering to her friends.
Each rejection had fueled his rage, and the hash and vodka kept his mind looping to Alexis’s moans and pleas. No girls had ever said “Harder!” to Tarik, ever. They’d all said, “You’re hurting me,” all of them, even when he was going slow and soft, even the very first time when he’d not known what to do and the hooker had sat on his cock herself, deciding on her own how deep and how fast, and it still had hurt her.
Tarek moved onto a bench, pulling out a joint. For twenty minutes, he smoked, scrolling Instagram thirst traps his free hand brushing his bulge, half-hard and restless. Then, an older man, fifties maybe, fag written all over him, shuffled through the park. Thin, balding, hunched in a cheap jacket, his eyes darted toward Tarek, hungry and quick. Tarek caught his gaze, nodded once, a sharp jut of his chin, and the man edged closer, voice low and eager. “Fifty euros,” he said in French, “if I can suck you off.” His hand twitched toward his pocket, already pulling the bill.
Tarek’s lip curled, but his dick jumped. Fifty euros was fifty euros. Money had always made him just as hard as girls. “Yeah, fine,” he grunted, standing, towering over the fag.
The man grinned, nervous but greedy, and led him into the bushes, the branches scraping Tarek’s bare legs. In the shadows, the fag dropped to his knees, handing over the crumpled bill. Fifty, right there. Tarek snatched it, stuffing it in his shorts, and the man reached for his waistband, fingers trembling.
Before the fag could touch him, Tarek’s foot lashed out, hard kick square to the fucker’s face. “Fucking queer!” he roared in Arabic, spit flying, the man sprawling back with a yelp, blood spurting from his nose. Tarek lunged, ripping the wallet from the fag’s jacket and kicked again, a brutal shot to the balls. The man doubled over, gasping, but Tarek was already bolting, crashing through the bushes, the wallet and fifty in his grip, running as fast as he could with bare feet in Adidas slides. His heart pounded, adrenaline surging, a sick grin splitting his face. Fucking easy money, taught that fag a lesson. But as he ran, Alexis’s gasps flickered back… younger, smoother, not some old prick… and his cock stayed hard the whole run in his flimsy shorts.
Nasser
The party at Alexis’s place roared to life, the sleek apartment a stark contrast to Sami’s cluttered dump across the hall. Nasser had stepped in, stash in pocket, expecting some freaky queer shit to weird him out and yeah, for a minute, it did. The room buzzed with fags in tight shirts, lesbians with buzzcuts, and a few straight couples, girls already draped over their guys, untouchable. But the vibe wasn’t alien. Just a basic bash, music thumping from a Bluetooth speaker, drinks sloshing in red cups, joints passing hand to hand, and a couple of lines of coke dusted on pocket mirror. Within a minute of arriving, everybody had said hello to him, asking no weird questions, and he’d had a drink in hand and a joint in the other. The crowd was loud, welcoming, shouting over the beat, and Nasser relaxed fast, the hashish deal with Idriss pulling him into the fold.
Now, sprawled on a plush couch, Nasser shared his third beer and fifth joint with Idriss, the two of them sinking into a hazy camaraderie. The weed was good, from his own stash, fifty euros lighter after Idriss paid up, and the beer chased it smooth. They’d swapped surface shit: Idriss was 22, like Alexis, born in Nice to a Senegalese dad and Tunisian mom. He bragged about hustling hash and odd jobs since he was a kid. Nasser was two years older, from Cairo’s slums, flexed about dodging the army and selling dope in France. The chatter flowed easy, Idriss’s gold-toothed grin and loud laugh cutting through the party noise, and Nasser felt himself getting comfortable, his earlier anger at Sami fading into the atmosphere of this party, like any party.
The room spun slightly as Nasser leaned in, voice low, making sure no one else caught it over the music. “So, what’s up with you and the faggot?” he asked after hours of almost doing it, nodding toward Alexis.
Idriss shrugged, exhaling smoke, his grin lazy. “Can’t you hear?” he said in English, voice dripping with cocky pride, like it was obvious.
Nasser blinked, thrown by the openness. Fucking hell, this guy didn’t even blink. “He your boyfriend or what?” he pressed, curiosity outweighing the weirdness.
Idriss chuckled, sipping his beer. “More like a girlfriend, and my best friend I fuck. Little princess takes it good.” Nasser’s gut jolted. Girlfriend? But Idriss kept going, blunt as hell. “He’s got a deep throat, a tight ass, he loves doing crazy shit, like, he eats my ass, licks my feet, whatever I want. Best fucking girlfriend you can imagine.”
Nasser’s mind reeled, picturing a small, submissive chick kneeling for him, tongue on his hairy ass, sucking his toes, taking his ten inches raw in her ass without complaint. Then it flipped. He couldn’t help but imagine Alexis, that skinny fag, doing it instead, those painted hands spreading his ass cheeks, an eager tongue digging in while Nasser relaxed on the couch, feet up, cock leaking. His dick twitched, half-hard under his tracksuit, and he shifted, covering it with a cough. “Will the noise really stop at one, tonight?”
Idriss laughed, loud and rough. “Hell no,” he said in English, “you’ll hear my faggot princess getting fucked senseless.” His eyes flicked down, catching the bulge Nasser couldn’t hide, and he smirked, leaning back. “You know, we’re open, man, like, we don’t need each other’s permission for shit. He’s free if you want.”
Nasser’s breath caught, his mind racing. Idriss was just… offering Alexis. But Nasser couldn’t even fixate on that casualness, his mind hijacked by the thought of finally trying anal for the first time, not with some prissy bitch who’d say no or fight back all the way, but a fag’s tight hole, a professional, Alexis whimpering under him like he did for Idriss. He could almost feel it, slamming in deep, that pale ass red from his hands.
Then his roommates flashed. Sami’s “disease” rant, Karim’s slurred backup, Tarek’s fists, Adel’s giggles, Reda’s silence. “Can’t,” he muttered in English, “I’m Muslim.” A weak shield, but it was there. He still had to respect something, somewhere.
Idriss shrugged, unfazed, popping the joint between his lips. “So am I,” he said in Arabic, casual as fuck, like it meant nothing.
Nasser’s eyes widened. This was gold, pure gold. Sami’s head would explode, that sanctimonious cunt choking on his own rules while Idriss fucked a fag without a care. Nasser would have fucked the little fag right in the middle of the guys’ apartment if it could mean exploding Sami’s head. The party pulsed around them, but Nasser’s world narrowed to that image, the hash and beer blurring the line between no and maybe.
The party churned on, the thumping bass steady, but Nasser barely noticed, sunk deep into the couch with Idriss. They’d been talking all night, hashish loosening their tongues, beers piling up, swapping stories about deals gone wrong and dumbasses they’d outsmarted. Around midnight, the crowd thinned, fags and dykes stumbling out with sloppy goodbyes, straight couples trailing off, leaving the apartment a mess of cups, ash, and coke-dusted tables. Idriss and Alexis started cleaning, tossing trash into bags, but they kept Nasser pinned with talk, like they didn’t want him gone. Idriss wiped down the table, asking, “Your supplier—he in Marseille? Mine’s in Nice. Your shit’s good, you should give me your Snap, I’ll get more from you.”
Nasser nodded, flicking ash from his sixth joint. “Yeah, man, no worry.”
Alexis chimed in, sweeping crumbs off the floor, his pink streak catching the light. “How you guys even manage—six in a place like this?” he asked in English, gesturing at the wall shared with Sami’s dump.
Nasser snorted, “Fucking tight, man, it’s bullshit all day long.” They laughed, the vibe easy, but Nasser’s eyes kept drifting. Alexis’s cropped tee riding up, Idriss’s grin flashing gold.
The place tidied up fast, the last cup bagged, and Idriss grabbed Alexis mid-motion, yanking him close. Their lips crashed together, a hard, messy kiss, Alexis melting into it with a little moan. Idriss broke off, one of his hands still on Alexis’ ass, turned to Nasser, still sprawled on the couch, and said, flat as fuck, “Don’t mind if you go first.”
Alexis blinked at Idriss, surprised, after Idriss nodded, grinned at Nasser. “I agree, it would be cool,” he said, voice soft, inviting, like it was no big deal. Just a thing they did.
Which, probably, it really was.
Nasser froze, his dick stirring but his gut twisting. “They hear everything,” he whispered suddenly, nodding at the wall
Alexis shrugged, flicking the speaker back on, bass thumping low. “Music stays on,” he said, smirking.
Idriss leaned in, joint dangling, his tone blunt. “Just take him to the bedroom,” pointing to the open door behind him, away from the connecting wall, “and test his throat, man, get your nut quick, see if you wanna come back when the Muslim police ain’t watching.”
Nasser’s mind spun. Sami, that prick, acting like their fucking dad, “No one talks to the faggot” echoing in his head. Fuck him. He stood, stepping closer to Alexis, who smiled up at him.
“You’re hot,” Alexis said, simple as that, his eyes tracing Nasser’s sweaty bulk.
Nasser scoffed, scratching his hairy chest through his tracksuit. “Women don’t think so, man, they say I’m a hairy ape,” he growled in Arabic, half-expecting rejection.
Idriss laughed, loud and rough. “He loves that shit,” clapping Nasser’s shoulder. “Hairy cock, hairy ass, drives him wild.” Alexis’s grin widened, a little nod confirming it, and Idriss nudged Nasser toward the hall. “Bedroom, man. Rape his throat, he’ll take it.”
Alexis bounced ahead, leading the way, his shorts hugging his skinny ass as he pushed open the bedroom door, revealing a small space, bed messy with bright sheets, far from Sami’s ears.
Nasser hesitated, the hash and beer buzzing in his veins, Sami’s voice a faint snarl in his mind. But Idriss’s shrug, Alexis’s smile, and that tight ass waiting tipped him over. Fuck it, he’d wanted anal forever, he was ready to settle for a quick blowjob now, and this fag was begging for it anyway, leading him to the bedroom himself while his boyfriend/best friend/something else watched, approved, encouraged.
Nasser stepped into the room, Alexis trailing close, the door clicking shut behind them. Nasser stood in the small space, the messy bed with its yellow sheets, a splash of color against the dim light and the grey walls, his pulse hammering from the fucking insanity of it all. “Where should I be?” he asked, voice gruff, shifting awkwardly as Alexis turned to him.
“Standing, sitting, laying, it’s all fine, you choose” he said curling the words, his eyes raking Nasser with obvious lust. “Can you take off your shirt?” he asked, voice soft but wanting, like he’d been waiting for this.
Nasser’s brow furrowed. Fucking weird fag, but he shrugged. “You sure?” he asked, half to himself, already peeling the damp Under Armour tracksuit top over his head. The fabric dropped onto the bed, a sweaty heap, revealing his broad chest, thick with dark hair curling down to his gut. “I’ll stand,” he said, planting his feet, his dick already stirring under his pants from the way Alexis stared, like he was meat, not a man. That thought turned him more than he’d have thought, that someone finally wanted him like he wanted girls, almost with cartoon eyes jumping out of the skull.
Alexis stepped closer, not touching yet, his nose flaring as he leaned in, blatantly sniffing Nasser’s musk.
Nasser’s face heated, a flush under his dark skin. “Sorry, I’m fucking sweaty,” he grunted in English, scratching his matted chest hair, embarrassed but still curious what the fag thought.
“You smell good,” Alexis said, voice low, a little moan in it, his eyes half-lidded like Nasser’s stink was a damn drug. He paused, then asked, “Can I smell under your arms?” softly, almost shy, but the lust in it was loud.
Nasser’s gut jolted, but a thrill shot through him, his dick twitching harder. “All for you, faggot,” he said in English, smirking as he raised both arms, locking them behind his head. His pits opened up, thick with coarse black hair, glistening with sweat from the day’s heat and the party’s haze. Alexis started polite, with small sniffs, nose hovering an inch away, breathing in the sharp, musky tang. Then he lost it, shoving his face in, huffing deep like a junkie snorting a line, his breath hot against Nasser’s skin, going back in, left than right, restless. The sniffing turned to kissing. Wet, sloppy presses of lips, then licking, Alexis’s tongue dragging through the hair, lapping up sweat, a hungry little groan rumbling in his throat.
Nasser’s breath hitched, his cock swelling as Alexis’s hands slid down, fingers brushing his bulge through the tracksuit pants. The fag played with it, teasing the outline, and Nasser grew fully hard, a wet spot blooming where precum soaked through. Nasser felt himself leaking already, the heat of Alexis’s mouth on his pit and that hand on his dick driving him wild.
Alexis pulled back just enough to look down, eyes widening. “You’re fucking huge,” he said, his painted fingers tracing the straining fabric.
Nasser’s chest puffed, pride surging. He knew his ten inches were big, women always wincing, struggling to take it, bitching it was too big, but also from comparing with guys he saw in porn. This fag was excited about it, not scared. And Nasser realized then, Alexis had spoken in Arabic. “Say it again.”
Alexis bit his lips. “Your cock is so huge,” again in Arabic, in a whisper, like Nasser had always wanted the girls back home to say to him.
“On your knees,” he ordered in Arabic, voice a low growl, the thrill overriding the weirdness of a dude saying it.
Alexis dropped fast, hitting the floor with military precision, his hands yanking Nasser’s pants and boxers down in one quick pull. The cock sprang free, thick and heavy, a solid ten inches of dark meat veined and slick with precum, smacking Alexis across the cheek with a wet slap. The fag froze, staring in awe, then leaned in, kissing it softly, with reverent pecks along the shaft, lips brushing the leaking tip, slowly adding tongue, spit, moans. He started sucking, slow and gentle, tongue swirling, spit coating it as he worked, covering Nasser’s prick in a shiny sheen, making it ready.
Alexis pulled off for a second, stroking the slick length with both hands, spreading the spit. “You can grab my head and fuck my face, hard, deep, however you want, starting now.” And before Nasser could blink, Alexis dove back in, swallowing him whole, lips stretching wide, throat opening, taking it balls-deep to the root, his nose buried in Nasser’s hairy pubes.
Fuck, this fag’s throat was tight, hot, better than any chick. An instinct flared, screaming this was wrong, queer shit. But the feel of it, Alexis gagging softly, eyes watering up at him, snuffed that out fast. He grabbed the fag’s head, thick fingers tangling in that pink-streaked buzzcut, and started moving. Slow thrusts at first, testing the wet heat, the maximum depth. But when he buried all thick ten inches balls deep again in under three seconds with total ease, he gave up on his experimenting. Nasser knew what to do.
So he let loose, hips snapping, fucking Alexis’s face, vigorous and rough, the room filling with sloppy gurgles and choked gasps. His cock rammed deep, bulging Alexis’s throat, spit dripping down the fag’s chin as Nasser escalated. His right hand pulling on the fag’s hair, the left pushing on the back of the fag’s head, he got vicious, relentless, started pounding like he was trying to break him.
Alexis took it all, hands caressing Nasser’s hairy thighs rather than gripping or pushing back, moaning around the brutal thrusts, his submission a fucking green light. No chick had ever taken him like this, and fuck if it didn’t feel right.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 12:57 a.m., shit, almost 1. Idriss’s words echoed: music stopping at one. Sami’s crew might still be listening, waiting for quiet. Nasser’s balls ached, tight and heavy, but he wasn’t there yet. Ttoo much hash, too much headspace. He needed to nut, fast, before the noise betrayed him. And the fag was making noise or, rather, Nasser was pulling noise out the fag: wet squelching, forced breathing, moans and gaps.
His thrusts slowed for a beat, then he leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper, rough and filthy. “You fucking love this, don’t you, you fag bitch?” he hissed, his cock still buried deep, pulsing in that tight throat. “Choking on my dick like a good little fag, better than any cunt I’ve had, sniffing my pubes, you fucking love that, don’t you, slut?”
Alexis’s eyes fluttered up, watering but bright with want, a muffled whimper vibrating around Nasser’s shaft. The fag was into it, feeding off the venom. Nasser grinned, cruel and cocky, his fingers twisting harder in Alexis’s hair. “Take it deeper, you dirty slut, you are lower than a whore,” he whispered, shoving his hips forward, forcing a gag that made Alexis’s throat clench tight. “Swallow that fat cock. Show me how good of a fleshlight you are.” His voice dripped with scorn, but the thrill of it lit him up, his precum leaking steady now, slicking the fag’s throat.
The clock ticked 12:58 and Nasser’s dirty talk sharpened, a floodgate busted open. “Fucking faggot princess,” he rasped, yanking Alexis’s head back just to slam it down again, his cock ramming balls-deep, pubes smashing against the fag’s nose. “You’re made for this, huh, sucking my sweaty dick, licking my hairy ass like a bitch in heat. Idriss trained you good, huh? Little toy for big cocks.”
Alexis gurgled, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth, his hands pushing on Nasser’s ass now, nails biting skin, a sign he fucking loved the filth, the degradation, wanted more. Fuck, this was better than any chick, no begging, just taking it raw.
“Gonna nut down your fag throat,” he whispered, voice a low growl now, hips snapping faster, vicious and unyielding. “Drink it, you cocksucking slut, every drop, like the nasty little bitch you are.” His balls slapped Alexis’s chin with every thrust, the wet smack echoing in the small room, drowning the music. Alexis’s throat spasmed, a choked moan ripping out, and Nasser felt it, the edge, right there. “Fucking take it, faggot, drink my nut,” he snarled, one last vicious shove, his hands locking Alexis’s head in place, nose crushed against his pubes.
His cock pulsed, thick and hot, unloading straight down that tight throat a flood of cum the fag swallowed fast, gulping it down like he was starved. It was the first time anyone deepthroated or swallowed Nasser. And it was fucking fire.
Nasser’s legs shook, breath ragged as he held Alexis there, milking the last spurts, the clock hitting 12:59. He pulled out slow, his dick slick and shining, a string of spit and cum dangling from the tip to Alexis’s swollen lips. The fag gasped, coughing, but grinned up at him, tongue out, still eager, eyes glassy with lust. Nasser’s chest heaved, proud. Ten inches, and this queer took it like a champ, no bitching. The worry about going fag lingered, but dominating this willing throat, defying Sami’s bullshit, that overpowered it.
Idriss was right: test it, see if he wanted to come back. Nasser wiped his cock on Alexis’s cheek, smirking, “Good fag,” in Arabic.
Alexis knelt on the hardwood, chest heaving, catching his breath in ragged gasps, his lips swollen and slick with Nasser’s load. “Fuck, thank you, man,” he panted, voice hoarse but dripping with gratitude. “That was, shit, so good, thank you, your cock is so, so fucking good...” His painted nails brushed the floor, steadying him, his eyes locked on Nasser with a mix of awe and hunger, like he’d just won a prize.
Nasser stood over him, legs still shaky from unloading, his ten-inch cock softening but still glistening with spit. The fag’s profuse thanks stoked his ego. Fuck yeah, he’d wrecked that throat. Assurance settled in, drowning the last flickers of doubt.
He reached down, thick fingers snagging Alexis’s hair, yanking his head back to force those watery eyes up at him. “I’m coming back,” Nasser said in a growl. “Wanna try anal, always wanted to, never could with bitches. They’re too fucking scared, won’t take it.” His grip tightened, his hairy chest puffing with the confession. After years of chasing ass, getting shut down, this fag offering it up. He wanted it.
Alexis’s grin widened, a little cough breaking his breath as he nodded fast. “My asshole’s yours,” he said in English, eager, almost desperate. “Do whatever you want, fuck it hard, deep, anything.” His voice trembled with promise, his pale hands twitching like he’d spread right then if Nasser asked.
Nasser’s dick twitched, half-hard again at the thought of slamming into that tight hole, no whining, just taking it like the fag did his throat. But hesitation crept in. Sami’s rage, the guys’ grumbles, the wall’s betrayal. He tightened his hold on Alexis’s hair, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You keep this shit secret, all of it, swear it, or I’ll fuck you up.” His dark eyes bored into Alexis, searching for a crack, needing the fag locked down.
“I swear,” Alexis said quick, hand over his heart. “Fuck, I want more of that cock, man. Promise.”
Nasser exhaled, tension easing, his mind already spinning ahead. Idriss’s words about the open relationship, the tight ass, dangled like bait, and this fag was begging for it. He paused, then leaned closer, voice a gruff murmur. “You’d eat my ass?” he asked, adding, “It’s hairy as fuck… and sweaty too.” His cheeks clenched under the tracksuit pants, self-conscious but horny, wondering if the fag’s kinks really went that far.
Alexis’s eyes lit up, and he tugged free of Nasser’s grip, scrambling to his feet. “Turn around,” he said, voice a little shaky with excitement, already pushing on Nasser’s hips. Nasser did, slow, dropping his pants lower to bare his ass. Round, muscled, covered in a thick mat of coarse black hair, glistening with sweat from the night’s heat.
Alexis stared, a soft “Oh, wow,” slipping out in English, his breath hitching. He stepped closer, not touching yet, just drinking it in. “I’d let you sit on my face,” he said, voice low and reverent, like it was a fucking honor. “Lick it for hours, the whole fucking night, for fucking breakfast… fuck, I’d love that.”
Nasser’s gut jolted, picturing it, this fag’s tongue buried in his hairy crack, rimming him raw while he ground down. No chick had ever offered that, and here was Alexis, practically drooling for it, and looking almost like a chick. The fag’s face was still covered in spit and even a bit of cum.
The clock hit 1:03 a.m., the music now off. Nasser smirked, turning back, his dick stiffening again at the promise. Anal, ass-eating, a secret stash of filth right across the hall. “Good,” he grunted in Arabic, a final stamp of control. He could even talk to the bitch without effort, without having to think in a foreign language. It wasn’t just about pissing of Sami. It was gold on its own. “Next time, though, I want to blow up that fucking asshole, yeah ?”
“Oh, yeah. Please.”
Next : someone gets offered help, someone refuses to help, and someone fulfills a promise
