Nasser
A week since Nasser’s first brutal plunge into Alexis’s tight hole, and that was all he could think about.
Early night in the living room, the TV flickering with the outdated hum of FIFA, three years old, a bargain-bin relic the crew had scraped €50 for a year back, alongside a creaky console and two other scratched discs no one played.
Nasser slouched on the pull-out couch, hairy legs splayed, Under Armour tracksuit damp with sweat, his gold tooth glinting as he mashed the controller, grunting in Arabic, “Fuck this lag,” at Reda, perched beside him. Reda, lean and quiet in his big hoodie, shrugged, tapping buttons with half a heart. It was their third match, same teams, same glitchy goals, boredom gnawing deep. Boredom, and something else.
Nasser’s mind kept coming back to the little fag. Twice this week he’d sneaked out to Alexis, the faggot’s number now a lifeline in his phone after that first creampie. Monday, while Sami was out praying with the old men, the guilty husbands, and the young fanatics, Nasser pounded Alexis raw, spit-slick on his bed, taking another hour to get fully in, balls deep, to be able to pound in and out as hard as he wanted. Thursday night, bolder, he’d taken Alexis to the sixth-floor stairwell of their crumbling townhouse around three in the morning, the last landing, dark and musty, throatfucking him slow, silent as death, Alexis’s gags muffled, spit pooling thick on the concrete till they’d crept back, a puddle left like a secret. He’d lasted barely ten minutes that time, cumming hard down that tight throat, and after, they’d stopped by Alexis’ to share a joint on his bed, door closed. No fucking, just smoke and silent laughs, Alexis’s brown and pink hair catching the light, his French accent curling around dumb stories about linguistics class. Nasser liked him, now, fuck but he did, as more than just a hole, a thought that itched under his hairy skin. Now when he called Alexis a faggot, it was because it turned the little fag on to have a big man calling him names. He’d purr like a cat and sit on his lap, begging for his sweaty armpits, whispering, “I’m your faggot, Nass…”
His cock stirred now, tenting his tracksuit, the FIFA game more a thing he did by muscle memory alone. He wanted that rimjob he’d been too chickenshit to demand, Alexis’s tongue on his sweaty ass, a kink he’d barely named, and he drifted back to it now, Reda too silent a presence to be able to distract him.
He fished out his phone, thumbs clumsy, texting in English:
need to sit on your face faggot.
Seconds ticked, then Alexis’s reply buzzed.
sorry man i’m out tonight, won’t be back for a while. i’ll tell you when i’m home
With a pic: a packed student bar on the marina, a spot Nasser knew. “Fuck,” tossing the phone, frustration making him harder and hornier. He mashed the controller harder, losing 3-1, growling, “This game’s shit,” Reda nodding, silent.
All evening dragged. Nasser’s thoughts circling those encounters: Alexis’s tight ass clenching around him Monday, that stairwell throatfuck Thursday, the joint after, laughing at nothing. He liked calling him a princess, now, mimicking Idriss. Fuck, he liked the kid, his sass, his willingness. Night deepened, no text, and most importantly, no moans through the wall. Alexis’s place dead quiet and Nasser’s cock throbbed, trapped, his balls aching as he sprawled, hairy chest heaving under the tracksuit. He went to his bed in the big bedroom, telling himself not to text Alexis again, not daring to text Idriss, thinking perhaps he had a place too, where he took his princess at times.
Reda came to the big bedroom an hour later, wrapped in his blanket. He yawned, muttered, “Tarek said to sleep in his bed, he’s talking to Adel and taking the couch,” and let himself fall into Tarek’s bed.
His phone kept silent. No buzz, no “I’m home” so Nasser slumped back, hard as fuck, frustration boiling. With Tarek, he’d have jacked off. There were hazy nights during which they gave up and just did it, each in their bed, porn glowing off the screen, pretending they weren’t sneaking glances at the other’s cock, 11 inches to his 10, a silent game of pretending they didn’t see. But Reda? He was too shy, too new. He wouldn’t risk it or impose it.
Midnight crept in, Sami praying faint, Karim gone, Tarek and Adel out and Nasser waited, unsleeping, no text, no sounds next door. His eyes drooped, hard-on fading slow, pre-dreams tangling with Alexis’s grin, that tight throat, a rimjob he’d chase tomorrow, and tomorrow, hooked deeper than he’d admit.
Adel
Adel trudged home from the construction site, his cheap tracksuit streaked with dust and paint, aching from hauling bricks. Three hours had crawled since the crew split after work.
A familiar shuffle behind him, Tarek’s slides slapping pavement on a street near their crumbling townhouse. He turned, squinting at the lowering sun. Tarek barreled up, sweaty as fuck, his Adidas jersey clinging damp, panting like he’d sprinted from the docks. His grin split wide, eyes wild, flashing a fat roll of euros, “€330,” he announced. “C’mon, kid,” Tarek clapping Adel’s shoulder, “white bar, liquor’s on me.”
Adel frowned, the cash a red flag. Too much for hash sales, too quick after work. “You beat up faggots again?” he asked as Tarek was dragging him toward the marina’s glow.
Tarek laughed, a loud, jock-ass roar. “Just doing godly work, bro, makes me feel like a fucking king!” His tanned face flushed, chest puffed like he’d scored in Tunis leagues.
Adel didn’t like it. Fucking sick, touching old queers. But Tarek’s cash was a fortune for their shithole life, and Adel’s disgust was supplanted easily, shrugging, “Shouldn’t even touch them at all, especially the old ones.”
Tarek waved it off, “Quit whining and be happy I’m spending it with you,” cocky as always, the bigger brother, six years older than Adel’s eighteen short years. He shoved Adel forward, the bar’s neon sign flickering ahead. Another white joint like Tarek liked, with white girls and real alcohol. They didn’t like seeing two Arabs in tracksuits in there but nobody found it weird, of course, when they saw them doing coke in the bathrooms. Even Adel could see these hypocrisies.
Tarek ordered fast, slamming cash on the counter, demanding shots and “Keep ‘em coming!” in an accented French that let Adel know he was already high.
Adel sipped slow, one shot, then two, drinking them like they were beer.
Tarek downed four, then six, his cocky jock vibe curdling, “Bro, you cannot imagine the way it makes you feel, to just break their fucking faces in…”
Adel laughed, a loose, liquor-warm chuckle—“Nah, bro, you’re crazy, I don’t even wanna think about that.”
Tarek’s grin twisted, “C’mon, it’s quick cash, you beat ‘em bloody in two blows because they’re made of fucking glass, and you grab their wallets,” his fist smacking the table, rattling glasses, drawing looks. Tarek always got like that. One drink, he was a charmer, approaching girls with basic salutations, questions you’d ask a normal person if you were normal two. Three drinks, he’d talk about the old days, when he was playing in a semi-pro team in Tunisia, seeking to go pro. Six drinks, he’d want to kill people.
“Fuck that, Tarek, I ain’t touching queers,” grinning to dodge the heat.
Tarek snorted, “Pussy,” downing another shot. Same shit every time, cocky to cunt in an hour flat. They stumbled outside, Tarek sparked a joint and kept going on, “You’re fast, kid, with a mean hook, too. Come with me, quick and done, we’ll run off quick.”
Adel took a drag, coughing. “Nah, I’m good,” handing the joint back. He didn’t want to see fags, anyway, least of all that Alexis one. He kept flashing back to the videos he’d found, of white boys looking just like the neighbor, begging for Arab cock.
Tarek’s eyes glinted, high and drunk, leaning in, “Two guys would be better, you know? Look like a couple, lure them in, bam, kick their faces in even easier!” His voice was tense, horny, Adel knew, just like when he talked about girls.
And then, Adel’s brain replayed the words and his rage boiled. “I’m not a faggot, you asshole!” he yelled, shoving Tarek hard,
Tarek staggered, laughing, fucking missing the point. “Chill, kid, it’s just for bait!”
But Adel swung, a lame drunk fist grazing Tarek’s jaw, more stumble than punch. Tarek swung back, sloppy and without aim, clipping Adel’s ear. The street spun as they grappled themselves into a pathetic brawl, all kicks missing, most fists flailing, two kids too trashed to land shit.
“Fuck you!” Adel spat one last time, breaking free. His tracksuit twisted as he moved back.
Tarek sent him away with angry gestures. “Pussy, go fucking cry about fags!” himself leaving the marina.
Adel spun the other way, downtown, toward home, liquor turned sour in his gut. Fucking Tarek. King of what? Beating old fags, trying to make him act like his queer boyfriend? Fuck him. Adel wasn’t a fag.
Karim
Karim sat on the bottom steps, slouched, hoodie soaked with spilled liquor and sweat, worn down by the late summer heat as he gripped the rusted railing, too wasted to move. He’d had too much. He desperately wanted to climb the three flights of stairs to his mattress, and some rest, but his legs stayed lead.
The building’s door opened, letting Alexis in, hair a mess, clearly tipsy but upright. “You okay?” he asked as soon as he saw Karim.
Karim tried to say “Fuck off and die,” in Arabic, but it stumbled out into just a bunch of noises. He was too tired to mean it.
His eyes, heavy-lidded, caught Alexis crouching, blue nail polish tonight, and his the concern seemed genuine. “Can’t climb?” Alexis said.
Karim’s pride buckled. “Too drunk,” he muttered in Arabic, already worried. Sami would smell the booze, call him Western trash, kick his ass again.
“I’ll help,” Alexis offered, grabbing his arm.
Karim snorted. “Not strong enough, fag.”
Alexis hauled him up, not without effort but in less than ten seconds anyway, and Karim swayed, leaning hard. “Fine, faggot,” the slur softer, less bite.
They climbed, slow, step by creaking step, Karim’s head lolling. The queer was being normal, just holding him, had yet to try to grope him. Between the second and third floors, Karim remembered what awaited him, whispering to himself, “Sami’s gonna fucking kill me…”
“Because you’re coming home late?” asked Alexis.
“No. Drunk.”
“He’s very religious?”
Karim nodded, “Yeah… but mostly racist, though. Hates this Western shit.” Hates you too, he almost said, just to know what the queer thought.
But Alexis was saying, “You can sleep on my couch, if you need, there’s no one there tonight and I’m going to bed right away.” Quiet, simple.
Karim’s first thought was that the fag wanted him in his appartment to touch him and panic set in quickly, picturing Alexis’s hands creeping in the dark, his cock and balls defiled while he slept. But the apartment loomed, his sagging mattress on the floor, last in the apartment and not wanting to kick a kid off the couch…
His fight drained, better than that hell. “Yeah, yeah, okay” he whispered, hesitant, leaning harder as they crept up. Alexis’s grip steady led him slowly to the third floor until the door clicked open without a noise to wake the beast upstairs.
“Welcome,” Alexis said low, and he pointed out the couch.
Karim flopped on there at once, whispering, “Please don’t touch my penis while I sleep, faggot,” half-joking, half-scared, testing again.
Alexis laughed, “Okay. Please don’t rob my apartment while I sleep, Arab.”
Karim got one last moment of lucidity, thinking, shit, faggot’s right. He was being an asshole. Alexis wasn’t leering, wasn’t offering his bed, wasn’t trying to get at his cock. Just letting him sleep on the couch, a shield from Sami. Faggot or not, there was no threat here, just a bit of help between neighbors.
“How about one last joint, together, before we sleep?” he asked in French to be polite, realizing just now they’d been speaking Arabic all along. Karim took his stash out of his pocket and handed it to Alexis, saying, “Roll with mine,” and Alexis gave him back the finished joint so he’d spark it. They spoke quietly about nothing, Sami’s sermons, their raï music through the wall, and he was asleep in less than ten minutes.
Tarek
Since splitting from that lame brawl, Tarek had wandered uptown. His head buzzed with liquor, hash, anger and some arousal he hadn’t tried to analyze yet. Adel had set him off. Fuck him, Adel didn’t get it, didn’t feel the rush of seeing those fags kneel for him, because they craved him, and of cracking a queer’s jaw, snagging their cash, the high of winning.
Uptown was the train station, a concrete sprawl where immigrants like him clustered, voices loud in a dozen languages. Friends, old ones from his first days in this city, new ones from construction, all said hello, nodded, slapped his back, passing joints, buying his hash, €20 here, €30 there, his stash lightening, cash piling. He smoked with everyone, while looking, as discreetly as he could across the street, at the gay club he knew pulsed there. Neon pink, queers spilling out, skinny fags in tight jeans, young ones with cash to burn, and Tarek’s eyes lingered, his cock twitching under his shorts, a flicker of something he’d never name.
He leaned against a pillar, selling another baggie, and clocked the distance: too fucking close. Immigrants everywhere, eyes sharp, tongues loose. If he crossed, lured a fag, bashed him bloody for cash, they’d see. “What, Tarek’s a queer now?” laughing, and he’d have to explain to all of them, just business, breaking fags, not fucking them, but who’d buy that? His rep would crack, and he’d be the fag, not them. Someone would tell Sami and he’d be out.
Giving up for the night, Tarek trudged back downtown, the city sloping back down south, a heavy drop from uptown’s lights to the harbor’s murk.
He kept thinking about Adel and him, fists flying… not fighting each other but cracking fag skulls, then Alexis, that slut next door, beaten bloody, ass up. His cock went hard imagining it: him and Adel, sandwiching the faggot, sliding their cocks together in the gaping asshole, 11 inches right up against whatever Adel’s skinny ass packed, stretching that fag raw. Making him scream until he lost his voice. Mixing their cum in him. His shorts tented and the image stuck, violent and hot, Adel’s mean hook a bonus to his fantasy. Tarek would take the fag from behind while Adel, from the front, would punch his face out while they fucked.
The slope steepened and his stomach lurched, liquor sloshing, head a whirl. He stumbled, guts heaving and vomit hit the street, sour and thick. He retched again, bent over, the gay club’s neon like a light burned into his retina, and staggered to a public fountain, water cold and clean, splashed his mouth, rinsing the bile.
His mind cleared, slowly, his pride bruised, ashamed of the hard-on, the thought of Adel in it. He straightened, pulled the money out of his pocket, counted €300 left after sales, resolved to do something with it.
When he shoved the door open, the apartment’s stink hit hard. Hash, feet, unwashed sheets, old Chinese food. He found Adel and Reda sprawled on the pull-out couch, TV off and scrolling their phones in the dark. No Karim, probably still drunk somewhere. Nasser and Sami holed up in their rooms, the place a dead zone.
“Reda—go sleep in my bed,” Tarek whispered, jerking his thumb toward the big bedroom. “Gotta talk to Adel.”
Reda blinked up, “Yeah, sure,” shuffling off, wrapped in his own blanket.
Tarek flopped onto the couch beside Adel, his bulk crowding the kid’s skinny frame. “Look, bro, I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling clumsy. Didn’t mean it, what I said, whatever you understood, it wasn’t like that.” His hand dug into his shorts, yanking out two fifty euro bills he’d prepared, and he shoved them into Adel’s pocket, the kid’s tracksuit sagging under the force of his still drunk gestures. “It’s just money, yeah? Less of a shit life for us.”
Adel shrugged, “Nah, I overreacted too. Sorry.” He patted the €100, accepting them with a grin. “Fuck, €100, I’m rich now.”
Tarek laughed, a loud jock snort, tension easing. Adel was a good kid, his little bro. He fished a joint from his sock, sparked it, hash smoke curling thick as he passed it over. They smoked without talking for a moment, Adel dragging deep, coughing, Tarek blowing rings, the fight a blur they’d laugh off tomorrow.
“Lights out,” Tarek said when they finished, flicking the switch, the room plunging dark, and chuckled, “Karim must be out banging some chick.”
They both stripped to their boxers, Adel’s cheap ones tight, Tarek’s Adidas loose, crashing onto the pull-out, side by side, the mattress sagging under them.
Tarek stretched, hairy legs brushing the edge, reminded of thoses nights with Nasser, horny as fuck, each on their own side of the room, jacking off like it wasn’t happening. He’d sneak glances, knew Nasser had some 10-inch beast, thick and veiny, a match for his own 11, the biggest in the house, no contest, he was sure of that. His cock twitched at that thought and he wondered at Adel’s skinny body if he could have a big one. The kid was a virgin, all talk, but maybe hiding something under that awkwardness. Tarek shifted, the couch creaking, Adel’s breathing close, and the quiet stretched, revealing itself too quiet. There were no moans next door.
“Faggot’s not getting fucked tonight,” Adel realized as well.
Tarek grinned, “You must hear it all, huh, sleeping right there?”
Adel’s breath hitched, “Yeah, down to the gagging and choking, and when he spits on the cock,” his words slow, too vivid.
Tarek caught it, Adel’s hand shifting, boxers rustling, the kid hard and trying to hide it. Tarek’s prick stirred as well. Same shit got him going. He glanced over, Adel’s skinny arm tense, bulge obvious. “Don’t worry,” Tarek said casually, “Sometimes I think Alexis takes cock like a good woman should.” His own hand slid down, massaging his bulge and Adel’s eyes dropped, caught, a flush creeping up his neck.
They rubbed themselves slowly, not looking. Adel’s breath quickened. “Quick nut, bro, let’s just get some porn,” Tarek grunted and yanked his phone out while Adel was grabbing his. He thumbed to some video, a chick gagging, fast and rough and let his cock free, 11 inches thick, veiny, a bruiser in his fist as he stroked.
A minute in, Adel said, “Fuck,” and Tarek turned to find him staring at his massive prick, dwarfing his hand, a beast next to whatever Adel hid.
Tarek stopped, smiling, “What?”
Adel’s voice cracked, “It’s fucking big, bro,” he whispered, clearly humiliated, but fascinated.
“Girls fucking hate it,” Tarek bragged, his fist slow on his shaft, slowly spreading his precum to lube himself. “Show me yours, it’s okay,” he said, driven by that shame he could see in Adel’s eyes.
Adel hesitated, then tugged his boxers down, his 7-inch cock popping out. Smaller, yeah, but thick, decent, something Tarek knew he’d never tell him. Shame rolled off the kid and Tarek was enjoying it too much, seeing virgin Adel, outmatched. “Good enough,” he lied knowing no matter how much the kid try, he’d never outdo him. They resumed, Adel’s strokes quick but uneasy, Tarek’s lazy and indulgent. All porn glowing and ignored.
Adel’s breath hitched, eyes locked on Tarek’s cock, jerking fast, a choked “Shit,” as he came, spurts hitting his skinny chest, shame burning his face. He wiped it quickly with a dirty shirt and rolled over, back to Tarek, tight boxers riding up, his ass half-out, pale and small.
Tarek kept in his mind the image of Adel’s eyes earlier, wide, humiliated. It had become his fuel now. His fist pumped harder, 11 inches pulsing, the kid’s shame a kick he didn’t expect. He stared at Adel’s back, that small ass, like a skinny girl, and blew. A heavy load splattered his abs, pubes, hot and thick, making him a fucking king again, Adel’s defeat his win. The room stank of cum and sweat, and they lay there, silent, porn flickering out.
