The air crackled, a mix of raw lust and unspoken fear.

“I want your cock in my hand,” I said, unbuttoning his jeans, slipping my fingers into his briefs. Khalil gasped, a deep, shuddering breath, as I gripped him. A hot, thick weight, large, like a fevered dream. Fear flickered through me; Steven wasn’t this big, and my tight anus had never handled anything like this. But desire drowned it all, urging me forward. His zipper’s sharp rasp cut the silence, his belt clinking as his jeans sagged, held only by the firm curve of his ass, a relic of his cycling days. I slid my hand down his back, lower, tugging his jeans and gray briefs over his hairy cheeks. The thud of his belt hitting the floor echoed, marking the start of something irreversible.

A wave of masculine heat slammed into my face. Warm, damp air rising from his briefs like steam from a boiling pot, thick with the day’s sweat, the sharp tang of worn cotton, raw and unfiltered. No cologne, no deodorant, just the primal musk of his balls, his skin, his flesh, a scent so potent it seized my lungs, pinning me in place.
As his jeans and gray briefs slid down his stocky thighs, my nostrils filled with that heady dampness, a force that held me captive before I dared look at him fully. My cock throbbed, a traitor to Steven’s trust, my facades crumbling under the weight of this forbidden hunger for cock.

I hesitated, my breath shallow, then lowered my gaze to his groin. He stood, panting like a wolf, his thick, cut cock bared, its glossy head gleaming like a ripe mushroom, so heavy it hung downward, a club poised to strike. His very ordinary body; a bit stocky, scarred, unlovely; was a marvel, a nightmare I craved. His face, plain and weathered, held no beauty, yet his presence ignited me, a paradox that burned through my veins. My obsession with him, this unremarkable man, defied reason, yet I couldn’t look away.

He grabbed my waist, pulling me close, his teeth sinking into my chest, biting my nipples with a fervor that bordered on violence. His hands, rough and urgent, tore at my jeans and boxers, yanking them over my hips, stripping me bare with an animal’s impatience. Where I’d undressed him slowly, savoring each inch, he ripped through my clothes, his sucks and bites a raw declaration of power, marking me as his. The contrast screamed our roles.
I, the hesitant worshipper; he, the beast claiming control in this desolate office.

My jeans fell, and he spun me around, shoving me face-down over the desk, his hand pinning my back, my cheek pressed to the cold surface. I turned, straining to see him, but only caught the faded wall calendar, a mocking reminder of time’s irrelevance in this moment.

“Spreadz your legz,” he growled, his cock slapping my thigh, urging me on, his foot kicking mine apart with rough insistence.

My legs slid open, exactly as he demanded, his urgency a sign he’d craved me for months, just as I’d burned for him.

“You wantz thisz, yeah?” he said, voice low, commanding.

“Yes,” I gasped, my voice trembling, my anus twitching with fear and need.

A guttural groan rumbled from his throat, then a wet splat – his spit landed above my hole, warm and slick, sliding to the center. Another hack, another spit, likely on his cock, as he smeared more saliva over me, its sharp, metallic tang mingling with his sweat-soaked musk. The slick threads cooled, then warmed against my skin, my hole quivering, opening for him, caught between resistance and surrender.

“Goodz,” he muttered, his breath hot, his presence absolute.

He thrust, raw and brutal, pain exploding through my anus like a blade, no warning, no mercy. My nerves screamed, a fire tearing deep into my gut, pulsing, searing, unbearable. Cold sweat coated my back, my body shaking as his thick, cut cock buried to the hilt, splitting me open. I screamed, a raw, animal wail that chilled my own blood. My body convulsed, anus numbing under the onslaught, my vision flashing with stars, white bursts, fractured images. I gasped in short, frantic breaths, but the air wouldn’t come.
Khalil; this nobody from the street, the kind you’d pass without a glance, was a beast unleashed. His scarred scalp and hunched frame transformed into something primal, seizing his chance to ravage me.

He fucked me, relentless, no rhythm, just savage, blunt thrusts, his hips slamming into my ass with a wet, punishing slap like he meant to break me. His thick hands and short fingers gripped my hips, clumsy but vicious, squeezing as if to crush me. His thick thighs drove each blow, muscles taut, a force that aimed to shatter everything I was. I sobbed, terror flooding me, my cries muffled against the desk.

Without a word, without a grimace, just that blank, lifeless stare where his brows were too close to his dull eyes.
Khalil clamped his thick, damp hand over my mouth and nose, gagging me, his palm a vice that smothered every cry. His fingers reeked of cheap cologne mixed with stale coffee and cigarette smoke, a stench that seeped into my pores. He pinned me to the desk, his relentless thrusts tearing through me, each one a brutal claim that shook the office’s dusty shelves, a crypt echoing the city’s shattered streets outside. My body convulsed, tears streaming down my cheeks, dripping onto the desk, his skin, as I whimpered, helpless, drowned by this raw, consuming need.

His body shuddered in final spasms, thrusting deeper, convulsing like a beast squeezing out its last drops. I felt his cock pulse, buried deep, spilling thick, heavy seed inside me, a humiliating flood that marked me as his, all in near silence, only his quickened breaths breaking the stillness. A chilling void settled over me, calm but hollow, his breathing slow, labored, as he pumped the last streams into me.

Then, without a word, without a trace on his dull, weathered face, he pulled out, his cock still half-hard, wet, streaked with blood, leaving me slumped over the desk, drained, broken. I had no strength to move, though his hands no longer pinned me, his hips no longer behind me. My face pressed against the desk, tears pooling beside me, the air thick with his stench: cheap cologne, sweat, cigarette smoke, stale breath, mingled with the reek of sex and my own shame.

Khalil adjusted his briefs. Zipped up his jeans. Refastened his belt with a clink like it had all been a drill, a routine, nothing intimate. He didn’t look at me. Not once.
My cheek stuck to the desk, breath fogging the wood, and I waited. For him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t.

He brushed off his hands, wiped sweat from his scalp, then grabbed his phone and tapped the screen. A faint chuckle left him: Reels. Fucking Reels. My blood roared in my ears. My entire being was a gaping, dripping wound, and he was chuckling at Instagram.
He walked away. Toward the little kitchenette where we kept the coffee machine and stacks of paper cups.

I slowly peeled myself upright, anus clenched too late against the tide of cum trying to slide out of me. Each movement sent knives through me. I couldn’t clench. My pants were twisted near my ankles. I didn’t reach for them yet. My hands shook.
I turned, saw him with his back to me, scrolling through his phone like nothing had happened. His hunched posture, stocky frame, neck wet with sweat; he was the same man he was before he fucked me. But I obviously never knew who he truly was, until he fucked me.

“Hey,” I croaked. Voice barely mine.

He didn’t look. “Mmm?”

I wrapped one arm around my middle, as if I could hold myself together, keep the cum from leaking out, keep my insides from falling out.

“Hey,” I repeated, louder. My throat rasped like sandpaper.

He turned halfway. Eyes blank.

“That’s it?” I asked. My voice cracked on the last word.

He frowned, confused. “Huh?”

“I mean…” I hesitated, “Do you… want me to say something? Or are you gonna say something?”

He blinked. The same dead stare. Then a shrug. “Whatz I supposedz to sayz?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Something?”

“You okayz?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know I wasn’t.

My laugh was a dry, broken thing. “No. No, I’m not.”

He stared for a moment longer, then made a vague gesture with his phone. “I gotta finishz replying to my cousinz,” he muttered, wandering away again, already sliding back into some mundane rhythm. The emptiness crawled up my spine.
I didn’t wipe myself, there was nothing to wipe myself with. Didn’t pull my pants up. I just sat, bare-assed on the edge of the desk, thighs sticky, leaking, legs trembling. Khalil disappeared into the kitchenette, his presence gone like a snuffed candle, and all that was left was the buzzing overhead light and the ghost of his breath on my neck.

Minutes passed. The office clock ticked toward five. We were supposed to close soon as we were the last ones here, like almost every slow afternoon. I forced myself to stand straight, wincing, and limped to the bathroom in the back. Locked the door. Sat on the toilet without bothering to close the lid. Just sat, hunched forward, arms around my knees, his cum slowly dripping into the toilet.

My body still throbbed. My mind screamed for meaning, for closure. For anything. But he hadn’t given me anything. He came inside me and moved on.
When I emerged, cleaned up barely enough to look human; pants pulled up, shirt tucked, face splashed with cold water. Khalil was back at the front counter, munching on a bag of chips he must have grabbed from the vending machine downstairs earlier. He was watching something in Arabic on YouTube, volume low. He didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch when I passed behind him to grab my jacket from the office.

I dropped into my chair, wincing at the pain deep in my gut. Tried to open the scheduling app, the claims log, anything to pretend the next hour would be normal. My fingers hovered useless over the mouse.
He crunched into a chip. Loud. Happy.

“You okayz now?” he asked, as if I’d just had a headache.

“Yeah,” I muttered. Voice hollow.

He nodded, smirking at his screen. “Okayz, goodz. Just checkingz.”
More crunching. More fucking chips.

He laughed. Loud. “Manz, you’re actingz likez you gotz a crampz or somethinz.”

I looked up, “You didn’t stop.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“I was crying.”

He tilted his head. “Sometimez, peoplez cry when they feelz too goodz.”

I stared. The laugh that escaped me wasn’t sane. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he said, tone flat. “I justz don’t complicatez thingz. We didz what we didz. Iz now done. That’s allz.” He tapped his prayer beads absently. Click, click, click. The sound pierced the silence like fingernails across skin.

“I’m married.”

“Notz to mez,” he said, shrugging. “Notz my businessz.”

I wanted to hit him. Wanted to scream. But I just sat there, staring at the empty desk where it had happened.
He asked if we were out of printer toner. Business as usual. Nothing had changed for him.
Everything had changed for me.
The clock hit five. Time to lock up. He packed his bag slowly, deliberately avoiding my side of the room. At the door he paused, fist half-raised like he might bump it, then dropped his hand.

“See you tomorrowz boss,” he said, voice neutral, eyes on the floor. No grin. No extra words. Just a quick nod, and he was gone, stepping out into the late-afternoon rain.

I locked up alone, the click of the door too loud in the empty space. My body ached with every step toward home, cum still leaking faintly, a private humiliation no one else would ever see. Khalil had walked away unscathed, slipping back into normalcy like shedding a skin. And I was left carrying everything—his scent on my clothes, his seed inside me, the fracture in my marriage I couldn’t unmake.

The city outside was the same dying boulevard, rain streaking the windows of shuttered shops. I walked slowly, replaying his sudden withdrawal, the way his voice had flattened, the way he’d looked anywhere but at me. Regret, maybe. Or just the awkwardness of a man who’d crossed a line he never meant to stay on.