Two days later, I dragged myself to the office. Unlocking the heavy glass door felt like opening a tomb. The air inside was stale with dust and decay, a mirror to the city’s shattered streets outside. I sat at my desk and sifted through claims, but my thoughts were snagged on the memory of Khalil. My body was swollen and aching, pulsing with every move as a raw wound from his dominance.
Yet something deeper stirred, a craving for his presence and his Syrian otherness, despite the fear coiling in my gut. His control wasn’t just physical. It gripped my mind and pulled me back to him, my childhood facades crumbling in this graveyard of a business district. The security monitor flickered, catching Khalil’s bald head glinting as he strode in. He was short and stocky, with a walk so brash it felt like he had conquered the world. He had always moved like that, unapologetic and magnetic.
“Goodz morningz!” he said, his voice bright, almost jarring in the stale air.
“Good morning, Khalil,” I replied, forcing a steady tone, my body tense with the ache of his mark.
“Goodz. Last nightz I workedz my other jobz, deliverz pizza, gotz 50 euroz tipz,” he said, grinning. “And youz?”
“Okay… just slept rough,” I said, my voice flat.
“Ooooz, whyz?” he asked, his tone curious, almost teasing.
“Look… it still hurts. For days now… from what happened.” I avoided his eyes.
“Youz in bain stillz?” he asked, his voice softening, almost concerned. His eyes slid to my hips for a fleeting second—a glance that sent a shiver through my core. It wasn’t the pain that stung most; it was his gaze, checking his mark, as if I were an experiment he’d broken to study the cracks.
“A bit, but it’s fine,” I said, forcing a smirk.
“Okayz, we don’t touchz butt todayz,” he said, nonchalant, as if discussing stock levels. “Thankz Godz you havez mouthz, it will be goodz too. You wantz to getz him done nowz and then againz before endz of shiftz? Or no energyz for two timez?”
He was bartering with me like he was at a market. I was bewildered. “You… ready right now?”
As I spoke, Khalil sprawled in my manager’s chair. His short fingers were already unbuttoning his pants, and he pulled out his cock. It was half-hard and thick, waving it like a fire hose. My groin twitched, a pulse of heat betraying me. He stared, unblinking, with a smug, predatory smirk curling one corner of his plain face. His cock swayed before me. I could feel how much my hesitant gaze thrilled him. I stepped closer, moving slowly, drawn to the chair where I usually sat. I knelt before him, his thick minaret rising at a perfect angle. Khalil stretched, looking smug, and laced his stubby fingers behind his bald head. He spread his legs and let his balls sag loose against his thighs, playing the king. I took it in my hand and stared, awestruck. Up close, it was the first time I’d faced it so near. Khalil was unremarkable, even repulsive, but his groin was a masterpiece. It was a paradox that consumed me.
Heat radiated from him. A thick, masculine scent seeped from his briefs and mingled with the air. It was sour, sweaty, and raw, yet intoxicating. I held it in my hand, heavy, warm, and meaty. Even though Khalil’s body was unremarkable, this slab of flesh between his legs was a deity I knelt to worship. The office was a crypt. Its dusty shelves and flickering lights were a mirror to the city’s shattered streets. This was where my betrayal of Steven festered. My childhood facades were crumbling under the weight of Khalil’s dominance, his Syrian cologne, and the clicking of prayer beads in my mind. It was a fetish that consumed me.
His hairy, powerful thighs were striking, as was his firm ass which I’d groped days ago. Between his spread thighs, toward the cleft of his cheeks, his balls sagged. The right one hung slightly lower than the left. His ass and thighs were matted with hair, but his balls were smooth, shaved, and glistening. I stared, inhaling the musk of his groin. It was laced with the faint, untrimmed scent of his anus, unseen but hinted at by the dark hairs framing his hetero hole. I am no fan of Khalil’s looks or his usual smell, but this aroma was pungent and primal. It was fiercely arousing. Lifting my gaze from his balls, I caught a small mole at the base of his cock. Then I looked at the cock itself. God, it was beautiful. I am not sure I’ve seen a finer one. There is something about a cut cock: cleaner and sharper without that extra skin. Fully erect now, it stood in its glory, veiny, long, and thick. It had a delicate circumcision scar and a juicy, perfectly shaped head that was a shade darker. I was stunned that such beauty belonged to this plain man. Kneeling beneath his cock and balls, I felt humiliated, worshipping these parts of Khalil like a sacred idol. I love cock, especially Khalil’s cock.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice cracking with excitement.
“Yallah, suckz it,” he urged, his tone sharp, commanding. I guided it with my hand to my lips, pressed it against them, took it in, and began sucking.
The head was hot, hard, meaty, pressing my lips as it slid inside, heavy, juicy, bursting with the taste of his skin and salty, masculine musk. My tongue traced the circumcision scar’s rim, smooth skin melting into the velvet head, my cock tightening in my briefs. Khalil lounged back, legs spread, a low groan escaping, his dull eyes glinting with triumph from above. I felt his weight in my throat, my powerlessness and adoration fused in one motion.
Taking him in my mouth, I felt myself transform. It was total surrender, a moment when I became fully his. Everything I was before dissolved, reshaped by the chant of Khalil, Khalil, Khalil… That surrender was both freeing and terrifying. His cut cock’s taste was rooted in its scent, a mix of sweat, male anus, and Syrian cologne. I sucked diligently as he relaxed, breathing deeply, his dark groin filling my vision. I hoped his hands stayed laced behind his head, a pose I’d seen in porn, thrilling me more as he sat in my boss’s chair while I swallowed his cock.
His hoarse exhale, deep and satisfied, rumbled as his cock slid deeper, pressing my tongue, the head breaching my throat. His scent was everywhere: in my nostrils, my mouth, my mind, choking me with its intensity. He leaned back, thighs splayed, breathing like a king on a throne, while I worked, swallowed, gagged, and felt more alive than ever.
“He’s slimy, repulsive,” I thought, sucking his cock eagerly, where my betrayal of Steven festered, my childhood facades crumbling under Khalil’s dominance. I teased his cut head, circling it with my tongue to heighten his pleasure, my eyes fixed on the hem of that tacky shirt I loathed when he wore it. Yet today, it thrilled me, its garish fabric amplifying my arousal, a fetish for his unpolished otherness: his Syrian cologne, his prayer beads clicking in my mind. Sucking him, I felt like that shirt, wrecked, marked by Khalil. I knew it was fleeting, a blaze of lust and intimacy that would pass, leaving shame for being his again, but in that moment, it made sense. Being his, even briefly, was exhilarating, a taboo that burned through my entire body.
His hand pressed my head, setting the pace, his cock and fingers controlling every move, every thought, as if I were his puppet. Yet I held power too, giving him pleasure, feeding his need. That thought emboldened me to meet his eyes, knowing a glance might make him spill instantly. I didn’t care if his plain face repulsed me. ;y arousal drowned it out. I lifted my head from his cock, seeking his gaze, wanting to suck him while locked in his eyes. But he didn’t look, his head tilted back, staring at the ceiling, his hand shifting from forcing my head to caressing my cheek, a tender contrast to his dominance. With his cock in my mouth, kneeling in submission, I stared at his chin, his neck, the office’s decay a backdrop to my surrender.
His bald head stretched his collar, revealing a cheap silver chain his wife bought in Syria, and just above it, unkempt chest hairs spilling over. The chain and hairs were relics of his past, his roots, and I was mesmerised, swallowing not just his flesh but his marriage, his history, his culture. He was raw, unpolished, a stranger, and I knelt, worshipping him. Those hairs held his story; my throat held his present. My cock twitched in my briefs, the chain glinting, a Syrian echo that fed my obsession, my betrayal of Steven a blade in my chest.
His hoarse exhale, deep and satisfied, rumbled as his cock slid deeper, pressing my tongue and breaching my throat. His scent of sweat, anus, and Syrian cologne filled my nostrils, my mouth, and my mind, choking me. He leaned back with his thighs splayed, breathing like a king, while I worked, swallowed, gagged, and felt more alive than ever.
As I sucked him, Khalil’s shirt rode up and bared a swath of hairy belly. Coarse strands glinted in the office’s dim light, a crypt of dusty shelves mirroring the city’s shattered streets outside. Those hairs and that raw masculinity thrilled me. It was a primal force lost in our country since the nineties. Khalil, plain and unpolished, was a real man, not just male. His Syrian roots pulsed in every coarse hair, and I could almost hear his prayer beads clicking in my mind.
I knew his wife would never give him this kind of blowjob. She would never worship his cock like I did. I pictured him fucking her pussy after ramming my ass days ago, and the thought ignited a filthy heat in my groin. My obsession with his hetero, unfiltered manhood, a fetish for his otherness, burned through my vows to Steven. My childhood facades were finally crumbling.
His cock, so juicy, so perfect, on such a repulsive man. It was a raw surge of lust, a moment to shed all norms and drown in the act. I knew it was fleeting, but nothing else mattered. I heard him shift, dropping his other hand from behind his head, both now gripping my nape, his short, stocky fingers pressing my skull, setting a brutal pace. His other hand slid down, grazing my cheek, brushing his cock and my lips wrapped around it, a dirty claim on my mouth. “Keepz goingz,” he grunted, his voice low, commanding, his beads clicking faintly.
His head slammed my throat, deeper, harder, tears streaming down my cheeks as I fought for breath, his grip unyielding. His stubby fingers clamped like a vice, his cock sliding through my spit and his salty precum, slick and relentless. A short, animal “mmmhhh” hissed through his teeth, and I was his. Nothing but a mouth swallowing his lust, my body trembling with shame and need.
“You likez sucking dickz, no?” Khalil asked, his tone taunting, his prayer beads clicking faintly, a Syrian echo feeding my fetish.
“Mhm,” I mumbled, affirmative, his cock buried deep in my mouth, the taste of his skin and precum flooding my senses.
“Noz, noz, sitz in your chair, big bossz,” he said, standing and shoving me back, his short, stocky frame looming. I rose from my knees, eyes locked on his cock, hunger burning through me. I sank into my manager’s chair, and he stepped close, jerking his cock inches from my face. I stared, hypnotized, at his glossy head, the office’s silence amplifying every breath. Three strokes, then he paused, a sharp inhale, a quick “hm” breaking the stillness, his chest heaving. A white drop appeared at his tip, thick and warm, as he strained to hold back, his muscles tensing to delay the hot rush of seed that would flood his wife’s pussy. His hairy chest strained against his shirt, a silver chain glinting, a relic of his Syrian roots.
The drop slid down his head, and with a ragged exhale, he stroked again, looking at me. “I am finishingz,” he said, his eyes dropping to the scene: his cock, my face. The first thick spurt hit, a rope of cum splashing my chin and the shirt, warm and heavy, followed by more, each pulse a brutal reality. His scent, cheap bazaar cologne, sweat, and raw flesh, drove me wild. His confused gaze, as if he didn’t know why he was here, fueled my hunger. His hard, upright cock, his seed splattering me, was a delivery hotter than any pizza. For him, it was the thrill of cumming on his boss’s face, the shock of being wanted. The moment burned like a snapshot: his cum and his masculinity drenching me in waves of raw ecstasy. The shirt clung to my skin, soaked and sticky, and the smell of his fresh seed sparked a craving for more, more, more, as my body trembled.
A smug grin split Khalil’s plain face as he watched me, cum-splattered, kneeling in the office’s silence, its dusty shelves and flickering lights a grim echo of the city’s shattered streets outside. His cock stood rigid at a perfect angle, the thick, cut head I’d eagerly sucked minutes ago still aimed at me, glistening with spit. A pearly drop of cum formed at the tip, and I leaned forward, craving the hot, salty rush of his seed, that divine faucet of raw masculinity. He preempted me, flicking the drop onto my face, the warm splatter hitting my chin, a filthy mark of his claim.
“Lookz how mezzyz,” he smirked, his voice dripping with mockery, his dull eyes glinting. “You have bitz of me on your chinz.”
My head rang, the scene fucking electrifying. He’d jerked off on me, called me messy, and I shook with raw excitement, my cock throbbing in my briefs. “Hayde, go toiletz, cleanz upz,” he said, adding, “You talkz bla bla bla too much when hornyz.”
In the bathroom I trembled with my pants down and the stained shirt pressed to my nose. The reek of his seed seared my mind. It was a dirty assault on my senses. My cock couldn’t even take three strokes before I came hard and painfully. My anus was burning from his last assault, a raw pulse of agony and lust. My own drops hit the floor while my hands gripped the shirt like a sacred relic. Those stains were a testament to my obsession. The office decay, the stale air, and the peeling walls all closed in on me. It felt like a grave for my shame.