Back in the office, I felt calmer but uneasy as the shame flooded me post-orgasm. I saw him sitting there, repulsive and plain, still sprawled in my chair while he chatted in Arabic on his phone since at least half an hour. He seemed completely oblivious to the filthy weight of what we had just done. My stomach churned with disgust at his unremarkable face, yet the memory of his cock and his cum sparked a craving I couldn’t shake. My body was still trembling from the raw heat of our encounter.
Khalil’s voice softened with a tender lilt as he spoke Arabic, likely to Noor, his wife. A pang of jealousy twisted in my gut, but I shook it off. The office air was stale and thick with dust, while the flickering lights cast long shadows on the peeling walls. His call dragged on. His soft “habibti” and that unfamiliar laugh, a warmth I’d never heard from him before, cut through me as I stood there.
I could feel the sticky traces of his seed clinging to my skin beneath my stained shirt. I changed in silence, shame searing my chest as those crusted stains served as a filthy reminder of my submission only half an hour ago. Khalil didn’t flinch. His phone remained pressed to his ear, oblivious to my trembling hands, while the reek of his cheap cologne continued to flood my senses.
The call ended, and I forced a conversation, my voice edged with nerves, pretending nothing had happened; it was our unspoken rule. “We need to finish the claim audits today,” I said, irritation creeping in.
“Can youz bleaze do it? I didn’t understandz what she meanz with her email,” Khalil said, his tone smug, decisive.
“I can do it, but it’s your job,” I snapped, frustrated, not the first time he’d dodged his tasks.
“You saidz you wantz to be there for mez when I needz you,” he said, his voice manipulative, a smirk curling his plain face as he stared me down, his eyes glinting with mockery.
“Yeah, I said that… though in a different context,” I muttered, avoiding a fight. I stood, my hands shaking with suppressed rage.
“I’m counting on you to organize the archive shelves,” I said, my tone sharp, managerial. But before I finished, he was already recording an Arabic voice message, engrossed in his own world.
I grabbed a heavy stack of folders and started sorting through policies, piling up what we needed for the claim audits. Khalil didn’t move. He remained sprawled in my chair with his legs spread wide, and I watched as he pulled out his IQOS device.
“Tom-Tom, I will stealz your cigarettez,” he said, his voice taunting.
“It’s fine, help yourself,” I replied. My voice sounded flat, even to my own ears.
He clicked the device into place and took a long drag. I felt a flicker of irritation. “Khalil, you know we aren’t supposed to do that in here. There are sensors,” I said, though there was no real conviction in my tone.
He didn’t even look at me. He just exhaled a thin plume of vapor that curled around his bald head. “Noz, noz, Tom-Tom. It iz okayz. I don’t wantz to go outside nowz, too far to walkz. And thiz thing… it leavez no smellz. It iz fine.”
He looked so comfortable, his short, stocky frame radiating a sense of ease that I could never achieve. I went back to stacking the files like an intern while rage boiled in my veins, but I couldn’t find the words to push back.
He took another drag of the IQOS, staring out at the grey, decaying buildings through the office window. “Traffic today waz terriblez,” he muttered, shaking his head. “My Boloz… he makez strangez noisez when I brakez. Oldz carz, alwayz somethingz.”
“Maybe it’s the pads,” I said, not looking up from the folders. It was a safe, mundane topic. “You should get it checked before winter really hits.”
Khalil let out a short, dry laugh, the kind that sounded more like a cough. “Winterz… yez. It iz comingz. Everythingz iz expensivez nowz, Thomas. In Syriaz, we fix everythingz with handz. Here? Youz go to mechanic, he takez your soulz.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor, his fingers absentmindedly clicking his prayer beads. The silence in the office felt heavy, punctuated only by the faint hum of the flickering lights.
“I needz to buy winterz tirez for my Boloz,” Khalil said, his voice low. He looked aside, his plain face tense, visibly rattled by talking about this.
“I’ll help you…” I said, my voice steady despite the heat stirring in me.
“How much do you need?” I asked, watching him.
“Forgetz it…” he said, his tone sharp, then softened, “I meanz, we Arabz don’t likez to ask for merciz, we wantz to be machoz.”
“Let me help you, how much do you need?” I pressed, my hands trembling as I reached into my bag for my phone.
He bit the nail on his index finger, nervous, as I opened PayPal. “250 euroz for the tirez, I don’t havez enoughz moneyz. I sendz so muchz to Damazkuz for my familyz all the timez. If mez don’t send moneyz, they go hungryz, I meanz,” he said, his voice strained. I transferred 250€ as he spoke.
“I sent you 250€ for the tires on PayPal,” I said, my pulse quickening.
“Thankz youz, Tom-Tom,” he said, his eyes on his phone’s notification.
He leaned back in my chair, exhaling deeply, the weight of his stress palpable. “Thomasz,… you don’t knowz how muchz this meanz. You savez me againz.” He paused, his face tightening, as if wrestling with himself, then added, “But… iz not onlyz tire broblemz. My brotherz in Damazkuz, he callz mez this morningz. His sonz… very sickz, hospitalz wantz moneyz beforez operationz.”
He stared at the floor, his voice heavy, almost breaking. “I am eldest sonz. All familyz lookz to mez. They thinkz Khalilz is strong manz in Europe. They don’t knowz realityz. They don’t knowz I borrowz, no sleebz from stressz.”
His eyes met mine, raw with a mix of panic and pride. “I don’t askz youz, I am manz, I never begz… but youz sayz you standz with mez. So I tellz youz my painz. If youz helpz… youz are real friendz. Real brotherz.” His tone framed it as an honor, not a plea, his gaze piercing, manipulative.
“How much do they need?” I asked quietly, my resolve already crumbling.
He waved a hand, as if the words burned. “Two hundredz euroz. Iz big moneyz… iz life or deathz for my nebhewz. But Thomas, I no askz, I just tellz youz my situationz… Allah knowz I never begz.”
His voice was firm, but his eyes flashed with desperation and pride. My palms sweated as I opened PayPal, heart hammering, unsure if I was driven by pity, weakness, or the filthy thrill of his gaze: calculated gratitude masking raw power. My finger trembled, then hit “Send” for 200€.
His phone pinged. He glanced at the screen, then locked eyes with me, his face darkening with seriousness before splitting into a broad, rugged grin. “Youz are true brotherz. Not manyz manz in world likez youz. Wallah, youz savez my familyz. Youz savez my honorz,” he said, his voice thick.
He stood up then, the chair creaking as he abandoned his casual sprawl. He stepped close, moving into my personal space until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Khalil’s stocky hand clamped my shoulder, warm and slick. It was the same hand that had pinned me to the desk days ago, ravaging me, but now it gripped me like a brother. The pressure was heavy, not harsh. It was almost like a seal, as if my money had bought his favor, if only for a moment.
His skin reeked of cologne, the stale smoke of the IQOS, and a rugged, primal tang that flooded my senses. His eyes, glinting with calculated gratitude, locked on mine, sparking a tangle of disgust, power, and raw lust in my chest.
We stood silent in the middle of the office. His warmth seeped through my shirt, testing me, making me wonder if it was all something more than an office affair. His grip slid slowly down my arm until our fingers interlocked, a raw, masculine connection charged with unspoken desire. I met his gaze. Even though he was much shorter, his dark eyes were daring my next move, absolutely unyielding.
I took his hand, staring at his short, thick, nail-bitten fingers. Without a word, I pressed them to my lips and began sucking them.
“I am readyz for round two. Do youz needz my beniz?” he asked, his voice low and taunting.
“Mhm mm…” I mumbled, affirming, his fingers still in my mouth, my tongue tracing their roughness. I was avoiding looking at him. I couldn’t handle it.
“I should to butz it in your assz,” he said.
I slid my briefs and pants down, my cheeks bared, glistening before his ravenous eyes. “I meanz, do youz wantz my sbermz in your assz?” he asked, spitting on his free hand, the saliva gleaming.
“Yes, I’ll be yours,” I said, as he pulled his fingers from my mouth, a slick thread of spit stretching between us, dripping.
“Doesz your assz still hurtz? I should to but it in your assz,” he said, casual, then added, “Iz okayz if I butz him inz?”
He smeared the spit across my anus, his finger plunging deep into my aching hole, the burn raw, searing. “Ohhhh Tom-Tom, you’re so tightzz…” he whispered, his breath hot on my ear, his two-day stubble scraping my neck, his rugged scent: cologne, sweat, flesh. Flooding my senses. My body trembled with filthy need.
Khalil’s finger, clumsy and rigid, plunged into my aching anus, thrilling in its roughness. My hole clenched, not just with pain but a raw tangle of fear and lust, my body arching toward him, opening, craving more. Each thrust was brutal, relentless, my flesh yielding, begging for it. My nipples hardened to stones, breath ragged, ready to take him fully.
Did his wife feel this fire, this hunger I felt for him? This unattractive, unpolished man using me as he might her sparked an utterly feminized surrender, my skin electric under his touch. I wanted him inside me, and he wanted to claim me.
“Bendz forwardz and sbreadz your fat assz,” he said, his hand shoving me down, baring my shameful hole to his ravenous gaze. “It iz so fucking hotzz butz so redz and tightz, I don’t wantz to hurtz youz,” he said, his tone soft, almost weirdly paternal.
“Please, I need you, let it hurt if it must, I want you inside me…” I begged, lost in the haze of his touch, his fingertip teasing my anus like a pussy. He pulled me close, my back against his hairy chest through our shirts, his warmth searing.
His right arm crushed me in an embrace, his finger plunging deeper, harder, pulling my ass toward the thick bulge in his pants. “Nozz, nozz, todayz I will not fuckz youz with my beniz,” he said firmly into my ear, his breath hot, sliding his hand from my chest to my abdomen, locking me in place. “Butz I will fuckz youz with my fingerz…”
His plain fingers, short, thick, bitten nails, worked in and out, stretching me, the sensation raw, painful, yet so real I moaned as if he were fucking me with his cock. Each deep thrust pressed his palm against my abdomen, his coarse chest hairs grazing me through his shirt, his belt digging in. “Tightz like virginnn againnn…” he growled, satisfied, his breath hot on my neck, his two-day stubble scraping my skin. “You don’t needz beniz todayz… thiz iz enoughz.”
I was pinned in his arms, helpless, craving, each thrust of his fingers forcing my mouth open, gasping for air, for more of him. He’d decide when I’d get his cock, his control absolute, my body trembling with filthy need.
My body quaked with raw excitement, repelled and enthralled by him in the same breath. This plain, unpolished man, too paralyzed by fear of failure to act alone, was now shoving his fingers into my aching hole – still quite raw from his brutal fucking days ago. That fact drove me wild, a filthy thrill searing through me.
Memories of our past conversations about his life flooded: Khalil sleeping under open skies in Europe, penniless; fucking a man’s wife in Belarus with his uncle and friends, her husband watching; allegedly rejecting a Bahraini man’s cash to fuck him, claiming “I’m not gay.”; his Ramadan breath, sour and stale; the rugged scar on his bald head; his 1.7-meter frame with size 44 shoes, flat feet that’d make a hobbit jealous.
His wife, bound to tradition, draining him with demands to fund her family in Syria; his devotion to her, showering her with branded gifts to make her a lady; his desperate wish for a child at nearly 40, unaffordable; his best years gone, doomed to scarcity—financial, emotional. Yet I, decisive, from a measured, selfish culture, had brighter prospects. And still, his repulsive fingers were deep in me, because I allowed it. That realization triggered a fierce, uncontrollable anal orgasm, stars bursting behind my eyes, tingles ripping through every nerve as my anus clenched wildly around his fingers.
His laugh, rough and dry, reeking of cigarettes and coffee, cut through the silence. “Ahahaha Tom-Tom… your assz iz like vazhina… you cumz on fingerzzz…” he said, panting, almost disbelieving, his prayer beads clicking faintly.
I was pinned in his arms, helpless, shame and bliss colliding in a single second. His fingers slid out, slick from my hole, and I tried to move, but his firm grip locked me in place, his hairy forearm around me, his ruggedness flooding my senses.
His rhythmic breaths grazed my neck, hot exhales mingling with the wet slap of his hand on his cock, each jerk of his hips pressing his rigid shaft against my back. His fingers, still slick from my hole, slid in and out of my anus, testing my readiness, stretching me raw. My body trembled in post-orgasmic spasms, yet each touch reignited me, opening me like a plea for more.
I pictured his gaze: those dark eyes locked on my red, pulsing hole, claiming it as his, me as his toy. It thrilled and repelled me: that weathered, plain face, sweaty, with crooked teeth and a scarred head, the last I’d ever want beside me, yet unbearably arousing for it. Each sudden thrust of two fingers deeper stole my breath, forcing me to arch back, silently begging. His scent of light sweat, stale clothes, IQOS, aroused even my nostrils, and I hated myself for gripping his hand tighter, spreading my legs wider, craving more of his filthy reek.
Tension built; his cock slapped faster against his palm, his body vibrating with raw desire. His grip on my waist tightened, possessive, pinning me against him, no escape allowed. This short, plain man held me like a king claiming his prize, and I reveled in it, my body trembling with filthy need. His fingers massaged my anus, his breath hot on my neck, his stubble scraping my skin, reeking of smoke and cologne.
Then, his voice, low and rugged, declared, “I will finishez.”
His grip tightened, his finger pulling out. The metallic clink of his belt hit the floor as he bent me over the desk and stood on his toes, positioning himself. I braced for his cock to ram into me, but it didn’t come. Instead, a blunt pressure nudged my anus—his thick head, strong enough to seal my hole, gentle enough not to breach it. A searing heat bloomed at my entrance, a tickling thrill as the first slick spurt of his cum passed my clenched sphincter, trickling inside. Each subsequent pulse felt fainter, a soft pressure, yet every spurt marked me, letting me share his orgasm, not just as a vessel for his seed but a participant in his raw release.
“I finishedz…” Khalil sighed, his arm still around my waist, grip loosening slightly, his breath hot and ragged.
“I know, I felt it…” I said, adding, “Thank you.”
“Thankz for whatz you meanz?” he asked, panting, his voice rough.
“Thank you for not shoving it in, even though I begged you to fuck me. I was so caught up, I’d have taken the pain,” I said, meaning it. His restraint showed more care for me than I had for myself in that haze of lust.
“You’re welcomez, Thomas,” he said.
As Khalil left for the bathroom, I fixed my clothes, a strange relief washing over me, despite the fraught dynamic. A fleeting thought of our marriages crossed my mind, but it was the raw proof of Khalil’s care for my hurting ass that grounded me: his restraint even as a part of his dominance. His psychological grip thrilled me, controlling me so fully I wondered: could I ever say no? Would ever refusing him mean losing this? My body trembled with the weight of his power over me.
Khalil returned to the office, catching me lost in thought, the office’s stale air thick with dust, its flickering neon lights felt like casting blame on me for what I just did.
“Everything okayz?” he asked, his voice casual, his prayer beads clicking faintly.
“Of course. You?” I countered, hoping to reach him, my voice tinged with unease.
“Yez, why notz? Your assz melted like butterz around my beniz. Iz berfect,” he said, smirking, his words pinning me as his temporary toy, a tool for his release, the raw heat of our encounter still lingering in my body.
“Thanks for the compliment…” I said, then added, “With your cock, my ass could hardly not melt.” The words felt cheap, not me, a hollow echo of desire that shamed me.
Our shift was winding down, and Khalil clearly had no interest in lingering. “I go nowz, I havez my other jobz in eveningz,” he said, no trace of guilt for leaving early, no question, just a statement.
“Okay,” I said, my voice flat.
“See youz Mondayz,” he said.
“What do you mean, that’s four days away?” I asked, startled.
“I am offz tomorrowz, then next day youz, and then iz Sundayz,” he said, correct.
“Yeah… Monday…” I said, caught off guard.
“Okay, byez Tom-Tom, wishingz youz a nice weekendz,” he said, slinging his backpack on, striding toward the door. He raised a fist for a bump, and in that split second, I saw his wedding ring glint. Our rings clinked together, a cold, sharp sound, a fleeting reminder of our shared infidelity. My hand lingered in the air, trembling, as the weight of that sound sank in.
He walked out, his short, stocky frame moving with a steady gait, backpack slung over his shoulder, never looking back. No hint of the burden of what we’d done: his marriage, my marriage, our oblivious partners. He carried no weight, while I stood frozen, the metal of my wedding ring biting my finger, causing more afterthoughts than I’d like to admit.