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The past few days had been like a whirlwind of emotions, from the intense craving I felt for Khalil to the unexpected vulnerability he had shown in his apartment when he simply refused me and lay down beside me on the bed. The image of him, a man who had held me in complete control until then, suddenly saying I cannot, kept replaying in my head. It was a moment that shook me. For the first time I saw him as something more than a rough fucker. And that somehow bound me to him even more.
I kept turning it over in my mind during slow moments at the office, the way his thick cock had softened the second we stepped into the bedroom he shared with his wife, the awkward silence that followed, the strange comfort of just sitting on the couch watching TV like two normal people instead of whatever twisted thing we had become. Those softer moments only made the brutal ones feel more necessary, more addictive. I hated how much I needed both versions of him.
In the office over the following days the atmosphere was charged. We worked side by side, seemingly as colleagues, but every accidental brush of shoulders, every glance across the monitor, was loaded with unspoken meaning. Sometimes he would deliberately ignore me, and then I would catch him looking at me with those eyes I could not read, eyes that could despise me and desire me in the same second.
The tension was exhausting in the best and worst way. I found myself adjusting my tie or shifting in my chair just to feel his gaze linger a second longer. Even when customers were in the office, the professional smiles we wore felt like a thin mask over something much darker and hotter that only we understood. Steven had texted me twice that morning asking how my day was going, and each time I replied with the usual all good, love you while my stomach twisted with guilt and anticipation.
Late in the afternoon, when the office was already empty, I felt him behind me. Without a word he came close, so close that I could smell his sweat and that cheap cologne. My heart started beating faster.
My skin prickled with anticipation. I could feel the heat rolling off his body, and for a second I wondered if he was going to bend me over the desk right there without any conversation at all. Part of me almost hoped he would, the part that was already half hard just from his proximity.
“We can talkz?” he said quietly, but not pleading. He was not the type to beg. It was more of an order, yet softened, almost uncertain.
“Of course,” I replied, and I noticed my voice came out softer than I intended.
Khalil took me by the elbow and led me into the back room. The door closed behind us, leaving us alone in the half dark. He turned toward me, his eyes serious, jaw clenched.
The small click of the lock made my stomach tighten. The back room suddenly felt much smaller, the air thicker with the scent of cardboard boxes and his cologne. I could hear my own breathing and the distant hum of the office refrigerator.
“I needz to askz you somethings… iz imbortantz for mez,” he said, his voice rough.
I nodded, although I felt a slight twist in my stomach. Whenever he started sentences like that, I knew something that would catch me off guard was coming. My mind raced through possibilities, was he ending this? Was he asking for more money? Was he finally admitting something real?
“You knowz my beliefz. My Islamz, my Allahz. It iz who I amz, deep insidez.” He spoke slowly, as if weighing every word. His gaze was unwavering, as if testing me. “You knowz what happenz in my flatz… or what not happenz. I wantz to, but I cannotz. In my home, with my wifez smell, my Quran… iz too muchz for mez.”
I felt my throat go dry. His voice was firm, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in it, rare and unusual for him.
I stood there silently, letting him speak, watching the way his thick fingers flexed at his sides as if he was fighting the urge to grab me and take what he wanted. The conflict in his eyes was genuine, the same man who had wrecked me without mercy now looked almost pained.
“I needz you to stopz eating pigz.”
I blinked, thinking I had misheard. “Stop eating pork?”
He immediately stepped half a step closer, towering over me in the dim light. “Yez. You must stopz.”
“Why?” The question left my mouth before I could stop it, my voice sounding smaller, more frantic than I wanted. “Khalil, what does that have to do with… us?”
He looked away for a second, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched. He gestured heavily with his thick hands, clearly frustrated by having to put it into words.
“I needz your bodyz cleanz for mez,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Not only desirez… iz respectz. Respectz my faith. Respectz mez as manz.”
I stared at him, my mind racing. I wanted to argue, to tell him how absurd it was, but the raw intensity in his eyes held me captive. He looked genuinely pained. “Your faith?” I asked quietly, taking a step toward him, needing to bridge the sudden distance between us. “Because of what happened at your apartment?”
Khalil’s eyes snapped back to mine, dark and unreadable. “How canz I but my beniz inz you… raw, directz… when I knowz you eat dirty pigz? My faith sayz iz haramz. You understandz? For me… iz heavyz.”
The word raw sent a sudden, traitorous shiver right down my spine. I swallowed hard, my mind flashing to breakfasts with Steven—bacon, ham, normal life—contrasted against the dark, suffocating heat of this back room.
“I understand,” I breathed out, my chest heaving.
Khalil looked at me, his eyes tracking the movement of my throat. He didn’t look satisfied. He looked disappointed, like he was waiting for something more from me. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I couldn’t handle him looking at me like that.
“And… if I don’t?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly. I hated how clingy I sounded, how desperate I was to know the boundaries of his trap. “What happens if I can’t just change that overnight?”
Khalil stepped even closer, his chest almost brushing mine. The scent of his sweat and cheap cologne enveloped me.
“Then I can notz do this no morez,” he said flatly.
Panic flared hot in my stomach. No more? My heart hammered against my ribs. “You mean, like, breaking up?”
“Or,” Khalil cut in, his face hardening, “I havez to usez gondomz.”
He spit the word out like it was poison.
“Condoms?” I repeated, a cold weight dropping into my gut.
“I no like gondomz,” he growled, shaking his head. “They feelz like nothing. Like I fucks plastic. I am manz, Tom-Tom. I can go fucks any womanz if I want gondomz. But I no wants that. I wants no gondom.”
He was giving me an ultimatum dressed up as a choice.
“So you choosez,” Khalil said, his hand suddenly coming down on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. “Stop pigz… or I try to but gondom on. Your choice, Tom-Tom.”
His voice was calm, almost reasonable, but the threat underneath it was clear. He was giving me an ultimatum dressed up as a choice. And the way he said it, like he was doing me a favor by even considering going raw with me, made my stomach twist with shame and something darker. I felt small. Like I should be grateful he was willing to fuck me without anything between us at all.
At the same time a cold realization hit me. If he started using condoms, it would not be the same for me either. I needed that moment when he groaned and emptied his balls deep inside me, the feeling of his hot cum flooding my guts, marking me from the inside. Without that raw creampie the whole thing would feel pointless. The thought of him pulling out and finishing into rubber instead of me made something inside me clench with panic. I did not want that. I wanted him to use me the way he always did, full and deep and messy.
The cold realization of what a condom meant hit me like a physical blow. Without him filling me completely, without that raw, messy surrender at the end, the whole thing would feel empty.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my footing. I needed him, but I needed to know what I was actually buying with this change.
“If… if I do this,” I started, my voice trembling slightly as I looked up at him, hating how clingy and desperate I sounded. “Does it change things? Between us? When do we… when can we do it again?”
Khalil’s eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the insecurity in my face. He didn’t answer right away, letting me stew in my own anxiety. “You chang foodz, then we do itz. Simble. No pigz, no plastic. Clean holez for mez.”
I wanted to say yes. A huge part of me wanted to just nod and let him take me right there against the cardboard boxes. But a sudden wave of reality hit me… The logistics of completely altering my life for a man I ultimately disliked.
“I want to,” I whispered, taking a half-step back, breaking the heavy magnetic pull of his chest. “But… I need a little time. Just to think about how to manage it. At home, you know…”
The shift in the room was instantaneous.
Khalil didn’t explode; instead, his posture stiffened, a dark, cold mask slipping over his features. The person who I talked to so far has vanished, and replaced by a cutting chill. He stepped back, crossing his arms, looking down at me as if I had just deeply insulted him.
“You needz to thinks?” he said, his voice dropping into a mocking, pained rhythm. He shook his head, playing the wounded party with masterclass precision. “I openz my soul to you, Tom-Tom. I tellz you about my faithz, my strugglez in my own homez… and you tellz me you needz to thinks? Like I am askings for too much? I try to makes us right. I try to resbect you. And you treatz me like thiz.”
The guilt hit my stomach like lead. It was a twisted flip of reality: he was the one who wanted something from me, yet suddenly I was the one who felt like the bad guy, the one breaking his heart.
“No, Khalil, it’s not like that,” I pleaded quickly, moving toward him, unable to handle his disapproval. “I promise I won’t think long. I just… I just need a moment.”
“I am manz, Tom-Tom,” he cut in, his jaw clenched, his eyes turning almost a bit mean. He leaned in closer, his face inches from mine, and as he spoke, the hot blast of his breath hit me: sour and stale, the exact same scent that had turned my stomach during Ramadan. It was a sensory slap, a stark reminder of how unpolished, how completely unrefined this man was. I felt a wave of genuine repulsion, a sickening urge to push him away, yet in the very same moment, my heart hammered with a filthy, addictive thrill. His proximity was intoxicating precisely because it was so gritty.
He looked at my crotch, then back up to my eyes with absolute coldness. “I needz to finish oftenz. My bodyz needz it. The longer you thinks… maybe I have to finds new hole to butting my benis. You understandz me? I no wait foreverz for you to decides if I am worths it.”
A wave of pure panic and jealousy flushed hot through my veins. The thought of him using his thick cock on someone else, filling another man or woman, emptying his balls into a different hole because I wasn’t compliant enough—it made me physically sick.
“Tomorrow,” I blurted out, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I’ll make a decision by tomorrow. I promise.”
Khalil stared down at me. Internally, I could tell he wasn’t happy. He had wanted me to accept his terms right then and there, to give him the rushed, messy surrender he expected. But as he looked at my wide, panicked eyes, I guess he realized he had pushed me right to the very edge.
Slowly, he gave a single, tight nod. It wasn’t a peaceful acceptance, but it was still acceptance. His hand came down on my shoulder, firm and masculine, his fingers digging in just enough to remind me who owned the space we were standing in.
“Tomorrowz then,” he rumbled, his voice low and threateningly soft. “Do not makes me waitz, Tom-Tom.”
He let go, turned on his heel, and walked out of the back room, leaving me alone in the half-dark. My skin was prickling, my breath ragged, and my cock was throbbing painfully in my trousers. He had just threatened me, manipulated me, and left me agonizing over his loyalty—and the worst part was, as I stood there in the silence, I already knew exactly what my answer would be tomorrow.