Idriss
Alexi’s bedroom glowed dim, a single lamp casting jagged shadows over the walls, the bed a mess of tangled limbs and damp fabric. Alexis sprawled on his back, legs hooked over Idriss’s shoulders, his skinny frame jolting with every thrust. They liked fucking missionary, raw, the headboard thudding soft against the plaster. Idriss loomed above, cornrows glinting, his wiry body flexing. His gold tooth flashed as he grinned down, his thick cock slamming into Alexis’s tight hole, still tender from Nasser’s brutal hour the night before.
“Tell me,” Idriss whispered, hips slowing to a deep grind and his hands pinning Alexis’s wrists to the mattress, “that sweaty Arab jock, fucked you good, huh? I can still feel you loose, princess.”
Alexis gasped, head lolling back, pink streak sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Yeah, fuck, big, ten inches, man, spit only…” His ass clenched around Idriss who knew it was from the memory.
He wished he’d been there to see it.
“Liked it, didn’t you?” one hand sliding to grip Alexis’s throat. “Fucking hairy soccer jock wrecking you… was he bigger than me?”
Alexis moaned, a wrecked little “Yes, fuck, yes, just an inch but a bit thicker too, and so fucking dry,” spilling out. The jockstrap had long been discarded on the floor, a pretense Idriss hadn’t needed in years. “He was so rough, fucking slammed me so hard, creamed me deep… Babe, he fucking owned it. Fucking owned my pussy…”
His voice broke, needy, and Idriss laughed, picking up the pace driving in deep, the bed shaking now.
“He coming back?” Idriss asked, voice tight, his balls slapping Alexis’s ass. He pictured it, had been picturing it since yesterday when Alexis called him, still panting and moaning, right after Nasser left. Nasser’s hairy bulk, that fat cock splitting his princess again.
“Yeah, he said it,” Alexis gasped, Idriss’ cock hitting ever harder, “promised…thanked me, even.”
Idriss’s mind spun, heat surging. That Arab jock pounding Alexis, sweaty and grunting, a beast he wanted to see up close. Nasser railing Alexis, him watching, then joining, double-fucking that tight hole, a rare treat he craved more of. So few of his friends had been easy to convince. “Fuck, I’m gonna watch him next time,” Idriss whispered, slamming harder, driving himself with his fantasy, wanting to share it with Alexis because he knew it would turn him on as well. “Then we both take you and stretch you raw, princess, two fat cocks to rip you apart.”
Alexis whimpered, wrapping his arms around Idriss’ neck to bring him closer. “Yes, fuck, do it!” his hole clenching tighter, pushing Idriss over the edge.
The image burned. Nasser’s hairy thighs flexing, his thick shaft plunging in beside Idriss’s own, and his skinny, pale, feminine little Alexis screaming under them, a filthy mess of cum and sweat, always begging for more like he did, even when you thought you’d already put too much in him.
Idriss groaned, deep and guttural. “Shit, take it!” He unloaded, hot spurts flooding Alexis’s ass, his hips jerking as he creampied him, the fantasy of that sweaty Arab jock wrecking his boy tipping him hard.
Alexis moaned, wrecked beyond words, his own cock twitching then letting it out come over his stomach. He loved making his little princess come untouched, whether they were fucking hard, making love, or something in between like now.
Idriss slowed, panting, pulling out with a wet pop, cum trickling from Alexis’s gaping hole. He lowered Alexis’ legs then straddled him, bringing his cummy dick to his princess’ mouth. Alexis simply took it in and started cleaning it up with his tongue, eyes closed and humming.
“Fucking Nasser, I hope he’s down,” still picturing it, him and that hairy bastard tag-teaming Alexis, a double-fuck to ruin him.
Alexis let the dick out of his mouth for a second and said, “He will, he loved it too much,” with great confidence before starting to suck, deep and passionate, clearly wanting a new load out of Idriss, this time in his mouth.
Maybe Nasser would want it, yeah. But that didn’t solve the problem that Idriss didn’t even know if bringing it up with the big guy would work, or result in a punch in the face. Not every guy wanted to touch dicks inside a gay guy’s hole, as Idriss had already learned.
Tarek
Bay Park was a sprawling stretch of green hugging three contiguous beaches, the sand already dotted with bodies soaking up the early warmth. Tarek prowled the park’s paths, his tight Tunisian football jersey clinging to his lean frame, soccer shorts riding high on his hairy legs, sneakers slapping the pavement.
He’d burned through most of his last haul from the fag, down to €15 after last night’s vodka and coke, but today he was on a run, pockets stuffed with baggies of hash, a small-time hustle to keep the cash flowing. Mostly sober, just a morning joint to take the edge off, he felt lighter. His usual scowl had softened into something almost easy.
The park teemed with life. Kids kicking balls, old men on benches, and girls, fuck, so many girls in tiny outfits, bikinis peeking from under shorts, skin glistening with sweat and sunscreen.
Tarek’s eyes roamed, lingering on a brunette in a crop top, her ass tight in denim cutoffs, jogging past with earbuds in. He grinned, a calm smile. “Hey, nice day, huh?” he called in English, voice steady, friendly, slowing his stride to match hers. She glanced over, earbud out, smile out until she saw him, and frowned. “Fuck off, dealer,” she snapped, picking up the pace, leaving him behind. His grin faltered, but he shrugged. Plenty more, he thought, brushing it off.
He moved on, baggies shifting in his shorts, nodding to a regular, a twitchy white guy who just wanted a twenty, but every week, then paused by the second beach, the water glinting blue. A blonde in a thong bikini sprawled on a towel, scrolling on her phone, legs long and tanned. Tarek adjusted his jersey, wiping sweat from his brow, and ambled over, relaxed, no rush. “Hey, you local?” he asked in French, hands in pockets, aiming for casual.
She looked up, sunglasses sliding down, and squinted. “Not interested,” she said flat, turning back to her screen.
His jaw ticked, a flicker of heat in his gut but he forced a laugh, “Alright, cool,” and walked off, the sun still high, his mood holding, just.
The day wore on, deals ticking steady, €30 here, €15 there, his stash lightening, cash piling up, but the girls kept coming, a parade of skin and shut-downs. A redhead in a sundress sipped iced coffee by a food truck, her skirt fluttering in the breeze. Tarek leaned against a tree, watching her, then strolled up, easy as fuck. “Hot out, huh? Coffee’s brave,” he said in French, noting she didn’t seem like a tourist.
She smiled then clocked his vibe, the baggies bulging in his shorts, and it died. “Not my type,” she replied, walking off, leaving him staring.
“Bitch,” he hissed under his breath, low and in Arabic, but kept moving.
By mid-afternoon, the park buzzed louder with life and Tarek’s easy disposition frayed as he started smoking to alleviate the rejections stacking like bricks. A curly-haired chick in a tank top rollerbladed past, thighs flexing, and he jogged up, matching her pace. “Hey, you’re fast, wanna race me?” he said in English, playful, his hairy legs pumping, a jock’s charm he hadn’t flexed since Tunis.
She laughed, then slowed, “I’ll race you back to your fucking country,” she said, sharp, before skating off.
His grin vanished. “Stupid cunt.”
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching, and Tarek’s runs slowed. A petite brunette in a bikini top smoked by the third beach, alone, and he tried one last time, relaxed mask slipping but still on. “Hey, smoke’s better with company,” he said, nodding at her cig, his voice smooth, a flicker of hope.
She exhaled, eyeing him. “I don’t talk to guys I don’t know,” she said, blunt, turning away.
The word hit like a slap. “Then how do you meet guys,” but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care to find out whether he was too Arab, too poor, too clearly a drug dealer, or even if she thought he was ugly.
He stormed through the park, the girls’ faces blurring. Bitches, all of them, everyone a cunts who thought herself too good for him, rejecting him for dealing, for his skin, his face. His cock stiffened, rage awakening it. He’d make them take it, bend them over, ram his 11 inches in till they screamed. The thought looped, violent and hot, and then, it was him, Alexis’s gasps, those fucking “Harder!” cries from the wall, crashing in. Fags bending over, taking it raw, like that faggot slut.
His mind reeled until the memories and fantasies came together: beating up fags, fucking Alexis, smashing his face then pounding his ass, blood and cum mixing. “
Reda
Reda sat alone on the pull-out couch, the worn fabric rough under his fingers, his ears pricking at the faint hum of music drifting from Alexis’s place—no grunts, no thuds, just a soft Arabic tune through the wall. His gut twisted. Nasser’s “Take it, slut” still echoed from Saturday, a secret he’d sworn to bury, but it gnawed, restless and hot. Sensing a chance with Sami gone, he slipped out, barefoot, heart thudding as he crossed the hall and knocked on Alexis’s door.
Alexis opened it, barefoot too, in a loose tank top and shorts, hair messy with the pink streak falling to his eyes, a joint dangling from his fingers. “Reda—hey,” he said in Arabic, grinning, stepping aside. “Help with French, yeah?”
Reda nodded, shy, “Please,” in French, his accent thick, stepping into the warm clutter
“Tea? Smoke?” Alexis offered, switching to French, pouring a cup and passing the stick.
Reda took both, hands shaky, his eyes darting to the bedroom. Idriss sprawled naked on the bed, sheets twisted, his dark bulk still, snoring soft. The sight jolted him, his roommates’ words echoing… that nigger who fucks him… his dick stirring despite the guilt.
They sat on the couch, started easy, the basics, and slowly went a little further, practiced simple conversation. Alexis was patient, his voice a lifeline. Reda pushed harder, repeating, focusing on Alexis’s “You’re getting it,” in Arabic, warm and close.
The music looped, tea cooled, and Reda relaxed, Alexis’s grin pulling him in. He noticed more. Idriss’s snores, the bedroom’s musk seeping out, Alexis’s painted nails tapping the table, and his obsession grew while they were talking, Nasser’s savage fuck replaying in his mind, all the pictures his brain had made up to stick to the sounds. Then the bed creaked, Idriss stirred, his dark arm shifting under the sheet.
Reda froze, eyes wide, Alexis glancing back with a smirk, “He’s up,” casual as fuck. Idriss’s head lifted, cornrows shifting, his bulk rousing, and Reda’s pulse spiked.
“Oops—sorry, man,” Idriss said coming out the bedroom in simple black boxers, tented by a long and fat erection. “Always need my princess when I wake up.” He gestured at his bulge, grinning at Alexis, who smirked back, adding, “Wake-up ritual,” in Arabic, tossing Reda a wink.
Reda’s face burned, shame scorching his throat. A good Muslim shouldn’t see this, shouldn’t feel this but his virgin cock stiffened at the rawness of it all, Idriss’s ease, Alexis’s play. “I’ll go,” he mumbled in Arabic, standing fast, “Thank you, Alexis.”
Idriss waved a hand, stepping closer, boxers low on his hips. “Nah, sit, stay,” he said, his erection bobbing as he moved. “You can watch or join, it’s up to you.”
Reda froze, legs locking… watch? join? His mind screamed Sami’s “disease” rant, but his body betrayed him, cock throbbing at the idea. “I, uh, I’m a virgin,” he blurted, ashamed
Idriss’s grin widened, , “Perfect! Watch and learn, kid, your lessons continue,” clapping Alexis’s shoulder.
Reda’s heart raced and curiosity won.
Idriss yanked Alexis close, crashing their lips together, a hard, sloppy kiss. Tongues clashing visibly, Alexis moaning soft into it, trying to suck Idriss’. Reda stared, wide-eyed, guilt clawing because he shouldn’t watch, shouldn’t want, and but his dick pulsed on, hard now, leaking.
Idriss broke off, shoving Alexis down to his knees, the thud of bone on wood jarring. “Suck it,” Idriss growled, yanking his boxers down, his thick cock springing free, dark and veined, inches from Alexis’s face. Alexis dove in, lips stretching wide, taking it deep from the first seconds, chasing the back of his throat with Idriss’ tip. A wet gag echoed as Idriss gripped Alexis’ brown and pink hair. “See this?” Idriss said, glancing at Reda, voice steady, “Submissive, eager as fuck, that means you can handle him rough, he’s showing us he loves it.”
Reda nodded, transfixed, his virgin mind taking in the lesson.
Idriss thrust, brutal and fast, facefucking Alexis without care, reducing the young man to sloppy gurgles, spit endlessly dripping. Alexis’s hands were clawing Idriss’s ass, eager, wrecked.
“Grab the hair so you can control the blowjob,” Idriss instructed, demonstrating by yanking Alexis’s head back, then slamming it down, balls slapping his chin. “It’s your blowjob, you gotta have it like you like it, kid, okay?”
Suddenly Idriss’s removed his cock from Alexis’ mouth and reach and turned to Reda with a calm, commanding gaze. “Stand up—pull it out,” Idriss ordered, eyes boring into Reda like he could see the sin already festering inside.
Reda’s heart slammed against his ribs mind a storm of panic, Sami’s lectures roaring in his skull. His legs trembled, locked to the couch, but his body betrayed him, a traitor rising for him despite the shame scorching his throat. He stood, slow and unsteady, hands shaking as they fumbled at his jeans until the denim parted and he could lower his boxers, Idriss nodding along. His prick fell free, smaller than Idriss’s thick monster but stiff, leaking precum, a glistening bead that mocked his resolve.
Idriss looked at Alexis. “Go on,” casual as fuck.
Alexis crawled over, knees scuffing the hardwood, hair, face, chin, neck all a damp mess, his mouth parting for Reda like a filthy invitation. Reda’s cock pulsed, hot and eager, the virgin ache he’d nursed alone now staring him down. His hand moved, hesitant, trembling, snagging Alexis’s hair, his awkward fingers tangling in the sweaty strands, a grip he didn’t know how to hold yet.
Idriss’s voice cut through, sharp and guiding. “Go ahead, put it in, fuck his face,” and Reda flinched, the words a lash against his soul.
He thrust, shallow at first, barely nudging Alexis’s lips, the heat of that mouth a shock. It was soft, wet, wrapping him like a sin he couldn’t name. It was better than his calloused hand in the dark, better than anything he’d dared imagine. Alexis gagged as he pushed it all in, throat tight and hot, and Reda’s hips jerked deeper now, unbidden, his body acting while his heart begged no. His cock didn’t care, swelling in that slick grip, every thrust a betrayal of the boy who’d knelt on prayer rugs for eighteen years, praying for purity.
“Like that, you can go harder, kid” Idriss coached, stroking his own cock, grinning wide, gold tooth glinting as he watched Reda unravel.
Reda’s eyes squeezed shut but the sounds drilled in: Alexis’s gurgles, the wet slap of spit, Idriss’s low chuckle. His hand tightened in Alexis’s hair, knuckles whitening and he thrust harder, faster, the rhythm stuttering as pleasure, raw and new, started taking over. His legs shook, knees buckling under the weight of it and his cock drove on, plunging deep, Alexis’s throat spasming, gagging, taking it, and Reda hated how good it felt, hated the moan clawing up his own throat, and loved it all so much.
Five minutes, five fucking minutes tops, and his control snapped, the pleasure too much, too sharp. His hips bucked, erratic, desperate and he came hard, hot spurts flooding Alexis’s throat, a choked moan ripping free from his chest, legs trembling as he gripped that hair tighter.
The release shattered him, and the shame crashed in behind it, a tidal force drowning him in disgust. His cum pulsed out, thick and hot, Alexis swallowing fast, and Reda stumbled back, jeans yanked up fast, hands fumbling, bliss and horror colliding, a sick twist in his gut. Fucking sin, he thought, but fuck, so good.
Idriss laughed, a loud, rolling “Good start, kid,” in English, his hand still on his own prick, “you got a good cock, kid, and you handled the princess like a chief.”
He’d done it, he’d fucked a fag’s face, came in his throat. He was no better than Nasser, or just as smart as him. His prick softened, sticky in his jeans.
Adel
Sami’s crew had scattered. Nasser was out chasing who-knew-what, Tarek and Karim gone, Reda sleeping on the pull-out couch after coming back exhausted but empty-handed from some errand, leaving Adel alone, sprawled on a mattress in the big bedroom, the door locked with a soft click behind him. His phone glowed in the dark, earbuds jammed in, drowning the quiet with his breath, the only light a flicker from the screen as he scrolled Pornhub, his usual late-night fix. His tracksuit bunched at his hips, hand already brushing his bulge. Girls gagging on cocks, his go-to, a quick escape from the apartment’s grind.
He tapped a vid, some blonde chick, big tits, kneeling, throat open while a big black dude railed it hard. He watched her spit fall to her tits, admired the brutality of the guy’s thrusts. His hand slipped down, stroked slow, eyes locked on the screen. Fucking bitches, always ready in these vids, never in real life.
Five minutes in, he was hard as he could be, leaking, jerking himself at a steady rythm. Porn was safe, normal, no shame in this, but boredom crept, the same old shit, and his thumb hovered, curiosity itching from Tarek’s drunk rant about fags and the neighbor’s noises.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, clicking and scrolling fast, finding a gay vid of some skinny and pale fag getting throat fucked by an Arab guy. His stomach lurched, “Fucking sick,” he hissed but froze, thumb twitching to kill it and his prick stayed hard, a traitor throb against his palm, the rawness hooking him. The twink gagged, throat bulging, the guy snarling “Take it, bitch” and Adel’s breath caught. Fuck, that was rough, the exact kind of throat fucking he’d always wanted.
He flipped back to a straight video, brunette choking on dick, safer ground, stroking fast, chasing release to bury the gay shit, cum spurting quick, hot and messy on his tracksuit, five minutes flat.
He yanked the earbuds out, panting, phone tossed aside, a cold wave over the bliss. “Fucking disgusting,” wiping his hand on the mattress, the gay porn replaying in his mind despite him. His prick softened, sticky, but the images lingered and he hated it, hated how it stuck, how his dick had liked it. He kicked the mattress, muttering “No fag shit,” loud to convince himself.
Sami
Sami slipped from the small bedroom, grabbed his keys, sneaking out without difficulty, the door clicking soft behind him.
The woman’s place was a ten-minute walk, a sagging building near the docks, its halls reeking of mildew and cheap perfume. She was in her fifties, growing fat, her husband out hauling freight most nights, and she had promised €100 per fuck for Sami to fuck her, rough, no condom, as often as he could a deal she’d whispered months ago at the hookah bar, desperate for what her man couldn’t give.
Sami climbed the stairs, hood up, knuckles rapping sharp on her door, his gut twisting but his dick stiffened, the only relief he could stomach these days. No faggot shit, just a woman, dirty as it was. She opened fast. Karine, she’d said once, but he didn’t care, she was simply a white bitch like any other, with a white man to disappoint her in bed. She had messy hair pinned back, a loose robe slipping off one shoulder, her sagging tits half-out, and most importantly a wad of euros already on the table and a pussy between her legs.
“Quick,” she said, voice hoarse, waddling to the bedroom, dropping the robe. Rolls of flesh spilled, stretch marks crisscrossing her wide ass. Sami followed, jaw tight, “Bend over,” in Arabic, not caring if she understood, shoving his jeans down. His cock sprung free, seven thick inches, hard, veined, precum beading. She knelt on the bed, ass up, grunting as she spread, her hairy slit glistening. Fucking pig, he thought, but better than a fag, and he spat in his hand, slicking himself, shame clawing his chest. He gripped her hips, bony under the fat, and thrust raw, no rubber, sinking deep, her moan a low “Yes!” in French.
“Fucking whore,” he yelled in Arabic, slamming harder, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin filling the room, her ass rippling with each hit. “Take it, you dirty slut,” he growled, insults pouring out, a floodgate of rage and need, railing a married hag for cash, no better than a dog.
She gasped, “Harder!” in French, oblivious to his words, her fat hands clawing the sheets, and he obliged, thrusting brutal, deep, his balls slapping her thighs, sweat stinging his eyes. He spanked her and slapped her thighs. His mind screamed but his cock didn’t care, the tight heat a lifeline, proof he wasn’t like Alexis, wasn’t a queer bending over for niggers.
“Fucking take it,” he rasped, slamming deep, his cock pulsing hot cum, no pull-out, a raw creampie he’d never risk with a good girl. She groaned, collapsing forward, and Sami staggered back, jeans up fast panting. He snatched the money from the table on his way out.
Next : someone gets blue balls, someone gets way too drunk, someone gets way too angry, someone shows off his ridiculous cock
