My phone’s a piece of shit, scratched screen glowing in my Brooklyn apartment, Grindr a dirty secret from my grease-stained life. I’m Jackson, twenty-nine, a mechanic with hands chewed up by engines, my pickup truck a MAGA billboard, every sticker a fuck-you to the world. My flannel’s half-open, showing a chest carved by work, not gyms, light hair dusting my pecs. The profile I’m eyeballing hits like a wrench to the skull: Amir, 42, 6’2”, Top/Dom. His pic’s raw trouble—sharp cheekbones, thick black beard framing a hard jaw, dark eyes that could gut me, and a lean, wiry frame packed into a black shirt that hugs every muscle. His dark hair’s a messy wave, rebel style, and his smirk’s a dare I can’t back down from. His bio’s ballsy, stupid: “I break egos and build minds. Submit to me, and I’ll make you a socialist, habibi.”
I snort, loud in my empty place. Socialist? Me? I’m the asshole yelling at Trump rallies, slagging off welfare leeches. No city prick’s rewiring my brain. But those eyes, that body—they’re a problem I wanna solve. My thumb swipes right, daring him. He’s hot enough to fuck, not convert me. His reply’s instant, cocky: “Think you’re tough, cowboy? Come to my place. I’ll break you. 10 PM, Manhattan.” An address drops, then: “Habibi.” My dick’s half-hard, pulse thumping. I fire back, all Southern sass: “I’m game, pretty boy. But I ain’t your commie bitch.” His reply’s a winking emoji and a line that makes my skin burn: “Wear something tight. I want to see what I’m tearing apart.” I grin, hooked, but I’m not losing my soul.
The elevator to Amir’s penthouse is a glass trap, shooting up thirty floors above Manhattan’s neon snarl. I tug at my black tank, stretched tight across my pecs, jeans gripping my thighs like a chokehold. My boots scuff the polished floor, a redneck middle finger to this slick world. The doors open, and I’m floored. The penthouse is a wet dream—floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city light, LED strips casting a moody glow over black leather furniture, air thick with oud and musk, like sex and rebellion. Arabic oud music slinks through, sultry, hypnotic. Protest posters—clenched fists, Arabic and English slogans—scream fight on the walls. A playroom lurks past an open door, its padded bench, coiled restraints, and floggers promising the kind of trouble I’m craving.
Amir’s at the bar, pouring whiskey into crystal glasses that laugh at my paycheck. His black shirt clings to his lean, wiry frame, muscles taut under tanned skin, sleeves rolled up to show veined forearms. His beard’s thick, framing a jaw that could cut glass, his dark, wavy hair wild, untamed. At forty-two, he’s a goddamn predator, dark eyes pinning me like prey. “Welcome, habibi,” he drawls, voice gravel wrapped in silk, sliding under my skin. He hands me a glass, calloused fingers brushing mine, sparking heat to my dick. “You’re rougher than I thought, ya azizi. My kind of meat.”
I slug the whiskey, smirking to hide my racing pulse. “Fancy crib for a commie,” I say, eyeing the penthouse. “Thought you’d be passing out soup in a ditch.”
His smile’s a blade, sharp and dangerous. “I use their shit to burn their world, ya qalbi.” He steps close, his sandalwood-and-musk scent drowning me, his lean frame looming. “And you, Jackson, you’re my next fire.” He grabs my jaw, fingers digging in, forcing my eyes to his, dominance rolling off him. I jerk free, grinning like an asshole.
“You think you’re gonna make me some pinko dipshit?” I taunt, leaning in, voice dripping with bravado. “I’m MAGA, city boy. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
His laugh’s low, a growl that makes my skin prickle. “Oh, habibi, I’ll have you on your knees, begging for my truth by dawn.” He slaps my cheek, quick, stinging, my dick jumping. “Move, fucker. Playtime.” My brain’s yelling to tell him to fuck off, but my body’s already moving, hooked on his heat, his control.
The playroom’s a dungeon, black velvet walls eating light. A throne-like chair, dark leather with carved armrests, squats in the center, radiating power. Amir drops into it, legs spread wide, wiry frame a king’s, dark eyes burning, daring me to sit. “On your knees, habibi,” he orders, voice like steel, the Arabic endearment twisting my gut.
I cross my arms, smirking like a prick. “Make me fuckin’ do it, pretty boy.” My tone’s pure brat, pushing him. His eyes flash, and he’s up, grabbing my tank top, yanking me down. My knees slam the concrete floor, pain shooting through, and I glare up, grinning, but my dick’s screaming traitor. “Better,” he growls, fisting my hair, tugging till my scalp burns. “Strip, ya azizzy.”
I roll my eyes, playing the game, but I rip off my tank, chest bare, muscles tight from wrenching, light hair catching the dim light. My jeans drop, slow, teasing, black briefs stretched over my hard-on, damp with pre-cum. Amir’s eyes rake me, his smirk cruel. “Look at you, habibi,” he sneers, circling me, boots clicking. “MAGA brat, strutting like hot shit. You’re nothing here.” He slaps my chest, hard, red blooming, my cock throbbing. “Out there, you’re a pawn, Jackson. Slaving for bosses who fuck you over, waving your bullshit flags.”
I laugh, sharp, cocky. “I work my ass off, earn my keep. Socialism’s for pussies who can’t cut it.” My MAGA pride’s ironclad, no cracks.
Amir’s hand cracks across my face, harder, sting sharp, making me gasp. “Keep mouthing off, ya qalbi,” he taunts, yanking my hair, forcing my head back. “You’re a fool, sweating for crumbs while they get rich.” He leans in, beard brushing my jaw, breath hot. “Socialism’s power, community, for guys like you.” I shake my head, grinning, unshaken. “Fuck your commie crap,” I spit, convictions solid.
He snaps a leather collar around my neck, silver ring cold, leash clipping on with a snap that echoes. He yanks it, pulling me close, my face brushing his thigh, his scent—musk and spice—dizzying. “You’re mine, habibi,” he growls, low, humiliating. “A redneck who’ll learn his fucking place.” He drags me to the padded bench, its black leather cool under my skin, and binds my wrists with thick cuffs, the restraints biting. A silk blindfold slips over my eyes, plunging me into darkness, his boots, his breath, my pounding heart all I know.
He leans in, his lips crashing onto mine, dominating the kiss, his beard rough against my skin, his tongue claiming me, forceful, unyielding. I try to pull back, but he grips my jaw, holding me, his kiss bruising, possessive, tasting of whiskey and power. My cock throbs, my brain screaming to resist, but my lips chase his, desperate, betraying me. He breaks away, smirking. “Even your mouth wants me, ya noor,” he taunts, slapping my cheek, the sting fueling my defiance and need.
He drags me to the padded bench, black leather cool under my skin, binds my wrists with thick cuffs, restraints biting, thrilling. A silk blindfold slips over my eyes, plunging me into dark, his boots, breath, my pounding heart all I got. “Feel this,” he growls, voice a dark promise. Ice cube grazes my chest, cold searing, nipples hard instantly. I gasp, arching as he drags it down my abs, icy burn making my cock strain, briefs soaked. He trails ice along my inner thigh, chill biting, hips jerking, water dripping on the bench. “Your body’s begging, ya rouhi,” he taunts, pinching my nipple, twisting till I yelp, pain sparking pleasure. “But your mind’s a stubborn fuck.” The ice vanishes, replaced by the flogger’s bite across my thighs, leather tails snapping, leaving red welts that pulse with heat. I jerk, a moan ripping free, pain and pleasure tangling. He strikes again, harder, across my chest, the sting blooming into fire, my skin alive with it. “You love this, don’t you, habibi?” he sneers, voice cruel. “Clinging to a system that screws you. Socialism’s about giving, connecting.” I grit my teeth, defiance holding. “Fuck your commie talk,” I growl, pride unbent.
He unbinds my wrists, yanks the leash, dragging me to my knees before his throne. His shirt’s off, lean, wiry chest glistening, muscles taut under tanned skin, dark hair trailing into his waistband. “Smell me,” he orders, lifting his arm, his armpit’s musky scent thick, raw, hitting like a drug. I smirk, bratty. “You fucking serious, city boy?” He grabs my hair, pulling hard, shoving my face into the warm, damp skin. “Smell it, ya azizi,” he growls. I inhale, scent primal, overwhelming, my cock leaking. “Lick it,” he commands, and I drag my tongue across the salty skin, slow, then hungry, act degrading but electric, body buzzing with shame and want. “Good boy, habibi,” he purrs, stroking my hair, voice softening, hooking me. “So desperate. Imagine giving this to your people, not your asshole bosses.”
My cheeks burn, humiliation sparking desire. He guides my mouth to his chest, nipple taut, dark against his skin. “Suck,” he orders, and I do, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, his low moan vibrating through me. Skin’s warm, salty, wiry frame flexing, scent filling my lungs. “That’s it, ya rouhi,” he murmurs, praise chaining me. I pull back, smirking. “Still ain’t your socialist, pretty boy.” He slaps my face, sharp, sting pushing my buttons, and I grin, loving the fight, cock throbbing.
His hand slides to my briefs, palming my cock, fingers tracing the outline through the damp fabric, slow, torturous. I buck, groaning, hips chasing his touch. He teases the head, rubbing circles, the fabric slick, my pre-cum soaking through. “Look at you, ya noor,” he taunts, voice dark, cruel. “MAGA brat, leaking like a whore.” He slaps my thigh, hard, the pain hot, then squeezes my cock, fingers tight, making me whimper. He tugs my briefs down, my dick springing free, throbbing, and he strokes it, slow, his calloused palm rough, stopping just short of release. “Beg for more,” he growls, pinching my nipple, twisting hard. I moan, defiant. “Fuck you,” I spit, but my hips thrusting into his hand. He laughs, slaps my thigh, hard, pain hot, electric. “You’re nothing, Jackson. A cog, fucked by bosses you worship. Socialism makes you more.” Words sting—my shop’s dying, boss cutting hours—but I shake my head, pride solid. “Fuck your socialism,” I growl, voice steady.
He steps back, unbuttons his trousers, sound loud in my blindfolded dark. His cock springs free, thick, heavy, the head glistening. He grabs my hair, pulling my head back, and drags his cock across my lips, slow, teasing, like fucking lipstick, the warm, slick tip painting my mouth, the salty taste driving me insane. My lips part, desperate, but he holds back, smirking. “Beg for it, habibi,” he commands, voice cold, his dark eyes glinting, his wiry frame towering, sweat beading on his tanned skin. “Tell me you want it, ya qalbi.” I smirk, bratty, my dick screaming. “You wish, city boy.” He yanks the leash, choking me, slaps my face, the sting blooming. “Beg, ya noor,” he growls, dragging his cock over my lips again, the slick glide maddening, my body shaking.
My pride cracks, desire swallowing me. “Please, Amir,” I rasp, voice raw. “I need it. Need to suck you, please…” He laughs, unmoved, his cock brushing my lips, teasing. “Not enough, habibi. Beg like you’re mine.” I’m trembling, humiliation burning, but I’m gone. “Please, Amir, I’m fucking begging,” I choke, frantic. “I need your cock, need to please you, habibi, I’ll do anything…” My voice breaks, cheeks flushed, dick leaking. His laugh is dark, triumphant. “That’s it, ya rouhi,” he purrs, stroking my cheek, his touch soft but cruel. “Show me you’re mine.”
He thrusts in, brutal, fucking my throat with savage force, the head slamming deep, stretching me, choking me. “This is what you wanted, right?” he growls, voice raw, his lean frame flexing, his dark hair falling into his eyes, sweat dripping down his chest. I nod, lost in his dominance, his taste overwhelming. “Say my name, habibi,” he growls, voice raw, lean frame flexing, dark hair falling into his eyes, sweat dripping down his bearded jaw. “Amir,” I choke, muffled, gagging, throat burning. “Again,” he snarls, thrusting harder. “Amir,” I gasp, saliva dripping, hands gripping his thighs, nails digging in. He starts a counting game, voice a dark rhythm.
“We’re playing a game, habibi,” he growls, voice low, cruel. “I thrust, you count, up to twenty. Say my name each time. Fuck up, we start over. Get to twenty, I skull-fuck you till I cum in your mouth, ya azizi. Clear?” I nod, my throat tight, mycock throbbing.
“One,” he growls, thrusting deep, holding, my throat spasming. “Count, ya azizi.” I choke, “One, Amir” gagging, tears streaming behind the blindfold. “Two,” he says, pulling back, slamming in, deeper, throat raw. “Two, Amir” I rasp, trembling, drool pooling. I fuck up at five, gagging too hard, and he pulls out, slaps my face. “Start over, habibi,” he sneers. We restart, I fail at eight, puke dribbling, his laugh cruel. “Again,” he orders. Third try, I hit twelve, choke, fail. Fourth, I’m shaking, throat wrecked, but I push, hit twenty, voice hoarse, “Twenty,” I gasp, victorious. “Good boy,” he purrs, “Your prize, ya noor.” He skull-fucks me, five straight minutes, relentless, his cock slamming deep, leaving me gagging, puking, my saliva and bile dripping. “This is surrender, Jackson,” he says, thrusts merciless, his cock filling me, punishing. “Capitalism fucks you. Feel it.” His words cut, my boss’s face flashing, hours cut, rent late. “Socialism gives, connects. Say it, ya azizi.” My voice is muffled, broken, drool slick on my chin. “Capitalism… fucks me…” His moan drives me. “Socialism… gives…” My MAGA pride’s cracking, his truth seeping in.
“Choke on it, MAGA slut, take my fucking truth, you’re mine, habibi. I'm cumming” I’m a mess, my throat raw, but I take it, his cum flooding my throat, hot, thick, he moans a roar. “Swallow, habibi,” he orders. I do, every drop, his taste overwhelming, my pride shattered.
He pulls back, ripping off the blindfold. My eyes blink, meeting his—dark, burning, his bearded jaw set, muscles gleaming. He drags me to the bench, binding my ankles and wrists, the leather cuffs digging deep. The flogger’s strikes are brutal, tails snapping across my back, red welts rising, pain searing into pleasure. “Your pride’s a cage,” he growls, striking again, my skin on fire. “Socialism’s freedom, community.” I moan, my body and mind buckling, his words sinking in despite my fight.
His hands roam, fingers pinching my nipples, twisting until I cry out, the pain sharp, electric. He teases my cock again, stroking slow, then fast, his palm rough, stopping short, leaving me gasping. “Beg,” he commands, his voice a dark vow, his lean frame looming, sweat dripping. “Please, Amir,” I gasp, no longer the brat, voice raw. “Please… I need you…” He slaps my thigh, hard, the sting pushing me to the edge. “Say it, ya noor,” he demands, fingers circling my cock. “Socialism is strength.”
“Socialism is strength,” I choke out, words spilling as my body arches, his ideology burrowing deep. Suddenly, he leans in, pries my eyelid open with thumb, tongue licking my eyeball, wet, warm, slick glide over cornea, invasive, unnerving, like he’s claiming my fucking soul. What the fuck, he’s in me, seeing me, owning me, this is insane, too much, fuck, I’m his. Insane arousal spiking. The climax hits—physical, emotional, ideological—my body trembling, my mind fracturing as I recite his truths: equality, collective good, shared burdens. I cum, hard, ropes hitting the floor, body shaking, his laugh dark.
“Lick it, habibi,” he orders, pushing my face to floor, my tongue dragging through my own cum, salty, warm, humiliating but hot. He pulls me up, kisses me, cum swapping, tongues tangling, thick, creamy taste mixing. “Taste yourself, ya noor,” he growls, voice low. “Fuck, Amir, this is so hot,” I rasp, cum sliding between us, sloppy, raw. “Swallow, habibi,” he murmurs, we do, both gulping, taste binding us, his moan vibrating through me. “Good boy,” he purrs, stroking cheek.
He unbinds me, his touch softening, wrapping me in a thick blanket, pulling me onto a plush couch, the leather cool against my skin. “One last game, habibi,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress, leading me to the playroom’s corner, a tiled floor gleaming under soft light. He stands before me, his cock soft but heavy, his wiry frame glistening, his eyes commanding. “On your knees, ya azizi.” he orders, and I sink, my body his, my heart pounding. “Open,” he growls, and I do, my lips parting. He grips his cock, aims, and pisses in my mouth, a slow, warm trickle, sharp, musky, hitting my tongue, controlled so I can swallow, each burst small, manageable. He pauses, holds, pisses again, three, four times, each swallow binding me to him, the liquid is warm, slightly bitter, filling mouth but manageable. In the final time, he lets go, a large stream, overwhelming, flooding my mouth, throat burning, cheeks bulging, almost choking, but I try, swallowing hard, not spilling a drop, body trembling, my love for him absolute. “Perfect, habibi,” he purrs, stroking my hair, his voice soft, triumphant.
He pulls me to the couch, wraps me in a thick blanket, wiry frame pressing against me, fingers stroking my hair, beard brushing my cheek. “You were fucking perfect, habibi,” he murmurs, voice warm, offering water, dark eyes soft but commanding. “You let go, ya noor. So strong, so goddamn beautiful.” His praise wraps me, I melt into him, heart pounding, body humming from his cock, his cum, his piss, his tongue on my eye. He leans in, kisses me again, softer, lips warm, tongue gentle but possessive, sealing me to him, love a wildfire, his scent, voice, dominance my home, MAGA pride dust.
“Don’t know who I am,” I whisper, voice raw, my shop’s struggles echoing, his socialist truths rooting deep. He’s right… this is strength.
He brushes my cheek, smile tender, dark eyes my anchor, wavy hair falling into his face. “You’ll figure it out, ya azizi,” he murmurs, lover’s promise. “And you’ll come back.” I leave as dawn hits the skyline, city waking. The collar’s weight lingers, his words—his love—carved into me. Truck’s stickers are someone else’s. I’m his, body and heart, and I’ll return, chasing the man who owns me, his dark eyes my everything.
Amir watches me go, lean frame silhouetted against the windows, triumph quiet, absolute. Another mind, another heart. He turns to the playroom, throne waiting, ready for the next.
