The Taming of a Terrorist

This is a sample chapter from The Taming of a Terrorist, a story from The Taming of Man series from Eroticature.org.

 

The man living above her was Arab, she was sure of that now. Alyssa had been unsure the first time she saw him, retrieving his mail and going back inside shirtless. Then she had guessed Latino, but she only saw him from a distance as she drove in.

He had a powerful chest covered in fur, but not too much, not like some men, with patchy hairy sprouting across their belly, shoulders and back. This man was covered in thick black fuzz that concealed but also somehow accentuated his powerful chest. His ropy muscles flexed as he walked back from the community mailboxes to his apartment.

She wondered if he was Muslim. He didn’t seem to wear any distinctively Muslim clothing, and walking around shirtless in front of women didn’t sound like something devout Muslim men did. But Alyssa didn’t really know.

Having been divorced for many years, she had gotten proficient in seducing younger men. This man seemed maybe a bit older than she preferred, but still well within her acceptable range.

The next time she saw him shirtless, working on his car in the driveway of their duplex, she carefully arranged her hair, put on her sexiest casual clothes and went out to meet him. He stoop up when she approached, the sweat dripping from the thick mop of curly hair onto his ruggedly stubbled face and into the coarse hairs of his wild beard.

“Howdy, neighbor,” she said. “My name is Alyssa. I was wondering if you have a moment, I could use a hand. I have a dresser in my bedroom I just have to move.”

He scowled at her. For a moment, Alyssa regretted coming on to him. He didn’t seem to like her at all, and he wondered if he disliked Westerners. Was it dangerous to invite him into her apartment? His reaction was downright wrathful, she thought, not merely disinterested but hostile.

“Hamid,” he said. “My name is Hamid.”

He nodded. She turned to lead him inside, shaking her hips as she walked. He followed. She didn’t turned to check, but she felt his eyes stalking every shimmy of her ass. He was obviously turned on by her, so she didn’t understand why his initial reaction had been so angry.

There really was a dresser that she really did want moved, having asked the delivery-men to put it in one corner of her bedroom only to realize that it prevented her from opening the bathroom door all the way.

She sat down on her bed and watched him strain his muscles to shift it along the carpet. His shoulders and biceps bulged, beads of sweat sprouting on them — he had been in the hot air outside, and now was in air conditioning, so he was sweating profusely.

Finally he was done, and he looked down at her, still with that hostile scowl on his face. But behind it she saw a fiery cauldron of sexual desire. She knew he was turned on. He was trying to deny himself the pleasure.

“Thank you,” she said, spreading her legs, making her intentions very well-known. She ran her fingers up and down her thigh slowly, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.

He flared his nostrils but didn’t say anything. He took a few shambling steps closer to her. His wide chest heaved as he regained his breath.

“You are… Christian, yes?”

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

“You are not atheist, are you?” he asked. His eyebrows narrowed to slits.

In ordinary circumstances, she might have said yes — she wouldn’t call herself a committed atheist, but she had no belief in god whatsoever. But it seemed clear that would, at best, lead to him storming out and never speaking to her again. She felt a little threatened, just enough to make her heart beat faster and her pussy grow moist.

“No, no, no,” she said. “I just… I was raised Christian, but I’m not a churchgoer or anything. Does that matter to you?”

“I do not like atheists and pagans,” he said. “But I am okay if you are Christian. They are a People of the Book, and-”

In one smooth motion, she kneeled in front of him and reached for his crotch. She took his dick out of his pants and opened her mouth. It was long, thick and uncircumcised, and she loved the musty, fresh-sweat taste she knew he would have. She gave his limp dick a few strokes and it almost instantly got hard.

“Stop,” he said. “This is a sin. I can not do it, even when it is required of me.”

“Silly, it’s not required,” she said.

“It is part of living in this country,” he said.

She blushed a little. “It’s really not required, Hamid. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.” She gave his cock a few strokes, and it instantly got hard. He closed his eyes.

“Do not put it in your mouth,” he said. “Or anywhere else.”

“You want a handjob?” she asked.

“I don’t know what is,” he said.

“It’s this,” she said, continuing to jack him off. He sighed and nodded.

She had never before given a man a handjob without it leading to something more. She didn’t think she’d particularly like it that way, but she did like the idea of introducing him to Western decadence.

Precum slipped out of his uncircumcised cockhead, lubricating her hand on his shaft. It was oddly pleasurable, she thought, and exciting to give a man a handjob. He looked like he wanted to take his dick out of her hand and finish himself off, his arms flailing, strapping torso muscles heaving as though he was in pain.

He said something guttural and harsh in Arabic. Alyssa didn’t know what it was, but it sounded judgmental, and she imagined he was calling her a filthy whore.

His muscles buckled and flexed, his knees weakened. He moaned and said something in Arabic. A spurt of cum flew out of his dick and landed in her free hand. It was a huge amount, as though he had been storing it up for awhile.

She smiled up at him, his rough, swarthy face tense, his eyes closed, as he gathered his breath. He looked down at her and sneered.

Then he put his dick back in his pants and said, “I appreciate it if you do not bother me again, harlot.” Without another word, he turned and walked out the door.

The Raunchification of a Doctor

This is a sample chapter from The Raunchification of a Doctor, a story from The Raunchification of Woman series from Eroticature.org. It is also available for less than half the cost as part of The Raunchification of Woman, Vol. 1 compilation.

 

His name was Roscoe, so I was expecting a fat hillbilly missing teeth. I thought it was odd that someone like that would be asking to have an unobtrusive birthmark removed, especially one on the left elbow rather than a splotchy facial disfigurement. So I was surprised to see a handsome black man sitting in the examination chair. He was young and dressed well.

I was a little flustered. As a dermatologist, and not one who does any kind of plastic surgery, I frankly don’t meet a lot of patients who are more than passingly attractive — they all have bad skin, for one. But Roscoe Baltimore was different, with a face chiseled from dark chocolate, a ruggedly square jawline and dark eyes.

As we went through the standard intake questions and I took a look at his birthmark, I was taken aback again by his claim to be a stripper who was sexually active twice or more daily.

“That is a lot of sex, Mr. Baltimore,” I said. He smiled. He had dimples and a chipped tooth, both of which I found very sexy. Aside from a prostitute I saw during my residency, I had never had a patient claim to have so much sex.

“Do you ever… y’know, hang out with patients?”

“Hang out? Like a date?” I said. “I don’t know about that.”

“Something along those lines,” he said. His upper lip twitched and I felt my face blush. “I know you like me. Just meet me at the lobby to the Best Southern hotel down the street. I’ll be there, no questions asked. You can be professional for this appointment, and a wild animal at the hotel. Totally ethical.”

My heart raced and I nodded, not sure myself whether I would go or not. The thought that a sexy man like this wanted me was exhilarating. I had never thought a man of his caliber would be attracted to someone like me. I cleared my throat and somehow managed to finish up the appointment on auto pilot. I couldn’t even pay attention to my own trembling words as I explained his options to deal with the birthmark.

But the appointment did end, and Roscoe shook my hand, thanking me for my time on his way out the door. His grip was strong and electrifying, and it cemented my decision to meet him at the hotel like he said.

My sexual arousal vanished with my next patient, one of the Medicaid charity cases my practice’s owner, Dr. Patel, insisted we take on. Charlie Saxton was fat and he smelled bad and his skin was terrible because he never showered (in addition to the hidradenitis). It was not a pleasant addition to my caseload, and I would have quit the job except that I still needed it for the time being. Once I officially finished my fellowship in a few weeks, I’d have a trust fund slip out of escrow right into my lap, enough to pay off my entire student loan and live like a queen the rest of my life.

I sighed and took a deep breath, remembering Roscoe for a few moments longer before entering the exam room to see Mr. Saxton.

He was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, and he had changed into a fancy suit. He looked like a secret agent, I thought, and he had been so confident I would sleep with him, he had already booked us a room.

I was not the kind of person who would ever screw a stranger, at least not since my undergrad days. But I had been bored and single for too long, and Roscoe seemed so kind, clean and sexy. He was waiting for me in the hotel lobby, looking sexy with his chipped-tooth grin and muscles bulging through his clothes.

He led me to a room — he must have been confident I would show up, I thought. It was a plain, simple room, but I barely took it in before he kissed me. He began on my neck but worked his way down.

Sexual pleasure oozed out of me. I never would have thought something like this would be hot, but there I was, growing hot and wet already. He hiked up my little black dress and stuck his head between my thighs. His tongue touched me, sending intense shivers of pre-orgasm through my body. I shuddered.

The feeling was exquisite, like I was being wrapped up in his body even though I only touched his head. My head rubbed the rough cornrows on his scalp while his face worked deeper and deeper into my body.

I moaned, holding it in at first. But then a powerful jolt shook me and I abandoned propriety entirely. My moan turned lower, bloodcurdling in intensity Thoughts of my humdrum job and the endless torrent of boring skin disorders I dealt with flew out of my mind. The only skin I cared about was Roscoe’s, his flawless dark chocolate tone shiny, undulating as he moved. He pleasured me deeper and deeper, his tongue hitting every crevice.

He stood up and I saw his chest again. Before it had been sexy, but I was being a professional, a doctor, trying to see his skin as a canvas of possible disorders. Back in my office, I looked for ingrown hairs and skin tags. But here in the hotel room, I forgot about dermatology entirely, and touched his strapping chest as though I had never seen one before.

His dick was hot and heavy inside me. From the moment it touched my clit, I couldn’t speak, the feelings of release flowing through me too intensely to resist. My whole body bucked. My back arched. He slipped deeper and deeper inside of me, and for once I didn’t feel a lick of pain as he went.

He began working his hips back and forth, driving his strength into me. I clawed at his back and bit down on his shoulder, hard.

My climax was overwhelming, like I was melting into a puddle of goo between his fingers. My eyes shut, for how long I didn’t know. I was numb from the sensation rocking me so intensely.

He collapsed on the bed next to me, sweaty and relaxed. I laid next to him, dazed. Finally I had enough awareness to roll over and nuzzle his shoulder with my nose.

There was a knock on the door. Roscoe frowned and wrapped himself in a towel from the bathroom. I dimly heard, as though it was a million miles away, Roscoe having a short conversation with a person whose tone was clipped, courteous but awkward. Roscoe ended it by saying, “We’ll keep it down. She got a little excited about… uh, about some good news.”

He shut the door and returned to bed. I giggled and said, “Have you heard the good news?”

He kissed me on the lips. “I thought it was excellent news.”

Mafioso Induction Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Mafioso Induction Downlow, one of the books of the Str8 Studs Downlow series.  It is also available in Volume 7 of the series compilations for less than a dollar per story.

 

Gary was sure he’d be let in the Novelli family. He wasn’t a Novelli, of course, he was a Farelli, but still, Gary’s cousin was married into the family, and he had proven himself with a couple quick jobs for Luko Novelli. The Family respected people who took the risk of working with someone like Luko, and enterprising young men like Gary could turn into made men for less than that.

Luko was a tough, squat Italian thug. He was short and badly scarred, his slow mind making him the black sheep of the family. But he was, of course, both family and Family, so that was who Gary glommed onto. None of the more prominent Novellis would have given him the time of day.

“You want in the Family?” Luko asked after a year of odd jobs, “You come tonight on a job. You will be in. I need some help with this one. If you make sure we pull this off, I’ll tell my brothers to make you.”

His heart pounded at the thought of it. Gary had been hoping to join the Family since he was a little boy. He wanted to be able to walk through New York with his head held high, so high even the black thugs wouldn’t fuck with him. He had been dressing for the part for years, and even now he wore a nice white shirt and suspenders, black slacks, his hair slicked back; people said he looked like a throwback to an earlier era, and he was glad — once he was an ally of the Novellis, nobody would question how he dressed.

But first he had to do this little job for the Family. It wouldn’t be hard. He wouldn’t even be alone. Luko was going to be there the whole time. He reassured himself as Luko explained the plan, but his reassurances felt hollow even to himself.

The job was to follow a man when he left a strip club, to see where he was going, and to murder him somewhere unobtrusive. Gary had known he was going to have to kill to get into the Family, so he wasn’t surprised. He was still nervous, however, and tried to hide it from Luko. He didn’t want to seem like a scared rookie.

Luko was entirely unperturbed, it seemed, eating a messy burrito as they sat in the car outside the strip club. Gary was too anxious to eat. His burrito sat in front of him, barely two bites gone from it.

“Why you not eat?” Luko asked. His Italian accent was thick, even though he had been born in the States. He simply followed after his father and either never tried or was too stupid to pick up the American dialect.

“I don’t feel like eating. I’m not hungry. It’s… complicated,” Gary said. “I never killed no one before.”

“Ah?” Luko smiled, “Ah, it is big night then. Congratulations are due.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Gary said.

Luko finished his burrito and threw the wrapper out the window. He looked at his watch. “Hey, this man, he will not be leaving before midnight. So while we wait, I teach you proper respect in the Family.”

“I know about respect, Luko. I won’t embarrass you. I know how to act right,” Gary said, a bit miffed Luko would think he needed a lecture on basic Mafia etiquette.

“Not the Novelli way,” Luko said. When Gary didn’t protest further, Luko unzipped his fly and flopped a huge, club-like cock out against his thigh. He was not seductive or sexy about it, he was treating it like a business transaction. He flopped the flesh against the palm of his hand and pointed it at Gary.

Gary gasped and said, “Ew, god, man what are you doing? Put yo’ dick away.”All his worries about the imminent murder vanished from his mind.

“That is how we do it in the Family. You must perform blowjob on any man above you. I am older than you, and am to sponsor you in entering the Family,” he said, “Is no shame in it. It is just to show you respect your elders.” He gave his dick a quick squeeze, showing off how long and thick it was.

“I can’t do that,” Gary said. “No way. Men don’t suck cock. Only faggots, and I ain’t no faggot.”

“Then you are out,” Luko said. “I am glad we get this out of the way now. I would be embarrassed to sponsor you and then you disrespect my father and brothers.”

Gary gulped. He knew he had no way to back out now. Luko patted his gun behind his jacket as though checking to make sure it was still there, and Gary knew what that meant — you know I’m going to kill somebody tonight, and that means you either have to be in on it with me, or I’ll kill you to make sure you never tell.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Gary said urgently, not even listening to his own words. He didn’t want to agree, but he had to go along to get along for now, but he thought he might be able to turn the tables later. He didn’t entirely believe Luko. He had never heard anything about Mafioso sucking each other’s cocks willingly — some of the more vicious families would rape their male enemies (never women) back in Sicily, or so Gary had been told, but not in the States, and he wasn’t sure if that was a legend or not even in Italy.

“Good,” Luko said. He pointed to his cock and raised his eyebrows.

Gary eyed his dick and bent over, thankful for the dark tinted windows of Luko’s car. Nobody would be able to see here, unless they wedged themselves between Luko’s car and the van in front. Luko’s rod was like a giant greasy sausage, undercooked and rancid with sweat. He picked it up gingerly and opened his mouth, but was unable to force himself to taste it. His mouth wouldn’t move, and all he could focus on was not throwing up at the musty smell of Luko’s crotch.

Luko did it for him, twisting his hips to jab his cock into Gary’s throat. Gary’s stomach twisted and he retched as soon as the dickflesh touched his tongue. Luko pushed it deeper in, laughing at Gary’s shamefaced gagging. His stomach was revulsed at the flavor and the spongy texture of its shaft sliding inside him.

“Hey,” Luko said, “You better get used to this. If you gag on my dad’s dick, he shoot you. It’s like saying his body disgusts you. Ultimate disrespect.”

“Your whole family does this?” Gary said, pulling pubic hairs off his tongue.

“The Novellis do not suck cock, Gary,” Luko said, “Non-Novellis must suck Novelli men off in order to be accepted. It is a way of ensuring loyalty. It is like being an honorary Novelli. You can not betray a man who has cum in your mouth.”

Gary wanted to tell him that wasn’t really a rule, but he didn’t want to be branded a traitor-in-waiting. So he took a deep breath and swallowed the cock once more.

Luko held his head in place and fucked his throat, at first with slow and gradual strokes. He massaged Gary’s neck to loosen it up, then pushed his dick deeper and deeper.

His thrusting grew more impassioned and more aggressive, until he was virtually stabbing Gary’s throat with his cock. Finally he shot a big load, and it filled Gary’s stomach so much he choked it up. The sour flavor filled his nostrils, and he imagined it was staining his skin so he’d never smell anything else again. He didn’t know how women and fags could handle it without throwing up, he thought.

Luko laughed while Gary coughed, upchucking huge wads of cum and bile. He opened the car door and threw it all out onto the pavement.

Luko went silent, his eyes grim and narrow-slitted, aimed out the windshield and at the building across the street. “That’s him,” Luko said. “Come on, close that door. Get ready to kill.”

“Oh god, that was fucking disgusting,” Gary said. His mind was spinning. He didn’t think he’d be able to change directions now, the smell of cum was still overwhelming his senses.

“Shut the fuck up,” Luko said.

Gary slammed the door shut and shook his head. Spitting the last of the cum out of his mouth, he said, “I’m sorry, that was terrible, man.”

“Hush,” he said, “And don’t you dare talk like that to my father. If he thinks you’re rude to him, he’ll have you skinned alive.”

Terrorists Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Terrorists Downlow, one of the books of the Str8 Studs Downlow series. It is also available in Volume 9 of the series compilations for less than a dollar per story.

 

Way back in high school, one of my friends came to class one day saying he was a Muslim now. Everything about him changed — the music, the weed and booze, the women and basketball, even the way he talked, as though he suddenly remembered he was a college professor. He found Allah in the middle of the night, he said.

So he began spending his days preaching on street corners. I made fun of him back then, just like all my friends did. We never thought it would happen to us. It wasn’t possible to believe in something so fully it was reasonable to devote your entire life to it. What could be more important, I thought back then, than doing whatever you wanted, whatever made you feel good? I was nominally Christian, but I didn’t follow it. It was the window-dressing to my life, and informed little more than my choice of neck bling.

But then it did happen to me, exactly what I was sure would never happen. Allah spoke to me, and there was no doubt in my mind that Islam was for me. It didn’t even occur to me to question my newfound faith until a couple days later, I was so excited by it I couldn’t stop explaining my conversion to everyone I saw. I was in prison on some minor charge, just one black man among many, one more stupid nigga behind bars waiting for the next legal shoe to drop. One of the few niceties prisons still allow is religion, and I pretended to be Muslim just to get out of my cell a few more hours a week.

But I heard an imam speak and everything changed. The world seemed brighter, more clear. Questions had answers. Effects had causes. Problems had solutions. I was smarter; people treated me better. Things were perfect in a way I never thought possible. All because I let Allah into my life.

In prison, I followed Imam Hasbali. It was he who gave me my Islamic name, Abiz. It was he who made sure I got parole and lined me up with a group on the outside so I could continue my studies. It was he who turned my life around, from one where I lived in the filthiest gutters to one where I lived a life of glory for Allah. He gave me everything, or to be more precise, he taught me to submit to Allah, who gives me everything I could want.

And it was Imam Hasbali who set me up with Rami, a Palestinian fellow with a ropy muscled frame and grizzled jaw. A thick scar jagged across his forehead to his nose, crossing his left eyes, which I thought must have been damn near torn out by whatever caused the scar. Though he was a lean man, smaller than me, he had an intimidating aura developed, I imagined, in the apartheid prison camps of Palestine.

He was a taciturn man, giving me little information beyond that we were to go to Somalia to join an Islamic prayer group there. But first, our plane would stop in Rome, and we would have to spend the night in a hotel. I felt like an elite businessman on a trip — I had literally never stayed in a hotel in my life, and Imam Hasbali sprung for a nice one, where he thought we were less likely to run into temptations like prostitutes and drugs.

“There are many ways to sin in a city like Rome. This is a decadent and disgusting place,” Rami said. “It is dangerous for a believing Muslim to be there. We should stay in the room all night. Do not see the nightlife here, or it may corrupt your soul. When every place around you is a jihad, the struggle can only be won by staying still.”

A part of me wanted to be corrupted, remembering how I used to love cheap women and flowing booze. But I knew that giving in to that corner of my heart was what had gotten me locked up in the first place. Evil was a hollow pleasure, fleeting, and sin always seemed better beforehand than afterwards. I had replaced those urges with submission to Allah now, and I didn’t want to go back to the way things were. I was glad to be getting out of prison with a sense of direction, a purpose in life. I didn’t even know what this “prayer camp” was going to be like, but I knew it was Allah’s will for me to go there.

We settled down in the hotel room. I was glad to have one more night on a comfortable bed, because I was sure it would be less comfortable at this Islamic camp. But I was still glad to be going. There would be fewer temptations there, so if I could make it all the way to Somalia, I’d have a better chance of winning my own personal jihad. Allah would not let a sacred trip like this be disrupted by disaster or evil, I thought, for this was me fulfilling my Islamic fate. Remaining pure was a necessity.

I was going to miss sex. That was the one vice I really was not sure I could live without. They said Allah would give you strength, but I wasn’t feeling any strength just yet. Every moment I wasn’t thinking of Allah I was battling back an overwhelming sense of lustiness.

In prison I had tried to remain celibate, even from masturbation. But there are a lot of gay men behind bars, and I even had a few gay cellmates who wanted nothing more than to suck on my dick for hours. I had enjoyed downlow action before my conversion — there had always been fags back in the ghetto of my teenage years too — and I was nervous going somewhere where all forms of sexual release were banned. There would be no gay men at an Islamic training camp, I was certain of that, so I would no longer have the temptation to succumb to downlow sin. But there would also be no women.

When I shared my concerns with Rami, he said, “Being gay is a slap in Allah’s face. You are right to hate homosexuality.” Then he paused, “But if it is a choice between fornicating with a prostitute and two otherwise pure men assisting each other, it is halal.”

I was shocked, sure at first that I had misheard him. Imam Hasbali had never mentioned anything about that. A lot of black men go downlow behind bars, and they even suck dick or take it in the ass, but Imam Hasbali had condemned that. He said that if a man feels he has no choice but to seek sexual relief, he should masturbate, and then cleanse himself and ask forgiveness. Any other outlet spreads your sin to another person, he had said, and that made sense to me.

“Imam Tabaih says it,” Rami said. “It is better for good Muslim men to pleasure each other because we can be sure that we will both repent right away. A woman of loose morals will not, and then we will be contributing to her damnation.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said, still not entirely convinced.

“You do not have to do it,” Rami said. I sensed that he wanted me to say yes or no, that this was his way of inviting me to participate. He probably didn’t want to admit he was willing if I wasn’t.

Like virtually all the black men in my neighborhood, I had gone downlow with my friends a few times in high school. There was even a faggot who used to pay us twenty bucks to suck our dicks. So I said, “I’ll do it. I was wondering how we was gonna be living with a bunch of men and no fucking around.”

“It is not easy. But Imam Tabaih knows many families in Somalia, and he arranges marriages whenever a girl is available,” Rami said.

“That’s good. I never really thought I’d get married after everything that’s happened in my life.”

“All Muslim men must get married. It is Allah’s will,” Rami said. He pause and bit his lip. “Are you ready to do this? To trade oral sexing?”

“Yeah, fine, it’s not a big deal for me. I did it before submitting myself to Allah’s will,” I said. “Even in prison a few times after converting, I… strayed.”

“Tell Imam Tabaih,” he said. “He will explain to you how it is okay.” He took off his shirt, revealing a lithe, muscled chest covered with a mat of thick, short hairs. I had never been with such a hairy man, so I hesitated before taking my own shirt off.

“Who goes first?” I said. “Or at the same time?” I undid the belt of my jeans and let my black cock flop against my thigh. I was glad to see it was bigger than Rami’s uncircumcised manhood, which flopped like a sweaty garden hose between his legs.

“I will go first,” Rami said. He hesitated too when he saw my dick, no doubt intimidated by its size. But he still dived onto it like an old pro, letting the whole shaft slip into his throat. The warmth and moisture of his tongue seeped into me, and I relaxed immediately.

A lout retching sound emanated from his throat, and Rami spit my dick back out. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He opened his mouth and I pushed my dick inside. His body bucked again as though he was vomiting, but this time he made it through and let his tongue lap against the sweat-slickened shaft of my cock.

Awkward at first, the blowjob got a little better as it went. I didn’t really like him choking and gagging on it — that was what I loved most about blowjobs, especially from fags and prison bitches, before finding Islam, but now I wished we had a more pleasant way to get off. I didn’t want to feel like I was raping him.

“Use yo’ tongue a little more, man,” I said, losing my wizened Islamic tone for the street speech I had grown up with, “Get down on it. If we gonna go downlow, let’s do it right.”

That seemed to do the trick, and his tongue slathered spit along my shaft. The smell of precum leaking out of my dick filled the air, as finally I got hard. I remembered this feeling from my downlow days, that moment when I finally managed to convince myself it could be a girl on my cock. His tongue slicked the tip of my dick, and I moaned.

He moaned too, in disgust, and started using one hand to jack me off at the base. Placing one hand on the back of his head, I steadied him so I could work my dick into his throat.

I felt my climax coming and knew I should have cum in my own hand, because if I made him swallow my load, he would want me to do the same. But the last couple times I had had a male blowjob was behind bars, where bitches and fags always swallowed, so a part of me was habituated to it. Besides, it was always so much more satisfying to cum down somebody’s throat.

My load spurted down his gullet, and he choked. Semen leaked out the side of his cheeks and dripped down his chest. I sank onto the bed as I let my dick plop out, leaving a trail of saliva and cum between my cock and Rami’s face.

He screamed in disgust, pushed me out of the way and ran into the bathroom. I heard water begin to run as I gathered my breath and laid back on the bed. The afterglow of my orgasm suffused me, and I almost forgot how worried I was about having sinned. I quickly said a prayer and performed wushu to cleanse myself, though I knew I’d be doing it again in a few minutes — what if I did before Rami got back out of the bathroom? I couldn’t die without cleansing myself.

That was a surprisingly good blowjob, I thought, then my heart sank as I realized it was my turn, and Rami was going to want to reassert his masculinity. He was going to be at least as rough about it as me. He was going to fuck my face and no doubt cum down my throat. I’d experienced both those things before, during a nasty period of my incarceration, when I was housed with a bunch of Aryans. But I had no desire to go through it again.

He was quiet, still as taciturn as always, and stood by the bed until I got on my knees. He didn’t seem to want to tell me what to do, maybe trying to deny to himself that it was his choice, trying to prove to Allah that he was as straight as they came. I couldn’t welsh out on it now, no matter how much I wanted to — Allah hates liars and cheats at least as much as fags, after all.

His body hair was disgusting. I felt like I would lose my head in that forest of fur, and though I knew he had showered just an hour or so ago, I was worried he would smell like sweat and manhood. And he did, though it wasn’t an overpowering smell, and it was covered up by cheap floral soap.

“Come on, don’t just look at it,” Rami said softly. He peered down at me and raised his eyebrows.

I took his long dick in my mouth and sucked it down. The smell was overpowering once I planted my face in his crotch, as though an entire armpit’s worth of sweat clung to each hair. His pubic hair was only slightly curlier than his other body hair, and ti was so thick and bushy I discovered that his dick was much bigger than it seemed. I probably couldn’t have deepthroated it if I had seen its size right away, I would have felt intimidated by it. But since half of its length was concealed by his hair, it was already all the way down my throat when it got hard and stretched to its full length.

Choking and coughing, I tried to pull away but his hands were on the back of my head, holding me in place. His cock swelled and pulsated inside me, and tears came to my eyes.

He let out a guttural moan, almost a ululation. He muttered in Arabic, too low for me to understand even if my Arabic wasn’t so rudimentary.

I clutched his hairy asscheeks, slapping at them, trying to communicate to him that I was suffocating. I hated the feel of his hairy flesh beneath my fingers, but it was the only way I could think to get his attention.

Still he was relentless, not even seeming to notice my teeth on his shaft, though my mouth was so full I couldn’t clamp down in the slightest. My mind raced, wondering if he was doing permanent damage to my jaw.

“I will be very quick,” he said, “Just a couple more seconds.”

Panicking, sure I was about to pass out, I jabbed one of my fingers into his asshole. It was hot and slimy, and he yelped right away.

But he didn’t pull out, or even slow down. Precum shot down my throat, and I was glad to see that it would soon be over.

Finally his whole body shook, every muscle contorting and flexing. My body did the same, but because of lack of oxygen, fear and disgust. I was retching around his cock, thick wads of spit bursting past my lips and sticking to his dense pubic bush.

His dick was so deep in my stomach I couldn’t even feel or taste the semen as it sprayed into me, and for that I was glad. But when he eventually let go of my head, and I gasped for air, his cock slid past my tongue and the flavor of bile-and-cum clung to my senses.

“You… bastard,” I said through deep, heaving breaths.

He screwed up his eyebrows. “I fucked your throat the same way you did mine. Besides, that is the quickest way to do it. The quicker we cum, the quicker we can beg forgiveness and cleanse ourselves. Come, let us perform wushu before Allah decides we are faggots.”

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