Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 1

Manchester was a busy city, with a great gay scene which is why Jack had moved there after finishing school. Jack was a twinkish 18-year-old still trying to find himself.

Yet a chance encounter would mean he discovered far more about himself and leave him forever altered.

This encounter came about when Mohammed, a 35-year-old Syrian refugee came to the library where Jack worked. Mohammed, with his strong, 6’2 frame, dark features and hairy body could not have been more in contrast with Jack’s slim, swimmers body, 5’10 frame and light hair.

Jack, with his youthful curiosity, was drawn to Mohammed's maturity and the depth of his experiences, which contrasted sharply with Jack's own life of possibilities.

One evening, after Jack had helped Mohammed with English lessons at the library where he volunteered, they found themselves alone, the silence around them palpable. Mohammed's voice, soft and accented, spoke of his past, of love lost and the tentative beginnings of new bonds.

"I've been so lonely," Mohammed confessed, his voice heavy with emotion. "My wife... she's still in Syria. I don't know when I'll see her again. I’ve been so lonely." he added, his eyes dark with intent.

Jack, moved by Mohammed's story, felt an undeniable pull. "I'm here, Daddy," he said softly, the word slipping out naturally, a sign of his submission. Mohammed easily recognised Jack’s intent and his desire, choosing to give the boy what he so clearly wanted, no needed.

As they moved to Jack's apartment, the atmosphere between them shifted from companionship to something more charged with desire.

In Jack's bedroom, under the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains, Jack stood wearing only a red jock strap, the color vibrant against his skin. Mohammed's eyes darkened with appreciation as he took in the sight, his hands roughly pulling at the straps of the jock strap.

"On your knees," Mohammed commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "I've been thinking about that tight boy pussy all day."

Jack knelt before Mohammed, his gaze locked with Mohammed's as he took his impressive, 9-inch cock into his mouth. The size was daunting, but Jack was eager, his tongue exploring as he tried to take more of Mohammed in, his hands gripping Mohammed's thighs for balance. Mohammed's breath hitched, his hand threading through Jack's hair, guiding him more forcefully.

"You feel so good, my white whore, but it's your tight boy pussy I really want," Mohammed groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and relief from his loneliness.

After some time, Mohammed pulled Jack up, their bodies close, the straps of the jock strap stretched tight under Mohammed's fingers. He led Jack to the bed, where they continued their exploration. Mohammed prepared Jack with less patience than before, using lube but with a sense of urgency.

"Please, Daddy," Jack whispered, his voice laced with need but also caution, "go slow."

But Mohammed's response was not gentle. "No," he growled, his voice thick with authority. "You'll take it how I give it. I need to feel that tight boy pussy around me." He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Jack with a force that left no room for slow adjustment. With a hard thrust, he entered, pulling the straps of the jock strap back to increase the intensity of the moment, watching Jack's face contort with pain mixed with desire.

Jack's hands gripped the sheets tightly, his body tensing as Mohammed thrust hard and fast, the pain of accommodating such a large cock evident on Jack's face. Mohammed's hands were firm on Jack's hips, using the straps of the jock strap to pull Jack back into each thrust, the red straps framing Jack's body, enhancing the visual of their intense union.

"Serve your Muslim master, boy," Mohammed said, his voice deep with lust, his thrusts relentless. "Your tight boy pussy is mine to use."

Jack moaned, his sounds a mixture of pain and the thrill of being pushed to his limits. "Yes, Daddy, yes," he gasped out, the words coming out in a rush of breath.

The rhythm was relentless, Mohammed not pulling back to check on Jack but pushing forward, driven by his own needs and the raw desire to dominate. "I'm going to fuck this tight boy pussy until it remembers only me," Mohammed declared, his pace not slackening, his hips snapping forward with urgency, forcing Jack to push through the discomfort.

The climax came like a tidal wave for Jack, his body overwhelmed by the sensations, crying out as Mohammed followed moments after, their bodies shuddering together. "You're mine, my white whore," Mohammed whispered as he came, "Your tight boy pussy belongs to me now." The intensity of their release seemed to blur the lines between pain and pleasure, leaving them panting, sweat-slicked, and utterly connected.

Afterwards, they lay in a tangled mess of limbs, catching their breath. Jack felt a profound shift within himself, a liberation from the confines of his previous identity, though he was aware they'd need to navigate this new terrain carefully.

"You did well, boy," Mohammed said, his voice softer now, as he pulled his clothes back on. "I'll be back for that tight boy pussy of yours."

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 2



In the weeks following their first intense encounter, the city had settled into a quiet rhythm, but Jack's life was anything but. He found himself caught between the thrill of what had happened and the confusion of what it meant. Mohammed had been distant, almost cold whenever they met at the library, leaving Jack to wonder if that night was just a one-time release for Mohammed's loneliness.



One chilly evening, as the last of the daylight faded into the neon glow of the city, Jack found Mohammed in an alleyway behind the library. He was smoking, his back against the brick wall, his expression unreadable in the dim light.



"Mohammed," Jack started, his voice a mix of hesitation and yearning. "I... I've been thinking about you."



Mohammed looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You shouldn't," he said, his voice firm, almost dismissive. "That was a mistake. I have a wife in Syria. I need to forget."



Jack felt a pang of rejection but persisted, stepping closer. "Please, Daddy," he whispered, using the term that had so clearly affected Mohammed before. "I need you. I can't stop thinking about that night, about you inside me."



Mohammed's jaw tightened, his gaze flickering with conflict. "No, Jack. You're just a distraction. I have to focus on my future, not indulge in what can't be."



The words stung, but Jack was determined. He moved closer, his heart pounding. "Let me be your distraction then, just for tonight. I'll be whatever you need. Please, I'm begging you."



Mohammed's eyes darkened, his resolve faltering as Jack's plea echoed in the small space between them. He looked away, then back at Jack, his resolve crumbling. "You don't know what you're asking for," he murmured, but there was a surrender in his tone.



Jack didn't wait for further confirmation. He pressed himself against Mohammed, his hands roaming over the man's chest, feeling the heat through his shirt. "I know exactly what I want," Jack whispered, his breath hot against Mohammed's neck.



With a groan, Mohammed's resistance broke. He grabbed Jack, pulling him into a rough kiss, his need evident in the way his hands gripped Jack's body. "On your knees," he commanded, his voice thick with desire and frustration.



Jack complied eagerly, the cold concrete barely registering as he undid Mohammed's pants, his eyes meeting Mohammed's with a silent plea for more. Mohammed's earlier resolve was gone now, replaced by a hunger that matched Jack's own.



"You want this, boy?" Mohammed asked, his tone challenging yet laced with desire as he revealed his cock. It was large, almost intimidating, circumcised with a pronounced, dark head, veiny along its length, each vein seeming to pulse with his heartbeat. It was a sight that both scared and excited Jack.



With a smirk, Mohammed slapped Jack's face with his cock, the weight of it heavy against Jack's cheek, the sensation sending a thrill through him. "Beg for it," he demanded.



"Yes, Daddy, please," Jack responded, his voice breathy with anticipation. He took Mohammed into his mouth, the size stretching his lips, the veins dragging against his tongue in a way that was both overwhelming and arousing.



Mohammed watched, his breath heavy, enjoying the control. After a while, he pulled Jack up, his grip firm. "Turn around," he ordered. Jack did so, feeling Mohammed's hands on him, pulling down his pants roughly.



Instead of lube, Mohammed spat into his hand, smearing it over Jack's entrance. "This is all you're getting tonight," he said with a harshness that made Jack shiver with a mix of fear and excitement. He began to finger Jack, stretching him out with no gentleness, his fingers working in and out, preparing Jack for what was to come.



"Please, Daddy, more," Jack gasped, his body responding to the rough treatment despite the discomfort.



Mohammed complied, adding another finger, stretching Jack further until he felt ready. He then positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Jack, using only spit as lube. With a hard thrust, he entered, drawing a sharp moan from Jack, the pain immediate and intense as the large, veiny cock forced its way in.



The rhythm Mohammed set was relentless from the start. He fucked Jack hard against the wall, each thrust a reminder of who was in control. The feeling of Mohammed's cock, with its pronounced veins, dragging over Jack's sensitive lips, was both excruciating and exhilarating. The ridges and texture of Mohammed's cock felt like they were mapping every inch of Jack's insides, leaving no part untouched.



"You're just a white whore for me to use," Mohammed murmured, his words harsh but driven by passion. Jack's response was a moan, his body adjusting to the invasion with pain overshadowing pleasure, though the sensation of Mohammed's cock sliding in and out was undeniably intense.



During the act, Mohammed grabbed Jack’s head, pushing his face into his sweaty armpit. "Smell me, boy," he commanded, his voice rough with lust. Jack inhaled deeply, the scent overwhelming but intoxicating, adding another layer to the sensory overload he was experiencing.



The encounter stretched on, Mohammed alternating between slow, deep thrusts and fast, hard ones, each movement calculated to drive Jack to his limits without allowing him the relief of climax. Jack's begging had broken Mohammed's resistance, and now they were both caught in the throes of their mutual desire, the cold air doing nothing to cool the heat between them.



When Mohammed finally reached his climax, it was with a growl of possession, leaving Jack panting, his thighs trembling as Mohammed's load dripped down them, the evidence of their encounter clear in the chilly air.



"You're lucky, boy," Mohammed said, his voice a mix of pride and dominance as he stepped back, watching his cum trail down Jack's legs. "Lucky to take my Muslim cum. This is all you get from me tonight. Remember your place."



Jack nodded, his own needs unmet, the pain from the encounter still sharp but mixed with a complex satisfaction of fulfilling Mohammed's desires. The sensation of Mohammed's large, veiny cock, even now absent, lingered in his mind, an aching reminder of their union. As Mohammed walked away, Jack felt the sting of temporary acceptance, the warmth fading from his body as the cold air returned. He knew this wouldn't be the end, but for now, he'd take what he could get, even if it left him aching and unfulfilled under the city's indifferent night sky.

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 3

After weeks of replaying their intense encounters in his mind, Jack couldn't shake the hunger for more, the need to feel that overwhelming connection again. He knew Mohammed's address, a small bedsit in a part of town where the refugee community had settled. Driven by desire, Jack made his way there one evening, the red jockstrap from their first meeting snug under his clothes, a silent promise of what he hoped would come.

Arriving at the door, Jack's knock was hesitant, but his heart was pounding with anticipation. The door opened to reveal Mohammed, his expression shifting from surprise to a sort of knowing smirk. Before Jack could speak, a voice called out from inside, thick with an accent, "Who's at the door, Mohammed?"

Stepping inside, Jack saw him - Abdul, a 28-year-old refugee, his presence filling the room with an air of raw, masculine energy. He was hairy, with a beard that framed his face, and his eyes were dark, intense, filled with a hunger that seemed to match Jack's own. Abdul's physique was imposing, his muscles defined under his tight shirt, and when he stood up, Jack noticed the bulge in his pants, suggesting a cock even larger than Mohammed's.

"What do we have here?" Abdul said, his voice deep, almost growling. His gaze roamed over Jack, sizing him up.

Mohammed chuckled, a dark sound. "This is Jack. A white whore desperate for Muslim cum," he explained, his tone both mocking and possessive. "He can't get enough of it."

Abdul's eyes lit up with interest and lust. "Is that right?" he said, stepping closer to Jack, his presence overwhelming. "I've been needing some relief, and you look like you could take what I have to give."

Jack, feeling both nervous and aroused, nodded, his mouth dry. "Yes, Daddy," he managed to whisper, his eyes flicking between Mohammed and Abdul.

Without much preamble, Abdul began to undress, revealing his massive, uncircumcised cock, thick and veiny, the sight of it making Jack's eyes widen. Mohammed watched the scene unfold, his own cock hardening at the prospect of what was about to happen.

"Strip," Mohammed ordered Jack, who complied, revealing the red jockstrap, the straps tight against his skin, emphasizing his readiness.

Abdul laughed, a harsh sound. "Look at you, all dressed up for us," he said, grabbing Jack and pulling him close, but instead of immediately moving to the main event, Abdul pushed Jack onto the bed, his hands spreading Jack's legs.

Before Jack could fully understand what was happening, Abdul's face was buried between his cheeks, his tongue finding Jack's entrance. Jack gasped, the sensation unexpected and intense. Abdul's tongue was skilled, lapping and probing, making Jack squirm with pleasure.

"Tastes just like a real girl's cunt," Abdul growled, his breath hot against Jack's skin, sending shivers of humiliation and arousal through Jack. "But better, because you know how to take it like a good boy."

Abdul continued to eat Jack out with a fervor, his tongue exploring every inch, his beard rubbing against Jack's sensitive skin, adding to the mix of sensations. He would alternate between gentle licks and aggressive thrusts of his tongue, making Jack moan and writhe under him. Each movement was calculated to drive Jack wild, to prepare him for what was to come.

After what felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment, Abdul pulled back, his face smeared with his own saliva, his eyes dark with lust. "You're ready for me now, boy," he said, his voice rough with desire.

Abdul then positioned himself behind Jack, his hands gripping Jack's hips with a force that spoke of his desperation for relief. He spit on his cock, using it as lube, the action crude yet effective. Slowly, he began to push into Jack, the size of him stretching Jack in ways that were both painful and thrilling. Jack moaned, the sensation overwhelming, his body adjusting to accommodate Abdul's girth.

Abdul started with slow, deep thrusts, allowing Jack to feel every inch of him, the veins on his cock providing an extra layer of sensation that made Jack's eyes roll back. "Feel that, boy?" Abdul grunted, "Feel how you're taking all of me?"

"Yes, Daddy, yes," Jack managed to gasp out, his voice breaking with the intensity of the feeling.

Then Abdul's pace increased, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, each one driving into Jack with a force that made the bed creak. He leaned over Jack, his hairy chest brushing against Jack's back, his breath hot in Jack's ear. "You like this, don't you? Being used by a real man?"

Jack could only nod, his words lost in the pleasure and pain, his body trembling under Abdul's relentless pounding. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies, the slap of skin, the ragged breathing, and Jack's moans which echoed off the walls.

Mohammed watched for a while, his own arousal evident, before deciding to join in. He positioned himself in front of Jack, his cock hard and ready. "Suck," he commanded, and Jack complied, taking Mohammed into his mouth, creating a rhythm between sucking and being fucked that was both punishing and ecstatic.

After some time, Abdul slowed, pulling out slightly, his voice a low growl. "I want more," he said, moving aside for Mohammed to take his place, but not for long. They switched positions, and now, Abdul was determined to push Jack's limits even further.

With Mohammed inside him, Abdul began to push in alongside, the double penetration causing Jack to cry out, his body tensing. The fullness was overwhelming, and for a brief moment, darkness took him, his consciousness slipping away as the two men continued their relentless assault on his senses.

They didn't stop, even with Jack's brief lapse; Mohammed and Abdul were driven by their own needs, their movements rhythmic, almost synchronized. Jack came to with a jolt, the room spinning, his body screaming with sensation.

"You're ours now," Mohammed grunted, his thrusts deep and punishing. Abdul added, "Feels good, doesn't it? Being used by real men."

Jack could only moan in response, his body overwhelmed, the red jockstrap now a symbol of his surrender to their desires. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies, the grunts, and the wet sounds of their union.

When they finally climaxed, it was with a roar from Abdul and a sharp exhale from Mohammed, both filling Jack with their release, marking him in a way that was both physical and profound. Jack felt the combined warmth of their cum inside him, dripping down his thighs as they pulled out, leaving him spent, his body trembling.

As they stepped back, leaving Jack to catch his breath, Mohammed looked at him with a mix of satisfaction and warning. "Remember who you belong to," he said, while Abdul just smirked, his lust satiated for the moment.

Jack, lying there in the afterglow of pain and pleasure, knew that this encounter had changed him, bound him to these men in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. He knew he'd come back, seeking more, even if it meant losing himself in the process.

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Let me know what you think and whether or not Jack and Mohammed’s story should continue

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 4

Jack had always found solace in the library, its quiet corners and endless shelves of knowledge providing an escape from the complexities of his life. Today, however, his routine visit took an unexpected turn. As he was browsing through a section on world history, a deep, familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Hey, my little white princess," Abdul's voice rumbled, his tone laced with a mix of affection and dominance that made Jack's heart race. Abdul, the 28-year-old refugee with the commanding presence, was standing right behind him.

Jack turned, his face flushing as he met Abdul's intense gaze. "Abdul, I didn't expect to see you here," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Abdul smirked, his eyes roaming over Jack with possessive intent. "I was looking for some entertainment," he said, grabbing Jack's wrist with a firm grip. "Come with me."

Without waiting for an answer, Abdul led Jack through the library, the bustling quietness of the place a stark contrast to the storm of emotions brewing inside Jack. They reached the men's restroom, which was thankfully empty at this hour. Abdul pushed Jack inside a stall, locking the door behind them.

"On your knees," Abdul commanded, his voice low but carrying an authority Jack found himself compelled to obey. Jack complied, the cold tile floor a sharp contrast to the heat rising within him.

But instead of demanding what Jack expected, Abdul turned him around, bending him over the toilet. He pulled down Jack's pants and underwear, leaving Jack's ass exposed.

Abdul's hands were rough as he spread Jack's cheeks apart. "I've missed this taste," he growled before his tongue dived in, licking and probing Jack's entrance with an enthusiasm that made Jack moan despite himself.

"You taste so good, like you're meant for this," Abdul murmured between licks, the degradation mixing with the pleasure. "Just like a real girl, but better, because you know your place, my little white princess."

Jack's body shuddered, his mind a whirl of humiliation and arousal. Abdul's tongue was relentless, exploring every part of Jack's 'boy pussy', as he called it, his beard adding a rough texture that heightened the sensation.

After what felt like an eternity, Abdul stood up, his cock already hard and ready. He positioned himself, spitting onto his hand for lubrication before pressing the head of his massive, veiny cock against Jack's entrance.

"You're going to take all of me," Abdul stated, his voice thick with pride and lust. He thrust in, drawing a sharp gasp from Jack, the stretch painful yet undeniably arousing.

As he began to fuck Jack, his rhythm was punishing, each thrust punctuated by his words. "Muslims are superior, boy. We know how to use you, how to mark you," he grunted, his hands gripping Jack's hips with bruising force. "You're mine now, my little white princess. I'm breeding you, making you remember who owns you."

Jack's moans mingled with Abdul's deep, harsh breaths, the sounds echoing off the tiled walls. The degradation, the physicality of it all, was overwhelming, yet somehow, it fuelled Jack's desire, his body responding to Abdul's dominance.

"You'll always come back for this, won't you, my little white princess?" Abdul taunted, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he felt Jack's body tightening around him. "Because you know no one else can give you what you need."

The talk of superiority, of ownership, drove Abdul to an even fiercer pace, and Jack could feel every inch of him, claiming him in a way that was both physical and psychological. When Abdul finally came, it was with a low, guttural moan, filling Jack with his seed, marking him as he had promised.

"You're mine," Abdul whispered, pulling out slowly, watching his cum leak from Jack. "Don't forget that."

Jack, left panting and trembling, could only nod, the reality of what had just happened settling into him. As Abdul cleaned up and left the stall, Jack remained there, catching his breath, the library outside still a world of silence and knowledge, while inside this small space, his identity felt both lost and found in the most complex of ways.

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 5
The air was thick with tension when Jack entered Mohammed's small, dimly lit apartment. The encounter with Abdul at the library had left him feeling both exhilarated and guilty, knowing he hadn't sought Mohammed's permission. He knew Mohammed was possessive, but the thrill of being claimed by Abdul had clouded his judgment.

Mohammed was sitting on a worn-out couch, his eyes dark and unreadable as Jack closed the door behind him. "You've been a bad boy," Mohammed said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of anger.

Jack swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling too small. "I'm sorry, Daddy," he started, but Mohammed cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"You think you can just take what isn't yours? You think you can be shared without my say-so?" Mohammed stood up, his presence imposing. "I heard about your little adventure with Abdul. You need to learn your place."

Jack's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through him. "I didn't mean to—"

"Quiet," Mohammed snapped. Suddenly, he slapped Jack hard across the face, the sound echoing in the room. Jack's cheek stung, the shock and pain momentarily silencing him.

"Strip. Now," Mohammed commanded, his voice icy.

Jack complied, removing his clothes until he stood in the red jockstrap that had become a symbol of their encounters, his submission to Mohammed's will.

Mohammed approached, his hand gripping Jack's chin, forcing him to look up. "You need to understand something," he hissed. "You belong to me. This," he squeezed Jack's ass through the jockstrap, "is mine. And you don't share it without permission."

Without warning, Mohammed spun Jack around, bending him over the back of the couch. "I'll show you what happens when you forget that."

The sound of Mohammed's belt unbuckling was loud in the quiet room. Jack tensed, expecting the sting of punishment, but instead, Mohammed took the belt and wrapped it around Jack's wrists, binding them behind his back.

"You're not here for pleasure tonight," Mohammed growled, his breath hot against Jack's ear. "You're here to learn."

With no spit or lube to ease the way, Mohammed positioned himself. The pain of being entered by Mohammed's massive penis was immediate and excruciating. There was no gradual stretch, no preparation to cushion the invasion; just raw, unyielding flesh against flesh. Jack felt a burning, tearing sensation as Mohammed forced his way in, each inch a lesson in pain and submission. The lack of lubrication made every movement a jagged, sharp reminder of Mohammed's anger and dominance. Jack's body screamed with the pain, his muscles clenching in an attempt to fight the intrusion, which only intensified the discomfort.

"You thought you could just give yourself away?" Mohammed's voice was a mix of anger and lust as he continued, his pace unrelenting. "You're mine, Jack. Only mine. You'll remember that."

Jack could only moan in response, the pain mixing with a confusing pleasure, his body reacting despite the circumstances. Mohammed didn't relent, his words continuing to cut deep. "You're just a white whore, meant to serve your Muslim master. You don't decide who uses you."

The punishment was as much about control as it was about pain. Mohammed made sure every thrust was felt, every word etched into Jack's memory. He talked about how Jack had disrespected him, how he needed to understand the hierarchy, the ownership.

When Mohammed finally decided Jack had learned his lesson, he pulled out, leaving Jack gasping, his body trembling. But this was not the end of his punishment. Mohammed turned Jack around, his cock still hard, demanding attention.

"On your knees," Mohammed ordered, and Jack, with his hands still bound, awkwardly complied. Mohammed forced his cock into Jack's mouth, using it roughly, his movements driven by the need to assert dominance. "Clean me up, boy. And remember, you do not touch another without my permission."

After a few moments, Mohammed pulled back, his expression softening slightly as he looked down at Jack, his dominance satisfied but still clear in his eyes. He then produced a small, cold metal chastity cage. "You won't be straying again," he said, his voice now a warning rather than anger.

Mohammed fitted the cage around Jack's now-flaccid penis, the metal cold against his skin, the confinement a stark reminder of his punishment. He locked it with a small padlock, the click of the lock echoing like a final sentence. The cage was tight, every movement a reminder of Mohammed's control over him, even when they were apart.

"This is your punishment," Mohammed said, as he helped Jack up, untying his hands. "Don't make me do this again."

As Jack left Mohammed's apartment, the weight of his submission felt heavier, but so did the strange comfort of knowing where he stood, even if it was in the shadow of Mohammed's dominance. The pain from the encounter lingered, a physical echo of the lesson learned, while the chastity cage was a constant, inescapable reminder of Mohammed's claim over him.

 

[anon8888]

100% need this story to continue!

 

[Spiritual_Camera]

Mohammed, the Syrian Refugee - part 6

The city was draped in the cloak of night when Jack received the text from Mohammed. It was terse, commanding: "Come over. Now." The message was enough to send a shiver down Jack's spine, anticipation mixed with a hint of fear.

Arriving at Mohammed's bedsit, Jack could smell the smoke and alcohol even before he entered. The door opened to reveal a haze of smoke, Mohammed and Abdul sitting close, their laughter loud, the air thick with marijuana and the sharp tang of whiskey. Both men had that look of dangerous playfulness, their eyes bright and slightly unfocused from the night's indulgences.

"Welcome to the party, my little white princess," Abdul slurred, his voice warm yet with an edge of possessiveness, his smile lazy but his eyes sharp.

Jack's gaze flicked to Mohammed, whose expression was cooler, more calculated. "You've been missed," Mohammed said, his tone lacking warmth but full of intent. "We've decided to have some fun tonight."

The room was small, the atmosphere charged with a mix of camaraderie and competition between the two men. Jack knew what was coming but not in what form, his heart racing with a cocktail of dread and desire.

Mohammed stood first, his movements deliberate as he approached Jack. "You think you can handle both of us?" he asked, his voice a low, challenging growl. Before Jack could respond, Mohammed grabbed him by the hair, pulling him into a rough kiss, marking his territory.

Abdul, not to be outdone, chuckled, standing up to join them. His approach was different; he draped an arm around Jack's shoulder, pulling him close. "Don't worry, princess, we'll take care of you," he said, his voice softer, his kisses trailing down Jack's neck, a stark contrast to Mohammed's harshness.

The competition was clear as they began to undress Jack, each man trying to assert dominance in his own way. Mohammed was all about control, his touches firm, his words cutting. "You're nothing without my permission," he hissed, biting at Jack's earlobe, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

Abdul, on the other hand, mixed his dominance with a semblance of affection, his hands roaming over Jack's body with a possessiveness that felt more personal. "You're mine too, remember that," he whispered, his fingers teasing Jack's nipples, eliciting moans that were both pleasure and submission.

They moved to the bed, where the real contest began. Mohammed pushed Jack down, his dominance cold and unyielding as he positioned himself behind Jack, no preliminaries, no gentleness. He entered Jack with the same punishing force as before, the pain sharp but familiar, Mohammed's cock stretching him without the courtesy of lube, just the remnants of his earlier preparation.

"You belong to me," Mohammed grunted with each thrust, his voice a reminder of who was in control here.

Abdul watched for a moment, his eyes dark with lust and a hint of jealousy. Then, he moved in front of Jack, his approach somewhat more tender. "Look at me, princess," he said, lifting Jack's chin, his cock hard and ready. Jack took him into his mouth, the taste of alcohol and smoke mingling with the saltiness of Abdul's skin, his movements guided by Abdul's hands in his hair.

The dynamic was strange; Mohammed was like a storm, all force and fury, while Abdul was like a fire, warm yet capable of burning. Each man tried to outdo the other, Mohammed with his relentless, deep thrusts, and Abdul with his words, his touches, making Jack feel both cherished and owned.

"You like this, don't you?" Abdul asked, his voice a mix of teasing and affection, his thrusts into Jack's mouth gentler than Mohammed's but no less dominating. "Being caught between two strong men, your little white princess heart loves it."

Jack could only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensations, the pain from Mohammed, the contrasting tenderness from Abdul, the competition clear as they used him to assert their dominance.

The night stretched on, the men alternating between using Jack, sometimes together, sometimes taking turns, each trying to leave a more profound mark on him. When they finally reached their climaxes, it was with Mohammed claiming Jack with a harsh whisper of possession, and Abdul with a possessive kiss, calling him his princess even as he filled him.

Afterwards, as they lay tangled in the sheets, the air was heavy with the scent of sex, sweat, and the fading smoke. Mohammed, still with a cold edge, looked at Jack, "Remember this night," he said, his voice a warning wrapped in satisfaction.

Abdul, pulling Jack close, whispered, "You're ours, princess. Always."

Jack, caught in the middle of their desires, knew this was more than just sex; it was a battle of wills, where he was both the prize and the playing field. As he lay there, the echoes of their dominance resonating through his body, he felt a complex mix of satisfaction and surrender, wondering what this new dynamic would mean for him in the days to come.

--------------------------------------------

In the dim light of Mohammed's bedsit, the air was still thick with the scent of their earlier escapades. The night had cooled down, but the atmosphere was anything but. Jack was lounging on the bed, his body a map of the night's intense interactions when Abdul, with a mischievous smile, approached him.

"I've got something for you, my little white princess," Abdul said, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package from his bag. His eyes were gleaming with a mix of affection and mischief.

Jack, curious despite his exhaustion, opened the gift to reveal a sleek, black women's thong. The material was soft, the design undeniably feminine. "Put it on," Abdul instructed, his voice carrying a playful yet commanding tone.

Jack hesitated for a moment, feeling the eyes of both men on him, but then complied, slipping off his pants to slide the thong up his legs. It fit snugly, the fabric contrasting against his skin, the straps accentuating his form in a way that felt both alien and thrilling.

"Look at you," Abdul cooed, his hands moving to adjust the thong, his touch lingering. "So perfect for you."

Mohammed watched with a smirk, his usual cold dominance tempered by the night's revelries. "You look good like that," he commented, his tone approving but still edged with control.

Abdul then guided Jack back onto the bed, his intentions clear. "I've got one more thing to do," he whispered, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he positioned Jack on all fours.

Jack felt a mix of anticipation and embarrassment, the black thong a vivid reminder of his submission to these two men. Abdul moved behind him, his hands gently parting Jack's cheeks, the thong doing little to hide his intentions.

Then, to Jack's surprise, Abdul leaned in, his tongue finding Jack's entrance which was still slick from Mohammed's earlier release. "I'm going to clean you up," Abdul murmured, his breath hot against Jack's skin.

The sensation was bizarre and intense, Abdul's tongue delving into Jack, tasting Mohammed's cum, mixing possession with a strange form of intimacy. Jack moaned, the feeling of being used in such a unique way sending confusing signals through his body. Abdul's actions were both degrading and oddly tender, his beard brushing against Jack's sensitive skin, his tongue working with a skill that seemed to savor every moment.

"You taste like both of us now," Abdul said, pulling back for a moment, his voice thick with lust. "My little white princess, marked by both your Muslim masters."

After what felt like an eternity, Abdul stood up, his cock hard, ready for more. He didn't remove the thong but instead pushed it aside, entering Jack with a slow, deliberate thrust, contrasting with Mohammed's earlier roughness.

"You're ours," Abdul whispered as he moved, his pace steady, his hands gripping Jack's hips, guiding the rhythm. "And you'll wear this thong as a reminder."

Mohammed watched, his expression unreadable, perhaps contemplating the next move in this game of dominance they played. But for now, he seemed content to let Abdul have his moment, his eyes dark with interest and a hint of pride.

As Abdul continued, the room filled with their sounds, the wet noises, the soft moans from Jack, and Abdul's possessive whispers. The night was far from over, and Jack knew he was caught in this web of desire, the black thong a new symbol of his place between these two men, each asserting their claim in their own way.

 

[anon8888]

How much more can Jack take?