Sex stories

I’d been struggling to find a job—no replies, nothing—until I stumbled on an ad: “Delivery guy wanted; license required, young, available.” I called the number right away.

“Hey, I’m Ryan ****, I’m hyped for the delivery gig, it’s totally my vibe.”

“Cool, give me your details.”

The guy on the line had a thick Arab accent, sounded about 40. He asked for my license date, ID, the usual stuff.

“Meet us in two days at our spot in *****, 1:30 p.m. I’ll WhatsApp you the address.”

“Sweet, thanks!”

Two days was perfect. I hit the barber, shaved my legs, arms, ass—I hate hair, always scrape it all off. Love that smooth skin vibe. Picked my outfit: thong, jeans, tee, jacket.

Day of, I roll up at 1:10, a bit early. The place is in the middle of nowhere—two cars in the lot, dead zone. I don’t overthink it. Door’s open, I walk in—long-ass hallway, every door wide, massive warehouse, but it’s silent. I wonder if I fucked up, step out to double-check Google Maps. Nope, this is it.

I head back in, hear a voice at the end of the hall, and .

.

“Yeah, come in.”

“Hey, I’ve got an interview, not sure if I’m in the right place.”

“You are, come on.”

Inside, two Arab guys. One’s behind a PC—the one I talked to—the other dips out after sliding me a chair. I don’t clock it right away, too focused on my pitch. Later, outside, I realize the second guy’s face rings a bell, but I’ll figure that out after.

Alone with the PC dude:

“Hey, I’m Ryan, 1:30 appointment.”

“Hey Ryan, get comfy.”

“Thanks.”

“Got a CV?”

“Yeah, here.”

While he scans it, I scope the room: two desks, a double couch, a camera pointed at it, a mirror.

“Nice, like the ad said, we need guys who’re free and flexible.”

His accent’s heavy, but he looks younger—maybe 30.

“I’m free, can start tomorrow, fit any schedule.”

“You do sports, I see that here?”

“Yeah, gym hard.”

“Cool. How long you had your license?”

“Five months.”

“Damn, tough break. Company wants a year and a half minimum to hire…”

It’s hot as hell in there. My legs are sweating—shaved guys get it—and my thong’s soaking. In my head, I’m freaking: A year and a half? I’m screwed.

“Any way to get in without the experience?”

“I can check, but it’s tricky. I’ll put you in the system; if it clears, you’ll get a call.”

“That’d be dope. I’d do anything for this job, I want it bad.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah, for real.”

“Got it. I’ll log you in, we’ll do the paperwork, push it through even without the time.”

He hands me forms to sign, then tells me to stand in front of the camera. Asks my sizes: pants, shirt, jacket. Pulls a uniform from a locker.

“Perfect, got your sizes. Change into this, I’ll be back in five.”

“Cool, thanks.”

Good thing he leaves—I don’t want him watching. The pants are tight, like construction overalls, hugging my gym-built ass and thong perfectly. Not a hair on me, I feel slick. He comes back.

“Looks good, I’ll snap pics for them. Profile, back, all that.”

He shoots, then asks my shoe size. I say 42-43, depends on the brand.

“Put your foot here, let’s see.”

I try, but it’s awkward, can’t see dick.

“Something’s off.”

He gets up, kneels, lifts my pant leg to my calf.

“There, you’re a 42.”

“Thanks, haha (kinda embarrassed).”

“Strip, I’ll log it on the PC.”

“Uh, okay.”

I wait till he’s at his screen. Throw on my tee and jacket first to hide the thong, then swap pants. He doesn’t peek, chill.

“It’s sent, we wait now.”

“Thanks so much!”

“Off-topic: you shave your legs like a chick?”

“Yeah, for the gym, feels better.”

“Alright.” (Checks his PC.) “Go on, Ryan.”

“Thanks again, man!”

“Later.”

Outside, I bolt to my car—the cold hits after that oven. I’m shoving stuff in the glovebox when I catch the other guy staring from a distance, weird. I start the engine and peel out.

On the drive, I’m overthinking. That camera… Did they film me changing? And where do I know that second guy from? I stress, but head home.

Next day, a WhatsApp from a contact I already have, no chat history:

*“Hey, Zayd from . Free this afternoon for driver training?”

I’m shook—no email or text saying I’m hired.

“Hey, yeah, free this afternoon. Surprised, didn’t get a confirmation.”

“It’s me, the other guy in the office before I left, with Salim.”

“Oh, got it.”

“4 p.m.”

“Perfect.”

2:50 p.m., I shower—hair’s already shaved—thong, joggers, sweater, jacket, and I’m out.

Place is even deader—one car. I at the same door.

“Ryan? This way now.”

“Alright, hey.”

I follow him down another hall. Huge, but empty. In the room: couch, camera, and a uniform—almost like yesterday’s.

“Sit.”

“Thanks.”

“Salim handled your stuff yesterday, all good except the license time, you know…”

I study him while he talks. His voice and face feel familiar, but I can’t place it. Accent’s lighter than Salim’s, maybe older.

“You told Salim you’re hyped to work and down for anything.”

“Yeah, totally, I need this job, been struggling for months.”

“‘Down for anything’—what’s that mean?”

He gives me a weird look. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off, taps his PC, spins the screen. Video: me, yesterday, changing at Salim’s. I stare at it, feel his eyes on me, but don’t look back.

“Ryan, if you’re really down for anything, here’s the deal. With us Arabs, guys like you—thong, shaved smooth—you serve dudes like me or Salim, get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Salim doesn’t know you’re here. No email, no confirmation. Couch, camera, no one around: this is your contract. Clear?”

“You wanna film me serving you?”

“You got it.”

He puts his huge hand on my cheek, thumb near my mouth.

“Bitches like you catch on quick. To lock this job, be a good slut.”

I’m crazy turned on, start sucking his thumb right away.

“There you go. Get in front of the cam, put on the uniform. You’ve got a thong under there, I hope, you little bitch.”

I grab his hand, press it to my ass.

“Fuck, a real bitch. Strip, get in the uniform, go.”

He sets up behind the camera.

“Repeat everything I say, word for word, then we roll.”

“Okay.”

“Okay who?”

“Okay, Master.”

“Good, Ryana, that’s your name now.”

Camera’s on. I repeat:

*“On 20//2025, I become Zayd’s bitch. Zayd owns my pussy, always shaved, not a hair, clean. Master Zayd picks my thongs. It’s our secret. He decides when we meet, not me. Master Zayd gets me a job next Monday if I’m a good slut.”

He stops the cam.

“Signed. You’re my lady. I don’t give a fuck about you—no feelings. You’re my bitch, period. Shaved, pussy ready, plugged if I say, clean. I pick your thongs. If I want garters at work, you wear ‘em. Got it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You a pretty?”

“Yeah, but I dildo myself daily.”

“What size?”

“22cm by 4.”

“Pretty in a loose sense then—your pussy’s stretched.”

“Yes, Master, ready for your cock.”

“On all fours, couch.”

He films.

“Go solo, show your ass.”

I twerk, but the pants block it. I ditch them, on all fours in my thong. My gym ass is fire.

“Fuck, a bitch’s ass. Pretty? I’m gonna fuck you, slut. Move!”

He’s touching himself, says:

“Come suck, crawl over, bitch.”

I slide off, crawl to him. He adjusts the cam like a pro. At his dick, I lick his jeans, eyes on the lens.

“That’s it, my bitch, keep going. Pull the jeans off with your teeth.”

Jeans off:

“You sucked before?”

“No, Master.”

“Perfect.” (He strokes my hair.) “Where’s your dildo?”

“At home, Master. Why?”

“Lube with it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Go get it, fuck yourself, hurry back.”

I stand, thong tenting hard. He cracks up.

“Harder than me without a touch—total bitch. Hold up…”

He grabs my ass, squeezes.

“Ass shaved too?”

“Yes, Master, I hate hair.”

“Fuck, better than chicks. Go!”

He smacks my ass. I live close, parents out—perfect. Shower, dildo, lube, I’m back.

He’s waiting outside.

“Drop your pants, hand ‘em over, you’ll get ‘em when you leave. Crawl, follow me.”

He slaps a collar and leash on me. I’m buzzing, can’t hold back.

“Heel, slut. Clean?”

“Yes, Master, all in the bag.”

“Good, bitch, couch.”

He says:

“Do your thing, dildo yourself. All the way. Used to it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Go, slut, I’m filming.”

On all fours, I lube my hole, ease it in. He thinks I’m too slow, steps up, and shoves the dildo in hard. Good thing I’m ready.

“Move, bitch, too slow! I’ll stretch your pussy if you drag.”

“Yes, Master, sorry…”

“Prep it, go.”

I work it back and forth. Three minutes in, he grabs the dildo and fucks me with it. That’s when I turn full-on bitch. I whimper a bit.

“Let loose, you’re built for this, for Arab studs like me.”

“Yes, Master, I’m here for you.”

He yanks the dildo, spits on my hole.

“You’re open.”

“Master, five more minutes…”

(Hard kiss.) “Shut it, if I say you’re ready, you’re ready.”

“Okay, Master, sorry.”

He slams into me, balls deep. His dick’s like my dildo—no heat and intensity. After a bit, he makes me sniff something—popss, I realize later. Everything explodes, I let go completely, submissive, loving it.