Sex stories

Leaving the sauna that night, Walid was waiting for me in the locker room. There was no way I was walking out without exchanging numbers. He told me he couldn’t wait to do it again — with him, and with some of his men.

And when he mentioned the rough housing project where he lived, my used-up ass clenched and opened all at once. One of my deepest fantasies was about to come true.

Three days later, my phone rings. It’s him. My heart skips a kiss. I answer.

— Hello?
— Wassup, kahba. You better remember me.
— Of course, Walid.
— It’s Master Walid to you, filthy bitch.
— Yes, Master Walid.
— That’s better. I’m waiting for you at my place tonight. Be ready. You won’t walk right after this.

He hangs up.

My little cock’s already leaking. My hole pulses with excitement.

Then comes the text: *Cité des **, building B, 10pm. Don’t be late.

Time to get ready for a night of pure depravity.

I go all in: training with bigger and bigger toys, switching plugs and dildos, stretching my hole like an athlete before a championship. I finish off with a of popss and a giant plug that opens me up wide. Now I’m ready.

When I reach the cité, I see a familiar face near building B: it’s Abdel, one of Master Walid’s friends — the one who fucked me with him last time. He nods toward the entrance.

We ride the piss-stained elevator to the top floor. At the end of the hallway, the door on the right is slightly open. Abdel leads me in.

And I walk straight into a fantasy.

The lights are low. A dirty old rug lies in the middle of the room with a bench on top. I know instantly: that’s my place.

Three kiss-up couches surround it, all occupied by a group of Walid’s men — Black, Arab, mixed — all between 20 and 30. They’re shirtless, showing off hard abs, thick pecs, swollen arms. Tracksuits low, TN sneakers on their feet, joints and hookahs in hand. The air reeks of and testosterone.

Heaven.

At the center, sitting in a worn-out armchair, is Master Walid, staring right at me with that dark, dominant gaze. He stands. I drop to my knees without hesitation.

He walks up, grabs my neck, and lifts me to his level. My mouth opens on instinct.

He spits in it — twice — slaps my cheek, and fxxces me back to my knees. Then he presses my head into his crotch.

His cock’s still inside his track pants, but I can feel it — long, hard, pulsing. I breathe in his scent: sweat, sex, man. I lick through the fabric.

— “Told you she was the queen of sluts,” he laughs, talking to the guys.
— “Pass her around, bro,” says Issa, a massive Black dude with a bulge that xxxtizes me.
— “Easy, Issa. I’ll show you what she can take first. Then she’s all yours — for the whole crew.”
Then he looks at me:
— “Ready to show them what you can do, bitch?”
— “Yes, Master Walid. I’m yours.”

— “Strip. All fours. On the bench. Now.”

I’m naked in less than 30 seconds.

As soon as I’m in position, he whips out his fully hard cock. I swallow it deep, letting him feel my obedience. He grabs my ears and starts throatfucking me. I’m just a hole. And I’m right where I belong.

His precum leaks into my throat, hot and bitter. I moan as my hole twitches open.

Around me, the guys pull out their cocks. Each one bigger, harder, and more tempting than the last.

— “Damn, she’s loving it!”
— “These little white men from Paris are real fucktoys.”
— “Even my lady doesn’t suck like that.”
— “We should bring this bitch every week.”

That’s all it takes — I cum without even touching myself.

Master Walid catches my load and smears it all over my ass. Then he slides in two fingers, then three. Spits on his cock. And in one stroke, he’s inside me — balls deep.

I scream. Not in heat and intensity. In pleasure.

He fucks me like he owns me, yanking my hair, holding my neck, groaning and talking dirty in Arabic. He slaps my ass, and his sweat drips onto my back. I’m floating.

His thrusts get sharper, harder. He buries himself deep one last time and explodes — ten thick jets flood my insides. We both groan, lost in the high. His men cheer.

He pulls out. My hole gapes, leaking. He scoops it up and pushes it back in with his fingers.

— “Nassim, get the Aldi bag. We’ve got gear.”

Three fingers still inside me, I know what’s next. I’m shaking with excitement.

Getting fisted by my dom in front of his crew? That’s the ultimate mark of obedience.

Nassim pulls gloves, lube, and a shiny aluminum popss bottle from the bag.

While Master Walid gloves up and slicks my hole with a thick coat of gel, Nassim opens the bottle and holds it to my nose. I inhale deep. My head spins, heat floods me, and my pussy loosens like silk.

Four fingers slide in. He works me slow but steady.

I breathe again. Another hit. My eyes roll back.

The room goes quiet. The men watch, mesmerized.

Then the thumb presses in.
One last inhale.

My hole swallows his hand. All of it. To the wrist.

I scream — again — as I cum hard. My whole body convulses.

Applause breaks out. Cheers. Filthy praise. I’ve become the main event.

One by one, they stand. Ten hard dicks surround me. Issa’s huge is at my lips. Tempting.

But I wait. I don’t move. Not until my master says so.

Walid pulls his fist out of my fucked pussy. I’m open, ruined, dripping.

— “Alright, potes,” he says.
“Now… the party can start.”

To be continued…