Sex stories

Ten days. Ten fucking days since Karim crossed a line in that parking lot. Ten days since he fucked a guy for the first time, planting his manhood and unloading his rage into a tight hole, no hesitation, no looking away, like a man caged too long. Ten days since he let something wild explode, that moment he felt the raw inside him wake up, that dark hunger, that raw fury burning in the gut of a true Algerian. And since then, nothing calms him. He’s fucked chicks every day, sometimes two or three in one go. He’s fucked harder, more often, faster. In pairs, in threes, in bathrooms, hallways, cars. He flips them like sacks, makes them cum, moan, beg. But inside, the void’s still there, nothing shut this fever. Nothing. That ent tension, that burning rage no woman can handle or soak up, no pussy or scream can tame. That raw, deep fire in his gut, his arms, his eyes, a heat only a true submissive slut can quench. He needs something else. A different field. A different body. Something dirtier, rawer, realer.

That night, he’s walking the projects. Black tee hugging his pecs, eyes dark. His heart low, slow, heavy. He moves like a raider, aimless, just breathing the street air. Then he feels it: a hungry stare. He turns, spots him across the street—a lone guy, slim, young, almost too clean to belong here. He doesn’t fit: effeminate, fragile, lips too red, eyes too bright. Looks like a slut hunting for a master. Karim stops, stares him down, wordless, his gaze a cold blade. The guy hesitates, mutters a barely audible “Hey.” Karim doesn’t answer. His face doesn’t shift, he stands tall, icy, slicing him with a sharp look. After a moment, he spits at his feet and says, cold as fuck: “What you want?”

Silence. The guy looks down, says nothing. Then he steps closer, almost shaking, drawn to Karim’s power. “You got a problem?” Karim asks, voice low. The guy bows his head. “Just… if you’re down…” Karim doesn’t move. He stares a few seconds longer, emotionless, with that natural dominance you can’t explain. Then he turns, slow, and walks off. His steps echo, heavy, deliberate, like he knows what’s coming isn’t just sex—it’s a fucking statement. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t need to. He knows the guy’s following, ‘cause a slut always sniffs out the master’s scent. And sure enough, he follows.

They head to the basements. Place is empty, concrete reeks of damp and filth. Karim opens the creaky door. Inside, the air’s thick, heavy like dried sweat. He steps in, leans against the wall, arms crossed, legs spread. King in his den. He waits, but not long. The twink slips in, timid, trembling, but pulled like a moth to a flame. He shuts the door, steps closer, hesitant. Karim says nothing. He watches him kneel, right where he belongs, like a trained dog. Eyes begging, hands clasped. A wordless servant. Karim looks down, cold, commanding, calm, with that dry intensity that says it all. In his head, he’s back in that zone, the thrill of domination he’s tasted before, the certainty he’s the only man strong enough to put this inferior slut in his place, to use and humiliate him. He doesn’t need to shout; he’s the silence that rules.

The guy waits, shaking, his eyes pleading for permission. In a low, rough voice, calm as a blade but dripping with authority, Karim says: “What you waiting for? Suck.” The guy’s ready, just waiting for the master’s order. His trembling hands reach for Karim’s bulging package, pull down his sweats, and free the man. Karim’s already hard, primed since the sidewalk. His cock’s huge, swollen, veiny, stiff, precum oozing from the tip. It’s not just a dick—it’s a , a pillar of dominance, a hot mass ready to fuck. The guy’s mouth opens, lips shaking; he grabs the cock, breathes in its scent, licks the alpha’s nectar, then wraps his lips around it, feeling it slide over his tongue. He moans softly. Karim stays still. He breathes heavy, staring coldly at the submissive mouth swallowing him. No moans, no caresses, no thanks. He dominates. Period.

As it goes, something shifts in him. His muscles tighten, his gaze grows heavier. He feels fully alive, fully himself. He’s not chasing pleasure—he’s chasing control, the pure act, the silent virility. He lets it happen for a bit. Then, after a few seconds, he grabs the guy’s head with both hands, firm, tight. Without warning, he thrusts hard, his cock vanishing down the throat. He holds it there, feeling the throat struggle, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He keeps going. No words, no heads-up, now it’s his show. “This what you came for, huh? This what you want in your throat, you little fag? Wanna taste a real man? Then take it. Eat it and own it.” He starts pounding, fast, deep, precise. He grips, pushes, shoves till the guy’s xxxing. He wants this inferior fuck to , to soak in him, to never forget this taste. Every thrust makes the guy whimper, every move’s a gut fruit juice. His balls kiss the guy’s chin. Each hit drives his contempt deeper, his need to dominate. The guy xxxes, drools, squirms but doesn’t fight. He knows it’s pointless. He knows this is his place.

Karim’s cock feels harder than ever, buried in that wet, hot throat begging to be ripped open by his manhood. He fucks like he’s fighting. With rhythm, with rage, with power. Tears stream, the guy gags but holds on. Karim growls, wordless. He’s in a trance, fucking with his hips, arms, eyes. It’s total raw possession. Then he stops. He lets go of the soaked head, red-eyed. Grabs the guy with a firm grip, yanks him up like a ragdoll, spins him, and slams him against the basement wall, forehead pressed to the gritty concrete. “You know what you’ve earned now? What I’m gonna give you, you’ll never forget, you filthy bitch.”

He yanks down the guy’s sweats in one swift move, no caresses, no softness. He’s done talking, he’s acting. He’s in man mode. Spits in his hand, slicks his burning tip, and without warning, rams in hard. No lube, no gentleness—just his hand, his spit, and his rage, pushing till the hole gives and his balls smack the guy’s ass. A raw scream of heat and intensity echoes in the basement. Real shock, obedience, surrender, pleasure. Karim doesn’t care. He grits his teeth, eyes empty. Grips the hips and starts pounding. Slow at first, then faster. . This ain’t fucking—it’s punishment. It’s a brand. Every thrust claims territory. This body’s his now. He takes it, fills it, humiliates it. Wordless. Just short breaths, clenched jaw, taut muscles.

The guy screams again. “Shut it, I’m not done with