Chapter 4: Almas's strong hands grip Nabil's hips as she forces him to rut against her bare thigh, the soaked lace of her thong providing torturous friction. 'This is why you put my panties on, isn't it?' she hisses, watching his cock twitch through the transparent wet fabric while her own arousal coats his trembling thighs.
Her palm burned through the lace, the heat a brand against his trapped cock. Nabil flinched, a choked whimper escaping his lips as her fingers curled possessively around his length, squeezing through the flimsy fabric. Almas's breath, warm and laced with her earlier satisfaction, ghosted over his ear. "Zara told me everything, baby," she repeated, the words vibrating against his skin. "How you begged her to tie you up. How you wanted her to call you names." Her grip tightened, knuckles whitening, forcing a ragged gasp from him. "Pathetic names. Filthy names. She laughed about it. Said it was… cute." Contempt dripped from the word. "She doesn't get it. Doesn't get the need."
Her other hand slid down from his jaw, fingers tracing the lace band biting into his hip. "But I do." She shifted beneath him, powerful thighs flexing. One leg hooked behind his calf, locking him in place. The other leg lifted, pressing her bare inner thigh firmly against the lace-covered bulge where her hand still held him captive. The pressure was immediate, intense, the softness of her skin contrasting brutally with the tight confinement. "Feel that? That ache?" she murmured, her voice a dark caress. "That’s real. That’s what Zara can't give you. Won't give you. She thinks it's a joke."
Nabil’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. Every nerve was alight. The humiliation of Zara's betrayal warred with the shocking friction against his cock. He tried to push back, but her leg held him pinned, grinding him relentlessly into her flesh. The lace chafed, a constant, degrading reminder of his own desperation. "Almas… please…"
"Please what?" Her hand left his cock and grabbed his ass, fingers digging into the muscle through the thin barrier. She yanked him forward hard, his trapped erection grinding harder against her thigh. "Please, fuck your sister-in-law's leg like a dog?" She laughed, low and cruel. "Go on then.Do it. Show me how fucking desperate you are. Show me what Zara denied you."
Tears pricked Nabil's eyes again, hot and shameful. He looked down, avoiding her triumphant gaze, focusing on the obscene sight of his lace-clad cock pressed against the smooth expanse of her skin. He was hard beyond belief, throbbing painfully. The urge to move, to relieve the pressure, was primal. Impossible to resist.
"Move, Nabil," she commanded, her voice cracking like a whip. She squeezed his ass, nails biting through the lace. "Or I’ll call Zara right now. Tell her you’re kneeling here in my underwear, grinding your little cock on my leg. Tell her you taste like me."
The threat ripped through him. Panic and arousal collided. A low moan escaped him, torn from deep within. He shifted his hips tentatively, a small, shameful roll against the soft, strong muscle of her thigh. The friction was electric. A jolt of sensation shot up his spine.
"Yes!" Almas hissed, her eyes blazing. She thrust her own hips upward, meeting his tentative movement with deliberate force. "Like that. Work it. Fucking work my leg, you little slut. Show me how badly you need this."
Driven by terror and the overwhelming physical demand, Nabil obeyed. He rocked his hips forward, grinding his trapped erection against her bare skin. The lace scraped. Her skin was slick, maybe with sweat, maybe with the lingering traces of her own arousal. Every forward thrust sent waves of raw, degraded pleasure crashing through him. He moved faster, abandoning subtlety, driven by the desperate need for release and the terror of her exposing him. His breath hitched, becoming ragged gasps.
Almas watched him, her face a mask of cold satisfaction. She kept one hand anchored on his ass, guiding the rhythm, forcing him deeper into the grinding motion. The other hand snaked up, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling his head back, forcing his tear-streaked face up to hers. "Look at you," she sneered, her voice thick with disdain and something darker, hungrier. "Look what Zara drove you to. Could she make you fuck her leg like this? Could she make you leak through your panties like a fucking teenager?" She thrust her thigh up harder, grinding him mercilessly. "No. She thinks you're her sweet, normal husband. But you're not, are you? You're a fucking pervert. My pervert."
Each word was a lash. Each hard grind sent him spiraling higher. The lace felt like sandpaper now, but the exquisite friction beneath it was overwhelming. He was panting, sweating, his movements becoming frantic, jerky. His cock felt swollen, impossibly tight, the pressure building to a breaking point. He could feel the wetness seeping through the lace onto her skin.
"Going to come?" Almas taunted, her grip tightening in his hair. "Going to spurt in your borrowed panties like a dirty little boy? All over your sister-in-law's leg?" She slammed her thigh up against him one final time, grinding hard. "Do it.Come. Show me how fucking pathetic Zara made you. Come for me right now!"
The command, the raw obscenity of it, the relentless pressure, the crushing humiliation – it detonated him. A strangled cry tore from Nabil’s throat, raw and animal. His hips slammed forward and froze, grinding convulsively against her thigh as white-hot pleasure exploded through him. He came violently, helplessly, trapped in the lace, his release soaking through the thin fabric in hot pulses, smearing messily against Almas’s skin. Shudders wracked his body, wave after wave of shame-drenched ecstasy leaving him trembling and gasping, collapsed against her.
Almas held him as he convulsed, her grip on his hair and ass unyielding. She watched the climax rip through him, a faint, triumphant smile curving her lips. Only when the last tremors subsided, leaving him limp and panting against her shoulder, did she loosen her hold slightly. Her breathing was calm, controlled. Undisturbed.
She let the silence stretch, thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and his humiliation. Her fingers gently, almost mockingly, stroked the lace still stretched taut over his spent cock. He could feel the wet, cooling mess trapped against his skin, against hers.
"See?" she murmured, her voice soft now, almost gentle in its cruelty. She shifted beneath him, letting him feel the sticky dampness on her thigh, the tangible proof of his degradation. "I told you I know what you need." She tilted his head up with a finger under his chin, forcing his dazed, tear-filled eyes to meet hers. Her gaze was hard, possessive. "Zara never understood you. Never wanted to understand this ache." Her thumb brushed his lower lip, a chilling echo of earlier. "But I do. And now," she whispered, leaning in so close her lips nearly touched his ear, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "you belong to me."
Nabil shuddered against her shoulder, the wet lace clinging coldly to his spent cock. Almas’s grip remained firm, her thumb tracing idle circles on his hip bone beneath the ruined fabric. Her breath was steady, unnervingly calm against his ear.
"Belong to you?" he croaked, the words thick with tears and exhaustion. His mind reeled, sticky with the aftermath and her earlier venom about Zara. "How… how can you say that?"
"Because it’s true," she stated simply, finally releasing his hair. Her hand slid down, fingers brushing over the damp patch where his release had soaked through the lace and smeared against her thigh. She didn’t flinch. "Look at this mess. Look what you did." She pushed him back slightly, forcing him to see the glistening evidence trapped against her skin and the sheer material. "You came grinding on your wife’s sister’s leg. Like a fucking animal in heat."
He tried to pull away, shame burning his cheeks, but her hand clamped on his wrist, nails biting. "Look at it," she commanded, her voice low and dangerous. "Own it." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Look at me, Nabil." Her free hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. Her eyes were dark pits, devoid of mercy. "Or should I call Zara? Right now? Tell her how you just soaked my thigh?"
His eyes snapped open, wide with terror. "No! Please, Almas, don’t." His voice was a desperate whisper.
"Then look," she hissed. Reluctantly, his gaze dropped to her thigh. The sight was obscene: the slick trail of his climax stark against her smooth skin, the sheer lace of her panties plastered transparently over his softening cock, dark with wetness. His stomach churned. "Pathetic," she murmured, dragging a fingertip through the mess on her leg, then holding it up. "Your fucking weakness, leaking all over me."
His throat constricted. "Why are you doing this? Zara… you said…" The betrayal felt like a fresh wound, ripped open alongside his humiliation.
Almas leaned back into the worn sofa cushions, stretching like a satisfied cat, her robe gaping slightly. She wiped her finger slowly on the armrest, a deliberate act of dismissal. "Zara," she said, the name dripping with contempt. "Let’s talk about sweet Zara." She reached for a tissue from the side table, her movements unhurried, methodical. "You think she’s innocent? Pure?" A cold laugh escaped her. "Fuck no. She’s just like you, Nabil. Desperate. Eager to please. Hollow."
Nabil froze, every muscle locking. "What?"
Almas dabbed at her thigh with the tissue, cleaning herself with detached efficiency, making him watch. "She married a pathetic slut." She gestured vaguely at him, her eyes locked on his, gleaming with malice. "You. She knew exactly what she was getting – a needy little submissive with no backbone. And it bored her. Quickly."
The words hit like physical blows. Nabil felt himself shrinking. "She wouldn’t…"
"Oh, she did," Almas cut him off, her voice sharp as broken glass. She leaned forward again, invading his space, the scent of sex and her perfume clashing in his nostrils. "She’s been fucking other men since before you even said 'I do'. Finding what she couldn’t get from her whimpering husband." Her smirk was vicious. "Real men. Men who took control. Who fucked her properly. Who didn’t need to beg."
Nabil felt the world tilt. The comfortable cushions beneath him felt like knives. His marriage, his trust, it all crumbled like ash. "No…" It was barely a breath.
"Ask her," Almas challenged, her eyes daring him. "Ask your loving wife about Mark from Finance. Or that bartender, Jason, from before the wedding. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. Still can’t, probably." She discarded the soiled tissue onto the floor. "She fucked them because you were inadequate. Because she needed someone who didn’t need her fucking pity."
Tears blurred his vision again, hot and unstoppable. He felt shattered. Utterly broken. The humiliation of grinding on Almas paled against this nuclear devastation of his entire life. "Why tell me?" he choked out, the sound raw.
"To make you understand," Almas said, her voice softening only to heighten the cruelty. She placed a hand possessively on his chest, right over his pounding heart. "You have nothing out there. Zara despises your weakness. She pities you. Fucks others to forget how fucking disappointing you are." Her fingers dug in slightly. "But I see you. I see the desperate little slut begging to be used. The hunger Zara starved." Her other hand drifted down, cupping his lace-covered cock, still damp and sensitive. He flinched violently. "I’ll feed it."
He recoiled from her touch, scrambling back on the sofa, pulling the edges of his discarded shirt around himself like armor. "Get off me! Fuck you, Almas! Fuck you!" The outburst was ragged, fueled by agony.
Almas didn’t move. She just watched him unravel, a predator observing wounded prey. Her expression was chillingly serene. "There it is," she murmured. "A spark. Buried under all that pathetic whining." She stood up slowly, the robe falling open further, revealing more of the lace beneath, the curve of her hip. She looked down at him, sprawled and trembling on the cushions. "But anger’s useless without direction, little slut." She adjusted her robe, not bothering to fully cover herself. "You think 'fuck you' changes anything? Zara still spread her legs for strangers while you planned your honeymoon. You still came on my thigh."
She turned towards the hallway, pausing at the doorway. The light caught the damp patch on her inner thigh. "Clean yourself up," she ordered, not looking back, her voice devoid of inflection. "You smell like cheap desperation and come." She took a step, then paused again. "And Nabil?" He looked up, hollow-eyed. "Your bedroom door doesn’t lock from the inside. Remember that." She disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone on the sofa, the scent of sex and betrayal hanging heavy in the air, the wet lace a cold accusation against his skin.
The wet lace clung to Nabil’s spent cock like a cold, accusing shroud. He stared at the damp smear Almas had left on the pale sofa cushion, the physical echo of his humiliating climax. A low groan rattled in his chest, equal parts shame and the crushing weight of Almas’s revelations about Zara. Could any of it be true?
Then, cutting through the suffocating silence, Almas’s voice drifted down the hall. Sharp. Purposeful. Not muffled by a closed door. She was making a call. Right there. His breath hitched. He strained to listen, every muscle rigid.
"Zara? Yeah, it's me." Almas's tone was deceptively light, almost bored. "Just checking in. You made it out of the house alright?" A pause. Nabil’s knuckles were white where he gripped his shirt. "Oh? Already? Efficient." Another pause, longer this time. Almas chuckled, a low, nasty sound that scraped down Nabil’s spine. "Straight to the source, huh? Couldn’t wait?" Her voice dropped, became intimate, conspiratorial. Nabil leaned forward, heart hammering against his ribs. "Tell me, sweetie," Almas purred, the venom dripping now, "Did you go straight to Mark? Or did you let Jason have another go at that needy little cunt of yours first? Two cocks before lunch? Impressive."
Nabil flinched as if struck. The names. Almas had said those names. Mark. Jason.
A longer pause. Almas was listening. Then, faintly, indistinct but unmistakably Zara’s voice, tinny through the phone, came through. It sounded… defensive? Whining? Then clearer, desperate words pierced the quiet: "...had to, Almas! You don’t understand! I left that pathetic house, that pathetic husband, and went straight where I belong. Needed it so bad… needed to be used. Like a cheap fucking slut. Just spread and taken. Mark fucked me raw right on his desk, didn't even take my skirt off, just shoved it up and used me. The way Nabil never fucking could."
The words, Zara’s own voice confirming Almas’s earlier poison, slammed into Nabil like fists. He doubled over on the sofa, a silent scream locked in his throat. The wet lace felt like a cage, a symbol of his utter inadequacy. His wife. His wife craved that. Described it.
"Exactly," Almas murmured into the phone, her voice smooth as silk over broken glass. She sounded triumphant. "That’s what you deserve, sweetie. To be a cheap slut for real men. Don’t waste another thought on that whimpering little bitch you married. He’s nothing." A final pause. "Mmhmm. Enjoy your day, whore." The distinct click of the call ending echoed like a gunshot.
Nabil couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The scent of his own release mingled nauseatingly with the stale air. His cock, still trapped in the cold lace, felt alien, useless. Every word Zara uttered replayed in his shattered mind: pathetic husband… spread and taken… used me… raw… like a cheap fucking slut. The image of her, skirt shoved up, bent over a desk, willingly degraded… it burned. It obliterated.
Soft footsteps approached. Almas stood framed in the hallway doorway, leaning casually against the jamb. She’d shed the robe entirely. Only the intricate black lace bra and the matching thong remained, stark against her skin. Her expression was unreadable, utterly calm, but her eyes held a predatory gleam. She looked at him, collapsed on the stained sofa, trembling in her underwear. Taking in his broken posture, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the obvious mess cooling against his skin and hers.
"Well?" Her voice was low, cutting through the heavy silence. A single, devastating word demanding an answer he didn’t possess. She pushed off the doorframe and took a slow, deliberate step towards him, the click of her heel on the floor like a countdown. Her gaze raked over him, lingering on the damp lace clinging obscenely to his softening flesh. A faint, chilling smile touched her lips. "Seems you heard the whole sordid truth, little slut." She stopped just before the sofa, looking down at him. "Your wife doesn’t just fuck other men. She loves being their cheap little whore." Another step. She was within touching distance now. "Tell me, Nabil," she whispered, her voice dropping to a dangerous rasp, "does knowing she got railed on some bastard’s desk while you sat here jerking pathetically… does it make you hard?" Her hand hovered near the soaked lace covering his thigh. "Even now?"