Chapter 34: DP Fantasy
The heavy silence lingered, thick as the scent of sex and stale weed clinging to the futon. Ahmed lay pinned beneath Manny’s weight, the graphic novel’s spine a hard ridge against his arm, Manny’s softening cock a wet, cooling pressure against his ass. Every breath felt like sandpaper scraping his insides. The defiled prayer rug lay nearby, a dark, accusatory stain on the worn carpet. Manny shifted, rolling off him with a grunt. The sudden absence of his weight left Ahmed feeling hollow, exposed. Cool air hit the sweat and drying come on his back.
"Fuck," Manny muttered, sitting up on the edge of the futon. He scratched his chest, looking down at Ahmed sprawled face-down, the evidence of their violent coupling stark on his skin and the cushions. "Messy little sand slut. Always leaving your filthy messes." He nudged Ahmed's hip with his bare foot. "Get up. Clean your ass. My dick's sticky."
Ahmed pushed himself up slowly, wincing as the movement sent fresh jolts of soreness radiating from his core. He could feel Manny’s spend starting to leak out, a warm, viscous trickle down his inner thigh. He shuffled toward the bathroom, the familiar path feeling impossibly long. He didn't look at the rug. Inside, he ran warm water on a washcloth, avoiding his reflection in the streaked mirror. Cleaning himself was mechanical, a necessary humiliation. The cold water stung his tender hole, but he scrubbed roughly, needing to erase the physical remnants, even if the violation was bone-deep. He splashed water on his face, the cool shock doing little to clear the fog of weed and degradation.
He emerged, damp and trembling slightly, pulling on fresh boxers. Manny was already at the small desk they’d shoved against the wall, booting up the laptop they used for movies and gaming. The glow of the screen cast harsh shadows on his face. Posters of Spider-Man and Goku watched impassively from the walls. "Get over here, sand nigger," Manny commanded, not looking away from the screen as it flickered to life. "We're watching something."
Ahmed approached warily, the ache inside him a constant thrum. Manny opened a private browser tab, fingers flying over the keyboard with familiar, predatory focus. The low thump of bass and a synthetic moan suddenly filled the small room. Ahmed froze a step away. On the screen, two figures were entangled on a pristine white bed. One, a muscular man with tattoos snaking down his arms, was kneeling behind a slender figure with long, dark hair cascading down their back. The slender figure arched, revealing smooth curves, soft breasts, and a thick, hard cock straining upwards. The man gripped their hips, his own thick shaft poised at their entrance. "Oh fuck yeah, take that cock, you beautiful shemale slut," the man on screen growled.
Manny patted the worn cushion beside him. "Sit the fuck down." His voice was flat, commanding. Ahmed obeyed, perching on the very edge of the futon, putting a few inches of space between them. He couldn't tear his eyes from the screen. The tattooed man thrust forward, burying himself deep into the slender figure, who cried out, a high, gasping sound, their own cock bobbing. The camera zoomed in on the point of penetration, slick and stretched.
"See that?" Manny murmured, his gaze fixed on the screen. His hand drifted to his own lap, palming the bulge already reforming in his shorts. "That's what you need, Ahmed. A real cock splitting you open. Fucking you proper." He unzipped his fly, freeing his semi-hard dick. It was thick, flushed, already thickening rapidly as he watched the screen. "But you don't get the real deal right now." He looked at Ahmed, his eyes hard. "Hands."
Ahmed flinched. "Manny..."
"Now, sand whore," Manny snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. He grabbed Ahmed’s wrist, pulling his hand roughly towards his own exposed cock. "You jerk me. And I'll jerk you. Just like those whores on screen." His other hand snaked into Ahmed’s boxers, finding his flaccid cock and wrapping strong fingers around it. Ahmed gasped at the sudden, unwelcome contact on his sensitive flesh.
On screen, the trans performer moaned, head thrown back, as the tattooed man pounded into them relentlessly, their own cock leaking pre-come onto their smooth stomach. Manny started to stroke Ahmed, his grip firm, demanding. "Get hard for me, you fucking Arab bitch," Manny hissed, his own cock twitching in Ahmed’s limp hand. "Feel that? Feel Daddy getting hard watching you get fucked by proxy?" He squeezed Ahmed’s cock roughly. "Get it up. Or you won't like what happens."
Ahmed closed his eyes for a second, the sensations overwhelming – the painful grip on his cock, the vivid sounds from the laptop, the phantom ache deep inside him, the lingering humiliation. He forced his hand to move, wrapping trembling fingers around Manny’s girth. The skin was hot, velvety, pulsing with life. He hated it. He needed it. He began to pump slowly, feeling Manny harden fully against his palm.
"Yeah," Manny groaned, his own strokes on Ahmed becoming more rhythmic, more insistent. "That's it. Feel that Filipino dick, Ahmed? Feel how fucking thick it is? How it stretched your dirty Arab hole?" He glanced at the screen. "Look. Look how she takes it. Takes that big cock like a fucking champ. Better than you, sand nigger. You just whine." He spat the words, his hand working Ahmed’s cock faster, twisting slightly at the head. Ahmed whimpered, his own hand tightening involuntarily on Manny’s shaft, a traitorous spark of pleasure igniting under the rough manipulation. He opened his eyes, forced to watch the explicit scene: the deep thrusts, the glistening penetration, the trans performer’s ecstasy.
Manny leaned closer, his breath hot and sour with weed against Ahmed’s ear. "Two cocks, sand whore," he panted, his voice thick with arousal, his hand a relentless piston on Ahmed’s hardening flesh. His free hand slid down, cupping Ahmed’s balls roughly, squeezing. "See 'em? One fucking her ass, one in her hand... but you..." He squeezed Ahmed’s balls harder, making him gasp. "You only ever get mine. Only my Filipino dick gets to own that tight Arab cunt. Remember that."
Ahmed’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. The conflicting sensations were unbearable. The porn played relentlessly – moans, thumping, wet slaps. Manny’s hand was a brutal vise on his cock, demanding an erection, demanding release. His own hand moved mechanically on Manny’s thick shaft, slick now with pre-come, the heat and pulse of it both repellent and mesmerizing. The pressure on his balls was a constant, low throb of controlled pain. Humiliation warred with the insistent, unwanted pleasure building under Manny’s expert, ruthless touch. He was hard now, fully, painfully hard in Manny’s grip, leaking. The screen flickered, the tattooed man roaring as he came, thick spurts landing on the trans performer’s back. Manny’s breathing hitched, his strokes on Ahmed becoming frantic, almost punishing.
"Gonna come, sand nigger?" Manny rasped, his eyes glazed, fixed on the screen where the trans performer was now jerking their own cock furiously. "Gonna shoot that filthy Arab load while you jerk off your Daddy?" He squeezed Ahmed’s balls viciously. "Do it. Come for me, you fucking whore. Show Allah what his faithful servant really is."
The command, the degrading words, the graphic images, the relentless friction – it pushed Ahmed over the edge he’d been teetering on. With a choked cry that was half sob, half gasp, he came, spurting thick ropes of come over Manny’s hand and onto his own bare thigh. His body convulsed, his hand tightening spasmodically on Manny’s cock.
Manny’s own groan followed instantly, a raw, guttural sound. He shoved his hips up into Ahmed’s tightening grip, his cock pulsing violently, hot jets of come erupting, splattering Ahmed’s hand, his boxers, the futon cushion between them. He kept pumping Ahmed’s cock through the aftershocks, milking him dry, then finally let go, his own hand covered in Ahmed’s release. Panting, he slumped back, eyes still on the laptop screen where the trans performer was cleaning themselves up with a satisfied smile.
Ahmed sat frozen, trembling, his hand dripping with Manny’s come, the cooling mess on his thigh, the echo of his unwanted orgasm a hollow shame in his gut. The apartment hummed. The porn played on, the sounds suddenly tinny and absurd. Manny reached over and slammed the laptop shut, plunging the room into a silence broken only by their ragged breathing and the relentless drone of the computer fans. He wiped his messy hand carelessly on Ahmed’s discarded t-shirt from earlier. "Clean yourself up," he muttered, his voice already detached, tired. He zipped his fly, not bothering to look at Ahmed. The sticky residue on Ahmed’s skin felt like a brand. The sharp scent of sex cut through the lingering weed. The defiled rug lay in his peripheral vision, a dark monument to the night's escalating violation. He stared at his own trembling, soiled hand.
The cooling mess on Ahmed's hand felt like hardening cement. He stared at the viscous streaks, Manny’s spend stark against his olive skin, the defiled prayer rug a dark blur in his peripheral vision. The silence, broken only by the computers' drone and Manny’s heavy breathing, pressed in on him, thick with the stink of sex, stale weed, and degradation. He needed to shatter it, to grasp at anything. "Manny," he rasped, the name scraping his raw throat. His gaze flickered from his hand to the closed laptop, then back to Manny’s profile, shadowed and indifferent. "What if… what if we made some?"
Manny turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory. His dark eyes, hooded and still glazed with post-orgasm haze, sharpened. "Made some what, sand bitch?" His voice was low, dangerous, a snake uncoiling. "Clear fucking sentences."
Ahmed swallowed, the motion painful. He gestured weakly towards the laptop, his sticky fingers trembling. "Porn. For us." The words felt alien, filthy, yet a strange, desperate heat flickered low in his gut beneath the crushing shame. "Like... like what we just watched. But us." He pictured it for a horrifying second: his own humiliation captured, pixelated, permanent. "You filming. Me… taking it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Your Filipino cock owning my Arab hole."
A slow, predatory grin spread across Manny’s face, transforming his exhaustion into sharp, cruel excitement. "Fuck yeah," he breathed, the words thick with sudden, intense arousal. He pushed himself up, fully alert now, the detached boredom gone. "Get the fucking laptop. Get it ready. Right fucking now." He grabbed his own softening cock, giving it a rough squeeze, already willing it back to life. "Move your worthless sand nigger ass!"
Ahmed scrambled, clumsy and aching. Pain radiated from his core with every step as he retrieved the laptop, placing it open on the coffee table near the futon, pushing aside comic books and the discarded vibrator. He fumbled with the camera settings, his fingers leaving faint smears on the keys. The screen flickered to life, showing his own face – pale, eyes hollow, hair disheveled. He flinched. Manny loomed behind him, watching the screen over his shoulder, his breath hot on Ahmed’s neck. "Position it lower," Manny ordered, his hand resting heavily on Ahmed’s shoulder. "I want that tight brown asshole centered. Need to see it gape for me." He squeezed Ahmed's shoulder painfully. "Get naked. Everything off."
Ahmed obeyed, stripping mechanically, the cool air raising goosebumps on his exposed skin. The camera lens felt like a physical weight, an unblinking eye. Manny nudged him towards the futon. "Ass up. Head down. Present that fucking hole like the whore you are." Ahmed knelt on the worn cushions, bracing his forearms, arching his back. The position made him feel utterly exposed, vulnerable, the camera capturing every curve, every fading bruise, the pink, swollen pucker of his entrance. Manny adjusted the laptop slightly, zooming in digitally until the image filled the screen: Ahmed’s trembling hole, puckered tight, still stretched and sore from earlier. "Perfect," Manny growled, the sound vibrating with lust. He stepped back, stripping off his shorts, his cock thick and fully hard again, jutting aggressively. He spat copiously into his palm, the glob landing with a wet slap. Ahmed flinched at the sound. "Gonna make you famous, sand slut," Manny hissed, coating his length with the spit. "Famous for taking jungle dick. Ready?"
Manny didn’t wait for an answer. He positioned himself behind Ahmed, the head of his cock a burning brand against Ahmed’s tender entrance. He gripped Ahmed’s hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the flesh. "Look at the screen, Ahmed," he commanded, his voice rough. "Watch yourself get split open." With brutal force, he slammed forward. Ahmed cried out, a raw sound torn from his throat, as the thick shaft ripped through his resisting ring, the familiar, agonizing burn flaring white-hot. He forced his eyes open, fixated on the laptop screen. The image was obscenely clear: his own hole stretched obscenely wide around the plum-colored head of Manny's cock, the stretched rim glistening, pulsing. "Fuck yes," Manny groaned, watching the screen, transfixed by the visual. "Look at that Arab cunt swallow it. Take it all, you fucking sand nigger!" He pulled back slowly, the camera capturing every ridge of his cock pulling against the clinging muscle, then slammed home again, deeper. The wet, meaty sound of penetration was amplified in the silent room.
Manny set a relentless pace, his thrusts deep and punishing, each one driving Ahmed further into the cushions. His eyes darted between the screen and Ahmed’s back, drinking in the visual feast and the physical reality. "See that?" he panted, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "See how fucking wrecked you look? See your hole just sucking me in? Allah's watching, Ahmed! He's seeing his boy get his ass fucked raw on camera!" He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the futon near Ahmed’s head, the other reaching around to grasp Ahmed’s flaccid cock. "Get hard for the camera, whore. Show them how much you love Filipino dick." He squeezed, demanding, his thrusts unrelenting. Ahmed moaned, a broken sound, as Manny’s punishing rhythm hammered his prostate, forcing unwanted sparks of pleasure to ignite the pain. He felt himself stirring in Manny’s tight grip, betrayal blooming in his groin. The screen showed it all: the relentless pounding, the stretched hole, his own traitorous cock swelling under Manny’s manipulation.
Manny grunted, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, losing rhythm as his climax built. "Gonna fill this Arab cunt on camera," he snarled, his voice thick. "Gonna pump you full. Mark you inside forever!" He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, his body rigid. A guttural roar tore from him as he pulsed violently, his cock jerking inside Ahmed. The camera captured the intense strain on Manny’s face, the way Ahmed’s hole convulsed around the invading shaft. "Fuck! Yeah! Take it, sand whore! Take Daddy’s Filipino load!" Hot jets flooded Ahmed’s depths, a searing claim. Manny held himself deep, grinding, milking every drop, his hand still working Ahmed’s cock roughly. The humiliation, the pain, the invasive pleasure, the relentless visual on the screen – it overwhelmed Ahmed. With a choked sob, he came, spurting weakly over Manny’s fingers and onto the cushion, his body shuddering uncontrollably as the camera recorded his complete, degrading capitulation.
Manny slumped forward, panting heavily, his softening cock slipping out with a slick, wet pop captured clearly by the lens. The screen showed the aftermath: Ahmed’s gaping, glistening hole, the white streaks of his own release on the fabric, his body trembling. Manny reached out a sticky hand and hit the stop button. The screen froze on the image – Ahmed’s ravaged entrance, Manny’s thick cock glistening beside it. He grinned, wiping his hand on Ahmed’s ass cheek. "Fucking perfect," he breathed. "Our first scene, sand bitch." He slapped Ahmed’s ass hard, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. "Gonna be a star."
The frozen image on the laptop screen glared back: Ahmed’s ravaged hole glistening obscenely, his own pale release smeared on the futon cushion, Manny’s thick cock resting near the frame like a trophy. Manny’s satisfied grin widened as he traced the edge of the screen with a sticky finger. "Yeah," he breathed, the sound thick with possession. "Gotta up our game, sand bitch. Make it fucking iconic." He shoved Ahmed’s trembling leg. "Get that prayer rug."
Ahmed flinched, the command slicing through the post-coital haze. The rug. He’d hoped the horror clinging to it was over. He shuffled on sore knees, the deep internal ache pulsing with every movement, retrieving the dark blue square. The cum stain from earlier was a dull, crusted shadow on the intricate pattern, smelling faintly of sex and wool. He dropped it near Manny’s feet.
"Not there, idiot," Manny snapped, grabbing the rug himself. He strode towards the cluttered closet near the door, shoving aside empty pizza boxes and a pile of dirty laundry with his foot. He flung the closet door open, rummaging violently through the crammed space. Ahmed watched, dread coiling in his gut like cold snakes. What now? Comic books and controllers clattered to the floor. "Fuck, where is it?" Manny muttered, tossing aside a hoodie. Then he grunted in triumph. "Ha!" He yanked out a long bundle of heavy black fabric, shaking it loose. An abaya. Ahmed’s abaya. Packed away when he first arrived at UCLA, unused, a relic of a life left behind.
Manny held it up. The long, flowing black robe seemed alien in the neon glow of a gaming poster. It smelled faintly of mothballs and distant incense. "Perfect," Manny purred, his eyes gleaming with cruel inspiration. "Get up." He tossed the abaya at Ahmed, who caught it instinctively, the heavy fabric cascading over his bare thighs. "Put it on. All of it. The whole fucking desert princess costume."
Ahmed stared at the garment, his knuckles white where he gripped it. The humiliation was profound, scraping bone. "Manny, please... not this..."
Manny stepped close, grabbing Ahmed’s jaw, forcing his head up. His thumb dug into Ahmed’s cheekbone. "Did I fucking ask for your opinion, sand nigger?" He spat the words, his breath hot and sour. "Put. It. Or I rip your clothes off and film that too. Your choice." He shoved Ahmed backwards. "Move!"
Hands shaking, Ahmed stood. The abaya felt like lead. He pulled the long black robe over his head, the heavy fabric swallowing his slender frame, falling past his knees. It was stiff, unfamiliar. He fumbled with the long sleeves, pulling his arms through. The hood hung down his back. He felt absurd, grotesque, a caricature of piety wrapped around his battered, debauched body. The scent of mothballs filled his nostrils, mingling nauseatingly with the sex stink in the room. He stood exposed, yet bizarrely hidden, the abaya a mocking shroud.
Manny circled him, an appraising predator. "Fuck yes," he muttered, a dark grin spreading. He grabbed Ahmed’s shoulders, spinning him to face the laptop camera still positioned at futon-level. "Kneel. On the rug." He shoved Ahmed down onto the stained prayer rug. Ahmed knelt, the heavy fabric pooling around him on the floor, the wool prickling his bare shins beneath the robe. Manny grabbed his phone from the coffee table, thumbs flying. "Gotta set the scene," he murmured, eyes flicking between Ahmed and the screen. "Gotta write you a fucking script, princess."
Ahmed knelt, head bowed, the heavy black fabric pressing down on him like a physical manifestation of shame. He heard the rapid tap-tap-tap of Manny texting. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The only sound was Manny’s thumbs and the relentless drone of the computer fans. Ahmed stared at the intricate patterns inches from his face, the faint stain a cruel reminder of his earlier violation on this sacred ground. He felt naked beneath the robe, utterly exposed to Manny’s gaze, yet hidden from the world. The abaya itched. It felt like a prison.
"Right," Manny announced, putting his phone down. He reactivated the laptop camera, the little red light blinking. Ahmed flinched. "Here’s the deal, sand whore," Manny said, his voice shifting into a chillingly casual tone, laced with malice. "You’re gonna recite exactly what I tell you. Word for filthy fucking word. Got it?" He didn't wait for confirmation. "Look at the camera. Start with... ‘As-salamu alaykum, brothers.’ Yeah, say that."
Ahmed's throat closed. To offer the greeting of peace – here, now – was sacrilege carved from his soul. "Manny..." he choked out, unable to form the words.
Manny slapped the back of his head, hard. The hood of the abaya muffled the sound. "Say it!" he roared. "Or I shove that vibrator back up your ass through this fucking dress. Now!"
Tears blurred Ahmed’s vision. He forced his head up, staring into the cold, unblinking eye of the camera lens. The red light burned. "As-salamu alaykum, brothers," he whispered, the sacred words tasting like ash.
"Louder!" Manny snapped. "Make it sound fucking holy. Like you mean it."
Ahmed swallowed, bile rising. "As-salamu alaykum, brothers," he repeated, louder, his voice cracking on the last word.
"Good little sand puppet," Manny sneered. He leaned over Ahmed’s shoulder, his face inches away, breath hot on Ahmed’s neck as he read from his phone screen. "Now say... ‘My name is Ahmed. I am a sinner. A dirty Arab whore who abandoned Allah’s path.’ Go on."
Each word was a hot coal searing his tongue. "My... my name is Ahmed," he began, the abaya feeling like a shroud tightening around him. "I am a sinner." His voice trembled. "A dirty Arab whore... who abandoned Allah’s path." The confession tore something vital inside him.
"Fuck yes," Manny breathed, his own arousal palpable. "Now... ‘Filthy Filipino cock showed me the truth. Showed me my place.’ Say it!"
Ahmed squeezed his eyes shut, but the camera captured the tears tracking down his cheeks. "Filthy Filipino cock... showed me the truth." The words scraped his throat raw. "Showed me... my place."
"Open your eyes!" Manny commanded, pinching his shoulder hard. "Look at the fucking camera while you admit it! Now the best part... ‘I crave jungle dick in my Arab cunt. I beg for it. I worship it.’"
The sheer, raw obscenity of the script overwhelmed him. He gagged, shaking his head mutely. Manny’s hand shot down, beneath the heavy folds of the abaya, finding Ahmed’s flaccid cock. He squeezed, hard and cruel. "SAY IT!" he roared, his other hand grabbing a fistful of the black fabric at Ahmed’s back, yanking him upright.
Pain and terror ripped the words from him. "I crave jungle dick in my Arab cunt!" Ahmed gasped, the volume rising in desperation. "I beg for it! I worship it!" The shame was a physical weight, crushing him.
Manny laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound. He released Ahmed’s cock but kept the brutal grip on the abaya. "Almost there, princess," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He read the final line: "Show me Allah’s mercy is a lie. Fuck the faith out of me.’ Say it, Ahmed. Beg for it on camera."
Ahmed felt hollow, broken. The words were just sounds now, meaningless and devastating. "Show me Allah’s mercy is a lie," he droned, staring blankly at the lens. "Fuck the faith out of me."
"Perfect!" Manny crowed, hitting the stop button on the laptop. He released the abaya, letting Ahmed slump forward onto the rug. "Opening sequence nailed." Manny shoved his phone back in his pocket and started unbuckling his belt, the rasp loud in the sudden silence. "Now, sand slut," he said, his cock already freed, thick and hard, bobbing aggressively, "let's film the main event. Time to prove you weren't lying." He kicked Ahmed’s legs apart beneath the heavy black robe. "Get that ass up high. Daddy’s got his next scene." The camera light blinked back on, a single, accusing red eye capturing Ahmed’s abaya-clad form submitting to the shadow looming behind him. The heavy fabric pooled around his waist as Manny shoved it up, exposing the bruised, vulnerable curve of his ass to the lens.