Chapter 4: The Contract
The Riyadh dawn bled through the sheer, gold-threaded curtains of Nasser's suite, painting stripes of pale light across acres of cream silk carpet. The air hung thick and sweet, saturated with oud and jasmine from discreetly placed incense burners. Gilded mirrors reflected crystal vases overflowing with hothouse orchids, their waxy petals perfect, alien. Mark stood just inside the door, his driver’s uniform – crisp white thobe, red-checkered ghutra held by a black agal – feeling like a cheap costume in this perfumed mausoleum of wealth. The scent of garage oil felt like a phantom clinging to his skin beneath the starched cotton. His quarters, with their concrete walls and stale air, seemed a lifetime away. Or a prison cell he’d just been temporarily released from.
Nasser lounged diagonally across the vast bed, a decadent sprawl on rumpled silk sheets the colour of clotted cream. He wore only a translucent black thong, the fabric doing little to conceal the soft swell of his cock or the dark shadow of his balls. Sunlight caught the polished ebony shaft of the riding crop he idly traced along his inner thigh, the leather tip whispering over his smooth skin. His dark eyes, already lined with kohl despite the early hour, tracked Mark’s entrance with languid amusement. A faint, cruel smile played on his lips.
"Ah, Mark," he purred, his voice low and honeyed, cutting through the heavy silence. "Punctual. Good." He stretched, a sinuous movement that arched his slender back, making the muscles in his abdomen flex. The riding crop moved higher, tapping lightly against the apex of his thighs. "Father said yes." He let the words hang, watching Mark’s reaction, savoring it. "Turns out explaining the need for a dedicated… valet… was surprisingly easy. Especially after the… incident… you handled with the visiting Minister’s spoiled brat last week."
Mark remembered the drunken princeling trying to climb onto a priceless statue. He’d intervened smoothly, preventing disaster. He hadn’t realized Nasser had noticed, let alone used it. A flicker of unease, colder than the suite’s air conditioning, traced down his spine. This wasn’t just about sex anymore. This was official. Sanctioned. Trapped.
Nasser spread his legs wider, planting his feet firmly on the silk. The movement pulled the translucent thong taut against his groin, outlining everything. But it was what lay between his cheeks that seized Mark’s gaze. Nestled in the cleft of his perfect, pale ass, glinting under the morning light, was a jeweled plug. Faceted stones – deep red rubies, maybe, or garnets – formed an intricate floral pattern around the flared base. The tapered stem disappeared inside him, the dark metal contrasting starkly against his skin. A crown jewel in an obscene setting.
"See?" Nasser murmured, his smile widening, predatory. He reached back, not to remove it, but to tap a fingernail against the glittering base. A soft tink. "A little welcome gift for my new… servant." He let his hand fall back to the sheets, the riding crop resting suggestively across his lap. His eyes, dark and demanding, locked onto Mark’s. "Now get on your knees, Mark. Crawl here. And show me precisely why I need a full-time servant like you."
The command, delivered in that soft, dangerous purr, hit Mark like a physical blow. Humiliation warred with the immediate, unwelcome surge of heat in his groin. The memory of the abaya, the ripped lace, Nasser’s broken cries, flooded back – intoxicating and toxic. His jaw clenched. The driver’s uniform felt like a straitjacket. He took a step, then another, his polished shoes sinking silently into the deep pile of the carpet. The distance to the bed felt immense. Every step was a concession. He stopped at the edge, staring down at Nasser’s spread legs, at the jewel winking at him from that forbidden place.
"Now," Nasser repeated, the word sharpening. A flicker of impatience in his eyes. "Knees. And lose the uniform. It offends me."
Mark’s knuckles were white where he clenched his fists at his sides. He slowly lowered himself, the movement stiff. His knees hit the carpet. He kept his eyes fixed on Nasser’s face, the defiant angle of his chin belying the subservient posture. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the agal holding his ghutra. He unwound the headdress, letting the red-checkered fabric pool on the pristine carpet like spilled blood. Then he unbuttoned the collar of his thobe, the stiff pop of each button loud in the quiet room. He shrugged the white garment off his shoulders, letting it fall. His chest was bare, still faintly marked from Nasser’s teeth and tongue days before. He wore only his loose white sirwal trousers.
"Better," Nasser whispered, his gaze raking over Mark’s torso. The riding crop lifted, tracing a feather-light path from Mark’s collarbone, down the center of his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach. The leather tip dipped beneath the waistband of the sirwal, teasing. "But not quite bare enough. Lose those." He nudged the sirwal with the crop. "I want to see the beast properly."
Mark inhaled sharply, the air thick with perfume and threat. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the sirwal and pushed them down over his hips, shoving them down his thighs and kicking them off. Now he was naked, kneeling on the priceless carpet before the half-naked prince. His cock, despite the roiling mix of shame and anger, was thick and heavy, already half-hard. Betrayal.
Nasser’s eyes darkened, fixed on Mark’s erection. A low hum vibrated in his throat. "There he is," he murmured. He shifted on the bed, lifting his hips slightly. The jeweled plug caught the light. "This," he said, tapping the base again, "needs removing. But first…" He held up the riding crop. "Make it wet." He gestured lazily towards Mark’s mouth with the leather tip. "Use that filthy driver’s tongue. Make it slick for your fingers."
Mark’s stomach lurched. The demand was a new layer of filth, a deliberate reduction. He stared at the crop, then at Nasser’s expectant, arrogant face. The power balance had shifted tectonically since the stairwell, since the abaya in his room. He was no longer the one pressing Nasser against walls; he was kneeling, naked, being ordered to lick a toy. He leaned forward slowly, his neck muscles taut with tension. He opened his mouth, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. The scent of clean leather filled his nostrils. He ran the flat of his tongue along the smooth shaft of the crop, the taste dry and foreign. He closed his lips around the tip, sucking gently, coating it with saliva. It felt absurd, degrading. He pulled back, leaving the leather glistening.
"Good boy," Nasser breathed, his voice tight with pleasure. "Now… the plug. Careful with your peasant hands. It’s worth more than your yearly salary."
Mark swallowed hard, the phantom taste of leather lingering. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was between Nasser’s spread legs. Up close, the plug was an obscene ornament. The jewels were cold against his knuckles as he tentatively touched the flared base. He could see the delicate pucker stretched taut around the dark metal stem disappearing into Nasser’s body. He gripped the base. It was slick, unexpectedly, with lubricant or Nasser’s own arousal. He pulled, gently at first. Nasser gasped, his hole clenching reflexively. Mark pulled again, firmer this time, easing the tapered stem out. It emerged slowly, slick and glistening under the morning light, revealing the stretched, flushed rim beneath. The plug came free with a soft, wet pop. Mark held it, the metal cool, the jewels sharp against his palm. Nasser sighed, long and low, shifting his hips, his hole fluttering visibly.
"See?" Nasser murmured, his voice husky. He reached down, not for the plug, but to stroke his own cock through the sheer thong, which was now tented obscenely. "Empty now. Ready." He dropped the riding crop onto the bed beside him. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded and demanding, bored into Mark’s. "Fingers first. Stretch me open. Show me you know how to prepare your master."
The word master hung in the air like smoke. Mark’s hand trembled as he set the jeweled plug aside on the silk. He looked at his own fingers. Driver’s hands, callused from steering wheels. He spat into his palm, the sound crude in the opulent silence, and rubbed his fingers together. Nasser watched, rapt, biting his lower lip. Mark reached down. His index finger met the slick, clenching heat of Nasser’s entrance. He pressed against the tight ring of muscle. It resisted, then yielded, sucking his finger inside up to the knuckle with a soft, wet sound.
Nasser’s breath hitched. "More," he whispered, pushing down. "Another."
Mark added his middle finger, working them slowly, scissoring carefully, feeling the incredible heat and tightness envelop him. Nasser’s thighs trembled. His cock strained against the thong, a dark patch of dampness spreading on the sheer fabric. "Fuck… yes… stretch your master’s ass, driver," he gasped, his usual arrogance fraying into raw need. "Make it ready for your fat cock."
Mark worked his fingers deeper, curling them, searching. He found the spot. A harder nub deep inside. He pressed.
Nasser cried out, back arching off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. "YES! THERE! FUCK! Rub it! Harder!" His body convulsed, his hips pumping against Mark’s hand. Pre-cum beaded thickly at the tip of his cock, soaking the thong. "Now! Fuck me! No more fingers, just cock! Fucking destroy me, you animal!"
Mark withdrew his fingers slickly. He grabbed Nasser’s hips, his grip hard, almost bruising, yanking him closer to the edge of the bed. He positioned himself, the swollen head of his cock brushing against the stretched, glistening hole. Nasser’s thighs hooked over Mark’s shoulders, pulling him in, forcing the contact.
"Hard!" Nasser hissed, his eyes wild, desperate. "Don’t you fucking tease! Fuck me like you did in the garage! Like you own me!"
The permission, the demand for violence, snapped something inside Mark. The simmering resentment, the confusing shame, the undeniable heat – it coalesced into a dark, driving need. He gripped Nasser’s ass cheeks, spreading them wide, and slammed forward, burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
Nasser screamed. A raw, ragged sound that echoed off the gilded walls. His body seized, his back arching impossibly. Tears sprang to his kohl-lined eyes. "FUCK! YES! MORE! HARDER!" he shrieked, nails clawing at the silk sheets. "Fucking ruin me, Mark! Ruin your master’s hole!"
Mark pulled back, the slide agonizingly tight, and slammed home again. And again. He set a punishing rhythm, driving into Nasser with piston-like force, his hips snapping forward with every thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the opulent suite. He fucked him with the same focused intensity he used to navigate Riyadh's chaotic traffic – ruthless, demanding, in brutal control. Nasser’s cries escalated into a continuous stream of obscene encouragement and pleas, punctuated by gasps and sobs.
"YES! BREAK ME! FUCK YOUR FILTHY DRIVER'S COCK INTO MY PRINCELY ASS! MAKE ME FEEL IT TOMORROW!" Nasser babbled, his body bucking, taking every punishing inch. The sheer thong stretched obscenely over his cock, soaked through now. He reached down, fumbling beneath his hips, his fingers finding Mark’s balls, squeezing roughly. "FILL ME! PUMP YOUR CHEAP FILIPINO CUM INTO MY GUT, YOU ANIMAL!"
The crude command, the possessive squeeze, the sheer, overwhelming sensation of Nasser’s ass gripping him like a vice, pushed Mark over the edge. He roared, a guttural, animal sound, burying himself impossibly deep, grinding his pelvis against Nasser’s ass as he came. Hot, thick pulses erupted deep inside Nasser’s clenching channel, each spurt wringing a gasping cry from the man beneath him.
Nasser screamed again, higher, more desperate. His back arched off the bed as his own orgasm seized him. Jets of cum spurted against the inside of the sheer thong, soaking it, dripping onto the cream silk sheets. His ass clamped down rhythmically on Mark’s cock, milking the last drops as his body shook violently with the force of his release.
Mark collapsed forward, pinning Nasser to the bed, his head dropping onto the damp silk beside Nasser’s shoulder. He gasped for air, his body slick with sweat, the scent of sex and expensive perfume overwhelming. Nasser whimpered beneath him, trembling, his eyes closed, tears cutting tracks through the kohl on his cheeks.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the mansion. Mark slowly, carefully, pulled his softening cock out. The slick, obscene sound was loud in the sudden quiet. Nasser flinched but didn't open his eyes. Mark knelt back on the carpet, staring at the wreckage: the rumpled silk, the soaked thong, Nasser’s tear-streaked face, his own sweat cooling on his skin. The jeweled plug lay discarded, winking under the sunlight.
Nasser stirred. He didn’t look at Mark. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, wincing as he moved. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Mark, facing a heavy, carved mahogany desk. He pulled open a drawer. Mark saw muscle tremble in his slender back. Nasser withdrew a single sheet of thick, cream parchment paper. He placed it carefully on the desk.
He turned back. His face was composed now, the tears wiped away with a corner of the silk sheet, though kohl smudges remained under his eyes. His expression wasn’t sated or cruel. It was cold. Transactional. He picked up the jeweled plug from the bed, ignoring the mess. He held it out towards Mark, dangling it by the flared base.
"Clean it," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier purr or shriek. "Thoroughly. Then place it back in the case. Third drawer down." He gestured vaguely towards an ornate armoire. His eyes flickered over Mark’s nakedness, kneeling on the carpet. "After you've dressed."
He walked, stiffly but with regained poise, to the desk. He picked up a heavy, gold fountain pen and placed it deliberately beside the parchment. Then he turned, leaning back against the desk, arms crossed over his bare chest. He stared at Mark, waiting.
Mark’s gaze dropped to the parchment. Even from his position on the floor, he could see embossed letterhead – the al-Faisal crest. And dense Arabic script filling the page. Formal. Official.
"Sign it," Nasser said, his voice quiet, final. "Your employment contract. Effective immediately." The coldness in his eyes was absolute. The power wasn't just Nasser's anymore. It was the family's. The system's. And Mark, naked on his knees, the jeweled plug dangling accusingly in his hand, was utterly ensnared. The sweat on
The jeweled plug felt cold, heavy with implication, its facets digging into Mark's palm like tiny accusations. Sweat cooled on his skin, the opulent air chilling him despite the warmth. Across the room, Nasser leaned against the mahogany desk, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching him with a detached, almost bored expression. The formal parchment lay beside the gold pen, stark against the dark wood.
Mark didn't move to clean the plug. Instead, his gaze, hard and unwavering, locked onto Nasser’s. The humiliation of kneeling naked, the lingering ache in his own jaw from Nasser’s mouth earlier, the image of the ripped abaya and the money on his floor – it coalesced into a cold fury. "The contract," Mark stated, his voice low but cutting through the perfumed air, rougher than usual. "It's wrong."
Nasser’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of surprise briefly replacing the coldness. "Oh?" he purred, though the purr lacked its usual honeyed warmth. "Explain, driver."
"The salary," Mark said, pushing himself up from his knees with deliberate slowness. He didn't reach for his clothes. He stood naked before the clothed prince, forcing Nasser to look up slightly. "It lists driver’s wages. I’m not just your driver anymore, am I?" He gestured vaguely at the rumpled silk sheets, the drying mess, the plug still in his hand. "This," he spat the word, "isn't chauffeur duty. You want a driver and a full-time fucktoy? That costs more."
Silence stretched. Nasser’s eyes narrowed, assessing him anew. A slow, dangerous smile finally touched his lips. "Bargaining, Mark?" He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the desk. He took a step closer, the scent of oud and sex intensifying. "How… mercenary. What’s your price for servicing your master?"
Mark held his ground, meeting Nasser’s gaze. "Triple. Cash, weekly. No bank transfers." He paused, letting the demand hang. "And services." The word felt strange, transactional. "I want access. Your suite. Anytime. Without crawling through corridors."
Nasser laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "Triple? Greedy little cocksucker." He stopped within arm's reach, his eyes raking over Mark’s nakedness with open hunger. "And what do you intend to do with such… unfettered access?"
"Whatever the fuck I want," Mark growled, the simmering resentment flaring. "When I want. Like you do." He remembered the abaya, the degrading commands. "Turnabout’s fair play, master."
Nasser’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck. The challenge, the raw assertion of power from the naked man before him, clearly ignited something. He closed the final distance, his hand snaking out to grasp Mark’s hardening cock. His touch was firm, possessive. "Triple salary," he agreed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He squeezed, making Mark grunt. "And access… granted." His other hand gestured towards a door Mark hadn't paid attention to – a heavy, dark wood door set into the wall opposite the main entrance to the suite. "Your new quarters. Adjacent. Convenient for… servicing."
Mark glanced at the door, a sliver of surprise piercing his anger. Adjacent. Not the servants' wing. Privilege and a gilded cage, rolled into one. Nasser’s hand started moving on his cock, a slow, deliberate stroke. "Satisfied, driver?" Nasser murmured, leaning in, his lips brushing Mark’s ear. "Shall we christen your promotion?"
Mark didn’t answer with words. He grabbed Nasser’s face, fingers digging into his jaw, and kissed him hard. It wasn't tender. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a claiming. He backed Nasser towards the door he’d just indicated, fumbling for the ornate handle behind him. It opened silently onto a smaller, but still obscenely luxurious, room. Rich carpets, a massive bed draped in deep blue silk, heavy curtains. A servant’s room fit for a prince’s favorite.
Mark shoved Nasser inside, kicking the door shut. He spun him around, pinning him face-first against the cool, intricately carved wood of the door itself. "No silk sheets for this," Mark growled, yanking Nasser’s translucent thong down to his thighs in one rough motion. He spat into his palm, slicked his already half-hard cock, and pressed the thick head against Nasser’s hole – still slick and loose from their earlier fucking, but tightening in anticipation.
"Fuck, yes," Nasser hissed, pushing back, arching his spine. "Take it, you animal! Fuck your new servant in his new kennel!"
Mark didn’t need further encouragement. He drove into the tight heat with a brutal thrust, burying himself to the root in one smooth, punishing movement. Nasser cried out, forehead pressed hard against the wood, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the polished surface. Mark grabbed his narrow hips, fingers digging into flesh, and started fucking him with hard, deep, piston-like strokes. The sound of their bodies slamming together – wet flesh on flesh, the rhythmic thud of Mark’s hips against Nasser’s ass – echoed in the quiet opulence.
"Whose hole is this?" Mark grunted, pulling back almost out before slamming home again, making Nasser gasp. He reached around, gripping Nasser’s hard cock, squeezing the base roughly.
"Yours! Fuck! Yours, Mark!" Nasser babbled, his voice strained, muffled against the door. "Your servant's ass! Your fuckhole!"
"Damn right," Mark snarled. He pounded into him, relentless, the pace brutal. He felt the familiar coil tightening in his own groin, fueled by anger, dominance, the sheer illicit thrill of fucking his master against a door in a room bought with triple wages. Nasser’s body clenched around him, hot and demanding, his choked cries urging Mark deeper, harder. Mark’s grip on Nasser’s cock tightened, his thumb rubbing roughly over the slick head. "Cum for me, servant," he commanded, his voice thick.
The combination of the relentless fucking and the rough handjob was too much. Nasser screamed, a raw, broken sound, his body convulsing as he came. Thick spurts of cum shot out, splattering against the dark wood of the door and dripping onto the plush carpet below. His ass clamped down in rhythmic spasms, milking Mark’s cock.
The intense pressure shattered Mark’s control. With a guttural roar, he buried himself impossibly deep and held Nasser pinned as his own orgasm ripped through him. Hot pulses erupted deep inside Nasser’s clutching channel, each spurt wringing another whimper from the man beneath him. He ground his hips, emptying himself completely.
They slumped together against the door, panting, slick with sweat. Mark slowly pulled out, the wet sound loud in the sudden quiet. Nasser slid down the door to his knees, resting his forehead against the wood, breathing raggedly. Mark stepped back, looking around his new quarters – the gilded cage adjoining the prince’s suite. He’d demanded more. He’d gotten it. The money, the access, the room. And this: Nasser, used and trembling at his feet, the door they were leaning against still damp. Power tasted different here. Darker. More dangerous. A connecting door stood in the far wall, leading back to Nasser’s suite. Unlocked, he presumed. Mark’s eyes fixed on it.