Chapter 15: The Weed-Fueled Encounter
The joint was a smoldering paper-clad contradiction between Fahad’s fingers—forbidden, elegant, making the vast, cool space of his apartment feel intimate and dangerous. Ran took it, her lips closing around the damp filter, and drew the smoke deep. It burned, then blossomed, a chemical warmth unfurling behind her eyes. The glittering grid of the city through the floor-to-ceiling window began to pulse gently, like a sleeping creature’s heartbeat.
“You seem tense,” Fahad said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the plush sofa. His hand, already resting high on her thigh, slid inward, his thumb pressing against the seam of her jeans.
“It’s him,” she exhaled, the words a cloud of smoke. “He’s just… everywhere. Even when he’s not.”
Fahad’s laugh was soft, devoid of sympathy. “That little mouse? Forget him. He lives in the walls. We,” he said, plucking the joint from her fingers and taking a long drag, “live out here.” He gestured with his chin toward the vista, the infinite skyline of his birthright.
The weed was doing its work, loosening the knots in her shoulders, sharpening the sensation of his thumb now circling over her denim-clad clit. Every thread of fabric felt abrasive, an obstacle. She arched into his touch, a small, needy sound escaping her.
“See?” he murmured, his other hand coming up to cup her jaw, turning her face to his. His kiss tasted of smoke and dominance, his tongue claiming her mouth with a lazy assurance. “You don’t think about walls when you’re falling.”
He stood, pulling her up with him. The room tilted, then righted itself, the Persian rug a swirling ocean of burgundy and gold under her feet. He led her not to the bedroom, but to the vast open space before the window, where the city lay like a spilled box of jewels. Here, a low, wide divan piled with silk cushions sat like an altar.
“Here,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
His hands were at her clothes, efficient and unhurried. The button of her jeans popped open, the zipper a loud purr in the quiet room. He pushed them down her hips, taking her panties with them, letting the bundle pool at her ankles. The conditioned air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps. He tugged her blouse over her head, unsnapped her bra with a flick. She stood naked before the window, the lights of Kuwait City painting her skin in streaks of gold and white. She felt exposed, magnificent, a statute in a museum of his making.
“Fuck, you’re built,” he said, his gaze a physical heat roaming over her curves. He remained clothed, his designer jeans and white t-shirt a taunt, a reminder of the power dynamic. He sat on the edge of the divan and pulled her to him, spreading her legs so she stood over him. His mouth went to her inner thigh, nipping, then laving the sting with his tongue. He moved inward, breath hot, and then his mouth was on her, his tongue a flat, demanding pressure against her clit.
Ran gasped, her hands flying to his head, her fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. The cannabis had wired her senses; every flick, every suck was amplified, translated directly into throbbing light behind her eyelids. He ate her with the focused entitlement of a man consuming something he owned, his tongue spearing into her, then circling her swollen nub with ruthless precision. She rode his face, her hips bucking, the muscles in her thighs trembling. The orgasm built not slowly, but in sudden, terrifying leaps—a dizzying ascent that made her cry out, a sharp, wordless sound that echoed in the high ceiling. She came against his mouth, her knees buckling, but he held her up, drinking her in until she shuddered and pushed his head away, oversensitive and raw.
“Good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He leaned back on his elbows, his gaze locked on her glistening sex. “Now come here and get this dick wet.”
Her head was swimming, limbs loose. She sank to her knees on the silk rug between his legs. Her hands went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He watched her, a slight, cruel smile on his lips. She finally freed him, and his cock sprang out, thick and heavy, the head already dark and leaking. She took him in her hand, feeling the sheer weight of him, the pounding heat. She licked a stripe from root to tip, tasting salt and musk, then took him into her mouth.
“Yeah, just like that, aziza,” he groaned, his hand settling on the back of her head, not forcing, just guiding. “Suck it. Get it nice and slick for that tight Sudanese pussy.”
The word—Sudanese—hung in the air. It was never a compliment from him. It was a classification, a reduction. It should have chilled her, but in her hazy, wanting state, it felt like a perverse permission. She was not just any woman; she was his Sudanese woman. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper, gagging slightly before relaxing her throat. She worked him with her mouth and hand, a slave to his size, her own need coiling again low in her belly.
“Enough,” he said finally, his voice tight. He pulled her up by her arms, his strength effortless, and turned her around. He pushed her forward, bending her over the back of the divan, her cheek pressed against cool silk. The city sprawled below her, a thousand ignorant windows. He positioned himself behind her, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance.
“You tell that husband of yours where you are?” he asked, one hand gripping her hip, the other guiding himself.
“Yes,” she panted.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He… cried.”
Fahad laughed, a short, hard bark. “Of course he did.” And he pushed into her.
The penetration was a slow, inexorable invasion. The weed made her feel every millimeter, the brutal stretch as her body yielded to his girth. She was loose from her first orgasm, but he was so fucking big. A torn moan was dragged from her lungs as he seated himself fully, hilting inside her with a final, possessive grind.
“Christ, you’re deep,” she slurred, the words mashed against the cushion.
“That’s where you belong,” he grunted.
He began to move, and the world dissolved into a rhythm of sheer, animal physics. His hips pistoned against her ass, each thrust a jolt that traveled her spine. The slick, filthy sound of their joining filled the room, a private, obscene music. He fucked her with a steady, driving pace, his hands moving from her hips to grasp handfuls of her ass, spreading her wider, pulling her back onto him.
“You take this Kuwaiti cock better than you take his, don’t you?” he hissed, leaning over her, his chest hot against her back.
“Yes—god, yes—”
“Say it.”
“I take your cock… I take it so much better…”
“Because it’s a real man’s cock. Isn’t it?”
“Yes! A real man’s cock!” she screamed, the admission tearing something loose inside her, a floodgate of shame and electric pleasure.
He sped up, his rhythm becoming frantic, punishing. One hand snaked around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing rough, fast circles. The dual assault was overwhelming. Sensation stacked upon sensation until she was just a vessel for it. Her second orgasm ripped through her with no warning, a silent, seizing quake that clenched around his driving length, a spasm so intense her vision whited out at the edges. She screamed into the silk, her body bowing.
Her climax triggered his. With a raw, guttural shout that was nothing like Mustafa’s whimpers, he drove into her one last time, bottoming out, and held. She felt the hot, pulsing release of his come flooding into her, jet after jet, a claiming so profound it felt like a brand. He stayed there, buried, panting against her shoulder, as the aftershocks trembled through them both.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of his release followed, warm on her inner thigh. He slapped her ass lightly, a casual, proprietary gesture. “Go clean up.”
She shuffled, legs unsteady, to the palatial bathroom. In the mirror, her face was flushed, her eyes dark and distant. She looked used, beautifully ruined. She washed, the water cool between her legs. When she returned, wrapped in one of his oversized robes, he was on the sofa, wearing loose shorts, lighting another joint.
She curled into him, the high beginning to ebb, leaving a hollow, aching quiet in its wake. He passed her the joint. They smoked in silence for a while, watching the city lights.
“He touches you?” Fahad asked abruptly, his voice casual, but with an edge.
“Mustafa?” She shook her head. “No. Not really. Not anymore.”
“Good.” He took the joint back. “I don’t share.”
It wasn’t jealousy. It was the statement of a curator about a peculiar object in his collection. The silence stretched, comfortable for him, unnerving for her. The come-down was always where the thoughts crept in.
“He found the photos,” she said quietly. “On my phone. The ones from the marina.”
Fahad chuckled, exhaling a plume of smoke. “And?”
“And nothing. He cried. He locked himself in the bathroom and… I don’t know. He’s pathetic.”
“They all are,” Fahad said, his voice dropping into a familiar, contemptuous groove. “Your people. You come here, you work your little jobs, you live in your little boxes. You have no fire. No pride.” He turned his head to look at her, his eyes tracing the outline of her body under the robe. “You’re different. You have… appetite. But him?” He waved a dismissive hand. “A mouse. A fucking ghost. He should thank me for fucking his wife. It’s the most interesting thing that will ever happen to him.”
The words, so calmly delivered, should have felt like a slap. But wrapped in the robe that smelled of him, with his come still inside her, they felt like a truth she had always known. She was different. She had appetite. Mustafa was just the shell she had crawled out of.
Later, as they lay in his bed, his arm heavy across her waist, she traced the hard lines of his abdomen. The sex had been brutal, glorious. But the emptiness was returning, a cold spot the weed and the orgasms couldn’t touch.
“What happens…” she started, then stopped.
“Hmm?”
“What happens if he… finds out? Really finds out.”
Fahad’s breathing was even, close to sleep. “Then he finds out.” He squeezed her hip. “And you decide if you want to live in a palace or a prison.”
She closed her eyes. The palace was all marble and distant views, and it was cold. The prison was made of thin walls and the smell of failure, and it was warm with a kind of desperate, ugly love. The choice, presented like that, seemed absurd. There was no choice.
She must have slept, because she woke to the first grey hint of dawn bleeding into the sky. Fahad was asleep, turned away. She slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom again. In the harsh, early light, she saw it—a faint, purpling bruise on her hipbone where his fingers had dug in. She pressed it, and a sore, sweet pain radiated through her. A mark. Proof.
She returned to bed, sliding in beside his warmth. As she drifted again, the image of Mustafa’s face, slack with hurt and confusion in the bathroom’s glare, flashed behind her eyes. She pushed it away, focusing instead on the deep, steady ache between her legs, and the weight of the man beside her. The choice was made. All that was left was to live in the wreckage of it.