Chapter 2: Power Play
The scent of sandalwood and sex hung heavy in the air, clinging to Sultan’s skin like a second layer. He lay sprawled on the plush cream cushions of Manny’s sofa, chest still heaving, the vibrant mural of a sunset on the wall a blurry smear of color in his peripheral vision. Manny leaned over him, one hand tracing lazy patterns on Sultan's sweat-slicked abdomen, the other retrieving his phone from the low rattan coffee table. The smooth jazz from the vintage record player felt incongruous, a soft counterpoint to the raw energy still thrumming between them.
Manny’s eyes, dark and glittering with power, met Sultan’s dazed gaze. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Good boy," he purred, his thumb brushing Sultan’s lower lip. Then, his voice dropped, turning hard, commanding. "Now, on your knees. By the sofa. Don't make me ask twice."
The abrupt shift sent a jolt through Sultan. The heat of arousal still pulsed low in his belly, but it was tangled now with a sharp spike of submission, a thrilling surrender to Manny’s authority. He obeyed, sliding off the cushions onto the cool wooden floor beside the rattan sofa frame. The rough texture of the woven rattan pressed against his bare knees, a grounding sensation against the dizzying whirl inside his head. He kept his gaze lowered, the expanse of Manny’s lean thighs clad in tight black shorts filling his vision.
Manny settled back comfortably against the cushions, spreading his legs slightly. He unlocked his phone, the screen’s glow illuminating his sharp features. With his free hand, he idly traced the waistband of his shorts before hooking his thumbs into them and pushing them down just enough. His cock sprang free, thick and already semi-hard again, curving upwards, the flushed head glistening faintly in the dim light. The contrast – the casual phone browsing, the deliberate exposure – was electric.
"Open wide, boss," Manny instructed, his tone conversational, almost bored, as he scanned the phone screen. He didn’t even look down.
Sultan hesitated for a fraction of a second, the ingrained propriety of his upbringing warring with the desperate, submissive hunger Manny had unlocked. The memory of Manny’s taste, the feel of him filling his mouth earlier, surged back, overpowering any lingering resistance. He leaned forward, parting his lips, taking the thick head into his mouth. It was warm, heavy, instantly familiar yet still shocking. He swirled his tongue tentatively.
Manny sighed, a sound of contentment mixed with faint amusement, his eyes still fixed on the phone. "That’s it. Get it nice and wet. They really need to tighten up the Q3 projections in the Singapore region, don’t they?" His thumb scrolled down the screen. "Look at these margin assumptions. Fucking optimistic, bordering on delusional." He shifted slightly, pushing his hips forward.
The movement forced his cock deeper into Sultan’s mouth. Sultan gagged reflexively, eyes watering, pulling back slightly. Saliva slicked his chin.
"Easy," Manny murmured, not unkindly, but with utter control. His free hand came down, fingers tangling roughly in Sultan’s thick, dark hair, holding his head firmly in place. "Take it. Deep. You wanted this, remember? Wanted to not be in charge." He applied pressure, forcing Sultan’s mouth down onto his shaft, inch by straining inch. "Suck it like you mean it. Like your fucking promotion depends on it."
The command, laced with the crudeness and the stark reminder of their professional hierarchy, sent a jolt of pure, degrading heat straight to Sultan’s groin. He groaned around the thick flesh filling his mouth, the vibration earning a low hiss from Manny. He relaxed his throat as best he could, letting Manny guide the rhythm, the head bumping against the back of his throat with each shallow thrust.
Manny chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Good. Much better. See? You’re a quick learner." He resumed scrolling, his voice returning to its businesslike cadence, utterly detached from the obscene act he was orchestrating. "And this proposal from Marketing... Christ. Too much fluff, not enough hard numbers. Needs a complete overhaul. Gut it." He punctuated the command with a sharper thrust of his hips, forcing Sultan to take him even deeper.
Sultan choked, tears streaming freely now, drool dripping in thick strands onto his chest and the floor. His jaw ached fiercely. He could barely breathe, each inhale a desperate gasp through his nose when Manny allowed him a fraction of space. His own neglected cock throbbed painfully hard against his thigh, a constant, agonizing pulse of need. The humiliation was exquisite, amplified by Manny’s casual disregard as he dissected corporate strategy.
"Fuck, your mouth feels incredible," Manny breathed, a brief break in his professional commentary. His grip on Sultan’s hair tightened, pulling his head back just enough to look down at him. Sultan’s eyes, wide and watery, met Manny’s dark, dominant gaze. "Look at you. My big, strong Saudi boss, kneeling on my floor, choking on my cock while I read his fucking emails." He grinned, cruel and beautiful. "You love this, don’t you? Love being my filthy little cocksucker?"
Sultan couldn’t speak, couldn’t deny it. A strangled moan was his only answer, his hips jerking involuntarily. The shame burned, but deeper still was the undeniable, terrifying truth: he did love it. The surrender. The loss of control. The way Manny wielded power so effortlessly, blending degradation with praise.
Manny held his gaze, his own breathing becoming slightly ragged despite his composed facade. "Yeah, you do. I can feel it. You’re fucking made for this." He pushed Sultan’s head down again, his cock plunging deep into the wet heat. "Suck it harder. Like your life depends on it, you greedy fucking Arab."
The racial barb, the crude command, combined with the relentless pressure in his throat, tipped Sultan over an edge he hadn't known existed. He moaned obscenely, the sound muffled and desperate, his tongue working feverishly, his throat muscles clenching and fluttering around the invading thickness. He sucked with a frantic, sloppy hunger, driven by the conflicting torrent of degradation and desire.
Manny threw his head back against the cushion, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering forgotten onto the sofa beside him. "Shit! Fuck, Sultan! Just like that! Take it, you fucking whore! Take all of it!" His hips snapped forward, driving his cock brutally deep, the swollen head lodged firmly in Sultan’s throat. Sultan gagged violently, his body convulsing, but Manny held him locked in place, fingers like iron in his hair.
The rhythmic pulse against his tongue, the hot, salty flood hitting the back of his throat – Sultan swallowed desperately, instinctively, the act itself a further surrender. Manny shuddered, his body taut as a bowstring, his moans raw and unrestrained for several pounding heartbeats before he finally sagged back, breathing heavily. He slowly released his grip on Sultan’s hair, letting him pull off, gasping and coughing, strings of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Manny’s softening cock.
Sultan slumped back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving. He felt wrecked, used, utterly exposed. The jazz played on, smooth and oblivious. Manny looked down at him, his expression unreadable for a moment, a complex mix of satiation and lingering power. He reached out, not gently, and traced a fingertip through the mess on Sultan’s chin.
"Clean yourself up," Manny ordered, his voice regaining its casual edge, though slightly breathless. He picked up his phone again, glancing at the screen. "And while you're at it... that Singapore report? Draft the rejection email. Be firm. No room for negotiation." He met Sultan’s stunned, overwhelmed gaze. "Consider it your next assignment."
Sultan stared up at Manny, the taste of him thick and salty on his tongue, the command hanging in the air like smoke. His mind, still buzzing from the rough use of his throat, struggled to reconcile the order – draft the rejection email – with the sticky evidence drying on his chin and the ache in his knees against the rattan. "You... you want me to write it now?" His voice rasped, raw from being stretched.
Manny chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the sofa cushions. He idly stroked his softening cock, smearing Sultan’s spit. "Why wait? Inspiration's still fresh, isn't it?" He picked up his discarded shorts, pulling them back over his hips, the fabric snug. "Laptop's on the dining table. Hop to it, boss. Make it sting." He stretched languidly, the picture of relaxed control, the mural’s vibrant sunset seeming to glow behind him.
Shakily, Sultan pushed himself up, his legs protesting. The cool air of the apartment felt sharp on his sweat-damp skin. He stumbled the few steps to the small dining table, its surface cluttered with magazines and a sleek, open laptop. The jazz melody, smoky and smooth, felt like mockery. He lowered himself into the chair, its wooden frame hard and unforgiving. He stared at the blank email screen, the cursor blinking accusingly.
Behind him, he heard the faint rustle as Manny shifted on the sofa, then the soft clink of a glass being set down. The silence stretched, thick and expectant. Sultan’s fingers hovered over the keys. His mind was a blank canvas smeared with humiliation and the phantom pressure of Manny’s cock hitting the back of his throat. Be firm. No room for negotiation. He typed a subject line: Re: Singapore Q3 Proposal - Feedback. His hands trembled slightly.
"Struggling for words?" Manny’s voice drifted over, casual, conversational. Sultan heard the sofa creak as Manny presumably leaned to watch him. "Just picture Phillips’ smug face when he reads it. That usually helps me find the right... tone."
Sultan flinched. The image was grotesquely effective. He began typing, the keys clicking loudly in the quiet room. Dear Mr. Phillips, Thank you for your submission regarding Q3 projections for the Singapore region. Upon thorough review, we find the margin assumptions presented to be... He paused, searching for the precise, cutting phrase Manny demanded. ...excessively optimistic and lacking sufficient grounding in current market volatility. It felt weak. Safe.
"‘Lacking sufficient grounding’?" Manny snorted. "Sounds like corporate fluff. Try ‘delusional fantasy land’. Or just ‘fucking ridiculous’. Get to the point. Tell him his numbers are shit and he needs to start over from scratch. No sugar-coating for the white boys in Singapore, boss." The racial edge was back, sharp and deliberate, a reminder of the power imbalance that now extended far beyond the office.
Sultan swallowed, the ghost of Manny’s cock tightening his throat again. He deleted the sentence. Retyped. ...frankly unrealistic and demonstrate a concerning disconnect from operational realities. Still too soft. He felt Manny’s gaze burning into his back, the pressure mounting. He took a breath, drawing on the raw, exposed feeling still coursing through him. ...are fundamentally flawed and demonstrate a level of strategic naivete that renders the proposal unacceptable in its current form. Better. Harsher.
He continued, forcing the words out, channeling the humiliation into cold precision. A complete overhaul is required, focusing on achievable targets supported by verifiable data. We expect a revised submission addressing these critical deficiencies by EOD Friday. No exceptions. He hit send before he could second-guess himself, the whoosh sound final. He slumped back in the chair, drained.
Silence. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps approached from behind. Manny stopped right beside him, leaning his hip against the table. Sultan kept his eyes fixed on the sent confirmation on the screen. Manny’s hand came down, fingers tracing the sensitive shell of Sultan’s ear, then sliding down the taut cord of his neck. Sultan shivered involuntarily.
"Well done," Manny murmured, his voice a low purr that contrasted sharply with the brutality of the email. His fingers trailed lower, tracing the line of Sultan’s collarbone exposed by his open shirt. "Told you you had it in you. Finding that sharp edge." His hand drifted further, fingertips brushing over Sultan’s nipple through the thin cotton. It hardened instantly under the touch. "Getting hard again just thinking about how you gutted Phillips, huh? Or is it remembering how you choked?" His other hand landed possessively on Sultan’s shoulder, squeezing.
Sultan’s breath hitched. His cock, half-hard since kneeling, pulsed insistently against his zipper. It was both. The ruthless power he’d wielded in the email, dictated by Manny, and the degrading memory of submission – they twisted together, inextricable. "Both," he admitted hoarsely, the word scraping out.
Manny’s laugh was dark silk. "Good answer." He leaned down, his lips brushing Sultan’s ear. "Stand up. Turn around. Show me how much you liked writing that email." His command was absolute, layered with predatory promise. Sultan stood slowly, his legs unsteady. He turned to face Manny, his arousal visibly tenting his trousers. Manny’s eyes travelled down, lingering on the bulge, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah. That’s what I thought." He reached out, his hand closing firmly over Sultan’s cock through the fabric, squeezing hard enough to make Sultan gasp. "Filthy fucking Arab. Gets off on being used and giving orders he doesn't even want." He leaned in, his breath hot on Sultan’s neck. "Off. Now. All of it."
His fingers went to Sultan’s belt buckle, working it open with practiced ease. The rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud. Sultan stood frozen, caught between shame and a desperate, aching need. Manny shoved his trousers and briefs down roughly past his hips, letting them pool around his ankles. Sultan’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed, bobbing heavily. The cool air kissed his exposed skin. Manny wrapped his hand around the base, his grip tight, possessive. He pumped slowly, once, twice, his thumb dragging over the slick head, smearing pre-cum. Sultan’s hips jerked forward, a low groan tearing from his throat.
"Look at you," Manny breathed, staring at the thick length in his fist. "Such a big fucking cock. Bet you thought it made you the boss, huh? Bet you thought it meant you were in charge." He pumped harder, twisting his wrist slightly on the upstroke. Sultan gasped, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides. "But look at you now. Standing in your assistant's apartment with your pants around your ankles, your dick leaking because I told you to write a mean email after you choked yourself on my cock." He leaned closer, his lips brushing Sultan’s. "You’re mine. Every fucking inch."
He dropped to his knees suddenly, mirroring Sultan’s earlier position. But the power dynamic was reversed, intensified. Before Sultan could process it, Manny took the head of his cock into his mouth. Not tentatively, not playfully. He engulfed him in one swift, deep motion, his hot, wet mouth swallowing him down to the root in a single, expert glide. Sultan cried out, a strangled sound of pure shock and ecstasy. The sudden, overwhelming heat and suction was devastating. Manny’s throat muscles fluttered around the thick intrusion, pulling him deeper.
Sultan’s hands flew to Manny’s head, fingers tangling instinctively in his dark hair. He didn't push, just held on, anchoring himself as Manny began to move. He set a punishing rhythm, bobbing his head with fierce intensity, his tongue working relentlessly along the sensitive underside, swirling around the engorged head each time he pulled back. He took him deep every time, burying his nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base, his throat opening easily to accommodate Sultan’s girth. The wet, sucking sounds filled the room, mingling with the smooth jazz and Sultan’s ragged gasps. Manny’s eyes, dark and gleaming with possessive hunger, locked onto Sultan’s dazed face as he worked his cock.
"Fuck... Manny... fuck..." Sultan choked out, his hips thrusting shallowly, helplessly into that incredible heat. The contrast was shattering – Manny’s utter control over his own body, taking Sultan with such aggressive skill, while Sultan was reduced to a writhing, groaning mess. "Your mouth... oh god, your fucking mouth..."
Manny pulled off with a wet pop, leaving Sultan’s cock glistening and throbbing. A string of saliva connected his lips to the tip. He grinned up at him, panting slightly. "Taste good, boss?" He ran his tongue slowly up the rigid length, from base to tip, swirling around the slit, lapping up the salty bead of pre-cum. "Bet it tastes better than my cock did. Bet you wish I’d let you taste your own fucking load off my tongue." The obscenity, the sheer filth of the image, sent another jolt through Sultan. Manny’s hand replaced his mouth, stroking him firmly, keeping him on the edge. "Not yet. Not until I say." He stood up, his own arousal evident in the renewed bulge in his shorts. He grabbed Sultan’s wrist, pulling him roughly towards the plush cream sofa. "On your back. Now. Legs spread. I want to see that Arab cock bounce while I fuck it."
Sultan stumbled, his trousers still tangled around his ankles, falling backwards onto the soft cushions. He kicked the fabric away, spreading his legs as ordered, his heart hammering against his ribs. The vulnerability was total, terrifying, intoxicating. He was completely exposed, hard and leaking, sprawled on Manny’s sofa. Manny stood over him, stripping off his shorts, his own erection springing free. He was already uncapped a small bottle Sultan hadn't noticed, slicking his fingers with clear lube. The sharp, clinical scent cut through the musk of sex.
Manny didn't waste time on preparation. He knelt between Sultan’s legs, his gaze predatory. "Hold yourself open," he commanded, his voice thick with need. Sultan obeyed, reaching down to spread his own cheeks, exposing himself completely. The air felt cool against his hole. Manny’s slicked fingers pressed against him, not probing, just a firm, deliberate pressure. Then, with a low grunt, Manny leaned forward, positioning the thick, blunt head of his cock against Sultan’s entrance. He met Sultan’s eyes, holding his gaze. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? When you said 'show me'? You wanted me to fuck the boss right out of you?" He didn't wait for an answer. He pushed.
Sultan screamed. It was a raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest as the thick invasion breached him, stretching him wide and burning deep. Manny didn't stop, didn't ease in. He pressed forward relentlessly, burying himself in one brutal, searing thrust until his hips slammed flush against Sultan’s ass. Sultan arched off the sofa, his vision blurring, every nerve ending screaming. The pain was intense, white-hot, obliterating thought. He gasped for air, his knuckles white where he gripped his own ass cheeks.
Manny stayed buried deep, his own breath coming in harsh pants. "Fuck... tight..." he groaned, his voice strained. He shifted slightly, grinding his hips, forcing Sultan’s body to accommodate him. "Take it. Take every fucking inch, you Saudi cunt." He pulled back slowly, the drag agonizing, making Sultan whimper. Then he slammed forward again, hard and deep, punching the air from Sultan’s lungs. He set a relentless pace – deep, hard, punishing thrusts that rocked Sultan’s entire body against the cushions. The rattan frame groaned with each powerful drive.
The initial agony began to shift, morphing into a deep, overwhelming fullness punctuated by sharp bursts of pain-pleasure as Manny’s cock hammered against his prostate. Sultan cried out with each impact, a mix of shock and desperate, building ecstasy. His own cock throbbed against his stomach, neglected and weeping. Manny leaned forward, bracing one hand on the sofa beside Sultan’s head, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise. He fucked him with concentrated fury, his gaze locked onto Sultan’s face, watching every flinch, every gasp, every tear that escaped.
"That’s it," Manny hissed, driving into him. "Fucking take it. Feel what it’s like to get owned." He punctuated the word with a particularly brutal thrust that made Sultan see stars. "Your fancy office, your big title... means fuck-all here." He pistoned his hips, the wet slap of flesh on flesh echoing the rhythm of the jazz, now reaching a crescendo. "You’re just a hole for me to use. A tight Arab hole begging to be fucked raw." Sultan’s moans became continuous, ragged sounds torn from his throat with each powerful invasion.
Manny’s rhythm grew frantic, his thrusts losing their measured power, becoming shorter, faster, desperate. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles white where he gripped the sofa. "Gonna fill you up," he gasped, his voice cracking. "Gonna pump my fucking load deep inside that greedy cunt. Claim it." He slammed deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural roar. Sultan felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside him as Manny came, the rhythmic spurt sending ripples of sensation through his own overloaded nerves. Manny shuddered violently, collapsing forward slightly, his forehead resting against Sultan’s shoulder, his cock still pulsing within him.
Sultan lay pinned, gasping, utterly wrecked. The fullness, the heat, the lingering burn, the sticky wetness between his legs and the still insistent ache of his own neglected erection – it was an overload. Manny’s weight pressed him down into the cushions, the scent of sweat, sex, and sandalwood thick in the air. The jazz record reached its end, the needle lifting with a soft click, plunging the apartment into a sudden, heavy silence broken only by their harsh breathing. Manny shifted slightly, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that made Sultan flinch. Warmth trickled out of him onto the cream fabric. Manny stayed slumped against him, breathing hard, his fingers tracing idle, possessive patterns on Sultan’s sweat-slicked chest. The silence stretched, thick with exertion and the sudden absence of sound, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like dust. Sultan stared up at the colorful mural of the sunset, feeling utterly shattered and absurdly, terrifyingly, alive.