Chapter 10: Shocking Night
The heat of Nassim’s body was a furnace, and Ilyes woke to it just before dawn. The room was steeped in a deep blue silence, the fan stilled by a power cut. Nassim’s back was pressed against his chest, a solid, immovable wall of muscle and sweat-damp skin. One of Nassim’s heavily muscled, densely hairy legs was thrown back over Ilyes’s own smooth thigh, a coarse, weighty anchor.
Ilyes was painfully hard. The evidence of the night—the dried streaks on Nassim’s flank, the stale, salty scent in the air—was a catalyst burning in his blood. He lay still for a long time, listening to the deep, congested rhythm of Nassim’s sleep. Then, moving with a slowness that felt like theft, he brought his hand down from Nassim’s shoulder, over the smooth curve of his pec, down the ridged ladder of his stomach.
He let his fingers drift into the jungle of coarse hair on Nassim’s thigh. He combed through it, fascinated by its thickness, its wiry texture against his palm. He inched lower, tracing the massive quadricep, feeling the muscle even in total relaxation. His own breath grew shallow. He pressed his forehead between Nassim’s shoulder blades, inhaling the deep, musky perfume of slept-in skin and old sweat.
His hand crept higher, along the inner thigh. The hair here was softer, curling. He cupped the heavy, warm sac from behind, feeling the twin weights nestle in his palm. Nassim stirred, a low grunt vibrating through his back into Ilyes’s skull. But he didn’t wake. Emboldened, Ilyes let his fingers travel forward, finding the soft, thick root of Nassim’s cock. He circled it, coaxing. As he touched, it began to swell, filling his hand with a hot, promising life of its own.
Ilyes shifted. He slid down the bed, his mouth following the path his hands had charted. He nuzzled the hairy thigh, kissed the crease where leg met torso, a place salty with dried sweat. He took one of Nassim’s massive balls into his mouth, rolling the weight gently with his tongue, savoring the musky, primal taste of him. He moved to the other, then licked up the thickening shaft, now fully erect and lying against Nassim’s stomach. Nassim’s breathing changed, became deeper, more deliberate, but his eyes remained closed.
A reckless, craving ache seized Ilyes. It was more than want. It was a need to erase the ghost of his sister, to inhabit the space she occupied in Nassim’s fantasies. He positioned himself on his knees, straddling one of Nassim’s tree-trunk legs. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, then guided the enormous, veiny head of Nassim’s cock to his entrance. He hadn’t prepared. The stretch was immediate, a white-hot tear of resistance. He bit down on his own lip, tasting copper, and pushed down.
It was a brutal, slow impalement. His body fought the invasion, clenching violently around the impossible girth, forcing him to stop, to breathe, to will himself to relax. He looked at Nassim’s face. His cousin’s eyebrows were knitted, his lips parted. He was dreaming.
“Oui… comme ça, bébé,” Nassim mumbled, the words slurred and thick with sleep. “Encore… ce petit trou si serré… c’est pour moi… c’est pour ma grosse bite, Yasmina.”
The name was a slap. It fueled Ilyes. He sank the rest of the way down, a choked gasp escaping him as he was fully speared, stretched to a burning brink. He began to move, a tentative, agonizing lift and drop, riding the monstrous shaft.
Nassim’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary upward thrust. “Putain, oui… chevauche-moi… fais-toi défoncer…”
Ilyes found a rhythm, each descent a conquest, each rise a relief that made the next plunge deeper. He braced his hands on Nassim’s sweat-slicked abdomen, the muscles hard as stone beneath his palms.
Then Nassim’s eyes opened.
For a second, there was only blank confusion in his dark gaze, fogged with sleep and dream. Then it cleared. It sharpened into shock, then a flash of raw anger.
“Ilyes? Qu’est-ce que… Arrête! Tout de suite! Putain, tu es malade?” His voice was a ragged, sleep-roughened bark.
But his body betrayed his words. His hands came up and gripped Ilyes’s bony hips, not to throw him off, but to hold him in place. His own hips were still, but the thick pulse of his cock inside Ilyes was a frantic, living beat.
“Je t’ai dit d’arrêter,” Nassim growled, but the command had no force. His thumbs dug into the sharp points of Ilyes’s hip bones.
Ilyes didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He lifted himself and dropped again, taking him deeper, his own neglected cock bouncing between them. He looked Nassim directly in the eyes, something he had never dared to do before.
Nassim’s anger seemed to crumble, replaced by a dark, dawning realization. A cruel, understanding smile touched his lips. “Ah. C’est ça. Tu veux tellement être elle, hein? Tu veux vivre la vie qu’elle devrait avoir? Sur cette bite?”
He began to move his hips now, small, testing thrusts that made Ilyes cry out. “Alors vis-la. Tu es Yasmina, maintenant. Ce petit cul de garçon, c’est son trou à elle. Et je vais le détruire.”
His hands tightened, his thrusts growing stronger, deeper, pushing Ilyes’s body up the bed with their power. “Tu l’as voulu. Tu es venu la nuit dernière, tu viens ce matin… Tu l’as tellement voulu.” He was fully awake now, his voice dropping into a possessive, filthy register. “Alors tu l’auras. Pendant un mois. Jusqu’à la fin des vacances. Ce lit, c’est ton lit. Cette bite, c’est ta bite. Tu remplaces ta sœur. Tu es ma petite salope à la place. Et après un mois, on verra. On verra si tu peux encore marcher droit.”
He flipped them with a brutal, effortless strength. Ilyes was on his back, the wind knocked from him, Nassim’s huge frame blotting out the dim light from the window. Nassim hooked Ilyes’s legs over his shoulders, spreading him obscenely wide. He didn’t pull out; he simply began again, a relentless, pounding rhythm that was all drive and possession.
“Dis-le,” Nassim grunted, each thrust punctuating his words. “Dis à qui appartient ce trou.”
“À toi,” Ilyes gasped, the words ripped from him.
“Plus fort!”
“À toi! Il est à toi, Nassim!”
“Et qui suis-je?”
“Mon cousin… mon…”
Nassim leaned down, his sweat dripping onto Ilyes’s face. “Non. Je suis l’homme qui te baise. Je suis la bite qui te remplit. Répète.”
“Tu es… la bite qui me remplit.”
“Et tu es?”
“Ta… ta salope. Ta salope à la place.”
“Exact.”
The pace became inhuman, a jackhammering assault that shook the iron bed frame, the noise echoing off the faded walls. Nassim was vocal, a stream of filth and praise and dominance. “Prends-la… prends toute ma grosse bite d’homme… serre-la… oui, comme ça… ton petit cul l’adore, je le sens… il avale tout…” Ilyes was beyond words, reduced to mewling cries, his own release stripping up his stomach untouched as he was pounded into a state of shattered, exquisite compliance.
It went on for what felt like hours, Nassim’s endurance a terrifying force of nature. He shifted positions, bending Ilyes over the side of the bed, taking him from behind with animalistic force, never slowing, never softening. The room filled with the sounds of slapping skin, guttural curses, and the ragged symphony of their breathing.
When Nassim finally came, it was with a roar he stifled by biting down on the meat of Ilyes’s shoulder. His body locked, every corded muscle standing in sharp relief as he emptied himself deep inside, pulse after hot, endless pulse, flooding Ilyes with a possessiveness that was both violation and claim.
He collapsed, his full weight crushing Ilyes into the soaked mattress for a moment before he rolled off. They lay side by side, wrecked and silent, the only sound the triumphant buzz of cicadas greeting the new day.
Then Nassim turned his head. He looked at Ilyes, whose eyes were closed, tears cutting tracks through the sweat on his temples. Nassim reached out a rough, calloused hand and wiped them away with a gentleness that seemed impossible.
He pulled Ilyes to him, arranging the slender, broken body against his side. He kissed his forehead, a dry, lingering press of his lips.
“Bébé,” he murmured, the word unfamiliar and tender on his tongue. “Tu as été courageux. Tu as bien fait.”
Ilyes shuddered, a sob catching in his raw throat. He buried his face in Nassim’s neck, and the big man held him, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the knobs of Ilyes’s spine until the sun, fierce and yellow, finally broke over the windowsill and made the dust in the air look like floating gold.