Chapter 1: Club Conquest: Defiling the Devout
The bass was a physical thing, a throbbing pressure against the sternum that made breath optional. Neon strobes sliced through the haze of sweat and cheap cologne, illuminating glimpses of straining necks, rolling hips, glittering eyes. Benji moved through it all like he was born in the pulse, his body a fluid extension of the rhythm. He didn’t dance so much as prowl, his caramel skin sheened with a fine mist, his tight black shirt clinging to the subtle definition of his chest and arms.
His gaze, sharp and assessing, skimmed over the usual crowd. The giddy queens, the packs of gossiping twinks, the tourists with wide, desperate eyes. Boring. Predictable. His cock, thick and already half-hard in his jeans, wasn’t interested in predictable.
Then he saw him.
A man, alone, perched on a stool at the edge of the chaos like a statue of tension. He was handsome in a severe, carved way—dark hair neatly trimmed, a jawline you could cut yourself on. He wore a crisp, light-blue shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows, dark trousers. Saudi, maybe. Definitely Gulf. And he was nursing a tumbler of amber liquor as if it were a task to be completed, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on nothing, screaming straight while screaming lost.
A slow smile spread across Benji’s lips. Perfect.
He cut through the crowd, a shark sensing a ripple of distress. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate. He simply slid onto the empty stool beside the man, his knee pressing firmly against the stranger’s thigh. He caught the scent of expensive sandalwood soap and underlying anxiety.
“You look like you’re waiting for a heart attack,” Benji said, his voice pitched low, a hair above the music.
The man—Fahad, his name would be Fahad—flinched, just a tiny jerk of his shoulders. He turned, his dark eyes meeting Benji’s. There was a war in them. Indignation. Fear. A flicker of something hot and hungry.
“I am waiting for no one,” Fahad said, his English precise, his accent curling around the words.
“Bullshit.” Benji leaned in, his lips almost brushing the man’s ear. He smelled clean, starched. “You’re waiting for someone to tell you what you want. Lucky for you, I’m a fucking mind reader.”
Benji’s hand dropped casually, landing high on Fahad’s thigh. The muscle beneath the fine fabric was rock-hard, trembling. Fahad’s breath hitched, but he didn’t push the hand away. He stared straight ahead, his knuckles white on his glass.
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.” Benji’s fingers flexed, digging in just slightly. He let his voice drop to a raw, gritty growl, the sound meant for Fahad’s ear alone. “You’ve been watching all these pretty boys shaking their asses, wondering what it feels like. Wondering if it’s as dirty as they say.” He moved his lips closer, his breath hot. “You want me to tell you what’s going to happen?”
Fahad was silent, frozen.
“I’m going to take you into that disgusting bathroom right now,” Benji continued, the words filthy and deliberate. “I’m going to push you into the last stall, the one with the broken lock. I’m going to unbuckle those nice trousers and I’m going to get on my knees. And I’m going to suck your dick until you forget your own fucking name. Until you forget which way is Mecca. I’m going to swallow every drop of your confused little straight-boy load. And then,” Benji paused, nipping at Fahad’s earlobe, “I’m going to stand up, turn you around, and I’m going to fuck the Allah right out of you. I’m going to bend you over that filthy toilet and ruin you for every woman you’ll ever try to fuck again. You’ll be my good little bitch, sweating and moaning and taking every inch I give you.”
A full-body shudder wracked through Fahad. His eyes slid shut. He wasn’t pulling away. He was leaning in, a millimeter, a surrender.
“So,” Benji whispered, his hand sliding higher, cupping the undeniable, hard swell in Fahad’s trousers. “You coming, or are you going to sit here and finish your drink like a coward?”
Fahad opened his eyes. The war was over. The hungry heat had won, blazing with a terrified intensity. He nodded, once, a sharp, jerky motion.
Benji’s smile was all teeth. He stood, pulling Fahad up by his bicep. The man stumbled, his legs unsteady, either from the drink or the sheer seismic shift in his reality. Benji didn’t care. He led, cutting a path through the throng, a predator with his prize in tow.
The bathroom was a humid, reeking cave of piss, cheap air freshener, and desperation. The music was muffled here, replaced by the drip of a faucet and the hum of a flickering fluorescent light. Benji shoved the door of the end stall open. It was just as he’d promised—grimy, the lock dangling uselessly.
He pushed Fahad inside, crowding in after him, and slapped the door shut. The space was tight, their bodies pressed together in the humid dark.
“Hands on the wall,” Benji commanded, his voice no longer a growl but a cold, sharp knife.
Fahad obeyed, placing his palms flat against the cold, graffiti-scarred metal. Benji yanked his trousers and boxers down to his knees in one rough motion. Fahad’s cock sprang free, thick and flushed, beautifully hard. Benji dropped to his knees on the wet floor without a second thought.
He didn’t tease. He took Fahad into his mouth in one deep, swallowing motion, his throat working open around the head. Fahad gasped, a choked, ragged sound, and his hips jolted forward. Benji’s hands clamped on his ass, holding him still, controlling the pace. He worked his mouth and tongue, brutal and efficient, slurping, sucking, deep-throating until his eyes watered. He reveled in the salty-bitter taste of pre-come, in the way Fahad’s thighs began to shake, in the stifled, helpless moans that echoed in the tiny stall.
“You gonna come already, you desperate fuck?” Benji pulled off just long enough to snarl, spitting a string of saliva onto the swollen head. “Not yet. You don’t get to come from my mouth.”
He stood up, fumbling with his own jeans. He shoved them down just enough to free his erection, thick and straining. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly. He pressed the head of his cock against Fahad’s tight, clenched hole.
“Relax, you tight little cunt,” Benji breathed, pushing forward with a relentless, burning pressure.
Fahad cried out, a raw sound of pain and shock, his forehead thudding against the metal wall. Benji ignored it, sheathing himself inch by brutal inch until he was fully buried, balls-deep in the searing, clenching heat. He stayed there for a moment, panting, feeling Fahad’s internal muscles flutter in shocked protest.
Then he started to move.
He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each thrust a hard, driving punch that slammed Fahad’s body against the stall wall with a metallic rattle. His fingers dug bruises into Fahad’s hips. The air filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, of Benji’s grunts, of Fahad’s broken, gasping pleas that weren’t quite words.
“You like that, don’t you?” Benji hissed, pounding into him. “You like getting fucked like a whore in a shithole bathroom. Tell me you like it, you fucking sand nigger.”
The slur, vicious and electrifying, seemed to break something in Fahad. A sob tore from his throat, and his body went pliant, accepting, his hole softening and gripping Benji’s cock with a new, desperate rhythm. “Yes… God… yes…”
“That’s it. Take it. You’re my bitch now. Nothing but a hole for me to use.”
Benji could feel his own orgasm coiling, a white-hot wire in his gut. He reached around, fisting Fahad’s leaking cock, jerking him in time with his thrusts. It was crude, animalistic, a transaction of pure animal heat in the disgusting dark.
“Come for me, bitch,” he gritted out.
Fahad’s cry was muffled, shattered. His body locked, shuddering violently as his come striped the graffiti on the wall in hot, white pulses. The violent clenching of his ass pushed Benji over the edge. He drove in one last, deep time, burying himself to the hilt as his own orgasm ripped through him, jets of come painting Fahad’s insides.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the drip of the faucet, the distant thump of the bass. Benji pulled out slowly. He tucked himself back into his jeans, doing up his fly with calm, deliberate movements.
Fahad stayed where he was, forehead against the wall, trousers around his knees, his body slack and glistening with sweat. He was trembling.
Benji reached past him, tore off a wad of rough toilet paper, and wiped himself clean. He dropped the paper into the bowl. He didn’t offer any to Fahad.
He placed a hand on the man’s damp, heaving back, feeling the tremors.
“See?” Benji said, his voice now flat, almost conversational. “Not so complicated.”
Then he turned, unlatched the broken stall door, and walked out. He didn’t look back. He walked past the sinks, caught his own eye in the smudged mirror—flushed, satisfied, a king in his kingdom of filth. He adjusted his shirt and pushed back out into the roar of the music, the neon, the crowd.
The hunt was over. For now. There was always tomorrow night, another stool, another lost, handsome man trying to remember who he was supposed to be. Benji melted back into the pulse, already feeling the restless itch begin again, deep in his bones.