Chapter 1: Surrender of rifki
Rifki awoke to the scent of sandalwood and the oppressive feel of silk against skin that was no longer his own. His mind swam up through layers of confusion, his body humming with a strange, foreign sensitivity. The chamber was dim, lit by low brass lanterns that cast shifting shadows on embroidered walls, and he lay on a mound of cushions, his form altered, softened. He reached down, his slender fingers encountering the shocking, petite proof of his transformation—a small, flaccid dick that now seemed a cruel joke, yet it twitched traitorously under his own timid touch.
The heavy door groaned open, and Abang filled the frame, his presence cooling the air. He moved with a proprietorial silence, his eyes missing nothing. “You’re mine now,” he stated, the simple declaration hanging in the air before the metallic click of the lock followed, sealing the truth of it. Rifki flinched, pushing himself up on elbows that felt too delicate. “I’m still a man,” he protested, the voice escaping him higher than he remembered. Abang’s calloused hand closed around Rifki’s jaw, tilting his face up, the touch silencing words and sparking a low heat in his gut. “You are what I say you are.”
Days blurred into a relentless curriculum of submission. Abang dressed him in flowing pastel hijabs and tight kebayas, his rough hands smoothing the fabric over Rifki’s hips, teaching him the sway of a Muslimah’s walk. “Grace is a form of obedience,” Abang would murmur, his breath hot on Rifki’s neck as he corrected his posture. The lessons progressed to the intimate mechanics of pleasure, Abang’s commands a low rumble in the perfumed air. “You come only when I permit it.” He used tools first—a cool, lubricated dildo that breached Rifki slowly as he was forced to repeat his ownership. “Say it.” Rifki choked, the fullness overwhelming, “I’m yours, Abang.”
Hypnosis sessions wove through the physical training, Abang’s voice a dark thread stitching new desires into Rifki’s psyche. Repetition carved grooves of compliance until one evening, Rifki knelt unprompted, head bowed, and whispered, “I am ready to serve.” Abang rewarded him with a slow, approving stroke to his cheek. For the final test, Abang sat back on a divan, his own big, black cock already hard and gleaming in the lamplight. “Show me your control. Come for me.” He pulled Rifki onto his lap, impaling him on that thick length, one hand a vise on Rifki’s hip, the other wrapped possessively around his tiny, leaking dick. Rifki’s world narrowed to the searing stretch and the impossible command, his body trembling on the edge for what felt like an eternity before Abang gave a slight, punishing thrust and growled, “Now.”
Rifki shattered, a silent, convulsing orgasm wracking through him, his little dick pulsing pathetically in Abang’s fist. Afterward, spent and shivering, he slid to the carpets, his lips finding Abang’s softening cock to clean it with tender, devoted swipes of his tongue. He looked up, tears streaking his kohl, and whispered, “Yours.”
Abang’s thumb smeared the tear-tracks, darkening the kohl into bruises beneath Rifki’s 27-year-old eyes. “I know,” Abang, at 35, said, his voice devoid of tenderness, a statement of pure fact. He stood, leaving Rifki crumpled and cooling on the carpet. The silence stretched, broken only by Rifki’s hitching breaths. Then, the rustle of paper.
Rifki’s stomach turned to ice. This was the final erasure. “Please,” he whispered, the word ash in his mouth. Abang crouched, exhaling smoke into his face. “You begged for purpose. This is it. Your body, my product.” He traced a finger down Rifki’s chest, over the sensitive nub of a nipple beneath the silk. Rifki’s tiny cock gave a feeble, betraying twitch. “See?” Abang grinned, all teeth. “Even your pathetic dick knows its true function now.”
Rifki didn’t protest; the programming ignited, a white-hot circuit closing in his brain. “Yes, Abang,” he breathed, the words a devotional sigh as he crawled forward on the carpet. His lips parted before reaching Abang’s thick cock, his tongue swiping eagerly along the fleshy underside to taste the musk and salt. He took the head into his mouth, sucking with a passionate, worshipful intensity, hollowing his cheeks as his eyes slid shut in trance-like bliss.
His small hands cradled Abang’s heavy balls, massaging gently as he deep-throated the entire length, gagging softly before pulling back to swirl his tongue around the tip. “Good toy,” Abang grunted, tangling a hand in Rifki’s hair to guide the rhythm. After a few minutes, Abang pulled him up and onto his lap, positioning Rifki over his arousal. Rifki sank down slowly, gasping at the familiar, brutal stretch, then began to ride, his hips pistonning with a desperate, focused energy. He bounced hard, driving Abang deeper, chasing the internal friction that scrambled his thoughts.
His own tiny dick leaked a pathetic stream of pre-cum onto Abang’s stomach with each brutal descent. The anal orgasm built like a storm, a pressure wrenching his gut, until his whole body seized in a shaking, violent convulsion, his channel milking Abang’s cock through wave after silent wave of breathless ecstasy. Abang followed with a low growl, pumping his release deep inside. He held Rifki there, impaled and trembling, for a long moment before pushing him off onto the floor. “Pack the clothes I laid out,” Abang said, zipping his jeans, his tone now purely business. “The passport photo is acceptable.” Rifki lay curled on his side, spent and dripping, staring at the small booklet where his old self had been replaced by a demure, smiling stranger named Rifqa.