Chapter 11: Cafe Degradation
The café terrace was a tableau of whispered deals and clinking porcelain, the humid air clinging to Rifki’s modest hijab as Abang guided him to the secluded corner table where Ropie waited. “Your cousin wanted to see how my wife’s manners have improved,” Abang said casually, his hand a firm press on the small of Rifki’s back, forcing him into the plush chair. He ordered a coffee, his boot nudging apart Rifki’s knees beneath the linen tablecloth before sliding his zipper down. “Show your respect,” Abang murmured, and Rifki, his face burning behind the veil, slid silently from his chair to kneel on the cool tiles, shuffling forward under the table’s cover. The thick, familiar heat of Abang’s cock met his lips, and he took it in, the bitter taste of pre-cum blooming on his tongue as Ropie, above, discussed property investments. Abang’s hand found the back of Rifki’s head, forcing a deeper rhythm, making him gag softly around the thrusting length. “She’s always been a noisy little cocksucker,” Abang commented to Ropie, his voice steady even as his hips began to pump upwards, fucking Rifki’s throat in earnest. He pulled Rifki off by the hair, his cock glistening with spit, and manhandled him onto his lap, guiding his soaked pussy down onto his hardness with a single, brutal drop that ripped a muffled sob through the hijab. Rifki bounced, impaled, the velvet chair creaking under their shared weight as Abang whispered filth about the balcony watchers and Bima’ manager’s cock into his covered ear. His moans, shameless and high, escaped the fabric. With a sudden, vicious yank, Abang tore the hijab back, exposing Rifki’s tear-streaked face and bouncing, lace-covered tits to the entire terrace. The conversations died. “Look at this shameless whore,” Abang announced, his voice carrying, his hands gripping Rifki’s waist to slam him down harder, their wet slap echoing. “She can’t stop craving it.” Ropie stared, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips, as Abang drove up into Rifki’s clutching heat, making him scream, his back arching. Cum erupted inside him in hot, pulsing jets, and Abang held him there, stretched and filled, for the whole terrace to see the proof drip down his inner thigh.
The thick seed pooled inside him, a scalding testament to his consumption, and Abang leaned forward to snarl into the shell of his ear, “Feel that, you greedy bitch? That’s my mark, right next to the manager’s.” Rifki whimpered, his own pathetic cock jerking against Abang’s stomach, smearing pre-cum on the crisp cotton shirt. “You wanna come, princess? Then beg these good people for permission to cream that worthless little dicklet.” Rifki’s voice was a shattered, public thing. “Please,” he sobbed, his hips stuttering, “please let this whore come!” His orgasm was a silent, shuddering seizure, a thin dribble pathetically following the flood Abang had planted deep, and through his blurring vision he saw a woman at a nearby table look away, her mouth a tight line of disgust. “Fucking beautiful,” Abang grunted, giving one final, grinding thrust that milked the last pulses from his own spent cock and ripped a second, smaller whimper from Rifki’s core. He didn’t pull out, just kept Rifki speared there on his lap, a used, trembling ornament for the stunned café. With a satisfied sigh, Abang nudged the discarded hijab with his shoe. “Clean me up,” he ordered, low and casual. Rifki slid off, his legs buckling, and took Abang’s softening length into his mouth, diligently licking it clean of their mixed fluids under the table’s shadow as Ropie finally exhaled a shaky laugh. “You’ve trained her well, brother.” Abang stood, pulling Rifki up by his hair and then tucking him, surprisingly, against his side in a firm, possessive grip. Rifki nuzzled into the wool of Abang’s jacket, a low, involuntary sound of contentment vibrating in his throat, a purr from a broken place. “She knows what she is now,” Abang said, and they walked out, past the silent, staring patrons, the proof of Rifki’s performance cooling and sticky on his thighs.