Chapter 3: The sight of Ropie's carefree smile triggers something primal in Rifki. Without warning, he grabs Abang's face and crushes their lips together in a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss right on the walking path - his lace panties growing damp as Ropie's shocked gasp reaches his ears.
The park’s golden hour light filtered through Rifki’s navy blue hijab as he walked a respectful step behind Abang, the memory of the fitting room’s velvet opulence replaced by open space and the scent of cut grass. His eyes, expertly lined with kohl now, scanned the path and caught them—Ropie and Alfi, sharing a bench, their laughter a sharp, familiar sound that sliced through the peaceful evening. A hot, ugly twist tightened in Rifki’s gut, not of longing, but of a fierce, possessive jealousy that shocked him. Abang was his master, his husband. “Abang,” Rifki whispered, his voice barely audible, the delicate chains on his ankle bracelet jingling as he hurried to close the gap between them. He slipped his hand into Abang’s larger one, a bold, needy gesture. Abang looked down, a slow smile spreading as he followed Rifki’s gaze to the bench. “Jealous, sayang?” he murmured, his thumb stroking Rifki’s knuckles. “Yes,” Rifki breathed, the admission fueling a desperate courage. He guided Abang’s hand under the loose fold of his long, flowy kurta, pressing those calloused fingers against the damp lace of his panties. “Please. Here. Now. I need them to see who owns me.” Abang’s eyes darkened with predatory delight. He veered off the path, pulling Rifki behind a dense thicket of flowering bushes that offered a secluded view of the bench. “On your knees, wife,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. Rifki dropped eagerly, fumbling with Abang’s belt buckle, his hands shaking with urgency. He took Abang’s thick, uncut cock into his mouth, swallowing it deep, his tongue working feverishly over the head. The taste, musky and familiar, was a claim. He moaned around the shaft, loud enough to be heard, his eyes locked on Ropie’s oblivious profile. Abang fisted a hand in Rifki’s hijab, controlling his pace, pushing deeper. “Such a desperate fucking slut,” he grunted, hips pumping, each thrust hitting the back of Rifki’s throat. Rifki gagged, tears of overwhelmed bliss mixing with his smudged mascara, every obscene sound a declaration. He came then, silently, violently, his caged dick spurting uselessly into his panties as he serviced his master, ownership finally, publicly, sealed.
Back in the sanctuary of their apartment, the scent of jasmine incense couldn’t mask the electric tension clinging to Rifki’s skin. He moved through the dim rooms on silent, slippered feet, his mind replaying the park, the taste, the desperate claim. While Abang poured a drink in the living room, Rifki retreated to the bedroom, his heart hammering against his ribs. He opened the small lacquered box on his vanity, its contents glittering under a lone lamp: the tiny silver key. He stripped, each article of clothing a shedding of the day’s pretense, until he was only smooth skin and cold metal. He got onto the bed, arranging himself on all fours, the posture an echo of earlier but now a deliberate offering. He placed the key between his teeth, the metal tang sharp on his tongue, and waited. Abang’s shadow filled the doorway, his silence a palpable weight. “Well,” he finally said, a low chuckle in his voice, “look at this.”
He approached, his fingers tracing the line of Rifki’s spine, making him shudder. He plucked the key from Rifki’s mouth, the gentle click of the lock opening echoing like a gunshot. The cage fell away, and Rifki gasped at the sudden, vulnerable freedom. Abang’s big, shiny black cock, already slick with precum, nudged against him, not entering yet. “You want this?” he growled, his hand tangling in Rifki’s hair. “Yes, fuck me, please, I need it,” Rifki begged, the words tearing from him. Abang pushed in, a brutal, complete invasion that stole Rifki’s breath, and began to pound him with a relentless, driving rhythm. The force of it jolted Rifki forward with every thrust, his own neglected cock slapping against his belly. “Cum for me, you fucking whore,” Abang snarled, his pace becoming erratic, and Rifki’s body convulsed, a first orgasm ripped from him, painting the sheets beneath him. Abang didn’t stop, his hips pistoning, fucking the sensitivity right through him. He pulled Rifki up onto his knees, his back against Abang’s chest, that deep cock still buried inside him. “Look,” Abang commanded, turning Rifki’s head toward the mirrored closet doors. Rifki watched, hypnotized, as Abang’s hand wrapped around his own small, leaking dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts. A second, sharper climax boiled over, Rifki screaming as he came all over Abang’s fist and his own stomach. “One more,” Abang breathed, laying him down and mounting him again, his body a crushing, magnificent weight. He fucked with a final, possessive fury, and Rifki shattered a third time, dry, whole-body tremors wracking him as Abang filled him up with a hot, pulsing flood. In the spent quiet, Rifki knew it was true: he only loved Abang.