Chapter 5: Morning Devotions
The first grey light of dawn filtered through the silk curtains, painting Abang’s sleeping form in monochrome. Rifki’s eyes opened to the familiar weight of the cage and the deeper, lingering ache from the vibrator he’d slept with. He moved on instinct, his body slipping from the sheets to kneel on the plush carpet beside the bed, his gaze fixed on the thick outline of Abang’s cock already hardening beneath the sheet. With a reverence that felt both learned and innate, Rifki peeled the fabric back, his nose filling with the musky scent of their night. He didn’t hesitate, his pink-painted lips parting to take the flushed, heavy head onto his tongue, his mouth stretching wide as he worked his way down the shaft. Abang stirred with a low grunt, his hand coming to rest on the back of Rifki’s hijab-covered head, not guiding, just claiming. Rifki hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his throat relaxing through practiced will as he took Abang deep, his own caged dick weeping a pathetic dribble onto the carpet. “That’s it, sayang,” Abang murmured, his voice rough with sleep, his hips lifting to push himself deeper into that wet, willing heat. Rifki gagged softly, tears springing to his eyes, and redoubled his efforts, his tongue swirling around the pulsing vein underneath until Abang’s grip tightened in his hair. “Gonna feed you,” Abang promised, and Rifki tasted the first salty pre-cum leaking onto his tongue, a bitter preview. The pace became brutal, Abang fucking up into his throat with short, sharp thrusts that stole Rifki’s breath, his own arousal a sharp, ignored pang. Abang came with a stifled roar, his release flooding Rifki’s throat in hot, thick spurts that he swallowed convulsively, not letting a drop escape. Afterward, spent and softening in Rifki’s mouth, Abang finally released his grip. Rifki pulled back, lips glistening, and without being told, his fingers trembling, he reached down to collect the clear, sticky fluid that had seeped from his own cage. He held his cupped hand to his mouth, his eyes locked on Abang’s satisfied gaze, and drank his own pathetic offering down. “Pagi, Abangku,” Rifki whispered, his voice hoarse and sticky, the taste of both of them mingling on his tongue. Abang smiled, running a thumb over Rifki’s smeared lips. “Good girl.”
“Good girl.” Abang’s praise was a dismissal, and Rifki shuffled to the walk-in closet where his training uniform awaited. The skin-tight leggings, the color of bruised flesh, squeezed his ass and hoisted the heavy, false DDDD breasts into a obscene shelf, each movement making the cage pinch. The sheer hijab, more a suggestion of modesty, did nothing to hide the flush on his cheeks as he laced up his running shoes. “Seduce every gaze,” Abang called from the bed, not looking, the command curling in the jasmine-scented air. The apartment complex courtyard was still cool with morning damp, the first commuters moving like ghosts, and Rifki began his jog, feeling the weight of the silicone breasts bounce with a rhythm that drew stares. A man in a suit slowed his pace, eyes locked on the pronounced jiggle, and Rifki met his look with a demure, downward glance that was an open invitation. At the security kiosk, he fumbled the lanyard holding his keys, letting it clatter on the tiles just beside the uniformed guard’s scuffed boot. “Maaf, Bang,” Rifki breathed, bending from the waist, the leggings straining to contain his spread ass as he offered a smile soaked in false innocence. The guard, a thick-bodied man with bored, hungry eyes, licked his lips and stepped from behind the desk, his shadow swallowing Rifki. “Kesempetan langka,” the guard muttered, a rare opportunity, his rough hands already gripping Rifki’s hips through the thin fabric as he shoved him against the cool metal of the desk. There was no pretense of courtesy; he yanked the leggings down just enough, his own uniform pants already open, and the thick, uncut head of his cock smeared against Rifki’s hole, still loose from the night. He pushed in, a brutal, unyielding invasion that stole Rifki’s breath, his own pathetic dribble making a damp patch on the front of the guard’s trousers. “Dasar pelacur,” the guard grunted, pounding into him, each thrust knocking the keys further across the floor, the sound of their flesh slapping echoing in the tiny booth. Rifki took it, his cheek pressed to the desk, his eyes glazing as he pictured Abang receiving the proof, and when the guard’s rhythm fractured into frantic, shallow jerks, Rifki whimpered, “Cum inside me, Bang.” The guard obeyed, pumping his release deep with a guttural shout, his grip leaving bruises. Spent, he pulled out and shoved a smartphone into Rifki’s trembling hand. “For your husband,” he sneered, zipping himself up. Rifki turned the camera on his own wrecked face, the sheen of sweat, the cum already leaking down his thigh, and snapped the photo, sending it to Abang with the caption, Latihan pagi selesai, Abangku. His training was complete.