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The Ruined Mosque of Damas
Illyas was a fucking beast prowling the shattered, dust-laden ruins of an abandoned mosque on the outskirts of Damas like a goddamn jihadist of cock and sin. This Syrian arab gay alpha was a lean, hardened bastard—six-foot-one, skin scarred from years of war and survival, with a chest thick with wiry black hair and a beard that hung long and tangled like a muezzin’s call gone silent. At 35, he’d fucked his way through every desperate soul who dared enter his broken sanctum, his cock a brutal ten-inch blade of veiny meat that sliced asses raw and left throats choking. His dark, battle-worn body reeked of dust, prayer, and forbidden lust, and those fierce, devout eyes promised to damn you and make you beg for it.
Tonight, his balls were heavy, swinging low in his torn trousers, throbbing with a load built up from days of scavenging the city’s wreckage. The air stank of crumbling plaster, incense, and his own savage musk as he prowled the cracked minaret base—the kind of forsaken shithole where arab gay outcasts came to get their holes pounded under the shadow of Allah’s neglect. Illyas didn’t give a fuck about the warlords or the clerics who’d hang him—he was the imam of this ruined hell. His faded thobe hung open, exposing his hairy abs, and his trousers sagged under a bulge that pulsed like a fucking sermon ready to preach.
The Refugee Twink in the Rubble
That’s when he saw him—Fadi, a wiry little arab gay twink, barely 19, huddled in a corner clutching a tattered prayer rug. Skinny and dust-covered, with dark eyes full of quiet despair and lips cracked from thirst, he was a refugee begging for a different kind of salvation. Illyas’s cock twitched, leaking a thick wad of precum into his trousers. “Hey, ya little prayer-slut,” he growled, voice rough from chanting surahs in the dark. “You here to get your ass blessed, or you just hiding with your tiny dick?”
Fadi muttered some bullshit about seeking shelter, his hands trembling, but Illyas wasn’t here for lies. He strode over, boots crunching on broken tiles, and grabbed the twink’s arm, yanking him up with one brutal tug. “Don’t fucking lie to me, ya arab gay mosque-bitch—I know a needy hole when I smell one,” he snarled, shoving Fadi against a cracked pillar. The twink’s small prick was already stiff, tenting his ragged trousers. Illyas grinned—this lost soul was his to redeem. He dragged Fadi into a dark alcove behind the mihrab, threw him down onto the dusty floor, and ripped those trousers off, exposing a tight, grimy asshole that screamed to be fucking ravaged.
Choking on Holy Meat
“Mouth open, now, you cock-sucking haram,” Illyas barked, tearing his trousers open with a grunt. His cock sprang free—a ten-inch arab gay blade, thick and veiny, dripping with sweaty precum that stank of dust and raw faith. Fadi’s jaw dropped, choking as Illyas rammed it in deep, spearing his throat with one savage thrust. “Suck it, you worthless cunt,” he roared, grabbing Fadi’s hair and skull-fucking him so hard the twink’s head banged against the pillar, his lips stretching wide around the alpha’s filthy meat.
Spit and dust mixed, coating Fadi’s face as he gagged and retched, but the little slut moaned like a sinner at confession, slurping and choking on that forbidden arab gay dick with desperate need. Illyas didn’t let up—he gripped the twink’s head with both hands, fingers digging into matted hair, and pounded his throat like he was reciting a violent dua, his balls slapping Fadi’s chin with dry, gritty smacks that echoed through the ruins. “You love choking on this Muslim cock, don’t you, ya prayer-trash?” he spat, watching Fadi’s eyes water and roll back as his throat bulged. The twink’s hands clawed at the floor, but Illyas kept ramming, turning that mouth into a sloppy, drooling wreck until he yanked out, leaving Fadi gasping and coughing up spit like a heretic in the dust.
Blessing the Grimy Hole Raw
Illyas wasn’t done—he flipped Fadi onto his knees on the dusty floor, ass up like a penitent in prostration, and spat a thick, gritty glob onto that tight asshole. “Time to get your fucking guts blessed, ya arab gay mosque-rat,” he sneered, lining up his cock and slamming it in raw with one brutal thrust that sank him balls-deep. Fadi screamed like a call to prayer gone wrong, his hole tearing open, a trickle of blood mixing with the spit as Illyas laughed—a deep, guttural growl—and started pounding like a goddamn martyr’s charge, relentless and unforgiving.
The twink’s knees scraped against the tiles, his skinny body jerking with every savage thrust, but Illyas didn’t give a shit. He grabbed Fadi’s hips, nails gouging into dust-caked flesh, and drilled so deep the kid’s guts shifted, his belly bulging with every slam. “Beg for it, you grimy slut—scream for my dick to bless you,” he roared, smacking Fadi’s ass with a rough hand until it was raw and streaked with grit, the skin welted and bruised. “Please, fuck me, bless my hole!” Fadi sobbed, his voice cracking as his pathetic dick leaked precum onto the floor. Illyas grinned, his teeth bared like a zealot, loving the power, knowing he could break this arab gay refugee into a whimpering, cum-soaked wreck.
Fucking Like Mosque Beasts
Sweat poured off Illyas’s hairy frame, soaking his thobe and dripping onto Fadi’s back as he jackhammered that ass into a gaping, sloppy crater. His balls slapped the twink’s thighs, heavy and dry with mosque dust, while Fadi clawed at the floor, drooling and wailing like a brain-dead fucktoy lost in the haze of pain and pleasure. “You love this arab gay cock blessing your shithole, huh, ya filthy prayer-bitch?” Illyas taunted, yanking Fadi’s head back by the hair and slamming in so hard the twink’s insides churned, his prostate slashed to mush. “Yes, fuck, wreck me, save me!” Fadi howled, his ass clenching and farting dryly around the alpha’s dick, dust grinding into the mess.
Illyas flipped the slut onto his back on the dusty floor, grabbing those skinny legs and spreading them wide like a fallen minaret, exposing that wrecked, bloody hole. “Look at me while I bless your fucking soul,” he spat, plunging back in with a nasty, dry crunch, his cock sliding through a mess of spit, blood, and ass-juice that coated his shaft. Fadi’s dark eyes locked on his, wide with desperation, as Illyas fucked him senseless, the tiles trembling under the brutal force. The mosque stank of sweat, cum, and raw, animal sex—a perfect ruin for an alpha like Illyas to dominate and destroy his prey under the shattered dome.
Blowing a Sinful Load
The pace turned feral—Illyas’s lean frame tensed, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he chased his nut, his muscles flexing with every brutal thrust. Fadi was a babbling, cum-drunk wreck, clawing at Illyas’s hairy chest with dusty hands, screaming, “Fill my fucking ass, Master, flood me, redeem me!” That snapped it—Illyas roared like a goddamn fatwa unleashed, slamming in so hard Fadi’s hips sank into the dust, and unleashed a torrent of thick, stinking cum straight into that wrecked hole. Rope after rope blasted out, hot and endless, overflowing and oozing down the twink’s thighs onto the floor as he convulsed, his own tiny dick spurting a weak, watery load across his belly, mixing with the grit.
Illyas yanked out with a dry, sloppy pop, his cock dripping cum, blood, and ass-juice, a glistening mess swinging between his legs. He spat a fat, dusty glob onto Fadi’s fucked-out face, coating his lips, and smirked, his chest heaving. “Good little mosque-bitch. Next time, I’m tying you to the minbar and fucking you ’til you’re a martyr.” He strode off, leaving the twink twitching in the dust, ass leaking like a cracked font, mind completely shattered from the sinful, raw blessing he’d just endured.
The Alpha’s Ruined Sanctum
Damas’s shadows buzzed with whispers the next day. Every arab gay slut in the city was jerking off to Illyas’s name, trading tales of his savage fucks and that Syrian cock that turned tight holes into dripping, ruined wrecks. He didn’t give a fuck—he kept prowling, a arab gay god ruling the ruins. Fadi couldn’t walk for days, limping through the wreckage with a wrecked ass, beating his meat raw every night to the memory of being blessed open by the alpha, dust still caked in his bruises.
Illyas was already hunting again. He’d fucked half the refugees in Damas, leaving a trail of limping, cum-soaked wrecks, but his hunger was endless—every ruin, every dark mosque was a chance to claim another hole, to assert his dominance over the arab gay war-torn underworld. He’d piss on the clerics, spit on the rubble, and keep ramming his way through, a Syrian Muslim alpha carving his legend in the flesh of every slut dumb enough to seek refuge in his sanctum.
