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The Bustling Night Market of Oran
Larbi was a fucking beast commanding the chaotic, neon-lit sprawl of Oran’s night market like a goddamn souk lord of cock and grit. This Algerian arab gay alpha was a stocky powerhouse—five-foot-ten, thick with muscle from years of hauling goods, with a chest matted with wiry black hair and a beard that hung scruffy and sweat-soaked like a trader’s scarf. At 38, he’d fucked his way through every desperate twink who roamed these stalls, his cock a brutal nine-inch hammer of veiny meat that smashed asses raw and left throats gagging. His dark, weathered skin shimmered under the flickering lights, and those gruff, predatory eyes promised to grind you into the dust and make you beg for it.
Tonight, his balls were heavy, swinging low in his stained trousers, throbbing with a load built up from hours of haggling and shoving through crowds. The air stank of grilled fish, spices, and his own rank musk as he prowled the back alleys of the market—the kind of noisy shithole where arab gay street rats came to get their holes pounded amidst the chaos. Larbi didn’t give a fuck about the vendors’ stares or the religious pricks who’d slit his throat—he ruled this market like a king. His faded shirt hung open, exposing his hairy gut, and his trousers sagged under a bulge that pulsed like a fucking battering ram ready to crash through.
The Market Boy in the Stalls
That’s when he saw him—Anis, a wiry little arab gay twink, barely 19, stacking crates behind a fish stall, his skin slick with sweat and scales. Lean and street-tough, with dark eyes full of restless hunger and lips stained from chewing dates, he was a market runner begging for a different kind of trade. Larbi’s cock twitched, leaking a thick wad of precum into his trousers. “Hey, ya little stall-slut,” he growled, voice rough from shouting prices all night. “You here to get your ass hammered, or you just stacking shit with your tiny dick?”
Anis muttered some bullshit about finishing work, his hands trembling, but Larbi wasn’t here for excuses. He stomped over, boots crunching on fish guts, and grabbed the twink’s arm, yanking him off the crates with one brutal tug. “Don’t fucking lie to me, ya arab gay market-bitch—I know a needy hole when I smell one,” he snarled, shoving Anis against a stack of baskets. The twink’s small prick was already stiff, tenting his sweaty shorts. Larbi grinned—this kid was his deal now. He dragged Anis into a dark nook behind the stalls, threw him down onto the gritty ground, and ripped those shorts off, exposing a tight, sweaty asshole that screamed to be fucking pounded.
Choking on Market Meat
“Mouth open, now, you cock-sucking trader,” Larbi barked, tearing his trousers open with a grunt. His cock sprang free—a nine-inch arab gay hammer, thick and veiny, dripping with sweaty precum that stank of spices and raw power. Anis’s jaw dropped, choking as Larbi rammed it in deep, spearing his throat with one savage thrust. “Suck it, you worthless cunt,” he roared, grabbing Anis’s hair and skull-fucking him so hard the twink’s head banged against the baskets, his lips stretching wide around the alpha’s filthy meat.
Spit and dust mixed, coating Anis’s face as he gagged and retched, but the little slut moaned like a deal gone sour, slurping and choking on that sweaty arab gay dick with desperate need. Larbi didn’t let up—he gripped the twink’s head with both hands, fingers digging into greasy hair, and pounded his throat like he was haggling for blood, his balls slapping Anis’s chin with wet, gritty smacks that echoed over the market din. “You love choking on this alpha cock, don’t you, ya stall-trash?” he spat, watching Anis’s eyes water and roll back as his throat bulged. The twink’s hands clawed at the ground, but Larbi kept ramming, turning that mouth into a sloppy, drooling wreck until he yanked out, leaving Anis gasping and coughing up spit like a fish tossed from the net.
Hammering the Sweaty Hole Raw
Larbi wasn’t done—he flipped Anis onto his knees on the gritty ground, ass up like a bitch on the block, and spat a thick, dusty glob onto that tight asshole. “Time to get your fucking guts hammered, ya arab gay market-rat,” he sneered, lining up his cock and slamming it in raw with one brutal thrust that sank him balls-deep. Anis screamed like a vendor losing a sale, his hole tearing open, a trickle of blood mixing with the sweat as Larbi laughed—a deep, guttural bellow—and started pounding like a goddamn hammer on steel, relentless and unforgiving.
The twink’s knees scraped against the dirt, his skinny body jerking with every savage thrust, but Larbi didn’t give a shit. He grabbed Anis’s hips, nails gouging into sweaty flesh, and drilled so deep the kid’s guts shifted, his belly bulging with every slam. “Beg for it, you sweaty slut—scream for my dick to hammer you,” he roared, smacking Anis’s ass with a rough hand until it was raw and streaked with grime, the skin welted and bruised. “Please, fuck me, hammer my hole!” Anis sobbed, his voice cracking as his pathetic dick leaked precum onto the ground. Larbi grinned, his teeth bared like a shark, loving the power, knowing he could break this arab gay market boy into a whimpering, cum-soaked wreck.
Fucking Like Market Beasts
Sweat poured off Larbi’s hairy frame, soaking his shirt and dripping onto Anis’s back as he jackhammered that ass into a gaping, sloppy crater. His balls slapped the twink’s thighs, heavy and wet with market filth, while Anis clawed at the dirt, drooling and wailing like a brain-dead fucktoy lost in the chaos of pain and pleasure. “You love this arab gay cock hammering your shithole, huh, ya filthy stall-bitch?” Larbi taunted, yanking Anis’s head back by the hair and slamming in so hard the twink’s insides churned, his prostate pounded to mush. “Yes, fuck, wreck me, own me!” Anis howled, his ass clenching and farting wetly around the alpha’s dick, dust grinding into the mess.
Larbi flipped the slut onto his back on the gritty ground, grabbing those skinny legs and spreading them wide like a market tarp, exposing that wrecked, bloody hole. “Look at me while I hammer your fucking soul,” he spat, plunging back in with a nasty, wet squelch, his cock sliding through a mess of sweat, blood, and ass-juice that coated his shaft. Anis’s dark eyes locked on his, wide with desperation, as Larbi fucked him senseless, the ground shaking under the brutal force. The market stank of sweat, cum, and raw, animal sex—a perfect bazaar for an alpha like Larbi to dominate and destroy his prey under the neon glow.
Blowing a Filthy Load
The pace turned feral—Larbi’s stocky frame tensed, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he chased his nut, his muscles flexing with every brutal thrust. Anis was a babbling, cum-drunk wreck, clawing at Larbi’s hairy chest with gritty hands, screaming, “Fill my fucking ass, Boss, flood me, make me your bitch!” That snapped it—Larbi roared like a goddamn market brawl, slamming in so hard Anis’s hips sank into the dirt, 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 ground as he convulsed, his own tiny dick spurting a weak, watery load across his belly, mixing with the dust.
Larbi yanked out with a wet, sloppy pop, his cock dripping cum, blood, and ass-juice, a glistening mess swinging between his legs. He spat a fat, grimy glob onto Anis’s fucked-out face, coating his lips, and smirked, his chest heaving. “Good little stall-bitch. Next time, I’m tying you to the crates and fucking you ’til you’re a market rag.” He stomped off, leaving the twink twitching in the dirt, ass leaking like a spilled barrel, mind completely shattered from the filthy, raw hammering he’d just endured.
The Alpha’s Market Empire
Oran’s night market buzzed with whispers the next day. Every arab gay slut in the city was jerking off to Larbi’s name, trading tales of his savage fucks and that Algerian cock that turned tight holes into dripping, ruined wrecks. He didn’t give a fuck—he kept prowling, a arab gay god ruling the stalls. Anis couldn’t walk for days, hobbling through the market with a wrecked ass, beating his meat raw every night to the memory of being hammered open by the alpha, grime still caked in his bruises.
Larbi was already hunting again. He’d fucked half the market boys in Oran, leaving a trail of limping, cum-soaked wrecks, but his hunger was endless—every stall, every dark alley was a chance to claim another hole, to assert his dominance over the arab gay nocturnal underworld. He’d piss on the rules, spit on the chaos, and keep ramming his way through, a Moroccan alpha carving his legend in the flesh of every slut dumb enough to linger in his market.
