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The Dusty Shadows of Fez
Hicham was a fucking mess lurking through the narrow, shit-stained alleys of Fez like a damned soul with a raging hard-on. This Moroccan arab gay loner was a lean, sinewy bastard—sharp cheekbones, a patchy beard matted with sweat, and a body toughened by years of hiding who he was. At 31, he’d fucked a few secret sluts in the dark, his cock a solid nine-inch beast that could split a hole wide open, but he always crawled back to his lonely prayers, ashamed and horny as fuck. His olive skin shimmered under the Moroccan sun, and those dark, guilt-ridden eyes begged for a dick to chase the emptiness away.
Tonight, his balls were tight, throbbing with a load he hadn’t dumped since his last shameful jerk-off after Friday prayers. The air stank of cumin, leather, and his own festering despair as he prowled a hidden corner near the medina—the kind of filthy dump where arab gay rejects like him hunted for a quick, dirty fuck to drown the silence. Hicham didn’t give a fuck about the imam’s sermons or the hellfire threats—he was too broken to stop. His faded djellaba hung loose over his wiry frame, and his trousers strained against a bulge that pulsed with every step, starving for release.
The Twink in the Dark
That’s when he saw him—Rachid, a scrawny little arab gay stray, barely 19, slouched against a wall like a lost lamb begging for cock. Smooth as a virgin’s cunt, with big, nervous eyes and lips made for gagging, he looked as fucked-up and lonely as Hicham felt. The older man’s dick twitched, leaking a slick wad of precum into his pants. “Hey, ya little fuckboy,” he rasped, voice thick with lust and shame. “You lost, or you here to get your ass pounded?”
Rachid stammered some bullshit about just resting, his cheeks flushing under the streetlight, but Hicham wasn’t here for lies. He stepped closer, grabbed the twink’s throat with a trembling hand, and growled, “Don’t fucking bullshit me, ya arab gay slut—I know a lonely Muslim bitch when I smell one.” Rachid’s small prick was already stiff, tenting his cheap trousers. Hicham’s gut twisted—another soul damned like him. He dragged the twink into a shadowed nook, shoved him against the wall, and ripped those trousers down, exposing a tight, quivering asshole that screamed to be fucked raw.
Choking on Sinful Meat
“Knees, now, you cock-sucking haram,” Hicham snarled, yanking his trousers open. His cock sprang free—a nine-inch arab gay monster, thick and veiny, dripping with guilty precum. Rachid dropped fast, choking as he tried to swallow it, his throat bulging while Hicham rammed it in deep. “Suck it, you filthy cunt,” he groaned, grabbing Rachid’s hair and skull-fucking him like it could erase the shame burning in his chest. Spit and tears poured down Rachid’s face, but the twink moaned like a sinner finding salvation, slurping and gagging on that forbidden dick.
Hicham didn’t hold back—he gripped the twink’s head and pounded his face with desperate fury, his balls slapping Rachid’s chin with wet, frantic smacks. “You love this arab gay cock, don’t you, ya damned little shit?” he spat, watching Rachid’s eyes water as his throat stretched. The twink’s hands clutched Hicham’s thighs, trembling with the same twisted need, but Hicham kept ramming, turning that mouth into a sloppy, drooling wreck until he yanked out, leaving Rachid gasping and coughing up spit like a broken prayer.
Fucking the Guilt Away
Hicham wasn’t done—he hauled Rachid up, bent him over a stack of moldy crates, and spat a thick, sticky glob onto that virgin asshole. “Time to fuck your lonely soul out, ya arab gay cumrag,” he sneered, lining up his cock and slamming it in raw with one brutal thrust. Rachid yelped, his hole tearing open, blood mixing with the spit as Hicham groaned and started pounding. The crates rattled, wood splintering, as he fucked that ass like it could purge the sin eating him alive.
The twink’s legs shook, his body jerking with every savage thrust, but Hicham didn’t ease up. He grabbed Rachid’s hips, fingers digging in hard, and drilled so deep the kid’s guts shifted. “Beg for it, you lonely slut—scream for my dick,” he roared, smacking Rachid’s ass until it was raw and red. “Please, fuck me, take my shame!” Rachid sobbed, his voice raw with the same torment Hicham carried. The older man growled, slamming harder, desperate to bury his Muslim guilt in that tight, wrecked hole.
Rutting Like Lost Souls
Sweat soaked Hicham’s djellaba as he jackhammered Rachid’s ass into a gaping, sloppy mess. His balls slapped the twink’s thighs, heavy and wet, while Rachid clawed at the crates, drooling and whimpering like a fucked-up stray. “You love this arab gay cock ripping you apart, huh, ya pitiful haram?” Hicham taunted, yanking Rachid’s head back and ramming in so hard the twink’s guts churned. “Yes, fuck, save me!” Rachid wailed, his ass clenching and farting wetly around the loner’s dick.
Hicham flipped the twink onto his back on the crates, spreading those skinny legs wide like a medina whore. “Look at me while I fuck your sin out,” he spat, plunging back in with a wet squelch, his cock sliding through a mess of spit, blood, and ass-juice. Rachid’s eyes locked on his, wide and tortured, as Hicham fucked him senseless, the crates creaking under the force. The alley reeked of sweat, cum, and their shared damnation—a perfect hell for two lonely arab gay Muslims to drown in each other.
Unloading the Burden
The pace turned frantic—Hicham’s lean frame tensed, his cock throbbing as he chased release. Rachid was a babbling, cum-drunk wreck, clawing at Hicham’s chest, screaming, “Fill my fucking ass, make me whole!” That hit deep—Hicham roared like a damned beast, slamming in so hard Rachid’s hips bruised, and unleashed a flood of thick, hot cum straight into that wrecked hole. Rope after rope blasted out, overflowing and dripping down the twink’s thighs as he convulsed, his own tiny dick spurting a weak, watery load across his stomach.
Hicham yanked out with a sloppy pop, his cock dripping cum and filth. He spat on Rachid’s fucked-out face and muttered, “Good little bitch. Maybe Allah won’t hate us yet.” He stumbled off, leaving the twink shivering on the crates, ass leaking like a busted pipe, both of them still lost but a little less alone.
The Lonely Echoes of Fez
Whispers crept through the medina’s shadows. Every arab gay reject in Fez muttered about Hicham, the lonely Muslim who fucked like a demon but prayed like a saint. He didn’t care—he kept prowling, a broken arab gay soul in a city that damned queers to hell. Rachid limped through the souk for days, ass too wrecked to sit, jerking off to the memory of that brutal salvation, praying Hicham would return.
Hicham didn’t stop hunting. He’d fucked a few lost boys, but the guilt and loneliness clung like a curse—every dark corner, every stinking alley was a chance to fill the void, even if just for a night. He’d spit on the world, fuck the rules, and keep ramming his way through the arab gay underbelly, a lonely Moroccan chasing redemption he’d never find.
