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Illyas had tried. He had waited, searched, hoped. But in Syria, submissive boys were becoming rare. Too many alphas, not enough bottoms—someone had to take charge.
That night, Illyas wasn’t going to wait any longer. His body ached, his need was too strong. Lying on his bed, he gripped his thick length, imagining a young Arab gay submissive at his mercy.
His muscles tensed as he spread his legs wider, stroking himself with deep, slow movements. His mind wandered to a perfect scenario—a soft, obedient Arab gay boy, kneeling before him, lips parting, eyes pleading.
Illyas growled, gripping himself harder. “If they won’t come to me, I’ll take what’s mine,” he muttered under his breath.
The release was intense, his whole body shuddering as he claimed victory over his frustration. Tomorrow, he’d find a way—one way or another, he’d get what he deserved.
