Connect with us


Here’s a very intense youthful memory that still turns me on 30 years later.

How I was deflowered by an Arab worker who was dating my mother.

This was the year I started high school. Not long after the start of classes, my mother began dating a worker who was on a construction site for a new neighborhood that the city council decided to build at the end of our street. At first, he came over for dinner a few times, then my mom decided to rent out my brother’s room to him – my brother was older than me and had already moved out.

He moved all his belongings into my brother’s room but he slept in my mother’s room. I didn’t care much, it wasn’t the first time, but this man made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze.

He didn’t talk to me much, but when he did, it was always to scold me harshly, as if I were a 12-year-old, to remove my school stuff from the table, to hurry up and free the bathroom or the toilet. I always complied quickly, without saying a word, as if I were guilty. He was a fifty-year-old Moroccan man, not tall but strong, with wide shoulders, a bald head, and a thick mustache.

When he was there, I would go straight to my room after dinner. But as soon as he was not there, especially on Wednesday afternoons, I would sneak into his room and pleasure myself with his underwear. One day, about a month in, I got caught.

The first slap threw me against the wall, and he started beating me, cursing me in French and Arabic. After beating me up, he grabbed me by my hair and dragged me to the edge of the bed. His words to me were, “You dirty fag, is this what you want?”

I could feel his hard penis under his clothes. He unbuttoned his pajamas and managed to get his penis out through the hole in his underwear and forced it into my mouth.

When I tried to push him away, he gave me a knee to the chest that took my breath away, and I had to endure his onslaught until he finished in my throat. I tried to swallow as much as I could. He left me on the floor coughing, gagging, trying to catch my breath.

He came back into the room and told me to go cry somewhere else and not disturb his sleep. He grabbed me by the hair again and tilted my head back, bringing his face close to mine. He asked me:

“Got it, little faggot?”

And when I said yes, he spat in my face, made me stand up, and shoved me down the hallway. I left right away and didn’t come home until late that night to avoid sitting across from him at the dinner table. He had started working on staggered shifts, leaving at 5 a.m. and finishing around 1 p.m.

Nothing happened in the following days and over the weekend, but the next Wednesday, he came into my room in the morning, before leaving for work, to wake me up and order me in a commanding tone to come home from high school right after my classes. I thought about it all morning, this order that frightened me, the tone of his voice that made me tremble at the mere thought, and I wanted to stay outside all afternoon and only come back to the apartment in the evening when my mother would be home from work. But when noon arrived, I was even more afraid to disobey him and I took the bus to go home immediately. I arrived before him and I stood in the kitchen, unable to eat anything and not knowing what to do.

When he arrived, I heard his key in the lock and I started shaking. He entered, closed the door, and immediately came over to me as I was looking at the floor. He waited for a moment, I could feel his rapid breathing and the smell of wine on his breath, then he threw a heavy slap that made my head spin, and I think I started crying immediately. He told me to undress down to my underwear and socks and to kneel. I took off my clothes without looking at him and I knelt in the living room, sniffling. He came in front of me, I could see his work boots and the bottom of his work overalls, and he said that he was going to deal with me, that I would remember it.

He would grab my head to rub it against his work overalls, or to push me and make me fall, he would walk around me insulting me, rubbing his boot against my butt, or pressing it against my hand forcing me to clean it with my tongue, I always had to kneel in front of him and receive slaps, kicks in the butt, spits. He had opened his overalls and pulled out the bulge from his underwear which he would press on my face.

He forced me to suck his hard dick through his pouch underwear, before taking it out through the opening and putting it in my mouth and, when he felt that he was about to cum, he pulled out and came on my face while holding me by the hair. Then he wiped the semen off with his fingers, which he put in my mouth, and made me lick up his cum from the floor.

I thought with relief that it was over, but he told me to stay like that, that he was going to eat and that afterward he was going to fuck me… I was terrified, at that time I had never done that before and I was sure he was going to hurt me badly, and I started crying again. He began eating while looking at me with an evil expression through the kitchen door. He mocked me by asking me questions, and I had to tell him that it was my first time, and beg him not to do it.

But he told me that this was all I deserved, that he knew the “zamels,” that he was going to train me and that I would be begging for more. I was still kneeling on the floor in the living room, my knees hurt, and when, after about a quarter of an hour, he asked me to come to him, I didn’t do it right away. He stood up, knocking his chair over behind him, and said he was going to teach me to obey.

I wanted to stand up, but he pushed me against the sofa, my face in the cushions, he grabbed a bamboo stake from a flowerpot within reach, and he began to beat me on the buttocks with this cane. Since I was yelling, he went to fetch one of my underwear from the laundry basket in the bathroom and shoved it in my mouth before resuming correcting me harshly with his cane. When he got tired, he positioned himself behind me, I heard him unzip his pants, he spread my underwear and my buttocks, and after spitting on my hole and putting saliva on his member, he penetrated me and impaled me all the way. I was out of breath, I couldn’t breathe anymore, and I felt a terrible pain.

He was holding my head in the cushions, but I could hear his insults and taunts when he was telling me:

“So, faggot, is this what you wanted? Can you feel it well in your ass?”

… giving thrusts. But he didn’t move much, he wanted to enjoy my humiliation before climaxing, and I was at least able to hurt less before he really started to grind into me. He came rather quickly in my ass, luckily I wouldn’t have been able to endure this treatment for long, and he withdrew telling me that I was a real bottom now.

He got up, readjusted himself, and just stood there watching me. He laughed when the dog came to sniff me, and that humiliated me even more. Since I didn’t dare move, he asked me if I was waiting to be screwed again, and he watched me, laughing meanly as I dressed myself. He forbade me to wipe myself with the underwear that I had in my mouth, he told me he wanted me to feel it dripping and that my ass now belonged to him. So I dressed as best I could and went to my room, but before I did, he made me kiss his hand and say thank you.

Every following Wednesday went roughly the same way. He wanted me to wait for him already in my underwear, kneeling in the living room, ready to receive his orders and satisfy all his desires. And the first of his desires was always to belittle and beat me, to make me obey as he said, but he did it even when I obeyed all his desires. In fact, it excited him to dominate and humiliate me, and each time he invented something to degrade me even more.

It always began with a session of slapping and hitting, him in his work clothes and me in my underwear, and I had to make him climax in my mouth before he ate. Afterwards, he would take off his boots and work clothes to put on his briefs and tank top, or long underwear and a long-sleeved shirt during the winter, and the session would continue until he decided to sodomize me. He never undressed completely, and he never asked me to be naked in front of him. Even for sodomy, he preferred that I move my underwear aside, and he always took me from behind, bent in front of him in a submissive attitude, never face-to-face. When he looked at me from the front, it was always to see my humiliation, for example, when he made me repeat things, or when he made me lie on the sofa, my head hanging over the armrest, and he straddled me to pin my head between his legs and rub his balls or buttocks on my face, forcing me to arouse him with my tongue.

And at the end of the session, I always had to thank him and kiss his right hand. It lasted like this for a good part of the school year, every Wednesday, and he ignored me the other days. I was totally under his thumb and I didn’t even try to resist or protect myself when he beat me: kneeling in front of him, I knew that I had to keep my hands behind my back to receive the slaps, I had to fetch the bamboo cane and present my buttocks when he wanted to beat me with it, I had to assume the position on all fours if he wanted to kick me in the backside… It ended in the spring, he hadn’t contributed to the rent for months, and when he said he was leaving for two weeks to go home to Morocco, my mother realized all the money was for his family, that she had been fooled, and she asked him to take all his belongings with him.

For a while, I stayed in the apartment on Wednesday afternoons, fully dressed, trembling at the thought that he might return knowing that I was always home alone at that time. But he never came and little by little I forgot him.
Years have passed and, as I approach my fifties, I sometimes think back to those days with a lot of excitement. I would like to relive an experience like that, with a worker coming home from work who wants to relieve himself with a submissive guy, not necessarily a North African by the way, and I also don’t care about the size of the penis, it’s the situation that’s exciting, not the physical details.

If this story turns you on and you fit my search, you can contact me by email: [email protected].

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *