Amir’s low chuckle was a vibration against Pete’s back. “Therapies that require more… privacy.” He offered a hand to Gill, helping her rise from the table with a reverence that made Pete’s breath catch. Sala’s hand found the small of Pete’s back, a warm, guiding pressure leading them through a discreet side door.
The room beyond was a revelation. It was a private suite, all low lighting and deep, shadowed alcoves, dominated by a vast, canopied bed piled with silk cushions. The air was thick with the scent of oud and something sweeter, like night-blooming jasmine. This was a place designed for secrets.
Sala turned to Pete, his light hazel eyes holding a heat that was no longer veiled by professional courtesy. He cupped Pete’s jaw, his thumb stroking the line of his cheekbone. “You have been so… receptive,” he murmured, his voice like warm honey. “A canvas for pleasure. But a canvas can also take charge of the brush.” He leaned in, his lips a breath from Pete’s. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
Before Pete could process the words, Sala’s mouth was on his, kissing him with a slow, deep intensity that was entirely different from Amir’s possessive dominance. It was exploratory, sensual, a promise of a different kind of possession. Pete melted into it, his hands coming up to grip Sala’s lean shoulders.
He heard a soft, startled gasp from across the room. He broke the kiss to see Amir guiding Gill toward the bed. She was watching him, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Amir stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.
“Your husband is a beautiful man, is he not?” Amir’s voice was a soft rumble in her ear. One of his hands drifted down, over the swell of her breast, his fingers plucking gently at her nipple until it pebbled into a tight peak. Gill’s head fell back against his shoulder, a soft moan escaping her.
“He is,” she breathed, her eyes locked on Pete.
“And he enjoys being taken so thoroughly,” Amir continued, his other hand sliding down her stomach, through the damp curls between her legs. Gill’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. “But you… you have not been taken every way a woman can be taken, have you?”
Pete watched, transfixed, as Amir’s fingers worked her, a slow, circling pressure that made her thighs tremble. She shook her head, a mute, helpless gesture.
“No,” she whispered.
“Would you like to be?” Amir’s question was not a command. It was an offering, whispered against the shell of her ear. “Would you let me have that? While your husband watches? While he is pleasured?”
Gill’s answer was a shattered, breathless, “Yes.”
The word hung in the air, a permission that charged the room with a new, electric current.
On the other side of the room, Sala gently pushed Pete down onto the edge of the bed. “On your back,” he instructed, his voice firm yet gentle. Pete complied, lying back against the silken sheets, his heart hammering. Sala knelt on the floor, pushing Pete’s legs apart. He took Pete’s already hardening length into his mouth without preamble, not with Amir’s brutal efficiency, but with a slow, worshipful devotion that made Pete cry out.
His tongue was a flat, warm wave, swirling around the head before he took him deep, his throat opening in a way that felt impossible, incredible. Pete’s fingers tangled in Sala’s dark curls, not to guide him, but to anchor himself to the sensation.
He forced his eyes open, not wanting to miss a second of what was happening across the room.
Amir had laid Gill on her stomach on the bed, a pillow tucked beneath her hips, raising her up. He was kneeling behind her, a bottle of oil in his hand. He poured a generous amount onto the small of her back, watching it trace a glistening path down the curve of her spine and into the cleft of her ass. He spread it with his palms, massaging her cheeks with a firm, deliberate pressure.
“Relax, habibti,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. “The body is made for this pleasure. You must only allow it.”
Pete watched, mesmerized, as Amir’s oil-slick thumb found her center, stroking her, preparing her, before sliding lower. He circled her tight, hidden rosebud with a precision that made Gill shudder, a low whimper caught in her throat.
“Easy,” Amir soothed, his touch relentless. “Breathe for me.”
Sala chose that moment to redouble his efforts, his mouth a vacuum of pleasure, his hand cupping and gently squeezing Pete’s balls. The dual sensation—watching his wife being prepared for a new, forbidden act while being expertly serviced—was dizzying. Pete’s hips lifted off the bed, a broken sob escaping him.
He saw Amir position himself. He saw the broad, slick head of his cock press against Gill’s most intimate entrance. Gill tensed, her fingers clutching the sheets.
“Look at your husband,” Amir commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Gill’s head turned, her eyes, wide and dark with a mix of fear and wild arousal, found Pete’s. Their gazes locked.
Amir pushed.
Gill’s eyes flew open wider, a sharp, startled cry torn from her lips. Pete saw the brief flash of pain on her face, and his own body clenched in sympathy, in a strange, shared sensation. Sala swallowed him deeper, his throat working around Pete’s length, a distraction and a comfort all at once.
“It’s… it’s so much,” Gill gasped, her voice trembling.
“I know, habibti,” Amir murmured, holding perfectly still, buried to the hilt. He leaned over her, kissing her shoulder blade. “The stretch is intense. But it will become pleasure. I promise you. Look at him. See how beautiful he is. See how he is being loved.”
Pete held her gaze, pouring every ounce of his own overwhelming sensation into that look. I’m here. I’m with you. This is ours.
Amir began to move. A slow, infinitesimal retreat, then a careful, rocking thrust back in. Gill’s cry this time was different. It was pitched higher, edged with something that was no longer just pain. It was shock. It was awakening.
That’s it, Pete thought, his own breath coming in ragged pants around Sala’s mouth. Let it happen.
As Amir established a slow, deep rhythm, a rolling cadence that made Gill’s entire body sway, Sala released Pete’s cock with a wet pop. He rose up onto the bed, his body lean and golden in the dim light. He positioned himself between Pete’s legs, lifting his hips. Pete felt the slick, firm head of Sala’s cock press against him, a sensation now terrifyingly familiar and endlessly thrilling.
“Now you,” Sala whispered, his hazel eyes burning with intent. “Now us.”
He pushed inside, sheathing himself in Pete’s heat in one smooth, confident stroke. Pete cried out, the fullness a perfect, grounding counterpoint to the scene unfolding beside them.
They moved in a devastating synchrony. Amir thrust into Gill, and on the same beat, Sala thrust into Pete. The room filled with the sound of their joined rhythm: the slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the low, masculine groans, and Gill’s rising, keening moans that were now pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Pete was the nexus. He felt every one of Sala’s deep strokes reverberate through him, and he watched every one of Amir’s thrusts ripple through his wife’s body. He saw the moment her pain fully transformed, saw the ecstasy seize her, her face a mask of stunned, breathless rapture. She was lost in it, consumed by the new, overwhelming sensation, her eyes glazed as they held his.
Sala’s pace quickened, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. His lean body was slick with sweat, muscles coiling with the effort. He was chasing his climax, driving into Pete with a focused intensity that bordered on reverence. “You feel… incredible,” Sala grunted, his voice strained. “So tight. So perfect.”
Pete could only gasp, his own release coiling, a tight spring deep in his gut. He was a conduit, a receiver of pleasure, connected to his wife by sight and sound and the mirrored rhythm of their bodies being taken.
Amir’s control fractured. His thrusts became powerful, animalistic, pounding into Gill with a force that shook the bed. Gill’s cries reached a fever pitch, sharp and continuous, signaling the imminent approach of her climax.
It was Sala who broke first. With a guttural, shuddering groan, he buried himself deep inside Pete, his body tensing as his release pulsed hot and deep. The feeling of it, the intimate, liquid heat, was the final trigger for Pete. His own orgasm ripped through him, a silent, searing explosion that left him blind and shaking.
Through the haze, he saw Amir drive into Gill one last, final time, holding himself there as a long, ragged moan was torn from his throat. Gill’s body went rigid, then convulsed around him, her own climax crashing over her in a wave so powerful it was a silent scream.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their harsh, ragged breathing in the perfumed air. Slowly, carefully, both men withdrew. Pete felt empty, spent, every nerve humming. Gill lay limp and trembling beneath Amir.
They were cleaned with warm, damp cloths by Amir and Sala with a practised, gentle efficiency that felt both intimate and strangely impersonal. The silence was heavy, satiated. Robes were produced, and they were guided to their feet, their bodies feeling loose and boneless.
As they were led, almost dreamily, back through the spa’s winding corridors, Pete’s mind began to slowly drift back from the heights of pleasure. They approached the main entrance, the real world waiting just beyond the doors.
And then they saw them. A couple, perhaps in their late fifties, stood at the reception desk. He was tall and ruddy-faced, with a kind of golf-club heartiness. She was elegantly dressed, her blonde hair in a chic bob. English, Pete thought absently. The man, Steve, laughed at something the concierge said, his hand resting possessively on the small of the woman’s—Katie’s—back. She smiled, a polite, reserved thing, but her eyes… her eyes flickered past Pete and Gill, toward the dim corridor from which they’d just emerged. There was a curiosity there. A flicker of something… hungry.
Amir, standing behind them, placed a hand lightly on Pete’s shoulder. His voice was a low, knowing murmur meant only for them. “We have many guests. The desert… it awakens a thirst in people.”
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