Abdul's Mistress

Abdul was put into an arranged marriage with Jamila, another woman from Morocco. It left you in an uncomfortable position. You'd never thought of yourself as the ... other woman. Other eunuch. Well, the only eunuch. You occasionally got a call from the business, telling you to be ready. So you'd get yourself cleaned, change your panties, put on your lipstick, and get ready for your man.

He entered just as you finished applying your makeup. He growled lustfully at you, pulling you up into his arms to kiss you soundly. He was strong. So strong. You melted against his muscular frame, surrendering your mouth to his.

He took you to bed; he'd never been the romantic type, and now you and he had to copulate in small doses. He slapped his big fat cock against your tiny remnant of a penis, the slap causing it to shake and shudder and leak.

"Please ... fuck me, Master," you whimpered, your hole already well lubed and spread. His beard scratched against your cheek as the heavy prick pushed against your hole, causing you to cry out as he penetrated you. You felt him bury, a little at a time. You wished he were more patience, but you weren't the only game in town anymore. You were a sidepiece. You squealed as he slid balls deep inside you, taking you forcefully. His cockhead pushed against your prostate, causing you to squirt out your impotent juices.

"Slut," he grunted, quickening his pace once more, clapping your cheeks. You moaned his name as he pounded you, and filled you -- filling your tight thick ass with his potent seed. You sighed. You wanted a cuddle. You wanted a kiss. But you knew your duty, as you soaped and cleaned him and sent him to his wife.