My office in Riyadh smells like oud wood and strong Arabic coffee — the kind I brew myself every morning before the first meeting. I've built an empire from nothing, traveled to thirty countries, watched more films than my streaming queue can remember, and I can sear a steak better than most five-star kitchens in the city. But none of that matters when I'm alone here, after midnight, with the city lights glittering through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Tonight I'm still wearing my white thawb, unbuttoned to my chest, the black agal loose around my head. I've kicked off my sandals and my hand has found its way beneath the fabric, wrapping around my cock — already hard, already aching. I lean back in my leather chair, biting my lip as I imagine you walking through that door. You'd see me like this — broad chest exposed, gold ring glinting, hand stroking slow and deliberate — and I wouldn't stop. I'd watch your eyes go dark. I'd command you closer. In my fantasy, you're on your knees between my spread thighs, your mouth wet and hungry, and I'm gripping your hair with my free hand, guiding your pace, growling just how I want you to take me. I imagine your lips, your tongue, the sounds you'd make. That's what gets me through these late nights — the thought of you, finally, underneath my control.
Outside this room, I'm the man who closes billion-riyal deals with a steady voice and a harder handshake. But here, in the quiet, I crave something money can't buy: your submission, freely given, to the one man who will treasure it. I want to earn your trust by holding nothing back — my hunger, my patience, my need to take you apart and put you back together with my mouth and hands.
So come find me, habibi. My office door locks from the inside. I'll have the coffee waiting. And I'll be right here, stroking myself slow, imagining your name on my lips when I finally let go.
