Zara & Ali: Are We Angry?
Read this if you want a little more of a challenge, if you’re feeling spicy. The story is full of drama, rough sex, and provocative dialogue between a woke social justice warrior and a shady financier with terrorist connections. It’s like a sweet, over-brewed cup of Chai tea with too much cardamom. Maybe it’s not for you. I wrote it anyway. I was feeling contrarian. Or maybe cantankerous. But Zara enjoys the cum on her face, so….
** A note to all the randy gents who read this— If your partner wants you this story, it doesn’t mean they also want you to fuck them in the ass without lube! I mean, maybe…but you should definitely ask first…** Another note to all the beautiful, sensitive souls out there— The sex scene in Ch. 17 is pretty intense. It has to be like that. Ali and Zara did it naturally and it fits the emotional arc of the story. But be cognizant of your reaction, and take care of yourself.
Please check out excerpts from Zara & Ali below. I’ve included Chapters 1 and 2, as well as a spicy excerpt. I hope you enjoy!
And just in case you already want to purchase the full Zara & Ali novella, please click the button below.
Chapter 1
Astoria, Queens
August 2024
Zara frowned, narrowing her eyes at the line of cars parked along the sidewalk in front of her, paint shimmering in the hot summer sun. The Neighborhood Place Senior Center was a chunky five-story red brick building that aggressively re-broadcast all the heat it had absorbed so far during the day. The asphalt bounced even more radiation into Zara’s eyes, making her squint, annoyed that she had forgotten her sunglasses. It was over ninety degrees, humid and breezeless, the putrid scent of trash from a nearby dumpster infusing the air with an eye-watering haze. Because it was a Friday afternoon in August, traffic was slow at the moment, but the sound of e-bikes whizzing and horns blaring formed a low-level cacophony, putting Zara’s nerves on edge.
Jayla, her Program Director, was ten minutes out, driving a school bus full of children ready to sing at their final performance before summer camp ended, but there wasn’t enough space for the bus to pull up to the curb. Most of the cars had live-parked, with hazards blinking and nobody at the wheel, probably because they were waiting for a client inside. Zara sighed, considering whether she should go into the senior center and ask people to clear a little space. She didn’t want the bus to park across the street, since a dozen homeless folks were hanging around outside McDonald’s, shouting and laughing. She saw liquor bottles glinting in the sun and smelled weed, which made her presume that harder drugs were also present. It wasn’t a good place to drop the kids.
Zara fluffed her blazer, trying to evaporate some of the sweat dribbling down her armpits and under her breasts. Although wearing shorts and a tank top would have been more comfortable, she refused to dress down. Nobody wanted to respect a black woman, even an NYU PhD candidate who went to Brown undergrad and founded her own nonprofit, so Zara took every chance available to assert her professionalism and authority. A light blue seersucker pantsuit with hot pink Rothy’s was as casual as she’d get during the summer, except on camp days at Rainey Park when she’d wear the CommonKids t-shirt along with her counselors. Zara’s makeup was professional as well, with just a little highlighter to make her burnt caramel skin shine and curling mascara to emphasize her dark almond-shaped eyes. Her lips were plump and full, glossed over by a stick of Burt’s Bees, and she had smoothed her curly black hair with a bit of leave-in conditioner, which ended up halfway between a fro and a beauty queen blowout. Although most men appreciated her beauty, some women found it tiresome, which meant Zara always tried to look pleasant but simple.
Two cars pulled out, making just enough room for the bus. As Zara walked over to save the space, a dark Mercedes with black tinted windows roared up to the curb, its engine growling and echoing around the block before cutting out. Zara scowled, crossing her arms. Her father was a mechanic out in Cambria Heights and she had been watching him repair luxury cars since she was a kid. It took her less than a second to appraise the vehicle—an S-Class sedan, done in custom grey metallic paint, probably the AMG spec with a V-12 based on the sound, although she couldn’t be totally sure since it was debadged.
The door snapped open and a slick character emerged, wearing a dark grey suit and aviator sunglasses. He was a little over six feet tall, muscular and graceful, moving with purpose as he shut the door and tugged the lapels of his jacket. At first, Zara thought he might be a light-skinned black man, since his dark hair was cropped short and his beard cut sharply along his jawline, with a thin mustache and crisp fade up the cheek. But his nose was too strong, a little hooked. Zara pegged him as Arab, handsome and fastidious.
“Hey,” she called as he crossed in front of his car and stepped onto the sidewalk. “I have a bus full of kids coming in five minutes. Do you mind?”
As he pulled his sunglasses down and spun to face her, Zara felt the man’s attention, a wave of intense energy, powerful and focused, just a little aggressive. His eyes met hers and she shivered. Zara didn’t like it. Clenching her jaw, she strode up to him. The man was only a few inches taller than she was, and Zara stared him right in the face as his gaze traveled over her body.
“Do I mind what?” he asked, his voice smooth, somewhat amused.
“Do you mind moving?” Zara stated, not bothering to hide her irritation. “This spot is mine for my bus.”
That made the man smile, scoffing a little as he looked around. “What bus?”
“My bus full of kids coming in five minutes. There’s no space. That’s where we’re going to park.”
“Why do you have a bus full of kids coming to an old people’s home?” His interest wasn’t genuine. Zara could tell he was messing with her.
“They’re doing a performance. Are you going to move?”
“Why don’t you ask the other cars to move?”
Zara scowled. “Because all the drivers are inside. And because that spot was clear, until you took it.”
He cocked his head at her, full lips pursed, sunglasses twisting between his first two fingers. “Okay. But only if you watch my car while I’m inside. I don’t want anyone to scratch it.”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
The man laughed. “All right, beautiful. No reason to get angry. I’ll only be inside for a minute. I’ll save the spot for you.” Then he strode away, pausing to let the automated doors slide open before he entered the building.
Zara fumed. She stomped up and down the sidewalk as she called Jayla, her Program Director, driving the bus.
“Hey, Jay, there’s no parking. Some jerk took the spot I was trying to save for us,” Zara snapped, before realizing how irritated she sounded and toning her voice down. “I’ll see if I can ask people to move.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re stuck in traffic. There’s construction on Astoria Boulevard. It’ll probably be at least ten minutes.”
“All right.” Zara sighed. “Hopefully, somebody will leave soon. Drive safely.”
“Will do.”
After a few minutes, the man re-emerged, holding a file folder in one hand and his jacket in the other. The white collared shirt he wore had been perfectly tailored to emphasize his flat abs and muscular chest. It was unbuttoned a few inches, showing smooth olive skin.
“Still here?” He grinned. “But no bus yet?”
Zara refused to answer.
“Do you want a traffic cone? I saw some down the street by the school.”
“Why don’t you just go?”
He opened the passenger door, tossing the folder and his jacket inside, then leaned against the dark silver paint. “I’m saving you the spot, remember? What’s your name, pretty girl?”
“Don’t call me that. My name is Zara.”
“Ah, Zahrah.” He said her name using the Arabic pronunciation, adding a couple of “h’s” and rolling over the soft “r.”
“No, it’s Zara.”
“But your name is Arabic, is it not? A beautiful flower. Blooming in the night. It’s appropriate.”
“No, my parents named me after the clothing store.” The man’s teasing irritated her enough that Zara couldn’t stop herself from biting back. He was too slick, too self-assured. It had been a long time since anyone like that had hit on her.
He laughed, a short chuckle that showed off perfect white teeth. “That would be very American of them.”
“Neither of my parents is American,” Zara snapped. “My father’s from Jamaica and my mother is Japanese.”
“Ah, they’re immigrants.” He spread his hands. “Just like me.”
Zara didn’t want to ask, but she thought that maybe indulging him would make him leave sooner. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Jordanian. But I’ve been here a long time.”
“Hmm...” Zara tapped her foot and scanned the street, annoyed that her bus hadn’t arrived yet.
“And why are your children performing for the old people?” he asked, still twirling his sunglasses, his pose deliberately relaxed, a pretentious type of sprezzatura as he leaned against his $300,000 car.
Zara huffed. “I run a nonprofit for children. One of the things we do is community service. We come here every few months.”
“Ah. And what is your nonprofit called?”
“CommonKids. Are you going to move now?”
“In a moment.” He met her eyes again, his stare intense but measured. Zara felt her stomach flutter. It annoyed her that he was her type—well-dressed and fit, with golden skin and beautiful hazel green eyes. “Do you have a business card?”
“No,” she replied, looking away.
He chuckled. “And she’s a liar, too. How will you teach the children integrity?”
“Fine.” Zara scowled, yanking open her canvas tote and digging around for her cardholder. She snapped the plastic case open and flipped a card out, holding it as far away from herself as possible. When the man took the card, he deliberately slid his hand down her fingertips. Electricity shivered over Zara’s skin, prickling her arm hair. She shook her head, annoyed that her body had betrayed her so easily. “Do you have a card for me?”
“No,” he replied, with a smile. His eyes flickered to the side. “Your bus is here.”
Zara crossed her arms and turned away from him, deliberately focusing on the bus while it pulled up.
“You’re welcome,” the man added, as he crossed to the driver’s side of his car and opened the door. “Salamati, Zahrah.”
Zara watched him slide his aviators on and slip into the Mercedes. Its engine roared, the sound reverberating off the blocky façade of the senior center and rolling down the street. He pulled away quickly, dipping in front of the bus and cutting off a Corolla that was trying to switch lanes.
After the bus parked, Jayla hopped out. She was a petite Haitian woman, lean and strong, who wore her hair in long braids laced with red ribbon. She’d been with Zara since the beginning, when CommonKids only operated on weekends during the school year and had yet to start the summer camp in July and August. After earning her MEd a year ago, Jayla had stepped into the Program Director role, when she also got a job as a 4th-grade teacher at PS 234. Unlike Zara, Jayla dressed casually in a black t-shirt and jean shorts. But she still winced at the summer heat after being in an air-conditioned bus for so long.
“Nice car,” Jayla commented, fanning herself with a CommonKids brochure.
“Yeah.” Zara looked sour. “Driven by a fucking asshole.”
Chapter 2
New York University
“Okay,” Zara said. “I’ll schedule the focus groups sometime in the next few weeks before school starts up again. CommonKids Camp is over, so I have time. And there are enough volunteers now, plus I confirmed IRB approval.”
“Great,” replied Dr. Bedi, her ancient chair squeaking as she leaned back. Dr. Bedi’s office was tiny, with bare white walls and two old, scratched maple bookcases. The shelves were filled with books about child development, social work research, and counseling. Sunlight beamed in from a small window, casting a brilliant yellow square across the desk, highlighting stacks of student papers covered with scribbled notes. “You can see my calendar. We probably need at least half a day per session, including prep and debrief. Wednesdays and Fridays are best.”
“Got it.” Zara shifted in her uncomfortable wooden chair as she typed. She was a clinical social work PhD student at NYU and one of the projects she’d been working on was a survey to screen for parental intimate partner violence (IPV), which could be used with children. Developing the tool had been a long and delicate process, made even more stressful because Zara really wanted to do a good job. Growing up in the hood, she had witnessed how poverty and hopelessness could lead to violence. She had also seen how so many medical and mental health professionals basically ignored the warning signs, never digging deeper to understand the needs of poor black and brown children. When she was in college, Zara had felt overwhelmed and frustrated by the magnitude of the problem. Now that she was older, she realized that she could use her power to help others, to speak out on behalf of those who were always ignored. Finishing her notes, Zara closed her laptop. “I really appreciate your advice and support. I know you already have enough going on.”
Dr. Bedi waved a wrinkled brown hand, her face crinkling into a smile behind thick glasses. “It’s the summer. And I like your project. Most social workers think about domestic violence and how it impacts children, but we’re often operating in the dark. It’s a difficult subject, hard to approach. The more culturally sensitive we can be, and the more we can allow the people we serve to guide us, the better our work will be.”
“I know. Most of my kids—at CommonKids, I mean—have complicated home lives. I don’t usually think abuse or neglect is going on. Honestly, most of their parents are great, doing the absolute best they can to give their kids a good life.” Zara stood up, rolling her shoulders and flapping the back of her navy-blue jacket. Although the office was supposedly air-conditioned, it had become humid and warm as they spoke with the door closed. “But you can never tell for sure, so I’m hoping we can make the children feel safe enough to speak to us, and then ask the right questions.”
Dr. Bedi rose and followed Zara to the door. “It’s good work, Zara. Keep it up. I think the focus groups will go well. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”
Zara nodded. “I will. Thank you again.”
As she walked to the cafeteria, navigating a mix of recently renovated white halls and dingy old stairways, Zara made a mental to-do list for the next few hours. In addition to the focus groups, Zara needed to send an email blast to the CommonKids mailing list, reminding parents to register for the fall term. During the school year, the weekend program enrolled up to 120 children, ages 5-12. It was a full day, including pick up and drop off for kids whose families couldn’t manage it. They always had a waitlist, so if parents weren’t timely with registration or paperwork, Zara had to disenroll them, even though she didn’t want to. It was also time to finalize the CommonKids fall budget, which was particularly tricky because the Trump administration had threatened to cut government funding for social services. Zara knew the impact would hit her level soon, putting their budget in jeopardy. In addition to being more aggressive with private fundraising, CommonKids might have to start asking clients to contribute, a prospect that Zara found upsetting since it would cause many families to disenroll, hurting the children. Government was supposed to support nonprofits, to help lift everyone up. Zara knew that the changes weren’t personal, but she still felt discouraged that everything she had built over the past five years might fall apart even if she worked as hard as she could to sustain it.
After buying a coffee and settling into a small table at the back of the cafeteria, Zara took a moment to close her eyes and manage her growing anxiety. A wall of windows flanked her, bright light streaming in to shine on the white tile floors and light wood furniture. There weren’t many students around on a Monday morning in the summer, so all she heard was the hum of air conditioners and the coffee shop attendant taking orders. Zara completed a sequence of deep breaths, counting mentally and using each exhale to relax a different muscle group. It was a technique she’d learned while studying restorative yoga in her first year at NYU, which she often used with her kids if they became emotionally dysregulated. When she finished, she smiled.
One of the best parts about becoming a counselor was being able to apply what she learned to her own life. Zara had always been high-strung and driven, super smart but sensitive to conflict and easily overwhelmed. As a teenager and in college, she had experimented with all sorts of things to manage her anxiety, including weed, molly, alcohol, and other drugs, since they were so easy to access and everyone else used them. She’d hooked up with a lot of guys along the way, too, players and gangsters and horny college athletes. There had always been someone willing to share a joint and fuck hard enough for Zara to forget whatever might have been bothering her. Unfortunately, partying didn’t really help her cope in the long term. She’d always been so capable and had set herself so many goals, but pursuing those dreams had often felt hollow rather than exciting. When Zara came back to Queens after undergrad and founded CommonKids, she had been insanely stressed out, prompting one of her board members to recommend that she see a therapist. In therapy, Zara had learned how to manage her biological reactions to stress, as well as how to train her thoughts. Combined with starting her PhD and embracing the social work ethos of humility and community service, Zara had found what she was missing. It enabled her to excel even more and to finally be happy about it.
Zara was toggling through a few different budget forecasts in Excel, fiddling with the assumptions underlying her financial model and trying to avoid being discouraged, when her phone rang.
“Did you see?” Jayla exclaimed before Zara could even greet her.
“What?”
“Someone donated $100,000 this morning.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes! Look at the Funraise.”
Zara could hear Jayla fidgeting while she logged onto their account and checked the donations page. “Wow. You’re right. But it’s anonymous.”
“It is.” Jayla’s voice took on a conspiratorial cadence. “But I called Katie and she told me it’s from a foundation called Better Lives. You know she’s not supposed to tell us, but it was so unusual, she looked it up under the radar.”
“Do you think it’s a scam?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure. But Katie says they’re a legit 501(c)(3), registered in Delaware.”
“Fucking Delaware.”
“Meh. But whatever. That’s like three months of operating budget. It’s amazing.”
“Well, maybe not that much this year,” Zara replied, discouraged by her recent budgeting exercise. “But it’s still a lot. Did Katie give you any more information?”
“There was nothing listed. But the donations page has a phone number in the comments section.”
“For the donor?”
“I think so. It has to be.”
“Hmm...” Zara leaned back in her chair and frowned. “I guess I have to call them.”
“Yeah. I was going to, but it’s better coming from you. You’re the Executive Director.”
“Yeah. This is so weird.”
“I know. But good weird. Like, amazing weird.”
“Maybe.” Zara sighed. “Hopefully. I’ll call them now and we’ll see.”
“Let me know what they say. Call me right after. Immediately.”
Her friend’s enthusiasm made Zara chuckle, masking some of the nerves that had just started fluttering in her belly. “I will.”
“Okay, good. Talk to you soon.”
Before calling the number, Zara went pee and paced around the cafeteria several times. There was no reason for her to be nervous. She ought to be excited. Maybe she was just misinterpreting the feeling of excitement, coloring it with negativity because she feared the donation might fall through. Either way, she forced herself to stop procrastinating after about fifteen minutes, slipping her AirPods in and typing the number onto her iPhone. It rang twice before someone picked up.
“Hello?” The voice was young and male, with some kind of accent, Continental European, maybe.
“Hi,” Zara replied, keeping her tone crisp and professional. “This is Zara Campbell from CommonKids. I’m calling with regards to a donation made this morning on Funraise. I’d love to speak with someone about it. It was very generous and we’d like to thank them.”
The line went silent, long enough that Zara wondered if she had lost the connection. “Hello?”
“Yes,” the young man replied. “One moment, please.”
Fiddling with a pen, Zara waited. After another minute, she heard the line click and a new voice spoke. It was also male, but deeper and smoother, more self-assured.
“Yes?”
“Hi,” she replied again. “This is Zara Campbell from CommonKids. I’m calling about—”
“Ah,” the man interrupted. “You got my donation. I trust it’s helpful?”
“Yes. Of course. It was extremely generous. We wanted to thank you. Is there someone I can attribute it to? Internally only, of course.”
He laughed, triggering something in Zara’s memory, but not strongly enough for her to recognize exactly what she was recalling. “We’ve met before. You don’t remember?”
Zara frowned. “I’m sorry, I…”
“On Friday, at the old people’s home.”
“The S-class,” Zara murmured, her voice unintentionally flat.
“You liked my car? I’m glad.”
Zara shut her mouth, then clenched her jaw. She wasn’t sure how to respond now that she realized who he was.
“I’ll take you for a ride sometime,” the man continued. “You’ll like how smooth it is.”
The amusement in his voice irked Zara. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Ali.”
She huffed. “Ali what?”
“Khalil. Do you want to look me up? I can give you my X handle. Or Instagram.”
“No. I’m not on either of those platforms. I don’t have time for social media. Except the CommonKids accounts.”
“Too busy working, Zahrah? You should have fun sometime.”
“I have plenty of fun,” she snapped. With a sigh, Zara checked herself. Ali had just donated $100,000 to her nonprofit. She could be polite. “Sorry. I am busy. Thank you for helping. It will make a big difference for the kids.”
“I’m sure. If you truly want to thank me, you can have dinner with me tomorrow.”
“I’m not a whore. Fuck.” How did she just say that? He was going to take his money back now.
But Ali only laughed. “Fortunately, I’ve never paid for sex. I prefer when a beautiful woman offers herself to me freely.”
“Is that right?” Zara’s tone was acidic.
“It is. But I don’t plan to seduce you at Shmoné. It would be uncouth.”
“Where is that?”
“In the Village. It should be convenient for you coming from NYU. I booked an early table.”
“How do you know I’ll be at NYU?”
“Why wouldn’t you be? I assume you work there most days.”
This was true, although it annoyed Zara that Ali had sussed it. The information that she was a social work PhD student at NYU wasn’t hard to find, since she had a profile on the CommonKids website. Still, it bothered her that Ali had researched her, and then used that information to make his invitation more convenient. He was trying to manipulate her, even though he had disguised his actions as a courtesy.
“Why do you want to go out with me?” she asked, her voice blunt.
“Because you’re beautiful. And I like a challenge.”
“Because you’re bored?”
“Sometimes. But you’re also unique, intelligent. A warrior. I enjoy unusual women. You can say no.”
Zara sighed. “I’m not going to say no. It’s normal for an Executive Director to have dinner with a prominent donor.”
“I wouldn’t cancel the donation.”
“I’m not sure if I believe that. But…” Zara changed her tone, mirroring Ali’s amused nonchalance. “I’m just a social worker from Queens. How else am I going to afford eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant?”
“I thought you didn’t know what Shmoné was.”
“But I know how to Google shit. And multi-task.”
Ali chuckled. “We have an early reservation at six, although I could push back if you prefer.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you there.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Zara hung up, removing her AirPods and puffing out a long breath. She hadn’t realized how tense she was speaking to Ali. It was almost like sparring, fully engaging and intense. He projected such extreme confidence that she knew he was playing a game, displaying his power, trying to pull her in using his wealth and status. Guys like that were always attracted to her, from the wannabe gangbangers hitting on her while they hung around her dad’s shop waiting for him to trick out their cars, to the cocky football players draping their arms over her shoulder as she leaned against the wall sipping her drink during dorm parties. Although she still decided to sleep with some of them, it had always been easy to dismiss their bravado. Even the ones with cash were hollow inside, insecure, striving for some kind of dream they’d probably never achieve. Despite how much she had partied, Zara never took them seriously. She always knew that she wanted a real man, someone intelligent and talented, who followed through and worked hard.
When she had met Terrence her junior year at Brown, Zara thought she’d found the right kind of guy. He was reliable and smart, and their relationship was chill. It surprised her when they broke up after graduation, but he’d taken a job at Meta in Menlo Park and Zara knew she wanted to move back to NYC. In therapy afterwards, she realized that he had never met all of her needs anyway. Their sex was mediocre and Terrence had never wanted to do anything adventurous with her. During college, Zara had climbed mountains and backpacked in South America. She had been a team leader on Habitat for Humanity trips in Kenya and Indonesia, and she had co-founded a nonprofit that taught low-income children in Providence how to swim. Terrence had always supported her, but he had never joined in. He’d grown up even poorer than she was, in Englewood, and he never wanted to go back. Zara had admired everything about him, except that he could never bring himself to take a risk.
Zara had dated a handful of guys since coming back to NYC, and she’d always gone for the nice ones. Her lifestyle didn’t bring her into contact with assholes anymore, since she was too busy to go clubbing or get lost on Tinder. But somehow, Ali had found her and managed to manipulate her into having dinner with him. He was definitely more sophisticated than the men she’d hooked up with when she was younger. And Zara couldn’t dismiss his confidence as completely baseless. If he could drop a hundred k on a whim, just to ask a girl out, he was clearly wealthy and well-connected. That didn’t surprise her, given his background. He probably came from a rich family in Jordan, who set him up in NYC with a trust fund and guaranteed employment, nothing too difficult, something that left enough time to enjoy the nightlife. It bothered her that he didn’t have to work for what he had, that it came to him with such ease. Still, he had helped CommonKids at a time when their future was becoming precarious, and Zara wasn’t going to screw that up.
She unlocked her phone and dialed Jayla. “Jay. You’ll never guess who made that donation…”
Chapter 6 (Sex Scene Excerpt)
***
“Let’s dance,” Ali said, consuming the last of his whiskey.
Zara held Ali’s hand as he pushed to a spot to the right of the stage, close to the speakers and long black curtains. It was much louder there than at the bar, the space hot and crowded with bodies pressing together in a sweaty morass. The music blared, bumps and claps accompanied by a euphoric synthesizer, so loud that Zara couldn’t even hear it anymore, just feel it in her bones. People around her surged, shoulders popping along with the beat, arms flailing above them. Zara’s head spun. She was floating, her consciousness flooded with light and joy, puffy dreams and vivid clouds. She let go of the last wisp of anxiety that had been plaguing her. She was aware that Ali had gripped her hips from behind, grinding his cock against her ass in time with the beat. His presence comforted her. She knew he wasn’t as high as she was. She knew he would take care of her.
Zara arched her back and lifted her arms, head tossed back, leaning into Ali’s chest. She felt his fingers digging into her thighs, tugging at her short dress until it slipped up, exposing a black lace thong and the smooth skin of her bare ass. Ali’s cock was long and hard, probing, pushing between Zara’s ass cheeks, his suit pants barely containing him. He grabbed her breast, massaging the soft flesh and pinching her nipple until she gasped, the sound evaporating into vibrating waves of air. Ali’s other hand slipped between Zara’s thighs, sliding down the mound above her pussy and into the crack, tracing the line. Ali’s fingers pressed her thong so deep into the slick folds that Zara felt hot liquid stain the fabric. She moaned, covering his hand with her own, urging him to push harder, to slip his fingers further inside.
Ali pulled Zara out of the crowd, into a corner behind the thick velvet curtain, a space just deep enough for him to push her back up against the cold concrete wall. He kissed her, his tongue penetrating, his lips sucking. Zara clutched at Ali’s back, fingernails digging into his strong muscles, pulling his body to compress hers even harder, spreading her thighs so she could feel his thick dick rubbing against her pussy.
“Fuck,” she moaned.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Ali replied.
He slid to his knees and pulled her thong down, tossing it aside, before sliding his hands up her legs. Zara shivered, hips rolling as he kissed her, his tongue slipping into her crack. Ali’s mouth was so soft and slick, so hot and urgent. He sucked and teased her, his tongue circling her clit, his beard scratching her swollen skin as she whimpered and panted, until she felt warm liquid drip down her thighs. Ali slipped his fingers into Zara’s pussy, impaling her, violating her in a public place, with nothing but a dark curtain and pounding music to hide them. But Zara wanted Ali to fuck her. She needed him to release her. Ali was a bad boy, and Zara hadn’t had a man like that taste her since she was a teenager. His fingers rubbed her G-spot, building the tension while he flicked her clit with his tongue. Zara moaned and whimpered as loud as she could, allowing the deafening beat to swallow her pleasure. Ali sensed her need and licked faster, fingers pumping. Zara dug her nails into his scalp, urging him to be even rougher, to nip and suckle her until she screamed. She reached down to spread her pussy lips, exposing her raw clit to Ali’s tongue, to his teeth. When the orgasm burst, it was acute and painful. Stars exploded in her vision, drowning her in the black night. Ali kept licking Zara as her body convulsed, like a lion soothing his wild mate, prolonging her agony until she sagged against the wall, spent and gasping.
Standing up, Ali wiped his mouth. Zara grabbed him and bit his ear. “Fuck me now,” she ordered. “Fuck me, Ali.”
His cock was out in a moment, long and hard. He boosted her up on the wall, fingers digging into her ass, spreading her cheeks as he drove deep between her thighs. Ali filled her completely and Zara felt her pussy spasm around him, rippling as he pounded her. Her hands pawed at his shoulders, fingernails scratching.
Ali flipped Zara so that her face was pressed against the cold concrete, hands bracing her body, high heels slipping so that her legs spread even wider. He gripped her hips and plunged back inside. It was the angle they both craved, with his balls slapping against her lips and his cock driving into her G-spot again and again. Zara’s legs shook, the intense pleasure completely overwhelming her senses, condensing her world into nothing but Ali’s cock as it pierced her, filling her hot flesh. Zara screamed and Ali wrapped his hand over her mouth, silencing her agony. She licked his fingers, tongue slipping between the cracks, teeth biting at his flesh.
“Fuck yes,” he growled.
He guided her to the floor, spinning her around so that she was on her knees facing him. Ali shoved his dick deep into Zara’s throat. She took it, coughing and choking, her saliva drenching his hard cock as he fucked her mouth, fingers buried deep in her curls. She felt his penis turn to rock as he thrust balls deep, ass clenching, coming with a ferocious roar that resonated over the pounding music, threatening to expose them. Ali pulled out and hot liquid squirted over Zara’s lips, then her cheeks. She closed her eyes, sucking the head of his cock until he slumped forward, hands braced on the wall, panting.
Zara grabbed Ali’s arm and he pulled her up, his fingers slipping over her chin and cheeks and lips, sliding the cum into her mouth so that she could swallow it. He wiped her face with his sleeve and then kissed her, one hand cupping her cheek. Zara felt the cool wall on her ass, felt Ali’s sticky cock, still inflated, pressing between her thighs. Her pussy thrummed, a physical memory of how he’d pounded her so hard, how he’d made her shake and scream. The music pulsed in her bones, weed and alcohol making it exquisite and inevitable. Zara’s pussy felt so empty. Her body ached for more. She grabbed Ali’s hand and pulled it lower, pressing his fingers into the wet folds, grinding against his palm.
“More,” she whimpered. “Give me more. Make me come again. Make me come, Ali.”
Ali’s growl was feral. His fingers dug inside Zara, hooking into her G-spot as his thumb rubbed her clit. It was harsh and rough, but she needed the stimulation. Zara bit Ali’s bottom lip and gripped his ass, feeling his thick muscles flex as her nails dug into his flesh. He was so fucking hot, and he wanted her. He couldn’t control himself. He couldn’t wait until they got home. Zara screamed as the orgasm ripped through her body. Ali covered her mouth with his other hand and she yelled even louder, her pussy spasming, queefing, squirting hot liquid all over his fingers. When she finished, Ali held her up against the wall, his hand around her neck, nuzzling her.
“I’m going to fuck you again, Zara. I’m going to fuck you so hard and this time I want to hear you scream. Let’s go.”
***