Musab stood outside Maryam’s apartment door, the address still folded in his pocket. The building was older, a low-rise with chipped paint and a buzzer that didn’t work. He’d found her unit on the third floor by smell alone—cardamom and damp towel, just like before. He knocked twice.
The door swung open. Maryam stood there in a loose tank top and shorts, her straight black hair falling past her shoulders. She looked nervous, but her eyes lit when she saw him. “You came.”
“I said I would.” He stepped inside. The apartment was small—a futon against the wall, a cluttered desk, a single lamp. What caught his eye was the tripod in the corner, a DSLR mounted on it with a red light blinking. Beside it, a phone on a stand, the screen split into a live-feed preview and a comments section already scrolling.
“I set it up earlier,” she said, closing the door. “The live goes out to my subscribers. About forty people watching right now. But I can edit afterward—mute audio, blur faces. Yours won’t show.”
He walked to the camera, peered through the viewfinder: the futon in frame, the pillows arranged just so. “You do this a lot?”
“Enough.” She came to stand beside him. “They like it when it’s real. No scripting.”
Musab turned, his eyes traveling her body. The tank top clung to her dusky skin, the outline of her nipples visible. She caught his gaze and swallowed. “I’m ready.”
“Then let’s not keep them waiting.” He grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head. Her breasts were full, darker nipples hard in the lamplight. She stepped out of her shorts, naked in seconds, her brown body gleaming. He saw wetness already between her thighs. “You’re excited.”
She bit her lip. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
He undressed slower, letting her watch. Her eyes dropped to his cock as it hardened, and she licked her lips. “Jesus, Musab.”
“Turn around. Hands on the futon.” He kept his voice low, rough enough to make her shiver. She obeyed, her ass presented, her cunt glistening. He stepped behind her, ran a hand over the curve of her hip, then slapped her ass cheek. It echoed, and she gasped. The comment feed on the phone accelerated—he couldn’t read the words but he knew the tone.
He pushed inside her in one thrust, wet and tight, and she cried out. “Fuck—yes—” He set a hard pace immediately, his balls slapping her wet skin, his hands gripping her hips. She moaned into the futon, a long, raw sound. He reached forward, tangled his hand in her hair, and pulled her head back. “You like being watched?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—”
He fucked her faster, the camera catching every inch. Her moans filled the room, broken by gasps. He pulled her hair harder, bent over her, his mouth at her ear. “Your fans are watching you get fucked. You hear them?” He nodded toward the phone. “They’re jerking off to you right now.”
She whimpered, her cunt clenching around him. “Musab—don’t stop—please—”
He didn’t. He drove into her until her legs shook, then he pulled out, spun her around, and dropped to his knees. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her clit. She bucked, her hands in his jet-black hair. “Oh God—oh fuck—don’t stop—”
He licked her until she came, her juices on his chin, her body convulsing. The phone screen blurred with comments: “That dick is massive,” “Wish it was me,” “Fuck her harder.” He saw them in flashes, then ignored them.
He stood, lifted her onto the futon, and spread her legs wide. “Look at me.” She did. He pushed inside her again, slow, deep, her feet on his shoulders. The angle made her eyes roll back. “You feel that?”
“Yes—yes—fuck me—”
He fucked her like that, missionary, deep, watching her face contort with each thrust. Her breasts bounced, her dusky body slick with sweat. He leaned down, kissed her hard, tongue pushing into her mouth. She moaned into him, her legs tightening around his neck. “I’m gonna cum again—”
“Cum for them. Let them see it.”
She did, a high cry tearing from her throat, her body arching off the futon. Her cunt pulsed around him, and he rode through it, then flipped her onto her stomach. He entered her from behind again, faster now, his own climax building. He gripped her hips, pounded into her, her ass rippling with each impact. “You want me to cum inside you?”
“Yes—do it—fill me—”
He buried himself deep, his release spilling into her, his groan long and low. He stayed there, panting, their bodies flushed together. She was trembling.
The camera still blinked red. The phone kept scrolling—new comments, hearts, tips. Maryam’s hand found his on the sheets. “That was—fuck—”
He pulled out slowly, lay on his back. She curled against him, her head on his chest. Sweat cooled on their skin. The room smelled of sex and cardamom.
After a moment, she reached for the phone, tapped the screen, and the live feed ended. The red light on the camera went dark. “They loved it. I got a hundred dollars just in tips. And a lot of requests for you to do a reverse cowgirl next time.”
Musab laughed, a short exhale. “They can request all they want.”
She propped herself on an elbow, looked at him. “You’re really good at this. For your age, I mean.”
“You’re not so bad yourself. For any age.”
She smiled, then her expression sobered. “Better than your girls? Arsala? Armish?”
He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, felt the weight of her body against his. “They’re different.”
She didn’t press. Her finger traced a line down his chest, slow. “We can do this again. I don’t want you to think I’m just using you for content. I like you, Musab. And this—what we did—it can stay a secret. I’m good at keeping secrets. You can trust me.”
He turned his head, met her eyes. They were earnest, dark, hopeful. He thought of Armish, of Arsala, of Fizbah, of the web he was weaving. “If it stays secret. You don’t tell anyone. Not a name, not a description. No one.”
“I promise.” She leaned up, kissed his cheek, soft. “So we’re good?”
He reached up, ran his hand through her black hair, tucked a strand behind her ear. “We’re good.”
She smiled, lay back down, her body settling against his. The radiator hissed. The lamp flickered. Outside, the city hummed. Musab closed his eyes, felt her breath slow, and listened to the quiet.
Maryam stirred against his chest, her breath warm on his skin. She reached for the phone on the floor beside the futon, her fingers stretching, the movement pulling her dusky body taut. She tapped the screen, scrolled, and a smile spread across her face. “You want to hear what they said?”
He opened his eyes, glanced at her. “Depends. Did I embarrass myself?”
“The opposite.” She propped herself on an elbow, angled the phone so he could see the comments section. The live was over, but the replay still scrolled—hearts, tips, usernames, sentences. She read one aloud, her voice slipping into a mock-serious announcer tone: “'I've never seen her cum that hard. That dick is doing the work of a higher power.'”
Musab laughed, a short huff. “Poetic.”
“There's more.” She scrolled, her eyes scanning. “'Bro is clinically illegal with that pace. Someone check his birth certificate.'”
“Okay, that one's funny.”
“Wait.” She held up a hand, giggled. “'I think my phone screen just got pregnant watching this.'”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Your subscribers are idiots.”
“Loyal, paying idiots.” She scrolled further, her thumb dragging through the feed. Then her smile faltered. Just a flicker. She read the next one quietly, almost to herself: “'Is that the soccer guy from Scholar's Academy? He has that same tattoo on his ribs.'”
The room went still. The radiator continued its hiss, the lamp cast its steady glow, but something cold settled in Musab's chest. He kept his voice level. “Let me see that.”
Maryam turned the phone toward him. The username was a generic string of numbers. The comment had no replies—yet. He stared at the words, memorized the timestamp. Two minutes after the live ended. Someone in that chat had recognized him. The tattoo was small, a script on his left ribs, visible when he arched his back—she'd caught it in missionary when Maryam's legs were on his shoulders.
“It could be nothing,” Maryam said quickly. “They could be guessing. Wrong tattoo. Random.”
He handed the phone back. “Delete that comment. And block the account.”
She did it without a question, her fingers moving fast. “Done. It never happened.”
He lay back, stared at the ceiling. The cracked paint. The water stain in the corner shaped like a fish. The city hummed beyond the walls, a distant siren. He thought of Armish's face when she found out—not if, when. Thought of Arsala's quiet fury, the way her eyes would go dark before she spoke. Thought of Fizbah, who was a secret already, and now Maryam, who was a different kind of risk entirely.
Maryam set the phone aside, propped her chin on his chest. “I said I could keep a secret. I meant it.”
“I know.”
“But you're scared.”
He didn't answer. His hand found her hair, ran through the straight black strands. She was warm against him, her body still soft from the sex, her scent mixed with his. “Scared isn't the word.”
“Then what is?”
He thought about it. “Careful. I have to be careful.”
She nodded, her chin moving against his sternum. “You can stay the night. If you want. No cameras. No live. Just—sleep. I don't want to be alone right now.”
He checked his phone—three messages from Armish asking how practice went, one from Arsala saying she missed him, a meme from Sameer that he ignored. He typed a quick reply to Armish: Late practice. Coach had us running drills till dark. See you tomorrow. Sent it before he could think too hard about the lie.
“You're a good liar,” Maryam said. She must have seen the screen.
“I'm learning.”
She laughed, but it was soft, not mocking. “Lying gets easier the more you do it. But the guilt gets heavier.” She traced a finger down his chest, over his abs, stopped at his hip. “I know because I've lied to my parents about this—the OnlyFans. They think I work at a café. Every time I cash a check, I tell myself it's the last one.”
“Is it?”
“No.” She met his eyes. “Because the money is good, and the attention feels better than anything else I've found. And then you showed up, and now—I don't know. It feels different. Less like performing. More like something real.”
He didn't have a response to that. The weight of her words settled in the room, thicker than the cardamom, warmer than the radiator. He turned his head, caught sight of her cluttered desk in the lamplight—a pile of textbooks, a half-empty cup of tea, a letter with her real name on it. Maryam Ali. Not a username. Not a screen name. Just her.
“I should go,” he said. The words came out before he'd decided them.
“You don't have to.”
“I know.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she shifted, swung a leg over his hips, straddled him. She was still naked, her brown body catching the light, her hair falling forward. She pressed a hand to his chest, felt his heartbeat. “You can leave. But I want you to know something before you do.” She leaned down, her mouth close to his ear. “I've never let anyone cum inside me before you. Not on camera. Not off. You're the first.”
He felt his pulse quicken under her palm. His hands found her hips, thumbs tracing the curve of her waist. “Why me?”
“Because you didn't ask.” She pulled back, looked at him. “You just—took it. Like it was yours. And I wanted to give it to you.”
The words hung in the air, honest and raw. He felt the pull of her body, the heat of her cunt against his half-hard cock, the weight of her trust. He could stay. He could leave. Either choice would change something.
He sat up, lifting her with him, her legs wrapping around his waist. He held her there, her dusky skin against his, her breath on his lips. “I'll stay. But we sleep. I have an early thing tomorrow.”
She smiled, kissed him once, then slid off, lay down on her side. He settled beside her, his arm pulling her close, her back against his chest. The futon creaked. The lamp flickered once, steadied. The radiator ticked as it cooled.
In the dark, her hand found his on her hip. Her finger traced a slow line across his knuckles—a circle, a question mark. She didn't ask it aloud. Neither did he.
He closed his eyes, listened to her breathing slow, felt the shape of her body against his. The secret was safe tonight. But the morning was a different country, and he could already feel the border closing behind him.
The morning came grey through Maryam's thin curtains, the radiator ticking as it reheated. Musab woke to her body already shifting against him, her hand sliding down his stomach, her lips pressing into his shoulder blade. She said nothing, just pushed herself up on an elbow and looked at him, her brown eyes tired but hungry. "Can I have it one more time?"
She rode him slow, her straight black hair falling forward, her hands planted on his chest. She rolled her hips with a tenderness that hadn't been there last night — no camera, no audience, just her breath and his and the creak of the futon. He watched her face, the way her lips parted, the way she held his gaze when she came. She didn't collapse. She just stopped moving, sat there on him, her cunt still clenching around his cock, and pressed a hand to his throat. "Thank you. For everything. For being real."
He came inside her again — couldn't help it, the way she looked at him — and she stayed there, letting him empty into her, her thighs slick and warm. Then she slid off, walked naked to the bathroom, and came back with a towel for both of them. He dressed in silence. She didn't ask him to stay this time. At the door, she kissed him once, soft, her hand on his jaw. "You know where to find me."
His apartment felt too big when he got home. He showered, checked his phone — three texts from Armish asking about practice, one from Arsala saying miss your face, a group chat from the team. He replied to none of them. He lay on his bed, stared at the ceiling, listened to the city hum. He did not go to school.
They found him at three in the afternoon. Armish let herself in with the spare key, Arsala behind her, both still in their uniforms. Armish stopped at the foot of his bed, her ponytail swinging, her arms crossed. "You skipped."
"Didn't feel good." He didn't sit up.
Arsala walked to the window, looked out at the afternoon light. "You never skip. And you didn't answer our texts." Her voice was quieter than Armish's. Careful. "Where were you last night?"
"Here. After practice."
Armish tilted her head. "Practice ended at six. I texted you at nine. You didn't reply till almost eleven."
He sat up, ran a hand through his jet-black hair. "Went for a walk. Needed to clear my head. Phone was on silent." The lie came easy now, smoother than it should. "Coach was riding me about the tournament, Sameer was being an idiot, I just needed to be alone."
Armish's jaw softened first. She stepped closer, sat on the edge of the bed, her hand finding his knee. "You could have told me. I would have left you alone." She pushed her hair back from her face, looked at him with those dark eyes, and the worry in them made his stomach turn. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry." He said it and meant part of it.
Arsala turned from the window. Her gaze lingered on him a moment too long, but then she shook her head, walked over, and dropped onto the bed on his other side, her petite frame bouncing the mattress. "You owe us a lazy day. No soccer, no drama. Just us." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "Deal?"
"Deal."
She patted Armish's thigh, stood. "Good. I'm going home to change. Armish, you stay. Make sure he doesn't run off." She leaned down, kissed Musab's temple, then Armish's lips — quick, proprietary. "Tonight, I'm coming back with snacks. And we are having a proper threesome. No rushing, no interruptions. Armish, you get him first — you've been sharing him with the world this week, you deserve a private turn." She winked, grabbed her bag, and was gone.
The shower was hot and tight, Armish's long legs wrapped around his waist, her back pressed against the tile. The water ran over her olive skin, her ponytail undone, her black hair plastered to her shoulders. She kissed him with her eyes open, her hands gripping his wet shoulders. "I missed you," she whispered, and he pushed into her, slow and deep, the steam curling around them. Her moan was muffled against his mouth, her nails digging into his skin. He fucked her there, in the standing water, her body sliding against his, and when she came she buried her face in his neck and bit down, her whole body shuddering against him.
He carried her to the bed, dried her with a towel, and they lay there naked, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds. She traced patterns on his chest, her leg hooked over his. "You're not okay," she said. "I can feel it. Something's different."
He didn't answer. He pulled her closer, kissed the top of her head. "I'm fine. Just tired." She didn't push. She fell asleep on his chest, her breath slow, her hand curled over his heart. He stayed awake, watching the light change across the room, the weight of what he had to do settling in his ribs like a stone.
Arsala returned at eight with bags of chips, two bottles of Coke, and a tin of homemade samosas from her mother's kitchen. She changed into shorts and a loose tank top, her short black hair still damp from her own shower. They ate on the bed, crumbs in the sheets, Arsala's feet in Musab's lap, Armish leaning against his shoulder. They laughed at a video Arsala found on her phone, argued about which movie to put on, settled on nothing — just talked, the three of them, the room warm and easy, the city humming outside.
Later, they fucked. Slow at first, Arsala between them, then Armish, then Musab, a tangle of limbs and breath and shared pleasure. Arsala's hands in his hair while he ate her out, Armish's fingers in Arsala's mouth, the three of them moving together like a single body. No jealousy. No hurry. Just heat and trust and the sound of each other's gasps. When it was done, they lay in a pile, skin cooling, Arsala's head on his chest, Armish curled into his side, the lamp casting long shadows across the dirty dishes on the nightstand.
The silence settled. Comfortable. Full. The radiator clicked once, twice, then steadied. Arsala's hand found his on her hip, her thumb tracing his knuckles, the same circle Maryam had drawn last night. His chest tightened.
"Girls." His voice came out lower than he meant. He felt them both shift, felt their attention turn toward him. "I need to tell you something."