Genuine true story of a white man and a Muslim teen in London

Genuine true story of a white man and a Muslim teen in London . Dad’s boss fucks petite tiny daughter

I am Eram, nineteen years old, living in a small terraced house in Manchester with my parents. My father works at a logistics company, long shifts that sometimes stretch into evenings. My mother cleans offices in the city centre and prays on time every day. We are Pakistani Muslim, and our life runs on routine: fajr before sunrise, school or job applications for me, dinner together most nights. On my father’s birthday last year he invited a few colleagues home after work. The house smelled of spices and fresh naan. I helped serve, wearing a loose kameez that hid my shape but not completely.

Mark stood out the moment he walked in. Tall, broad in the shoulders, maybe forty-five, with short light hair and arms that filled his shirt sleeves. He was white, married, my father’s manager. When he shook my father’s hand I caught his eyes on me. They stayed low, on the way my hips moved when I walked to the kitchen. I felt the fabric of my clothes pull across my backside. It was big and round from the way I carried weight there, and I knew he noticed. My face warmed but I kept serving.

Later, when most guests had left and my mother was in the kitchen, I found him by the door. I told him I was looking for work and asked if his company had anything. He smiled, slow, like he saw through the excuse. He wrote his number on the back of a card and said to text him. My father was talking to someone else and did not see.

I waited until the house was quiet. In my room with the door locked I sent the first message. We talked about jobs for a few days. Then he told me he was married and had a daughter my age. I said I understood. The messages kept coming at night. He asked what I wore to bed. I told him the truth. He described what he wanted. I read those words with my hand between my legs, trying not to make a sound.

Three weeks later my mother had a long clinic appointment. My father was scheduled for overtime. The house would be empty for hours. I told Mark. He answered that he would come. At eleven the doorbell rang. I opened it wearing jeans and a top, hair down. He stepped inside and closed the door. His hands were on me right away, rough, pulling me against him. He kissed hard, one hand already gripping my ass, squeezing the flesh he had watched at the party. We did not reach the bedroom. He bent me over the sofa, yanked my jeans down, and pushed inside without anything between us. The stretch made me gasp. He moved deep and steady, telling me how tight I felt. When he finished he stayed inside, breathing against my neck, and said he had taken something so he could keep going and finish in me properly.

That became the pattern. Mark arranged the shifts so my parents were both out at the same time. He would text the night before with the window. I always replied. He arrived with a small bag. Inside were wipes, lube, and the pills he took instead of condoms. He liked finishing inside me. He liked watching it drip out after. He talked while he fucked me, voice low and commanding. He said I was better than his wife, younger, tighter, more willing. The words made me clench around him every time.

We met like that for months. Sometimes on the kitchen table, sometimes in my parents’ bed with the sheets still smelling of my mother’s detergent. He was rough from the start. He held my wrists above my head. He slapped my ass when I pushed back too slow. He told me to stay still or to move exactly how he wanted. I followed. The guilt sat in my stomach after every visit, but the want was stronger.

One afternoon, about eight months in, he had me on my knees in the living room. He stood over me, one hand in my hair, and pushed his cock into my mouth. At first it was the same as before. Then he gripped harder and thrust deeper. I gagged when he hit the back of my throat. He did not stop. He held my head and fucked my throat in steady strokes, telling me to take it, to relax, to be good. Tears ran down my face. Saliva dripped onto my chest. He came down my throat and made me swallow before he let me breathe properly. After that deepthroat became part of most visits. He liked it rough. He liked holding my head and using my mouth until my throat was sore and my eyes were red. I learned to open for him, to let him push past the resistance, to breathe through my nose when he stayed buried.

He still asked for my ass. Every time he fucked me from behind he pressed a finger there, then two, stretching slowly while he moved inside my pussy. He bought thicker lube and left the bottle in my drawer. I always said no at first. The idea frightened me. I worried about pain, about explaining anything to my mother, about how it would change things. He kept asking, voice calm but insistent. He said he thought about it when he was at home with his wife. He said he wanted to be the first.

A week later, on a Tuesday when the house was empty until evening, I gave in. I was on my stomach on my bed, face turned to the side. Mark had already been inside me once. He pulled out, added more lube, and worked three fingers into my ass until I was open enough. He went slow at the start, just the head, waiting each time I tensed. The burn was sharp. I told him to stop. He waited, kissed the back of my neck, and asked if I wanted him to pull out. I shook my head. He pushed the rest of the way in. The fullness was different, heavier. He moved in small thrusts until I nodded again. When he came it was quieter than usual, a long groan, heat spreading deep inside. He stayed there until he softened, then pulled out and watched.

After that the anal became regular. He still used my pussy most visits, but he always ended in my ass. He was rough there too. He held my hips and drove in harder once I was used to it. He told me my ass was his now. I reached between my legs and rubbed myself while he used me. The soreness afterward lasted into the next day sometimes, but I never complained.

Nearly two years have passed. I am twenty-one. Mark’s daughter is at university. His wife still lives in the same city. We meet two or three times a month, sometimes more when the shifts line up. The house is the same. My parents still think I am applying for office jobs. Mark still tells me I am better than his wife. He still grips my hair and fucks my throat until I choke and tears run. He still opens my ass and finishes there, rough and deep, holding me down when I try to move.

Last week he came over on a Thursday. My mother was at the clinic until six. My father was in Leeds for the day. Mark took me in the kitchen first, bent over the counter, jeans around my thighs. He finished in my pussy, then carried me upstairs. In my room he had me on my knees again. He held my head with both hands and thrust into my throat, not stopping when I gagged, pushing until my nose touched his stomach. I swallowed around him, breathing when he let me. Saliva ran down my chin onto the floor. He came deep in my throat and made me lick him clean before he let me stand.

Later he had me on all fours on the bed. He worked my ass open with his fingers and the thick lube, then pushed inside in one steady thrust. He was rougher than usual, pulling my hips back to meet him, slapping my ass when I tried to pull away. I rubbed my clit the way he had taught me and came twice before he finished. He stayed inside until he was soft, then pulled out and wiped me gently with the wipes he always brought.

We lay side by side afterward. He traced the curve of my hip and asked if I ever thought about stopping. I told him the truth. I thought about it every day. Then I told him I would see him again the following Tuesday, same time. He smiled, kissed my forehead, and left through the back door the way he always did.

The house was quiet again. I showered, changed the sheets, and went downstairs to start dinner. The call to prayer sounded from the mosque down the road. I rolled out my prayer mat, faced the wall, and began. My throat still felt raw. My ass still felt used. The guilt was there, the same as always. But when my phone buzzed with his message confirming the next time, I answered before the prayer ended.