From Accidental Musk to Deliberate Master
It started on that sketchy roommate app. The ad was blunt: “Straight Arab construction worker, 6’4”, big apartment, cheap rent. Need chill roommate who can handle a man’s mess. No drama, no bullshit.”
The photo showed Asif in a tight white tank top stretched over a thick, hairy chest, sweat stains already visible, work jeans low on his hips with a heavy bulge pressing against the denim. His arms were massive, covered in dark hair, and his beard framed a cocky, no-nonsense grin. I messaged him immediately.
We met at a cheap coffee shop near the construction site. Asif showed up twenty minutes late, still in his work clothes. The white tank was soaked dark under his pits and down the deep valley of his hairy chest. He reeked of fresh sweat, diesel, and pure male labor. At 6’4” he towered over me, olive skin glistening.
“You the slim boy who messaged?” he asked, voice deep and rough with a thick accent. He didn’t shake my hand — just wiped sweat from his forehead with his forearm and sniffed it casually. “Name’s Asif. I work hard, I sweat hard. You okay with that?”
I nodded, already feeling my pulse race as his scent hit me. “Yeah… I’m clean, I can cook and tidy up.”
He laughed, a low aggressive bark, and slapped my shoulder hard enough to sting. “Good. Place needs someone who isn’t a lazy fuck. Sit.”
We talked rent and rules. Under the table, his heavy work boot “accidentally” nudged my sneaker, then his hairy calf brushed mine when he shifted. He manspread wide, one thick thigh almost touching mine.
“Long day on the scaffolds,” he grunted, lifting one arm to scratch the back of his head. His pit hair was matted and wet, the sharp musky smell rolling toward me. “You don’t mind real man smell, right? I’m straight, I don’t do perfume shit.”
My tiny cock twitched hard in my jeans. I stammered, “N-no, it’s fine.”
He smirked, not noticing my flush. “We’ll see. Come check the place tomorrow.”
The apartment tour the next day sealed it. Asif kicked off his steel-toe boots at the door. A thick wave of cheesy, leathery foot sweat filled the hallway. His white socks were damp, toes outlined, dark hairs sticking through the fabric on top.
“Fuck, that feels better,” he groaned, wiggling his massive toes. “Twelve hours in those boots. Smells like hell, huh? Whatever, it’s my place.”
He showed me around in just his tank and jeans, flexing unconsciously as he pointed things out. The tank rode up, revealing a dense black treasure trail vanishing into his low waistband. Every movement made his heavy bulge shift visibly.
“You cook?” he asked, scratching his balls openly through his jeans. “I eat like a horse after work. Big portions.”
I volunteered eagerly, eyes glued to the dark sweat patch spreading lower on his tank.
We hung out a few evenings before I moved in. Beers on the couch, soccer on TV. Asif would sprawl out, legs wide, one socked foot ending up on the coffee table right next to my leg. Sometimes it “slipped” and rested against my thigh.
“Feet are killing me, man,” he muttered one night, not looking at me. “Long shift. You mind if I put them up?”
Before I could answer, his heavy damp sock landed on my lap. The heat and funk hit me instantly — sharp vinegar and boot leather. My cock throbbed painfully. He groaned in relief, flexing his toes against my leg.
“Feels good to stretch. Rub them if you want, they’re sore as fuck.”
I hesitated, then started massaging. The sweat seeped through the sock onto my fingers. Asif sighed deeply, almost aggressively. “Yeah… harder. Good hands, habibi. Soft like a girl’s.”
He adjusted his crotch casually, the fat outline of his cock thickening slightly. I was leaking in my pants and he had no idea.
After I moved in, the accidental teasing got worse.
Mornings he’d shower with the door half open, grunting and soaping his thick hairy body. I’d “pass by” and catch glimpses of his uncut cock swinging heavy, foreskin dripping, black hair plastered wet across his chest, back, and ass.
One morning he caught me looking. “What? Never seen a real man shower before?” he barked, but laughed it off and kept pissing loudly in the shower, stream strong and yellow. “Close the door if it bothers you, boy.”
It didn’t bother me. It made me sneak back later to lick the toilet rim where his piss had splashed.
Evenings were the worst. He’d come home drenched, tank transparent with sweat, jeans dark at the crotch. He’d drop on the couch, yank off his boots, and the room would fill with raw foot funk.
“Goddamn, today was brutal,” he’d growl, peeling his socks off and tossing them toward the hamper. One always landed near my door. “Smell that? That’s honest work, not your soft office shit.”
He’d lift an arm, sniff his own pit, then scratch it vigorously, dark wet hair visible. “Straight man sweat. Women love it or hate it — no in between.”
I’d sit there rock hard, pretending to watch TV while inhaling every wave of his musk. He never noticed how I squirmed.
Then came the night everything changed.
Asif had been out drinking with his crew — Khalid and Omar, two more hairy, built Arab guys just like him. They’d stopped by earlier, all three manspreading, farting loudly, scratching balls and pits while joking about girls. I’d been serving beers, eyes dropping constantly to their thick jean bulges and sweaty forearms.
After they left, Asif was buzzed and sweaty. He cornered me in the kitchen, towering over me.
“You were staring the whole time, weren’t you?” he said, voice low and aggressive. “At my boys. At me. Thought you were just shy. But nah…”
He grabbed the back of my neck with one big rough hand and shoved my face straight into his soaked armpit.
“Sniff it. Go on. I saw how hard you got when my foot was on your lap. When I took my socks off. You’re a little faggot, aren’t you?”
I whimpered, inhaling deep. The musk was overpowering — sharp, salty, masculine.
Asif laughed darkly. “Fuck. My roommate’s a secret cock-hungry faggot. And here I thought you were just polite.”
From that night on, nothing was accidental.
He started doing everything on purpose.
Next evening he came home extra sweaty, stripped to his stained boxers in the living room, and called me over.
“On your knees, boy. I know you want it.”
When I hesitated, he grabbed my hair and pulled my face to his hairy, sweaty chest.
“Lick. Clean a straight man’s sweat. I fuck pussy, not boys — but you? You’re my stress relief now.”
He made me massage his feet while he watched, this time bare. “Suck the toes if you’re that desperate. Yeah… just like that, faggot. Deeper.”
He’d piss with the door wide open, then snap his fingers. “Get over here. Mouth open. Straight man piss is all you get.”
Some nights he’d come back horny from a bad date, shove me against the wall, and fuck my throat roughly.
“Take it. This cock is for women, but your mouth is convenient. Gag on it, bitch.”
He’d slap his heavy, sweaty balls on my face and growl, “This is what a real man smells like. You live for it now.”
With his friends over, he got bolder. He’d make me fetch beers on my knees, then casually say, “My roommate’s a good little faggot. Rub Omar’s feet — he worked harder than me today.”
They’d laugh, but Asif’s eyes stayed on me, possessive and aggressive. “He loves the smell. Don’t you, boy? Tell them.”
I’d whisper, “Yes… Master.”
He loved that word. From then on he demanded it.
“Call me that when we’re alone. I’m your straight Master. I own this apartment and I own this eager faggot hole.”
Now every day is deliberate ownership.
He comes home sweating, strips, and orders me to bury my face in his hairy ass crack while he eats dinner. “Tongue deeper, faggot. Clean your Master.”
He leaves his used, piss-stained boxers on my pillow. Makes me drink his morning piss straight from the tap while he pisses aggressively down my throat.
And every single time he reminds me, voice rough and dominant:
“I’m straight. I’ll never suck your little dick. I’ll never kiss you. But you? You’re mine. My sweaty, hairy, aggressive release. My personal faggot roommate slut.”
He’ll never be gentle. He’ll never stop being the straight, dominant, constantly sweaty construction beast I first met.
And that’s exactly why I’m completely, stupidly addicted to my Master.
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