His Prisoner 21+

43

Arzal sat in the plush booth of an upscale club, swirling his drink lazily, the low hum of the music filling the air. Mati, sat across from him, nursing his own glass.

"How's the shipment coming along?" Arzal asked, his voice low but commanding.

Mati smirked, leaning forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "The cargo will be in Rotterdam by Thursday. No hiccups this time—tight security, smooth transit. No one's even gonna sniff it."

Arzal raised an eyebrow. "You said the same last time, and yet we had to grease some palms to get it through customs."

"That was a one-time thing," Mati replied smoothly, sipping his whiskey. "This time, I've handled everything. If anyone tries to get smart, they'll regret it."

Arzal studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good. I don't want surprises."

Mati chuckled. "Neither do I. But trust me, this one's clean."

The two shared a knowing look, their words veiled but the weight behind them unmistakable. Deals like these were never simple, but they had mastered the art of making it seem effortless.

Mati glanced towards the staircase leading to the VIP rooms and grinned. "I think it's time for me to enjoy the other kind of 'shipment,' if you know what I mean." He gestured subtly toward a stripper waiting by the stairs.

Arzal smirked, watching as Mati stood up, adjusting his jacket. "Don't get too distracted," Arzal said dryly. "I expect an update by morning."

"Always, boss." Mati winked before heading toward the VIP room with the stripper by his side.

As Mati disappeared upstairs, Arzal's gaze lingered for a moment, and memories flooded his mind. He could still hear the echoes of his parents' bedroom door, the low grunts of his father, the desperate cries of his mother. The slapping of skin, and the crude language.

"Rand! Theek se choos! Mere khasiyon ko bhi chaat, haraamzaadi!" (Whore! Suck properly! Lick my balls also, bitch!)

The 11-year-old Arzal couldn't help, but let his hand slip downwards as he became engrossed in the heated sounds seeping through the wall. It was an illicit melody he had grown used to, a nightly lullaby of sorts as he lingered outside his parents's bedroom, caught in a web of emotions he didn't quite understand. The discomfort of it all, mixed with curiosity, had truned into something darker as the nights passed- a twisted routine that stirred more than just confusion in the young boy.

His fingers brushed over the fabric of his pants, his growing erection hard to ignore. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what was happening on the other side of the door, the images playing in his head as vividly as if he were witnessing it firsthand. He felt his heart race, the shame he should have felt buried deep beneath layers of arousal. This had become a part of him-this act of voyeurism-and he didn't even try to resist anymore.

Tonight was no different, except for the sudden halt in the rhythm behind the door. A soft creak jolted him from his trance. His eyes snapped open, and before he could fully react, the door swung open, revealing the towering figure of Sultan Malik, whose presence could have anyone trembling in fear.

Arzal's hand flew away from his crotch as he quickly stuffed his erection back into his pants, his movements hurried but calm. His heart pounded in his chest, but not from fear or embarrassment.There was no shame in his eyes-only frustration. He hadn't been able to finish, and that was what angered him.

His father stood there, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest, with a wicked smile playing on his lips. Sultan's dark eyes gleamed as they took in the scene before him. There was no surprise, no disappointment, only recognition. He stared at his son with a strange mix of amusement and approval, shaking his head slightly as if he'd seen something that pleased him.