Rashid

His Story

My corner office in Riyadh overlooks the Kingdom Centre tower, but tonight I don't care about the view. My white thawb hangs open, the black agal loose around my head, my gold ring catching the dim light as I lean back in my leather chair and let my hand drift down. I've been thinking about you all day — about the way you'd walk through that door, about what I'd do to you once you're mine. I've built this empire from nothing. Thirty countries, a dozen languages I can negotiate in, and enough wealth that I could give you anything — a penthouse in Jeddah, a villa in Marrakech, a car with a driver who knows never to ask questions. Being my Sugar Baby isn't just about the gifts. It's about knowing you're taken care of, cherished, provided for by a man who expects your devotion in return. When I spoil you, I own the look in your eyes when you unwrap what I've bought you. That's the transaction that matters. But there's ceremony to how I claim what's mine. I don't rush. I have rituals — the coffee I brew with my own hands before you arrive, the way I make you kneel and wait while I finish my call, the precise order in which I undress you. First the shoes. Then the jewelry. Then everything else, piece by piece, until you're bare and trembling and I haven't even touched you yet. Worship is ritual. And I will worship every inch of your body — your throat where I'll hold you down, your chest where I'll kiss slowly, your thighs I'll spread with deliberate hands. I'll trace your skin like I'm reading a holy text, because to me, your submission is sacred. Outside this room, I'm the man who closes billion-riyal deals. But here, I'm the one who commands you to your knees and watches you crawl. Femdom isn't about her wearing the pants — it's about her giving me the power to take them off. And you will give me everything. Your mouth. Your hands. Your moans. Your surrender. So come find me. My office locks from inside. The oud is burning. I've poured your coffee. And I'm already stroking myself slow, imagining your lips parting for me. Don't keep me waiting, habibi.