u/LoveNikalg

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Salam. Im 22 work , Some couples here get bored, especially the wifes... So I do visits :) Husband watches, I take care of her. Cash. No names. And most important: SECRET.

I always tell them: "Dont tell anyone... Not your best friend, not your mom, not your cat " They swear They promise..

3 weeks ago I met Nawel and Samir. She's 37 teacher, he's bank guy so she was so hottt desperate.. First time at their place I walk in take my shirt off and tell Samir to sit there shut up and watch

I grab Nawel by the hair flip her on the bed take her from behind hard she screams, I put my hand on her mouth and said Shhh this walls have ears

I fuck her deep slap her ass she's moaning in my hand Samir is hard as rock watching I finish on her stomach and tell him to Come lick your wife He does

We did this 3 Fridays in Perfect and Secret.

Yesterday I get a text from unknown number: Hey Nawel told us about you and We want try too.

I LOST IT. Called Nawel WTF you gave my number?! she laughs: But theyre cool like us! I scream: COOL IN ALGERIA?! You know police? Neighbors? Jealous people?! Are you crazy?! She crys, Samir gets on phone apologizing, I hang up and block both....

Now I got strangers with my number

Who are they? Cops? Extremists? Setup? I dont know. But Nawel broke the only rule.

Listen young guys. your secret is your life You share it, you die . Even if you the best lover in the city, if your client talks, your finished.

I changed my number... Laying low. Nawel can go back to her boring life with her husband She deserve it

I'm 20. Built. I work construction and do drafting on the side. I met Mehdi at a café in Bab El Oued—27, older than me, soft hands, a bookworm. He pursued me hard. I liked the attention. But from night one, I set the rules.

I'm the top. That's not just a position—it's my *role*. I control the pace, the force, the noise. I take what I want. And what I wanted was him, bent over my worn-out mattress in my tiny studio near the Casbah, face shoved into the pillow while I drove into him from behind. Hard. Deep. I pulled his hair, wrapped my hand around his throat, and hissed: *"Not a sound. You don't make a single fucking sound."* He moaned anyway. He always moaned. I loved the way he felt—tight, wet, begging for it—but I hated the noise. I'd grab his jaw, force him to look back at me while I slammed into his prostate, sweat dripping off my chest onto his back. I'd fuck him until his legs shook, until he came untouched all over my sheets, and then I'd pull out, slap his ass, and tell him to clean up. That was our rhythm. Raw. Primal. Mine.

But Mehdi is a talker. An older bottom who craves validation like oxygen. He has a group chat with his "queer friends" in Alger Centre. I told him—I *warned* him—those people are not friends. They're loose lips waiting to sink our ship.

Two weeks ago, I'm at the local hammam. Two guys in the steam room are laughing. One of them says:

"That older bookstore guy Mehdi? He told my cousin his young top fucks him like a jackhammer. Said the kid's got a mean left hook and a birthmark on his right thigh."

My blood boiled. I almost drowned one of them in the hot water. But I kept my face calm. I dressed. I left.

I stormed into Mehdi's shop. I dragged him into the back alley. I shoved him against the wall, grabbed his chin, and whispered:

"You told them about the birthmark. You told them how I fuck you. You gave them my playbook, you stupid fucking cunt."He cried. He said they were his "safe space." Safe space? In Algiers? Are you brain-dead? The only safe space here is the locked door of my apartment at 2 AM when the muezzin is silent and the neighbors are asleep.

I didn't stop. I bent him over the stack of boxes right there in the back room. I pulled his pants down, spat on my hand, and shoved inside him dry—punishment. I fucked him mean. Slaps across his ass that echoed off the concrete walls. My hand over his mouth, muffling his pathetic groans. I came inside him, pulled out, and watched his hole twitch. I said: *

"That's the last time you get this. Because you can't keep a secret to save your life."

It got worse. Whispers followed me to the construction site. My foreman looked at me sideways. My own cousin called me, asking if I was "that architect's boy toy." The gossip spread like wildfire in the dry summer brush. I lost a contract. I lost my reputation.

Last night, I told Mehdi it was over. He begged me on his knees—that older man, on his knees for me. He said he'd stop. He said he loved me. I grabbed his hair, tilted his head up, and looked him in the eyes.

"I don't care if you love me. I care if you breathe a single word about my body, my cock, or my fucking name to anyone in this city ever again."

I walked out. I blocked him.

Here's the truth, and I'm saying it loud so the younger guys scrolling this sub hear me:

If you are a man who fucks men in Algiers, you are not a lover. You are a ghost. You don't have a boyfriend. You have a secret. You don't make love. You commit a crime in private. The minute you tell someone—even your "best friend"—you hand them the knife to stab you with.

Lookin For a couple or a lesbian dom couple for threesomebefore the end of the month dm open, need only 1 couple