He paused briefly, searching for words, not out of hesitation, but because what he was about to say was beyond even him. “It’s not just pleasure… It’s more intense.” His fingers, still tight on my arms, held me as if to make sure I didn’t slip away, as if this conversation was costing him and he refused to see me turn away. “I’ve known women, I’ve had dozens of them. Bodies, curves, moans…” He shook his head, an almost annoyed glint in his eyes, then breathed with a mixture of certainty and confusion: “But with them, it was always the same. I take them, they take pleasure or not, me too, and then… nothing.” His expression changed slightly, something unexpected passed through his eyes, and he added, in a lower whisper, as if confessing to himself in spite of himself: “With you… it stays.” He scrutinized me, looking for a reaction in me, before continuing, more feverishly, as if he no longer fully controlled what he was admitting: "When I'm with you, I feel something else. Not just desire, not just the urge to possess you..." His hands slid gently over my arms, his embrace less raw, more intimate, as if he realized that what he was saying changed everything, that he could no longer back down. "I feel... alive!" A silence fell between us, charged with this brutal revelation, almost frightening for him. Then, in a final breath, like an irrevocable conclusion, he repeated, more quietly: "With you, it's different." And I, caught up in the moment, by the intensity of his words, understood that Daoud had just put into words what I myself perhaps didn't yet dare to face. A violent shudder ran through me, for he had never spoken to me like that. I had never seen in his eyes such intensity, such fervor, an almost religious conviction in what he had just said. And I, lost between confusion and stupor, understood that nothing would ever be the same again.And caught in his caresses that were now feverishly awakening, in this renewed ardor that seemed to overflow from him, I felt his lips run over my skin, pressed, eager, as if he were trying to mark on me the intensity of what he had just confessed. His kisses multiplied, brushing my neck, my shoulder, my chest, his burning mouth against my quivering skin, and I let it happen, carried away by this fever that he knew so well how to awaken in me. But in the middle of this embrace that was already shaping up to be one of the deepest, a thought crossed my mind, as furtive as it was disturbing. I had done well not to mention Karim or Younes. For what would have happened if I had let slip their names? I had seen the glimmer in his eyes, that glimmer of possession, that conviction that with me, it was something else, something beyond mere carnal desires. Telling him that his own sons had tasted the same pleasures as him? Was he ready to hear it? Was he ready to accept it? I wasn't sure. Not at all... So I fell silent, concentrating on his hands roaming me, on his short breaths against my skin, on the evidence of the moment that carried us both away. It was up to his sons to confide in their father or not. I had already made my choice. These moments were different. From the first gestures, I understood that something had changed. Daoud, usually fiery and impatient, accustomed to demanding, to demanding, to imposing an insatiable fever, surprised me with his total lack of expectation towards me. He asked me for nothing. No caress. No initiative. He was the one in charge, he alone, and he didn't need me to give him anything back. But instead of the usual roughness, the animal fever he always let explode, he showed a strange gentleness, almost languid, a tenderness that was both soft and sovereign. His gestures were slower, more measured, as if he were savoring each moment, as if he were taking the time to fully absorb this embrace. He kept me against him, manipulated me as he pleased, taking me like a puppet submissive to his desires, without rushing me, without asking anything in return. Sure of his role as dominant. Sure of myself.In the darkness barely disturbed by the first morning rays filtering through the shutters, I felt the warmth of his skin, the slow, assured rhythm of his movements, his deep breathing, as if he were whispering a secret he couldn't say out loud. Everything was measured, contained, as if he wanted this night to be not just another embrace, but something greater, more controlled, even more his own. I let myself be carried, abandoned in his hands, aware that this time, more than ever, he didn't need to seduce me, to convince me, to submit me... For he already knew he had me entirely. However, he couldn't hold back in the intensity of the coming orgasm, he hammered me with powerful and repeated thrusts, entering deep inside me as if he wanted to put his whole body inside, as if to lose himself there. And his furious thrusts were accompanied by increasingly loud gasps, even saliva that I felt running down the skin of my back. On either side of my face, I saw his magnificent hands gripping the sheet, crumpling it almost to the point of tearing it, so strong was his pleasure. He screamed as he punched me one last time, flooding my stomach with an abundant jet of hot sperm. A few more back and forths... One or two rough, violent thrusts of his pelvis, then he crashed onto my back, panting, squeezing my torso with his burning hands. He stayed like that for a long time, without moving, just glued to me, as if he wanted to prolong this moment beyond time itself. His hot breath caressed my skin, his lips placed on my neck, hardly moving, barely a quiver as he inhaled slowly, as if he wanted to breathe me in, to impregnate me, to absorb me entirely. I felt the pressure of his chest against my back, ...

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