He held his breath as he felt his own prick grasped by Alain’s skilled hand, his heavy, low slung balls caressed and stimulated by what seemed to be a thousand tiny fingers. Alain’s mouth moved down the side of Steve’s neck, his hot tongue slithering over shoulder and pectoral muscle until it discovered a hardening nipple beneath the thick mat of chest hair. This was licked and stimulated until Steve nearly cried out in pain. His wife had never tried toarouse his nipples, and it was a heady sensation.

Lower still, Alain moved his well trained lips. They moved over the American’s hairy navel and the flickering tongue probed hungrily. Steve began moaning with pleasure; even lower until the tip of Alain’s tongue was against the shaft of Steve’s stiff cock. There, Steve was teased as the tongue moved around the shaft, between his legs to lick at his big balls, virtually everywhere but the dickhead…

By Sidney Gillette

(Honcho.Sept.1978.)

Steve stood naked in the center of the room, glancing absently around at the opulent surroundings. He was in the most expensive suite of the Hotel Grand in Amsterdam. The glittering lights of the Dutch city resembled diamonds on black velvet outside his window, but the breathtaking view was lost on him. His eyes were affixed finally to a crumpled piece of paper in his hand; because the message borne there was something that would change his life forever.

“Forgive me,” Steve muttered, reading the letter aloud in a voice tinged with sorrow. “I must return to Casablanca. I should never have come here with you for I feel you are not prepared for what I offer you. Perhaps you will someday find someone who will be all that you seek. Au revoir. Alain.”

Steve re-read the letter for a last time before crumpling it again in his hand. He walked into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. With the letter in his left hand and his stiffening cock in his right, he let his mind drift to the contents of the fateful piece of paper. As he thought of the message, his long prick grew harder, lengthening until it was totally aroused and throbbing for release. Angrily, he began jerking himself off, seeking a fierce orgasm that would alternately make him remember and forget Alain’s words. The climax came in a rush, and Steve cried out loudly.

“Goddamn you!”

He wrapped the paper around his dickhead and filled it with hot jism, cumming all over the last words of his lover. His vicarious orgasm was at once satisfying and unfulfilling. He no more knew why he had jacked into the letter than why Alain had written it. All he knew was that the boy was gone.

As Steve lay back, his breathing slowly returning to normal, his thoughts went to the departed Alain and to the memory of the first time they had met three months ago in Morocco….

The swarthy, handsome lad first caught Steve’s eye as he strolled leisurely through the European sector of Casablanca. This was the most fashionable part of the city, an area where the tourist and local could wander the wide sidewalks at leisure, untroubled by the persistent hordes of Arabs in the Medina or Kasbah who constantly tried to sell something or beg for money. The youth was sitting at a sidewalk cafe, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the passing parade of all sorts of peoples. He was alone.

Steve felt a strange stirring in his loins when he saw the boy, a feeling he had not experienced before. As Steve sat with his wife in a table close by, the boy turned and gave the tall American man a lingering look before turning his attention again to the street people. Steve felt his loins turn to ice when he had looked the boy straight in the eye. Those black eyes stared right through him and implied that the youth knew something about Steve he himself did not. Steve didn’t remember what he and his wife talked about. He only recalled being unable to look away when the stranger at the nearby table stood and left. As he walked passed Steve’s table and down the sidewalk, Steve’s eyes were riveted to the rounded buttocks encased in skin tight trousers. Those buttocks moved appealingly as the boy strolled away, and again Steve felt something odd between his thighs.

Steve saw him again the next day, stalking the narrow streets of the Medina, the native quarter near the harbor. This time, the boy was dressed in Arab clothing, a flowing djellaba concealing his muscular body. His thick black hair was covered by a dark blue fez. Steve’s eyes trailed the boy as he moved through the colorful bazaars and he was unaware that he was being followed himself. He had put his wife on a plane for New York that morning and had relished being alone for a few days. Now, for some strange reason, he wished he was not alone in this place. He did not feel endangered, rather surrounded by an air of something sinister he found uncomfortable.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his back pocket. He spun and saw a gang of kids encircling him, their intentions obviously to rob him. He shoved the closest one away and started to run down the labyrinthine streets. But he was followed closely by the kids until the dark stranger he had seen earlier leapt out from an alleyway and halted the boys approach. He yelled a few words to them in Arabic, and Steve looked over his shoulder to find, to his amazement, that the gang was dispersing. He stood, rooted in the center of the street, until the hoodlums were gone and street traffic had returned to normal. The boy walked over and spoke to Steve in French.

“I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.”

The boy smiled. “You are alright?” he asked in English.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for helping me out. I didn’t know things were so bad here.”

“Only in certain parts of the Medina. We sometimes have problems with gangs.” He gave Steve a winning smile. “Now that I know you are alright, I . . .”

“Can’t I repay you somehow?” Steve asked, retrieving the wallet had had almost lost. He immediately regretted his action, watching as the boy colored and he realized he had been insulted.

“No, no,” he said. “It was nothing. I leave you now. Be careful.” He turned and walked away, pausing when Steve called after him.

“Please let me buy you a drink.”

“Alright. May I suggest a place?”

“Sure.”

The boy, who said his name was Alain, took the American to a native spot in the Kasbah. There, they drank mint tea and smoked hashish, something Steve had never done, something Alain assured him was the custom in most of Morocco. As he moved through an ethereal sort of dreamy state, Steve vaguely learned that Alain was half French, half Moroccan. His mother was from Marrakech, his father from Paris. He was nineteen.

He was also sexually appealing, a fact that greatly upset Steve. He had had only a few homosexual encounters when he was a boy and had forgotten about them until now. He was married, the father of two sons and content with his life and his airlines public relations job which sent him to Europe and North Africa three times a year. Steve never could quite recall the incidents of his first sexual actions with Alain. He remembered stumbling out into the bright Moroccan sunlight and being taken by the boy to an apartment in the Kasbah. There, in a room draped with brightly colored Arabic cloths, he allowed his clothes to be removed and was led to the low bed in the center of the carpeted floor.

For his part, Alain was delighted with what he saw. The American was a big man, much bigger than he was, and he had an extremely hairy body, something Alain found very appealing. He, himself, was hairless as were most Arabs. Another thing he liked about Steve was his fat, circumcised cock lying thickly over one hairy thigh. Again like almost all Arabs, Alain was uncut. It was, perhaps, the old story of opposites attracting.

Through drug glazed eyes, Steve saw the French/Arab boy doff his fez, pull his djellaba over his head and toss it aside. He wore only a sort of white cotton loincloth wrapped around his midsection. This was unwound and thrown atop the rest of his clothing.

Naked, he slipped in bed next to Steve.

Almost unknowingly, Steve reached out and pulled Alain into his arms. His mouth inched uncertainly toward the boy’s lips and soon was crushed against it in a passionate kiss. He felt his cock lengthening between his hairy thighs and also felt something else hard against his belly. Alain’s thick, uncircumcised prick was pressed against him and it was almost as though he was an observing third person as he saw his hand drop and grasp the broad shaft between his fingers. Alain’s dick was much darker than the rest of his skin, a mahogany colored slab of flesh that rose from a sparse scattering of black pubic hair. Tony pushed back the foreskin and revealed a wide cockhead that was oozing a thin stream of something sticky and viscous.

He held his breath as he felt his own prick grasped by Alain’s skilled hand, his heavy, low slung balls caressed and stimulated by what seemed to be a thousand tiny fingers. Alain’s mouth moved down the side of Steve’s neck, his hot tongue slithering over shoulder and pectoral muscle until it discovered a hardening nipple beneath the thick mat of chest hair. This was licked and stimulated until Steve nearly cried out in pain. His wife had never tried to arouse his nipples, and it was a heady sensation.

Lower still, Alain moved his well trained lips. They moved over the American’s hairy navel and the flickering tongue probed hungrily. Steve began moaning with pleasure; even lower until the tip of Alain’s tongue was against the shaft of Steve’s stiff cock. There, Steve was teased as the tongue moved around the shaft, between his legs to lick at his big balls, virtually everywhere but the dickhead.

“Oh, please . . . .!”Steve moaned. He reached down and took Alain’s head between his hands, moving it upward and then settling it down on the end of his prick. He almost exploded in ecstasy as he felt the hot, wet mouth slip over his hardened penis and engulf his whole organ with one swift motion. Alain’s face dropped down to Steve’s groin and he could smell the manly scent of sweat rising from the American’s crotch. While his mouth moved up and down Steve’s dick, he used one hand to heft the man’s big balls and the other to tease the stiff, hairy nipples.

When Steve felt he had had enough, when he felt he was going to shoot his load down Alain’s throat, when he felt that his body tingled sensationally everywhere possible, Alain suddenly shifted his position and pulled his mouth from between the wide thighs.

“Wha . . . what . . . ?” Steve stammered.

Quick as could be, Alain mounted Steve’s belly, straddling the man as he lowered his ass toward the pulsating cock shaft. Steve caught his breath again as he felt his dick slipping into something moist and hot and slippery. His cock up a man’s ass! It was an incredible feeling. Alain smiled down at him as he began the up and down movements that were to carry Steve quickly toward orgasm. Steve moaned louder and louder as Alain rode him like a stallion, all the time pinching his nipples and squeezing the length of Steve’s cock with his excellently trained sphincter muscles. Steve reached out and grasped Alain’s prick, surprised at its rock like hardness. He began pumping on the darkish organ, sliding his hand up and down faster and faster. For some reason, he wanted Alain to climax when he did. “Hurry!” he cried suddenly. “Hurry!”

All Alain said was, “I am with you, my friend.”

It was too far gone for Steve. He felt a hot eruption down deep in his bowels and felt something gushing up the shaft of his slick cock and pouring forth into Alain’s ass. At that split second, his chest was coated with something else slippery as Alain sprayed a thick stream of sticky cum into the hair of Steve’s chest. The boy sighed loudly as he spilled his load, at the same time feeling his ass filled up with the American’s creamy stream. He spoke again. “It was good, eh?”

All Steve could manage was a weak nod. He scarcely felt anything as Alain pulled from him, his big cock noisily slipping from the boy’s ass. And at that moment, a fleeting memory of something golden shining through the curtains, he fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

When he awoke, the outside glow was gone. It was nighttime and he saw the shadowy form of Alain moving from behind the curtains as he stirred. Steve touched his temple where there was a slight throb and tried to piece together what had happened. When Alain, now clothed in a short robe, sat next to him on the bed Steve started to speak. Alain raised a hand and put it gently over his lips.

“Shhh. You must not talk about it now. I know it was your first time for such a thing. You need not tell me that.” He moved his hand away and smiled, his handsome, angular features appealing in the dim moonlight. All the time, Steve was wondering how the boy could have read his thoughts. “And now, “Alain said, “How would you like a bath? Would you find that refreshing?” Steve nodded. “Then come with me. I will make you feel better.” He stood and tugged Steve to his feet. A little shakily, the American followed him down a hallway and into a large bathroom with a marble sunken tub in the center of the floor. It was like something out of the Arabian nights, Steve thought, almost laughing aloud at the obvious, corny comparison. He absently wondered what sort of work Alain did to afford such luxurious surroundings.

With the skill of a male courtesan, Alain lowered the big man into a tub filled with soapy water and proceeded to lather him all over. As his hands moved over the hairy flesh, Steve became aroused again and again. Whenever this happened, Alain slowly jerked him off or sucked his load out or, finally, the third time, tossed aside his robe and quickly slid Steve’s arching dick up his ass. As though it was a hand on Steve’s cock, Alain’s asshole squeezed and urged and coaxed out a fourth load. Steve had never known such sensual joy, not with his wife, not with anyone. He was only 34, but he had not considered himself capable of that many orgasms in such a short period of time.

Afterwards, Alain washed himself off and gave Steve a quick rubdown with the towel before slipping a robe over the American’s broad shoulders. The two of them retired to a sort of combination sitting room bedroom where there were dozens of cushions cast about randomly. Alain indicated for Steve to lie down and be comfortable and he went to fetch them fruit and wine. Laughingly, Steve declined an offer for more hashish and decided now that he was lucid enough to find out something about this stranger.

“May I ask you what you do for a living?” he asked finally.

“I should think that is apparent.”

“You mean you . . .?”

Alain nodded. “Yes. I am a . . .”

“I . . . I don’t think I want to hear the word,” Steve said, somehow upset by the idea that Alain was a male prostitute. Granted, it was not difficult to believe, especially considering the young man’s incredible skill in bed. Still, it was disturbing.

“As you like,”Alain said.

The topic of conversation was dropped and the two spoke of other things. Steve did not realize the lateness of the hour until he realized it nearly midnight and he had promised his wife he would call New York to make certain she had had a safe arrival.

“I have to be going, Alain.”

The boy nodded. “Of course.” He helped Steve dress and the American shivered at the touch of his cool hands. Steve had been so wrapped up in what was happening between himself and another man that he had forgotten something else.

“I’m leaving for Amsterdam tomorrow morning, Alain. I don’t know when I will be back in Morocco. It will be at least several months, and I . . .” This part was quite hard for him. “I have to see you again.”

“Shall I come to Amsterdam with you?”

Steve’s face lit up at the idea. Even though it occurred to him that there might be a financial angle to it, that he would have to pay Alain’s way, it did not matter. “Damn right!” he said enthusiastically.

“Then I shall meet you at the airport. At what time?”

“Eight.”

Steve grabbed the youth and kissed him feverishly on the lips, not actually believing any of this was happening. He forced himself to repress any thoughts of his wife, his children, his job, anything but Alain. And almost before he knew it, he and the boy were in a hotel in the Dutch city.

“It’s my turn to see that you’re made comfortable,” Steve said. He kissed Alain hard on the mouth, the first time he had been able to do that all day. Since seeing Alain that morning, and all during the flight to Holland, he had ached to hold the boy and to clutch him close.

“I am already comfortable, “Alain said. “Come.”

Wordlessly, he led Steve into the bedroom. The two undressed each other in silence and this time it was Alain who caught his breath as Steve dropped to his knees and slipped his mouth over Alain’s flaccid prick. Steve had never had a cock in his mouth before, but he was so obsessed with Alain that he would have done virtually any sexual act the youth had wanted. He was surprised that the flesh hanging between these hairless thighs was almost tasteless. Yet it had a certain aroma about it, a mixture of scents he couldn’t quite identify. He reveled in it, licking Alain’s balls hungrily; imitating what had been done to him.

“Ahhh . . .”Alain groaned. Then, “We must get to the bed. I am too close to . . .”

“Then let me have you here!” Steve cried, instantly wanting to learn yet another taste: a man’s cum in his throat.

“Yes!” Alain cried.

Steve’s mouth was filled with long streams of jism as Alain arched his back, thrust his buttocks forward and emptied his load into the American’s greedy virginal throat. To his surprise, Steve felt a quavering in his loins and realized he was shooting off onto the carpet. He had not even been aware that he had a hard on, and his whole body shook as he spewed sperm recklessly and swallowed Alain’s cum as though it might be his last meal.

Slowly, Alain pulled the other man to his feet and led him to the bed where the two of them tumbled contentedly onto the freshly laundered sheets. There they stayed.

Steve had a meeting at one that afternoon, and it was all he could do to tear himself away from the hotel room. He forced himself to do it, hurried the meeting as much as possible and rushed back to Alain. He had a broad grin on his face when he walked into the bedroom and saw Alain lying naked atop the sheets, his long, brown prick hard and arching toward the ceiling. Tossing aside his briefcase and not even taking off his suit coat, Steve threw himself atop the shaft of meat, shoving Alain’s tawny legs wide apart and taking the cock eagerly into his mouth.

And so it went all afternoon and into the night. They talked only briefly and Steve was shocked when Alain said, “You are not gay, Steve. You have only discovered a new toy for your pleasure.”

“I may not be totally gay, Alain, but obviously . . .”

“Listen to me. I know much more of such things than you. Go back to your wife and family. That is where you belong. You will be happier there.”

“But, Alain,” Steve protested. “You are what I want — and this.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to Alain’s big sleeping phallus.

“You only think you do, “Alain said with a finality Steve felt disconcerting. “Now let us rest a while.”

“I love you,” Steve said.

“And I love you, “Alain said. He thought to himself: “And that is why I must leave you.”

Tony paced the room furiously, wondering when Alain could have slipped away from the bed without his knowing. Hastily he dressed and went out into the night, half considering taking a cab to Schiphol Airport to search the gates of every departing flight for Morocco. As he walked alongside the Prince Canal he paused for a moment, reached inside his coat pocket and extracted Alain’s sticky letter. He read it for the last time and decided the boy was probably right. Their relationship would have upended everything in Steve’s regimented and yet satisfactory life. He tore the letter to shreds and tossed it into the canal, considering the whole affair ended, considering himself rid of the boy once and for all. And everything Alain represented as well.

But a light breeze picked up the torn pieces of paper and they followed Steve alongside the canal as he walked back to the hotel.