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Archive name: arab.txt (MM, intr, gay, military)
Authors name: IAH (anonymous address - 1997)
Story title : Sex in the Arab World
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Sex in the Arab World (MM, intr, gay, military)
by IAH (anonymous address - 1997)
***
For many years, I've worked and fucked around the Middle
East and North Africa, so I can speak with authority
about sex among Arab men and boys.
When I was at school, an older boy said that Arabs
fucked a woman for children, a goat for necessity but a
boy for pleasure. It was several years later that I
began to realize the profound truth of this analysis.
Almost every Arab I've met has been bisexual. It is
considered "normal" for boys and teenagers to provide
sexual gratification for their elders, but when they
themselves grow up and take a wife (or wives) their
passive role is ended.
It is not considered "normal" for a mature man to play
the woman, but it is understood and accepted, albeit
with a certain amount of contempt.
This is where the Arab demand for money is often
misunderstood: they are not by nature hustlers but they
have to establish in their own mind when they have sex
with men that they are men selling their services with
the same honesty as a man toiling in the fields. As a
result, a small sum will often "buy" the most gorgeous
hunk of meat.
Customs change as they do in other parts of the world.
The Mediterranean Arab is more Westernized than the
Middle East Arab and the city Arab, particularly in
international centers like Cairo or tourist spots like
Tangier and Tunis, has all too often been perverted by
Western ways. I wouldn't claim that the Arab has much
sexual imagination...in the smaller towns and
countryside and desert it is an insatiable desire to
fuck young ass... but they are quick to learn and eager
to please.
In Cairo, you can find any kind of sex with men and boys
you may wish, at a price, and always with the strong
probability of being mugged to add to the excitement.
But the smaller towns of Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco and
(before its present turmoil) Lebanon have much more to
offer. A major disappointment for me is that all Arabs
are cut as part of their religious and hygiene
standards.
It is not unusual for an Arab to keep all his body hairs
shaved, while retaining a beard or moustache. I have
often seen a man lying on a barber's couch, quite naked,
with a young boy lathering his pubic area while the
barber hones his razor. The barber's boys are a good
source of sexual supply.
Shaving is an important part of one of my most memorable
experiences. It happened in Tunis before that city fell
completely to the total corruption of tourism.
I was walking down a wide poorly lit boulevard opposite
the central wholesale market one evening. As I passed
one of the palm trees lining the boulevard I saw a man
taking a piss near a tree... Nothing particularly
unusual about that. But I stopped and looked a the huge,
flaccid meat hanging from his denims. I just couldn't
believe it.
He saw me looking, and in a refreshing un-American way,
turned slightly towards me and smiled in a very inviting
way. I was completely intrigued and just couldn't walk
away; neither could I just stand there like some
voyeuristic half-wit (typically American though it would
have been), so I walked over to the same tree, unzipped
and tried to piss while I watched him.
His eyes were jet black and they gazed idly at my
fumbling attempts to get close to him. My interest was
now obvious to him and he nodded with a little smile on
his lips. I glanced humbly down at my very pale looking
cock and felt it stiffen slightly.
He made no further attempt to hide his thick brown horse
cock splashing out its warm piss. I reached out and felt
the liquid coursing along the tube. He moved his hands
away, smiled and said something softly in Arabic which I
didn't understand.
It was impossible for my fingers to meet around his fat
cock. I felt it begin to stiffen. We couldn't do
anything there and to make matters worse I heard
footsteps approaching. I zipped up and drifted away. I
had gotten turned on and decided to head back to the
center of town and cruise the local park.
I hadn't gone more than a hundred paces when I heard a
quiet voice behind me: "Cherie!" I turned to see the
coal black eyes and warm smile I had just left behind,
who had obviously followed me. He struggled to
communicate a few words of imprecise French. He wanted
me to sit with him, drink some mint tea, meet his
friends.
Our conversation was very limited, but his friends
didn't seem the least bit surprised that a foreigner
should be sipping tea with them. He wanted to show me
around the market where he worked. We just drifted away
together into the night.
I decided he was too great a discovery for a quickie
behind the bushes. I was staying in a small Arab hotel,
the kind you pay per bed per night, and as I wanted the
room exclusively I was paying each day some four U.S.
dollars for the four beds. I never made a habit of
taking casual pick-ups back to my room, but I sensed
that this was different. His total lack of inhibition by
the tree, his warm smile and friendly tone of voice
reassured me that he wasn't the ordinary street trade.
Aziz, his name roughly translated into English, had a
quiet nobility about him. He spoke for several minutes
to the concierge of the hotel in Arabic. There wasn't a
trace of hostility, lewdness or guile from the
concierge. He said, "Your friend asked me what kind of
razor you use. It is electric and it won't be suitable.
I have what you need." He disappeared and returned with
a barber's open razor, a soap stick and a brush. "Your
friend would like you to shave him."
My room was the most unromantic imaginable. It had one
harsh, uncovered light bulb and a hand basin in the
corner with running water. This is a necessity in any
Arab hotel. It was designed to be low enough for washing
both the feet and genitals comfortably. I had managed to
make the place somewhat less stark with a few small
tapestries on the walls and had fashioned a cover for
the light bulb to soften the glare. It still looked
pretty bad.
I began to wonder if Aziz understood what I had in
mind...his desire to be shaved seemed so bizarre to me,
but not to him. As soon as I locked the door he took off
his rough spun garments. He wasn't really beautiful in
the way Westerners would traditionally think of as
beautiful. But he had the beauty that a very healthy man
exudes when he is naked, and that beauty comes from
within. His body exuded that kind of healthy beauty and
I made certain he was aware of my admiration of his
masculinity. He had well-formed but not over-developed
muscles and creamy dark skin.
I saw that he had recently been shaved, because his
pubic hair was not profuse, none of it longer than an
inch. I wanted to sink down in front of him, but he fell
on his back on one of the beds and spread his legs wide
apart in a totally passive gesture. It was almost like a
dream come true, and my senses reeled at the sight of
that massive cock draping over equally massive balls.
With one hand placed behind his head to give him better
vantage, he ran the other one idly up the inside of one
smooth thigh. The sight of his naked body was having an
obvious affect on my young American cock so I slipped
out of my clothes. He watched me as I shred my clothes
slowly and his heavy, dark skinned cock began to swell.
I pulled a straight-backed chair alongside the bed and
began to shave around the huge piece of Arab man-flesh
between his legs.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from it as I held it one
hand while the other slowly and carefully removed all
the hair from his groin. His cock would swell and throb
in my hand every few moments but the rest of his body
was still and relaxed. It was all I could do to sit
still in that chair with my own cock jumping and
throbbing.
He gracefully got up and went to the wash basin and
rinsed away the soap and hairs and dried himself with a
towel. I sat in silence and watched, but my cock grew
harder still at the sight of him standing and was now
pressed hard against my stomach. I instinctively reached
down and pried it away, hoping it would relax just a
little. My balls were pulled so tight up against the
base of my cock, they began to ache. My cockhead
glistened with a pearl of pre-cum and I smoothed it over
my throbbing cock-head.
Aziz watched as he toweled off with one hand and he
reached down to his now hardening cock and squeezed it
playfully for me to watch. He laid back down on the bed
in such a way that it was obvious he knew what my
interests were and was not going to object in the least.
He assumed the same spread-eagled position but placed
both arms casually behind his head and closed his eyes.
He adjusted his hips slightly and, with my right hand
firmly wrapped around his huge cock, my other cupped his
heavy balls. I moved up onto the bed with him and began
to worship that fantastic cock of his with my lips and
tongue. I tried to get as much of it as possible in my
mouth, but the most I could get was the head and that
stretched my jaws so much that they ached as bad as my
cock and balls.
He reached up, turned off the light, and put me face
down on the bed. He patiently waited while I brought out
a jar of lubricant from under the bed. He took a long,
long time easing that giant cock inch by inch up my
hole. Never have I felt so totally had, before or since.
He wrapped his muscular arms around me and began a slow
fuck that went on and on.
It was the most comforting fuck imaginable, and when his
cum poured into me, his tongue was fucking my ear. I
felt the heat pouring deep inside me. My cock twitched
once and I came quickly and furiously on the mattress
while his cock pushed all the way up into me.
He eased his cock out slowly and went to the basin to
wash. I thought it was all over and that he was going to
dress and leave me, but he returned to the bed and tried
to make conversation in his inadequate French.
I gathered from Aziz's conversation that he had been
taught the pleasure of having his cock sucked by a
German tourist who couldn't take it in the ass because
of its size. He made no attempt to handle my cock; it
was obvious that would have jeopardized his masculinity.
It was difficult for me to imagine anyone with a cock
like his having much of anything jeopardize his
masculinity! But knowing how delicate the male ego can
be, I didn't push the issue and drifted off to sleep.
He stayed the night and we fucked again. When I woke up
at dawn, he had gone. Hell, I thought, with my cash and
wristwatch along with him. Who was it who said you can
trust an Arab with your life but not your billfold?
Anyway, nothing was missing and I proceeded to pull
myself together. Just as I was dressing, Aziz returned
laden with fruit for breakfast. I was such a tender
gesture, I was stunned.
As we ate I wondered if I should offer him money, since
he hadn't found any work the night before. He didn't ask
for any so I decided it would be an insult. For the next
few weeks, every time Aziz had no work at the market he
would come to my hotel room for a shave.
He must have begun to sense that I was a bit
disappointed that the sex was so one-sided. I returned
to the hotel to see a young boy sitting with the
concierge behind the desk. This was Hoodah, the
concierge explained, and he was "a very good and honest
boy and Aziz had sent him to keep me company." Aziz had
told the boy that I was a friend, would not hurt him,
and he was to make me happy.
Hoodah was stunningly good-looking, with black
glistening hair and large eyes. As soon as we were alone
in my room he reached up and clung around my neck,
inviting a kiss. I kissed him and slipped my hand under
his jubbah to fondle his body.
Like Aziz, his body was practically hairless except for
a small patch of fuzz over his cock. His hips were slim
and he pressed his little bubble-butt into my hand when
I reached around behind him. He had a wholesome smell of
some herb. His hands began professionally kneading my
cock through my pants and I felt his very solid erection
pushing out from under his jubbah. It didn't take us
long to get naked.
He put his small hand around the base of my cock and
began to gobble. He did it very well. I gently swung him
around into a sixty-nine position. His cock wasn't
overly large, maybe 6 inches and average diameter, but
his balls were huge. Must have hung down a good 5 inches
and were as big around as tangerines. I cupped them in
my hand and squeezed gently.
The pitch black patch over his cock was the only trace
of hair anywhere on his torso, including his balls. I
licked and sucked on those beautiful balls while my hand
continued to explore his tight little butt. His cock
jerked wildly when I fondled his asshole and he pushed
hard against my finger until it slipped easily inside. I
took his sweet smelling cock in my mouth and worked it
over expertly. It didn't take him long to cum and I
followed in short order.
Hoodah got up and went to the basin to clean up and then
returned to the bed with a small cloth and proceeded to
gingerly clean my entire crotch. He expertly wiped my
cock and balls with one hand while the other deftly held
my cock upright. He seemed fascinated by all my pubic
hair (I have a pretty thick bush and a lot of hair under
my balls) and he would grin like it was tickling his
hands. I chuckled and gave him a peck on the lips and a
squeeze on his little butt.
He got dressed and left, looking just as bright and
beautiful as he had when he came in. I went out for a
while and returned a few hours later, it was late
evening and I started getting ready for bed. I heard an
almost inaudible knock at the door and in pranced Hoodah
loaded with brightly colored sticky cakes and bottles of
Coke (the staple beverage for the world's youth I'm
beginning to believe).
After we ate, he suddenly stripped off his jubbah and
fell back on the bed, displaying all his charms,
reaching down to fondle my cock, giggling and rolling
over to stick his round little butt in my face. We
wrestled around on the bed for a while, while I pinched
and tickled him in various places.
He was totally disarming and perfectly charming while he
would push his stiff cock and heavy balls back through
his legs and pull my head down to lick from the tip of
his cock, up over his balls and up between his
asscheeks. I soon was naked again and grabbed each
asscheek in one hand and pulled them apart while I
buried my face in them.
Like his older male counterparts, he was immaculately
clean and the musky smell of his body combined with that
elusive herbal scent. It was unlike anything I had ever
experienced before. He was obviously enjoying all this
attention as much as I was giving it to him.
Well, the light was soon off and I was licking and
probing his ass like it was angel food. It had been
rimmed before. Often. His hole opened easily and eagerly
and there wasn't the slightest strain of resistance as I
penetrated the smooth warm hole with my tongue first and
then my now throbbing cock.
We didn't get much sleep; he was busy in one way or
another off and on all night. I only wished we had a
language in common; I longed to know how he'd gotten all
his experience.
When Aziz came to the hotel a few nights later he asked
the concierge if the boy had satisfied me as he had been
Aziz's gift to me. I had to leave Tunis at the end of
the month for another assignment and when I finally
returned a year later, I was unable to trace Aziz.
This happened in Beirut. One of the most beautiful and
relaxed fun cities in the Middle East until the
situation in Lebanon. The Navy was making a courtesy
call and a Marine had gotten himself separated from his
buddies, had drunk too much and ended up in the old
Moslem sector. This is where the story begins. This
particular evening I was with Ahmed, whom I'd met some
years back. He was a projectionist in a movie house,
about 30 with a lover, Samir, who went everywhere with
him.
I don't know if that was traditional or not, it didn't
seem to matter them, they wanted it that way so that was
the way it was. Ahmed was pretty much a father to Samir
due to the great differences in their ages. In fact,
when they were together, that's what most people would
have thought to look at them.
A night in bed with Ahmed and Samir was always a night
to remember. In order to avoid embarrassment, we would
go out to the city suburbs, where one of Ahmed's friends
ran a small cafe. He would let us use a room equipped
with a bed which, if not clean, was at least large.
Ahmed would strip and bathe Samir while I prepared a
massage oil using lemon oil and the oil of Patchouli,
most of the most ancient of Mid Eastern herbs. To this
mixture I would add some crushed leaves of Rue, another
herb, while warming the oil over a candle flame.
After Samir's body was steamy from Ahmed's gently
bathing, Ahmed would lead him to the bed and shave him
in the traditional manner while I massaged the scented
oil onto his arms and torso. Samir's eyes were jet black
pools of wonder during this ritual and Ahmed would chant
to him in Arabic while he shaved him.
The wafting scent of Patchouli would fill our nostrils
and had an almost hypnotic effect on Samir. His cock
would swell and throb as the razor slid gently and
smoothly over and under his balls. Ahmed would take his
cock in his hand and kiss the head of it affectionately
just before he shaved around the base of it.
When Ahmed was done, he would sit back in a wicker
chair, smoking an ornate pipe and smile with admiration
as he watched Samir stretch and squirm in ecstasy as I
smoothed the oil over his freshly shaved genitals and
down between his legs. Samir's cock would be pressed so
hard up against his belly, I would have to pry it up and
away to rub the oil on and around the base of it. I
would bend down and gently kiss the head of it as I had
seen Ahmed do and he would press my head down against it
with his young hands.
Placing my hand on Samir's slim hips, I would roll him
over on his belly and continue massaging his shoulders
and back with the heated oil. His eyes would close and
he would grind his pelvis into the mattress in rhythmic
motion when I reached his lower back. He would thrust
his round little butt up into the air begging for me to
caress them with the warm oil. I gently slid my finger
down into the hairless crevice between his cheeks and
dabbed oil on his anus. His little asscheeks surrendered
willingly to my loving squeezing and massaging.
This particular night, the Marine happened to be sitting
alone in a cab when Ahmed, Samir and I descended on it
on our journey out to our rendezvous point. Me, with my
little brass urn and vials of oil and herbs wrapped in a
white cloth, walking alongside the burly Ahmed. Samir,
chattering away in Arabic, stopping to grind his hips in
imitation of a belly dancer so Ahmed would reach down
and squeeze his butt. Samir would feign insult, act
horrified and pretend to push Ahmed into the street.
Ahmed would cuff him beside the head and the two of them
would laugh hysterically and off we'd go into the night
like a trio of musketeers.
The Marine seemed confused that the driver was refusing
to take him immediately to the landing stage where the
Navy ship was docked. The reason was that he'd gotten
into a "service taxi", which only operates when it has
three or more passengers, the fare being equally divided
among the occupants.
The Marine was quite good-looking with his close-cropped
hair, freckled complexion and southern drawl. Samir
though he'd struck oil and threw himself in the back of
the car, pressing himself tightly against the Marine
while I climbed in beside him. Ahmed sat in the front
with the driver and motioned him to drive off, hardly
glancing back at the antics of Samir in the back seat.
We'd hardly been going a couple of minutes when Samir
pulled up his striped jubbah and pulled down his green
briefs. He looked over and grinned at the Marine and
uttered one of the few English sentences he knew: "You
like fuck?" The Marine was hardly more articulate. He
looked down at Samir, gasped and said "Jesus!"
Samir, in his typical prankish manner, made a pass at
the Marine's groin but had his hand knocked smartly
away. I reached over and gently stroked Samir's cock and
placed his hand over my own. Samir whipped out my meat
and was merrily stroking away while I gently massaged
his young cock. "Jesus!" the Marine said again.
"He only wants to be friendly," I said. Samir sat on my
lap, and although my cock didn't penetrate him, I got
the exquisite feel of his hot asshole rubbing against
the head.
"Don't you want to fuck Arab boy, sailor?" the driver
asked.
"Jeez," the Marine said, "let me out of here." The only
effect this had on Samir was that he made another, more
determined pass at the Marine's crotch and this time he
held on like a ferret to its prey.
A few minutes later, I wasn't surprised to see that
persistent Samir had captured his prey; the Marine's
pants were open and his cock hung out. Samir wrapped his
lips around it.
The car bounced over a rough track and came to a halt.
Ahmed and the driver apparently wanted to encourage the
wanton Samir just for the hell of it. Samir was deep-
throating the embarrassed Marine and I didn't help
matters by reaching over and feeling the Marine's hard
butt.
Ahmed said something to Samir in Arabic. The boy let the
Marine's cock slip from his mouth reluctantly and,
pulling his jubbah up under his arms, laid face down
over the car. "I don't do these things," the Marine
said, but the two men positioned him behind the boy's
upturned little butt.
Ahmed held the Marine's hard-on in position and guided
it into the boy's waiting and relaxed hole. Once in, he
didn't take it out, even though he repeated once again,
"Jesus." He bucked to and fro and there was no doubt
from his dripping cock when he finally did pull it out
that he'd shot his wad in Samir's hole. The Marine wiped
his softening pecker on his shirt tail and pulled up his
pants.
"Gimme! Gimme!" said Samir in a heavy Arabic accent,
already asking for payment in return for his favor. The
Marine was in too great a shock to respond and we
decided that Samir would have to regard his services to
this particular representative of the U.S.A as free.
Ahmed and I rewarded Samir later that evening with some
freshly baked sweet cakes from a merchant near the place
we were headed for and he quickly forgot his
disappointment.
We all got back into the taxi and drove to the landing
stage. The Marine reached for some money to pay the
driver. "No charge," I said. The Marine, still looking
slightly dazed, and sheepishly said "Thanks." As he was
driving Ahmed, Samir and myself back to our meeting
place for the night the driver asked, "What happens to a
guy like that if someone actually starts shooting at
him?"
I reached over, put my arm around Samir's young
shoulders, and pulled him close to my side and said,
"Turns and runs in terror, I suppose."
I had a business appointment in West Berlin on a Monday
and made reservations to fly in on the Friday before.
This gave me plenty of opportunity to spend the weekend
in some of Europe's hottest gay bars. I decided to stay
in East Berlin and commute by U-Bahn. It wasn't the
first time I'd been in the Eastern sector, but it was
the first time I'd checked into a hotel there. It was
modern, functional (two stars) and second rate. On
Friday night I did the gay scene in the Western sector
and slept late on Saturday.
After a lunch of good beer and lousy meat, I decided to
explore the old parts of the sector; the show-shops and
apartments spreading out from the Brandenburg Gate are
too depressing. I wasn't dressed for cruising; in fact I
was wearing a jacket and grey flannels. I accidently
came across a cottage (German mens room) tucked away
between a park and a section of overhead U-Bahn track.
The moment I entered I got the scene; there was a
lookout stationed near the door and three guys inside at
the urinals. It was an old building, L-shaped, with four
urinals near the entrance and four more round the corner
of the L. There were two W. C. booths but these were out
of action; metal bars were welded across the doors,
suggesting that it was a trouble spot the police didn't
want to patrol.
The guy in the doorway was making a pretense of
buttoning up. He was dark haired, in his late twenties I
guessed, and wore cord pants and the kind of padded work
jacket so popular in Eastern Europe. Near the door at
one of the urinals was a young blond in denims and a
Western style jeans jacket.
As I took a urinal near him, I saw around the L bend
that standing side by side at the other four urinals was
a very hunky fair-haired guy, possibly in his early
twenties, wearing very greasy mechanic's overalls, and a
typical overweight German in a railway employee's
uniform, balding prematurely, and pink from high blood
pressure. I felt some resentment from them, as though my
arrival had broken up their action.
I'm usually cautious in a Communist country but on this
occasion I decided it was safe. So I let the young blond
see that I was giving my meat a few encouraging strokes.
Immediately, he stood back from the urinal so I could
get a good view of his fresh young cock jutting
impressively from his tight jeans. Wow! I started
drooling. It was big, fat, pink and moist and despite
the fact that it was fully hard, his foreskin still
fully covered the head of it till he eased it back and
revealed the glistening rosy red splendor of the cock
head.
"Are you British?" he asked in excellent English. My
clothes told him I wasn't German, certainly not East
German. I told him I was American. By this time the
dark-haired guy had come in from the door and reached
over the partition between the urinals to play with my
cock. Satisfied that I wanted action, he nodded approval
and returned to his lookout position.
I'd hardly gotten my hand around the youngster's cock
when the fair-haired mechanic had dropped his greasy
overalls. He was stark naked, his overalls were wrapped
around his ankles as he rested his arms on the urinal
partition and waited for the railway worker to screw
him. The youngster I was jacking off said, "He is here
every day; he just stands there to get fucked by anyone
who wants to fuck him. You want to fuck him?"
I was more interested in the young blond because, being
cut myself, I am fanatical about foreskin. His was too
good for a quick blow job at a urinal and I asked him if
there was a safe place we could go. He said, "your hotel
will be OK." I had my doubts but he assured me he had
all the right papers and I.D. cards. even a Communist
Party card. So, I said "let's go!"
As he had indicated, no one challenged us when I took
him up to my room. He said his name was Reed and he was
18, a medical student. He seemed comparatively well-off
and influential; he behaved toward the hotel staff with
an almost adult authority, specifying the kind of Polish
vodka and German lager he wanted sent to my room.
I was beginning to take a genuine liking to this guy.
His casual confidence was refreshing and a distinct
change from American guys his age who seem to spend all
their time either hiding under a rock or trying to
convince everyone that what's between their legs is the
best that ever was.
He indicated he was anxious to get under my shower as
soon as we were secure behind my locked door. I poured a
couple of drinks for us and tossed my jacket over the
back of one of the chairs and loosened my shirt. He took
off his jacket and handed it to me to hang in the closet
for him and yanked his black T-shirt up over his head.
His chest was completely hairless and there was just a
trace of hair running from his navel to the top of his
jeans. His buns still had the firmness and roundness of
youth and his jeans clung to them tightly.
I told him to relax, that the shower could wait, and to
sit and have a drink first. After a few beers and some
candid conversation, I could see his cock was hardening
again and showed clearly under the tight fabric of his
jeans. He spread his legs wide apart and reached down
and squeezed it firmly. I reached over and placed my
hand over his while he massaged it. He placed the other
hand behind my neck and gently drew my head down between
his thighs. I placed my lips over the bulge in this
jeans while my hand firmly squeezed the base of his
cock.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "I would like to take
a shower first."
I slid my hand along the length of this cock and said,
"I'd like to have what's under that foreskin first."
He chuckled and seemed to be flattered by my interest.
He stood up and pulled his boots off and popped the
button on the waistband of his jeans. He was careful
taking them off as they were genuine Levi's and hard to
come by over here. I layed them on the bed for him while
he sat back down in the chair and spread his legs wide
again. His young balls were pulled tight up against the
base of his cock and he reached down and tugged at them
in an attempt to loosen them somewhat.
Having failed to succeed at that, he ran his fingers
idly over his erect nipples and his cock responded by
jerking strongly upward against his flat stomach. The
foreskin still completely hid the mushroom shaped head
but the strong masculine scent of his groin wafted up
and filled my nostrils.
I had stripped down to my white Jockey briefs and my
cock was clearly hard and pressing out against the soft
white cotton. The head of my cock was already moist and
the tip poked out above the elastic waistband. I moved
to a position on the floor between his legs and took
that beautiful throbbing cock in one hand while the
other reached under to squeeze his balls.
He winced in pain at that, I gathered they were loaded
to the hilt and painful to the touch as young balls get
when they need relief. I slid my tongue under the
foreskin and cleaned the sticky fluid from around the
head of his cock lovingly. I enjoyed the strong taste of
cock cheese and the warm smells coming from his groin
while he just sat there and moaned between gulps of
beer. His balls pulled up even tighter against his
abdomen and his ass cheeks clenched tight together, a
thin film of perspiration forming between them.
I pulled him up and over to the bed, where he crawled in
and propped himself up on one elbow and raised his leg
up so his fat cock faced me. Again his casual,
uninhibited confidence was refreshing and I wasted no
time crawling in beside him (without the briefs this
time) and proceeded to make beautiful music on that fat
pink organ.
He pulled me around and deftly slid my cock between his
lips and I slid his foreskin back from the pre-cum
drenched head. The fat cockhead was punctuated by a tiny
slit that was almost perfectly centered at the top and I
licked away the clear strand of fluid that oozed from
it. I worked on the shaft and head of that pulsing cock
for almost ten minutes, sliding it in and out of my
throat and pausing to remove it and gingerly let my
tongue wander down around and under his tender balls.
He eagerly pulled my head up and, with a single thrust
of his hips, firmly planted his cock head between my
lips just as it erupted with gobs of white cum. I
swallowed hard and fast to keep up with the seemingly
never ending load. The taste and feel of his hot cum in
my mouth drove me over the edge and I tensed and blew my
load down his throat at almost the same instant as he
started cumming.
I managed to clear my throat of all his cum and said,
"you can have a shower now if you still want to."
He swung his lithe young body off the bed and headed for
the bathroom. I followed, my eyes wandering over his
small, round ass cheeks bouncing invitingly in front of
me still slightly moist with sweat.
He stepped up to the toilet and took his half-erect cock
in his right hand. I reached over and drew the long
foreskin down over the cockhead and sealed it tightly
with my fingertips. He placed his hands on his hips and,
with a sigh of relief, let go. His piss built up inside
his closed foreskin like a bladder. When I released it,
a powerful stream of warm piss hit my face and ran down
my neck and chest.
I was the star of Grunburgpark toilet in Frankfurt.
Seething with lust, I made for it in the depth of a
German winter last week on a Sunday afternoon and found
I just had to wave my erection about for a moment or two
in the urinals when a man was on his knees asking to
suck it and another was pulling my jeans to my knees and
rimming me. An English queen with a red fist-fucking
hanky in his ass pocket directed the proceedings, little
realizing his English was much more understandable to me
than any equivalent German.
"Suck that hole, sweetie," he told his companion and
started lusting after the sight of German tongue working
on my crack. "A hot little number," he told his German
companion, who replied, "Christ, I'd like to taste his
asshole." I tried to look as dumb as possible, enjoying
their discussion of my charms.
The German came close to my ear and whispered in German,
"Let me eat your pussy, darling." I didn't go with them
but teased the shit out of the German by sucking him
between rim jobs (he rimmed me) and then sucked off two
voyeurs who'd come to watch the fun. I liked exposing my
bottom and cock to complete strangers like that and
hearing the English queen invite more people to come and
watch. I held off for a long time but was unable to
retain my cum a moment longer and shot my load.
I rested against the partition awhile, observing the
traditional T-Room rites. A white American chicken
strutted in...cock waving out through his unzipped
jeans. The old queens drooled and fumbled to get their
old wrinkled cocks out for him to scorn. Banish all
thought that he should bare his backside for them; those
things being distasteful in the states. Only as he
masturbated would such thoughts as exposing his sacred
ass be contemplated. An exhibitionist of degrees, I
suppose.
Still, I admired his forwardness in strutting by to show
his little cock on his way to other places. Places where
his disdain would gain him recognition. With my jeans
open and pulled halfway down my hips, I swiftly turned
sideways and dropped the denim enough to expose one
cheek of my well-licked ass. He quickly tucked his
little erection back into his drawers and scampered
away.
So typical, I thought, shunning the ones that desire him
and embracing the ones that don't. My asshole began to
yearn attention again, pushing away my thoughts of the
little chicken.
A rugged looking gent happened in and I squared off with
him at the urinals. He had a look of world-liness in his
eyes that I admired. No scorn, no fear...just casual,
complete understanding of where he was and why he was
there. The type of look that says "Show me your stuff
and keep your mouth shut."
The queen looked ill at his arrival and flitted away. I
stayed and watched his style, hoping to learn. He
flicked a few drops of piss from his cock and whipped it
around a few times while he glanced over at me. I
grinned wickedly and nodded towards the stalls behind
the partition wall I had been leaning against. He
slipped around me, pausing momentarily to grope my ass
expertly. I raised an eyebrow in consent and followed
him.
I stepped in front of him as he seated himself on the
john and slipped my jeans down to my knees in one smooth
move. He placed one hand on either side of my hips and
pulled my groin to his face. After planting a kiss just
at the base of my cock, he slipped it deftly into his
mouth.
A few moments of sucking and he let it slip out as he
spun me around and pushed me forward so my backside was
completely at his disposal. His tongue devoured my
puckered hole and he rimmed me expertly for several
minutes with a style I admired. I offered no resistance
and quickly responded to his attention, my cock now
stiff and ready for more of his skills. I pulled away
and thrust it into his mouth. I came quickly down his
throat and planted a kiss of genuine thanks on his
veteran lips as I pulled my jeans back up.
-=[...(O)...]=-
British baths are always havens of voyeurism and
exhibitionism, since no sex is permitted on the premises
and furtiveness is the order of the day. Camp
commandants rush in on tiptoe every so often to throw
offenders out or at the very least to enjoy the spurting
cocks on view. I find that this atmosphere suits me
admirably, as I can show off my cock to some admiring
gentlemen, my bottom to others, and can usually incite
not only voyeurism but competitive cock-jerking from
some of them.
In St. Tropez, however, acres of french ass would
appear, much of it male, some of it masculine, and some
of it succulent in the extreme. Cock was on show, but to
a lesser extent; the French are sometimes protected by
the most coy of devices, a cache-sexe. If they sold the
little things after a day's wear, with the thong that
divides cheek from cheek and protects their assholes,
I'd probably buy quite a few for the natural aphrodisiac
they'd have after a day in the sun; but no such market
had yet to be created...at least not in this paradise.
So I contented myself with "doing in Rome" and joined in
the sun and ass worship. My favorite ass was glimpsed
only once (alas), when a hairless young Frenchmen whose
ass was being changed from briefs to swimming trunks
deftly and hurriedly, but not so quick or cleverly as to
prevent my gazing on his milky smooth cheeks and crack.
I get hot over hairless, muscular, masculine legs,
nipples, belly and, inevitably, ass.
He was an outstanding example of the hairless type;
muscles, with full curving buttocks. I had wished for a
glance at his naked buns for many days. On this day, I
was rewarded and they were worth the wait. It turned out
he was 17 and his name was Claude. I was to learn other
things about him during my stay in St. Tropez, but
that's a story for another day...
The days in St. Tropez have brought out a new interest
of mine; playing the exhibitionist. But, coming up
against extremely rough competition, I have had to
refine the practice to an art. There are certain "rules"
to the game and one must study ardently to achieve
success.
I am, of course, displaying myself to as many men as
possible. I find that advertising my cock and ass as
blatantly and crudely as possible brings in the right
kind of voyeur. The time of day, I found, was honored in
this art almost as much as it is in Hindu worship. The
early morning is favored by the practitioners...a
mystery beyond my comprehension.
I've always sortof admired male whores (hustlers is
"polite", but no more accurate). My love for some of the
rough trade beauties of America's porn factories and the
trashy young men who wave their public jewels and much-
abused asses at audiences of lusting men is profound. So
is my envy.
I would love to appear every two hours to be pawed and
slavered over by any guy with the price of admission to
a fleabag cinema in his pocket. But my perverse need to
experience the delights of casual voyeurism cannot be
satisfied by enlisting in a raunchy cabaret. So I set
about to find a suitable alternative...and found the
perfect solution behind the lens of a willing cameraman
working out of a grand old house overlooking the beach
of St. Tropez.
Draped over a bench in the changing room adjoining the
beach, feasting my eyes on the daring French youth that
trotted in and out to furtively glance at each other in
hopes of catching a glimpse of cock or a flash of naked
butt, I waited patiently for the perfect ass of Claude
to appear once more.
It was early in the day before the majority of sun
worshippers had donned their cache-sexe and settled on
the white sand. He sauntered in, glancing around
nervously, dropped a small bag on the bench opposite me
and began undressing. He had turned his back to me and
was busily unstrapping his sandals when an idea came to
me...persuade him by example. I stood up, dropped my
black speedos, and bent forward at the waist pretending
to be keenly interested in a small bruise on my toe.
Turning sideways towards him, I glimpsed him studying
the curve of my ass, then blushing and staring down at
the floor sheepishly. I smiled and remained in that
position for a good minute or two before sitting back
down and throwing one leg up on the bench to give him a
full view of my groin. He turned his back to me and
hesitantly pulled his white briefs down while bending
far forward at the waist.
My eyes locked on to the cleft down the center of his
young ass which closed so tightly that his asshole was
protected from view even in that position. He stood up,
took his bikini trunks in hand, and pretended to be
undoing a knot in the cord that ran through the
waistband. After a few minutes, it became obvious he was
really trying to undo the knot and sat down on the bench
facing me.
His legs spread wide and I drank in the sight of his
young, fat cock and heavy balls. His cock and balls had
the characteristic dark coloring of the French and,
although the hair on his head was golden brown, his
pubic bush was much darker. Both the bush and the rest
of it down there stood out starkly against the milky
white of his loins. An early morning breeze swept
through the changing room, smelling of salt spray. It
was cool and I could see his balls contract upwards
slightly. My cock began to respond both to my nakedness
and the sight of his taut, hard muscles.
He looked up at me and then went back to attempting to
undo the knotted cord with great frustration on his
face. I got up and strolled over to him, casually
whisked the garment from his hands and proceeded to
unknot the cord for him. He beamed up at me and muttered
a meek "Merci" before yanking the things up over his
sweet, tight ass. With this successful pursuit behind
me, I ventured to invite him to join me on the beach. He
hesitated and then consented with an equally meek "Oui".
We sunned side by side for some hours, him telling me
tales of what he would do when he was out in the world
on his own. Me telling him stories of travels in the
Middle East and Africa. He explained that he never had
enough money (the plight of youth around the world) to
go places he wished he could. It was then that I
inquired how he managed to get any money at all.
He swore me to absolute silence and told me of the
photographer up beyond the dunes who took pictures of
him and gave him money in return. Curious as to the
nature of this venture, I asked him if he posed in the
nude. He said no, but very close to it. He said that
many of the young French men on the beach do pose nude
for him and they get more money for it. He agreed to
take me to meet this man the following day.
The gentleman in question was named Philippe, short and
stocky with a bushy moustache and paunchy beer belly.
Claude introduced us and asked if there was work for
either one of us that day. Philippe explained that he
was doing "duos" and that he, Claude, had refused to
participate in the past. Claude nodded knowingly and
asked me if I understood what had transpired. I said
that I thought so, but would like to see for myself to
decide if I was interested or not.
Philippe agreed to allow me to sit in on a session and
led me up a long flight of ornate stairs to his studio,
which overlooked the beach and surf. There were two
young Frenchmen, totally nude, lounging in chairs out on
the balcony behind the studio and Philippe beckoned them
to come inside to begin work. Claude had decided to wait
downstairs for me, but I gave him a few francs to buy
some croissants for us at a local bakery and then meet
me back here.
The two young men were tan all over and their slim,
muscular bodies looked very inviting. Philippe posed
them in various erotic positions, snapping away with his
camera and running back and forth to shift an arm, leg
or cock to suit the shot he was trying to make. The
youths both had stiff hard-ons and displayed them with
great pride. No actual sexual contact was made, only
made to appear to be taking place between the two.
After some thirty minutes or so, Philippe motioned that
he was done and after counting out some francs for each
of them, sent them out of the studio with instructions
as when he would be ready for them again. Needless to
say, my speedos were being stretched to the limit by
this time.
By this time Claude had returned and was shouting
"Cheri!" from the bottom of the stairs. I left the
studio and went down to greet him and tell him of what
the photographer had been doing. He listened intently
but showed not interest in participating. I talked on
about how he had a beautiful, sexy body and should be
proud to display it.
Philippe sat down beside us and bemoaned that he
couldn't find enough models to keep the "patrons"
satisfied (I assumed he meant publishing houses that
used his photos). He looked over at Claude and then at
me and asked if we would like to pose in a duo session
for him. My interest was immediately sparked and I
agreed with great enthusiasm. Claude was reluctant,
however, but we managed to convince him it was alright.
My heart was beating wildly as I stepped out of my
clothes in the studio and watched Claude remove his suit
and beach shirt. His torso and legs were darkly tanned
from the beach but his hips and ass were boldly white in
comparison. The sight of those small, well-rounded
globes of ass cheeks were enough to take your breath
away and I shivered with excitement at the thought of
being close enough to touch them. Claude was awkward in
front of the camera and Philippe was constantly running
over to put him in the right position.
We worked through various poses for about 10 minutes and
I was getting hotter by the minute. My cock was pressed
hard against my stomach and refused to go limp in the
midst of all this. Claude was obviously nervous and his
cock would get semi-erect and then go flaccid again,
much to Philippe's chagrin.
I asked Philippe if it would be alright if I fellated
Claude to help him get an erection for the pictures.
Philippe agreed. I took the half-hard pink cock between
my lips and gently tongued and slid the head in and out.
Claude moaned softly and stretched out fully to give me
plenty of room to work.
Philippe snapped away, obviously pleased at the way
things were going. I rolled Claude over, pulled those
beautiful globes apart and tongued furiously at his
cleft and asshole. He arched his back and thrust his
butt hard up against my nose and lips. His muscular legs
flexed as he writhed under my probing tongue.
I reached under and pulled his cock back through his
legs. Pre-cum was dripping freely from the engorged head
and I licked it up lovingly. His slim hips rested
lightly and easily on my hands. I licked and kissed
those ass cheeks all over and over again. He had reached
down and was stroking my cock gently...it was beginning
to be more than I could take.
When it was obvious that he was very hot, Philippe told
him to roll back over and spread his legs wide for me. I
dove down between them to lick his balls and cock while
the cameraman moved in for some close-ups. Claude could
hold back no longer and, with one hand under his balls,
I slowly slid the other up and down his swollen shaft.
His legs stiffened, he trust his hips upward and a solid
stream of hot cum flew up and hit me right in the face.
Philippe was ecstatic and I blew my load at almost
exactly the same time. It landed squarely on Claude's
firm, hairless stomach and pooled in his navel.
Philippe thanked us profusely, paid us handsomely for
our efforts (some effort!) and we left with an
invitation to return and do some more posing for him in
several days. Claude and I wandered back to the beach to
rejoin our fellow nudists and exhibitionists at doing
what they do best...delighting the eye of the beholder
with the splendor of the male physique in it's unadorned
beauty.
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 23