Date: Sun, 18 Jun 2006 19:36:07 -0700 (PDT)
From: Aihu Fist <aihufist@yahoo.com>
Subject: my life as a whoring student part 25

No reproduction allowed without prior consent of the author, this is
copyrighted from the moment it appears on the web.

The boat approached the coast real close. They waved to someone who was
standing waiting for them. He got in his car and flashed the headlights a
few times. It was a kind of signaling which the light towers use, and I
could read some of it: `The coast is clear'.

We were about fifty meters away from the shore; the waves of the sea were
quite calm. In the distance I saw houses with the lights on, and the beach
was abandoned. Looking at the moon it could have been three in the
morning. The dress was quite comfortable, light on my skin and warm at the
same time. I breathed in the salty air.

They threw out the anchor.

-Zid, one said, and made me jump out of the boat as soon as the water was
not higher than knee level

They fall followed suit except for the captain. Wading through the water
was quite an experience.

The water came all the way up to my waist; I was soaked when I reached the
beach. The driver came running up to us and in a very excited manner he
told them to jump in the car fast. The boat took off I saw, leaving all his
partners here. I wrung out my dress as much as I could. The two men sat at
my sides in the back and one next to the driver. No one spoke to me. We
drove fast over the beach from which we took a sharp bent speeding through
a city of strange houses. The windows were open through which I stuck out
my head at times to catch a glimpse of the center.

Half an hour later we arrived at a remote corner of this city and all of us
got out. Both men grabbed an arm each and pulled me up the stairs of a huge
mansion. It was surely more than hundred fifty years old. The wooden stairs
croaked all the way up. We climbed four floors. It was eerie quiet. The
driver took out a bunch of keys and unlocked the giant double door. He told
the guys to follow him. The living was huge with copper chandeliers hanging
from the ceiling, a long dining table and chairs with red velvet cushions,
a stereo player and TV set was part of it. The house had abstract art on
the walls and gilt mirrors. This was not a poor man's house. We were told
to sit and by the way the men who had taken me here looked at him was one
of awe and respect.



He told them something and pointed at me. The youngest of the three walked
over to me and pulled my wet robe over my head. I quickly covered my
genitals at which they sniggered. The host of the house shrugged his
shoulders and left the room for a minute only to come back with tea.

There was a long discussion as usual between those men like the one I had
to listen to in Spain. I was given tea too, but I didn't get tired like
from the other one. I had to sit down near the host who had his head
shaven.

He was a middle-aged fat man who reminded me of detective Conan, of course
in an Arab version. I sipped my tea slowly while observing their way of
speaking. At times the man got nearly angry; the young guys resolute in
answers or uncompromising I would say followed by a silence for five
minutes form both sides. Then the boss resumed the conversation with a
smile a handshake and left the table. He came back with a heavy parcel. It
was wrapped in plastic. On the table he cut it open with a huge knife and
in there lay a heavy piece of what looked like clay, very brownish and oily
looking. The eyes of the boys widened with interest. The host then chopped
of a small piece and set fire to it with his lighter. Soon the chunk became
very oily.

The guys looked at one another rubbing their hands together, agreeing on
something I had no clue of.

What I understood was that the stuff they were so happy about was called
hashees.

The young men accepted the `clay' as a gift and thanked the man several
times. This much I understood.

Now they walked over to me and pulled me off the chair and pushed me into
the man's arms, who straight away pulled me up on his leg as if I was a boy
of eight. Without looking at me he told them ´choukran', which by now I had
learned, meant `thank you.'

I was flabbergasted at the speed of this event taking place. The leader of
the boys had their hashees under their arm and I was sitting on the man's
leg. Had I been traded for a piece of clay?

Some more things were said, but it seemed some kind of deal had been struck
and the very minute I sat on his knee, the guys bade farewell and
disappeared.

-Je m'appelle Omar (my name is Omar), the man spoke to me. Et toi (and
you)?

-Alex.

-Comme Alexandre le Grand (like Alexander the Great).

-A partir de d'aujourd'hui je serais ton papi (from now on I will be your
daddy).

Bienvenue a Tanger (welcome to Tangiers).

As he said this he pulled me closer and his hand moved up between my thighs
where he began tickling my scrotum.

-Tu es si beau, jolie comme une rose blanche (you are so handsome and
pretty like a white rose).

He brought his other leg closer and arranged it such that now I was facing
him sitting straddled with my legs over both his legs like sitting on the
loo in front of him.

He held me with one hand behind my back just above my buttocks and the
other hand continued tickling my nuts.

I think the way I sat was enough to stretch my boy hole wide open. I had to
keep balance of my body; it was needless to say that the tickling made my
pecker rise into the air.

The man was enthralled by it. His index finger left my balls and went for
my lips. He touched them gently, toured the both of them to remain
motionless at my lower lip for a while. Then he made it curl in cry baby
mode. I opened my mouth out of my own and invited him in. That was easy; I
licked it a thousand times over. He poked that finger against my cheeks
from the inside, caressed my tongue while his hand that held me on his
knees decided to move away following the round shapes of my gluttons. It
was a strange sensation sitting on a stranger's lap who said he was my
daddy now. He had his own tongue stuck out now which approached my
mouth. As our lips collided in an embrace his wet finger had reached my
stretched open love hole. He plugged it like he was cleaning his ear. In
response I jolted nearly off his legs squeezing his own legs together with
mine. But he held firm and didn't retreat from my mouth.

He got up from the chair still holding me and kissing me unabated. He was
the first Moroccan who had ever kissed me. I was surprised of course. His
finger left my crack when we entered a bedroom.

He put me down on the bed and began to undress. God, he was fat and
hairy. All the things I hated. The bedroom had many pictures of young white
boys on the walls; some were not older than ten. They stood all naked
against the wall or lying on his bed. His paunch was so heavy I could
barely see his dick. The balls were hanging low. Only when he got to lie
next to me on his back something came peeking out of the folds of his heavy
belly. It was not bigger than my fist, a mere twelve centimeters.

-Maintenant on va faire l'amour, mon petit Alex. (Now we will make love, my
little Alex).

-Viens ici, (come her he said) and drew me over his stomach like if I was
feather light.

He sure loved to French kiss. While we did that he grabbed my globes and
pressed me firmly on his dick. Yes, it reached between my thighs touching
my hole at times. His body hair tickled me all over. I enjoyed the kissing
most of all, it just turned me on.

I got the knack of his movements of this furry walrus. He rocked my body
from left to right and up and down, every time sucking my tongue
deeper. For the same token I had his broad but short cigar entering
centimetre by centimetre the stead which he was most keen on. For some
reason he didn't do it. Then he switched off the light. He was licking my
throat leaving a trail of sticking saliva over my collarbones down to my
tits. Then he pressed me back to meet his face. There was nothing I could
do but be patient and let him do all the work.

The door of the room was still open and some breathe of hot air swooped
through it which made us all the more heated and horny.

My own yearnings and thoughts went back to when I was in Belgium, thinking
of Luc.

Was he still alive or had the ghost of death carried him away to a
graveyard in Germany.

His hands were on my upper legs and then they left me all together. I
imagined them to lie next to him at rest, his hips continuing the wobbling.

I grew weary of kissing him so I let him rummage in there for as long as he
wished.

Suddenly the hands were back wresting my globes in a very unusual way, they
were stronger squatting over me. They were unreal and heavy nearly
squashing them. AT the sides of my globes the sensation of hard nails made
me want to steer away from his face and look back to what was hurting. But
he kept me pressed down. Then I realised there were four hands on me. The
minute I was aware of this something invaded my body, it nearly split me in
two. I pushed myself up from the body I was lying on. Omar said:

-Non, non mon ami, calme toi, tout ira bien.(no my friend be
calm. everything will go well). The cock that was inside me was not his, it
was so broad and so long and it took so much pain before he arrived at the
hilt of his shaft, until I got spiked on it like kebab.

He rose with me, pulling me away from Omar. The intruder had me glued on
his body, both of us doing it on our knees. Omar got up too only to go for
my wild throbbing penis.

 The man behind me was certainly twenty years younger, his skin as dark as
the night and his legs which I touched in a daring move were smooth like a
seal' skin. He shivered. He was truly sensitive. Since he said nothing at
all about me touching him, I thrust my arm around his back and felt his
butt. I left it here and began caressing it while he kept on pushing
home. Both the cock sucking and the butt busting was more than I could take
that night. I had been used so many times and only in the last three
days. When I say that my ass was really sore, it really was. The fact that
I had been abused when semi-unconscious did not alter the effects of and
symptoms thereafter and having to take care of my anus not getting torn or
damaged. The black man's fingers crept over my chin into my mouth; they
went in so far I nearly gagged. Instead I let out a long moan which only
incited him to fuck me harder.

The sweat that ran between my back and his stomach ran into my crevice
which produced a sucking sound every time he drove deeper. How deep could
he go until he would come? Omar pulled my scrotum down; his teeth were
nibbling on it. My hand was still rubbing the black man's flexing cheek. I
nearly reached his crack, but violently he removed it and placed it on
Omar's head. Then with a crunching bucking jolt of his hips he came. I came
at the same time, which was a miracle, something rarely happens like
that. Omar must've had the load in his eyes; nevertheless he kept nibbling
my scrotum.

The hard snake left my hole and the room altogether.

Omar remained quiet as in a mute movie; however he insisted I'd suck him
off too, which I did. I swallowed it all through and took my place next to
him. We fell both asleep.

The next morning we rose up form our beauty sleep for me to marvel at the
luxury we bathed in. This man Omar believed in royalty for sure. All was
gilt form mirrors to chandeliers to vases and dishes.

His fat face had double lines all over from the heavy sleeping. A knock on
the door had Omar make me open up. In walked a tall Negro with a silver
plate with tea, pastry and French bread, bananas and orange juice on top of
it.

The Negro wore a djelaba of soft black cotton with a broad belt of camel
leather around his waist. Over his black torso he had a red vest.

-Serves-vous (serve yourselves), he told us.

Was he the guy who had taken advantage of me last night? I couldn't tell
for sure, because soon after two other black guys walked in as tall as he
was, drawing the shades and making up the bed.

They all were dressed the same way, some with a yellow or green vest. Omar
saw I was looking at them inquisitively.

-Ils te plaisent (you like them)?

I shrugged my shoulders and he smiled. He didn't insist.

Je connais un ecrivain Americain qui vit a tanger. Il aime les garcons
comme moi. Je te presenterai a lui. Mais il est deja vieux tu sait (but he
is old already).Je ne crois pas qu'il peut le lever encore. (I don't think
he can still get him up). He snickered.

Would I like to meet an American writer who loves boys? I wasn't sure at
all.

As the days went by I grew bored of the place. We did go out in the city
and the interest in me was big enough to raise a crowd around Omar. I could
verify once more how he respected he was and how much his opinions were
taken seriously. I also noticed quite a few men who had a particular
interest in me. One day as we were talking on the beach to some of his
friend, the crowd was so dense around me that I felt them pressing against
my body. Omar was just like a lecturer. Around him there was an arm's width
of space but around me so many men and boys were elbowing to look at me
that it kind of scared me. I don't know what Omar was talking about, he
sounded like a preacher, as a matter of fact he wore a turban and others
didn't and he had a heavy book in his hand in which he browsed quite often
even at home.

I was wearing my summer djelaba and the boys behind me were wearing one
too. It was on such occasions that the men took advantage of my age and
size to touch me from behind. I had nothing underneath of my robe. Sneakily
someone threw his arm around my waist and I felt his hard cock searching
for my crack through my cloak. I have no clue whether his friends next to
him saw that or knew what he was doing, there were so many of them and
there was not a bit of space between the bodies. I am sure he wouldn't dare
to lift up my djelaba to the level o his poking cock. The fabric was the
only boundary for it not to rip my butt apart. Hence, he made himself merry
just by enjoying his secret proddings until he soiled himself after which
he stealthily left the crowd.

Others followed his example many a times. Every time Omar went about on the
squares with his book I got surrounded by hot young men. It became so
customary that some of them became confident that I wouldn't shout at all,
so they grabbed my clothing or my hands, some were smart enough to sort of
draw me in the crowd by getting in front of me and next to me.

Some winked at me, others stuck out their tongue. One actually grabbed his
cock in a vulgar way, when no one saw it. The news must have spread about
me like fire in a forest.

At home with Omar things went the routine way. I got on him and then a
black man took me from behind until all of us ended up in orgasm. I
understood that Omar was unable to fuck me and he needed help or it was
just a perverse way for him to have me fucked by someone else and he liked
to hear and watch it.

With the Negros I had furtive contacts. It made it all the more mysterious
and attractive. Because I never found out which one fucked me at night.

In the day time Omar taught me how to read and write Arabic. He was quite
pleased to see me pick it up so fast. When I was finally fluent enough to
have small talk with him he thought I should understand the Koran. I told
him I was a Christian. But he insisted that Islam was the last religion
after Christianity and that Mohamed the last prophet.

That made sense to my ears. Hence, everyday He read something out of the
holy book.

I started liking it so much that at times I asked him to read me more. He
truly loved me as his son. There was nothing I could not ask him, maybe my
freedom, but I felt I was free to roam everywhere. Truly, Moroccan kids are
freer than Europeans. They hang around till midnight; no one commands them
once they are twelve there are their own lords and masters. Of course with
him I went to the hammam to bathe. It was there that many of his friends
asked him if I was a Moslem or an infidel.

I was fascinated by the men and boys who soaked over and over their bodies
and had their joints and bones nearly broken by the masseur. I had more
than once a massage too and when I left the hammam I felt fitter than
ever. Here also I made many a friend, though I presumed they were more
interested in my body than in my mind. Omar protected me well form those
spying eyes. He could be very jealous.

Then we went to see the writer, who lived at the edge of the town near the
beach in a house he shared with another writer from the States. From his
house one could see Spain; the beach of the city of Cadiz. There was a
terrace where he sat when we arrived. He took us in his bed room where it
was very smoky and lots of boys hanging about, some ran around naked others
sat next to him while he was smoking hashees.

The conversation was very animated and lively. But hen abruptly Omar
summoned me to leave the bedroom and follow him. Omar left in hurry with
slamming doors; his face grew cloudy.

-What's up, Omar? I asked in Arabic.

-Nothing.

-Come on, daddy, tell me.

-He wanted to fuck you and I said no. Then he proposed me that I should
have one of his boys for a few days while you'd remain with him.

-Don't you like to fuck some of your country boys, daddy?

-Would you like to go there and leave me, Alex?

-Would you be angry if I did?

Omar looked puzzled now.

-Are you saying that you want to be with this man, who is ten years older
than me?

-Just for a holiday, daddy, It is been so long since I was wit a westerner.

Let me think about it, Alex. I don't trust him.

-Then why did you bring me there?

On this he remained mute.

-He shrugged his shoulders and said:

-Just out of boredom I guess. I mean , he has so many boys of his own why
does he need you too.

-Maybe he has been so long without a western boy.

-Maybe you have a point. I will call him up and apologize to him.

And Omar did what he said. But the writer was angry for a few weeks and
refused his apologies. One of those days that Omar had allowed me to go out
in the streets for the first time on my own, I thought of paying the writer
a visit. I was wearing my own Arab trousers now, still without any
underwear, like all the poor boys in Tangiers. I had my best shirt on and
leather shoes, which Omar had bought for me for my birthday, which we had
celebrated the week after we went to see the writer. I had turned
sixteen. It was a huge celebration with lots of invitees. To those amongst
you who anticipate in reading about how it was celebrated I must say this:
be patient...I will tell some time later.

I ran through the narrow streets to the big avenues on my way to the port,
where his house stood.

It was good hour walk from where lived. Tangiers was a bustling city but
the unemployment was high and much of the crime committed was on the
increase. Robbery, assault and rape were now a common feature of this
city. The expansion of Casablanca made many of the unemployed migrate to
that city. Tangiers became a decadent city that attracted quite a few
artists who dreamed of having affairs with horny boys who were available
for a few dirhams.

This American writer was one of the many who settled down here where they
created their own bubble of boy love. I believe a few of the beatnik
generation passed through here such as Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs.

Anyway, I didn't linger too long in unsuitable places and headed fast to my
goal.

I didn't even have to ring the bell, because his boys brought me in. He sat
behind his Remington typewriter and looked up from above his glasses.

-Hi, he said.

-Hi, sir.

-You speak English?

-Yes, sir.

-Call me Paul, son. Have a seat. And feel at home. Some smoke?

-No, thanks I don't smoke.

-Nothing at all? He laughed while he glanced at my hanging crotch.

While he glanced at my crotch I stole glances on his boys who were much
more attractive than he was of course. They came in all sizes and shapes. I
mean their crotches. They wore nothing but shorts. They looked at me
examining me from top to toe as I were an intruder, a competitor. I kept a
low profile, so to speak and ignored their looking at me.  Paul tapped me
on the knee and asked:

By the way, how is Omar?

-He is OK. Are you still angry at him?

-No, of course not, he just caught me at the wrong time.

He noticed my unbelief of this statement.

-What did he say to you?

-Nothing, really.

-Now be honest, I don't want liars in my home.

-Well, err, he said you wanted to ff fff

-Fuck you?

-Yes, that's what he said.

Paul lost control of himself and began laughing so loudly that all the boys
stopped talking amongst themselves and turned around to look at him.

As he recomposed himself, he took a sip of his tea and then said:

-Listen up, boy. I have been here now for more than twenty years and I know
how Arabs and in particular Moroccans think and act. Hell, how did you get
to meet this Omar and who brought you there and how. Do you remember, you
don't have to tell me, your `daddy' told me all in details, even how he
fucked you and how you were fucked form behind by his black servants?

Alex, be real, grow up and think clear. Take a look around you and look at
them -Some of the Moroccan boys were playing outside and hanging against
the window watching us-; they have sex with me because I pay them for it,
that's their only excuse. They don't love me and never will. Now, you, you
are a different kind. Having said this, he grabbed my hand and pulled me
over to him and had me sit on his lap. The boy's mouths grew to jealous
slits. Paul saw that and asked them to leave the bed room for a while. He
did that in French and bit of pidgin Arab. Mine was better than his.

-Listen, Alex, Omar, who is a friend of mine, offered me to have you a week
at my place, but he wanted cash in hand for it. Mind you that he wanted to
get rid of you for some time because he is waiting for another boy that is
supposed to come over very soon. That's what I got wild about. He wanted to
rent you out to me. Now, you come from the west, they kidnapped you, you
never had sex for money, did you? I don't always believe Omar's stories,
you know, he loves to brag and boast of how many he got in bed, but I know
how big his dick is and very rarely he gets it up, so I don't think he
really screwed you, did he?

That was a tricky question, I thought. Did he want to find out whether I
was still a virgin or that I would be easily available or he simply spoke
the truth? I didn't answer that one; I wanted to believe this myself. So I
said:

-I never had sex for money, Paul. Omar made me do it. He forced his dick in
me.

 I didn't want to talk about the Negroes who had buggered me. Somehow that
seemed to reassure him as his grip on my waist became more confident.

-Listen Alex, I have some lovely cake here in the house, homemade...you like
to try it?

-Yes, thank you, I am quite hungry; I said and jumped of his legs to sit on
another chiar opposite of him.

He gave me a huge slice of cake that looked like a brownie but which was
quite hard.

-Coffee?

-Yep, thanks, Paul.

Half an hour later I got drowsy with a funny feeling inside. The walls
began to melt and change colours from blue to green or dark yellow.

Paul smiled from afar still behind his typewriter; he had gone back to work
and let me be. Occasionally he looked over his paper to see how I was
doing. Before long I was on a rollercoaster of laughing bouts, hysterical,
crazy, childish, nervous kicks of laughter seized me.

-You all right, buddy, Paul said, standing bent over me.

He touched me shoulder, and rubbed me over my head.

-You are fine aren't you?

-I nodded `yes'.

-What did you give me, Paul?

-A space cake, how do you like it?

-It is amazing; really, you look like a gold frog now.

-Don't worry, boy, Paul will take care of you.

I saw him beckon the boys outside. Four of them came running in. He spoke
in Arab, don't know what, but they carried me to another room and put me
down on a mattress on the floor, which was surrounded by ashtrays with lots
of stumps of cigarettes in them. They switched of the light and went. I
remained there and I actually felt the sensation of literally flying in
space seeing shooting stars and all one can imagine in the night. I grew
silent and then bucking with shrieks of crazy gut feeling. This went on for
some time. I watched my clock and realized it was now about seven pm. It
must be dark outside. Some boys came in and stood around the mattress. They
all kneeled down around me. They pulled at my clothes and laughed. Then
Paul stood in the doorway watching them play with me. He was smoking a
cigar. He looked so much older and wrinklier now that I had been
drugged. The face was distorted and his eyes sadder.

The boys didn't waste time, one was unplugging my shirt and another
unbuttoned the fly of my Arab trousers. I had no feelings about them; I
just looked at them in the eyes and laughed as if they were tickling
me. They enjoyed my laughter very much indeed, it was contagious. The whole
room was roaring with joy. My ankles left the trouser cuffs and I was naked
as the Bethlehem baby in his crib. Several hands rubbed underneath my balls
in turns. They rubbed ferociously hard so much that my perineum was heating
up like the side of a matchbox. They were still dressed in those shorts and
I reached to all of them trying to tear them of their butts. Though they
were having a go at me they didn't like a bit what I was trying to achieve
and Paul didn't tell them a thing, he just stood there enjoying the
scene. They were like fourteen and fifteen years old and in comparison I
still looked younger because of my fair skin and the genetics I had
inherited of my father. My mum said that even at his twenty-four, people
would ridicule him because he wasn't growing a beard yet. He was still
green behind his ears, they told her. I in contrast had a few blond hairs
now around the base of my prick, but nothing to show off with. Now they
spat in their hands and rubbed it on their exposed glands. I knew what was
coming, so I closed my cheeks. I don't know why, I just did. They were nice
boys with a terrific body, slender, agile and toned muscles. But for some
reason my mind closed off for this group fuck.

-Come on Alex, don't be childish, we know you can bare it. Let me see what
you can take. They are good kids, they won't hurt you.

This sentence slammed me in the head, while he said something else in Arab
to them.

Though my cheeks were closed like a clam, they found no trouble working
their way in. Well, at least one at the time. One boy was already rubbing
his own mast, ready to take over from the other when finished. Hard fingers
pried my butt open with the help of other fingers of the one who parted my
legs. I gave up, it was too much for me and my mind drifted off to other
spheres. I lifted my head to see what was going to happen when I had my
legs going up in the air. His friend hauled them from behind me over my
face. Now I was easy to take. Paul had come nearer and was looking right
into my crack's hole.

-God, Alex you are gorgeous, he whispered and took out his own cock of his
crumpled pants.

The boy over which head he looked down at me looked up at him as if he was
waiting for the `go' sign. Paul just blinked once; the boy turned his face
back to my anus and rammed his rod in. I bucked and twitched by the sudden
attack on my privacy.

-Easy, Alex said to me, as if he was speaking to a stallion that was going
to be tamed.

Easy, just relax and you will enjoy. I know it is your first time, because
Omar has nothing to put into you.

Meanwhile he kept stroking his fine long dick himself, almost at the rhythm
of the boys humping. Now Paul began to undress as well and beckoned the
other boy who sat next to my head watching mesmerized how his friend was
taking my entrails for a ride. Unbelievable but true. Paul got his mouth
over my hard thrilling organ on his fours, and allowed the boy to seize his
asshole. The boy was proud of his abdominal washboard which flexed with
every move when he sent his young gun into the writer's Walhalla.

I never heard someone groan louder than this man. And I began to wail with
him. The boys on the contrary burst out in very macho short grunts. I bet
they had fucked many a times but sure as hell he never fucked them and
certainly neither of the boys would ever have sucked him off. But Paul must
have liked it otherwise he would not have stayed that long in this place. I
saw the boy show off to the other hitting the man's backdoor so hard. Both
of them were communicating with winks and broad cheers over their
lips. They were happy and enjoyed taking him and me as a major feat of
proving their masculinity.


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