Date: Wed, 13 Jul 2005 11:43:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Aihu Fist <aihufist@yahoo.com>
Subject: Whoring Student Life 3

It was raining as I stood waiting doing 'le tapin' at the central
station. I decided not to go to school but instead have some sex for money
first. For the first time I wasn't wearing any undies. I felt my balls
hanging loose in my cut off jeans. Spring had been wonderful with Luc. His
parents had let me stay over one night. We slept with the light on so that
Abdul could take pictures of us. It turned out later that he had focused
more on me than on Luc. I was flattered and my self-confidence had grown
thanks to him.

The hall in the station was crowded with commuters at midday and during the
rush hours when all the clerks and workmen ran their legs off, not to miss
their train.

There was fierce competition I admit. Boys from Brussels and even a Russian
called Koyla. He used to wear black gear, his hair was nearly albino white,
his complexion faint, his lips plain red. There was Jacky, the old escort
boy in his late twenties. He was like a father figure to us. He always gave
us advice or took us home to his flat sometimes, where we could stay
overnight. I never did, I couldn't, because I was still at school. But
various times he had invited me to come over during the day. Koyla, had
slept at his place many a times. He was of Russian origin. There was
Freddy, a seventeen year old with wild lose hanging hair, a broad full
mouth. He was a social case, had been caught a few times nicking rock
albums, mostly for others or to resell them, and last but not least the
usual Moroccan boys. Between us Belgians and them existed a barrier. They
thought of us as real hookers, and they? Oh they just did it for the money,
they said, because they were not in that shit. A kind of twisted thinking,
if you ask me.

My raggedy shorts always got success. Freddy was jealous of me, but he
refused to show his legs, he was too much a male for that, he said. We knew
our customers by name, some were regulars, you see. Some were awful; some
took us to the restaurant.

Into the men's room it was always very busy, cocks were swinging, stripped
of the foreskin, standing hard or simply hanging without pissing. The
cubicles, full of graffiti: Arabic writings on the walls and doors, French
hate mail and Jesus juice. Phone numbers and requests for sex. I read
through it all. I called one number. Our rendezvous was today.

I had been waiting an hour; ready to give up, when the man finally
appeared. He was, believe it or not a Moroccan. I didn't know for sure if I
could trust him. He had his car outside and urged me to come with him. Just
in time, we left the building as the gendarmes (similar to feds in USA)
came in. They sometimes came in unexpected searching suspects. Some whore
boys were taken away for questioning in previous raids. This I was luckily
spared from.

I sat next to the guy in his little Fiat, a sixties model. We drove up to
Vilvoorde, a suburb of Brussels. He lived in a neat, but small workman's
house standing in the row, wall to wall with the others. He greeted his
neighbors, who were Moroccan too. A man in his sixties smiled and shook my
hand. My customer didn't seem to be anxious at all to explain to them who I
was, as if he brought someone home every day. The man next to the old man
was his cousin, he explained. I said hello. He was pretty handsome. I guess
he was about twenty-four something.

The living room was huge compared to Abdul's. He wasn't much interested in
conversation and went straight to the point.

-Take your clothes off, hurry.

He wasn't a romantic, I figured. I felt I had come to the wrong place and
started thinking of an excuse to leave.

-Why haven't you undressed yet, he shouted at me.

-I, I, I , don't know, I stammered. I think I want to go.

-Why, should you, we made an appointment, now you are here, you stay here.

He came over and started tugging at my T-shirt.

-Off, quickly.

I got on my legs and he pushed me back into the seat. A long Arab couch on
which at least five people could sit. The kind they use for wedding
parties. On the wall a portrait of king Hassan II smiled in my face.

Unexpectedly he slapped me in my face. It stung like a bee. My lip was
bleeding.

What had I gotten into? Was I crazy or so naïve that all customers are boy
lovers?

-You must obey, because I pay good money for this. You wanted a thousand
don't ya?

Then get started.

I rid my body of my shirt. But still hesitated for my shorts.

-Those too! What kind of a whore are you, don't you know your job?

-I am not a pro, I retorted.

-Then why do you call me and stay in the central station?

-For fun.

-Ok. Then we'll have some fun here.

He pulled me up, unbuttoned my shorts, and pushed the zipper down.

-Ouch, I shouted, you hit my cock.

-Oh you aren't not wearing anything underneath?

My cock was slightly bruised now. It wasn't hard at all, because I feared
the man. I felt like I was literally going to shit in front of him.

-Turn around, he ordered.

Beautiful arse you have, just what I need.

He put his hands on my buns, touching every pore. His raw hands of a
workman chafed my fragile skin so much it gave me goose pimples.

-Say: Fuck me, I am a whore...

-Fuck me I am...a

-A whore, say it!

I couldn't. He slapped me again, but on my arse cheeks.

-Say it!!

I didn't. He grabbed my hair and pulled me to the kitchen.

 -Sit up here, he said while tapping on the marble table next to the
kitchenette. If you don't say it, I cut your balls off, right away.

He had a butcher's knife in his right hand and held my penis rigged up by
the foreskin into the air.

-No, pleeease, I cried, don't do this, I am just a boy...

-A whore boy and in my religion this is Haram (prohibited), but I have no
wife, so I can get away with this as long as I don't show off or brag about
it. So, say: I am a whore boy!

-I am a whore boy, I sobbed.

-Ok, that's better, zid (advance), and get on your feet.

He pushed me back to the living room.

-I want you to bend over and show me your fuck hole, but don't look at me.

I bent over and stretched my arse cheeks feeling the air caressing my
rectum.

He went over to the door and locked it.

-Stay and don't move a centimeter, he ordered.

I stood there, my legs wide open, my naked feet on the cold floor, but I
didn't feel cold, because it was warm inside his house.

From the corner of my eyes I saw him walking in with a camera. He was going
to film me. Oh no! Proof forever, if anyone, the cops would ever get this
in their hands I was done for.

-Ok, now, bring your head through your legs and start wiggling your arse a
bit.

I looked straight into his video camera. It wasn't a cheap one. A U-Matic,
the professional kind. What was this guy into? I didn't realize then. It
was only years later that I found myself in a porn shop on the cover of a
gay porn tape produced in Germany. Golden Boys or Cock boys it was
called. I had no idea that in that time kiddie porn was sold over the
counter there and in Scandinavia and Holland like hot cakes.

He came round me and crouched, got close to my butt hole and filmed this
for a few minutes, then focused at my face and said:

-Stick your tongue out and show me some of your boy spit. Roll your tongue
and eyes, like bad women do, you know what I mean, you are a pro, so try to
seduce me.

I did all he asked. When he was near he stroke my flanks and grabbed my
balls.

-Mmmmh, he said. That looks real nice; can you suck your own cock, kid?

-No I cannot.

-Try as close as you get.

My tongue was only a hand away, he was disappointed.

I heard a knock on the door. I looked up.

-Stay down, he barked and don't look.

Someone walked in.

-Ah, you just came in time, boy, the man said.

-Oh Uncle, let me do it this time. He is so young.

-Ok. Go ahead, but I will film it, you know that.

-Safi, safi, (I got it) I don't care.

This boy, who I presume was the twenty four year old cousin. Spat in my
crack and maneuvered three fingers in.

-Ouuch, I cried again. He was a brute too; he hadn't cut his finger nails,
I think.

-Zid, zid, (advance) he said as if he was talking to his camel.

His zob struck gold in me, I realized I had gotten less tight there and
that though at first a bit painful I could take bigger and bigger cocks,
thanks to Abdul, who had taken my virginity with love and care.

-Look at me cousin and smile.

He smiled as if he was posing with me for a straight holiday picture. He
stepped up his speed and was riding me fast now, our bodies clashing with
each injection of his rod, twisting, pinching, squeezing and welling at
me. He went for my hair, beat and slapped me on my back and butt. Greased
my thigh with his spit. I moved my arms and hands to him to catch his
buttocks.

-Don't you touch me zamel (fag), I am not a woman, you don't touch me here,
you hear, slut?

The man lay on his back filming his and my nut bag. He was naked too now.

-Ok, enough, cousing get back, it's my turn.

He moved in and I didn't feel the difference at all, it was as hard and big
as his cousin,

-Aaaaaaaaaaghgh, he came in spurts. Swearing and cursing for his precocious
ejaculation.

So the cousin came back and made me suck his cut dick, which was throbbing
into my face.

-Suce, he said et vite, sale pédé. (suck and fast you dirty fag)

I couldn't have fallen lower than this.

I sucked and sucked and sucked; my mouth got loaded with juice.

 The door squeaked again. The old man walked in dressed in a Djelabah.He
gave me another pair of trousers.

-Yours is mine, he said, a souvenir from you to sniff at night. Call me
sometime, so we can finish the movie. Here's your money.

I couldn't get it. So the old man was the sponsor of the whole scene we
had. And he had obviously spied on us. He was going to watch the movie a
thousand times over. Though he was old I could still see a boner under that
dress of his. He shook may hand.

His other hand brushed the back of my butt.

The other mean one drove me back to the center.

I asked him to drop me off at school. This was stupid, because now he knew
where to find me. I wondered what Abdul would have to say about my whoring
student's life.

-Where have you come from this late? My teacher asked me.

Did you have a fight or something? Course, somebody beat you up in a rally
against capitalism or something like that, isn't it Alex?

The class was enjoying my humiliation.

I found comfort that in half an hour I would see Luc playing volley, only
this time he would also look back at me and give me winks of friendship.