The Moroccan Fugitive

I wasn't surprised about the preparation. I had already figured that out in walking around and examining the paintings on the wall. All of them were post coitus. The men had been fucked and were mellow from that.

I was fucked too before Sergei painted my portrait. I has leaning back on the divan, my shoulders back, palming the surface of the couch behind me, Sergei's arm wrapped around my waist, my legs spread and bent, feet on surface, with Sergei kneeling between my thighs and fucking me. He used fast drying and surface adhering paint. He got none on himself as he fucked me. It would all come off me in his shower afterward, where we stood under the cascade water and he fucked me against the slick tiles again.

While he fucked me before painting my portrait, Issam came in for another cup of tea, and stood there, close to us, cock in hand, stroking it, as the kettle built up a boil. He did not leave for the longest time. I grew afraid that all of the water would boil out of the kettle while he was there. Sergei was fucking me with his cock, but Issam was fucking me with his eyes. Our eyes locked and he made love to me—no, he made sex on me—from a distance, his eyes fucking me with every thrust of Sergei's cock. I could not take my eyes away. I didn't want to take my eyes away.

This man was clearly too dangerous for me.

It was a strange night and morning. But it was the repeated fuck that I needed. The metal ring in Sergei's cock head was a great addition to the experience. The painting turned out quite nice.

"This one will have to go to a special collector," Sergei said. "If it were put in a gallery, men would be arrested for beating off in front of it."

Looking at it, I could see his point. And it made me smile. It also gave me inspiration for a story or two.

* * * *

That night and day with Sergei held me for several days. I retreated inside my cottage and I wrote. And then I wrote some more. It could not hold me forever, though. A few days later, I was out, walking in the village, wandering around, looking for inspiration in this beautiful part of northwest Spain. I took the path down to the banks of the Mino, where there was a grove of trees with gnarly branches reaching out to other trees from close to the ground, entwining and providing a latticework from which to watch the swift-moving waters of the river.

The pathway down to the river that day was circuitous enough through the village that I saw many of the houses at strange angles and was able, without consciously trying, to even see into the some of the cottages through windows and doors. Such was the case of the British actor, Warren Cavandish and his quite-a-bit-younger Dutch makeup artist boyfriend, Dion. Dion couldn't be more than in his early twenties, I thought, from having seen him in the bar. He was more pretty than handsome. He was willowy and effeminate and looked to be shy. I knew from what had been covered in the tabloids, which I read for inspiration for gay erotica story themes, that Cavandish had given up a lot to keep the young man with him.

Thus, it was a surprise that I saw—only in passing because I turned away from the sight immediately and later couldn't be fully sure of what I saw—or pretended that I wasn't seeing it—Dion bound on a bed in their cottage. He was spread-eagled, face down, on the bed, his wrists and ankles tied up at the four corners of the bed. He was naked, and the Moroccan, Issam Ehkath, was saddled on his hips, riding his tail. The Arab also was naked and he was holding a hand whip. I moved on as fast as I could, but I had the impression that there were red welts on the young man's back and thighs.

Had Ehkath turned his head and seen me observing them? I couldn't be sure.

I stayed down by the river, in the grove of trees with the maze of branches, for nearly a half hour, trying to forget what I saw. I had come to meditate and clear my mind. The writing had been going well, but there were times when the surfacing of plots, themes, and characterizations came too fast and got mixed up with earlier ideas. At those times I had to pull away and just go someplace and let it all flow out of me. This had been such a day, and I had thought the bottom of the river valley would be the ideal spot just to sit and watch the beauty of Galicia flow by. It was a good plan, but what I saw in the actor's cottage just added another set of erotica possibilities. Was the young man doing this voluntarily? Was the Moroccan's role in this connected to why he'd been in prison? How could I not use a body as beautiful and a head of hair as evocative as his in a story or two? Where was Cavandish during this?

I only stayed at the river's edge for a half hour. Emptying my mind of story ideas just wasn't happening. I took a different path back up to the top of the village, but it didn't matter. The paths wound around the river side of the mountain, and I still reached a point on the path with a full view of Cavandish's cottage.

I don't know if the sex session was over or not. Ehkath was standing in the doorway, fully naked. He was leaning into the doorframe and smoking a cigarette. He was lounging like everything was normal. But he was naked. His body was magnificent. He was flaccid, but he hung low. He didn't try to hide himself at all, even when he saw me appear on the path. He just looked at me through hooded eyes—sexually satiated at least for the moment. Beyond him, Dion was still in place on the bed, face down.

I moved on as quickly as possible. I didn't stop at my cottage but went on up to the village square, to the bar. I needed a drink. Part of the shock in having observed what I did was how aroused I was sexually myself at seeing Issam Ehkath's sexually charged body. And beyond that, I can't say I wasn't moved by either the bondage or the apparent use of the whip. I wrote about such things. I hadn't really done much of it. There had been a bit of bondage in my sex play and a bit of experience of a leather strap, but I hadn't sought it out. This mostly was, I had to acknowledge, that I found it enticing and sexually arousing. It was something more—something beyond my usual sex play. Something to fantasize about.

The combination of the Moroccan's body and demeanor with bondage and a hand whip had me panting. And I wasn't panting because of the steepness of the pathways through the village.

When I reached the square, I saw the movie actor, Warren Cavandish, sitting at one of the outside tables. He saw me and called me over to sit with him. I couldn't refuse, although I was embarrassed to do so because of what I just saw his boyfriend being engaged in.

He obviously had been there for some time. His glass was empty and he had a movie script opened out on top of the café table. He offered to buy me a drink and we were served immediately. Cavandish obviously was a favorite character in the village.

"I'm trying to learn my lines for this movie I'm to be in," he said, waving the script at me. "It's just a small part, but I want to keep my hand in."

"I've been sorry to note that you haven't been as active in the movies in the last two years as before."

"I'm getting too old to play the heartthrob parts," he said.

"I don't think so," I said. "I think you're in great shape." And he was. He was a handsome man and still very fit. He exuded sex appeal.

"Thank you, but you're just saying that."

"No, I'm not. I think you know I write male erotica."

"Yes, I've read your stories. I've jacked off to your stories."

"I've jacked off to your movies," I said, and we both laughed. He turned serious, though, and he reached over and touched my check with his fingers.

"But you did what you did for me without me even knowing what a delicious young man you look like, and before I knew what you'd do for a man."

"What I'd do for a man?" I asked.

"It's a small village. It's difficult to move through it without seeing into people's interior lives."

Didn't I know it? I just saw this man's lover, the youth who he'd given up so much to be with, being fucked, bound and whipped—dominated in his own bed by another man. I didn't say it, but I know I hesitated and gave him a confused look.

"The other morning," he said. "I couldn't help but see you in bed with Sergei. You were giving him everything. I envied him."

"You've given up so much to be with your young boyfriend," I said. "I don't know if I should say it, but—"

"You've seen something too, haven't you? I saw from here you go down through the village to the river and come back up. You hesitated both times when you were near my cottage. You saw them, Dion and Issam, didn't you?"

"You know? You know what they are doing, and what the Moroccan is doing with your boyfriend?"

"Dion needs such attention, and it's not something I'll give to him. If I'm going to keep him, I have to accept this from time to time. Issam is cruel, but he has his needs too. I think they will both be satisfied, at least for a while."

"I've been told that the Moroccan could be dangerous—that he has been in prison, and may have escaped prison. You aren't afraid of what he might do with Dion? And, why, if those in the village think he's an escapee, haven't they turned him in?"

"Well, to the question of being afraid Issam will go too far, I really have to leave that up to Dion. If he thinks I won't give him space, he'll leave me. If he even hints that he is afraid of Issam—in ways that don't arouse him—I will step in. The rumors vary with Issam. Some say he was in prison for sexual assault. Others say that as a youth, he had a fight with the man who was keeping him and he stole the man's car to leave him. They say the man prosecuted him for that, when it perhaps should have been the man who went to prison. As far as turning him in, it's extremely hard to find handymen workers in this region—especially ones who are proficient and work cheaply. The village is not about to give up Issam Ehkath if they can avoid it."

"That's very generous of you."

"Generosity has its rewards, Mr. Pendleton—Brad. I'm curious on how generous you might be."

"How so?" I asked.

"When you came into the bar the other evening, you seemed to be looking for a sexual hookup."

"Yes, I was."

"And you immediately came to an agreement with Sergei."

"Yes."

"It would seem—not only from that, but also from your stories—that you are an easy man to have. That's amazing, if true, as desirable as you are. But it would seem possible that you are a highly sexed man, a very promiscuous one."

"I'd say that was a fair assessment."

"You went with Sergei. He's a good-looking man, but he's older than you are. You have no trouble going with older men? And positions. You yield to a man's command and demands willingly, I think."

"You watched us that morning for some time, didn't you?" I said, giving a little laugh to ensure that he was comfortable talking like this. It was turning me on. He turned me on. I had masturbated to thoughts of possibly having it on with him, but I had thought he was too dedicated to his relationship with Dion.

"I'm older than you are, but I try to—"

"Yes," I said. "I'd love to go with you."

He gave me a sharp look. "When?"

"Now. We can go to my cottage. Yours seems to be in use."

Warren Cavandish was a lover. After I had knelt between his spread knees as he sat on the end of my bed and I had worked his very nice cock to full hard with my mouth as he ran his fingers through my hair and murmured his pleasure and encouragement, he lifted me up. He brought me up into his lap, facing him. I bent my legs, pressing my feet into the mattress on either side of his hips, locked my fists behind his neck, and rose and fell on his cock, until I lost my grip. I reclined back, my head and the backs of my hands resting on the stone floor, as he grasped my waist between his hands and continued pumping me with his cock.

Turn down sex with matinee idol who still had a good body and was hung? Not on your life.

He was still in great shape, he had iconic sexy looks, he was a good eight inches hung, and he was virile and attentive.

We fucked for over an hour. He moved us up onto the bed, putting me on all fours, and mounting me from above and behind. He screwed me royally. We each came twice.

He said he was pleased and we agreed to meet periodically when it was convenient for Dion not to need him. We fucked frequently that summer.

I wrote several short stories of an older, but not really fading, action movie star who was a lover in bed. I of course, though, was careful to ensure my readers didn't know which movie star it was or to be sure that it wasn't all just fiction.

* * * *

The pounding overhead had stopped but I hardly noticed because Sergei's penal ring was clicking against my teeth as I gave him head and the sound of that was resonating in my brain. I was bent over the end of the bed below him, my chest lying between his thighs and my arms extended up, my fingers playing with his nipples in the coverage of his curly chest hair. His fingers were playing in the hair on my head as he held my head in place in his crotch, arched his back and deeply moaned his pleasure.

He tensed and his grip tightened on my head, gently pushing my mouth off his cock and going into a freeze mode. He was panting hard.

"No, you must stop that now," he whispered. "And you must come up and sit on it. I want to be inside you now."

"Whatever you want, master," I murmured, and he resumed panting as I brought my knees up on the edge of the bed and, leaning over him, let my lips move up from his crotch and along his belly to his hirsute pecs. My mouth went to each nipple, in turn, teasing the nub out of the hair curls, and giving them suck.

"Shit, you're sexy," he whispered as he reached over for a condom disk on the top of the nightstand.

"Whatever you want, master," I repeated. A noise at the front of the house brought the answer to why the pounding above us had stopped. Issam Ehkath had come off the roof, where he was working on replacing roof tiles, and was standing at the window, watching Sergei and me fuck.

Condom in place, Sergei reached over to the nightstand again. "This is what I want today," he said, coming up with two pair of handcuffs. He grasped my wrists and pulled them behind my back and snapped the handcuffs on—left wrist to left ankle and right wrist to right ankle.

I laughed. "Whatever you want." My mind was already beginning to spin a story plot, but then I hesitated. I'd already written this. Sergei was playing out a story he'd read that I already had written.

I knew what was coming next. My mouth had moved to taking his cock-and-balls pendant in and I kept that in my mouth, sucking it, as his hands went to the small of my back, pulling my hips into his crotch. I was leaning back, imprisoned in that position by my wrists being restrained to my ankles.

I sensed the movement at the front of the cottage and heard the intake of breath, as Issam moved around to the open doorway. His eyes were glued to Sergei putting me into position on the bed, his ringed cockhead pressing at the rim of my hole. Issam was holding a hammer in his left hand, but his right had pushed the waistband of his athletic shorts down in front and he was gripping his huge cock.

I cried out, "Fuck. That ring! I can feel it!" as, gripping my butt cheeks between his hands, Sergei pulled me onto the cock. My knees were pressed into the bed beside his hips. I was, perforce, reclined back. Sergei had brought his chest up to mine. I was sucking on his pendant and his lips were buried in my throat, as his thick cock moved up inside me. Using my knees as leverage I fucked myself on his buried shaft, as gripping, squeezing, and pulling my buttocks to him, releasing, and pulling, we worked together in the fuck.

My eyes turned to the bare-chested Moroccan in the doorway. I synchronized my rocking on the shaft to Issam's stroking of his cock as he held my gaze with his eyes, the three of us fucking together. Even from a distance I could hear the deep rumbling in the man's chest. I shuddered from the knowledge that he wanted me. And not just that. I realized I wanted him too.

I held, panting and whimpering, reclining away from Sergei, letting his pendant drop from my mouth, my mouth in an open yawn as I felt him pulsating deep inside me, releasing cum into the bulb of his condom. I was throbbing as well, feeling my own inevitable rise. I turned my eyes on the Moroccan in time to see him crouch down, jut his hips forward, and fire off into the room. At the same time I released up Sergei's belly. Issam immediately turned and left. Before I disengaged from Sergei and he released me from the handcuffs, the pounding of tiles on the roof commenced again.

When I left Sergei's cottage and took the winding path down the slope to mine, the Moroccan was back on Sergei's roof. He suspended the pounding to watch me descend the path. I tried not looking up to him, but that was unsuccessful. His eyes were burning in my back. He knew he was coming off the roof. I knew he would follow me down to my house.

I entered my house, looking around to see where I wanted him to fuck me. After several minutes, though, he hadn't come to the door. I eventually cooled down, deciding he wasn't coming. I went to my desk and sat down, assuming I would be in the mood to write, as I usually was after sex such as I had just had with Sergei—and Issam. But the writing wouldn't come.

It was no use, the writing wasn't coming. I needed to go somewhere. I needed to clear my mind. I left the cottage, deciding to go down to the river's edge. When I came out of my door, there he was, on the pathway just above my cottage. He was holding strips of leather in one hand and a leather strap in the other. He lifted them to show them to me and nodded toward the path down to the river.

"Oh, fuck, no," I muttered, with a shudder. But my feet betrayed me. I started down the path through the lower village to the river's edge, to the grove of trees with the low-lying branches going off in all directions and functioning as a latticework between the grassy verge and flowing river beyond.

At the trees, Issam bound me, spread-eagled, facing the trees and the river. On the latticework of tree branches. My arms were raised and spread, my wrists bound to branches. My legs were raised and spread, my ankles bound to lower branches. A larger branch pushed into my lower belly, jutting my buttocks back and rolling my hips up. I hadn't fought Issam in putting me in this position. I had shuddered and whimpered and murmured what I meant to be objections but were undecipherable, but I had been putty in his strong hands, going into whatever position he put me in.

I was naked. So was Issam. I had a raging erection on. So did Issam.

I was silenced by a ball gag in my mouth. Issam worked in silence, raising the strap and letting it kiss my bare buttocks, and back, and thighs. Raising the strap and letting it sing and sting just a bit more. And then more. I writhed and cried out into the rubber of the ball gag. It didn't physically hurt as much as it embarrassingly aroused and kept me hard—and, eventually, made me come when he had stopped strapping and had come in close behind me, buried his face in my throat, and snaked a hand around to grip my cock and jack me off.

Only when I had come did he mount me from behind, penetrate slowly and fully as he gripped my hips between his hands, and fuck me, starting slow and working up to hard and fast and deep.

He didn't finish me in that position. He released me from the trees and laid me on my back on the grass. Once again I did nothing to defend against him. He bound my wrists together over my head and my ankles together. Then he wormed his body between my thighs, under the bound ankles, and, kneeling between my thighs with my bound ankles under his buttocks and my wrists bound behind his neck, he thrust up inside me again and fucked me to his completion. He had moved a hand between us, grasped my cock, and brought me off a second time, as, despite being bound and manhandled, I arched my back and rocked against the thrusts of his shaft deep inside me.