The Moroccan Fugitive

When he was done, he unbound me, freed me of the gag, and left me there, on my back, panting and moaning, gazing out at the flowing river through the latticework of tree branches.

He hadn't spoken a word the entire time. He hadn't had to. I had been fucked as I never had been fucked before. The man most definitely was dangerous.

But he had given me new sensations—emotions and physical sensations—over what I'd had before. I could and would write this into my stories.

But this. This had never happened. I was promiscuous, but I never prostituted myself to a man like this before. I would not be dominated like this. I had more respect for myself than this. And certainly more restraint. I liked being fucked. But this was a step—or two—too far.

The man was a maniac. He needed to go back to prison. I now had no doubt what he had been imprisoned for. He was dangerous.

But I had melted to him.

* * * *

Two days later I was holed up in my house, tapping furiously on the keyboard. I was hardly aware that a storm that had been going on for a day had blown in from the Bay of Biscay, bringing with it intermittent sheets of rain that made rivers out of the village's steep paths and dropped the temperature some twenty-five degrees.

I was describing the bar in the village square above me and realized that I was writing about the shed behind it where a crazy but sexy Arab fugitive from prison was living.

Issam. What was Issam doing in a storm like this? I'd seen the shed. It was small and dank, and water from a rain such as we were having would be running right through. And the cold. It wasn't winter cold, but the chill in what should be summer heat must be a shock to the system.

It was cold in here, I realized. I got up and made a fire in the fireplace. That helped.

But it wouldn't help someone in a garden shed behind the village bar.

The rain had stopped for the moment, but I knew it would return. Without thinking, I pulled out the rain slicker and rain boots that had been in the closet when I rented the place. I climbed the pathway, through a stream of water, to the village square.

Issam Ehkath was standing in the doorway of the shed, still just in athletic shorts. He had his arms wrapped around his chest, though, and was trembling from the cold. His eyes picked me out as soon as I rose into the village square, and he watched me walk to him.

We stood there, looking at each other for several moments, neither of us saying anything. Then he nodded and dipped back into the shed. When he came back to the door, he was holding strips of leather in his left hand and a leather strap in his right.

I reached out with a gesture with my right hand.

"I don't think you understand," I said. "That too, but not just that. You can't stay here in the cold and rain like this. Come back to my cottage. This too, but let's get you someplace dry and warm first. You can stay with me."

He nodded and pushed off from the door. As he reached me, he gripped my arm with the hand holding the strap. I shuddered, as we turned and descended the pathway to my cottage.