Story: Moroccan Boys

Story: Moroccan Boys

Written by: ChrisCross

From the curved seat at the fantail of the private, two-masted schooner, “Nevis”, I watched the fourteen-year-old French Jewish boy, Emile, moving about in the rigging overhead like a nimble monkey. He was all deeply tanned arms and legs, moving deftly like a circus acrobat, changing the sheeting to match the change in the wind as the schooner raced down the French coast toward Casablanca, our goal of refuge for Reggie’s exile–or escape, depending on who you talked to. I was along because I’d become Reggie’s appendage, his secretarial assistant for public consumption, his boy toy for those in the know, although seventeen was getting a bit old to be called a boy–or to be Reggie’s boy toy, as he liked them younger than that. But then he’d been fucking me since I was fourteen, so “boy” had longevity as a term for me.

Reggie was Jewish too, like Emile, the monkey boy scampering about in the rigging, not like me, strictly Church of England and more strictly church avoider. Reggie held the bought title of Lord Rothberg, giving him a bit more cachet in English society than just being a Jewish banker would. He had married well. I suppose the “berg” part denoted his origin. It may be a title that only can be purchased by Jews. He was pushing fifty-five, so he had been in his early fifties already when he first fucked me. He was what was known as a full-time sportsman, which meant that if there was a sport even going, he was in the stands cheering his team on and placing bets. The only sport I’d caught him actually engaging in was fucking early-teen boys.

Although he’d had this nifty 119-foot schooner built by the Dutch in 1920, two years ago, he didn’t even know the first thing about sailing her–the antecedent of the Nevis of her title being the wife of Lord Rothberg, sitting on her father’s money back in York, built on the munitions industry, which was great guns in the recent war. The “Nevis” was sailed by a crew of three Frenchmen, or, rather, two Frenchmen and on French boy, Emile. Emile was the most beautiful of the three, and I think that that, rather than his nimbleness in the rigging, is why Reggie kept him on the crew. That and because he was fourteen. Fourteen was a special age for Reggie–old enough to be developing the musculature of a man and to harden and cum but young enough to admire and aspire to a man’s body shape and hair and too young to have been worn out or to know better.

I had had the fortune or misfortune, depending how one looked at it, of coming to him at the age of fourteen without a protector and with a curiosity and interest in men that made it easy for him to get his dick in me.

As I sat at the fantail and watched Emile scamper in the rigging, Reggie sat across from me and watched me. I was the most modestly dressed of the three. Emile all deeply tanned arms and legs and scamper wore nothing more than a loincloth. I was in a traditional bathing costume, bathing shorts and an athletic T over it. I, of course, was tanned too. Emile and I were golden tanned, both being young and vibrant. Reggie, sitting across from me, wearing only a cigarette and half hard from what I knew he was dreaming of doing with me or Emile–or both of us–was tanned like an ebony statue, his hide leathery, stretched over a gaunt body, which was all angles, sinewy muscle, and hawk-billed nose. He was approaching cadaverous as he aged, but he was still a handsome, imposing man all things put together.

He also had been an entirely too indiscreet man, even for his position and wealth, for too many years. That was what was sending us down the Atlantic to Casablanca, a destination now considered so much more hospitable to men who fucked men–and boys–than almost anywhere else in the word, a mecca for openly gay, actively cruising gay men of substance and wealth from the European and North American continents in the 1920s.

Despite the notoriety, though, Reggie was schlepping south at his own speed and nonchalantly. I at least had the excuse that I worked for him. He had an English title, which, one would suppose was the reason I was still with him three years after he had first bedded me. But I had no reason to be overly impressed with his title. My lineage was better than his, on paper. I, Aristides von Glücksburg, was of the ruling houses of Greece and Denmark, and somewhere on the line of succession to a princely title, although the exact position seemed to vary nearly daily. No, I stayed with Reggie because he had inherited me by default when my impoverished relatives thought it a good idea to send me to England for boarding school when I was a mere lad, and Reggie’s wife at the time was dangling somewhere on the Glücksburg royal tree just as I was. She was willing to take an impoverished Glücksburg under her sponsorship for the sheer pleasure of lording it over the poorer branches of the family. Reggie had taken one look at me and within a month was in my room several nights a week, fucking me.

I didn’t either fight or expose him. I was starved for attention, obsessing with men rather than women, and deeply impressed by the hardness of his body and the length of his cock.

I stayed with Reggie because he had one of the longest cocks I have known and he knew how to use it. I knew that because I subsequently tried other men. The captain of the “Nevis”, even, had already fucked me three times since we slipped out of Southampton. Reggie manhandled me, but he was not completely possessive. And he liked his boys. I felt privileged that he still laid me at seventeen. I knew I was becoming too old for his interests. You can’t seem a virgin for three years of regular plowing.

Emile scrambled down from the rigging, dropping onto the deck at the fantail like manna from heaven. He stood there, briefly, looking at me and smiling. I smiled back. Reggie looked at me and smiled. We were all around smiles. I stood and pulled the swimming T over my head and the swimming shorts down my legs, showing now that I was naked that I was in erection. Reggie also was in erection. Emile gave me a smile and walked past me, along the deck beside the ship’s superstructure, toward the prow of the schooner.

I turned my eyes toward Reggie, looking for his signal. His signals were always subtle, but, after three years I had learned to translate them. Was it to be Reggie on me, Reggie on Emile, or me on Emile? In the last several months, Reggie had been encouraging and training me to broaden myself, to become versatile. He also was sloughing me off. Thus, he hadn’t hesitated to turn me over to the schooner’s captain when the man had an itch to scratch. It was subtle, of course, but it was becoming clear that seventeen really was rather old for a man who liked to fuck boys. He was being kind, I knew, and I was doing what I could to cooperate. I was highly sexed. I needed it frequently.

Reggie smiled and gave a little nod toward the bow. I understood, and followed in the path that Emile had set.

The boy was naked and positioned on the bow sprint, which jutted out over the prow, with the ship’s figurehead–a wooden rendition of Reggie’s buxom wife, Nevis, suspended underneath it. The boy was lying on the sprint where it attached to the prow. A bump had been attached there that elevated his pelvis, whether he lay on it on his back or his belly. His legs were spread, with his feet inserted into rope slings in the rigging on either side of the prow. His arms were flung over his head, grasping hand holds attached farther out on the sprint on what were the extended elbows of the figurehead. Reggie’s wife, Nevis, would symbolically be participating in our fuck. This configuration had been Reggie’s design, one of several sex position aids he’d had installed around the ship. He had fucked me in this position more than once after the captain had shown him how I could be taken in this position.

Emile was smiling at me as I entered the area of the prow. He was welcoming, knowing I was going to fuck him. I would imagine that he would have been just as welcoming if it had been Reggie who had come to him. Reggie regularly fucked the lad too. Emile had spent as much time under one of us on this voyage so far as he had spent in the rigging or alone in his bunk–or not alone in the captain’s bed. He was a beautiful, small-stature boy, with curly black hair, an open, winning smile, and a tight hole. There was a question, of course, on how tight the hole still would be when we reached Casablanca.

I came up between his spread thighs, placed my feet in the indentations that had been carved in the deck there to help the dominating man remain steady if the headwind was high, grasped his waist between my hands, worked my cock inside his channel, and began to slow pump him. He gasped when I breached his sphincter with my bulb and moaned as I sank deeper in him. Reggie was longer than I was, but I was unusually long in my own right and was thicker.

Emile knew what to do. As I set a rhythm of the fuck, he fell into the beat, moving his hips with me as I sank ever deeper and pumped him. We’d been doing this in various locations on the ship since sailing out of Southampton, so he opened right up to my cock specifications and knew just how to go with me to maximize our shared pleasure. We were one, coordinated fucking machine when I felt Reggie’s hands on my hips. I widened my stance to allow him to come in close. Then it was my turn to gasp and moan. I leaned over, lowering my face to Emile’s and took his sweet lips in mine, as Reggie’s cock penetrated my ass, and he began controlling both his fuck of me and my fuck of Emile with his thrusts deep up inside me.

I jerked and grunted as I came. Reggie pulled out of me, grasped my hips, and gently turned me and guided me down to the deck beside him, as he stepped into the indentations in the deck I’d had vacated, worked his cock into Emile’s passage, and finished him. While Emile was being finished, the captain of the “Nevis”, a Frenchmen as old as Reggie but more robust and muscular, appeared at the bow. He’d been watching the fucking from the wheelhouse, had turned the wheel over to the first mate, and decided to play as well. He lifted me up from the deck, carried me down to his cabin, laid me down on my back on his bunk, slapped my legs open, came down on top of me between my thighs, and laid me.

Claude, the captain, liked me to try to struggle away from him, and the sensation that I would want to and couldn’t aroused me, so I played his game. Just as Reggie liked the sensations of mastering a fourteen-year-old, Claude liked to fuck seventeen-year-olds who didn’t want to give it to him. I writhed–largely ineffectually–under the man of considerable bulk and sinew as he lay between my spread legs. I tried to rise and roll out from underneath him but he gave me two stinging slaps across the face, first in one direction and then the other, and as I lay back, stunned, he grabbed and twisted my balls. I yelped.

“Give it to me,” he growled. “Lay there like a good lad and take my cock.”

That was his signal that the game was over, and I lay there and whimpered and moaned, as he slid his knees under my buttocks, grasped my butt cheeks in his calloused hands, and squeezed and pulled them apart. He lifted my pelvis up to his crotch, thrust inside me, and, after a brief period of cruel pumps, deposited his seed where Reggie’s would have been if he hadn’t abandoned me at the prow of the ship in favor of breeding the fourteen-year-old Emile. With a low, rumbling laugh and another slap across my face to stun me, the captain muttered, “That’s a good lad,” and returned to his wheelhouse.

I lay there contemplating how little my connection to the royal house of Glücksburg seemed to mean to this gnarled sailor, but reveling in a fuck that made me feel totally alive.

There was a time when Reggie wouldn’t have let the staff use me this cavalierly, but I no longer was fourteen and, despite taking me with him when he had to leave England, he obviously was beginning to cut me loose. I might have objected, but I liked a rough fuck from time to time and the captain of the “Nevis” slapped me around and rough fucked me just enough to heighten my arousal and provide variety to Reggie.

I had been bred to take it from a man since I was fourteen. Reggie was making clear to me that it was my time to start taking it from fourteen-year-old boys myself.

“I have enjoyed our little conversation immensely. You are a bright young man, a breath of fresh air. I would like to fuck you. I am told you take cock, even from an older man like me. Shall we go to my rooms or yours?”

This was what I was finding so fascinating about Casablanca. It was so open to the gay life, to the meeting of man with man–or, in this case, older man and teenaged boy. We had been here for two weeks and the propositions had been many and that all were so refreshingly open and casual. This truly was the center of gay life in the Mediterranean. It helped that there were so many older homosexual men here and so few blond, well-built teenaged boys.

We were sitting at the tea tables on the verandah of the Grand Casablanca Hotel, the mecca of foreign travelers and the center of homosexual cruising and bedding. The hotel sat on a rise above the casbah and overlooking the sea at a prominent placement in the ancient harbor. The white and ocher-plastered buildings of the city rose up the hillsides behind it.

Reggie had sent me down to the terrace, saying that an important former French politician wished to meet me–and bed me.

“Should I let him bed me?” I asked.

“You should cultivate Jean-Pierre Accorde, Ari,” he had said. “He is a very rich man and a very important one in the society here. You have caught his eye. He has hinted to me that he would like to borrow and use you, and I think it is a connection that would do us well and that we need if we are to be exiled here for any length of time.”

I didn’t question Reggie further. I just went where he bid me go–as a young roomboy caught his attention and he followed the young Moroccan lad, who looked no more than fourteen, down the hall.

“Perhaps mine,” I answered Accorde concerning the “your room or mine” question. He wasn’t disgusting. He was perhaps in his late fifties. He sat leaning on a gold-headed cane pushed away from the tea table a bit, but he looked to be in fit shape. He was clearly a man of the past. Reggie said he’d been a minister in the French government and had accumulated considerable wealth from his position but he’d always garnered a certain suspicion because, unlike other ministers, he had no mistress. Instead he had a seventeen-year-old male paramour who was the son of a count. When the count discovered Accorde was fucking his young son, the former minister left France for Casablanca ahead of a challenge for a duel. Here, while enjoying his wealth, he also was enjoying the delights of young men who came his way.

“You did say you are seventeen, didn’t you?” he asked, seeking assurance that his favorite number was in play.

“Yes,” I answered. “I had spoken of the prints I acquired in the casbah yesterday,” I continued, “and you said you would look at them and advise me whether I have acquired treasures or a lesson in bad bargaining in the casbah. In any case, I like them and will keep them, I believe, and if you wish to see them, they are in my room.”

I was uncertain of going to his rooms rather than mine until I had some idea of how he treated his young men. Rumors were rife here of men, especially the Moroccan sheikhs, a law unto themselves, who took young men somewhere private and the young men were never seen again. There was talk of male harems and imprisonment of young submissives and there also was talk of knives and a desert grave.

It was well it was my room rather than his.

As I was pulling out the prints for him to look at, which was after I had stripped for him, and he had taken his trousers off, he came in close behind me, wrapped an arm around my chest and kissed me in the hollow of my neck. “They are very nice-looking prints. And they are identical to other prints being sold in the casbah–all copies. They are worthless here, but no doubt have value if you take them back to England. I hope you will not be going back to England, though, until I’ve had several opportunities to use your beautiful little body several times. Lean over the bed for me now, if you will. I won’t hurt you much, but I need encouragement to harden sufficiently to penetrate you. I would also like to view and play with your hole until it has opened enough to take me comfortably.”

I did as he requested and then writhed for a few minutes as, after he fingered and licked me, he caned my buttocks lightly with his cane. He then went down on his knees behind me and pressed his face into my crack and tongued me again while he put a hand through my thighs and milked my cock. The light caning must have helped, because when he covered my back and worked himself into me, he was thick and hard. He fucked me cruelly, grasping his cane in both hands and holding it against my throat, arching my back painfully and pressing my head into the hollow of his neck, while he demanded that I jut my buttocks back into his crotch as he plowed me. His ejaculate was also more copious than I would expect in a man his age. He blasted me deep in three jerks and releases.

Later he lay on his back on the bed and I rode his cock to a second ejaculation, Accorde once more able to bathe my core with his cum. He expressed pleasure that I had brought two gushing climaxes out of him in the time we had copulated.

“I do wish you use you again,” he said when he left. “You are a real treasure. I can come twice as well with you as the other boys I have been using. We must keep you a secret between Lord Rothberg and me or, in Casablanca, you will have been fucked to death within a month. We must ensure that the sheikhs do not hear of your talents.”

There were two beds in the room that Reggie and I shared, although we didn’t use them both ourselves, and I was still moving my pelvis on Accorde’s cock when Reggie returned to the room with the roomboy he had been pursing in tow. Reggie fucked the Moroccan boy on the other bed as Accorde and I were finishing up and I had lowered my body on the somewhat rotund Frenchmen and he was teaching me what constituted a French kiss. A lot of tongue.

I helped Accorde dress and saw him to the door, with the promise that I would come when he requested me again.

Reggie was finishing up with the Moroccan roomboy when I shut the door. The boy was on his knees and elbows on the bed and Reggie was mounted on him riding him hard when Reggie ejaculated.

“He’s a sweet boy,” Reggie said when he rolled off the boy and the roomboy collapsed onto his belly on the bed, a slight smile on his face. “You should try him too. I will take enough for both of us out of my wallet.” He did that, taking money from his wallet and laying it on the dresser. Accorde had been an expert, demanding cocksman and I was still aroused.

So, I grasped the Moroccan boy’s ankles, turned him onto his back, wishboned his legs, and pulled him to me at the foot of the bed. He moaned and arched his back as I penetrated his passage with my hard cock and started to pump.

The young Moroccan boys in this city were so luscious and willing. To my whispered query in his ear while I was fucking him, he confirmed to me that he was fourteen. Just as Reggie liked them and was trying to train me to like them as well. I certainly found them sweet, fresh, and yielding, just as I had been three years earlier when Reggie had laid me out, open and vulnerable, covered me, held my arms imprisoned over my head with his hands gripping my wrists–just as I now did with the Moroccan boy–and fucked my virginity out of me.

The Moroccan roomboy’s name was Jibran, and Reggie and I agreed that we wanted to include him in our bedtime rituals.

Accorde was sitting, naked, on the side of his bed and I was in his lap, riding his dick, the heels of my hands pressed into his knees, and my chest cantilevered out over the floor of the hotel room. He was holding me in place with the brace of his cane pressed into my pectorals, held at either end by his hands. I was using the leverage of my knees pressed into the bed on either side of his hips to rise and fall on the cock. My buttocks were red and still smarting. He had caned me before putting me on his cock.

I was breathing hard; he was breathing harder. I rode him and rode him until, with a gush, he flooded me deep. Who would have known that an old man could have such a lot of cum inside him?

He had used my demonstrated interest in old Arabian prints to lure me to his rooms. He’d said he had such a collection of prints there. He hadn’t lied. We’d sat side by side on a settee in his sitting room, while he showed me album after album of prints. The albums had started with landscapes and gone to interesting studies of Moroccan men and women and animals, progressing to Moroccan boys and then to Moroccan boys undressed, and ultimately to Moroccan boys being fucked by older men. As we progressed through the latter, he hugged me and kissed me. He fondled and slowly undressed me. He stroked me off with his hand, upon which he nudged me onto the floor between his spread thighs and I sucked his cock.

He took me to his bed, bent me over the bed, and caned me, after which he went down on his knees behind me and kissed and licked my flushed buttocks and pressed his face in my crack. Then he repositioned us on the bed and I rode his cock.

We took tea, served by Accorde’s roomboy, the fourteen-year-old Wasif, who, Accorde told me, was still shy in bed–but yielding–and Accorde showed me more of his print collection of men and boys in coitus.

The Frenchman’s suite was extensive and furnished for permanence in his own possessions. There was a stone balcony off the bedroom that was located two stories up from the hotel’s main entrance.

I went out there, naked, after tea and while he was in the water closet. I knew he would want to fuck me again, as he had another erection, a miracle, he had said, that he hoped I wouldn’t mind accommodating him with. I wouldn’t. Reggie had told me it was in our best interests to cultivate the man and, despite the canings–or maybe because of them–I was finding him quite acceptable as a cocksman.

As I was leaning on the balcony railing with my elbows and looking down into the activity in the casbah below and beyond the hotel terrace, Accorde came in behind me, slipped his cane around my waist, and nudged my pelvis back. I grimaced and gave a little jerk when he entered me. He was easily manageable, though, and any tenderness in response to his slow pumping was the lingering pain from the caning and the chaffing of his prickly pubic bush hair on my buttocks as he fucked me deep.

Below, I saw a carriage stop at the base of the hotel steps and Reggie propel himself from the vehicle and rush up the stairs. His eyes lifted to the balcony and he saw me. There was a look of concern on his face and he was waving what looked like a telegram in the air. There was something wrong. I knew I must go find out what it was.

I arched my back, reached back and cupped my hands behind Accorde’s neck, and pulled his face into the hollow of my neck.

“Yes, yes, Jean-Pierre,” I murmured. “You are a stud bull. Give me your seed.” I moved my buttocks insistently in coordinated motion with his slow thrusts and moaned deeply, and, with a shudder, he came inside me. We held there momentarily, and I released my grip on his neck. He kissed me in the hollow of my back.

“You are so sweet, so fine, so beautiful,” he whispered. “Only with you can I come twice like this.”

“That is surprising,” I said. “No man your age I have been with has had so much cum inside him.” Reggie certainly didn’t, although Reggie could stay erect and fuck constantly.

That clearly pleased him. “I want to put you on retainer. I want to use you regularly. You make me young.”

“We shall see,” I answered, adding for politics sake, “You fuck me so very, very well.”

In our room, I found Reggie standing there, looking agitated, as Jibran, our roomboy was packing Reggie’s luggage. It wasn’t lost on me that it was only Reggie’s luggage that was being packed.

“What is it, Reggie?” I asked.

He waved the telegram at me. “Bermuda,” he said. “Vice governor of Bermuda.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What has the vice governor of Bermuda to do with us.”

“It is us–or rather me. Nevis has obtain the position of Bermuda vice governor for me. I must leave for there immediately. I’ll take the “Nevis”, of course. She–my wife–is going to meet me there.”

“You are going to Bermuda. You are meeting up with your wife there. What about me, Reggie?”

“That’s a stipulation. Nevis says I have to give you up. It was an ultimatum. We are starting a new life, just the two of us, in Bermuda.”

“I see,” I said. He looked sharply at me, awakened a bit by the tone of my voice. But I did indeed see.

“You needn’t worry, Ari,” he said. “I will set up an allowance for you. You can tap it here in Casablanca or anywhere else you wish to go–other than Bermuda.”

That wasn’t the point. But I understood his point. I thanked him in a somewhat icy voice. But I saw no reason to argue. I had become too old for him–at seventeen. It was inevitable. It was just miraculous that he hadn’t dropped me before now.

That night, when I came out of the bathroom, where I had taken a long, soaking bath while I was thinking over my future, I found Reggie on one of the beds, on top of Jibran, between his legs, fucking the fourteen-year-old roomboy. With a sigh of resignation, I sank down on the other bed and drifted off into sleep before Reggie was finished with Jibran.

A new life for me had begun. The next morning, I found Jean-Pierre Accorde eating breakfast on the terrace. I pulled out a chair and sat with him rather than at Reggie’s table. The Frenchmen looked pleased.

“Yes, Jean-Pierre,” I said. “I would be happy to be put on a retainer to lie under you regularly. Shall we say twice a week at your convenience, for now?” That was having his capacities in mind more than mine. If I had to make my own way now, I would need to fit more paying men into my schedule.

I had become a seventeen-year-old male whore in the Moroccan city of gay hedonism. I suppose if I had to fall back on that ability for a living, there couldn’t have been a better place than here in Casablanca.

“I wish to be inside you. I will pay you fifty francs to take me inside you. I am told you will do it for money.”

I couldn’t say, really, that I was surprised. He had taken me out on the dance floor and we were dancing a waltz, him holding me close. I could feel the want of him inside his trousers. He was tall and lean, dark-haired. He spoke French with the accent of an educated Moroccan. Beyond that and that his evening clothes were elegant and he couldn’t be much older than forty and his fingers were long, sensuous, and manicured, I could tell no more. It was a masked ball that the hotel was sponsoring, for men only, two days after Reggie had departed on the “Nevis”. I had received an invitation to be there and, once there, I could tell that I was a center of attention, the eyes of the older men following me around the ballroom. It was evident that it was known that Reggie had abandoned me here. It also was known that I would let men lay me for money so that I could continue paying my hotel bill.

I went for the same reason I perceive I had been invited. I could live on the stipend Reggie was sending to the bank here, but if I was going to live in this hotel in any sort of style, I would need sponsors–men, who would only sponsor me if they could lay me on their beds and cover me.

It was quite a surprise what a black face mask could cover of one’s looks and personality. The voice of the man, a low, rich baritone, authoritative and self-confident, wasn’t recognizable. Neither was the figure of the man, although my surmise was that he was Moroccan, and, if so, he must be of some importance. A Moroccan wouldn’t be permitted to dine in this hotel unless he was prominent. His evening clothes certainly were expensive. The onyx ring, incongruously worn on the middle finger of his right hand, was obviously very expensive.

“I will go out to the terrace for a smoke and breath of fresh air after this dance,” he whispered in my ear. “If you will take my cock for fifty francs, follow me out there. I am told you will go both ways and I have the other desire as well.”

“You will take me to my room?” I asked.

“No, I will take you on the terrace,” he answered.

He fucked me on top of a table, both of us with our trousers and underdrawers off, in a secluded section of the terrace café area. He took me swiftly and almost cruelly, me on my back, him crouching between my spread thighs and leaning over me, holding me to the table top with a strong hand on my throat. The longest part of the fuck was him fucking me with that middle finger of his right hand, punishing the rim of my anal opening and then my sphincter muscle, and finally my prostate with that thick onyx ring of his. It was almost a relief when he exchanged his finger with his long cock. I raised and spread my legs and pushed my pelvis up as he entered me and pumped me fast and hard.

Then, surprisingly, he climbed up on the table, still pressing me down with a hand to my throat, centered his buttocks over my erection, and descended on my cock, taking it inside himself, and riding me hard and fast. I was quick in ejaculating inside him.

He came off of me and the table, turned me belly to table top, and, once more pressing my head to the table with a hand on my neck, and entered me from behind. He fucked me a second time to a quick completion. The whole coupling took no more than twenty minutes. The fifty francs fluttered down beside my face as I lay there, panting from the fast, but highly efficient and satisfying fuck, and he was gone by the time I had the strength to pull myself off the table and redress.

I returned to the ballroom, but there was no evidence of the man, although, with all of the men wearing masks, I had no assurance that I would recognize him if I saw him. I found myself looking at men’s hands, looking for the distinctive onyx ring, but I didn’t discover one.

The fifty francs in my pocket were real enough, though, and I was on my way in making my own way in Casablanca.

That night, with Jibran’s sweet little ass pulled into my crotch, and after having taken him in a languid fuck, he asked, “Are you worried about money matters, Master?”

“Not too much,” I answered. “I have enough, but of course would like more.”

“I saw you tonight–with the sheikh–on the terrace. Did he pay you?”

“The sheikh?”

“Yes. Did he pay you for the sex?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to take money from men for sex?”

“Yes.”

“If you like, I will take you somewhere tomorrow. It is where I make extra money. You can easily make what you need in a short time there. It is clean and respectable.”

“Respectable for Casablanca, I suppose,” I said, with a laugh.

I could tell that he was pondering that, not knowing that everywhere else wasn’t as open for men who went with men as Casablanca in the 1920s was. I let it pass. “Yes, little one,” I answered. “I would like to see this place you speak of where I can make money on my back.”

“Here, put this on, and we will have to cover your head and mask your face. Nothing we can do about the blue eyes, but you should look down when we are in the street. The curly blond hair and blue eyes will be arresting at Faqih’s, but we do not want to attract attention in the street. We’ll use a back entrance and no one will know you have been gone from the hotel.”

Jibran was handing me a white cotton djellaba, the long-sleeved, neck to ankle, button-down-the front robe worn by Moroccan men.

“No, you need not wear anything under it,” Jibran said, as I was preparing to put the djellaba on over my shirt and trousers. “The effect when you are unwrapped will be stunning.”

When I was fully transformed, I turned and looked into the mirror. Remember to look down, I thought as I saw how prominent my blue eyes were in this costume. But it was quite clear now that I had been transformed. I now was a Moroccan boy.

Jibran took my hand and led me down back stairs and through the hotel’s kitchen area, where a door to the outside spit us directly out in the teeming and steamy casbah alleys. We traversed our way through the casbah, away from the harbor and deeper into the old city of Casablanca, until we got to a double wooden door in a blank stone wall and Jibran’s knock was answered by a massive Nubian in a costume that looked like it was straight out of the “1,001 Arabian Nights” fable.

He led us down stone stairs and into a subterranean chamber that seemed made of the same setting. Jibran had told me that this was a men’s bathing, massage, smoking, and sex club named Faqih’s. Faqih was the owner and manager of said club, and Jibran had said, “You need to impress Faqih, which, as a handsome young Westerner who will to lie on your back you surely will do, and then you can reach an arrangement to work on your back at the club for pay, as I do.”

The chamber the doorman took us to was a large, high-ceilinged room, with an octagon-shaped pool in the center space that soared up to the ceiling. Columns with Moorish arches delineated the central space on the four sides and supported a second-story mezzanine. The pool and all surfaces were covered with shiny tiles, the predominant color being cobalt blue, with golden highlights. The atmosphere was one of swirls of smoke, as hookah water pipes were in use, and the waves of the water reflecting on the surrounding tiles of the pool. Divans covered in materials in sumptuous colors were scattered liberally around the room, which was sectioned off by columns and arches, making the area under the mezzanine, though vast, seem to be private.

The space wasn’t teeming with men, but it was well populated with men of various ages and in various stages of dress. Some men were in the pool, mainly sitting around on the subterranean bench going around the inner rim of the pool, mostly in pairs, some pairs closely entwined. Throughout the hall, other men roamed or lounged on the divans. Some wore djellabas, some only the loincloths typically worn under the djellabas, some were naked. Some men were smoking from hookahs, some were touching other men–or kissing, or sucking, or fucking. No one seemed to be aghast by what anyone else was doing. A naked boy was swinging on a golden-roped swing above the pool.

Another boy came up to them as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“This is a friend of mine, Rasil,” Jibran said. “He is fourteen, as I am. We went to school together. He will take care of you. I suggest you let him show you how to smoke from the hookah first. It will relax you for what comes after.” As he spoke, he unwound the turban on my head and took the handkerchief covering the lower part of my face away. I immediately drew the appreciative attention of the men floating around me.

“You can show yourself as a seventeen-year-old Western boy in here now,” he said. “You will be a sensation.” I already was. And then he went off. Later during our time there, I saw him in various sections of the chamber, being fucked on divans by different men. He was a comely lad, and I wasn’t surprised that he was a favorite here.

As Rasil guided me to a prominently placed divan, I noticed that action throughout the chamber ceased for a fraction of a second, and all eyes turned to me. As far as I could tell I was the only Westerner in the room.

Rasil settled me on the divan and brought a hookah to me, showing me how to use it. I smoked from it as directed and immediately realized that what was in it was stronger than the Turkish tobacco I had already tried in earlier days in Casablanca. It was drugged. I didn’t know whether it was Cannabis or opium, both of which I knew were in use with the hookah in Casablanca, but after a few puffs, I didn’t care. I was in a world of heightened pleasurable sensations. I trusted Jibran that I would want to be in such a world for the few hours.

I was floating in a dream world, lying on my back on the divan, still in my djellaba, and puffing from time to time on the hookah, each puff sending me a little higher into a cloud of pleasure and “not care,” when Rasil, dressed only in a loin cloth, his small, berry-brown body perfectly proportioned, stood from where he had been kneeling by the divan, helping me use the hookah, and gently pulled me up to my feet. He wasn’t alone. There was a tall, handsome, dark-skinned man in a djellaba, with dark, piercing eyes, and the line of a knife slash from his right ear down to the corner of his mouth, a flaw that only accentuated his otherwise perfect, handsome features, standing behind Rasil. Rasil stepped aside and the man moved forward and slowly unbuttoned my djellaba and pulled it off my back. He knotted the loin cloth I had on underneath as well and let the material fall to the floor.

I stood before him, unsteady on my feet because of my time with the hookah, naked. He knelt in front of me, rubbed his cheek on my belly, and then took my cock, which had been engorging, in his mouth. His hands, with long, sensuous fingers, glided up my belly and torso and to my nipples. I looked down and saw the ring on the middle finger of his right hand–the onyx ring. It was the man who had fucked me on the terrace of the hotel.

Jibran had told me that Faqih will have already said that a seventeen-year-old English boy would be taken into speculative service at Faqih’s on this date and bids had been invited for the first man to have him. This was the man who had won the bid–the same man who had fucked me on the hotel terrace.

He rose, kissed me tenderly on the mouth, laid me down on the divan, and coaxed my legs open with his hands. I opened to him willingly, spreading and bending my legs, placing my feet flat on the surface of the divan. Pillows raised my pelvis. I expected him to pull his djellaba off and sink between my legs and fuck me then. But he didn’t.

He positioned himself at the foot of the divan, looking down at me, and Risal came back in and began massaging my body sensuously. Risal lifted and show me a long, thick ivory dildo shaped in the form of a huge phallus. From time to time while he was massaging me with oil, he lifted the dildo and slathered oil on it as well. As Risal was doing this, the Moroccan man slowly unbuttoned his djellaba and shucked it off his back. He was naked, his body trim but magnificent, muscled, but not heavily so. He was in long, hard erection. The night he had fucked me on the terrace he hadn’t taken his shirt and evening jacket off, so this was the first time I saw his body, the rippling muscles of his torso, his ripped abdominals. I shuddered and moaned, impatient to have him covering me, fucking me.

He dipped his right hand in the oil, and as Risal massaged my chest, the man penetrated my anus with his middle finger. I moved my pelvis with the moving of the finger and moaned at the attention his onyx ring was giving me.

We were gathering onlookers, who were coming to the divans near us, in fondling pairs, and watching us closely.

The man extracted his finger, and Rasil slowly replaced it with the ivory dildo. He slowly fucked me with the dildo, moving it ever deeper inside me, as the man came around to the head of the divan, came up on his knees above my head and hovered over my body. He presented his cock at my mouth and I took it in. He, in turn, leaned far over my body and took my cock in his mouth.

My brain was swirling in the deeper grasp of the hookah drug and the action floated around then as if I were at the bottom of a pool and moving around in slow motion. The man had moved below me and was between my legs but he wasn’t fucking me with his cock. He was using the ivory phallus, cruelly, rapidly and deeply inside me and was hovering over me, looking intensely down into my eyes. Rasil was under me and I was riding his cock, facing his head. Then the man was behind me, pushing me forward onto Rasil’s chest, entering me, at last, with his cock, pushing it in over Rasil’s cock already inside me. The two were fucking me together. And then Rasil was gone and I was on my back, with the man between my legs, and he was fucking me and fucking me and fucking me. He had his hands on my throat, holding me pressed into the divan, and his thumbs were stroking me, in the soft tissue under my jaw, and they were pressing in, and…

I slept on the divan, naked, until the drug wore off and I slowly awakened, still groggy but with greater awareness of the world around me. The man had left some time ago. I had a cloudy memory of other men touching me and penetrating me–with their fingers and their cocks–but all of that was a blur.

Rasil was there. “Faqih wishes to see you. He is in the pool,” the boy said, and he helped me, groaning, rise from the divan.

Faqih was a rotund Arab, whose bulges had bulges. But his cock was as fat as the rest of him. He sat on the bench running around the inside of the pool, below the waterline, and I sat, facing him, in his lap, on his cock, my heels resting at the top rim of the pool, his hands cupping my shoulder blades, mine clutching his biceps, as, using the leverage of my heels on the pool edge, I fucked myself on his cock.

He clearly was pleased with me.

Arrangements were settled that I would work at Faqih’s two afternoons a week, on consignment. I was given two-hundred francs as my share of the winning bid by the mysterious stranger and of the added fees that came from the men who used me after the stranger had. Faqih paid nothing and would have privileges each time I worked there, as he desired.

On the way back to the hotel, I told Jibran about the mysterious stranger and that the onyx ring–and especially where he wore it and what he did with it–had identified him as the same man who had fucked me on the terrace of the hotel. “You hinted that you knew who he was. You called him a sheikh.”

“Yes, I will admit it. He is Sheikh Ahmed bin Yusuf al Maqari, a very rich and powerful man in the country,” Jibran said. “When you agreed to go to Faqih’s, I got word to the sheikh that you would be there and that there would be bidding for the first time there with you. He obviously is intrigued by you. I’m sorry if I did what you would not want me to do, but he is a sexy man, isn’t he? And he wants you. You can make much money from a rich man like that here in Casablanca. I’m sorry if–”

“No, Jibran, don’t be sorry,” I answered, reassuring him. “Yes, this sheikh of yours is a very sexy man.”

After a couple of weeks I began to feel captive to a routine and wanted to do something different, something freeing. A couple of times a week I went to Jean-Pierre Accorde’s suite and he caned me and fucked me–and he gave me a couple of hundred francs on Saturday morning over tea. We spoke of a more permanent relationship, but Jean-Pierre seemed content with life as it was, and he didn’t know about my arrangement at Faqih’s, so nothing definite was settled. The hotel’s assistant manager, a Frenchman not as old as Jean-Pierre, and not as dapper and refined in his technique either, fucked me in my room every Monday afternoon. This arrangement protected my stay at the hotel; the assistant manager did not pay me. There was nothing affectionate in the tryst. It was just an athletic getting the man off–a suck and a fuck–but in many ways I felt it was cleansing. I always was a little disturbed that Jean-Pierre had to cane me to get hard. I felt I was at school.

Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I went, with Jibran, to Faqih’s. There, I would take the cocks of three or four men–and Faqih’s, if he was in the mood for me–and earn another two-hundred francs. Four-hundred francs on top of Reggie’s allowance was more than enough to see me through the week. Whenever I felt like it otherwise, Jibran was always there to take my cock or to put his in me. He had, thanks to the assistant manager’s manipulation, become my personal roomboy, available whenever I needed him.

The one disappointment in those weeks was that the sheikh did not appear again, either at Faqih’s or the hotel, to cover me. My mistake, though, was to let Jibran know that this disappointed me.

When I let Jibran know I was getting bored and needed some different stimulus in my life, he was quick to suggest an excursion.

“You have not been out of Casablanca since you came here, I think,” he said. “Do you like to swim in the sea?”

“Yes, very much. Are there any beaches around here for public swimming?”

“I know of a very good one for private swimming. And it isn’t far. Would you like me to take you there tomorrow? The beach should be deserted on a Wednesday.”

“That sounds delicious,” I answered.

The beach indeed was very nice–and secluded, and we were the only ones there, at least initially. I swam out into the sea and when I swam back Jibran was there, in water up to his nipples, facing the sea and waiting for me. We both were naked. I was going to swim past him and go up on the beach to stretch out, but he reached out and pulled me to him.

“The water equalizes our weight,” the smaller fourteen-year-old said as he brought me close. “This is a good chance for you to ride me with me standing.”

He was right. Our weights were equalized, giving me the chance to climb Jibran’s hips, facing him, descending on his cock and, as he just stood there crouched a bit to balance the weight of me on his front and held my waist between his hands, I raised and lowered my hips and fucked myself on the smaller guy’s cock.

When we sent back up to the beach, Jibran flopped down on one of the large hotel towels we had brought onto his back. He’d said he’d take a nap, but I didn’t think so. I had been energized by the fuck in the water. I came down on top of him and we laughed and wrestled, until I tired him out. He spread and bent his legs and lifted his pelvis. We were both erect. Grabbing Jibran’s wrists and pushing them over his head, I slid inside him and began to pump him.

I didn’t notice the two men who appeared on horseback at the top of the beach until the taller, leaner one was upon us, pulling me off Jibran. I fought the man, not knowing who he was. By the time I recognized that it was the sheikh Ahmed bin Yusuf al Maqari, he had dragged me down to the surf and repeatedly pushed my head under the water until I was gasping for air when he yanked on my hair and pulled my head out of the water. Subdued, I hung there in front of him, one of his strong arms embracing my waist, my body bent over in front of him, while he quickly unbuttoned his djellaba and pulled it open, revealing that he was in long, hard, upcurved erection. He was much taller than I was, so when he impaled my ass on his cock, I just hung in front of him, my arms dangling and my feet swishing around in the rising and receding surf and not touching the sand.

As the sheikh slammed me up and down on his cock and I groaned, I managed to lift my head to see that the other man, a huge Nubian, was mauling Jibran, fucking him with a massive black cock.

The sheikh pulled me off his cock, slammed me down at the edge of the surf on my back, came down between my legs, and skewered me again with his cock. His hands went to my throat and his thumbs under my jaw. He applied pressure and I blacked out, if only briefly. He was steadily stroking me when I came to. He was a handsome, well-built man, and an expert cocksman. I went with him, moving my hips in rhythm with his thrusts and digging my nails into his biceps, opening and closing claws with the beat.

“Yes, yes, fuck me hard!” I cried out, and he continued. It wasn’t affection with him–just heat and taking care of himself. He didn’t even grunt when I tensed and called out and came. He just continued until he had released his cum as well.

He dragged me farther up onto the beach, where the Nubian was standing, taking deep breaths. He either was hard again or he hadn’t come with Jibran. Jibran was lying on his back, stretched out a fully open, legs bent and spread, farther up the beach. The hole the Nubian had reamed was gaping. Jibran’s eyes were glazed and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth, and I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing–whether he was dead or alive.

“Here, you use him now,” the sheikh said. I moaned as the Nubian reached down and grabbed my ankles and slid my feet up his hard torso to his shoulders. I was pressed into the sand by my shoulders. I started to scream and writhe as the bulb of his cock breached my sphincter and he worked to bury himself deeper into me. He stopped pressing occasionally to pump me at the level he’d reached. The sheikh stood there watching us, his hand stroking his cock.

“Can you get in?” he asked in a calm voice.

“About half way. This one is tighter than the Moroccan boy. He has very slim hips. I’m not sure he will ever open enough.”

“Well, keep at it. I want him to be able to take two. You’ll have to train him to it. He’s not a first-class whore yet. But men will want him when they see him. He’s English and young and can pass as fresh at least early on. The beautiful body and blond hair and blue eyes are desirable. I need an arousing whore for my entertainments who can deliver it all.”

They were talking French, which I’m not sure they realized I could understand, and they were talking about me like I was just an object–an investment of some sort for the sheikh’s greater gain. I was doing everything I could to open for the Nubian, if only to survive. But each time I felt myself opening, he took up the slack. Eventually, growing impatient, he suddenly gave me two more inches and I blacked out again.

I came half to when the Nubian was handing me up to the sheikh astride his horse and putting me, belly down, draped over the horse in front of the sheikh. Looking beyond the Nubian, I saw Jibran still lying, spread-eagled and inert, on the sand. I couldn’t tell if he was a live or not. The Nubian had a cock that could have shredded the boy’s channel. Mine certainly felt stretched as it never had been before.

When I woke, I was in a large, locked, stone-walled room of Moorish design. The furnishings in the room consisted of divans like those I saw at Faqih’s. There was a pool at one end of the room. As at Faqih’s, there were columns sectioning off the room, with Moorish arches, and everything was lined with luminous tiles, with the colors green and beige predominant.

The sheikh was on one of the divans across the room. He had a Moroccan boy, perhaps a year or two younger than I was, under him on his hands and knees, and the sheikh was mounted on the boy’s back, riding his ass. I saw perhaps five more boys and young men lounging around in the room, before I felt the tug on my neck, finding that I was wearing a gold collar with a chain. The huge Nubian was on the other end of the chain, across the high arm of the side of the divan from where I was stretched out. He was presenting his massive cock and it was obvious he wanted me to take it in my mouth.

He didn’t wait from me to decide. He dropped the chain, grabbed my head between my hand, and I found myself trying to find room in my throat for the shaft. I gagged and my eyes watered as he face fucked me. That didn’t last long, though. He pulled his cock out of my mouth only to come around to the front of the divan, come down on top of my back, shove a heavily muscled arm around my waist, and pull me up on my knees. I writhed under him and cried out as he stuffed his gigantic black cock inside me and started to fuck me hard. I lay there, fully open to the black monster–but still not open enough to take all of him–panting hard and concentrating on spreading ever wider to his plunging cock.

I had found my way into the male harem of the Sheikh Ahmed bin Yusuf al Maqari, and he was sharing me with his Nubian lieutenant. And, if I remembered rightly, the Nubian was training me to take two hung men at once.

It was a party. I was the entertainment. The sheikh had a visitor–an older, grossly obese Arab–he wanted to impress.

There were perhaps a dozen men in the banquet room, yet another tiled chamber with columns and Moorish arches and with divans and a mountain of colorful pillows. The floor was covered with layers of Oriental carpets. Large bronze urns flanked the closed, painted wooden doors. A small band played irritating scratchy tunes in the corner of the room. At the other end of the room was some sort of wooden contraption with arms projecting from it that were flared at the extremities and with golden roping hanging down from them.

I stood in the middle of the room, dressed only in gauzy harem pants and golden jewelry. The gold collar was still around my neck. The long gold chain attached to the collar led to the pudgy hands of the obese guest. Although the guests seem to have come into the room in finely brocaded djellaba, they either had been discarded unbuttoned and brushed open. All the men were in erection or had been in erection before they had taken care of that and planned to be in erection again before the evening was over for them. They were all watching me, swaying and slowly gyrating to the music, as I had been commanded to do.

Both the guest of honor and the sheikh were naked. The Nubian, standing behind the sheikh’s divan, was wearing only gauzy harem pants, as I was. The material was so thin that his black pubic bush massive erection were clearly discernible.

The door to both the men’s and women’s harems on opposite sides of the hall were opened briefly, and the young men and women came in and positioned themselves in various areas of the banquet hall, within reach of the guests, who immediate pulled them into fondling and fucking positions.

The guest of honor pulled on my chain, reeling me in to him and onto his lap, where he lifted his rolls of stomach fat so that I could sit on his cock, facing away from him. He grabbed my wrists and I cantilevered my chest over the carpet in front of him, streaming my legs around the bulk of his belly, pressing my feet into the divan behind him, and used the leverage of my feet to fuck myself on his cock in long slides.

The man was grunting in pleasure. I turned my face toward the sheikh and gave him an “am I delivering it well enough?” look, and he just gave me a hooded look back. The guest and I fucked on. When I had not pleased the Nubian with how I was responding to his commands in earlier days, he had whipped me. I was trying hard now to respond as desired to any command I received. To a large extent, I must confess, I was aroused by being dominated and manhandled.

After the guest of honor had received the honors, I found out what the wooden contraption at one end of the room was for. In the middle of the contraption was an indented wooden base in which my back and buttocks fit, with my pelvis raised. The appendages were to raise and spread my arms and legs outward from the base, the gold ropes to bind me to the appendages. My head arched over the top edge of the base and was yoked in place. A smaller appendage in the base at the bottom arced up and provided a padded circle that fit into my asshole and could be expanded to spread my hole full open and to hold everything in place for a perfect approach by the man fucking me.

I became free entertainment for the guests in the chamber, who could step up below me and fuck me or in front of me and force their cocks between my lips. I had estimated that there were a dozen guests. I think I must have been used by all of them at least twice each.

The sheikh was getting more than his money’s worth from me, given that I now was his captive and he was paying me nothing. After the second party in the same vein two days following that, I got the message that the sheikh had not acquired me for personal use–he wasn’t fucking me–but to serve his guests. He turned me over to his black Nubian, who was working diligently to resize me to his huge specifications.

Two days later, I was out on the terrace of the men’s harem, aching to have greater freedom, glad that there was a deep terrace that permitted the young men of the harem to take exercise outside. There was no escape from here, though, as there were three floors in the palace under this terrace and there was a stone moat at the base of the wall.

As I was leaning over the railing, I felt big hands on my hips. I looked down to see that, as I suspected, they were black. The Nubian. I moaned even before he started working his cock inside me, raising my feet off the terrace floor with the strength of his thrusts up inside me. I yawned and groaned at the effort to open fully to him. He was reaming me open to a width I’d never known before. If he kept at it, he would be the only one who could use me. Each time I opened a little faster for him; each time he got a little deeper into me. I hung there, panting and groaning as he slowly pumped me and then faster and deeper and faster yet, until he jerked and flooded me with his seed. He left me there, draped over the railing, panting and moaning. I didn’t know how long I could survive the Nubian, but it would be a glorious demise. It reminded to me that I was being trained to take any man or any two men together.

As I hung there, I looked off into the desert and saw a small caravan arriving. At the head, riding sidesaddle on a horse, an attendant ride beside him and holding a parasol over his head, was the Frenchman, Jean-Pierre Accorde. A bit behind him rode Jibran on another horse. My spirits rose, seeing that the fourteen-year-old roomboy and companion was alive and able to ride. I had been fucked eight times by the Nubian since I’d been here, and it took me time to recuperate from him. Over time, I would be reamed to his size and then no other man would be able to make me feel fucked. And I was able to take someone larger than Jibran could, or so it seemed would be the case.

A couple of hours later, I was freed and leaving the sheikh’s palace on a horse beside Jibran. I had been bought from the sheikh by Accorde.

“Forgive me,” Jibran said. “I told the sheikh you would be at the beach, but I thought he would just couple with you there as he did at Faqih’s. I didn’t know he planned to capture you and take you to his harem.”

“You wouldn’t have known,” I said. “But will he still–?”

“No, he will not cheat Accorde. The Frenchman has bought your safety from the sheikh. You will live with him at the hotel now.”

“Do you think he will let me continue at Faqih’s?”

“I don’t know, but he has said that I can continue to serve you, so if you want to spend time at Faqih’s we will arrange it.”

“I hope so. The sheikh said I wasn’t a first-class whore yet and I take that as a challenge. And you can get word to the sheikh that he can continue to visit me there if he doesn’t tell the Frenchman and doesn’t try to snatch me again.”

“Perhaps he will bring Jamal with him.”

“Jamal?”

“Yes, the sheikh’s Nubian attendant. He says he will visit me at Faqih’s. He has a cock that stretches me to the limit and beyond.”

“Yes, I know. He does that to me, too,” I said. We both laughed.

“You can tell Jamal that I would like him to visit me at Faqih’s too. If I am going to be marooned here in Casablanca to live by whoring, I want to become a first-class whore.”

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