tagGay MaleCairo Captive

Cairo Captive

bysr71plt©

He had his dick inside me a half hour after we'd met. Jorgen was that good, he was. It also was like I was fucking myself. Almost a mirror image, which was no less surprising because he was Scandinavian and I'm an American—never knowing before then that my ancestry might have been Scandinavian too.

Granted I'd entered the beach bar in Brindisi, Italy, to get pretty much what I got. But I had no idea it would happen so fast—or that it would lead to what it did.

I had come to Rome as international financier Theo Gamboni's boy toy, having picked him up in New York City when he was slumming in a gay bar. Gave him such a good ride in his hotel room, making all of those noises and responses that made him feel like he was first and had the world's most potent tool, that he asked me to stick around. That surprised me. I'd gone with him because I'd seen the wad of bills he was flashing and I figured I'd lift it off of him sometime during the night. That was what I usually did. I primarily was a pick pocket; and I was really good at it. And I'd found a good angle on it. Most marks were too embarrassed to contact the police after I'd fucked them and fleeced them; most didn't want to explain the circumstances to the police or their families.

Theo couldn't get enough of me. He'd attend all of those nerve-wracking meetings on Wall Street and come back to his hotel room all keyed up—and there I'd be. On the edge of the bed, or in a chair, or leaning against the frame of the sliding glass door out to the balcony, naked and posed for him. He'd drop what he was carrying and start stripping as he moved to me. And I'd get all "Daddy, yes, yes" and spread my legs for him and cry out like it was the first time—each time—as he thrust inside me.

It worked a charm. If I'd known being taken care of was this easy, maybe I wouldn't have become a pickpocket in the first place. Maybe not—but, again, maybe I still would have. It was like a compulsion with me.

Theo Gamboni so much couldn't get enough of me that he invited—no, begged—me to go back to Rome with him. Which, I did, not having anything to speak of holding me to New York.

For a couple of weeks that worked out all right. Until two things happened. Theo started sharing me with his friends and I started picking their pockets.

The first time was rather a surprise. Theo and I were having dinner in a swank Rome restaurant and one of his business associates, older, bulkier, and uglier than Theo, joined us. I gathered from what they were talking about that Theo was trying to get the other guy, name of Aldo, I think, to come in on a business deal. Ugly Aldo kept eying me and saying maybe, and Theo got the message long before I did. Aldo said he wanted to see Theo's new apartment. And when we got there, I didn't have a chance. Aldo knew how to control and to undress and to fuck. He might have been ugly, but his cock was long and thick, and he knew what to do with it. Theo watched. And after Aldo had left, Theo fucked me too—and the ardor with which he did it told me he had found a whole new game he liked to play.

There were other "chance" encounters after that with other men who also wanted to see Theo's apartment. And Theo always watched while they fucked me and then took me with added lust himself afterward. After the second one, I decided I needed to be recompensed over and above what I was getting from Theo. So, I put my pick pocketing talents to work and relieved these men who just had to see Theo's new apartment of some of their wallet cash—not all of it, but enough to make me feel this was worth my while.

This, of course, could not go on forever, so I left Rome before Theo and the Italian police could catch on to what I was doing. And not really knowing all that much about Europe, I headed south, down the boot of Italy, rather than north up into Europe proper, and wound up on the Adriatic Sea at the port city of Brindisi.

I nosed around when I got there and found out where the best place was to pick up middle-aged men, the ones likely to have enough money to make it worth my while, and that's how I ended up at the beach bar overlooking the Adriatic at the edge of the city.

There was a fairly good crowd in the bar when I got there. A lot of good possibilities for getting my fingers into their wallets. I was a fool, I guess, for letting Jorgen take me.

He stood out in the crowd. A tall, well-muscled blond with blue eyes and a smile that drew me right in. I guess I first latched on to him because of the striking resemblance between us, but the more I looked, the more I decided that he had more than I did. The facial expressions he used were manipulative in the most arousing of ways. He drew me in just with that smile of his—a knowing smile, knowing that within a half hour he'd be fucking me. And somehow this message was conveyed to me and I didn't fight it. I didn't care. The middle-aged men would wait, I was sure. If he motioned to me, I knew I'd follow him.

He did motion, and as I passed him, he turned and placed the palm of his hand on my butt and guided me out onto the deck of the bar, facing the sea. We weren't alone. A couple of men were in a deck chair in the shadows, one lapped by the other, slowly and silently fucking. They might not have actually been silent, but whatever they were voicing was lost in the screaming of the surf reaching out for high tide not far from the railed edge of the deck. It was windy too, which also would snatch words out of one's mouth and scatter them to the elements.

Jorgen guided me over to the railing, facing me out to the sea, and covered me closely from behind, his hands gripping the railing hard on either side of me, imprisoning me there at the rail.

He kissed me in the hollow of my neck and then on the cheek, and then he took an ear lobe into his mouth and put pressure on it with his teeth. I sighed and turned my face to his, and we kissed. He unbuttoned my shirt and let his hands glide all over my chest and belly. He whispered in my ear how nice I was. And I believed him.

He murmured what he wanted to do with me as he was unbuckling my belt, lowering my zipper, and pushing my jeans and briefs down off my hips. I believed him and turned my face to his again, giving him a kiss of acquiescence.

I felt an engorged cock rubbing up and down inside my crease, across my hole. He whispered then that he was going to do it, that he was going to fuck me there and then. And I moaned and said nothing to disagree with him.

He flashed a condom packet in front of my face, still covering me close from behind, against the railing, and said I would have to tear it open if I wanted him. No problem—other than the trembling of my hands.

And he fucked me there, from close behind me, taking me in long, deep strokes, nibbling on my ear, whispering what a good fuck I was, me gripping the railing for dear life, him stroking my cock with a fist until I spouted off in long arcs toward the pounding surf—all within the first half hour of walking into the bar. I didn't even know his name until afterward.

After, when I asked if I'd see him again, him still holding me prisoner against the railing, his cock still buried deep inside me, he said I could see him every day if I wished.

"See that sailboat out there?" he asked. "The one anchored off the pier over there?"

"Yes."

"That's mine. I sail for Alexandria tonight. I live in Egypt. You can come with me if you want."

* * * *

The journey across the Mediterranean to north Africa, across the Adriatic Sea to the Dalmatian coast and down the coast of Greece, along the southern stretch of Crete, and then the dash across the Mediterranean to the Nile delta, was a progression of five things: trim the sails, fuck, eat, fuck, and sleep, with little time available for eat and sleep.

I learned little about Jorgen other than his first name and that he owned a dive of a gay bar in Giza, outside of Cairo and near the pyramids, which he had to keep on a very low profile because of the supposed Egyptian taboos about homosexuality, a taboo many of them paid no heed to in their private lives. The bar was named Amr's, and Jorgen said he thought I'd like it there. I didn't tell him much about myself, either—certainly not about my pick pocketing proclivities. I wondered if the middle-aged men of Cairo had wallets as thick as those of Rome.

Off of Alexandria, within sight of land, Jorgen hove to and anchored. It was twilight. He said that I should go ahead and sleep, that he'd take the dingy into the harbor and smooth our entry into Egypt—that after his trip into harbor, we wouldn't have to worry about Customs, that he'd be back by sunrise. He floated off into the night toward the lights of Alexandria, and I went to our berth below, nagged suddenly by the question of whether we were transporting—or had just finished transporting—something Jorgen didn't want to declare to Customs the normal way. I hadn't asked what Jorgen was doing in Italy; perhaps that was a mistake. Not that he would have told me the truth if he was smuggling something one way or the other—or both.

I woke with a jolt—the slamming of the side of one boat against another. And my first thought was that it was the authorities, having caught onto whatever Jorgen was up to—and me being left here holding the bag. And it occurred to me as well that I looked enough like Jorgen that they might think I was him if they were looking for him in particular.

I only made it to the hatch leading onto the deck before hands grabbed me and a cloth bag was pulled down over my head. I was bound and gagged, and I realized that I was being transferred from one boat to another and that we were casting off and moving under the power of a muffled motor.

Was I Jorgen now? What had Jorgen done for this to be happening?

I started to squirm and then I felt a tight grip on my arm and the prick of a needle, and I was dead to the world.

* * * *

When I came to, I thought I'd been dropped into an Arabian nights film set, if a rather seedy one. The room was stone-walled with a vaulted ceiling and high-off-the-floor, heavily barred arched windows. Although the furnishings, such as they were, were composed entirely of oriental carpets and a scattering of large, damask-covered pillows, the Arabian nights theme hit me because I had been bathed and powdered and perfumed and was only wearing diaphanous, billowy harem pants and lace-up sandals. I also had gold serpent bracelets banded around above each of my biceps and around my ankles.

I wasn't alone. There were three other guys, all of Middle Eastern extraction lying around on the pillows too, each with the same wary, scared expression I knew I had, and each dressed, or, should I say, undressed, in the same manner as I was. And at the four corners of the room stood four guys looking like thugs and wearing Egyptian caftans. All were muscle men. Three were obviously Mideasterners; the fourth looked European. The European stepped forward and addressed me.

"Good. You're back with us. Good timing. They will send for you soon."

"They?" I asked. "Where am I and what am I doing here?"

"You're here for the auction," he said, and then he gave me a sardonic little smile.

"What? What the hell," I asked. "I'm not interested in any auction . . . what's being auctioned?"

"You're not a buyer," he answered, and I thought he'd break out into a laugh. "You're what's being auctioned."

"Good joke," I responded. "Now, really, what's going on. People can't be auctioned in this day and age. Slavery's dead, haven't you heard?"

"It isn't dead here in Egypt. You're in Cairo. And, Caucasian to Caucasian, let me strongly suggest that you convince the auctioneer he wants to keep you. I can guarantee you won't want to go with any of the other men who are at today's auction."

The European briefly explained while we were being herded down the narrow, stone-walled passageway what was going to happen now. We would be sent in, one by one, into an entertainment room where we would see five men spread in a semicircle around a small platform stage, reclining on pillows. There would be music and we were to dance for them. If we danced well, one of the men might bid on us. If we didn't, we possibly were living our last day. The men could take their purchases away and do whatever they wished with them.

A small, lithe, but well-built Lebanese young man was sent in first. We all stood out in the corridor, waiting our turn, as we heard the music begin. Shortly, we heard the raised voices of men, bidding enthusiastically. Then a period of silence.

I was the second one to be sent in. Four men were sitting in a semicircle around the spotlighted platform I was led to and made to stand on. I had been told that there would be five, but as my eyes adjusted to the contrast of the spotlight in which I stood and shadowy, smoke-filled edges around the platform, I saw that buyer number five was already trying out his purchase over on a pillow-strewn divan at the side of the room. The young Lebanese man who had preceded me was on his belly on the divan, half on and half off it. A large-bellied, middle-aged Egyptian, caftan lifted up around his armpits was crouched between the young man's legs, already ready to mount him.

I tore my eyes away from that scene and looked back at the four remaining men. Three of them were pretty gross, fat and middle-aged and ugly. The fourth one was younger and more comely and well-muscled. He showed that he was in charge by gesturing for the music to start.

This was where I was supposed to dance and, the European captor's warning ringing in my ears, convince the auctioneer, obviously the younger, more presentable of the men, that he wanted to keep me. I started to undulate with the music, never having been a dancer before, but being a dancer now for dear life.

I was egged on by the cries from the side of the room, where the older man was slapping the young Lebanese man hard now, on face, arms, legs, and buttocks, while he drove his cock inside a barely ready hole. The older man had the younger man by the hair with one fist now, and he reached for a riding crop with the other. The cries from the younger man rose and the expressions of the three older men watching me dance—whose eyes were flicking at the fucking at the side and then back at me—left no doubt of how this combination aroused them. They all had hands inside their caftans.

I could see interest in the eyes of the younger man, but not yet a "sold" sign.

In panic, I pulled out all of the stops. I danced, but I danced only for this younger man, the man holding all of the power. While I danced, I traced my cock through the diaphanous fabric, leaving little to the imagination of what I had in there and that it was getting hard, hard for the younger man among the bidders. I had had much practice in getting hard for men I didn't desire, and I brought all of that art to play here. By the time I had pushed the front of the harem pants below my ball sack and shown what I had and was stroking it, I could tell I had sold the younger man. He had his caftan open and his hand was in his lap and he was stroking himself too.

I heard him cry out one word in Arabic. He had raised a hand—the one not teasing his cock—in the air, and the music stopped immediately.

The other three had been no less impressed and aroused with my dance as he was. The fifth bidder was much too busy ravishing his purchase off to the side to care what was happening in the center of the room. And the young Lebanese man's cries and screams had decreased to whimpers and groans as his new master continued to beat and to fuck him roughly.

There was a cacophony of sound as the three older bidders went into overdrive, trying to assert their bid for me over all others. But the younger man cut them all off, and I discerned, to my temporary, partial relief, that he had withdrawn me from the bidding. I was led over to the side of the chamber and chained with metal cuffs to a ring in the stone wall.

I watched then as the two remaining captives were auctioned off. The one loser of all bids stood in a semi huff, a sour expression on his face, and left through a doorway behind a tapestry hanging. One of the other bidders led off his new slave through that door as well. But the last one started enjoying his purchase on the pillows on which he had been sitting. And I could see that he was going to be as cruel as the first master, who was still enjoying himself at that other side of the room.

The younger man, the auctioneer, walked over to me, undid the chains that had attached me to the wall, and, with me still handcuffed, led me through yet a different doorway behind a tapestry that led directly into an opulently furnished Oriental-style chamber with stone walls, high clerestory windows that let in filtered sunlight, and a gurgling pool in the center, complete with central fountain of a young boy pissing water into the pool.

The man released me from handcuffs, then disrobed, showing a magnificent body and good-sized cock, and sank down into the pool. He waved to me, and I stripped down my harem pants and unlaced my sandals, which apparently was what he wanted me to do, and also slipped into the pool. The man had lifted himself to a sitting position on the side of the pool and I swam to him and took his cock in my mouth and started working all of the wiles I could think of on him. I was fully in his control now. I knew it and he knew it, and I wanted him to want me—for him to always want for there to be a next time. No matter how long it took. No matter how much time it took me to escape from here.

I could tell that my willingness and the mastery of my attentions were very arousing to him. He came almost immediately after becoming rock hard.

He lifted me out of the pool with the strength of his arms then and guided me over to a nearby pillow-strewn divan and laid me down on my back. Then he showed me that he was a master of lovemaking too. He handcuffed me again to rings at the side of the head of the divan on each side. Putting his knees between my spread thighs, he lowered his face onto my torso and tongued and kissed all over my body. And I sighed and moaned for him, not all of it being an act, but all of it focused on pleasing him.

I was laying there, on my back, my legs spread and him sitting on the edge of the divan between my legs. The touching had stopped, and I looked up to see that he had a huge ivory phallus in his hand. He was rubbing oil all over it. And then there were oiled fingers at my hole too, opening me up. I whimpered as I saw that phallus descend, and the bulbous cap of it was at my hole. I cried out and arched my back as the bulb invaded my canal, stretching me wide. He put a palm on my belly and pressed down as he pushed the oiled phallus in another couple of inches. I widened my stance as much as I could and lifted one of my legs to hook on his shoulder at the ankle. He turned his face to the muscle of my calf and kissed and licked me there . . . as the phallus sank in a couple of more inches.

I was panting and moaning and the phallus kept creeping up into me. When it had bottomed, perhaps nearly a foot inside me, the man lowered his mouth onto my cock and started to suck me, pushing his tongue as far as he could into my piss slit. He also slowly pumped me with the ivory phallus, keeping up the same rhythm he was using with his lips on my cock. It didn't take me long to come.

Then he removed the phallus, uncuffed me, turned me, forced a couple of pillows under my belly to raise my buttocks to me, and fucked me long and slowly until he had ejaculated.

Leaving me and rising off the divan, he clapped his hands and two of the thug guards entered and bundled me back to the room I had started in, which was now deserted. There was a dinner tray waiting for me, and then the guards left and I was alone, counting myself lucky. I decided I must thank the European for the advice he had given me if he ever showed up again—and perhaps if I could weave my thanks around him, I could find some means of escape through him.

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