Cairo Captive

* * * *

The European captor did reappear. He apparently was the one who was assigned to watch over me for my new master. On each succeeding day, I was brought to the master's chamber. And each time I was fucked in a different way. And each time the master seemed to want to go a little farther, seemed to be working his way in the direction of the point at which the other bidders at his auction had started off.

During my second visit to him, he used an even bigger phallus on me than the first time before he fucked him, this time with me bound to the divan even when he was fucking me. And on the third visit, I was chained to the wall of his chamber, closely attached at spread wrists and ankles, while he swished, with increasing force, a many-thonged hand whip against the tender flesh of my back, buttocks, and thighs. That he then had me taken down and licked my wounds and lap fucked me in the cooling pool, did not go far in mitigating my fear of what was to come. The fourth visit I was cuffed, straddling the divan on my belly, on all four corners, and the whip cut deeper as he rode me hard.

That evening I stopped the European captor after he had placed my dinner tray in my chamber and before he left by means of the locked door on the opposite wall of the door to the passageway that led me to my daily taking.

"Tell me, lesser master," this being what I had been told to call the European, "If this is an auction house, where are the new slaves?"

"New slaves are not needed until the old ones have been used up," he answered. And then I saw the expression on his face, an expression of dismay, as if he had revealed some secret to me. And perhaps he had. Perhaps it wasn't that my master was less cruel than the others who had been at the auction. Perhaps he just took longer in using up his slaves. It was obvious to me now that time was of the essence.

"I have never thanked you properly for your advice that first day, lesser master." I told him, and I turned my body—naked other than the gold serpent bracelets at biceps and ankles—in as provocative a pose as I could. "If only there was some way I could show my appreciation. But I have so little. There is only my body—and it withers with each passing day."

This more than gave the European pause. I knew he wanted me. He hadn't been able to hide that from me, not since that first moment when I had come out of my drugged state and had seen him looking at my body.

But he hesitated. At least he was calculating.

"I'm not sure how long I can go and still properly show my appreciation, either," I then said. Shooting home the reality that we both knew, but that neither one of us had been able to give voice to.

"What lies beyond the door you come through?" I asked. It wasn't all that innocent of a question. I had seen him go out that door and come in from the other passageway. Whatever was through that door also had access to other parts of whatever building we were in—and, conceivably to the outside world.

"My chamber," he whispered.

"Your bed chamber?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered in a husky voice.

* * * *

I had gauged the European rightly. He didn't want to take me. He wanted to be ridden. And that worked perfectly with my plan. I prepared him, on the bed of his in the chamber beyond my prison, sucking his cock to his creaming and letting him suck mine big. And then he was wholly mine. I turned him on his belly on the bed and crouched between his spread thighs, and, leveraging the balls of my feet off his stone floor, plowed him until he begged alternately for mercy and for deeper penetration.

After I had come, I turned him on his back on the bed and stretched out on top of him, assuring him that I would not leave, that he would be fucked royally that night.

He was dozing off in a satiated reverie as I started to make love again to his cheeks, ears, the hollow of his neck, his nipples, the pits of his underarms with my tongue and lips. He was fully relaxed. I started teasing him, saying he needed a reward for his sweet channel and expert receiving. He laughed and reminded me that I had no rewards to give other than my body, although he was quick to say that my body was enough reward.

As if just thinking about it, I unwound the gold serpent bracelets at my biceps and, lifting his arms above his head, one at a time, began winding them back around his wrists. He was so besotted with me and off guard, that I was nearly finished when he realized that his wrists were now bound to the corners of the railings at the head of his bed, imprisoning him there as neatly and tightly as any metal handcuffs.

He started to bellow when he saw me searching around for clothes to put on my naked body and was cursing me when I was standing at the other door of the chamber, the one leading to a deserted courtyard where I could see an open gate out into a busy Cairo street. My last cheery gift to him was to remind him that he still had a royal fucking to come—and I assured him that, as far as I could see, he now was truly and royally fucked.

* * * *

It took me a couple of days to make my way across the Nile and to Giza. I took furtive tricks off the street to get enough for food; jeans, a T-shirt, and some sandals; and somewhere I could take a shower from a tap that did no more than drizzle. I had remembered what Jorgen had said about owning a gay dive there named Amr's, and I slowly worked my way in the direction. If Jorgen was OK, if he hadn't somehow been captured as well or taken by the Egyptian police for whatever he was doing, he most likely could be found at Amr's. At least this would be my best bet for getting out of Cairo and somewhere where they didn't trade in human bodies.

I was in luck, I found Amr's and Jorgen was there. He was delighted to see me and pulled me over into a relatively quiet section of the room. He was doing good business. Mostly Egyptians, I thought, but an American or European here and there. Mostly middle-aged businessmen types, but enough of the younger crowd there to keep the middle-aged ones circling and hoping.

Jorgen settled me down in a banquette and wanted to hear all of what had happened to me. He said when he'd returned to the sailboat, near dawn, as he had promised, our entry into Alexandria all worked out, he'd found evidence that the boat had been boarded and I was missing.

He said he'd been looking frantically for me ever sense. This was the first discordant note I heard. He looked anything but frantic when I entered. He did look relieved when he saw me enter Amr's, but there was a hint of something else. It was almost as if he wasn't surprised to see me.

I stumbled through my story, while Jorgen, sitting close beside me, encircled me with his arms and clucked at me like an old mother hen, occasionally taking my lips in his and calming me down with his attentions. Men swirled around us, and several showed interest in us—but none intruded. We could be fucking, naked, in the banquette and none would have taken that as unusual. All the time Jorgen was cuddling me, he also was twisting one of the red cloth napkins on the banquette table around his fingers.

My story stumbled out. Jorgen then said he had to go to the gent's and that he'd return in a moment and would order drinks for us at the bar on his way back. He stood, still fingering the napkin in his hand, and headed for the back of the room and into a corridor. I'd already been to the gent's, however, and I thought the door to it was off to the right of the corridor. But Jorgen went straight back and entered a door at the end of the short hall.

Order the drinks on the way back, I thought. Why didn't he order the drinks on the way to the gent's and bring them back with him?

When he returned, having stopped, as he said he would do, and ordered drinks at the bar, Jorgen was all sympathy and gliding hands again. He hadn't brought drinks back with him. He wanted me to start going over my story again, slowly, with him asking questions as I went. At one point I looked down at the space between us, and I saw that the red napkin he had been fingering was now in my side pocket, half in and half out.

I had wondered how this was going to work.

I took a deep breath and pulled away from Jorgen, saying I thought I saw that our drinks were ready and I'd go get them. He thought that was a fine idea. They were, in fact, sitting on the bar. When I got there, I saw the three thugs—the European noticeably absent—from the "master's" auction house come through the front door of Amr's. I called over to Jorgen and motioned for him to come to me. Instinctively, obviously not having given it enough thought, he did stand and move toward me.

The red napkin was now hanging out of Jorgen's side pocket—the Jorgen who was a spitting image of me. I took the drinks and scooted into the shadows of the corridor back to the toilets and, obviously, Jorgen's office with its telephone, and watched, sipping on one of the drinks, as the eyes of the thugs honed into the red napkin in Jorgen's pocket, and he was dragged kicking and screaming out of Amr's.

I reached down and took Jorgen's wallet out of my pocket. I had lifted it while I was moving the red napkin from my pocket to his. Enough documentation—even his passport. This should be enough to get me out of the country. Not quite enough money though.

I downed one of the drinks, and took a swig out of the other. Then I took a deep breath, walked back into the bar room, all smiles, scanning the room for the wealthiest looking middle-aged businessman here.