Tangier Season

The actual sex had taken no more than ten minutes. Unwrapping the package had taken that long and helping her to put herself back together had taken a good twenty minutes.

When we got out on deck, me checking the passageway outside my room first to ensure she wouldn't be seen leaving my room, I was happy to see that we already were docking on the quay jutting out from the Tangier harbor and that all of the attention was pointed at the city marching up the hillside ahead, its white and ocher flat-roofed building shimmering in the sunlight.

I had wanted a last tumble with Yousef, whose ass was very sweet, but, looking up the deck, I saw him leaving my uncle's cabin and turning and going in the other direction. He would have too many duties upon docking for me to fuck him again. He had given me his address in Tangier, but, of course, at this point it was all Arabic to me.

When I joined Amelia at the rail, she was standing next to her father, a great walrus of a man, to include the nature of his drooping mustache. I understood that he was some sort of super wealthy industrialist in the United States and was taking Amelia on a world tour—one that would allow them to dally here and there for months at a time—to celebrate her graduation from Mount Holyoke Female Seminary in Massachusetts. If there was a mother alive, she had not been mentioned. Perhaps if there had been a mother and the father hadn't seemed so dim, Amelia wouldn't have been as forward and wanton as she was.

Certainly if she hadn't been so forward with me, I wouldn't have fucked her. She was all right, as a diversion, but Yousef was a much sweeter fuck.

I positioned myself on the other side of Mr. Anderson from Amelia. If I'd been beside her, I don't think I could have trusted her not to touch me intimately. She was quite the wanton. She also was a beautiful young woman, with an hour-glass figure with or without the corset that I'd huffed and puffed to lace up when we'd done fucking. She had a deceptive blonde porcelain quality that must have come from her mother. Her father was course and crude, obviously a self-made businessman. But porcelain natured or not, she didn't break. We proved that. And she sheathed a thick seven and a half inches without effort—although it sometimes was an effort for me not to give her the rest of it until she demanded it.

Yousef moaned at my penetration far more than she did, but then I routinely fed it all into him. Her nether lips were the fattest I'd ever parted with my cock on a woman, and, evidence of her wantonness, Amelia rouged them, saying she did it for my enjoyment. And I must admit that there was a little thrill in parting them with my cock, sinking into the core of her, feeling her shudder beneath and start to move her pelvis in the rhythm of the fuck. There was a certain arousal in feeling her tiny hands smooth the French Letter on my shaft as well. I didn't use them with men.

Lord Harkwood joined us not long before the gangplank was set in place. As first-class passengers, we would be among the first to disembark. He and Mr. Anderson were exchanging farewells and comments of having enjoyed the journey in each other's company, and indeed the two men had seemed to get along famously, which I was grateful for, because when they were sitting in the smoking cabin, puffing on their cigars, drinking their brandy, and sharing their stories of wealth and position, I had time to be with Yousef or Amelia.

"Yes, I enjoyed it immensely too," Amelia was saying, looking at me with soft eyes across the massive belly of her father. "I could wish that it went on forever and ever."

"We're staying at the Hotel Continental until our villa is prepared," Mr. Anderson said. "I don't know where that is in the city, of course."

"It's right up there, in the Medina section, overlooking the harbor," Lord Harkwood said, pointing it out for Amelia and her father.

"Gregory and I will be staying there tonight as well. I have business in the city before we go out to the Grottes d'Hercule area west along the coast, where my villa and dig are."

"Well, perhaps we can meet for dinner this evening at the hotel then," Anderson said.

"Yes, please, let's do that," Amelia said, giving me another pleading look. I could tell that the porcelain doll wasn't finished with my cock yet.

I wasn't really sure what I thought of that. It was a step in the right direction, of course, but sometimes I looked at Amelia and saw a consuming shark rather than a delicate-featured young woman of elegant style, short stature, and an hour-glass figure. Any man, of course, would be lucky to land her, not least because her father was filthy rich and I had been told she was an only child—a spoiled, headstrong child, however. If I hitched to her, I'm afraid there would be no question who would dominate. She even rode my cock more by her own choice than I laid her.

That weekend at Falconcroft, when William Bowles had cruelly and completely dominated and punished me, had become somewhat of a watershed for me. It wasn't just that he scared me with his punishing domination or that I enjoyed it so much; it also was because of his warning about the increasingly public expression of Oscar, Robbie, and Bosie's homosexuality. I took the offer to get away from all that by accompanying stodgy old Uncle Sydney to his archaeology project in the Mediterranean as a possible saving grace for me. Other than a couple of trysts with Charles and Thomas in the ensuing weeks before we took ship, I had been celibate and working on being normal, with normal appetites. I had to admit that the shipboard dalliances with Amelia were helping in that regard. I hadn't returned to London. I hadn't corresponded with William Bowles, and I had made every effort to relegate the memories of what melting things he did to my body out of my mind.

"Dinner together would be splendid, of course," Lord Harkwood answered Amelia's entreaty. "But it would be time for lunch when we disembark, and you two don't know your way around the city. There are many acceptable cafés in the nearby market square, the Grand Socco. Perhaps we can share a lunch there also and I'll have my man guide you to the hotel after that. Our luggage will already have been delivered to the Hotel Continental."

"That sounds super," Amelia said, once more seeking out my eyes with hers and, seeing that I was the only one looking at her, touching her breasts with her fingers enticingly.

"It's settled then," Lord Harkwood. "Hark, I believe that's our signal to disembark."

When I turned, I saw that Yousef was standing there, looking forlorn. Oddly enough, however, he seemed to be looking at my uncle's departing figure rather than mine.

* * * *

"Well, look who we have here."

I looked up from the café table in the Grand Socco, the central square of Tangier, in shock. "Billy!" I exclaimed.

"The one and only," he said. "May I sit, although it looks like you two are just finishing up."

"Of course you shall join us," Lord Harkwood said, not seeming the least surprised to see William Bowles here. "In fact, perhaps you can be of service to us if you have the afternoon free."

"I have whatever time free that I wish," Bowles said, as he smiled and sat in the chair that Amelia had very recently vacated, her father and her having been ushered away by Uncle Sydney's Tangier houseboy, Khalid, to the Hotel Continental. "What is it you wish me to do?" He had sat down right next to me and put his hand on my thigh under the surface of the table. I almost laughed, as Amelia had gripped me in the same spot before leaving for the hotel.

"I have business this afternoon I might as well take care of before leaving for the Grottes d'Hercule," Lord Harkwood said. "It will save a trip into town. I have to renew my firman—my certificate of approval to excavate the temple site—before we can continue our work. That will take several hours, and I don't wish to bore Gregory with the tediousness of it. If you are free, perhaps you can show him some of the town and return him to the Hotel Continental for supper. Perhaps you'll join us for supper there."

"I would be delighted to show Gregory the ropes," Billy said, giving me a smile.

I shuddered. I'd been shown ropes by Billy before. And I soon was being shown them again.

"I'm surprised to see you here in Tangier," I said when Uncle Sydney was gone. "I would have thought you'd be in York for the birth of your child."

He had moved his hand to my crotch and was squeezing my balls again. I looked around to see if we'd been observed, but then I noticed that there were several pairings of older and younger men at the outdoor café. Most of the older men were European and the younger ones Arabic, but there were pairings the other way around too. One couple even was kissing. I recalled then that Tangier was known as a gay resort area, even in this time where homosexuality was generally kept behind closed doors.

"It's precisely because my wife is giving birth and that there are two other brats in the house that I'm here," Bowles said. "This is where I come to write my novels and compose my songs in quiet and solitude—and acceptance of what I enjoy doing with men. You don't really want a tour of the city, do you? You want me to show you my villa on the hill up there, and you want me to tie you up with rope and beat you and fuck you, don't you?"

"Yes, that's what I want from you," I answered meekly, so easily back under his control.

He fucked me first just inside the door to his villa, a small, but well-appointed house with a terrace overlooking the Tangier harbor and the Mediterranean opening off of both the living and bedroom areas. He was dressed all in white, his clothes elegantly cut—white trousers, shirts, vest, and jacket. Shortly after we entered his villa, I was naked and he was still dressed. He wanted it that way. His fly was unbuttoned and flared, his curly pubic bush exploding out of the open fly, but he was clothed other than that, including the white hat he was wearing. He fucked me up against the wall beside the door, with my knees hooked on his hips. He took me in hard, deep strokes that didn't give me time to adjust to him. I loved every stroke of it.

While he fucked me, his houseboy, Hasan, a beautiful young Moroccan man of olive skin, dark hair, and sultry looks, padded around us, preparing drink and refreshments for us to have after Billy had had me. Hasan was almost as naked as I was, wearing just a loin cloth. As my uncle's house servants—all young male, all as beautiful as Hasan—wore the same, I soon got the impression that this was normal in Tangier. I was later to discover that it was only normal in certain households.

After he finished fucking me, Bowles let me put my feet down on the floor and encouraged me to check out the villa while he went to the en suite bath to change. When he came back he was wearing a white robe—a kaftan—a simple ankle-length tunic, with a plunging neckline that I was to find was the garb of leisure in Tangier for men. My uncle wore only that in his villa as well, as, eventually, did I.

While he was gone I explored the villa. There was just the single living-dining area, one bedroom, and a kitchen area, with a servant's room for Hasan behind it. The terrace, reached through both the living area and the bedroom, was almost as large as the enclosed space. There also was a large bath, a room almost as large as the bedroom, floored and walled with colorful porcelain tiles in an intricate geometric design. The sunken bathtub was large enough to accommodate three, which, indeed, before the evening was done, it did. I was to find that such a bath inside the villa was a luxury in Tangier, although Lord Harkwood's villa had one for each of the six bedrooms.

I was walking around the walls of the bedroom, naked, admiring the artwork, most of which was composed of David Roberts lithographs of Egyptian and Near East landscapes in which the color ochre predominated. Roberts, twenty-five years dead, had become a favorite artist of the Middle East among Victorian Europeans with a nostalgia for the region. As I came around to near the French doors out onto the terrace, though, I came across a blank section of wall except for two iron handles above at a separation of four feet and two matching ones down near the floor. I looked at them with curiosity intent enough that I didn't notice Billy coming up close behind me.

"Wondering what those are for?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. I turned to look at him and sucked breath in. He had leather straps in one hand and a multithonged hand whip in the other.

"Special houses in Tangiers have these. I'll show you what they are for."

And then he did.

"You know I'm going to bind you and abuse you, don't you?" he said.

"Yes," I whispered, licking my lips at the painful pleasure he was leading me into.

He commanded me to raise my arms, which, with a whimper of anticipation, an anticipation that both frightened and compelled me, I did. He tied my wrists to the upper handles on each side. I meekly let him do it. Then he commanded me to spread my legs, which I did, and he tied off my ankles to the lower handles.

He flogged me on the back, buttocks, and thighs with the hand whip, stinging me only slightly at the beginning, but building up intensity as I writhed and moaned and he breathed heavily. At his call, Hasan came into the room and sat dutifully on the end of the bed, watching us.

The whipping stung and would raise welts, but it wasn't life threatening. It was enough to make me go hard and to ejaculate against the wall, though. When I'd done that, Bowles pulled the kaftan over his head, revealing himself to be naked, came in close to my back, thrust his cock up into my ass, grabbed my pecs with the palms of his hands, buried his lips in the hollow of my neck, and fucked me to his own ejaculation.

I writhed under his attentions, begging him to fuck me harder, deeper, giving into him completely/

Leaving me hanging there, then, he went over to the bed, manipulated Hasan's body into a belly-down spread-eagled position, stripped off the young man's loincloth, and tied his spread arms and legs off with restraints at the four corners of the bed. Hasan submitted to this even more meekly than I had. I could understand why he, virtually an indentured servant, submitted. I was at a completely loss why I did other than it made me harder than any other form of sex and left me more satiated and drained of cum than any other sexual experience. Then, while I watched with my head turned to them, Bowles stood over the bed and whipped Hasan with the hand whip, somewhat more vigorously than he'd whipped me—at least Hasan's screams seemed to bear that observation out.

I shared Hasan's screams and his pain—even while feeling the loss that it wasn't me.

When his arm was exhausted, Bowles dropped the whip at the foot of the bed and went into his bath and came back with a large jar of salve. After applying the salve to my welts while I still hung there, on the wall, he unbound me and handed me the jar. "You may have the pleasure of attending to Hasan and giving him whatever comfort you wish," Bowles said. Then he exited to the terrace through the French doors and settled, facing the view of the late afternoon sun reflecting off the buildings descending to the harbor and sea, and took up the cigarettes and brandy Hasan had already laid out on a table between two lounge chairs.

I untied Hasan. He clung to me as I rubbed the salve into his welts, looking up at me with doe-like eyes. I did what came naturally. I took his lips in mine as we both reached for each other's cocks and balls. He lowered his mouth to my cock and gave me head. Nearing ejaculation, I pulled him off me, turned him on his belly, put an arm under his waist to lift his pelvis, mounted him, and fucked him in slow, deep strokes, as he moaned and sighed.

At length, I picked the whip up from the carpet at the foot of the bed and, hovering over Hasan, let my arm drop, lashing at Hasan's bare back and buttocks, as he writhed under me, begging me to fuck him again. I lash him again and again, making myself hard, and then I fucked him once more, taking him hard and fast. I ejaculated and all of the energy drained out of me. I pulled out of him, leaving him sobbing and, strangely, thanking me. I looked up to find that Bowles was standing in the doorway to the terrace, watching us. When he saw that I had seen him, he melted into the shadows of the terrace. I went to Bowles' bath and scrubbed myself raw, trying to wash the channeling of Bowles off me.

When I returned, Hasan was still on the bed. He raised a hand toward me, begging me to beat and fuck him again, but, shrinking from how much he was like me with Bowles, I passed him by and walked out of the French doors onto the terrace.

I sat with Bowles on the terrace, smoking and drinking with him, as we watched the sun go down to the west behind the masts of ships in the approach to the entrance to the Mediterranean.

"If you stay the night, I will beat and fuck you again," Bowles said in a perfectly calm voice.

"Yes," I answered.

"You will stay the night," he said. It wasn't a question.

I answered it anyway. "Yes."

I expected him to take me back into the house and tie me to the wall, and he did rise from where he was seated, but it was to come, drop on his knees in front of me, part my legs, and take my cock in his mouth. I moved to take his head between my hands, but he brushed them away, signaling that I wasn't to touch him. At length, when I was hard again, he rose, walked over to a platform bed on the terrace, went down on it on his belly, and growled, "Fuck me."

Saddled on his pelvis, my knees hugging his hips and the palms of my hands pressed into his shoulder blades and then, leaning back, pressing my palms to his calves, I worked my cock into his channel and rode his ass to an ejaculation. He was completely silent and might have been sleeping if I didn't feel the slight movement of his pelvis, pushing up at me as I thrust down into him. I was fucking him, but, even in this, at no time did I feel I was in command, dominating him. It was all him. As soon as I was inside him, the sensation for me was the muscles of his channel, pulling me in and releasing, pulling me in and releasing—even controlling the pace of the fuck. The passage muscles undulating over my shaft, milking me. I meekly submitted to him.

When I had ejaculated, he moved his hands back to my knees, signaling that I was to get off him, which I did, rolling off him to the side. "Come," he said, standing.

I rose and followed him. He tied me to the wall and lashed and fucked me again. It was all him in command. Whether he was inside me or me in him, it was always him fucking me.

Later the three of us lowered ourselves in a bath that Hasan had drawn and Hasan and I rode Billy's cock and Hasan rode mine.

Needless to say, Bowles and I didn't make it back to the Hotel Continental in time to have supper with Lord Harkwood or the Andersons. Amelia was frosty to me and anyone else who came near her as breakfast began in the morning, but she softened when she realized that Sydney and I were leaving for the Grottes d'Hercule directly after breakfast. She made me promise not to forget her or to be a stranger.

Before we left, she and I managed to meet in an alcove where I had a feel of her breasts and cunt through the material of her dress and she did the same with my crotch, we kissed, and we both promised to arrange to be more intimate the next time we met. While I was kissing her, though, my mind was on the lashing by Bowles and the sweet ass passage of Hasan.

* * * *

I found that, although Lord Harkwood was excavating a temple to Apollo and nearby cave tombs, near his hillside villa, which was near the wave-cut grottos of Hercules—the Grottes d'Hercule, a cliffside attraction along the coast seventeen miles west of Tangier—he likely was going to be doing so for decades. He didn't seem to be particularly interested in the excavations, and we only went there to observe the work three or four days and week for only an hour or two at a time.