The Moroccan Fugitive

I had been in the stone cottage I was renting in the artist's village overlooking the Mino River south of the Galician town of Lugo for two weeks, working up a group of themed short stories, before I ventured up to the bar in the village square. I wasn't so much looking for a drink—or drinks—as I was for companionship. I'll admit that right off. I had wine and liquor in the cottage. What I didn't have was a man between my thighs.

I picked the village not just because it was one popular with artists of all kinds but also because these were mainly gay artists. I'd been told about the village when I was cruising in Key West, and I'd kept it in mind ever since. I wrote gay erotica. I didn't do it for the money. I had money. I did it for the release. I was highly sexed and glad that I was good-looking enough not to worry about finding bed partners.

But it had taken me several weeks to get here from where I lived in Boston among what was known as the Boston Brahmans—families who came over on the Mayflower and made a lot of money off the New World. And now I'd been in my rented village cottage perched over the River Mino for two weeks and hadn't gotten any—sex, not money.

I'd been told that it was fine being a gay male in this village—that I'd blend in, no problem—and, more important, that I easily could find satisfying casual sex. It was time to find out if the ready acceptance extended to the bar in the village square—because I needed it so bad just then that my hands were trembling.

There weren't many in the bar. It was nearly midnight and on a weekday. But they were all men, which I found to be a hopeful note. Only two of them were of possible interest to me—or so I thought in those early days in Galicia—and those two were talking to each other at the end of the bar, one of them half behind the bar. He was an Arab of some sort. Muscular, maybe in his late thirties, which was in his favor. I was in my mid-twenties and liked a guy to be ten or twenty years older than I was. I wanted an experienced man who easily took control. He met a couple of more of my specifications too. He was handsome in a thuggish sort of way, with a black beard and mustache and an unruly head of black hair. There was a bit of a wild and dangerous look to him. He was wearing a tight T-shirt over a great chest and athletic shorts. His thighs were those of a soccer player.

The man he was talking to was older, the florid complexion of a reddish blond, with smatterings of gray. He was on the large-boned, solid, barrel-chested side. I gauged him as something between forty-five and fifty. He was the in-command kind and didn't seem to mind being out only in athletic shorts and espadrilles on his feet. His chest was covered with curly hair, topped with a gold chain with some sort of pendant hanging from it I couldn't decipher from the other end of the bar in the dimly lit room. His eyes were a milky blue and his smile was ready. He had turned and smiled at me when I came in. My first impression was "Picasso," although a larger scaled one, when I saw him, probably because he was bald, which contrasted with how hairy his chest was, and because this was an artists' village. This came proved to be prophetic. He had a bit of a paunch on him, but he wasn't quite fat. He was just very comfortable—and capable—looking. He was much the kind of man I've gone under before who proved to be a fully satisfying lover.

The bartender, who looked like he was just coming on duty, was tall, gaunt, and gnarled. He looked like a good guy to talk to but not to give my ass to.

Other than that, every man in the bar, although they all ogled me, probably wondering who I was and why I was there, was either too old or too young and swishy, obviously looking for the same thing this evening that I was. The exception was the couple of guys at a table back in the corner. They were good looking, but they also were a couple, I knew. I'd been told the British movie star, Warren Cavandish, lived here and now, in his early fifties, limited his movie roles to one every two years. He once played the ladies' man in movies, but he'd been outed and those roles had dried up. I heard he was living in isolation and was shacked up with a younger makeup artist, and the guy with him at the table fit that bill.

I was too quick to write off the older Spanish men who were in the bar. Later in the summer, I took a turn with one of them—and then several others—because they proved to be masters of the fuck and other forms of getting a young man off. No matter how shriveled up, leathery, and ugly they'd become, in the dark they could bring me off repeatedly. I certainly was aware how many of them were assessing me that first evening in the bar and planning on how they would use me. The younger, swishy men didn't, of course. They assessed me, but as competition. The naivete in me had me thinking "fat chance" as the old men looked me over. Each and every one of them who did, though, eventually covered me in exotic and totally used ways before the summer of my residency was over.

"Slide on down here for a welcoming drink, Mr. Pendleton." The man, who had reminded me of Picasso, was smiling at me. "We can't feel each other out from that distance."

He knew my name. At least he had included, "Are you one of those Pendletons?" in the same sentence, which is what I got a lot of in the States. And, yes, yes, I was one of those Pendletons.

As I moved down the bar, he continued. "We were wondering when you would come out to play. And you just came in and sat in the shadows, no smile and 'Good to see you all.'"

"You were engaged in a discussion when I came in."

"Oh, you mean Issam. Issam Ehkath. He's Moroccan. Does handy jobs here in the village, including working behind this bar sometimes. In exchange they let him bunk down in a shed in back. He's doing a job on my house. Replacing roof tiles. He's got quite a body, doesn't he? But I wouldn't get to chummy with him, if I were you."

"Yes, yes, he's really built," I acknowledged. "And quite a healthy head of hair."

"He's a wild man all right."

"And why would I want to stay away from him?"

"He's been in prison. We all know that. Rumor is, though, that he just walked out of a prison in Santiago de Compostela and is still a fugitive. I am Sergei Minkovich. Swiss. I paint. You are Bradford Pendleton. You write dirty stories. Very good ones. I've read a lot of them. They get me off wonderfully." He had signaled the barman for drinks and something strong, but good, was delivered to me. He hadn't asked me what I wanted to drink.

"You've read my stories? And I go by Brad," I answered. It was quite fine with me if the Pendleton name never arose here in Spain. It was a long way from Boston, but pretty much anywhere in the States that people I met grabbed hold of that name meant they were sucking up to me, wanting something—wanting a handout of some sort. Gauging my nature, it often was men, approaching me through sex. I didn't mind—or parry off—the approach, but I grew tired of the sucking up.

"When Francisco rented his cottage, he told us who would be here for the summer. It gave me time to read some of your stories. Your writing makes a man hard. I can hardly believe the positions you use."

I laughed. "You say 'we' were told I was coming. Who is 'we'?"

"All of us in the village." And, indeed, at least all of the village that was in this bar just then seemed to be tuned into our conversation. "We are a close-knit group here—mostly artists and those who serve them. Almost entirely men . . . and gay. I am gay. A top, naturally. Can I hope you are a submissive? I've read your stories. You are gay, I can tell, and probably a submissive as those men in your stories are so revealing of their emotions. The submissives you write of are extraordinarily yielding to their masters. Your men take big cocks—often big cocks from older men. That is good."

I laughed at the onslaught. I didn't know what of that he wanted me to respond to, so I changed tack. "You say you are Swiss. Sergei Minkovich doesn't sound too Swiss to me."

"No, it is Russian. My family is Jewish. Not me, of course, I gave up all religion other than art expression and sex with men when I was your age. How old are you, by the way? Older than sixteen, I trust. Surely that. You are young and delectably small and perfect of body, but I think you are twenty at least. I don't think you could have learned about the sex your write about by the age of sixteen."

I laughed again. He'd been touching me with his fingers but only now was forward enough to have reached over and unbuttoned the white-cotton long-sleeve shirt I was wearing over jeans and loafers without socks. "I'm twenty-five," I said.

"Delicious," he answered.

"You're unbuttoning my shirt," I said.

"Yes, I am. I'm an artist—of figures, mostly. Young, divinely built men. I want to see how well you're built. I think I will paint you. I must feel that you are a good subject." He was running his hand over my pecs and down to my flat belly.

"And am I worthy?" I asked.

"Yes, divinely."

It was then that I realized what the gold pendant on his chain was. It was of a cock and balls, with the cock thick and bent over. Most notably there was a gold ring in the head of the cock.

"This is unusual," I said.

"Julio makes these. To order," he answered as I reached up and held the pendant in my hand. The palm of his hand had stopped on my belly. His thumb had moved below my waistband and was rubbing my lower belly. It was making me hard. I was sure that was his intent. He was the best-looking man in the bar. I had come in here looking to get laid.

"Julio isn't here this evening, but he is one of us. I'm sure he can render you in gold if you are interested. Julio has a big cock."

"The ring," I asked, giving him a smile that said this conversation was just fine with me. "Is that a warning or a promise?"

"It is a reality," he answered. "Do you wish another drink or are you ready to come to my house and be fucked? You've been here a couple of weeks and only now are coming out. I think you want a man's cock inside you tonight."

I dropped the pendant and moved my hand to his chest, running my fingers through the profusion of curls swirling around his pecs. The hand he'd had on my belly moved down to copping a feel of my crotch. There was no hiding that I was hard—that I was hard for him. "I think you have gauged what I want correctly. Is your house nearby?" I asked.

* * * *

His house was nearby. Every building in the village was nearby in distance, but some of them were remote in reaching. The village descended a steep slope to the Mino River bank. Sergei's house was nearly on top of the one I'd rented, but in "getting there" they weren't in close proximity. Mine was lower on the slope than his, with a narrow, winding path linking them.

"Just give me a minute," he said as we entered the house, and then he was gone, somewhere in the corner of what appeared to be one large room other than the much smaller one he entered. I decided he'd gone into a bathroom. The door was shut, and light appeared under the door. Other than that, there was no light on. As my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness—it was lighter outside, which filtered into the space from windows on two sides of the structure—I saw that it, indeed, was one large room. The living space was to the left of the door I stood just inside and an art studio was to the right. There was a dais, with a divan on top of it in the middle of the studio area, and a conglomeration of whatever a serious artist needed strewn around that. The walls were covered with canvases of male nude figures in provocative poses, but there wasn't enough light to see them in detail.

There were fireplaces on the opposing side walls. A sofa and a few comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs faced a fireplace, which wasn't lit. It was summer. A table and four chairs were right in front of me, in the center of the space and, beyond them, on the back wall, was the lineup of kitchen counter and appliances. The bathroom cutout was in the left rear corner of the space, beyond a double bed.

When Sergei came out of the bathroom, I figured out why he had gone straight there. He had stripped down fully and he was holding a cock that was progressing nicely to full erection. He'd taken a pill. He'd probably be erect for hours. That suited me fine. I was in heat and I knew why we were here. My eyes had adjusted well enough to see he was full figured, fully naked, and ready. The cock wasn't bent as it was in his pendant, but it did have that metal ring in the bulb.

He came with a condom, freed of its packet, in hand, and he stood there before me, just inside, at the door, holding the disk in his hand as he spoke. "Strip for me, please. I want to see your beautiful body and I don't think either of us needs chitchat or a drink just now."

Apparently we didn't even need light, I thought, as I pulled the shirt off my back. He had already unbuttoned it in the bar. I had to agree that I didn't need any preliminaries. I needed a cock inside me, and his, with its penis ring, was intriguing. Other than that, he wasn't specially endowed. But he was hard as rock already.

I wanted to ride that cock.

He was quicker in bringing us together than I was in getting naked. He pulled into me, taking me in an embrace. Our lips came together, and, with one arm around my waist, holding me in place and bending me back a bit, he unbuckled and unzipped me with the other hand, and brushed my jeans and briefs to the floor. I stepped out of them. Then I was as naked as he was. His lips traveled down over my throat and he then was feasting on my nipples while he wrapped a hand around both of our cocks and frotted them.

"Fuck me. Fuck me now. Screw me," I muttered, both of us able to hear the thick need in my voice.

He laughed and guided me over to the fireplace at the living area end. There was no fire and the rug was a braided one rather than a bear skin, but I didn't care. He pressed me down, stretched out on the rug, on my back, and hovered over me, in reverse. We sixty-nined, with him eating out my ass in addition to sucking my cock and balls and me working on his shaft and balls, feeling and hearing the click of the metal ring on my teeth as I throated his rock-hard erection.

This didn't last long before he was standing over me, between my spread legs, sliding the condom onto his shaft, and looking down into my face with lustful eyes. I was fully acclimated to the darkness in the room now. He still wasn't putting on a light. The night was going to be all feel in darkness—very little visual effect. His hands were all over me, not leaving a single crevice or curve unexplored. His lips and his cock were all over me, devouring, invading, possessing me.

Once sheathed, he reached down, ran an arm around my back, lifting and turning me. Then, with his arm around my belly, he lifted me to my knees. Signaling command, he placed a foot on the back of my neck, though, holding my chest and cheek to the braided rug. He mounted me and penetrated.

I cried out, "Yes, yes, yes. Fuck me!" as he forced himself inside me and began to pump.

He didn't finish me there, though. He hauled me up and carried me to the table. Lowering me on my butt on the edge of the table, he put my ankles on his shoulders, and I reclined back, palming the tabletop as he penetrated, clutching my waist between his hands, and staring into my eyes, as he pumped me. Turning me, he forced me belly down on the table, my fists clutching at the opposite rim to hold myself in position. Again he put my ankles in his shoulders, stretching me out in front of him as if he was pushing a wheelbarrow, and he fucked me in that position for a while.

It hit me in the process that he was putting me in positions I had written into my short stories. He really had read some of those, and he wanted me to know it. He confirmed it as he fucked.

"I read these of these positions and wanted to do them. I had no idea I be doing them with the little whore who wrote them."

I didn't mind the whore reference. In these moments, it fit. I wasn't looking for anything more committing than a casual lay. I yielded everything, gave him it all, worked with him in the ravishing. I needed this fuck; I wanted this fuck. He was a fine cocksman.

And he remained erect and hard as a rock throughout. That's all I really needed—a thick, hard cock to ride.

And that's how we wound up in the night—on the bed, with Sergei on his back, gripping my waist, and me riding the cock, first in a crab position, with me facing the ceiling, feet and hands pressed to the mattress on either side of him, and then in a cowboy position, with me on top, first facing his head and leaning back, gripping his knees as I rose and fell on the shaft, and then facing his feet, leaning back, palms on his pecs.

All the time I could feel the rub and slide of the metal ring. He used and filled three rubbers. I came three times as well.

When I woke in the morning, in Sergei's bed—beside Sergei—it was his exhausted snoring that woke me, but it was something else as well. There was pounding overhead. It woke me, but it didn't wake Sergei. He was still in full erection. That must have been some enhancement pill—or pills, I thought.

I opened my eyes and looked around. I almost immediately focused on the paintings on the wall across the room, in the studio area. I had been right that the canvases were paintings of men in provocative poses. What was unusual, however, was that, though naked and everything showing—the "everything" actually being emphasized—the men weren't only in paintings. Their bodies had been painted for the pose.

I laughed, and that—not the pounding overhead—was what woke Sergei and made him, half awake reach over, wrap an arm around me, and pull me into him. He kissed me, working his mouth down from mine to my throat, my nipples, my belly. Having moved below me, he wrapped his arms around my hips, grasping and separating my butt cheeks, and he took my cock in his throat and gave me head.

The pounding continued above us. It wasn't loud but it was right above us.

"Pounding," I muttered.

"What?" Sergei said, taking his mouth off my cock.

"Pounding. What's the pounding overhead?"

"Issam. Issam Ehkath. The Moroccan. I told you. He's fixing roof tiles."

So he had told me. "Shouldn't we get up?" I said.

But Sergei wasn't listening to me. He moved back up my body. He was still hard as a rock. He reached over and took another condom disk off the nightstand. He hooked my knees on his hips. When he was fully in position, he penetrated and was fucking me again. Arching my back and groaning, I threw my arms out at the sides in a sacrificial, completely open stance, and he lowered his head and feasted on my nipples while he fucked.

The door to the cottage opened and Issam entered, naked except for drooping athletic shorts and espadrilles. Passing by the bed where Sergei was fucking me, he went to the kitchen stove and put a tea kettle on. While that was heating up, he came to the foot of the bed, pushed the front of his athletic shorts down, exposing a huge cock, and stroked it, watching us fuck until the kettle whistled. He stuffed himself back into his shorts, poured a mug of tea, and left.

It had all been matter of fact and as if it was normal for this cottage—and village. I was finding that it was.

After we'd gotten up and had breakfast, Sergei convinced me to pose for his painting. The pounding overhead continued.

"I put my models in the mood before I paint them," he said as I was reclining on the divan on the dais and he was painting my body in hues of red, blue, green, and yellow. The paint strokes were broad and swirly and all looked quite fine when he was done.