It was the Christmas season of the darkest year of my life, and I knew that if I didn't get away soon, I'd have a nervous breakdown. My boyfriend and I broke up in April. I suffered with bronchitis from the beginning of May to the end of June. My cat, Merryweather, died in July. My basement flooded in August, and I had been working in-between assignments (my euphemism for being out of work) since September. In short, I was going insane sitting alone inside my empty four-bedroom split-level house, so I booked a last minute, cut-rate, seven-day package tour to Marrakesh, Morocco. I was ready for an adventure and a change of luck!

My flight from Washington, DC to New York went off without a hitch, but the plane scheduled to leave New York for Casablanca was six hours late and when I finally boarded, I could think of nothing but sleep-preferably all the way to Africa. Unfortunately, I sat next to an actor, Raul-Somebody-or-Another, who started talking non-stop. I was tired, tried to ignore his advances and yawned. And yawned. And yawned some more. I was too sleepy to want to listen to anything other than the voices in my dreams. When Raul noticed my inattention, he said, "I live in the City and called ahead about the flight. I knew it was going to leave late. Didn't you call ahead?"

I wanted to tell him I lived in Washington and had booked my connecting flight weeks in advance and even if I had called ahead, it wouldn't have made any difference, but Raul didn't stop talking long enough for me to catch my breath.

"I slept late and even had a nap this afternoon," he jabbered, "I'm really looking forward to getting away! I've had a dozen bit-roles in Hollywood and my late boyfriend and I did several movies together-I'm lost without him-"

Raul rambled on and on and I started grumbling to myself. Other than slapping this stranger across his face, I had no idea of what I could do to shut him up. I yawned. I stretched. I closed my eyes. I put on headphones. I burped. I even belched-loudly! But no matter what I did or didn't do, Raul just kept talking. He was like the Ever Ready Rabbit-except he was talking instead of walking and long before the end of our grueling nine-hour flight, I literally wanted to gag him with a pair of my socks, tie him up with my headphones and shove him into the overhead storage bin.

"Ten years ago my boyfriend, Zach, was performing in Los Angeles at the Walburn Theatre," Raul said, "Bette Davis came to the show. Afterwards, Ms. Davis went backstage to compliment my boyfriend on his performance. Ms. Davis said Zach was magnificent. As she left, she handed him a card and said, "here's the name of my dentist, sweetie, I want to pay to have your teeth capped. With good teeth and your acting ability, you'll be a star!"

Raul continued, droning on and on, "We both acted on the stage and made a film together, but Zach was much better than I-much, much better-he really knew how to talk."

I wanted to vomit.

"We bought a little house in Beverly Hills but spent most of our time in Palm Springs-that's where the stars live. Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell were our neighbors and Sinatra had a place just down the road and then there was Liz Taylor-oh the parties she threw-and I'll never forget the time she invited Zach up to do a little improv! They were amazing-she kissed him and then looked at me and said, ah Billy-you're the man behind this talent, aren't you? and I rose, slithered over to them by the grand piano and did a little ass grind as I stood behind Zach-the twenty or so guests gave me a standing ovation-it might have been the most marvelous moment of my life." Then Raul gave one of his theatrical pregnant pauses and said, "Without Zach, I just don't travel much anymore. Zach died eight years ago," Raul added, "and I gave up acting. I can't go on. . . I just can't go on," but of course Raul did go on and on and on. Then, Praise God, Raul's voice died down for a second and I should have seen that as my opportunity to feign sleep, but not me. He had piqued my curiosity, and I yearned to know if he had done any acting since Zach died and what stars he knew and what secrets they may have shared. "What have you been doing all this time?" I asked. I wanted to ask why he was traveling now or what had changed in his life, but I didn't have the time to ask-Raul had barely come up for air.

"I've been to Singapore and Hong Kong and traveled a lot in South America, trying to get away, I guess, trying to forget, but that's impossible, Zach's still a part of me-he's my spirit and my soul. I can't go on without him," at that point Raul placed his hand on my upper thigh and began massaging me and honest to God, if you've ever been half asleep on a twelve hour flight to North Africa suddenly a star put his hand on your thigh-what would you do? With me, it's not what I would do, it's what my cock did-and Raul saw my reaction and touched me there and I came and filled my tighty-whities with the biggest load of cum I'd shot since early puberty. Raul smiled, of course, smirked maybe, and said, "Ah, Zach had such self-control, I think it's one of the things I admired most about him-he even though he appeared to be the same down there as you are-what is that? Four? Four and a half? Five on a really good night?" He smiled and I took it as a statement of awareness not as a put-down. Facts are facts, after all! Yet, I flushed scarlet-I never proud of my cock's size-but sure as hell I was a top-or thought I was until now-and then Raul handed me a cloth and whispered, "stretch and slide this down into your underwear and wipe it off."

And I did, of course, and was surprised that for the first time in my life, I allowed someone to control me like that, but it got worse because the moment I pulled out the cum filled rag-and it was full, Raul said, "lick it clean." And I did-and Mother of God, I knew then why this chatty-rascal had had so much fun with his late partner, Zach, and I tried not to picture us naked together in bed with Raul calling the shots.

As I licked, Raul continued as if everything that had happened was normal-and probably it was for those who lived in Palm Springs-but not for me. Although I relaxed now, I was still unable to sleep becoming instead, Zombie-like, Raul's slave as thoughts of ball gags and steel chastity cages and butt plugs flashed through my mind-well, they all didn't flash through-one lingered-the thought of that red rubber ball gag had intrigued me for years and I wondered what on earth I'd discover when Raul swept me in his arms and carried me into our hotel room in Marrakesh and said, "Billy Boy, start unpacking and remember to change your underwear!"

I blushed so hard that it was difficult to bring myself back to reality, especially now that Raul had placed his hand back on my thigh and began gently caressing it, but I gulped and struggled trying to restore reality and stammered, "Are you going to Morocco on business?" Turning my head in a boyish angle and staring into Raul's deep green eyes.

"Oh no," Raul said, "I'm just getting away. I've been to Marrakesh a half dozen times in the past few years, met a dozen exciting boys there," then he whispered, "though none as exciting as you, Billy Boy, Billy Boy," and then continued "It's very hot, you know, perhaps that's why it's one of my favorite places to be-and so exciting, you never know what's just around the corner," and as he spoke I wondered what would be around our corner-in our room-in our home in Hollywood! And God, was I intrigued now, alert and unable to sleep-and my little soft dick was struggling inside my sticky underpants throbbing, ready to join the party so to speak, so I decided to be lulled into sleep by this talkative master of words and boy parts like mine and as Rual paused for a breath, I asked, did Zach enjoy Marrakesh as much as you?"

"He didn't get chance to cum to Africa (and yes that's how Raul pronounced the word). I just started traveling to Africa after Zach died-the people-the men-the food-the climate-draw me back year after year.

Just then the stewards began handing out the dinner trays and all the tales of my adventures that ran through my head paled in comparison to Raul's-I was under his spell now. His Zombie-and for the first time in my life felt comfortable in my sexuality-perhaps getting is better than giving-and all I could dream of was being the receiver.

Dinner was served and Raul continued talking in between bites of chicken and cheesecake and even though he continued non-stop for the next nine hours-and I must admit that even though I was tired, those hours were intriguing.

The nine hours flew by-shocking me actually, as my world view expanded, and my desire for this hot man next to me began to consume me-and then thump, thump, thump, we landed in Casablanca utterly exhausted but excited about the short hop to Marrakesh-only to learn that since our plane was late arriving, we had missed our connecting flight. And, when things go bad, they really sour fast, the next flight was scheduled two days from now.

The airline representative said they'd put us up in a Casablanca hotel for the next two days but that idea was quickly vetoed by all of us-Casablanca, to hear Raul talk, was the sewer of Africa-boring and drab where nothing ever worked. Ever! And all I could think of was that the movie Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart as Rick and Ingrid Bergman as Ilsa and the line: "They come to Casablanca and wait, and wait, and wait!"

Time passed and the airline representative came back to tell us he could book us on the next train to Marrakech, and we'd be there in twelve hours. I liked the idea of train travel through the desert-it would be an awesome new experience for me, but I was the only one and Raul whispered, "stay in the group." And the idea melted form my thoughts, even though, normally, in such a situation, I would have struck out on my own for the adventure, but since I didn't speak Arabic or French and since I didn't really want to waste another twelve hours in transit, I realized Raul was right-why? Was I falling for this stranger? What Voodoo hold did he have on me?

Raul, who became our spokesman, said, "If we all sit here long enough, they'll get tired of looking at us!" Ultimately, his logic sounded good, so our entire group of weary travelers continued to wait in Casablanca like Hump and Ing. (God, why does Hump Ing have to happen here in Casablanca with two long since dead movie stars?)

Then, about forty-five minutes later, deus ex machina, the airline added a special flight to Marrakesh just for us.

The final leg of my flight to Marrakesh was uneventful, probably because I didn't sit anywhere near Raul. During the time I had waited in Casablanca, however, I learned that the rest of the group would be staying at a five-star luxury hotel on the outskirts of the city. I'd be alone since I'd opted to stay at a downtown budget hotel a mile away in the heart of old Marrakech.

I had planned from the moment I booked this trip that I'd be on my own. I liked it that way. I wanted to be downtown, and I wanted to be close to the action. In short, I wanted to have an adventure! Unfortunately, staying in a two-star hotel away from the group was my first mistake.

We landed uneventfully and after leaving the group-who sped off in Jeeps to their hotel, I was alone and ended up hiring a ride in a donkey cart to the Palace Hotel, "A quaint thirty room full-service hotel with dining room, pool, veranda, private balconies and room service, located just outside the walls of the old city." The only thing true about the description was that the hotel was quaint, although hovel might have been a more accurate term.

A young Arab-carried my overpacked suitcase across the stone floors where I registered and then followed him through the lobby to the sometimes-it-works, usually it-doesn't-work elevator as we made our slow ascent to the second floor. Four minutes later, when the elevator door opened, he, whose name I discovered to be Malik, led me down the threadbare-carpeted hall to a bright and sunny room with a private bathroom, a balcony and a picturesque view of the walls of the old city. I couldn't believe my luck. Perhaps the brochure was right. Perhaps the Palace Hotel really was a quaint thirty-room full-service hotel. Perhaps the elevator and this every smiling-ever more appealing-ever more hard where it matters most, would be the beginning of the "charms of ancient Marrakech".

"You are the last patron to check in," Malik said with a sparkled to outdo all sparkles that I've ever seen in such darling brown Arabic eyes, and said, "you'd better try everything out before I leave for the rest of the day," and when he said everything he slowly turned around giving me the best view I'd had in days-his ass so tight in his uniform! However, I wasn't sure how well I could perform.

That was my second mistake-normally I take charge, if you know I mean, top in everything I've ever tried but this guy-this Malik-wasted no time showing me that even at his young age-he knew what the fuck he was doing.

"Let me draw a bath for you," he said, and perhaps I could put away your clothes."

He quickly turned the water on and then returned to the bed where I was sitting removing my shoes and socks and wriggling my tired toes. Suddenly he plopped down next to me and kicked of his sandals as he began covering my face with the sexiest hottest kisses I'd had in weeks-no-months-no, perhaps forever!

As his lips lingered on mine, Malik's deft hands slowly unbuttoned my shirt, tugged it off and dropped it on the floor and then I felt his hands on my crotch, unzipping, caressing, touching in a way that, no offense to my fellow Americans, no one had ever performed as well or as deliciously rapidly before. Then down came my pants and my still sticky tighty-whities and he smiled and said, "So sticky, let me sniff," and down he went, sniffing my crotch and all 5½ inches rose to his lips and Malik's hands caressed my nuts and I felt them filling as if he was pleading with them to cum out and play-and Malik scurried off to the bathroom to turn off the tub and then slowly slid his lips down my shaft, consuming it entirely in one glorious gulp and worked it up and down for the next few minutes before moving up to my lips again, covering them with hot kisses, as his hands pulled off my pants and underwear and lifted me (how in the hell he did that I will never know because at most he was 120 pounds and I was 150) but there I was naked on my back with my tentpole at 90 degrees on this gigantic bed as the curtains of the balcony window flapping in the breeze and birds chirped outside aching to see how men make love without those pesky bees.

Malik was up and the tub was full with steaming hot water and I was rampant now-ready for whatever action came or whatever I could start-or just enjoy, when he took my hand and led me to the tub where within a few moments we both sat, his eyes so chestnut brown and his skin so Arabian dark as his fingers composed a symphony all over my body-including places I hardly knew existed.

Our bath seemed unending as his Ever-Ready hands felt my chest, my neck, my toes, my ass, and he hoisted me up just a tad and slid one of his slim fingers all the way up my asshole-one slow powerful mighty shove-my first invasion ever. I am a top, no one has had the effrontery to even try invading my asshole, but sweet Jesus, what had I been missing?

Then he and I stood together there in that mammoth tub, Malik's finger still up my asshole, as if the symphony he was creating was now him playing me like a bass fiddle. Then we stepped out onto the bathmat and Malik gently forced me down, down, down, to what I had never seen before-a dick so much bigger than mine-his maybe 8 or 9 inches, moderately big-headed, circumcised cock.

"Jeb, Jeb," he said as he took my throbbing manhood in his hand then rose, grabbed a huge Turkish towel and wrapped us both into it. Within a few heartbeats we were dry-not really as much from the towel as from the heat we each generated, steamed clean-if you will!

He led me back into the bed-my bed-our bed and laid me on my stomach, straddling me, gently resting on top of me, just enough to keep me in position-a trick I had used multiple times on younger men-to keep them in their place but here he was he an 18-year old boy taking total fucking control!

And then he began kissing all over me-again from the top down-seemingly spending hours caressing my neck, hugging me as he went down, down, down, as he lifted himself by his knees and flipped me over, under him, still in total control-and I was in fucking heaven-honest to God, Malik had "Gone where no man had gone before."

My ass quivered-a tad in fear, sensing my virility, my manhood was being compromised but more in anticipation that Oh My God, this is what it feels like to give total control to another man-and I began to wonder about the fun I'd missed so many years but was soon to discover in this quaint Arabian town at the crossroads of the Sahara-the complete relaxation and joy of bottoming!

Malik stood up a moment and playfully slapped my ass a half dozen times-something I have enjoyed when topping a sexy hot assed bottom-with my hand or even with my belt.

He whispered in my right ear, "I need to get lotion-a lot of it, I think, tell me if I'm wrong, but you are a virgin, are you not?"

I had just turned 28 a full ten years older than this boy-man taking complete charge of my ass, and I was too embarrassed to say yes, so I said nothing because I'm Irish American and my feelings always give me away. I blush easily and my reddening face let Malik know in a heartbeat that I ws offering him my cherry.

He was back the lotion and applied it to my cheery, "You're not the first I've taken, I began having sex when I was thirteen-most Arabs do the same-and yes, I was fucked, and fucked again, and broken in and it was rough and Ali Mustaffa-the man who raped me-explained that that was the way it was with boys and men-and that in order for me to be a real man I had to take real man cock up my ass. So, Billy. . . Boy that's what's going to happen to you now, but I am gentle-that's why I grabbed the lotion-I'm going to prepare your virgin ass for my man machine."

We both laughed-me joyously because Malik thinks like I do-sex has to be about mutual pleasure-and Malik laughed, I think, partly for that, but partially because he enjoyed fucking Americans-I didn't know the real reason why until we woke up in each other's arms the next morning.

I think Malik went at my ass for several hours and lotion or no lotion, nine hard thick inches up a virgin ass hurts like hell-his caresses and kissed helped but once his mighty Arabian cock slid into my tight American asshole it stayed there and hurt like well. . . there is nothing to describe the pain-pleasure-pain-more pain-kisses-throbbing-pulsing-pumping action that that young man put my ass through-one moment I was flying high in the stratosphere-hoovering hundreds of miles above earth and the next moment I was in hell begging, crying, pleading for Malik to take it out, take it all out, stop please Almighty God take it out, and then he relaxed and his locomotion cock train slowed down and stopped and I felt his hands creeping up and down my body-caressing my thighs, my back, kissing it and the pain stopped and then the engine roared to life and off he went, fucking and fucking, and fucking until I spoke those infamous words I'd heard as a college freshman when I was the fucker and not the boy being fucked-and yes even at age 28, I was the boy as I screamed out in passion,

"Don't!

Stop!

Don't!

Stop!

Don't!

Stop!

Don't! Stop!" and finally

"Sweet Jesus, don't stop! Don't ever stop!" and he came and I came and we collapsed on that soft bed and the sun set and the sky was filled with stars and so was I.

And the third mistake was that Malik was gone and so was the hundred bill in my wallet-but perhaps that was cheap compared to the joy he had brought me.


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