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.

I wasn’t surprised about the preparation. I had already figured that out in walking around and examining the paintings on the wall. All of them were post coitus. The men had been fucked and were mellow from that.

I was fucked too before Sergei painted my portrait. I has leaning back on the divan, my shoulders back, palming the surface of the couch behind me, Sergei’s arm wrapped around my waist, my legs spread and bent, feet on surface, with Sergei kneeling between my thighs and fucking me. He used fast drying and surface adhering paint. He got none on himself as he fucked me. It would all come off me in his shower afterward, where we stood under the cascade water and he fucked me against the slick tiles again.

While he fucked me before painting my portrait, Issam came in for another cup of tea, and stood there, close to us, cock in hand, stroking it, as the kettle built up a boil. He did not leave for the longest time. I grew afraid that all of the water would boil out of the kettle while he was there. Sergei was fucking me with his cock, but Issam was fucking me with his eyes. Our eyes locked and he made love to me—no, he made sex on me—from a distance, his eyes fucking me with every thrust of Sergei’s cock. I could not take my eyes away. I didn’t want to take my eyes away.

This man was clearly too dangerous for me.

It was a strange night and morning. But it was the repeated fuck that I needed. The metal ring in Sergei’s cock head was a great addition to the experience. The painting turned out quite nice.

“This one will have to go to a special collector,” Sergei said. “If it were put in a gallery, men would be arrested for beating off in front of it.”

Looking at it, I could see his point. And it made me smile. It also gave me inspiration for a story or two.

* * * *

That night and day with Sergei held me for several days. I retreated inside my cottage and I wrote. And then I wrote some more. It could not hold me forever, though. A few days later, I was out, walking in the village, wandering around, looking for inspiration in this beautiful part of northwest Spain. I took the path down to the banks of the Mino, where there was a grove of trees with gnarly branches reaching out to other trees from close to the ground, entwining and providing a latticework from which to watch the swift-moving waters of the river.

The pathway down to the river that day was circuitous enough through the village that I saw many of the houses at strange angles and was able, without consciously trying, to even see into the some of the cottages through windows and doors. Such was the case of the British actor, Warren Cavandish and his quite-a-bit-younger Dutch makeup artist boyfriend, Dion. Dion couldn’t be more than in his early twenties, I thought, from having seen him in the bar. He was more pretty than handsome. He was willowy and effeminate and looked to be shy. I knew from what had been covered in the tabloids, which I read for inspiration for gay erotica story themes, that Cavandish had given up a lot to keep the young man with him.

Thus, it was a surprise that I saw—only in passing because I turned away from the sight immediately and later couldn’t be fully sure of what I saw—or pretended that I wasn’t seeing it—Dion bound on a bed in their cottage. He was spread-eagled, face down, on the bed, his wrists and ankles tied up at the four corners of the bed. He was naked, and the Moroccan, Issam Ehkath, was saddled on his hips, riding his tail. The Arab also was naked and he was holding a hand whip. I moved on as fast as I could, but I had the impression that there were red welts on the young man’s back and thighs.

Had Ehkath turned his head and seen me observing them? I couldn’t be sure.

I stayed down by the river, in the grove of trees with the maze of branches, for nearly a half hour, trying to forget what I saw. I had come to meditate and clear my mind. The writing had been going well, but there were times when the surfacing of plots, themes, and characterizations came too fast and got mixed up with earlier ideas. At those times I had to pull away and just go someplace and let it all flow out of me. This had been such a day, and I had thought the bottom of the river valley would be the ideal spot just to sit and watch the beauty of Galicia flow by. It was a good plan, but what I saw in the actor’s cottage just added another set of erotica possibilities. Was the young man doing this voluntarily? Was the Moroccan’s role in this connected to why he’d been in prison? How could I not use a body as beautiful and a head of hair as evocative as his in a story or two? Where was Cavandish during this?

I only stayed at the river’s edge for a half hour. Emptying my mind of story ideas just wasn’t happening. I took a different path back up to the top of the village, but it didn’t matter. The paths wound around the river side of the mountain, and I still reached a point on the path with a full view of Cavandish’s cottage.

I don’t know if the sex session was over or not. Ehkath was standing in the doorway, fully naked. He was leaning into the doorframe and smoking a cigarette. He was lounging like everything was normal. But he was naked. His body was magnificent. He was flaccid, but he hung low. He didn’t try to hide himself at all, even when he saw me appear on the path. He just looked at me through hooded eyes—sexually satiated at least for the moment. Beyond him, Dion was still in place on the bed, face down.

I moved on as quickly as possible. I didn’t stop at my cottage but went on up to the village square, to the bar. I needed a drink. Part of the shock in having observed what I did was how aroused I was sexually myself at seeing Issam Ehkath’s sexually charged body. And beyond that, I can’t say I wasn’t moved by either the bondage or the apparent use of the whip. I wrote about such things. I hadn’t really done much of it. There had been a bit of bondage in my sex play and a bit of experience of a leather strap, but I hadn’t sought it out. This mostly was, I had to acknowledge, that I found it enticing and sexually arousing. It was something more—something beyond my usual sex play. Something to fantasize about.

The combination of the Moroccan’s body and demeanor with bondage and a hand whip had me panting. And I wasn’t panting because of the steepness of the pathways through the village.

When I reached the square, I saw the movie actor, Warren Cavandish, sitting at one of the outside tables. He saw me and called me over to sit with him. I couldn’t refuse, although I was embarrassed to do so because of what I just saw his boyfriend being engaged in.

He obviously had been there for some time. His glass was empty and he had a movie script opened out on top of the café table. He offered to buy me a drink and we were served immediately. Cavandish obviously was a favorite character in the village.

“I’m trying to learn my lines for this movie I’m to be in,” he said, waving the script at me. “It’s just a small part, but I want to keep my hand in.”

“I’ve been sorry to note that you haven’t been as active in the movies in the last two years as before.”

“I’m getting too old to play the heartthrob parts,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think you’re in great shape.” And he was. He was a handsome man and still very fit. He exuded sex appeal.

“Thank you, but you’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not. I think you know I write male erotica.”

“Yes, I’ve read your stories. I’ve jacked off to your stories.”

“I’ve jacked off to your movies,” I said, and we both laughed. He turned serious, though, and he reached over and touched my check with his fingers.

“But you did what you did for me without me even knowing what a delicious young man you look like, and before I knew what you’d do for a man.”

“What I’d do for a man?” I asked.

“It’s a small village. It’s difficult to move through it without seeing into people’s interior lives.”

Didn’t I know it? I just saw this man’s lover, the youth who he’d given up so much to be with, being fucked, bound and whipped—dominated in his own bed by another man. I didn’t say it, but I know I hesitated and gave him a confused look.

“The other morning,” he said. “I couldn’t help but see you in bed with Sergei. You were giving him everything. I envied him.”

“You’ve given up so much to be with your young boyfriend,” I said. “I don’t know if I should say it, but—”

“You’ve seen something too, haven’t you? I saw from here you go down through the village to the river and come back up. You hesitated both times when you were near my cottage. You saw them, Dion and Issam, didn’t you?”

“You know? You know what they are doing, and what the Moroccan is doing with your boyfriend?”

“Dion needs such attention, and it’s not something I’ll give to him. If I’m going to keep him, I have to accept this from time to time. Issam is cruel, but he has his needs too. I think they will both be satisfied, at least for a while.”

“I’ve been told that the Moroccan could be dangerous—that he has been in prison, and may have escaped prison. You aren’t afraid of what he might do with Dion? And, why, if those in the village think he’s an escapee, haven’t they turned him in?”

“Well, to the question of being afraid Issam will go too far, I really have to leave that up to Dion. If he thinks I won’t give him space, he’ll leave me. If he even hints that he is afraid of Issam—in ways that don’t arouse him—I will step in. The rumors vary with Issam. Some say he was in prison for sexual assault. Others say that as a youth, he had a fight with the man who was keeping him and he stole the man’s car to leave him. They say the man prosecuted him for that, when it perhaps should have been the man who went to prison. As far as turning him in, it’s extremely hard to find handymen workers in this region—especially ones who are proficient and work cheaply. The village is not about to give up Issam Ehkath if they can avoid it.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“Generosity has its rewards, Mr. Pendleton—Brad. I’m curious on how generous you might be.”

“How so?” I asked.

“When you came into the bar the other evening, you seemed to be looking for a sexual hookup.”

“Yes, I was.”

“And you immediately came to an agreement with Sergei.”

“Yes.”

“It would seem—not only from that, but also from your stories—that you are an easy man to have. That’s amazing, if true, as desirable as you are. But it would seem possible that you are a highly sexed man, a very promiscuous one.”

“I’d say that was a fair assessment.”

“You went with Sergei. He’s a good-looking man, but he’s older than you are. You have no trouble going with older men? And positions. You yield to a man’s command and demands willingly, I think.”

“You watched us that morning for some time, didn’t you?” I said, giving a little laugh to ensure that he was comfortable talking like this. It was turning me on. He turned me on. I had masturbated to thoughts of possibly having it on with him, but I had thought he was too dedicated to his relationship with Dion.

“I’m older than you are, but I try to—”

“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to go with you.”

He gave me a sharp look. “When?”

“Now. We can go to my cottage. Yours seems to be in use.”

Warren Cavandish was a lover. After I had knelt between his spread knees as he sat on the end of my bed and I had worked his very nice cock to full hard with my mouth as he ran his fingers through my hair and murmured his pleasure and encouragement, he lifted me up. He brought me up into his lap, facing him. I bent my legs, pressing my feet into the mattress on either side of his hips, locked my fists behind his neck, and rose and fell on his cock, until I lost my grip. I reclined back, my head and the backs of my hands resting on the stone floor, as he grasped my waist between his hands and continued pumping me with his cock.

Turn down sex with matinee idol who still had a good body and was hung? Not on your life.

He was still in great shape, he had iconic sexy looks, he was a good eight inches hung, and he was virile and attentive.

We fucked for over an hour. He moved us up onto the bed, putting me on all fours, and mounting me from above and behind. He screwed me royally. We each came twice.

He said he was pleased and we agreed to meet periodically when it was convenient for Dion not to need him. We fucked frequently that summer.

I wrote several short stories of an older, but not really fading, action movie star who was a lover in bed. I of course, though, was careful to ensure my readers didn’t know which movie star it was or to be sure that it wasn’t all just fiction.

* * * *

The pounding overhead had stopped but I hardly noticed because Sergei’s penal ring was clicking against my teeth as I gave him head and the sound of that was resonating in my brain. I was bent over the end of the bed below him, my chest lying between his thighs and my arms extended up, my fingers playing with his nipples in the coverage of his curly chest hair. His fingers were playing in the hair on my head as he held my head in place in his crotch, arched his back and deeply moaned his pleasure.

He tensed and his grip tightened on my head, gently pushing my mouth off his cock and going into a freeze mode. He was panting hard.

“No, you must stop that now,” he whispered. “And you must come up and sit on it. I want to be inside you now.”

“Whatever you want, master,” I murmured, and he resumed panting as I brought my knees up on the edge of the bed and, leaning over him, let my lips move up from his crotch and along his belly to his hirsute pecs. My mouth went to each nipple, in turn, teasing the nub out of the hair curls, and giving them suck.

“Shit, you’re sexy,” he whispered as he reached over for a condom disk on the top of the nightstand.

“Whatever you want, master,” I repeated. A noise at the front of the house brought the answer to why the pounding above us had stopped. Issam Ehkath had come off the roof, where he was working on replacing roof tiles, and was standing at the window, watching Sergei and me fuck.

Condom in place, Sergei reached over to the nightstand again. “This is what I want today,” he said, coming up with two pair of handcuffs. He grasped my wrists and pulled them behind my back and snapped the handcuffs on—left wrist to left ankle and right wrist to right ankle.

I laughed. “Whatever you want.” My mind was already beginning to spin a story plot, but then I hesitated. I’d already written this. Sergei was playing out a story he’d read that I already had written.

I knew what was coming next. My mouth had moved to taking his cock-and-balls pendant in and I kept that in my mouth, sucking it, as his hands went to the small of my back, pulling my hips into his crotch. I was leaning back, imprisoned in that position by my wrists being restrained to my ankles.

I sensed the movement at the front of the cottage and heard the intake of breath, as Issam moved around to the open doorway. His eyes were glued to Sergei putting me into position on the bed, his ringed cockhead pressing at the rim of my hole. Issam was holding a hammer in his left hand, but his right had pushed the waistband of his athletic shorts down in front and he was gripping his huge cock.

I cried out, “Fuck. That ring! I can feel it!” as, gripping my butt cheeks between his hands, Sergei pulled me onto the cock. My knees were pressed into the bed beside his hips. I was, perforce, reclined back. Sergei had brought his chest up to mine. I was sucking on his pendant and his lips were buried in my throat, as his thick cock moved up inside me. Using my knees as leverage I fucked myself on his buried shaft, as gripping, squeezing, and pulling my buttocks to him, releasing, and pulling, we worked together in the fuck.

My eyes turned to the bare-chested Moroccan in the doorway. I synchronized my rocking on the shaft to Issam’s stroking of his cock as he held my gaze with his eyes, the three of us fucking together. Even from a distance I could hear the deep rumbling in the man’s chest. I shuddered from the knowledge that he wanted me. And not just that. I realized I wanted him too.

I held, panting and whimpering, reclining away from Sergei, letting his pendant drop from my mouth, my mouth in an open yawn as I felt him pulsating deep inside me, releasing cum into the bulb of his condom. I was throbbing as well, feeling my own inevitable rise. I turned my eyes on the Moroccan in time to see him crouch down, jut his hips forward, and fire off into the room. At the same time I released up Sergei’s belly. Issam immediately turned and left. Before I disengaged from Sergei and he released me from the handcuffs, the pounding of tiles on the roof commenced again.

When I left Sergei’s cottage and took the winding path down the slope to mine, the Moroccan was back on Sergei’s roof. He suspended the pounding to watch me descend the path. I tried not looking up to him, but that was unsuccessful. His eyes were burning in my back. He knew he was coming off the roof. I knew he would follow me down to my house.

I entered my house, looking around to see where I wanted him to fuck me. After several minutes, though, he hadn’t come to the door. I eventually cooled down, deciding he wasn’t coming. I went to my desk and sat down, assuming I would be in the mood to write, as I usually was after sex such as I had just had with Sergei—and Issam. But the writing wouldn’t come.

It was no use, the writing wasn’t coming. I needed to go somewhere. I needed to clear my mind. I left the cottage, deciding to go down to the river’s edge. When I came out of my door, there he was, on the pathway just above my cottage. He was holding strips of leather in one hand and a leather strap in the other. He lifted them to show them to me and nodded toward the path down to the river.

“Oh, fuck, no,” I muttered, with a shudder. But my feet betrayed me. I started down the path through the lower village to the river’s edge, to the grove of trees with the low-lying branches going off in all directions and functioning as a latticework between the grassy verge and flowing river beyond.

At the trees, Issam bound me, spread-eagled, facing the trees and the river. On the latticework of tree branches. My arms were raised and spread, my wrists bound to branches. My legs were raised and spread, my ankles bound to lower branches. A larger branch pushed into my lower belly, jutting my buttocks back and rolling my hips up. I hadn’t fought Issam in putting me in this position. I had shuddered and whimpered and murmured what I meant to be objections but were undecipherable, but I had been putty in his strong hands, going into whatever position he put me in.

I was naked. So was Issam. I had a raging erection on. So did Issam.

I was silenced by a ball gag in my mouth. Issam worked in silence, raising the strap and letting it kiss my bare buttocks, and back, and thighs. Raising the strap and letting it sing and sting just a bit more. And then more. I writhed and cried out into the rubber of the ball gag. It didn’t physically hurt as much as it embarrassingly aroused and kept me hard—and, eventually, made me come when he had stopped strapping and had come in close behind me, buried his face in my throat, and snaked a hand around to grip my cock and jack me off.

Only when I had come did he mount me from behind, penetrate slowly and fully as he gripped my hips between his hands, and fuck me, starting slow and working up to hard and fast and deep.

He didn’t finish me in that position. He released me from the trees and laid me on my back on the grass. Once again I did nothing to defend against him. He bound my wrists together over my head and my ankles together. Then he wormed his body between my thighs, under the bound ankles, and, kneeling between my thighs with my bound ankles under his buttocks and my wrists bound behind his neck, he thrust up inside me again and fucked me to his completion. He had moved a hand between us, grasped my cock, and brought me off a second time, as, despite being bound and manhandled, I arched my back and rocked against the thrusts of his shaft deep inside me.

When he was done, he unbound me, freed me of the gag, and left me there, on my back, panting and moaning, gazing out at the flowing river through the latticework of tree branches.

He hadn’t spoken a word the entire time. He hadn’t had to. I had been fucked as I never had been fucked before. The man most definitely was dangerous.

But he had given me new sensations—emotions and physical sensations—over what I’d had before. I could and would write this into my stories.

But this. This had never happened. I was promiscuous, but I never prostituted myself to a man like this before. I would not be dominated like this. I had more respect for myself than this. And certainly more restraint. I liked being fucked. But this was a step—or two—too far.

The man was a maniac. He needed to go back to prison. I now had no doubt what he had been imprisoned for. He was dangerous.

But I had melted to him.

* * * *

Two days later I was holed up in my house, tapping furiously on the keyboard. I was hardly aware that a storm that had been going on for a day had blown in from the Bay of Biscay, bringing with it intermittent sheets of rain that made rivers out of the village’s steep paths and dropped the temperature some twenty-five degrees.

I was describing the bar in the village square above me and realized that I was writing about the shed behind it where a crazy but sexy Arab fugitive from prison was living.

Issam. What was Issam doing in a storm like this? I’d seen the shed. It was small and dank, and water from a rain such as we were having would be running right through. And the cold. It wasn’t winter cold, but the chill in what should be summer heat must be a shock to the system.

It was cold in here, I realized. I got up and made a fire in the fireplace. That helped.

But it wouldn’t help someone in a garden shed behind the village bar.

The rain had stopped for the moment, but I knew it would return. Without thinking, I pulled out the rain slicker and rain boots that had been in the closet when I rented the place. I climbed the pathway, through a stream of water, to the village square.

Issam Ehkath was standing in the doorway of the shed, still just in athletic shorts. He had his arms wrapped around his chest, though, and was trembling from the cold. His eyes picked me out as soon as I rose into the village square, and he watched me walk to him.

We stood there, looking at each other for several moments, neither of us saying anything. Then he nodded and dipped back into the shed. When he came back to the door, he was holding strips of leather in his left hand and a leather strap in his right.

I reached out with a gesture with my right hand.

“I don’t think you understand,” I said. “That too, but not just that. You can’t stay here in the cold and rain like this. Come back to my cottage. This too, but let’s get you someplace dry and warm first. You can stay with me.”

He nodded and pushed off from the door. As he reached me, he gripped my arm with the hand holding the strap. I shuddered, as we turned and descended the pathway to my cottage.