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Asian

Tangiers is a crowded dusty warren where the streets are paved with shit. I paid off there. Stay with X who writes Gay pornography for underground publications to finance his work on the endless novel he keeps in a black-grained leather binder hidden in a bohemian apartment of antique and ornate Art Nouveau mirrors. A cypress tree towers twenty feet from the courtyard below, its foliage spills up above his window into the purple glow of sunset and on up into the stratosphere. Its haunted rustling fills his room with the eerie whisper of sepia ghosts. I enjoy his attentions despite his often cruel humour and voyeuristic tendencies. We spend days of sun and hashish-cakes in the shimmering heat-mist of pavement cafes, and twilights wandering through the casbah with Arab youths called Lhabi or Mohammed, their nut-brown skin glistening. But eventually I tire of maleness. Hint to him of a desire for female flesh. He laughs. Makes a series of phone calls.

Poverty is endemic. Prostitution a way of life for a whole section of the population, for both sexes. We cross the city beneath a sky full of blood and dirt in a dreadful sunset — I, with mixed emotions of undeniable anticipation and slight unease. A rundown peeling dried-mudbrick house in the worst slum area. An unpleasantly bahis firmaları greasy fawning man guides us inside, eagerly taking dirhams from X for the favours of what he dubiously claims to be his ‘daughter’. He leads us into a half-lit back room. A low dirty bed and a brown-skinned girl, nude but for a fine gold chain around her narrow waist. I can’t guess at her age – around twenty?, she has full high breasts and the finest of pubic hair, but no coyness or modesty.

Despite which, there’s a beautiful innocence that drives a guilty accusation deep into me like a shaft of ice. Bright, sharp and intelligent, eternity in her eyes, but no tomorrow. Crouching there, long black hair shadowing her face, knees casually parted and bent beneath her buttocks, vagina visibly parted. She seems already sexually well-experienced, and I’m disturbed by her debauchment. I realise X is playing a malevolent game, but he’s there, sitting back to watch, the lines of his face as hard as drawn wires. So I swallow, my throat breath-catchingly dry, and unfasten my belt. She’s watching with huge dark eyes. Her attention brazenly on my crotch, and despite myself the heady atmosphere of perverse eroticism ensures I’m erect. I straighten, stiff penis quivering and bobbing into view between my shirt-tails.

Muslim kaçak iddaa men, like Jews, are all circumcised, so she seems fascinated because I’m not. As I approach she moves up, both her small hands closing around me, left hand cradling the base of my penis near my blonde pubence and testicles, cool fingers of the other sliding the foreskin back over my wetly swollen glans. She looks at X coquettishly, and says something in a language I can’t understand. He laughs like a taunt, and her head dips to lick my cock-tip in a way that has me sharply inhaling. She draws back and plays my foreskin up and down with such energy that my balls sway and I fear I’ll cum too soon.

But then she looks up at me, heartbreakingly beautiful, her mouth showing the slight negroid thickening of her full lips that are pursed in a wide vulgar ‘O’. Just as quickly she returns her attentions to my inflamed penis, now oozing tears of pre-emission slime, her lips strain and suck around it greedily, small teeth sharp on my sensitive skin until my arrowhead slithers excitingly into the warm wetness of her mouth. Her hair stimulatingly soft on my stomach and bare thighs, her fingers milking me gently. I can see her cheeks pulsing. Her lips stretched bloodlessly to accommodate as much of kaçak bahis me as she can. I can even see the firm outline of my glans through the bulge in her cheek as she sucks in whorish abandon.

She draws back, allowing me to slither moistly free and lift a centimetre to almost nudge her thin nose, to view her fierce and comparatively huge handiwork coated in her saliva. She giggles disconcertingly and pulls on my balls to draw it level with her lips again. She sucks as much in as she’s able to, which isn’t much more than the fat head, her tongue flicking and probing. I forget to breathe. I can’t hold back and suddenly I’m orgasming into her. Her large brown eyes tightly clam shut as I jerk and spurt. Her hands demurely on her knees, our only point of contact is her violated mouth — and my cock. Until at last it’s me who separates us. Her head comes forward, still affixed to me, as I withdraw. Her eyes on mine. As I pull my pants back up over my damp sticky thighs I catch her smiling guilelessly at X. A blob of spermy saliva trickles down her chin. Her eyes are a million years old. They’re mocking me.

I can’t meet her ‘father’s’ expression as we leave. I know now that he hates all Europeans. He’d as soon knife me as sell me his daughter. X enjoys that aspect of it, the room, and the things he saw there. But it disturbs me. I leave the city’s crowded dusty warrens soon after, for Paris.

It was 1969. Tangiers. I still see those million-year eyes. I still hate their accusation.

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