A Lustful Idnapping

The highest hill near the ancient Jordanian town of Madaba, thirty kilometers southwest of the capital city of Amman and the only one around with tree covering--olive tree orchards--on it rose from the rear of the Phoenix Palace Hotel in the suburb of Al-Faysallya. Nineteen-year-old American college student, Paul Townsend, liked to do his running here not only because of the incline of the hill or the pathways cut through the orchards, providing some filtered shelter from the sun, but also because Rafik Zawati did his running here as well, and the orchards provided not only shade but some privacy for rest periods from the running.

Paul attended the American University of Madaba to the north of the city, where he was studying archaeology in close proximity to excavation work in Madaba, once a trade route crossroads in the Middle East and where important Byzantine and Umayyad mosaics had been uncovered and were being more extensively studied. His father, once an Exxon Oil executive and more recently divorced and settled in Jordan as a senior official of the Jordanian Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources, lived in Amman. He had brought Paul, somewhat undersized of stature, but well-formed and a handsome blond, blue-eyed young man, with him to Amman, and Paul, taking an interest in archaeology, could see no better place to go to college than the nearby American University of Madaba, where he could combine studies with practical experience at the excavations there.

He knew Rafik Zawati from their combined sports activities on the soccer field. Paul played for the university soccer team. Rafik, twenty-six, achingly handsome, sultry-dark, hard bodied and the result of Arabic breeding with Crusaders, was a standout player on the Jordanian national soccer team. He also was the teacher in charge of athletics at the Al-Faysallya Secondary Boy's School and ran regularly on the hill behind the nearby Phoenix Palace Hotel. Whereas Paul had been raised in wealth and the privilege that goes with being American and living abroad, Rafik had come up in life the hard way--orphaned and living hand to mouth in the alleys of Amman. In doing so, he learned to survive and folded in with the criminal underbelly of the city. Despite the contrast and their difference in age, the two fit together not only because of their shared interest in soccer and running and because Rafik was a source of recreational drugs, but also because they both were actively gay and Rafik was a rough top and Paul was a submissive, preferring it rough.

Rafik was running in place at the base of the hill behind the hotel gardens as Paul drove into the hotel parking lot, parked, and jogged over to him. Each of them was wearing just athletic shorts, jocks, and running shoes. Instead of stopping to greet Rafik, Paul punched the Arab lightly in the bicep as he passed him, gave the older man a grin, and raced up the hill and into the olive trees. Rafik, the more powerful of the two and with the better running legs, hesitated for a moment and then followed. Paul ran and Rafik jogged. They worked their way in and out of the regularly spaced trees in zigzag fashion up the side of the hill, over the top and down a bit of the other side, on the side facing north, away from the village. Here the scrub was scruffier, the trees having been played out and not cared for as well as those on the southern slope.

Here there was more cover, more privacy.

Rafik caught up to Paul, Paul winded from the run, Rafik as fresh as when he had started, by an olive tree with low-hanging branches, the ones near the bottom bare and played out, the tree well off the foot path. The older man reached out, grabbed Paul by the throat, and pulled him into a brutal kiss. His other hand went to the waistband of his own athletic shorts, which, after extracting a condom disk from a pocket, he pushed down, along with the jock strap. The shorts and jock went to the ground, as Rafik forced Paul to his knees in front of him, positioned the younger man's face in front of his crotch, and pressed the bulb of his engorged cock at the blond's lips. Paul opened his mouth, took the cock in, and gave it suck. At the same time, he pushed his shorts down off his waist, handed his own cock and stroked himself what he sucked the cock.

Neither man had said anything in preparation for this. They didn't have to. They'd done this before.

When he felt like doing so, Rafik jerked Paul up onto his feet, backhanded him across the cheek, turned him, and forced him down onto his belly between the low-hanging branches of the olive tree. Paul, conditioned to respond to authoritarian control, murmured, "Yes, yes, yes," as the older man crouched behind him, one hand palming Paul's belly and the other alternating between slapping Paul's bare buttocks and distending and squeezing the young man's balls, while the Arab ate the American's ass out.

Paul extended his arms, grabbing for a hold on the gnarled branches of the olive tree, as Rafik stood, loomed over the smaller man's body, rolled on the condom, put his cock in place, and thrust up inside Paul's channel, penetrating slowly but forcefully, stretching the young man's passage. Paul cried out, with no one up here on the deserted side of the hill to hear him, as Rafik started to pump him hard and deep. One of Rafik's hands alternated from holding Paul in place by palming the young man's belly and slapping Paul hard on the rump, as his other hand gripped the young man's chin, pulling Paul's head painfully back into Rafik's chest, and Rafik's fingers covering Paul's mouth, controlling the young man's breathing so that Paul was completely under his control. Paul's hands scrabbled ineffectively at the Arab's hard body for a few moments but gave up and dangled uselessly at the American's side.

The fuck completed, Rafik let Paul sink to the ground under the tree, jerked his shorts and jock back on, turned, and ran off to complete his run.

Exhausted, Paul lay there for a bit, his run over, his body racked with aches from the brutal taking, but a slight smile on his face and a purr in his throat. He liked it rough. It made him feel alive. He needed to be cruelly mastered.

When Paul had walked, gingerly, back down the southern slope of the hill to the hotel parking lot, Rafik was there, leaning up against the fender of Paul's silver 2005 SLK Mercedes sports coupe, smiling, looking oh so sexy, and smoking a cigarette.

* * * *

Lionel Townsend's villa in Amman, adjacent to the Amman National Park and the Bisharrat Golf Club, was small, but it was well-appointed, with a large lot accommodating a stone terrace and Olympic-sized swimming pool and was in an exclusive part of town. Townsend's position put him in charge of acquiring the oil and gas contracts for Jordan, which had been unlucky in the wheels' spin for underground oil deposits and had to import most of its energy needs. Townsend was currently in negotiations with both the Kuwait Petroleum Company and Abu Dhabi National Oil Company bids for the Jordan contract for the next ten years. The Abu Dhabi company negotiator, Sheik Zayed al-Bunduq, was in town, and when Paul and Rafik Zawati arrived to use the villa's pool, Paul had every reason to think his father was in talks with Al-Bunduq at the Energy Ministry.

The house was unoccupied when they arrived. Thus, Paul had reason to assume they were alone when he guided Rafik through the villa and to the pool at the back. He had driven the Arab into Amman as Rafik had a national team soccer practice in Amman later that afternoon. He had time to kill before that, though, and the two had decided to cool off in Paul's dad's pool.

They did cool off, but after that they heated up, as Paul rode Rafik's cock on a pool bed on the other side of the pool from the house. Rafik was on his back on the lounger, facing the villa, and Paul was straddled on Rafik's cock, also facing the villa. The younger blond was rising and falling on the swarthy Arab's cock, as Rafik controlled the bounce with a collar on a leash around Paul's neck and with sharp slaps of his other hand on Paul's flanks and bouncing buttocks.

Mid fuck, Paul looked up at the villa to see that a man was standing there on the back, glassed-in porch, watching them fuck. He was an older man in full Arab dress--sparkling white robe, buttoning down the front that was called a thawb in the Middle East region, and a white, flowing head scarf on his head, a ghutra, with a black head band.

Paul surmised that this must be Sheik Al-Bunduq and that his father must have brought the Abu Dhabi negotiator back to the villa either to entertain him or to continue the negotiations and that the man had come out onto the porch to see the pool. He was seeing more than the pool, though, and, as he remained standing there and watching, he was obviously finding it entertaining.

In this surmise, Paul was correct. The man was the Abu Dhabi sheik. He also was entertained. Zayed al-Bunduq was a weathered and wizened chieftain of the desert. He wasn't a stranger to what men could do with other men and he was a connoisseur in the techniques suggested by how Rafik was controlling Paul by the pool with the throat leash and the slaps on the rump. Al-Bunduq was a virile, vigorous man in his fifties, tall and muscular, so hawk nosed and ugly that he was attractive, and cruel in his sexual demands. He was particularly aroused by small, young blond men, such as Paul was, who were hard to find and put under him in the Middle East, which accounted for his frequent visits to Hamburg, Germany, where what he enjoyed was available in abundance.

He was aroused by the play of Rafik and Paul at the pool, but he didn't linger long in the porch. He didn't want Lionel Townsend to come looking for him and see the interest he'd taken in the sport transpiring by the pool. He'd seen photos of Paul Townsend in the house already and been drawn to the handsome young blond, so he realized this was the son of the man he was negotiating with.

He kept the meeting short but cordial and hopeful, and was waiting in his rented limousine with the driver and bodyguard who had been supplied to him by his Amman underworld connections when Rafik came out of the Townsend villa compound to find a taxi to take him to the Amman International Stadium in Al Hussein Youth City for his soccer practice. Al-Bunduq's bodyguard, who Rafik knew and trusted, called the young man over to the limousine, where a short discussion transpired between the Abu Dhabi sheik and Rafik before the soccer player entered the car to get a ride to the stadium.

* * * *

Rafik Zawati was waiting, running in place, as usual, in the back garden of the Phoenix Palace Hotel when Paul Townsend arrived in his Mercedes coupe, parked it in the hotel parking lot, ran past Rafik in shorts and running shoes, blew the Arab hunk a kiss, and ran up the zigzagging trail to the summit of the hill and over that down to the overgrown orchard with its low-branch olive trees. Rafik gave the slower runner a good hard start before he nodded to two men getting out of a black van in the hotel parking lot. Then he followed Paul up the hill.

At the olive tree where they had met up and fucked before, Paul was stripped naked and had perched himself on low-hanging branches of the olive tree, his legs splayed, feet hooked in the branches, and his arms extended, his hands grasping branches above him. When Rafik arrived, he stripped down and climbed up into the tree to where his crotch was at the level of Paul's face. Paul took the Arab's cock in his mouth and gave him suck.

When Rafik was ready he jumped down from the tree, knelt in front of Paul and gave the younger man's cock, balls, and hole attention, opening him up, while Paul swayed in the branches and groaned and moaned softly.

Rafik fucked Paul there with Paul splayed out in the embrace of the olive tree branches. As he did so, he grasped Paul's throat and controlled his breathing. Paul's eyes were bugging out and he was gagging when the fuck became intense and Rafik was pounding him deep and hard. As the Arab started into the release of his cum, he moved his thumbs up under Paul's jaw bone, into the soft tissue there. Pressing in the right place, Paul gurgled, his eyes rolled up into his head, and he blacked out.

Two Arabs with balaclava masks on appeared and, taking Paul's slumped body between them, carried him down the hill, and, seeing no one else about, bundled him into a black van and drove off.

Rafik had extracted the keys to the Mercedes from the pocket of Paul's shorts, which hadn't been put back on the young man and continued on his usual run on the hill pathways before he came down to the base of the hill, once more looking around to see if anyone was watching before he unlocked and entered the Mercedes. The coupe was found the next day in a parking lot on the American University of Madaba grounds.

* * * *

The two abductors kept the balaclavas on when they manhandled Paul into the room where he was kept prisoner for four days. This wasn't anything like Paul had experienced before and he was scared shitless. So, after he regained consciousness, finding his wrists were bound behind his back, there was a cloth bag over his head, and he was lying on what seemed to be the floor of a moving vehicle, he was completely disoriented and had no idea how long the vehicle had been moving. He did discern after a while that they seemed to have left a highway and entered an urban area where the movement was slower and jerkier and he could hear the sounds of city life.

He also had no idea what sort of building the two thugs manhandled him into other than he was hustled up some stairs. It was a Tallaini Street male brothel in the red-light district of Amman's Jubaiha section. Paul, in fact, had been in two secretly located gay bars within a block of this brothel, but he would have no idea they were nearby. The men were rough with him but not brutal.

When the cloth bag came off his head and his wrists were released, he was in a tiled bathroom and one of the hooded men was telling him in slow, simple Arabic to shower and clean himself out--that it would be a while before he'd get another bathroom break. The men seemed to know that he was an English speaker but that he could manage some rudimentary Arabic. Paul understood what they meant about not having relief time again for a while immediately after he'd showered and toweled himself off.

Returning to a small connected the bathroom he only had time to register that there was a double bed and a café table with a straight chair and that the room had walls covered with heavy, padded blankets over cinder block and two small, horizontal barred windows high on the wall under the ceilings. He was to learn that the padding was for noise insulation. He got his first inkling that that was the case when he saw that there was a St. Andrew's cross X-frame set against one wall and chains with wrist cuffs hanging down over an open space in the room. The tile floor was slight sloping to a drain in the floor.

The windows didn't emit light, so they must have been shuttered from the outside. He didn't have time to take much else in because the two men, efficiently working in consort, had Paul spread-eagled, face down, on the bed and tied off with restraints, ankles and wrists, at the four corners of the bed. They stuffed a bolster under his belly, lifted and rolling his pelvis up--and pretty much telling Paul what was going to happen to him shortly--and withdrew from the room, shutting the door with a solid sound. Paul heard the lock click. It didn't matter much; he was bound to the bed, naked, anyway. They had left nothing in the room he could use as clothing. He had still been wearing his running shoes when they brought him into the room, but they took those off him and with them with they left.

He didn't have to wait long. A tall, elderly Arab in a white thawb entered the room. Paul recognized him as the Abu Dhabi oil company negotiator who had watched him riding Rafik's cock by the pool at his father's villa in Amman--Sheik Zayed al-Bunduq. Paul had no idea whether the sheik knew who he was and he certainly didn't think Al-Bunduq would realize that Paul knew who the sheik was.

The sheik was holding a leather strap that he flicked against his thigh as he stood over the bed and unbuttoned and flared his thawb, and Paul began to moan from that point. Al-Bunduq was naked under the thawb and when he'd shrugged the thawb off his shoulders to puddle to the floor around him all he had was the strap in his hand. The sheik was a gaunt, deeply tanned, leather-skinned old man of the desert, but he was hard-bodied and sinewy, hawk-nosed, of cruel aspect and stood ram-rod straight. His eyes were black and piercing, showing sharp wits and cleverness. No lies would get beyond him. He would know when Paul's screams were genuine or faked to gain sympathy. His cock was in full, upcurved erection and its leathery ball sacs drooped against his muscular thighs.

There was no question what business had brought him to this padded-wall cell. This was to be fulfillment of his sexual fantasy with a luscious, young blond and blue-eyed man, a young man who the sheik knew took the cock and took it rough and cruel.

He had no idea how well the young man would take the strap and more, but he would now find out. There were no introductions, no explanations. The young man lay there, on the bed, bound and spread-eagled, naked and at his mercy. Even Paul, moaning deeply already, realized that the sheik was not a man of mercy. The look in his eye and the hardness of his cock marked him a man consumed with lust at this moment.

He lifted his arm up and snapped it down. Paul cried out in surprise and pain as the strap struck his buttocks. Arm raised and snapped down to the sound of the crack on the young man's buttocks, back, and thighs, as Paul cried out in surprise and pain--although there was more surprise, fear, and frustration than pain. The sheik wasn't putting a lot of force behind the beating; it sounded more ominous than it was.

Still, Paul screamed for the old man, and the old man laughed as he set about his work--and his pleasure. The purpose of the whipping became apparent in the hardening it produced in the old man's erection.

When Paul had stopped writhing and crying out and had subsided into sobs and whimpers, the sheik dropped the strap on the floor by the bed, came up onto the bed on his knees between the young man's spread legs, and buried his face in Paul's ass crack. As Paul resumed his writhing and moaning, now more in passion than pain, in response to the man eating his ass out, Al-Bunduq let his hands glide all over the youth's body, enjoying the smoothness and resilience of the young skin. A hand went under the young man's body, grasped Paul's cock, and he stroked him off to an ejaculation, Paul was reduced to pants and moaning and, eventually, moving his hips in response to the hand job and the tongue working inside his passage.

The initial cries of "Mercy, please, no" from the young man subsided into declarations of "Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," and, eventually, as Paul adjusted to the pain-passion of the taking into the realization that he had fantasized this using of his body and became deep moans and murmurs of "Yes, yes, like that. Oh, god, yes."

When Paul ejaculated, the sheik rose behind him, took up the strap again, and put it into use to bring himself back to a rock-hard erection. This accomplished, he tossed the strap aside, hovered over and on top of Paul's body, put the bulb of his thick cock in position, and took his time stretching and possessing the young man's passage. Once aroused, the old man was as vigorous and virile as other men. The bulb of his curved cock rubbed against the channel walls they were working, caressing and punishing, stretching and possessing. The fuck slowly was owning the young man, who could not resist the mastery of the old man's cock. Paul moved under him in coordination with the rhythm of the fuck, going with the taking now, sighing, moaning, and murmuring, "Yes, yes, yes," as the man mastered him with his thick shaft.