Are You Sure?

"Are you sure?" Guido asked me.

"Yes, I'm hard in anticipation of it," I answered.

"Then I will get the drinks."

We were sitting in a booth at a gay bar near the docks in Marseille, France, that Guido knew about. Guido seemed to know where all of the adventures were to be had in the Mediterranean as I crewed from him in a summer yachting sail around the rim of the sea.

I looked around the dimly lit bar as Guido got the two glasses of beer. I looked at the men, some rent-boys I could tell, but more of them the rough-looking dock workers at the busy French port who we'd come to try out. One, in particular, a dusky-skinned muscle man with a mean look about him, covered in tattoos, including a spider web on the side of his neck and a couple of swirls on his cheeks, kept looking at me. I looked back. He wasn't European. Algerian? Moroccan? He looked like sexy trouble to me. He was wearing worn jeans and a black-mesh athletic shirt that made clear that his torso was covered in tattoos. I'm sure I looked like the other rent-boys to him. That's the role I was playing here. I was on the make for experience—something to write about.

He didn't seem to be alone. There was a big, black guy with him, even bigger and more muscular than he was. They seemed to be discussing me, taking furtive looks in my direction and whispering to each other as they leaned into the long bar and drank beer. The black guy didn't appear to be tattooed. His ebony black skin glistened under the beam of the pin lights hanging down over the bar in the darkened room. He was bald, with a bullet head and an all-white toothed smile when he flashed one.

This was what I was doing for the summer between my college freshman and sophomore year. Guido called it just fucking around the Mediterranean. To me it was that, but more. This was a research year for me—finding coming out big time sexually and writing about it. And it was all with the encouragement of my creative writing professor, Mark Upton. He'd taken me under his wing and into his bed. He wrote gay novels and got them published and he said that I had the writing talent and the attraction of men that would enable me to do so too—under his mentorship. He knew Guido, an Italian, who was obscenely rich and took a young man on as crew for his yacht every summer for a sex cruise around the Mediterranean.

Guido was a submissive, just as I was, nine years older than I was, good-looking, dark, slender, liking to cross-dress, and as wanton as could be. We didn't do anal with each other, both being submissives, but, as we sailed, we could kiss, fondle, take the sun in the nude together, jack each other off, and, when we were really horny, give each other blow jobs. But what we really liked to do, and what Mark had sent me to the Mediterranean to experience so that I could write about it, was to go to bars like this at ports around the Mediterranean, and collect experiences of hooking up and being fucked.

Guido, who had done this several summers already, knew how to do it. This was his idea. He told me it would really be wild, though, and kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to do this. He knew that they did the roofie routine here—drugging rent-boys and talking them off and working them over totally while they were incapacitated.

"Sound like it would make a great story," I said, "except I wouldn't be awake to know the details of having the experience."

"There are ways," he'd said. "If you didn't take it all—just enough to slow you down and make him think you were more out of it than you were. It's tricky managing, though."

"Sure, let's try it," I said.

So, we were here trying it. Guido came back with two glasses of beer and slid into the curved booth, both of us facing the bar. He put one in front of me and one in front of him. The booth bench was backed by a planter with fake foliage in it. We'd sat here on purpose. When the Algerian—I found out subsequently that that was what Youcef was—and the big black weren't looking, I moved one of the beers to behind me, behind a fake plant and slid the other one in front of me. Guido moved out of the booth at the same time and went to the bar, saddling up to a French dockworker he had picked out for himself.

Not long after he left, the Algerian slid into the booth beside me. His black friend remained at the bar, watching us.

"

Tu es mignon. Je ne t'ai pas vu ici avant

," he said, his voice a low baritone.

"Sorry. I don't speak French," I answered. He was sitting closer to me than Guido had done. I'd drunk most of the beer I had in front of me before he arrived. I took this opportunity to drain the glass.

"Ah, English. You are English then," he said. His English was hesitant but sufficient.

"American," I answered, flashing him my idea of a shy smile.

"Nice. Good," he said. "I said you were cute. I said I have not seen you in here before."

"No, I'm new here," I said. I fiddled with the beer glass so that he'd catch on that it was empty.

He did. "My name is Youcef," he said, and I answered that I was Todd—for that day, at least. "I buy you another beer and maybe you go with me then?" he said. To back that up, he'd brought out a wad of cash and laid it on the table in front of me. Under the cash I saw a condom packet too. This was a hookup bar. I was dressed like a rent-boy, with white linen trousers, a tight red T-shirt, and open-toed sandals. There was no surprise that he'd assume I was there for a quick body sale.

"Yes," I answered.

He slid out of the booth, taking my empty glass, and went to the bar. I turned my attention to Guido standing down the bar from where the Algerian and black guy were huddling while my glass was refilled. I couldn't see my glass, but Guido could. His nod told me that they had put a drug into the beer.

When he came back with two beers, carefully putting one in front of me. He watched attentively as I took a sip. This was when the tricky part had arrived. Guido spoke up sharply at the bar, momentarily turning attention in the area to him. That included Youcef at the booth and the black guy at the bar. As quickly and secretly as I could, I brought out the glass of beer from behind the fake plant, tipped the drugged beer into the planter, and hid the empty glass behind the plant.

When Youcef looked back at me, I was taking another drag on the glass of beer he thought was drugged. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He reached around to the back of my head and released my hair, letting the blond curls descend to my shoulders. He came in for a kiss and I let him possess my mouth. A hand went to my chest and he brushed his knuckles against my nipples, one after the other, playing with the rings in my nipples he knew were there because my T-shirt was tight on my chest. I emitted a low moan for him, and his hand went to the inside of my thigh, high up, and moved up to my basket while the kiss continued. I opened the stance of my legs and rolled my pelvis up to give him a good feel.

He pulled back, laughed, and took a big gulp of his beer. He gestured at my glass, and I took a big gulp too. I reached my hand over under the surface of the table, going right for his crotch, and felt him up good. He expressed surprise, but obviously pleasure as well. We were on the beam on intentions. I could tell his was hung—and hard. He'd found that I was hard too.

I gave him a bit of a glassy stare and shook my head slightly, hoping I was giving him the impression that the drug was taking effect. I did, in fact, feel a little hazy, so just the little I'd taken in was helping me show how I should be feeling about now.

"Come. Drink up," he said. "Put the money away," he said, pointing out the wad of bills he'd put down on the table and making a display of lifting up the condom packet for me to clearly see as well. "That is your 'yes.' I take you someplace. Fuck you good. OK?" I reached for the wad of money and he took the condom packet back. We both finished off the beer. Youcef slid out of the booth, gesturing with his head to the black guy at the bar.

I was a bit unsteady on my feet between the booth and the exit, but most of it was for show. I saw that Guido was being guided toward the back of the room, where there was a doorway covered with a beaded curtain. The guy who was guiding him was doing so with the palm of his hand on Guido's butt.

Youcef had an arm around me and was both supporting me and guiding me. As we neared the exit, the black guy pushed off the bar and followed us.

* * * *

The bar was on a short side street, the Rue du Portail, just a few streets in from the extensive dock area of Marseille. Youcef guided only about half a block along this street, with the black giant following us, until he turned to the left, help me up two steps, and we entered a narrow hallway, with a wall to the right with a window and counter cut into it. On the wall behind that was a shelf of pigeonholes. Youcef must already have had a key to one of the rooms upstairs, as he bypassed the window. A staircase was just beyond that to the right.

I felt dizzy and collapsed against him at the foot of the staircase. As if he had expected that, without breaking pace, Youcef lifted me up, slung me over his shoulder, and mounted two flights of stairs. He was so strong that I was no weight for him at all. As we went up the stairs, I lifted my head to see that the black man was still following us.

The room and small, the furniture utilitarian. The bed was only three-quarters in width, covered by a single sheet. There were three pillows in pillowcases. The closet door was hanging open and was empty. There was a small, scarred bureau and two straight chairs. One window overlooked the Rue du Portail.

I wasn't totally zonked out, but I was too hazy to think anywhere as fast as Youcef was thinking or to resist anything he wanted to do. Youcef seemed pleased that I was hopeless and vulnerable but still semiconscious and a bit mobile, not just a dead weight. I could groan and moan as he and others covered me and give them some form of sport in that way.

He lay me on the bed, my legs hanging over the foot of the bed, and, first thing, pulled my T-shirt over my head. His hands roamed my chest and cupped my face as he leaned over me and kissed me on the mouth again. As we was doing this, the black man entered the room, pulled a straight chair over beside the bed, and straddled it in reverse, facing the bed and watching Youcef strip me, play with my body for a while, and mount and fuck me. By the time Youcef was on top of me and inside me, the black man had unzipped himself, released his cock, and was stroking off. His cock was jet black, with a purple mushroom cap, and he was thicker and longer than Youcef was.

Youcef pulled my buttocks down until it cleared the edge of the foot of the bed; pulled my trousers and briefs off; spread my legs, placing the soles so that they dug in the bottom edge of the mattress; buried his face in my crack; and ate my ass out, as I moaned softly and rocked my buttocks on his feet. One of his hands pressed down on my belly and the other grasped and stroked my cock.

I moved with him in slow motion with the sensation of swimming under water. I wasn't zonked out by the drug I'd taken, but I was hazy, mellow—and, to a great extent, in a "do not care" mode. I didn't even care much, although I sobbed a bit and whimpered, when he rose up over me, hovering over my body, and gripped my throat with one hand and opened my ass up with the other, slowly adding invading fingers until he was up to—and for all I knew—beyond burying his knuckles inside me. He finger and/or fist fucked me for a while before standing up straight, pulling the mesh athletic shirt over his head and slipping his jeans and briefs off.

As I surmised, his body was almost completely covered with tattoos. It also was heavily muscular. The man routinely worked with moving heavy crates off of ships.

I lay there, watching me as he hovered over me and rolled a condom on his cock and smoothed it out. He smiled and said, "

Un si beau petit corps. Je vais le posséder maintenant

." He didn't translate, but I had no trouble understanding that he was going to fuck me.

He gave a little laugh as I dug my feet into the edge of the mattress and weakly pushed my pelvis up, welcoming his thrust. Then I was gasping and writhing a bit as he lowered his body, thrust his pelvis forward, penetrating me, and pressed his hands into the hollow of where my arms joined my shoulders, pinning me down as he possessed, stretched, and moved up inside me. He held for a moment for me to adjust to the size of him, but then he began to pump me and move rhythmically on top of me. He grasped my ankles and raised and spread my legs in a V. He continued pumping me until he tensed and jerked, tensed and jerked, and filled the bulb of the condom.

I didn't fight the man. I didn't want to fight him. This was what I'd come here for—a strong, muscular dockworker having his way with me—something that I could realistically relive as I was writing about it. The image of it had aroused me. I wanted to experience it. I wanted to write about it, but I wanted it to happen for real so that my writing about it could be real—to be vulnerable to a strong, rough, manual worker man. I wanted him to be big, which Youcef was—and most certainly his black sidekick was—and I wanted him to take me cruelly, which he did.

In short order he was inside me, holding me tightly, assuming I was more incapacitated than I was from the drugs he had given me. He was huge inside me, stretching me, rubbing my walls with his stroking, grunting and straining to take me hard and fast. I moaned in low tunes, rising up from the depths of my gut, for him, turning my legs, rolling my pelvis up to him, giving him maximum access, falling into the cadence of the fuck.

I weakly went with him, melding with the rhythm of the fuck and pressing my fingers into his shoulder blades—pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing in cadence with his thrusts.

While Youcef fucked me, the black man left the straight chair, kneed his way up onto the side of bed by my head, took my head between his hands, and turned my face toward him. He pushed the purple cap of his mammoth cock to my lips, and I opened my mouth to him, giving his shaft suck while Youcef was fucking me in the ass. His cock was longer and thicker than Youcef's was. I wanted it inside me—to know that I could take it—but I was glad Youcef was first—that he was stretching me to have the hope to be able to take the big, black bull.

I was being their obedient little rent-boy. While feigning I was more heavily drugged than I was, I was noting and savoring all of the sensations I was receiving, devising how they would go down on paper in a story later.

When Youcef had come and was still hovering over me, staring down into my eyes, his chest propped up over mine and was panting and calming down from his exertion, the big black rolled off the bed, stripped off his trousers and briefs, crowned himself with a condom and was ready to take up Youcef's position and fuck me as soon as Youcef had pulled away.

The black fucked me in the same position. I suffered more with him. He was significantly thicker and longer and, stronger than Youcef, he fucked with more vigor, bouncing me up and down on the mattress and backhanding me across the face as he pleased. It was a much rougher fuck and I was coming out of the drugs—and they knew I was. I was more active and animated with the fuck too, rocking more fully with him, pulling back as he did and slamming forward as he did, crying out more, digging my fingernails into his biceps—the two of us fucking more like wild animals. It must have relieved them that I was working with them so well after having come more awake. They didn't have to deal with resistance. I was a willing rent-boy for them.

The black bull drove me crazy inside, filling, stretching, owning me. After he—a Nigerian Youcef called Ikemba—finished with me, at least for then, the two of them left the bed, saying nothing to me—I was just the paid vessel for their release—and went over to the window. Standing on either side of the frame and looking down into the street, they opened the window; smoked cigarettes, blowing the smoke out of the window; and passed a liquor bottle back and forth between them.

They were both naked—magnificently muscular naked—but that didn't stop them from talking to someone down on the street. They were jabbering in French. I had no idea what they were saying, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were telling friends they were having a good time up here. They were laughing and seemed to be boasting. Afterall, they'd just fucked an American.

I was managing. So far, this was just about what I had been expecting.

I lay on my back on the bed, panting and recovering. This would spice up a story, that was for sure. After a few minutes I got up and went to the bathroom this room shared with the one next to it. It wasn't much of a bathroom, but judging from the shape this place—if it was a hotel—was in, we were in the deluxe room. There was no suitcase and nothing in the closet, but I decided that Youcef and the Nigerian weren't booked here for the night.

When I came out of the bathroom, Youcef was on his back on the bed. He was erect again. It already was sheathed with a condom. Motioning me to come to him. "

Viens ici et chevauche ma bite

—Come here and ride my cock," he said. To make sure I'd comply, Ikemba circled behind me between me and the door, picked me up, and set me down on top of Youcef, who was holding his erection up so that I could descend on it.

I was riding the cock, facing Youcef's face, palming his pecs and moving from tattoo to tattoo with my eyes, trying to take all I could see in and figuring out how they related to the others, when Ikemba put his hands on me and rotated my body around, where the tattoos on Youcef's legs gave me another set to figure out. I palmed his knees and, while I raised and lowered my ass on his shaft, Ikemba cradled my head in his hands and pulled me forward and down to take his cock in my mouth for me to resume sucking him off.

The two spoke in French. I heard Youcef say, "

Rejoignez-moi, Ikemba. Je vais tirer le garçon vers le bas. Monte sur le lit et rejoins-moi en lui

," and he put his hands on my sides and started pulling me back. For the first time, I didn't just go with what he was doing. I was coming more and more out of the drug and they were being more and more forceful in their taking. I had no idea what he was saying or what they were planning.

"I have asked Ikemba to join me inside you," he said in English. "Relax. I'm sure you have done this before."

No I hadn't, but before I could react against it, Youcef was pulling my back down onto his chest, weaving his arms under my pits, and immobilizing my arms, and Ikemba was up on his knees between Youcef's spread thighs, had grabbed my ankles, and was raising and spreading my legs. Youcef was still inside me. And then, within seconds, Ikemba was pushing inside me too. I was gasping and writhing and huffing and puffing, but I wasn't having any affect. Youcef was inside me. Ikemba was inside me. Youcef was holding but Ikemba was beginning to pump.

I was being doubled fucked. All I could do was moan and groan and writhe. The door to the corridor opened, and two more men entered. They saw what was happening. All sorts of jabbering between the four was going on in French, but Youcef wasn't pulling out of me or releasing my arms and Ikemba hadn't lost the rhythm of fucking me and holding my legs spread.

Were these the guys Youcef and Ikemba were talking to down on the streets? Did they invite these men up here? These looked like dockworkers too. They were bulked up. They were in erection and both of them were rolling condoms on their cocks and lining up in back of Ikemba.