Becoming Hannah
This is my first foray into homosexual erotic writing. This takes place in October 1973 in the Washington DC area during a tumultuous time in the world and in the United States. DC is an area I am very familiar with, if not the time period. This is not a commentary on anything political. It is just a backdrop to a small story about two people finding joy with one another.
I have tried very hard to remove any hint of political inference. Please don't read this looking for it.
Yes, I have to say that. You wouldn't believe the emails I receive. There are a lot of really angry people in the world.
This is short and sweet. I am calling this Part One, and suspect I will write more, but the feedback I receive will determine if this is worth continuing. Not farming here, but if this gets voted into obscurity, I will have received the message loud and clear. This subgenre of erotica might not be my thing.
Love,
Lana Ocean (Estcher)
P.S.: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All my fictional characters engage in sexual acts and are aged eighteen and over.
P.P.S. As always, I welcome CONSTRUCTIVE criticism.
Part One -- The Awakening
HASANI STIRRED AWAKE and rolled from his stomach to his back. He felt strangely at peace and stretched languidly and enjoyed the pleasurable feeling of his slim muscles stretching. He knew where he was and why he was feeling so good this morning. In desperation, he had gone to visit with someone he admired greatly, hoping against hope, that he might give him advice.
Hasani smiled to himself and opened his eyes to find himself looking at the sun slanting in through the open window to fall across the foot of the rather large bed he found himself in. He ran his hand over the thin cotton quilt covering the bed. The sheets underneath the quilt were satin and felt glorious against his naked body.
He felt a twinge of pain or two. He could feel the small bites on his neck, nipples, and buttocks. He knew they were marks to claim him and Hasani smiled deeper. He pulled back the sheets and looked down at his lithe body. He lacked the definition most men have, even the thin ones. It was the body of a woman in many respects but with smaller hips. Hasani loved to describe his Egyptian skin as a light mocha, a rich caramel with hardly a blemish. His hair was naturally curly, and grew thick and luxurious on his head, gleaming in soft lights as if oiled as his ancient ancestors would.
The noise of early Sunday morning Fall traffic in the streets surrounding Washington, DC, was quiet in the background. Hasani watched the drapes at the open window flutter in a small breeze. He hoped today would be a little cooler. Last night, he had been bathed in sweet sweat, pressed to the satin sheets, as Ezra drove his iron hard cock deep into his bowels. He had pressed his head with his face sideways into the mattress, holding him prone to the bed, as Ezra's heavy weight drove his cock as hard and deep as he could into Hasani. His cock driving painfully, relentlessly, beautifully into his ass, stroking his prostate, and sending waves of pleasure and pain through him. Those first blasts of Ezra's pleasure into his rectum had set him off and Hasani had ejaculated hard into the mattress under him. Ezra had first bit him then, high on his neck. He had cried out in pain and pleasure. He smiled now, remembering. It had been the highlight of his evening.
Hasani felt his cock stir and rise. He looked down his body and took his cock in hand. He was hairless except for his head and eyebrows. His cock looked exquisite. Long enough, thick enough, responsive enough to fill his desires and those of the men he took when allowed. More often he was the bottom, gladly allowing men to take him and use him for their pleasure. Many would think his past sordid, but to Hasani he had few regrets. He needed men to dominate him, take him, make him feel like the woman he wanted to embrace.
Hasani was a long way from home. He lived from house to house in Washington, finding partners in the DC bath houses, or bars, or on campus at George Washington University where he studied Judaism, a far cry from his Islamic upbringing. He was a blackbird, singing in the dead of night, searching for partners to learn to fly, waiting for his moment to arise. He was very nearly homeless. Coming to visit Ezra had been an act of desperation
The Yom Kippur War had started after rising tensions between Egypt and Syria against Israel two weeks before. The name was fitting given the attacks occurred during the month of Ramadan and on the day of the Jewish Yom Kippur. Hasani wasn't alone in condemning the war. Israel had taken Arab territories in the Six-Day War in 1967, including the Sinai Peninsula and the Golan Heights. The United Nations along with Anwar Sadat had been hopeful that Israel would return the occupied lands, but ultimately Israel rejected the terms. Egypt and Syrian forces surprised the Israelis and pushed quickly across the Suez Canal and hit the Golan Heights. Now the United States and the Soviet Union were involved.
For Hasani it meant his family back in Cairo had cut him off from financial assistance. He was alone in a country not his own. His stay in America was through a student visa, registered with George Washington University. No tuition meant no school which meant no visa. He had stumbled from relationship to relationship, each lasting barely a day or night. His little amount of saved money was gone and when he found himself standing on the street, looking, and hoping for some man to pick him and pay for sex with him, he knew he had to make a better choice for himself. Men liked to dominate his feminine figure and sometimes it descended into violence. He feared for his safety and desperate, he had turned to a man he had only recently met through the university.
Hasani adored older men and the more they resembled his father, the more he admired them. Being from Islam, he was suffering from cultural alienation. He was drawn to Judaism, feeling it less repressive a religion and more accepting of men like him. Islam and homosexuality were oil and water. Leaving Cairo for his education in the United States had liberated him and he had been no stranger to exploring his desires. It had also led to him finding Ezra, his professor of Judaic Studies. George Washington University was the oldest and largest Catholic and Jesuit university in America and strangely had Ezra as a professor of Judaism. It had drawn Hasani and others.
Meeting Ezra had led to peace activism, and he had been a very early promoter of the Egyptian/Israeli peace movement in DC. It had also led to Hasani speaking a local synagogue. It was there that Ezra had given Hasani that look. The smoldering eye of someone who sees something he desperately wants to possess and own. To take and use until pleasure is found. Hasani had seen the look and smiled at the man. Ezra was in his early fifties, with a portly paunch, greying hair with still a bit of black on top, and he stood tall, over six feet, wide at the shoulders, and heavy-set. Hasani was drawn to this look. A month ago, Ezra had spoken quietly to Hasani in a corner of a full room of guests. He had leaned in and whispered something so startling and so intentional, that Hasani had felt the draw between them to be real and tangible.
"You remind me of my mother," he had whispered in his ear, his lips close to touching his flesh.
Hasani's skin had erupted in goosebumps.
Yesterday, walking past protestors swarming the streets of DC protesting the Vietnam and Yom Kippur Wars, he had boldly approached Ezra's expensive townhouse in downtown DC and rang his doorbell. Ezra had answered the door, dressed as always in a suit and tie, even in his own home, and let him in without a word after first glancing to the street.
It took several glasses of wine to relax Hasani enough to plead his case with Ezra. He needed money. He needed a place to stay. He needed a mentor, someone to care for him. Ezra asked probing questions about his home back in Cairo. How his family was doing. What they thought of the war.
Hasani had broken down then. The wine and empty stomach proving too much for him. The shame and embarrassment of lowering himself to a beggar caught up with him. He apologised and rose to leave, hoping to find solace with a group of protestors, and maybe finding a futon or the corner of a house to sleep.
That's when it started. Hasani lying back in the satin bliss of the large bed smiled as he remembered last evening.
* * *
Hasani rose and made for the front door. He could feel his eyes burning with shame and tears. He was never the strong one. Never a man amongst men. He felt small, unpowerful, at everyone's mercy. He liked it best when people told him what to do and how to do it. It was easier that way. Hasani could please men. He knew how to please them. He loved to please them. Now he had nothing, just shame and a need to flee.
He made it only a few steps before Ezra stepped in front of him and stopped him. He was a massive man, towering above him in height, weighing at least twice what Hasani weighed. Ezra was imposing. A force. An amazing intelligence burned inside Ezra that Hasani was drawn to very strongly. He loved to listen to him speak. To describe his love and joy of Judaism. Often their talks explored the similarities and joys of their respective religions. Ezra had opened Hasani's eyes to the beauty of the world in a time when all that remained was war and death.
Ezra had grasped his chin hard with one hand in a way his father had often done when he was about to chastise him for some slight or wrong. Ezra forced Hasani's face up to peer down at him. It was an unnatural position, but Hasani felt the power from Ezra. He could not resist. When Ezra raised his other hand, Hasani had flinched involuntarily. He had expected a blow, but instead Ezra had wiped at Hasani's tears falling from his eyes.
