Day One: Water. A rush of water, the effervescent surge in my ears, the aquatic blur in my eyes. The world dissolving into liquidity. Kick out lazily, squirm and shimmer through its perfect targets of expanding ripples. My head explodes the pool surface. Slow-motion shaking liquid-sting from my eyes. He sits in his poolside chair, pecking at his laptop. Engrossed in his work, sure, but watching me. Unable to divert his lascivious covetous shit-dirty attention elsewhere. As though he's even able to look away. As if.
Placing my hands, palms-down, on the rim, hauling myself up, rivulets of pool-water sluicing my chest, draining down the contours of my gut, trickling from the slick pubence, rippling the full length of my cock, dripping like pearls of sapphire urine. Watch me, you creep. Watch with those dark hooded eyes, watch with all that old-guy longing and desire. All that lust for young male beauty. Watch, and break that antique heart over what you're seeing. Read that eight inches and weep, loser.
I stroll the pool edge, stepping out of a David Hockney print. Naked and glistening in the LA sun. A narcissistic pose, for his benefit. Yeah, you may have the genius, the material success, this house and pool. But I've got the one thing in the known universe you lust for more than everything else. I got this. Drool creep drool.
I squat down, still dripping. Then sit, legs splayed lazily. Should I wankurbate? Would he like that? Would it arouse his ardour, make him harder? It'd be easy enough, the warm liquid sensuality is physically stirring. And giving him a spectacle might accelerate the momentum of things. Take matters into my own hands? Or would that be taking it too fast, would he prefer to set the pace himself, preserve the illusion that he's in control of the situation, rather than me manipulating him?
Subtlety's never been my strong point. But I've always considered myself a creative thief. The art of deception is what I was born for. For a long moment I sit in indecision. Nuggets of sweat accumulating across my finely tuned torso, cooling on my skin. Wasting time. But then, what ways are there of not wasting time? What activity, besides sitting here in indecision, would be more useful - or more conducive to the betterment of person-kind? What can you do, in the limited slab of allotted lifetime, that is not, ultimately, wasted? It's all waste eventually. In a hundred years, it's dust. In a thousand years it's... even smaller particles of dust. So all that matters is what moves you, what really moves you, in this tight bit of now-ness. And if what you want to do is sit in indecision, then this time cannot be said to have been truly wasted. Dig?
Looking up at length, he's gone inside. For a drink perhaps? Or some narcotic fortification? Some of that Chemical Glide that's the new signature high in town? But he's left the laptop open. Luminous screen enticing my attention. What data-stream has he been pouring into it as I swim, stroll, and sit? He scripts for some digital TV-channel. I can't resist looking. No, he's not coming back yet, my bare feet slip-slap across, I bend over, a tear of pool-water drips to splash onto the keys. Just to right of the sensor-pad he's left three white pills. A glance sharply around. No sign of him. I fist the pills, and stoop in to look. It's in ten-point, so I hunch in closer, squinting to read against the reflection-glare. This ain't no TV-script...
"...Achmed crawls fast, like a cat, on all fours, his naked body glistening. My attention drawn to the way his ass-cheeks flex, the insolent flip of his stiff cock, and the swaying of his fat balls as he moves around the fountain to where Jason stands breathing hard, a sneery smile on his face. He leans up against the cool marble, also nude, his cock now horizontal. Its eight-inches glistening with saliva, as though sculpted from red veined marble, the pubic hair over his balls also matted with spittle. The boy kneels down to kiss his feet, his tongue slithering in between the toes. Achmed's tongue licking a glisten-wet trace around the ankle and all the way up to the knee.
He pauses, looking imploringly up at Jason, his face already streaked with sweat and tears he's not bothered to wipe clean, blobby-white body-fluids glistening on his nose, on his cheeks. His eyes burning with the intensity of twin bright suns. He squats on his haunches now, his legs splayed, then he reaches out to kiss the tip of Jason's cock, reverently, like a lover. I can't take my eyes off him.
"Please sir, if you'll allow me?" Then he opens his mouth, lips drawn back, unsheathing those perfect white teeth to delicately bite down on the taut swollen bulb of Jason's glans, to hold it imprisoned there. For a moment there's nothing. Then I can clearly see his tongue extending to slide around the trapped mauve flesh, tongue-whipping and flickering around it. A snake's tongue dart-darting every-way. I can hear Jason's inhaled gasp of delighted surprise.
I'd hired these urchins as an entertainment, a diversion. They are whores. They do this all the time, for money, to any foreign tourist who so much as beckons them. We'd found them down labyrinthine narrowing alleyways of stucco and stone, off the medina, thronged with hooded people, and animals, flanked by stalls and kiosks, the air spiked with spices and sweat. They were meant to be playthings for Jason. A source of amusement for me to witness. Yet here in the atrium they are performing way beyond expectation. This is more than mere paid work for them. They seem to be revelling in each moment.
I find it difficult to control my own desires as I watch each movement. Western liberal guilt? I think of what William Burroughs once said. I think it was Burroughs. He'd visited Tangiers on an extended debauch. So did Joe Orton. Perhaps it was him? He'd asked why these youths do these things. Why they get naked for pervy older men. Why they suck tourist cock. He'd been told 'because they're hungry, and they must eat.' An answer that immediately plunged him into an agony of remorse. Are these youths different? Intimidatingly fit and healthy, legally old enough to decide what they want to do with their bodies, and lustful enough to enjoy its full potential for sensual pleasures, with the added benefit of a generous financial reward. Why not?
Achmed had initially seemed the most reluctant. He hung back sullenly as I made negotiations. He followed the others into our villa with no great enthusiasm, and was the last to undress, inadequately attempting to conceal his lusty genitalia with his hands once he was nude. Perhaps he already knew what would happen? The other two are well-hung brazens from the start. Nude almost immediately and erect without the least provocation. When at first Jason directs his attention at their more timid companion they amuse themselves with each other's bodies with much spontaneous laughter and obvious enjoyment.
While Achmed initially seems reticent to take Jason's penis into his mouth. But he does it. He sucks warily at first, although with growing familiarity, squirming in to take it deeper, sucking it harder. It seems that sperm acts upon him like an aphrodisiac, in an air of heightening concupiscence, for when Jason's first soft explosion bursts syrupy whiteness into his mouth the transfiguration is unbelievable. He becomes voracious for more of the white elixir, even as Jason - temporarily spent, retires to partial concealment beside the fountain.
The arab is now drawing Jason forward by his dental grip on his penis. Initially Jason makes a show of resistance, but as Achmed pulls backwards, increasing tension, and his penis stretches between them until it reaches the limit of its elasticity, he sighs and takes a grudging step forward, then another, back around the fountain, Achmed scuttling on all fours, comically towing him by their phallic connection, stumbling across the narrow court within the house, the enclosed garden of white tiles, towards the cool sanctum of its colonnaded perimeter, where the other two boys lounge interlocked with much giggling and sniggering.
In its shade the sunglare dims a little. Once delivered in this way, Achmed releases the cock - no longer horizontal, it swings instantly upwards, striking him on the nose. I lick my lips, tasting salt-perspiration.
Jason is special. As his older Boyfriend, his provider, his... Sugar Daddy I guess, he's the reason I'm here at all. We sleep together naked. He performs with such delicate artistry, I can barely believe how fortunate I am. At moments of candour he suggests I avail myself of others. But although there are moments - like this, when I'm tempted by their smooth bodies, I know I'll finish the day with him, that he's here whenever the whim is upon me. And I want for little more. In the meantime, he has physical needs he is ravenous to express, and I'm more than content to watch as he does so. One of the arabs is crouching now as Achmed directs Jason into him. Closing his eyes in theatrical ecstasy as he is penetrated, and opening them again to catch my attention. He expects me to join them. He's inviting me, coaxing me. But I just smile. I've paid for them. They'd just as happily service me at the slightest suggestion. I watch contentedly..." End, for now.
Technical interlude. When I wake up some time later, suffering from a malware attack, the sun is burning down through the slats in the arbour. The light bruising my eyes. The air is warm and sweet with honeysuckle. My mind disengaged from its surroundings. Throat white-dry with foulness. Eyes radiation-burned to nano-cursors of pain. My head a rage of heavy-metal white-noise. I must have slept clear through hours. My self-healing functions are damaged. Sick fuck that I am. Oh doom. I dress hurriedly, into disturbingly snug-fit jeans and 'T'-shirt, suddenly vulnerable. What's he been doing to me while I've been blissed out? A smirk of triumph when I remember the three doses of Glide I'd stowed in my pocket.
I drive back. Don't ask to use his convertible. To ask implies that consent is required. Take it. Wait for him to refuse. That gives you the retaliatory sanctions. The stick-shift sticks. It always does. It rams up through gears with a throaty growl. He should get it fixed, bastard. Back out. It's a gated community. The security-gorilla at the gate don't really seem to care. Barely speaks English. Works forever-shifts for minimum wage. The writer lives in a gated development, but he has a fondness for attractive young men hanging naked around his pool. Once you understand that you've got all the access codes you need. All you need to operate the 'master-plan'.
