Curse Of The Tan Tan

"Oh, Philippe. OH, Philippe!" The dark, handsome young Moroccan had been murmuring Philip's name when the American adventurer had started rimming him but was now crying his name out insistently as Philip split his curvaceous butt cheeks with his hard, throbbing cock and thrust down, once, twice, three times. "Philippe!" the Moroccan exclaimed and writhed under him with each deep thrust.

He was very good. The Moroccan bottom was very, very good—nicely formed and well-muscled, but willowy and compliant and with a boyish charm that was almost beyond handsome. Deep bronze skin, black curly hair, and fluttery eyelashes. His big brown eyes had a well-practiced "being taken for the first time, noncompliantly" look to them that was tantalizing to Philip. The exclamations of his name in French were very arousing to the American as well—a very, very nice added touch.

And the American was accustomed to having the best. The two young hunks were spread out on the wide, pillow-strewn bed in an executive suite of the Marrakech Millenium Hotel. The two had met for drinks in the swankiest bar Marrakech could provide, had eaten in one of the best restaurants in all of northern Africa, and had then moved to Philip's suite at one of the hotels in the world, where Philip had quickly stripped Harun down, pushed him down on the bed on his belly, strapped his wrists to the headboard with leather bounds, and began taking him hard and rough. This had been fine with Harun. Everything had been prearranged. The American was accustomed to the best of everything, and Harun had been engaged from the best male brothel in the city.

"Philippe, O-h-h, Philippe!" Harun moaned, as Philip straddled his hips from above, a knee beside one hip and his foot planted firmly beside the opposite hip, as he fucked down into the Moroccan sideways from above. Philip liked unusual positions. And he was a connoisseur of sex. He had fucked like this all over the world. But this Harun was proving to be one of the best and most arousing.

"Call me Philippe, again," Philip whispered in a low, lust-choked voice. "I love it when you speak French to me like that."

"Oh, Philippe, Philippe, mon amour. O-H-H!

Nearly an hour later, Philip, now stretched on his back on the bed and the lithe, flexible Moroccan was stretched out, belly up, on top of him, moving ever so slowly and languidly on top of the golden-blond studiously-muscled American stud. Philip had his pelvis plastered to Harun's pert buttocks and his cock was still churning deep inside the talented call boy. Harun's hands were now bound together and his arms were flung back so that his wrists rested on the back of Philip's neck, stretching his boyish torso out full. He had his heels dug into the bed and his pelvis lifted a bit so that Philip could thrust up into him. He was still moaning and groaning as if Philip was splitting him asunder, and, indeed, Philip had a tool that had that effect on most men.

Both men climaxed and Harun lowered himself onto Philip to rest, with the American still deeply encased inside him. Philip had the palms of his hands firmly planted on the Moroccan's nipples and was nuzzling Harun's neck with his lips and teeth, nipping at the other young man's throat to the point of nearly drawing blood. This was slightly painful for Harun, but he was a professional and the American had paid a small fortune for this attentions. Harun suffered far worse at the pleasure of the local, more demanding and stingy clients on a weekly basis.

Harun whispered above the sucking noises at his neck. "But I do not know why you tell me of this, Philippe, mon amour. This is something it is not wise to be mentioning at all in Marrakech. The Dakar Rally and its integrity are taken very seriously here in Morocco."

"I have money," Philip said with almost a pout in his voice. "All I want is for someone to take me and the Beast on the rally route for this year so I have a feel for how the course is. This is my first year. Some of the drivers have been doing this for years; they already know all about the conditions."

"But this time of year," Harun said insistently. "This is the worst possible time to be out on the desert in a vehicle. The Sirocco. It is . . ."

"I know all about the winds the rush across northern Africa and into Spain and France at this time of year." Philip said with a snort. He wasn't used to being opposed like this. Philip's father could buy Morocco if he wanted to. All Philip wanted was someone to guide him on the off-road vehicle rally course in anticipation of this year's dash from Lisbon to Dakar, Senegal, across the Sahara and down the western coast of northern Africa. And he knew there were rules against driving the course beforehand. That's why it was important to do so now, when the threat of the Sirocco winds kept prying eyes out of the desert quadrant. Philip had spent millions on the technology that had gone into the Beast. He had to win the race. And to do that, he needed to have a leg up on the others on the course.

"I'm sorry, it just isn't possible," Harun said, punctuating the "isn't" to end the conversation. He didn't mind getting fucked by this spoiled American; in fact, he rather enjoyed it. But he was a city sophisticate. The Dakar Rally was nothing to him.

"I'm sure there's someone on the street willing to guide me," Philip said stubbornly. "I will pay very well."

"If you go out on the street looking for this someone, you are sure to either be arrested quickly or get in with someone who will take you out into the desert and slit your . . . pay well, you say. Just how well?" Harun had just realized how many dirhams the brothel had been paid for his services this evening, more than a month's usual salary in his share alone. And such a waste. The American was so handsome and well built that if Harun had met him by chance in the bar, he would have come back with him for free. But he would have had to kept silent during the fuck then. Harun could hardly bear his arrogance and self-possession. But the American was throwing money around like he had no idea of its value. And as Harun had already noted to himself, the Dakar Rally was nothing to him. He didn't care about its integrity or its rules.

"I'll pay $100,000 U.S. to the man who guides me and the Beast through the course to Dakar," Philip responded in a blustery voice.

There was a period of silence while Harun contemplated and Philip slowed fucked and chewed on Harun's neck.

"I'll take you there," Harun said at length in a quiet voice. "For that money, I'll take you there myself . . . but how did your vehicle get that name?"

Philip laughed, happy now that he was getting his way. But, then, he always got his way. Money always won out. He pushed Harun up and off of him and waggled his baseball bat of a cock with his fist and he turned Harun back onto his stomach. "I named it after this. I named it after my cock. The Beast. I plan on fucking the competition in this running of the race."

And then Philip demonstrated once again why his cock was called the Beast, as he reversed himself above Harun, stretched out on his belly, and, once more pelvis to buttocks, but now Philips hard, beefy calves encasing the sides of Harun's chest and his hands wrapped around Harun's ankles, Philip began pumping the ass of Moroccan prostitute-turned-road companion and guide again from above and down, while Harun writhed and groaned in genuine ecstasy under him.

"Philippe, oh, oh, Philippe," Harun was crying out. "PHILLIPE!"

Three days later, as they approached the southern Morocco town of Tan Tan, where the desert dunes met the Atlantic Ocean coastline, the Sirocco hit them in a swirl of dust that obliterated their whole world. They literally couldn't see more than two feet in front beyond the mud-caked windscreen of the Beast.

"Quick, pull in over there. Over there, where we saw the ruins of a large compound before the Sirocco descended," Harun yelled above the whining of the dust-laden wind."

"Time. We don't have the time," Philip yelled back. "We're two hours behind my calculations of a winning pace. We must press ahead."

"We can't possibly keep going," Harun screamed back. "The engine will quickly clog in this dust storm. The dust will get into everything." And in fact, both of the men were already covered with dust even though the Beast was locked down as tight as a ship.

"No worries," Philip retorted with bravado and a grin. "This is a multimillion dollar machine. This has been designed for any . . ." The grin slid right off Philip's face, as a painful clanking and wheezing sound wafted up from engine compartment of the Beast.

"Quick, as I said," Harun persisted. "The vehicle—and we as well—need to get under cover immediately. There, there. Drive in that direction. Now! Oh, God, what was that?"

Philip had turned the wheel and headed in the direction Harun had pointed, but just as they saw a crumbling mud-brick wall and an opening big enough for the Beast to fit through, there was a swirl of something black and enveloping across the windscreen and the sensation of a flash of white fangs. Something was out here with them. Or so it seemed. But it was over in a flash. And whatever it was, it was as much beleaguered by the sudden Sirocco as they were.

When they had gotten through the opening in the outer wall, they were in luck. This was some kind of fortress from ages past and there were still some building standing with roofs on and openings on the side away from the direction of the Sirocco wind for them to pull the Beast in under cover and then for they themselves to grab blankets and some provisions and retreat beyond doorways with doors they could close and escape through a series of rooms to a sufficiently sheltered space to hold back the Sirocco.

It was dark in the room they finally entered, but only because the Sirocco had blackened the sky. There were several rents in the crumbling wall, which, luckily was set away from the wind, that the room would be lighted well on a normal day. They had a battery lantern with them, though, so Philip wasn't worried about the dark—at least for now, for as long as the batteries held.

When Philip looked up from spreading the blankets and fussing with the provisions they had brought in, he saw that Harun was nervously pacing back and forth from end of the small room to the other. Harun obviously was worried about something.

"It's fine," Philip said. "I've read up on the Sirocco. At this time in the season, this should let up in a couple of hours. A few hours and we can be on our way again. And we're almost to Laayuoune. We can reprovision there."

"I only noticed from the signs on the walls in the rooms we passed through to get here where we are," Harun said. And there was something dread-based in Harun's voice that made a chill run down Philip's spine.

"What are you saying? Where are we?"

"This is an old French Foreign Legion post," Harun said. We're actually on a cliff overlooking the sea. The legion was here because piracy was rampant here at one time. The trade route goes right through here, and the pirates would land just long enough to snatch their fill of goods and slaves and be off on the sea again. And then they often sailed into the arms of other pirates awaiting them just over the horizon. There are several burned hulls of ships washed up on the rocks below this cliff."

"Yes, so?" Philip asked.

"So, there are legends about this place," Harun said. "The post was well manned, but one season it suddenly became deserted."

"Deserted?" Philip snorted. "So where did all the legionnaires go?"

"That's just it," Harun responded, and there was fear in his voice. "The villagers in Tan Tan had been having trouble with wolves, or so they claimed—and if there ever were wolves here, the pirates must have brought them, because this isn't a natural habitat for such creatures. But some of the villagers had been found dead, their throats torn open and their bodies ravaged. But then their local magic men, you call them witch doctors, had the villagers stay close to the village and the village lighted with great bonfires day and night, and the problem stopped, at least down there."

"Stopped," Philip asked with a superior tone of disbelief. "Just like that? For how long?"

"Well, forever," Harun said. "Because they are still doing it, still keeping their village well lit. The legend was that strong. Men have continued to disappear from the village from time to time, but while the slave boats were passing, that was ascribed to the pirates or to warriors from nearby villages. And now when it happens, they just assume the men have been blinded by the promise of the big city lights and have gone to seek their fortunes. But legend was reinforced by what happened here in this fortress."

"What happened here?" Philip asked. He was toying with Harun now, mocking him. The man claimed to be a city sophisticate, but you scratch an African and they will go native on you in a flash.

"No one knows. There were thirty men or more in the legion unit here, but one day, when none of the legionnaires had come into Tan Tan to drink and fuck for some time, a few of the villagers were brave enough to come up here—but they found the place deserted."

"No doubt they just found the drink and prostitutes more palatable up in Goulimine and then found it was too long a distance to go back and forth and just deserted en masse," Philip said with a laugh. But then he went on. "You say there was no accounting for what could have happened to them?"

"Well, there is the cliff and many skeletons have washed up on the rocks below. But it would be unthinkable that thirty strong men would all have fallen off the cliff to their deaths below in just one season. And where there are ancient hulks washing up on the rocks, there are sure to be skeletons as well."

"A version of the big city lights as opposed to the dreariness of the foreign legion life sounds the most plausible to me," Philip said with a sniff. He was fiddling with the lantern now. The light had dimmed. They may be in the dark soon.

"Shush. Did you hear that?" Harun said with a tremulous voice.

"Hear what?" Philip asked absentmindedly. He had turned to bunching up blankets on the uneven dirt floor and testing to see how hard the ground was. He had unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off.

"It sounded like some sort of animal—a howl of some sort."

"I didn't hear it. And there's something I want to do now. Something I've paid good money for and haven't had since Goulimine. And I have no intention of going into Tan Tan for it in this dust storm, either. So get your sweet little ass over here. I paid for your ass." Philip stood and unzipped his pants.

For the next three-quarters of an hour, Harun's mind was completely absorbed by something other than the disappearance of the legionnaires, as he spent much of the time rolled up onto his shoulders and his buttocks up in the air, while Philip crouched over him, his thighs pressing in on the Moroccan's hips and his cock jackhammering down into Harun's ass canal. The American was paying well, so Harun writhed and whined and moaned for him. It wasn't long though before the Moroccan's grunts and bleetings were genuine, though. The American was an expert in what he did as well.

When Philip had had his satisfaction, Harun took a towel and a canteen of water and slipped out of the room, saying he'd find some corner to relieve himself and get cleaned up a bit.

Philip busied himself with eating some the delicacies he'd packed and checking over the maps to familiarize himself with the next leg of their journey. The light from the lantern was growing dimmer and dimmer. Philip hoped the Sirocco would give up its grip on the land soon.

He had no idea how long he'd been amusing himself before he realized that it seemed a long time since Harun had left. After several more minutes, Even though the light was nearly gone, Philip had recharged his own batteries and felt like another fuck, so he went looking for Harun.

They were three rooms away. Philip was so surprised by what he saw that he stood there, dumbly for the longest time, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

It seemed to be a large square of black silk mounded over something in the middle of the room and undulating up and down, the cloth rippling out from the center to the sides.

He must have made some sort of guttural noise, because the cloth suddenly rose up higher and swirled as a monstrous figure turned toward him. It was both man and beast. It had to be at least seven feet tall. The black material, which proved to be a cape swirled away from the body of the man beast as he turned and snorted and eyed Philip with great interest. It was the shape of a man, but everything about it was exaggerated, the whole musculature—big and bulging and plump, a veritable champion of champions among body builders—right down to the most monstrous cock and bulbous, low-hanging balls Philip had ever seen. The beast was hairy, black curly hair covering him almost to the point of identifying as nonhuman. But, no, it was definitely a man. All man—and inch and more a man. And his face was malevolence itself. Not ugly—in fact, square-jawed handsome in a wild, rugged way. But the eyes were red, blood shot, and the flashing teeth were white and sharp, with pronounced fangs . . . and they were dripping in blood.

That's when Philip noticed that the beast wasn't alone. The cape had been covering not only the beast. Harun, but a pale and diminished Harun, was lying there under the beast's crouched body. Harun's legs were spread wide and the beast was kneeling there between Harun's thighs. The Moroccan prostitute was white as a sheet and wasn't moving. He, in fact, looked entirely drained of life. The beast had a huge hand under Harun's buttocks, holding his pelvis up, and it was obvious that the beast had been fucking Harun when Philip appeared. And Harun's head was lolled over to the side at an awkward angle and his blood-covered neck was arched and exposed. His eyes were open and glazed, but there was a wan smile on his face as if he had supremely enjoyed whatever had happened to him.

A moment of sniffing each other out, and then the beast gave Philip a languid, very-pleased-with-itself look and then almost nonchalantly pushed the head of its dick into Harun's yawning hole and slowly, ever so slowly, made every inch of its cock disappear. Philip was panting hard and giving little gasps as he saw that huge cock slowly disappear inside the hole he had so recently been splitting himself. The beast smiled, eyes intently and warily watching Philip as Philip's eyes were glued on that huge tool moving slowly, deliberately, in and out. A flow of semen, much too full a flow for a normal man, was seeping out of Harun's hole each time the mushroom cap appeared, only to descend again in the slick lubrication of the beast's own cum. Whenever the mushroom cap slurped out of the hole, Philip could see a stead stream of white cum dribbling down from the slit. There was no reaction from Harun. He was slumped over, collapsed into himself, gone.

Philip and the beast were suspended in some sort of standoff. The beast seemed content with his total taking of Harun as long as Philip stood there in rigid shock. Philip broke the silence and the form first by screaming and turning and running for the inner chamber. He'd brought a gun in. All he could think of was that he needed to reach that gun.

The beast was loping behind him and gaining ground. Philip could hear its snuffling and heavy panting quick on his heels, and he had barely reached the door into the inner chamber, when his ankle was gripped and his body came crashing to the ground. He continued as best he could, the adrenaline pumping and moving him forward, dragging himself toward the center of the room, toward the satchel where he'd put the gun. And the beast was crawling up his back, covering his body inch by inch, ripping at the clothes he loosely draped back on his body after fucking Harun with its nails and teeth, stripping him naked.