Frustration

This is a completed four-chapter story that will post by the end of May 2017.

*****

"You need to pull the edge of the skirt down more, Alec. I can see your nuts from this angle. And can you hold the perfume bottle more under your chin and tilt your head up a bit more? It's supposed to at least look like it's about the perfume, not you. OK on the head tilt, but, here, I'll adjust the skirt."

David came over and tugged a bit on the ancient Egyptian kilt-like skirt, which was open in front to show a good bit of my thigh and obviously showing more than David wanted—at least for now. After finishing the perfume company shoot, he'd do some more intimate shots to sell to private collectors. If he didn't get the shots he needed soon, I'd start to sweat too much under the arc lights that were augmenting the Giza sunshine. Just a glistening of the skin was what the camera loved.

I moved the arm that wasn't holding the bottle of Him under my chin and grasped David's hand where it was adjusting the gold lamé skirt. He looked up into my eyes, initially with that look of arousal that I was after but quickly turning harder. He snatched his hand away and stepped back to behind the camera on the tripod. He hadn't forgiven me yet for biting him on the neck at the point of his ejaculation last night as the

Carpathia

was nosing into the harbor at Alexandria.

It had just been a tease. Well, perhaps a bit more than that. It was also a reminder that it wasn't all about him—that I was there too. He was enjoying himself entirely too much, moving his dick inside me, and not paying enough attention to me. Playing with his own nipples rather than mine—or in not stroking my cock when he knew that's what I wanted. Not telling me enough of how beautiful my body was and how he was lost to me. I'd only let him fuck me on board the

Carpathia

from London to Alexandria because of the attention he initially had paid to me in New York when he was begging me to do these commercials with him—and when he wanted me to agree to do the additional photographs for his private clients.

We were on the terrace of some high muckety-muck Egyptian's villa in Giza, outside Cairo, filming on an ancient Egypt theme commercial campaign for a men's perfume called Him. The men's fragrance accounts were my best. They not only paid well, but they let me show the maximum amount of skin and, back in New York, that was great advertisement for where I really made my money—rich old men buzzing around me for my body.

And my body was really looking good, I knew. I was reclining on a marble bench, arching my torso up sideways, stretching out my gorgeous pecs and popping out the muscles of my biceps, the pyramids in the background beyond an ivy-covered wall as backdrop. The gold lamé skirt was just big enough to cover the essentials—now that David had adjusted it. I was well tanned from lying on deck on the passage down from London, although I'd need to work on the tan constantly along with my other gym work. My eyes were heavily kohled in an ancient Egyptian design, and my nipples had been rubbed with brown blush to make them stand out. Other than that, the only adornment between my beautiful body and the adoring public were the gold snake bracelets on my biceps; the turquoise and gold breastplate, carefully arranged so as not to hide my nipples with their quarter-sized brown aureoles; a couple of gold rings on my fingers and toes; and the product—a bottle of the Him perfume.

Besides David, racing around between the three cameras to get enough shots while my body glistened with sweat to just the right degree, and the two light men traveling with us, there were plenty of other men wandering around behind the cameras to distract me if I hadn't been a consummate professional. Stanley, our ever-frowning and sweating manager, was there, of course. And those young Egyptian men—barely more than boys—prancing around with trays of this and that and showing their little brown bodies off. I certainly could have done without them.

I suppose I have to acknowledge the presence of the other model, Jared, who had come with us from London and was mincing around in the background, looking at my pose and devising ones of his own, mimicking me, of course—but the least said about him, the better.

Four burly, foreboding-looking guardians with rifles, aswathe in all those scarves and such that desert natives always seem to wear, their eyes darting around, were standing at the four corners of the terrace, where stairs went down to the marshy ground leading to the Nile. They had been there to accompany us on our journey from Alexandria to Cairo this morning. David said the guards were necessary because revolutionaries of the Wafd Party were being restless—in fact had been restless for the four years since the British governor general of Sudan, Sir Lee Stack, had been assassinated in Cairo in 1924. As mean as they looked, though, I had flights of fancy of lying under one of them, feeling his "gun" working deep inside me, telling me they couldn't get enough of me—depending on what their faces and bodies looked like under all of those wrappings, of course.

And then there was a host for this shoot venue—Pasha Rushdy Abazar. He, I had to admit, was worth looking at.

The pasha was all that David had told me he would be when I was told we would be going straight to his Giza villa from the ship dock in Alexandria for an afternoon product shoot. David had said the man, who was in his early thirties, was the scion of a noble Egyptian family that went back to the pharaohs and was somewhat of a recluse, but that the books he authored at his leisure—many considered a bit racy and suggestive—were all the rage throughout the British colonial empire at the moment. He was said to be a man of mystery—fabulously wealthy; average sized, but quite well-built of, stature—possibly hung like a horse, David intimated, considering how easily he picked up beautiful young men—powerfully connected to all factions in Egypt; cerebral; sharp-tongued; and bigger-than-life darkly handsome.

"If your interests went to Arabic men," David had added, with a sniff.

My own observations of the man on the terrace concentrated on the darkly handsome, even though my interests went more to the "hung like a horse" possibility. He may have just come from the horse stables when we arrived, because he had met us wearing tight brown britches disappearing just below the knees into leather boots and a billowy white cotton shirt that was transparent enough for me to tell that he was muscularly built and was covered in a down of curly black hair. He wore a gold medallion on a chain underneath his shirt, which was open to half way down his torso. He was holding a riding crop and, while I watched him—and he, eventually, watched me—he was lightly tapping the crop against his thighs, drawing my attention to the bulge at his crotch and fantasizing on the rhythm of the stroke. The rhythm of the stroke of the crop for now, but with other possibilities later.

I was delighted following the second segment of the shoot, when, after David and the pasha had conferred, with frequent glances in my direction as I uncoiled from the bench, readjusted the skirt to cover what had become uncovered later in the shoot, and stood and stretched my nearly numb limbs, David came to me and reported that the pasha had invited us to stay the evening and night with him at his villa rather than going across the Nile to Shepheard's Hotel. The pasha also was volunteering to fly me up to Luxor the next day for the perfume shoot at the Temple of Karnak, while the rest of the crew went up on the train.

"He regrets that his plane only has two seats, but if you'd rather that I—"

"That's quite all right, David," I said. "You can tell the pasha that I'd love for him to fly me." It came out as a purr, which I had intended, still sparring with David over our little episode of the night before. David just gave me a frown, turned, and walked back to the pasha. I had not failed to notice that the pasha had watched the second, far-more-revealing, segment of the photo shoot very, very closely.

The passionate pasha moves quickly, I thought. Already separating me from the herd for his personal attention and use. Although subtle now, the looks he had given me were appropriately worshipful, so I didn't have the slightest objection. I watched the roll of his firm buttocks as he and David turned and walked into the villa.

* * * *

I lay, naked, on top of the sheets in the bed chamber I was taken to by one of the servants when I couldn't feign interest any more in the board game the pasha and David were playing while they were knocking back glass after glass of the liquor David had brought to Egypt with us. Jared was being outrageous in thrusting himself at the pasha, and I could well have done without the small, dark-skinned Egyptian men padding around in their shorts and small vests and looking doe-eyed at Pasha Abazar and David—and even at me. Our manager, Stan, had sunk into his cups early and was slouched in an easy chair in the corner of the pasha's book-stuffed library and was snoring softly.

I stayed fast in the library, bored as I was, as long as I did, because I could sense the pasha was frequently turning his long-eyelashed gaze on me, even though he more often than not had a hand palmed on one of his male servants, and I wanted David to notice that the pasha was ogling me too. I was eager for the pasha to ride me, but I didn't want David to stop paying attention to me as well. David, however was being totally obtuse, and his shitty attitude was giving me the jitters.

"Must you pout?" David said to me at one point during a pause in their board game, upon which I told him in no uncertain terms that I was bored. He suggested that I go ahead to our room—yes, we were shown to the same bed chamber, which had made Jared's mouth screw up into an ugly frown, I can tell you—and get an early night.

"Tomorrow's photo shoot is going to be an exhausting one," he said. "We have to gather as much film here in just a few days that we could take a full week to shoot in New York. We're on a tight budget."

"Yes, if everyone here is so concerned about sleeping," I retorted, casting a meaningful look at the pasha, "I might as well just go do that." I won't say I flounced out of the library at that point only because I can do a much better flounce than that. Even I realized that my retort had been a lame one. It didn't help that Jared laughed.

I waited for David to come to me and inside me for more than two hours. I knew the time, because I kept checking it. At length, not being able to stay alone on the bed anymore, I slipped from between the sheets, wrapped myself loosely in a gauzy robe, and padded out onto the terrace that skirted the entire villa. Each of the principle rooms had banks of French doors opening out onto this stone-floored balcony.

Outside, I saw that my view was to the west, away from both Cairo to the east and the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx to the south. I moved around to the south, wanting to see the pyramids in the moonlight, the moon being full and the sky clear. I was bored and angry with David and needing attention.

I heard the sounds—the sounds of sex—as I came around the corner to the southern terrace. Soft candlelight was filtering out of the open French doors in the corner chamber. The doors on the west side from that chamber had been covered with shutters.

Bands of pain tightened around my heart and stomach as I saw David, on the bed, crouched over the hips of one of the dusky, small servant men. The servant was on all fours and David was doggie fucking him. I felt all of the air go out of me in a hiss, and I was about to call out to him in anger and frustration when I saw that he and the berry-brown servant weren't the only ones in the room.

Standing in the middle of the room, bent over a figure clutched to his pelvis with a strong, hairy arm under the young man's waist, was the pasha, Rushdy Abazar. He was naked, and his lightly hirsute body was magnificently developed. Jared (Jared! That hated other model David had insisted on bringing to Egypt) was facing him, arched back toward the Oriental carpet-covered floor, with his head and arms dangling. The tops of his feet, suspended off the ground by the taller Egyptian, were hooked on the backs of the pasha's well-turned calves. Maintaining the strong hold on Jared with the arm encasing his slim waist, the pasha was palming one of Jared's breasts with his free hand and looking intently down into Jared's face, evidently looking for every nuance on the young model's face of the effect of the action of his cock inside Jared's channel. Jared's face was turned to me, though, and a growl came up from deep inside me when I saw that an expression of ultimate satisfaction showed on his gaping open mouth and hooded eyes. It's possible that he didn't see me standing there, but it's probable that he did and that he was mocking me, goading me about having been first with the pasha.

Only the pasha's hips were in movement as he took long strokes inside Jared's channel. The cock he was pulling out and gliding back in was monstrous, thick, and very, very long. Horse hung indeed. As I watched, the massive bulb of the cock came to the surface, Abazar voiced a deep groan, and a flood of white cum splashed at Jared's gaping, well-reamed, hole. Jared jerked and let out a long moaning hiss, as the cock thrust back inside him and resumed pumping.

Feeling like I must scream, I turned and fled back around the corner of the building. Blindly I found my way back to my bed chamber, threw myself on my back on the bed, frantically arched my back, and stroked my cock to an ejaculation.

It was an hour or more later when David came to bed. I was dozing by then, and, waking, went rigid with indignation as he stretched out beside me and pulled my buttocks into his groin. I did relax to his touch and began to moan as he worked his hands into the crevices and over the contours of my body and I felt his member stiffen at the small of my back. "You are so nice, so beautiful, so supple," he was whispering in my ear.

But I couldn't forget . . . and was nowhere near ready to forgive.

As his cock entered my channel from behind, he drew my upper leg over his thigh and turned my torso to him. I opened my mouth to his, but I gave him nothing in return for the heat of his kiss. If he was aware that I wasn't fully with him, he didn't bother to respond to it. That didn't help my disposition one bit.

If he had asked me what was wrong and had cajoled me and continued telling me how nice my body was and how much he wanted to fuck me, everything would have worked out. I was melting to the stroke of his cock inside me. My own needs prevented me from carrying my hurts to the extreme, I thought.

But he just stroked on, holding me and fucking me only to obtain his own pleasure—a prolonged pleasure of having first fucked one of those fucking berry-brown servants. The only saving grace was that I hadn't found him inside Jared. Not yet, at least. Not that I had seen. But it had been more than an hour from the time I'd seen him fucking the little Egyptian piece. Who knows what or who he was doing in that time? My ire was increasing almost in rhythm to the increased frenzy with which David was fucking me.

I felt him near to ejaculation, and just before I thought that would happen, I lurched away from him, stumbled out of the bed, and raced out of the French doors onto the terrace. As I left, I heard him growl, "Why, you little bitch," but I continued my flight. I had to get out of there. This wasn't the attention I deserved.

When I came back in the bed chamber, David was gone. I had no idea where he went to. I flung myself on the bed in tears. When I became bored with wasting perfectly good sobs on an empty chamber, my mind cleared enough to latch on to a revelation. The pasha had been fucking a man. It was beyond unfortunate, of course, that it was that little whore, Jared, but the glorious part was that the pasha fucked men. My mind immediately started to weave scenarios in which I was such a man. I arched back on the bed, grasped my cock, and stroked myself to a fantasy-riven sleep.

I didn't ask where David had been all night when I entered the lounge the next morning. David, Jared, and the others in the crew were just coming through, having had their breakfast, and I'd like to say I never was told where he'd spent the rest of the night. But of course Jared couldn't keep it to himself. I knew just by looking at him and I could tell that he couldn't wait for us to be alone so he could gloat.

And of course David had been with Jared for the rest of the night.

"You and David must have had some fight last night for him to leave you," Jared whispered to me after David had passed through. "I do like to lie with men who are angry, though. They are so much more forceful."

"Fuck you," I hissed back at him.

"Yes, David did that quite well, thank you." Jared said sweetly.

I would have said something else, but I was afraid he would counter with how well I knew he also had been fucked by the pasha.