Luxor & Bac

"Ah, another late riser. A man after my own heart." The voice was deep and melodious. I was sitting across a table on the terrace from the pasha, who was finishing up his coffee when one of those mincing little manservants had guided me out onto the terrace. He looked as magnificent in the morning sunlight as he had the previous night, fucking Jared in his bedroom. He was in some sort of long, white cotton kaftan—which I was told was called a

galabiyah

when worn by a man in Egypt—that was split at the chest down to his navel, showing off the interesting, short, curly swirls of black hair on his tanned chest and the golden medallion. The galabiyah as loosely woven enough to give hints of the dusky, hard muscled body underneath it.

We spoke of life in Cairo in general and of the ancient city of Luxor, gateway to the tombs of Egyptian kings and queens, where we were to fly today, in particular. We also chatted about the unwavering weather—and even of why it was only the two of us at breakfast now—although I was a late riser, I hadn't thought I'd gotten up

that

late to have missed the others breakfasting—all without any reference to whatever occurred the previous night. Of course there was no reason he would know that I had spied him fucking Jared.

"They are leaving already. The train to Luxor will leave in the next hour," Abazar said in explanation for the missing David, Jared, Stan, and crew. His smile was radiant, his teeth pearly white. "But we can have a leisurely. We will still beat them by flying. But you will be able to be filmed in good afternoon light."

I was surprised that he understood my needs so well and appreciated the importance of them. I also entertained hopes that his remarks meant that we had time for something else, something much more intimate, after breakfast. The attention he paid me and the smoothness of his conversation, touched with innuendo if one was looking for it, I thought, kept me thinking he was playing me for action.

My breakfast had just arrived when he said he had to check the airplane, a Douglas 0-2H two-position biplane he'd bought after its Great War service as an observation plane over northern Africa. I was to be impressed to find that checking the plane required no more than a short walk beyond the stables—that he had his own airfield right here.

He stood, and before I could think anything of it or react in any why, he leaned down beside me and brushed his lips against mine. Beyond the feel of his fleeting kiss, I could only remember the flash and amusement in his eyes as he kissed me. And then he was gone. He needed to do no more than that to have me panting for him.

I ached to have him inside me. I hated Jared at that moment more than I ever had. I wanted it to have been me, draped back, arms and head dangling toward the floor, with Rushdy Abazar bent over me and fucking in long, thick strokes, splattering my hole with cum and then working it back inside me.

I didn't see him again until I was guided to the airfield, covered from head to toe in an aviator's costume, as was he, complete with goggles and holding another pair for me, when I reached the plane.

There was no opportunity to talk during the flight. The noise was deafening, the altitude totally frightening. We came down in Asyut half way to Luxor. Rushdy had said we would because the range on the Douglas was only 400 miles and Cairo was 450 miles in a straight line from Luxor.

While we were waiting on the ground for the plane to refuel Abazar told me of a luxurious small hotel on the banks of the Nile near Asyut that he liked to come to. I thought he was going to ask me if I wanted to go there while we waited, and I was prepared to say yes, if he did. But he made no such overtures. I was about to mention it myself, wondering if he expected me to make the pitch, when we were informed that the plane was ready to fly again.

In Luxor, we spent barely over an hour at the Great Karnak temple down the hill from the Winter Palace Hotel, the grand dame British colonial resort, and on the banks of the Nile. I was costumed as before, as a modern concept of a young ancient Egyptian pharaoh, and was positioned leaning against one of the massive, hieroglyphic-carved pillars of the temple under a beam of light streaming down from a rent in the ceiling. Once again holding a bottle of Him perfume under my chin.

As before, the photography crew milled around outside the footprint of the arc lights while David, treating me icily, was making sure I saw him flirting with Jared. Ever the professional, even when pissed, though, he also fussed around me for the right angle and the perfect focus on not only the Him perfume bottle, but also my boyishly handsome face; puffed-up, blushed nipples; flat belly; and slim hips. He was all business now; no lingering touch on flesh or whispered sexual references.

The pasha wandered around the periphery. He had stripped off his shirt and the hardness and massiveness of his hirsute chest was sending waves of pleasure and want through me the entire shoot. Apparently not understanding that my reaction was for Abazar and no one else, David was impressed enough to compliment me on how sexy I looked, which almost made me forget that I was punishing him.

I had thought I would be needed for the shoot longer, but David waved me away dismissively, saying that Jared would carry the brunt of modeling in Luxor. I was quick to accept Rushdy's invitation to lunch with him at the Winter Palace Hotel, making sure that David had heard both the offer and the acceptance. We ate on the hotel terrace overlooking the Nile, sitting close beside each other. More than once Rushdy placed a hand on my thigh, and I thought I would melt on the spot.

Just with a single brushed kiss and a couple of touches on my thigh, I was already feeling possessed by the Egyptian prince—and I had no objections whatsoever to that. My mind went to what I already knew was hanging between his thighs.

"It seems I have a room here at the hotel even though we'll only be here for a few hours," he said over coffee and dessert. There was a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

Of course he had a room booked here. He hadn't flown me to Luxor just to fly me back without receiving anything in turn.

I no longer had to dwell on what was hanging between his thighs. I took it all inside me, lying on my back on the bed in the Winter Palace suite, the pasha hovering over me, his knees between my thighs, spreading them, his fists pinning my wrists to the bed above my head, his face floating over mine, his eyes watching every expression on my face that he brought out of me by thrusting up deep in my channel again and again until, with a cry, I collapsed under him, suspending my answering rhythmic pelvic thrusts up to meet his down, and his seed flowed inside me. He was a highly competent cocksman, as I knew he would be—and had anticipated that he would be with me.

The flight back to Cairo started with buzzing the valleys of the kings and queens across the Nile from Luxor and Rushdy trying to point out to me some of the nearly hidden tomb entrances folded into the sand hills that already had been discovered and excavated.

It was twilight when we landed in Giza, and Rushdy, noting that since during my first trip to Egypt I hadn't been able to stay at the center of British colonialism in Cairo, in the Shepheard's Hotel, across the Nile from Giza, that we must go to dinner there. But first we must rest.

"Do you remember how to get to your bed chamber from here?" he asked me as we were climbing the stairs on the stone platform that his villa rested on. I answered that I did, and regretted after we parted that I hadn't taken that as a hint and asked him if

he

knew the way to my room. I went to my bed chamber trembling at the expectation that Rushdy would visit me there and fuck me again. But he didn't, and, exhausted from the plane rides and rather too much fresh air flowing over me too strongly and too fast, I did drift off to sleep.

* * * *

Rushdy looked as magnificent in a tuxedo as he had in anything else I'd seen him wear—as, of course, did I. He beamed at me as I came out of the villa and descended the stairs to his yellow Rolls-Royce Twenty drophead coupe.

We dined in the Gentlemen's Dining Room of Shepheard's hotel, the last bastion of British power in Cairo, where no skirt was seen or swished, no man of only middling import was permitted entrance, and no one of Arab ethnicity dined on the main floor. Here among the stark white, starched tablecloths and napkins, the gold-rimmed china, the solid-silver plate, and a blue haze of smoke rising to the pinnacle of the coffered roof above a square room, centered by a three-tiered bubbling fountain, dining galleries bordering a central area, and stained-glass clerestory windows on three walls, dined the brains, financial backbone, literary heart, and waning military muscle of the British empire presence in the Mediterranean and northern Africa.

Pasha Rushdy Abazar and I were ushered with great deference and ceremony across the line of the western balcony tier to a prominent table next to the balcony rail. Most of the eyes of the European and American men sitting at the tables on the main floor below were lifted to follow the transit of Abazar. I noticed many of them looking at me appraisingly before letting their eyes slide back to the pasha. All seemed to be holding their breath, in anticipation of something. With the revolutionary drums of the Wafd Party beating ever more strongly with each passing day, all knew it to be inevitable that on some evening an Egyptian would descend the stairs from the balcony and demand service on the main floor in what now was the Egyptian Republic, under the control, if still largely nominally, of Egyptians. None of the men below would be surprised if that man was Pasha Rushdy Abazar. And none of the British diehard colonialists could be sure that he would be the one to step forward and tell the pasha he could not be served.

As if he didn't know of or care about the tension in the air, Abazar sauntered along behind the balcony maître d' and eased himself into a chair at the prominently positioned table. He encouraged me to stand at the balcony rail for a few minutes and examine the room below, especially the buffet table that we would not be enjoying. The eyes from below that had been following Rushdy's progress across the balcony now automatically turned more fully toward me, and I basked in the attention, being able to discern the lust in more than one face. I stretched my arms out on the railing, puffed out my chest, and reveled in the knowledge that I looked divine.

I was not blind to the fact that Rushdy was putting me on "up yours" display to the Westerners dining below. I'm sure they all were aware of his proclivities and that having me stand at the balcony railing was a declaration that Rushdy of the East was fucking a young man of the West, as he, indeed, had already done earlier that day in the Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor and would, I hoped, be doing in his own palace in Cairo later in the evening.

Custom may have precluded the pasha from descending to the ground-floor dining room, but there was no taboo against the Europeans mounting the stairs, and throughout the dinner, a parade of them did so to pay their respects to Abazar, with the procession led by the club steward himself, Sir Hilary Wainsworth-Jones. I was introduced to a progression of fawning—and some, leering—young, old, and middle-aged men as Rushdy made a point of showing me off. I didn't mind. I knew I was a knockout in the tuxedo he had provided. It fit me like a glove—as his fit him—as, I couldn't help thinking, his cock had fit my passage. I knew that we were the most handsome pair in the dining room, and I couldn't wait for the sexual pairing to begin again, for Rushdy and me to be alone, with him worshiping my body and uncontrollably exercising his lust on me.

The pinnacle of the introductions was the visitation by Viscount Edmund Allenby, British commissioner for Egypt and Sudan, and his military adjutant, Sir Cecil Pills, an imposing, at-attention general somewhere in his late forties, all decorated in a squared-away uniform that did his solid soldier's body justice. Allenby, of normal stature and build, balding in front and sporting a mustache, stayed for but a brief period, but Pills hung on. And by hung on, I mean I wasn't sure he was ever going to give me my hand back when we had clasped our hands in a handshake. He stood head and shoulders above Allenby; was massive but not fat; was almost completely bald, with only a fringe of hair on the sides and back on a head that sat on the neck of a bull; and looked like indomitable military power standing beside Allenby's administrative majesty.

Before he moved on, Pills drew Abazar aside, and I heard the pasha say that we'd meet the general at the hotel entrance in two hour's time.

"We have business to discuss," was Rushdy's explanation.

After a dinner that lasted nearly the entire two hours, Pills followed us back to Giza in a black, chauffeur-driven sedan, which he waved away when we had arrived, saying he would send a runner for the car when he needed it. Two soldiers had come out of the sedan with him and posted themselves at attention on either side of the main entrance of Abazar's villa, as if we were under some military quarantine as long as the general was here.

It was nearly midnight when we returned to the villa, and Rushdy told me I should go ahead and withdraw for the night, as he and Pills would be conferring until late. As I passed by him, he took my wrist in his hand and pulled me to him and brushed my lips once more with his.

I was sure he would visit me in the night, and in anticipation of that, I did not go to bed, but took a bath and changed into the diaphanous cotton robe that I had found in the room's armoire, leaving the robe open to my nakedness in front.

When Rushdy came into the bed chamber, as I knew he would, he was still wearing his tuxedo. I was standing at the French doors, leaning up against the frame, my body bathed in the moonlight streaming through the door. I knew what the effect would be as seen from the door to the chamber of the sensual silhouette I would provide. I was well versed in how to pose as desired, how to sell products, in this case myself. And I wanted Rushdy to see me this way before he was lost to me and ravished my body.

I could hear the intake of his breath with the desired effect as he appeared at the door to the corridor.

"You are an apparition to behold," he said in a low, guttural voice.

I knew that, of course, but was quite pleased to hear him say so.

"You look as enticing standing there in the moonlight as you did last night when you appeared on the terrace outside my bedroom."

So, he had seen me. He knew that I had seen him fucking Jared. That surprised me, but it elated me as well. I knew he fucked men, and he was aware that I knew. No questions, no preludes needed to where we went from here.

But then Rushdy disappeared from the doorway—his figure replaced by the tall, strongly built one of—Sir Cecil Pills.

He was naked, barrel chested, massively muscled, nut sack hanging low, and a cock already in monstrous erection. My eyes, wide open, went to the hard leanness of his torso, the bulging muscles of his arms and his thighs, and to the welts of a number of war wounds. A man's man. A hardened warrior.

He was already half way across the room before I had the presence of mind to turn to flee out onto the terrace. He reached me and engulfed me in his massive arms when I had just cleared the door. I was being drawn, kicking and screaming, feet off the floor, back into the room and carried over to the bed, where he turned me and dumped me on my back. I tried to rise, and he backhanded me across the cheek, snapping my head back and making me fall back onto the mattress.

"Quiet down and take it," he growled. "You'll like it."

Grabbing my sides, with his thumbs pressed into my nipples, he held me to the bed with his powerful strength, while he knelt between my open thighs on the floor at the end of the bed and started to work my cock and the rim of my hole with his mouth and tongue. The man knew what to do in that department, and I began to writhe and groan my pleasure under him.

I realized he was going to take me like this in full-frontal assault, that this was a battle campaign. And he wanted me. My spirits soared. A prominent army general wanted to—was in a frenzy to—defeat and possess my body. He could not control his lust for me.

As I lay there, increasingly melting to his attentions, unable to do anything about it even if I still wanted to, already conquered by overwhelming force and intent—and reveling now in the sensations of being wanted so badly for what I possessed, what I could give—I caught a fleeting glimpse of one of the berry-brown small Egyptian servants steal into the room and drop a leather cylinder covered with metal studs on the bed beside me.

Seeing it, I moaned and whispered, "Oh god, oh, god." My channel muscles began to ripple in fear and anticipation.

"I told you you were going to love it," he growled in a low voice. "It was fitted just for me."

"Oh, shit, oh, god." I raised my feet to his calves and rubbed them, up and down, doing so involuntarily, but signaling to both him and myself in the rhythm of that movement, the intimacy and acceptance of that touch, that I was going to be fucked with that studded sheath.

The soldier was an expert cock sucker and slowly brought me to the brink and then backed off and brought me to the brink once more. Yowling and fighting against his grip, I bunched my buttocks, and thrust my cock up, deep into his throat, ejaculating again and again. When I did come, I was lost to him and just lay there, collapsed under him and sighing, with him standing between my legs and pulling the studded leather cylinder onto his cock, his bulb bulging out over the end of it. I was murmuring, "fuck me, fuck me, oh, god, fuck me"—and meaning it—as, after wagging the sheathed cock a couple of times for me to see and comprehend the cruel power of it, he gripped my waist with his hands and raised my buttocks to his pelvis. My torso was arched back to the surface of the bed, my upper-body weight on my shoulder blades, my arms stretched out to my sides with my hands fisting up the sheets. He placed the bulb of his cock at my hole and thrust deep inside me.

I felt the long, cruel entry, oh god how I felt it, but he had opened me well with his tongue. He slid right to the root.

"Oh, god. Oh, fuck, the studs!" I cried out.

He held me there, me trembling, completely in his control and yet tense, holding back, riddled with fear. At the same time my channel muscles undulated over the studs, causing me to give little jerks and to moan deep in my throat.

"Relax, go with it," he commanded. "I told you you would love it. Give it all up. Surrender to me. Take it."

He waited for me. Waited, deep inside me, his cock throbbing, moving the studs in a pulsating rhythm, waiting for my channel walls to settle down. Waiting for me to relax.

And then when I did, he started to stroke, to pump, slow, long strokes, slowly building up speed.

I groaned and grunted and cried out in ecstasy. He pumped harder, faster, laughing, using his strong hands to move me around on the cock as he pumped. I was thrashing about under him, eyes popped open, mouth slack and going from deep growls to whimpers and begging for "it," whatever "it" was.

"Yes," he commanded. "Give it all to me. Give it all up."

With a shudder and a spouting of my cum, I again collapsed under him. But he fucked on. He was a fit military man. He fucked on and on and on in precision rhythm, while I lay under him, completely open, moaning softly.