Two months silent. Solo in a Casablanca suburb café. Selim’s still snoring. Time to spill the week since we hit Morocco. But first, that ass pain—worst ever. Rewind to 1 AM Lyon sidewalk. Selim, Kaomin, me. Bags dumped in night heat. Selim’s building behind us. Bar lights glow through curtains. Six, seven boozed patrons inside. Selim’s bag thuds. ‘Guys, I’m dying. Drinks on me. Thirsty as fuck.’ We pile in. Heads turn, bleary eyes scan us. We grab a table. Bar boy approaches. Beers. Beers. Beers. Halves arrive. Downed fast. Refills instant. Smart kid.
Not a gay dive, I think. But server’s eyeing us hard. We spill cave secrets from Selim’s—no shame. Monstre’s monster cock, punches, bliss, pain, cum. Bartender hovers, wiping nearby table again. Fuck it. Kaomin paid today. Rough start for him—saved by us. He buys rounds. Server—Remy—sits, fake-reading news. We’re trashed on fatigue, beer. Selim’s Moroccan tale. My fake-rich student life, plush flat open to all. Kaomin: Mauritius Chinese foster kid, France for ‘cousin’ sex shop. Mops cum, dumps condoms. Long black fringe, almond eyes, soft oval face. Passive vibe, mostly.
The Privilege
Sex shop darkened him. Cameras let him pick fucks. Caught blowing a guy—’uncle’ beats, then forces suck. Now nightly rodeos. Dresses him in wife’s glam: lamé red dresses, black silk lingerie, heels, makeup. Epilated smooth. Bareback post-tests. Massages, strips, licks. We laugh. Then aunt catches—knows hubby’s bi. Borrows clothes. Fucks Kaomin wild, lesbian cover marriage. Rémy’s hand sneaks under table, strokes Selim. Lights dim. Jukebox glows faint.
I kneel, unzip Rémy. Lycra shorty strains. Huge cock drips precum. Free it. Kaomin joins, laps nectar. Selim on table, fed to Rémy. Five minutes: blasts. Rémy in Kaomin’s throat, Selim in Rémy’s, us jerking in beer foam, howling.
The Excess
Dawn at 6 AM. Streets empty. Park bench. Kaomin snores out. Selim and I cuddle, deep kiss. Tractor nears—gardeners. Young driver’s dreads wild, blue eyes pierce. Torso bare, red shorts hug pecs, abs carved. Tanned Greek god, 6’2″, ripped. Works flowers, sweat gleams. We stare. He smirks, drinks water legs spread, approaches. ‘Rough night?’ Selim: ‘Watching you rests us.’ Jimy la Cigale. Piss break in bushes. Our cocks hard. His flops huge, swells monstrous—Monstre match, god body.
Tractor shed: tools, table, chairs, bottles. I grope through shorts. Iron bar. Lick sweat-salted pecs, nipple suck. Selim mirrors left tit, finger to Jimy’s mouth—sucks like cock. Then probes ass. Jimy moans wild: ‘Fuck… too much… more!’ Rigid, nipple swells, cock throbs.
Strip. Jimy’s red micro-brief soaked precum. Off flies. Statue lives: endless legs, firm glutes, power pulsing. 10 inches demand worship. Kneel. ‘Master?’ ‘Eat it all, swallow.’ Slow gland laps, deep throat. Selim rims deep. Jimy grips hair, bucks, screams. Jets flood—thick, hot, endless. Gulped. He collapses, spent.
