Browsing through the Badpuppy main model index I came across one of Alexandre Moreira’s models, a guy called Theo, who you will find illustrating this story. He reminded me of a little adventure I had ten years ago in Morocco. He also reminded me that times have changed a lot since then. It would no longer be ‘politically correct’ -- or even wise -- to do what I did in 1998. But in those days I was ten years younger and not at all wiser.
It was an absolutely foul November day, as only a rainy day in Rome can be, and I was in a really foul mood to go with it. My agent called to say they were casting for a Christmas commercial for Spanish tv and needed three wise men. You know the ones that went visiting that famous manger. It was quite an effort for me to shift my butt and battle with the elements and I nearly didn’t make the appointment but I’m glad I did for to my surprise the director ended up choosing me and an Italian actor. Two days later I was basking in the sun by a swimming pool in a five-star hotel complex in the middle of the Moroccan desert. It was great. I had my own individual little villa in a garden of hibiscus. So did the other actors in the commercial. The production company really treated us well.
Early next morning – before dawn -- I was leading a caravan of camels as I was the guy with the gold. The Italian actor had the frankincense and a famous Spanish comic (with all the dialogue) had a mobile phone in his casket instead of myrrh.
Joseph, holding up the phone, says “What’s my son going to do with this?” to which the third wise man replies “What’s he going to do with myrrh?”
It was quite a fun idea actually. Took three days to film and I enjoyed every minute of it.
I spent most of the first day in a kind of enormous bird cage on top of a white camel. They had to shoot the same scene at night. My costume and head dress were too cumbersome to give me much freedom and so I was asked to stay put. In the shade of course. With various minions bringing me food and water. And the camel was allowed to sit down and stretch out.
There was this fair-skinned, dark-haired Arab who pandered to my every whim. He had what we colonial English used to call ‘a touch of the tar brush’ which meant that his mother was probably white but his father most definitely not. He also had what I can only call liquid eyes. They say the eyes are a reflection of the soul but in his case I was sure they were a reflection of his dick. They showed great promise. He also had a soft seductive voice with hardly a trace of accent when he spoke English. In fact he was so refined he could well have been educated in Oxford. And he was so attentive and polite. His name was Ahmed and he was part of the film crew. I never found out which part. But he’d obviously been engaged because of his good manners and impeccable English.
Everybody was speaking French or Spanish or their local dialect so Ahmed and I were marooned on our own little island of English. This gave us a special kind of intimacy although paradoxically he kept his distance and was always very respectful to me. It was as if he didn’t want to overstep the mark – or mask – of formality he had created. In fact he drove me wild with his reserved politeness. Maybe he’d had bad experiences with Englishmen and wanted to keep me at bay because I made it fairly clear from the beginning that I wanted to get in his pants. Or in his case, caftan. I invited him back to my hotel room after dinner but he declined saying he would lose his job. Or perhaps he was just afraid he might lose his male virginity. Whatever. I spent a lonely night thinking of all the wasted opportunities in this desert land. I could have made him blossom like a rose.
The next day was spent entirely in the manger and I didn’t get much chance to talk with Ahmed. Or maybe he was just avoiding me. We wrapped up fairly early as the donkey – I hesitate to say ass --wasn’t co-operating. It was supposed to prick up its ears when it sees the mobile phone. Anyway its mule-like stubbornness gave me a chance to go shopping and seek out another kind of ass and ask Ahmed if he could recommend somewhere I wouldn’t be ripped off. It turned out that friends of his parents had a shop that sold souvenirs for tourists and also some very up-market stuff. He agreed to take me there. I spent more money than I intended as I wanted to please him. They didn’t have one of the caftans in the colour I wanted and he said he’d make sure it was delivered to my hotel later.
Part of the ritual in Arab countries seems to be squatting round a table drinking mint tea. And also eating a lot of sticky cakes. A bit like the ones with honey I’d had in Greece. This was their way of showing hospitality and, in my case, their gratitude for my custom. Ahmed seemed more relaxed in their company. Maybe because he knew I wouldn’t be able to jump on him. But I somehow sensed that deep down he wanted me to jump on him but was hung up on some religious rule or other. Still in some kind of Muslim closet. I stayed for half an hour or so and then excused myself. He walked me back to my hotel but refused to come inside. I thanked him for all his help and handed him my card should he ever want to come to Italy. I wasn’t sure I’d get a chance to be alone with him next day. Later that night the porter called and asked me to collect a package. He said tradesmen weren’t allowed in guests rooms so I would have to come myself. I told him it would only be a matter of minutes and I had to check what I’d bought. It wasn’t convenient for me to come to reception. I’d just had a shower and didn’t want to risk catching a cold walking through the garden in the night air. The porter hummed and hawed, as porters do all over the world, but finally let Ahmed bring it to me. I was overjoyed. I’d given up hope of seeing him again. At least in private.
It was – literally - only a matter of minutes. I had Ahmed’s caftan over his head and his dick in my mouth before he could say good evening. Fortunately he was rock hard and my mouth was moistly soft so he came in record time. Even so, for religious scruples or whatever, he tried to withdraw his golden dick before he climaxed but I wouldn’t let him. I swallowed all his frankincense and myrrh gratefully and just had time to gulp and gasp my thanks before he hurried out of the room. Not a very satisfactory sexual experience but nonetheless I felt gratified. One because his dick was hard – which proved he liked me -- and two because his dick was gorgeous. I didn’t even wash my mouth out after he’d left but made a cocktail of his jizz and a miniature bottle of gin. I played the scene over in my mind as my mouth savoured the taste of him. Liquid eyes and liquid cock. I wondered if I was the first. Probably so, judging from his startled reaction. I slept better that night.
Next day we shot the final scenes and I was given my own special tent as a dressing room. It was so cool in there. Much cooler than my villa and I was enjoying myself immensely. I didn’t have any dialogue to learn and just had to re-act to the camera. I got completely immersed in the role as once again I was waited on hand, foot and finger. Still by mid-afternoon I got pretty stiff standing around waiting for that donkey to play his part.
During a long break, I asked the assistant director if anybody could give me a massage. Of course by ‘anybody’ I meant Ahmed and lo and behold my wish was his command. I wondered if I’d made it too obvious I had the hots for him but it seemed that massages were quite the order of the day and nobody turned a hair. Nonetheless I felt rather shamefaced as I’d set Ahmed up, so to speak, and was glad I was lying on my stomach when he slipped quietly into my tent. He wasted no time on words and started on my neck and shoulders. It felt so good. Then somehow or other – almost by mutual consent – he got me out of my heavy robes. His fingers were so cool on my bare skin – and butt – and I began to groan contentedly.
“Don’t make too much noise,” is all he said.
He worked his way down to my ankles and began to massage my feet. I’d never had anybody massage my feet before. Then he built up the pressure as he moved up my legs. One at a time. He was so good and so thorough that I began to hallucinate. Three days ago I’d been feeling more than a little down and depressed. Now I was walking, or rather floating, on air.
He lifted up my left leg so he could get his fingers under it and I rolled onto my side to help him in his task. He massaged my upper thigh and then smoothed part of my stomach and chest with the palms of his hands. He brushed past my balls as he changed legs and sent my right side to heaven. Soon he was rubbing me up and down as if he were jerking my body off. I’d never had a sensation quite like it. I was fully erect but he completely avoided my dick and balls and concentrated on other parts of me, including my butt, until I was almost bleating with untold pleasure.
“What are you doing to me?” I said, unable to believe what I felt.
“It’s called a fucking massage,” he said.
“Fucking hell!” is all I could say in reply.
He hadn’t penetrated me. Yet. But I felt just as though he had.
“We’d better stop,” he said, “Otherwise they’ll be coming to see what we’re up to.”
“Don’t stop,” I said, tears beginning to fill my eyes. Tears of joy.
“I’ll just give you a taste of what’s to come,” he said and lay down on top of me.
I could feel his gorgeous dick seeking out my butt crack and I’d never wanted to be fucked so bad. He rubbed his generous ten inches up and down me until I almost came in my pants. Only I wasn’t wearing any pants. Then he slipped out of the tent as quietly as he had come in. I came without even touching my dick. It was the most mental massage I’d ever had and he’d driven me almost mental with it. I didn’t know where or how I was going to see him again but there had to be a way.
I wanted to pick myself up, brush myself down and start all over again but I had to finish the tv commercial. Finish what I’d started. In more ways than one. Anyway, the rest of the filming went very well and we had a little party and a great dinner afterwards. The director thanked us all and was obviously pleased with the results. Even the donkey had co-operated. Eventually.
Ahmed kept his distance during the party. I consoled myself by thinking he probably didn’t want people to become aware of the complicity that had developed between us. Fortunately, just as I was losing hope, he passed close by me and whispered, “Leave your window open.”
I felt a tingle run up and down my spine. Where he himself had been only that afternoon. I felt just like a silly schoolgirl. A blushing maiden waiting for her Lothario to slip between her sheets. And then between her legs. Or like a character out of the Arabian Nights. I lay there trembling. Long after mid-night. Eager to have him continue our bedtime story. I didn’t exactly know how my ass was going to accommodate his ten inches but I had lots of lube on hand just in case.
I think I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew was the feeling of his gorgeous cock working its way into the cleft of my ass. His magic fingers were kneading my butt cheeks even more insistently than earlier that day. Or more exactly the previous day. But who cares about time and accuracy when you’re about to get the fuck of a lifetime.
“I wanted you to suck me off like you did the first time,” he said, “But it’s too late now.”
I was at once moist at the thought of him and with a combination of spit and pre-cum – both his and mine – he plowed his way along the furrow of my being. I groaned with impure pleasure and thrust myself wantonly against him. No use reaching for the tube of lube at my bedside. By now, I was beyond salvation and lubrication. My undulating ass had made his ten-incher even harder and more unforgiving and I felt its mushroom head oozing into me, bursting the banks of my bulging butt. I reached out behind me to massage his balls, trying to ease his way along my tight passage, doing my best not to scream as he tore me apart with the girth and thrust of his dick. A searing sheet of flame shot right through me galvanizing my gut. Tears once more filled my eyes as he filled me to the brim. Tears of pain merged with pleasure. A heady mix of agonizing ecstasy.
“Fucking hell,” I howled.
“Relax,” he said.
“Easier said than done,” I panted.
But then my senses started swimming and my bones melted to jelly and I let go with the flow of him. This time he didn’t avoid my dick as he had during that divine massage but jerked me off to the steady rhythm of his thrusts. I can’t begin to describe the tsunami wave of joy we rode together or how wonderfully long it lasted. Or the supersonic splash as we finally came. This time it was his turn to say “Fucking hell” as, after what seemed an eternity, he let out a moan and his cock spasmed inside me and a flood of hot liquid engulfed me. My dick more than filled the palm of his hand too.
We lay there in silence. Both of us suddenly shy. Overwhelmed by what had happened to us. Absolutely tongue-tied. Feelings unspoken. Things unsaid. Love undeclared.
Then we cleaned up and had a shower. He wanted to leave but by that time he was hard again and I went down on him as I had the first night. Not furtively and fleeting this time but long and lingering like the sad look in his liquid eyes when he finally left. But not before he’d given me another body jerk massage and I’d come all over him. This time he spoke.
“I didn’t want to be your boy toy,” he said.
“You’re not.” I re-assured him.
“I know that now,” he said and kissed me.
His kiss surprised me. First because he’d finally lowered his reserve and secondly because I’d been told Arab men never kiss. It was strangely tender and sweet and tasted of mint tea and honey cakes.
Naturally I responded but didn’t know what to say. Once again there was a meaningful silence of things unsaid between us but his gaze was so intense I almost drowned in the dark pool of his eyes.
“We need each other,” he said finally.
“I know.” I replied as I accompanied him to the door.
He never came to Rome and I never went back to Morocco. It wasn’t a case of out of sight out of mind. I think of him a lot actually. Especially when I see Christmas cards with those Three Wise Men riding majestically along on their camels and I still grow hard when I remember the bumpy, humpy ride he gave me that unexpectedly hot November ten years ago. Not to mention his soulful eyes. And his dick. A liquid oasis in the middle of a dry Arabian desert.
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