Sin in Algiers

by Roland Graeme

  “Hurry,” Tarik groaned. “You have gotten me too excited. I can’t wait much longer. I can’t hold back for very long!”

  A sex madness seemed to take possession of them both. Nigel’s mouth burned. He was in the grip of some fierce hunger which only the cock in his mouth could satisfy. He was scarcely capable of conscious thought. Certainly, he no longer entertained any notions about the rightness or wrongness of what he was doing. Guilt was a concept which now meant nothing to him. All that he cared about was the pleasure he was giving his handsome young lover and the indescribable joy he too was experiencing as he sucked Tarik’s cock.

  “Suck me!” Tarik demanded. “Ah, suck me harder, you beautiful Englishman! I am about to come.”

  His hips were driving up at Nigel’s face, his cock hammering in and out of Nigel’s tightly clenched lips. Nigel moved his head faster, his mouth emitting loud gurgling and smacking noises. Suddenly Tarik’s thighs tightened with an iron grip around his cocksucker’s head and the Algerian shouted as he began to ejaculate. The first hot squirt of his semen took Nigel by surprise. He almost choked trying to swallow it. Nigel pushed his mouth all the way down on Tarik’s erupting cock and he held it firmly within his oral grip as the Algerian shot again and again filling Nigel’s mouth and throat with his slimy fluid.

  When at last the flow had ceased and his prick was going limp inside Nigel’s still-nursing mouth, Tarik relaxed the tension in his legs and he urged Nigel to lift his head.

  “Come here,” Tarik whispered.

  Nigel pulled his lips from the other man’s cockhead and swallowed the last wad of sperm which he had sucked from it. Had to cough as the thickness caught in his throat, but he felt an enormous sense of accomplishment as he lay beside Tarik and pulled him into his arms, hugging him tightly.

  “That was wonderful, Tarik!” he gasped.

  Tarik’s arms tightened around him and the two men kissed, tenderly, lingeringly.

  “I, too, enjoyed it,” Tarik said.

  “I am curious about something.”

  “Yes?”

  “That boy, Saim. Is he your catamite?”

  “My catamite? What an extraordinary expression. Saim is my servant.”

  “But do you have sex with him?”

  “Of course. Whenever no one better is available. The man is a fool, but he has his uses. He is skilled at using his mouth and tongue, and his ass is good to fuck. Do I shock you?”

  “No. And the girl, Damali?”

  “She is an idle slut. She has many lovers, but I must confess, I don’t know what they see in here. She is so lazy that she can scarcely be bothered to move, when a man is on top of her, plowing away. When I am in the mood for a woman, I prefer one who is much more energetic and appreciative.”

  “Now you have shocked me, Tarik,” Nigel teased the other man. “You are even more wicked than I had thought.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. I may have further surprises in store for you. But now we will rest, for an hour or so,” Tarik declared. “The afternoon is hot. Sleep,” he urged softly, stroking his hands up and down Nigel’s perspiring back. “Sleep—”

  “Yes, I think it might be very pleasant to take a little nap. Here, with you—”

  “With none other. In my embrace, in my arms—”

  “Yes—you rogue—”

  They drifted off to sleep together, their naked bodies slumped intimately against another, oblivious for the moment to the outside world.

  Chapter Nine: The Lieutenant’s Tale

  “There is a message for you, monsieur,” the desk clerk told Nigel, one morning.

  “Thank you.”

  Nigel took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a visiting card—Lieutenant Pascal Daumier’s.

  The Frenchman had written on it, May I call at the hotel today at noon and take you to lunch? He had added an address, in the Rue des Derviches, or the Street of the Dervishes, which sounded very exotic to Nigel.

  Nigel asked the desk clerk for a piece of notepaper and an envelope. I will be delighted to accept your kind invitation, he wrote. He folded the note and placed it inside the envelope, which he addressed.

  “Please have this delivered at once,” he told the clerk.

  “Certainly, monsieur.”

  The Frenchman arrived at the hotel promptly, a few minutes before the stroke of twelve.

  “How good to see you again!” Nigel exclaimed.

  “And I am glad you are free. You look well, Mr. Cheney. Does this climate agree with you?”

  “I’ve enjoyed my visit here, so far.”

  “Ah, you are a refreshing change from some visitors, who find nothing here to praise, but much to complain about. I am hungry,” Daumier admitted. “Are you?”

  “Famished.”

  “That’s a good sign. One of the things those visitors I mentioned complain about is that they have no appetite, because of the heat. Have you had an opportunity to sample any North African cuisine?”

  “No. I might as well still be in Paris. I’ve had some fine meals, but it’s all been French cooking.”

  “The native Algerians know how to eat well, too. If you are curious—?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I know a café, not far from here, that serves an excellent couscous, among other fare. Shall we go there?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The café was patronized entirely by men. One table was occupied by a group of French soldiers, who acknowledged Daumier’s arrival by rising and saluting him. The other customers were mostly Arabs—who wore European suits, and seemed prosperous.

  “Will this place do?” Daumier asked.

  “Oh, yes. Although—I had expected something more exotic,” Nigel confessed.

  “Here, the exoticism is confined to the menu,” his companion explained. “This is the sort of café where the local businessmen take their lunch. They will linger over their plates and their coffee, while they talk business with one another.”

  “Where are the women?”

  “The native women are at home at this time of the day. And it is unusual for an Algerian lady to eat in a public house, unless she is traveling. Some hotels and restaurants here have separate dining rooms, for the ladies. And this place is not quite elegant enough to suit a European woman. The advantage is that we may smoke, and talk freely, without having to worry about offending anyone.”

  They ordered—salad, the couscous, fruit, and a bottle of wine.

  The Frenchman sat back and smoked a cigarette. A somewhat secretive smile creased his handsome features.

  “You seem lost in thought,” Nigel observed. “What are you thinking about?”

  “To be honest, Mr. Cheney—about you.”

  “Am I so interesting?”

  “Yes. And I will tell you why. It is because you have changed. You are no longer quite the same young man I met at sea.”

  “I have changed? But that is impossible. We first met only a few days ago.”

  “Still—”

  “In what way have I changed?”

  “Well, already you have some color in your face and hands, from exposure to the sun. But that’s not what I meant. This place has begun to take hold of you, has it not? I have seen it happen before. It happened to me, when I first came here. Life here has its own pace, and it is a relaxed one. Even when you see people going about their business, they may be active, but they are rarely impatient. They don’t allow themselves to be rushed. It can be a little frustrating at times for us Europeans, who have been raised to think that speed and efficiency are always virtues.”

  “So I’ve slowed down? Is that it?”

  “Yes. You seem more relaxed. Less fixated upon some goal. More willing to enjoy whatever pleasures the passing moment may have to offer.”

  “I don’t think I have been idle, but I must confess that—yes, I have been enjoying myself.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I must confess to you, Lieutenant Daumier—”

 
“Yes?”

  “Oh, nothing. A passing thought.”

  “Don’t hesitate to share it with me. You may think of me as your father confessor,” the soldier joked.

  “Well … I am curious … I suppose that many of the French soldiers, stationed here in Algeria, far away from their homes—”

  “Yes?”

  “They must be lonely. And, being men, they must have some outlet for their masculine needs.”

  “They must have sexual satisfaction, in other words. They must fuck.”

  Nigel blushed. “You are rather blunt, Lieutenant Daumier, but that is indeed what I am curious about.”

  “Soldiers fuck, as surely and inevitably as they breathe.”

  “They no doubt make use of the women here.”

  “They fuck the whores. Really, Mr. Cheney, there is no need for you to varnish your speech. Not when you are with me, certainly.”

  “I cannot help experiencing some embarrassment, as we discuss so explicit a subject. I am well aware of the role that prostitutes play, in gratifying the needs of military personnel. What particularly interests me is how soldiers satisfy their animal urges—”

  “Yes?”

  “When no women are available.”

  “Nothing could be simpler. They turn to one another.”

  “Do you speak from observation only, or from your personal experience?”

  “From both.” Daumier smiled. “Shall I tell you another one of my stories?”

  “Please do.”

  “Let us order something sweet for dessert, and have more wine. We will imitate the Algerians, by lingering over our lunch.”

  “Very well,” Nigel agreed.

  Daumier waited until the dessert was brought to their table. Then he drank some wine, and, smiling at his companion, he began his tale.

  “Once, Mr. Cheney, there was a young French soldier, stationed here in Algiers. Let us call him Pascal, which is as good a name as any other. He had recently been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, and he was quite pleased with himself as a result.

  “He had made a few conquests of silly young women, who were dazzled by the sight of a man in uniform. As a result, our lieutenant had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he felt smugly superior to those of his comrades in arms who availed themselves of the services of the city’s prostitutes. It never occurred to him that he might ever care to extend his erotic explorations beyond the female sex.

  “We have spoken before about the Spahis. One of these men served beside Pascal, and he had become the Frenchman’s special friend. This Algerian’s name was Soliman, and between the two men there developed a deep, almost brotherly, intimacy, which gave both of them a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction.

  “Soliman was a magnificent figure of a man, tall, lean, but muscular. And he was handsome. He was of so dark a complexion that he was almost coal black, and Pascal—who, to his credit, had no prejudices about skin color—thought of him as a black Hercules or a black Adonis.

  “Their regiment received orders to leave Algiers and march south across the Sahara, to occupy a remote fortress in the midst of the desert. The journey required many days of tedious marching under the hot sun, and nights spent sleeping out in the open under the stars. When they finally arrived at their destination, the soldiers were dismayed by what they found. Their new post scarcely deserved to be called a shelter, let alone a fort. It was an ancient structure of stone and bricks, which had fallen into ruin. The square tower, two stories high, lacked a roof—that had fallen in years before, and had never been replaced. Nestled against the tower’s outer walls were a few small outbuildings. Nearby was an oasis, with a few palm trees and the all-important well. But that was all. In every direction, wherever one looked, there was nothing to be seen except the vast expanses of sand and the distant horizons. There were no native villages in the neighborhood—and, of course, no women.

  “Stoically, the soldiers settled into their new quarters, and made the best of things. Left to their own devices, men can be good housekeepers. Tidying up the fort, and making such small improvements to the living arrangements as they could, kept them occupied and helped to fend off boredom.

  “Lieutenant Pascal was leaning against the low outer wall of one of the outbuildings one afternoon, smoking a cigarette, and gazing idly out over the desert. Two soldiers happened to be loitering in the shade around the corner. From where he stood, Pascal couldn’t see them, nor were they aware of his presence. But he could overhear their conversation.

  “Both of these enlisted men were young louts from the French countryside, who only a few months previously had no doubt been shoveling manure on their families’ farms. They had scarcely had enough time in which to adjust to the discipline of military service, let alone to the rigors of life in Algeria.

  “‘Are there no women anywhere near this accursed place?’ one of the young men grumbled.

  “‘None,’ his companion assured him.

  “‘I think I shall go mad with lust.’

  “‘I feel the same way. But I don’t intend to remain frustrated for long.’

  “‘No? How do you intend to relieve yourself?’

  “‘With my fist, of course. What do you think your hand is for?’

  “‘Masturbation—that is childish stuff. That’s for schoolboys, who haven’t yet learned that their pricks are good for more than pissing with.’

  “‘Well, a hand job is better than nothing. Tonight, when everyone is lying down on his bedroll, and the lamp is blown out—I’m going to wank the hell out of my prick.’

  “‘But what if someone hears you doing it?’

  “The first man emitted a snort of contempt. ‘What are you, thick? I won’t do it inside the tower. I’ll sneak outside and find a nice quiet place to lie down in the dark and play with myself, without being interrupted.’ He paused. ‘Want to join me?’

  “‘Are you joking?’

  “‘Not at all. You can slip outside with me—and we can do it together. Or—we can do it to each other. You know, trade hand jobs,’ the rogue specified, as though he doubted his friend’s level of comprehension. ‘Or,’ he added, lewdly, ‘you can wank mine while I wank yours. That way, we can shoot off our loads together.’

  “‘But what if we get caught?’

  “‘We won’t get caught. Not if we’re careful. Don’t be such a baby. So—do you want to do it, or not?’

  “‘All right. I can’t go through another night without dropping a load.’

  “‘Tonight, then. As soon as the lamp is blown out.’

  “Pascal threw his cigarette away, and walked off.

  “He was suddenly, inexplicably agitated, as a result of what he had heard. On the surface, he was amused. Two brawny young soldiers, arranging a clandestine nocturnal rendezvous, so that they could masturbate together—like a couple of naughty schoolboys, indeed! Technically, what they were planning to do was a breach of military discipline. But Pascal was worldly enough to dismiss it as an extremely minor infraction, one that was hardly worthy of an officer’s attention.

  “At the same time, though, he now felt restless—and frustrated. He was a sensual man by nature, and the conversation he had overheard had reminded him, forcefully, that he had gone without any form of sexual relief since the regiment had left Algiers.

  “To distract himself, he sought out the company of his friend, Soliman. The Spahi was in the oasis, seated under one of the palm trees.

  “‘You’re making good use of what little shade there is here,’ Pascal remarked, after greeting the other man.

  “‘Yes. And I don’t come out here only during the daytime. Even after nightfall, it seems cooler under these trees, somehow. I like to sleep here, at night.’

  “‘Do you?’

  “‘I spread out my bedroll, right here.’

  “‘I ought to join you, one night.’

  “‘Please do so. Tonight, if you wish. We can talk, before we go to sleep. It will be very pleasant.’


  “And so Pascal, like the two enlisted men, now had a tryst to look forward to.

  “That night, he and Soliman, carrying their bedrolls, slipped quietly out of the tower. They were barefoot in the sand, and made no noise. Suddenly, as they passed the open doorway of one of the outbuildings, they heard a muffled groan coming from the dark interior of the structure. With soldiers’ instinct, both men stopped in their tracks, wary and alert.

  “‘What is that sound?’ Soliman whispered.

  “Even as he spoke, another noise—a breathless grunt, this time—emerged from the outbuilding.

  “Pascal guessed at once what they must be hearing. It was those two young rascals pleasuring themselves—and each other. ‘Never mind,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s only two of the men—masturbating.’

  “He heard Soliman suppress a burst of laughter. ‘Masturbating? Together?’

  “‘Yes. I overheard them, earlier today, planning it. Not that I can blame them. Come.’

  “He led Soliman away from the fort, to the oasis. There, they spread out their bedrolls, side by side, and then they stripped naked. Lying down, they drew blankets over their legs and groins, leaving their torsos bared. The warm, dry night air felt good on Pascal’s exposed skin.

  “Now Soliman did allow himself to giggle, with boyish glee. ‘Masturbating!’ he chortled.

  “‘The men miss having access to women,’ Pascal said. ‘And they have certain needs, which it may not be healthy to try to suppress altogether.’

  “‘True,’ his companion agreed. ‘We all have needs. Needs … and desires.’

  “After that, the two men did not speak for some time. Minutes passed. And then, turning toward Pascal, Soliman reached out and placed his hand on the other man’s bare chest. His palm was warm and damp with perspiration as he rested it on Pascal’s smooth pectoral muscle, and his thumb brushed against Pascal’s nipple.

  “After a moment’s hesitation, Pascal grasped his friend’s hand in one of his own. And, a moment after that, the two men were embracing. Kicking away the blankets which covered their lower bodies, they pressed themselves together, naked flesh against naked flesh. Their cocks, rapidly stiffening, jabbed at each other.