“Acting without hesitation or shame now, Pascal seized hold of Soliman’s erect male organ. He wrapped his hand around the dusky-hued shaft, which throbbed fiercely in response to his touch, and he began to pump his fist up and down on it. The two soldiers had often seen each other naked, in the barracks, of course. Pascal knew that Soliman’s penis was impressively large even when it was flaccid. But now Pascal was not only looking at it—he was touching it. Playing with it! And, now that it was turgid, the Spahi’s prick was huge. Pascal gasped in awed appreciation of the massive potency which he held in his hand.
“Grunting, Soliman allowed Pascal to work on him. Then he reached out and boldly took Pascal’s neglected, but painfully swollen, hard-on in his own hand.
“The two men’s fists moved rapidly on each other’s cocks. Their naked bodies were pressed tightly, intimately together now, as they forgot everything except the overpowering excitement of the moment. Tense with anticipation, they brought each other closer to orgasm with each second which passed.
“And then, without warning, Soliman’s dusky manhood began to spurt.
“Pascal was moving his fist as fast as he could on his black friend’s cock. But he, too, was close to coming. His hand jerked roughly, spasmodically, in an irregular rhythm, around Soliman’s hotly pulsating prick. He could no longer concentrate entirely on satisfying his friend as his own excitement surged up inside him—and exploded free.
“He choked back a cry of wild excitement and fierce satisfaction and relief, which erupted from deep in his throat. His cock leaped within Soliman’s firm grasp, so violently that Soliman almost lost his grip on it. Pascal’s rigid penis fired a hot wad of cum up into the air, and then the semen dribbled back down over Soliman’s milking fist. That first emission was followed in a rapid succession by a second spurt of liquid, and then another. The jism shot out hard and fast, drenching the black man’s fist and wrist with the steady flow of white, sticky fluid.
“Pascal, still coming hard, gasped as the other soldier’s hand pulled away from his spurting cock. He looked down and he saw that Soliman was covering Pascal’s own pumping fist with his semen-slippery hand, squeezing Pascal’s fingers more tightly closed around his prick, forcing Pascal to bring him off. Soliman rubbed their thick, creamy white discharges together and spread the mixture over the entire length of his own throbbing prick, as it, too, finally shot its hot, potent load into both their hands. Part of the flow escaped to drip down and wet Pascal’s belly and thighs.
“‘Ah, what a relief!’ Soliman exclaimed. ‘How I needed that!’
“Exhausted by the strain, Pascal led his head fall back onto the bedroll. He stared up at the starry sky, too drained to speak for the time being. Both men’s cocks continued to dribble, allowing Soliman to manipulate the hand which Pascal kept wrapped around his friend’s manly tool, until they were both emptied and their bodies were wet with sweat and their mingled cum.
“So, Pascal thought. This is what those two horny soldiers were doing, over there in the dark. Playing with each other’s stiff pricks … jerking them … making each other come! Childish behavior … schoolboy foolishness! But I’m no better. I just did the same thing. And I can’t deny it. I enjoyed it!
“He felt Soliman rolling over, on top of him, weighing Pascal down with his own body. Soliman’s lips sought and found Pascal’s. The two men kissed. Kissed, not as comrades might kiss, or as brothers in arms, but as lovers.
“That was the first of many such nights, during which the two friends enjoyed each other, in secrecy,” Daumier said, concluding his narrative.
Chapter Ten: A Sandstorm
Caught up in the lieutenant’s tale, Nigel needed a moment in which to catch his breath, before he could react.
“These two friends,” he said, at last. “They became lovers?”
“Oh, yes. Until Soliman was transferred to another regiment. However, they remained in touch, and they were often reunited. The Sahara may be vast, but every soldier stationed in North Africa finds himself back in Algiers, sooner or later.”
“An interesting story,” Nigel remarked. “Of those you have told me so far, I think I enjoyed this one the most.”
“Thank you.”
“But a thought has occurred to me. When we first met—you mentioned that your Christian name is Pascal. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“The lieutenant in your story,” Nigel said. “That was you, was it not?”
“I must admit that he was. Forgive me for speaking of myself in the third person. I didn’t mean to be coy. But … I had no way of knowing how you would react to my tale. I thought you might be shocked, and disgusted. I must say—you do not seem to be.”
“No, I’m not. As I said, I found your story most intriguing. And, now that we are speaking so frankly—”
“Yes?”
“Excuse my curiosity. I can’t help wondering what was going through your mind, while you indulged in these excesses you’ve just described?”
“I thought of nothing except for my desire—no, my absolute need—to have another man’s hot, hard cock in my hand, and—yes—to see and feel it ejaculating. And to spurt out my own seed, as well.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but it seems to me that you abandoned yourself entirely to sensuality.”
“That was indeed the case.”
“And did you regret having done so, afterward?”
“No. Not in the least.”
“But that seems to me to be the most extraordinary thing of all!”
“Nonetheless, I felt no guilt. No shame. Only the wish to repeat the experience, as soon and as often as possible. And,” Daumier added, impishly, “to enlarge upon it, by exploring the many other things which two men can do in bed together.”
“Extraordinary.”
“Ordinaire, in my opinion,” Daumier said, with an indescribably droll, self-deprecating inflection. “Quite ordinaire! Even banal, one might say. Let us look at the situation quite coldly and objectively. I was aroused. I relieved myself, with a willing partner. No harm was done. On the contrary—I felt an immense tenderness and gratitude, toward the other man. Some people might describe him as my accomplice in sin. I prefer to think of him as my comrade in manly pleasure. What we did together—it enriched us both.”
“Your attitude is very enlightened.”
“It is realistic.” Daumier gave the Englishman a rather searching look. “And you, my young friend. Have you never ‘abandoned yourself entirely to sensuality,’ as you put it?”
Some impulse caused Nigel to be less than entirely candid. “Seldom to the degree which you have described. Compared to you, I feel like a complete novice.”
“Ah, but you are still so young.”
Daumier paid the bill, and the two men left the café.
Glancing up, Nigel was surprised to see that the sky, ordinarily so clear a blue, was overcast and dull. While he and Daumier had lingered over their lunch, the weather had changed—dramatically.
A mass of dark clouds passed over the sun. A gust of wind struck Nigel’s face. Suddenly, the air became turbulent, and charged with particles of sand and dust. The sun emerged from behind the clouds again, only to be once more obscured. A second, and much more forceful, gust struck Nigel like a blow, and his face was stung by a multitude of grains of sand.
“What is this?” he asked his companion.
“It is a sandstorm.”
“Like the one you once told me about, during which you met Monsieur Carnot and heard his story?”
“Yes.”
“Are they common here?”
“Not here in Algiers, compared to out there in the open desert. But they do occur from time to time. This one is not so bad, so far.”
As Daumier spoke, the wind gathered strength, and over the market place a thick fog seemed abruptly to descend. It was a sheet of sand, carried into the city from the surrounding dunes. Nigel saw some shopkeepers hurrying to close the doors and wind
ows of their establishments.
“Will it last long, do you think?” Nigel asked.
“Not long, but while it does, it can be damned inconvenient. Shall we seek refuge somewhere indoors, or shall we tough it out?” Daumier asked.
“We aren’t far from my hotel,” Nigel pointed out. “I say we make a run for it—if we can do so without making too undignified a spectacle of ourselves.”
“Then let’s keep our heads down, and walk at a very fast but suitably dignified pace,” Daumier suggested.
They sprinted through the gale.
Inside the lobby of the hotel, some of the guests stood about in huddles, exclaiming as they observed the violent weather outside.
Nigel and Daumier stumbled through the front door, powdered from head to foot with sand. The desk clerk abandoned his post when he saw them, and he hurried toward them, murmuring apologies and expressions of concern.
“Oh, we’re quite all right,” Nigel informed him, with true English aplomb, as he brushed his sleeves with his hands, sending showers of sand down upon the lobby’s carpeting. He was rather proud of himself for having toughed it out, as Daumier had put it. “Please have tea sent up to my room at once.”
Upstairs, Mornay was aghast at the sight of his master and the lieutenant.
“I’ve ordered tea,” Nigel said.
“You must get out of those dusty clothes at once, sir,” the valet insisted. “And have a hot bath.”
“Both of us had better wash,” Nigel suggested to Daumier. “You remember Lieutenant Daumier, don’t you, Mornay? From the ship?”
“Of course. I will take the lieutenant’s things and brush them,” Mornay volunteered.
“Oh, thank you, Mornay,” Daumier said.
Nigel and Daumier stripped naked, quickly and with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Mornay spirited away their clothes.
“Is my hair as thickly covered with sand as yours?” Nigel asked, when he and Daumier were once again alone together, for the time being.
“I’m afraid so,” the Frenchman replied, with a laugh.
“I believe I’ve inhaled some of the Sahara—and swallowed some of it, as well.”
They retreated into the bathroom, where, a few minutes later, Nigel was soaking in the enameled tub.
“I suppose we could both squeeze in here at once, if we’re careful,” Nigel suggested.
“No, I will just stand here and sponge myself,” Daumier said. He began to do so. “And,” he added, suggestively, “while I give myself a scrubbing, I will admire you.”
Nigel returned the Frenchman’s gaze. Daumier had a fine physique, firmly muscled, with little or no trace of excess body fat. He would have served admirably as an artist’s nude model. Unselfconsciously, Daumier wiped himself from head to foot with the sponge, while Nigel sat in the tub and soaked, allowing the hot water to soothe his limbs.
Nigel heard Mornay bustling about again in the outer room.
“The tea is here,” Mornay reported. “Shall I serve it to you in there?”
“Please do, Mornay,” Nigel told him.
“I have the brandy bottle here, as well, sir. A slug of brandy in each of the cups might not be amiss.”
“You are a jewel, Mornay. A lifesaver. You think of everything.”
“I try to, sir.”
“Leave us, for now.”
“Very good, sir.”
After the valet left the bathroom, Nigel turned his head back toward Daumier. “This seems to me to be extremely sybaritic. Here we are, nude. Sipping our tea and brandy, surrounded by clouds of steam.”
“Yes, it’s very comfortable. And you—you could be mistaken for the emperor Hadrian’s favorite, Antinous, soaking there in that tub.”
“In preparation for an orgy, no doubt,” Nigel joked, boldly. “While you, on the other hand—you are more like a Roman soldier, standing guard at the imperial palace. A centurion.”
“You have a fine body.”
“So do you. Would you like to borrow my dressing gown?”
“No, thank you. The truth is, I enjoy being naked in the presence of other men,” the lieutenant remarked.
“Do you? You mean—with all of you naked, I assume? The other men, as well as yourself?”
“Yes. It’s a common enough occurrence, in military life. In a barracks—and when we go on patrol. There is a camaraderie, you see, among men, when there are no women around to distract them. They can become quite free with one another.”
“I suppose so. The story you shared with me, over lunch, provided me with a vivid example. And does this camaraderie—this comradeship, which you speak of. Does it often take—?”
Seeing Nigel’s hesitation, Daumier prompted him, with a reassuring smile. “Take what, my friend?”
“Does it often express itself in the kind of sensual and uranian activities which you described to me?”
“But of course. That is only natural.”
“Natural!” Nigel exclaimed.
“You seem surprised.”
“Only because—so many people—would describe such attachments as unnatural.”
“Well, such people are ignorant fools,” the Frenchman said, with a casualness which to Nigel seemed most daring. “They condemn what they have not experienced—what they have no direct knowledge of.”
“But you, as you acknowledged during our lunch—you have experienced it.”
“Most certainly.”
“This bath water is getting lukewarm,” Nigel said. “I suppose I had better get out, and dry myself.”
“I will dry you,” Daumier said, with a smile. “I will be your valet. There is no need for you to ring for Mornay.”
Nigel got out of the tub. Daumier took one of the hotel’s thick, soft Turkish towels, and he used it to rub down the Englishman from head to foot.
“You do that very well,” Nigel said.
“The basic principal is not unlike rubbing down a horse,” Daumier joked.
“I wonder whether Mornay has finished brushing off your uniform—and your underclothes?”
“No doubt he has. He strikes me as being extremely efficient.”
“Then we had better get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Well—we can scarcely continue to take our ease in here, in the nude.”
“Why not?”
“You are my guest,” Nigel faltered. “And, somehow—it seems impolite—for me to continue to receive you—naked.”
“Don’t be absurd. Aren’t you comfortable, in my presence, with no clothes on?”
“I am not uncomfortable,” Nigel conceded. “Why don’t we go into the other room? I will refresh the teapot with more hot water—and spike it with more brandy.”
“That will suit me, admirably.”
“I can still hear the wind blowing outside the windows. The sandstorm has not subsided. You cannot return to your quarters. We might as well wait it out, here, in comfort—in privacy,” Nigel stammered.
“That, too, suits me.”
In the main room of the suite, the two men seated themselves, and they drank more tea and brandy.
“This isn’t a bad way to spend an afternoon,” Nigel remarked. “Especially during such unsettled weather.”
“Yes,” Daumier agreed. “Although I can think of a way in which our present situation could be much improved.”
“Oh? How is that?”
“If we got into that bed, which is going to waste over there, and which looks quite comfortable.”
“You want us to go to bed—together?” Nigel asked.
“Yes. Do you find the idea distasteful?”
“Oh, no. Far from it,” Nigel confessed.
“Then I suggest that we delay no longer. Why deny ourselves?”
“Yes, why should we?” His consumption of brandy had reduced Nigel’s inhibitions somewhat.
The two men rose, and Nigel found himself standing there naked, facing the Frenchman.
“I feel a bit awkward,�
�� Nigel said. “I’m not sure … well, I don’t know quite how we should proceed. What do you want us to do?”
“Several things,” Daumier replied, bluntly. “Which have been running through my mind ever since we met. To begin with—you know what fellatio is.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Yes. Of course. I am not altogether ignorant of such matters.”
“I want you to fellate me. Don’t worry. I will reciprocate.”
“It is shameful for one man to do that to another.”
“Ha! You don’t really believe that, do you? You say that only because you have been taught that such is the case. Well, I tell you now—nonsense! I would like you to suck my cock. Cast aside these absurd prohibitions. Suck my cock,” Daumier repeated, in a seductive, persuasive tone of voice, which was undercut by an audible erotic urgency, “and then I will suck yours. Come now, my young English beauty. You know you want to go to bed with me. What prevents you, then? Nothing. Nothing but the cant of society. Nothing but convention. Overcome that. Give in to your own inclinations, to your own desires, and enjoy yourself!”
Daumier’s cock hung heavy and low between his legs, resting against the pouch of weighty balls which dangled beneath its bulk. Nigel stared at the other man’s genitals, as though mesmerized. Daumier saw what Nigel was looking at. A glimmer came to the Frenchman’s eye, and he began to smile—a smile of confidence, and of triumph.
“Don’t be so timid,” he coaxed. “Don’t be afraid.”
Daumier began to walk toward Nigel with the slow, sure tread of a panther stalking its prey. His cock swung slowly from side to side between his thighs as he moved. He stopped just in front of Nigel, with his chest almost touching Nigel’s own pectoral muscles. Without saying a word, the Frenchman reached down and his hand began to rub back and forth over his cock until it began to swell and jerk upward in a steady arc pointing to his belly.
“See what an effect you have upon me,” he whispered. “But you, too … you are getting erect.”
Nigel finally found his voice. “I believe I am,” he gasped. “I can’t help myself.”
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