This is my second story I've submitted to nifty; my first is "Taken by My Principal." Looking to receive tips, criticism, and verbal abuse, as I am a lowly, emasculated faggot writing for your pleasure. Please send feedback, however mean-spirited, to jocksub@hotmail.com
My Junior year of college, I went abroad to study in Europe. I guess I was an average undergrad. I was in a fraternity, and I played club rugby and worked out but had been a more serious athlete in high school, football and wrestling. In college it was more about the camaraderie than the sport itself, being one of the guys. I had a relatively steady stream of girlfriends that I never stuck with for too long. I had just turned 21 that year, when my life changed forever.
I was studying in Spain but decided to use the Spring Break there (Semana Santa, the Easter week), to venture to Northern Africa. I had been in Morocco for four days, traveling through the northern cities, Tangiers, Rabat, and now Chefchauen.
Wandering around Chefchauen, I couldn't have stuck out more. I was about 6'1, 185, brown hair blue eyes. As I milled about the marketplace, I realized that I was the only white-skinned figure in the entire city. Weary of the streets, I went into a teahouse. The owners were extremely friendly, thick-eyebrowed men in their mid-twenties who spoke serviceable English. We made small talk, and they told me I had to check out a hamam, a traditional Arab bath.
In the dust and heat, nothing could sound more appealing than stripping down, cooling off and cleaning up. The two men who owned the tea house (seemingly brothers) practically held my hand to the place, a couple of plazas over. As I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed by the strange serenity of the place. It looked as if the entire place had been built into a cave wall. I heard the echo of throaty laughter from the inner chambers. The whole place exuded a languorous tranquility; this was where the men of Chefchauen came to let it all hang out.
The attendant, Aziz, was helpful, showing me to the locker room. He was also profoundly generous; he insisted that he waive the fee, as I was a visiting American, and this was my first time in a hamam. I thanked him again and again, and once he left, stripped down and placed my back pack in the locker. I looked at my nude body in the mirror and liked what I saw; I was lean and cut, with a medium-length, thick penis emerging from a substantial glade of dark brown pubic hair, which curled up in a wide happy trail and spread out over my chest. Ever since going through puberty I took pride in my body hair, as I received it earlier than my peers. It told me I was a man.
I let my mind wander a bit as I looked at the center of my manhood. I did not have the longest dick in the world, but it was nothing to be ashamed of either. I guess it was all relative. Rugby had shown me how sometimes the biggest guys on the field have the tiniest cocks, and likewise, sometimes a guy standing no more than 5'5'' had a dick that made yours look like a child's. One late Friday night at Pike house we had, drunk and uninhibited, taken rulers to our cocks. Mine came in at just under 7 inches. That night, I got flack for being the tallest guy among the five of my friends and yet having the shortest dick, 6 3/4 inches. Again, nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing to be particularly proud of either.
I shook my head out of this reverie and wrapped the towel around my waist. First I walked through the 'cold room,' which had a long pools of frigid water adjacent to the stucco walls. I had to lower my head to pass a tunnel into the "hot room," which was far larger.
I found a place against the wall and reclined. There were four other men in the other room, all old and in their bathing suits. We all were wearing bathing suits, and in fact mine was the longest cut, board shorts to my thigh, but for some reason I felt so naked in front of them. I suppose because they were all grown men, and I was much younger, and white. One man, swarthy and fat, with big bitch-tits covered in black hair, wearing a pair of black briefs, stared at me for a while.
"American?" He finally ventured in uncertain English, to which I affirmed yes. "You get massage, no? Is good. Not like Western massage, but good. Hadif good man, he take care of you." He went on to introduce himself as Hassan.
"You get a massage from Hadif. He take good care of you..." We conversed a little bit more but about trivial things, and I sort of lost track of the time in the steam and echoes of the hammam. I was almost in a trance.
He talked for awhile of his career as a businessman and all the places around the world it had taken him, but I quickly lost his words to their semi-dulect sounds. It was a pretty language in the steam and echoes. I imagined him a distant uncle or grandfather telling me an exotic and vivid story. It nearly put me to sleep. I awoke from my daydream when a man came in, presumably Hadif. He wore just a pair of briefs, older, probably in his 60s, but with a tight body except for his considerable, medicine-ball like gut Apparently Hassan had set me up for a massage as he grunted at me for me to turn over to receive it. I hesitated for a moment as I looked upon him. His big camel dick bulged prominently and he emanated authority. His skin was a gray-tinted brown and though largely hairless, I could see a tarantula lurking in those relatively small briefs. There was something about him, maybe just because I lay at his feet, also only in underwear, that made him seem to have some sort of claim over my body, like a coach or something. He pushed my legs and arms into various intense stretching positions. Sometimes I was worried that the tendons in my thighs might give out or that he might end up pulling my groin. He huddled over me, using his knees to spread my thighs wider and wider. I let out a sharp cry but he just kept stretching them. As he gave me the `massage,' I passively accepted each new development, no matter how strange it was, wanting to embrace this very different cultural experience. I even accepted his strong body odor as part of experiencing the true Morocco.
He had me lay on my back upon the hot, dank floor and began raking across my skin with a brillo-like glove. Everywhere he scraped his hand left a bright red mark on my pale white skin. He smacked my stomach and gestured for me to turn over and face the ground. He raked it over my skin again, and pulled up my bathing suit, not being shy about bringing it over upon my butt cheeks. I complied, spreading my legs slightly wider.
For a long time he alternated between roughly fondling both of my ass cheeks in his bare hand and giving quick stinging swipes with the brillo glove. It almost felt like a spanking. It quickly became too rough and I flinched, crying out lightly. I shook my head and yelled for him to stop but he continued unabated. I attempted to stand, unable to tell him to stop. His hand kept me pinned down to the wet floor. I bit my lip and resolved to take it.
Soon both of his hands were working my ass cheeks. After a week of traveling by foot and sitting on long bus rides, I can't say a massage that focused on my ass wasn't welcome, even if it was coming from a guy. He forcefully kneaded my buttocks like dough, and I even found myself moaning lightly. Something about his character made me lose inhibitions before him, as if there was no way I could possibly hide anything.
I realized that no one had ever touched me like this; maybe that's why I didn't protest when I felt his strong hands yank my suite down to my ankles. Now I was truly naked. But he had made me too relaxed to notice. In fact, I barely let out a peep when I felt his thick thumb knocking at the entrance to my asshole.