Sin in Algiers

by Roland Graeme

  “I was bold enough to ask him why he did not sell up and return to France himself. He replied that there was nothing for him back there. He might as well be miserable in Africa as in Europe. A lassitude had taken hold of him. He had given up on life.

  “Outside, to my relief, the wind had subsided somewhat. My host and I lingered over our refilled glasses. He had taken me into his confidence, and now he continued his story—or rather he backtracked a bit.

  “Nearly a year had passed since his wife had disappeared, leaving that note behind. It was an afternoon of fiery heat. Shortly before sundown, Carnot heard the sound of drums being beaten and the shrill warble of African pipes, along with the snarl of camels.

  “He was inside the inn—in the same room where he and I were seated as we drank and talked—and little Margot, who was still a toddler, was playing outside, near the well, where her father could keep an eye on her through the open window. From the distant sounds, which grew steadily louder and nearer, Carnot knew that a caravan was approaching. They always stopped to take water at the well, if for no other reason, and so he came out of the inn to greet them.

  “Little Margot was excited by the sight, and for good reason. It was, Carnot told me, as large a caravan as he had ever seen. There must have been a hundred camels, horses, mules, and donkeys all together, along with Kabyle dogs and goats. The music played the whole time, and a Caïd’s flag flew proudly at the front of the procession. There were square packs on some of the camels—and veiled women sat and rode on the packs.

  “When they got to the well the men made the camels kneel down so that the women could dismount—and then one of the women, when she was standing on the ground, caught sight of Margot standing there, with her little hand raised and shading her eyes from the sun. The woman let out a choked cry behind her veil. She ran toward the little girl, whom she called out to by her name—Margot.

  “Carnot recognized that voice.

  “He too ran to his daughter, seizing her by the arm and dragging her away, before the veiled woman could touch her. In a rage, he took Margot into the inn and shut her up in a side room. The poor child, unable to comprehend the reason for her father’s sudden violence, began to scream and cry.

  “In such an isolated place, a man keeps his firearms handy. Carnot found his revolver, and he went back outside. There, no one had moved. The Arabs, men and women alike, stood there, frozen in a tableau. None of them even reacted, to all outward appearances, to the sight of the Frenchman with his revolver in his hand.

  “Carnot took several steps toward his wife.

  “None of the Arabs made a move to intervene. They stood there, mute. They knew the history of the veiled woman who was traveling among them, as one of their companions. They understood the significance of this unexpected reunion. None of them would think of disputing the husband’s absolute right to put his errant wife to death. For better or worse, this was one unwritten law which the European and African cultures had in common.

  “The woman, too—she who had once been Madame Carnot—she stood there, with her face still veiled and her hands at her sides, not attempting to run away, or even to defend herself. She awaited her fate.

  “After a moment, Carnot raised the revolver and fired a shot—harmlessly, into the air.

  “Then he turned his back and went back into the inn. His daughter was still screaming in terror, and he had to console her.

  “When he next ventured outdoors, the camels and the other beasts had been watered, and the caravan had moved on. Quiet prevailed. It was as though the incident had never taken place.

  “Carnot’s wife was now one of the Caïd’s women—one of his concubines. Was she—like the former Mademoiselle Pauline—happy, or was she wretched? Did she feel remorse? Who can tell? Would it have better for her in the long run had Carnot’s bullet found its mark? Who knows?

  “When his daughter was old enough to understand such things, Carnot lied to her. He told Margot that her mother was dead.”

  Nigel was silent for a moment.

  “A sad story, as you warned me it would be,” he finally remarked.

  “Yes, I am afraid so.”

  “Well, you’ve told me a great deal about the frailties of women,” Nigel remarked. “What about the frailties of men?”

  “Oh, that would require an entire encyclopedia. But it’s late. I think, with your permission, I shall retire.”

  “And so shall I. Thank you, lieutenant, for a most entertaining evening. If Scheherazade had a French cousin, he could scarcely surpass you as a spinner of tales.”

  Daumier laughed. “Thank you for the compliment. But that is an occupational hazard for us soldiers. When we have no other diversions, we must amuse ourselves by sitting around and sharing stories. Tonight, I have enjoyed myself, as well.”

  The two men agreed that they would see each other in the morning.

  Nigel went below. As always, Mornay had laid out Nigel’s silk pajamas, and after helping his master to undress, the valet took away his discarded garments to be laundered or at least brushed.

  But before he went to bed, Nigel took out his exercise book and entered into it detailed notes about Lieutenant Daumier—describing his personal appearance, his uniform, his manners, and what Nigel had been able to conclude about his character, based upon their admittedly limited acquaintance. He also summarized the two stories Daumier had told him.

  “Now I am really getting somewhere,” he told himself, with satisfaction.

  But a byproduct of his labors was that he was now too mentally stimulated to fall asleep right away.

  He envisioned the two European women Daumier had told him about, in the embraces of their Algerian lovers. He imagined impassioned kisses, naked bodies pressed together, pale flesh writhing against brown flesh, in couplings of the most savage abandon. He dared to go further, and to visualize the male sex organ in a state of the most flagrant erection, performing acts of penetration. Increasingly aroused himself, he feared that sleep would elude him.

  He remembered the books he had purchased in Paris. Taking the parcel out of his luggage, he unwrapped it. Settling himself comfortably in bed with the reading lamp on, he examined the volumes.

  One was a novel in English, titled A French Sailor in a Moroccan Harem. Nigel had chosen it because of its title. Back there in Paris, he had known that he would soon be traveling to Algeria on a French steamship, so the idea of a Frenchman sailing to Morocco seemed close enough to his own situation to be piquant.

  Nigel opened the volume and began to read.

  The book described the somewhat improbable adventures of the captain of a French destroyer. He and his crew found themselves in Casablanca, where they were befriended by a local sultan. Arabs were known for their hospitality, but the sultan was surely exceptional in this regard. Not only did he invite the Frenchmen to stay in his palace as his guests—he opened the doors of his harem to them, and he encouraged his foreign visitors to make use of his women.

  After turning only a few pages, Nigel found himself reading the captain’s account of a full-blown orgy.

  Before we entered the women’s quarters, I called my men together and gave them my instructions.

  “We are guests here in this country,” I reminded them. “And we are indebted to our host for his generosity. You may amuse yourself, to be sure. But while you do so, I expect you to behave at all times like Frenchmen,” I declared. “And like sailors.”

  The eunuchs ushered us through the open doors and into the room.

  What a spectacle of voluptuousness presented itself to our eyes! The women lay upon the luxuriously cushioned divans not only totally nude, but with their bodies arranged in poses of the most provocative abandon.

  After my men saw the feast of female flesh which was awaiting them, they ran up to the beds and would have clasped the women to their breasts. But the sensuous ladies of the harem forestalled them. The sultan’s beauties all leaped from the divans, naked, and they began to undre
ss the men, who were speedily divested of all of their clothing. Then what a scene of lust followed! The men threw the girls back down on the beds, where the houris opened wide their thighs in welcome. The naked sailors then jumped upon them with pricks as stiff as iron rods, which, piercing through the tender folds of the cunts under them, sent joy and pleasure vibrating through the innermost vital parts of the women. I stood there lost in rapt admiration, observing the promiscuous writhing of limbs and the wriggling of backsides.

  Exclamations of the most intense pleasure filled the air. Exchanging hot kisses and amorous bites upon the neck, the sailors and the harem women frigged and rogered themselves into a frenzy. I never before saw men and women fuck with greater zeal, or derive more unashamed enjoyment from the act of lust than these couples did.

  Soon, one by one, the men spent themselves within those fiery cunts, while the women fairly shrieked with delight as they received the virile liquor being poured out into them in such abundance.

  “My word,” Nigel exclaimed under his breath. “And to think how that fellow in Boston had to gall to write that Mater’s novel was indecent!”

  Turning the page, Nigel discovered that the narrator of this lewd little tale was not content to remain a mere spectator. The captain was soon being entertained himself, by one of the alluring harem women.

  We entered the bed together both of us stark naked, and placing her at once in a

  provoking position with a cushion pushed under her large plump bottom, I lay down upon her.

  Guiding the head of my prick with my hand, I tried to insert it between the lips of her slit, but I

  could not succeed. Her quim was too tight, almost virginally so. But she encouraged me with frantic gestures, and I made a further attempt. This time, I breached the gates, although not without difficulty.

  The first three or four times that I entered her I found the fit too tight for the full enjoyment of perfect bliss, as her quim almost tore the foreskin off my pego while I was thrusting, thus causing me pain which detracted from the pleasure.

  I got up, and oiling my rampant cock well with ointment I once again attempted the conquest of the barricade. And this time I triumphed. I entered through the portals and I found her a dish fit for the gods! Heavens! With what transports of delight did I clasp her in my arms as I drove the unyielding arrow of love into the deepest recess of the luscious quivering flesh through which I had forced a passage for it.

  Despite the pain which my forcible entrance into her cunt must have caused her, the

  moment I began working myself back and forth within her, she began rubbing up against me with a vigor, an elasticity, and a shamelessness unusual to find in any woman who was not an experienced resident of some public brothel.

  She possessed a vaginal notch of such a lusciously tight narrowness that even after entering her to the full length, it was only with the utmost difficulty that I could work my manhood in and out of her. But thanks to the suction caused by the tightness with which the flesh constricted itself around my piston rod, I soon threw open the sluice of love’s reservoir. Thence gushed forth a stream of fiery fluid which completely drenched her innermost parts, causing a shudder of pleasure to run through her whole body. Her quakings and quiverings spoke to me more eloquently than words of the joy and ecstasy with which she received my sperm.

  But she too was spending, pouring out the essence of her very soul through her gaping orifice.

  The oiling which her parts had received from the mutual flow of our lust made my possession of her somewhat easier, but she was still very tight. I pummeled away, determined to drive her to orgasm for a second time.

  “This is a very lewd book,” Nigel murmured to himself.

  He felt restless. Once again, he was conscious of a telltale stirring in his loins. On this occasion, though, he saw no reason to deny himself.

  Holding the open book in his left hand, he employed his right hand to open the sash of his pajamas and extract his penis from the folds of the silken trousers. His manhood rivaled that of the fictional captain’s in its rigidity and its need for relief. He began to treat himself to a brisk, thorough wank.

  Grunting, he turned a few pages of the volume which had driven him to this act of self-abuse. His eyes fell upon a passage at random.

  Nigel was startled to see that the captain’s sexual exploits were apparently not confined to women. The randy Frenchman was now disporting himself with one of the male slaves who served as the harem guards. And this particular slave was certainly no eunuch. Why, with so many willing women on the palace premises, the captain chose to indulge in the forbidden sins of Sodom and Gomorrah, was a mystery to Nigel. But perhaps it was explained in the pages of the narrative which he had skipped.

  The Nubian was a brawny black Hercules, possessing a muscular physique which might have been carved from ebony, and a prick of such awesome dimensions that it seemed to me to be taurine rather than human.

  Imagine my astonishment when this brute indicated to me, by means of guttural exclamations and lewd gestures, that he wished to be my catamite, and that his behind was at my complete disposal. He wished to be used as one uses a woman.

  Getting on the bed, I placed my victim in the best position, belly down. I got on top of him, and giving a bunch of switches to one of my men, I directed him to lash my backside with them while I fucked the black man. To have myself flogged during the act of intercourse never failed to spur my lust, and inspire me to heroic feats of fornication.

  I took hold of my battering ram, aimed it between the Nubian’s buttocks, and I strove to force an entrance. The head went into him, and the soft flesh of his puckered anal aperture yielded to my fierce thrusts. I drove in more forcefully. The slave howled with pain, and his powerful body shook beneath me as though caught up in the tremors of an earthquake, but I heeded him not. His outcries were music to my ears. They told me that I was about to arrive at the seat of bliss.

  I thrust still harder. His body gave way to me. The lashing on my buttocks seemed to give me a double portion of potency, and one fierce lunge sent my prick into the furthest extremity of his anus.

  Ah, how can I describe the obscene pleasure of taking another man, in this, the most intimate and indecent way possible! The manly brute, who was strong enough to crush me in his arms had he chosen to do so, lay passively under me, submitting to my assault upon his anus. No female whore could have submitted so unreservedly to my prick.

  I rogered him like a demon, mad with desire. All the while, my trusty sailor wielded the bunch of switches with relentless strokes from his brawny arm, whipping my behind.

  “Does his black ass feel the same as a white man’s, around your cock, sir?” my man inquired.

  “All cats are gray in the dark,” I panted, by way of reply. “And all men’s asses are alike. Whip me harder. As hard as you can!”

  He scourged my ass without mercy.

  I shouted, as the pain burned through my entire body, like liquid fire.

  At the same moment I spent the juice of my body into the Nubian. My fluid oiled the tender flesh of his well-fucked hole with such a stream of burning sperm as never a catamite sucked from a man before. I thought that my very prick and balls were dissolving into the pearly liquid which I expelled.

  After resting myself on his broad dusky back for a few moments, I found that my battering ram was prepared for another assault. And so I fiercely drove my weapon once more into the breach.

  He lay under me and moaned in his pleasure and pain. I buggered him without cease, putting myself through a good deal of hard work in my determination to satisfy my partner and myself.

  God of voluptuous love, what a heat reigned through his body! How lusciously did the sweet flesh of his anus clasp itself around my rod!

  He wriggled his behind under me. He caught the fever that ran through me. Quickly, he heaved up to me to meet my fierce lunges as I drove my foaming steed through the gap between his buttocks and deep into the chasm. The b
ouncing of his bottom almost threw me out of the saddle.

  All the while, the sailor lashed my buttocks with the switch. Groaning, gasping for breath, I commanded him to whip me harder, and without cease. Perspiring from his exertions, the lad obeyed.

  I sodomized the black man with the utmost relish. He accepted my abuse of him. He seemed to exult in it.

  I felt that he was coming. Ah, my God, it was true. He was spurting—he was spending! The sperm emerged from him in a shower. I, too—yet again—I began to spend! The seed flowed from me, and flooded the depths of his bowels, which constructed themselves around my pego in helpless spasms.

  We swam in a perfect sea of voluptuousness which was truly extraordinary. The mind of man cannot imagine, a pen cannot describe, such an intoxication of delight. I experienced pleasure wrought up to the pitch almost of agony, a bliss which was inexpressible, as I emptied my prick in his ass.

  “Now, you,” I instructed my loyal and hard-working sailor. “Now it is your turn. Bugger me as I have just buggered him. Put your prick in my ass!”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” he replied, as he prepared to mount me, with the greatest enthusiasm.

  I shouted with delight as his lusty young prick pierced my sphincter and forced its way dep into my anus, sending a burning heat through my flesh.

  “Bugger me,” I demanded. “Bugger me, my boy! And you,” I gasped, addressing the Nubian. “Give me your manhood, in my mouth. I want to suck upon your big, black cock while my friend fucks me.”

  “Vile,” Nigel gasped. “Absolutely vile!”

  He flung the book aside. Lying back on the pillows, he closed his eyes and concentrated upon the task at hand.

  Tightening his grasp upon his swollen member, Nigel began to stroke himself much more energetically.

  The lurid sodomitical fiction which he had just read had inflamed his passion to the boiling point.