Sin in Algiers

by Roland Graeme

  “Now, sir?” Mornay asked. “In the middle of the morning?”

  “What difference does the time of day make?”

  “It seems indecent, somehow, to fuck while the sunlight is coming in through the windows.”

  “We can draw the drapes, then,” Nigel suggested, impatiently. “Come now, Bernard. Since our arrival here in Algiers, I have become much more open-minded about such things. And I believe you have, too. You and Tarik and I—the three of us are good friends. There’s no need for us to be prudish in one another’s company. Get your clothes off. I’m still feeling quite randy. I am confident I will be able to rise to the occasion again.”

  Grinning, Bernard undressed.

  He joined the other two men on the rumpled bed. There, immediately, both Nigel and Tarik took hold of him. For the next few minutes, all three naked bodies rolled and heaved and humped on the soft mattress, forming a variety of complicated patterns. Sliding their dicks up against one another, the three men squirmed, kissed, and rubbed one another in a fury of unleashed lust.

  Eventually, Nigel got astride Tarik, facing his feet, in the sort of position which would ordinarily be conducive to an act of sixty-nine. Putting his hands underneath the small of the Algerian’s back, Nigel quickly slid his fingers into the sweat-slippery ravine between his ass cheeks. Opening his legs wide in invitation, Tarik lifted them into the air, enjoying the probing fingers which were now entering his heated asshole. Soon, Nigel was relentlessly finger-fucking the handsome guide’s anus. Reaching up, Tarik caught hold of the Englishman’s stiff, slippery rod as it wavered just above his head, and he bent it toward his open, panting lips. As he did so, he felt Nigel’s mouth close again over his own cock knob, and he opened his legs wider, allowing another finger to enter is expanding asshole. Tarik gagged as the pulsating tool dug deep into his throat, filling it with his bulk, but he held on and he started to suck Nigel while Nigel sucked him and fingered his asshole.

  Bernard, meanwhile, was on his knees just behind Tarik’s head, with Nigel’s buttocks invitingly stuck up in the air directly in front of his face. Eagerly, Bernard bent forward and stuck his tongue boldly up into his employer’s butt, tasting and licking the residue of Tarik’s jism in the hole which Tarik had just fucked so thoroughly, only a few minutes previously. Lewdly, Bernard used his tongue to swab out his master’s bunghole. Nigel, feeling the hot wet tongue probing his anus, pushed his cock harder into Tarik’s mouth—and he sucked even faster on Tarik’s thick cock, his fingers urgently manipulating the Algerian’s asshole. Bernard now had his face completely buried between Nigel’s ass cheeks, and at the same time he was rapidly masturbating himself, making his swollen tool throb with excitement.

  Tarik’s legs waved wildly in the air as Nigel sped up his sucking and fingering, sucking avidly on the shaft which filled his own mouth and throat, Tarik felt himself trembling on the brink of another orgasm. But then, just in time, Nigel took his mouth off Tarik’s pulsating prick, and Tarik let his legs fall back onto the mattress with a thump. In another second, he would have shot a second load into the depths of Nigel’s throat.

  The three men broke apart, only to reconfigure their bodies.

  Before too many more minutes passed, Tarik found himself lying face down on top of Bernard, with his prick buried deeply into the lustful Swiss man’s insatiable asshole.

  “Ah!” Bernard yelped. “You dirty bugger! Could your prick be any bigger? Ah, you’re going in so deep. It burns. God damn you!”

  “Shall I take it out?” Tarik asked/

  “Hell, no! Now that you’re in me, you bastard, you may as well finish the job. Fuck me! Fuck me hard! And you, sir,” the valet demanded, addressing his master. “Shove your cock in my mouth. Let me suck you while he fucks me. I want to feel it from both ends.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Nigel declared.

  Chapter Thirteen: A Quartet

  “I can’t believe that three weeks have passed, since our arrival here in Algiers,” Nigel remarked to Bernard.

  The valet smiled. “Nevertheless, they have, sir.”

  “But we have certainly not been idle during this time. I think I have amassed enough material for my mother to make use of.”

  “Mrs. Cheney will be pleased.”

  “I hope so. At any rate, Bernard, we should make our arrangements to return home. In two or three days, perhaps.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Nigel regretted the necessity of parting from Tarik and Pascal. The Frenchman, too, was saddened, when Nigel broke the news to him. But then Pascal brightened.

  “We must make your last evening in Algiers something special,” the lieutenant declared. “A night to remember! We will dine in the finest restaurant in town. All three of you will be my guests—you, Nigel, and Tarik and Bernard. I insist.”

  The farewell dinner was a great success. The meal was excellent, and champagne flowed freely all the while the four men were at the table.

  Pascal and Tarik whispered together.

  “We will not have our coffee here,” Pascal announced. “Tarik has invited us to his house, where he will serve his special coffee, made with ambergris, and where we can smoke.”

  Tarik entertained his guests in the room in which he and Nigel had made love, during Nigel’s first visit to the house. Nigel still questioned whether adding ambergris to the coffee transformed the savory brew into an aphrodisiac. But what Tarik offered his guests to smoke was the familiar blend of tobacco and hashish, and Nigel knew all too well what an effect that could have on a man’s libido.

  “It’s rather warm in here this evening,” Tarik remarked. “My house is yours. Feel free to disrobe, gentlemen.”

  “Yes,” Nigel agreed. “We might be more comfortable if we got undressed.”

  Soon, all four men were nude—and engaging in a variety of lascivious activities.

  Pascal grasped Bernard by the hand and led him to the bed.

  “Suck me,” Pascal suggested, swinging his body into a sixty-nine position on top of Bernard’s and burying his own head between the young manservant’s thighs. “And I will suck you.” His cock touched Bernard’s parted, panting lips. With a moan, the Swiss opened his mouth wider, and he inched his lips down around the Frenchman’s thick, throbbing shaft, until he had all of the big tool inside his mouth.

  Then Bernard began to suck, relaxing his throat and pumping his mouth up and down on the huge, hard cock with the utmost abandon.

  “Look at that,” Tarik murmured. He puffed on the hashish pipe, and then he handed it to Nigel. “Isn’t it exciting to watch?”

  “It certainly is,” Nigel agreed. He, too, inhaled the intoxicating smoke.

  Pascal and Bernard were now sixty-nining in a frenzy of lust, their heads thrust between each other’s legs, their cocks rammed down each other’s throats, and their wet mouths sliding back and forth on each other’s erections. Sucking faster and faster, both of the men breathed desperately through flared nostrils, as the adrenalin-laced blood of heightened arousal pulsed hotly through their bloodstreams.

  Their naked, muscular bodies writhed together on the bed in shameless sexual abandon, sweating, shuddering. It was quite an erotic display, and it had its inevitable effect upon the two onlookers. Tarik and Nigel stood there, passing the pipe back and forth between them. Both men sported unflagging erections; there was no need for them to touch themselves, or each other, to keep themselves fully hard, aroused, and ready for action.

  Nigel set the pipe down, and then he pushed Tarik down onto his knees on the carpeted floor in front of him. With a breathless command of “Suck!” he offered his prick to the Algerian. A moment later, Tarik was busy playing with himself while he fed hungrily on the Englishman’s phallic sausage, working the uncircumcised meat expertly in and out of his mouth and throat. Nigel gripped Tarik’s head between his hands to hold it in place.

  All the while, Nigel’s hashish-dazed blue eyes fixed their gaze upon the lewd spectacle of the two naked m
en on the bed, who continued to feed at each other’s groins, glutting themselves on each other’s stiff dicks.

  Several minutes passed. Then, with obvious reluctance, Tarik eased his mouth off Nigel’s prick.

  “Ah, I am going to miss this cock,” Tarik lamented. “Please, monsieur, let me have it in my behind. Give me one more good fucking, to remember you by.”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  Tarik stood beside the bed. With his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, he bent over and offered his ass to Nigel. Lubricant was already set out, waiting, and in another moment Nigel’s greased dick began to pump in and out of Tarik’s ass like a pile driver. Both men, under the influence of the hashish, and stimulated by the sight of Bernard and Pascal, who were still sucking each other right there in front of them, grunted and bucked their bodies together, with Tarik shoving his butt impetuously backwards to meet and intensify each of Nigel’s penetrating lunges.

  “Ah, you have such a hot, tight ass!” Nigel exclaimed.

  “Thank you, monsieur. Please fuck that hole of mine.”

  “Can’t you bring yourself to address me by my given name, Tarik? You may call me Nigel, you know.”

  “I couldn’t, monsieur. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Nigel giggled. “And what we are doing—that is proper?”

  “I find it delightfully improper. Fuck me harder, if you please.”

  Manfully, Nigel redoubled his efforts, doing his very best to satisfy the Algerian.

  Meanwhile, their friends had interrupted their sixty-nine, and they, too, were engaged in an act of anal intercourse. Pascal lay on his back on the bed with his legs raised and his forearms tucked behind his knees, to hold his legs in place. Bernard knelt between the lieutenant’s parted thighs, and, after availing himself of the lubricant, he probed between the Frenchman’s buttocks with the swollen glans of his rigid penis.

  Pascal wanted to be fucked. Nonetheless, he stiffened with shock when he felt Bernard’s cock stab against his puckered asshole, penetrate the aperture, and slide all the way up inside his anus, filling and stretching the narrow tunnel.

  “That’s right, my boy,” Pascal cried. “Take me! Take my ass! Don’t hold back. Let me feel every inch of your manhood, going deep inside me. Show me how much of a man you are. Fuck! Fuck!”

  “You, too, monsieur,” Tarik begged, as, still bend over from the waist, he exulted in Nigel’s possession of his ass. “Show me how much of a man you are!”

  Chapter Fourteen: The Return to England

  The next morning, when the hour of departure arrived, both Pascal and Tarik accompanied Nigel and Bernard to the dock, to see them off.

  None of the four men had gotten much sleep the night before, after the orgy at Tarik’s house. All four of them were somewhat bleary-eyed and the worst for wear. Nevertheless, they were determined to make their last moments together cheerful ones.

  Nigel paid Tarik the outstanding balance of his fee, and he included a generous tip—and a letter of reference to add to Tarik’s collection of them.

  “Thank you again for your hospitality, last night,” Nigel said.

  “Thank you, monsieur,” the guide responded. “It has been a pleasure to know you, and to serve you. Perhaps you will return to Algiers some day?”

  “I might,” Nigel told him. “The climate here suits me. And I would very much like to explore some of the areas beyond Algiers. It would definitely be a welcome alternative to spending a cold, damp winter in England. And there are so many interesting and amusing things to see—and to do—here. If I do come back, Tarik, I will of course require your services as a guide again.”

  “I will be at monsieur’s disposal.”

  Nigel turned to Pascal. “I hate to have to bid you farewell, Pascal—but I must.”

  “Au revoir, mon ami. I, too, hope that you will return. Both of you,” the lieutenant specified, smiling at Bernard.

  The demonstrative Frenchman impulsively kissed both Nigel and Bernard on their cheeks.

  The voyage to Marseille was uneventful, as was the train journey from there to Paris, and the Channel crossing.

  Nigel sent a telegram, confirming his arrival time. In London, Mrs. Cheney met her son at the train station.

  “Good heavens,” she exclaimed, after she had clasped Nigel in her maternal embrace. “Look at you!”

  “Is something wrong, Mater?”

  “You are as brown as a walnut. You have been negligent, my dear. You have allowed yourself to be exposed to the fierce Algerian sun.”

  “It was unavoidable, Mater.”

  “Nonsense, Nigel. Anything is avoidable, if one sets one’s mind to it. Except for your clothes, you might almost be mistaken for a manual laborer.”

  “I am sorry, Mater. In point of fact, I must say that I think a hint of bronzing from the sun is not unbecoming to a man.”

  Mrs. Cheney’s eyes narrowed. It was most unusual for her son to disagree with her, or to express an opinion of his own.

  She turned her attention to Nigel’s valet, who, with the help of a porter, had brought the luggage.

  “I blame you, Mornay,” she declared, in the stern tone and manner of a queen condemning a traitor to the block. “You too are quite inexcusably brown, I see.”

  “Inexcusably, ma’am,” Bernard agreed, blandly. “I have been negligent.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Cheney conceded. “It is good of you to confess your fault. That speaks in your favor, and mitigates your offense.”

  “Nonsense,” Nigel protested. “Mornay is not at fault. I assure you, Mater, the sun in North Africa is inescapable. It permeates umbrellas, headgear, gloves—even one’s clothing, if the fabrics are light. You must keep that in mind when you describe the male characters in your book,” he added, deftly changing the subject. “In the interests of realism, all of the men in your narrative should be sun bronzed—especially the French lieutenant, and any other soldiers you may write about. We saw many military men in Algiers. They were fine-looking men. I cannot wait to show my notes to you, Mater, and describe my adventures.”

  “Well, let us get home,” Mrs. Cheney said. “You must rest, my dear, after your journey. We will begin a regime of applications of a soothing skin cream at once. For both of you,” she specified, once again casting a baleful eye upon Bernard, who betrayed no emotion as he was subjected to her scrutiny. “And then, tonight, at dinner, Nigel, you can begin to tell me about all of your experiences.”

  “Yes, Mater. I have so much to share with you,” Nigel promised. And a great deal to conceal from you, too, he couldn’t help thinking, to himself. I will need to take care to censor myself!

  “Your journey was a successful one, then?” his mother asked.

  “I am confident you will find it so. You will not be disappointed. I have exerted myself to the utmost for you. And so has Mornay.” Nigel was determined to defend his valet, and restore him to his mother’s good graces. “He was a great help. I could not have conducted my researches without him.”

  “Well, if that was indeed the case, you shall not find me ungrateful, Mornay,” Mrs. Cheney deigned to say. “Now, put the luggage in the carriage, and let us be off.”

  After dining with his mother, Nigel retired to his room, where Bernard helped him to undress.

  “Was Mrs. Cheney pleased, sir?” Bernard inquired.

  “Extremely so,” Nigel replied, with relief audible in his voice. “She intends to sit up late tonight, reviewing my notes, so that she can resume work on her book first thing in the morning.” Nigel examined a jar of cream which his mother had given him. “We must slather ourselves with this stuff every night before we go to bed, Bernard. Until our skin loses its offending brown tone. I am afraid my mother is opposed to any lingering taint of exoticism.”

  “Well, the cream doesn’t smell bad,” Bernard said, after taking the jar from his master’s hand and opening it. “I suppose we must obey. But—if I may say so without offense—our experiences in Al
geria may have left the kind of marks upon us both which are internal, and invisible. They cannot be so easily expunged.”

  “I agree. I don’t want to forget what we saw, and did, there. It will be our secret.”

  “Lie down, sir, and I will rub the ointment into your skin,” Bernard urged.

  Relaxing nude on his bed, Nigel enjoyed receiving the massage.

  When he was finished, Bernard turned, as though to leave the room.

  “Where are you going, Bernard?”

  “To my room, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “To sleep, of course, sir. Unless you require my presence here for something else—?”

  “You’ve forgotten that you must apply the cream to yourself, too.”

  “Oh, yes. I will take the jar with me—with your permission, sir.”

  “Must you be so damned formal?” Nigel demanded, not without an edge of exasperation audible in his voice.

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  “And must you call me ‘sir,’ when it is just the two of us, here, alone together?”

  “I am sorry, again. Pardon me. It’s force of habit, you see. We are not in Algeria now. We are here in London, in your mother’s house. We must be careful.”

  “We shall be careful. But I want us also to be—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, to be … intimate. The way we were during our travels.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I do wish. And we will begin by me rubbing the cream onto you. Take off your clothes. Furthermore, I don’t want you to sleep in your room, Bernard. I want you to sleep here, with me. In my bed.”

  “As you wish,” the valet repeated.

  “Come now,” Nigel said, impatiently. “There mustn’t be this distance between us. Not when we are alone together, just the two of us. There’s no master and servant here. Only we two men. Equals.”