Your erotic stories

He was rude to me when I first saw him, which is one of the reasons I remembered him. The other was that he was drop-dead gorgeous.

This was in the souk (Arab market) in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, one dull Saturday morning, and I was shopping for a Quran. Not some paperback English translation, but something really nice, an ornate Arabic copy I could display in my office at home.

I also needed it for a few of my Arabic classes. I found the sort of shop I was looking for in one of the darker, less populated corridors of the covered market, a little stall really, which sold a variety of Qurans and assorted religious trinkets. It was overseen by two men, one younger, one older.

The older man was sucking sleepily on a water-pipe, and seemed uninterested in me as I looked over the wares. The younger man had a book open in his lap, but he watched me out of the corner of one piercing dark eye. I spotted a copy I liked, and reached to turn back the front cover with my right hand. I wanted to see if it included commentary, or if it was just the text. The sleepy older man glanced at me, realizing I’d seen something I liked–and might be persuaded to buy. But the younger one was having none of it. To my shock–because Arabs are, in my experience, unfailingly polite, especially to foreigners, and very especially to foreign customers, with none of the rudeness or inattentiveness you sometimes find in an Israeli shop–he stood up and snapped “Don’t touch!” I literally jumped back, and not just because of the surprising behavior. When he stood up and turned fully toward me, I could see exactly how beautiful he was.

His black hair was cut short and neat, but it was obviously thick. He also had very neat facial hair. About a half-inch of beard–stubble, really. The rest of his skin was liquid-smooth, unlined, a warm golden brown. His eyes were large, arresting, dark, with long curling lashes and soft thick lids. His mouth, though set and serious, was quite lush. He was very young to have such a grim expression on his face, maybe only 25. I realized my mouth was open and I had nothing to say, so I took a step back, then turned around and started back the way I came. I could hear the other man saying something to him in rapid Arabic. I didn’t catch what, but he sounded pissed. I continued on my way, got my book at another shop, and ended the excursion with some sweets from one of the many sweet-shops. My mind returned to the pretty young fellow with the grim face as I enjoyed my treat, but I avoided his area of the market for the next few weeks.

I was sitting by the window in a restaurant I frequent near the Old City, and the same young man walked in. The place was somewhat full, and one of the only seats available was near me. So he sat close by. I watched him order his tea, and then pull out a smudged, tract-like document from his bag, which he proceeded to peruse, head bent.

I must have been bored, or feeling particularly gutsy, because I used my badly-pronounced Arabic to get his attention. Then, once I had it, asked him if he’d been to this restaurant before. When he answered yes, many times, I asked him what was the best dish on the menu. He didn’t seem to recognize me from the market, and pleasant conversation ensued.

It turned out he was a religious student at some madrasa or another. Hence, I guess, the dead-serious look. His English wasn’t great–the vocabulary seemed uneven, comparatively rich on some subjects, barely adequate on others. But he liked to talk, especially about his studies. He was interested in mysticism, things like that. Not really my area. But his beauty, and his cute broken English, sufficed to keep my eyes from glazing over. And somehow, by the time I’d finished eating, I had convinced him that coming back to the room I was renting in East Jerusalem for coffee was a good idea.

Now, from what I gathered, he wasn’t married, and he shared a place with a few other students who were away right now, in a building owned by his cousin, the shop-keeper. His family was from Hebron. So nobody was expecting him home tonight.

It relieved me that, unlike with most Arab guys his age, none of his chatter on our bus-ride to my place was about girls. But, because it was mostly about God, I wasn’t exactly elated.

In my room, I got him seated comfortably on my sofa, then went into my little kitchenette, out of sight, to put together something to drink. I boiled water, then got out sugar, instant coffee, and brandy. I mixed it together in oversize mugs, putting several generous dollops of liquor into his. I was betting on his never having tasted alcohol before.

And I was right, because he continued sipping on his drink throughout our Arabic-English conversation, seeming not to notice the effects it was having on him. His gestures got more effusive, his English looser, easier, but also more haphazard. The little ember of desire I’d had for him since the day at the market began to grow and grow.

Then he asked where the bathroom was. I showed him, and he got up, a little unsteadily–which was adorable after only a few shots of brandy. He said something about studying all day and being “too much tired”. I smiled and nodded knowingly. When he returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, I grabbed him by the shoulders, pressed him against the wall, and kissed his somber, lush-lipped mouth hard.

Needless to say, he struggled. Needless to say, he protested, both in Arabic and in English further broken by fear. But though nearly as tall as me, with firm small muscles, he was a slim young man and I was able to wrestle him to the bed, and after only a brief struggle, pin him there. When he opened his mouth to yell for help I slapped him, hard enough that, but for luck, I might have split his lip. His soft mouth trembled in fear and shock. I leaned over and whispered into one of his lovely ears, telling him to keep quiet or I’d hurt him badly. He seemed to believe me.

He went limp, staring at me with those wide soft eyes. I wouldn’t have believed he could look any more appealing then he had the first day I saw him, that first jarring glimpse. But in this strange state, both animated and mollified by terror, he was ten times as beautiful–particularly the eyes, alert, yet wordlessly pleading. He had, I imagine, only the vaguest idea of the things I might intend to do to him.

I slapped him again, just for fun, across the other side of his face. He didn’t need to say anything–the eyes said it all. He was horrified, of course, but he also felt betrayed. I must’ve seemed like such a nice young tourist, up til now.

I made sure his long, lean legs were pinned under mine, and then I began to unbutton his fly. He wore nice, light-colored dress pants, which I slid easily down his thighs. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his head away, so that he wouldn’t have to look at me. I grabbed him by his short hair and made him face me, giving his warm, firm, inner thigh a rough pinch, telling him to watch me. He made a small shuddery sound and obeyed. I liked seeing the fear in those gorgeous eyes, as I got his pants down past his knees, and then worked them off over the nice pair of rubber sandals he was wearing. I removed them, too, fondling his beautiful feet while he watched me.

I left his feet and moved back up his body, stroking the firm legs with their light dusting of silky black hair. He was wearing plain white briefs, a little thin. I tugged at part of the leg band, decided it was worth a try, took a bit of fabric in each hand, and tore one side of the briefs in half. Again, his eyes widened. His mouth quivered, and began to move, forming silent words, probably prayers. That annoyed me, so I gave his inner thigh another hard pinch, twisting the olive flesh and making him gasp sharply in pain. I told him to stop, and his mouth fell still as I tore the other side of his underwear, yanked the fabric from beneath his ass, and tossed it aside.

His genitals were limp, shriveled with fear, but I could see he had a nice, smooth, cut cock and silky black pubic hair. I doubted anybody had ever touched this–possibly not even the young man himself, when he could avoid it. He flushed in lovely shame as I reached out and stroked him, pumping his shaft lightly, wanting to see if I could give him an erection. It worked, in some measure. He reacted to the sensation, his cock growing bigger, his frightened, bewildered, and stunningly handsome face flushing a deeper shade of red as blood rushed up beneath the golden pigment. I crawled on top of him and kissed him again. He opened his mouth for me, not wanting to be hurt again.

I kissed him slowly and with thorough relish, tasting the inside of his mouth. It was another way of violating him, and his taste was delicious. He just kept his mouth limp and open and submitted to the caresses of my tongue.

Finally I pulled back, spit trailing from my mouth to his in several places. His eyes were so big and deep and so exquisitely cowed, so full of paralyzing fear. I stroked my finger over one lush soft lid. He moaned. Now, what had I told him about no noise? I took one of his velvety earlobes between thumb and fingers and twisted. When I let go, his golden ear was blushing red, as his inner thigh had been.

I spread his thighs and knelt between them. Then I pulled his legs up and toward him, exposing his taut yet rounded young ass, and dark crack. I began to spread his thighs more, wanting to see the prize I was about to take, when suddenly, he panicked, began twisting under me. I was not at a good angle, but I managed to calm him down with a hard punch to the stomach. I then grabbed his balls in my hand, making it clear that, though I didn’t want to, I would hurt him there too if he gave me any more trouble. With a whimper, he fell back, limp. I thought about turning him on his belly, but I knew I wanted to see the look in those eyes when I took him.

I lifted his legs again and pulled his thighs apart, pushing his knees up hard toward his shoulders. Must have hurt. I opened my own pants, took out my throbbing cock. Then pushed his legs further up against his chest, moving his butt up and forward. Walking behind him, while he was still dressed and I was still the nice young tourist, it had been a pretty one. From this angle, it was exceptional. I reached down to spread the cheeks fully, and felt them clench. So I gave the right one a sharp smack, then another and another, and he immediately became pliant, reminded of how easily I could cause him pain. I stroked his hole with my fingers, smoothing away the small bit of silky hair there, and swirling my finger around the tender, ridged bud. He moaned. This time I let him.

Not taking my eyes off him, I felt along my bedside table for the hand-lotion I used to jerk off before bed (often thinking of lovely dark boys just like this one). I squeezed a little out and smeared some onto his hole, some onto my finger. He watched me, his expression now deliciously slack with horror. I lubed two fingers thickly, then put them in. I was not gentle, but I didn’t jam them in, either. I teased the walls of his passage, feeling the slick heat. His face barely showed any reaction, as if he were withdrawing completely from all of this.

Now, that was no fun. I gave his ass six firm, cheek-cupping smacks, three on each golden mound. Then I added a third finger, parting the blushing cheeks with my other hand. This time I did jam it in, to the hilt. His eyes bulged in pain, and I saw the sheen of tears beginning to well up.

I let him adjust, but only for a moment. At the same time I stroked his cock, returning him to his earlier state of involuntary arousal. Then I popped the fingers out one by one. I saw a sigh in his face as each one withdrew. His lips opened almost sensually.

Then I lubed myself up and pressed the head of my cock to his softly-dilated entrance, which was drooling lotion. When he felt it he begged me, quietly, in my own language, to stop. I just shook my head, slapped one side of his butt to let him know I meant business, and placed my hands on his thighs to hold him down. I hoped he wouldn’t scream when I entered him.

He didn’t, not out loud. But his mouth opened, and his head rolled back, and his eyes did their lovely oh-so-wide thing again. My first entry was slow, deliberate, and delicious. I was more teasing myself than I was being considerate of him. He was so very warm and tight and soft. Just perfect. I kept him pinned and thrust forward, driving the last inch inside him. He shut his mouth and eyes, moving his head from side to side in abject humiliation, complete disbelief. I felt I was stretching him, but I think it was more the violation than the actual sensation that made him react so. I moved back, then thrust in again, his passage hugging my cock. His eyes opened again, and this time it was clear he was crying. Big tears were oozing from his delicate dark eyes, over his long lashes, and down his soft cheeks.

I found a rhythm, feeling him adjust around me, pushing into that silken moist heat, then easing out. After a moment of deep thrusting, I knew I must be getting his prostate, because his cock grew harder, belying the fear and shame in his face. The little slut was loving it. I could see his hairline becoming moist with sweat, the short black hairs forming damp little blades. His thighs, too, were moist under my pressing hands. As I thrust in and out I realized we were both gasping from the exertion. His eyes were half-closed now, but I didn’t mind him not looking at me, didn’t mind at all watching the shimmer of sweat on his sensually thick eyelids, or the lashes matted with tears. The tears still came, and his plump lips still quivered, but less so. Everything about him became vivid in my mind, yet my vision was strangely unfocused as his exquisite constriction relentlessly milked me.

My thrusts became quicker, deeper, more forceful. He cried out, but only softly. I dug my fingers hard into his thighs, and his noise ceased.

His cock was fully awake as I shoved into his heavenly hot core. I lifted his body to meet mine, gripping his slim hips and resting his lean calves on my shoulders. The thrusts seemed to have a momentum of their own. I was aware of nothing but the sensation of his insides, and the sight of him as he began to writhe in unwanted pleasure, his lips slick with drool, eyelids fluttering. That did it. I came hard, filling him, pumping hot spurts into him until I was dry, spent.

I pulled out, wiping the remainder of the cream against one round firm, slightly pink golden buttock. I looked at him. He seemed surprised to no longer be full of cock. I slapped his thigh and told him to get up, he could leave. Not looking at me, his face going red again, he did. He stumbled over to get his pants and I saw cum dribbling from his asshole as he bent to get them off the floor. I smirked to myself. He looked so whorish. He almost fell trying to put his pants on, and I just watched him, gloating silently. As he zipped them his hands came into contact with his hard cock, and a fresh blush infused his lovely features. He reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he grabbed his bag and, still a bit unsteady, left my room without a word.

I locked the door and went to bed.

A few days later, I got a craving for some good kebab and returned to “our” restaurant near the Old City. It was only about half-crowded, and again there were empty seats near me. I had stopped worrying–or had never seriously worried–about the delicious young man going to the police. I figured he would be too embarrassed. I did not expect to see him again either. So I was speechless when he entered the place and took a seat directly opposite me.

He barely met my eyes as he explained how he’d been looking everywhere for me, how he felt so strange and didn’t know what to do. He then asked in an adorably small voice if I would please do “that…that bad.. thing” to him again. (Apparently, sex was an area in which his vocabulary could do with serious improvement.) For a second time in the space of five minutes, I was speechless. When I did regain my voice, I used it to ask for the check.

We went back to my room on the bus. I was shaking with desire as I sat beside him, where he seemed calm and serious, despite his urgent tone in the restaurant. In my room, I locked the door again, and immediately got him down on the bed, where I gave him a deep, hard kiss. He didn’t do much back, but I figured this was now part of the fantasy for him, this simple submission without response. I kissed him til my tongue felt raw, while unzipping his pants and undoing his shirt buttons.

As I stripped him, his smooth body squirmed under me, and I pinched and slapped his thighs to calm him. He moaned in pleasure as I landed repeated sharp blows to the underside of his ass. I noticed the spanking seemed to pleasure him more than any of the other rough stuff. And I liked seeing him getting aroused over something so degrading. So I slapped him harder, even aiming for his velvety crack. He murmured something about his father, and I felt a spasm of arousal as I pictured him, not all that many years ago, being spanked by a faceless older man, pictured him bare and contrite over a stern lap, his ass helplessly exposed to relentless angry slaps. I pictured him getting up after the punishment, face crimson, trying to hide his erection. His cock was completely rigid when I finally got him naked, completely naked, for the first time. His body, with the exception of his very fine rear end, was such a lovely golden caramel color, the color of some smoky-sweet delicacy. I bit him on his nipples and belly, and he purred with delight.

Again I lifted his legs to reveal his ass. This time I didn’t spank but leaned forward to nibble at his velvety cleft and tease his opening with my tongue. He cried out almost too loudly when he felt this. A cry, this time, of pure pleasure. I put my tongue inside him, wiggled it in the damp heat, listening to his loud near-agonized groans. I prepared him well, stretching him and moistening him inside with spit.

He murmured “please…please..” in English, and, thinking it was only fair to oblige him after all I’d put him through, I swirled my tongue around one last time, withdrew it, got up on my knees, and popped my cock into his golden-pink, spit-coated orifice. Again, his rectum seemed to hug me, to draw me into its satin super-heat. This time he moaned along with me as I rolled back and forth, pumping into him with greater speed and force as our heat overwhelmed me. His eyes were half-shut in ecstasy, but when I met them he looked directly at me.

He licked his lips. I thrust deep and hard. I stroked the damp backs of his thighs as I fucked him, smearing the increasing sweat into his soft sparse hair. His cock stood hard; I could see it dribbling. I looked into his eyes, then back at his erection, indicating with a nod of my head what I wanted.

He reached down and began stroking himself, picking up speed in time with my thrusts. Watching him delight himself as I plowed his tight heat, I couldn’t hold on, and I began to erupt. I pulled out, shooting a good amount of my load all over his smooth ass, wet crack, and the backs of his thighs. He saw me shoot and began to pump himself harder. I kept my eyes on him til his warm cum came out in thick ropes all over his hand and flat, smooth belly.

When we’d both finished, I pulled his legs down, crawled on top of him and began kissing him. He kissed back, cautiously, then with lazy, easy passion. I pulled a sheet over our spent bodies, he lay against me, murmuring contentedly, and we slept til late evening.