The Invisible Man

The ritual was repeated the third day when we were in yet another town, this time near the sea. We didn’t fuck that night. That night I made love to Mezian’s body, playing his body like a violin with my caressing hands and my lips, giving his curly body hair a sensual bath and taking his cock in my mouth and draining him three times so that he drifted off to sleep before making any more use of it.

The fourth night, in a tent again, out on the desert, I lay on my belly as Mezian rode my ass in reverse, reaching down into my channel in angles that had me howling my lust and passion. And the next night, still in a tent, but miles away from the previous encampment, I was laid on my shoulders and the back of my neck, with my torso raised, while Mezian crouched over my hips and held my legs spread with his hands and fucked down into me deeper than he ever had before.

All the time I was with Mezian in those days before the end, he never fucked me the same way twice. He told me that he was besotted with me and that there were a thousand and one ways he wanted to take me. And I told him that no one had satisfied me sexually as he did or made me as happy—and I was telling the truth.