Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"My name is Adjo," he said, his hazel eyes with the long, black eyelashes lowered demurely. "The Mudarres, the teacher, Mudarres Afram said that you were to use me as you will."

I wondered if Afram had rehearsed the young man who had met me at the plane in Cairo to word it exactly that way. I knew it was likely Afram would be providing me a companion during my stay—unless he had retained enough prowess at his age to use me himself—and there was every reason to believe that Adjo was the one chosen. Assuming so, Afram had chosen strangely, but arousingly. Adjo was so much more delicate—and as beautiful as a woman—than the young men Afram had been sending me to mentor at Colombia. And in that difference, I was more fully aroused.

He had been standing there, a shy and calm oasis in the teeming sea of raucous humanity at the arrivals' gate, holding up a placard with my name—my given name—on it. Mr. Gordon. He was dressed in a loose-fitting, billowing white dress shirt, dark trousers, and open-toed sandals, just as I had been when I started classes with Afram Garfeh at the American University in Cairo over two decades earlier.

He was dark, his features olive-brown, his hair jet black. And he was beautiful—beyond handsome. Small of stature, willowy, the image of innocence. I wondered how innocent he really was—or if he at least could feign innocence when he was writhing under me.

Afram had known just how to tantalize me, how to get my juices going. This was one of two approaches I had contemplated he would use. If he was still sexually active—even at his age—I had thought that either one of his female students or one of the other professors attached to the symposium would meet me. By sending someone like Adjo, I believed I was being given an entirely different message.

"You know that I'll be staying at the Nile Hilton—well, the Nile Hotel, which used to be the Hilton," I told Adjo as my luggage was being placed in the trunk of the taxi. Afram had told me the Nile Hotel, now owned by the Ritz-Carlton chain, was no longer the best, but it was familiar to me and thus a comfort.

"My understanding is that it will be only for the night," Adjo said. "I believe the Mudarres would like you to stay with him. But he did tell me to take you to the hotel, that he will speak to you there."

I didn't know that "speak to you there" would mean that Afram himself would be waiting for me in the lobby of the hotel, but he was. On the taxi ride from the airport, Adjo had sat beside me in back and peered at me from under lowered eyebrows with a shy smile like a blushing bride, and I was looking forward to taking him right up to my room and fucking the stuffing out of him, but Afram being in the lobby threw a wrench into that forming plan. That was probably a good thing, though. I was exhausted not only from the Paris-to-Cairo flight but also from the hours I'd put in beforehand in preparing for my presentation the next day at the writing symposium.

"You must come stay with me. I'm afraid this hotel will no longer be to your standards," Afram said after we had warmly greeted each other, including with a kiss that was far from chaste. He was wearing the traditional gallibaya and sandals and nothing else that I could discern, and he was embracing me close enough for me to know that he still could get an erection. It remained to be experienced—perhaps—if he could hold an erection or make use of it. He stood, stooped, in one place while we talked, and leaned onto a cane in each hand when he wasn't clutching me.

"I booked here," I said, "So I should at least spend one night here, although I am honored by your invitation." I didn't chance to add that he hadn't offered an invitation to stay with him before I arrived here. I might have declined the symposium invitation if he had. I had been completely under his spell at one time and I wasn't anxious to be so again. "And I am weary from the trip and the preparations for the symposium and have a paper to deliver there tomorrow, so I should go directly to bed."

"Need to start your sleep immediately?" Afram said. "I that case, I will take Adjo back with me to my house and I will see you at the symposium tomorrow morning."

He had emphasized taking Adjo back.

"Adjo could—"

"Adjo will be at my residence for when you decide to come to me there. I have asked him to assist you during your stay here, by the way, in all ways you may need him."

Afram couldn't be any clearer than that. First, yes, he was providing Adjo for me to fuck. But, second, it would be at his house. I had almost forgotten that Afram was as much a voyeur as he was a direct participant. In the last half year I was with him here in Cairo, he had given me to friends and to various muscle-bound younger men he met in the Greco-Roman wrestling gymnasiums. He liked to watch.

Somewhat regretfully, I said my good-byes to Afram and Adjo, checked in, went to my room, and, after a brief shower, went to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. So, it was a good thing that I wasn't succumbing to Afram's plans yet anyway.

I got my crack at Adjo—and Afram, for that matter—the next evening. The first day at the symposium wasn't a grueling one—probably on purpose, because so many had come in from out of Egypt. We started late in the morning and ended in time to have an extended cocktail hour—this time at the Ramses Hilton, which was, I will admit, by far superior to the Nile Hotel in amenities, if not in location and memories. I wasn't quite in tune with the new Cairo I was finding upon my much-delayed return. During the day, Afram devoted little attention to me at all—he was constantly the center of attention of other symposium attendees—whereas Adjo was at my elbow and within sight of me all day. He moved like a dancer, and I must admit that most of the day was spent suffering an erection and daydreaming about "later." In his touches and his looks at me, Adjo was signaling an anticipation of "later," as well. I was being left no reason to misunderstand his expectation of being used by me.

We returned to Afram's house on Gezirah island, in the car the university assigned Afram in respect for his position, after stopping at the nearby Nile Hotel to pick up my luggage. It was dark when we arrived, but a warm, cloudless night. We ate a dinner served to me with meaningful glances and fleeting touches by Adjo, wearing a white cotton gallibaya, in the central oasis-like atrium, which was lit by torches on the columns and underwater lights in the pool. Afram also was wearing a gallibaya, made out of a finer, silky cloth. He hadn't changed his traditional clothing ways since I had studied under him.

Two other young, handsome Egyptian men served us as well. Afram and I sat across from each other on couches. Adjo mainly served me and the other two mainly served Afram, who was free with his hands under their gallibayas while they served. When Adjo came near him, though, he was strictly hands off.

Adjo clearly was for me. Jaded as I was, that was fine with me. After our supper, when one of the young men serving Afram began to service him as well, his head under Afram's gallibaya while Afram sat facing me on his couch, Adjo came and stood demurely in front of me, sitting on my couch.

He had brought a small bowl of some sort of rice pudding—we had already had a fruit course, He stood close in front of me and when I spread my thighs apart, he pressed in even closer. He fed me the thick pudding, with his fingers, until I couldn't hold off anymore. I took the bowl from him and set it on a small table within my reach. I then grasped his gallibaya, bunching up fists full of material at the waist on either side, and pulled it over his head.

He was naked under the gallibaya and of such a lithe, youthful figure that if Afram had not assured me he was of age, I would have taken him for a boy and forced myself to pull away from him. Instead, I palmed his round little buttocks cheeks, pulled him into me, and buried my face in his belly, my tongue pressing into his navel.

I heard him utter in a quiet voice, "Please, Mudarres Gordon, be good to me. Mudarres Afram said you would be gentle and kind, but that you would help me find paradise."

My lips moved lower and possessed his pert little cock. I deftly removed my clothes while I was sucking his cock. He was able to grow larger with the help of my inner cheeks and tongue, but he would never come close to rivaling me—or Afram, for that matter—in that department. And he was sighing and panting. I took my mouth off his cock and gently pushed him down on his knees between my spread thighs. He began to service me. Not expertly, but with determination. I found the innocence of him—purported or otherwise—exceedingly arousing. The men Afram sent to me in New York were accomplished and most were dominating. This was refreshing. Engorged and throbbing, I lifted him to his feet, turned him around, told him to grab his ankles, and began to open his channel entrance up with my mouth.

Across from me Afram had pulled his gallibaya over his head and both of the other serving young men were working on his cock and balls with their mouths and hands. He was slowly engorging, but I could tell that it was requiring effort. His torso and thighs were much as I remembered them, beefy, but muscled.

When I and Adjo were ready, I just gently pulled him down and back and onto my hard, jutting-up staff. He made quite an ordeal of sitting and sinking on my cock—breathing heavily, panting, sobbing quietly, writhing, and ineffectually pushing back at my torso with his hands. A great show of "burying the cock," all very virginal and arousing to me. He was very tight, and I had to pause for a few moments from time to time to permit his channel to open to me.

At no time did he ask me to stop, so I didn't even have to contemplate whether I would have. Afram was closely watching us from his couch and was making no move to either hold me off or slow me down. And Adjo was clearly a gift for Afram to bestow.

Once buried to the balls, I embraced Adjo with arms around his waist, and waiting, cock throbbing and slowly digging even deeper, for Adjo to settle down, begin breathing regularly, and stop his snuffling. In due course, he was quiet, but his writhing and groans and little cries recommenced when I started screwing him around on my lap with his legs arcing over in the air, the ankle of one resting on my left shoulder and the other bent around my waist, as I moved him to facing me.

I started, slowly, pulling him on and off my cock, and, with a shudder, his back arched away from me, giving me little time to bring my legs together to support his shoulder blades on the tops of my feet, and his arms dangled at his side on the patio stones. He was relaxed, almost, I thought, had fainted, but I was too lost in the fuck of his tight, sweet channel, to stop and check. On and off, on and off the cock. With a start, he tensed up, seemed to come alive, gave a little cry, and ejaculated.

I fucked on, to my own ejaculation several minutes later, with him just stretched out in front of me, collapsed and giving little mewing sounds. When I had come, he freed his raised leg, folding it behind me on top of his other leg, pulled himself up to my chest, and wrapped his arms around me. He buried his cheek in the hollow of my neck, and I felt tears on my pecs.

I was disconcerted when I heard him thank me in a faraway voice. But then, looking over at Afram, who was hard and stroking his own cock as he watched Adjo and me, the two other young men gone now, I realized that Adjo had done this for the favor of Afram. Just as I had done to stay in Afram's favor decades earlier, when I had let men of his choosing fuck me while he watched—often right here, sometimes in the men's rooms in the Nile Hilton.

I doubt I had been able to act as much the willing, but undone, virgin that Adjo had just accomplished. It had been a major arousal for me.

I realized that Adjo was whispering the same word over and over again. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he was murmuring.

"Why are you sorry, Adjo?" I asked. "You were all I could have ever hoped for. There is nothing for you to be sorry for. What is it?"

After several minutes of pressing him for a reason, the two of us whispering because Adjo obviously didn't want Afram to hear us, he said, "Mudarres Afram. He told me that coming together was something we should do. I could not wait—you were much, much longer."

I laughed, turned his face to mine, kissed him, and said, "That is not a worry to have. The coupling was almost perfect."

"Almost perfect," Adjo murmured. "Coming together would be perfect. Mudarres Afram says."

I almost laughed again, almost blurted out that Afram and I hadn't ever been able to come together, despite a year and a half of trying. I couldn't wait and he expected me to do all of the adjusting. But I was as afraid of Afram at that moment as Adjo was, I think. It did, though, bring to my memory the last stanzas of that poem Afram had written for me and that I had read piecemeal on the airplane en route to Cairo from Paris—all except for these concluding stanzas:

"Do not cry, little one," I whisper,

kissing the dew from your lips,

pausing to revel in the moonlight

glistening on the yielding treasure of you.

Over you, around you, inside you. Again.

"Another oasis arises, where we seek the fountain together again."

There cannot be too many oases, too many fountains,

too much of over you, around you, inside you.

Sighing, riding to paradise, enjoying even the journey.

Seeking the shared fountain, again and again.

If not now, the next journey from the desert . . . or the next.

It does not matter much. The journey has its own rewards.

I didn't recite the stanzas aloud. Instead I kissed his mouth and eyes again and murmured, "Do you want to try for it again? Can you take the cock now again?"

"Yes, oh, yes, Mudarres Gordon. I want to come with you."

I turned him, laying him on his back on the couch, head at one end. Then I turned myself, went up on my knees, pushed them under his buttocks to elevate his now-open channel to me, and slowly reentered him. He groaned and arched his back and screwed his face up in a grimace as I regained the saddle, but he held with me, and there wasn't a hint that he wanted me to stop.

I don't think I'd ever seen a young man so beautiful in a postcoital state, even with the tear stains on his cheeks. I leaned my torso down to him, took his lips in mine, and slowly, but with steadily increasing speed, began to pump him again. For a while he stayed with me, clutching my shoulder blades with his hands, wrapping his legs tightly around my waist. But after a short while, he loosened his hold and slipped backwards, one hand going to his cock, the other dangling off the side of the couch, his head flopped back over the end of the couch, his mouth hanging open and making little gurgling sounds.

I could tell he was close to coming again. And I wasn't anywhere close.

I brushed his hand away from his cock, grabbed his wrists in my fists, and held completely still, whispering that he needed to hold the sensation of coming, to let it subside before we could precede—that I wasn't ready to come.

Twice more I held him off like this. But what needed to be done to hold him off, cooled me off as well. I didn't think we'd be able to manage it. Nothing bad in that. I had managed it frequently in the last twenty years. But when I was young as he was and with Afram, I never had been able to hold it for Afram to join me.

The third time, I let him come. And it was my turn to be a good actor, pretending that I had come as well, pulling right out of him, embracing him to me, and kissing him all over. Thanking him for being able to wait for me.

Adjo left us then, happy with what he had thought he had achieved, turning to Afram for the affirmation he sought, and, I'm happy to say, receiving it.

When he was gone, Afram motioned to me. "Come to me, over here. I cannot quite do this myself."

I went to him, sat close beside him, and reached for his cock.

"Thank you for Adjo," he said. "You did not come with him that second time either, I could see. But no matter; that is yet to be. What is important is that you have initiated my son in a way that makes him welcome coupling with a man."

"Your son?" I said, shocked. I pulled my hand away from Afram's cock, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled the hand back to him. As much the senior to me as ever; I did not fight him, but went back to stroking his cock, coaxing as much of an erection out of him as I could.

"Yes, Adjo is my son. Not by a wife, of course. But I have had several accommodating women in my day. He was conceived a few years after you left me. I have long known that Adjo wanted to make love with men. I'm afraid he paid too much attention to my teaching that a poet needs all of the senses and coupling opportunities to be pursued to truly be able to be a poet. He is a student of mine; he just also happens to be a son of mine. I wanted the right man for his initiation."

"This was his first time? He was a virgin for me?"

"Yes. But he wanted it so bad that he agreed to bear whatever it was. But I knew you'd be gentle with him."

"But surely you didn't know it would be me."

"Yes, I did. I arranged for it to be you. I arranged for this symposium and for your invitation."

I let that sink in for a few minutes before picking up the conversation. "You told him it was important to come together."

"Ah, yes. From the poem. I didn't suggest that had to be done. That is his idea of a perfect coupling. He's an impetuous youth; he always wants everything right now. I blame American television and movies. He is obsessed with the poem I wrote for you. I always regretted the poem ended that way, that you and I—"

"Come, lay with me. We are older now. And I am much more experienced," I whispered.

"I cannot fuck a man anymore. The weaknesses of my body—"

"There are many ways," I whispered. "Come, lay with me."

I already was gently pushing on him, starting to rearrange our bodies. He understood, and, with a sigh, he laid full length on the couch, on his side. I moved onto my side against him to a position where our heads were toward each other's feet.

Our mouths went over the other's cock almost in unison, and we worked each other. I could have come before he did—more than once—but I held with him, with all the effort I could apply, and with a long, harmonious sigh, we came—at last—together.

When I went into the house, to my room, Adjo was in my bed. He was asleep. I gave him four hours of rest before I pushed him onto his belly, wound an arm under his waist and brought him up on all fours, mounted his hips, and began to fuck him. The symposium lasted for five more days. By the fourth night Adjo and I came together—twice.