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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (1/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MMF)
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Title: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (1/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MMF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 1 of 8
Keywords: (MMF)
Short Summary: Marrakech: a beautiful tourist destination nestling
in the High Atlas of Morocco.

Degrees of Intimacy
===================

Resume of whole novel
=====================

Eight characters, eight places, eight degrees of separation, and
eight degrees of intimacy. This novella is inspired by the film
La Ronde that similarly follows a circular trail of lovers, but
this time in the twenty-first century and much more explicit in
content. All eight chapters can be read in isolation, but the
whole is greater than the sum of its parts.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]



Story Description
=================

Marrakech: a beautiful tourist destination nestling in the High
Atlas of Morocco. Hamid has taken a day off to speak to his
long-lost brother on the telephone, but it isn't a reassuring
call. He goes to a tourist hotel in pursuit of a sexual encounter
he hopes will ease his worries. He doesn't envisage meeting a
couple like Phillippa and David.


Chapter One - Marrakech
=======================


The minaret's shadow was short and distinct in the early
afternoon sun. The blackness spread over the pavement
obscuring a figure that staggered as if drunk as it dodged
past a group of young women dressed in djalabas, their
faces hidden under the hoods.

Of course, Hamid wasn't drunk. He'd not had a drop to
drink, although this was something he intended to remedy
fairly soon. But the conversation he'd just had with his
brother had troubled him so much he might as well be
drunk. Yet it was difficult for him to be sure exactly why it
had affected him so radically.

He passed a beggar: a young woman with a small child in
her lap. Instinctively, Hamid dipped into his jeans pocket to
retrieve a dirham which he placed in her open palm. His
mind was less on her expressions of gratitude than on his
concerns about his brother, to whom he'd spoken so very
rarely these last few years. He wasn't even sure where, or
even from which continent, his brother had made his phone
call.

It was bad enough that the conversation had to be at the
post office and at a specific time whose convenience was in
no way determined by Hamid's working hours at all. Hamid
worked as a manager at their father's factory, so it was
somewhat easier to get away. A day off today was scarcely
the best timing, but when he'd received that postcard with
the American stamp and postmark he had no choice but to
cancel the meeting he'd arranged with the supplier and take
an unscheduled day's leave. And that for three hours of
sitting in a post office anxiously waiting for the call to
come through. Typical that his brother was always late, not
that he could afford the time to be angry with him in the
few minutes they at last talked.

He turned the street corner to face the March sun glaring
brilliantly ahead of him. He screwed up his eyes, regretting
that he'd forgotten his sunglasses and very nearly bumped
into a tourist walking in the opposite direction.

And what had that conversation consisted of? Praises of
Allah and his greatness. Curses against Ariel Sharon and
the Zionist oppression of the Palestinians. And curses in
almost equal measure against the Great Satan, America,
and its recently elected president.

So predictable and really rather unnecessary. It wasn't the
sort of fanatical conversation Hamid had given up a day's
work to have to hear.

And then, just before he put the phone down, his brother
said, and Hamid believed him, that he would probably
never see him again until their souls were counted, and that
he, his brother, would very soon depart the world of mortal
temptation. His death, he said, would be a glorious one
whose impact would be felt forever.

And then, as if he had said too much already, and with no
warning, the telephone connection was abruptly truncated.

Hamid passed by a café in whose window he could see
Omar and two of his friends. Although he wasn't in the
mood at just that time there was no way he could pretend
not to have seen Omar's broad smile and his downward arm
gestures to join him and his company. With more care than
he usually took, Hamid composed his face into a broad
smile and pushed open the plate glass door.

"Salam Allakum!" he greeted his friend.

"Allakum Salam!" Omar replied. "How're you? Taking a
day off?"

"A good day for it," Hamid replied, pushing forward a seat
to join Omar's company just inside the front door. The rich
aroma of hash smoke was all he needed to guess why Omar
hadn't chosen to sit out on the street where most of the
café's clientele were gathered.

Omar's friend, Sadik, passed the joint to him under the
table.

Hamid could hardly refuse. He accepted the proffered item
and took a long toke while smiling at his already distinctly
stoned companions. The rush of marijuana to the brain was
not as welcome as it normally was, but it helped him to
relax.

"Kif from the Rif," explained Omar's other friend. "Good
stuff!"

"Allah be praised!" agreed Hamid with a grin, passing it on
to Omar.

The four of them sat together in the shade of the café,
surrounded by the sound of Algerian rai, while a television
burbled, ignored, in the corner where a newscaster was
detailing some atrocity or other that the Israelis had
perpetrated in Palestine.

Hamid's mind was only superficially on the chatter that
went on amongst his friends, happy that it was about
nothing more than football, while his mind agitatedly
replayed the details of his conversation with his brother.

Hamid certainly hoped that they'd meet somewhere less
ethereal than the final judgment, but he was troubled by
everything about those final words. Since his brother's
departure on the Haj, and the occasion Hamid first met the
new friends his brother had made on that pilgrimage, it was
as if Hamid had acquired a new brother. One Hamid barely
recognised as the brother with whom he had played games
in the courtyard of their parents' home.

"You look thoughtful, Hamid," commented Omar.
"Anything troubling you?"

"Nothing. Nothing," said Hamid, perhaps a little too
hastily.

Omar leaned forward, letting his friends continue their
blow-by-blow account of the weekend's match in the
stadium.

"Don't be foolish, Hamid. I know you too well. I can see
you're troubled. Is it Fatima?"

Fatima? Hamid's fiancée whom he was more and more sure
he would never marry. He was thrown by the question into
honesty.

"No. It's my brother. I've just been on the phone to him."

"Allah! I knew it! Where is he now? Is he still in Pakistan?"

"I don't know," Hamid said with uncertainty, but keeping
his voice low. "He might be in Afghanistan. He might be
back in Jeddah. He might even be in America."

"America?" piped in a stoned Sadik. "I've always wanted to
go to America. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. And women with
the biggest arses in the world!"

"There's no football in America," Omar reminded Sadik.

"The primitives!" Sadik exclaimed. "But the girls have still
got good arses!"

Sadik returned to his conversation, noting the look of
urgency on Omar's face.

"I always liked your brother, Hamid," Omar continued in a
low voice. "But last time we met he was so weird. He's got
Allah big time! He's not joined the Muslim brotherhood,
has he?"

"I don't think so. It's another outfit. One based in Saudi
Arabia. But it's got links with the Taliban."

"Allah!" Omar swore. "They give Islam a bad name. I
heard they don't even allow music. And the women! You
can't see their arses. You can't see their hair. You can't even
see their faces!"

"Afghanistan's worse than Saudi Arabia. It gives me the
shivers."

"So, is your brother a Talibani?"

"I don't think so."

"He doesn't shave. He doesn't drink. He dresses like some
kind of peasant. And he's always going on about Allah. I
mean, Allah be praised, I'm a Muslim. Although I don't go
to the mosque, I observe Ramadan like the best of them.
But there are limits, aren't there?"

"I don't understand it. My brother never used to be so
devout. It was weird him even going on the Haj. I thought it
was just because he liked the idea of being a Hajji. And
now..."

"Have you spoken to him recently?"

"Just now."

"And how is he?"

"I don't know. I don't know," muttered Hamid in anguish. "I
just wish he'd come home, leave all those fanatics behind,
and take up his duties in my father's firm."

Hamid badly needed some air. The hit from the kif was
probably not what he needed just now. He made his
excuses and pushed open the door of the café, leaving the
air-conditioned interior for the warm March air.

What he needed now was a drink.

And more than that, a woman. That would take his mind
off things.

And where better to go than a tourist hotel bar where the
higher quality whores worked? A bit more expensive than
those in the medina, but well worth the extra few dirhams;
though he knew he'd never have to pay as much as a tourist
would for their services. Especially, the French, German
and American tourists. They always had to pay that little bit
more for a taste of North African sex.

Hamid wandered off, still staggering, but now with the
excuse of a few well-inhaled tokes, glad that there was at
least a mile to the Chems which was the only tourist hotel
he was certain of both being allowed in and finding a
woman who would sate his inappropriate lust.

Hassan, the doorman, greeted him like the old friend he
was as Hamid sailed through the entrance into the plush
reception area where several young Dutch tourists were
struggling with their motley collection of suitcases. He
waved an open palm at Khadija at the reception desk who
was struggling to understand a Russian's complaint and
strolled into the hotel bar, a huge room facing onto the
hotel's swimming pool and next to various small boutiques
selling carpets and the appalling tourist tack that no
Moroccan would ever buy.

Hamid looked around him. Where were the whores?

The Chems had a fairly discreet policy with regards to
prostitutes plying their trade at the hotel. As long as they
were not obviously on the game and tipped the hotel staff
generously, their presence, if not explicitly welcomed, was
at least tolerated. In fact, only the most observant tourist
would guess that the smartly dressed Moroccan women
who looked more Western than Islamic were anything other
than the hotel guests they pretended to be.

Normally Hamid would easily have spotted a Chems
whore. She'd either be sitting by herself at the bar,
seemingly bored but with eyes glancing about agitatedly, or
she'd be sitting with her friends laughing and joking but
still keeping an intent gaze on the comings and goings
around her. Hamid could see two women who were almost
certainly engaged in business, but he'd lost his opportunity.
They were both laughing and giggling in the company of
two very fat middle-aged German men.

Hamid sighed. Well, a drink would have to do. But at
several times the price he would normally need to pay, he
was rather peeved that this might after all end up as being
all the Chems had on offer tonight.

He warmly greeted Ahmed, the barman, and ordered a
bottle of expensive German lager. In the style of a
Westerner, he accepted the bottle as it came with a slice of
lime squeezed down its neck. Then he sat on the barstool,
swivelled it round and surveyed the world about him.

His thoughts were beginning to sink back to the morass of
worry about his brother, recalling again and again those
final apocalyptic words, when he noticed, hidden behind
the menu and cocktail list placed at the corner of the bar, a
woman his brisk survey had earlier not taken in.

He stood up and strode towards her, pleased to see she was
unaccompanied. She was older than him, perhaps in her
early thirties, wearing only a one-piece swimsuit and
smoking a recently lit cigarette balanced in an upturned
hand at the end of a slim and lightly tanned arm.

He hesitated slightly before making his move. What
language did she speak? Was she German? French? She
certainly wasn't American. No American would seem so at
ease sitting by herself. Perhaps she was Russian. They were
such mysterious people, with a similar half-amused
expression on their faces. And the women were famous for
their enthusiastic sexuality, although having only once
tasted foreign flesh, and that a slightly podgy Belgian girl
he'd picked up at the Jemaa El Fna, he had nothing with
which to confirm this theory.

When you don't know, try English. All foreigners speak
English.

Fortunately English was a subject in which he'd excelled at
the expensive private lycée he'd attended, so Hamid
relished the opportunity to speak the language of the
American R&B singers he enjoyed listening to.

Where to begin?

Hamid noticed an empty bottle of Stork just by her half full
glass of beer. He smiled and caught the woman's eyes.

"I see you like our Moroccan beer," he remarked.

The woman started at being addressed by a stranger, but
she quickly regained her composure. A supercilious smile
returned to her reddened lips.

"Yeah. I'll try anything once."

Hamid stood next to her. He didn't recognise the accent, but
he guessed she was English. Most of the least identifiable
accents came from England.

"Have you tried any Moroccan wines? They really are
excellent."

"I wouldn't say that, love. Most of the stuff I've drunk here
has been distinctly unremarkable."

Hamid persisted. "Most tourists, especially English ones,
don't realise what a great wine-growing country Morocco
is."

The woman smiled again and brushed a hand through her
light brown shoulder-length hair. She raised her cigarette to
her mouth and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

"They say that when the French were here, they considered
North African wine to be better than their own vintage."

"Well, it wasn't the shit I've had to drink they were talking
about," she commented, flicking the end of her cigarette
into the ashtray. "Are you hitting on me?"

Hamid blanched.

"Hitting on you? I don't understand."

"Don't act soft. You obviously speak good English. Are
you hitting on me? In fact, that's a bloody stupid question,
isn't it? You obviously are. You Moroccans are so fucking
obvious."

Hamid was quite suddenly downhearted. This wasn't the
sort of conversation he was hoping for. He looked down at
his bottle of Heineken.

"Don't look so bashful, love. I don't mind, I really don't.
Why don't you pull up a stool and don't be so fucking wet?
I'm quite flattered really. You're not a gigolo, are you?"

"No," Hamid replied, alarmed at the directness of the
question, but sitting down nonetheless on a stool that had
been previously placed at a discreet distance from the
English woman. "I'm a manager. I work in my father's
bottling factory."

"I didn't think you were. Shame, in a way. If Moroccan
men are like Moroccan women they'd be well worth the
expense."

The woman leaned over to shake Hamid's hand. He was
uncharacteristically nervous with this woman. Her
handshake was firm. Not at all as limp as he'd expected.

"My name's Phillippa. I live in Camden, North London, but
I originally come from Manchester."

"Manchester? Where Manchester United come from?"

"Yeah. You follow football, do you? Everywhere we go
everyone's heard of Manchester United. It's as if that's all
Manchester ever had going for it. What's your name, love?
You're not another Mohammed, are you?"

"No. Close. It's Hamid."

"Hamid, eh? Nice to meet you, Hamid. So what are you
doing here? You're not trying to persuade me to buy a
fucking carpet, are you? I've had enough of carpet shops
and mint tea to see me for the rest of my days."

"No. Not at all. Though a friend of mine does work in a
carpet shop."

"And you'll take us back to see him, will you?" Phillippa
laughed.

Then noticing Hamid's downcast face, she sighed.

"Look, love. I don't mean to be rude. It's just you get sorta
wise to the game when you've been in this country a few
weeks. You're just after the talent, aren't you? And there's
some good looking girls here, aren't there?"

"Well, yes. Moroccan girls are very pretty."

"I'll say! David and I sampled one of the local business
girls last night. She's not here now. Maybe we wore her
out, poor thing."

Hamid coughed. What was this strange woman saying?
Perhaps he should change the subject. He studied Phillippa,
his eyes opening wider than he intended as he looked her
up and down. She'd clearly not been wearing a swimsuit to
enjoy the pool where a huge man was paddling backwards
and forwards on his back like some species of whale, his
stomach round and bulging in the bright glare of the
chlorinated water. Her mascara was unsmudged and there
was no lankness in her straight hair.

"Relax, love. David and I don't believe in just sampling
your beers and your grotty wine. Or your tajines, kif and
mint tea. We like more intimate pastimes as well."

"And David? Is he a friend of yours?"

"He's my husband. And talking of whom, look who's just
made his way from the sunbed!"

Hamid turned his head to see a man wearing only baggy
swimming trunks, with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder.
He was a tall, thin man, about the same height as Hamid,
with a freckled complexion and relatively short hair. He
smiled at Phillippa and Hamid as he approached.

"You don't waste your time, darling," he said before kissing
his wife tenderly on the lips. "Who's the young man? Such
a splendid looking fellow!"

"Hamid," said the object of his praise, proffering an
outstretched hand.

David shook the hand warmly. "Pleased to meet you,
Hamid. I see you've got to know my darling wife. You're
not selling carpets, are you?"

"Not this one, Dave. He's been hitting on me. Isn't that
sweet?"

"Saves you making the effort, dear. What would you like,
Hamid? Another Heineken?"

Hamid nodded. What had he let himself in for?

The three of them settled together on some sofas by the
window, looking out onto the pool where the fat German
was still paddling back and forth, while some children
kicked the water with bare dangling feet at the pool edge.

David worked as a producer for a television station in
Central London and was now between projects. Phillippa
was a children's story writer who was able to fit her work
around her other interests. And these interests were now
taken up by a tour of Morocco in a hired four-wheel drive
the two of them had driven from Tangiers along the coast,
past Rabat, Casablanca and El Jadida. They were now
taking in the cooler, more desolate landscapes of the Atlas,
having enjoyed days in Meknes and Fes. Although they
were only tourists with just a smattering of French between
them and as good as no knowledge at all of Arabic or
Berber, Hamid envied their ability to navigate around the
kingdom and facilitate themselves of the sensual pleasures
for which the Westernmost reach of the Arabic world was
famous.

"India's more spiritual, but the sex is more one-sided,"
David opined. "The girls just lie there while you fuck away.
Moroccan girls have got a lot more spirit!"

"I'll fucking say!" Phillippa agreed. "I've almost learnt a
new thing or two. And it's not as if your shit's any more
potent than the charas we sampled out there amongst the
maharajahs and saddhus."

Hamid knew there was plenty of vice and hedonism in the
West. He'd seen the movies, and envied the Americans and
Europeans for the ease they always had in availing
themselves of drugs like cocaine and ecstasy, not to
mention alcohol. And if women were quite as easy in real
life as they were in the movies, there'd surely be no need to
resort to prostitutes. But this couple seemed to find their
hedonistic thrills in countries like India, Thailand and
Eastern Europe that Hamid had never before been aware of
as centres of drugs, sex or even rock and roll.

"The parties in Goa!" exclaimed Phillippa. "Made me feel
like a teenager again! Maybe not as wild as Ibiza, but fuck!
the trance stuff is so fucking sexy. And the Westerners
there in the hippy communities, there's no fucking limit to
their imagination!"

It seemed inevitable after a few beers that Hamid should
accompany Phillippa and David to their hotel room, which
was rather more plush than any Hamid had ever stayed in
his business trips to Casablanca or Agadir. And as soon as
the door was shut, out came a selection of sachets and CDs
about which Hamid really had to restrain himself from
betraying his relative ignorance. There were several types
of hash and grass, not to mention some powders that may
have been cocaine, but might have been other more
mysterious compounds not normally imported into
Morocco. And Hamid was treated to some very strange
swirling percussive music that after a few tokes off
Phillippa's expertly rolled joints came to seem peculiarly
beguiling and intricate. There was surely a great deal more
to Western music than the songs he heard on the radio.

Hamid's head was humming, while his foot stomped
rhythmically on the thick pile carpet to the beat coming
from the portable stereo David had set up below the
television. And this television was broadcasting images that
were surely only accessible from the huge satellite dishes
outside the hotel and provided admittance to a world of
relatively impartial news and flagrantly un-Islamic images
normally denied him.

When the sex began, it seemed as wholly natural and
inevitable as the last joint had been when Phillippa passed
it to him or the last line of white powder David had
chopped out with his credit card on the mirror they had
taken off the wall. It was just another episode in an
escalating series of sensual pleasures.

Hamid didn't recall seeing Phillippa slipping off her
swimsuit to stand naked in front of him as he perched on
the edge of the hotel bed. But there she was, slim and nude,
her pubic hair shaved off and a small chain dangling from a
ring threaded through her labia. Her nipples were pert and
hard. The areola merged into her suntanned skin. She bent
over, pressed her lips against Hamid's, and grabbed his
erect penis through his loose trousers.

Soon Hamid was as naked as she was, remembering this
time to kick off his cotton socks. He stood above Phillippa
as she took his penis into her mouth and gobbled at it with
long deep thrusts of her neck, saliva seeping out of the
corners of her mouth and sticking to his circumcised glans.
And behind her was David, also naked, freckles on his
shoulders and a patch of dark brown hair on his chest. He
nibbled her ear while also pinching a nipple between a
finger and thumb.

David's attention wasn't only focused on his wife, even as
she grabbed his erect penis and pumped it up and down in
slow leisurely strokes, each time cupping its tip and giving
it a slight squeeze. He bent over and kissed Hamid on the
mouth, glad to see their Moroccan companion reciprocate.

This wasn't the first time Hamid had made love to a man,
although never before in the company of a woman. He and
Omar had played together several times when they were
young boys who shared classes in the lycée. Although he
and his closest friends no longer pursued this physical
affection, or even made reference to it, there had been
several other men with whom on occasion, usually after a
heavy session of kif or alcohol, he would tumble together
on the bed and they would enjoy the pleasure of their
commingled bodies.

This affection had gone a great way, although he had only
once before practised anal penetration, and then not as a
recipient. He realised, with very little experience to
compare it to, that a man's arse was not the same as a
woman's, being tighter and more taut. And, furthermore,
the degree of pleasure his partner expressed was rather
more genuinely ecstatic than the few prostitutes whose anus
he had penetrated for an extra premium.

Hamid almost exploded with ejaculation as David's tongue
licked his anus and Phillippa pumped his penis with her
mouth, but, recognising what was about to happen, Hamid
felt David's fingers pinch him between the penis and the
anus, and this threat of premature release passed without
incident.

Soon the three of them were on the bed, three bodies
entwined, in a mass of conjoining flesh, sometimes with
Hamid's penis in Phillippa's vagina and sometimes David's.
Bit by bit the passion brushed away all remaining
inhibitions. David entered Phillippa's anus while Hamid
continued to ply at the front, their testicles bashing against
each other as they did so. This was a curiously stimulating
experience, a little like, but much more arousing than,
having a woman flick at his testicles with her fingers. Just
as that also hurt, but in a stimulating way, so did this,
somehow pushing up his penis into a hugeness Hamid had
never been aware his rather ordinary penis could attain.

It was no surprise to Hamid when David entered his anus.
After all, David had prepared him by dripping saliva into it,
while Hamid pushed into Phillippa who lay on her back
gasping "Fuck! Fuck! Oh yes! Fuck!" over and over again.
It was a tighter and more painful entry than Hamid had
imagined it could be. It initially made him feel slightly sick
as, thrust by thrust, David's similarly ordinarily
proportioned penis penetrated deeper and deeper into him.

And then an experience he'd never imagined before.
Something inside him, a physical thing like the woman's G-
spot he'd once read about in an imported men's magazine,
was responding with genuine pleasure to each slow and
painful thrust.

Hamid didn't know whose cries of ecstasy were loudest.
Was it David, as he growled and gasped while thrusting
away, one hand on Hamid's back and the other fondling his
wife's bosom? Was it Phillippa who was slippery and damp
from the perspiration of intercourse, a sheen of sweat
reflected from the flickering television screen? Was it the
female voice accompanying the heavy contorted techno
beats with an undecipherable cry that came from the
stereo? Or was it Hamid, who experienced an intensity of
passion and ejaculation he'd never believed possible,
feeling that until that time he had in truth been a virgin? A
cry stimulated as David pushed against his prostate gland
and Hamid pushed his penis deep deep inside Phillippa's
vaginal canal. And marked by a double explosion of semen.
One inside Phillippa and dripping out of her vagina onto
her labial rings. And the other inside Hamid, a sudden
squelch of warm creaminess deep inside where normally
the only soft bodies were those Hamid excreted.

"Fuck! That was magic!" exclaimed Phillippa as the three
sated lovers lay naked on the huge hotel mattress, sharing
cigarettes and a huge joint that Phillippa had prepared on an
earlier occasion, sweat and semen stains now drying on
their skin.

Hamid nodded. He glanced at David's slack penis, which
rested on the carpet of hair on the man's thigh. There were
small brown flecks at its tip where the foreskin was
crumpled and a small tear of semen was slowly easing out.

Then the room was filled with another sound, louder than
the techno thumps, which came from the muezzin's
amplified evening call to prayer.

"Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!" it announced, stretching the
name of Allah so long that the final declaration of His
greatness was almost an afterthought.

Inevitably, thoughts of Allah brought Hamid's mind back to
his concerns for his brother. At this moment, if he was on
the same time zone, though he most probably was not, his
brother would be prostrating himself on the floor of a
mosque or on a prayer mat and proclaiming his own praise
to Allah.

Hamid wondered what his brother would be asking of
Allah at that moment. Would it be a prayer for success in
whatever mad apocalyptic mission he had hinted to Hamid
on the telephone? And what would this madness be?

Hamid shivered.

This was one thing he was sure he would rather never
know.

Whatever it was that his brother was intending to do,
Hamid was sure it would not be good.




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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