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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (3/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
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Date: Mon, 29 Aug 2005 16:10:03 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (3/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 3 of 8
Keywords: (MF)
Short Summary: Tangiers: Gateway to Africa and the Arab world.

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
=================

Tangiers: Gateway to Africa and the Arab world. Marla wonders
about the implications of her lovemaking with Phillippa, so
when Paul introduces himself she meets someone from whom she
can learn for sure where her real sexual attraction might lie.


Chapter Three - Tangiers
========================

The waves crashed against the jetty. The same waves,
Marla reflected, that might have crashed against the
Gibraltan shore on the other side of the straits, waves that
were as much Atlantic as they were Mediterranean. Each
wave fierce and restful at the same time, built up slowly
and steadily out at sea to break sometimes on themselves
and sometimes against the concrete jetty that projected into
the open water.

She glanced down at the postcard on her lap, the same one
she'd started writing half an hour ago and had still not got
beyond the initial sentence where she told her parents about
how friendly Moroccans were. It wasn't, of course, their
friendliness that most concerned her (she didn't want to tell
her parents too much about how some of this friendship
was real and some was just a means to an end). No. The
friendship that most haunted her, even now, more than a
week later, was what she'd experienced at the Atlas Hotel
in Taroudannt.

Was she really a lesbian?

She'd always known she was bisexual. The first time in
Kristianer with Helga and Rolf. That was one thing. But
they were all drunk and very very stoned and the
lovemaking was not totally successful. Helga had even
fallen asleep with Marla's tongue still licking her thick
pubic bush. The second time wasn't so much a reprise as a
total disaster, when it was Rolf this time who was unable to
fulfil his role in the trio. Men were always so eager to begin
with, but you could never be sure they could sustain the
enthusiasm.

And the second time in the kibbutz, with Isabella, the
Brazilian girl, whose friendship had somehow developed
into something altogether more intimate. Theirs had been a
relationship more marked by moments of tenderness than
ones of abandon and uncontrolled passion. Isabella tried so
hard to hide the relationship from everyone else in the
kibbutz, even sometimes pretending she hardly knew
Marla, who was aware that what Isabella most wanted was
for the two of them to retreat to her bed and lie together.
Maybe just hold hands. Maybe just kiss each other's face
and breasts. And, so few times that each time was wholly
memorable, to explore the pubic region that burned so
fiercely.

But none of this was anything compared to the passion
Marla had enjoyed with that English woman in the Middle
Atlas. In fact, not one encounter, with either man or
woman, bore fair comparison to the intensity of the passion
Marla experienced that day. She was so frightened of
spoiling that memory, she deliberately avoided Phillippa
and David the following day and set off by as early a bus as
she could to El Jadida, whilst the couple no doubt
continued driving on to Agadir.

The memory of those orgasms was intense not only in her
mind, but the mere recollection burnt just as intensely
between her legs. How could sex be so intense? So
overwhelming? So totally beyond what Marla had ever
associated with sex before?

Was Marla a lesbian?

She was still sure it was men she most desired. Even now,
with the memory of Phillippa's fingers and thumb so
vividly imprinted on her vagina and anus, it was the image
of a man and the hope of achieving similar satisfaction with
one that was uppermost in her mind.

"Elles sont belles, n'est-ce pas?"  Marla heard.

 "Pardon?"

"Les vagues. Elles sont très belles!" repeated the young
man who stood above her as she sat cross-legged by the
edge of the jetty.

"I speak English, you know," said Marla with a smile. The
young man's French accent was truly execrable. He was
slim, with baggy khaki shorts that came nearly to his knees,
open-toed sandals, and a tee-shirt that celebrated the Pacha
nightclub in Ibiza.

"You do? I thought you might be French or Belgian or
summat."

"Not Moroccan?"

"No. Not Moroccan. You don't look Moroccan. Where
d'you come from? Switzerland or Austria or something?"

"Denmark."

"Oh! I'd never have guessed!" he said, crouching down
beside her. "I'm sorry for butting in, like, but I saw you
were by yourself. I thought you might want company."

"Really?" said Marla, with a smile. This young man
couldn't be much more than twenty, almost a boy really,
with a chin that was still relatively smooth and hair that had
grown out a bit from whatever style it was originally
supposed to have been. He seemed quite harmless. And he
had such a sweet smile.

"Yeah! I mean, I've been sorta wandering about, like, not
doing much and I saw you. So I thought, well, you know, I
thought..."

"Yes," said Marla, putting the hand that held her ball pen
onto her lap. "The waves are beautiful. I could watch them
for hours. They are very restful. And you? Where do you
come from? I don't recognise the accent. Are you
Australian? A New Zealander?"

"Am I fuck!" he said, rather surprised. "Do I sound like an
Ozzie? No, I'm English, me. I come from Newcastle." He
noticed Marla's blank expression. "It's in the North West.
Near Scotland. In fact, it's a sort of Viking place. It was you
Danes that we Geordies originate from."

"Oh yes," said Marla. That was fascinating. She knew her
history. She knew England had once been part of the
Danish Empire, but it was very curious to meet an
Englishman who was part of the same heritage as her, if in
a rather indirect way. "I'm Marla, by the way."

"Paul," the young man said, reaching out a hand at the end
of his skinny bare arm and shaking hers in an unpractised
way. "Pleased to meet you, like."

"Are you here on holiday by yourself?"

"Naw! But me mates are in the hotel room still. They've
both got the trots. It's like Delhi Belly, only this being
Morocco and all I guess you have to call it something else.
It was the bloody couscous and stuff we had in the
restaurant last night."

"But you've not got the same problem?" remarked Marla.
Her English was always very good, but she had difficulty
understanding much more than half of what Paul was
saying. She surmised that Paul's friends must have eaten
something that disagreed with them.

"Well, yeah! I'm a vegetarian, like, so I didn't have none of
the chicken and mutton and stuff. You don't get the trots
from vegetables mostly."

"Vegetarian?"

This seemed most unlikely. Most of Marla's vegetarian
friends dressed in ways that proclaimed their social
conscience that was totally unlike this young man. He
didn't look the sort who would relish lentils or organic rice.
Marla sympathised. When it was possible, she much
preferred her food to be kosher, though halal was
acceptable.

"Aye," he said, looking almost embarrassed. "I'm not some
sorta hippy, like. Though I smoke blow like the best of
them. I dunno why. I just sorta gone off eating meat. I
guess I must be soft, me."

"Soft?"

"Aye! Not hard, like. I sorta look at meat and I think about
the animals, you know, the sheep and cows and pigs and
all. And then I just don't fancy it. So, I must be soft as shite,
me."

Marla found this terribly endearing. Although he betrayed a
certain degree of boldness by breaking into her reverie in
the way he had, there was still something rather shy and
awkward about him. He fiddled with the waist of his huge
shorts and smiled readily and easily. But his eyes contrived
to focus on hers for only as long as it was strictly polite to
do so.

"And have you and your friends been travelling around
Morocco?"

"Well, not really. We just came for a couple of days in
Tangiers. We're going on to Ibiza for the clubs later, but we
thought we'd see what Africa's like. But it's not proper
Africa, is it? They're all Arabs and the like here. And
there's no zebras and elephants and lions and stuff."

"It's still Africa."

"Guess it is. But I'd like to see real Africa some time. You
know, go on a safari or something. There's summat about
big animals I've always liked."

"And your friends? Do they like animals?"

"Nah! They don't give a fuck about stuff like that. They'd
rather smoke blow and drop E and go to nightclubs and
dance and stuff. Not that I don't like doing that and all. And
they're good mates, like. So what are you doing in
Morocco?"

"Touring. Seeing the country."

"Oh! And where've you been?"

"Everywhere," Marla boasted. "Fez. Marrakech. Meknes.
Casablanca. Rabat. All over."

"Hoo! You and your mates, like?"

"No, just me."

"Just you? You're by yourself, like?"

Marla nodded. She could see Paul was slightly
uncomfortable with that information. He knelt down next to
her.

"So, what are these places like? You must be a brave lass to
go to all those places."

Marla smiled and gave an account of the places she'd
visited, the sights she'd toured, the carpet shops she'd been
to. She told him how difficult it was sometimes to shake off
the persistent attention of Moroccan men in the Kasbahs
and medinas, and how there always seemed to be someone
who wanted to be her friend and tour guide. She recounted
the ruses she used to escape from their attention, but
spluttered when she was sure he used the word 'cunnilingus'
in one of his nodded interjections.

"Sorry? What was that?" she asked, for the first time aware
that he was in some sense a potential sexual partner.

"You're a canny lass!"

"A what?"

"Canny lass. Smart girl, like. Geordie expression."

"Oh."

Marla was enjoying Paul's attention. She was touched by
how, whenever she caught his eyes looking at her in a
clearly appraising way, he visibly blushed and looked
away. Although he was soft-spoken, Marla wasn't at all
sure how much that was to do with his peculiar English
dialect or if it would be the same whatever his native
tongue.

"Shall we go for a coffee?" she asked.

"A coffee?" wondered Paul, the freckles on his face
deepening again with his ready blush. "But I hardly know
you, like."

"To a café. There are a few near the Kasbah."

"Oh, in a café. Aye, of course. We've been drinking that
weird Moroccan tea. Mint tea. It's reet sweet, like."

"I prefer coffee. Café cassé. Or café au lait."

"Yeah. I could do with a cuppa, me."

 They sat outside a café at a table on the pavement. The waiter
swivelled the huge parasol so they were both in the shade of the
fierce North African sun. Paul seemed ill at ease but insisted on
buying the drinks. He struggled with his schoolboy French while
the waiter nodded and seemed to understand. Marla couldn't help
smiling at his pronunciation, but chose to make no remark.

 "You pay afterwards," she advised him as he fumbled for
some dirhams.

"Oh! Of course. Like you do in France and Spain, like."

After the coffees, they wandered into the Kasbah. Marla
enjoyed herself as she helped Paul haggle over a scented
cedar box that he took a fancy to, easily reducing the cost
to about a fifth what was originally requested.

"You're a reet canny lass!" Paul exclaimed.

That expression again. Marla giggled. As she contemplated
Paul's startled face she resolved in her mind to take this
young man in hand. She had some condoms she'd brought
over from Denmark. Perhaps she could find out for sure
whether she really was a lesbian. If she was one, why
would she find herself so attracted to Paul? She liked his
smile. She liked the way he occasionally ran his fingers
through his hair to push it off his forehead. She liked his
gaucheness and that unforced charm that came from his
heart and not his head.

"Have you got a girlfriend, Paul?" she asked as the two of
them left the winding claustrophobic maze of stalls and re-
emerged into the open square through one of the doorways
to the Kasbah.

"A girlfriend? Naw! Not now I haven't. It's not I'm a poof,
like. I used to go out with a lass. Trish. Reet bonny lass she
was, but we split up months ago. But I've dated a few birds
since, like."

"I see," said Marla. She took Paul's hand in hers for the first
time, the one that wasn't carrying the plastic bag with the
cedar box, the canvas sandals he'd bought for his mam, and
the stone carved into the shape of a small bird he'd bought
for his sister. He looked genuinely startled, but he squeezed
her hand appreciatively.

"I didn't think you..." he said with a hoarse voice. "It
wasn't what I was thinking about at all, like..."

"I know," said Marla with a smile, turning round to face
him and kissing him tenderly on the lips.

She glanced down to see, even through the baggy thick
cotton of his shorts, that her affection was pretty much
reciprocated in the way men just couldn't help expressing.

"Are you circumcised?" she asked. At last! She'd managed
to ask the question that had been increasingly troubling her.

"Circumcised?" Paul asked. "Does it bother you, like? I
know a lot of lasses don't like a bloke to be circumcised.
How did you guess?"

"So, you are circumcised?"

"You're reet clivver, aren't you? I didn't think anyone could
spot things like that. Is it the way I walk, like?"

"No. No. It's not that."

"I don't know why my parents did it. I s'pose they thought
there were good medical reasons for it, like. Penile cancer
or whatever. Trish didn't mind, but one lass I knew, she
really hated it."

"She did?"

"She said it was reet off-putting. Is that what you think,
Marla?"

"No, not at all," said Marla, kissing Paul rather more
vigorously on the lips. She kept her tongue behind her lips
and was gratified to see Paul's lips part in obvious
anticipation. "In fact, I prefer it that way."

"You do?"

"I'm staying at a small hotel here. The Hotel Atlantic it's
called, although all I can see from the window is a shop
selling gas bottles and a broken-down bus. It's not far at
all."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Erm. Shouldn't we go to a chemist first?"

"Chemist?"

"Get some johnnies, like."

"Johnnies?" Marla wondered, falling in love with Paul's
obvious embarrassment.

"Condoms. You know. Be on the safe side."

"No. I'm quite well prepared."

Paul laughed with evident relief. "You're a real canny lass!"
he said, squeezing her hand tight.

That expression again! Marla laughed and reciprocated his
grip, tempted to put her other hand on the bulge she could
see under his shorts. But no! Not in the open air. Not in
Morocco.

She could sense Paul's nervousness as she walked with him
past the reception desk of the old French hotel and made
their way up the ancient crumbling staircase to her room on
the second floor. She squeezed his hand, only letting go to
fumble for the key to her room she kept in her shoulder
bag.

Once inside, before there was any chance of Paul's amour
abating, she turned round and pushed her lips against his,
this time letting her mouth open to admit his tongue. It was
a much nicer tasting kiss than the one she'd last enjoyed
with Phillippa. There was none of that overwhelming
stench of nicotine that almost put her off on that occasion.
She relished the slight roughness of his facial stubble on
her chin. Now she thought about it, the lack of stubble was
just one of the many things about Sapphic love that both
attracted and slightly bothered her.

Paul was certainly no virgin, but he was still relatively
awkward. When he focused on just kissing, he became
much more assured, but she noticed he kept his eyes closed
as if he was imagining she was someone else. That was
understandable. That was something she used to do when
she started having sex with other people after her year-long
relationship with Knut finally came to its messy end. Paul
was still recovering from the end of his relationship with
the Trish he'd alluded to.

Paul was clearly uncertain how to bring his expression of
passion to the next phase and Marla's jaw began to ache
from the effort of kissing. She was sure she knew all she
needed to know about Paul's fillings and the slight chip on
his lower incisor. She eased her teeth onto his tongue and
bit it slightly.

"Yow!" Paul said, pulling his face off hers.

"Take your clothes off, Paul," Marla commanded.

"Now?"

"Well, of course. Don't worry. I'll take mine off too."

"Oh! Okay!"

Paul pulled off his tee-shirt and shorts to reveal the very
amusing boxer shorts he wore emblazoned with cartoon
pictures from South Park. Marla divested herself rather
more speedily and tossed her clothes on the armchair. She
was careful that they shouldn't land on the floor where
cockroaches could crawl inside them.

Paul hesitated and looked around the room for the first time
before finally pulling down his boxer shorts, his penis so
obviously stirring inside.

"You've got a real bonny room. Much nicer than the one
I'm sharing with me mates."

"Never mind the room," said Marla, slightly impatiently
and lying on the bed, totally nude, one knee raised and her
other leg stretched out. "Off with your pants!"

"You're a reet bonny lass!" exclaimed Paul, finally raising
his eyes from his discarded boxer shorts and for the first
time really exploring Marla's body. She was pleased to see
that Paul's remark didn't seem at all rehearsed.

"Bonny?" asked Marla, not knowing but guessing it meant
the same as the French word bonne.

"Beautiful!" Paul said, slightly melting as if frightened this
unexpected opportunity for sex might yet pass him by.
"Bonny is Geordie for beautiful."

"And you're a 'bonny' man yourself, Paul!" Marla reassured
him, stretching her arms out to grab him to her bosom.

Their lovemaking was clumsy and fumbling to begin with.
Paul had none of the self-assurance either of Phillippa or of
many of the men whom Marla had made love to. But as he
gradually became more confident, he became more fluid
and passionate, his mouth exploring her breasts and
shoulders, his teeth nibbling her ear, while below his erect
penis prodded against Marla's thighs hesitant as to whether
he should enter.

He leaned back, raising his head with a broad grin, his eyes
open wide and staring into Marla's and his fingers probing
around in the hair between her legs.

"Hoo! You're reet wet, lass!" Paul exclaimed, a finger
probing Marla's vagina, his thumb pressing on her clitoris.

Marla grabbed the sealed condom she had remembered to
place close at hand on the bedside table and passed it over
to Paul. "And you're very hard, Paul."

"Hard! Aye! I am that!" Paul said with a smile, unwrapping
the condom and with practised skill tugging it over his
glans. He squeezed the nipple as he stretched the
prophylactic over a penis that Marla was pleased to see was
amongst the largest she'd seen in real life. And circumcised
too, as Marla was delighted to confirm.

At first, Marla was also anxious as Paul thrust in and out of
her. Would she enjoy heterosexual sex again? Was she now
a changed woman? Gradually, as Paul became more
focused on the moment, she too became less and less
worried and relished the very different sensation of a man's
lovemaking. It was less tactile and more carnal than a
woman's as he surrendered to a rhythm that was not of his
choosing. A man might not have the intimate insight of
how a woman might feel, as Phillippa clearly had, but his
role from an opposite direction, not really understanding
the pleasure he was giving, and perhaps slightly guilty at
the pleasure he received, was a role with which Marla felt
comfortable. It was like putting on an old jumper after
trying out a new sweater and remembering again what it
was she used to like about it. Not perfect, but somehow
more comfy and reassuring.

Paul wasn't a bad lover. His relationship with Trish had
certainly taught him respect for a woman's feelings. He
resisted not once, but more than once, the spurt of
ejaculation Marla could feel ready to explode within the
condom's nipple inside her, slowing down his thrusts before
the critical moment. He was appreciative of her own
rhythm which gradually grew as her reservations about
heterosexual love dissipated, and soon gave vent to the
small gasps and shudders that denoted to her not orgasm
exactly, but something near enough for her to be satisfied.

Eventually they collapsed, one on top of the other, sweat
running through the sparse hairs on Paul's chest and
streaming into the pool of perspiration between Marla's
breasts. Paul tugged off the condom and dropped it into the
huge pottery ashtray, a blob of semen captured in the
swollen nipple. Like all men after the event, Paul was
exhausted, wanting only to rest in Marla's arms, which she
was happy to let him do. Her mind conversed silently with
itself as she wondered whether this impromptu sexual
encounter had actually proven anything to her.

In the commune in Kristianer where she lived, it was
relatively easy for Marla to find sexual partners whenever
she chose, but she was always reluctant to take full
advantage of this license. Although she didn't want to make
this too clear to her friends, this was less the fear of earning
a reputation for promiscuity than a kind of fastidiousness.
She didn't find all men attractive. In fact, it was really only
a minority who really attracted her at all. And it was men
with the same kind of faint vulnerability she recognised in
Paul that were most attractive to her.

She bent over and kissed Paul tenderly on the cheek.

He started and looked up.

"Eeh, lass!" he exclaimed with a laugh. And then, he asked
the question Marla had been secretly dreading. "Will we be
seeing each other again, like?"

Marla pondered over this. What had been good about her
encounter with Phillippa was partly its briefness, that it
hadn't been spoiled by any later less memorable reprises.
Although now this current lovemaking served another
purpose, to reassure her that her sexual identity was still
secure, she wasn't sure she wanted to spoil this encounter
with the memory of later ones. Particularly, Marla
reflected, if this entailed having to meet Paul's friends who
by the evening might well have recovered sufficiently from
their alimentary ailments to accompany him. She wasn't
sure she wanted to entertain more than one Geordie in one
day.

"I need an early night," Marla lied. "I've got a bus to catch
tomorrow."

"Oh!" said Paul, clearly disappointed. "Where are you
going?"

"Erm..." Marla said, wondering what plausible destination
she could invent. "Tetouan. I've not been there before. I've
heard it's worth a visit."

"Tet Wan? Eeh aye! I guess you've got your travels to do,"
said Paul bravely, but disguising his disappointment badly.

Marla took his face in her hands and swivelled it round
toward her. There was a kind of moistness in his eyes that
confirmed the strength of his newly awakened emotions
towards her. "But that's tomorrow, Paul. We still have time
today."

"We do?"

"You may have noticed that I have more than one condom
on the bedside table," Marla announced with a smile,
placing a finger on the unsheathed glans of Paul's visibly
stirring penis.




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

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