Moroccan Marketplace

By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
Artwork (c) 2006 by Eduardo

"Now, Brian, do you remember where the hotel is?" Mom said as we walked the street. Around us was a cacophony of sounds and sights ancient and modern, automobiles and mules, business suits and burkas, cell phones and calls of the muezzins to prayer, for this was Casablanca, and I was looking around trying to decide how much of it was genuine and how much of it was put on for the tourists who added a noticeable percentage to the population of these streets.

"I remember." I groused. "I thought we were going to Paris."

"They speak French here, too, dear." Mom said. "And the cost of the trip was so much less, we can se a lot more here than we could of Paris."

She was right about that, but to put it bluntly, I wasn't interested in Morocco! I had planned to spend my days visiting the Louvre, see the Arc d'Triumphe and the Eiffel Tower with my parents, and after nightfall, it would be off to see the Paris nightlife. A young man in Europe isn't really there to see the statues, let's face it. Not that I was planning two weeks of decadence, but heck, I'd planned to have some fun. In Casablanca, the old black-and-white movie notwithstanding, you were surrounded by equal parts of normal big-city business, tourist-oriented crud-shows and Muslim religious proscriptions. And I was stuck with two weeks of it. What are you supposed to look at in Casablanca for two weeks? Assuming you weren't trying to stock up on illegal drugs, that is, which was the fourth part of that combination I was talking about before, which I wasn't going to touch with a ten-foot pole.

All in all, it was turning into a pretty shitty vacation, which was no insult to Morocco, it just wasn't Paris. If you weren't into Muslim architecture and culture (which I wasn't, in fact, I was buck-ignorant about it), there wasn't much for a guy to do.

"So what are we going to do today, Ma?" I asked with some resignation.

"We're going to visit a marketplace." Mom said. "We can pick up some nice things to take back with us, gifts for family and friends. The thing is, you have to be willing to haggle, they'll see we're Americans and try to charge us three times what the thing is really worth, so if you see something you want, you remember to bargain with them, and bargain hard...." And Mom went on in this vein.

The marketplace was genuine enough, from all I could see. Plenty of locals seemed to be frequenting the place. Tourists were here, as well, but it was less like a wave of tourists than like a bit of tourist flotsam in a sea of the body-concealing robes, buffeted about and nattering like the whole scene had been arranged for their amusement. The locals definitely believed in bargaining, I saw men and women yelling and screaming at each other, waving produce and pieces of cloth as they did so. Mom stopped at one place that had some scarves or something (light and filmy, beyond that, what man cares!) hanging from the overhead and more on the table. Me, I wandered on a bit more, there were some gold chains hanging from a rack that looked interesting.

"Over here." came the voice. In French, that is, as accented in the Moroccan tongue. I understood it well enough, I'd been studying French carefully for two years, counting on the trip to Paris that had never happened to make it worthwhile.

"Yes?" I said. The man who called was a near-typical Moroccan man, he looked to be in his mid-twenties at a guess, say a handful of years older than me, maybe, with a mustache/goatee that circled his mouth; he was otherwise clean-shaven. Tall, thin, like so many Moroccans, less a case of being malnourished than being a body type.

"Over here." he gestured to me. Over to his stall.

I was puzzled by this. It wasn't the "buy my pears" that I had been getting from the other vendors. He wasn't even set up to do business right now. A handful of wooden boxes--all empty--were all he had inside his stall. He had sold out of whatever it was he had.

I got over and he gestured yet again. "Over here." he said a third time.

I went. Hell, I was in the middle of a crowded marketplace, why not? Maybe he had a final item of whatever it was and wanted to unload it on me, I could get a bargain on something and that would make Mom happy and....

Inside the stall, we were semi-private, three enclosed sides, the fourth partially screened by the empty boxes. An area maybe six feet on a side, packed sand over cobblestones laid down who-knows-when.

I still didn't see anything. "What is it? What do you want to show me?" I asked him in my serviceable French. Well, I said something more like "What you want for me to see," but you try composing careful French sentences when you're bewildered like I was just then.

What I expected was a sales pitch, what I got was a sudden armful of horny Moroccan man! He had hold of me and he was kissing me, not on the lips but on my neck, and I had an erection poking me in the stomach as he was doing so.

"What the fuck?" I asked him, in pure unadorned English. Then, in French, "Why you do this?"

"No worry, I do you." the man said.

"The hell you will!" I said in English. Then in French again, "I no want this."

"Yes, you do." the man insisted, and there was no brooking his argument. My shorts were undone by his hands and slid down my legs.

I struggled with my French and managed, "What are you doing here?" and that in the proper case and so on. My briefs had followed my shorts by this time.

"You wear the color of the sharmigar." he explained.

"What is sharmigar?"

"Sharmigar is man who wants other men." he said. Now I was being pushed down onto the ground, I was struggling feebly here, still trying to understand more than fend him off. I mean, I'd been warned to honor local customs, and the people around the marketplace weren't surprised in any way I could see, I was looked at and passed over without a curious look beyond usually a smirk or a frown, perhaps at my race. Apparently this was acceptable behavior to Moroccans, whatever was going on.

"I'm not a sharmigar." I said. I'm going to spare you any literal phrasing here, you can see how I communicated without being grammatical. "I'm a tourist from America."

"You wear the color of the sharmigar." the man fingered my shirt.

"What, my shirt? It's...uh..." I couldn't think of the word for "pink." "It's rose." I settled for saying.

"It is the color of the sharmigar." the man insisted. Now he was pushing me back onto the ground. "It means that if I want you, you are mine."

"Are you out of your freaking mind!" I yelped at this point. These guys see a pink shirt and figure me for a hands-around whore? I was past caring about offending Moroccan customs here, I was ready to get pissed off! I mean, this guy was now between my legs, and pulling up that long robe they all wear. "I am not going to...let you..."

His cock was a fat nine inches, easy. It stood out like a ship's prow carving the ocean waves, only this ship planned to carve the swells of my buttocks!

He poured oil over his cock from a small pitcher he had, and then he leaned over me with one hand down at his crotch, guiding his cock, and then I felt the oil-slimed organ at my buttock.

"You are mine." he insisted as his cock pushed against my asshole.

I looked into his eyes, and suddenly I didn't feel like arguing. I wasn't happy at this, mind you, but it was like I had set my protests to one side for the moment. Like I was agreeing with him, at least for now, that I was his to fuck.

"You belong to me." he said again and he shoved his hips forward and my lips parted in a yelp of pain. This brown-skinned stud had managed to shove his main cock length into me with that one push!

Again, it was like I was frozen in place. Though the pain of this peremptory entrance was something agonizing, I didn't do anything but yell in pain, and after that first push, the pain diminished with each stroke of his cock. He wasn't letting me adjust to him...but my body adjusted just the same. I guess there's a part of any man who will give himself under the right circumstances, and for me, it was just that repeated refrain of his. "You are mine."

So I was his and he fucked me on that hot, dusty, African sand floor, the strength of his body was moving his hips like a scythe, sweeping back and forth and the blade of his dick was reaping the grain of my ass. And my resistance fell like the wheat, to be bundled into sheaves and set on end to dry in the hot desert sun.

Slowly, my groans of pain turned to moans of desire. There was an abandonment by me here, a tossing aside of every moral I'd ever grown up with, every scruple I'd formed so painfully vanished like morning mist with the rising sun, every ethic I had lived by was suddenly cast into the garbage like yesterday's newspaper.

I caught his arms, resting on the ground, and with them for a purchase, I began to push myself onto his cock with every thrust forward he made. He groaned louder, and it was like the increased pleasure displeased him, if you see what I mean, for he pried my fingers loose from his arms, caught me by my ankles, and lifted me up onto my upper back and with my ass hanging in mid-air, he resumed his monomaniacal thrusts into my now-helpless body.

He owned me, is what it boiled down to. He was fucking me, and if I got my jollies fine, and if I didn't, fine. I figured that out, and the sudden rush of sensation into my body was...ecstasy. I mean, he didn't care if I got turned on or not, I was his fuck-object, and that was an incredible turn-on to me. And to be taken down and just plain fucked like this was, jeez, like nothing I'd ever had happen before! It's different from sex in the gentle, loving way. More basic, more animal, more...real!

So I almost hung from his dong as he fucked my butt, like some wall-art draped from a nail by a hole in its back. Only this nail was nailing me but good! Me, I just lay there/hung there and let him drive it in deeper! "Oh, God, yeah, fuck me, harder, fuck me harder, harder you bastard, harder!"

That was in English and I'm sure he didn't understand me, or maybe he did, he was saying words in his own language (Moroccan?) that could have been equally uncomplimentary.

Hell, though, there was no love lost here! "Come on and fuck me harder! Yeah, harder, yeah, uh, gah, uh!"

His profanity flowed like liquid gold from his lips, his eyebrows formed a scowl, his teeth shaped a snarl, his eyes flamed and he grunted and groaned and then he snarled very much like a leopard might, and his cock drove into me to the very hilt, and with his balls slapped up tight against my buttocks, he held it in me deep and that was how he squirted his load, forcing my butt to keep every drop of it!

"Oh, gah, yeah, fuck, yeah, oh, GOD, YEAH, GAHHHHH!" and I shot my own load, right onto my own freaking face, because that was the direction my cock was aiming! I got splattered and decorated all over with streaks of my jizz, as a load of Moroccan spunk was pumped deep into my colon.

Done, I lay on the sand and when I opened my eyes, the Moroccan stud was gone. I saw a few men in robes looking down at me curiously, and I got to my feet, found my shorts, yanked them on and got out of there. The men were silent until I started walking away, and then they began laughing.

I made it back to the hotel without much problem, and Mom showed up not much later. "Oh, Brian, there you are!" she said. "I was walking all over that marketplace looking for you. This young man told me he'd seen someone looking like you leave the marketplace."

"This young man?"

Mom stepped aside and I saw her body had been blocking a man about my own age, but about four inches shorter, her body had covered him up entirely. His name was Mourad, and he spoke English well, and Mom sat him down and encouraged him to talk about Morocco. I guess we did need to learn some about the place.

When a pause developed, I asked, "So, Mourad, I had a bit of trouble at the marketplace. It was why I left like I did." That and I was covered in come and had to get cleaned up.

Mourad looked his question, so I elaborated. "Yeah, it seems I had my pink shirt on, and this one guy thought I was a sharmigar."

"A what?"

"A sharmigar." I said again, pronouncing the Moroccan word carefully.

Mourad, puzzled, shook his head. "My dear new friend, there is no such thing in Morocco as a sharmigar."

"No?"

"No. It is not a word in our language."

"Really?" I considered this. "In other words, I got screwed?"

"Yes, you did." Mourad agreed dubiously, and turned his attentions back to my mother.

I thought about it some more and then burst out laughing. I'd gotten screwed, all right!

One thing was for sure...next time I went on a trip anywhere, I was going to read up on the place before I went!