Date: Thu, 16 Sep 2010 23:13:50 -0700 (PDT) From: Aihu Fist Subject: Bakshees in Casablanca part 1 Bakshees in Casablanca By Aihu Fist part 1 For the readers: This story is based on a truthful event, though here and there I have allowed some fantasies run amok. This event has been the source of inspiration for most of my other stories that I have written in the last six years. I had to come to terms with my trauma, and writing stories helps. For the sensitive readers, please refrain from reading it if you cannot stand sexual violence or if you are a minor. Part1 Brussels 29 June 1982 Dear John, It's almost four months ago since we were last in Marrakech. I can't wait much longer to write this letter, and I hope that you are well and healthy back in Jersey. Didn't you say you were only going to stay four or six months in Morocco? How was Essaouira like? I guess you have done some lovely sightseeing over there and you must've had your deal in adventure, but if you didn't so I sure had some. It took me a while after you left Marrakech to get settled in the crummy bus: Oh yeah, those boys working on the bus wouldn't hoist my baggage on the bus unless I gave them a couple of Dirham. I was a 'heavy' trip all the way to Agadir; I felt very insecure; I was about to travel with only two hundred Dirham in my pocket! A man from Marrakech advised me not to travel to Agadir, but instead he said, I'd better travel to Rabat and see the Belgian consul. To which he added cheekily that I could always sell him my watch for thirty Dirham. So, I left on my own accord. Once I had arrived, I pitched my tent in pay campsite which had showers, a shop, and a washing machine: Next morning I set out to try my luck at portraying the locals and tourists as I needed cash badly. I did five portraits (Germans, Dutch and English) for fifty Dirham each. I was about doing a sixth when I felt a hand on my right shoulder. A policeman in plain clothes arrested me for a reason unclear yet. But I thought it had to do with my trade here: He asked me what I was doing, I said nothing. When he looked the other way for just a minute I ripped the price tag from my drawing board and crumpled it my hand. I was lucky he hadn't noticed that. I was taken to the police station, where my passport was confiscated, and the chief told me to come and pick it up next morning at 10 am. The charges? Working without a work permit and vagrancy. I was worried and at the campsite everyone who heard my story wouldn't believe me. In fact they really thought I had done something else, like blowing a joint. But you know, I have never touched a joint in my life until I met you. I will never forget you passed me on that little piece of hash you called double zero and which I drank with a cup of tea. Most of them were sympathetic to my distress and told me not to depart. The chief had told me to leave Agadir, but alas I was still around at 3 pm eating in a restaurant by the harbour. I had planned to leave, but since they hadn't given me a timely hour, I figured that being around in the early afternoon was still OK. How mistaken I was when, as if on cue, I turned my head around and saw the same cop who had arrested me the day before. He was sitting there, waiting until I had finished eating, I guess. He approached my table and told me to get up and ordered me to quickly pick up my tent and backpack and follow him back to the station. It was 6 pm when the Belgian consul arrived to see me and try to broker a deal with the police chief. There wasn't much he could do. Like yesterday when I asked why I had to leave Agadir, the chief had told me to shut up and collect my passport next day. Now annoyed with my protests against my expulsion from Morocco, he snapped I shouldn't say anything or he'd lock me up down in the basement, with the prostitutes. Fortunately, the Belgian consul said something, and so it was decided that I should be deported and escorted to Casablanca, by the same police man who had just picked me up from the restaurant. The man didn't seem pleased at all; after all he had to sacrifice his weekend with his family, to travel with me all the way to Casablanca. I was lucky I wasn't to journey handcuffed, I thought. I assumed he was a nice guy, not talkative, but when we arrived in Casablanca he carried my backpack. Something I wanted to thank him for. As I did, he replied sternly: - Don't you thank me; you don't know who I am. The station here was quite different and much bigger from the one in Agadir. The chief here sat me down and told me not to worry. -Those people in the south have made a mistake, maybe the chief was drunk, he said. I realized when I put my hand in my jeans pocket I had still a piece of double zero, which I never used and had forgotten all about. Oh, my god, I thought. I got to get rid of it. So before I was walked down the stairs to the basement, I asked for the loo and in it I flushed it away. Surely it wasn't worth keeping that on me; I was never going to use it anyway? The rollercoaster I had been on in Marrakech was enough for me. Remember that cup of tea I had with you in which had dissolved a piece of Double Zero? Unaware of the effects; call it curiosity or irresponsibility, but I basically had drunk it all in one go, and next thing I remember was, that I was laughing hysterically, followed by bouts of depressing and pensive moments. Do you know that when I left you all stoned already, with the idea of swapping my old torn jeans for the real Moroccan souvenir (a pair of Arab trousers) at the Djemaa el Fnaa market? Well, nothing had worked out; they had let me keep my jeans, but sold me a pair of Arabian trousers, with a crotch so low that it would fit an ass's shlong. It was hilarious, as if they were made for men with elephant dicks. But I am digressing; I was taken to a basement where the cells were. There I was going to spend some time and my stomach shrunk to the size of a walnut. The chief wouldn't even tell me how long I was to stay. He just said that I'd be soon out and on my way. After the initial friendly fire I was searched by the warden on duty and led downstairs. Note to the reader: That's all for the part I wrote to me fellow traveler. I concluded with when I was released from custody and how I travelled back to Belgium. I kept the details of what happened to me in the cell to myself. So what follows is only for those avid readers, who have become impatient and want to get some action below the belt. We stopped by a desk in front of the first cell, which was going to be mine. My backpack was thoroughly searched as well as my pockets. He found my instamatic camera in my backpack and laughed about it. What was the big deal I thought? I wasn't rich and only twenty-three years old. What was I supposed to possess that would gain his respect? My heart skipped a beat when he put his hands in my jeans front pockets. Fortunately, I had been wise enough to heed my intuition when just before we descended the staircase I had asked to relieve myself in the loo where I flushed a piece of hash. I've carried it with me for about two weeks and never thought about using it. The man looked cunningly at me; he lingered longer than necessary with his hand near my private parts, and touched them briefly. He winked at me, pulled out his hand, grabbed my arm and walked me to the cell opposite the staircase. He opened up door and pushed me in there. I had quickly counted the number of cells next to mine; there were five more. Inside mine it was pretty dark; our door had only a small window in the door, not bigger than my hand. Here I was sharing a cell with seven other young kids; me being the only white one. I thought I had a nice sun tan whereas in reality my skin looked still as white as Snowhite's compared to the natives. My thoughts ran wild, now that I knew I was locked up in here. It had been only two weeks ago, when I was still in Spain; in touristy Torremolinos, sketching tourists for money, which had fed and housed me for a month. It was three months since my brother had dropped me off in Taragona (in the Northeastern Spanish Province of Costa Blanca) with the promise to pick me three weeks later. But I had decided not to go back to Belgium, yet. I still had more than enough money left, so after three weeks of tourism with Belgian friends in Peniscola, another tourist resort, I hit the road hitchhiking. I thought it was funny that I had started my holidays in a town that started its name with Penis. I had hitched rides all the way down to Valencia, Murcia (that journey from Valencia to Murcia was one where I was nearly raped, but that's another story), Grenada, Guadix, Malaga, Torremolinos. , Algeciras and down to Morocco. Just followed my nose or went where the wind blew me. Then, the lure of adventure and got the better of me. Enticed by posters of exotic places, in the windows of the travel agencies, I decided to try my luck in Morocco. I had grown tired of the riffraff cheap tourism in Torremolinos. Marbella, Puerto Banuz south of Torremolinos was better, but it only catered to the yacht jet set and millionaire sheiks who bought the estate there, nothing for my budget. Furthermore, the tourist season was over now for artists living off portraits. I should have listened to one such artist I knew, though. He had suggested that I could make money on the Canary Islands where around October, Scandinavian tourists pour in by the hundreds. However, the desire to leave Old Europe behind was too strong a pull to resist; North Africa would fit the bill. I tried to adjust my eyes, but not much came of it; I still couldn't see too clearly all the faces that were here with me. I was feeling fainter by the hour, the stale air and the smell of urine and defecation got to me. Yes, they wouldn't let us out to go to the loo. The warden seemed to have vanished into thin air. Then the little window flipped open. The warden looked through it and asked me: -Ça va, petit? (OK, littlun?) He was just doing his round, checking on us. I nodded a slow yes, and rested my head on the wall. That's when I noticed a plastic bag with loaves of bread hanging from a rusty nail on the wall. I turned my head and asked the other boys: -How long have you been here? -We don't know, they answered, some days, maybe a week or more, we don't know. -Who are you? The boy who had answered me, asked. -I am a backpacker. -What are you in for? -For making portraits and vagrancy, I answered. As I mentioned earlier, I could not see a lot, so their faces and expressions on them remained a mystery to me. Being in a cell with strangers who appeared apprehensive and hostile to a newcomer like me, or did I not fully read the situation? It had been some horrible time since trouble started back in Agadir; so far, I had bitten off more than I could chew. Also, every time I had spoken the truth about my case it was received in disbelief. I yelled for the guard but I only heard laughter. I was here from early morning, and since I had first spoken to the chief, I hadn't been seen anyone. The warden seemed to have disappeared into thin air. -You like hash? Another one asked me. -No, I lied. -If you want to stay with us, you must take some. We get it from the warden in return of good behavior, which means his wish is his command. You better take it, now; just swallow it, it will relieve you from the tension you are feeling now. I had come to like it after my escapade in Marrakech, but I wasn't to tell anyone or even admit, now that I was here in custody with no idea of what was going to happen to me. Although, I had thrown away a piece earlier on, I accepted the hash reluctantly from a fist in the dark. I hesitated. The piece wasn't big, I am sure I could keep the effects in check. Yes, maybe it would help me to calm down, and not fret anymore about my predicament. Everything would be fine and I'd be out soon, as the chief had said. After twenty minutes I starting feeling cold and yet I was in a hot country in summer. It must have been because of the lower temperature in the basement, and the fact that I was only wearing a very thin, short sleeved shirt. I hadn't learned yet, about hallucinogenics' effect on body temperature. What did I know? I was a young, curious, hotheaded buck know-it-all, like all youths at that age, who wanted to discover the world and conquer it. I felt I was going to choke in here, it was too claustrophobic; there was the stench of urine and feces, which was unbearable. Did they really all take a dump in here? I had to be careful where I treaded, then. After the small talk of Where-are-you-from? What-do-you-do?, and What-is-your-name?-, it remained somewhat silent, until I heard harsh shouting and cries emanating from the corridor in front of the cells. I couldn't see anything through the little window, but it definitely came from our floor. It sounded like somebody was being whipped, and then it was silent again, followed by girlish wailings. The boys, seven in all pushed me aside and wanted to have a look, too. But no one saw anything. It must be girls picked up from the street. -Do you think so? I asked in my best French. -Yes, there is a twelve hour curfew in Casablanca. No minor is allowed in the streets after 8 pm. That's why we got picked up by the cops. They presume that we sell heroin or marihuana. But it is just repression. The people are starving and are coming out in the streets nearly every day protesting against the high food prices. But for the cops it is easier to pick on small fish like us. -They pick on small girls or boys like us, a harsher voice bellowed from the opposite corner, though I couldn't see who it was. I squinted my eyes, but I couldn't get the full picture, I still couldn't see to clearly all of the faces that were here with me. In addition, I was feeling fainter by the hour; the stale air and the smell of urine and defecation got to me. Yes, despite a few knocks on the door, they wouldn't let us out to go to the loo. -Imagine having one here with us, a nice virgin, how we'd enjoy it. Smooth skin and a nice pussy to get into. One with long blonde hair like you. You have a girlfriend? Another boy asked. -No, no, not yet. -Not yet? The voice echoed. I thought in Europe it is quite common to have sex with a girl before marriage. -You must be lying, a darker voice continued. I am sure you are lying about everything, including about the use of drugs. There was something very eerie about this interrogation, something told me that I was here on my own with people I couldn't trust. I had to be on my guards. -You travel alone? You have a sister who looks like you? You don't like pussies? -Yes, no, I retorted. I was tired of their silly questions. But I wasn't reading between the lines. -Do you toss at night? We are not too sure if you are a girl or a boy?you look so girlish, one dared to say. I turned around facing the loaves and tried to ignore all of them, my heart beating faster. Behind my back something unintelligible to me was being said, followed by whispers and snickering. I should never have turned my back, it was just a sign of weakness, or rather an invitation for an assault, I guess. For one thing that is very popular in Morocco, is a backside and I had just unwittingly offered mine. A thud between my shoulder blades pinned me on the walls which made up the corner. I yelled it out: -What the fuck, idiots, what are you doing? What do you want, guys, my new jeans, my sneakers, and my T-shirt? Look, my watch is gone; it has been confiscated by the ward before I entered the cell. How am I supposed to go and see the police chief if you make me strip, huh? I tried to make a joke and ease the tension. My mouths was getting dry and I had lost the sense of thinking. I got excited and angry and going through these motions had triggered the hash to work on me. My legs didn't want to move, I felt cramps in my jaws when I spoke and my speech was inarticulate. Some of them giggled. They must've thought I was pretty dumb, and I was in a sense. I hadn't grown up in the streets like them, so in other words I had been a sitting duck, the minute I arrived in the cell. I had no idea of what was yet to come. Out of the blue one strong arm grabbed me around my chest, locking my arms to my sides, and two firm hands got hold of my wrists and upper arms. Everything went fast as lightening, and commands in Berber were exchanged. Hands were all over the place; on my bottom, my crotch, in my pockets. I thought they wanted to find my money, so I repeated I had none. -Laissez-moi, s'il vous plait, je n'ai rien sur moi. (Please, leave me be, I have nothing on me!), I begged. I hit the nail on the head. My jeans got unbuttoned and came down to my ankles. I heard a lot of shoving and pushing behind my back. I could recognize the sound of a zipper going down. Their silence made me scared. It was the proverbial silence before the storm. Still, it did not ring a bell or hint at the shit I was in. I couldn't think properly any longer. That was until hands went straight up my frenchies and tore them down. An arm scooted to the front and pulled me back by my waist. The most horrid thing was the feeling of hard fingers with sharp nails reaching for my anus. It felt like someone was scratching the flesh off my body. I bucked, but I had no room. I moved my arse to the left and right, trying to get rid of those invading fingers; alas that was an invitation for a blow on the back of my skull, that sent me nearly knock-out. -Do you see this? He waved a rusty nail in front of my nose. -If you say anything now or after, you are dead, the darkest voice said. -Here take this chunk of hard bread in your mouth and hold it with both hands. -Why? -Just do it! -But I am not hungry! -We are, stupid! They shouted. I said no more, I just nodded. I had some inkling about what they were on about. -Allez-y Ben, ne traine pas, le guarde peut venir, vite (Come on Ben, move your ass, the warden can be here any time soon), one of his mates hissed. He urged his mate to fuck me! My torso being kept down and fingers messing about my anus on and off, rubbing it, making it wet. I voiced my concern: -Please, I beg you, I cried in French, don't do this; I'll do anything, but not this. We are boys, this can't be true. The fingers were back and they made me wet between my arse cheeks. One fat finger got through and pushed the boundaries of sphincter. It got in half way and then a second one. I bit through the rock hard stale bread, while he kept moving in and out, tears welling up and rolling over my cheeks. I had tried hard to avoid this in Spain, when several older men and peers alike, had wanted to fuck me. It stung, but somehow I had mixed feelings about it. Suddenly I had a sensation of arousal rising up from my guts. My mind raced down the memory lane of my early childhood, imagining of how my brother had once fingered me with his own spit when I was only five! My cries turned into moans and they were about to alert our neighbor inmates; quickly someone gagged me with a rag, and my T shirt was pulled over my face, thus exposing my naked torso to physical abuse. The two fingers pushed ahead as if they wanted to get deeper. My penis was being crushed against the wall. Then they left me, the fingers sliding out smoothly. In a way I was glad the shirt was keeping me blind to it all. I thought they had tired of me, but I was wrong, something wet and hard followed suit. Was it a thumb? With one jab the bloke launched his prick back up my arse. My arse turned into one big soggy hole, and the rapist had only just begun. One of them lifted my feet out of my jeans' legs, one by one. I cringed with fear and clenched my teeth for the next torment. Any further resistance was futile: I was too numb to fight back, and my anger had subsided. I had fallen prey to horde of hyenas. Next, I heard him heaving; his pubic hair brushed against my sore bottom. Finally, when he climaxed, he called me names like sale putain, pédé de merde, t'aime ca, n'est ce pas? (Whore, bloody faggot, you like this don't you?). Finally he shot his load in me. As he pulled out, there was more murmuring and more flies unzipping, and lots of excited whispers. Were they about to hump each other? I had stopped bucking or making the attempts because the hash had changed the physical experience into something pleasurable. My moaning was muffled, but my body exuded heat and lust. However, I had a hard time to keep up with what went on. In hindsight it's too hard to describe how many took turns on me, the hands, fingers; cocks were over and in and out of me like a cloud of bugs. I did what I was told and remained pinned against the corner. I had no way to move, I craned my neck backward, my chin against the wall, my back arched now. A bloke held me close to his body and in check, by twisting one arm behind my back; he gargled behind my ears and by the sound of it, had to get rid of a big wad of phlegm by spitting it out. Next, a very hard penis head entered my body forcefully. The pain was getting closer to pleasure; he pushed ever so hard. My mind browsed through my brain looking for the right excuse for why I let this happen. Hallucinating, I was looking a cabinet of memories that could soothe the feelings of guilt, while the stranger kept screwing me. The teenager gasped by my ears and let go of my arms. He could see I wasn't fighting him any longer. However, I was broken, tamed, domesticated. When he released his load in me, I defused, and the hash, believe it or not, made me want more of the same. He pulled out and spoke in Berber to his friends. I pulled my cheeks wide and thrust my bottom backward. They must have liked what they saw, for they took the rag out of my mouth. -Zid, I heard a bloke say, said and Hallal (sanctioned by the Qoran) to someone next to me. As soon as those words had turned cold, my legs got pulled back, and my torso pushed down by another; or was it the one who had just raped me? I kept my hands on the wall for support. Once more, I felt the tip of a circumcised penis, wet with saliva, breaking the sphincter's resistance. I was totally relaxed and received him willingly The guy moved in while holding my hips and then humped nearly tearing me apart, for he was much bigger shaped and much rougher then he predecessors. The other guys enjoyed it too, because I heard them giggle. Although I didn't understand a word; I knew they were encouraging him. This bloke ended up with an orgasm so fast, that he recalled his zob out of my anus without any word to me. Not one was interested in touching my penis or caressing me, I was just a cheap fuck machine, a doll in which they could release their pent up desire and semen. My arse burned ardently, and I was given not granted any respite, yet. They all been queuing up to have a go at me, I counted five. When I thought their party was over, I sank to my knees, crawled over the floor, and sat their naked, humming a song with a silly smile on my face. But my reverie didn't last for long. -Eh mec, a genoux, et baisse toi un peu (hey guy, on your knees and bend over). I knew I had better not refuse anymore, so I obeyed the command. -Ouvre ta bouche (open your mouth), a voice I hadn't heard yet, ordered. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, so he could come in without my teeth scraping his fat skinned dick. He covered my whole head with his jelabah so that his ball sac was dancing against my chin; next he slid the fat cock in and out, whilst sighing oohs and aaahs. I had never sucked anyone in my life, although I must admit that at times I had dreamed or fantasized about it. He didn't like the gagging effects I produced and therefore slapped me on my head a couple of times, or he pulled out only to reprimand me about it. However, the poor sod never got to release his jizz. He then quickly swapped with another mate, who used my mouth like a drain pipe; he shot his cum in seconds. They were all horny animals, who had barely emptied their balls and scuffled with one another to get a piece of the action. I don't know how long it lasted, but after this, but in the end they left me alone, even bulls have to take a rest. Only Allah knows how much time they spent on banging me. I got sober, grabbed my jeans and briefs and tried to figure out what had happened. One could hear me thinking. There was an awful long silence that seemed to last for hours. Then the door opened up again. The guard looked at me with a toothless smile; then glanced at the others. They smiled back at him. One winked at him and the guard returned the wink with a licking of his upper lip. He then pointed to my mouth. Before I even got there myself, he had his index finger on the corner of it and showed me what he had found. -Du foutre? (Spunk?) I diverted my eyes to the floor. -Et ton menton (and your chin), he said, and handed me a hankie. -N'ayez pas peur, nous sommes tous des amis ici, tu verras. (Don't be scared, we are all mates around here, you will see.) -Et maintenant, suivez-moi (now, follow me), he ordered.