Date: Sat, 09 Jan 2016 21:35:55 +0000 From: J. W. Subject: Baba's Prayer, Part 3 DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction and contains descriptions of explicit sexual acts between a father and a son. If this type of content offends you or you are under the age of 18 do not read it. Author's Note: This story is the property of the author. It can be downloaded for personal reading pleasure or sending to a friend, but if you wish to re-post them at your own site, please contact the author for permission. If it is illegal to read such material where you live or if you find the topic distasteful the please leave now. Copyright 2015 JayWise1972, All rights reserved. Please contact me at JayWise1972@gmail.com if you like. I welcome all feedback. Also, please donate to Nifty if you can! Sites like these need champions. We don't know how lucky we are to be able to access gay erotica this easily. * * * Part 3: The car ride away from the mosque is quiet. My father seems pleased at the results. Both of the men who had greeted us at the door had been eager to patronize Baba's company. Clearly he had done something for them in the past, and indebted them in some way. Perhaps that was the true secret to success in the business world; a series of favors done for others, so that they might return them in the future when a need exists. "Baba, are those men your friends?" I ask. Father glances over and shrugs. "In a manner of speaking, Sabbi." He reaches over, his big hand sliding under the hair at my neck and squeezing gently. "One day when you have wealth, many men will call you friend. It will be important for you to know which to trust and which to avoid. Hamid and Omar have been business associates of mine for a long time. I trust them." "Will you make a lot of money from your meeting, Baba?" "Yes, but that was not the reason we went to the mosque. We went to worship, yes?" I pat my stomach. We did indeed. "One day I will be the holiest man in Riyadh, for I never want to do anything other than worship.", I proclaim. I cannot help but grin. The car slows. Father signals, then pulls off of the highway and onto a dirt road that leads off into some nearby hills. Their surfaces are cracked and brown and the eternal sands lick at their roots. A few hundred yards off from the highway, Baba brings the car to a stop and gets out. Walking around to the passenger side, he opens my door --the door facing away from the road, upon which many cars and trucks moved on their way from place to place. The hot desert air blows into my face, ruffling the red checked gutra upon my head. Baba reaches forward and slides it from its place, letting it fall to the black leather seat behind me. He looks majestic standing there, his dark sunglasses reflecting the sun and his thick beard so black that it seems to absorb the light. He lifts his robe past his naked waist, tucking the pristine white material under one arm. His top half might be a picture from a magazine, or a religious text, except for the sunglasses. His bottom half is a deep tanned brown, his thighs covered in a light coat of fur. "The meeting was long, for you and for me, Sabbi," Baba says, his voice thick and deep, smooth as honey. "I drank a great deal of sweet tea. It will be another hour before we reach home, and so we must pray." His cock hangs, soft and thick against his left thigh. Soft, it is the length of half of my forearm, and the thickness of half of my wrist. When it hardens, both of those dimensions double. The head is bigger than the shaft, circumcised. It is perfect and symmetrical and clean. I could not imagine a more beautiful organ in the world, even if I had my pick of a thousand thousand men of Baba's age and lineage. Baba prays. It is not time for Salah, but that does not mean a devout man cannot give thanks to Allah for all that he has, and for all that Allah has done for him. Under the sunglasses, my father's eyes are closed tightly. His powerful arms rise and he takes me head between his hands, pulling me forward just enough to signal my responsibility, here. Then his hands retreat to his hips and rest there. He widens his stance and nods as he mouths words of blessing and worship. I reach up with my right hand (using the left would be an insult) and lift the heavy organ away from the low-hanging balls in their soft, fuzzy sack. I bring the helmet-shaped head to my lips and take Baba inside my mouth. Not far... just enough to lock my lips behind the silken glans. Baba begins immediately. Over the years, we have learned to communicate simply, without speaking. A small squirt of Baba's golden liquid wets my tongue and I prepare. After that small warning, Baba releases the muscles trapping his offering within his bladder, and my mouth is instantly filled. I begin swallowing, my own eyes closing as I join my father in his worship. It would insult Allah for me to spill a single drop, and so I do not. Once or twice, the stream strengthens, and I realize Baba is testing me. Pushing the limits of me ability to maintain his pace. I feel the muscles within him tighten and I gulp desperately, again and again. My father is not lying. He has consumed a huge amount of tea, it seems. The stream continues for minutes, sometimes slow and weak, at others strong and unyielding. My stomach is full nearly to bursting, but still I drink. "yusalli alkhass bik 'iilaa 'asfal balnsbt li, eazim alllah," Baba whispers as his stream at last begins to flag, then to slow to a soft trickle, and then stops entirely. 'Send down your blessings upon me, great Allah.' the prayer says. Baba lets out a deep, satisfied breath. Within my mouth his cock begins to harden. "ailtaff hawlah. 'urid 'an 'araa zahrak , sibbi," father commands. I obey, turning around so that he can see my back. Lifting my own robe above my head, Baba puts his right hand at the base of my spine and pushes forward, laying me out across the leather seats, the gear shift to my right and my head upon the soft cushions upon which Baba was just sitting, moments ago. I feel him upon me, feel his breath upon my neck and at my ear. "Give yourself to me, my son. My beautiful boy," Baba growls, his voice now thick with desire. I feel his cock, huge and powerful against my bared behind. We have been in this position many times, and the broad head finds its mark on the first try. I am still slick inside from prayers two hours ago. A blast of hot air from Baba's nostrils tickles the back of my neck as he sinks inside me. After all these years, I am still tight, and Baba wiggles his hips to drive himself further into his son's sweet anus. When I feel Baba's furry groin against the cheeks of my ass, I let out a soft, high moan. "Yes, Sabbi... you are mine. You make Baba so happy." he is already breathless as he breeds me. I am in ecstasy. Surely my purpose, from the day I was born, was this... to serve Baba and to give myself and everything I am to him, and through him, to Allah far above us. I hear a large truck passing us on the freeway. He will not be able to see what is happening through the heavily tinted windows of the BMW. The truck lets out a blast of diesel smoke through one of its stacks as it passes. What, I think to myself, would the driver say if he had seen the muscled ass of my father rising and falling, steady as the tides, the wide, strong shaft sinking again and again into the tightness of his boy's ass? Baba's grunts and moans grow louder. I know that he is growing close to his communion with Allah. I am too. Without realizing it, I am lifting up my ass to meet Baba's thrusts. The flatness of his groin slaps against my smooth white buttocks, harder and harder. Surely someone from the highway must be able to hear it. I can feel him deep, deep within me. When he is at his hardest, he hits places inside me that make me weak with pleasure and lust. Unable to hold on any longer, I release my boy honey upon the leather seat, and Baba bellows, driving himself into me to the hilt. He too begins pumping his son full of the potent seed that created him. Baba is a heavy shooter. He always has been. Especially when he is as lost to his lust as he is now. I can feel the huge shaft thickening and thinning as wave after wave of his semen is transferred from father to son, as it always had been and always shall be for the two of us. And then, totally spent, Baba collapses upon me. We lay like that for a few minutes, the warm air outside drying the sweat upon our two brows, and upon my back and upon the furry globes of my father's ass. It isn't long before Baba rises up on his corded forearms and pulls himself out of me, inch by delicious inch, until with a soft pop, the bloated head appears and falls down to slap one massive thigh. Baba leans down, between my spread legs, and licks my own fluids from the black leather, careful to clean it all off with his broad, wet tongue. Then he squats upon his haunches outside the door, allowing me to turn around and face him. I lean forward and he presses his lips to mine, almost chastely, one hand rising to hold the back of my head. His tongue snakes past my lips and he and I share my honey with each other, relishing the taste of young semen upon our two tongues, swallowing my essence, along with my father's sweet saliva. From the highway, the sounds of an engine grow nearer, and louder. A car is slowing down. Baba smiles at me and lifts his sunglasses, winking at me, then he stands, adjusts his robe, letting it fall to his ankles once more, and closes my door. I sit up and look out the driver's side window. It is the highway patrol. I recognize the markings on the sleek, powerful-looking car. Its lights are lit, and Baba strides toward it as a uniformed officer opens the door and exits the car. The two speak for some time, as Baba no doubt explains what the two of us are doing out here, or attempting to convince the officer that our car has not broken down. I get out of the passenger side door and run over to Baba's side. The officer looks down at me with a stern expression; one which slowly turns into a tight smile as he watches me. The two exchange more words. Yes, Baba is proud of me. Yes, I am a fine-looking boy. No, there is nothing wrong with our car; we were just discussing what we learned at the mosque earlier. No, we do not need help, but many thanks... The officer gives a short nod, then, and returns to his car. We do the same. As we pull back out onto the highway to complete the journey home, I relish the cold wind pouring into the cabin from the vents. As I enjoy the change in atmosphere, Baba reaches over and sets a small card in the cup-holder. It has tiny writing upon it and a seal. Baba notices the look upon my face and smiles. "The officer is a very nice man. We were not supposed to be here. Only emergency vehicles can park as we did, off of the highway. But he decided not to cite us for our violation." Baba gestures with his chin. "That is a card with his information on it. He would like us to contact him again if we need anything in the future." "Perhaps he would like to pray with us?" I ask. Baba only smiles. I shrug and snuggle back in my seat, closing my eyes and enjoying the cool air. * * *