Date: Sat, 05 Mar 2016 21:53:31 +0000
From: J. W. <jaywise1972@gmail.com>
Subject: Baba's Prayer, Part 4

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 2016 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 4:

The prayer mat is soft and pliant against my back. My smooth legs are
pressed against my chest as Baba rises and falls above me. I hear in my
head the murmurings of the men of the mosque. I hear the blare of the
ancient calls to prayer in my inner ear as I watch Baba's broad muscular
chest flex and contract, gleaming with sweat.

        I imagine the twin peaks of his buttocks, clenching and unclenching
rhythmically as man fills boy with every inch of his thick manhood.

        Baba's breathing is heavy and slow, his eyes closed, his prayer
more a series of whispered exhalations than actual words. I try my best to
remain silent, but soft moans escape unbidden from my lips. My fingers make
small indentations in bulging triceps as I am thoroughly, and masterfully,
bred by my father.

        ~Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. Most Gracious, Most
Merciful, Master of the Day of Judgment... show us the straight path.~

        We are joined, Baba and I, one writhing mass of flesh upon the
floor in the dimness of our expansive living room. His heart beats with my
own. I am so attuned to his movements that I can feel the ripples and
contours of his cock deep inside me. As he withdraws, I feel the walls of
my colon close behind him until the wide, flaring glans of his penis pull
at the tight pink ring. Then he slides inward again, the passage of the
slick rod opening me anew,and this is repeated again and again, eternal as
the tides.

        If only prayer could last forever, I think to myself.

      But already I hear Baba's breath thicken and he crouches lower,
driving himself into me with long, deep thrusts. My moans grow louder,and I
feel his left hand cover my mouth to muffle the cries he is fucking out of
me.

       With a wail into the salty sweat of his fingers, I begin to erupt
between the shining planes of my belly and Baba's wide, mountainous
chest. The hot slickness spreads and I enjoy the wet sounds as we move
together.

        "Sabbi," Baba whispers. "May Allah bless our union..."

        A couple of meters away, two male figures sit, ramrod straight,
upon the tufted sofa. They are both familiar to me.

        The man sitting to the right wears the dark khaki uniform and black
beret of a police officer, his eyes covered, even in this dim room, with
the mirrored shades he uses to protect himself. His face is a mask of
expressionless stoicism. His beard, though full enough to mark him as a
man, is nonetheless carefully trimmed. Beneath it, I see the faint glimmer
of a leer; the perfect white of clenched teeth.

        His legs are spread wide, and from their apex a hard, dark cock
rises into the air, only partially obscured by the second man's hand as it
rises and falls, squeezing rhythmically.

        The man next to the police officer wears a rich thobe of black with
a white and red checked ghutra and a lighter garment beneath. His legs too
are spread wide and, with his free hand, he strokes himself underneath the
white linen. Judging from the length of his strokes, it seems he too has an
organ of which he should be proud.

        I peer at the man's face, his features twisted in obvious enjoyment
as he pleasures the officer beside him and watches Baba making love to me
on the floor before the two of them.

        He is the Imam Baba met at the mosque a few weeks ago; the day of
our meeting; the day Baba took me in the most holy public place
imaginable. He is a holy man, older but not yet withered. He still possess
the vitality of a man twenty years his junior.

        It is as if Allah himself looks down at the two of us breeding upon
the ornate prayer rug through the sharp eyes of the Imam.  All three men
are praying now; my father and the two visitors, their voices blending in
that ancient rite of worship. I would join them,but Baba's firm hand
prevents it. He wishes me to watch, to learn, to serve.

        The Imam rises from the sofa, releasing the officer's cock and
pulling his robe over his head. Nude, he watches Baba and I for another
moment, his hard organ bobbing and swaying, jutting lewdly from his groin
and lean thighs. The hair upon his chest, as within his full beard, is
dark, but veined with silvery grey, which contrasts with his deeply tanned
skin; skin the seasoned brown of scores of summers under the desert sun.

        Father seems unfazed as he takes his pleasure within his son's
tight hole. He does not look back as the older man kneels behind him,
lowers his head and begins lapping with his tongue at the rim of my
stretched anus, the wet tip snaking across Baba's wide, plunging cock as it
vanishes inside me, emerging wet and slick.

        The holy man makes smacking noises as he feasts upon our combined
juices, his voice wavering with barely restrained desire between swipes of
his tongue as he gasps, "Allahu Akbar".

        Baba cannot stop himself; the pleasure is too great. As he buries
his mighty organ deep inside me, he too cries out, "Allahu Akbar!" and with
that desperate, ecstatic exultation, he orgasms. I feel his thick cock grow
in every dimension, as if he is emptying his soul through the wide tube and
into his boy's lithe body.

        The Imam licks feverishly at the soft skin between Baba's balls and
his puckered asshole as it spasms with each gushing pulse of potent cream
into his son's insides.

        Again and again, Baba's huge balls buck and convulse, mashed into
the white crack of my ass, and he continues pushing and writhing, as if
trying to fit even more of himself inside me.

        Time passes for me, trapped within this exquisite agony; this
unending pleasure, before Baba withdraws, hauling his horse-like penis out
of me an inch at a time until with a soft pop, the bloated head emerges,
slick with my father's semen. The cock stands straight out in front of Baba
as he rises to his knees, the shaft twitching upward with each heartbeat.

        Baba turns, then, lifting each meaty thigh in turn as he rotates in
place to straddle my upper chest and face the Imam. The old man drops to
his belly in prostration, lunging forward to fasten his lips to the
distended ring of my hole. I feel his squirming tongue inside me, probing,
prodding, and I feel the powerful suction of his bearded mouth as it pulls
Baba's offering to Allah from my body into his own, swallowing it in long,
greedy, liquid gulps.

        Baba settles on his haunches, his breath still coming in ragged
gasps, and presses his own warm anus against my mouth. I kiss and lick and
suck as always, my mind awash in the taste of my father's most sacred
parts. What moans I now make travel inside Baba's hole, never to be heard
again. All the universe is inside my father's hole. His muscular buttocks
cover my face completely, and I hear only his blood rushing through the
arteries of his thighs, and the wild beat of my own heart.

        For long moments, Baba stays like this, still as a statue, watching
as the Imam's noisy slurping continues unabated. Only when the old man
raises his head from my spread legs does Baba gesture to him; the merest
crook of a finger inviting the holy man forward.

        Baba raises his strong arms, stretching them outward, palms up in
supplication, praying now in earnest. The Imam's lips slide down Baba's
thick shaft until he is buried to the hilt in the old man's throat.

        Yesterday's sweet cakes suddenly fill my mouth; fill my very soul,
in fact. So much that I am almost unprepared for the quantity of it, molten
and thick, pouring toward my gulping throat.

	The Imam too gulps, downing the vast reservoir of urine my father
has saved up since last night as Baba voids himself completely into two
different receptacles.

	The officer rises from the sofa, yanking his arms and legs out of
his tight uniform as he disrobes.

	The Imam cannot even cry out as the officer kneels behind him and
slides inch after thick, throbbing inch of military cock deep into the old
man's protesting hole.

	I can almost visualize the cleric's eyes as they register both pain
and lust. He is impaled; pinned fast between the iron rod of the law and
the unending, golden stream of Allah, both forcing their way ever inward,
as merciless as they are pleasurable.

	Tears stream from the Imam's eyes, Baba will recall for me later
on, after the two have departed. They are tears of joy, of shame, of pain,
of triumph, of spiritual rapture.

	I swallow and swallow; feel my flat belly growing plump with the
bitter sweetness of Baba's excrement. The two visitors must scarcely be
able to believe what is transpiring beneath their noses.

	The police officer cries out, shuddering in a powerful orgasms,
unloading his heavy balls into the Imam's velvet insides. Swallowing a
final mouthful of Baba's hot piss, the old man gushes white semen all over
my belly, cock and balls, without even touching himself.

	With a last labored swallow, I empty Baba of the remainder of his
day's waste, breathing a final blast of shit-scented air from my father's
ass into my lungs.

	I orgasm again, overwhelmed at the enormity of it all, and I give
thanks to Allah for this miraculous gift.

	Finally, the four of us collapse, panting and gleaming with sex and
sweat.  For a time we all lay in the dimness of the room upon the prayer
rug, whispering words of reverence to Allah. I could die here, lapping at
the soft flesh of Baba's taint, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath my
tongue.

	I don't even notice as the Imam and the officer dress and leave,
for they say nothing. Then again, nothing needs to be said. The act is
communication enough, but regardless, I suspect they will be back.

	'in sha' allh. If God wills it.

* * *