Date: Fri, 08 Apr 2016 17:55:17 +0000 From: Pilgrim Subject: Pilgrimage of a Refugee 2 Thanks for reading this story. Hope you enjoy! Contact me, if you wish, at pilgrim566@ghostmail.com. I welcome all feedback, positive or negative, constructive or otherwise. If you feel it needs saying, feel free to say it. The usual disclaimers apply. I should also say for reasons of disclosure that this story is fictional. Please donate to Nifty! _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- 'What happens when, for social, moral, etc. reasons, the sexual function is forced, in order to find satisfaction, to leave the object of its desire; when the satisfaction of the flesh involves no assent, no participation of the rest of the person, when it is thus divided with a part of itself remaining behind? ... What remains subsequently from that division? What traces? What secret forms of revenge are then prepared by that part which had no share in the feast?' Andre Gide, Journals: 19/06/1924 The Tunisian Boy 'Him?' Is a question I often perceive in the glances and stares directed towards me. I am not, they state, a 'refugee' (words having precise definitions: it's in the dictionary, here, look!). I am, instead, an economic migrant, a bludger, a parasite (even that) who is not a victim of war, torture and persecution but a no-hoper who, a failure in his home society, hopes to suck dry the teat of a far too welcoming Mother West. The marble foundation tremors. The Parthenon loses its milky white, and the invaders surge past the gate with a sweating mass of black and brown bodies that never ends. True, all true. I am not here to work. I am not a doctor or engineer. I am not here to 'assimilate' (even if it were possible). I am not here to do anything but that which my father has given me to do. Not only my father too: these migrations are the workings of God. Not just in me, with my own weapon against Western falseness, but in the workings of civilisation as a whole. Europe is facing the fate that for so long it managed by sheer luck to avoid. The Huns, Mongols and the Turks have nothing on me and billions like me. This isn't a bad thing. I don't hate Europe, but at this time, despite the praiseworthy campaigns of politicians, NGO's and the media, I myself am hated. Protests against this new reality, though, are just the last whimperings of petty, provincial values against a globalised world, and I am proud that I can help as an individual among countless others in the destruction of discursive systems that have for so long separated Europeans from the rest of mankind, and its natural urges. Racism will disappear through sex, free or coerced. What does it matter if Europeans are mostly getting fucked rather than fucking? Work, retirement and death, all while looking over your shoulder for someone to hate, fearing the inevitable -- that's no way to live. As I write this, after a continental tour lasting several years I live in the Netherlands, more precisely Amsterdam (although in a country like the Netherlands, one of the most densely populated on earth, cities are, I find, more geographical expressions than bordered realities) in a small two-bedroomed apartment on the fourth floor of a Jordaan townhouse. I say small, but my apartment above a profitable 3D printing startup is five times larger than the hut I grew up and lived in until my twentieth year. My living space since I moved to Europe, then, has increased roughly twenty-fold, from a small corner of that tin shack where I kept my bed and schoolbooks, to what I can't see as anything other than a bohemie boyfucking palace. Not only do I get it for free, but get paid by the government for doing so! How? Because the enlightened EU government, more than anything else, wants to avoid what has happened in the exclave of Bijlmer and those like it across the continent -- parallel societies, or ghettoes, where migrants can't access services or interact healthily with the native European population. So their idea of good policy, then, was to kick out the small family that had lived here for two generations and put me here instead, right next to a school. But I do have a job of sorts. I can turn up and key in at any time at the local public swimming pool and gym, where I get paid full time for (believe it or not) manning the front desk a few hours a week. When I'm not swimming or at the gym, I'm talking to the head manager about the little business we run on the side. I'm getting ahead of myself here, but I'm sure you can guess what we deal in. Omar -- strong in a skinny kind of way, the horny Arab fuck -- graduated with a degree in chemistry from a university in Syria, before the war. He also has a more than technical interest in film-making. Funnily enough, he isn't able to swim. He's not the Arab I wanted to talk to you about, though, and at twenty seven isn't a boy. Even if I had wanted to, he wouldn't let me put my dick anywhere near his ass, though he loves watching the swollen purple head squeeze into some boy's tight hole -- currently the desktop background for his work computer. No, the boy I want to write about is one I met early in my journey, one with a body on the edge of puberty -- golden brown, slim -- in the deserts. His close shorn hair made him look as though he were some parentless desert djinn. It was almost as if he had walked the wrong way, for he wasn't from the South, but the North, from Tunisia. And he was trouble. Getting out of Nigeria wasn't hard. I didn't even have to bribe the border guards, as I'd expected, since they were taking a lunch break when I crossed. So many are crossing the borders of Africa now, after all, that guards can make a relative fortune from only a small fraction. It is perhaps best that way. Trailing my fingers across the lines that cut through my continent as a small boy, I always had the feeling that they were strange, foreign things -- arbitrary not just in idea, but in form. What's the point? I had asked myself. I imagined not fences or ditches or lines of ranked soldiers, but long clotheslines where whole countries would come and hang their washing, and discuss and trade and even fuck, as I sometimes saw my elder sister sneaking off to do down at the river when she was supposed to be washing our sheets. Perhaps they will yet become so. I hitched a ride to Agadez in a military oil tanker several days later, part of a supply line for the mission that several countries had entered upon several years earlier to drive out Islamist militants from the North of the country. The driver, an Algerian subcontractor to the French military, talked the whole way about the pleasures of Europe -- where he had a family of seven sons and two daughters, and, secretly (since bigamy and polygamy are still prohibited by backwards laws in France) two wives. He would occasionally show me photographs of his family on his smartphone. Only two had full-time jobs, he said, but this was often the case with Muslims in France, who had to contend with a bigoted employment market. 'Hopefully things will change. France will be the new Algeria. Here, look.' He swiped across some risque photos of his sons with girls at parties, almost all of them white. There was a lot of French kissing, I thought, even for pictures taken in France. 'I got these from Facebook,' he smiled, 'They don't share anything with their papa any more.' He stopped on a photo of his youngest son, Hamid, who although fourteen had already dropped out of school. He beamed at the camera holding a bottle of knockoff vodka. 'Can I tell you a secret?' he asked. I nodded. 'This one, my youngest son, he is gay I think.' I thought at first that he would disapprove of that. I was wrong. It appeared as though he loved that son the most, since he couldn't help telling me about how intelligent he was, how beautiful, how popular with the girls and boys of his class he had been. He wrote moving poetry, and had won school awards for it. 'This, my son, he is young enough to share everything with me... me and his brothers.' He winked. 'He has been a très bon member of the family from a very young age.' I told him I understood what he was getting at. 'You do?' He sounded excited. 'Well, his job is very special. He makes a lot of money at it. Irregular income. Do you want his number? I think' he said, looking at my crotch, 'I think he will show you around if you are ever in Marseilles, for free.' 'What about your girls? How are they?' I asked out of politeness, while I entered his boy's number into my phone. He misunderstood me. 'No, no,' shaking his head, 'They are to be married. To good Algerian boys.' At nights, sleeping in the cab, he would show me more intimate pictures of him and his sons. When I was dropped off, I went looking through the town for something to eat. I prayed at the famous Adobe mosque, giving the one God, Allah, the reverence he is due, and salaamed the holy men I saw at various shrines, many of whom had managed to survive the attacks by the militants. Before long, I had found a nice African-run store, where I could eat my favourite dishes that instantly brought me back to my father's household. There had been many tears when I left, but there was an understanding that I would bring my father to Europe as soon as I could, which I am currently in the process of doing, Inshallah. The heat was dry, but bearable. I had reached Agadez in just under three weeks, and was making good time. The trip to Libya was understood to take much longer, and had to be undertaken with the assistance of people smugglers, since the route follows circuitous old caravan tracks along very inhospitable terrain. I had made enquires at various stops before coming to the restaurant, and would continue to do so until I found the people I needed to get me to Europe. It was then that the boy, who was, it seemed, unable to speak, tugged on my sleeve, gesturing for me to follow him. He was wearing a torn djellba -- rags and little else -- and when he moved I could see through the tears in the loose patchwork one of his small brown nipples, and the bellybutton of his tight, dusted stomach. He had a band of freckles across the bridge of his nose and walked barefoot with a slight limp. I was overcome, and gladly followed him into the side-alleys behind the restaurant. Thinking I knew what he was up to, I kept grasping his hand in mine and rubbing it on my crotch as my dick swelled, pulling thick at the folds of its loincloth. I didn't much care that I needed to pay a little to cum on that prepubescent stomach. But to my surprise he just smiled, shook his head, and gestured for me to come further. Finally we entered the burnt out ruins of some government building, and descended into a basement. 'Where can I help you go, sir?' asked the people smuggler. 'To Italy!' I replied. 'Three thousand Euros,' he said. 'One thousand,' I replied, 'I know the going rate.' Of course, the conversation hardly went this way, but my mind has forgotten the details. Instead, all I remember of substance is the Arab boy toying with the folds of his rags in the corner of the room, watching me all the while with his lurid blue eyes. He was sitting in such a way, resting his arm and chin on one knee, that I could see him twitcng his little penis between his legs. He was hard. The journey from this point onwards is humiliating to talk about in great detail. Some may be unaware, but racism between Arabs and Africans can at times be very strong. Things are improving, and there is a great deal of common ground in shared culture, food and often religion, but the smugglers themselves show an imperious disdain for the lives of others. 'Who cares if they die?' they regularly say within our hearing, 'We've got our money.' And it's true: you don't set foot out of Agadez or Timbuktu without handing them all they ask for. Later, they try to extort more, and get away with it if you aren't strong enough to resist. It is a problem, however, that is almost entirely Europe's fault. Luckily the new EU government is looking into this issue as I write this, having begun the process of ridding themselves of the clunky apparatus whereby citizens of individual states elect members of the EU parliament, for a more efficient and centralized senate with EU appointed representatives. Already there is talk of chartered ships ferrying individuals from all across the globe, from their home ports, with a great majority of the proposed senate -- comprised of top businessmen, academics and veteran politicians -- supporting the plan. When we stopped for rest at night, under the boundless Sahara sky, wrapped up in stained, worn blankets on the hard sand of ruined caravanserai, some more than a thousand years old, I had it in mind to get as near as possible as I could to that boy. Strangely, he slept apart from the people smugglers (I had assumed he was one) and among the refugees, always at a distance. Sleeping space was much coveted and well guarded, especially beside walls -- where the boy almost always slept -- so it wasn't possible to switch positions, as though this was some sleepover. When we were together in the back of the same truck, he would stare at me as he did in Agadez. I was confused. It was as if he was both desirous and wary of me. Then, one night, around a week and a half from Agadez, I was close enough to see him get up under the half-moon and follow a man -- another refugee -- away from the camp. I slipped out of my blanket and followed them. They walked for about five minutes, in silence. I recognized the shape of the man, even from this distance: he was from Ghana, and had a young wife who had given birth in the back of a truck -- a not uncommon occurrence on the migration routes -- several days earlier. He had wept loudly, since the child had come several weeks before its due date, meaning that he could not claim right to remain in Europe as they could have, had the boy been born there. The wife desperately needed medicine, which she could not hope to make the journey further without. Finally we came across a rocky outcrop, into which the pair descended. I stayed at the entrance for a few minutes, unsure whether I should enter. I was superstitious of places like this, that you Westerners call 'uncanny' but what we realise are possessed of spirits, good or evil. I was also wary of getting lost. I could still see the outlines of the camp in the distance, under the moon, but even in a desert fate has a way of making things dark when it wishes to punish those who trust too much in their own abilities. But I couldn't resist moving on. I could see a faint light reflected on the rock around me, and as the winding channel grew wider was astounded to see a fire crackling in an old oil drum beside -- I kid you not -- a red-white picnic blanket of the sort you see in old American movies. On top the half-naked Ghanaian was fucking the boy from behind, raw, with an 8 inch dick. Ass in the air, the boy was slyly pilfering through the Ghanaian's crumpled trousers with his left hand, and pulled out several notes without the man noticing, just as he came deep in the boy's ass, with his eyes screwed shut, face sweating in the heat. As he left, I didn't bother to hide. He scowled at my large grin as he moved past. The boy meanwhile limped over to a hole in the rock at the far side of his little den. He removed a stone, pulled out what looked like a rather heavy leather purse, and stuffed the notes inside. When he turned around, I was standing over him. He tried to dart out from underneath me, but I grabbed the naked little boy and dragged him onto the blanket, holding down his arms at the wrists with one of my hands, and straddling his flailing legs with my body. 'Didn't see me?' I unbuckled my shorts, letting out my dick, which flopped heavy and hot onto his lithe stomach, sizeably bigger than the Ghanaian's. He stopped squirming. 'But you've been watching me all week.' I stood up and moved to take off my clothes, folding them neatly in a pile away from the blanket and his prying fingers. All the while he watched my dick as it grew harder and harder. He started tugging his dick, which I guessed was around three inches long erect. As I'd suspected, he was completely hairless from the eyebrows down, light as milky coffee, and slim with no puppy fat. 'What am I gunna get for keeping this secret?' I asked, grabbing my penis in the middle of the shaft. My hands, although they are quite big, haven't been able to grasp fully around the circumference of my dick since I was around thirteen, and this clearly made him more excited (as it often does with boys, I note) since he at once started playing with his asshole, which was now dripping a little of the Ghanaian's cum. I leant over him, and kissed him deeply, pinning this boy's little tongue under mine and exploring the inside of his mouth -- as they say in Nigeria, 'going for the tonsils.' When I released his face after a few minutes, he choked for breath. He had writhed at first -- most of his 'clients' had used him, it seems, as a fucktoy rather than an object of true desire: something to be cummed in and left, not kissed. He was therefore in something of a haze, and so I instantly started kissing him lower and lower, from the neck (where I left a number of dark lovebites) to the chest, to the ribs, to the bellybutton and the smooth, hairless pubis where, placing my stubbled cheek against it, I felt for a moment the heat of his pulse. I don't think I'm bragging when I say that he was the best fuck he ever got, though he didn't (in fact couldn't: he was a mute, I think) tell me that. I could tell it by the palpitations of his chest, his hitched breathing and darting eyes. He was like one of those gazelles that doesn't know where to go when the hunter corners him, and thinks it best, perhaps, to just dash forward and embrace whatever comes; is, in fact, excited about it. He looked as though he could have died in bliss right at that moment. Since he was very light I flipped him over, shoved his head down into the sand and knelt before his pert skinny ass. I didn't need lube, since the Ghanaian had cum, it seemed, a household of cum in his ass, but hocked up some spit anyway to smear on my thick dark head. His hole showed surprising resistance against it, in fact -- at least for a cunt that had taken a few hundred black cocks, probably -- and I had to stretch him pretty wide. But we got there in the end, and before I knew it I was halfway in, the four-foot fucktoy beneath me gasping in pleasure (or was it pain? Probably a bit of both, but the slut wanted it). 'It's not all in,' I gritted through my teeth. 'Here.' I started roughly massaging his stomach and lower back -- a skill my father had taught me when we fucked our first boy together -- and slowly he started to relax, moderate his breathing, and I could feel his 'second asshole' begin to give way as I went all in, right up to within an inch of my balls. Then I started pounding at his tight ass. Slowly at first, but soon with a speed that would impress most Olympic judges (it's a sport bound to come, as they say). Before I knew it the rug had moved from underneath us, and I was pounding him deeper and deeper into the sand. I kept pounding and pounding, making up that last inch of difference in the stretching of his ass, until my big black balls were smacking against his own smooth sack. At once he let out a few guttural moans, followed by a high pitched squeak -- the first sounds I'd heard him make -- as his body shook and he came a few drops of spermless boy-cum onto the sand. As his legs wavered beneath us I did one more full in-out-stroke and came balls up deep, incredibly deep, in his quivering asshole. Pulling out, my dick glistening with my and the Ghanaian's cum, I flipped him over again on to his back, and, smiling, took my slowly softening dick in two hands and started pissing over that boy there in the sand: on his face, stomach and chest, as it trickled down the rest of his panting body. 'You're mine,' I said. Perhaps you're thinking that, after this rough treatment, the boy was some desert apparition who would disappear from the story, never to be heard of again, leaving me with some poignant moment I could reflect on... Well, he wasn't. In fact, he stuck beside me like a limpet for a whole two weeks, with the odour, faintly, of my urine on him the whole time (I know for a fact that he washed, since I made him wash, but even so he couldn't rid himself, even if he had wanted to, of my mark). What happened to him after two weeks? Well getting fucked three or four times by me every night left its toll: his ass wasn't ruined, as such, but became too loose, making it difficult for me to cum the fourth or fifth fuck of the day unless I pounded him to exhaustion. I think had I not crushed his pride so deeply, he would have cried when I left him. But, as a slut, he will do well in this life. And even if his asshole does get ruined soon, his dick (I'm sure) won't be, and with his highly profitable scam he will in the near future be able to afford all the boys he desires. As for the Ghanaian, his wife died a few days after he fucked that boy. He now happily lives in Germany among New Age and Anarchist types in the yurt of a Danish woman and her three blond boys. His son is now four, and turned out to be eligible for citizenship regardless, as did his father after nine months. We correspond regularly on numerous internet forums. _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- I have no problems with anyone sharing my story on other websites (Tumblr, etc.). I'm delighted that some of you think it's worth sharing! I just request that you maintain the story wholly intact, including formatting, footnotes, and prefacing/notes from the author. Also, make sure my email address and a link to the Nifty URL is somewhere in there. Although not necessary, preferably tell me you have done so, so I don't receive random messages from Tumblr out of the blue (I don't know whether these alert-type messages are spam or genuine if I am unaware it has been posted elsewhere). For any other concerns, please don't hesitate to contact me at pilgrim566@ghostmail.com. Thanks, Pilgrim.