Date: Sun, 03 Jan 2016 03:55:46 +0000
From: J. W. <jaywise1972@gmail.com>
Subject: Baba's Prayer, Part 2

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.

* * *

Part 2:

	The sun can be a man's closest friend when the cool desert night
has seeped into his bones and dawn finally arrives. But soon enough, the
cruelty of its heat beats down upon him like a thorned whip, tearing into
his skin and sapping him of his precious strength. At least, that is what
Baba once told me. In many ways I am pampered. I watch the golden sands fly
by through the heavily tinted passenger window of father's expensive car,
and I wonder what it must be like to travel across the desert upon a
camel's back, with nothing but a thin tent and a skin full of water to
protect you from the sun's smoldering rage.

	It is Sunday in Riyadh. I look over at Baba's powerful frame as he
drives the car. He is dressed in a long, flowing white robe, crowned with a
white skull cap and a gutra of bright red and white checks, held in place
by thick black cord. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but his face is
expressionless. Perhaps he is contemplating the meeting to which we are
headed.

	My stomach growls. Baba glances over and the merest hint of a smile
passes over his handsome features.

	"Soon, Sabbi. We are nearly there," he says.

	Sabbi means, simply, 'boy' in Arabic. Something about the way he
uses the word to address me is magical, and more intimate than simply using
my name, somehow. I nod, unable to resist the urge to smile back at him. So
strange. Baba needs only to look at me and I feel my heart race. The warmth
rises in my cheeks.

	I turn to look once more out the window before my eyes betray my
desire for him. This morning's prayer was particularly emotional --for both
of us, I think-- and I do not want to push him for more so soon. It is not
my place to ask for such things, after all. Baba knows best when the two us
should share such closeness.

	Still, I am not looking forward to sitting with nothing to do while
Baba speaks with the men at the mosque about repairs to the large
structure. This meeting has been planned for several weeks. My father's
company is well known in Riyadh; indeed, even across all of Saudi
Arabia. Many men work for my father. They rely on him for their living and
their well-being. Without him, they could not provide for their families
the way they should, and for this they are grateful. They worship him as I
do, but in a different way. He takes care of them, but none of the
tenderness he shows me is shown to his employees. They are forever separate
from him, though I cannot imagine that any of them would not want to be
closer.

	The car begins to slow, its wide tires hugging the pavement as we
turn into the parking lot. The mosque is impressive, purest white with a
tall minaret that gleams in the bright sunlight. When the engine finally
falls silent, Baba removes his sunglasses and he and I open our doors,
stepping out into the superheated air. Compared to the coolness of the
BMW's dark interior, the heat falls upon our heads like an angry ifrit, an
ancient being fashioned from air and fire.

	I walk next to Baba in a white robe of my own, though just a half
step behind his strong, measured gait. His large hand rests upon the back
of my neck, gently guiding me in the direction he would have me go. As we
pass through the door of the mosque, cool air once more caresses my cheeks
and forehead. It is a welcome respite. We both remove our sandals, placing
them respectfully on a rack near the door.

	We do not wait long. Within a few moments, two men walk across the
broad open space inside the mosque and stop before my father. He is
substantially taller than either of them. The older of the two men reaches
out with his right hand. Father mimics the gesture, and the older man
grasps Baba's arm firmly, his left hand rising to grasp father's right
shoulder. Then the two lean in and exchange kisses on each cheek. Baba
repeats this with the younger man.

	The older man then speaks to my father in low tones. The meeting
will begin in half an hour's time. Until then, the man says, we are welcome
to use the private wash room. Baba indicates he and I would prefer to pray
alone, and the man seems to have no problem with this. An internal room
adjoining the washroom will serve nicely. I feel a shiver of excitement at
the approach of Dhuhr, the noon-hour prayer. Father nods to the men, and we
turn to move off in the direction of the wash room.

	Within the washroom, we perform our ablutions, as we have done
hundreds of times before. We recite the ritual Basmala, 'In the name of
God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.' Then, we wash our faces, hands
and arms, our feet, our ears, and Baba runs his wet fingers through his
dark beard. I see him growing hard under his robe as we perform our duties
under law and religion. He is prepared, as I am prepared. The two of use
exit the washroom into the dimly lit interior room, and the door closes
behind us with a heavy click.

	Inside, the air is even cooler, and fragrant with the scent of
incense, cloves and cinnamon. Two prayer carpets lay upon the floor before
us in the center of the room. We will only need one of them. Baba and I
have always shared a prayer mat.

	Baba turns to watch me, and I lift the white robe up and over my
head. I am naked underneath, as always. He does the same, watching me until
the white linen passes over his own eyes. In seconds, Baba and I stand
before each other, nude as the day we were born.

	"Come," he orders, and though his voice is soft and gentle, there
is an unmistakable undercurrent of command. I walk forward until we are
almost touching. My head barely reaches the bottom of Baba's wide pectoral
muscles. I look up at him and smile. He smiles back, then holds out his
right hand, silently beckoning me to take it in mine. When I do so, his
large fingers close around mine and he moves my hand, placing it flat
against his hard belly. I can feel the warmth of his skin, and the beat of
his heart through the lightly furred skin.

	He moves my hand lower, guiding me in exploring Baba's magnificent
body. My fingers reach the soft, short hair just above his cock and I
shudder with desire as I feel it against my smooth skin. And then his hand
guides me lower, until the throbbing heat of his member touches the most
sensitive part of my palm. My fingers curl around the thick bar of my
father's cock, and then his hand releases me. Baba leans his head back and
takes in a long, slow breath. His son is holding within his small hand, the
instrument of his creation. Nothing could be more right than this moment in
time.

	From beyond the door, we hear the prayers of a hundred men or more
in center of the mosque, all facing East, all speaking to Allah in
unison. What a sweet sound that must be to the ears of a god.

	Baba looks down at me and his eyes speak. I understand, though he
has said nothing. After so long, I have learned to anticipate his
desires. Speaking is unnecessary. I lean forward and take the wide head of
Baba's cock between my lips and wet its surface with my tongue, swirling
round and round in a slow, gentle motion. Baba inhales sharply each time my
tongue touches the bottom of the head, the most sensitive spot on my
father's body. With a shudder, he reaches up to twine his fingers in my
coal-black hair and hunches forward, his cockhead letting loose a spray of
golden liquid within my mouth.

	My cheeks bulge with the sudden deluge, but I have practiced this
before, and soon I have caught up with Baba's flood and swallow in large,
rhythmic gulps. Baba must have been saving this for me since this morning,
for the stream seems endless. Out of one ear, I can hear the prayers out in
the cavernous hall. Out of the other, I hear my own wet swallows, the
liquid sound of my devotion to my father's pleasure. He moans with relief
as his bladder is emptied into the adoring belly of his Sabbi.  My eyes are
closed, and I am lost in this moment of intimacy.

	After some moments, the stream begins to slow to a gentle dribble
upon my tongue, then it ceases altogether and Baba pulls his cock out of my
mouth with a soft pop. His hands rise to my shoulders, and he pushes down
firmly, though he need not force me. I willingly sink to my knees, turning
then to lie upon the carpet on my back.

	I love looking up at Baba like this. Though he is tall and
powerfully muscled, he is never more so than when I watch him from the
floor; from a position of ultimate submission to his desires. I feel a
familiar and potent love well up within me as Baba squats down, lowering
his ass to his boy's face. The movement is smooth, fluid. We have done this
many times before. His hole comes to rest directly upon my red lips, and I
kiss its damp warmth, inhaling deeply.

	Baba leans forward beginning his prayer. The words flow from his
lips as his forehead touches the carpet. With each rise and fall of his
head, my tongue penetrates him. His arms are outstretched from his sides as
his praying grows louder and more fervent. I arch my back a bit to get a
better angle and plunge my tongue deep inside Baba's hot hole, holding it
there as my lips fasten upon the pink ring and suck deeply.


	This time, Baba wastes no time. In the distance, the sounds from
the prayer hall are beautiful, rhythmic. They are music against which my
father shares with his only son the richness of his essence. My mouth fills
with Baba's shit. Rather than the soft creaminess of his morning's meal, a
firm, slick log emerges from my father's hole and passes my lips with a
soft crackling sound. I know well how to deal with Baba's excrement in this
form. I allow the log to snake further and further into my mouth, until its
blunt end touches the back of my throat. Then I bite down and swallow,
taking several inches of Baba's rich filth down my gullet and into my belly
without chewing.

	Baba pushes, grunting through the words of his prayer with soft
gasps for air as he moves his muscled torso through the various positions
of prostration and worship of Salah.  Three more times I do this, biting
down and swallowing my father's offering, helping to cleanse and purify
him. It is my service to my father and to Allah.

	I pause to take a breath, the seal of my lips upon Baba's hole for
a short moment broken. Baba gives a last long push and the rest of whatever
is inside him slides into my mouth, warm and soft. This I cannot swallow
whole, and so I chew, swallowing each bit until no more remains. My belly
is fully to bursting with my father's shit, but I feel no discomfort or
nausea. It is as if I subsist only on Baba's waste; as if it alone sustains
me. I use my tongue to lick at his hole, cleaning it so thoroughly that no
one would ever suspect it had been anything other than pristine.

	Baba's breathing is quick and desperate now. The prayer from the
hall outside is growing fainter. It will be ending soon, and He must
complete the Salah before someone comes looking for him. With one powerful
arm, he turns my body over and scoots me forward, so that my face rests
upon the prayer mat's eastward edge. I look up, and it is almost as if I
can see through the walls of this place, to the ancient streets of Mecca,
and the Kaaba itself; the most holy place in all of Islam. I feel Baba's
massive cock at the tight entrance to my hole and barely have time to push
out before my father enters me, slowly but steadily, an inch at a time,
never pausing, never stopping, until his balls are nestled tightly in the
crack of my ass. I cannot help myself. Baba prefers that I be quiet when he
makes love to me in this way, but today I let out a long, high moan.

	Baba reaches around, his big body dwarfing my own, his thick beard
soft against my neck, and clamps a strong hand over my mouth as the muscles
of his ass and back flex and arch. He drives himself into me again and
again, regular as the tide. The prayers outside have stopped now, and only
his deep, heavy breathing can be heard in the relative silence of the
private room. Baba's prayers however, are not finished, though it is clear
that he is nearing their completion, and his own.

	Someone knocks softly at the door behind us. Baba's voice is strong
and steady as he informs whoever it is that he will be out
presently. Muffled words that I cannot understand filter through the wood,
and my father somehow continues this conversation for what seems like an
eternity. How he manages to disguise the fact that he is fucking his young
son just feet from the door upon a prayer mat is beyond my comprehension.

	Finally, the voice outside stops and footsteps recede into the
distance. Baba's hips pump faster, his thick organ barreling into my guts
so deeply that I can feel his cock in my very center. His breathing
quickens again and in seconds, he lowers his head, taking the sensitive
skin of my neck into his mouth and sucking powerfully, his teeth holding me
firmly in place as he unloads his potent seed inside me; inside his boy,
his own flesh and blood.

	We remain in this position for another minute or two as Baba's
breathing returns to normal. He stays buried within me until he is
completely soft, then slides himself out, settling back upon his
haunches. He is sweating, his massive chest damp with it, and his eyes
almost black with lust and satiation. He looks down at the prayer mat as I
turn over to face him. I have shot my own honey onto the rich fabric. It
could not be helped. I always orgasm when Baba fucks me. He understand that
this is not within my control. Still, it is a desecration of sorts, and as
such I lean down, lapping at my own fluids to clean them off the prayer
mat, until only a small damp spot remains. This seems to satisfy Baba, and
the two of us stand, slipping back into our robes.

	Baba takes one last look at me, smiling beneath his black beard,
and opens the door, beckoning me through.

	"Now, we conduct our meeting, Sabbi. Listen well, for you will
inherit my responsibilities someday."

	The two of us walk through the washroom and into the prayer hall,
past old men and young, fathers, sons, brothers, friends and colleagues all
unified under the roof of the great mosque. Our two hosts meet us on the
far side of the room.

	The meeting awaits.

* * *