 ADULTS 18+ ONLY WARNING: colour red = sexually graphic material. All names of people, organizations and places used in this story have been changed or are fictitious. Any resemblance of any character to anyone living is entirely coincidental and unintended. All photographs are for illustrative purposes only. No one depicted in them have anything to do with this story. A STICKY SITUATION XXX Copyright GayEgypt.com 2002. I don't suppose many people will believe my story, even after the recent revelation that a self-confessed sadomasochist and co-founder of a sadomasochistic group called Black Rose played a leading part in a U.N. weapons inspection team. I'm afraid my background, atleast superficially, is a little less promising. I'm an Egyptian** from the small town of Abu Kir near Alexandria, where I am now married with three children. Naturally I have not yet told my wife about any of the sordid events to which I must now confess. I joined UNSCOM, the U.N. weapons inspection team, in 1994, aged twenty. I held a first class honours degree in biochemistry from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology* and was the youngest graduate that year. You can imagine how excited I felt to be taking part in such a crucial mission. Now, some eight years later, I am worried. You see the Iraqi Ministry of Information and, according to some Baghdad taxi drivers, the maktab al amn al qawmix [ The Office of National Security ]x both hold pictures of me on file. And these are not the standard photographs the Istikhbarat, Iraq's military intelligence, take of UN inspectors visiting a "sensitive" site. In the first file, SM4385 [ if one uses the classification system adopted by the Ministry of Information ], I am tied naked and spread eagled to an iron dormitory bed. There is no need for duck tape to seal my mouth since two members of the Union of Iraqi Students have kindly rammed their thick cocks simultaneously down my throat, while a third, fourth and fifth stand patiently in line. I should add, though it's only a slight mitigation, that all of them were atleast eighteen years old according to their identity cards. The Ministry also has pictures of my merciless sodomization by Saddam Hussein's oldest son Uday [ see file SM7219 ]. In one hand he casually holds a drink while his other assists his penetrating prick. I am bent over a banquet style dining table with my clearly pained face turned unknowlingly towards a candid camera. In the background, but clearly discernable, is the wife of another Arab president***, who I daren't name. Her eyes pear out from behind her niqab with barely concealed disgust. Now you might think that the publication of these photographs would be a propoganda disaster for the Iraqi regime, but for us Arabs there's nothing unmanly or unheroic about giving another man a good poke, especially when the man-whore or "bejur 'ala dahru" [ "one who is dragged on his back" ] - as a redundant Iraqi Airways steward once called me - I don't have time to explain - happens to be a leading member of the hated U.N. weapons inspection team. Now I wouldn't be surprised if you were wondering how an educated heterosexual father of three allowed himself to be photographed in such a shameful and wretched situation and that's what I'm now going to try to explain. Most of the U.N. inspectors were staying in a well-secured headquarters building which had been carefully debugged to prevent the Iraqi security services eavesdropping on our daily morning briefings or indeed on the night time activities of U.N. inspectors who, separated from their wives by thousands of miles, were under a great but unwelcome pressure from their superiors not to consort with prostitutes or other "undesirables". I however, didn't share their misfortune. As it was explained to me by the Second Secretary*, UNSCOM had a major problem in launching surprise search missions on Iraqi "medical" and "agricultural" laboratories and storage facilities. As soon as a U.N. convoy of vehicles began to struggle out of Baghdad along any particular traffic jammed road, the Iraqis would immediately alert the various potential "targets" giving them hours in which to hide the evidence. Frustrated and embarrassed, the U.N. decided to risk housing three small teams in Iraqi government hotels outside Baghdad, the first in Mosul to the north, the second in Najjaf to the south and the third mission - to which I was allocated - in the city of Basra in Iraq's far south near the Gulf coast. I was relieved to find myself billeted in the relaxed atmosphere of the five star Abu Nuwas hotel*. Only one detail of the decor was at all distracting. A giant photograph, hung high in the lobby, of Saddam Hussein surrounded by men in olive green uniforms cutting a massive pink cake at a hotel reception for his fifty sixth birthday the previous year. The Abu Nuwas was Basra's premier establishment named, somewhat ironically in view of what was about to happen to me, after the eighth century Abbasid poet famed for his love of wine and boys. Anyway, I made straight for the bar and a young dark bartender handed me an ice cold bottle of Babycham. I thought ot that famous scene in that fifties film Ice Cold in Alex where the three British officers assuage their thirst after a difficult desert escape through enemy lines. However, in my case a two hundred mile journey in a Peugeot 505 down Iraq's bussiest highway didn't quite deserve the comparison. Besides, the Desert Rats in "Ice Cold in Alex" probably never drank Babycham. But after a couple more of the little bottles I did notice a rather winsome young lass sitting at a corner of the bar who, in a manner not disimilar to the actress Sylvia Syms in the film, raised an inviting eyebrow everytime I glanced at her. I considered my plan of attack. The worst scenario was that she might ask me about the contents of my briefcase. I decided I would have to ask the bar back to keep watch on it. Not only did it contain an assortment of various dildos, so I could leave a different one on my bed each morning to tease the chambermaid but it also contained highly classified U.N. documents. These detailed not just the methods of tracking down any potential nuclear weapons programme but also, as background information, the various options by which a cash-strapped government might make such a horrific device. I feel this was somewhat careless. I mean why did I need to know how to make the damn things and at the same time have the unnecessary and difficult burden of keeping the case secure while lodging at a luxurious hotel named after pedarastic poet ? Did they really imagine I would spend my evenings reading about the theoretical properties of uranium isotope 235 ? Anyway, where was I ? Ah, that smooth legged, somewhat muscular, girl at the bar. She was a welcome distraction and it didn't take many raised eyebrows before I plucked up the courage to ask the bartender whether he might be so helpful as to offer her a drink. I would pay naturally. She quickly downed the large whisky the bartender poured her and beckoned me over. I tried to hide my slight inibriation as I gingerly attempted to leave my briefcase balanced precariously on my bar stool under the kind and ever watchful eye of the bar back. "Are you American ?" she asked in a surprisingly curt but pleasant masculine voice. I did, and still do, so enjoy the company of a domineering woman. though I wasn't flattered by being mistaken for an American. But it wasn't the first time that my pale Alexandrian looks - one of my great grandmothers was French and another Greek - had deceived other Arabs. Then, observing my pectoral muscles which I had spent three years developing at the University gymn, she made a highly embarrassing if incissive observation, with a singular lack of formality or discretion. "I bet you like your nipples being tickled, gently licked and then savagely bitten just as you reach an orgasm." I felt my cock go as hard as a rock and glancing across the bar, noticed to my relief that the bar back was apparently too busy cleaning glasses to have overheard her remark. And of equal importance, the briefcase was still perched high on the bar stool. "No one would ever imagine that it contained secrets that Saddam Hussein would kill for," I reassured myself. "Well," she remarked, evidently angry at my failure to give an immediate response, "I see you are just another boring U.N. weapons inspector who wants to waste everybody's time." "No, Sorry, well, I guess I might try it one day with someone," I responded with what I hoped would sound like suitable subservience. Then spotting my abandoned briefcase, she launched herself from her stool and before I realized her intent, had grabbed the case with both her hands. Now, I think it is to my credit in any possible court-martial I might face - I was technically employed by the U.N. as a Lieutenant in the Egyptian army - that sensing an imminent international incident, I forgot all pretense of beeing a slaveboy to my dominatrix and instead screamed "stop that woman" at two bell boys, even before she had begun to run towards the exit. "Really Mr. Mashhoor*," intervened the bartender, "You needn't worry. Sajida* would not steal your briefcase even if it contained a hundred dollars. She is an honest and respectable woman. She has been the hotel masseuse here for the last two years and I think you owe her an apology." In actual fact the briefcase contained fifty thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills. An obscure US military agency called CENTCUM [ nothing to do with CENTCOM ! ] had trusted the wads of cash to a fellow graduate from MIT [my alma mata as you might recall] who handed them to me at a somewhat cold rendezvous beside an Obelisk in New York's Central Park the previous January. All I knew, was that I was to give the money to an elderly Shi'ite Imam living near Nassariya*, about a hundred miles from Basra. My colleague had confided that the "fucking pervert" - which I thought was a rather ungenerous term - had mispent previous CENTCUM donations on importing young ladyboys on Royal Jordanian Airways. They apparently insisted on flying business class from Bangkok to Amman, Jordan, where the ever hospitable Imam hosted them in his holiday villa. Anyway, I felt it would be wrong to test the already stretched tolerance of the bartender with such a lengthy explanation. "Perhaps, I might suggest" he continued helpfully, "that you both retire to your room so that she can relax you before you cause any more unecessary disturbance. You might be a senior UN official but we do deserve a little respect." A Russian businessman seated in a cosseting armchair nearby had lowered his copy of Tribuna and was still eyeing me as if I were some ranting madman as I offered my profuse apologies. "Of course, I am so sorry. If Sajida has time and doesn't object, I would be very grateful. I do so apologize for causing any trouble." "No problem, Mr. Masshoor," responded Sajida, with uncharacteristic formality, "I will give you a little time to settle in your room before I come up. Here is your precious case." The note of sarcasm with which she emphasized the word "precious" restored my waning penis immediately to its upright position. Once back in my room, I spent the remaining few minutes I had alone in hectic preparation. I hid the brief case inside one of the cavenous wardrobes and tipped the remaining contents of my aftershave bottle across my face and chest, being careful to avoid my nipples so as not to deter Sajida from biting them should she feel so inclined. Then, I stripped all my clothes off, except my Calvin Klein thongs which, despite their constraining tight elasticity, could barely contain my bulging cock. So I dimmed the lights and when my door bell finally sounded I opened it with a towel around my waist as an additional protection to my modesty. "Take that towel off and lie on the bed face down," she instructed me without even a pretense of friendliness. I immediately decided I should obey quietly and not bother her with any tedious conversation. No doubt she despised the letcherous businessmen and various government and foreign officials who were her necessary but unwelcome "bread and butter". I will never forget her hands. They were so wonderfully manly as they pressed down firmly into my thighs and then my back. I felt totally under her control but a little disappointed that my eyes, being burried in the pillow under her otherwise wonderful weight, couldn't observe the contours and texture of her muscular body for she had coolly discarded her garments as I lay buried face downwards. Then, without wasting too much time on unnecessary pretense, she tugged my underpants downwards and forcefully and painfully thrust four fingers into my rectum. I still shudder with uncontrollable pleasure at the memory of the totally unexpected shock. In that sudden surge of excitement I couldn't resist the temptation to glance upwards, restraining the urge to clench my buttocks against the pain as I glimpsed her wonderfully domineering silhouette in the mirror. Though it was dark, I noticed that her brests seemed unusually small yet pleasantly muscular behind a dark navy blue brassiere. And her face, though perfectly smooth and youthful, still carried an adrogonous hint of a man's face. She was so skilled a domanatrix, I reflected, that my mind must be playing delightful tricks on me. Afterall, no masseuse would be employed by a respectable five star establishment if she had a nine inch penis dangling between her legs. But now wasn't the time for such distracting abstract observations. This was a moment to revel in without hesitation. At was at this point that she asked me to turn over. I felt relieved that atlast my upright penis could be displayed without embarrassment. Then, briefly forgetting that for her I was only a miserable slave, and I blame this momentary lapse on the three Babychams I had just consumed, I asked her "Could you do something for me ?" "What ?" she responded with obvious annoyance. "Could you lick my nipples like you said when we met ?" I explained feebly and realizing immediately that this was an unforgiveable insult to such a respectable woman employed by one of Iraq's most prestigious hotels. "Shut up man-bitch ! close your eyes ! And open that fucking mouth." "Yes, Sir" I responded, understanding immediately that she required me to change my gender. Who was I to question why ? I prepared myself for the insertion of some object, perhaps a dildo or a banana into my mouth. But for several moments nothing happened. Then, it started. For a few moments I couldn't guess what it was. It felt amazingly like a limp but large penis. Perhaps it was a partly boiled gherkin, perhaps an overripe banana with the skin not yet removed or perhaps even a secret sex weapon the Iraqi government had been working on which felt and tasted just like I imagined a man's cock would be. Indeed, had I not been certain that Sajida was firmly in control, I would have been sick at the very thought of such a perverted pleasure. Then the inserted object swelled up until it was choking my airways and the pressure of her muscular thighs were crushing my rib cage. Sajida was so wonderfully merciless and unforgiving. She had transformed me miraculously into a helpless victim of an uncompromising male rape and yet I knew I was alright. It was just Sajida - the masseuse giving me a little therapy. With every thrust, her pounding became more merciless. For sometime I thought I might be seriously injured, perhaps permanently paralyzed or even killed. Now, I knew death by excrutiating suffocatiion was a certainty. I panicked, struggling to get just a momentary gulp of air, but Sajida wouldn't allow my pittiable struggle to survive spoil her impending orgasm. Her powerful thighs pinned my weakening resistance to the mattress. But just as I could hear her orgasm approaching, in what seemed like a momentary display of femininity, she suddenly withdrew the object from my throat. My mouth and eyes burst open simultaneously. The next few moments seemed to pass in slow motion. There was Sajid [as I now must call her], her unashamed manliness towering above me, her eyes staring upwards at some invisible point of extasy, her fingers ruthlessly ripping my hair and head towards the massive swollen shaft of my she-male master. In my defense I must say I had little time to think or to consider my options for within a second his hot creamy spunk was splattering everywhere; again and again, in seemingly endless spurts, across my cheeks, into my hair, in my eyes and mostly, down my still wide-open mouth. He glanced coldly down at my shocked expression and a look of disgust grew as he surveyed the sticky carnage splattered everywhere, but it was the mess covering his own prick and the thick pubic hair around his balls that he was most concerned about. He wasted no time in remedying the situation. "Lick it clean, right now, queer" Whether it was out of contempt or as merely a polite suggestion as to what I should use as a cleaning agent he promptly spat a large glob of saliva with amazing accuracy into my left eye. Squinting, I leaned forward submissively. I don't know whether it was fear of what he might do if I didn't obey or just an urge to emerge from this nightmare as soon as possible that made me comply with his disgusting demands. Anyway I figured if I was going to demean myself so hideously I might as well pretend to enjoy it. That way I might escape any retribution he was considering. So I licked his sweaty cum covered testicles with the same devotion with which a bitch cleans her puppies. And he was also most helpful, lifting his now limp but still enlarged cock so as not to hinder my tongue in it's important duty. It was at that moment that I faintly heard the door open ever so slightly. At last I could sense this nightmare was nearing an end. But, so as not to give away my imminent rescue to my perverted tormentor, I continued to lick all the more effusively even though the taste of all that spunk and pubic sweat made me feel sick. Glancing nervously towards the doorway a second time, I could just make out a young man in the same olive green uniform that had adorned the men accompanying the "Great Leader" in the lobby photograph. I noticed he was armed with a camcorder which he already had aimed towards us both. As it ommitted no light, I assumed it was equipped with particularly fast film suitable for dark rooms and that he didn't want to attract any attention. Obviously he was a diligent military police commissar - perhaps from an elite squadron of the Istikhbarat I had heard so much about. In any case he was obviously about to intervene on my behalf but no doubt he had to be careful to gather sufficient evidence with which to prove Sajid's gross misconduct - yes, I was sure that was the military terminology he would use. Fortunately, Sajid was unaware of his presence. "I feel like pissing, open your mouth," I decided to play along sure that my rescuer would shoot this pervert dead before a drop of piss fell into my mouth. "Yes, give it to me Sajid," I moaned and leaned forwards but Sajid was evidently annoyed by such enthusiasm, slapping my face violently and pushing me backwards on to the mattrass. "Don't touch my cock, sharmoot [male whore]. Just open your mouth as wide as you can." So I forced open my jaws as if they belonged to a constrictor snake which is in the act of swallowing a wild boar, for I knew I must appear keen not to miss a single drop. And it was fortunate that I did, for otherwise the massive rainstorm that followed would have infuriated the chambermaid. As it was, it had only been with great difficulty that I had cultivated the chambermaid's tolerance to my unusual room service demands. Each morning she would carefully check the corridor before closing my door and allowing me to kneel before her as she parted the lips of her cunt so I could tap her juices. In return for this I allowed her to thrash my naked buttocks as I made the bed and cleaned the dust from the mini bar with my toothbrush. However she was difficult to please. It would never be long before she would glance impatiently at her watch, for she had some twenty other rooms to attend to, and she would curse me. "With a toothbrush it will take all day to make your room fit for human habitation. I can't wait any longer. Finish it by yourself." I was by nature a messy creature. But I'm getting off track. Where was I ? Ah, yes. The monsoon. The warm but unwelcome tidal wave of piss. It seemed never ending. I thought I would drown. I tried desperately not to panic or close my mouth. I didn't want to do anything which might distract Sajid from the pleasure of pissing. That would alert him to my uniformed rescuer who was edging ever closer while he filmed. But Sajid still seemed unaware of the commissar for he now looked down smirking on my piss splattered face. "Queers love humiliation don't they ? But I bet they love kissing arse more ?" Briefly, I considered the possibility of protest. After all I was not just heterosexual, I was happily married. I didn't want or need gay sex. I certainly didn't desire to kiss arse ! But them I reminded myself that the Iraqi gendarme would be grateful to me if he could get more evidence of Sajid's depravity on film. I fully expected the uniformed figure to drop down behind the other twin bed, as obviously his presence would be immediately exposed as Sajid swivelled round in order to expose his buttocks to my face. Whether the officer hid or not I will never know, for at that moment Sajid ordered me to close my eyes and fearing disobedience might jeopardise the delicate entrapment operation, I duly complied. Only a few seconds passed before the next order. "Clean out my arse, brown nose !" What ? I wasn't sure if I had heard correctly. So I just went ahead with the instructions as I had initially understood them karessing each of his buttocks gently and waggling my tounge close to, but certainly not inside, his arse. "Inside, inside," Sajid snapped angrily, without even a hint of having enjoyed the homage of my tongue. Now, I really felt like wretching. How could I bring myself to actually lick a man's arse. I wouldn't even do it for my wife, even though I did perform this most intimate act once for a big buttocked Brazilian dominatrix in Boston. I decided I would have to ignore my taste buds and pretend I was licking a Ben and Jerry's ice-cream tub. I prayed the police officer wouldn't require much more evidence on film. I didn't realise that my prayer had been answered, but as I was about to take the plunge, gently pulling apart Sajid's buttock cheeks, I heard a massive crack like thunder and felt drops of warm semi-fluid liquid splatter my hair. For the second time that evening I saw everything in slow motion. I still remember every detail. I looked up to see Sajid turning as he tumbled and saw his round mouth, tinged with a crimson colour, which deepened with his fall. I saw the young Istikhbarat officer more clearly than before, in his resplendent dark green uniform, his chin mean and chiselled, but his face still that of the youth just turned man. And even as Sajid still stumbled, and before the commissar had even sheathed his pistol, I had begun to contemplate the irresistable attraction of this assassin. I contemplated, somewhat perversely in the circumstances, whether I might not voluntarily offer this man a blow job. He had murdered Sajid to save my honour. Did I not owe him atleast this small favour ? The commissar glanced at me with a knowing smirk. At the same instant I heard the thud of Sajid's body striking the floor. I was puzzled, but peversely satisfied, by the officer's professional indifference. "Excuse me, Mr Masshoor." I felt a little disappointed by the commissar's polite approach. "It is Mr Masshoor, isn't it ?" he continued as if this was some Sunday garden party at the British Embassy. "You work for UNSCOM and you studied in America, am I right ?" His next question, however, was less formal. "America is full of Queers isn't it Mr Masshoor ? Yet you never had gay sex before today !" "How do you know so much ?" I confessed and belatedly I wondered if he had been bluffing or did he really possess, as his wild eyes suggested, some special intuitive talent ? Was he some sort of Iraqi Rasputin ? And how, if at all, did he plan to use his powers on me ? "You want to worship my prick, don't you Mr. Masshoor ? There's nothing you wouldn't do, no sum of money you wouldn't pay to open your mouth to my penis and ingest any bodily substance I might care to dispose of ? Isn't that true, Mr. Masshoor ?" "I'm no queer," I protested. I was a little embarrassed by my impudence. He was carrying a gun and I couldn't really deny that his claim, though somewhat exaggerated by insane self-delusion, had a grain of truth. I did feel strangely drawn, in a totally unexplainable way, to the idea of giving him a blow job. But there were certain limits. For a start I made a principle of never paying for sex. Atleast, not more than once a day. And I'd already paid the hotel chambermaid two dollars that morning. "It's true Mr. Masshoor," the Istikhbarat officer continued, "You are no queer. You are just a victim." I couldn't understand why this expression of concern annoyed me. I wanted him to slap me viciously in the face and handcuff me naked, but protesting, to the bed and then slowly and callously allow his penis to pleasure itself. What was happening to me ? "You are the guinea-pig, Mr. Masshoor, to test our new secret weapon. A horrific invention which will turn even the most heterosexual family man into a depraved transexual masochist. What's your favorite colour, Mr. Masshoor ? Admit it ! It's rose pink, isn't it ? And your wife's pussy ? It doesn't really interest you, does it ? Strange but you can't deny that it's true, can you ?" "You're crazy," I protested defiantly and in a desperate attempt to prove my cool macho bravado I tried to remember the sort of words a James Bond or Sylvester Stallone might use under interrogation. "You're giving my silly head a monstrous headache," I insisted nursing my head with my hand. "I need an asprin, please ! Quickly !" Unfortunately the words sounded a little feeble. And they weren't quite the same as those in the film script. Worse, my manner of speach was beginning to sound effeminate. But the commissar did atleast seem to be searching for something as he thrust his hand into his pocket, but it wasn't asprin. His massive wild penis, though still within the cage of his zip, had now been released from the inner sanctum of his underpants and was pressing up tight against the lining of his trousers. It was at that moment as if some basic instinct forced me to my knees. "Give it to me, give it to me !" I begged hysterically. The officer tried to restrain a smile as he slowly unzipped himself. He seemed delighted at the prospect of displaying his giant tool to me. All the more as he knew he now had the power to humiliate a married UN weapons inspector. "Every day your UN inspections violate our national sovereignty, trample on our dignity and self-respect. Your men take delight at entering mosques and presidential palaces and make no attempt at apology when you find nothing. Now it's our turn to violate an inspector." "Yes, yaffendim," I responded, "It's my duty and pleasure to be violated in the most disgusting ways you deign to consider. I am not even worthy to lick the cheesy puss from your cock." Oh God, I had annoyed him. The words "cheesy puss" were evidently not well chosen. And the pain he now inflicted, as the metal tip of his shoe suddenly smashed into my skull, was too sharp and intense to be truly pleasurable. "Were is the briefcase Mr. Mashoor ? I will not let your disgusting and perverted requests distract me from my duty. Don't imagine that I will even consider inserting my massively thick Iraqi manhood into your sluttish man-whore arse until I have the case." "It's in the wardrobe opposite the bathroom door," I quickly advised him. He picked it up suspiciously from the wardrobe floor and threw it at me. I ducked with instinctive cowardice from the hurtling case, but atleast I dutifully retrieved it from under one of the beds. The officer, who had now casually discarded his pistol on to the top of the minibar, filmed my every move I made with a delightfull dilligence. "Open it !" He was evidently impatient as I fumbled weakly with the numbers on the lock. 007 007. I hoped he wasn't close enough to laugh at my foolish pretensions. At last, the case sprung open and though I didn't turn round, I could sense his careful approach from behind me. He paused somewhere above me and I wondered if he was still filming. The shame of all the dildos, the UNSCOM documents stamped "Restricted - Classified," and the litter of numerous one hundred dollar notes all mixed together. I tried to hide my pleasure at the thought of the shock this find must surely have upon my master. But further pleasantries were postponed by a sudden and unexpected blow to the nape of my neck. I remember seeing everything spin around me and thinking, as I lost balance, that perhaps I was going to die before I ever had the chance to even touch my hero's prick. To continue click onx Part II - Saddam's Secret Sex Weapon. *These names of individuals, cities, universities and hotels have been changed. To my recollection there was no post of Second Secretary in UNSCOM and if there was then it was not he who advised me. I do not wish to reveal the actual position or name of the officer concerned. ** I may not have given my correct nationality to hide my identity. I can't reveal more. ***There was, infact, no biological woman present, let alone the wife of an Arab president. The reluctant observer was actually Uday Hussein's young Iraqi shemale partner but I've disguised her identity in case it should cause any family arguments. To skip to a different story - "I Was A Taliban Sex Slave" click here. or to continue with this story click on Part II - Saddam's Secret Sex Weapon. Is your right hand exhausted by sordid sex stories ? Discover gay destinations in Egypt - click here ! Browse through hundreds of personal ads - click here ! Learn some Arabic sex slang - click herex ! |
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