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(These stories are not told as exorcisms.)

We had arrived in Morocco several weeks earlier, Naomi and I, and had a number of strange, rather harrowing experiences in Tangier and Fez. We decided to find a smaller town where we could recover, and picked Chefchaouen, in the Rif Mountains, based on the description in Let’s Go: Europe, which called the town a little gem.

We met Abdulilah and his friend Mohammed when we got off the bus in the main square. Abdulilah was a beautiful man, several years older than I. He seemed to have no real job—he just spent his days in the cafes, talking with his friends, drinking mint tea, smoking hash, hailing tourists who passed. Like other Moroccans, he called me Fatima. He spoke a fluid broken English and was tall and muscular. He looked like a rock star, in his tight-fitting jeans, with his gelled hair.

After Naomi and I had picked out a hotel and eaten lunch (Abdulilah and Mohammed sat with us, though they didn’t eat), Naomi said she was tired and wanted to take a nap. I needed to move, to unkink, so I said I would go for a walk. On the bus-ride to Chefchaouen, I had noticed trees and fields beyond the town. It was a rugged terrain, of steeply-rising ground covered with scrub-brush and pine trees that gave way to sudden, terrifying vistas. I wanted to be alone, to take in the austere beauties of the mountains. I told Naomi I would walk by myself.

But our new friend Abdulilah said no, that I should let him accompany me. He would be my guide; he would take me outside the town; show me its beauties. I, who had never been passive about such things, found myself oddly relieved at his suggestion. I had been shaken by the experiences Naomi and I had had. One man had followed us from Tangier to Asilah to Fez. There was a weird scene inside a hash-den, where we ate a concoction called majine. Then there was our shared feeling, when we awoke the morning after eating majine, that we weren’t quite real. We each had our own ways of recovering. I needed to be restored. And so I thought: yes, I will let Abdulilah escort me through the town’s streets. “But I want to go for a real walk,” I said. “Out in nature. Under the trees. Can we walk under the trees?”

Abdulilah tried his best to provide. He led me out along the western road, toward the big, rather dilapidated 3-star hotel that overlooked the town. There were indeed pines there, stunted and stubborn, but you couldn’t walk very easily because of the roughness of the terrain, the tough springy grasses that grew up between the crabbed trees. Nonetheless, I wanted them. I had an image in my mind of trees, and nothing else would do. Solace, I think, was what I really wanted.

Unfortunately, with Abdulilah accompanying me, I was finding it difficult to take in the rough cut of the mountains, the brave, scrubby pines. The stark beauty of the Rifs was elusive, and Abdulilah kept talking––of America, of travel, of how beautiful I was, of how much he wanted to kiss me.

It was then that he stopped, turned toward me, and actually started kissing me. I had been concentrating on the scrubby trees; I remember thinking, with dull surprise, oh, now we’re kissing. Then I put my hands to his chest and gently pushed him away. It was fairly mechanical. “No,” I said, “la.” I repeated it in Arabic, to give it emphasis, I suppose, or maybe because I thought I was being polite.

Abdulilah appeared distressed. I smiled at him apologetically and shook my head, meaning to appear sympathetic but firm. “Nature,” I said, gesturing at the trees and mountains. “I wanted to see some nature. To walk under the trees.”

“I want to make the milk,” he said. His voice was rough. He was breathing shallowly.

“No,” I said, still gently. “La. I’m tired. I want to go back to the hotel.”

He wasn’t rude or cruel or angry. He nodded, frowning, rubbing his crotch regretfully. I turned and started back the way we came.

After we had walked a short distance, he put his hand on my arm. He leaned in and kissed me again. “I want to make the milk,” he said.

There was no one around, no one but the pine trees. From where we stood, I could no longer see the 3-star hotel. Abdulilah kissed me, moaning, and I turned my face away. And so he pressed his lips to my neck, and pressed the hardness of his cock against my groin. He moaned again, pressing himself harder up against me, while I stood there, face averted.

In a few moments it was over. He let out his breath with a grunt and went slack. We stepped apart. I looked at him uncertainly and he gave a shaky laugh. Then he reached his hand down inside the front of his jeans and pulled it back out, holding up fingers wet with semen. I looked at the cum, looked back at him. He smiled, holding his fingers up as though one of us, or both of us, should be proud. I nodded, and then we turned and headed back to town.

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