He seemed to recover. - Okay, come on, I'm going to wash you. He took me by the shoulders and gently pushed me under the shower head. He pulled on the string which gave us only a very thin trickle of water. Then with the bar of soap, he rubbed the tuft of alfa and began by rubbing me vigorously all over my body. Apart from the irritation from the alfa, I appreciated this form of care, feeling like I was being washed as a child, by my father or my mother. I knew Moroccans were clean, but to this point! Not a single square millimeter of my body was forgotten. Of course, he took particular care of my sex by insisting a lot. Pulling back my foreskin several times while admitting to me that it was one of the rare times he had seen an uncircumcised sex so close. My vigor returned immediately, which made him display a very pretty and almost tender smile on his face. He didn't forget my buttocks, just like my puck, which he penetrated with a well-soaped finger, rotating it on itself. I didn't say a word, even though I had never (at that age only) appreciated this kind of penetration. Then came the rinsing. Once finished, he ordered me quite authoritatively: - It's up to me now, take care of me. He placed himself under the shower head and pulled on the rope. He let the meager trickle of water flood his face and then his body, his head raised to the ceiling, but his eyes closed, to better receive the warm wave, his arms along his body. In short, the image of a man offering himself to me. In this modest home in southern Morocco, this bathroom now seemed to me a bit like a sanctuary. The deep blue stucco walls, reminiscent of the calm waters of a gulf, contrasted delicately with the omnipresent heat of the surrounding desert, creating a haven of freshness in the heart of this residence. Daylight, filtering through the openings in the ceiling, drew moving geometric patterns on the walls and floor, reminiscent of traditional moucharabiehs. The absence of windows further reinforced the impression of intimacy.And there, now, before me, stood this man of about forty, bathed in rays of light that highlighted his muscles even more. I was captivated, even paralyzed by the beauty of this painting. His body, sculpted by years of work under a burning sun, bore witness to the beauty and strength of this desert people. Each muscle seemed to tell a story, each line of his body evoked resilience in the face of the elements and destiny. I saw the water flowing in a thin trickle from the small shower head, like a precious source in this arid environment. Lukewarm, it seemed to want to take advantage of it to caress the man's skin, who was visibly savoring this moment of peace and freshness with an almost palpable gratitude. The rays of sunlight, penetrating through the openings in the ceiling, created an enchanting spectacle. They illuminated the droplets of water, transforming them into a myriad of ephemeral diamonds that danced on his body. The atmosphere became almost dreamlike for me, as if time had stood still in this bubble of serenity and silence, disturbed simply by the murmur of the flowing water. The tiled floor, with its geometric patterns typical of Moroccan craftsmanship, indirectly and divinely reflecting the light, added to the magic of the scene. The water that flowed there formed small ephemeral streams, evoking the wadis of the desert after a rare rain. In this living tableau, Daoud appeared to me as if in communion with the elements. The rare and precious water, the celestial light, the coolness of the room contrasting with the heat outside, all contributed to creating a moment of grace. His face expressed a profound serenity, almost as if he were performing a sacred ritual. I suddenly felt transported into a moment of visual poetry, an enchanted interlude in everyday life, where magic is born from the encounter between man, water and light. With wide eyes, I devoured him with my eyes, totally captivated by this apparition. At one point, intrigued by my silence and immobility, he said to me with a teasing smile: - Don't stare at me like that! You look like my wife when she examines a sheep before buying it for Eid El Kébir! Brought back down to earth by his remark, I retorted with a smile and staring at his member dripping with water: - I would rather think about buying a damn goat! He immediately darkened. Faced with his obvious disagreement, I added, cheekily: - Or else for the purchase of a magnificent Arab stallion! - I'm not Arab! I'm an Amazigh and a believer! Come on, stop talking and come rub me. I then approached him, a bit like a servant, humble and devoted.In one hand, I held the piece of handmade soap, white and pure, giving off a scent of orange blossom. In the other, the tuft of esparto grass that he had used before and that was lying on the ground, rough but tender at the same time, ready to perform this quasi-ritual of purification. Unlike him, I began by delicately coating the soap on the skin of the one I sensed was a bit like my future master, each movement marked by restraint and care. The white foam rose, light and airy, while the soap melted under my skillful fingers. The murmurs of the water accompanied by those of the song that he had begun to hum simply enchanted me. Now, with precise and rhythmic gestures, I used the tuft of esparto grass, rubbing gently to free the epidermis of the dust of our journey. I tried to imprint with each of my movements the effect of a dance on his skin, each of my rubbings intended as a caress, hoping to awaken his senses and soothe his fatigue. With his eyes half-closed, he let himself be carried away, visibly with delight, by this beneficial ceremony. The tensions vanished. The trickle of water continued to flow, carrying away with it the traces of everyday life, leaving behind new skin, glowing with health. I began with his back, impressed by the power of his deltoids, my caresses on his kidneys were a real delight for me, as was the energetic rubbing with the alfa that I practiced on his proudly firm and perfectly curved buttocks. He intervened by himself, refusing to let me wash his crack, and did it by himself. I could nevertheless, on my knees, begin the massage, more than the friction, of his thighs where the muscles stood out, just like the calves with their marked arches. From my position, as he was half-spread, I admired his enormous cock, hanging only half, certainly already awakened by my caresses. His balls were just as admirable. For a fleeting moment, I imagined the amount of virility and vigor that they held within them. All this galvanized me to say the least and I offered a magnificent erection when I made him turn around to begin his face side. I had the delectable perception of our two cocks meeting at the end in this movement. He immediately gave me one of his cute smiles of which he had the secret. I was struck by his ability to change expression with such ease. He could, in one instant, flash one of the cutest smiles I had ever seen, almost tender, and the next second his face would transform into a cold rictus of contempt or authority. This duality surprised and fascinated me at the same time, revealing a depth and complexity I had not anticipated. And it ...

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