Each time I tensed imperceptibly under his fingers, he released the pressure, resuming his massage with the utmost seriousness, as if nothing ambiguous had happened. But the game was there, floating between us, suspended in the air heavy with steam and perfumed oils. And I think Mokhtar was savoring it as much as I was. I was beginning, as the minutes passed, to become more than tense, my body reacting in spite of myself to these devilish caresses that seemed orchestrated with disturbing precision. At times, I arched slightly, bent like a bow, unable to mask the involuntary shivers of pleasure that his skillful hands triggered. Mokhtar knew what he was doing, and above all, he knew what he was causing. But even more than his expert gestures, it was the idea of ​​Peter, in the neighboring room, that plunged me into an even more feverish state. Peter… with Djamila… I couldn't help but imagine him and his naked body, also in the expert hands of a masseuse, perhaps undergoing the same torture, completely unaware of the double-dealing of this relaxation session on offer. The thought alone electrified me, and my position on my stomach became increasingly uncomfortable. Did Mokhtar feel it? Did he guess it? His silence, his way of slowing down his movements slightly, of letting a fraction of a second longer hover between each pressure, almost made me believe he was testing my resistance, savoring the moment when I would finally give in. Then, as if guessing what I didn't dare express, he placed his large hands on my sides and, with studied slowness, guided me in a fluid and natural half-turn, until I found myself lying on my back. A silence would fall. And there, I saw his gaze descend, observant without any surprise, but with a contained satisfaction, the tangible result of his previous attentions. I believe that my dagger must have been stiffened to 90 degrees or almost... His lips stretched slightly, and his smile - half triumphant, half amused - confirmed to me that he had never needed to guess anything. His wide lips came to brush my glans; he uncovered it with infinite slowness, which only reinforced my stiffening, to come and place a soft kiss on my meatus flooding his tongue with precum.I wanted to take his head with both hands, but he pinned my wrists to the table and began a series of long, slow but thorough sucks, sometimes pushing my cock deep into his throat, to move away from it by pressing hard on my coronary groove with his mouth, tickling it with his teeth just like my frenulum, to move away from it by pulling as much as possible on my foreskin. And the divine torture began again at more or less variable speeds. Then, feeling me submissive, he let go of my wrists and went to find my buttocks, slipped a hand into my gluteal groove to caress my pucker which I felt distend as he did so. He penetrated me with one finger and went to find my prostate which he began to massage. The combined action of his lips and fingers made me, for the first time in my life, feel something, something indefinable but warm and pleasant. I took advantage of my free hands and his position to come and take his penis with both hands, a penis that I discovered this time perfectly stiff. I took a look at it: it was really huge. I amused myself with what made him squeal, visibly exciting him, and made him very pleasantly reinforce his action on me. Seeing this muscular ebony black body, already glistening with perspiration or steam from the room, leaning over my stomach, guessing his protruding ribs which moved with his pumping, his pectorals brushing my pubis, his flat stomach coming off the table, and feeling this burning penis, also already covered in precum drove me crazy. He felt it, and accelerating his action, he brought me to a burning ejaculation that shook my entire belly, never ceasing to suck me while drinking my semen, sucking me until the moment when my cock relaxed completely. After the ecstasy, I remained motionless for a long time, as if time had stopped. My body, drained of all energy, seemed to be nothing more than a springless envelope, each muscle relaxed, incapable of reacting. I felt amorphous, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and my senses remained numb from the intensity of the moment. The inner tumult had died away, giving way to an almost palpable emptiness, a sort of deep torpor mixed with a strange quietude. My heart, still beating weakly, seemed to reverberate in the silent space that enveloped me, as if to remind me that, despite everything, I was still there. In this state of complete defeat, every breath was a conscious effort, and even my usually vivid thoughts seemed to move in slow motion. It was as if the orgasm had taken me far beyond pleasure, leaving me, for a brief moment, devoid of all strength, happy with a visceral fatigue that only asked to dissipate with time.In this delicious torpor, as my body completely surrendered to the moment, Mokhtar, with infinite gentleness, placed his hands on my shoulders. Without haste, without a word, he made me tip back onto my stomach, the movement fluid, almost natural, dare I say maternal, as if everything was already written in the silent language of his gestures. But when I felt his warm body join me on the table, slowly moving closer to me, a strange tension crept into me. And there, the dilemma arose. Should I let him go further? A part of me hesitated, really hesitated, torn between the instinct to straighten up, to impose a limit on him, and this other, more troubled impulse, which whispered to me not to interrupt this tacit dance, this natural slide towards something new, unexpected. Should I refuse? Mokhtar had imposed nothing, asked for nothing. His approach was measured, subtle, almost questioning. The choice was mine. But the preceding moments had been so wonderful, so controlled, that I couldn't bring myself to do it. And then, after all... didn't he deserve a reward for the delicacy he had shown? And who knows? Perhaps I was about to discover a new pleasure, a sensation I had never imagined, and indeed felt, another facet of this silent embrace where roles mingled and reversed with an unsuspected fluidity. I couldn't help thinking of Daoud... So I let him. I felt the warmth of his skin come closer, his body uniting with mine in a controlled harmony, imbued with a disturbing refinement. He knew exactly how to do it, how to take possession without abruptness, penetrating me slowly, fully aware of the size of his cock, how to orchestrate each movement with calculated precision, transforming this moment into an experience where body and mind seemed to be in perfect harmony. It was a slow dance, a commanded fusion, where each gesture reflected his art, his experience, his unique way of sublimating this moment. No excess, no coarseness – only a measured intensity, a perfect balance between power and delicacy. Nothing to do with Daoud's virile violence that overwhelmed me, but without giving me real inner pleasure; I let myself be taken by this wave, rocked by the subtle cadence that he imposed, between abandonment and control, between my own surrender and his absolute mastery. In the air saturated with heat and heady scents, the humidity of our bodies and the shiver of our skins in contact sealed this moment in a suspended parenthesis, where everything happened without any words being necessary.I felt a sense of well-being, a bit like I had felt previously in his fingering during his sublime fellatio. Not a pleasure, nothing to get me going through the roof. But a sweet sensation of inner warmth that I would, alas, never know again in my life. As the movements progressed, the regulated harmony that had until then dictated his rhythm began to waver. Mokhtar, until then perfectly measured, almost choreographed, gradually let instinct take over. His breathing, at first regular, became shorter, more hoarse, filling the air with a new tension, a contained brutality that threatened to be released at any moment. His gestures, previously fluid and calculated, became more jerky, more pressing, his p ...

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