The quiet that settled in became heavy. Now that I was alone, the silence in the room was almost deafening. Lying on my bed, on the sheet that still carried his scent, I felt my body still vibrating with the sensations he had awakened in me. I closed my eyes, trying to engrave every detail in my memory: the warmth of his hands, the softness of his lips, the intensity of his gaze. My heart was still pounding, as if to escape from my chest and catch up with him. I stared at the ceiling, lost in my thoughts. Was it real? These shared moments already seemed so distant and yet so vivid. A mixture of emotions swirled inside me. I felt both fulfilled and vulnerable. These long moments shared had opened my mind and body in a way that I had not anticipated. A wave of well-being invaded me, mixed with a hint of melancholy. I had no doubt that he felt the same connection that I did, he had shown me it, this bond that seemed to transcend the physical. I could still taste his sweat, his saliva, his sperm. I could hear the echo of his panting, his sweet words, his cries of pleasure... I wished these moments could last forever. I stood up slowly, still numb with pleasure and my legs still a little trembling. Maybe I should have taken a shower, erased the traces of our passion. But a part of me wanted to hang on to these sensations a little longer. As I headed to the bathroom, I saw my reflection in the mirror. I smiled in spite of myself at my face all red and my lips inflamed by his passion and his moustache. I thought: "whatever happens, these moments will belong to me". This experience had touched me, transformed me perhaps. I knew I had to get on with my day, but for now, I wanted to savor this bubble outside of time, this suspended moment where everything seemed possible. I wonder what he was thinking right now, in his fields. Did he feel the same intensity as me? Was this moment as special to him? I hoped I hadn't been clumsy, I would have wanted everything to be perfect. Was this connection I had felt real or just a figment of my imagination? Yet, I was well aware that everything led me to believe it... And what did his "my love" mean? Had he really measured the importance of such a declaration, he, the married man of forty, father of children, one aged 18 and the other 16? For me, in my education, in my outlook on life, "my love" constituted a point of no return, a real commitment. Could he ensure it with a young Firanssaoui of twenty who, in any case,would be back home in France in a few weeks?For my part, it is true that I felt with him as I had never felt with anyone before. I felt a strong attachment to him, but in my mind, it only meant a few more days spent here, or a possible passage at the end of my stay throughout southern Morocco... I was deep in thought when the doorbell rang. Surprised, I was no longer expecting anyone, and not wanting to stay naked on my bed, I quickly slipped under the sheet, saying a questioning yes. - It's the night watchman, sir. Did you ring the bell? - But no, not at all! - I woke you up then, I'm sorry. - No, it's not serious, I had just woken up. - In doubt, I thought it would be useful to bring you your morning snack. - You did well, come in! The door opened slowly and the night watchman appeared, whom I had never met in the hall before. Tall and slender, he had an athletic, well-proportioned figure that testified to his youth, which I estimated at about twenty years old, and his vitality. His oval face was framed by short, carefully styled black hair. His dark, expressive eyes reflected both a form of servitude combined with a certain nobility. He wore a blood-red gombaïz, a very short, sleeveless vest-like garment, with a short cut, stopping well above the waist, with a front opening that revealed his bare torso. The neckline was generously rounded, elegantly framing the neck and shoulders, while highlighting them. The embroidery that adorned it was remarkably fine. Gold and silver threads intertwined in complex geometric patterns, typical of Moroccan art. These arabesques and interlacings covered almost the entire garment, forming symmetrical patterns that echoed each other from one side to the other. On his head sat a black felt fez, adorned with a red tassel. I discovered, placed well below his navel, slim pants in noble fabric of immaculate white, offering a slender and graceful silhouette, creating an interesting contrast between the embroidered top and the refined bottom. As he was carrying the serving tray quite high, when he reached my height, I could not help but distinguish at the level of his pelvis, since I could not see a fly, a substantial bump, perfectly emphasizing the notable erection of his penis that he was carrying on the left. - Shall I put the tray on the bed, sir? Where exactly? - No, there. As he leaned down to speak to me, I was very surprised to see his eyes lined with kohl.He then placed the tray on the small sideboard, while wriggling his little ass, magnificently molded by the fabric, with grace but much too much manner for my taste. Still moving, a bit like an opera dancer, he headed towards the window. - Would you like me to draw your curtains, sir? - No, no, especially not, in this heat. - Perhaps you would like to take a shower? Would you like me to dry you off? Would you like a massage too? As he said this, he had come even closer to me, tilting his pelvis slightly forward in order to better show his erection. His maneuver was a little too obvious. - No, that will not be necessary. - You know, sir, I am at your entire disposal. You can ask me anything you want. The director insists on it. In doing so, with a very discreet gesture, which could pass for a simple male reflex, he pretended to put his tool back in place. But he did it with such elegance, such discretion that it didn't shock me. I thought then that this boy had great class, and that with his affected manners, my Daoud must have taken great pleasure in fucking his ass! - No, no, I assure you, everything is fine. Thank you. And he left my room as if with regret, without forgetting to squirm before going through the door. I was still wondering about this apparition. It's not possible, this erection had been duly provoked before entering... I'll have to ask my handsome Daoud... He must know, him. After having my snack, I wondered about my day ahead. There was the temptation to venture alone on a motorbike in the surroundings. The Dades gorges offered breathtaking landscapes, with their red cliffs, their spectacular rock formations and their perched Berber villages. A motorbike ride could take me to the famous "road of a thousand kasbahs", a series of impressive fortifications bearing witness to a rich historical past. I could also explore the impressive Todgha Gorges, where limestone cliffs stand like giants watching over the canyon. Another destination could be the village of Boutaghrar, nestled in the Valley of Roses, famous for its rose fields and rose water distilleries. All of this tempted me. And hadn't I set up this trip to discover all the hidden treasures of the country, and the others... For the latter, it had started very strongly. For tourism less. Having had my fill, I decided to focus, for this day, on tourist discovery.A few moments later, once ready, I left the Riad in the characteristic backfires of my Ural. I nevertheless stopped in front of Karim's stall who welcomed me with his usual eloquence and smiles. He was still wearing his worn Daraa. - So, my friend Pierre, where are you going today? - I don't know, I took the map, I'll see. Did you sell a lot of melons? - No, I'm late! I didn't find my father this morning. Didn't you see him? I jumped a little. - No, and how do you want me to see him, I was in my room at the Riad. - I thought he might have gone to see you... - So early this morning? And why? - I don't know, don't get upset my friend! - I'm not ge ...

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