I would like to thank my loyal readers for their notes and personal messages that warm my heart. This encouragement is important because it encourages me to continue. I would like to point out again that there will not systematically be sex scenes in my episodes because they are included in a novel. And I think that the context is almost as important! Dear readers, enjoy reading. Daoud had this imperious and instinctive way of taking me, as if each moment risked being the last, as if the night was never enough. Inexhaustible, his feverish hands, his avid lips, his hot breath against my skin, his sex filling me with his generous cum deep inside me, everything about him was a call to vertigo, a dance where desire surpassed all reason. When I finally extricated myself from his arms, satisfied but still dizzy, the sun was already timidly breaking through the shutters. After a quick breakfast eaten in silence, as if still floating between torpor and memory, I decided to relax in the Ryad's swimming pool, letting the cool water soothe the invisible traces of that night of abandonment. It was mid-waist submerged in the cool water of the pool that I saw him appear, wearing swimming trunks cut from an ultrafine polyester fabric, reminiscent of the translucent and lightweight fabrics used for certain sails, with their texture almost similar to tracing paper. Its design displayed the colors of Germany: a black band highlighting the waistband, bright yellow in the center and a deep red covering the bottom of the briefs. He wore them rather loose, so that the shape of his penis was clearly outlined under the soft fabric, which, too thin to hide anything, revealed every detail with disturbing precision. He joined me in the water. But when he submerged himself to reappear and emerge from the water, this same fabric pressed so tightly that it was no longer an imprint, a shape that one could guess, but almost like a sculpture in the round. I had already noticed, often with delight, men coming out of the water, with a mesh swimsuit sticking outrageously to their morphology, But there, I admit that I was amazed, even captivated by what appeared so precisely to my eyes. Of course, like all boys, he pulled slightly on the fabric, trying to loosen the grip. But I couldn't help but savor these few fleeting moments, just before the effect faded, before the fabric regained its slack and this disturbing vision disappeared. And even once the fabric had aired, this bump, gently rocking to the rhythm of his steps, continued to capture my gaze, impossible to ignore, like a disturbing fact.And the most delicious thing was underwater, when I would dive in, holding my breath, to watch him swim front crawl, his body twisting and breaking the surface with power. He would pass over me, offering me the captivating spectacle of his penis, almost completely freed from the constraints of the fabric, barely contained by this canvas that had become almost transparent, no longer holding much under the fluidity of the water. Too excited, I felt it was better to leave the water before my senses betrayed me further, before this insidious tension pushed me to the irreparable. With a fluid movement, I extricated myself from the pool, voluntarily offering my back to his gaze – a necessary precaution, so much did I fear what my body might have revealed to him. The water was still streaming over my skin when I quickly went to my deck chair, grabbing my large towel in a quick gesture. With a falsely diffused air, I draped myself in it with careful haste, pretending to dry myself when it was less the humidity than my own unease that I was trying to hide. And I stretched out on the deck chair. He came spontaneously to sit right next to me, without even bothering to dry himself, letting the water run freely over his white skin. His swimsuit, still soaked with water, clung to him with a disturbing precision, leaving little left to the imagination. Every contour seemed sculpted by the adherence of the wet fabric, underscoring with an almost insolent obviousness the shapes of his anatomy. The slightest of his movements, even trivial, revived my unease, exacerbating this tension that was already burning me from the inside. I did my best to hide the fascinated glances that I could not help throwing him, pretending to be interested in my towel, the sky, the slightest detail around me. But despite all my efforts, my eyes kept returning to him, delighted by this vision that was both hypnotic and dangerous. Trying to dispel my embarrassment, I broke off by offering him a cigarette. We found ourselves talking about ourselves. I explained the reasons for my sabbatical vacation, which I planned to be rather long, in Morocco. He listened to me with interest. Then a long silence. I didn't dare ask him in return about his escapade. It was finally about himself that he decided to talk. A student in Dortmund, with a French mother who had recently passed away, he led a comfortable, almost carefree life with his father, a wealthy German businessman. Everything seemed to be going well for him, at least on the surface. Then one day...He paused. I saw his gaze wander for a moment, fixed on an indefinite point in front of him, his jaw tightening slightly, as if the words he was about to speak weighed down with an invisible weight. A silence. I felt he was hesitating. Not a trivial hesitation, but like an inner struggle, a painful restraint, as if crossing that boundary and putting into words what he was about to say had a price. He took a deep breath, running a distracted hand over his stomach, playing with his navel with his fingertips, as if holding onto something. Then, after what seemed like a suspended eternity, he confided in me: "Once, I came home from vacation earlier than expected. You know, I was happy to see my father again! ...

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