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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (2/8) {Bradley Stoke} (FF)
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Title: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (2/8) {Bradley Stoke} (FF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 2 of 8
Keywords: (FF)
Short Summary: Taroudannt: an ancient and delightful town in the
shadow of the High Atlas, Morocco.

Degrees of Intimacy
===================

Resume of whole novel
=====================

Eight characters, eight places, eight degrees of separation, and
eight degrees of intimacy. This novella is inspired by the film
La Ronde that similarly follows a circular trail of lovers, but
this time in the twenty-first century and much more explicit in
content. All eight chapters can be read in isolation, but the
whole is greater than the sum of its parts.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]



Story Description
=================

Taroudannt: an ancient and delightful town in the shadow of
the High Atlas, Morocco. Phillippa and David look for a hotel
room but, more than that, a partner to sate their lust. Phillippa
wonders if Marla will be the lucky one, despite the young woman's
initial reluctance.


Chapter Two - Taroudannt
========================

Phillippa flicked the ash at the end of her cigarette onto the
dusty earth outside the window. She watched it fall from
where she sat on the passenger seat of the rented four-
wheel drive and contemplated its dispersal in the slight
breeze.

She inhaled another centimetre of cigarette and reluctantly
tossed the butt onto the earth where it smouldered. It burnt
off its final centimetre of ash before extinguishing itself.
She regarded it sadly and wondered whether she might
have to light up another to fend off her boredom. She
glanced up at the people in the walled town. Some of them
wore djalabas. Some wore jeans and tee-shirts. And one
wore the very stiff and awkward-fitting uniform of a hotel
porter. Phillippa was still not sure whether his services
might be needed.

And then David emerged from inside the hotel foyer.
Phillippa could see it wasn't good news.

"They're fully booked, too!" he announced as he jumped
into the driver's seat.

"Fuck! You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

David sighed. "I wish I was."

"This is the fourth fucking hotel in this fucking town! And
that was only a fucking two-star. We've done the five, four
and three stars. What's left? A fucking manger?"

"I dunno," David sighed. "Anyway, there's no other hotel in
this town with even one star. I don't know what it is.
Maybe, the fucking package tours have taken all the
rooms."

"I can't fucking believe it! What do we do? Drive to the
next town?"

"I don't think we can. We're fucking miles from anywhere.
And anyway it'll be after midnight before we get anywhere.
All that's left is that hippy place mentioned in Lonely
Planet."

"Hippy place!" sighed Phillippa. "You've got to be out of
your mind. I don't want to sleep in a room full of
cockroaches and a bog that doesn't flush."

"The choice is we sleep in the car."

"Fucking hell! You're kidding, right?"

David sighed again. He gripped the wheel. It was obvious
to Phillippa that after that long drive over the mountains,
the last thing he relished was to drive to another town. Shit!
If they'd left Marrakech a few hours earlier, they might
have stood a chance of making it all the way to Agadir.

"Okay!" she relented. "The hippy place, it is. Surely they'll
have some rooms vacant."

David pushed his key into the ignition and backed the
vehicle out of the parking bay. Working as a team, the
couple navigated to the Atlas, a place that was described by
Lonely Planet as funky but basic, but after having taken a
few of the guidebook's recommendations in the past this
testimonial did not fill either of them with any great hope.

It was all Hamid's fault. Well, not so much his fault as
theirs for not wanting him to leave so soon after this their
third night together. Hamid had really come into his own
when he'd lost that weird melancholy of his. Phillippa still
relished the memory of his prick in her arse with David's in
her mouth. She'd just about got used to the taste of his
circumcised penis with that strange hardness that the fully
exposed glans had developed.

"Well, this time there must be some rooms," Phillippa
commented outside the Atlas as David readied to get out of
the car. "No one would want to stay in this dump unless
they had to."

Indeed, the Atlas really wasn't at all prepossessing. It
reminded Phillippa of those places she'd stayed in India
when she'd gone backpacking in her student days. Those
were dives that only an enormous amount of dope could
make tolerable. They were worse even than those shitty
places in the Australian outback, and without the certainty
of a huge amount of dope and beer to lessen the discomfort.

"We're in luck!" announced David when he emerged from
the hotel foyer, this time with no stiffly suited porters in
visible attendance. "They had several rooms free, actually,
but I slipped the girl at the desk a few dirhams so we might
just get a decent one."

"I fucking hope so!" Phillippa snorted. "I'm fucking
knackered!"

If this was the best room in the house, then fuck knows
what the others were like, Phillippa groaned as she
plumped herself on the sagging mattress whose springs
twanged under her weight. The en suite toilet and shower
were divided from the rest of the room by a thick curtain.
The framed portraits of badly painted mountains didn't
disguise at all the dinginess of the plastered walls. Like
everywhere in Morocco, the floor was covered by cold
tiles, but these were cracked and almost certainly infested
with the most disgusting germs. Phillippa knew that any
moment now, one of those horrible cockroaches would
appear, probably from the shower, and scamper noisily
across the floor, its antennae flickering cheekily as it did so.
She opened her packet of cigarettes, only three left now,
and lit one up.

"What do we do now?" she asked blowing a cloud of
smoke about the room.

David sighed again.

"We unpack. We smoke a joint. And we see what's going
down in the bar."

"Bar? Does a shit-hole like this have a bar?"

"Yeah. I saw a sign pointing to it when we came in."

"I didn't see it."

"Well, it wasn't obvious. It was kinda painted on a bit of
old wood, you know, fashioned into an arrow. But it
showed definite promise."

"Okay. Sounds promising. But if it's crap, I vote we go to
the five-star for a beer. Or even one of those crappy
Moroccan wines."

"I'd rather have crappy beer than crappy wine," David
replied throwing a suitcase onto the bed and watching it
bounce up and down.

"Whatever!"

When they arrived in the bar, slightly mellower after their
shared joint, they found they weren't the only people there.
Several of the clientele were Moroccan men. No Moroccan
women, so not an obvious place to find a prostitute. Most
of the people gathered around on the battered banquettes in
the dingy shadowy light underneath the fading tourist tat
nailed to the wall were clearly Western. And yes, judging
from the ethnic clothes many of them wore and the plethora
of facial jury, if not hippy exactly, certainly in that
tradition. Despite having once been not too unlike them
herself in appearance, Phillippa felt quite ill at ease.

Four battered cane armchairs of the type Moroccans
seemed to like so much surrounded a couple of empty
wooden tables. One of those chairs was occupied by an
attractive young woman. Perhaps this evening wouldn't be
such a dead loss, after all!

"What are you having?" David asked, gesturing his head
towards the bar where a Moroccan man with untypically
long hair was serving.

"A beer. Any kind of fucking beer. And try and get some
cigs as well."

As David strode off, Phillippa approached the table she'd
previously spotted. Although she and David had dressed
down in relatively casual clothes, she couldn't help feeling
almost overdressed in this place. But sod them! She wasn't
in her twenties any more!

"You don't mind if we sit here, love?" she asked, as she
plonked herself in one of the cane chairs.

The young woman she addressed was intent on writing a
letter and was visibly startled to be spoken to. She nodded
her head.

"Yes. Why not?" she said in a distinctly North European
accent, and then bowed her head and returned to her
writing.

Phillippa snarled. What was the point of seeking company
if it just ignored her? She lit another cigarette, her last, and
hoped her husband wouldn't disappoint her with regards to
her nicotine requirements. She flicked the ash into the huge
pottery ashtray in the middle of the table and regarded the
young woman. She had long hennaed hair that fanned over
her shoulders and wore an interesting mixture of ethnic
clothes that Phillippa could see included only a few
Moroccan items. Indian beads, a West African tie-dyed tee-
shirt, and a brightly coloured ankle-length skirt that could
have come from anywhere in the developing world. She
wore flat-heeled sandals and her toenails were painted in
crude red enamel.

"Where do you come from, love?" she asked.

The young woman raised her head. She must have been in
her mid-twenties with freckles that spread out and merged
on her richly tanned skin. There was a ring through one of
her eyebrows and another through a nostril. She wore no
make-up at all and huge dangling ear-rings fell out from
underneath her bush of reddened hair.

"Excuse me?"

"Which country do you come from? Are you Dutch?"

"No, I don't come from Germany. I am Danische, er,
Danish."

"Danish? Copenhagen?"

"Kristianer," she nodded. And then she lowered her head
again to continue writing.

Shit! Was that all she had to say for herself, Phillippa
wondered.

David wandered back carrying two bottles, two small
glasses and, Phillippa was pleased to see, two packets of
Marlboro Lite.

"Well, it's better than Casa Bleu," sniffed Phillippa taking
the cigarettes off her husband, who didn't smoke. "Or
worse, Gauloise."

"They make shit rolling tobacco," affirmed David. He bent
his head towards the young woman and raised a querying
eyebrow.

Phillippa shrugged.

Then David touched her gently on the knee and pointed at
the bar hehind her. Phillippa turned her head, but the smell
already alerted her to what he was referring to. The barman
was sharing a joint with a couple of Moroccan men, one
quite old in a djalaba, who were standing at the bar.
Phillippa smiled.

She dug into her pocket, and pulled out a sachet and a
packet of king-size Rizlas.

"At least we don't have to go back to our room," she said
with a smile.

As she busied herself in assembling the joint, she noticed
the young woman watching her fingers as she crumbled
some of Morocco's finest into the pulled-thin contents of a
Marlboro cigarette.

"It's from the Rif," Phillippa said.

"The Rif?"

"Hash-growing area of Morocco. Somewhere in the North.
Never been there."

"I've been there," the young woman remarked. "But that
looks very good. Better than the hash I bought."

"A friend of ours in Marrakech got it for us," Phillippa
replied, remembering Hamid's rather shy smile.

"You've been to Marrakech?"

"Just drove down from there this morning. Over the Tizi-n-
Test."

"It's a beautiful road."

"It was cloudy when we came down," David commented.
"We didn't see anything until we'd driven through it. Not so
much fun driving, though. What's your name?"

"My name? Marla."

"David and Phillippa. We're from London. Have you ever
been there?"

"No. Never."

And then Marla dropped her head down and continued
writing.

Shit! Phillippa sighed. She thought they were getting
somewhere. Anyway, you couldn't tell with these hippy
girls. Some of them were pretty uptight. But at least she
knew Marla smoked dope.

In fact, it was only after they'd shared the joint between
them that Marla opened up at all. She pushed her hair off
her face and smoked it in a very strange way, cupping her
fist and holding it between her forefingers.

"That's all right, love," remarked Phillippa as the joint was
passed to David. "We've not got Hepatitis or anything!"

"But you don't know if I might," remarked Marla with a
smile. "Anyway, I like it cool. I don't smoke cigarettes, so
the smoke hurts my lungs."

"It does me, too," smiled David, mimicking Marla's pose
and inhaling deeply from the hole between his thumb and
fingers.

The conversation began haltingly, but bit by bit Phillippa
established that Marla was travelling around Morocco by
herself on public transport following an itinerary taken
from her Danish-language guidebook. She had been touring
with a male friend, but they'd had a quarrel in Meknes and
had chosen to go their separate ways. During her journey,
she'd mostly been staying in places rather like the Atlas and
was fairly contemptuous of the more expensive places
Phillippa and David preferred.

"You never meet anyone in places like that," she opined.

"Well, at least there's no television here," remarked David.
"Everywhere you go there's a TV. And they're always
showing another atrocity in Palestine. That fucking Sharon!
He's a real cunt."

"I mean," agreed Phillippa, "if he thinks he's going to
resolve the intifada by driving tanks into the Gaza strip, he
must be fucking mad! It's a real hornet nest he's stirring.
Fuck knows where it'll end!"

Normally when David and Phillippa expressed their
opinions in front of hippy types they expected a
sympathetic response. After all, if anything united those of
liberal opinion it was a general disgust of Israel's atrocities,
but Phillippa noticed that Marla looked distinctly
uncomfortable.

"I don't know," she said. "If you consider what the Israeli
people think when their buses get blown up by suicide
bombers, it isn't so clear."

"It's obviously an over-reaction!" David sniffed.

"That's not what it seems in Israel..."

Phillippa could see this edging towards a quarrel, so she
placed a hand gently on David's before he launched into his
usual rant about Palestinian rights.

"Have you lived in Israel, love?" she asked.

Marla nodded. "I worked in a kibbutz for six months. It's
the least I could do!"

"Are you Jewish?" David wondered.

Marla nodded. "There aren't many of us left in Denmark.
The fucking Nazi bastards! They killed everyone. And
those they didn't kill... My grandfather! He was in a camp.
His right hand is totally crushed. And he was right-handed,
too. And my grandmother... She was only a young girl!
The bastards treated my grandparents like shit. That is why
Israel is so important to us. And after all the... after the
fucking fucking... after the holocaust... you can't say to the
Israeli people that it's wrong to defend themselves against
their enemies!"

David and Phillippa were silenced. Phillippa could see that
her husband dearly wanted to express his own views: that
the Israelis were behaving no better than the Nazis, that the
Palestinians had a right to self-determination, and that those
who didn't learn from history were condemned to repeat it.
Phillippa, however, had other things on her mind.

The subject of conversation steered away from this
sensitive topic as the three of them compared notes of the
various sights of Morocco. Phillippa was glad that Marla
had forgotten the brief note of contention. When Marla left
to go to the toilet, Phillippa stood up and followed her,
smiling slightly as she noticed how Marla was staggering a
little after the effect of the Kif and the beer that David kept
replenished. And she didn't follow Marla because she also
needed a leak. She'd already taken care of that.

Marla was startled to see Phillippa standing outside the
toilet when she emerged, after flushing the latrine several
times before it finally let the toilet paper sink out of sight.
She was even more startled when, without warning,
Phillippa took Marla's head in her hands, grasping her
behind the ears, and pressed Marla's lips against her own.
Phillippa achieved what she wanted when she noticed
Marla's eyes flash in that unmistakeable way that indicated
a suddenly awakened desire. Phillippa was too intelligent to
squander her advantage by following through with her
tongue. She placed an open palm on Marla's crotch and
briefly nuzzled her jaw and ear, before pulling herself off
with an apologetic grin.

"I'm sorry, love," Phillippa said coquettishly. "I just don't
know what came over me!"

She left a flustered Marla and entered the loo where she sat
on the toilet seat, thankfully one built on the British rather
than the French model, and spent her time smoking a
cigarette and reflecting on the signs of reciprocal lust that
Marla had betrayed. That was good! She relished the
memory of Marla's earring brushing against her nose and
the girl's hot breath on her cheek. And, of course, that
sparkle in her eyes when they parted. Marla was plainly
someone who understood the pleasures of another woman's
body, although it might not be her usual preference.

Finally, she flushed the cigarette in the bowl, it having
served the purpose of blocking out the dreadful stale smell
of urine. She flushed the latrine and returned to David and
Marla who were chatting animatedly about, of all things,
the qualifiers for next year's World Cup. Bloody football!
That was one interest of David's Phillippa could never
understand.

Eventually, it was obvious that the barman was occupied in
the rather unsubtle business of closing the bar to business.
In the meantime, Phillippa had pushed her advantage,
slowly and cautiously. A hand placed on Marla's knee. A
squeeze of her hand. A kiss on her cheek when she'd said
something that Phillippa found especially touching. And
then the long hand-holding that was so natural in a country
where men friends would wander around so obviously
showing their affection in that way (although Hamid had
disabused her of the notion that this necessarily meant
anything of more carnal intimacy).

"Well, it's time for bed," said Phillippa, still holding
Marla's hand. "Are you coming with us?"

Marla looked quite taken aback. "You mean to your room?"

"Yes."

"For sex?"

"If you want?"

"The two of you?"

"David's very gentle. Aren't you, dear?"

David smiled in that way he had practised so many times. It
indicated a degree of sympathy that didn't obscure his
intent, but suggested enough vulnerability that it almost
always worked.

"Is he goyim?" asked Marla.

"Goyim? You mean gentile. Yeah, David's not a Jew.
Neither am I. What difference does that make?"

"So, he's not circumcised."

"No. Does that bother you?"

Marla hesitated.

"Have you never made love with a man and a woman
before?" David asked. "It's fun, you know. Twice the fun,
in fact."

"But you're not circumcised, are you?" Marla asked again.

"No. Does that trouble you? Or is it just the idea of having
sex with a couple?"

"It's not that. I did it once, no twice, in Kristianer. It was
okay. But I don't like men who are not... who are
uncircumcised."

"Is it a big deal?" David wondered, betraying his hurt. "It's
all the same under the foreskin."

"I don't like uncircumcised men. It doesn't seem right."

Phillippa and David were dumbfounded. David looked at
Phillippa. Phillippa frowned at David and squeezed Marla's
hand a little tighter. David shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll talk to the barman," he said at last. "He'll know where I
can pick up a prostitute."

"Are you sure, love?" asked Phillippa.

"They always know. And anyway, if he doesn't know, I'll
find one. There's bound to be a girl, or a boy for that
matter, who does trade in this town."

David kissed Phillippa lovingly on the lips and then strode
off purposefully towards the bar. He was very soon in
animated conversation with the barman who waved his
arms around as if giving directions.

"You don't mind, do you?" wondered Marla, her hand still
in Phillippa's.

"No. He knows the deal. He doesn't mind."

"Not me and you. Him. You don't mind him seeing a
prostitute?"

"Of course not. He always uses a condom."

"But he's your husband. He's going to have sex with a
prostitute."

Phillippa frowned and squeezed Marla's hand in hers.

"I really do not mind what my husband does. He can fuck
any girl he likes. He can fuck two or three at the same time,
if he wants to. He can fuck a boy or he can fuck a girl. I
don't mind. And he doesn't mind who I fuck either. The
only stipulation is that he uses a condom. We have regular
check-ups, but the last fucking thing I want is to catch
fucking AIDS off my husband. That'd really fuck up our
love life!"

When they had made their way up the stairs, Marla was
impressed with Phillippa's bedroom. She sat on the bed and
spread her arms behind her.

"Your room's huge! It's much bigger than mine. And you've
got an en suite bathroom. I didn't know they had those in
this hotel."

Phillippa smiled. Perhaps David's tip to the receptionist had
been more effective than she'd thought. But there was
business to attend to. And she could see she'd have to be
prompt or all enthusiasm would soon be gone. With only a
few swift movements, she pulled off all her clothes, but
decided against letting them drop to the floor. She didn't
want to find that a cockroach had crawled around inside
them. She placed them on the small cane armchair by the
window that looked out onto the small dust-blown square.
She then sat naked on the bed next to Marla and took her
hand. She lifted it up and pressed her lips to the fingers and
knuckles.

Phillippa had got used to the women she bedded being
relatively inexperienced. It was a fact of life that most
women were more accustomed to having sex with a man
than with another woman. And with no David to help here,
she didn't have the advantage of his own subtle way of
making a woman feel at ease with what for many women
was a novel experience. But as Phillippa knew, these
women had just not had the benefit of a tutor of quite her
experience or skill.

She soon graduated her attention from the hand to the face
and buried her tongue in Marla's mouth. She felt the
reciprocating tongue probe nervously at first, and then
become steadily bolder around her teeth and gums.

Patience was all you needed. They had all the time in the
world. And one thing that Phillippa most savoured about
making love with another woman was just how long and
leisurely it could be. Today, what she most wanted was
precisely that gentle slow build-up. Inevitably, her sex
sessions with Hamid and David had become very frantic
and vigorous ever so soon. What do you expect with two
men, both of whose pricks were proudly erect and both
eager to penetrate her?

Marla was finally naked after a slow disrobing, each item
of clothing, most especially her cotton knickers, eased off
with both fingers and tongue, taking in the smells and taste
of the flesh around them. She revealed herself to be a
slender young thing, her head ever so slightly too large in
relation to her shoulders. Her breasts had a slight droop, the
areola around her nipples nearly a quarter of the size of her
medium small breasts. Phillippa took a nipple in her mouth,
the soft down of the chest slightly dark even against the
tanned skin, evidence of nude sunbathing in the recent past,
while her fingers twiddled with the prominent clitoris.

When Marla came, she did so violently and urgently, twice
the number and frequency of orgasm that Phillippa was
able to achieve. Her whole body shuddered with each
spasm of ecstasy, her taut chest juddering, the muscles
distinctly contracting with each one. Phillippa envied her
that. Her more mature body disguised the spasms that were
mostly expressed by falsetto gasps that built up and up and
released themselves with a sympathetic tightening of the
muscles in her thighs. In fact, so sensitive was Marla that
all Phillippa needed to do was tug with her teeth at the
small ring pierced through her eyebrow for Marla's body to
arch beneath her stomach and press forcefully onto the
fingers pushed into her vagina and the thumb eased into her
anus.

The couple slowed down and parted, Phillippa's arm around
Marla's shoulders and a hand placed on her pierced navel.
Marla put a hand on Phillippa's and pulled a strand of
hennaed hair in her other hand. She smiled at Phillippa.

"Did you enjoy that?" Phillippa asked.

Marla was too overwhelmed to do anything than nod with
her still excited smile. Phillippa didn't need to ask, but she
was sure that this intensity of orgasm was a novel
experience for Marla. Perhaps the men she'd fucked had
been too eager to give her the time she needed to bring
herself to the level of orgasm that was almost routine for
Phillippa.

She looked towards the window, the curtain being too
flimsy to hide the glow of the streetlights outside. At this
moment, she couldn't help wondering where David was.
He'd almost certainly found someone. Perhaps it was a
prostitute. Maybe he'd found a Moroccan man who would
indulge David's passion for cock in his mouth. It was even
possible that he'd stumbled across another tourist, maybe
one of the young men and women who'd also been in the
bar. If he had, it would scarcely be the first time. Phillippa
was already looking forward to hearing her husband's
account of his nocturnal adventures.

She smiled at Marla, who returned the smile. That twinkle
in her eyes was impossible to ignore. She put a probing
finger in the mouth of Marla's still very moist vagina, the
long brown hairs of which were flattened by sweat and the
grinding of their tribadism.

She pressed her mouth to Marla's and let her finger sink
deeper inside. There was more to come! In one way, she
was not at all envious of her husband. No man had the
capacity for prolonged lovemaking that Phillippa could
enjoy with a woman.




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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