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At the Sukkur Barrage

# At the Sukkur Barrage

I've never told this story before. It happened a long time ago, in 1988 when I was 25. I was an adventurous and intrepid traveller in my youth. I'd travelled extensively in India and one of my interests was Mughal history. I'd visited many of the Mughal monuments in India, the Taj Mahal of course, the forts, palaces, tombs but I was always frustrated when I read in the history books that I'd missed the monuments across the border in Pakistan.

I'd gone to the Pakistani consulate in New Delhi but been told that they would not issue a visa or a permit to cross the border. In fact because of troubles in Indian Punjab, I couldn't even get to the border crossing that I wanted. The only options offered were to fly to Bangkok (or back home to Sydney) and try to apply for a visa there and then fly into Karachi or Islamabad. I was running out of money so that wasn't viable.

I gave up but two weeks later I was in a taxi in Kathmandu, Nepal and we happened to drive past the Pakistani embassy there. I decided to take my chances and enquire there. The secretary seemed surprised to see me and after asking what I wanted, I was shown into a waiting room, given tea and asked to wait.

I was fascinated by a book on the table in the waiting room. "5000 Years of Pakistan" by Sir Mortimer Wheeler. Not only because I'd read several of the famous archeologist's books but because of the anachronicity of the title. Pakistan was only declared in 1940 and the name coined in 1933. The secretary seemed very pleased about my interest in the book and after about an hour I'd read about half of it. No one else came to the waiting room until the ambassador himself arrived, shook my hand and I was taken into his grand office. If I'd known I would have dressed up.At the Sukkur Barrage фото

He asked me why I wanted a visa for Pakistan. We had a long conversation about Mughal history, about Lahore, his home town, and the main places I wanted to visit. The fact that I'd read half of Mortimer Wheeler's book (the secretary must have told him) also seemed to have made an impression. He granted me a visa but warned me that I'd have to get a special permit from the Indian consulate to travel to the border through Indian Punjab as I'd planned. When my passport was stamped he took it back from the secretary and hand wrote a paragraph in Urdu and had it stamped with the ambassador's seal. I never had it translated (before that passport was stolen, another story) but it did magic in Pakistan. He made a gift of the book, they had a stock of them apparently, bookplated "Compliments of His Excellency the Ambassador Extraordinary Plenipotentiary of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to the Kingdom of Nepal".

Confusingly the Indian Consulate seemed to know who I was and what I wanted before I got there. They seemed to be expecting me. I still don't understand how. Surely the Pakistani Ambassador didn't inform them. India and Pakistan weren't far off being at war then. Were there spies at work? In any case they seemed to think I was someone of importance and extended (renewed) my Indian visa as well as granted the permit to travel through Punjab while I waited. (I'd been led to expect to wait a week).

Well I'm letting this story drag on as I always do, so I'll skip over the long argument with the Nepal Indian border official who tried to insist that the conditions of my first Indian visa still applied because it was still current even though I had a new one that superseded it. I'll skip over the long almost continuous train journey from Patna to Amritsar. The frantic and dangerous night time bus journey to make it to the border crossing which would only open for a few hours two days a week during which I was threatened at rifle (well it might have been used in the mutiny of 1857) point by an Indian soldier with bloodshot eyes and smelling strongly of cheap whiskey.

When I finally made it to Lahore in Pakistan I booked into a good hotel. I needed hot water. I needed a shower, a bath if possible. It had both. I also needed to buy some new clothes. Pakistani men appear to dress more modestly and frankly better than Indians. Everyone not in uniform wears those Panjabi suits. A long sleeve shirt that goes down to just above the knees and loose baggy trousers, often the same colour as the shirt. It looks good and I bought a few sets for myself.

I will mention a massage I got in the hotel. I'd had a few in India that surprisingly included a "happy ending" as they say, but I didn't expect it in modest, cultured, Islamic Lahore. The masseur, a man in his early thirties I think, remained fully dressed in Punjabi but with the sleeves rolled up. He did my back first and then I rolled over. A towel was draped over my dick. As in India, at the end he started massaging my groin. I'm sure he's not actually touching my dick but somehow it always makes me hard. Not just a little. So hard that my dick lifted the towel.

And then the same question. The same question in Pakistan as in India.

"Do you want me to finish?"

Something is lost in translation. Saying yes to this question means yes, I want you to jerk me off. Yes means pull the towel off, liberally oil my dick with both hands and then expertly jerk me off. I cum in a much shorter time than if I was doing it myself.

They remain professional. No sign of pleasure or even an erection from them. (A notable exception was a boy in Varanasi but that's a different story.) They wipe up the cum with the towel, I pay (no extra charge) and after casual conversation as if nothing sexual had happened (they've even talked about their wives and children) they leave.

Again I'll skip some of the story. I spent a few days in Lahore, seeing everything I wanted to see and then travelled by local buses, basically following the Indus River downstream. In Sukkur, perhaps two thirds of the way to Karachi, I saw something truly spectacular. It was night. A line of flood lights stretched into the distance out of sight and blue and green coloured lights illuminated great arches repeated many times and reflected in the waters of the Indus. The Sukkur Barrage, known properly as the Lloyd Barrage was in its time (built 1923 to 1932) one of the world's greatest civil engineering achievements. It holds back the waters of the Indus when not in flood allowing the irrigation of the whole province.

When I checked into my hotel, showered and changed my clothes after a hot dusty bus journey, I walked out with my camera to take photos of the barrage from the banks of the river.

Not so fast. As I walked along the riverside walkway, I heard the footsteps of soldiers in heavy boots running towards me on the path. I initially thought they were on some training run and I stood out of the way to let them pass. They didn't pass. I was arrested. They were all armed with some kind of machine gun (much more modern than the blunderbuss I'd been threatened with in Indian Punjab) and it was very scary. Apparently it was illegal to take photos of the barrage. Nearing midnight was even more suspicious. A Westerner dressed in a Punjabi suit even more so.

I was marched back to the barracks of the soldiers guarding the barrage and into an officer's office. My camera was on his desk. He handed it back to me and ordered me to remove the film. (This was long before digital cameras). Luckily I'd only changed it in the hotel before going out so there weren't too many photos lost. He took the film from me and exposed the whole roll then threw it in his wastepaper bin. He repeated that it was not permitted to take photos of the barrage. I was too scared to ask why. I just apologised profusely and pleaded ignorance.

Another younger officer seemed to be constantly making jokes about me. The soldiers who were all crowded outside the door laughed at everything he said. Even the senior officer smiled a few times but at other times he seemed annoyed by the younger officer. The senior officer asked the same questions over and over. Who was I? Where was I from? Where was I staying? Why was I taking photos of the barrage? Who was I working for? Who were the photos for? Why didn't I have my passport? Where had I entered Pakistan? Why was I wearing a Punjabi? Where had I bought it? Why hadn't I bought a more expensive brand?

I had to wait while the younger officer drove to my hotel to bring my passport. I was required to leave it at the desk when I checked in. Perhaps the mystery Urdu inscription from the Ambassador in Kathmandu did its magic again. At about 2 am I was driven back to my hotel, given back my camera and passport, still apologising to everyone, embarrassed that the hotel staff were all awake.

Understandably I planned to sleep-in the next morning but one of the hotel staff opened my door (without even knocking) and said I must get dressed and come down to the foyer. I was determined to have a shower and brush my teeth before coming down despite the bellboy's insistence that I should come urgently. I dressed in the best Western style clothes that were clean and came down.

The younger officer was there waiting for me. He wasn't wearing the officer's uniform he'd had on the previous night. He was wearing a predominantly tan camouflage pattern over-shirt over an olive tee-shirt and trousers that I think are called fatigues. There was a patch with his name in large black letters (surname I assumed) and a patch above it and another near the buttons which indicated his rank and a few other patches on his upper arm, one being the flag of Pakistan. I didn't know what to expect. I kind of thought I must be still in some kind of trouble but that was offset by his smiling face when he spoke to me.

"Mr Mark, as a lover of Pakistan, I've come to offer you a boat ride on the river. You'll be able to see our famous barrage close up. I am off duty today and I have permission to take you out."

(Who is the lover of Pakistan? Him or me? Out? Out on a date? Oh, out on the river.) The hotel staff were all standing around, each had a different expression but were all looking at me. I had the idea that they had got into some kind of trouble because of what I had done the previous night. Frankly I had no sympathy. They'd seen me go out late at night with my camera. Of what else in Sukkur did they think I was going to take pictures in the middle of the night? For that matter, why did they light up the barrage like a fucking Christmas tree at night if they didn't want anyone taking photos of it? (Actually there were a few other things in Sukkur that are floodlit at night that are well worth a photo).

"Yes, I'd love that," I replied. What else could I say but then he smiled again, more relaxed, different. We made eye contact. We kept it for longer than would otherwise have been normal for me. I saw right through him. At least I thought I did. My gaydar has been confused by Indian men before (though he was Pakistani). The fact that he held my eyes told me that he'd seen right through me too. I think I started to blush. I saw him notice. I think we'd been staring into each other's eyes for far too long.

"Well are you ready to go then," he asked, louder than necessary, talking more to the hotel staff than me.

"Oh... yes. Just let me get my hat... and can I bring my... camera...?"

He smiled again, showing perfect white teeth. Held up a finger.

"No camera."

Some of the audience (the entire staff of the hotel), laughed.

It was torture to leave my camera behind. I'd read that when travelling you should leave your camera behind sometimes and just experience the places fully, in the moment. I'd tried it a few times. It felt terrible.

I thought about changing into shorts but I know tourists in shorts are considered immodest in India so how much more so in Pakistan. I just grabbed my hat and came back down.

I asked the hotel manager at the desk, "Can I buy a bottle of water?"

He snapped his fingers and a boy ran off at speed and soon returned with the ice cold 1.5 litre bottle wet with condensation. I got out my wallet and asked, "how much?"

"Just take it!"

Growled the manager, clearly wanting the whole scene to end.

Outside we got in an open army jeep. It looked very official and had a little flag on a rod bolted to the side of the hood. Usman (his name I only asked later) drove at a terrifying pace and without taking his hand off the horn, through the town, past the barracks where I'd been held prisoner the previous night (well that morning to be pedantic), past the barrage and down to beside a beach just upstream of it.

There we parked behind a dark green land-rover with a boat trailer and were met by half a dozen soldiers, some I recognised from my previous encounter at the barracks, similarly dressed in camouflage fatigues who all saluted Usman (though they were still all laughing and smiling about something, I strongly suspected me and my Akubra hat) and then pointing to and discussing a zodiac type boat, with outboard engine, similarly patterned to their fatigues, pulled up onto the sand by the river.

Some of them tried to talk to me, to ask me questions, though their English (or my understanding of their accent) wasn't as good as Usman's. They were all very young, not long out of school. Anyway they all seemed to think I was funny and I began to fear that they were all sharing some private joke about me and I was yet to learn the punchline.

I also feared that they would all be coming with us in the small boat and was relieved when they seated me in the middle and Usman got in and sat beside the outboard and they pushed us off. Usman started the motor and we started out into the Indus. I was also relieved that I'd accepted Usman's offer. They'd clearly assumed that I would. (What was this story about Usman being off duty?)

The river was hugely wide. The length of the Sukkur Barrage is about a mile. There were a few other boats out on the river. All fishermen. Usman took us closer to the wall and slowed the motor so he could talk and explain some things. The barrage holds back the waters of the Indus causing the water to back up and flow into a series of massive canals (the flow into just one of the canals is greater than the River Thames and these are man made) that irrigate a huge area of the Sindh Province, the largest irrigation scheme in the world. There are 66 huge arched spans holding gates that operate hydraulically. Each gate weighs 50 tonnes. At that time of year, the river was beginning to drop after the monsoon season and they were in the process of closing the gates to maintain the water level upstream. There was a distinct current flowing through and at one point I thought Usman took us too close.

I was interested in everything he said and knew I was being given an opportunity few others in my position have had. I could tell he enjoyed telling me about the barrage. He was about 27, a nice tan skin colour, straight black hair cut short, clean shaven, no moustache (unusual for young men in Pakistan), very dark eyes, clearly intelligent, really good looking and often smiling.

Actually we often smiled at each other and even laughed for no reason. Finally he changed the subject away from the barrage.

"You are very handsome Mark."

"Thanks," I said blushing, "You are too."

"So, Mark, Do you think I'm sexy?"

He was very smooth.

"Yeah, I do."

"I think you are too Mark."

I was sitting on a bench seat that ran across the small boat facing him at the back, sitting beside the outboard motor. He was still smiling at me but now his mouth was open slightly and his expression a little slack.

"Now you've made me hard Mark."

(I didn't do anything.)

He grabbed his dick through his trousers clearly showing its shape and hardness.

Now back in the 80's, there were no apps, in fact no smart phones, in fact hardly any internet, but I think in the entire history of my extremely promiscuous and prolific sexual life, getting picked up for sex by Usman was the smoothest. It was like picking up a guy for sex was the most casual, normal, uninhibited, everyday thing. And this was an army officer, in conservative, Islamic, Pakistan, in a relatively out of the way place.

Well come to think of it, I lie. There was that time I was minding my sister's cats while she was away on holiday. I went down the front path to check her mailbox. A cute guy walking past saw me, stopped in his tracks and smiled at me.

"Hi", he said.

I smiled back and said "Hi."

"You want to fuck?" He asked.

"Yeah ok," I replied.

And of course gay sauna hookups don't count. Everyone knows what we're there for and where you hang your locker key signals what you want. Many times I've just made eye contact, followed a guy into a private room, not a word exchanged until after we've cum, then just "thanks."

"Wow!," I said, staring at the shape of his dick. Of course mine inflated immediately too. I looked up at the top of the barrage, worried that someone might be watching. He didn't seem to care. "I am too," I said and did the same thing he was doing to show off my erection.

"Nice," he said, again showing his beautiful smile. "Do you want to come up to my flat later Mark?"

(It was funny how he included my name in everything he said. That's just how he talked. Actually his accent was very British and a bit posh.)

"Yeah! Of course. I'd love to."

He pushed the throttle and we sped further out past the gates. I could see through the arches and see that the water level on our side was already higher than on the other side and the water was rushing through. We motored out into the still water and he slowed to talk to a fisherman. I'm guessing just some casual talk about his catch and then headed back to the beach.

We'd only been out for half an hour and so I thought it might have been a waste of all the effort to get the boat ready but as we walked up to Usman's jeep, I saw the soldiers take the boat back out.

"Where are we going now?" I asked.

"We are going to my flat Mark," Oh so later meant now I thought to myself. I had no problem with that. I could feel that I was already leaking precum in anticipation.

We drove up to a modern looking apartment building. There was a gate with a guard on it. The man stood up and saluted Usman though the guard wasn't in an army uniform. Usman said something to him (in Urdu I assume) that made him smile at me. Surely not that he'd brought me home to fuck?

The flat itself looked abandoned. There was no furniture and paint was peeling from the walls.

"I actually live on the base," he said as he closed and locked the door behind us. "I only use this place on short leave."

I was going to ask him where the base was but still standing just inside the door, I was somehow in his arms and we were kissing. I reached down and squeezed his dick through his camouflage trousers. Hard as concrete. He squeezed my bum. Positional negotiations over. I felt my anus twitch.

I broke away from his kiss to undo his belt and his trousers. They fell around his ankles. I went down on my knees in front of him, pulled his white briefs down and let his dick flop out. Fat, hard, circumcised, fleshy, heavy, skin much darker than his body like all Indian men that I've seen.

I pushed his over-shirt up out of the way and took him into my mouth. I looked up at him as I was sucking his dick. He was undoing his shirt buttons and looking down at me, his mouth open and breathing hard. I pushed my hands up under the tee-shirt he was wearing underneath. His body was hard, lean. I rubbed my hands over his abs as I wet his beautiful fat dick with my saliva. I was only thinking one thing. What this dick would feel like up my arse.

"Wait," he said after a minute and pulled me back up.

"Let's go to the bed."

We were still just inside the front door.

He pulled his trousers and briefs off over his heavy boots. I took my sneakers off and left them by the door. They were full of sand. There was absolutely no furniture in the place. Just a few cardboard boxes. He led me into the bedroom. A bare mattress on the floor, more cardboard boxes and a clothes rack with wire coat-hangers and a few clothes. He carefully hung his clothes. A saw a beed of precum dripping from his still hard dick. He grabbed a sheet from one of the boxes and spread it over the mattress.

 

He sat down on the bed and started taking his boots off. I felt a bit awkward standing there. I had two tee-shirts on and jeans. I hadn't worn one of the Punjabis I'd bought because I got the idea that a Westerner wearing them was giving some kind of offence. Another one of those things about Indian, Pakistani, Nepalese culture I didn't understand.

I pulled my tee-shirts off and unbuttoned my jeans (Levi 501s of course) and pulled them off. I was still standing there. I always feel awkward getting naked in front of a stranger, even though I'd already sucked his dick. My body was not too bad but nothing compared to him.

He finally got his boots and socks off, pulled his tee-shirt off and looked up at me. My god he was beautiful.

"Sit down," he said but before I could, he reached and grabbed my boxer shorts and pulled them down. My dick got caught but then bounced up and slapped my belly as it was freed.

"Nice," he said again and then got up on his knees and took my little pink dick into his mouth. (It's not that little!) I was surprised. I'd been with a lot of Indian men and rarely did they suck dick. Especially tops.

He stopped and said "Sit down," again. We moved into the bed properly and laid against each other kissing. I reached down and grabbed his fat black dick again and squeezed it in my fist. He reached around, squeezed my bum cheeks hard as we kissed and then I felt his finger prodding my hole. It was a relief to be certain that that was what he wanted but also the usual anxiety about what we would use for lube.

Historical note here. Back in the 80's we didn't know much about lube. Well I didn't anyway. KY Jelly was available but (believe it or not) you needed a medical prescription. In Australia we lagged the US and of course Pakistan would have been well behind. Even though HIV was a well known problem by 1988, I hardly ever asked guys to wear condoms, at least not in India. I was lucky never to catch anything. Vaseline or Johnson's baby oil were used a lot, especially in India. Of course just saliva was used a lot too. Vaseline and baby oil are not compatible with condoms and they hang around for a long time once you've got them up your arse. (When us bottoms got together socially, what to use for lube was a common topic of conversation.)

But Usman reached into another cardboard box and brought out a bottle of lotion.

"What's that?"

"Coconut oil," he replied. I'd heard of it being used for lube but never tried it. He rolled onto his back and squeezed some out onto his dick. He knew how hot he was and could tell that I thought so. The stuff was white and waxy but soon melted into his hard black glossy dick as he slowly wanked himself while looking at me. The smell of coconut oil filled the air.

"You like it?" He said, again with his wide smile. He was unexpectedly playful and confident about gay sex from the start. Probably more confident than anyone I'd met. Of course I did. My anus was itching for it.

"Yeah," I said.

"You go on top. I want to watch you take it," he ordered.

I wasn't going to disobey a direct order from an officer. I squatted over him, facing him, trying to find the perfect alignment. I grabbed his slippery dick and pushed it back past my own dick and balls and put it against my anus. I would have liked to lube my hole but I was too desperate for it.

I think I wanted it so much that my hole was already open to it. When I bore down on it, it slid effortlessly up me. It was tight but the coconut oil made it easy. It filled me completely. I felt the light ache as it touched places that are rarely touched. I took every inch of his fat eight inch dick. He was watching every move I made.

"Oh Mark, you are too sexy!"

I wanted to put on a show for him. I pinched my nipples and moaned for him as I moved up and down with his dick up me. I found the angle where the end of his dick would stab my prostate as I bore down on it. I had to raise myself so that only two inches of him was still inside me. My fat little dick was bouncing up and down and making a mess of precum over his body. (It's not that little!).

I could tell I was turning him on. Of course I was. Naked and pretty (yes I was) looking at him while I slid up and down his lovely huge pole. Fully exposing myself to him. Obviously just as turned on by the feeling of his huge dick inside me as he was. Yes I know that I just told you I felt awkward being naked in front of another guy but past a certain point a kind of kink sets in. Yes I like being watched when I'm being fucked and no, I don't mean just by the guy doing it.

He started to push himself up on his elbows.

"Mark, let me fuck you," but there was no way that there would be a smooth transition. I lost my balance, fell backwards onto my back and lost his dick. He grabbed me under my armpits and dragged my whole body back up onto the mattress beside him. I didn't realise that he was so strong.

He was over me in seconds. Looking down into my face.

"I'm going to fuck you hard Mark."

I just nodded and opened my thighs.

He kissed me hard. Forced his tongue into my mouth. Licked my teeth.

Then he knelt up between my thighs. There was no added lube but the coconut oil inside me and still on his dick was enough. He pushed it into me as far as it would go. He kept pushing and lifted my back off the bed. I'm not too familiar with human anatomy but I know at the top of the rectum there is a bend. When a dick goes past that point there is a familiar ache. Yes it's a pain, more an ache. The ache when you have stomach cramps, but it turns me on. I know I'm being fully and deeply penetrated by a huge dick.

"Oh YEAH! Fuck me Usman! Do it!"

"You like it Mark?"

"Oh yes. Your dick feels so good!"

But he didn't fuck me. He just kept kissing me, my lips, my neck, my face, my ears, with his dick jammed as far as it would go up me. He hooked my legs over his arms and lifted me further, as if trying to get his solid, meaty, enormous cock deeper inside me, but just held it there. He was in no hurry. It seemed like he wanted it to last as long as possible.

I felt like I needed more though the way he was kissing me was making me more and more aroused. I tried to squeeze his dick with my arse muscles but my anus was stretched so far around him that my muscles couldn't move. I tried to change the angle of my pelvis, to feel his dick moving inside me. That worked. Boy did it work.

Just that little movement I was allowed with my legs pinned over his arms stimulated all those places of pleasure. My tightly stretched anus, my prostate, those places deeper inside. He liked it too. I don't know what bottoms he'd had before. He didn't actually seem as experienced with sex as I'd assumed from the confident way he'd seduced me out on the river. Perhaps he'd just never had a bottom as experienced and who loved the feeling of being fucked as much as I did.

"Oooh, squeeze my dick sexy boy. You really like it inside you."

"Oh yeah!"

I kept angling my pelvis back and forward to feel the stimulation of his dick jammed inside me. It started to feel so good that I had to moan.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah."

With one arm I held his back. With the other hand I held my dick, slowly wanking. I didn't want to have a prostate orgasm. They're good if you're going to be fucked three, four or eight (my record) times in a night at KKK (my local gay sauna back in Sydney, Ken's Karate Club if you're wondering but zero Karate) but alone with one top who's eventually going to cum and no guarantee that he'll want to do it again soon after, a prostate orgasm leaves me unsatisfied and sometimes a case of aching balls.

But he still just kept his dick deep as it would go inside me. I wished he would fuck me properly but he seemed just to want to hold it inside me and kiss my face and tongue my mouth. Yet the stimulation I was getting from angling my pelvis was starting to be enough. I felt my body sweating. My dick was so hard it felt like it would burst. I was leaking a ton of precum.

But more than that I felt his body getting wet with perspiration. His kissing slowed. He started to breathe through his mouth.

"Oh yeah," he breathed.

It was the strangest sex I'd ever had. Except for the kissing and that it was a super-hot guy, it was almost like using a dildo. Except that the way he was holding my legs over his arms, I could hardly move. I had been wishing he'd just get on with it and fuck me but I was now getting so turned on by it that I didn't care.

Then suddenly his body tensed. He started yelling.

"Ah, Ah, AAAAH, AAAAAAAAAAH, OOOOh, ah...."

I felt something I'd never felt before even though I'd been fucked maybe hundreds of times before. I felt his huge dick throbbing. I felt it rhythmically swelling as his cum pumped through his fat dick and expanded my hole. I guess because other guys had been fucking as they came, I never felt the actual ejaculation. His cum must have shot right up inside me because I felt fuller.

The feeling of all that as well as I didn't want to be left behind made me give a few more slides of my fist over my precum covered dick.

"Ah, ah, ah, aaaah, aaaaaaaaah, aaaaaah...."

I felt my anus rhythmically tightening around his huge dick as my cum shot out all over my body. My arse muscles were trying to push him out with the contractions my body did to shoot my cum. I guess because it was so tight, I shot with more force than usual. Some hit his chest and under his chin. Some landed on my face and in my hair. It was like an explosion.

He collapsed back down onto me, further covering himself in my cum. He still wanted to kiss me but strangely we were both gasping for breath. Strange because we'd hardly moved during sex. It was almost like Tantric sex. Like those Tibetan Yab-yum statues where the male and female deities are in static embrace with the male's erect penis inside the female's vagina.

I felt his dick start to soften. Then the slightly uncomfortable moment when he pulled it out. It felt sloppy. I didn't want to make a mess on his bed by letting his cum and whatever else out, though I was usually very clean and never douched. I had to try to clamp my anus closed though my muscles were hard to control after being stretched so far. He moved half off me to the side so that he wouldn't crush me, his huge slippery dick laid against my thigh, so hot from my internal body heat that it felt like it might burn me. He looked into my face smiling but also looking a little worried.

"It was good?" He asked me.

"Yeah," I breathed back.

"I'm sorry Mark. I usually cum too soon."

Now it made sense.

"It was really good," I said emphatically.

We washed up and dressed, though I couldn't get the smell, or at least the idea of the smell of coconut oil out of my mind and we returned to my hotel where we had lunch. The hotel restaurant was full and it was embarrassing that the staff prioritised us so much. They all seemed to know Usman and treat him like a rock star. It kind of rubbed off on me but I had the reminders of a slightly aching anal sphincter and the (imagined) odour of coconut oil to put me at a level above them.

After lunch Usman took me on a tour of the town. He first took me to the extremely unusually designed Lansdowne Bridge, one of the first bridges to span the Indus then to some ancient and very interesting shrines, both Muslim and Hindu. Later he took me to his favourite restaurant in the town. The food was amazing.

I hoped we would go back to his flat after that but he said he had to go back on duty. He dropped me back to my hotel and left me outside with just a smile. In the morning I took a taxi to the bus station and waited there hoping to see him. He didn't turn up. The bus drove over the Indus bridge with a good view of the barrage. I quickly snapped a photo.

DISCLAIMER: Nearly all of the incidents in this story actually occurred though some are told out of place and order. The story should therefor be considered to be fictional. In particular, the character of Usman although a real person was not a member of Pakistan's armed forces, not a resident of Sukkur and he was not even called Usman.

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