Sand, sand and more sand. It’s all I can see in every direction, stretching to the far horizon where the dancing heat melds land and sky in improbable creases. Vast plains, wind-whipped ripples, towering dunes, all shifting imperceptibly to the rhythm of the air. The closest dune is marked by a line of sagging footprints, leading my eye to the tall, slender figure of my companion. As if sensing my regard, he turns, djellaba and robe flapping like prayer flags in the wind. Even from here I can see his sardonic grin.

“You are flagging, Edward. Do you wish to stop and set up camp?”

Damn him. We’ve only been walking for an hour. Guide or no guide, I can’t let him get away with that. “Of course not,” I reply and trudge on. It’s the truth, anyway. The molten sun hurts my eyes, but the native dress he made me wear protects me from the worst ravages of the heat. The edge of my turban bothers me, dipping down to dangle in my eyes, but it’s better than the alternative, a slow roasting that would send me mad with sunstroke. I do need a drink and I am tired of sand. Sand everywhere—in my boots, weighing down my every step, in my mouth, in the very pores of my skin. “Fucking sand,” I mutter, shaking one leaden foot, but quietly so he won’t hear. I know he’s laughing at me.

I’m too aware of him. His long slender legs, the proud nose and dark eyes of the desert race, the merest suggestion of his butt rounding out the fall of his robe. I find myself gazing at its his curves too often for comfort, but then he’s always first, always ahead of me no matter how hard I try to keep up. I suppose that’s why he’s the guide and I’m just the poor ruddy Englishman struggling to get a message through in time. My eye strays downwards and he catches my gaze and grins. I already know I shouldn’t have looked because now I have an erection to add to my woes. I curse him again and stamp on through his alien landscape, desert and deserted.

Night falls, suddenly and completely, as though the gods have blown out a lamp. Hot sand becomes chill as the day’s heat flies unerringly into space and we find a sheltered spot to pitch the tent. The wind thrums against the canvas, the temperature falls, and we huddle shivering under blankets. Outside the tent frost will have crystalled the stones but it’s not safe to light a fire—unfriendly eyes might spy its dancing flames and come upon us unawares. But cold like this can kill a man. We shuffle closer, sharing our dwindling body heat.

This is every gay man’s dream come true—alone in the desert with a handsome native guide—and Rashid is certainly handsome, with a pirate’s strong white teeth and a sudden flashing smile. Trouble is, he doesn’t seem to know the effect he has on me. Or does he? As I grind my hips into the chill sand, trying to cool the sudden blaze of heat, his wiry arm reaches out and pins me down, and a smooth voice whispers in my ear.

“Edward, you are squirming. Can you not sleep?”

“I’m trying to,” I reply, hoping the dark will hide my heightened state. With any other race, it might, but he is desert born and bred and he can see in the dark. Of course. He is laughing at me again.

“Oh. You should take care of that before it explodes.”

“Thank you for your suggestion,” I say through gritted teeth. “It is nothing. I can take care of it myself.”

“I am sure you can. But that would not be so nice as... this.” He catapults himself on top of me, knocking the breath from my chest, holding my shoulders to the ground. He is naked and using his hidden strength to subdue me. I fight back, but half-heartedly—I don’t really want to win. He kisses me and I stop fighting. The stars that wheel in the heavens come down into the tent.

I kiss back, softly at first and then with growing heat, feeling his lips mold themselves to my own. He allows my tongue inside his mouth, tasting, seeking, scraping against those bright white teeth that catch the starlight. Our hands begin to roam. My own seek out the firm curves of that delicious butt, hardly daring to believe it’s mine to touch at last. I squeeze a buttock, then pinch, and smile in secret triumph at the catch in his breath.

He traces the slope of my shoulders, then glides his big hands down onto my chest, rubbing harder over my nipples and making me shiver. The smell of his sweat washes over me, harsh on the night air, increasing my desire. I pull him closer, squeezing his butt, willing him on. He drops his head to lick my throat, holding his tongue against the pitter-pat of my pulse. His hand forces passage between our molded bodies, burrowing down to my groin and grinding palm-down along my aching flesh.

I groan. His teeth flash again. “You like that?” He rubs more quickly, outlining my cock through my pants, finding and squeezing the tip. This time I whistle like a kettle on a range, and he realizes he’s pushing me too far. He gathers me in his arms and hauls me to my feet, sitting me on a handy box, knees ajar. I’m shivering with need, but the sweat runs down my face and drips onto the sand. I imagine it sizzling there, evaporating in the heat we are generating. Wanting to be involved, to be more than just a rag doll, I slither out of my pants and grab one of his hands, guiding it to the prize. He has other ideas.

“Ah, yes,” he says, and sinks to his knees in the sand. He places a hand on each of my knees, smiles, and lowers his head. My cock rises up to meet him, already anticipating the warm depths of his mouth, but he teases me. Gently he licks from root to tip, then flicks his tongue across the slit.

It’s all I can do not to fall off the box. “More,” I groan, thrusting up towards him, trying to stab him in the mouth.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but at last settles to his task. His lips stretch, and I feel the heat and wetness engulf me and his fleshy tongue molds itself to my cock. He begins to suck, little movements at first that barely stir the skin, then harder, until he’s riding me up and down.

I am in Paradise. The tent rings with my panted breath, my groans as I urge him on. I bite down hard on his shoulder and feel his lips clench on my cock as his hand squeezes my balls. My climax rushes towards me like the wheeling stars. He seems to know and leans back just in time as I come in great, aching spurts across his mouth. He smiles, licks his lips like a cat with cream, and whispers into my ear...

“For Christ’s sake, Edward, if I’d known you had enough spare time to do that I’d have made sure you had more work. We do have clients waiting, you know.”

I wrench open my eyes to find Benny-From-Accounts peering at me around the office door, a salacious expression of disgust puckering his pock-marked face. I stuff my deflating cock back into my pants and try to look like I haven’t been doing anything wrong. It’s not working, and I know it. The disgust remains but he’s looking at me sidelong, dabbing his lips with an overly wet tongue. Needing to move, to get away from his grubby stare, I spring out of my chair and collide with the wooden leg of the desk.

“Fuck!” I yell, hopping on one foot and massaging my damaged knee. When I’ve caught my breath I glare at him, turning embarrassment into all-out attack. “When are you going to learn not to creep up on people like that?”

He sneers. “When are you going to learn to control your urges better? Imagine if the boss had walked in and caught you doing that! At his desk! In his office!”

I glance at the photo on the desk—glossy dark hair, white teeth gleaming in a bone-melting smile. “Don’t be bloody daft,” I reply. “You know as well as I do that Rashid’s on holiday in Morocco and won’t be back till next week.”

“I heard a rumor that he’d come back early. I’d watch out if I were you.”

He’s attached himself to the door, arms folded across his chest as if waiting for an encore. I get the impression he’s there for keeps, but my need has become urgent and I have to get rid of him fast. Next thing I know he’ll be wanting to join in, and the images that conjures up aren’t happy ones. Imagine if he leaves his sanctuary at the door and walks towards the desk.... My heart’s banging a bass drum in my chest. “The show’s over. Don’t you have work to do?”

He scowls, and for one awful moment I think he’s going to refuse to leave. I hold my breath and count: one, two, three.... Sanity prevails. He peels himself reluctantly off the door frame and takes his pock-marks elsewhere. The door swings gently shut and silence returns.

“Has he gone?” says a voice from under the desk.

“Yes, you’re safe. You can come out now.” I turn to see the crumpled figure emerge and straighten itself. He strokes dark glossy hair into place with a hand and flashes me a conspirator’s grin.

“Thank God for that. That could have been most embarrassing. Imagine if he’d caught me doing that to you? In my office! Perhaps you had better lock the door.”

I comply, snicking the bolt and pushing a chair under the handle so nobody can disturb us again, then I return, it seems like a moth to a lantern; I cannot stay away.

“Now, where were we?” he says.

“In a tent in the desert, lying in the sand. You’d finished me off - in more ways than one, I think— and were just about to say....”

“Ah, yes, so I was,” he says. I know he’s laughing at me again.

 

© 2008 Fiona Glass

Fiona Glass lives in Birmingham (the original one, in the UK) with one husband, various visiting cats and far too many spiders. She writes gritty urban dramas, mostly involving gay characters and almost always with at least one twist in the tail. Current publications include the darkly humourous story 'Any Means Necessary' in the Men of Mystery anthology and a very short story about a cell phone in Gay Flash Fiction. She's also due to have a story about an ageing rock star in a Byker Books anthology early in 2009. You can find details of all these and more at www.fiona-glass.com.