I, THE PRESIDENT'S SON 7
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"I, THE PRESIDENT'S SON" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
I, THE PRESIDENT'S SON
by Andrej Koymasky © 2020
Written on March 23, 1995
Translated by the Author
English text kindly revised by Richard
SEVENTH
In Love with Khaled
One evening, while I was dancing in my favourite Gay disco, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a voice greeting me -- it was Khaled.
"Hi! Are you back, at last?" I asked with a broad smile.
"So you didn't forget me, Simon?" he asked.
"No, certainly not. And you?"
"Nor I. I brought you a small present from Morocco. When can you come to get it?"
"When you like, I'm free."
"Free? You haven't found a boyfriend, the whole time?"
"No."
"Good." Khaled said with a sweet smile.
We left together. We walked for a long while and he told me about his travel, his family, and told me he missed me. I felt him gentle, careful, warm, attentive. I had a strong desire to embrace him, to kiss him, to make love with him... I told him so.
"I want you too." he answered with a tone that made me quiver.
"Can't we go at your place?"
"Not tonight -- my friends have a political reunion..."
"Don't you take part?"
"I'm not much interested in politics. And in particular their politics. They are of the Islamic Fundamentalist left wing, they have a vision that... is not for me."
"Khomeinists?" I asked remembering the portrait I saw in his home.
"Right."
"But you, you are a good Muslim, aren't you?" I asked him.
"I don't know... possibly as much as you are a good Christian."
"I believe in God and in Christ, but not in all the churches claim to teach." I said.
"Ah, more or less like me. Allah, Mohammed are all right with me, but when they make politics in the name of god, it half scares me, half makes me mad." he said walking thoughtfully. I agreed completely with him, I liked his way of thinking. And I liked talking with him. And I wanted him.
"Listen, if we cannot go to your home, why not to go to mine? I really want you." I said softly taking his arm.
"Yes, with pleasure. I too desire you, Simon, desire you very much. Can we go there now?" he asked with luminous eyes.
"Sure. And can you stay to sleep with me tonight?"
"With pleasure. We have to recover from these two months, right?" he said with a cunning air. I adored his mischievous smile!
Khaled was the first I took to my home, but on instinct I felt I could. Besides I didn't feel like waiting until he could take me at his place. We hired a taxi. Along the way he caressed me between my legs, feeling with pleasure my erection and smiling at me with sweet longing. We went up in the elevator and there we kissed, filled with mutual desire.
As soon as we were inside with the door shut, we kissed again, starting to undress each other. I felt him vibrating with passion and this aroused me even more. As our clothes fell on the floor, I guided him to my bedroom and by the time we were near my bed, we were already naked. I liked looking at his virile body full of sensuality. I pushed him on the bed and climbed on top of him, starting to lick him all over. Khaled vibrated with the delight and caressed me, held me tight, felt me all over.
When I let him understand I wanted to take him, without hesitation he spread his legs pulling them at the sides of his chest, offering himself to my passion with enthusiastic pleasure. I prepared him, and he guided me inside him, and when he felt I was sinking in his hot channel, he welcomed me with a moan of intense joy. I held him tight to me, I French kissed him while I was starting to pump inside him with strength and passion. He moved under me in rhythm, in order to made my penetration deeper. He evidently loved receiving me, and this excited me even more.
When he became aware I was nearing my orgasm, Khaled stopped me: "Not yet..." he whispered and wriggled out from under me.
Then, barely changing our position, he wanted to take me from under upwards. When he was inside me to the hilt, rolling on the bed we swapped positions so that now he was on top, then he started to take me with a pleasurable and tender vigor.
"Do you like it, Simon?" he asked radiant, pumping inside me.
"Oh yes... go on..." I urged him.
"Do you know that I really like you?" he said with voice hoarse for the pleasure.
I too liked it very much, both being his top or his bottom. We swapped several times our position, taking each other with increasing fervour and fire. When we both were too excited, we relaxed for some minutes, gently caressing and kissing each other, to then resume making love and penetrating each other with renewed passion and energy. Until we both were no more able to control ourselves and we abandoned ourselves to a final orgasm. Then we relaxed, panting and satisfied and, almost unaware, we both slipped in a deep and pleasant sleep, still tenderly intertwined.
Khaled was atypical of a boy raised in the Muslim culture, but I became aware of this only several years later. In fact it is rare that a youth of this culture admits he is Gay, in the sense we intend. Or they are bisexuals, but rigorously tops, and normally married, but they willingly acknowledge at times to themselves that they desire to fuck a boy that they treat as a woman; or they are only bottoms, and are effeminate, and act like women. Khaled was a top and a bottom with the same enthusiasm, and he felt and had a very manly stride and bearing, or better masculine, and treated me as a man.
Possibly this was one of the main reasons he felt attracted towards the Western culture, at least on the sexual level. Not wanting to renounce his own culture, that he held to for several aspects, it was still somewhat too tight on him in the sexual matters. His mates sharing the apartment with him accepted him just because they presumed he was exclusively a top, and they were sure that sooner or later he too would marry.
But Khaled had no intention to ever marry and he liked virile man like himself and not little boys. And he liked me very much. I too liked him very much and not just physically. When we woke up on the next morning, I asked him not to dress, but to stay naked at home as I liked looking at his body.
He accepted at once, but said with a provocative tone: "... but so you can make me desire to touch you."
"And then touch me." I answered while we were going to the kitchen to fix our breakfast.
"And to make love again?" he added leaning against me and caressing my chest and genitals.
"And then let's do it." I answered brushing with pleasure my starting erection against his own.
We really were touching often, in a game of mutual seduction, waiting to see which of us would take first the plunge and pass to something more concrete. It was he, late in the morning who, while we were on the terrace, sitting on a blanket, came on top of me and took my erection in himself riding me and making me take him, to then put me under himself and penetrate me with devotion, while telling me sweet words filled with poetry. It was majestic doing it so, under the sun's caresses, in the open. When I told him so, he agreed with me.
"Love, should never be done in night and on a bed, but in the day time and in the wild. Would you be my boyfriend, Simon?" he asked.
"Yes, I want to!" I answered with sincere enthusiasm.
"But then, you have to promise me that you will never go with anybody else -- I would be jealous."
"The same for you, then." I said.
"Absolutely! I'll never ask for something I am not ready to do the first."
We celebrated that decision. I was happy -- I felt that with Khaled I could be more than comfortable. Notwithstanding we were of two so different cultures, I still felt him open minded and ready to learn and to teach me and I thought it was remarkable being able to share so our lives. And our bodies. And the fact that I could not tell him who I really was started to be a burden to me. He never asked me about my life before meeting him, so my initial lie was not a too great a weight, but it was a weight.
He started coming more and more often to my home and as soon as he entered, we undressed -- we liked very much being able to enjoy our reciprocal nudity, to admire and to be admired. We often were half embraced, to caress, give light kisses to each other, until one of us surrendered to his desire and involved the other in sexual plays more and more explicit that naturally flowed into the sexual union, wherever we were -- in the drawing room, in the kitchen, in the studio, on the bed, in the terrace, in the bathroom, in the foyer, in the living room... where it happened.
And each time seemed more beautiful than the preceding one, possibly because we were gradually learning to know each other, to know where our partner's body was more sensitive, what were the desires of our beloved one. Khaled also taught me that it was not always needed to reach an orgasm -- it was also very beautiful to excite each other almost to the no return point, to then sweetly relax one in the arms of the other. At times Khaled was sweet like a puppy, at times fiery like a colt, at times tender like a fawn, at times impetuous like a ram. I was fascinated.
But he was evidently fascinated by me as well. He had an attitude towards me at times protective, at times instead he abandoned completely himself to me.
And finally, one day, he told me: "I am in love with you, my little, my great Simon! I love you madly! I never loved anybody as much as I love you." While he was telling me these words, his eyes were deep, serious, moved -- for sure he was not talking nonsense or empty words.
I held him tightly to me and said: "It is the same for me, my sweet Khaled. And I am happy!"
I was content, totally, completely, definitively. But, unhappily I didn't know that our relationship was followed, step by step, by Bruce, when we were at home, that he could hear everything we said and also see a good part of what we did, and that also the French secret service was observing us when we were not at home. And they discovered something that made them determined to end our relationship. The reason, unwillingly of course, was Khaled.
Once in fact he told me: "My mates say that the son of your president is studying here in Paris. Have you met him, by chance? His name is David. He must be more or less your age."
"No, why?" I lied asking myself if it was not the moment to tell him the truth.
"No matter. Just the same, they are looking for him."
"Ah, really? And why?"
"I think they want to kidnap him."
"Kidnap? And why?"
"Their politics -- to obtain something in exchange, I presume."
This fact hit me, but without really worrying me: "And if it were me?" I asked him, "Would you let them kidnap me?"
He smiled: "But it's not you. Anyway no, for sure. Even if I didn't think they wanted to harm him, I would never allow them to touch you, you are my lover."
"But if I knew this Dave, would you like me to tell you?"
"No. I'm not interested entering in their absurd games. Moreover, I don't think it is fair trying to obtain things, however important, with those methods. I asked you, just out of curiosity. And anyway they know perfectly well I am not interested in their nasty business and in their dirty methods. They don't even know that you are my lover. In their opinion all the Westerners are just worth exploiting, possibly to fuck them and not just in the sexual meaning. They would never understand that I could be in love with you, a Westerner!"
His words reassured me, but put Bruce and the others on a war footing, who decided that my relationship was far too dangerous. The result was that they organized a search of the four North African boys' apartment and here they found proof they were organizing my kidnapping, so all four boys, including my poor Khaled, ended up in some unknown prison of the secret service, without anybody knowing about it.
Suddenly when I didn't see my Khaled any more, I went to look for him, but from the neighbours I was informed just that the four boys "left their apartment" and nobody knew where they moved. I was anxious -- that their disappearance en masse seemed to me inexplicable, mainly because I now knew my Khaled fairly well and so I couldn't believe he could go away without telling me. What diverted me a little was at first that I thought that his three companions for some reason, forced him to go away with them, possibly to live underground, to prepare my kidnapping. Could they have discovered that Khaled's lover was me, the president's son? And that he, opposed to their plans, was now treated by his companions like a traitor? My imagination was looking for explanations.
I wanted to find him again, but I didn't know how. So, in the end, I decided to talk with Bruce. He pretended to know nothing, but something in his demeanour failed to convince me -- at this point Bruce and I knew each other for too many years, even if there was never friendship between us. I cannot say exactly what it was, but notwithstanding his denials, I understood he had to know something. More than understanding, I felt it, I sensed it. If he was lying to me, he could perhaps be involved in that situation. I ceased asking, and pretended to believe him.
But I decided to investigate that. So, one day when I saw Bruce leave his apartment from my window, I at once went in the terrace, from there I climbed to the roof and slipped to the windows of Bruce's apartment. My heart was beating like a mad, I was scared I would slip down from the roof, or that somebody would see me and call the police. I tried a window, then another, but all were well closed. I was asking myself if I should break a glass pane or to quit trying, when finally I tried the bathroom window -- it was open. I pushed it and let myself down inside.
I didn't know how much time I had. My heart violently beat. I passed to the foyer and here I opened one door after the other to understand how the apartment of my controller was laid out. When I opened one last door, my heart suddenly stopped -- a set of monitors, video decks, earphones, recorders, made me understand at once to what extent and how Bruce was spying on me. I was furious and at first was tempted to smash everything -- I was seeing on the screens my bed, my studio, the living room, the drawing room...
There were some papers, I thumbed through them and found his notes about what Khaled told me that day about my kidnapping, and understood that Bruce had to know a lot more he was pretending to know. A blind rage seized me. If I had Bruce there in that moment, I think I could even have tried to kill him. I sat down, determined to wait for him. If it had not involved Khaled, I would have possibly reacted in a different way, I could possibly pretended not to have discovered how Bruce was spying on me. But I wanted my Khaled back and now knew that Bruce had to know where he was.
I heard Bruce's key turning in the lock. I turned in the swivel-chair towards the door waiting in silence. I heard him bustle, the door opened and he saw me -- his face turned ashen in an astounded expression.
He entered and said: "How did you enter?"
"So, you spied on me, didn't you?"
"How did you get in?"
"You looked at all I did with Khaled and heard all we were saying."
"Do you have a key?"
"Where is Khaled?"
It seemed like the classical dialog between two deaf people. At last he got over his first surprise, and became quiet. I was holding back my fury with difficulty.
"Tell me where is Khaled."
"He was too dangerous for you."
"He would never harm me, you know that, you heard that, didn't you?"
"We could not be sure, he is after all an Arab, a Muslim."
"He is different."
"But you are in love, therefore you are not able to judge him objectively."
"And he is with me. You should know that. Now you tell me where he is."
"I don't know. The French secret service took care of them."
"I want him back and immediately, and safe!" I said with force.
"I can't do anything, Dave."
Tension between us was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I felt I hated him and I think that he too felt my hatred.
"Dave, don't you understand it is for your good?"
"No, I don't understand. He is a good boy!"
"Who can guarantee that to us? Anyway, now it is done, we can't go back."
"This is what YOU say! I'll go to talk with the men of the service."
"Don't try to raise problems that could boomerang on you."
"And how?"
"They can ask our government to take you away from France."
"What? For that? Well, if they want a war, I'm ready to fight it. At last to come out and to tell everything to the media! You give me back Khaled, or I'll kick up a fuss!"
Strangely the determination to have back Khaled made me forget the rage for having been spied in my intimacy. In a certain way, I was calming down, I was reasoning coldly in a way that until now I was not able to do.
"Dave, come into the living room, now, and let's try to talk like two reasoning people."
"If reasoning means your way, forget it!" I said following him in the living room. We sat face to face, on opposite sides of the table.
"Dave, you were running a real, concrete danger."
"Possibly from the other three, but not from Khaled. He would never have betrayed me!"
"Because he didn't know about you. But his fellows were making inquiries, they were sure to find you. We couldn't allow that."
"But what's the matter with Khaled? You could take the other three, but you shouldn't have touched him."
"These are decisions of the French secret service, I wasn't involved. Anyway, I think they did fine as they did. You could never trust Arabs, they are faithful above all to themselves, to their ideas."
"Khaled is different." I retorted stubbornly.
"And who can say that?"
"I can! You had no right to do what you did! Where is Khaled now?"
"I have not the faintest idea."
"You'd better find out and to set him free at once!"
"He could possibly be in Morocco again."
"In that case bring him come back to Paris, I want him with me!"
"Dave, these are not my decisions -- I can't go against the decisions of the French secret service."
"In that case I will raise a scandal that..."
"That can only come back against you and against him..."
"But neither I nor he have nothing to lose, but you have, therefore..." I said stubbornly, "Bruce, I give you three days to have Khaled here, back with me. If in three days he is not in my apartment, I will move. And I am not joking, beware!"
"You cannot do such a thing, they will prevent you." Bruce said in a self-assured tone, quietly.
"Let's see!" I said determined, and left his apartment.
He didn't try to stop me. Back to my apartment I looked around ill at ease -- now that I knew that Bruce could follow any of my movements, I felt terribly exposed and vulnerable. That day I felt I hated against my father -- in a way it was his fault if I couldn't even live my life here in my own way, his fault and of his life of cursed politics. I wanted to be me, now, to be able to control what Bruce was doing. He certainly was in contact with our secret service and/or with the French one. Warning them that I discovered their game, asking or giving instructions. I had to carefully think what I was going to do -- in fact I didn't deceive myself thinking that Bruce would really do something to give me back my Khaled. I gave him three days, while in reality, it was I who needed the three days.
At first I thought to go down on the street and to face the men of the French secret service who were always in the around with their car, to ask them to put me in contact with their chiefs. But they certainly would first call Bruce and... and they would just watch me more strictly than before. And here in Paris I didn't have any real friends, anyone to rely on, who could help me. For the first time I fully felt all my loneliness.
I thought I could try to ask for help from Patrick, Claude and Bernard, but in actuality I didn't know them well enough to know if they were ready to help me and whether they could. Rick was too far away and for sure they would look for me first of all at his place, if I disappeared. Therefore I cold not even count on Rick. And now that I discovered Bruce's game, possibly he would have me controlled more than before, and for sure now he would.
Then I got an idea. I had heard, or read somewhere, I didn't remember exactly, that there existed a Gay legal assistance service, organized by the main Gay association of France. I could possibly entrust myself to them, ask them if they felt as if they could help me. I left my apartment. I saw the usual car. Pretending nothing was different from routine, I went to take the underground. I went downtown and at a newspaper stand at the underground station I bought the last issue of Gay Pied, and thumbed through it looking for the telephone number of the Gay Association.
I called them and asked about the legal service. They gave me the number. I called and talked with a lawyer -- I told him I had a serious problem and that I needed to talk with him in person. He gave me an address telling me to come to their office. I advised him that I was shadowed and that I didn't want those who followed me to know I was in contact with them. He asked me who was shadowing me, but I answered that I preferred to talk in person about that also.
The voice told me to hold on, then after a while told me: "All right, I will come personally to meet you. Tell me where, and how I can recognize you. Then we will see what we can do."
I gave him my description, I told him I would have in my hands the last issue of Gay Pied, and gave him the location of another station of the underground, at the ticket window. He too gave me a description of himself and told me it would take him around forty five minutes to reach that station.
I didn't feel I had been followed but, out of prudence, I paid a lot of attention while I was going to the underground station where I had to meet the lawyer. Or they were really skilled, and that was not to be excluded, or they were not following me. Reaching that station, I waited, carefully observing all the people around me. It didn't seem that anybody was watching me, but...
He came. He was a man on his forties -- on the telephone he seemed younger. We recognized each other.
"Were you followed?" he at once asked.
"I don't think so, but I can't be sure. Where can we go to talk safely?"
"There is a coffee shop nearby. We'll go there." he proposed.
I followed him. We went out on the street, walked a couple of blocks to the coffee shop. He said something to the owner, then led me in a small room on the first floor.
"So then," he asked motioning me to sit down, "what's this about?"
I showed him my passport, then told him everything. He listened carefully and took notes on a small pocket diary he extracted from the inside pocket of his vest. I was almost astounded how he seemed to believe everything I was telling him without showing any surprise. The fact that my passport certified I was the President's son must have made him accept without doubt my tale thick with secret services and espionage.
When I was finished, he asked me: "So then, what do you intend to do now? Why did you call us?"
"I want to find Khaled again, and I want to find a way to avoid those who could stop me. I want threaten them, to raise a big scandal if necessary, I want to come out, talk with the press they cannot control or stop. But here I know no one, I have nobody I can trust so I thought that you, perhaps... If you wanted, and if you can help me..."
"Honestly, we never had to face problem of this kind. Here, besides, your private life, is involved with national interests and espionage, it is a tough nut to crack, a very tough one. Right now, I am not even able to tell you if we really are able to help you and, if so, how. I have first to consult with my colleagues."
"But, meanwhile, can you at least help me to hide, so that they can't find me?"
"Possibly, I don't know. But if you disappear, you'll put them all on red alert."
"But if I don't disappear now, they will for sure control me step by step, and it will became even more difficult to do freely what I want. As it is now, they don't possibly know that I am here with you now."
He reflected, then extracted from his briefcase a cellular telephone and entered a number. He talked rapidly with somebody. Even though I know French rather well, I could only guess what he was saying. Then he snapped his cellular closed, and said: "Good, for the moment let's start to plan how to hide you."
He had me go out from a back door to a courtyard, and from there he guided me into another courtyard, without going in the street. Then he came with his car to that second courtyard. He had me get in on the back, lying down on the floor and covering me with a blanket. He drove for a long while, until he stopped and helped me get out. We were in front of a small country house, restored as a summer residence. He explained me it was his own holiday house. We entered, he showed me the house and told me I could stay there until he could take a decision and eventually organize something. He was very kind. When I told him that for the moment I was not able to compensate him for what he was doing for me, he just smiled and told me not to worry.
It was rather evident he liked me, but he did nothing that could embarrass me. He showed me his collection of video and his library inviting me to use them to pass my time. The refrigerator and the cupboards had some supplies and he told me he would bring some fresh food the next time he came there in any case. He told me to not answer to the phone but to let it ring -- listening at the answering machine, if it was him, he would talk to me calling me "Abel" then I could answer.
When he went away, I first explored the house. Outside it remained in the manner of a farm house, but the interior was completely rebuilt and was decidedly comfortable and elegant. On the ground floor there was a small foyer, opening on the kitchen, a living room, a bathroom and a room half way between a library-studio and a drawing room. On the second floor there were two double bed rooms, another bathroom, and a room equipped as a work out room.
I undressed remaining in my tee-shirt and boxers and went to do some exercises, just to relax a little. After a long shower I went downstairs to the living room and switched on a video. It was a movie with a delicate love story between a young fashion photographer and a model, set on a small Greece island. It was not a porno movie, even if it had some really explicit scenes. I liked it very much and looked at it more than once. Especially the scenes where the model succeeds in seducing the photographer, and where the photographer, while they make love for the last time as the sessions are over and they have to part, asks to the boy to remain with him forever and the boy, renouncing to his career, accepts.
Clement, the lawyer, came back the day after carrying bags of provisions and with some colleagues. We discussed the best thing to do. We decided I should record a video where I gave proof about my identity, then I had to denounce what happened, asking for the liberation of Khaled. With this video, of which they would make several copies to put for safety in several different bank safety deposit boxes, we could try to blackmail the secret services.
We worked on that for several days. Meanwhile I met also Clement's lover, Raoul, a young man whose brother was working at the RTF in a position of some authority, who assured us that in case of need his brother could transmit the video on TV. Then we sent a copy of the video to Bruce, asking him to free Khaled and asking him to send an answer putting an ad on "Le Monde".
Days passed. I was anxious to know what Bruce was doing. What the secret services were doing. Would we succeed in making fools of them? Finally, following the instructions, Bruce's message appeared in the news paper -- he seemed amiable to discuss the issue, but he wanted to meet me in person. I then wrote him a letter warning him that, if he tried to kidnap me too, the various videos would be sent to the mass media for the maximum diffusion. We reached an accord about how and where to meet.
The first time we met in a small coffee-bar in the XXème, that is the 20th Paris district. Bruce had a very tense expression. At first he tried to make me "reason" but in the end he had to admit that my father gave orders to try to comply with my requests, if I gave him a guaranty not to cause a scandal. I have to say that I felt strong -- I felt I took them on, I cowed my father. Bruce told me that he had not the power to decide about Khaled, and asked me for a second meeting. The second time he gave me a letter from Khaled, where he wrote that he was fine, and he hoped he could meet me soon. He also wrote me that it seemed that the French secret services and those of my country were bargaining to find a solution.
In reality, we undervalued the secret services -- they were in some way figuring out on whom I relied, so, one morning I was awakened up by strange noises. I had not even the time to get out of my bed -- I was held fast and drugged.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 8
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