Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Hafida the Moroccan

   This is the (true) story of my ex-wife, Hafida, whom I had married
following a trip to her small home town in the south of Morocco.  After
reading this, you may think I'm being spiteful, but what the hell.  She was
no saint either and dumped me as soon as I was surplus to requirement.

   We had only been married a few days and still at her home in the deep
south of Morocco.  I found Hafida arguing vehemently with her younger
sister, Amina.  Now, if Hafida is a quiet, seemingly shy girl, then by
comparison, Amina is a mouse.  I was very surprised then, when I found them
engaged in a heated argument.  I managed to quieten them down, but only by
threatening all sorts of mayhem.  Hafida stormed out of the room, muttering
and swearing, leaving me alone with the younger sister.

   Amina motioned me to sit down, and then, using her best (very broken)
French she managed to relate to me the reason why I had, at forty two,
managed to marry her sister, an extremely beautiful twenty four year old
Arab girl.

   The cause of the argument was that Hafida had confided in Amina and had
told her that she had married me solely to get out of Morocco, and get a
European passport.  She intended to leave me and find a nice young Arab guy
once she had obtained said passport.  Amina, apparently, had grown to like
me in the three weeks I had been staying with the family, and was outraged
that her sister was using me so badly.

   Needless to say, I was shocked by this revelation, but even so, as I
thought the situation through, I was still getting quite a good deal. 
Hafida, apart from being heart stoppingly gorgeous, is also, believe it or
not, a great cook.  I had popped her cherry on our wedding night, had
witnessed her sexual awakening and had benefitted in no small measure from
her ever increasing curiosity and sexual appetite.

   It would be five years before she qualified for a passport, so I would
be getting my money's worth, so to speak.  I could, I reasoned, live with
the knowledge that I was just a pawn in her game.  I also had a lever, an
edge, as they say.  If I divorced her, before she got a passport, she would
be shipped back home to Morocco, and her plans would come to nothing.

   Knowledge is power, they say, and I now was well armed.  Logic is not
all though.  Deep down I knew I felt angry, betrayed.  Very flatteringly,
Amina told me that had she known Hafida's plan before, she would have told
me, and that she would have married me instead!  These girls have a much
different attitude to marriage than Western women.  Hafida, she reasoned,
was not only being a cheat, but was also depriving her of something
beneficial.  She had apparently, called down Allah's curse on her sister
for deceiving me in the sacred ritual of marriage, so sparking a furious
row.

   A week later we were boarding the bus and heading for Europe.  I had
told Amina to say nothing to anyone, and, after I explained that Hafida was
tied to me for at least five years to get her passport, and that I had no
objection to Hafida's scheme, she shrugged her shoulders and agreed to tell
no one what she had told me.  She said I was mad to let Hafida use me like
that, but she agreed to remain silent.

   The journey from Hafida's town to London, is quite a lengthy affair,
first the bus, or maybe a 'bush taxi' to Agadir, then an internal flight to
Casablanca.  If you are lucky, you might catch an onward connection the
same day to London.  We, however, were not.  Lucky, that is.  We missed the
London flight by half an hour.  There was nothing for it but to book into
an hotel and get the flight the next afternoon.  This time we were lucky. A
rather comfortable and not too expensive hotel had a room, and we booked
in.

   I was rather relieved.  Most hotels in Morocco are shabby flea ridden
things, charging a dollar a night, with all the cock roaches you can manage
or two hundred dollar a night extravaganzas.  This hotel, however, was
clean, modern, and at ten dollars a night, cheap too.

   We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping at the nearby airport mall,
buying suitable clothes for Hafida.  A jalaba is not the warmest item of
clothing in the world, and February in Europe is somewhat chilly.  We also
bought some, shall we say, 'more adventurous' under wear for her, to
replace the rather frumpy plain stuff she usually wore.  Hafida was
delighted and in high spirits when we returned to our hotel.  She was now
kitted out as she thought a woman should be.  Western style clothing,
including bikini briefs, thongs etc., plus matching bras, some blouses,
skirts (all ankle length) and a couple of pairs of shoes with modest heels.

   The 'trying on' session back in our room was quite something.  It was
lovely to witness her child like enthusiasm and excitement as she unwrapped
and put on each new item.  As I watched her I couldn't help thinking about
Amina.  It could have been her beginning a new life with me, reaping the
material benefits that her commitment to me would have brought her. 
Instead, it was Hafida who was harvesting the crop that deceit had yielded.


   `What goes around comes around' they say, and it is often very much the
case.

   Looking back, it did seem a shame that Amina's honesty had not been
rewarded, but there again, who's to know if that honesty was real, or was
she just as hollow as her sister?  I can tell you, however, that Amina
married a local man, and remained with him (being mother to at least two of
his children) for as long as I knew the family.

   Enough of the semantics though!  You want to hear about something else,
right?  Right, and so you shall.

   About seven thirty that evening, we went to find the restaurant, me
dressed in jeans and a 't' shirt, whilst Hafida looked stunning in a cobalt
blue, gold embroidered jalaba she had begged me to buy for her just before
our wedding.  Again I was pleasantly surprised.  Reasonable (plain and
simple) food at reasonable prices and, unusually for a Moroccan owned
hotel, wine.

   Waiters in monkey suits seated us at a corner table, took our order, and
presented us with a wine list.  Now, Hafida, being a typical small town
girl, was not used to all this at all.  Not only was she being waited on,
but waited on by men.  This to her was a revelation.  At home, she and her
sisters served family and guests alike, so having people bring her food and
generally run around after her was quite an eye opener.  As for wine, it
was something she (a Muslim girl from the deep south of Morocco, remember?)
had heard about, but had never seen, never mind tasted.  When the waiter
brought us a bottle of what was undoubtedly a cheap French table wine, she
stared wide eyed at it.  I poured her a glass and motioned her to try it.
She very hesitatingly sniffed it then sipped at it.  She winced a little as
she swallowed.  Cheap and cheerful is the most generous description of it,
but it had a very fruity initial taste to it.

   Apparently she liked the stuff.  Either that or, more likely, she
considered drinking wine a necessary western social skill that she must
acquire in her bid for European citizenship.  She downed a couple of
glasses in quick succession and another couple during the meal.  Needless
to say, by the time we had finished, she was a little worse for wear, as
they say.  In fact as we stood up to leave the restaurant, she swayed and
stumbled, motivating both I and the waiter to make a grab for her arms to
prevent her from falling over.

   We made our way to the lobby, Hafida supported on one side by me, and by
the waiter on the other.  A bellboy took in the situation, and pressed the
call button on the lift for us and when the lift arrived, the four of us
squeezed into it, Hafida giggling drunkenly.

   In the conservative south of Morocco, she had never been touched by any
males other than her father, or brothers.  Here she was now, hemmed in by
men, all of them in close physical contact and none of them her father or
brothers.  I suddenly realised that Hafida's giggling was also probably due
to the fact that whilst the waiter's left hand was supporting her by
holding her left forearm, his right arm was curled around her waist.  Not
only was this outrageously forward, but was his right hand actually under
her breast, touching one of those delicious (and forbidden to him) tits of
hers?  And why was the bellboy's face so red?  Could it be that in the
close confines of the lift, he was embarrassed because his penis was
rubbing against the lady's thigh, and his erection was causing a bulge in
his uniform trousers?

   All this was plainly visible in the reflection from the mirror like
steel doors of the lift.  Whilst I was standing behind Hafida, I could see
over her shoulder, witnessing the events unfold as we travelled slowly up
the building, in much the same manner as the waiters hand was travelling
slowly up and over Hafida's chest.

   Now, it is a well-known fact that Moroccan men consider westerners to be
the scum of the earth, and the women who consort with them to be no better
than whores.  The two hotel staff, it seemed had obviously come to this
conclusion, and so were treating us accordingly.  The lack of respect they
felt revealed itself in the gentle abusing of Hafida, whilst I, her husband
stood next to her.

   I could hardly believe my eyes.  Surely they must know I would be aware
of what was going on?  Or did they think I was as drunk as she was? 
Suddenly, pictures of Hafida being sexually used by these two flashed
through my mind.  My imagination, always strong, was working overtime.  I
could see, in my mind's eye, the waiter thrusting into Hafida, using her,
satisfying his lust with the body of the westerner's whore!  I could feel
my own cock stirring, my heartbeat increased just a fraction as an
involuntary reaction to the erotic situation.  An arrow of guilt shot
through me, but, its sting was suddenly blunted by the knowledge that I was
the victim of Hafida's scam, that my betrayal of her would be no more than
rough justice.

   My cock hardened further as I contemplated the situation, but what to
do? What would happen if I did nothing?  Would they continue?  Where would
it all stop?

   I looked at my new young wife.  Her eyes were darting from the waiters
hand, (which was now holding her right breast) to my face.  I smiled at her
as though I had seen nothing, as though all were well with the world and
nothing untoward was happening.  She in turn shot a glance at the waiter,
who simply stared back at her, the stony look on his face seemed to defy
her to say or do anything.

   The lift's control panel was just beside my right elbow, behind the bell
boy.  The floor indicator showed us to be two floors short of our
destination.  A fit of daring overtook me.  Pretending to scratch my head,
I raised my arm, brushing against the <STOP> button.  The lift stopped. 
'Oh!' I exclaimed.  'I hope we're not going to be stuck in here for
long....' Hafida stared at me.  So did the bellboy.  I think he had seen
what I had done.  'It will not be long Sir....this often happens....a few
minutes at most....' Came the reassuring response from the waiter, his left
hand releasing Hafida's arm and dropping down to fondle her left thigh. 
She said nothing.  On the shiny door, the picture of his left hand as it
curled around her thigh and moved up towards her pussy, sent a hot shiver
up my spine.  She squirmed slightly as she felt his fingers through the
thin cloth.  They were gently probing, testing her sense of resistance,
putting her drunken sense of morality on trial.

   Hafida was found guilty.  She said and did nothing.  She never even
tried to move away from his touch.  Her eyes closed.  His hand pushed
between her legs, gathering up a handful of the blue cloth as he cupped and
squeezed her pubic mound in his palm.

   'Are you alright my dear?' I asked innocently.  'I think the wine was a
little more than she expected...' This to the waiter who was now slowly
massaging Hafida's pussy through the thin material!  'Yes Sir, It often
happens when someone is not used to it.' Did I detect a little sarcasm or
accusation in his tone?  'It's just as well you were here to help me with
her.  I couldn't have managed her by myself.' I said, moving my right hand
down to her belly, just inches from the waiters.

   He quickly shifted his hold, leaving Hafida's pussy free for me to
stroke.  The bell boy was aghast.  The waiter eyed me with suspicion.  I
grinned at him.  He did not, however, let go of her right breast.  Hafida
kept her eyes closed.  If she was aware of what was happening, she showed
no sign of it.

   I could hear her breathing.  Quick and shallow.  I ran my index finger
up along her pussy, pausing at the top to give her clitoris a little rub.
She trembled ever so slightly.  The waiter and I both keyed up by the
situation and aware of every tiny sound or motion, exchanged glances. 
Again I grinned at him.  I moved my right hand, once again taking her arm.
He immediately put his hand on her pussy, his fingers gently massaging her
through the gown.  The lift jerked into life.  Someone higher up had
pressed the call button.

   We completed the journey to our floor, and when the lift doors opened,
the waiter and I manhandled the now fairly limp Hafida down the corridor to
our room.  I noticed that the waiter took every opportunity to get a quick
feel of her whenever he could.  I just let him get on with it.

   'Could you get the key out of my pocket?  I'm afraid she'll fall if I
let go of her', I asked the bellboy.  He hesitated but did as I asked.  As
he felt for the key, his eyes took in the bulge in my trousers that matched
his own.

   We almost dragged poor Hafida through the sitting room and into the
bedroom.  The waiter passed Hafida's left arm to the bell boy, and to my
surprise, took her feet.  We lifted her onto the bed, the waiter staring
down Hafida's jalaba between her legs.  One of her sandals fell off.  We
all looked at it as it hit the floor.  The atmosphere in the room was
electric!  The waiter knew that there was a sexually oriented opportunity
for him, but it was obvious he could not see how to exploit it.

   It was now or never.  If I did or said nothing, they would have to
leave. Did I want to push the situation to its (almost) obvious conclusion?
Inspiration hit me.  I fumbled in my pockets as though looking for a tip
for them.  I ignored the loose change that both the bellboy and myself knew
lay in the bottom of my pocket.  'Just a minute, I must find some
money...to reward you for your help....' and with that I hurried into the
sitting room, leaving them alone in the bedroom with my prostrate wife.

   I stopped outside the door and peeped back into the room through the gap
between the door and the door post.  The waiter had wasted no time.  He had
his hand up Hafida's dress, and it looked as though he was finger fucking
her.  The bellboy, his right hand in his pocket, was furiously masturbating
as he watched his friend take advantage of drunken Hafida.  As I watched,
the waiter lifted up her jalaba to show his young college Hafida's
depilated pussy.  He had moved the crotch of her thong to one side and was
sliding his middle finger in and out of her.  It was shiny with her juices.

   Hafida moved slightly, her eyes remaining closed.  Was it my
imagination, or were her legs were spread just a little wider?  Her head
rolled to one side and she opened her eyes.  With a moan she tried to sit
up, her right hand feebly trying to push the waiters hand away.  He raised
a finger to his lips, and 'shushed' her.  She stared at him.  Her eyes
travelled from him to the bellboy, then down to her dishevelled clothing.
She whispered something to the waiter, I did not understand the Arabic, but
her tone was urgent.  It didn't need a genius to work out she was telling
him to stop.

   No scream of indignation, no loud appeal for help, just a demand that
they not be caught!

   'Won't be a minute....' I called out to them.  '....can't find my
wallet. Should I call room service for some coffee opr some other
refreshment?  The waiter looked around towards the door.  A half smile on
his face told me all I needed to know.  I think he had realised I had left
them alone intentionally.

   'Thank you Sir, that would be very nice.' he replied, unzipping his
pants and freeing his wedding tackle.  I couldn't see it, but Hafida could.
She made a small squeaking sound and her eyes opened wide.  Very wide!  The
waiter moved onto the bed beside her.  He took her hand and placed it on
his cock.  She took hold of it and he lay down beside her, turning on his
side so she could masturbate him.  'OK....' I thought '....if you don't
mind, then I don't either.' As he turned, his cock came into my view.

   Now, the only erect penis Hafida had ever seen until now, was mine, six
inches long and about an inch and a quarter wide, with a slightly thicker
head to it.  Nicely proportioned, I've always thought, if not so big.

   The waiter, however, had been cast in a different mould.  His was huge.
Nine inches long at least, I would guess, and as thick as a baby's arm. 
His knob end was the size of a duck egg, and his balls were the size of a
Jaffa orange.  No wonder she had stared wide eyed at it.  This guy was
equipped like a porno star.

   Surprised as she obviously was by this turn of events, Hafida's true
colours began to show through.  She stroked the fleshy monster, with no
(apparent) thought of fidelity to her new husband, her eyes wide and
sparkling!  Her face wore an expression of nervous excitement, though not,
as yet, devoid of anxiety.  She was still worried about being caught.

   'Shall I tell them to bring the coffee in....what shall we say....about
an hour?' I had lowered my voice to a more, shall we say, conspiratorial
level.  The waiter grinned at the bellboy.  'That would be very convenient
Sir, thank you very much!' His next words were to Hafida.  Not speaking
Arabic, I could not understand him, but she looked over to the doorway,
disbelief on her face.  'Shall I bring a towel in?  Or maybe you prefer
tissues?' I called again.  The delight in the waiters voice when he
replied, was all too obvious to us all!  'Whatever you prefer Sir, if you
are joining us, that is....' 'Of course!  Wouldn't want to miss an orgy'

   I walked into the room, grinned at Hafida, dropped my trousers and sat
on the end of the bed.  Hafida just stared at me open mouthed.  Too
intoxicated to respond quickly to the situation, she just sat there holding
the waiters huge cock in her right hand.

   Her jalaba was hiked up around her waist, her knickers, (one of the
thongs bought this morning) were pulled down onto her thighs, and the
waiter had his right hand between her legs, his middle finger in her pussy.
'Well, well Hafida, looks like you've got a couple of new friends!  Hope
you're feeling horny?' She went bright red, mumbling incoherently.  'I
think the jalaba should go, don't you?' I asked the waiter.  He spoke to
her.  She let go of his cock and lifted her arms above her head, the look
of disbelief still etched into her face.  'You let them do this?' she asked
me, when her jalaba cleared her face.  'No dear, you let them.  I just let
you get on with it.' Slowly her drink befuddled mind worked out that I had
seen her wanking the waiter, and that she had not objected to him putting
his dick in her hand, or to him fingering her pussy.

   Sitting there without her jalaba, she looked a picture.  Her dusky skin
in sharp contrast to the brilliant whiteness of her lacy bra and her thong.
Her long black hair hung down her back, providing a dark backdrop to her
blushing face.

   The waiter tugged at her panties, sliding them down her legs and over
her feet.  With a grin he tossed them to the bellboy, increasing the boys
acute embarrassment, and his erection.  'Your turn son....I think you
should have her bra as well as her pants....come on, join the party!' I
said to him.  Hafida grunted something in indignation, but nevertheless,
the boy was at her side in a flash, his hands quickly pulling the flimsy
straps from her shoulders.  His breathing fast, his face slightly flushed
and his hands trembled.

   Hafida's breasts, (34b) small but firm and solid, popped into sight.  No
sagging matron this.  A week ago she had been a virgin, her firm young body
was in peak condition.  Her brown nipples were hard and pert.  Despite the
fact that she was sitting on the bed, her belly still looked flat and hard.
Only a dead man would fail to get excited, and the three males in the room
were all very much alive.

   The bellboy, kneeling beside Hafida, leaned over her shoulder and
unclipped the bra.  It fell into her lap, the straps still around her arms.
The bellboy slipped it off them and with a sheepish grin, handed it to me.
'Put it with her knickers!' I told him.  It was his ears turn to go red. 
Her knickers were in his pocket, and the bra joined them in a trice. 
Hafida protested loudly, but the waiter snapped a word at her, and she shut
up immediately.  This guy was well in control of things.  Moroccan men
don't take any back talk from their women.  I've seen mothers of five feet
nothing, walloping a son of six feet, and he never said a word.  A wife,
though, she'd better watch her mouth, and for all intents and purposes, the
waiter now considered Hafida to be of wife status.  Or whore, more likely.
Either way he knew he was going to fuck her.

   I stripped off my shirt, and the waiter, taking his cue from me, also
shed his clothes.  Hafida couldn't take her eyes off him.  It was obvious
to her now, that she was going to be fucked by at least one of us, if not
all of us, whilst the others watched.

   The prospect of having to accommodate the waiter's massive cock was
obviously upper most in her thoughts.  She watched his shirt come off,
exposing a brown, well-muscled body that had a light covering of black
hair. This guy was no stranger to the gym, muscles rippled as he bent to
strip off his pants.  When he stood up, he was a picture of athleticism.

   His penis stood proudly at forty five degrees to his belly.  Long and
thick, it seemed to be looking back directly into Hafida's staring eyes. 
His big hairy balls hung bull like between his legs, large and round.  The
promise of a massive sticky flood emanated from them.

   The bellboy was still fully clothed, standing next to the bed, seemingly
in a trance.  I motioned to him to undress.  In a flash he was naked!  His
cock, much to my relief, did not put me to shame.  Thankfully it was about
the same as mine, maybe even a little thinner.

   The waiter spoke again, and the bellboy knelt on the bed, next to my
young wife.  She took his cock in her right hand and began to work it up
and down the boy's shaft.  He moaned in appreciation of the attention.  The
waiter gently pushed Hafida backwards, and began to suckle on her tits. 
Now this, I had discovered very early on our wedding night, was Hafida's
weak spot, as it were.  Suck on her tits and her pussy flooded.  She was
putty in his hands after that.  His mouth on her nipple and his finger
deftly working her pussy, the waiter had reduced Hafida to a sexually
charged bag of nerves.  It was obvious she was ready for sex, (pussy juice
was trickling down her thigh) but it was equally obvious she was very
apprehensive about the situation in general.  'Too bad', I thought. 
'You'll just have to take what comes, won't you my pretty little shyster!'
The waiter turned to me.

   'You want....' he left the question hanging in mid-air.  'No!  No!  I
want to see that big beauty in action!' I laughed!  'You first!'

   Hafida looked positively panic stricken as he moved his left knee
between her thighs, pushing them apart so he could kneel between them.  He
hooked her legs over his elbows and lifted them high, putting his hands
next to her shoulders.  Hafida said one of the few words of Arabic I
understand.  'Astafirullah!' (God forgive me....) and closed her eyes.The
waiter leaned forward a little, bringing the head of his big cock into
contact with Hafida's anus.  I winced at the thought of him trying to get
that monster in her bum.  However, he just adjusted his position slightly
and it nestled between her labia.  It hung there for a second like the
sword of Damocles!

   Here was Hafida's come uppance for her deception of me!

   He lowered himself an inch or so.  His knob spread her pussy lips apart,
coming into contact with her inner labia.  He paused then clenched his
buttocks, so forcing the big head into her tight hole.  There was a
definite 'OH!' from my wife.  He pulled back a little, the now slick head
of his big cock coming into view for a split second before he pushed it
into her.  She grunted as she was stretched wide.  My deflowering of her
last week was almost inconsequential to this.

   A Muslim girl's body is the strict domain of her husband.  Sex outside
of marriage can, and often does, mean death in some cultures.  Morocco is
not one of them, but we were all eligible for a minimum of five years in
prison if we were caught at this moment in time.

   Hafida now had five inches of a total strangers cock in her.  I reached
for the cell phone in my trouser pocket, and quickly took a snap of the two
of them coupled together by his big dick.  I had her.  Any argument from
her now, and I could blackmail her into compliance.

   That moment suddenly seemed to be nearer than I had thought.  Hafida
placed her hands on the waiter's chest and tried to push him off.  He was
having none of that.  He barked two words at her.  She stopped struggling.
Her eyes filled with tears.  None of this impressed our well-endowed hero
though.  Having got his cock into her, he was determined to fuck her.  He
spoke again, this time softly, reassuring, cajoling.  She shifted her hands
to her knees.  She was holding her own legs up now, her face red with the
effort of taking this guy's massive penis, and no doubt, with self-pity.

   The bellboy and I had a grandstand view.  Hafida's pussy was stretched
to the limit, forming a tight 'O' around the waiter's thick shaft.  We
stood in awe, watching the pair on the bed.  We both had our cocks in our
hands, masturbating as we watched him arch his back slightly and clench his
buttocks again.  Hafida noisily sucked in a lungful of air as he pushed his
big dick right on into her, all nine inches or more of it, until his balls
were resting on her backside.  It must have felt as though he'd got his arm
in her.

   Slowly, he started to withdraw.  Almost all the way out, until we could
see the rim of his knob.  His shaft was shiny with her juice.  He pushed
back in, all the way in one stroke, and then began to fuck her, only slowly
at first but with ever increasing speed until he was pumping furiously. 
Then suddenly he stopped.  He slowly withdrew, the big head slipping out of
her now gaping hole.  He quickly re positioned it, then eased himself back
into her, resuming his enjoyment of her with long, steady, slow strokes. 
The waiter looked up at me, his face shiny with sweat.

   `You want I should pull out, Sir?' He didn't ask if her if he could come
in her, he just asked me if I minded him creaming her!  What could I say?
He'd worked so hard....  `No!  Don't spoil it for yourself, make the most
of it!' I laughed, and his face lit up like a desert sunrise.

   Hafida's ooooh's and aaaah's (a sure sign an orgasm is building in her)
kept time with the waiters thrusting buttocks, and after a minute or so,
she was continually moaning loudly, her orgasm fast approaching.  The
waiter thrust his big cock all the way home, gritted his teeth and shot his
load, deep into her.  Hafida wailed out in a mixture of orgasm and horror.
This guy had not only had sex with her, bringing her to orgasm, but had
inseminated her as well!  A double whammy!

   Rolling off her, the waiter grinned rather sheepishly at me, and spoke
to the bellboy.  The lad's response was to leap onto Hafida.  He missed the
mark a couple of times, ignoring her wailing, and then he was in her.  In
one thrust he slammed into her, and started pumping furiously.  To my
surprise she almost immediately started 'ooh' ing and 'aah' ing!  The
orgasm brought on by the waiters huge tool pumping her, was being
revitalised by the bellboys furious fucking.  Hafida, it seemed, was one of
those lucky females who had the ability to enjoy 'multiple orgasms'. 
Continuous orgasmic pleasure for minutes at a time, for as long as someone
was fucking her.  Sure enough as the boy was screwing his eyes up, and
squirting his baby gravy up her, Hafida was squeezing him with her thighs
as she too hit the top.  What a fabulous session!

   My cock was straining for action, so I dived in as soon as the bellboy
moved out.  What a mess!  She was dripping goo as I squelched
enthusiastically into her sopping hole.  How it had changed.  The waiter's
big cock had transformed her.  Gone was the tight girly pussy, replaced by
a softer, wider, woman's cunt.  I pumped for a minute, my cock seeming to
hardly touch the sides of her pussy, then added to the mess.

   Whilst the bellboy and I had been busy with Hafida, the waiter had also
been busy.  He had seen my digital camera on the dressing table, and had
snapped a few of the scenes that Hafida and whichever one of us was busy
with her, had presented!  He handed me the camera, and without so much as a
'by your leave' to Hafida, rolled her over onto her stomach and, grabbing
her hips, heaved her up onto her knees, in the 'doggy style'.  He then
slipped his still hard cock between her dripping labia, and turned to face
the camera with a big smile on his face.  Hard to resist.

   I clicked happily away as he hauled my sobbing wife into various
positions so he could be seen as the star in her debauching.  After a few
minutes of this, he sat up, and spoke to Hafida.  Instead of her usual
compliance, all he got was a mystified stare.  He looked over at me.  'You
no show her how to suck?' he queried.  I shook my head.  'Hell, we've only
been married a couple of weeks.  Hadn't got round to it yet.' His face lit
up in understanding.  'So not fuck long?  She ver' tight!  Nice, like
virgin!' 'She was....until you shoved that huge thing into her!' I
retorted. 'No worry!  Only young!  She tight again in morning.  I show
herhow to suck, yes?' He asked with a more than hopeful expression on his
face.  'Go ahead!  I'll take the pics!' He spoke gently to her.  Her frown
and snorted reply didn't hold much promise of 'oral' pics, but his voice
dropped a little, slightly authoritarian, threatening maybe?  She
tentatively took his penis in her right hand and dipped her head.  The pink
tip of her tongue appeared and she gingerly touched it against the big head
of his cock.  She looked over at me.  'You bad man.  Make me bad girl.  You
go Hell.  Me too.' I'd made her a bad girl?  Funny, looked to me like she'd
jumped on the path to Hell with both feet, no assistance from me needed! 
'You can always go back home to your family....' I said quietly.  '....you
don't have to come to Europe with me....' She scowled at me.  'I'll send
you a copy of the pictures....as a souvenir.'

   This was make or break time.  How would she react to my threats?  She
stared at me for a second or two, a little time being needed for the
implications of what I'd just said, to sink in.  Then her shoulders dropped
a fraction, signalling acceptance of defeat and her head dropped to the
waiters fleshy monster.  I'd won.  She given in.

   With hesitation she ran her tongue along her top lip, trying the taste
of semen for the first time.  She glanced up at him, and a shadow of a
smile flickered across her face.  'Is all men want?  To make woman sticky?'
She had the idea, and summed it up neatly too.

   The youngest amongst us was also keen to make a woman sticky.  His cock
stood rigidly to attention, his face pink with excitement.  The waiter
issued another order, and Hafida bent to her task again.  This guy had
magic in his voice.  She obeyed his every word.  This time with no
hesitation she took the young bellboy in her mouth and began to give him
his first, and her second, blow job.  The waiter spoke urgently to her, and
a second or so later, the bellboy's body shook, and Hafida coughed and
gagged as she followed the waiters instructions to swallow the semen being
shot into her mouth.  Lifting her head, she looked at me and said,

   'Your friends enjoy your wife, yes?  You no sorry they do all this with
her?' Her tone was half accusatory, half questioning.  'No my dear!  In
fact it's quite a turn on to see you performing.  Especially as you're so
good at it.' Her eyes lingered on mine.  She was trying to work out if I
was being cruel, or just telling the truth.  The next morning saw our
return to the UK.  It was a very quiet flight for me.  My lovely new young
wife just sat next to me, never saying a word.  Was she remembering the
events of the previous evening, or was she contemplating the future?  I
didn't ask.