A young Muslim at the hospital

[Orientalismo]

The main character of this story is a French Arab which is a very specific ethnicity of France due to its colonial history in North Africa.
Feel free to comment and give your opinion on some of my views/findings here, especially on male body and Arabs.

This story involves non-consensual submission, but I've received numerous messages from Arabs thanking me because it's one of the few narratives where they are depicted as victims rather than dominants, as is often the case in stories written by non-Arabs

Arrival at the ER​

The noise of the emergency room echoes in my ears; around me, as usual, it's chaos. That's the thrill of being a night nurse in one of the busiest emergency departments in the Paris suburbs. I have to juggle between complaining old people, folks here for minor aches, a saturated day where several of my colleagues are off sick. I find myself almost alone to manage dozens of patients. Routine.

Suddenly, the crash of an opening door. Paramedics arrive, several doctors surrounding a figure on a stretcher. I rush over to them at the same time as Dr. Andrieu, the head of the service.

- "What do we have?" asks the doctor.

- "A young man who was in a car accident. Head trauma, no other visible injuries."

- "Okay, young man, can you hear me?"

- "He was aggressive and tried to leave the accident scene. We assume he doesn't have all his papers in order. We had to sedate him."

- "Very well. Jobert (that's my name), I don't see pupil dilation, no life-threatening emergency. Get him ready for a scan."

- "But the other patients, I have to..."

- "No discussion, I'll put Latrez in your place."

I take the stretcher, grumbling, helped by an orderly who places it in a closed cubicle then disappears. My grumbling stops as soon as my gaze lands on the young patient's face. Before me is a young Arab man with a square face, a jaw that expresses both hardness and the beauty of youth. His beard is dense, short, perfectly groomed. His almond-shaped eyes, deep black, scrutinize me with an intensity that destabilizes me for a moment. He's relatively pale, the sun being scarce here in these winter months. I hear him murmuring incoherent things, probably due to the drugs in his system.

Preparing the patient for the scan means undressing him completely. The idea of seeing him entirely naked immediately excites me.

He's wearing a t-shirt, probably the one he was driving in, which simplifies my task. I won't have to lift it to remove his jacket. I start by taking off his shoes, Nike, probably size 43 (9.5). His white Nike socks are slightly dirty. A subtle smell of sweat escapes, a smell of young feet, contrasting with the hospital odor. It overwhelms me for a moment. This alpha scent, I recognize it, the scent of young, vigorous men whose feet have been carrying them all day, from sports to work and through bars to find a young woman to unload their accumulated semen.

His feet are slightly tanned like his face, with hair covering the top and toes.

Now for the pants. Protocol dictates I cut them. A Levi's, its owner won't be happy. The sound of scissors cutting through the fabric pleases me. I move from one leg to the other, then slide the fabric off.

My young patient is now in just his underwear and t-shirt. His calves and thighs are covered with thick, evenly dense hair.

His underwear is red, a Ralph Lauren, with the outline of his glans showing. Circumcised, of course, like all Arabs. His penis seems of normal size, but I don't judge, as adrenaline causes the heart to preserve or divert blood from secondary areas. His balls, however, look enormous. My patient must be a real stud with such a testosterone factory between his legs.

Now to the t-shirt. His chest rises slowly with each cut I make. He's still completely out of it. In seconds, I finish, and the young man's torso is revealed. A brown, powerful chest, like many virile young Arabs, he does weight training. His pecs are extremely well-developed and swollen, his biceps and triceps too. Their size causes a slight separation of his arms, allowing me to see the dense hair under his armpits. A smell of deodorant and cologne tickles my nose, accompanied by a masculine aroma unique to Arabs. His nipples are rather small, their tips erect due to the cold in the room. His hair seems to stand on end. It adorns his pecs sparsely, thickening between the two muscles, then extends down to his abs where it forms a dense path to the area I can't wait to uncover.

Now to the underwear, I must cut this too. His large package clearly strains the fabric. His bare skin shivers at the touch of my scissors; the inside of his thighs is covered with curly black hair. I move from one leg to the other, and soon only a piece of fabric covers his penis, prolonging the suspense.

I delicately remove the cloth, which brushes against his pubic area, shaved almost completely where I can just see the regrowth of his hair. Then comes his penis, a stick of browned flesh, far more tanned than the rest of his body. The fabric slides slowly, centimeter by centimeter, along the length of his penis, which seems to have returned to its normal size, delaying the full reveal. Already, I see the beginning of his two large, also brown testicles. They're shaved too. Is this a practice of his religion - several of my Arab exes scrupulously observed this rule - or the necessity for a man like him to shave to please his sexual partners?

Now to the part unique to boys of his race, the scar of his mutilation, which, by revealing his glans, the most intimate part of his body, made him a Muslim man. His pale pink glans is thick from the constant rubbing against his underwear. The urethral meatus is tight, like a closed rose.

He's completely naked now, almost unconscious under the operating room light. I step back and observe his body. His breathing is slow, the IV drip bringing sedatives into his system. He is completely relaxed. His heavy balls hang, stopping just in front of his anus, from which a forest of hair protrudes; the temperature contracts them, and I can see their slow movement through the cremasteric muscles. Arabs often being very modest - experiences from my gym or my Maghrebi nurse colleagues changing clothes while jealously hiding their attributes - I know what a privilege it is to behold such a magnificent specimen naked. It's probably the first time another guy has seen his genitals since he became a man.

Now that I've removed his underwear, the smell of sex in the room has intensified, an animalistic testosterone scent, produced by every young man, but accentuated with different notes among Maghrebis.

I pick up the red fabric of his former underwear, placed beside his naked body. I take the opportunity to glance at the admission form; I don't even know his name. Azim, original, I've never heard that before.

I now bring the piece of his underwear to my nose, the place where his penis rested all day, but stop abruptly. The overhead light makes stains on the fabric shine, evidence of seminal fluid production. I would later learn that the accident was due to excessive speed because he was late to meet his girlfriend. The young Arab must have alternated between phases of erection all day, his penis lubricating, ready to penetrate his partner's warm pussy.

It's too much for me, and I press this piece of clothing against my nose, the smell, so strong, nearly makes me faint. Not from uncleanliness but from a shot of testosterone, musky to perfection. Azim's intimate scent is a forbidden perfume I never imagined I would discover. Only he, when he scratches his big dick and sometimes absentmindedly brings his fingers to his nose, must smell it. Or the women he has honored with his penis in their mouth. It's now possible for me too.

A groan snaps me out of my reverie. Azim groans, his hands trying to lift along his torso. His face is contrasted by a grimace of pain. I first think it's his nudity that bothers him, but the groan continues. All traces of arousal disappear, I quickly move closer to observe him, his accident might have had undiagnosed consequences. My eyes, mechanically drawn to his penis, find the reason for his discomfort. His bladder is extremely swollen, all the IVs have brought a lot of liquid into his system. It's a medical emergency; he needs to relieve himself, and for that, I must reduce the dose of narcotics.

Suddenly, the door bursts open; it's Dr. Andrieu.

- "So, is it almost done, Jobert? The scanner's waiting."

- "Dr. Andrieu, the patient shows signs of urinary retention; I need to wake him so he can..."

- "No time, catheterize him, anyway, he won't wake up soon with the surgery he's going to have, and hurry up..." he says before slamming the door violently.

The draft makes Azim shiver. I quickly cover his torso with a sheet like a concerned father. His face still shows a grimace caused by signals from his bladder.

I prepare the catheter equipment, a long flexible silicone tube that must be inserted into the patient's urethra. It's not a pleasant procedure. Fortunately, he is asleep.

I spread his muscular thighs and place him in a reclined lotus position. His tanned penis contrasts with his pale skin, hanging heavily. The circumcised glans rests on his two juice-filled plums.

The procedure requires a glove, but I prefer skin-to-skin contact with Azim. I first take his two large balls, weighing them. Their weight impresses me; he must really need to empty them constantly. Then I lift his penis delicately, positioning it vertically. The back of his glans, where the frenulum has left only a cut, appears. I mask a grimace of disgust as the violence of the procedure performed on young Azim both bothers and excites me.

With my other hand, I grab the syringe of anesthetic to be injected into the penis to make part of the procedure painless. The urethral opening where Azim's urine and especially his semen come out is a real pleasure. I play for a few seconds opening and closing it. I start to inject the liquid slowly.

After just a few seconds, the powerful muscles of the young Arab's thighs tense, his feet move, and his groans intensify. It seems the anesthetic bothers him. To my surprise, he half-opens his eyes then widens them completely.

- "What are you doing? Where am I? What's happening?" he shouts.

- "Sir, you've had an accident, you're at the hospital, calm down, Sir."

- "No, I... fuck, why am I naked?"

He tries to yank out the IV, I rush towards it and open the IV to its maximum capacity. The sedative is administered without any limit; he looks at me with confusion and anger, weakly grabbing my arm, then slumps back onto the examination table, murmuring.

- "There, go back to sleep, big boy, I'll take good care of you," I say, placing my hand gently on his face, his beard pricking my fingers. I run my index finger over his two thick lips, then over his fluttering eyelids, fighting against the sedative.

I wait a few seconds for the anesthetic to fully take effect and to see if his rebellion has attracted anyone, but the ER noises and my colleagues' unavailability seem to have covered the ruckus of my feisty patient.

Azim is on his side; I walk around the table, giving me a view of his ass. Two perfectly round buttocks covered with a fine layer of brown hair, making everything even more animal-like.

I position Azim back on his back, lower the sedative, then attend to his bladder again. The anesthetic having had time to work well in his urethra, I retrieve the catheter and apply a generous amount of lubricant. I approach his penis again, take it in one hand while positioning the tube at his urethra with the other. I push gently, opening the young man's intimate walls. The catheter advances slowly, filling his urethra bit by bit.

Azim groans. His feet move weakly. Even anesthetized, the discomfort of the procedure seems to reach him, or maybe it's his overly full bladder. The catheter progresses further; it has now passed his penis and crosses his prostate, then hits his bladder. Suddenly, dark yellow liquid fills the tube; I feel the warmth of his urine through the catheter in my hand. Azim now emits a sound of contentment; his face shows a slight smile; he's emptying himself.

Seeing a man like him, a macho young Muslim, who just hours before was confident behind the wheel of his sports car, now naked, groaning with pleasure at losing control of his bladder, gives me a monstrous erection. It's the ultimate weakness for such a muscular, virile man to become almost as dependent as a newborn.

The gurgling of the liquid soothes my ears; the catheter bag fills significantly; Azim had a lot of fluid in him, his feet now relaxed from the tension. He can enjoy his sedative while emptying himself quietly. The sound of the flow becomes more discreet as Azim's bladder empties completely. I secure the catheter to his strong thigh, ensuring it doesn't move, then caress his two large brown balls one last time before the other nurse come to get him.

 

[Orientalismo]

Hospitalization​

I learn the next day that Azim's surgery went well, but the damage was more extensive than anticipated. He's been moved to an intensive care room for close observation over several days. I've arranged with a colleague to be his primary nurse. I walk lightly to his room, not far from the ER. As soon as I arrive, I see a young Maghrebi woman leaving the room, tears in her eyes. This is his girlfriend, Samia. As soon as I see her, I can't help feeling deep jealousy; she must receive his big dick and his seed, feel his sperm in waves inside her vagina while he lovingly holds her in his strong arms.

Azim's room is calm, an atmosphere contrasting with the ER chaos. The beeps of the monitors are regular, a sign of stability for Azim, who still lies under the effects of sedatives in a state of semi-consciousness.

His sculpted body, without being overly massive, rests on white sheets where his slightly tanned skin contrasts.

I approach the bed, first checking his vital signs before focusing on cleaning. The smell of his sweat and sex is omnipresent in the room. He hasn't been washed since yesterday, and a man of his kind emits many pheromones all day. Therefore, maintaining strict hygiene is crucial to avoid any infection, especially in such a vulnerable state.

I try to lift the sheets, but Azim weakly prevents me. I hear a faint "no, please" murmured in his hoarse voice. I disregard his excessive modesty and reveal his body entirely.

He's still naked, the catheter still attached to his thigh, urine coming out in spurts; the young male has no control over his liquid emissions. I start with his feet, using a damp washcloth and mild antiseptic soap. I clean between each toe where there are sock lint, the smell of his sporty feet excites me immensely. His feet are now clean, the dirt and sweat of the day disappearing under the gentle movements of the cloth.

I move up progressively, cleaning his powerful calves, then his wide thighs, lingering where the hair is denser to ensure no dirt remains hidden.

Azim groans weakly; the pain from the surgery seems to outweigh the sedatives' effect. I had anticipated this. I move to his masculine face and slip a fentanyl lollipop between his two thick lips. Like Pavlov's dog, I will condition the young Arab to need my presence.

I now go back to his penis. Here, the smell of his body is strongest. His two large balls exude a musky scent, the smell of the young Muslim's virility. He must have them full if he hasn't been able to empty them for days. I pass my cloth softly around the catheter, ensuring the area is clean while moistening his large circumcised glans. The washing is more like a caress than anything else. I see his balls contract and his penis start to swell. I hear him weakly murmur "Samia"; it's she who at home must give him such caresses. The sound of the aides' cart snaps me out of my reverie; I need to hurry, not wanting to be caught caressing the handsome Arab. No time to turn him over, my cloth will just brush his hole to clean that area I imagine being the first to touch.

Now to his torso. Despite the immobilization, his pecs are well-swollen, as are the rest of his muscles. His chest is covered with hair I had already observed upon his arrival. I find a hairy chest so much more masculine; this is the difference between men and women, these hairs. I delicately circle his two pink nipples, whose tips erect at the passage of my cloth, then I lift his arms. He's still sucking on his lollipop, eyes closed, the drug causing rapid eye movements. His underarms also offer a strong smell of fresh sweat; the hair left there naturally delights me. I love watching the hair of young, virile men through the collar or sleeves of their t-shirts in summer.

Now his magnificent face. I first pass my cloth-covered hand over his face, rest it there for a moment in adoration. Under the drugs, his relaxed features make his hard face one that has almost regained childhood innocence. I pull out the small trimmer from my pocket and start trimming his beard; I know how much it's a source of pride and masculinity for Muslims, the daily growth of this virile symbol ensured by hormones from his large brown balls.

My care finished, I leave the room reluctantly, with only the thought of returning.

Every day, it's the same ritual: washing and caressing. His penis growing more with each visit. As soon as he hears the door open, he starts sucking air, a sign he's craving his fentanyl dose. But the lollipop comes at the end; the faster I finish, the sooner he gets his toy. At first, he always resists when I try to remove his sheet, but soon, all he thinks about is his lollipop. Seeing this young Arab suckling on his lollipop while soiling his catheter bag is, for me, a vision of absolute bliss, this confident male reduced to the state of a baby whose only concerns are primal needs.

On the 7th day, I remove the catheter; Azim emits a significant groan of pain, but the procedure is less painful than the insertion, and his penis will be all the better for it.

On the 8th day, as soon as I open the door, he pushes the sheet off in a state of semi-consciousness. He wants his lollipop ASAP. His penis half-erect, his balls more swollen than ever. The hair has regrown, and despite my washings, the smell of dick is stronger than ever. The young Muslim has an animal need to empty himself.

I don't waste time on his toilette and quickly move to his penis. I touch it lightly with my fingertips, the whiteness of my skin contrasting with the caramel color of his penis. I slide my fingers over his balls then along his penis to the pink ring of his circumcision, clearly distinguishing the glans from the shaft. Azim groans, making a sucking noise. He wants his fentanyl, and for that, he's willing to let me do anything. His penis has now reached its maximum size, his penis is quite large, 18 cm (7.09), but especially wide and straight. Samia must chain orgasms with such a device pounding her. His glans is swollen to the max, the corona far exceeding the shaft. It's hard against his belly. This is how he must wake up every morning; does he use his wife, his hand, or does he wait for it to subside naturally? So many questions I'd like answers to. Pre-ejaculate drips down his penis in a transparent drop. A characteristic smell comes from it. I take it with my finger and spread it around the large glans of the Arab. He groans and spreads his thighs wider.

"Med... icine," I hear him weakly murmur.

I take out the lollipop and move to his face, his lips are dry. I retrieve a drop of his precum and spread it on his two fleshy appendages; he runs his tongue over the improvised gloss, then pulls back, surely wondering where this salty taste comes from. I insert the lollipop which he suckles eagerly. A broad smile splits his face.

There, he won't bother me anymore. I return to the Arab's large penis, whose erection hasn't moved an inch. Hand games over, time for mouth games. I approach my tongue to his balls and start licking them; Azim lets out a long groan, somewhat muffled by the lollipop, and his penis emits even more precum. The taste is divine, his man smell staying on my face as I bury it in the folds of his intimacy, continuing to lick. His balls retract into their pouch. He must want to ejaculate so badly that the slightest stimulation might end this moment between us.

I decide not to risk premature ejaculation, especially since he starts moving his hips mechanically, his penis pointing up; the urge to penetrate and reproduce is too strong for him, inscribed in his Muslim genes.

I lift his legs, he continues to let me do as I please, the sucking sound confirming he has other concerns right now.

His hole appears for the first time; perhaps I'm even the first to see it. It's brown, surrounded by a forest of curly black hair. Without further ado, my tongue goes to meet it. Azim groans louder than before. This is the first time he discovers this forbidden pleasure. A real man for him is only the fucker. That is about to change. I push my tongue inside his ring, discovering the musky taste of this part of his body. His legs rest on my back; I feel them tense; he seems to love it a lot. His groans never seem to stop. I feel a drop fall on my nose; looking up, I see that his precum has dripped down to his brown balls, landing on my face. Lubrication should never be an issue for my stud when he fucks.

After a while, my tongue tires, and anyway, the doctors' rounds will soon reach the young Arab's room. I go get some of the same lubricant I used to enter his urethra with my catheter, then use it to stroke around his anus. I look at his face; his blissful smile is still there.

Suddenly, I push my index finger all the way in; an O of surprise forms on his face; the lollipop falls.

I hear a weak "no Samia, not there, not..." then I press my finger against his prostate. Another, even larger O of surprise, accompanied this time by a long moan. First penetration, first pleasure. I see his large balls rise a bit more in their pouch, no time to waste, I engulf his big dick in my mouth, all the way.

He moans even more and suddenly starts thrusting his hips jerkily, almost choking me. The taste of his penis is delicious, the strong taste of a male in full excitement. He now growls loudly, then says in a louder voice than I'm used to, mixing French and Arabic:

- Samia, ana, ana, I'm gonna,...


With a sudden, animalistic howl (thankfully covered by the alarm from the next room) and with one last hip thrust, he starts emptying his balls into my mouth. His thick cream fills my throat entirely; I feel the power of his spurts that don't seem to stop. The strong smell and taste of his Oriental sperm invade me. His seed, his DNA, the perpetuation of his Arab lineage, what he holds most precious, is now pouring into me. I ejaculate in my gown without touching myself. When, after several seconds of bliss that seemed like an eternity, the Arab's penis stops spurting its hot lava, I pull my mouth away. The incredibly strong taste lingers in my mouth.

A few drops continue to drip from his brown penis, staining his navel. I've had my reward; now he'll have his. I take out a second fentanyl lollipop, dip it in his navel, and coat it with the viscous liquid, then insert it into his mouth. He grimaces at the taste, surely the first time he's tasted himself. Sperm being seen as an impurity in Islam.

Azim lets out a deep sigh, spreading his arms and legs, collapsing completely on the bed like a starfish, overwhelmed by the happiness the drug brings. His penis now hangs heavily between his legs, his large balls still likely full; a man like him must ejaculate several times a day, that's for sure.

I restore some order to the bed when the sound of dripping water snaps me out of my thoughts. I see a stream flowing from the bed to the floor. He's peeing himself with happiness, the idiot, like a real dog; I manage to grab a tube and position his penis inside it so he can continue emptying himself while sighing. It seems Azim has found his paradise. I clean up his humiliation and leave the room, my gown sticky with my own cum.

The days that follow, I can't access the room; Azim's brain swelling has returned, and he's had to be operated on again and heavily sedated. In my misfortune, I'm somewhat relieved because I don't know how I would have weaned him from my little conditioning. The sedation will take care of that.

A few weeks later, as I exit another patient's room, what a surprise to see Azim in the hallway, suitcase in hand. He's dressed in chinos and a polo, an elegant look for someone I imagined to be just a petty thug.

He approaches me, having lost some muscle mass but still filling out his clothes, and says with a big smile, his white teeth contrasting with his skin:

- Thank you, sir, I was told you took care of me at the beginning...

His grateful, innocent look, unaware that I've taken advantage of his body, nearly gets me hard AF again.

- You're welcome, young man, it was a pleasure, take care

 

[Lian14]

I love jerking off to your short stories!!