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, Arabs or locker room behavior.
----------------------------------------
I'd been spotting him for several months, some men exude a natural masculinity that jumps out at you. Their every move seemed dictated by testosterone. Nassir was one of those men. He and I went to the same gym. It was an incredible source of motivation to know that I was going to see this young man during my session every evening after work. In his late twenties, he was part of a generation that had become addicted to social networks and muscular influencers, transforming the pleasure of sport into an addiction in the service of a beauty ideal that will never be attainable. I felt sorry for them. In my day, sport was synonymous of pleasure and fulfillment. Only the values of friendship that sport could transmit.
Not very tall like many Mediterranean, he had to measure in the 1m75 (5' 9") for 70 kilos (154 lb). This year's spring had been hot, and June promised to be even hotter. Nassir, who was naturally white, now sported a light tan that highlighted his perfect skin even more. His square face was framed by a short but dense beard that stopped at his temples to give way to a layered haircut. A cliché trademark of every French-Arabs, his beard and undercut were always impeccable. I don't know how many monthly visits to the hairdresser are necessary for North Africans to achieve the feat of this always perfect cut.
However, Nassir was far from the cliché of the inner-city arab. I had eavesdropped on a conversation with one of his friends and managed to find his Instagram profile. Hes was executive in a company, he had been featured on his business school's page as part of its "social promotion" program. His posts were typical of a young male settling into working life. Photo of the car, a black Audi A3, trips to Dubai and Thailand, then wife and wedding. The event's stories showed a typical North African wedding, with photos of cars covered in Algerian flags and a party room resounding with Arabic music and dance.
He hadn't wasted any time, and the young woman had been pregnant for a few weeks, as evidenced by the "gender reveal" the young man had posted on his networks. The primitive pride he displayed when the blue confetti exploded, revealing that it was a boy his wife was expecting, excited me even more. The affirmation of his own virility through his semen. His wife's pregnancy had also been at the core of many of my jerking session. I had imagined him tenderly penetrating her every evening, his muscular buttocks contracting and emptying into her his heavy balls filled with the semen accumulated during his day in the hope of starting a family. The hours ticking by at work and his thoughts on sports must have been entirely focused on this moment.
Nassir used to arrive at the gym in his work clothes, often a suit; the season now lent itself to chinos and light shirts. I always made sure I chose the locker next to his. The day's work left him with the smell of sweat mingling with his rather too flashy perfume, the unique scent of a young man.
Although sexy as hell, Nassir was a little prick. He didn't like me. He'd probably noticed the way I looked at him. He rarely said hello to the older guys, but had made friends with many of the other young people in the room. I could hear his "salam" or "hi bro", depending on the ethnicity of the person he was talking to, echoing around the room. His conversations with the other youngsters were mainly about video games, the latest TV series or soccer. I could easily imagine him getting blowed with a joystick in his hand.
He always prepared for sport in the same way. He'd start by taking off his shirt and the T-shirt he wore underneath, quickly wiping his armpits with it and throwing the whole thing into his big black Adidas bag. A young Arab, modern but not overly so, I'd already heard him joking with his mates about his wife grumbling about the laundry. A copious dose of deodorant, marketed for sportsmen, would then spray his armpits. The handsome male left them natural. I loved to watch him flex his two muscular arms to expose his black tufts of hair, where beads of badly-wiped sweat would bead up.
His chest, with its protruding pecs and abs, was also covered in curly downy hair, much denser on his pecs, rising to the base of his neck. There's nothing more exciting than to see this wild virility at the base of a man's shirt, as if it wanted to escape from his clothes. Hairless men can be sexy, but for me, the hairy torso is the ultimate statement of masculinity, an animality that's impossible to hide. The opposite of the female body, that of the reproductive male. I suspected that Nassir must be very proud of this torso. His Instagram posts often showed him in a swimsuit, shamelessly exposing his hairs.
After the shirt comes the pants. Nassir remains shirtless to remove his socks and reveal his two brown feet. A musky smell emanates from his shoes as he removes them. This is often an opportunity for him to play a joke on one of his buddies if one of them is nearby. Like many men, he's still a child when it comes to locker-room humor. Several times I've seen him throw his dirty sock at one of his "brothers". How I wished I could retrieve it and discover his intimate odors. Covered in a very light black down, his feet were somewhat damaged from playing soccer. Putting on immaculate white socks, Nassir then moved on to his pants. He quickly removed them and slipped on a pair of shorts almost immediately. Like all North Africans, he was extremely modest. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of his boxer shorts, still of a major brand, revealing two bulging buttocks the likes of which only Africans can have. A quick glimpse also of his big bulge, the imprint of his genitalia against the fabric, the mutilation imposed by his religion revealing the relief of his glans through the underpants. And, of course, his two muscular brown thighs, densely covered with the same hair that would have covered his penis.
Finally ready, he made his way to the gym room and perform very precise exercises, glaring at me whenever he caught me spying on him. He was like a fish in water here, giving advice to all and joking with his friends.
Soon covered in a film of sweat, muscles swollen with effort, he headed for the changing rooms. His body gave off a powerful North African scent, impossible to mask with deodorant. The return to the locker room after a good session was my favorite moment. The mixture of all those sweats, the male hormones of all those young men, set my senses on fire. I couldn't stop thinking that they all had a huge dose of juice to unload, and that their heavy sacs were even fuller after their muscles had produced so much testosterone. It's a thought that never really leaves my mind, and whenever I pass a young man in the street, I automatically imagine him with his penis in his hands, or fucking his girlfriend to unload his precious semen.
Quickly removing his clothes and stowing them in his locker, he wrapped a towel around his hips. The imprint of his sweaty feet on the floor was still visible as he slipped on his black adidas flip-flops, ugly but terribly sexy.
Like all young people, especially young Arabs, he would then head for the few individual shower cubicles in the room, even if it meant queuing rather than entering the collective space. As if the unveiling of any skin would turn him to stone. Apart from his wife and a few conquests, no one had seen his manhood since puberty had turned him into a man.
As for me, I used to go to the communal showers. I was part of the generation that had seen military service, and nudity between men was part of everyday life. Those were the days of chain-snatching and purse-picking in gymnasiums full of naked men waiting their turn to be examined. A time when hair was left to its natural state, and penis and balls were proudly displayed in a mane of male hair. A man keeping his briefs on in a locker room would have looked suspicious; prudery was for women.
In this space, which smelled of shower gel and testosterone, I met up with a few other men my age, all married and straight. We would talk about our day while soaping up. Sometimes a young man would join us in this space of male nudity, a young man often accustomed to nudity thanks to team sports. After their thirties, young male become more comfortable with the idea of walking around with their penis exposed. I responded evasively to my friends' conversations because all my thoughts were on Nassir. I imagined him naked, close to me, soaping himself up, his manhood and bals swollen with testosterone, all hanging nicely from the hot water, soaping himself conscientiously to get rid of the male odors from his body.
I quickly returned to my locker, my towel around my waist so as not to offend the youngsters by ostentatiously walking around naked.
Nassir was already back at his locker, in his boxers, still inaccessible. But that was about to change.
I was born with a gift. The scientific consensus is that pheromones no longer have a hold on man, being unable to dictate his sexual behavior, but a mutation in my family had changed that. My scent has the ability to corrupt men and bend them to my will, addicting them like a drug. Nassir was about to pay the price.
During one session that took longer than another, the young Muslim with his head elsewhere had left his locker open. I ran a hand under my balls and placed the sweaty print on his deodorant before heading for the shower. I could hardly contain an erection as I thought about what would happen next. I quickly finished washing, just in time to see Nassir grab his deodorant. He doused himself copiously with the first armpit and, as he moved on to the second, paused just as his hand passed the bottle in front of his nose. Intrigued, he made the mistake that would lose him: he brought the bottle up to his nose and breathed in my scent. His pupils dilated instantly, his arm froze in the air, his hairy armpits exposed, his gaze lost in confusion. He was mine.
"Nassir, what's up bro? " asked his friend, a young black man I'd have taken care of too "Oh Nassir are you there?"
"Uh yeah yeah excuse me bro I was thinking about something else..."
Every session for a week, I'd leave my scent on his things. This made him less and less focused, and one day, keeping the towel around his hips, he left his boxer shorts on the bench before going to the shower. For the first time I had access to a piece of clothing that had touched his intimacy, I quickly grabbed it. Checking that no one was around, I examined the inside visually. Dried shiny marks where his cockhead should have rested informed me that, as I assumed, Nassir had a large production of seminal fluid during the day. I imagined him behind his desk, concentrating until his balls woke up, flooding his brain with the imperious need to ejaculate. His penis rising, his hips contracting as if by reflex, his balls swelling and sweating their male odor, the rubbing of his glans against the fabric, until wetness stained his boxers for the day. As I brought his boxer shorts to my nose and took a shot of testosterone in the face, I magically visualized his naked cockhead rubbing against the fabric, seminal fluid leaking from it, his balls which must have been quite brown and sweaty. It was definitely the smell of a "rebeu" I was smelling there, a musky olfactory trademark specific to North Africans. My reverie ended when he turned off the shower water, I replace his boxer short in his locker and returned home without having showered, my pants stained with my own semen.
I took advantage of the fact that his gym session was always the same to go to the machines he was going to and leave a trace of my sweat on them. He tried to hide, but I could see him sniffing the wrists of the machines. His face expressed shame at his behavior, but he couldn't help it.
He must have wondered where the smell was coming from when one day I purposely left a towel lying around. When he came across it, he threw himself behind a machine to inhale it at the top of his lungs. A visible erection deformed his shorts. I'm sure he was on the verge of pulling out his manhood. I put a hand on his shoulder, startling him.
"Is that my towel you're holding young man?"
Dread flashed across his face, horrified at having been startled, and especially at realizing that the smell that so appealed to him was mine.
"I... uh... I..." he sat up hastily to mask his erection. "Yeah, I thought it was mine, sorry." he continued.
I retrieved my towel and when I turned my back I noticed that he was feeling his hands like crazy.
The next day, as I finished my session, he was waiting for me in front of my locker. His face expressed a terrible struggle, the last shreds of his self-esteem, his dignity surrendering to his imperious addiction to my smell.
He opened his mouth to utter the first word, but I took him by surprise.
"You want more, don't you, handsome?"
He looked at me dumbfounded and articulated in a weak voice contrasting with his usual assurance.
"Yes, I... please sir, it smells too good..."
"Then come with me," I said, heading for the communal showers.
Nassir followed me like a little dog following its master. He was wearing boxer shorts, a towel around his waist and black flip-flops. A fine silver chain adorned his pectoral muscles.
I hung up my towel and prepared to enter the shower area naked, Nassir following in my footsteps. He did the same, but kept his boxer shorts on.
"We're all men here Nassir, you don't have to keep your briefs on."
"But I..."
I raised both my armpits to the level of his nose, which finished breaking his resistance. Trembling with both fear and excitement at the idea of enjoying my scent, he lowered the fabric barrier and found himself, perhaps for the first time in his life, naked, penis on full display, in front of other men.
I moved to the other end of the room to take full advantage of the spectacle. Turning around, I saw the young Arab enter the room. It's always an incredible moment to discover a young man's penis. There's nothing more important in the life of a man, especially a young man, than his dick. His entire adolescence has been built around this organ, and so has his entire young adult life. From locker-room jokes with friends to the discovery of his first solitary pleasures with odors and erections during the day, to becoming a tool to make his wife cum and, like Nassir, to reproduce. To discover a young man's genitals is to penetrate his intimacy in an absolute way.
My heart missed a beat as Nassir entered the space completely naked. The strong overhead light highlighted his muscles, his hair, his virility. He stomped towards me in his black flip-flops, his gaze fixed on mine, with no thought of covering his dick. His cock was brown, much more so than his body, as if all the exoticism of his genes were concentrated in it. It hung heavily. It must have measured around 12cm (4.7") flaccid, resting on a huge pair of balls even darker than the rest of the organ. His penis was surrounded by a mane of very short frizzy hair that the young Arab had to trim regularly. His two big eggs were smooth and moist. After his sports session and his day's work, his dick must have smelled fully the North-African boy.
The highlight of the show was when the brown of the penis gave way to a pink ring marking the site of Nassir's circumcision. It appeared to have been performed in France, as the scar was regular and close to the glans. The cockhead, fully exposed, was brown and dry, the crown thick and protruding from the body of the penis. This was the triumphant penis of a young Muslim man in all its splendor.
I don't know whether it's the fact that their glans are exposed for all to see by their circumcision that makes the French-Arabs more prudish. They're more naked than naked, so to speak, in a country where other men have their cockhead covered. But I know that nothing turns me on more than the idea that these prudish men actually have no choice but to expose the most intimate part of their anatomy to everyone when they undress. It's like a mark of clan membership, a tattoo on the most intimate part of a man who's been given a religion and the injunction to reproduce. In my solitary erotic reveries, I can't help thinking of all those young people from immigrant families, all of whom have gone through this stage of childhood suffering to make them good Muslims. I can't help thinking of it when I meet a young Arab, trying to imagine his overdeveloped cockhead, sometimes visible through too-tight pants, the naked glans spreading a musky scent through the fabric of their underpants.
Nassir positioned himself in the shower beside me. From the side, his balls appeared even thicker and swollen with semen. I attach particular importance to the size of the testicles. It's these two eggs that help turn a boy into a man from the start of his sex life, making him more aggressive, dominant and muscular, and giving him an obsession with filling as many holes as possible. I always like to think that discovering a man with big balls is a good indication of his sex life and libido. I've had this theory confirmed many times over by discovering the huge balls of the most masculine guys in the locker room.
I discreetly ran my hand under my armpits and handed it to him as a reward for his courage. He smelled it and smiled. He was completely relaxed now, washing himself shamelessly in front of everyone, whistling raps music. His friend, the young black man I'd seen him chatting to, paused as he passed the communal area on his way to the individual shower, a look of shock on his face. I almost had an erection at the thought of having offered his friend the vision of Nassir's naked body. When the shower was over, we headed for the changing room. Passing in front of me, I had the opportunity to admire his two firm buttocks covered with a black downy hair. Unlike his penis, they were unkempt and exuded a strong animality. When he penetrated his wife in missionary position with his big Arab cock, these two buttocks had to open up and reveal his anus, also covered in black hair.
We both arrived at the lockers. He'd walked through the locker room completely naked, his big brown penis swinging for all to see, his swollen balls imposing their virility, and he was about to put his boxers back on when I stopped him.
"Let's swap," I said, taking his from his hands and handing him mine. Aware of the gift I was giving him, he hurried to put it on, his eyes full of gratitude.
"This gift doesn't come without a counterpart" I whispered in his ear, "you won't be able to cum until I give you permission".
I turned on my heel and left him, seeing that my boxer shorts, now on him, was deformed by a monstrous erection. No doubt when he got home he'd lock himself in the bathroom and press it against his face, masturbating like mad, with no hope of relief of course.
Feel free to comment and give your opinion on some of my views/findings here, especially on male body, Arabs or locker room behavior.
----------------------------------------
I'd been spotting him for several months, some men exude a natural masculinity that jumps out at you. Their every move seemed dictated by testosterone. Nassir was one of those men. He and I went to the same gym. It was an incredible source of motivation to know that I was going to see this young man during my session every evening after work. In his late twenties, he was part of a generation that had become addicted to social networks and muscular influencers, transforming the pleasure of sport into an addiction in the service of a beauty ideal that will never be attainable. I felt sorry for them. In my day, sport was synonymous of pleasure and fulfillment. Only the values of friendship that sport could transmit.
Not very tall like many Mediterranean, he had to measure in the 1m75 (5' 9") for 70 kilos (154 lb). This year's spring had been hot, and June promised to be even hotter. Nassir, who was naturally white, now sported a light tan that highlighted his perfect skin even more. His square face was framed by a short but dense beard that stopped at his temples to give way to a layered haircut. A cliché trademark of every French-Arabs, his beard and undercut were always impeccable. I don't know how many monthly visits to the hairdresser are necessary for North Africans to achieve the feat of this always perfect cut.
However, Nassir was far from the cliché of the inner-city arab. I had eavesdropped on a conversation with one of his friends and managed to find his Instagram profile. Hes was executive in a company, he had been featured on his business school's page as part of its "social promotion" program. His posts were typical of a young male settling into working life. Photo of the car, a black Audi A3, trips to Dubai and Thailand, then wife and wedding. The event's stories showed a typical North African wedding, with photos of cars covered in Algerian flags and a party room resounding with Arabic music and dance.
He hadn't wasted any time, and the young woman had been pregnant for a few weeks, as evidenced by the "gender reveal" the young man had posted on his networks. The primitive pride he displayed when the blue confetti exploded, revealing that it was a boy his wife was expecting, excited me even more. The affirmation of his own virility through his semen. His wife's pregnancy had also been at the core of many of my jerking session. I had imagined him tenderly penetrating her every evening, his muscular buttocks contracting and emptying into her his heavy balls filled with the semen accumulated during his day in the hope of starting a family. The hours ticking by at work and his thoughts on sports must have been entirely focused on this moment.
Nassir used to arrive at the gym in his work clothes, often a suit; the season now lent itself to chinos and light shirts. I always made sure I chose the locker next to his. The day's work left him with the smell of sweat mingling with his rather too flashy perfume, the unique scent of a young man.
Although sexy as hell, Nassir was a little prick. He didn't like me. He'd probably noticed the way I looked at him. He rarely said hello to the older guys, but had made friends with many of the other young people in the room. I could hear his "salam" or "hi bro", depending on the ethnicity of the person he was talking to, echoing around the room. His conversations with the other youngsters were mainly about video games, the latest TV series or soccer. I could easily imagine him getting blowed with a joystick in his hand.
He always prepared for sport in the same way. He'd start by taking off his shirt and the T-shirt he wore underneath, quickly wiping his armpits with it and throwing the whole thing into his big black Adidas bag. A young Arab, modern but not overly so, I'd already heard him joking with his mates about his wife grumbling about the laundry. A copious dose of deodorant, marketed for sportsmen, would then spray his armpits. The handsome male left them natural. I loved to watch him flex his two muscular arms to expose his black tufts of hair, where beads of badly-wiped sweat would bead up.
His chest, with its protruding pecs and abs, was also covered in curly downy hair, much denser on his pecs, rising to the base of his neck. There's nothing more exciting than to see this wild virility at the base of a man's shirt, as if it wanted to escape from his clothes. Hairless men can be sexy, but for me, the hairy torso is the ultimate statement of masculinity, an animality that's impossible to hide. The opposite of the female body, that of the reproductive male. I suspected that Nassir must be very proud of this torso. His Instagram posts often showed him in a swimsuit, shamelessly exposing his hairs.
After the shirt comes the pants. Nassir remains shirtless to remove his socks and reveal his two brown feet. A musky smell emanates from his shoes as he removes them. This is often an opportunity for him to play a joke on one of his buddies if one of them is nearby. Like many men, he's still a child when it comes to locker-room humor. Several times I've seen him throw his dirty sock at one of his "brothers". How I wished I could retrieve it and discover his intimate odors. Covered in a very light black down, his feet were somewhat damaged from playing soccer. Putting on immaculate white socks, Nassir then moved on to his pants. He quickly removed them and slipped on a pair of shorts almost immediately. Like all North Africans, he was extremely modest. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of his boxer shorts, still of a major brand, revealing two bulging buttocks the likes of which only Africans can have. A quick glimpse also of his big bulge, the imprint of his genitalia against the fabric, the mutilation imposed by his religion revealing the relief of his glans through the underpants. And, of course, his two muscular brown thighs, densely covered with the same hair that would have covered his penis.
Finally ready, he made his way to the gym room and perform very precise exercises, glaring at me whenever he caught me spying on him. He was like a fish in water here, giving advice to all and joking with his friends.
Soon covered in a film of sweat, muscles swollen with effort, he headed for the changing rooms. His body gave off a powerful North African scent, impossible to mask with deodorant. The return to the locker room after a good session was my favorite moment. The mixture of all those sweats, the male hormones of all those young men, set my senses on fire. I couldn't stop thinking that they all had a huge dose of juice to unload, and that their heavy sacs were even fuller after their muscles had produced so much testosterone. It's a thought that never really leaves my mind, and whenever I pass a young man in the street, I automatically imagine him with his penis in his hands, or fucking his girlfriend to unload his precious semen.
Quickly removing his clothes and stowing them in his locker, he wrapped a towel around his hips. The imprint of his sweaty feet on the floor was still visible as he slipped on his black adidas flip-flops, ugly but terribly sexy.
Like all young people, especially young Arabs, he would then head for the few individual shower cubicles in the room, even if it meant queuing rather than entering the collective space. As if the unveiling of any skin would turn him to stone. Apart from his wife and a few conquests, no one had seen his manhood since puberty had turned him into a man.
As for me, I used to go to the communal showers. I was part of the generation that had seen military service, and nudity between men was part of everyday life. Those were the days of chain-snatching and purse-picking in gymnasiums full of naked men waiting their turn to be examined. A time when hair was left to its natural state, and penis and balls were proudly displayed in a mane of male hair. A man keeping his briefs on in a locker room would have looked suspicious; prudery was for women.
In this space, which smelled of shower gel and testosterone, I met up with a few other men my age, all married and straight. We would talk about our day while soaping up. Sometimes a young man would join us in this space of male nudity, a young man often accustomed to nudity thanks to team sports. After their thirties, young male become more comfortable with the idea of walking around with their penis exposed. I responded evasively to my friends' conversations because all my thoughts were on Nassir. I imagined him naked, close to me, soaping himself up, his manhood and bals swollen with testosterone, all hanging nicely from the hot water, soaping himself conscientiously to get rid of the male odors from his body.
I quickly returned to my locker, my towel around my waist so as not to offend the youngsters by ostentatiously walking around naked.
Nassir was already back at his locker, in his boxers, still inaccessible. But that was about to change.
I was born with a gift. The scientific consensus is that pheromones no longer have a hold on man, being unable to dictate his sexual behavior, but a mutation in my family had changed that. My scent has the ability to corrupt men and bend them to my will, addicting them like a drug. Nassir was about to pay the price.
During one session that took longer than another, the young Muslim with his head elsewhere had left his locker open. I ran a hand under my balls and placed the sweaty print on his deodorant before heading for the shower. I could hardly contain an erection as I thought about what would happen next. I quickly finished washing, just in time to see Nassir grab his deodorant. He doused himself copiously with the first armpit and, as he moved on to the second, paused just as his hand passed the bottle in front of his nose. Intrigued, he made the mistake that would lose him: he brought the bottle up to his nose and breathed in my scent. His pupils dilated instantly, his arm froze in the air, his hairy armpits exposed, his gaze lost in confusion. He was mine.
"Nassir, what's up bro? " asked his friend, a young black man I'd have taken care of too "Oh Nassir are you there?"
"Uh yeah yeah excuse me bro I was thinking about something else..."
Every session for a week, I'd leave my scent on his things. This made him less and less focused, and one day, keeping the towel around his hips, he left his boxer shorts on the bench before going to the shower. For the first time I had access to a piece of clothing that had touched his intimacy, I quickly grabbed it. Checking that no one was around, I examined the inside visually. Dried shiny marks where his cockhead should have rested informed me that, as I assumed, Nassir had a large production of seminal fluid during the day. I imagined him behind his desk, concentrating until his balls woke up, flooding his brain with the imperious need to ejaculate. His penis rising, his hips contracting as if by reflex, his balls swelling and sweating their male odor, the rubbing of his glans against the fabric, until wetness stained his boxers for the day. As I brought his boxer shorts to my nose and took a shot of testosterone in the face, I magically visualized his naked cockhead rubbing against the fabric, seminal fluid leaking from it, his balls which must have been quite brown and sweaty. It was definitely the smell of a "rebeu" I was smelling there, a musky olfactory trademark specific to North Africans. My reverie ended when he turned off the shower water, I replace his boxer short in his locker and returned home without having showered, my pants stained with my own semen.
I took advantage of the fact that his gym session was always the same to go to the machines he was going to and leave a trace of my sweat on them. He tried to hide, but I could see him sniffing the wrists of the machines. His face expressed shame at his behavior, but he couldn't help it.
He must have wondered where the smell was coming from when one day I purposely left a towel lying around. When he came across it, he threw himself behind a machine to inhale it at the top of his lungs. A visible erection deformed his shorts. I'm sure he was on the verge of pulling out his manhood. I put a hand on his shoulder, startling him.
"Is that my towel you're holding young man?"
Dread flashed across his face, horrified at having been startled, and especially at realizing that the smell that so appealed to him was mine.
"I... uh... I..." he sat up hastily to mask his erection. "Yeah, I thought it was mine, sorry." he continued.
I retrieved my towel and when I turned my back I noticed that he was feeling his hands like crazy.
The next day, as I finished my session, he was waiting for me in front of my locker. His face expressed a terrible struggle, the last shreds of his self-esteem, his dignity surrendering to his imperious addiction to my smell.
He opened his mouth to utter the first word, but I took him by surprise.
"You want more, don't you, handsome?"
He looked at me dumbfounded and articulated in a weak voice contrasting with his usual assurance.
"Yes, I... please sir, it smells too good..."
"Then come with me," I said, heading for the communal showers.
Nassir followed me like a little dog following its master. He was wearing boxer shorts, a towel around his waist and black flip-flops. A fine silver chain adorned his pectoral muscles.
I hung up my towel and prepared to enter the shower area naked, Nassir following in my footsteps. He did the same, but kept his boxer shorts on.
"We're all men here Nassir, you don't have to keep your briefs on."
"But I..."
I raised both my armpits to the level of his nose, which finished breaking his resistance. Trembling with both fear and excitement at the idea of enjoying my scent, he lowered the fabric barrier and found himself, perhaps for the first time in his life, naked, penis on full display, in front of other men.
I moved to the other end of the room to take full advantage of the spectacle. Turning around, I saw the young Arab enter the room. It's always an incredible moment to discover a young man's penis. There's nothing more important in the life of a man, especially a young man, than his dick. His entire adolescence has been built around this organ, and so has his entire young adult life. From locker-room jokes with friends to the discovery of his first solitary pleasures with odors and erections during the day, to becoming a tool to make his wife cum and, like Nassir, to reproduce. To discover a young man's genitals is to penetrate his intimacy in an absolute way.
My heart missed a beat as Nassir entered the space completely naked. The strong overhead light highlighted his muscles, his hair, his virility. He stomped towards me in his black flip-flops, his gaze fixed on mine, with no thought of covering his dick. His cock was brown, much more so than his body, as if all the exoticism of his genes were concentrated in it. It hung heavily. It must have measured around 12cm (4.7") flaccid, resting on a huge pair of balls even darker than the rest of the organ. His penis was surrounded by a mane of very short frizzy hair that the young Arab had to trim regularly. His two big eggs were smooth and moist. After his sports session and his day's work, his dick must have smelled fully the North-African boy.
The highlight of the show was when the brown of the penis gave way to a pink ring marking the site of Nassir's circumcision. It appeared to have been performed in France, as the scar was regular and close to the glans. The cockhead, fully exposed, was brown and dry, the crown thick and protruding from the body of the penis. This was the triumphant penis of a young Muslim man in all its splendor.
I don't know whether it's the fact that their glans are exposed for all to see by their circumcision that makes the French-Arabs more prudish. They're more naked than naked, so to speak, in a country where other men have their cockhead covered. But I know that nothing turns me on more than the idea that these prudish men actually have no choice but to expose the most intimate part of their anatomy to everyone when they undress. It's like a mark of clan membership, a tattoo on the most intimate part of a man who's been given a religion and the injunction to reproduce. In my solitary erotic reveries, I can't help thinking of all those young people from immigrant families, all of whom have gone through this stage of childhood suffering to make them good Muslims. I can't help thinking of it when I meet a young Arab, trying to imagine his overdeveloped cockhead, sometimes visible through too-tight pants, the naked glans spreading a musky scent through the fabric of their underpants.
Nassir positioned himself in the shower beside me. From the side, his balls appeared even thicker and swollen with semen. I attach particular importance to the size of the testicles. It's these two eggs that help turn a boy into a man from the start of his sex life, making him more aggressive, dominant and muscular, and giving him an obsession with filling as many holes as possible. I always like to think that discovering a man with big balls is a good indication of his sex life and libido. I've had this theory confirmed many times over by discovering the huge balls of the most masculine guys in the locker room.
I discreetly ran my hand under my armpits and handed it to him as a reward for his courage. He smelled it and smiled. He was completely relaxed now, washing himself shamelessly in front of everyone, whistling raps music. His friend, the young black man I'd seen him chatting to, paused as he passed the communal area on his way to the individual shower, a look of shock on his face. I almost had an erection at the thought of having offered his friend the vision of Nassir's naked body. When the shower was over, we headed for the changing room. Passing in front of me, I had the opportunity to admire his two firm buttocks covered with a black downy hair. Unlike his penis, they were unkempt and exuded a strong animality. When he penetrated his wife in missionary position with his big Arab cock, these two buttocks had to open up and reveal his anus, also covered in black hair.
We both arrived at the lockers. He'd walked through the locker room completely naked, his big brown penis swinging for all to see, his swollen balls imposing their virility, and he was about to put his boxers back on when I stopped him.
"Let's swap," I said, taking his from his hands and handing him mine. Aware of the gift I was giving him, he hurried to put it on, his eyes full of gratitude.
"This gift doesn't come without a counterpart" I whispered in his ear, "you won't be able to cum until I give you permission".
I turned on my heel and left him, seeing that my boxer shorts, now on him, was deformed by a monstrous erection. No doubt when he got home he'd lock himself in the bathroom and press it against his face, masturbating like mad, with no hope of relief of course.
