Casablanca Inshallah

Copyrighted by Patrick McDonnell

June 23, 2020  

The woman stood outside the door, waiting to come in, while her pimp negotiated with me her ‘bridal price’. I thought it ludicrous, to give such a normal name, for such a bodily function. ‘Fuck price’ should have been what I was negotiating. In French Colonial Francs, God knows how much that was in American dollar, I had been given a bunch when I arrived, by the quarter master, with a wink and a nudge to show me he knew what I would be spending it on. After the invasion, or landing, whatever they called it - CENSORED - we had all been assigned a billet in one of the local hotels; Chez Paris was mine. My unit was off in the wilds of Morocco somewhere bivouacking in the mud, while the officer’s corps set up head quarters. Jimmy Dolittle was rumoured to be in the new commander since CENSORED had bought the ranch in transit. 

My French was high school variety, and the pimp was a swarthy looking heathen, even if he was dressed up in western garb looking like some ass poor hoodlum out of a gangster movie. He kept saying something about the ‘fille est vierge’ meaning she was intact I guess, though with the local penchant for pussy I highly doubted that. The French officers or should I say, the Free French officers as opposed to the Vichy French officers, who had hung out with the Nazis fighting for the bad guys, had told me to avoid the “Baiseville” part of Casablanca, where a whole village of prostitutes had existed for years set up by the French colonialists to get their rocks off. They told me it was a one way ticket to VD ville. One guy had suggested I contact Sammy who ran a bunch of clean girls. Inspected daily by the hygienic services. Highly recommended. 

He asked for the money up front, I gave it to him reluctantly, remembering the time in New Orleans when I found out too late that I had a trannie on my hands, a mulatto one at that. He or she or whatever had been hard to get rid of having half fallen in love with me, he she told me. But forget that, I hadn’t gotten laid in a coon’s age, as they said in Louisiana. Since leaving from Barksdale Army base; I had been given last minute leave, after shipping out for who knows where. Now I knew where, this forsaken place, with its sandstorms and hotness that made my pinks stick to my underarms. That reminded me I had to get my ‘pink’ uniform laundered before I showed up at the office tomorrow. 

“Ok, ok?” Sammy said in his Arab tinted English, as he counted the money. “She can give you extra service if you wish?”

I took out my Colt 45, and pointed it at him, gesturing him to leave, while I made a gesture to the girl to come in with my free hand. 

She smelled exotic, sandalwood, all wrapped up like a package in her burnous. Her eyes burned in her head, the only thing I could see of her. Gazelle eyes like “still waters” is what they tell you about these things. Then I grabbed her by her hand and brought her down to sit beside me. It was a slim wrist, decorated with bangles. A gold necklace hung from her neck and it fell down out of her garb showing a strange hand shaped jewel. I took it in my hand, now freed from my service revolver, and looked at it quizzically. 

She said, “Fatima” and gestured to her jewel and then back to herself. I guess her name was Fatima. Good as any other. Roughly I grabbed her face and tore off her covering to see what I had bought. Dark eyes, made darker by Kohl and long eye lashes. A full lipped mouth, now pouting now smiling shyly at me. It didn’t seem to be her first rodeo. Straight nose, and some mustach hair on her top lip. Her lips had lipstick on them as her cheeks also had blush. But then there were marks on her face the intrigued me until I figured them out as tattoos. 

I gestured to her to lift off her garb. Which she did revealing a nut coloured body, small brown nipples - large and hard - and a hairless sex. All I needed was to have a pre-teenager or earlier girl to fuck! She gestured to her nether parts, and parted the lips to show me she didn’t have the pox. Then she laid down like an odalisque opening up her legs far apart and put her head back as if waiting for the train. To me it looked like an invitation that I wasn’t going to let go to waste. My military belt came loose and my trousers hit the floor, I was on her like flies on a hog, my manhood throbbing with longing. It was over in a second after a couple of thrusts - like a young boy. It felt good, she felt good. Reluctantly I pulled out, but she pulled me back into her, her hips thrusting at me, as if she wanted more, and more she got. This time I laster at least 10 minutes with a lot of my thrusting and her screaming in my ear.  The little bitch even bit my ear, drawing blood. At the end, she started making sounds like a wailing ou la las. She smiled at me, as if she had been the one fucking. 

Fatima turned her head to her side, in a coquettish attitude, and asked me, “tu-veux que je te fasse la pipe?” I misunderstood her, thinking she wanted to smoke a pipe. Probably hashish. Then she showed me, getting down on her knees and sucking my penis in her flexible mouth - I came again. 

Outside the muezzin called for afternoon prayers, but inside the hotel room we were praying in our own fashion. She took up my gun and pointed it at me playfully. At the last minuted I realized I had left the safety off. I heard the loud bang and then….

Sent from CENSORED to CENSORED. 

It is with deep regret to inform you that Captain CENSORED gave his all for his country this day in Casablanca.  

Sent from hotel Chez Paris, Casablanca