I first met Jake on the ferry, crossing from Morocco back to Spain. He, like me, was backpacking it. When the ferry departed, we were both standing on the outside passenger deck, looking down at the exposed car deck below. One of the men checking something out on one of the trucks looked up and saw the young American guy and I leaning on the railings above him. He obviously recognized the American alongside me, and waved and called out something in Spanish. Jake laughed and waved back.

I looked The American over. He was a burly, blonde guy with a very muscular build. He was wearing a T-shirt with a number, probably a football player's number, but I never was into American football. He could well have been a football player himself. He was big enough.

"Guess what that truck's full of," the Yank said to me.

"What?" I asked, not really interested, but thankful for a conversation opener to fill the time on the ferry.

"Weed, and bud, and processed hash," he told me.

"Bullshit!" I exclaimed. "The Spanish are death on drugs. They'll get nailed when they land."

"No they won't," he said confidently.

"Why?" I asked.

"A little grease," he said, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together in the international sign meaning 'Give me bribe money.' "The customs guards are paid peanuts. For just a little bribe, a truck load of drugs becomes invisible."

"I don't believe you," I said. "How do you know about this?"

"Because I'm doing the same," he said. "My backpack is full of hash. I can get twenty to thirty grand or more for it in Germany. I paid a hundred bucks for it in Morocco. And all I have to do is spend about another couple of hundred on bribes between here and Munich."

"You'll get caught," I warned.

"No, I won't," he insisted. "I do it every two or three months. Keeps me in spending money."

"I still don't believe you," I said.

"Then come with me," he ordered. I followed him to the iron stairway leading down to the car deck. We weaved in and out of the parked vehicles until we came to the truck we had seen from above. The Spanish man was still working on something at the back. I gathered he was trying to get the stop-lights working.

The American spoke to the Spaniard briefly. There was a little hesitancy in the Spaniard's reply until the American handed over a couple of small Spanish.notes, maybe fifty cents worth.

Then the Spaniard lifted out one of the rear boxes, and opened it for me to see. It was full of dolls, toy dolls!

The Spaniard chuckled, and then reached further into the truck and pulled a box from the second row of boxes. He opened it. It was full of foil-wrapped bricks. Checking to see that no-one was watching, he carefully unwrapped one brick. It was solid hash!

"Believe me now?" said my football-playing friend, as we made our way back up to the passenger decks..

During the sailing, I passed my time with the guy. I learned that his name was Jake, that his father was some sort of attaché to Germany, and that he lived off his father, who hardly gave him enough to live on, so he had gone into the drug business to pay for his expensive tastes.

A one-week back-packing trip to Morocco every couple of months kept him splendidly for the rest of the time.

Algeciras, on the Spanish side of the Straits, is right across the bay from the Rock of Gibraltar, Because of some chop and a headwind crossing the Strait, the ferry was running quite a bit late by the time we arrived. We actually went through Spanish customs right on board the ship after it docked. Customs agents came aboard and we lined up to funnel past them.

Would you believe it? I, who had thrown the small amount of hash I had bought in Morocco into the sea before boarding, was stopped and thoroughly searched. In the next lane of departing passengers I saw Jake get waved through with no trouble of tall. Ah, the power of a little bribe!

Many of the departing passengers had to really run for it after disembarking. The Madrid express was waiting in the siding, already delayed by the late ferry. It finally left, leaving many Madrid-bound passengers behind, to find lodgings for the night in Algeciras and wait for tomorrow's train.

I was not one of those, but the flood of extra people looking for accommodations into the town made things tougher for me. I, too, had to find a place to stay, because my train to the Costa Del Sol, to the east, did not depart until the next morning, either, and now there were so many more looking for a place to stay.

Every hotel and pensión I went to was already full. I finally found a pensión which was willing to rent me a very bare room in a sort of shed on the building's flat roof. It had probably been room for workers at some stage - or maybe still was. The windowless room had two beds and a cold-water sink - that was all, but at least it was a place to sleep. And the price was right. They wanted 75 cents for the night.

It was not, however, a place to spend any time, so I went back out, to have a look around the town and to grab a bite to eat.

No sooner had I gone back out on the busy street when I ran into Jake again. He had put off finding a room until he had said goodbye to some friends who were leaving by bus, and now he was looking for accommodations. I told him about the place I had found, and that it had a spare bed, but that it was pretty barren. He didn't care, as long as it was a place to sleep, and that it had a lock on the door.

We approached the owner, who agreed to have us share the room for an extra 25 cents, and we went up and locked Jake's valuable knapsack away.

After we had eaten, we wandered around the town town for a while, as the late afternoon wore on, and shadows settled over the town.

When the sun went down, we started to head back to the pensión, but not too thrilled by the prospect of that stark room with its single bare lightbulb.

We were passing a corrugated iron fenced area when we heard music coming from the other side of the tin wall. It was a song Simon and Garfunkel: The Sounds of Silence.

Walking a little further, we discovered that this was an outdoor movie theatre, and from the posters at the ticket box, we found that the movie playing was The Graduate.

"You seen it?" Jake asked.

"Yeah'" I told him.

"Me too," he said. "Wanna go see it again? It's something to do?"

"Sure," I agreed.

The ticket price was only about ten cents each so it was a cheap evening, especially when we went inside and found that at the rear of the garden theater there was full bar service, and a bottle of beer was ten cents and a mixed drink only twelve cents.

The movie was probably twenty minutes in by the time we were seated with our drinks, and it was only then that we realized that although the song had been in English, the rest of the movie was dubbed into Spanish.

I spoke only minimal Spanish, and Jake was a bit more fluent, but not much - just enough to get by. But it didn't matter. We had both seen it before, and we could get the drift. Besides, we had our drinks, which we replenished all the way through the movie. It was pleasant sitting there surrounded by Spanish movie-goers, enjoying the music at least - and the drinks, which we refilled regularly. We sat through the whole thing, and then they ran a second screening. No-one asked us to leave, so we refreshed our drinks again, bought some chips, and settled down to watch it again. It is a fairly short movie, running just over 90 minutes.

By the time Benjamin and Elaine had fled from her wedding by bus for the second time that night, it was after eleven, and Jake and I were rather drunk, having each downed several beers before switching to rum for me and rye for him.

Outside the garden theater, the locals dispersed rapidly, leaving the two of us alone on the deserted street, where we both promptly got very sick, throwing up much of the alcohol we had consumed. I forget which of us got sick first, probably me, being the slightest build, but whoever it was, he was a trigger for the other.

When we had emptied our stomachs, Jake suggested:

"We need another drink! And something to eat!"

Drunkenly, I agreed. Just down the street, we could see the lights of a Spanish bodega. We made our way there, and found it was a tapas bar, so we could both drink and eat at the same time, consuming mussels on the half-shell with our rum and rye.

It was there that Jake suggested I try absinthe. I had heard of it, but had never tried it. He ordered one for each of us, and we watched as the bartender went through the ritual of dropping a sugar cube into a glass, pouring absinthe over it, then adding water. We watched as the clear liquid turned milky. It tasted not unlike ouzo, and had a lingering aftertaste.

We both wanted another, but the bartender refused us, saying we had both had enough to drink, and it was close to closing time.

We staggered out of there, arm in arm with each other, reeling all over the place, and made our way back to the pensión through the darkened streets.

It was a rather drunken climb up five flights of stairs to finally reach the rooftop room. Although there was a washroom on the third floor, right below us, we chose to piss over the edge of the building into the alley below, laughing uproariously. At this time of night there was no-one wandering through the alley.

Back in our stark little l room, we both stripped off completely and collapsed onto our respective beds. It was about then that things turned a little nasty.

Jake was terrifically well-endowed. His solid, muscular body was covered in wiry hair. He had an erection, and his huge, thick cock lay back against his lower belly. Although it was wonderfully inviting, I knew it was too thick to take comfortably in either my mouth or my ass.

"Must be the absinthe working," mumbled Jake. "They say it's as good as Spanish fly. It's made me really horny." He lay back on his bed, fondling his huge weapon.

As much as I didn't want to suck his cock, or be fucked by it, I had to admit I was really horny, too. I wanted to at least get to fondle his great cudgel.

"Yeah," I agreed, "must be the absinthe. I'm horny, too," and I did have a sizeable stiffy.

"Then get on over here and suck on this for me," he suggested.

"Sorry, that's too big for me," I declared.

The drunken grin on his face turned ornery. He sat up on the edge of the bed and held his massive dick erect.

"I said, get over here and suck this!"

"No," I insisted. "It's too big!"

"If you won't do it of your own accord. I'll have to make you!" he snarled.

"No," I insisted again, but by now I was getting nervous.

Jake leapt from his bed and came at me. He dragged me from my bed onto the floor before I could even react. "On your knees," he demanded.

Holding me by my longish hair, he thrust his penis at my face, against my lips. He twisted the grip on my hair, practically pulling my hair out.

"Open up and suck it," he demanded, "or I'll beat the shit out of you and face-fuck you anyway."

Reluctantly, I opened my mouth and took his huge knob in. It really was too big for my mouth. I couldn't open my jaw wide enough to get it past my teeth, even though he tried to force it between them.

I guess my teeth were scratching his cock because he stopped trying to push it past them and instead pushed it into my cheeks, forcing my cheek to bulge out like a chipmunk's.

"That's better," he growled, releasing my hair, "but I need to get my rocks off. Bend over the bed. I'm gonna fuck your sweet ass."

"No, please don't, Jake. You'll hurt me. Your cock's just too big."

"That's what they all say," he snarled. "Until they get it in them. Then they can't get enough of it!

Jake pushed me down onto the bed, my knees still on the floor, so I was bent over the edge. He held me down with one mighty hand, while he spat on the other and stroked the spittle over his thick cock. He did this three or four times, or else I am sure he would have done me severe damage.

I wriggled and struggled to get free, but he was too much of a bruiser for me.

Then he parted my buttocks, searched out my hole, placed his cock-head at the entryway, and with one shove, drove his whole penis deep inside me.

I know I let out an almighty scream, and I almost passed out from the pain. But at least he held it still, buried to the hilt, buried in me, until the pain subsided somewhat. Then he began to move slowly.

His massive chunk of meat was still painful in my anal cavity, but as he moved slowly, and my ass became used to the invader, and natural juices in my inner linings began to flow, his fucking became easier and easier to take.

As Jake had predicted, soon I was wanting more and more, even though I was being raped by this man. Was it the absinthe? Who knows. But I do know I wanted his tool deeper and deeper inside me. I wanted him to cum inside me and fill me with his seed.

It did not take long for him to reach a climax, and I could feel his cock pumping his sperm way way inside me. When he was finished, he dragged us both onto the bed, my bed, and we fell asleep, him holding me in his huge arms, not out of affection, but so that I didn't escape.

He woke me from shallow sleep twice during the night, to fuck me again, but eventually left me alone and went back to his own bed. I dozed off again, this time into a much deeper sleep.

When I awoke, to the light of the bare bulb still burning, I was alone. Jake's bed was empty. There was a wet spot in my bed, where some of Jake's cum had dribbled out of me in the night. I stood up and tentatively felt my hole. It was sore, and when I wiped it with a tissue, there was a little blood. But I would live.

Jake was gone, and so was his knapsack full of hash. One the floor beside my backpack and my clothes where I had dropped them the night before was a note, written on a napkin from the tapas bar we had been in the night before.

Beside the note were three thick joints of Moroccan marijuana.

I never saw Jake again, but on the train heading east that morning, with a little buzz on from a couple of hits from one of the joints, I was already missing Jake's thick cock, even if he had raped me with it!

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