Encounters on the rue de l’estranger

by Callum James

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The back street of Marseilles are a rough place to find yourself after dark. The huge tenement buildings whose pitted and crumbling concrete faces have soaked up the Mediterranean sun all day become moody and threatening. Wiry looking Algerian lads and swarthy French workers hang around on the streets as the day cools. Any breeze at all throws up clouds of dusts and paper detritus from the pavement which stings your face and makes your eyes gritty. Here there is a special building. No different on the outside from the thousands of others; pock-marked, ten-storeys, balconies flapping with thin sheets and holed underwear. But this is the place. Listen carefully enough to hushed conversations in the fetish clubs of Berlin, London and Prague and you might just here a hint of a rumour about this place. You would never find it without a guide the first time. Nor get inside. The outside doors open easy enough but once in the cool interior, you are watched by an unseen concierge; act in the wrong way, do the wrong thing and you will get no further. For those who know however… A second door takes them to the bottom of the concrete stairwell. Those who can bear the smell of urine and the unwashed air will find a whole new world of strange delights. Those who get inside are free to explore…

Pushing open the door of room 39… The air is thick with the scent of Patchouli and Bergamot. Someone is burning incense sticks. Mt eyes were watering slightly into the thickness. The room was red, sumptuous, warm. Thick hangings covered the walls. A bed covered in plump cushions and a soft eiderdown glisten in the candlelight; sparkling red and gold.

At first I didn’t see him; he was so strange to look at that my eyes passed right over him, sliding over his warm skin as they slid over the satins and sheer silks which also lay across the bed. A minature young man. He was, he told me later, two foot six; the length of my arm and the exact reverse of my own height in feet and inches. When my eyes would finally focus on him I saw he was in his early twenties, perhaps late teens, yet tiny. None of his proportions spoke of dwarfism he was as slender and as well put together as any young man of his age, but smaller by a magnitude. He smiled, languid, as if he had just woken. Stirring the drapes on the bed he stretched and an arch of ribs rose under that silky skin and caught the gleam of the candles. His head was only a little bigger than my balled fist. His neck was thinner than my wrist yet sinews stood proud under his jaw like any normal man straining into a yawn. His nipples rested on a thin slab of muscle above each breast, they were the size of my smallest fingernail and honey-coloured, slightly swollen, as if recently played with. His perfect form, lithe and full of twisting rucks of muscle tapered to a waist just wider than my neck, buttocks that could have sat firmly in my cupped palm and a crotch full of wiry black hair surrounding an erect penis that stood proud like my little finger. It was a sleep hard, he was indeed woken by my arrival but seemed to enjoy the idea of company. Looking at me from sleepy eyes that seemed too large for his delicate face he squirmed on the bed, lifting himself so his whole back rested against the pillow. His tiny hands fell to his crotch and his gaze tripped over the line between sleepy and lascivious. A tiny pink tongue wetted his lips.

His voice surprised me, it was high and light but not the cartoon voice I had been expecting, nor the silence of an automaton or mannequin. When he spoke I had to accept that he was a real person.

“Hello, my name is Marc.” He spoke English with a purring French accent. He scampered, I can think of no better word, across the bed, ending up kneeling on the end of it. In this position his miniature head was level with my groin, I could see then that my cock, straining against tight underwear would, when released, be longer than his face, wider than his forearm. He pressed his face against my thigh and seemed to be caught in his own moment. He purred.

“You would like us to make love…” In the face of his straightforward words and romantic accent I was reduced to stammering.

“You… you’re exquisite, I’ve never seen anything like you…”

“Anyone,” he corrected me,

“anyone like me. I am not a toy or a doll. I am not a freak.” It was a rebuke but a gentle one and I might have blushed then but for his tiny hands beginning to press against the worn denim over my crotch.

Delicate fingers tugged at my fly and the effort clearly showed in the long, lean muscles of his arms. He wrestled, two-handed, with the metal button. With some help he finally released my erection, steaming into the heavy, scented air. A wicked grin creased his pixie face. With two hands, barely meeting, he pushed at the soft skin over my cock head. Like opening a curtain he exposed just the top of my glans, already it was wet and shining in the low light. Gripping me below the head he guided my cock to his cheek and wiped the very end over his face, smearing the salt-slime until his face glistened. He licked some from his lips. Then his tongue tickled at the end of my cock. He would never accommodate it but he pushed back the skin and the helmet squeezed out of it covering, his tongue ran over my perineum, round and under the thick flare of my cock-head wetting and stroking. I shuddered. Moaned. Moved my hand to his head and slid them through the shock of black hair. As if taking this as a signal he moved away slightly.

“You should undress.” Feeling like Gulliver I stepped out of clothes that would have served him as blankets or sleeping bags.

“Come,” he said, scooting back to the pillows and patting the bed. I climbed on. Never had I been so aware of the subtle creaks and moans in the complaints of a bed. On my back, sinking into the softness of his drapery he climbed onto me. He sat, legs wide over my stomach, his knees barely reaching the bed covers, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. To kiss him I opened my mouth and allowed his lips to stretch around the tip of my tongue. It felt both delicate and brutally invasive for I was aware of filling his whole mouth. The tip of my erection rested against his buttocks, each one the size and hardness of a large apple. As he began to rub himself over my stomach, using the ridges there for friction he became more frenzied. He moved his head away quickly, catching my tongue on the side of his face and, that way, indicating that he wanted me to lick him. The salt taste of myself was still slick on his jaw and cheeks, I licked with the flat of my tongue, covering a side of his face at a time. His hips twisted and pressed more strongly. Before his murmuring became too loud he pulled away again and moved down my body to sit over my cock, like sitting on a log. The end of my dick, which has never been called small, seemed huge under his hands as he pressed them into the tender flesh there; not so much masturbating me as massaging me. I had to be careful not to raise my hips too wildly or begin to thrust of he would have been sent flying.

Eventually, after much pressing of flesh. I began to wonder what else it might be possible to do with this Tom Thumb creature. As if he had sensed the question forming in my mind he disengaged and drew me by the hand, mine engulfing his to the wrist, from the bed and through a door I had not seen before. It was a bathroom. It was tiled from floor to ceiling but it shared the warmth of the rest of the apartment. Naked we stood together on the warm ceramic floor and Marc indicated a plastic gallon bottle in the corner. Through is semi-translucent sides I could see a golden liquid: oil.

I poured the virgin olive oil over him in a golden cascade.

“Pick me up,” he said as the final dribbles of thick liquid fell away to the floor. I did. It was like trying to hold onto an eel. I hugged him to my chest and then sank to the floor still holding him. We squirmed together there for some time, rubbing and sliding. I explored every inch of his diminutive body, probing and stroking with shockingly huge fingers. When he grabbed my hand and pressed the tip of my little finger against his sphincter I was afraid to push. To him it must have seemed like an enormous cock. But he pushed, grasping muscle clenched around my finger and then something soft gave and he gasped as the finger slid inside him. When he did the same with my thumb it must have been like being fucked by an arm, for me, it was like pushing into the soft flesh of a hot fruit. He rode my thumb, crying and whimpering in a cloud of pleasure like I haven’t seen on a person for many years.

“Don’t be shy,” he said between rasping breaths,

“Don’t hold back, I’m used to this, this is what I do. You’re going to fuck me soon, properly and I won’t want you to hold back then either.” So I pushed my thumb inside his small hole, deeper and deeper. When I pressed down I could have sworn I saw his belly distend slightly with the impression of my thumb. He slipped off my thumb with a smacking sound.

“Now,” he said,

“I want you to fuck me.” He threw himself onto his hands and knees,

“push me down and fuck me…” My cock was jumping at the invitation, springing up and down out of control. My brain was saying no, no, no, but it has been a long while since my brain has overruled my cock. I placed my hand on his back. My fingers covered his shoulder blades, my thumb, still slick with the juice of his ass, dug into his arm pit. I pushed him down, like holding a puppy against the floor and going to tickle it. Holding the base of my cock and aiming it rampant head downwards between those two sweet apples, I paused only a moment before plunging it home. Inch after inch buried itself inside his tiny torso. I felt as though I must be mashing up against his heart, pushing deep enough for him to taste. He yowled like a cat on heat and slithered oiled skin this way and that accommodating me further and further in.

Like fucking a doll, an action-man, a shop mannequin, I don’t know how to describe the sensation of holding that small body down, grasping and tugging at his slippery sides and shafting into the whole upper half of his body. He was right about knowing what he was doing. He urged me on with filthy words, with grunts and screams and with the overwhelming sensations of his little frame wriggling around on the tile beneath us. Just when I thought I would take the top of his head off if I came inside him he dug his fingertips into a groove in the tiles and heaved himself free of my monstrous cock. For a moment I thought he was hurt but not for long. He flipped around and lay beneath my cock, his head in line of fire. Two or three strokes more were all that were required to bring me to a shuddering orgasm. The cum hit him directly in the face, gouts of it, some flying into his open mouth, some splattering over his face and neck where his hands wildly scooped it up and plastered it over his entire frame. At the same time his own hips were twitching and jerking and a spray of his own cum shot into the air. We collapsed onto the warm floor and turned on the shower jets. The hot water played over us for some time before we moved.

Afterwards he was affectionate and sweet but obviously had other things to do, perhaps simply to wait for more wandering souls to make their way down his hallway and try his door as opposed to any other. I dressed and kissed him again, that wonderful feeling of drilling my tongue into the melon of his head, and said my goodbyes. Looking both ways, up and down the hall of this anonymous building on la rue d'estranger, I wondered which door to try next…

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