Free From Morocco to Paris by Lydia Nyx

fingers on his cock. He could almost taste the tang of his sweat.
    “Enjoying the show?” Davey asked, voice husky. “This was a great idea, Zane.”
    Zane didn’t reply. The village loomed into sight on the horizon, and he wanted to keep driving. Maybe fucking like teenagers alongside the road wasn’t such a bad idea after all. They hadn’t passed a single vehicle.
    Davey squirmed, arching his hips. Zane heard his skin drag on the leather seat. Davey gripped the roll bar above him, head thrown back. Zane thought he would get off himself just seeing and listening to him.
    “Is there a tissue or something in here?” Davey’s urgent, breathy question cut through the fog in Zane’s head.
    “I don’t think so.” Zane didn’t bother to look around because he could barely move. “Just wipe it on the inside of your shirt.” Just finish before you fucking kill me .
    Zane glanced over. Even if he wasn’t desperately aroused he would have looked out of sheer curiosity. Davey lowered his hips to the seat, let go of the roll bar, and cupped his hand around the head of his cock. His cheeks were red, eyelids drooping as he watched himself, mouth open. His nipples were dark through the tank top, and Zane wanted to squeeze them.
    Suddenly, Davey gasped and arched off the seat again. Zane made himself look straight ahead. From the corner of his eye, Zane saw Davey writhe and heard him cry out sharply, followed by softer moans. Zane drew a deep, relieved sigh when Davey finally slumped into a relaxed pose. The village was straight ahead, and they had to pull themselves together.
    Davey sat up. Zane looked over, despite himself. Davey carefully removed his hands from his cock, still mostly hard. He looked at the hand he had cupped around the head and made a face. Zane caught a whiff of musk on the wind.
    “Hmph,” Davey said.
    With his dry hand Davey started working his pants up. He licked his other palm. Watching him, Zane got a sudden urge, fired by his arousal. He reached over and grabbed Davey’s wrist and pulled his hand over, and sucked one of his slick fingers clean. His skin tasted like sex.
    Davey smirked. “Oh, that’s hot.”
    By the time they drove into the village, Davey had righted himself, and Zane had willed his erection down most of the way. Davey sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, then yanked on his ponytail to tighten the band. “That was like giving a man dying of thirst a teaspoon of water,” he said. “It just made me want more.”
    The village consisted of little stone houses in neat rows with narrow dirt streets between them. No plants grew, but animals were everywhere, goats and chickens mostly, snuffling and pecking in the dust and drinking from troughs. The people dressed in bright colors, shielded from the sun by hoods and veils. The air smelled pungent with rubbish fires. They found the truck near the center of the village, where people gathered around a well, watching and chattering in their language.
    In the cool, cluttered back of the hulking army truck, beyond the tarp serving as a tailgate, Zane located the items on the list -- replica weaponry, tools, containers of costumes. They piled everything in the back of the Jeep. Soldiers from the camp were working under the massive hood.
    “We’ll be running by this evening,” one of them told Zane in a thick accent. “Tell Mr. Brennan we bring the rest as soon as possible.”
    Zane and Davey headed back to the Jeep. Zane wasn’t thinking about props or broken-down trucks or shooting schedules. His ardor hadn’t cooled as Davey kept brushing against him and his taste still lingered on his tongue. Children chased the Jeep, laughing and squealing, to the edge of the village. They got back on the road, Davey behind the wheel this time.
    “Your turn,” Davey said and smiled saucily. “I’ll keep it at the speed limit.”
    On stage, Zane found himself shy. However, the thought of spending the next few weeks in utter blue-balled