Chapter 7: Afternoon Pool
The afternoon sun was a physical weight, pressing down on the cracked terracotta tiles surrounding the small, rectangular pool. The water, a pale, cloudy turquoise, shimmered with trapped heat. Ilyes lay on a faded plastic lounger, the straps digging into his back through his thin t-shirt. Beside him, Yasmina adjusted the strap of her black bikini top, a magazine open but unread on her lap.
Across the water, Nassim moved.
He wasn’t swimming. He was occupying the pool, a tectonic presence shifting in the shallow end. The water lapped at the dense slabs of his pectorals. He’d flex, slowly, making the great muscles of his arms and shoulders bunch and ripple, the veins in his biceps rising like corded topography under his tan. He’d then turn, pretending to examine the crumbling tile edge, giving them a perfect view of the sweeping taper of his back, the deep valley of his spine leading down to the waistband of his swim shorts. The thin, wet fabric left nothing to the imagination. The bulge there was obscene, a heavy, pendulous shadow even in the water.
He was watching them. Not directly, but Ilyes could feel the heat of his gaze like a second sun.
“Il ne peut pas arrêter, c’est insupportable,” Yasmina muttered, not looking up from her magazine. She took a long sip from her bottle of water. “Il fait le paon. Comme si toutes les femmes de la planète rêvaient de cette masse de muscles hypervascularisés.”
Ilyes’s throat was still tender. He could still taste him. “Il est stable, tu sais,” he said, his voice casual. He kept his eyes on the cicada skipping erratically across the hot tiles. “Il a son métier. Mécanicien, c’est solide. Il parle d’ouvrir son propre garage un jour.”
Yasmina snorted. “Super. Il sentira l’huile et la sueur en permanence. Quel rêve.”
“Il te regarde tout le temps. Il est vraiment intéressé.”
This time she turned her head, her dark eyes sharp behind her sunglasses. “Intéressé? Ilyes, sérieusement. Il est intéressé par une bonne, une servante, et une pondeuse. Une femme pour lui faire ses gosses, lui faire à manger, et s’allonger sous lui quand il a envie de se vider. C’est un bledard, point final. Tout ce qui l’intéresse, c’est ce qu’il a entre les jambes et où il peut le fourrer.”
Nassim chose that moment to heave himself out of the pool. Water sluiced off his body in sheets. He planted his feet wide on the hot tiles, the sunlight painting glistening highlights on every defined muscle of his abdomen, every curve of his colossal thighs. He ran a hand through his wet, dark curls, his goatee bristling as he grinned over at them, a flash of white teeth. He gave his hips a slight, unmistakable roll as he adjusted himself, the wet fabric clinging even more intimately.
“Il est beau gosse, quand même, non?” Ilyes heard himself say, the words dry in his mouth. “Petit dégradé, cheveux bouclés, visage carré, bouc moustache… Le corps, évidemment. Les pecs, les abdos, les biceps. Et… bon, le paquet, il a l’air énorme.”
Yasmina stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Quoi? T’es sérieux là? Tu fais son marketing maintenant? C’est notre cousin, Ilyes. Et en plus, c’est un connard macho. Je veux un homme, pas un stéroïde sur pattes avec un QI d’huile moteur. La réponse est non. Permanent. Définitif.” She snapped her magazine shut and stood up, wrapping a sarong around her hips with irritated precision. “Je vais me doucher. L’air devient irrespirable ici.”
She stalked off toward the house, her sandals slapping against the tiles. Nassim’s eyes followed her every step, his smile fading into a look of hungry, thwarted concentration.
The silence after she left was different. Thick. Charged with the hum of insects and the low drip of water from Nassim’s body. He stood there for another minute, a statue of damp, frustrated masculinity, before he slowly ambled over. He dragged a plastic chair next to Ilyes’s lounger with a screech, the legs scraping violently against the stone. He sat, his thighs spreading wide, the chair groaning in protest under his mass. The smell of chlorine and his own particular, potent skin scent washed over Ilyes.
“Alors?” Nassim’s voice was low, tense. “Vous avez parlé de moi?”
Ilyes kept his gaze on the murky water. “Oui.”
“Et? Tu lui as dit? Tu lui as expliqué ce qui l’attend? Les nuits blanches? La bête algérienne entre mes cuisses? Les vingt-quatre centimètres de zeb? Comment je pourrais la déboîter, la casser en deux?”
“Je peux pas lui parler comme ça, Nassim. C’est ma sœur.”
Nassim leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Ilyes could see the individual droplets of water caught in the fine hair on his shoulders. “Comment elle peut dire non à un homme comme moi? Hein? Regarde-moi.” He gestured at his own torso, his face a mask of bewildered arrogance. “Je travaille, j’ai de l’ambition, je suis fidèle. Et je suis bâti comme un dieu. Quelle femme dit non à ça?”
“Elle en veut pas d’un cousin. Elle en veut pas d’Algérie. Elle trouvera autre chose. Tu trouveras une petite femme obéissante, tu verras.”
“Je veux Yasmina.” The statement was flat, final, like a hammer blow. “Pas une autre. Elle. Je vais continuer. Jusqu’à ce qu’elle craque. Et le jour où elle craque, frérot, je te promets qu’elle viendra s’empaler toute seule sur mon monstre. Elle le suppliera.”
He fell silent, brooding, his jaw working. Then, like a cloud passing from the sun, his expression shifted. The frustration melted, replaced by a sly, conspiratorial gleam. He turned his head and looked at Ilyes, a slow, mischievous grin spreading beneath his mustache.
“Bon. T’as fait ton travail de diplomate. Même si t’as échoué.” He winked, a crude, knowing gesture. “Faut que je te récompense, comme promis. Pour te motiver pour la prochaine fois.”
He stood up, the chair sighing in relief. He loomed over Ilyes, blocking out the sun, a mountain of muscle and intention. He stretched, his arms rising high, his abdomen pulling into a detailed, hard map of ridges. The bulge in his shorts was now at Ilyes’s eye level, thick and pronounced.
“Amène ta gorge en bas dans dix minutes,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper laced with promise. “Le sous-sol. Là où je m’entraîne. On va faire un petit entraînement supplémentaire.”
He gave his groin a firm, adjusting grab through the fabric, smirked, and then turned, walking with a heavy, confident stride toward the dark, cool mouth of the basement door at the side of the house. The shadow swallowed him whole.
Ilyes didn’t move. The sun burned the back of his eyelids. The taste from the morning—bitter, salty, profound—flooded his mouth again as his throat constricted in memory. The cicadas screamed. Somewhere in the house, a shower ran.
He counted to three hundred, each number a slow, deliberate beat in the furnace-like air. Then he got up. His legs felt loose, unsteady. He didn’t look toward the house, where his sister was washing off the sun and the conversation. He walked across the blistering tiles, towards the dark doorway, the silence behind it absolute and hungry.
For next chapter: Ilyes descends into the dim, dusty basement where Nassim has set up a makeshift gym. Nassim is training only with his swimsuit, his body gleaming with a fresh sheen of perspiration from doing pull-ups on a rusty bar. He turns as Ilyes enters, amused but happy. He asks Ilyes if he comes collect his reward. Ilyes starts massaging that body, impressed by Nassim’s very hairy legs. Nassim says that this morning should have been the last time Ilyes sucked him off, but since he has to reward him, he agrees to let him suck his big cock one last time. Ilyes gets on his knees and Nassim forces his thick, veiny cock past Ilyes's lips, already half-hard, and begins to fuck his throat with deep, relentless thrusts, his balls slapping against Ilyes's chin. Ilyes gags but takes it, then give him his ‘special treatment’: Ilyes sucks Nassim’s cock balls deep, all the cock ans the two massive balls at the same time. Nassim turns crazy and lost his mind, very verbal while seeing Ilyes choking on his cock. Je suis pas pédé mais putain qu’est-ce que c’est bon. Nassim talks non stop, about his cock, his muscles, his dream life with Yasmina, the way he will destroy her at night (la déboîter) yet the perfect husband at day. During an hour, he came 3 times in Ilyes mouth saying to enjoy the amount and the taste, because this is the last time for Ilyes and Nassim speaks French. They only talk in French. Nassim calls Ilyes ‘mon frère’ or ‘frérot’.