Escape from Al Moazaz (Patreon)

Another bunch of disgusting old Arabs, drinking sweet tea, eating dates, smoking hookah, pointing finger, and chatting excitedly. It doesn’t look like they talk about me, but ever so often I think their chatter circles back to me somehow, and they point and wave and chatter in that cackle they call language. They never talk to me, never ask me to do anything. I’m free to do as I please, go where I want, but I’m sure they are lying to me. I have to leave tonight, or it will just be more of this. It’s already been over a week, several days after he said this would all be over. I think so at least. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old geezer lied about the days as well.

I arrived on a Thursday at least. I checked out from Sheraton in central Dubai Thursday morning. There are no taxes and the workforce is underpaid African or Indian guest workers on rotation, so hotel rooms are cheap. The rental car was cheap too, and gas is practically free. It literally comes out of the ground here after all. I had severely overestimated how long it would take to drive from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. It was just a straight highway and I had padded the time table way too much. I was getting close after just one hour, too early to check-in, so I decided to drive around a bit in the outskirts. Free gas, as I said. That’s when I saw the fucker.

The buildings were spaced enough that by the time you saw one, the last one was gone from view, so it qualified as a rural area. Mostly rocks in between though, so I don’t know why anyone would like to live out here. But there he was, the old man, dressed in his white dishdasha robe and picnic table cloth around his head, smiling and waving towards the car to stop. I pull up in front of the house and exit the car. It’s a decent house, none of the luxury on display inside of Dubai. I’ve never been inside anything but hotels, mega-malls and skyscrapers here, so I have no idea what the interior layout would be, but the size is roughly what a suburban family house for four would be back home.

He bows and asks me to join him for tea, in really bad English. I realize this is a bit off the beaten track for tourists, and perhaps this is a good learning experience for both. I’d love to see some authentic middle eastern hospitality, and I’d be happy to talk about whatever the reason for him to invite me. I accept his invitation and follow him through the portal. Although only one story it is quite high up to the ceiling. Interestingly we only pass through a sparsely furnished room and back out again into some sort of shaded stone garden in the middle of the building. It looks very lived in, much more so than the room we just passed through. Tables, chairs, potted plants, and hookah things. There he beckons me to sit down on one of the most decidedly western garden chairs.

He disappears back into the building and I have a look around. I guess all rooms in the building have a window into this central garden. That explains why the house had so few windows on the walls facing out, and makes total sense with all the sun they get here. The man is back with a small tray with two small glasses with amber liquid. He places one glass in front of me and takes one for himself, and without saying anything invites me to take a sip. It’s sweet and tastes of apple. I’ve had this kind of tea before, and don’t really like it. It’s not tea in my opinion, but it's drinkable and it would have had to be something far worse to offend this old man in his home. That’s when I blacked out.

I’m not sure how long I was out, but it was evening when I came to. I was lying on a thin mattress on the floor in one of the almost unfurnished, completely white rooms. It wasn’t cold, it never is here this time of year, but I could feel air touching my body. The sun is setting fast here, but the light made an orange square on the wall opposite to the high window. Murmurs and sounds of people having a pleasant time filter in. I still am not completely awake, going through different scenarios like fainting of dehydration, when I realize that not only am I completely naked, but I look very different.

Instead of my lanky, pasty body, I have a much bulkier frame covered in deeply tanned skin, in turn covered in thick, black body hair. I slowly sit up, mesmerized by what I see. The tan is perhaps a trick of light, but the bulk and the hair is not. As if there is any doubt left, the dick and balls make it clear this is a different body. As with the body both are thicker and heavier. Unlike my familiar dick this one is also longer, circumcised, and weird looking.

I ought to freak out, flail and scream, but it is all so surreal and unexpected that I either am in disbelief or shock. Slowly I get to my feet. My much heavier body compensated for and more with extra muscles. There are no mirrors in the room, or really anything but me and the mattress, so I have no idea what I look like. Very different of course, that much I can tell. I feel my head and my face. I have no idea what my face should feel like, but I have a beard now. I have a nose and a mouth and ears. The hair feels the same as always.

As I move my hands down I feel a small chain around my neck. A thin necklace with no pendant and no clasp or mechanism I can find with my fingers. It sits loose, but tight enough that I probably wouldn’t get my head through it should I try.

I don’t know what to do next. It is like the first room in an adventure game and I’ve just figured out the controllers. Just as I am about to exit I see a piece of white cloth on the white floor in front of the door. A pair of tight shorts that I put on right away. It looks obscene, almost worse than being naked. The white fabric stands out against the dark skin, drawing attention to the big dick and balls wrapped in tight cloth.

The house on the other side of the door is mostly deserted. Some furniture, but I suspect he lives alone and only uses a few rooms. It doesn’t take long to follow the sound and find a different exit into the courtyard than the one I entered through the first time. It looks the same as when I entered, but with a completely different feeling. Instead of the harsh sun everything is bathed in the orange glow of dusk. A few lamps are lit around the courtyard, and around a table sits the old man together with a few similar looking old men.

One of them sees me and utters a few Arabic words, and they all turn towards me. There is a short beat of silence and then they all burst into chatter. One of them is laughing, one of them continues staring at me, but they all appear happy. The focus shifts to the old man. They treat him like it’s his birthday or he just won a bet. One of them jumps up, spry for his age, and walks up to me. He inspects me, giving remarks back to the seated group. It’s when he prods me with his finger it feels like a spell breaks. Suddenly I’m not walking through a dream, but this is actually happening. I’m actually in this place, with these men, looking like this.

I tell him to stop. He just laughs. The old man waves at the table, inviting me to dates, harees, and flatbread. That for some reason angers me. Hunger is the least of my concerns right now. I demand to know what he has done to me. The men go from smiles to laughter. The angrier I get, the funnier they think it is. It’s only a joke, the old man tells me. It only lasts for a few days, he says. I storm back into the house and out the other side only to find my rental is gone. I quickly realize that standing in just underwear outside is not going to go down well with the police, or anyone, so I return back into the house to look for my clothes.

I don’t know what the rational thing to do is. None of this follows any reason. Perhaps I can squeeze into my old clothes, run away and then figure out who to contact. I freeze. The local police would probably be useless. The embassy would laugh me out. I might be able to convince someone back home, but I don’t even have a way to call them. All of that is true if I stay here as well.

I search the entire building, room by room. Despite the large house, it doesn’t look like the old man has much. The rooms are sparsely furnished, if not right out empty. A few rooms, like the kitchen and his bedroom, looks more normal. Nowhere do I find my stuff though, or any other clothes that would fit for that matter. We only share the same size in sandals and head scarfs.

I’m stuck, I realize, in a soft prison. Even if I could leave the house, I couldn’t leave the country. Even if I could leave the country, where would I go? Dejected I walk into the courtyard again. Some of the old men look my way, but largely ignore me as they talk about something. I sit down on a remote chair and watch them. I could kill them all. They are all really old, but probably not that frail. It would probably be a drawn-out fight with leathery, hard to kill old Arabs, but I’m sure I could do it. But that wouldn’t do me any good. I would still be here, stuck, and wanted by the police. A hard prison is worse than a soft prison.