The middle-aged man in the suit was crowding me at the bar at Harvey’s in New York’s Chelsea district and talking dirty to me. I was smiling and nodding, but my eyes kept drifting over to the table, where a guy a bit younger and far better looking and built was giving me the eye. If he’d just been a bit more definite in his signaling, I’d have broken away from the suit and gone over to his table. It was the middle of the day, so traffic was light at Harvey’s. If I was going to eat that night, though, I was going to have to attract some paying action. I wasn’t really a pro at this, but there were a couple of days a month I was so stretched for cash that I had to turn a trick or two. This was one of those times. I needed to turn the freelance writing into something more steady, if I was going to hang on for much longer in New York. I wasn’t anxious to have to go back to New Orleans, where prospects weren’t much better.
I looked down at the twenty and five spots the suit was laying out on the bar. This—$25—and the beer was what he was offering for a blow job. I gave him another once over. He wasn’t so bad—pushing fifty maybe and could stand to lose a couple of pounds, but his face wasn’t too bad and his suit was clean and cut well. And he looked like he’d be easy to control.
“It will have to be here, in back,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere with you for twenty-five. And it will be quick.”
“Sounds good to me,” the suit said. I put my hand on the two bills, and the suit put a hand on top of mine. His nails looked like they’d been manicured. Maybe I was underestimating what it was worth to him. But a deal was a deal. I looked over to Craig, behind the bar, who I knew had one eye on us. He looked around the bar—you never knew when a vice cop would be sitting and watching, but the guy at the table didn’t look like a vice cop to me, or to Craig either, apparently. He gave a slight nod and inclined his head toward a beaded curtain-covered doorway to the corridor of rooms behind the barroom. Craig would get five of the twenty-five. I knew that back corridor well, as Craig knew what I needed when I came in here in an afternoon—never at night, as the clientele at night tended to be rough and the pros staked out their territory here at night.
Craig and I had an understanding. Once a month I showed up here at closing and drank a complimentary beer while he closed up. Then he took me into a room in the back and doggie fucked me. Once a month. For that and a small cut of my take he looked the other way and aided and abetted me—and gave me protection—when I had to come in here a couple of times late in the month to turn a trick or two to make it through the month.
This wasn’t a bar where blacks usually came—either bottom or top seeking—and thus I was a novelty here and probably attracted more favorable attention than the white rent-boys coming in here later in the day. But then I wasn’t full black, more what they called coffee and cream—with as many French, Dutch, and native South American features and ancestors as West African.
I pushed away from the bar—and out of the loose embrace the suit had me in, his hand on the arm around my back having dropped from my waist to my butt when I’d accepted the bills on the bar top. “Follow me through that door,” I said, “the one with the beaded curtain.”
The suit looked at Craig, who nodded at him.
As I moved toward the doorway, I looked over to the younger guy at the table. He was giving me a steady look, which I hoped meant “later.” If there was a later with him, maybe I wouldn’t have to come in here tomorrow. Maybe I’d make enough to see me to the receipt of the promised check from the Plenitude magazine. And if there was a later with the guy at the table, I wouldn’t mind it being more than a blow job.
The suit positioned me crouching on my knees, back to the wall, in the dimly lit corridor beyond the beaded curtain, with him standing in front of me, his arms extended to the back wall, boxing me in. This wasn’t my favorite position, as it gave the john more control over movement. I found it was the more experienced and demanding men who established this position rather than their back to the wall and me free to move in any direction I wanted or needed to anytime during the encounter. I had misjudged how easy this was going to be.
He established maximum control from the start, putting a hand against my bicep on either side, pressing me to the wall, while I unzipped him and took his half-hard cock out. He wasn’t particularly large, but he wasn’t small either. I did a double take, though, to find that he had a PA ring in his cut cock head. He was far from being a novice.
I cupped his balls and ran my tongue up and down the sides of his cock as it engorged and he whispered, “Yes, yes, take it. Good, good,” in a breathy voice. “Swallow it. Deep-throat it,” he growled.
I did, and everything was just fine for a while. I set up a rhythm of swallowing and then pulling back and sucking on the head, letting the PA ring click against my teeth so that we both could hear and appreciate the sound of it. But when he took his hands off my biceps and moved them to grab my head, I knew he was going to take this downtown—and he did.
We had about ten minutes of him face fucking me hard, him pulling my head into him as he thrust inside me, penetrating me deep and making me gag before he released. He only released when there was a danger of him coming; he wanted to get more than his money’s worth. When he came, he creamed my face, let loose of my head, and let me just sort of collapse down at the base of the wall, as he zipped up, turned, and pushed back through the beaded curtain.
I remained there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, licking his cum from around my mouth, and moaning slightly. In some ways that had been enjoyable, in others not so much. I liked giving up all control, but I didn’t like the back of my throat bruised quite that much or my teeth endangered by the click of the PA ring. I counted my lucky stars that he hadn’t been hung, but that wasn’t a twenty-five-dollar blow job. That was worth no less than fifty.
I went to the men’s room and cleaned up my face and straightened my clothes. He’d pulled my T-shirt over my head as I went down on my knees. I’d unzipped my shorts myself—and I’d beat myself off while he face fucked me, coming before he did. I had a little cleanup work to do on the front of my shorts.
When I felt presentable, I reentered the barroom through the beaded curtain. There was no evidence of the suit. He’d gotten what he wanted and had left. The man was still sitting at the table, however, his eyes going to me as soon as I pushed through the curtain. I’ll admit that my eyes had gone directly to his table too, hoping he’d still be there, and he was.
There were two beers on the table in front of him. I walked back to the bar, but before I got there, Craig gestured toward the room and said, “Guy at the table over there is buying you a beer if you’ll go sit with him.”
Bingo.
* * * *
“Jacques. You pronounce it just like J-A-C-K, but it’s spelled J-A-C-Q-U-E-S.” I didn’t see why I shouldn’t be open with him about my name—or anything else he wanted. He had a nice smile, and from what I could see of him, he had a good body. A great body if you took into account that he was probably in his mid-thirties. Although he was seated, I could tell that he’d be tall when he stood—big hands. He was starting to go bald, his forehead being quite high in the middle. But his honesty in not hiding that was fine with me. His face was good—his features rugged, but masculine. And, as I’d already noted, he had a nice smile—not predatory. Best of all, though, I had found that there was a hundred-dollar bill laying next to my beer glass when I sat down. That was worth me being open with him.
“I’m Phil. Jacques. That sounds French, but you don’t—”
“It is. My family is from Martinique, which was Dutch and French. And I’m here by way of New Orleans—a couple of generations back.”
“I could tell that you had some sort of accent. It sounds nice. Sexy.”
“And you could tell that I’m black, but not completely so. My people came to Martinique as slaves from Senegal, but, once there, they mixed with the Dutch and French. So, I’m quite a mix.”
“Quite a mix, indeed. The best of all the parts. You’re a beautiful young man, Jacques. I’m from Iowa. I guess if you shared so can I. Scandinavian before that, I guess. What brings you to New York from New Orleans, Jacques? I like saying that name. I’d think you would be perfect in a New Orleans setting. Not that you aren’t perfect right here too.”
“Thanks. I’m a writer. Or trying to be. It’s hard freelancing here in New York. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on here.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Newspaper and magazine features when I can.”
“Financial problems? That’s why you’re doing what you are here, in this bar? Why you went in the back with that man?”
“Yes.” He’d brought me back to earth and I was a bit irritated. “What is it you want, Phil? What do you want me to do for this hundred dollars laying here by my beer glass? Or did it just find its way on the table on its own?”
“You are quite direct, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have the time or privilege of being otherwise. There’s dinner to be paid for.”
“I’ll take you to dinner. I’m interested in your writing. I edit for the Gay City News. No, really I do.” I must have given him a disbelieving look. “We’re always looking for writing talent. I’d like to see some of your work.”
“Well, that’s a new come-on line. You’ll pay me hundred dollars to look at samples of my work?” There was a fifty-fifty chance he was shitting me about working for a newspaper just to get in my pants. If so, he was trying too hard. What I liked about him and that hundred-dollar bill was all he needed to fuck me.
“No, since you want to be direct. I’ll pay you hundred dollars to lie on your back and take my cock—twice, if I like the first time. Is that direct enough for you? And if I like your writing, I might give you a job. If you’re a good submissive, I might do both—give you a job—and pay to fuck you regularly. Deal?”
“Yes. Take me to dinner and then I’ll take you to my place, such as it is; show you samples of my writing; and let you fuck me.”
* * * *
“We have until midnight,” I said, as we reached the fourth landing of the old brownstone apartment house above a 29th Street Chinese restaurant. We were headed to the sixth floor. There was no elevator. “I have a roommate, but he’s a dancer and in the chorus of Hamilton. There’s a performance this evening and he won’t be home until at least midnight.”
Midnight was time enough for whatever we were going to do. I didn’t usually bring men home, but my apartment was close to where we had dinner and Phil Ames—he’d told me his full name over dinner and I’d told him mine, Jacques Rostoland—didn’t offer to take me to his place. So, he probably was married, I surmised. He told me he lived over in Brooklyn, close to the Gay City News office on Metrotech North and not close to where we were. He said he couldn’t wait as long as it would take for us to get there. That sounded like a nice excuse, at least. Plus, if he was on the up and up about being a newspaper editor and wanted to see a sample of my work, that would have to be at my place, where my laptop was.
He looked around, which didn’t take long, when we entered the studio apartment. It was essentially one room, with a bath, a kitchenette on one wall, and one window overlooking an alley and the brick wall of the building next door.
“There’s only one bed. You said you had a roommate.”
“Yes, one bed, and I have a roommate,” I answered. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” he answered and then gave a little laugh to cover the question he wasn’t asking. “You have samples of your writing to show me?”
“You want to do that first?” I asked, a bit incredulously. I already had pulled my T-shirt over my head and he’d given me a big smile. “OK,” I said when he seemed not able to stop looking to answer me. “The laptop is on the table over there.” I pointed to the small table with the two straight chairs pulled in under it. Other than that and the bed, we had a leather sofa and an easy chair. The large-screen TV was on the wall over the kitchenette appliances, the countertop refrigerator, stove, and the piece de resistance that justified the outrageous rent, a washer-dryer combination. “It’s just sleeping. I have a work in progress on it, but it’s far enough along to give you an idea of my writing. I did go to college in journalism—Southern University.”
“You went to college?” he asked, sounding a bit incredulous, as he sat down at the table, his attention away from me, and woke the laptop up.
“Yes, did I sound like I was a dummy?”
“No, you sound quite educated—with a kicky Louisiana accent. But you look like you are nineteen—at least I hoped you were. I was afraid to ask.”
“I’m twenty-two,” I said.
“Great genes then,” he answered, but his voice sounded a little distant. He was engrossed in reading my article draft I was freelancing for the Gay & Lesbian Literary Review. He left me fidgeting there for several minutes while he read.
“Yes. Very good. You can write.” He did some keying work on the computer and then said, “I’m serious when I say I edit for the Gay City News. Here’s our masthead. You can see my name. I’m also serious in maybe you working for us. What do you think—?” But then he stopped as he’d turned and looked at me. I’d stripped down and was standing there, naked. “Holy shit, you’re beautiful. And sexy as hell,” he said.
He forgot all about the laptop then and rose from the chair, stripping off his shirt as he did so, was close to me in two strides, went down on his knees, and took my cock in his mouth. His hands went to cupping my buttocks, which was a good thing, because he was so good at sucking me off that my knees turned to rubber and all that was holding me up was his grip on my buttocks and my hands gripping his head.
When I warned him that I would come if he didn’t let up, he let up and pulled his mouth off my dick. Then he stood as I went down on my knees; unbuckled and unzipped him; pulled his trousers and briefs down to his ankles, with him stepping out of them; and serviced his cock with my mouth. He was what you’d call a reddish blond on top, which got redder as the pattern of swirling tufts of hair covered his pecs and then descended in a line to his bush, which was a flaming red. His cock was long, at least seven inches, but not appreciably thick.
He was a considerate blow job subject, holding my head in his hands, crouching a bit to reduce his height to my convenience where I knelt, and moaning and whispering encouragement to me, letting me know what he liked and what he liked better, warning me when he might not be able to stem his coming and letting me back off and suck his balls until he signaled that I could swallow him again. I deep-throated him, but he let me control that completely, allowing me to pull off before I gagged on him.
He was attentive to me in the first fuck too. We were on the sofa, lengthwise, my back reclining against pillows jammed into the arm of the sofa, my ankles on his shoulders, as, on his knees on the sofa cushion, he worked his way inside me, his eyes capturing mine, speaking to me dirty in low tones, taking his time penetrating me to where his red pubic curlies mingled with my black ones.
Then, patiently, he held, fully sheathed inside me, more than seven throbbing inches of him, not seeming thick when I’d eyeballed his equipment, but feeling very thick inside me—and impossibly long, possessing me deep. We kissed deeply, and then he pulled his face away from mine, encircling my neck with his arms, holding me there in thrall, his cock throbbing deep inside me, as I built up the need for him. I writhed under him as much as his close embrace permitted, and, eventually begged him for the fuck. Then, with a low laugh, he started to pump me, with me primed to move my pelvis with him. He pumped me increasingly harder and faster, and I cried out in passion and went with him, my hand on my cock, stroking away to the same rhythm he was pumping me. With a cry I shot up his belly, and soon thereafter he stiffened, gave a low cry of his own, and filled the bulb of his condom.
“You’re very good,” he murmured afterward, still inside me, both of us concentrating on him going flaccid, but buried deep enough not to lose purchase. He was being considerate, bearing the weight of his solid six-something frame on top of my slim five-foot-eight on his knees and with his forearms resting on the arm of the sofa on either side of my chest, inside my own arms, which I had encircling his chest.
“You’re better,” I answered before he locked his lips on mine and we went into a deep kiss session, during which I felt his cock engorge again.
“You said there would be a second if you approved of the first,” I whispered as we came out of the kiss. “It feels like—”
“Yes, I want to fuck you again. Do you want it?”
“Yes,”
“Not just because I am offering you a job?”
“No, because your cock is magic and you make me explode.”
He laughed, pulled out of me long enough to retrieve another condom from the pocket of his trousers and crown himself. I saw him pause and lift his eyebrows when he tossed the used condom in the wastebasket next to the bed and saw others there. But what did he expect? Neither Greg nor I were good at housekeeping. He returned quickly, turned me over so that my belly was over the sofa arm and my head and arms were hanging toward the floor, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me. No long hold inside me to experience my buildup of need. He had his own need. He fucked me hard, fast, and deep, inclined like a board on top of me, the balls of his feet pressed into the sofa cushion, his hands gripping my waist, and fucking the hell out of me—making me explode.
“You want a beer?” I asked when we were done and he was back at the table, reading a finished article of mine on the laptop. We were both still naked.
“Do we have time?”
I looked at the clock on the nightstand, which showed that it nearly was 9:00 p.m. “We have time for that and more,” I said.
He laughed, but he continued reading on the laptop. “This is good, really good,” he said.
“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say, but then I did say, “You know I don’t offer a beer to a john after he’s fucked me unless I liked it.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said, but he continued reading for a while. I walked around the room, not being able to settle. I couldn’t stand being right there while someone was reading my work. It wasn’t like they were off somewhere else reading what already had been through editing, published, and paid for.
After several minutes, he turned and looked at me, and said, “You are so beautiful, and such a sweet lay. You want me to fuck you again? I want to fuck you again, but I wouldn’t pay for it. I’ve offered you a job. That should be enough for me to have privileges.”
I looked at the clock. 9:20 p.m. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me again. But shouldn’t you be getting home? Don’t you have a wife who’s expecting you home?”
“She knows I work all hours at the newspaper. It’s what newspapermen do; she’s used to it.”
No beating around the bush and pretending he wasn’t married. For some reason that made it better for me.
“We could use the chair this time,” Phil continued. “No mussing of the bed. Your roommate wouldn’t even know I’d been here.”
“I don’t give a fuck whether my roommate knows it or not.” If he didn’t care about his wife, why should I care about Greg? We weren’t married or anything.
He fucked me on the bed, more slowly and more sensually this time. I was stretched out on my belly and he was stretched out on top of me. He was fisting my wrists, holding my arms over my head, my fists wrapped around brass slats in the headboard. My legs were spread wide, held there by his. Both of us had our knees dug into the mattress, giving us leverage to move our hips. Our only moving parts were our pelvises, his rising and falling as he mined my ass deep, and me going with the rhythm he was setting. He had his mouth buried in the hollow of my throat and was whispering dirty words to me as he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me.
After we both had come, we relaxed and dozed, him still stretched out on top of me, our lips plastered together, and him still inside me, his hips slightly moving so that I could feel the full length of his penetration.
He didn’t leave until 11:30. “The address is there on the screen,” he said. “9:00 Monday morning. I’ll leave it to personnel to tell you about the salary and benefits, but I’m sure it’s better than you are managing now. You want the job, though, I have free access to your ass. And you keep clean for me. No barebacking. I now own your ass.”
“You can give out jobs just like that?” I asked.
“Yes. I do the hiring of the writers,” he said. And then he was gone, and I had a job at last.
He probably passed Greg, who was home early, on the stairs. The actor was in an exuberant mood, the Hamilton performance having gone well. He fucked me for an hour, not even seeming to notice that the bed was already messed up or that there were three condoms in the wastebasket that weren’t his brand.
* * * *
“What the hell sort of name is Rostoland?”
“No one I asked could tell me for sure, other than it’s either French or Dutch,” I answered. I’d let him think that I was Jack rather than Jacques. I didn’t think he’d care that there was a difference. He seemed the dominating type, which I, in fact, found attractive—especially because he was massive, all muscle, and he was black, black, black.
We were at DeStefano’s Steakhouse in Brooklyn. Phil had said there was someone he wanted me to meet, and Phil was still calling the shots between us—not so much during off hours as he spread his interests around a lot, but certainly while on the clock with Gay City News, where he’d come through in getting me a writing job that more than took care of my needs. I’d thanked him by doing a job that everyone above him thought was professional enough for me to merit the position without also letting him fuck me. He still did that well, when he did it. It’s just that life got in the way for both of us and we cooled down the hot and heavy within a couple of weeks. That had been almost three months ago, after the first time his wife breezed through the newsroom, picking him up for lunch, and I found that I liked her.
“Funny name for a black guy—although you aren’t that black. Black enough to be my kind of meat—dark meat, good enough for me to shoot one up your tailpipe.”
Was that why Phil wanted me to meet this Andre Jackson, I wondered. He’d been introduced as a photojournalist for People magazine. Phil had said it almost in reverential tones. The man was a real bruiser. Not much more than thirty and in bodybuilder shape. Not someone you’d want to mess with, certainly not in an alley. But he dressed expensively—casual, but it was all expensive. The sweater shirt had to be cashmere. That it was white and pulled tight over his muscled chest enough that I could see the form of the bar piercings in his nipples and get a hint of a left arm and pec busy tattoo pattern, that just added mystery and danger to him.
The nipple piercings hinted at gay; the crack about sending something up my tailpipe more than hinted at it—and a top. It had made me go hard. He’d be a forceful and cruel dominator, I was sure.
Was Phil selling me to him for some sort of return favor? For Phil to get an article in People magazine? Did I care? I wondered if he was a black bull—hung like a bull. He certainly met the specifications in external looks.
And then, yep, he had his hand on my thigh under the table top. The finger spread was massive, the grip strong. I laid my hand on his thigh. No pressure in the grip, though, signaling I was a submissive—and, more important, willing.
“The island of Martinique,” I explained. “My family came from there to New Orleans. Both the French and Dutch were prominent there—they messed around with their slaves sent over from Africa. I probably got the name the same way you got Jackson. Some white man laid your great-great-great slave grandmother. In my case, a Rostoland was the governor of Martinique when the slaves were all freed. Some family probably picked up the name in gratitude.”
“Well, you’re light skinned enough to almost pass—probably more than one plantation owner fucking his female slaves in your background.”
“Sorry,” I said, “that I can’t be as pure black as you.”
“No, no, on you it looks good.” His hand went higher on my thigh.
“Ditto on you,” I answered and did him one better. I was sure now that Phil was giving me to this guy for sex, and I couldn’t wait to find something out. I cupped his crotch. As I hoped, he was hung like a horse—and hard. He smiled and did the same with me.
Phil could hardly avoid knowing we were feeling each other up under the table. “Andre wanted to meet you, Jacques, because I’d mentioned to him that you were a good writer and he needs a writer to go on a People magazine assignment with him.”
“A foreign assignment?” I asked, turning my attention to Phil, who was sitting across the table from Andre and me. “Where? What sort of assignment. I’m not wild about going into war zones. Not really into bravery or bullets.”
“But you have a passport?”
“Yes. I still have family in the Caribbean to visit.”
“What are you into?” Andre asked. “Into what you are feeling up now?”
“I could be.”
“Ever hear of Gunther Weiss?” Phil asked.
“The male Mother Theresa? The guy with all of the awards? The guy who gave up a cushy medical position in Europe to go to Africa to save the people?”
“Yes, the same. Ever hear of Tambacounda?”
“No, can’t say that I have,” I answered. “Was it on the menu here?” I’d taken my hand away from Andre’s crotch, but he hadn’t followed suit. I widened my stance and scooted my butt to the edge of the banquette bench seat, and he was doing a serious fondle of my package. I was hard for him, and if he went on with this another ten minutes or so, he’d rub one out of me.
“That’s where Dr. Weiss’s clinic is. It’s in a very remote area of Senegal, on the West Coast of Africa. I think you told me your ancestors were from there—from where Senegal is now. I thought you might like to see where they came from. It pays eight thousand for two months plus all expenses. The two of you, Andre and you. It’s a ‘hunting Dr. Weiss’ piece for People. Something like the search for Dr. Livingstone or coverage of Albert Schweitzer when he went off to Africa to dedicate himself to caring for the natives. You wouldn’t be losing your job with the paper; you can come back to us at the end of the assignment, and you can get credit for filing any side articles you write while you’re gone.”
“Just the two of us? Is it just because I’m a writer whose ancestors came from Senegal that you’ve gotten Andre interested in me?”
“Not at all,” Andre said, with a grin. “It’s because I have this medical problem. I’m oversexed and have to fuck someone daily. Phil here told me that you not only were a good writer and have ties with Senegal but also that you were a great lay. If I choose you to go with me, I’ll fuck you every day.”
“If you choose me?” I said. “So, it’s not a done deal?”
“No, not without a sample. My hotel’s nearby—the Brooklyn on Clark Street.”
“I can show you a sample of my writing right here,” I said. “I have my laptop with me.”
“That’s not the kind of sampling I want to do,” Andre said.
“And if I don’t want to go to Africa on this hunt for Dr. Weiss?” I asked.
“I’m still taking you to my hotel and fucking the stuffing out of you. Are you going to object to that?”
“No, not at all.”
He had to be nine inches, thick and long. His muscles had muscles. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Phil sat in a chair across the room and watched the black bull with the jet-black monster cock lay me out and cock me for an hour and a half.
Andre sat on the side of the bed, feet on the floor, with me skewered on his cock, sitting in his lap, facing him, and pulled me on and off his. And he stood from the bed, with me draped on the front of him, and walked around the room, bouncing me up and down on his cock. And he fucked me on the dresser in the room, first with me supporting my torso with my fists gripping the front edge of the dresser and my back to the mirror, with my pelvis jutting out over the carpet, my ankles on his shoulders and Andre pulling me on and off the cock. And then with me doing the splits along the surface of the long dresser, facing into the mirror, my hands pressed on the dresser top in front of me to give me stability, while he stood behind me and fucked up into my passage.
Then, after a pause, he and Phil tag teamed me on the bed, me on my back, legs spread, and the two taking turns at me, crouched over me in a missionary fuck, while, exhausted, I lay there, docile, collapsed, panting, and moaning softly.
“So,” Andre asked, the three of us stretched out on the bed along each other’s bodies, me sandwiched in the middle, “Do you want to go to Africa with me?”
“Yes,” I answered in a tired voice.
* * * *
Over the first two weeks of our assignment, Andre and I went both forward and backward in time. We didn’t fly directly to Senegal. Andre wanted to establish the background on Dr. Weiss, so we went to where he was born, near Vienna, in Austria, and worked our way to London, where he initially worked, providing free clinics in slums, and then through Geneva, where he worked in UN programs, and Stockholm, where he had received international awards, and then, and only then, down to Africa, first to Tangier, and ultimately to Senegal, working our way from Dr. Weiss’s birth to the present.
Andre didn’t include me much in the research. Much of the reason I was along bore out why he said I mostly was along. Andre, indeed, wanted to fuck someone at least once a day. I was the sure once-a-day lay, but he also went out and cruised wherever we were, finding a rich pickup environment in the area of London where Weiss’s clinic had been located and an even richer environment in Tangier, which proved to have quite an enclave of a gay community. Even I was picked up at an outdoor café by a hard-bodied, rich Arab and fucked in a backroom set up like a harem at the back of his shop in the bazaar.
Andre shared with me only a certain amount of the information he was building on Weiss. There was a file on his working life, which I could peruse at will and use to write the section on his professional background, but there was another building file in the laptop on Weiss’s personal life that Andre wasn’t showing me and had put behind a password.
We were moving forward in time in researching the doctor’s background but backward in civilization from the doctor’s privileged childhood and medical schooling in Austria, to the rougher and more primitive slums of London to where we finally tracked Weiss down—in the remote Tambacounda region in the arid east of Senegal.
Tambacounda was a small city of some 80,000 people as well as an eastern region of Senegal, but Tambacounda proved just to be a stopping place, where we changed from rail to sturdy Land Rovers for the trip into the even more rugged and remote region to the south of Tambacounda to a small village, Koukari, where Weiss had his free clinic. Such was his renown and the quality of his services that he drew patients from throughout the Tambacounda region.
I was to learn the lengths that the people of the region would go to receive his services.
The clinic compound was a small village in its own right. He had an international staff of half a dozen doctors who were at the clinic for periods of varying lengths, working for free or on grants, for the privilege of being able to put service with him on their CVs. There also was a larger staff of Senegalese nurses, orderlies, and administrators in permanent residence, all of whom had to be housed. And then, in addition to the medical wards and dining and social halls, there was temporary housing for patients and their families who had come from all over the region for health care for one of their family members. All of this was supported by charitable contributions gathered via the Internet, corporate sponsorship, and humanitarian aid. Dr. Weiss’s fame was established such that that the gravy train of contributions was thick and rich.
Publicity was the lifeline of the operation, and, although we weren’t received for a formal interview immediately by the man himself, we were welcomed and given accommodation in a hut of our own. I should say I wasn’t received by Dr. Weiss immediately. I did see him soon after we had been driven into the compound, and it became obvious that Andre Jackson and Gunther Weiss already knew each other. The doctor came out onto the front porch of his medical building as we were unloading our baggage from the Land Rover, and Andre went up to the porch to talk to him, but I had been told to wait behind, near the Land Rover.
The two of them spoke at length and Andre gestured toward me. I could see that the doctor, a tall, gaunt, ruggedly built man with bushy gray hair and a ramrod straight back, looked at me with piercing grayish eyes, but I wasn’t called forth for introductions.
That didn’t bother me. My attention was taken with the bustle of activity around the compound and was accosted by, and lingered on, the figure of a chocolate-black man, in doctor’s white, leaning languidly against a porch pillar, smoking a cigarette, and looking at me with a smile I well knew. One of interest and desire. I openly returned the look, because he was a beautiful man, a mixed-race man, like me, who had benefited from the beautiful genes of each race.
As we stood there, one of the local staff members came to the bottom of the porch stairs with a Senegalese family in tow. The patriarch of the family was being carried on a litter by other family members, Andre drew aside while Dr. Weiss briefly talked with the staff member and the older woman who appeared to be the sick man’s wife. As they talked, they all turned to look at a young black man, no older than I was, who, looking down shyly, stepped away from the litter and turned full circle slowly. He was slim and perfectly proportioned, his only distinguishing feature being a strawberry birthmark under one of his eyes that was more interesting than off putting. He was only dressed in shorts and dirty sneakers. After a few moments of discussion, Dr. Weiss waved them away, and the local staff member escorted the family toward the patient housing sector of the compound. Weiss and Andre resumed their own short discussion.
My attention went back to the gorgeous man in white medical scrubs who was intently staring at me and smiling, and I was only pulled away from him by Andre’s return, with an administrative officer who took us to our assigned hut. When he had left and we’d both washed as best we could from the sink in the room—the showers were communal showers in their own buildings, one for men and one for women, centrally located in the staff area—we settled down to rest. The senior staff support buildings were separate from those used by the local staff, which, in turn, were separate from those used in the patient area. Our hut was in the senior staff area.
“It was a long ride and we’ve arrived during the midday sun retreat time. We might as well nap too before we start our work,” Andre said.
Andre’s idea of “nap” began with a fuck, meeting his daily need. We lay there on my cot, me on my back, him, crouched over me, above me, cupping my head in his hands, his cock some nine inches inside my channel and churning, as, moving my pelvis with him in the increasingly vigorous rhythm he was establishing, I closed my eyes and dreamed of the succession of men who had been inside me—or who I wanted to be inside me. The man I’d just seen, leaning against the porch post, smoking, and smiling meaningfully at me kept coming up in my visions.
Who was he? A doctor, it seemed. Where was he from? What was the mix of him? Was he as sensual as he was sexy?
I found some of that out when I left Andre snoozing on my cot and decided to take advantage of the compound being down during the height of the sun to go and take a shower. Not everyone was down. The patients’ housing quarter was astir with families milling about. As I passed along the edge of the quadrangle on my way to the men’s showers, which were walled off but open to the sky, I noticed something strange—several of the young men I saw had welts on their backs and chests. They didn’t look like old wounds either. Some sort of coming-of-age ritual in this region, I wondered. All of the men were young and well formed.
I was still mulling this when I got to the showers, but I stopped mulling that as soon as I stepped, naked, into the communal shower. I wasn’t alone. The mixed-race black doctor—or at least I had surmised he was a doctor—I’d seen earlier in the day leaning against a porch pillar and smoking a cigarette was in the shower as well. He was naked, and his body was magnificent—finely muscled, chocolate brown, perfectly proportioned—everything milk chocolate except that he had a jet-black cock and ball sac. He was nicely hung.
He was flaccid when I entered the shower, but as he turned and saw me there—and smiled—I discerned him getting harder. I couldn’t very well just turn and leave. And I didn’t want to turn and leave. So, I stayed. I stood under a shower spigot, and, when I was wetted down, I soaped up. Across the shower, the man did the same. It was like he was mimicking me—or that I was mimicking him. I don’t know which. Our eyes were locked on each other, so I couldn’t say who was taking the lead. All I can say is that I stayed there, soaping up and rinsing off, repeatedly, in consort with him. And I hardened up—also in consort to him.
There were two shower heads separating us. He was the first one to make a move, moving one showerhead closer to me. Smiling at me, welcoming me to move over as well—which I did.
I don’t know who was the first one to touch the other, but before I was aware of how we progressed into it, he was soaping me up and I was soaping him up. Then he was fondling my cock and balls, and I his. He was pressing down on my shoulders and I was going to my knees, taking his cock in my throat, and worshipping it with my mouth. He was hard as a rock when he raised me with hands under my arm pits, turned me, gestured for me to bend over and grasp my ankles, knelt behind me, and expertly ate out my ass and pulled my cock and balls through my legs and sucked them.
I moaned and gave a little cry when he crouched over my back, mounted my hips, drove his cock up inside me, and fucked me in a primeval, raw, flesh on flesh, taking, holding me in place with strong hands gripping my waist.
He fucked me deep in various off-beat rhythms that had me groaning and moaning and trying to get into the rhythm with his cock, which fully possessed me and managed to kiss and caress every inch of my canal wall, which spasmed at the touch of his bulb and the steel hardness and thickness of his commanding cock. My channel walls shimmered as I’d never felt before and the muscles of my inner surfaces gripped and rippled along the surface of his shaft. My knees went to rubber, but he held me up with the strength of his grasp on my waist.
I came in my stroking hand, the cum washed away by the stream of water from the showerhead we were standing under, and then he came as well in a series of spasms. I felt the warmth of his cum deep inside me.
He put his lips to the hollow of my neck, kissed me, and whispered, “We’ll have to arrange to meet tomorrow. There’s something you need to know.”
And then, as I let loose of his grip on my waist and sank to the concrete flooring of the shower, he was gone.
I hadn’t even asked his name. Could I face him again? I had been so wanton—just going with the flow of sensuality.
* * * *
An hour later I was facing the man who had fucked me in the shower, and both of us were managing to keep straight faces and act like this was a first meeting. The senior staff had a custom of meeting for drinks and a review of the day for an hour before dinner. In the rainy season, they met in the commodious living room of Dr. Weiss’s bungalow. In the dry season, as it now was, they met on folding lawn chairs on his front lawn around an open pit fire. This evening had been given over to Andre taking photos and starting with questions for the People magazine article. I was there to take notes.
My shower buddy turned out to be a surgeon, from France, Chase Clauson, who had only been in residence for three weeks. When I looked quizzical about him being French but also being some proportion of black, he volunteered, “Senegal was once a French colony. One of my great grandmothers was married to a French colonialist and went back to Paris with him. The French are egalitarian that way. Even the native-born people in French colonies were fully French citizens and welcomed in France proper. This is the first time I’ve set foot in Senegal, though.”
Clauson was a beautiful man and, as I’d already found out, a real stud, but the man who was the most commanding presence here was Dr. Gunther Weiss himself. There was no doubt that he saw himself as totally in charge and that no one here challenged him for that position.
He had the aspect of the Grim Reaper. He was old, for starters, but there was no question of him being in control, vigorous, and sharp witted and tongued. He dominated the conversation. And he didn’t permit me to fade into the background, either. He cast his piercing gaze on me as much as on anyone else, and I felt the need to give him both a concise and fully responsive answer to every question he posed to me.
“You are a bit young to be a magazine writer,” he said at one point in a tone that seemed to question my right to exist—and, most important, to be here intruding on his work, but did so without sounding unreasonable.
Andre came to my defense. “Jacques is quite a talented young man,” he said, “and he isn’t as young as he looks. He’s twenty-two. I think you’ll be pleased with what he can do.”
“I certainly hope so,” Weiss answered.
I don’t think I took that exchange as it was meant at the time.
Only young men were serving our drinks and the “sweet and savories” that went with them during this cocktail hour. They all were Senegalese and all were beautiful young men, clothed only in shorts. To my surprise, though, most of them had the welts on their chests and backs that I had noted earlier. It made me wonder again if such mutilation was part of a coming-of-age ritual in the local tribes. One young man wasn’t wounded in this way, though, and after looking closely, I thought I recognized him.
I turned to Andre, who was sitting on my right and said, “Wasn’t that young man with the family that arrived the same time we did today?” but it was Clauson, on my left, who answered, getting my attention by lightly touching my forearm with two fingers and sending a shudder of remembrance and want through my body.
“Yes, Amir just arrived today. His father is going to be treated—for free, of course—but other members of the family are asked to serve in some capacity, by Dr. Weiss’s choice, while they are here to help compensate for the food and lodging we give them.” I could tell that wasn’t all that Clauson wanted to say to me, though, and shortly thereafter when Andre and Weiss were conversing, Clauson touched my arm again and spoke in sotto voce. “I do need to talk to you—and more. I have two surgeries after dinner, though, so it will have to be tomorrow. Meet me at the front gate, please, a half hour before the afternoon rest period starts. If anyone asks, I’ll be showing you the nearby river. And that’s what I’ll do, but we also will have a chance to fuck.”
With that, he turned his attention fully to the discussion Andre was leading now with his questions about Dr. Weiss’s clinic and I went back to fulfilling my responsibility to take notes and to think of angles to approach the People article from.
After dinner, Andre said, “You can go back to the hut and enter your notes into the laptop. I have interviewing to do with Dr. Weiss, but I’ve clearly got the signal that he wants that done in private, just the two of us. I’ll discern what he’s willing to see in print and I’ll give you those notes to use to adjust your notes in the laptop.”
“I can do that tomorrow, during the rest period, in the administrative offices,” I said before leaving the dining hall. “That way you can nap tomorrow afternoon without interruption.”
Happily, Andre bought that. I went back to the hut and luxuriated in being alone for the evening so that I could dream of Chase Clauson’s magnificent body and masturbate myself to sleep.
I slept, but I woke in the night. Andre was in the other cot and was snoring loudly, which is what must have awakened me. I wasn’t going to go back to sleep until he turned on his side. I didn’t want to go over and turn him on his side, because I wasn’t in the mood for sex with him, and if he woke, that’s what would happen.
I quietly rose from the bed, slipped on my shorts and sneakers, and went out into the compound to walk off the energy that was coursing through my body. The compound was quiet, asleep. There was a light on in Dr. Weiss’s house and I heard sounds coming from the house. They sounded like moaning and some sort of snapping sound. I was drawn to it, and I walked to where I could look into the window of the room light was coming from.
I no sooner focused my eyes on the scene in the room when I too let out a moan and withdrew a few steps. But what the doctor was doing mesmerized me, and I was riveted to the spot for several minutes.
Dr. Weiss was naked and in upcurved erection. He was holding a multithonged whip in one hand. A small, naked, brown body was spread-eagled on a double bed, wrists and ankles restrained at the four corners of the bed. The young man was lying on his belly, but his face was turned to the window, and I recognized the young man by the birthmark under one of his eyes. It was the young Senegalese man who had arrived at the compound with his family at the same time that afternoon that Andre and I had arrived—the same young man who served drinks at the senior staff cocktail hour late the previous afternoon.
I had marked him at the time as the only young Senegalese man servicing who didn’t have welt marks on his body. That no longer was the case. He had welt marks on his back and the backs of his thighs now. He was moaning and quietly sobbing.
As I watched, Weiss dropped the whip, climbed up on the bed, positioned himself between the young man’s spread legs, fed his cock into the bound man’s ass, and started to fuck him.
I pulled away then and stumbled back to my hut. This was more of the doctor’s so-called humanitarian operations than I had ever wanted to see.
* * * *
We were lying in an area of beaten-down grass stalks, Chase Clauson on top of me, his legs parting mine, when we paused at the sounds of the motors of vehicles and the sounds of loud voices yelling from the nearby clinic compound. We couldn’t see the compound from this spot on the river bank in a field of tall grass, nor could we be seen from the compound. The depression we were in no doubt had been beaten down by wild animals coming to the side of the river to drink.
“What—?” I murmured.
“Shush. Think only of us, here, now. Me inside you,” Chase whispered.
He, indeed, was inside me, having taken his time—our time—in foreplay of kissing and fondling and licking and sucking until, with sighs, I opened my legs to him and begged him to fuck me. For many moments after that, all I could think on was that black shaft of resilient steel moving up inside me, causing my channel to spread and shimmer, the muscles of my passage walls to undulate over his cock, drawing it deeper inside me, and my pelvis to move with the rhythm of his penetration. His weight was on his knees between my legs, which were bent, the heels of my feet rubbing on his flexing buttocks, and one of his arms ran under my neck, pillowing my head as he looked down into my eyes. The hand of his other arm was slow stroking my cock and fondling and squeezing my balls, coaxing up my ejaculation.
The sounds of commotion had arrested him when we were both close to climax and we had to retreat a bit to build up toward the sought mutual explosion. Neither of us regretted the need from a second buildup in arousal to reach mutual satisfaction.
Concentrating on the fuck, as he had bid me to do, I managed to push the sounds of commotion from the compound into the back of my mind until after we had both tensed; jerked, almost in synchronization; and shot our wads.
“Now, will you tell me why you weren’t disturbed by the sounds from the compound?” I said. “It sounds like a raid of some sort. And will you get off me now? You’re heavy.”
“It is a raid. That’s why I coaxed you out here—so you wouldn’t be taken up in it. And, no I won’t get off you. I plan to fuck you again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You turn me on. I want to fuck you again.”
“No, not that. The raid. Why I needed to be brought out here. Why you aren’t in there. Why there’s a raid at all.”
“I’m covering you close because I don’t want you jumping up and going back there to get involved in what’s going on. I’m a doctor, yes. But I’m more than that. I’m an investigator for Interpol,” Chase said. “Interpol’s been hunting Dr. Weiss down for years—looking for evidence that he preys on young black men, not all of whom are ever seen again after he’s used them. He’s left questions and investigations from Vienna and London, on to Geneva and Tangier, and now to here. I’ve been here to document his activities enough for the Senegalese government to become alarmed and to move to close him down.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“Do you have any idea what Dr. Weiss likes to do with beautiful young black men?”
Then I surprised him. “Yes, maybe. I went for a walk last night. I saw him whip and fuck one of the young men who had come in with a patient yesterday.”
“Ah, yes, Amir. So, you should know then. Families here will do anything to get proper medical care for one of their own—especially the seniors of the family unit. Weiss doesn’t require money in exchange, but he requires something else. The young man you saw last night would have been providing the something else. Usually we couldn’t touch Weiss for his sexual predatory ways. Most young men agree to it to get medical attention for their loved ones. But there have been times when Weiss has crossed that line and his prey has disappeared.”
“I understand that. But, again, why did I have to be taken away? I’m just here to write a magazine article on the doctor and his clinic. If you thought I needed to be absent for the raid, why not my colleague, Andre Jackson, too?”
“I don’t think you are making the probable connection between you, Andre Jackson, and Dr. Weiss’s predilections.”
“I don’t see any—”
“Weiss preys on beautiful young black men. Some come to him willingly. Others are brought to him unwitting. You are a beautiful young black man. Dr. Weiss and Andre Jackson aren’t strangers to each other. Jackson has brought young men to Weiss before—and all of those men have disappeared afterward. Are you seeing why I’ve done what I have now? It was for your protection.”
“I see,” I answered. And then I certainly did see, and I know now why it was evident that Weiss and Andre seemed to have been acquainted already when we arrived the other day. And it explained why Andre was as interested in the sexual side of me as my writing ability when he recruited me in New York.
“I’ll help you find your way back to New York,” Clauson said. “Although you might like to come to Paris with me for a while before returning home.”
“The Clinic.”
“I’ve already arranged with Doctors Without Borders for a nonprofit to take over Weiss’s clinic here. It’s self-sustaining. It needed his name to get started, but now I think it will have enough backing to continue with the rest of the staff they have here. We can keep all of this quiet. Dr. Weiss can just drop out of sight and none of his sexual proclivities need be associated with the clinic’s good work. Weiss was getting to the point where he would have had to retire from it anyway. I think he only was hanging on to maintain his procurement chain.”
“Andre. What about—?”
“I didn’t bring Jackson out of the compound during the raid because he has much to answer to, as well. I’ll leave it to the Senegalese government to sort him out. All I want you to think about now is to concentrate on the fact that I’m hard inside you again.”
“You did say you were going to fuck me again,” I murmured.
And then he did.
I did make it back to New York six weeks later, right on time for when Andre had estimated the assignment would be finished. I’d gotten the eight-thousand-dollar fee up front and neither Andre nor anyone else was in the position to ask for it back—and I figured I’d earned it—so I kept it. I wrote up an article on Dr. Weiss’s work in Senegal, leaving out the extracurricular stuff, and sent it off the People magazine to do with it as they wished. They published extracts of it in an abbreviated side bar. On top of that, I’d sent several feature stories back to the Gay City News on the gay nightlife and lifestyle in Paris that I’d researched from a month of living with and being fucked by Chase Clauson in the City of Lights.
The publishers of the Gay City News were quite pleased with my articles and paid well for them. When I returned to New York, Phil was quite contrite for having introduced me to Andre. I hit him for a raise and he eagerly granted that. He wanted to resume fucking me, but I said I’d moved on to other types of men. What I wanted now was a hung, black Frenchman. I had a standing invitation to visit one of those in Paris—or anywhere else in the world that Chase was working as either a doctor or an Interpol agent.
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