He continued, however, breaching my sphincter with his wrist, and fist fucking me as I writhed in his grip, pulled at his hair, and gasped and moaned. I groaned as he pulled his hand out and pushed me down on the foot of the bed, on top of the plastic sheet that was still there from the earlier fuck.
I lay there, my back on the bed, my hand fisting and stroking my cock, as he stood over me and slowly undressed. He had a good, trim body. His cock was in erection. He leaned down, grabbed both of my ankles, and wishboned my legs. I moved my hands under me to my buttocks and used them to raise and roll my hips up to take the long slide of him inside me and focused my eyes on the slow-turning ceiling fan above my head that did little more than move the warm air around. I gave a little jerk and arched my back when he penetrated me with his shaft, but I settled right down as he grasped my hips in his hand and began to pump me.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Vous êtes un taureau de l'élevage!
—You are a breeding bull—
Un éléphant de bull!
—a bull elephant!"
All thoughts of anything else happening in the sleepy town or of the gross, intimidating General Assane Boulama floated out of my brain as the trim Frenchmen fucked me expertly and I gave him his money's worth in vocal response and the countermovement of my pelvis.
* * * *
Wanting to be alone for a bit, I had left the French businessman in his hotel room that Sunday morning, saying I wanted to attend church. He wasn't interested in doing so. He lay there on the bed on his back, smoking a cigarette and, his legs spread and bent, playing with his cock as he watched me dress. Our morning had started with me riding his cock as he lay on his back on the bed and rubbed his thumbs on my nipples.
I didn't really want to go to a church. I only wanted a bit of time alone. My buttocks—my passage—was sore from his fist. He didn't seem to have gotten enough of being inside me that way. He said it wasn't something he normally could do with a young man when he was in France.
"There is something about central Africa," he'd said. "Something primitive and permissive here."
"When in Niamey," I had muttered.
When he'd asked for an explanation, I had said, "It was something that the man—the French plantation owner—said to me before he brought me here. In France he fucked me, but he didn't mistreat me. He hinted at 'when we were in Niger, in Niamey,' we could be freer with sex. This was where European men came to indulge their extreme fetishes, he revealed. I didn't know that, by freer with sex, he meant he could beat and whip me. When he did that here and I let him know I didn't want it, he threw me out."
"So, the men you go with here don't beat and whip you?" the Frenchman asked.
"They do sometimes," I answered. "Especially European men visiting down here precisely for the privilege of doing that here and it being tolerated by the authorities as long as they came with money. I work for an escort service here that serves such men." I hardly had to tell him this, as if he didn't understand it. He was a European man, visiting here on business, but also to indulge his fetish. He had been led to me by the escort service.
"But—"
"I was here, alone, without funds," I answered. "It became a matter of 'when in Niamey.'"
"Interesting," he had said. "Freer here with sex," he said. And then he laid me out on the bed and fisted and fucked me again, not seemingly having any notion that this was in the category of beating and whipping and he himself said he would not subject a prostitute to in France.
"When in Niamey," he murmured.
Then, using my belt he tied my wrists behind my back and bent me over the bed and, with his belt, he strapped me on the thighs, buttocks, and back. In short order he splashed his cum on my back. It obviously was the first time he'd done this with a young man, and he found it arousing.
"I see," he said as he left me and went to take a shower. "Only in Niamey. Freer with sex. Very invigorating." He went to his wallet and once more dropped banknotes that went beyond the contract on my reddened buttocks in acknowledgement that the kinkier sex went beyond the norm. Any guilt assuaged by extra banknotes, I supposed.
When I left him, telling him I wanted to attend a church service, I was walking on the street, deserted on a Sunday morning, toward the river, when a black van pulled up beside me and three black men in army uniforms jumped out, grabbed me, and pulled me in the van. They pulled a burlap sack over my head, bound my hands, pulled my trousers and briefs off my legs, and as the van drove around the city, the three black men fucked me in succession on the floor of the van. Rough hands grabbed my hips and three cocks of varying thickness and lengths thrust up into my ass. Three cocks exploded inside me. Three flows of come were deposited in my ass.
During the whole time, not a word was spoken. Those at the escort agency had told me that this happened occasionally in Niamey. They used the phrase "When in Niamey." Central Africa wasn't like the rest of the world, they said. There were men in power here who lived only by their own rules. They said it was just the army taking its cut of the street activity and that I should just endure it if it happened to me—that the thugs would return me to the street after they had taken what they wanted from me.
"Even if they take your life, it isn't any more than another man contracting you through our agency would take from you, if you are unlucky. They just won't be paying for it."
They didn't return me to the street after they were done with me, though.
I was exhausted and cowed when I was dragged from the van into a building and dropped into a chair under yet another lazily whoop, whoop, whooping ceiling fan. The bag was pulled off my head and I was sitting on the other side of a big wooden desk from General Assane Boulama.
"It has come to my attention that you are practicing prostitution in Niamey without paying the entertainment tax," he said, looking at me sternly. He was a massive man. The desk was a large one, but he made it look small as he leaned on his elbows, made small gestures with his massive hands, and gave me a half smile. He had taken his beribboned jacket off, which was hanging nearby on a clothes tree. His chest muscles bulged, straining the material of his white shirt, which was open down three buttons. His chest was tattooed in some sort of blue tribal design.
"I wasn't aware that there was an entertainment tax pay," I answered. "I am represented by a lawyer, who perhaps you should contact. He pays all of my fees." That's what the escort service had told me to answer in relationship to their role with me—they were my lawyer. I didn't mention how I'd been manhandled on the way here. I instinctively knew that the general wouldn't care—or, if he did, it would be to consider the prurient details. I knew even then that, if he wanted to, he would fuck me too.
"You are responsible for your own fees," He said. "I claim the right to take the fee from you myself."
"I'm not sure what that means," I said, standing up from the chair. I was trembling all over, scared. The man was overwhelming. But I had to get out of there somehow. The only thing I could think of was a bluff—to move and to keep moving and to hope he was too slow to react before I was out on the street and running.
He wasn't too slow.
"I will tax you now," he said, standing and motioning to the men I hadn't realized were still behind me. They grabbed me and dragged me from the room.
* * * *
I was bound to some sort of platform in a windowless, concrete walled, ceilinged, and floored chamber. The most intimidating aspect of the chamber was that the floor sloped to a drain in the center and there were rusty marks in narrow streams running from the edges of the room to the drain. The obligatory ceiling fan was slowly whoop, whoop, whooping overhead. I was lying on a wooden board and my arms were raised above my head and bent back and tied off at the wrists on the top edge of the board. My pelvis was elevated on a wooden block. My legs were raised and spread, manacled at the ankles and pulled up by chains hanging from the ceiling. My butt was suspended over the bottom edge of the board. I was uncomfortable, but I wasn't in the worst situation of some of the others around me.
Sweating; naked, except for loin cloths; ebony bodies were moving about in the chamber. Other ebony bodies were tied to other pieces of restraint equipment in the room. I was the only European here. The other trussed up bodies were naked, as I was. Most of them were writhing on whatever equipment they were tied to, crying out at the crack of whips or the prodding of clubs. One or two of the bodies were silent, just hanging on the boards they were tied to. The sounds of screams, moans, and groans permeated the room.
I found I was moaning and groaning too. General Assane Boulama was crouched over me, staring down into my face with a cruel smile on his lips. He was naked, massive, save for a loincloth. He had a paunch but he otherwise was muscular and glistening with sweat. The sheer definition of evil power.
I was moaning because he was stroking my cock with one beefy hand. He lifted the other hand so that I could see it, the fingers bunched up, the hand and forearm slathered with grease.
