Coffee, T, or Me

“Nice Shirt.”

“Thanks,” Eddie Bocco answered. The man who had swung into position in front of him on the dance floor of Club Hercules was gorgeous. He was massive, muscular, and black--a black black even for Africa. Coal black. In contrast to Eddie, the man wasn’t wearing a shirt at all. His torso was god-like and gleaming with a thin veneer of sweat in the crowded, sweltering gay club. The building, in a high-walled compound, was hidden behind a warehouse on Ngalo Road in the Eastern suburb of Arusha, Tanzania, in the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro.

Eddie, a far creamier brown than the man dancing in front of him and towering over him despite the fact that Eddie wasn’t exactly short himself, had chosen to go in brown himself when he’d set out to find the secluded club, hidden because Tanzanian laws weren’t gay friendly. The T-shirt, over silky, brown, baggy shorts that matched Eddie’s skin color, also was brown, its background motif being an endless array of coffee beans upon which the inscription, in white, of “Coffee, T, or Me” blazened across the chest. Despite his athletic build Eddie was a submissive bottom and the T-shirt was meant to convey that. He’d picked it out of a bin in an Abercrombie & Fitch store in New York because it was coffee--coffee plantations, to be precise--that had brought him to Tanzania. It was upscale enough in material and the tailored way it draped that it commanded attention here.

The T-shirt was a bit loose on Eddie’s torso, although he was nicely muscled; it would have fit tight as a drum on the chest of the Tanzanian man who was gyrating in front of him, moving ever closer into him, and giving him a stripping assessment with his eyes. The grin on his face and his zeroing-in movement while swaying to the music signaled his interest. Eddie’s eyes went to the man’s crotch, and the bulge he saw there made him smile. Eddie wanted this man to fuck him. He jutted his pelvis out, and getting the signal, the man jutted his forward as well, and they were both swaying to the loud music with the heavy beat with their baskets rubbing against each other and their torsos arched back so that each could admire the psychic of the other. The nipples of both were taut and puckered, ready for sex. In a way, with their dicks rubbing against each other, they were having sex.

When the music stopped, Eddie found his face being pulled into that of the other man by a beefy hand cupping his neck. They kissed, with the man forcing Eddie’s lips open with his and giving him tongue. Eddie liked a forceful man. He liked everything about this man. He wanted this man’s dick inside him.

“My table’s over there,” Eddie said as they came out of the kiss. He pointed to the shadows back in a corner.

He turned and went to his table, assuming the man would follow him. He didn’t, though. Eddie shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. The night was young. If nothing else, the luscious black bull had gotten Eddie’s juices going. He went to his table and sat, reaching for the half-full bottle of Serengeti Premium he’d left there. The word “prombe” entered his mind, which was Swahili for “beer” the barman at Club Hercules had told him. It was the first word Eddie had learned in Swahili since landing in Tanzania from the States earlier in the afternoon.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him wince, and the gorgeous black muscleman was there, banging a beer bottle down on the table top and pulling a chair up close, the back reversed to the table. The man was drinking a Bia Bingwa, a much stronger brew than Eddie’s Serengeti Premium, he knew, from having quizzed the barman about the options. It made Eddie shudder deliciously at the thought of how much stronger the man seemed in every way.

Sinking onto his chair, very close beside Eddie, the man took a deep and noisy pull on his beer, set the bottle down, reached under the table top, and grabbed Eddie by the balls through the thin silk of his boxer shorts.

Eddie winced, nearly yelped, and turned his face to the man with a pained expression on his face, but he felt his legs go to rubber and spread apart as the man’s hand squeezed, twisted, and released; squeezed, twisted, and released; squeezed and held. Eddie’s eyes were watering, his dick hardening. His buttocks involuntarily pulled closer to the front of his chair and, with a laugh, the man took a fuller handful of balls and cock base. He came in for another, deeper, more possessive kiss than they’d engaged in on the dance floor. Eddie’s moan was audible.

“You take it or give it--or both?” the man muttered as they came out of the kiss and he jutted his free arm between their bodies, grabbed his beer bottle and took another deep drink. He maintained his grip on Eddie’s package with the other hand. His accent was thick, but his English was understandable. As Eddie couldn’t speak a lick of Swahili, although he’d heard it often enough in his home back in D.C., he wouldn’t criticize the man’s English.

Besides, the grip the man had on Eddie’s jewels was all the language the man needed. He was crude and promised to be rough. That was enticing to Eddie. He’d been having it vanilla for too long. He’d thought that Tanzania would be cruder, more primitive. So far this had borne out.

“I take it mostly,” Eddie answered in a voice he found surprising hoarse and foreign to how he thought he spoke.

“You’ll take it here, now, from me? You gonna lay down nice a pretty for me on this table top and take my dick?”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I don’t have time to waste. You’ve got a great bod and your face is easy on the eyes too. You an athlete?”

“Professional footballer,” Eddie answered.

“Thought it was something like that. I’d like to get my hands in these shorts of yours.”

“You’re almost there now,” Eddie quipped.

“And you haven’t objected.”

“No, no I haven’t. I don’t have a lot of time to waste either. Go ahead, dig in.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” And then he did, stuffing a hand under Eddie’s waistband and grabbing both balls and the base of Eddie’s cock in his grip. Eddie winced and widened his stance. “Nice. So, am I going to fuck you? If not you, I can find someone else. You?”

“Yes, I think you’re the big boy I was looking for. You can fuck me if you’ve got more than eight inches.” It was what Eddie had come here for.

The man laughed. “Good. I’ve got an inch more than that for you. Drink up. You need to take a piss.”

“I do?” Eddie asked, with a croak. But, submissive that he was, he reached for his bottle of Serengeti Premium and finished it off.

“Yes, you do. The pissoir is outside.”

The bathroom--men only; there was no reason to have a women’s room at the Club Hercules--was in a cinderblock building against the compound wall at the side of the main entrance to the club. The courtyard there was dirt-floored, as was the floor of the outhouse. The urinal was a tin trough running down one side of the room. The stalls were on the other side, their wooden doors covered with graffiti, half the doors just hanging on a hinge. Glory holes were carved between each of the stalls. Two of them were occupied when Eddie entered, with the muscleman at his back. A black man was in each of the stalls, one man sitting on the toilet in the stall nearest the exit, beating his meat and sucking on a cock extending through the hole into the stall next door.

Two men brushed by them, headed back to the club, the hand of one cupping the buttocks of the other. At the black bull’s direction, Eddie leaned over the trough, his arms extended over his head, the palms of his hands pressed into the cinderblock wall, his shorts down around his ankles, while the man stood close beside and turned to him. He cupped the root of Eddie’s cock and his balls while Eddie pissed into the trough.

Then the man stroked Eddie off with his hand, rather quickly, as this thoroughly aroused Eddie, his spunk hitting the wall above the level of the trough. When Eddie had shot his load, the man moved around behind him, dropped his own shorts, mounted Eddie’s ass, and fucked him. He held Eddie in position, leaning over the trough, as he did it.

Eddie groaned at the thickness of the cock inside him and the depth it was able to achieve, as the man brutally forced himself in to the hilt and held, waiting for Eddie to accommodate him, which wasn’t easy, because the guy’s throbbing cock was thickening and lengthening even as he held there. The man was covering Eddie close. Nine inches indeed, Eddie thought, with a deep moan and panting hard. He’d never taken one this thick and long--certainly not being stuffed in right off the top to torture Eddie until he could take it. When the stroking began, cruel, vigorous, and brutal, the black bull pulled Eddie’s T-shirt up and off his arms. Lost to the cruel fuck, it was all Eddie could do to hold position.

While Eddie was being fucked--when he’d adjusted to the size and brutality of the crude fuck and the two of them had settled into a rhythm that no longer made Eddie want to scream--men came in and left the bathroom. No one registered surprise. Some lingered to watch. Taking inspiration, a couple of men took up station down near the end of the trough to mimic what the muscleman was doing with Eddie. Everyone in the bathroom was black, but none as black as the bull fucking Eddie was. Presumably all but Eddie were Tanzanians. This wasn’t a club for whites or foreigners. And even Eddie was only first-generation American. His parents had come from Dar Es Salaam.

The black bull covered him close from behind and above, large enough to make it seem like Eddie’s body--not itself small--was folded inside him. Eddie felt so plastered to--so one with--the man when they had established a rhythm that, once he’d settled down to no longer believing he would die from the assault, he raised his feet off the dirt floor and wrapped his ankles around the man’s meaty calves, taking what weight the man didn’t bear on his arms pressed into the cinderblock wall. He was being clutched to the man’s body with the man’s arms running up his torso, one hand cupping Eddie’s pecs, his thumb stroking Eddie’s nipple, and other one gripping Eddie’s throat. The bull’s chin was lodged into the hollow of Eddie’s neck, his lips pressed to Eddie’s earlobe, the man’s tongue fucking Eddie’s ear channel, breathing heavily as his hips moved, causing his cock to churn and expand inside Eddie’s channel, as Eddie’s passage continued to soften and to yield stretch and depth to the mining cock. Eddie felt his passage muscles ripple over the surface of the hard shaft, a feeling he hadn’t enjoyed for years in his sex life. Not since the thrill of the fuck had receded into vanilla sex routine with the guys who regularly fucked him.

This wasn’t routine. This was the thrill of the fuck.

Only belatedly did Eddie wonder if the man was using protection. This came to mind because the men fucking beside them weren’t. The top next to him was staring at him as he fucked the other, slender, young Tanzanian. By watching the long strokes the top was taking, Eddie realized that he was gauging the rhythm of his fuck to the rhythm Eddie’s top was taking. A chill of extra pleasure went up Eddie’s spine at the fantasy that all of Africa was fucking him. Certainly the bull fucking him was big enough--both in stature and equipment--to stand in for all of Africa.

The man covering him tensed and jerked--and pulled out of Eddie. Eddie saw the spent condom splash into the trough below him, and he sighed with relief. He’d been more worried whether the guy was using a rubber than he’d thought.

When he pulled away from the wall, delayed by a moment because the guys next to him were getting it off, the top spouting up the back of his bottom and a hand of the top milking the bottom into the trough, Eddie’s guy was gone. So was Eddie’s T-shirt.

He left the bathroom and went back into the club to see if he could find the guy who had fucked him, but Eddie didn’t see anyone familiar among the gyrating, black, sweaty bodies crowded into small room surrounded by a cacophony of raucous noise.

He felt too high from the exotic and dirty fuck to be too mad over the loss of the T-shirt. He hadn’t been fucked that dirty ever before and it put him on a high. If Africa was going to be like this, he might spend more time here--now that he had property here. The dirty fuck he’d just had had sent him so much higher. His wad had been so much fuller, the ejaculation so much stronger. His sex life in D.C. had gotten to be too vanilla.

He left the club and walked east on the dark, dirt-surfaced Ngalo Road, back toward the lights of the A104, which was Sanawaril Road on this side of Arusha.

He sensed more than heard the open-backed pickup truck that glided up next to him. He looked around but got no more than the sensation of black, shirtless men sitting around the rim of the truck bed before hands reached down, pulled him up into the truck, and forced him down on his belly in the bed of the truck, which kept gliding along toward the A104. A dozen hands were holding him down, spread-eagling him, pulling his shorts and jock off his legs, tying his wrists and ankles off at the corners of the truck bed, and stuffing his mouth with the jock.

He was stretched out on bags of what was probably, from the aroma of them, coffee beans. Extra bags were under his belly, raising his buttocks. From each direction he turned his head, all he could see were the black, muscular, bare legs of men sitting along each side of the truck bed as the truck moved out onto the macadam road and picked up speed.

Eddie groaned as the first of many men mounted his ass and fucked him. Having been reamed big by the stud in the outside john, Eddie had no trouble taking that dick--or those that followed, although it seemed to him that Tanzanians were built big. A spent condom was dropped on the floor of the truck bed next to his face as each man finished and was replaced with the next. After a while the truck was no longer moving. It was parked somewhere in a warehouse district with just the murkiness of light from distant street lights providing Eddie with some semblance of location in the moments he could focus on anything but the variation of size, depth, and intensity in the violation of and pounding in his ass canal.

When the truck had stopped, he heard the cab doors shut, felt the dip of one side of the truck bed, as a massive body climbed over the side--a bulging chest straining at the material of a brown T-shirt carrying the inscription in white of “Coffee, T, or Me.” The next cock inside him was the thickest, longest, most vigorous yet. It dove right for his Eddie’s intestines and held there, throbbing, waiting for Eddie’s passage muscles to shimmer and caress it. When they had, the stud began to pump.

Eddie couldn’t help himself. Before now, he’d just laid there, docile and submissive, letting them fuck him without a struggle, as he did enjoy being fucked and they weren’t otherwise manhandling him. But when the guy who had mastered him at the club mounted his ass, Eddie became one with the fuck. His pelvis went into motion. They moved together, like long-time lovers even if they’d done it only once before. The man’s calloused hands glided up Eddie’s body, palming his pecs and bowing Eddie’s shoulders back into his chest. They rocked back and forth on each other, becoming one mechanism, Eddie relaxing more, going soft for the man, yielding up his very core, as the man’s cock stretched the passage walls, reached ever deeper inside Eddie--possessed him fully--pumped him faster and harder, faster and harder yet.

Eddie shot his load, something he hadn’t done for any of the other men in the truck.

It was a night to end all nights. Nothing had happened to him like this. He should have been frustrated and angry. But all he could think of was becoming one with the magnificent man who, gripping his hips with strong, beefy hands, and mining his channel deep, was giving him the second glorious fuck of the night. Even the gangbang by the rest was giving Eddie a memory of Africa that he’d never forget--would always melt too.

They left him at the side of the road, which he found, indeed, was in a warehouse district. One of them stood up in the bed of the truck and pointed the way for him to head back into Arusha. The man was grinning. Although Eddie couldn’t return the grin on the outside, he could feel one on the inside. He knew this wasn’t how he should react. He knew he should find a police station. But he knew he wouldn’t. He felt alive, sexually, for the first time in years. And he knew that the attitudes toward homosexuality in Tanzania were such that he might find himself more at the center of attention and public persecution here than he wanted to be if he made a fuss.

A signpost told him he was on Industrial Road, which ran into Esso Road, which led him to the macadamed Factory Road. Yep, he was in a major warehouse district. The lights of downtown Arusha were toward the north. He turned right and started jogging into town, moving long distances at a fast pace being no challenge to him. The challenge was not to let his mind dwell on how sore his ass was. He jogged shirtless, only in baggy shorts. This didn’t make him that much different than a good many other men walking on the road. He felt like he was becoming Africa. He found that it was a good feeling. After a while, he saw the glass tower of the Naura Springs Hotel rising above the trees and most of the other buildings of Arusha. A luxury hotel; his hotel. He wondered what those guys gangbanging him tonight, especially the muscular bull god now wearing his “Coffee, T, or Me” T-shirt, would think if they knew who he was, where he had come from, and that he was staying at the Naura Springs Hotel.

Somehow he was glad they didn’t know that--that they had shown him how down and dirty, basic, and primitive--and exhilarating--man fucking could be.

* * * *

“Whatever you decide, the deal on the Makuyuni coffee plantation holds, Edward. We do wish you to reconnect with your roots.”

Eddie Bocco was relieved to hear that from the man sitting across from him in the Naura Springs Hotel’s Magnitique Rafiki Bar. It wasn’t hard to believe that Erasto Haroub was a power in the region. Eddie had watched him arrive. Everything exuded importance, from how the lobby staff rushed the entrance when the black Bentley drove up to the very look of the man. He was obese, a reflection in much of Africa of status and wealth, but he was elegantly tailored and it seemed like the gem-set rings on his fat fingers had rings of their own. Ropes of gold chains hung on his chest. He was accompanied by an entourage, which split off one at a time from the front entrance of the hotel to go to guard stations, until, when he met Eddie at the door of the bar and pumped his hand with a strong but sweaty grip, there was only one man behind him--a very handsome man indeed, who was as elegantly dressed as Haroub but with none of the signs of obesity.

It was the coffee plantation on the slopes of a small mountain above Lake Manyara in the Great Rift Valley that primarily had brought Eddie back to the land of his ancestors. Of secondary interest to him was the JKT Ruvu Stars, a Tanzania Football Association soccer team, homed in Dodoma. The Makuyuni coffee plantation was located half way between Arusha and Dodoma, and Dodoma was the apparent fiefdom of the man sitting across the cocktail table from Eddie.

Eddie knew that it was the Ruvu Stars team that was all important to Haroub.

“Thank you, Mr. Haroub,” Eddie answered. “It means a lot to me to have a foothold in Tanzania again. When do you want me to come to Dodoma to meet with the football team coaches?”

“Soon, of course. Very soon. But I don’t want to rush you with that. The weekend is coming up and I know you’re dying to get a taste of Mount Kilimanjaro, which is so close. So, I’ve brought along Amri Kapombe here to guide you around for a few days before you come to Dodoma.”

Ah, so that is what this other man is doing here, Eddie thought. He looked at the man sitting off to the side and giving him a movie star smile. Haroub had selected suspiciously well. The man was impossibly handsome, towering, and broad across the chest. As big as Eddie was, he sought even bigger men for partners. Eddie assumed he was a player for the Ruvu Stars. Kapombe had the dark complexion of a Tanzanian but the features of a Caucasian. He likely was a mixed breed descending from when the whites ruled the area. He was tall and muscular without being overdone in the bodybuilding department. He was finely tailored and he held himself as someone who knew he was divinely put together. If Eddie had to guess, the man probably was just under thirty, a couple of years older than Eddie himself. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled as did his perfect teeth.

“Amri is one of my lawyers now, but he trained as a Kilimanjaro guide, so he will give you excellent tours of the area. And he will take care of all of your needs.”

Ah, so not a footballer . . . a handler, Eddie thought.

“All of your needs and desires,” Haroub repeated, giving Eddie what was obviously meant as a significant unspoken understanding. The smile Amri gave him at the same time drove home Haroub’s meaning. So, they had done their research well. “We want to make you as comfortable as possible here,” Haroub said. “A striker like you is all that the Ruvu Stars lack to win a national cup and to go on to international competition. We are prepared to give you anything you want to have you playing for the team. Amri will show you a good time for the weekend and then drive you to Dodoma next week, stopping to look at your coffee plantation. Even after that he will be available to serve you however you wish.”

It may have been coincidental, but probably not, that it was at that moment that Amri changed his stance in his chair at a short distance from where Eddie and Haroub were sitting across each other at a cocktail table. He widened his stance and let a hand with long, elegant fingers drop down to draw Eddie’s attention to the bulging basket of his carefully tailored suit trousers.

So, that was it then, Eddie thought. They wanted him on the sports team enough to find out what he wanted and to provide it. They knew not only that he had outstanding stats as a forward for the D.C. United soccer team in Washington, D.C.--and beyond that, a striker, the term given to a high-scoring forward. They also knew about Eddie’s sexual proclivities and that he was looking to move on to another team because of a bad breakup with another D.C. United team member that Eddie was trying to put behind him. It was likely they knew even that he was a seeking submissive. Only one way to find out, he supposed. This Amri was a fine-looking dude. And that basket . . . their research must have extended to finding he liked them hung.

“Thank you, Mr. Haroub. You don’t really have to go to all of this trouble. I could rent a car and find the plantation myself, I’m sure.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all. Amri is completely at your disposal and would be delighted to service you.” Eddie looked over at Amri who was smiling, nodding his head, and coming as close as he could to cupping and rubbing his crotch without actually touching it. Eddie was somewhat amused that Haroub had said “service” rather than “serve.” He must have worried that Eddie hadn’t gotten the point. But of course he had.

“We’re leaving Amri a Land Rover--you’ll need that to get to the resort on the lower reaches of Kilimanjaro--you have weekend reservations there. And he’s checking in here for the night. The only problem is that there’s been some mix-up in the room reservation. That will be straightened out before I leave.”

Both Haroub and Kapombe looked expectantly at Eddie. Eddie guessed that Haroub wanted this deal settled before he took off.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” he said, smiling at each in turn. “Amri can come to my room. If they can’t find a room for him, he can bunk with me. There are two beds in the room.”

“Very good,” Haroub said, with a satisfied sigh, as he worked hard at pulling his massive body out of his chair and standing. “I have business in Arusha today before returning to Dodoma. So, I will leave you to your pleasures. I am looking forward to seeing you at the Sheikh Amri Abeid Stadium in Dodoma next week.”

There was a flurry of handshakes all around and a meaningful look conveyed from Haroub to Kapombe and then Eddie was alone with the tall, well-built, elegantly dressed, handsome, and bulging-crotched Amri. It was obvious that the man had a hard on. Eddie was pleased that he seemed to be pleasing to the man and that his duties wouldn’t be too onerous for him. Eddie had to admit that he was hard too.

“So,” Amri said, the first time Eddie remembered him speaking and speaking in a smooth baritone that went with the rest of the package, “Another drink perhaps, or . . .”

“Unless you’re thirsty, we could go on up to my room and you could show me what you can do in bed.”

A grin ran across Amri face. “I think I can fully satisfy you. I was on the Tanzanian Olympic gymnastics team.”

That figures, Eddie thought.

Twenty minutes later Amri was proving out his boast. He had his knees pushed under Eddie’s buttocks, with Eddie’s legs spread wide and bent, his feet on the surface of the bed for leverage as the two vigorously bounced their way to the wild movement of Amri’s cock inside Eddie’s passage. The Olympics had given Amri a high level of stamina; he could thrust for over a half hour at a time. And Eddie, a professional athlete, was fit enough to take it. The headboard was beating a tattoo against the wall; the springs were squeaking ominously. Both men were naked. Their intertwined, undulating, muscular bodies were perfection in motion.

They had stood inside the closed hotel room door, plastered to each other’s bodies, as they kissed and Amri slowly opened them both up, frotting their cocks together with one hand when he had them both exposed while he worked at disrobing them both with the other. After laying Eddie on the bed with his legs hooked over Amri’s shoulders, Amri planted the palm of a hand on Eddie’s sternum, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was under Amri’s control on the bed, sucked him to an ejaculation, and then it was straight to the fuck. He laid Eddie flat out on the bed, nudged his knees under Eddie’s buttocks as Eddie reached over his head for the headboard to hold himself steady; fed a long, thick, black cock inside him; and went for broke in the pistoning department.

From the start, though, there were none of the other forms of gymnastics that Eddie had looked forward to. In the end, it was a straight vanilla missionary fuck.

Before the night was over, their relationship was established. When they were vertical, Amri was a servant to Eddie’s wishes. On the bed, Amri was the master. This mostly was to Eddie’s liking. Eddie had laid hints of wanting something more exotic and Amri had ignored them all. One thing that was missing was cruelty in bed. Eddie would have wished to have more of this than Ami was providing. He wanted to be manhandled. So far, Amri was too much the gentleman for him.

Eddie was purring as they lay stretched out beside each other in the gathering twilight, having established with the front desk that Amri didn’t need a room of his own but with no prospect that the second bed in the room would be used. He felt satisfied as he lay in Amri’s arms, the man sent to service him, who was snoring quietly. In mid purr, though, Eddie stopped. He’d been satisfied. But he’d been satisfied by Jimbo Walsh, the team’s goalie, in Washington, D.C., too. But that no longer had been enough. Eddie wanted excitement--excitement like the black bull who swiped his T-shirt the previous night had given him. Was it enough to sheath a big, black cock thrusting so vigorously that they’d been afraid that the drumming of the headboard on the wall would bring on the fire department and they had to pull the bed out into the center of the room, where then they were afraid they’d bust the bed slats?

He’d been great. He wasn’t as thick or even as long as the man from last night--and certainly not as rough. It was a straight fuck even if a vigorous one. It wasn’t a dirty one.

Was it enough to leave D.C. United for and the possibility of reconciling with Jimbo?

Eddie reached down for the black snake of a cock on Amri. The man snorted in his sleep but his cock was half hard. When Eddie scooted down the bed and took the cock in his mouth, it quickly went more than half hard, and Amri no longer was asleep. He had his hands on the back of Eddie’s head, helping to guide Eddie’s servicing of his cock, and he was moaning in a low, soothing baritone.

Not long afterward, Eddie was cowboy riding the cock and listening to the squeaking of the bed springs. Amri was stroking Eddie’s cock and rolling his balls with one hand and thumbing his nipples with the other. For now, Eddie thought, yes, this was enough. For tonight, at least. And this was something he could take day by day. Maybe, in time, he could coax Amri to be more inventive on his own in bed.

* * * *

Eddie stood under the shower in his room at the Kilimanjaro Mountain Resort near the entrance of the park leading up to Kibo Peak, the highest point in Africa. It had been a long trek that afternoon through the banana and coffee plantation area on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro. Amri had been a good--and solicitous guide. Almost too solicitous. He had treated Eddie like he was made of glass. He had been at Eddie’s elbow at every twist and turn on the trail, supporting and guiding him to the point of Eddie wanting to scream. He was a rugged soccer player, for god’s sake, he wanted to scream out.

What he’d really wanted was for Amri to pull him off the trail, slam him against the trunk of a tree among the four-foot-high fern fronds, slap him around, and fuck the stuffing out of him. But that didn’t happen. They were here, exploring the lower reaches of the Kilimanjaro slopes for just two days--one night and two days. Amri had said he would take Eddie on a proper hike to the summit, but that this would take a week of climbing up and then back down and would have to be done later. Eddie didn’t know if he could take a week of being treated like a porcelain doll like this when they weren’t in the bed. Amri was obviously so scared of Erasto Haroub that he dare not risk turning Eddie over to football practice with a wrenched knee.

The door of the bathroom opened and Amri entered, naked, his tall, slender, yet muscular, body magnificent. His creamy milk chocolate-colored skin was flawless and was pulled tightly over his muscular frame. In contrast his meaty cock and low-hanging balls were jet black, the exposed bulb an angry purple. Eddie sucked in his breath as Amir leaned over the sink and began to brush his teeth. His buns were tight; his dick was long enough that it could be seen swaying between his spread leg. Tooth brush in mouth, he arched his back a bit and the fingers of both hands went to one of his nipples, checking something out there.

Eddie went hard under the cascading water of the shower; reached for his cock, finding it half hard; and began to stroke.

If only Amri would turn, see him in the shower, enter the shower enclosure, push him up against the tiles, hook Eddie’s knees on his hips, and fuck his lights out. Eddie craved surprise and force--a bit of rough. He wanted to be manhandled. His imagination went to him sitting on the toilet and Amri approaching, straddling the toilet bowl, grasping Eddie by the hair, and forcing Eddie’s mouth on the meaty, jet-black cock of his. In his imagination, Amri grabbed his ankles as he sat there on the toilet, split his legs, crouched down, thrust his cock up inside Eddie’s ass, and rhythmically bounced Eddie’s body against the porcelain tank of the toilet, making clanking sounds from jarring the tank lid while Eddie cried out the glorious pain of nearly a foot of cock pounding away at the core of him, releasing a hot flow of cum up into his intestines. Pulling out of him and grasping his head by his hair and making him clean Amri’s cock with his mouth.

Splashing his cum against the tile wall under the shower spigot, Eddie regained the present. He was alone in the bathroom, holding his cock in his hand. If Amri had looked at him in his masturbatory reverie, he hadn’t chosen to join in. Eddie was getting the strong impression that, for Amri, sex was taboo outside the bed--as were anything he would initiate other than the missionary position. Eddie had ridden him and Eddie had given him head. But they had been purely at Eddie’s initiative, and it had been confined to the bed.

Amri was sitting, naked at the foot of the bed, legs spread, when Eddie came out of the bathroom. Eddie padded over to him and sank down between his knees, reaching for Amri’s cock to open his lips over, but Amri lifted Eddie and turned them both so that Eddie’s back was on the bed, his legs reaching for the floor. Clutching Eddie’s thighs and spreading them, Amri went down on his knees and took Eddie’s cock in his mouth. Eddie moaned while Amri deep throated him and then rolled his pelvis up and went for Eddie’s hole with his tongue.

The fuck that followed was vigorous enough. Eddie was gripping the top of the headboard over his head, with Amri’s hands gripping his. Amri’s knees were thrust under Eddie’s buttocks. His cock was buried deep in Eddie’s passage and churning away, and the springs of the bed were groaning hard from the rhythm of the fuck.

Amri was muttering, “Open to me, all the way. Give it all to me.” And Eddie’s passage walls were shimmering and going soft, the channel expanding, making way for the long, thick staff. Eddie sighed, bringing the heels of his feet up to rub Amri’s buttocks. Yielding, opening, taking the cock deep, rocking his pelvis back and forth to cause the cock to rub all of the walls. Everything was fine, satisfying, Eddie was close to blowing himself. It was all . . . he should be melting, in full surrender, tripping on the clouds. He freed one of his hands, gripped his cock, and stroked it to the rhythm of the fuck.

It was all so . . . ordinary, he realized as he shot his load. Amri pulled out of him, jerked off his condom, tossed it off the side of the bed, and with a “Wooie, that was great,” rolled off to the side of Eddie and started to calm his breathing.

Great? Not quite, Eddie thought. Good, yes. Nothing to complain about--certainly not. But not great. No, not quite great.

He turned and kissed his way down Amri’s body, enjoying the hard suppleness of the creamy chocolate skin. Amri jerked and groaned as Eddie opened his mouth over the jet-black cock. Amri would let Eddie suck him off now and would even lie still as Eddie rode the cock, once it had reengorged. Amri had satisfied the “in bed” menu with the missionary fuck. But this would be Eddie’s time to try to surpass “good.” Amri had done his obligatory bed duty.

Using Amri’s very nice cock, Eddie would reach better, but still not “great.” Great for him would be to be taken totally, roughly, taking no prisoners--mastered by the other man. Like that big black bull had taken him the other night.

* * * *

“It’s interesting country here,” Eddie said, as they drove along A104. He had been quiet, thinking about the last few days after they’d cleared Arusha and headed southwest toward the coffee plantation he’d bought sight unseen for a song. He wasn’t a fool. The deal on the plantation had been an inducement for him to move to Tanzania and become the striker for the Dodoma national football association’s Ruvu Stars. Amri obviously had been thrown in on the deal. Eddie was agonizing over whether Amri’s cocking was so much better than Jimbo Walsh’s had been in Washington, D.C., to make such a drastic move. “The lowlands here are scrub--what you call the Serengeti--grasslands,” he said, turning his head to Amri, in the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. “But conical volcanic hills and mountains pop up here and there and the vegetation is more tropical on their slopes. Exotic and unexpected in Africa.”

“Unexpected for those who know little about Africa,” Amri said. Then he added, “It makes for great coffee bean growing.” He shifted the gears of the Land Rover into a higher speed on a straightaway. Few other vehicles were on the road. Those that were there tended to be headed in the other direction--en route to tours to Kilimanjaro, which rose, snow-covered, behind them. “The volcanic soil is perfect for coffee. You’ll love the plantation you’ve bought.”

“I suppose,” Eddie said, looking out toward the small mountain that had appeared in the distance, the mountain next to Lake Manyara, the mountain on whose lower slopes he’d been told his plantation was located.

“Once you’ve seen the plantation, I don’t think you’ll ever want to live anywhere else again,” Amri said, his baritone voice low, attempting to be soothing and convincing. “Have you given more thought to the football contract?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And . . . ?”

“I haven’t made up my mind.”

“I could move to the plantation,” Amri said, and then when Eddie didn’t react immediately to that. “If you wanted me to, of course.” Still there was silence between them. “Is there something . . . am I not satisfying you?”

“Yes, of course you’re satisfying me,” Eddie said, turning his face to the passenger window again. He hadn’t lied. Amri satisfied him. It was just that satisfaction didn’t seem to be enough. “Are you turning here?” he asked, as the Land Rover slowed down and Amri engaged the turning signal.

That was so like Amri, Eddie thought. There’s no one out here to see the signal or to care, but it’s in his list of “things always to do,” so he does it. How I wish he’d just loosen up--get dirty and forceful; make a sharp turn without signaling.

“Yes, from here,” Amri said, breaking into Eddie’s thoughts, “it’s a straight run up into that small mountain, to your plantation. But there’s a stream off to right up ahead and a picnic area where travelers stop for a rest. I had sandwiches and wine packed. I thought we’d break the journey there.”

They lay on the blanket under a tree, by the stream. The empty wine bottle lay on its side by the blanket. They were shielded from view from the distant road up into the mountain by the Land Rover, parked next to them, the driver’s door hanging open. The waxed paper from the consumed sandwiches rustled around in the breeze between the blanket and the stream.

Eddie emitted little gasps and grunts with each of the thrusts, deep, hard, into his inner, soft center. He was open wide, in total surrender, to the thrust of the cock. The wine had loosened him up. His arms embraced the broad chest of Amri, who was kneeling between Eddie’s spread and bent legs. Amri was holding Eddie’s torso off the blanket and pulled into his chest. As always, with Amri, it was a missionary fuck, with his knees pressed in under Eddie’s buttocks, tilting Eddie’s pelvis up to receive the long, thick, jet-black cock deep.

At least it wasn’t on a bed.

Using the leverage of his feet placed flat on the blanket, Eddie was thrusting his pelvis up with each hard thrust deep inside him of Amri’s cock. The two were concentrating on getting the best fuck out of this that they could. And it was a good fuck, quite a satisfactory fuck. And it had at least seemed spontaneous on Amri’s part, although Eddie wasn’t fooled. He knew that every step of it had been carefully planned. If anything, it had been too carefully planned, too well laid out. If anything, Amri was trying too hard. His assignment here was too obvious.

But it was a good fuck. Eddie tensed and blurted out, “Oh God, I’m going to come.” And then he did so, up Amri’s belly. Amri continued pumping him, though, as Eddie collapsed in his arms, all tension melting away from him. If anything, his core was going softer, more of his attention went to the muscles of his channel walls, which released, opened even more, the muscles shimmering and undulating over Amri’s shaft as it dug deeper, increased in intensity. He was pistoning Eddie hard, his breathing belabored, mining Eddie’s ass deep, with Eddie flopping around like a rag doll in his embrace, when Amri tensed and ejaculated.

That was good, very good, Eddie thought. What did he have to complain about? Why was he even thinking whether it was all he wanted out of a fuck?

They lay side by side, finishing off the second bottle of wine Amri had gone to the Land Rover to fetch--Amri looking so sexy and fetching as he moved to the Land Rover, his perfect butt twitching. Why would I want anything more? Eddie asked himself, as he enjoyed the view even more when Amri had retrieved the wine and turned to move back to the blanket, his jet-black meat swinging low as he walked.

The bottle half polished off, Amri turned his body to facing Eddie and reached for Eddie’s cock. Eddie returned the favor, grasping Amri’s balls and the root of his cock. Amri was hard again. Realizing that, Eddie started to go hard too. Amri lowered his face to Eddie’s and they kissed. Amri propped his head up on his bent arm, his face hovering over Eddie’s, and whispered, “I would miss you if you weren’t here full time--playing for the Ruvu Stars. Please sign the contract to be here with me.” He mumbled off into a more quiet whisper then with what could have been a declaration of love. This was a ploy just a bit too far. Eddie wasn’t interested in commitment from another man, and he didn’t, in the remotest possibility, think that Amri loved anyone but himself.

“I’m thinking about it,” Eddie answered, forcing a smile. But the obvious ploy--Amri pushing his assignment, and the extreme to which he was pushing it--had spoiled the mood for Eddie. Except that Amri didn’t leave it at that. He didn’t give Eddie time to withdraw from the circumstance. He rolled over on top of Eddie’s body, pushed his knees under Eddie’s buttocks, gathered Eddie’s torso to him, and thrust his cock up into Eddie’s channel. Completely separate from any irritation or indecision--or shortage of satisfaction--Eddie was intellectually experiencing, his channel walls wanted Amri’s cock again and spread open immediately to the invading cock.

“Yes, yes,” Eddie murmured. “Fuck me.” It would be a good fuck, as satisfying fuck. It wouldn’t be a great fuck. But it was here, now, and Eddie wanted to be fucked.

Yet another missionary fuck.

* * * *

Eddie’s excitement grew as the Land Rover started to ascend the mountain. Amri told him that all of the fields they were driving through were his and that they’d be at the plantation house in less than ten minutes. Then he called ahead on his cell phone to ask the overseer to assemble the workers for inspection.

“Elias Mkude is an excellent overseer,” Amri said when he’d disconnected the cell phone call. “His father was British and his family has been in coffee growing back into the colonial period. I’m sure we’ll want to keep him on.”

We? Eddie thought. That was assuming so much. But he didn’t say anything. He was much too excited at taking it all in. There weren’t just fields of coffee beans; the plantation was growing bananas as well. And the vegetation was lush. The plantation house was coming into view, a rambling, one-story cottage surrounded on every side he could see by deep porches. It looked like it needed work, but it also looked perfect for the setting--exotic, Africa.

He spent so long eyeballing the house that the Land Rover was there, in the circular drive, surrounded with a riot of colorful flowers in the circle and also in beds lining the cottage porch, that his gaze didn’t turn to the line of workers standing at the side of the drive until a tall, gangling, middle-aged man of obvious mixed African and Caucasian lineage opened the passenger door.

When he did turn to look at some twenty Africans, all but three men, and a dozen obviously muscular field workers, Eddie froze half in and half out of the Land Rover, in shock. The tallest, most muscular, blackest of the field workers was wearing Eddie’s shirt, the brown T-shirt with the coffee bean motif and “Coffee, T, or Me” written across a bulging chest.

The man wearing the shirt--most certainly the forceful power fucker from the Club Hercules just three days previous--did a double take that matched his. As soon as they saw each other, the black bull stepped back from the line, but those next to him nudged him forward again. Following the overseer, Elias Mkude, after having been introduced to him by Amri, and with Amri following Eddie, the three walked down the line for introductions. First, the women, starting with the cook, the housecleaner, and the laundress, with Eddie immediately forgetting their names, trying his best, but unsuccessfully, not to look on down the line to the man wearing his T-shirt.

Then the houseman, Nadir Yodani, a thin, effeminate man, who was the “do everything” inside the house--to which Eddie thought, he won’t be doing me, as he looked down the line again to pick out the man who had done him so completely. He barely gave his attention to being introduced to the gardener and driver, Himid and Khamis, both looking a little disconcerted and embarrassed. And then the field workers.

Standing in front of the man wearing the brown T-shirt, which was stretched tight over his bulging musculature, Eddie had to look up into his face. The man had to be at least six foot seven. Eddie was tall himself, but he was a dwarf in the presence of this man. “Joram Kiemba,” the overseer said. “The field foreman. You want to know anything about how the coffee is grown or prepared for shipping, Joram is your man.”

“Joram is my man,” Eddie echoed. Yes, indeed, he had been Eddie’s man.

Eddie couldn’t gauge the look on Joram’s face, and he wondered what his own face was giving away. Joram’s face was hinting at entirely too many conflicting expressions. The man looked surprised, concerned, arrogant, and proud all at once. His handshake was strong--crushing--though. Arrogant won out. He might be sent packing, but he’d go proudly, knowing that when it had come to him and this new master of the plantation to lock horns, he’d come out on top.

The three moved on down the line. When Eddie looked back, Joram was gone. And from there, they moved into the house for an inspection of that. When they came out, the plantation workers were still there--except for Joram.

“Where is the field foreman?” Eddie asked. “I would like to begin by talking with him.”

“Joram is not here,” Nadir Yodani, the houseman spoke up. Was that somewhat of a knowing snicker on the man’s face? Eddie wondered. He looked down the line of other workers. Yodani certainly wasn’t there that night, in the truck, when he’d been gangbanged. But were some of these other workers? That was likely. Some did have looks of concern on their faces, but they probably would have for any new owner who showed up for the first time on the plantation.

“Where is he?” the overseer asked.

“He has gone back to his home,” Yodani answered.

“And where is that?” Eddie cut in. “I wish to speak to him. Now. Tell me where he lives.”

As Eddie was climbing into the driver’s seat of the Land Rover, both Amri and the overseer were at the door, both saying that, if he really wanted to talk to Joram now, they would drive him there. But he said, no, he’d go alone--that Amri should go over the financial books with the overseer while he was gone--that Amri would have to be the one to exam them anyway. They continued to bring up other options, but he ignored them and threw up gravel as he backed the Land Rover up.

When he got to Joram’s hut, which was off on its own in a grove of trees between a field of coffee plants and one of banana trees, Joram was in the doorway, leaning up against the frame, his arms crossing his chest. He had a superior, knowing look on his face, like he knew that Eddie would follow him to his hut.

Eddie climbed out of the Land Rover and the two stood there for a long moment, looking at each other. At last Joram broke the silence.

“You didn’t tell me you were a plantation owner. The owner of this plantation.”

“You didn’t ask. I certainly couldn’t have known it was the same plantation you worked on.”

“If I had known--”

“I would have missed out on the best fuck of my life,” Eddie said.

Joram relaxed a bit without losing his stance in the doorway of his hut. There was another long moment of silence, at the end of which Joram unbuckled his shorts, unzipped them, and let them fall to the threshold of his hut. He was in magnificent erection. “In the fields and in your house, you are the master--if you don’t want me to find some other plantation to work on--but if you come into my hut, I am the master.”

“I understand,” Eddie said. He closed the Land Rover’s door and took two steps toward the hut.

“Don’t make any mistake. I am a cruel master, a punishing master. I will hurt you, but you will never feel more alive.”

“I am coming into your hut.”

After Joram pushed Eddie to his knees in the doorway and made Eddie give him head and take his cum in the throat, he hung Eddie from the center pole of his hut, Eddie’s wrists tied from a beam running along the center of the ceiling, his feet barely touching the ground. Eddie cried out, “Fuck me, fuck me now,” in a belabored cry while Joram whipped him with a multithonged leather hand whip and opened Eddie’s passage with a four-finger, up-to-the-knuckles stretch with his hand. Still, when Joram turned Eddie’s body around to face him, lifted Eddie’s legs, and hooked Eddie’s knees on his hips, his monster cock still caused Eddie to huff and puff and cry out at the taking as Joram entered him, thrust the cock up into Eddie’s melting core, and pumped him hard to a mutual ejaculation.

Joram engaged his technique of stuffing it all in while it was still a chore to take it and then holding as his man adjusted--taking his submissive from almost insufferable pain to incredible pleasure. Both of them groaned and moaned, as, Joram in to the hilt and his cock still hardening, lengthening, and thickening, the two of them focused on Eddie’s groaning opening and softening to it. Panting and whimpering, Eddie’s core slowly accommodated the total possession of the cock, Eddie’s channel widening, the muscles of his walls caressing and undulating over the cock, learning to turn a “No, I can’t do this” into a “Yes, yes, yes.” And then, just when Eddie’s systems were convincing themselves they could survive this, Joram began to pump him. Not slowly, but pistoning him, cruelly, pounding his ass, bouncing him around, making Eddie cry out in pain and violation until he discovered that he could take it, that it was exactly what he wanted. Then the two of them settled down into a rhythm of wild, passionate, no-holds-barred dirty sex, leading to the most glorious ejaculation Eddie could possibly imagine.

Each and every time Joram fucked Eddie, it was new, taxing to the limit, and took Eddie higher than he’d ever been before. This was beyond “good,” beyond “satisfying.”

Learning that Joram used this hut for just such fucks, Eddie then found that restraints hung from one of the walls such that he was bound against the wall at both wrists and ankles, while his body jutted out from the wall and was pressed back into Joram’s enveloping body and Joram thrust his cock up into Eddie’s channel again and again and again, taking him hard and deep. Taking no prisoners. Fucking Eddie totally to a whimpering puddle of sighs.

Joram drove the Land Rover back to the house, but he stopped half way, reached over, and shed Eddie of his shorts, which was all that Eddie had yet put back on.

“I lied about you being the master of the fields. These are my fields. If I stay you’ll only be master of the house. If you come into my fields, I’ll fuck you like an animal. Scramble for that tree over there, if you can make it. On all fours,” he growled, as he leaned over Eddie and opened the passenger door. When he came back into the driver’s seat, his other hand lifted the hand whip. He stung Eddie across the chest with it and commanded, “Go, now. If you make it to that tree before I catch you, I won’t beat you.”

Eddie stumbled out of the Land Rover and started scrambling toward the designated tree on all fours.

“I lied about that too,” Joram growled, as he jumped out of the vehicle and followed along behind and beside Eddie and struck at him repeatedly with the hand whip.

Eddie didn’t make it to the tree. Joram came down on his back just short of the tree trunk, covered Eddie, on all fours, close, mounted him, and fucked him hard to another mutual ejaculation.

They lay there, in the dirt under the tree, panting hard. “Do you want me to pack my things and go?” Joram asked.

“No. I want you to stay.”

“If I stay, it will always be like this.”

“I want you to stay.”

“I’m not giving back the T-shirt.”

“You don’t have to give back the T-shirt. But tell me something. The other men, that night . . .”

“Yes, Himid, Khamis, Agerey, and Shomari were among them. Will you send them away? They will say nothing if I tell them not to. They will not give you less respect if I tell them that is the way it will be. They will know I am your master, though.”

“They can stay. And they can also . . .”

“Will you want them separately or together?”

“Surprise me. Always surprise me. Always be rough. Never be easy.”

“You’ll be . . .”

“Yes. I’ll be staying here tonight. You can bring them to me one after the other tonight. Be sure you tell them that, in the bed, I am not master; they are--and that I don’t want it to be easy.”

Eddie was lying there, arms and legs akimbo, still panting, eyes glazed and a sloppy grin on his face.

Lying next to him, wearing the T-shirt and nothing else, his head propped up by an arm, Joram looked down into Eddie’s face, a slight sneer on his lips.

“Who is your master?”

“You are my master,” Eddie answered in a tired voice.

“Have you had enough for the afternoon?”

“You have completely exhausted me.”

Joram pulled Eddie’s body up from the dirt and fucked him again against the tree, Eddie’s back sliding on the rough bark of the tree and his knees hooked on Joram’s hips and holding on for dear life against the hard pistoning of his channel. He came with an exhausted whimper, realizing only there from the warm trickle of cum he felt dribbling down his thigh that Joram hadn’t been wearing protection all this time. Right at that moment, Eddie didn’t give a fuck about that.

Both Eddie and Joram were fully dressed when they returned to the plantation house. Joram was particularly proud to stick his chest out in his “Coffee, T, or Me” T-shirt.

“You found the field foreman,” Amri said. “You were gone so long that we were going to come looking for you. It will be after dark before we get to Dodoma.” He looked from Eddie to Joram and back. He was no dummy. He could tell they had been fucking around. He was just perplexed about how that had come about.

“Yes, I found him. You can go on to Dodoma. I’ll be staying here tonight.”

“You’ll be staying here?” Amri said, “And you want me to go on to Dodoma?” He said it like it didn’t compute.

“Yes. I’ve decided I will live here, on my plantation, full time. I’ll remain in Tanzania. And I will play for Ruvu Stars. You can tell Mr. Haroub that he can send a contract to me here--you can bring it yourself; you can plan to spend the night when you come. I will sign the contract. I’ll come to Dodoma later, in a few days. I want to settle in here first. You can tell Mr. Haroub you convinced me to move here and play for the Ruvu Stars--that it was your attentions that convinced me. I will welcome your attentions when you next come. But don’t linger for now. I’m in the mood for discovering all that my plantation has to offer.”

Joram accompanied Amri back to the Land Rover.

“So you--” Amri started to say.

“Yes, I did,” Joram answered with a big grin. “Four times. Rough. He wants it rough. I figured that out the first time I fucked him.” It was stated with pride. “He says my cock is much bigger than yours. And I suggest that when you come back you will be more forceful and will have learned something more than the missionary fuck. I don’t mind sharing. If you do, I’ll see to it that you never see him again. You play your cards right, and we’ll do him together. I’ll want some shares in the Ruvu Stars’ franchise, of course. I knew who he was from the first night I fucked him, and I knew he wanted it rough. I follow football. I read the newspapers on what teams are trying to do--what star players they’re trying to get. When I saw that the Ruvu Stars were after him, I researched where he was coming from and why he was looking for a change. I found out he likes it rough--you could have found that out too. I didn’t realize he was buying this plantation too, but it worked well into my plans. It can work well into yours and your employers too if you let me handle this guy my way.”