Congolese Shafts

On my back, legs spread and bent, concentrating on stretching my channel, on the mat in the grass-roofed shed behind the back-alley bar in Kinshasa’s red-light district, the tall, gangly black kneeling between my knees, pressing my shoulder blades to the mat and staring intently down into my eyes, as I moaned, arched my back, all of my sensations concentrated on that impossibly long, thick shaft moved in and out inside my channel. Impossibly long, moving deep, me raising my pelvis, spreading my cheeks wide with the palms of my hands, taking as much of it as I could—taking more than I ever thought I’d be challenged to take. Loving it. Feeding my fetish.

Felix stood by, in the doorway of the shed, backlit by the swirl of bodies and the sound of off-key music and men’s boisterous voices in the bar just steps away. The guide gave me a reassuring, “it’s what you want; it’s what we came here for” look.

“Prends-le, mec. Prends tout—Take it, man. Take it all,” the emaciating thin, tall, but well-muscled black man murmured as he slow fucked me. “Putain, tu le prends profonde—Fuck, you take it deep.”

Yes, yes, that’s what I was doing. That’s what Felix would find for me.

“J’adore ce cul arabe—Love that Arab ass.”

All fine, except that I was American, not Arab. With South Asian—Indian—in me. Probably not much of that in a place like this.

Feeding my fetish. I surfaced visions of a big, black mamba snake wriggling inside me, moving deeper, having its way with me, nipping me here and there along my rippling walls, making me jerk and cry out at its glorious cruelty. I relaxed, panted softly every fiber of me concentrated on it going deeper and deeper, possessing me fully.

“Yes, yes, yes!” And in case the male whore didn’t understand English, “Oui out. Oh merde, oui!—Yes, yes, oh, shit, Yes!” I had boned up on my French for this journey up the Congo.

“I think you’re Jacob’s first Indian,” Felix, my Congolese guide for the river journey up the Congo, said, as he stood there beside the mat, just inside the doorway, his own impossibly long cock out of his fly and being stroked as he watched. The Congolese whore’s pale-palmed, long-fingered hands spread out over my buttocks, brushing my hands away, squeezing the cheeks more open, lifting my hips, hooking my knees on his boney hips, and putting my weight on my shoulder blades. This gave him even deeper access to my channel, which he immediately filled with throbbing cock. I dug my heels into the mattress, thrusting my pelvis up higher, rocking against him, taking him deeper and deeper.

I reached around; clutched his thin, bunching and releasing, buttocks; and cried out “Oui, oui, Baise-moi!—Fuck me!” leaving no doubt about my surrender to him.

Felix had assured me that taking Congolese shaft would be an experience I’d never forget. I couldn’t bely him that, as I panted hard, moaned deeply, and concentrated on opening more, taking more, reveling in the pain-passion-pleasure of it.

“Oui, oui, plus profond. Plus profond!—Yes, yes. Deeper, Deeper!” I cried out. The whore laughed and dug deeper.

My mentor, the Moroccan-American doctor, Mah’mud Hamid, back in Boston, who had sent me on this mission, was built large, but nothing like this Congolese whore was—or, for the matter of fact, the handsome guide, Felix, hovering over us and beating himself off—not that I’d taken Felix’s cock, yet, although I ached to. Knowing I had a size fetish, as well as a black cock one, Hamid had used the statistic that Congolese men were statistically the largest to entice me to take this mission. He enjoyed covering me, but he wanted his favorite submissive back—and that, alas, wasn’t me.

I took it all, moaning, feeling it penetrate deep, throbbing, fully possessing me in my central core. I continued clutching the gangly male whore’s thin buttocks with one hand, helping with the steady rhythm of his slow, penetrating thrusts, and stroking off my own cock with the other hand. When I had come, I surrendered entirely, collapsing under him, fully open, fully vulnerable, face turned to Felix, my eyes focused on him stroking himself off, and let the black Congolese whore continue working me in my core.

I wasn’t really Indian, although my parents were from Mumbai. I was second-generation American, a newly minted generalized doctor—which was what had brought me to the Congo on my Stanley-Livingstone-type mission.

“I told you Congolese men were the world champions on cock size,” Felix said, with a laugh, shaking his own mammoth-sized shaft at me, and the vigor of the black male whore who had brought us to the shack behind the bar increased in speed and depth. “And have you seen one as black as that before?” He was making sure he was playing both of my fetishes.

Yes, he had told me Congolese cocks were champions, producing his own while we were standing at the bar between the shed and the alley earlier as we watched a small, but heavenly endowed young Congolese black guy dancing a pole.

“And if you think I’m big, look at what Jacob here is packing.” He had grabbed the passing tall, gaunt-thin, but well-muscled black guy in just a pagne, a richly colored piece of cloth, knotted at the waist, as he passed while serving drinks. Jacob stood patiently, smiling, full of justified pride, as Felix unknotted the pagne and let it drop away.

“Aimez-vous mon ami américain ici? Il est américain mais son peuple vient de l'Inde—Do you like my American friend here? He is American but his people are from India.”

“C'est l'homme que tu veux que je baise?—Is this the man you want me to fuck?” He either hadn’t heard I was American of Indian origin or didn’t believe it, as he kept referring to me as “the Arab.”

“Oui.”

“Il est mignon, mais il est petit. Je pense que je le ruiner—The Arab is cute, but he is small. I am afraid I would ruin him.”

“C'est ce qu'il veut. C'est ce qu'il est venu chercher au Congo—That’s what he wants. That’s what he came to the Congo to get.”

I gasped at the size of the man.

“Jacob here does it for anyone who is game. You want to try it with Jacob?”

I was more than half drunk. Yes, I wanted to try it with Jacob.

Jacob didn’t flinch in the least. Jacob was one of the bar whores, ever ready for a trip to the shed in back upon the dropping of a fistful of franc notes.

“Small, brown, cute. Where in Arabia you from?” Jacob asked, showing that he knew English better than I knew French and indicating that he wasn’t relying on what Felix told him. He wanted to pin me down himself. French is the language of passion, so we fucked in that language.

“America,” I replied. “I’m American. Oh, you mean origin—my ethnic origin. My parents were from India, but I’m American. A doctor.” I was newly licensed.

“Small, but nice body. You take big cocks?”

“He is here for Congolese shafts,” Felix interjected, repeating what he’d said before.

Jacob laughed. “You come with me. I give you Congolese cock.” He handed his tray of drinks to another waiter, reknotted his pagne, took my hand, and, with Felix in our wake, guided me out of the back door of the bar. Keyed up, half drunk, and trembling for adventure and verification, I docilly followed.

Oh, shit. Fuck. FUCCK YES! He was in so deep. I came and my hands moved to his biceps, clutching him there, my pelvis rocking, taking him hard, big, deep. He was pistoning me, tensing and jerking, grunting from the effort, and flooding me deep with his cum. Breeding me, Congolese style. I collapsed, surrendered, turned a conquered gaze toward the doorway of the shed, toward Felix, as the black whore pumped on to a second, jerking ejaculation.

He was off me in a flash then, counting the money I’d dropped beside the mat, reknotting his pagne, and scurrying past Felix, back to work at the bar.

“Tu le prends bien—You take it good,” he called back to me upon exiting the shed, which, coming from a male whore, I took as a compliment and was pleased to do so.

I lay, panting, my legs still bent and spread, struggling for breath in painful, glorious satiation. No, Felix had been right. I would never forget this. But already I wanted more of it. I looked at Felix, who looked back at me after murmuring something to the passing Jacob. Muscular, ebony black, beautiful body Felix, his own member going flaccid from having joined us in the release, but still, dangling, long, another jet-black mamba, between his thighs.

I had wanted him since seeing him, ebony body beautiful, holding a sign up at the Kinshasa airport, sent by Julian Strong to take us to the rural clinic up the Congo River, at Eala. Julian had obviously told him what I preferred, and I shamelessly put out signals, but he had been teasing me. He didn’t take me himself, but he brought me to the backstreet bar—and to Jacob.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to take it, Khurana,” Felix said. “You are so small and narrow hipped. I was afraid Jacob would split you. But you took it all.” I wanted him to come to me on the mat, but he remained standing in the doorway.

I wanted to take it from him—from Felix—now.

Would he come over now and cover me too now that he saw I could sheath one that big? We’d been dancing around it for the two days, Zang, the other recently licensed doctor who had come with me, and I, had rested, and prepared in Kinshasa for the trip up into the jungle. Felix had already known, having been engaged by Doctor Hamid and Julian Strong for earlier expeditions, that I was a submissive bottom. Hamid had covered me himself. Felix was a handsome specimen of a man, but I hadn’t been sure what his preferences and fetishes were until he was so open about knowing I liked big cock and arranging for me to get it.

“You want big cock? No cock is bigger than Congolese cock,” he’d said. I had already heard that. That had been one of the allures that brought me to Africa.

I didn’t know if he brought me to this bar and to Jacob, the godly endowed whore, as foreplay between him and me or just for his own amusement of what he wasn’t going to give to me or take from me—himself—when and if he wanted to. I know I was a bit unusual—a small man of Indian origin. I didn’t know if Felix found that arousing or detracting. He was teasing me. I wanted him all the more for that.

“Felix,” I murmured with a gesture of open arms, open legs, to him, but he just gave a little laugh, stuffed himself back into his trousers, turned, and returned to the bar. “Come back to the bar when you are able,” he said.

He shoved a beer over to me when I returned, saying nothing beyond, “See, Congolese men are the biggest,” and, after that drink, we walked back to the hotel Zang and I were staying at. I had no idea where Felix lived.

“Better check on the Chinese doctor, Khurana,” he said. “We leave up the Congo for Mbandaka by plane in the morning. After that it’s up the Ruki tributary to the clinic at Eala. Back in time. Back to where the biggest man rules.”

“The biggest man?” I asked.

“The man with the biggest cock, the biggest stud,” he answered. He laughed. “You’ll love it there.”

That was the first inkling I had that Julian and he may have a different plan than Doctor Hamid did.

He left me in the lobby of the hotel without so much as a handshake. I was aching for him. I’m sure he knew that. Maybe he just didn’t like to go with a smaller Indian man whose parents came from Mumbai. I thought I was attractive enough. Doctor Hamid seemed to worship my body. But who could be sure about that either? Hamid had sent me to bring back another doctor he’d been fucking, Julian Strong, before Julian went completely native in the upriver clinic Hamid’s program ran in the Congo. Zang was the doctor being sent to replace him at Eala.

I was about to knock on Zang’s hotel room door when I heard them. I silently opened the door. Zang was on his back on his bed, with a young, big breasted Congolese woman straddling him and riding his cock. This wasn’t the right moment to remind him we were flying upriver the next morning. I clicked the door shut, went to my room, stripped, and lay, naked and gloriously channel sore, on the bed. Cock in hand, I relived the impossible length and thickness of Jacob—and fantasized about Felix.

* * * *

Felix was right. Once we’d casted off from Mbandaka and were on the riverboat and entering the mouth of the Ruki River, headed for Doctor Hamid’s rural outpost clinic at Eala, we were moving back in time and into the primitive jungle. I remained perpetually couched in the sensuality of the setting.

It was a full day’s river journey from Mbandaka to reach Eala, and the only tasks that anyone had were the muscular Congolese boatmen, their magnificent bodies glistening with sweat, who had to fight the current with poles and oars to take us up a narrow river channel shaded by giant overhanging trees dripping in vines. I didn’t mind the trip at all as long as I had the boatmen to ogle.

“Watch out for dangling mambas,” Felix had cheerfully warned me, and it had taken me a moment for it to register that he was talking of the danger of snakes dipping from low-hanging branches over the boat. I was being put into the mood for something else. Upon leaving the dock at Mbandaka, the atmosphere was so oppressive that we all shucked our Western clothes and donned colorful pagnes, knotted at our waists. From there, the sexual atmosphere was charged. All of the boatmen were magnificent examples of sweat-gleaming muscular masculinity. None of them was fat; some of them were thin, but all of them were ebony black and well-muscled for their body build, as they had to be to be doing this work of moving a boat upstream on an African river.

I’m sure that my small, berry-brown body was exotic to them, and I could easily decern from being ogled furtively by them which of them preferred men and, of those, which of them were tops—and even, by their demeanor, which of them were aggressively so. In the mood I was in, I would not have denied any of them. As it happened, I didn’t.

There were a couple of young Congolese women aboard to handle the cooking and the domestic chores, but only Zang, the doctor accompanying us to replace Julian Strong at the Eala clinic and one or two boatmen paid them heed, even though they were all attractive and, also wearing only a pagne, leaving their firm breasts to sway with the movement of the boat. We truly were journeying back in time. The boatmen’s eyes went to each other and to Felix and me, and I got the distinct impression that preferring men was a requirement for most working on this boat.

The visage of the boat’s captain, the tallest, meatiest, most muscular, and most likely, in his early forties, the oldest of the boatmen, brought to mind Felix’s comment that in the world we were entering it was the most sexually dominating man who ruled in this outback jungle region, with that dominance marked by the size of their shaft. I couldn’t take my mind off him as I watched him working hard in keeping the boat moving in the center of the channel as we struggled upriver against the current. His muscles rippled, he moved like a dancer despite his large frame, and he clearly enjoyed his work. I noted that his gaze returned to me from time to time and he smiled, his eyes slitted in that look of sexual want I recognized.

The sexual tension on the boat was released after our noonday meal, when the strength of the current forcing its way into the Congo River downstream lessened, the men were well fed, and the job of navigation against the current was lessened. Zang had taken one of the women away from the kitchen to one of the cabins, where he was fucking her and her willingness was shown by her giggles and sighs as he squeezed her jiggling breasts interspersed with cries of ecstasy as he raised and lowered her cunt on his cock. Similarly, Felix had one of the younger boatmen in an adjacent cabin banging away at him. This had been a great disappointment and frustration to me, though. The atmosphere of primitive sensuality had swept over me to extent that I was ready to beg Felix to take me to a cabin and take me when it became too late—he had already chosen a young boatman.

I was in such a strait that, when the boat’s captain appeared before me, unknotted and dropped his pagne, showing he truly was a man of the Congo and master of this boat crew and that the prospect of laying me had given him a magnificent erection, I just sat up, took his manhood in both hands, and took him into my mouth. His response was an assurance that he knew this was where we were headed.

He lifted me with ease and carried me to the bow of the boat, putting me, leaning out over on the boom projecting from the bow, on my belly, my hands grasping the boom, as he hovered over me, covering me from behind and above, and slowly fed himself in, in, in, deep inside me. I gasped and groaned as he stretched and possessed me. He wasn’t Jacob, but he was close enough to send the muscles of my channel rippling over his shaft and pulling it ever deeper inside me.

As he began a slow, but ever-quickening working of me inside, other boatmen gathered around us, dropped their pagnes, and, stroking their Congolese champion cocks, joined in the dance of the fuck. None of them had any reason to be ashamed at what hung between their thighs. When the captain had come and withdrawn, another boatman replaced him—and then another and another, the men turning my on the back and holding me down, a man holding and spreading each leg while, in turn, they mounted and fucked me.

“Si petit de corps, mais tu le prends tellement de—So small of body, but you take it so deep,” the boat captain whispered in my ear, his hands clutching my narrow hips when he had shot his load, both of us concentrating on the power of him gong flaccid inside me. “Bien. Très bien—Good. Very good. My men are intrigued by your small, beautiful body—your small hole opening up to take it in so well. Felix tells me you want . . . my boatmen . . .they too would like—”

“Oui, oui, bien—Yes, yes, fine,” I acceded. I was in high heat in this sensual, primitive atmosphere. It was more than fine. “Baise-moi—Fuck me. All of you screw me with your big, black mambas.” I looked around me at all of the Congolese black shafts, hanging out, being stroked. I wanted them all. “Baise-moi. Vous me baisez tous!—Fuck me. All of you screw me!” And they all did.

Mounds of brightly colored pagnes swirled on the deck below our feet, all shed to fully reveal the magnificent, muscular, hung bodies of the Congolese boatmen. All of them focused on me. All of them wanting to fuck me.

All of them who were not too shy to do so fucked me. I got them all—or so many of them I lost count. I did not object, reveling in the attention and the succession of massive Congolese shafts into the late afternoon, steaming up the Ruki River, in the nearly oppressive humid atmosphere, under the vines of the canopy of trees nearly meeting over the river.

“Oui, oui, Baise-moi encore et encore!—Yes, yes. Fuck me again and again!” I cried out into the afternoon as the boat moved its way up the Ruki River.

Mambas, black mambas. My attention wasn’t taken by the danger of black mambas dropping from the trees overhead, but to the succession of them, the men ebony, muscular, vigorous, virile, slaying me deep in the inner core of my anal channel. Giving me something I never would forget.

Still, as one withdrew to be replaced with the next one, each time I thought of it being Felix.

* * * *

When the boat touched the dock at the Eala clinic landing, Felix was off it in a flash and moving up to the center of the compound, a beaten-earth bonfire circle. A concrete, one-story building with a deep, raw tree-trunk-pillared porch running across it faced the river across the circle. Bordering that was a semicircle of permanent-looking tents, each with the wood skirting of about two-feet encircling it. Sandbags were pushed up to the sides of the tents, indicating that the river sometimes reached up to that point in flood.

I departed the boat much more gingerly, having provided the crew their sport and release in the earlier afternoon. Evening was coming on, the sun having dipped lower than the top of the tree canopy on the river. The boat crew helped me off the boat, treating me well, having enjoyed me already. They were jostling each other happily, obviously pleased with themselves and with me. They walked past me, though, headed for one of the tents, no doubt knowing where they could find drinks.

I stood there at the end of the gangplank for a few minutes, taking it all in. It was obvious that all effort to establish a permanent presence here had gone to the clinic building itself. Everything else seemed to have an air of impermanence about it. I then noticed that beyond the main structure was another, smaller concrete building. The doctor’s residence, perhaps. Anything else that happened here was conducted in those dozen and more tents surrounding the central gathering terrace.

What struck me was that there didn’t seem to be any patients here. I surmised that the deep porch on the front of the clinic building was where they would gather, be triaged, and moved someplace else from there. It was late in the afternoon, but I would have expected more people gathered here seeking medical help.

Felix came out of the building and down to where I was standing.

“I expected to see patients gathered,” I said.

“He’s not here,” Felix said. “There is no one to see the patients. Most have left to come back later.” As he said this, Zang, the replacement doctor came off the boat. We must have arrived in mid fuck for him. He seemed to be making the most out of the willingness of the Congolese women. Like I was to the boatman, a Chinese man must be exotic and something to try for the Congolese women.

“I’m afraid the clinic is all yours already,” Felix said to Zang. “You might as well check it out and get started.” As Zang moved up toward the clinic, Felix gave a whistle and people—mostly women with children, started moving out of a couple of the tents and toward the clinic building.

“What do you mean he’s not here? Julian Strong isn’t here?”

“No. With Zang coming to relieve him here, he’s moved further upriver—to open another clinic higher up, at Bokuma.”

“Bokuma? What’s at Bokuma? Julian knew I was being sent to bring him back to Boston, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he knew,” Felix said. And the way he said it clued me that Felix knew Julian wouldn’t be here as well. “Maybe he doesn’t want to go back. Maybe he’s found a reason to stay here.”

“What reason would he have to stay in the African jungle?” I asked.

“Maybe the same reason you had for coming here.” Felix was giving me a knowing little smile, and he reached out and touched my forearm. I shivered from the need and want of him.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I think you do,” Felix said. “Before I was sent to Kinshasa to meet with you and bring you back, the tribal chief of the region of Bokuma, Jean-Michael Vubu, visited here.”

“And so?”

“He wanted a clinic set up in his main village.”

“And Julian decided just like that that he wouldn’t return to the States? That he’d go somewhere even more primitive than this to set up a clinic? Just like that?”

“Julian is a man of Africa himself,” Felix says. “He may be a Caribbean black rather than a Congolese black, but he has heard the call of his ancestral home.”

“I don’t think of Julian as a sentimentalist,” I said. “I think there must be a deeper reason from him to want to stay here than that.”

Felix laughed. “It was for the same reason you wanted me to take you to Jacob in Kinshasa. Strong has the same fetish that you do.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“What was it I told you that made a tribal chief in the Congo, a land with the best-endowed men?” I didn’t answer quick enough. “The man with the best endowment in a land of men with the best endowment becomes chief.”

“This Jean-Michael Vubu—”

“Is a champion among champions, yes. He came down here to possess Julian Strong’s skills for himself. He’s made a slave of Strong. Chiefs in Bokuma are permitted as many spouses as they want—female or male. By now Julian Strong is married to Chief Vubu and is setting up a clinic for him.”

“And you knew this was happening? Before you came to meet my plane in Kinshasa.”

“Yes, I did. I was here when Vubu made Julian his slave. I saw him. He is a champion of champions and Julian has the same fetish you do.”

“Then why didn’t you leave me in Kinshasa and just bring Doctor Zang here to take up his post?”

“The chief was shown photos of you—and was told that you were a doctor and that you shared Strong’s fetish. The chief wants more than one doctor in his clinic. And he wants you in his bed. There is no limit to the number of wives he can have—or to the gender of them.”

“From seeing me in photos, he wants me in his bed?” I laughed.

“They are very explicit photos. He said he looked forward to the challenge of stretching you.” That wiped the laugh off my face. Felix continued. “If you are willing, we will leave tomorrow. I will take you on up river to Bokuma. I will be going there to work too.”

“You will be going there too?” I asked.

“Yes. Give it the night here and let me know in the morning whether you will go up to Bokuma with me or back to Kinshasa and then back to your doctor in Boston. I assume your doctor has a big cock. I know there is no way that he can compete with Jean-Michael Vubu, though. The chief is a mountain of a man. Heavy a bit, but standing near seven feet tall and with a majestic countenance—and the biggest cock you could ever imagine sheathing. Julian Strong was babbling with pleasure from it.”

“Oh.”

* * * *

The heat and humidity were so oppressive that they all went native, stripping down to colorful pagne cloths knotted around their waists. The few women who were there went the same as the men, topless. No one seemed self-conscious about how close to naked they were. It was all so primitive and yet so natural. After dinner in a dining tent, they moved to the central terrace area, around a bonfire. Torches and smug pot ringed the area to ward off night critters and to provide eerie illumination for the music and dancing around the bonfire by the young, lithe workers at the clinic. Most were male; a few were female.

Zang sat by himself off at the edge of the shadows, soon in his own world, as one of the female dancers came in close, dropped her pagne, unkotted and flared Zang’s pagne, and then gave him a lap dance that ended in a lap fuck and Zang not caring who else was around.

Dancers, both female and male, moved to do the same with Felix and me. It had grown dark, and the illumination of lanterns in the tents surrounding us had added to that of the torches around the periphery of the area. A slim, young Congolese youth of eighteen, I was told, in a pagne with a wild red, orange, and yellow swirl pattern, was dancing nearly over my knees. I had my hands on his waist as he slowly gyrated before me. I don’t know if it was by accident or not, but my hands brushed down and his pagne fell away. He as in magnificent erection, his body swaying with the sound of the beat of the African drums in the background. I was amazed that one so young and thin could still proudly display the signature Congolese length.

His hands, surprisingly strong, grasped my legs under my knees, and raised my legs, hooking my ankles on his shoulders. He slowly danced in close between my thighs, his hands going to palming, squeezing, and separating my buttocks. I panted hard and moaned as he entered, entered, entered me and slow thrust to the beat of the drums.

As the youth plowed me in the dance of the fuck, Felix appeared beside me and whispered into my ear, “I am going to bed. We are sharing a tent—the one over there,” and he was gone, leaving me to return to the pain-pleasure of a young Congolese cock working me deep in my core.

When I entered the tent in the soft glow of a lantern turned down low, I could see that Felix, naked, was lying on his back on one bed. His eyes followed me as I prepared for bed and lay down on the cot on the opposite side of him. We lay there, our eyes locked, in the dim light. Felix took his cock in his hand and began a slow stroke. I mimicked him and we lay there, watching each other, both of us stroking our cocks. The drums were still beating in the central meeting ground, and the tent walls were translucent enough that we could see the swirl of dancing bodies, moving to the rhythm of the drums.

Felix’s erection was magnificent, as I well knew it would be. He was, after all, a man of the Congo.

All he needed to do was murmur “Come” and reach out his free arm to me, for me to slither off my cot and move to him.

This was the time. The teasing was over. I had ached for this moment.

“On your knees,” he said. “Be my slave.” He sat up on the side of his cot and I moved to him on all fours, more than willing to be submissive to him, to be his slave. When I reached him, he spread his thighs, cupped the back of my head, and drew me into his crotch. I opened my mouth to take him in, gagging, but determined, took him deep in my throat, and gave him head.

He fucked me for hours, striving ever more forcefully to reach up deep into my core with his Congolese cock and slay me there. He put me on my belly, stretched out on top of me, his shaft deep up into me. He grasped by shoulders and bowed my torso back, and rocked me back and forth, his cock dancing inside me. Reversing on me, he grasped my ankles and fucked deep down inside me. And, in the end, just before I collapsed on him in exhaustion, he lay on his back and I rode his erection, both facing him, and leaning back, grasping his ankles, and rising and falling, rising and falling on the magnificent, black, Congolese cock, and then facing his feet, grasping his ankles, and riding him in long waves that brought his purple mushroom cap to the rim of my anus and then swallowed him up, deep, both of us groaning and grunting in our primitive jungle fuck.

Later, darkness having settled over the compound, the eerie light having been replaced by the night sounds of the jungle, Felix’s mouth came close to my ear as we stretched out against each other’s bodies, mine enfolded in his, his long shaft still buried up deep inside me, still powerful when flaccid. “It isn’t just Julian and the tribal chief who want you to go upriver tomorrow to join the new clinic at Bokuma,” he whispered. “I want you to also.”

And that decided that.