Dear Joanna

by Habu

20 Mar 2017 2602 readers Score 9.1 (61 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


23 May 1890

Southampton Docks, England

Joanna, My Love:

How I miss you, even after only three days since having been by your side--and more. And especially I regret not letting you come to see me off on my journey of establishing our future.

My traveling companion, the Heyward Company representative, David Paxton, is spending our last evening in port with his wife and children, who have come to see us off, and my heart aches that that could not be you here as well. I realize that seeing me away was a good excuse for going to London privately to see a doctor without your family suspecting what we suspect, but I regret being so impetuous as to have caused this reason we cannot be together here on my last night in England. Oh, how I miss you. I will send for you to join me in Cape Colony and to be my wife a soon as possible regardless of the results of your London trip. We will be together sooner than later if it is as we fear, and your family and friends will never need to know of the timing involved.

Take care, love. I intend to establish myself well in the colony--and now can better do so with the discovery of gold as well as the earlier finding of diamonds on the Heyward Company Orange River holdings. You father will have reason to be proud of my prospects yet. The hearsay he speaks of is just that--vicious gossip. I cannot help it if my aspect and the company I once kept at Oxford are as they have been publicly described to be. We will overcome all of this and establish ourselves proudly in this world, come what may.

Your loving fiancé,

Peter

* * * *

I embarked on the royal steam mail ship, the RMS Dunottar Castle, for the eighteen-day run from Southampton, England, to Cape Town in south Africa to seek my fortune in south Africa and to establish a life there for Joanna and me. Joanna would join me sooner than later, if, as feared, she is with child following our impetuous act--well, acts.

Unknown to me before I embarked, Trevor Heyward, the president of the holding company that had hired me to go to south Africa, was on the same ship. I had thought that I would be accompanied only by David Paxton, who was overseer of the company that resupplied farms northwest of Cape Town. The company’s business had been expanded following the discovery of mineable diamonds there in the Orange River some twenty years earlier and now gold had been discovered in the river bank as well. With the expansion of business had come the need for more administrative staff and, following an especially favorable interview I received from Trevor Heyward in London, I had been hired on as an accountant. This had transpired despite rumors that had begun to float on activities of my circle of friends at Oxford the previous year--rumors I could best face by acquiring a wife and distancing myself from England for a period.

I should have realized, however, that the interview with Heyward was more because of those rumors rather than despite them. But I was so concerned about what the results would be from Joanna’s consultation with a physician in London that I did not focus on the nature of Heyward’s interest in hiring me. In many regards news from Joanna that we would need to press ahead with our nuptials and retire together away from England for at least a few years would be the most welcome. I had gritted my teeth and striven hard to woo and then to find opportunity to bed her repeatedly to counter the rumors from Oxford--as well as to reassure myself that I was able to accept tradition. My mind was occupied with thoughts of this situation when I met with Heyward; they were not with his easy familiarity and unexpected eagerness to hire me for the Cape Colony operations.

David Paxton came as even more of a surprise for me.

Paxton was a riddle. If I hadn’t seen him with his family--a wife and a young boy and girl--in Southampton, I would have drawn a different conclusion with him. I also would have seen him as a threat to my plan to redeem myself far sooner than I did. He seemed to show a certain familiar interest in me, and I must admit that he was a man to give rise to speculation and arousal. Paxton was a florid Scott, tall and muscular, robust and exuberant of both body and personality. He was red headed, with the burnished skin toning of such a man who spent considerable time outdoors under the sun. He was a handsome, square-jawed man with mutton-chop whiskers, bravado, and a loud, boisterous voice. He had a piercing, assessing, and knowing stare, and this he turned on me starting from the moment the RMS Dunottar Castle took sail from Southampton.

We were traveling second class, with Trevor Heyward in first, so Paxton and I didn’t enter into the realm of the company officer until we had cleared the sighting of the Rock of Gibraltar and entered the waters of Africa. So much changed on that day, it was like we entered another world, a more primitive and primeval world, a world of stripping away convention and social limits. I could see it in Paxton--and eventually in Heyward, as well--and I could feel it in myself. I could sense an increased sensitivity to contact with those men, to the expressions on their faces--their eyes and their smiles--and to the effect on my own body of having them brush up against me in passing--at first by accident and later not by accident at all.

I shared a cabin with Paxton, a small one that was almost entirely taken up with two tray beds, with lips all around to prevent the sleeper from rolling off onto the decking in rough seas, not that there was much area of decking between the beds to roll off to. The quarters were close in atmosphere too, with only one small porthole to the outside. The weather was warm and grew warmer the more south we sailed.

As soon as we left European waters into the sweep of Africa, Paxton stripped down to his lower undergarment skivvies and slept on top of the sheet at night. As we sailed southward I was forced to do the same to be able to sleep. The man’s musculature was magnificent, his red, curly chest, arm, and leg hair rampant. He didn’t hesitate to flaunt himself and to give me meaningful looks, although he said nothing forward until after we had cleared Europe and entered African seas. That didn’t mean that he didn’t touch me seemingly casually but, to me, increasingly intimately even as we moved about the deck during the days we were passing by France, Spain, and Portugal.

We had been sailing for a week and a half and Paxton was a virile man, at the height of his manliness. I should not have been surprised, and indeed wasn’t really, that he took to masturbating himself at night, and, given that he was sleeping nearly naked on the top of the sheets, it was not surprising that I could not avoid knowing what he was doing and being able to glimpse it even in the darkness of the cabin. I must admit that after the second night of this, when he would commence, I would pull a sheet over myself, watch him, and stroke myself off in the rhythm he set. On the fifth night, I saw that he was watching me, and I slipped the sheet off my body so that he could watch me as I watched him.

Fool that I was, I intended that it go no further than this. I kept reminding myself that I had seen him in a state of affection with a family and that my purpose for leaving England was to leave the rumors of Oxford behind me. I might have been able to contain myself--and Paxton--if Trevor Heyward wasn’t entering the equation as well.

We were two weeks out of Southampton and six days past clearing the lights of Gibraltar when the invitation arrived to dine with Mr. Heyward in the first-class dining room to celebrate the crossing of the equator. Luckily, I had brought appropriate dinner attire for the occasion. Paxton hadn’t, but he comported himself as if that didn’t matter--that he was as good as anyone else dining in the chamber--and he was imposing and handsome enough to pull it off.

In contrast, Heyward was a man of first class, elegantly dressed and with the look of wealth, comfort, and command. He was heavy set, which just supported his aspect of authority and being a wealthy man, but he was also a handsome man in his early fifties, with a healthy head of salt and pepper hair and expensive suit, waistcoat, and shiny leather shoes. A gold watch dangled from his waistcoat pocket and he had an impressive diamond ring on the middle finger of his right hand, descending to just above the knuckle, no doubt one extracted from his own land holdings near Cape Town.

“How good of you to join me,” he said to us as we were ushered to his table. The conversation tone around us was refined and hushed, a far cry from what Paxton and I were used to in the second-class dining room. We didn’t complain, though. Steerage passengers had to take their meals from a kitchen window and find their own place on the lower decks to eat it. “Our paths haven’t crossed until now,” He continued.

Of course our paths hadn’t crossed, I thought. There is a locked gate keeping the loser classes away from the first-class deck. Heyward had said it as if it were Paxton and I who had been shunning him.

“I had hoped to have seen more of you before now,” Heyward said, turning hooded eyes to me that seemed to bear a heavier, more suggestive meaning than the words might otherwise if he hadn’t put a hand my knee under the table as he said it. A chill went up my spine, causing a tightening in my groin that I was unable to control. I looked at him with a new understanding of why he had hired me, and I let myself think of what he would look like undressed--with a paunch surely, but he looked muscular enough--to wonder about the size of him between his legs.

“We thank you kindly for inviting us here,” Paxton said. “We are, of course, ready and willing for whatever is your pleasure, eh, Peter?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I answered, very much aware that both men were looking directly at me, assessing me. Was I still on sufferance for this position in the company, I wondered. Was I still to be tested--and in a way that was becoming increasingly obvious? Later I was to understand that wasn’t a question at all.

The dinner was excellent. Not much less than I was used to in the confines of my own family, of course, but as my family had disowned me, I could not count on rising to this level for the foreseeable future--at least until I turned my life around and made a success of it. I thought of Joanna. As a vicar’s daughter, she certainly was suitable enough for the rise back to where I had started. She was so central to my future plans.

“Shall we withdraw to the men’s salon?” Heyward asked, breaking into my contemplation. It wasn’t really a question, though. In the salon, both the cigars and the liquor were excellent and free-flowing. Paxton heavily indulged in both as if this was a rare treat for him, which I’m sure it must have been. For me, it was a memory of all that I had lost and needed to work hard to regain. It seemed like Paxton was a bottomless pit, a sponge soaking all of it up without effect. I’m sorry to say that it had rather more of an effect on my control of myself. Neither Heyward nor Paxton, however, let up on plying me with more. Heyward himself was very limiting in both his smoking and drinking, while being the generous host for Paxton and me.

The conversation also became less formal than it was in the dining room and increasingly pointed. At length, Heyward leaned over to me where the three of us were sitting in a tight circle in high-backed chairs that had the effect of separating us off from the rest of the salon. He placed a hand on my knee again, which I looked at in some distracted sense of familiarity with some connection to my past but one that I was a bit too cloudy from the drink to directly identify. Then he put the other hand on my other knee. He coaxed my thighs apart and boldly looked down at my crotch. Because of the styles of the time, I knew he could see the line of my cock in my trousers and knew that I was hard. He looked up into my eyes and smiled.

“I asked you two to dinner this evening because I always feel so free when the ship has cleared the influence of Europe and moved into the realm of Africa--and especially so as we cross the equator as we did late this afternoon. I feel I am in a whole new world, with customs and rules so much freer than those of Europe. Do the two of you feel it too?--the sloughing off of convention and restriction to something more basic, closer to pleasure and desire, when we enter the different world.”

“Yes, always feel it too,” Paxton echoed. “It’s like I feel I am a new man, a freer, separate man from when I’m in England. You too, Peter?”

I was confused. I hadn’t felt anything of the kind until then, but now that they mentioned it . . . and because I knew it was what they wanted me to say, I answered. “Yes, I think I can feel something of that too. Although it’s my first time out of Europe, so I guess it will come more in time.”

“Yes, I think you’ll feel freer, more adventuresome in Africa,” Paxton said.

“You know there were several young men interested in this position we are offering you, don’t you, Hansen?” One of his hands left my knee and his fingers brushed across the line of my cock in my trousers before returning to gripping and squeezing the knee.

Offering me, I wondered? The sense of still being tested roared in to face me with reality. I didn’t necessarily have this position locked in. “I am grateful for being given the opportunity,” I answered.

“I wonder just how grateful,” Paxton murmured from his corner of the triangle. “I would think very grateful.” Now it was his hand moving over to my basket, his fingers more intimately tracing me through the material of the trousers than Heyward’s had. With a shudder, the muscles of my legs gave way, and my thighs opened wider and my buttocks slid toward the front of the chair. The grip of Paxton’s hand became more intimate still.

“Yes, I’m very grateful,” I added, for emphasis.

“It is quite a gamble to give you this chance, considering some of the talk going around about you and the Oxford Squires Club.”

That’s what we’d been called--the Oxford Squires Club. A group of young, privileged men who experimented in silliness, a bit too openly so it proved. Not that there was any grounds for pretense now, with Heyward’s hands gripping my knees and Paxton feeling up my cock, making it harden more, but it was obvious now what they wanted--and that I would give it to them.

“The rumors were rather more encompassing concerning those involved, I’m sorry to say,” I answered. It was an evasion and I could see that they both saw through it. Rather too many young men were whispered about in conjunction with the activities of the Oxford Squires Club, to be sure, but I couldn’t honestly claim to have been maligned.

“I would rather prefer that the rumors were true,” Heyward said in a quiet voice, giving me a meaningful voice. “It would be much in your favor if they are.”

“Better that the rumors are true, yes. Several good candidates for this position, I have been told,” Paxton said in a voice perhaps a bit too loud for our little circle, considering the topic. I looked around to see if anyone was listening to us. The gesture was more to avoid answering what they were suggesting. In truth, I didn’t know what to answer. I had been sorely tempted by the maleness and lack of inhibition of Paxton in our small confined cabin the previous two weeks out of Southampton. It was only the specter of his leave taking from a family that had acted as a barrier to possibly misinterpret that he had an interest in me and was signaling for me to reciprocate. There too was my resolve to use this second chance in south Africa to turn my life around.

But I had been sorely tempted. Here, though, the signaling seemed to be from Trevor Heyward himself--and thus more challenging and demanding. I looked down at his hands on my knees and then up into his eyes. He was challenging me to make a gesture to have him remove the hands. That I wasn’t doing so was producing a gleam of victory in his eyes--and a feeling of surrender to my baser desires in my own mind. I relaxed back into the chair, Heyward moved his hand higher on my thigh, I let my legs go totally limp and my stance to spread to the limit, and Heyward’s hand moved to the inner thigh, the pad of his thumb touching where the head of my cock was nestled in the basket of my crotch. Paxton put his hand on Heyward’s and moved it over to cup my basket.

“But in your case, the rumors were true, were they not, Peter?” Heyward said in a low, hoarse voice. “I want them to be true. It’s in your best interest that they are true.”

“Yes, they are true,” I answered, surrendering all pretense.

“Am I to understand that you took the shafts of other men in his Oxford group of yours? Say, young Adrian Barstow, for instance. They say he has one of the thickest cocks in England. Did you lie under young Lord Barstow.”

“Yes, I have been covered by Adrian Barstow,” I acknowledged, the words escaping me like air from a leaking balloon. It’s what he wanted me to say--what I needed to say to keep this job offer open. And it wasn’t more than the truth--not the part about the thickness of Adrian either.

“Mr. Paxton,” Heyward said in a low voice, his eyes not releasing mine, “I have wondered how the two of your are faring below, whether you are being badly inconvenienced by being in second class.”

“Not badly inconvenienced at all, Mr. Heyward,” Paxton said, his eyes staring into mine, willing me to cooperate, not realizing that I had already surrendered. “Would you like to see our cabin, sir? I’m sure you can arrange to have a key to return to the first-class deck.”

“Would that be convenient for you, Peter?” Heyward asked me. Paxton had withdrawn his hand, leaving Heyward’s there. Heyward had two fingers on my crotch now, bracketing the head of my cock, tracing and rubbing it. I was releasing precum and shuddering. And I was surfacing old sensations, old desires. It wasn’t just the liquor that had weakened my resolve. I looked over to Paxton, frankly wishing it was him who was rubbing my cock again through the material of my trousers. I had hardened with Paxton more in mind than Heyward. Paxton’s eyes were turned to what Heyward was doing with his hand. And Paxton’s hand was on his own crotch. “Would you like me to see your cabin?”

“Whatever he wishes, isn’t that right, Peter?” Paxton asked.

“Yes, Mr. Heyward,” I answered. “Whatever you wish.”

“And in your cabin, you will lie under me? I will cover you as Lord Barstow did?”

“Whatever you wish,” I answered.

Paxton and I were stripped down naked. Heyward remained dressed with only his fly unbuttoned, and his cock and balls free. After I had knelt in subservience to Heyward, almost having to unhook my jaw to take the thickness of him inside my mouth to engorge him to the maximum, Paxton was crouched down on his haunches, his back pressed against the side wall of my bed. He was holding my head between his hands and guiding my sucking of his cock. Heyward was behind me, hands gripping my hips, and fucking me in the ass.

I felt guilt, certainly, but more than that I felt that freedom the two had talked about in moving from Europe to Africa. I felt I was in a new, more open and permissive, less-restrictive world. I was on the high seas, off the coast of Africa, below the equator, beyond the confines of Europe and my old life. No one was to see or judge me here. And I wanted this job . . . and securing this position obviously entailed pleasing Trevor Heyward, who was letting me know in no uncertain terms what he wanted and expected from me.

And it brought me pleasure too. I found out why Heyward had asked about the thickness of Adrian Barstow. He too was extraordinarily thick.

I moaned as Heyward’s hard cock worked my ass channel, and Paxton moaned as I serviced his thick, long cock and took his cum deep in my throat. Heyward’s angle was obviously best from behind, with his paunch resting on the small of my back. He wasn’t long, but his thickness presented a challenge that he overcame with much grunting and jabbing and I rewarded him with deep groans. After Heyward had seeded me and departed, Paxton moved me onto my belly on my bed, stretched out on me and covered me, mounted me, penetrated me, and fucked me into the morning.

I had heaved a sigh of relief when, upon leaving us, Heyward murmured to Paxton, “Yes, he will do very nicely.” I had won a job.

Heyward didn’t return his key to the first-class barrier gate until we reached Cape Town. We dined each night of our final four nights at sea in first class, retired to the men’s salon afterward for cigars and liquor, and then came to the second-class cabin, where Heyward fucked me, coming and then leaving quickly, and Paxton covered and plowed me into the morning hours.

In order to move on to the attentions of Paxton, I managed to be diplomatic enough with Heyward’s fucking to give him the impression that it was he I was keyed up for each night. After the first night, we discovered that he could receive maximum depth and pleasure if he lay on his back and I rode him, which I did from various angles, pleasing him with my dexterity and inhibition. If it made me feel the part of a wanton prostitute, it increased the arousal of both of us.

The days on sea off the coast of Europe had dragged and been boring. The nights off the African coast were short and exhilarating.

* * * *

4 June 1890

Cape Town, South Africa

Joanna, My Jewel:

I cannot believe it has been three weeks since I’ve been with you. I fear, though, that, now that I have reached and seen the Cape Colony, our time apart will need to be longer. This is especially so if you have found your condition to be delicate--I wait agonizingly on pins and needles for news of that--but even if you are in robust and unencumbered health, which I pray you are, I am not sure if you would find the life I have found here endurable. And we have not even gone to the company fields on the Orange River yet, which I understand exist on an even more primitive basis than here in Cape Town. I think you will--would--find the teeming crowds of natives--often called bushmen here--dark of skin and barely clothed and entirely uncouth--distressing.

In any event, I long to hear from you and of your condition. And, of course, of the health and well-being of the vicar and your family, as well. I currently will be living a better life than most here for a few weeks at least. Mr. Heyward has been kind enough to invite me to lodge in his townhouse in Cape Town as I learn the accounting needs and processes of the company. He has been extremely accommodating to and solicitous of me, and I am endeavoring to show my gratitude to him in every way possible. Hoping to see a letter from you upon the next arrival from England of a mail ship, I remain your devoted--

Peter

* * * *

Giving up and slightly scared, I relaxed, as he directed me to do, and lay there, his body half under me, my right leg in the crook of his right arm and his left arm around my back, his hand cupping my chin and pulling my head back. I moaned from the sheer thought of what Trevor was doing as the middle finger of his right hand penetrated my ass channel. A shudder went through my body as I felt the smooth-edge facets of the diamond in his ring come to rest on my prostate. He hesitated only long enough for me to moan again in anticipation before he started to rub the hard, smooth, warm face of the diamond on my prostate. I could feel my cum rising, but he anticipated that too and stopped rubbing.

“Now fuck yourself on it. You do it. Cum for me,” he murmured in my ear. He was holding the ring steady against my prostate.

“Trevor . . . Mr. Heyward,” I pleaded.

“Fuck yourself on the diamond and stroke your cock to completion,” he repeated, the murmur turning into a growl.

With a whimper, I started to stroke my cock with my left hand and rolling my pelvis so that, as he held his index finger and the diamond ring rigid, I was rubbing my prostate over the gem. It took me only a few minutes to come, after which he pulled his finger out, rolled over on top of me, the heaviness of him taking my breath away, thrust inside me, and fucked me to his own completion.

He remained there, stretched out on his side, his uncut cock, the piss slit of his bulb peeking out of the enveloping fold of skin, flaccid now and venturing out from his thatch of gray and black pubic hair, cum oozing out of it onto the sheet. Countless had been the times over the last month that I’d pushed that foreskin back with my lips to suck the cum out of the angry red bulb. He motioned to me yet again, and although half dressed and already late for the wagon that was to take me to the Heyward holdings on the Orange River, I knelt by the bed, wrapped the fingers of my hand around the base of his cock, pushed the foreskin back with my lips, and sucked him dry, as, moaning, he moved his dick in a slow fucking motion in my mouth, filling my cheeks, if, mercifully, not being able to reach my throat. He jerked three times, releasing a spurt of seed each time, each time breathing out a sigh, longer with each subsequent release. Only then, as he loosened his fingers on the sides of my head, did I realized how tight his grip had been in holding my head in place for his pleasure.

Trevor Heyward was the boss. The wagon taking me from Cape Town to the farms and mines would just have to wait. The wagon driver understood this well. I suspect that the wagon driver and all of the others working in the Cape Town office knew exactly what Heyward wanted and what my role was. They were deferential to me, but distant. The younger, better-looking young men were just happy that Heyward was still enthralled with me. You didn’t have to have a preference for men for Heyward to have and exercise a preference for you. You only needed to be fully in his control for your livelihood.

“I have half a notion to keep you here in Cape Town,” he said, as, stretched out on the bed, his head propped up by his bent arm, he watched me dress. He liked to watch me dress--and to undress--and I’d learned to do it slowly, sensually for him. As David Paxton had continually said those last days on the ship, whatever Heyward wanted from me, I was to provide--if I wanted to keep this position in the company’s accounting office.

I had gone too far in securing the position to give it up easily now. Keeping the position was only half the reason I lay under Heyward and none of the reason I let Paxton fuck me, though. As much as that was a reason, I had accepted Africa as another world--a more permissive and basic animal instinct world--than England. In Africa I could let go--and hope that none of what I did here would get back to England.

And if it did get back to England, it did. I would be in no less favorable stead than I had been when I left. I doubted that Trevor Heyward would permit himself to be painted with that brush among his London colleagues. He would not publicize how he used me.

“If you wish me to stay, I will, of course,” I answered.

“The job we have for you is at the river.”

“Nonetheless, if you wish me to stay, I will. Whatever you want of me, I’ll give you.”

This seemed to please him. “Come here,” he said. I turned and looked at him and saw that he had an erection again. I was half dressed already--in my skivvies, a shirt on my back, but not yet buttoned; knee-high socks, with garters, on my calves. I could have pointed out that I was nearly dressed, but I didn’t.

“Yes, sir,” I said, going to him, standing between his spread thighs. He pulled down my skivvies and rubbed his cheeks on my cock before opening his mouth to it. I swayed slightly within the grasp of the palms of his hands on my buttocks cheeks, until I came for him. Then he turned me away from him.

“Bend over and grab your ankles.” I obeyed the command and groaned as his mouth went to my hole. At his command, I crouched and moved my buttocks back, spreading my cheeks with my hands, pulling my channel onto his cock myself, and fucking myself on the shaft as he held my hips and gave me last-minute instructions about how he wanted the company accounts recorded and reported.

After he came, he slapped me on the butt and told me to finish dressing.

“Every two weeks. I want you back here for two days. Every two weeks--until I don’t want you anymore.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered as I was plugging my cufflinks in. I knew that I didn’t want to see the day when he didn’t want me riding his cock any more.

* * * *

The wagon ride was grueling and I was hot, dusty, and exhausted when I arrived at the main house of the river farms and mines. I was told I could live here, with David Paxton, and whatever company executives were inspecting the operation, until I could afford a house of my own--a separate dwelling for any family I brought down to Cape Colony.

“That doesn’t mean that Mr. Heyward and I will not use you when we want,” Paxton said.

I no longer would have had it any other way.

I could use the land for free, but whatever house I built would ultimately belong to the company. I had been told this before leaving Southampton, and much of the first week of the voyage I’d spent designing various houses to build. I had stopped doing that on the day we’d reached the equator and I’d been the centerpiece of Heyward and Paxton’s “crossing” celebrations. I now took my having shelved the idea as an omen.

The main house was a one-story bungalow-style rectangle raised on a platform, as the river was known to rise this far, but it was a large house. It looked even larger than it was because of the deep verandah that surrounded it on all four sides.

As the wagon drew up to the front of the house, a tall, muscular native was coming out of the entrance door. He came as a surprise. He wasn’t the short, lean bushmen I had grown accustomed to seeing in Cape Town’s native population. This man was of what now was being called the Khoikoi race, descendents of Hottentots. This was a different man altogether--a stately one, standing tall but gliding about like a dancer, and as he moved a riot of tattooing undulated on his muscular torso. He was barefoot and only wearing worn trousers that barely managed to stay up on his slim hips, held up by a thick leather belt that was so long that he’d drilled new holes in it and the tail drooped down the side of his leg. He gave me a look of haughty disdain, descended the stairs from the platform, and, giving me another long look, strutted around the corner of the house and was gone.

Meanwhile the driver of the wagon had taken my trunk out of the back of the wagon, dropped it on the ground, and was driving away. If I had expected a reception committee, I was sorely disappointed. I climbed the stairs and entered the house. The temperature dropped a good ten degrees--mercifully--between the beaten dirt turning circle in front of the bungalow and the building’s interior.

I entered a large room--all of the public rooms in the house were large. What appeared to be a dining room was beyond this room on the right. A matching room on the left was closed off by double doors. I slitted one of these doors and peered in to discover that this was an office area. As it turned out, I had entered one of the short sides of the rectangular building. Directly in front of me was a hallway leading straight back, with doorways off it. I heard the sound of sex, which answered why no one had greeted me outside the building, I reasoned. Someone was responding in a high-pitched voice in a mixture of a foreign, clacky-sound language and English to being used hard. There was enough English spoken to understand that the reaction was to being fucked. The other, lower-toned voice was David Paxton’s.

I walked into the hallway. A kitchen opened from the first door on the right. The room beyond that must be servants quarters, as I could see rough-wood beds. The furniture in the large room and dining room had been decidedly elegant--as good as I had grown up with in York. The polished wooden floors were covered with large Oriental rugs. The door on the left opened to a well-appointed bedroom, with a four-poster canopy bed. This floor was covered with an Oriental rug too. Trevor Heyward’s room, perhaps.

The next set of rooms were also bedrooms, not quite as well appointed, but good enough. The men having sex were in the bedroom on the right. Paxton was fucking a bushman who was more attractive than most--from his appearances a Baster, which was the south African term for people of mixed native and European heritage. The man was black and small, like a bushman, but with features that were more European than native. Paxton was on top of him on the bed, holding him on all fours, and fucking him doggie style.

Paxton looked up and saw me, and, without skipping a beat of his fuck, said, “You can have the bedroom two doors down on the right. The office you’re working in is the one to the left of the front entrance. I’ll be with you when I’m done here.”

When he was done there, he came out to the living room, naked, scrounged around in a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and came over and sat across from me. As always, his body was magnificent and had the effect of hardening me up and giving me more of a buzz than the cheap whiskey did.

The native scurried out of what I surmised was Paxton’s bedroom and into the kitchen. Watching him move, Paxton laughed, and said, “That’s Adam Baartman, our houseboy. He’s a good fuck, but I guess you won’t be knowing that; you’re both bottoms. I usually come back from the field for lunch and do him before going back. We might as well establish what the routine is here. You will work here, taking breaks as you wish as long as you keep up with the accounting. Feel free to visit the worksites. It will help with efficiency. The workers will assume that you are checking on them. Adam will fix your meals whenever you want them and when I’m not using him. I go to the fields early in the morning, come back here for lunch and a fuck, and then check out the mining operations in the afternoon. You have a bedroom, but most nights you will be in my bed--when I want you. Any questions?”

“None at the moment,” I said. I could have railed at the arrogance of the man, but in the absence of Heyward, he was god here, and I didn’t object to the idea of being in his bed at night.

In fact, I noticed he had an erection now--a massive one.

“Come, let me show you your bedroom,” he said, with a husky voice.

I had already seen all of the rooms, not knowing which one was to be mine, but as he rose, so did I. Walking down the hallway, he placed a hand on my buttocks, and I shuddered in anticipation. He fucked me in the same position I’d seen him fuck Adam in just a bit earlier. As he was doing it, the first native I’d seen coming out of the house appeared at the bedroom door.

“One of the sifting machines has broken down at the diamond operation site, Mr. Paxton,” the native said without showing a bit of surprise that Paxton was mounted on my ass on the bed, both of us buck naked. “I have sent for the mechanic, but I am reporting it in case you want to see what broke before it is fixed.”

“Good, Thabo,” Paxton said in a breathy voice but without dropping a stroke. “Don’t let the mechanic work on it until I have seen it. I’ll be along when I’m finished here.”

When the native left, Paxton said, “That is Thabo Towehaar, my right-hand-man in the operations. You may have noticed that he’s a hunk compared to the bushmen of the region. He’s a Zulu. They come from the north and are given all of the respect they want from the natives of this region. They’re considered fearless and fearsome. It helps to have him with authority in the field here. But I’d advise that you not let him catch you alone unless you crave death by hard fucking. He’ll do you if he can get you alone, and I’ll not stop him.” He laughed and continued his stroking inside me.

We went for several days on Paxton’s schedule. I found I could work with it, and I enjoyed him topping me in bed much more than I had enjoyed Heyward. So, life was good.

Then came the day that I decided to check out the field operations. I started with the mines. The day was hot, and I was melting, so I took off my shirt and slung it over my shoulder as I walked along the river and toward the field. The company grew everything from fresh produce to wheat in their fields. It was delivered to Cape Town to resupply ships rounding the Horn going between England and India. It had been quite a lucrative business and still was, although it wasn’t as lucrative as the mining they now did around the Orange River for gold and diamonds.

As I was approaching the river by the edge of a wheat field, I saw the Zulu, Thabo Towehaar, coming out of a stand of tomatoes. He took one look at me and I saw his eyes narrow. I stood there, surprised and a bit fearful, as I saw a wicked grin slide across his face. He wore only low-slung trousers and, as I watched, he reached down, unbuckled his overlong belt, unbuttoned his trousers, let them fall to the ground, and stepped out of them. He held and waved his cock at me. It was mammoth and quickly hardening. He started to walk toward me, holding his belt in his hand, doubled over, snapping it. Instinctively, I turned and walked rapidly into the wheat field.

He started walking fast and so I began to run. He was running then too. I could hear the slapping of his large, bare feet on the sun-baked earth as he moved rapidly. He landed on my back in the wheat field, the stalks of wheat being tall enough to hide us from view. He was on top of me, between my spread legs. Fighting for breath from having it knocked out of me, I pushed on his beefy, tattooed chest with my fists. I caught him on the chin with a fist and then his mouth, causing a trickle of blood there. He snorted and exclaimed something in anger. Reaching over and picking up a rock, he made as to strike me in the face with it, and I surrendered, lying back on the ground, raising my arms in supplication between my face and the rock.

Grunting he reached down and unbuckled my belt and pulled it out of the loops. Gathering up all of the strength adrenaline was giving me, I pushed him off of me with a heave, scrambled up, and, in a crouch, moved deeper into the field. He tripped my feet up with one of his, though, and, with an “Offf,” fell belly down on the ground.

Standing over me, a folded leather belt in each hand, he struck again and again and again with the belts on my back, buttocks, and thighs, until I was reduced to a quivering puddle. Turning me over onto my back, he forced my wrists together and tied them off, over my head, with one of the belts. After giving another couple of licks with the other belt on the chest, as I moaned and begged him to stop, he grabbed my ankles, hooked them on his shoulders, positioned himself between my thighs, worked his thick, long cock inside me and began to pump, stretching me to the limit, reaching deeper into the core of me than I’d ever been reached before.

I worked my wrists out of the belt, but lost to his masterful fuck, I made no effort to fight him with them. I reached under his armpits and gripped and dug my nails, unheeded, into the thick muscles of his shoulder blades. I wanted him inside me but he was monstrously huge. I was afraid at any moment he would split me asunder internally. But then I was opening for him, feeling the rhythm of the fuck and becoming one with it. Bucking, bucking, bucking, crying out in passion and ecstasy; not caring if this was the end of the world. But then I gasped, as he moved even deeper inside, pistoned harder, and grasped my throat, taking my breath away.

* * * *

15 July 1890

Heyward Farms, Cape Town

Dear Joanna:

Your letters have reached me at last. How relieved I am to know that your health is as normally and there are no immediate decisions to be made. I am particularly relieved that this is so, as fate has intervened to strike us a blow of untenable circumstance. I love and respect you too much to force on you the tragedy that has entered my life.

Three weeks prior to my writing this I was victim to a horrible accident while helping to inspect a sifting machine in the gold field. It is a heavy piece of equipment and--there is no easy way to tell you of this--it fell on me and crushed my legs. I am no longer a whole man, and certainly not a man worthy of you sharing your life with.

In some ways, we are lucky this has happened in time for our betrothal to be withdrawn--I’m sure your family will be relieved, especially your father, the vicar, and my family would not care. The Lord be praised that for you, at least, there is the chance to move on in life, now not encumbered in any way, especially with the news you passed on to me of your condition, and free to begin life with a man who is whole and not in perpetual pain, as I am.

Mr. Heyward, as always has been solicitous of my well-being and generous in his support. I have been permitted to keep my position here. An accountant does not need his legs, which is good, because, alas, mine now are no more. I know this will come as a shock to you, and I know that you, as I do, will be grateful that we have reached this circumstance before it became a matter of falling irrevocably over the brink of a tragic life together. I hope that we will remain friends, although if you do not wish to correspond further, I certainly will understand and not attempt to maintain a connection. I suggest that you not entertain any thoughts to come down to Cape Colony, as this is much too primitive a place for a delicate rose such as you are. Please pass on my . . .

* * * *

“Leave that and come to the bed.” The voice was gruff, not to be ignored.

“Very well,” I said. The roughest part was already written.

He was lying on his back on my bed, naked, and holding his massive erection in his hand. I had already serviced that with my mouth before rising and starting the letter that I could not get out of my head. But he was erect again. So virile. So arousing.

I rose from the desk, moved over to the bed, climbed to where I was on top of him, astride his slim hips. He held his cock in his hand, steady for me, while, with some effort, I impaled myself on him. When we were saddled, I rose a bit on my knees to give him room to work. Leaning over him I palmed his heavily tattooed pectorals, ready to melt at the way the black ink undulated as his muscles moved in the heat of a vigorous fuck. Thado liked to start the fuck. The Zulu warrior wanted to assert command before we went into other positions. I knew it wouldn’t be long, though, until I was hovering over him in the position of the crab, using my strong arm and leg muscles to rise and fall on his buried cock as my eyes searched the patterning in the ceiling and I reveled in how deeply and possessively the Zulu warrior could take me to heaven.

I whimpered as I saw him move a hand under his body and pull out two leather belts. He pushed me over on my stomach, and I moaned as Thado pulled my arms over my head and used one of the belts to tie my wrists off on the rungs of the brass headboard. He had my ankles trapped between his strong knees and I yelped at the first strike of the other belt on my buttocks. I hardened immediately, knowing that the beating would only last long enough to heighten his arousal and fill him out to the max.

Truth be told it had the same effect on me.

by Habu

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