Drums in the Night

Rise, fall; rise, fall. This was usually when inspiration came to me—when I was riding a man’s cock. It wasn’t working today, though. Inspiration wasn’t coming. Guido, an Italian-American hunk, even at fifty, was coming, however. The coming of Guido was well worth working for. I reclined back, grasping his knees, and continued rising and fall on his shaft as he grasped my waist between his hands, huffed, and with jerks, rhythmic squeezing of his hands on my waist, and low gasps, came again, and again, and yet again, filling out the bulb of the condom.

“Oh, shit; oh, fuck, you come big,” I exclaimed at the event, to his pleasure and my own satisfaction.

It would have been more satisfying, of course, if he’d been barebacking me, but our relationship, as close as it was, wasn’t that committed. One of us, at least, took it where we could get it. I strongly suspected Guido did as well.

Guido, a stage performance producer, mostly of gay male plays and of an all-male Hell’s Kitchen permanent musical revue, Guys and More Guys, was virile and a champion producer of cum. I didn’t lie to him about that. What was it, four blasts? I can only imagine how that would have felt if he hadn’t been sheathed. It was almost worth the risk to find out.

Some things Italians do best. Fucking is one of those. Guido Coursu, the man I lived with in our West 51st Street Manhattan apartment he paid for, had a very nice cock and he was body beautiful for a half-century man. He’d kept his trim and his hair, not to mention his tanned body and his erection.

When Guido had come, I remained straddling his hips and leaning back, grasping his knees, focusing on him going flaccid inside me with the promise that he’d rise again, while he took my erection in hand and stroked me off. I strained for inspiration. This often was when it came, in a flash of full-imaged imagination. In addition to being a men’s fashion model, I was the designer of Guido’s Guys and More Guys musical routines, including composing the music. We needed a new review to start rehearsing for our October show. This was usually when we did something weird and wild, something witching, but the inspiration wasn’t coming.

He raised his muscular chest, swirls of salt and pepper hair matting his pecs and trailing down his sternum into his pubes; encircled my torso with one arm while keeping his other hand between us, jacking my cock; and brought his full, sensual lips to mine. I thought I wanted to bring myself off, but he wouldn’t let me going, holding me in thrall and stroking, stroking, stroking. I accepted that he was going to finish me and, with a sigh and a low moan, gave myself over to his relentless hand. Italians were such passionate people. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, rocked my pelvis against his stroking hand, and felt him hardening inside me again.

“Oh, shit, Guido. I’m going to blow. Yessss.” Releasing, I collapsed in his arms. Then I couldn’t help myself. “Do me again,” I whimpered. He was, after all, hard inside me again.

Guido was all the lover I could ever want, not that I left it there. He needed me to design a review set for him. I tried to bring music up into my brain, to get inspiration for a review from this fuck, but it wasn’t coming. It wasn’t just lust. I needed him to be pumping me to pull of the cadence that gave me the beat to construct the reviews on.

He pulled away from my lips and moved them to my right ear.

“You’re not done. You have more to give me.” He didn’t stop pumping my cock with his hand, and his hips were beginning to move again. There would be another fuck.

“You’re so nice, Mark,” he whispered. “So sexy, so young, such a beautiful body. And you give it all to me.”

“Do me, Guido. Pull it out of me,” I begged. He needn’t know it was inspiration I wanted him to pull out of me more than another ejaculation. With me, coming with a man, with a variety of men, wasn’t as important and fulfilling as images of stage productions were. Art was on a higher plane with me than sex was. Having a man’s cock inside me had become commonplace.

October. Halloween. Something witchery. Swirling witch boys in the dark forest. Walpurgis Night. No, that’s in the spring, I think. But the mood of it. Swirling witchery.

Guido was doing what he liked best, holding me immobile, his cock possessing me and throbbing, me begging for it to move inside me, but Guido holding, because, in the throes of my passion, he wasn’t finished with what he wanted to say.

“I wish you didn’t have to go to Africa.”

“It’s the job, Guido. I won’t be gone long.”

“I wish it wasn’t with Jean-Phillipe. He’s such a letch.”

“I can handle Jean-Phillipe.” What I couldn’t do was to tell Guido how Jean-Phillipe, the fashion photographer, handled me as he liked. It was what I had to do for him for me to get photo shoots with him, but I would have opened my legs and elevated my pelvis for Jean-Phillipe anyway. I wasn’t very good about keeping my legs closed, and Frenchmen were consummate lovers too. And a handsome hunk with a big dick was fine with me. What I needed to do now, though, was to gain inspiration for a stage review for Guido. And I needed to come for him. He had started to slow pump me again. I had been running the edge and was ready to explode.

“Oh, shit, Guido. Oh, fuck. I’m coming again.”

He tightened his embrace of me, possessed my lips with his again, forced his tongue in, stroked me more forcefully, and, with a shudder and then another one, I shot another load up between our bellies. He knew me so well. He knew I had another load.

With a laugh, he rolled us over so that I was on my back on our bed and he was between my thighs, still inside me, hard again. He ran an arm under the small of my back and raised my pelvis to him.

I was over the peak. He was just approaching it again. It was all about Guido now. He’d been good to me. Now he was going to be good to himself. I was just a hole and warm channel now.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. A beat was coming to me now. The beat of the dark forest and swirling figures.

He was in deep. He was a thick man. I set my channel muscles to clutching at the cock as it stroked inside me, searching for and finding a rhythm of my own in working the shaft with my channel wall muscles. We were settling into fucking as one, but everything gauged to Guido’s need, his desire, his cadence. The rhythm of the fuck was trying to raise some form of steady musical beat in my brain, working on the idea of a review.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. Young, fit, beautiful men, nearly naked, their costumes not yet materializing, were spreading out over a stage. The music should start at this point. The inspiration usually came at this point, a man’s cock deep inside me, thrusting hard, rhythmically building to a climax. Swirling witch boys. I was that close to full realization of a set.

I was at my best creatively, my muse pumping on all cylinders, during sex—when a man was on top of me, inside me, fucking me. That’s probably why I gave it out to so many men.

“So nice, so yielding, Mark. You’re the best. All mine.” Thrust, thrust, thrust. “Ahhh . . . shit . . . Oh, FUCK!”

Guido came again in a flood and the forming images evaporated. I lay there, sobbing quietly, Guido still inside me, slowly rocking, his cock still working me, the bulb of the condom pulsating from the eruptions of cum—but, unfortunately, with the forming stage production lost to me. I was well fucked, though.

“You are so big. You have so much cum.”

No one did it like an Italian could. No one was better at it than Guido.

But that, of course, wasn’t true. If that had been true, I wouldn’t be going to Africa.

* * * *

“Are you packed for the Kenya trip yet?”

I didn’t think Jean-Phillipe really was interested in the answer to that. He was just trying to make small talk as the others were packing up and leaving his photography studio where we’d been in a photoshoot for male fashion house underwear ads. He was the photographer and I was the one modeling the sexy underwear. There had been others from the commercial production and lighting crew milling around as well, but I knew he wanted to hold me back.

I knew he wanted me to lose the underwear. I knew he was going to fuck me.

Jean-Phillipe was French. He was a good ten years older than I was, but he still was in his early thirties, young for the reputation he’d already earned as a fashion photographer. He was dark and sultry, sex on a stick, and I was one of his favorite models—and not just because I looked good in men’s fashions. He had crooked his little finger and I had laid down for him was one reason—because he had a dick and a technique to die for—but I also was savvy about what was good advertising and Jean-Phillipe knew it.

It had been his idea to use me for a tropical clothes layout on location, but it had been my imagination to have seen a safari setting in the clothes line I was shown and to come up with a location for the shoot. I also suggested where we could go. The fashion house was giving Jean-Phillipe carte blanche on the location, so I suggested an actual safari resort in Kenya. I’d suggested the Ngulia Safari Lodge, in the Tsavo National Park West, 260 kilometers from Nairobi and not far from the Indian Ocean coast.

“You’ve been there?” Jean-Phillipe asked.

“No, I just saw a travel article about that resort,” I had answered. It wasn’t a lie. Having met and lain under Aasir Karu, I’d gone and looked up the resort he’d told me about—the resort that he managed.

Jean-Phillipe and I chatted about our plans for the Africa trip in two weeks’ time while his studio cleared out. When the last of the crew had gone, he drew me to him and we kissed.

“Find a pose on the studio couch,” he said. “I’ll find a mask.”

While he was gone, I slipped off the half undershirt and the bikini briefs I’d last been wearing on the underwear photoshoot and stretched out in a provocative pose on the cobalt-blue velvet-covered studio couch on the photo studio platform. Jean-Phillipe came back with a sparkly purple and green Mardi Gras mask with a couple of feathers rising from it. The mask reminded me of something I’d been thinking of in terms of the October show as the men’s review, but I couldn’t remember what that was at the moment. I was a bit keyed up as I always was when Jean-Phillipe photographed and fucked me. He was always doing something different—something sexy.

He made more money from his private subscription gay male pornographic photographs than from the commercial photo shoots—and so did I. I agreed to be photographed in the nude and even in what Jean-Phillipe termed coital play, carry through, and aftermath, but the use of the mask effectively covered my identity.

“You have a very nice face, but that’s not what men will be looking at,” he had said.

Seeing the mask, delivered by a Frenchman, Jean-Phillipe, got my imagination going, though. It wasn’t only that it often was during sex or in anticipation of sex that my ideas for male review sets came to me—often it led to a quick buildup of the total image, with music, for a review scene. Sometimes the music came first. It was a sense of the music for the stage production that almost had come to me when Guido was fucking me. Sometimes, though, it was something visual. That was happening now, with the purple and green mask. I was seeing a New Orleans street, complete with French-style curlicue wrought iron balconies as the backdrop and young, hunky men fanning out on the stage with flamboyant purple and green masks, with feathers, the men in purple or green speedos—at least at the beginning of the set. Other than that, all they were wearing were strings of purple and green beads. The music started to come to me as well, and then . . . it all evaporated, at Jean-Phillipe putting on background music of his own choosing.

Country and Western music—a male singing in a twangy voice of someone named Lucille leaving him. That’s all it took for the building all-male music review to melt from my brain. It was maddening. I needed to come up with a new review for Guido Coursu’s Guys and More Guys October production soon—certainly soon after I returned from my African safari photoshoot later that month. I almost had it. But this was Jean-Phillipe’s studio and I was working on his payroll now.

I sighed and moved into a stretched-out pose on the studio couch with my buttocks sticking out that I knew he and the men who subscribed to his pornographic male photos service liked. As I did, I started my mind working on a country and Western scenario for a musical revue, but the inspiration for that just wasn’t happening—and we’d done a Western setting earlier in the year.

He photographed me from a distance with both a large still camera and a video camera, as I slowly writhed on the studio couch and masturbated. Then, exchanging those cameras for a smaller one, he came in close, sitting beside where I was stretched out on my back. One of his hands snaked down between my thighs and he entered me with, first one finger, and then two, working up to all of them on the hand bunched up and inside me up to the knuckles. The other hand held the small camera, catching my expressions as I arched my back, threw my arms above my head to grasp the top edge of the studio couch, and writhed to the sensation of him, up to the knuckles, hand fucking me.

Was he going to fist fuck me? We hadn’t gone there before. Would I let him do it? Probably yes.

At length, he put the hand camera down. He went to the video cameras on tripods and turned them on. Then he returned to the couch, unzipped and extracted himself, and stroked his erection while I undulated on the couch beside him, rocking my pelvis on his hand, in response to the working of his bunched fingers inside my ass. When he was in full erection, he rose; ran an arm under my waist, pulling me off the surface of the couch and turning me, belly down, hovering over the couch. Still fully clothed himself, he folded his tall, lithe, sinewy body over mine, still holding me in place with an arm under my waist; mounted me in the doggie position; penetrated; and fucked me with an impressively long cock while I lay my cheek on the blue velvet couch covering, stretched my arms out over the surface of the couch, bunched up velvet in my hands, and moaned at the working of his long, slow thrusts into the quick of my soft core.

The video cameras caught it all. The edited film would go out to a private subscription service and I’d receive a very welcome and meaty royalty check.

Maybe a Frenchman did it even better than an Italian. I hadn’t tried to compare. I didn’t need to compare as long as they both did it for me.

But then there was someone else I was quite sure did it better than either one of them.

* * * *

He was big and strong—and jet black. I was wholly his captive, my pelvis being held off the hotel room bed, elevated by the black bull’s beefy arm under my waist. He was arching my pelvis high, completely immobilizing me. That he had me positioned precisely as needed for his straightest shot, the most accessible angle to force his cock inside me to depth and that, though trembling, I did nothing to defend myself from the total violation, marked how fully he was the master of me.

My torso was cascading back onto the sheets, my shoulder blades pressed into the mattress and my arms extended directly out from my body. My legs were almost at full extension as high as he had me arched.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, please, please,” I was whining, me not knowing what I meant by the plea, and he not caring.

My fists were clutching up wads of the sheeting to maintain a hold, some sense of control, my eyes locked onto the tiles of the Nairobi Sheraton Four Points hotel room ceiling. My feet were planted firmly on the mattress, being used as leverage to rock my hips back and forward against him, as his crouched between my thighs, his thick mamba of a cock slithered down into the quick of me. I gasped and moaned and sobbed as he sank deeper than any other man had or could and possessed, dominated, and conquered and slayed me in my soft core.

Obliterating me again as he had done before, in London. I had no idea that a highly elevated midsection position like this could totally immobilize me and put me at a strong man’s mercy as Asir Karu had—or that it gave a god-awful-long shaft such as Aasir Karu had such deep access. It all relied on his strong leg muscles, allowing him to hold steady in a crouch and rock on the soles of his feet in maintaining a good fuck rhythm. It must, I believe, be some talent men coming from the part of Africa he lived in perfected.

I hadn’t been fucked like this since the last time Aasir Karu had mastered and vanquished me—in a hotel room just as now, but in London. There, like here, it was in an airport hotel. The first time we’d been on the same flight from New York to London, in business class, sitting beside each other. We were strangers. We’d never met before. It transpired that we both took pleasure from casual sex with a stranger and easily fell into a hookup.

Over drinks several hours into the flight I’d admitted that I melted to towering, big-muscled black men—especially when one of the big muscles was between their legs. Karu had admitted he liked willowy blonds with narrow hips that would seem totally impossible in taking what he had between his legs. He took the hand I wasn’t swilling the drink with that had loosened my tongue and put it between his legs.

“Do you think you could sheath that without passing out?” he’d asked.

“I certainly could try.” I’d responded, aroused by the blunt straightforward conversation with this big, beautiful brute of a man, taking flirting further than I normally would not only because the drinks had loosened my tongue and because I was in heat but also because who would think they were in danger of being wiped out sexually in the business-class compartment of a commercial airplane overflying the Atlantic Ocean?

“Do you lay down for complete strangers?” he asked.

“When I want to,” I answered.

He laughed, a hearty, deep-throated laugh.

A seven-hour flight had gone from me adjusting to the physical size of the African giant beside me, even in business class, and a nervous comment here and there during the first hour in the air to touch down at Heathrow, where, several drinks later, we were surreptitiously feeling each other up when the flight attendants, including a mincing young man, weren’t hovering over us, some flirting with Karu, some with me, and some with both of us. The male flight attendant wanted to be in bed with Karu in the worst possible way. But two hours after the wheels touched down, it was me in bed with—and under—Karu in an airport hotel, just as we were now, and Karu was laying me out and destroying my channel with a championship jet-black cock, just as he was doing here in the Sheraton Four Points—bending me so far over backward, with a beefy arm under my waist that I was totally immobilized and open to his down-thrusting shaft.

Although it had been just a one-night stand in London and the two of us going our own way afterward—me stumbling around hardly able to close my legs—I had remembered that Karu had said he was the manager of a safari hotel in a Kenyan wildlife park and that I had his business card and an invitation to visit him anytime I was able and interested. When the possibility of a safari-themed photoshoot to advertise a men’s fashion house’s new casual clothes line came up—me having brought it up—I easily connected the house’s photographer, Jean-Phillipe Jouret, with the Kenyan safari resort. Jean-Phillipe had dropped my name when reaching Aasir Karu and had gotten a honey of a deal in housing and support that would also be sweet advertising for the resort.

And earlier today we had arrived in Nairobi—Jean-Phillipe; Massie Strang, a makeup artist; Dory Dawson, the costumer; Harry Benton, the business and logistics guy; Tony Larson, the lighting guy; and me, the model. These photoshoots required a lot of support, and taking them on location was a major undertaking.

Aasir met us with two Kenyan drivers, introduced as Milo and Pili, in two Land Rover vans. We were only driven out to the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport border drive, Tower Road, though, and to an adjacent hotel. Aasir explained that it was a hard 260-kilometer drive toward the Indian Ocean coast to the Tsavo National Park West, so he’d booked us all into an airport hotel for a night of rest from our long flight, expenses covered by our housing deal.

The support personnel were doubled up in rooms, gender matched, but Jean-Phillipe and I were provided separate rooms. Jean-Phillipe had dropped enough hints in his contacts with Karu that I’m sure Aasir caught on that he could have booked the photographer and me in the same room, but late that night, when Aasir knocked on my hotel room door, it became obvious why he hadn’t.

I assumed that Aasir would wait until we were at his resort before he found a time for us to be alone, but he didn’t wait. He came to my room that night, laid me out on the bed, feeling me up until I begged for the cock, and then put his arm under my waist, jack knifed me backward, crouched between my thighs, and fucked the stuffing out of me.

I was panting and trying to regain my breath from the second breeding sometime around 3:00 in the morning when we heard another knock on my door followed by a key card opening it but being caught by the night chain. Aasir had put the “Do Not Disturb” sign out, turned the lock, and set the chain when he entered the room.

We heard a softly spoken “Mark?” but Aasir was holding me close, with a beefy hand over my mouth.

“The French photographer?” Aasir whispered in my ear, and I nodded an assent.

“He fucks you, I assume?”

Another nod.

The door was rattled, but the chain held. We heard an exacerbated “Shit” and then the door closed again and Jean-Phillipe was gone.

Aasir took his hand away from my mouth. “I thought so. I’ll have to speak roughly with Pili.”

“Pili?” I asked.

“Yes. You met him today. One of the drivers.”

“Why will you have to have a talk with him?”

“I saw that your photographer fancied the lad. I didn’t want the photographer to do what he just did—to come here to sniff around for you. I told Pili to service him—to exhaust him. If he did, it wasn’t for all night and he didn’t tire the man out. Pili usually can keep a man busy for all night.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. I didn’t have to. Aasir continued. “He’s a sexy man.”

“Pili?” I asked.

“No. Jean-Phillipe, your photographer. Does he go both ways?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. And that was the truth. I didn’t know whether Jean-Phillipe flip-flopped. He only topped with me. Still, I was a little put out that Aasir was asking about what Jean-Phillipe would do. The black bull was lying on top of me with his monster of a dick up my ass and he was asking about whether another man could be had? Still, I wasn’t irritated enough to roll away from the man. But I realized that went with the package of this stud bull. He was arrogant but he had every reason to think he was by right.

“Does he share you?” the black giant asked. “I wouldn’t mind doing you together with him.”

“We haven’t done anything like that.”

“Not with him, maybe. But you’ve done that with others, I’ll bet. You’re such a randy little piece.”

I didn’t deny I had, and by not denying it, I was confirming I’d been doubled before. “I don’t think anyone could take another man with you,” I said. “You’re much too big to share.”

He laughed. “I remember asking you before if you thought you could take it and you said you could try. Maybe some night you could try this too.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “This little project of yours might become quite interesting.” Then he turned me, pulled me up onto all fours, mounted me, thrust inside me, and fucked me again.

* * * *

We drove up to the safari lodge at the Tsavo National Park West early the following afternoon, arriving in the two Land Rovers. That there was tension between Jean-Phillipe and me first surfaced at breakfast in the airport hotel, when Jean-Phillipe snubbed me and concentrated on being pals with Aasir. I didn’t have any trouble figuring out that he was ticked that I didn’t let him in my room the previous night, but I didn’t think that he knew that it was because Aasir was in my room—on my bed and fucking me. Otherwise I don’t think he’d be so chummy with Aasir this morning.

Aasir and I hadn’t revealed that we knew each other—intimately—earlier in the day. I’d told Jean-Phillipe that I heard about the resort from someone who had learned about it from someone else. Jean-Phillipe wouldn’t have thought that the black bull would have been able to make a move on me quick enough to be in my bed not long after we’d arrived from a series of long flights. We hadn’t particularly interacted with each other at the airport or at dinner that night. Aasir and Jean-Phillipe were hitting it off too well between them.

So, I chose to play it as if I hadn’t heard him try to get in my room at all in the night. I acted like there was no tension between us. Jean-Phillipe didn’t relent, though. When it was time to drive to the lodge from the airport, in what was a six-hour trip because of the poor condition of even the main Kenyan roads, Jean-Phillipe made sure that he, Harry, and Tony rode with Aasir and the driver, Pili, in the lead Land Rover and that I was left to ride with the women, Massie and Dory, with the other Kenyan driver, Milo, in the following vehicle. That, of course, ticked me off and Jean-Phillipe had the satisfaction of seeing that it did, but I recovered quickly and didn’t make a fuss about it.

The lodge turned out to be more luxurious than I thought it would be even though I’d seen some photos of it on the Internet. It also gave the impression that it was a men-only retreat and of men who preferred men. All of the Kenyan attendants were men and they all, including the drivers Pili and Milo, who we’d already journeyed with, were beautiful young men. They padded around bare chested and barefooted, with just colorful cotton rectangles of cotton, the apparel being called a shuka, wrapped around their waists, dipping low toward their pubes. It was low season. There weren’t many other guests there, but when I went to the pool after a short rest, all of the men who were there and who had been ogling the attendants, turned their attention to me. Massie and Dory were at the pool with me, as was the lighting guy, Tony, and it was just Tony and me that the male guests were eyeing. Massie and Dory didn’t mind, but I got the distinct impression that they were taken up with each other and didn’t care what any of the men fancied.

The first round of photoshoots was that evening, at the lodge. We wouldn’t go out for the shots taking advantage of the landscape until the next day. I was photographed wearing casual, but expensive, and quite sexy, evening wear in the twilight around the swimming pool, which was lit up by underwater lights and tiki torches, augmented by whatever theatrical lighting Tony brought to bear to make the surroundings as beautiful as I was. After the official photoshoot was over, I was photographed not wearing anything by just Jean-Phillipe on the camera and Tony, who I could tell was as hot and bothered for me as Jean-Phillipe ever was, handling the lighting and keeping any of the other resort guests at bay.

Right before dinner, there were other shots, me in a tuxedo from the fashion house’s line in a tableau of me arriving at dinner to meet Aasir, who Jean-Phillipe had had Harry pay to be included as a gorgeous prop. The two of them, Jean-Phillipe and Aasir had continued hitting it off very well. I had been afraid that having the two of them share a vehicle for a six-hour drive would result in Jean-Phillipe learning that Aasir had bedded me at the airport hotel, but this apparently wasn’t the case. Aasir was being quite cagey about that.

After Jean-Phillipe had done the dining room photography he wanted to do, we settled in to eat the gourmet dinner that had been laid out in the background for the commercial shots. This time I was seated with Jean-Phillipe and Aasir. Aasir was charming with us both through dinner. Jean-Phillipe was still short with me. After dinner, when Jean-Phillipe went out to the pool area in the dark to smoke, I tracked him down.

“What’s wrong, JP?” I asked. “You’ve been testy with me all day.” I played the hurt innocent, not revealing that I had a very good idea why he was punishing me.

“You know what’s wrong,” he answered.

“No, I don’t, or I wouldn’t have asked. Did the long flights put you on edge? You had a burr under your saddle before we drove here from the airport hotel.”

“I wasn’t tired last night. I was horny.”

“Yeah, I got that. Last night, after dinner at the hotel, you were frisky. And today you’re frosty. You were flirting with one of the lodge drivers—Pili, was it? I assumed you wanted to indulge in him last night and he seemed quite willing, so I went straight to bed, took a couple of PM pills, and put in the ear plugs, playing soothing music, to help me go to sleep.” I’d thought ahead on why I wouldn’t have heard him knocking on the hotel room door and rattling the door against the night chain.

“Ear plugs? Music?”

“And my PM pills. You know when I take those, I am out of it for hours.”

“You thought I’d be spiking Pili in my room last night?”

“Um, yes. Didn’t you?” I could see from the expression on his face that he had fucked Pili. He’d fucked Pili and then had come for me later in the night. That explained why he’d come so late. It also ticked me off a bit. I was just seconds with him now?

“I came to your room. I knocked and used the key card I had. You knew I’d taken a key card for your room. You had the night chain on and you didn’t answer the door.”

“Because I didn’t hear you and was zonked with music playing in my ears. It must have been habit that had me put the night chain on. But you were with Pili, weren’t you? I went to bed late. If you came by, it must have been really late.”

“I suppose,” he said. Now he’d gone into a pout. But I’d also managed to put him on the defensive. It was, of course, up to me to make it all right.

“I’m sorry. I would have liked you to be in bed with me last night. What can I do tonight to make it up?” We’d been given separate rooms at the lodge. Part of Jean-Phillipe’s pout and punishment earlier was not to make a fuss over the separate rooms. Nothing had been said about him coming to mine or me going to his.

“I think you know what you can do for me,” he said.

What I could do for him was give him a very nice blow job and, when he’d recovered from that, I writhed under him in a missionary on the bed in his room before returning to mine, where Aasir was waiting for me and fucked the shit out of me.

For me, it was a glorious night. I was such a wanton slut. Jean-Phillipe never did admit that he’d fucked Pili in his room the previous night before trying to get at me in my room—but we both knew he did.

* * * *

I was rousted out of bed while it was still dark by Aasir, who was already up and dressed in safari wear and holding two steaming cups of coffee. Jean-Phillipe had said he wanted to be out in the bush to start taking fashion shots with the dawn and, foolish me, I hadn’t believed him. It turns out he was serious, though.

We didn’t go far from the resort buildings to do the initial work, with me wearing various casual clothing and posing between the split trunks of a dead baobab tree that that been split by a lightning strike. The scene was set with an orange-red rising sun in the background, its colors vivid in the pristine atmosphere, the rising mist able to be caught on the camera. After the commissioned fashion shots, Jean-Phillipe, always mindful of his side business, had me strip and he took nude shots of me in the same poses.

For this first shoot, in addition to me, it was just Jean-Phillipe; Aasir, as guide; the Kenyan Pili, as driver; and the lighting guy, Tony. I’d gotten quick costume instructions from Dory as we were pulling out, but Jean-Phillipe brushed off any makeup work from Massie, saying, “We want him to have the early-morning tussled look, enveloped in the mists of dawn, for this—and later, a bit of a wild look will do, as he’s on safari.”

I wanted to say that he had a big share of why I’d have the tussled look after having him in bed with me during the night, but we were being hustled about too quickly for me to say it. I imagine that both Dory and Massie knew about that happening anyway. They seemed absorbed with each other, though.

As the dawn shoot was ending, the second Land Rover appeared, and a bunch of locals piled out of it.

“I didn’t know we were to have an audience for today,” I said to Jean-Phillipe.

He countered with, “Much more than an audience,” but didn’t have a chance to explain that before Aasir walked over.

“We’ll be having lunch in the park after the morning shoot,” he said. “Gatimu and John over there will cook and serve for us.”

“And the two with rifles?” I asked.

“This is a wild game park,” he said, with a laugh. “You are in the primeval wilderness now. The game here is both wild and carnivorous. We brought our lunch, but to much of the wildlife out here, we are lunch. Silas and Wamai are here for a different sort of shoot. There will be one rifle for each vehicle. They’re both quite good marksmen.”

In fact, they were both quite good specimens of manhood as well—as were the two cooks. All six of the Kenyans, including Pili and the other driver, Milo, were slender, yet well-muscled, and all were wearing the skirt-like shuka wraps that had a tail end covering their chests and going down their backs but could, as they wore them, be just sarong-like wraps of their loins and legs.

During the morning, under Aasir’s guidance, the two Land Rovers moved around the park, using one arresting physical feature or the other as a backdrop for me to be photographed in various stages of dress from the fashion house the commercials would be promoting. After Tony had established the right lighting, he took up one video camera to take footage while Jean-Phillipe did the still shots. There was another video camera that Aasir held for different-angle shots and that, as the morning moved on, Tony showed Pili how to operate.

When we were on the move in the Land Rovers, Aasir and Jean-Phillipe, who were getting along famously, rode with Pili as driver and Silas riding shotgun in one vehicle, and Tony and I were in the second seat back of the other vehicle, with Milo and Wamai in front, and the cooks, Gatimu and John, in the third seat.

This was the first time Tony and I were close to each other and thrown into conversation. I’d known he’d been eyeing me with interest and I didn’t discourage it. He was a bit older than I was, but he was dark-complexioned, sensually Mediterranean handsome, as many Italian men were, and was somewhat of a body-builder, having to haul around heavy lighting equipment. His biceps were massive. There was a class of men I was perpetually good to go with. Tony definitely was in that class. I willingly offered my hole to the Tonys of the world. He only need ask—or make a move. Until now, he hadn’t done so.

Until now.

When those in front of and behind us were chattering between themselves and not paying attention to us, Tony put a hand on my knee and smiled at me. I left it there. He bunched up his fingers, leaving the middle one extended to draw little circles around on the flesh of my knee. I got the message, which I’m sure he knew he was sending. I reached down and wrapped my fingers around his extended digit. He rubbed his finger inside my sheathing fingers. We were already having a form of sex.

“Jean-Phillipe uses you as a model a lot, doesn’t he?” Tony asked.

“It seems that way,” I answered. “This is the first international shoot, though.”

“He any good?”

“He’s much in demand as a photographer, so I guess he is,” I answered. “But you’re more on the side of the art than I am. Do you think he’s good?”

“I don’t mean in that way. I mean good in bed. He’s screwing you, isn’t he?” He extracted his finger from my sheathing and moved his hand, in a steely grip, higher on my thigh, fingers stroking on the tender inner surface of the leg. I didn’t move that away either. What I did was open my stance, out of habit, and he moved the hand higher yet on my thigh. He also laughed. He stroked my inner thigh and, instinctively I opened my legs for him. Neither one of us was naïve. We both knew I was letting him know he could have what he was indicating he wanted—what his hand already was on the move to reach.

“We’ve gone a few rounds,” I answered. Tony put an arm around me and gripped the tip of my shoulder. I leaned into him, signaling it all was good.

“But you’re not exclusive with him, are you?”

“No,” I answered. “I’m not exclusive with anyone.” Tony was a hunk. I’d thought about doing it with him if he was a top but had waited for him to show interest and intent. He’d worked on my photo shoots. He knew what I would do. I’d just registered that he was in a class I’d say yes to if he asked. I was signaling a yes now. His hand was cupping my basket. He knew now that my body was saying “yes” no matter what I told him. But I wasn’t telling him “no” either.

“He tells me that you’re easy. That you’re a promiscuous little slut.”

“Jean-Phillipe talks too much about what he’s getting.” I didn’t choose a tone that would suggest I was insulted. It was all systems go.

“And if I wanted to get what he was getting?” I felt the zipper in the shorts I was wearing being pulled down. I was hard already. My shaft had been pressing at the zipper. My hard cock protruded from the unzipped fly. Tony’s hand went inside, cupping my balls and grasping the root of my shaft. I didn’t stop that either.

“You have your hand in my shorts, sir,” I murmured.

“What are you going to do about it?” he answered, giving me a smile.

“What are your intentions, sir?”

“Unzip me. Pull my ‘intentions’ out.”

I gave him a little moan and reached over and unzipped him.

“If it was someone I liked, I’d let him do more than hand jobs,” I said.

“Do you like me?”

“What do you think?” The hand pressing at the tip of my shoulder moved up to cup the side of my head, to turn my face to his, and to bring me in for the subsequent kiss.

A bit later, when I lifted my face from his lap when I’d finished giving him a blow job and looked around, I saw the grinning faces of the four Kenyans in the vehicle turned to us. Milo had pulled the Land Rover to the side of the track and had his head turned to watch Tony stroking my cock while I was giving him head.

Fuck them, I thought, as I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped off my mouth.

Milo put the vehicle back in gear and got back on the track, picking up speed to try to catch up with the lead Land Rover. Tony had me in an embrace again and was unbuckling my belt for what I knew was going to be more than oral play on the middle seat of the Land Rover as it moved across the veldt and the Kenyans watched Tony fuck me—and that was OK with me—but just then we could see ahead that the other Land Rover had pulled up within a grove of baobab trees and the Kenyans in that vehicle were pulling gear out of the vehicle for a lunch stop.

Tony cinched up my belt again, gave my belly a pat, and said, “Later, I hope.”

“Any time, Tony,” I answered.

* * * *

We lunched together around a pit fire where Gatimu and John had roasted a small animal that tasted good to me but that I didn’t have the stomach to try to identify. Then, as some smoked and we all drank beer, Silas, Milo, and Wamai broke out native musical instruments—a couple of drums, called ngoma; a lyre Milo called a nyatiti, and a long horn, made out of the long, twisted horn of some eland-type creature.

As they played, starting with just Milo playing and singing to the nyatit, with the drums softly starting up, backed by soft tones from the horn, Milo finished with the lyre and, the other Kenyans moved into the circle and started swaying to the beat. Smoke was coming up from the open-pit fire, but it was more of a gently swirling haze, almost in time to the music, than something that choked our lungs.

A feeling was coming on—the feeling I get when the creative juices are running on designing a new, Halloween, revue for the gay men’s productions in New York. The primitive setting and sounds were evoking the mood I had been thinking about—mist-infused swirling male witchery in the wild around a steaming cauldron. I knew I was on to something. What I needed was sex—to being under a man, moving inside me—to bring out the full-blown image of the way it would look and sound on stage.

Shuras were let down to become just sarong-type coverings of the loins. The magnificent gleaming-ebony body of Aasir, in just such a shura, entered the circle as the beat of the music picked up and became louder. Jean-Phillipe joined the circle, his shirt off and in just his khaki shorts. I was coaxed up as well and joined in the dance. Suras were dropped and Jean-Phillipe and I lost our shorts, and we were all weaving about in the altogether, swinging free and joining in a primeval dance backed up by the Kenyan folk instruments—swaying and swirling—male witchery—around a steaming bonfire.

Aasir danced close to me in the front and Jean-Phillipe behind. All three of us were in erection. The others, the Kenyans who weren’t playing instruments and Tony, were swirling around us. Closer in to me came Aasir and Jean-Phillipe, each touching the others here, there, and then, more intimately, there as well, until we became one. Aasir lifted me and set me down on Jean-Phillipe’s cock from behind and then grasped and raised and spread my legs, putting himself in position from the front, and entering me, forcing himself in, sliding in on top of Jean-Phillipe’s already-buried cock. I cried out to the heavens in harmony with the primeval tones of the native instruments, as two huge cocks possessed and worked me to the rhythm of the drum beats. Walpurgis Night—I was living the theme I was reaching for.

“There, you can do it,” Aasir whispered in my ear as I panted hard, working to be able to claim that I could take the black buck and anyone else at the same time.

The two magnificent, swaying hunks fucked me together as the music and dance continued. After a few minutes, though, always with his mind on profit, Jean-Phillipe muttered, “We need to get this on film. We’ll do him in the Land Rover.” As they pulled out of me and carried me, together, to the lead Land Rover, the Kenyans opening all of the doors of the vehicle as we approached it, Jean-Phillipe called out to Tony, “The cameras. Get this on video.”

Tony grabbed one video camera and Pili another, and the Kenyans and Tony gathered around the Land Rover, some still playing their instruments, as Aasir reclined on the second seat on his back, pulled me down on top of him, facing him, and put me on his cock. Jean-Phillipe came in behind and on top of me, forced himself inside me, with Aasir, and the two resumed their double penetration fuck, alternating capturing my mouth in kisses and kissing each other over my shoulder as I grunted and moaned at servicing two hung men at once.

I managed, but I was left, exhausted, when we’d all come and the two men released me and went off, arm in arm, back to the circle, calling jovially for beer.

I lay there along the bench seat, on my back, legs parted, the heel of my foot resting on the top of the seat back and the other flat on the surface of the seat. I was panting and moaning.

But it had worked. The entire setting and mood of a Halloween gay men’s dance revue had floated through my mind and solidified as I was being gangbanged. It had worked.

Handing his video camera off to Pili, who continued filming, Tony, in full erection, climbed on top of me on the backseat. “This is later,” me murmured.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” I murmured as he thrust up inside me and began his own version of the fuck. With a sigh of resignation, I dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades and rocked my pelvis against his. He fucked me and I fucked him back.

And to Jean-Phillipe’s greater profit and some of mine and Tony’s as well, Pili recorded it all for Jean-Phillipe’s exclusive subscription service.

* * * *

Tony was mounted on me in my bed at the resort hotel. I was on all fours and he was covering me from on top, riding my ass high like a rodeo rider, having a ball balling me. I liked the exuberance with which he’d taken me in the Land Rover that afternoon, with all of the Kenyans gathered around, watching. I found I liked to be watched being fucked. I expected Aasir to visit in the night too, but not until later. He prowled around the resort, making sure everything was cooking along, until two or three in the morning. Then he went looking for some guy to fuck. I felt lucky that the previous night, and most likely tonight, it would be me.

Still, after Tony had shot off with me bucking and shooting my load underneath him and had left me, I felt so exhausted and wiped out that I wanted to drift off to sleep until Aasir arrived. I knew Jean-Phillipe wasn’t coming. He was besotted with Pili now, and we wouldn’t be here much longer. He had to get in his innings with Pili while we were in Kenya. He could have me later, in New York or on any other international shoot he took me on.

He had certainly said it right to Tony. I was easy and I was a slut for it. I’d proven that on this trip. I hadn’t laid down and opened my legs for everyone, Kenyans included, that afternoon out in the bush, but if they’d all sniffed around me, I probably would have. They all were hunks. They all had what I wanted swinging between their legs—even the slender Kenyans were hung like bulls. And I could attest from the wild dance today that they all were capable of proud erections. It must be a physical attribute for men in Kenya, I thought.

I wanted to sleep—for it to happen now—so I took a double dose of the PM pills. That indeed put me out.

I came only half awake later, awakened by the sound of the drums in the near distant. Soft humming of the rich resonance of the long horn wafted in, floating above the insistent beat of the drums. The two French windows out onto the resort terrace were open and the gauzy curtains were floating in the breeze. I hadn’t remembered opening the windows to the night. In fact, I had been told not to because of the wild animals that wandered—and hunted—in the park in the night.

I was drifting in a haze, the beat of the drums taking over my consciousness, when Aasir came onto the bed, ran his hands up my inner thighs to coax me to open to him as our lips met and he possessed me there, forcing my lips to open and invading with his tongue. Half conscious, I sighed and opened my thighs to him when his weight came down on top of me. I spread and raise my legs, hooking them on his hips. He encircled my waist in an arm, rising my pelvis to him, my torso streaming back onto the bed. He entered and entered and entered me, grasping my ankles and spreading me to a wide V to maximize my openness to his cocking. His hands glided down to my knees, holding the V of my legs. We both were aware of the flash of the camera, neither of us ever knowing who had taken the photo. Later, though, when the photo was placed on the Internet, showing my white legs in a perfect V seeming to rise out of Aasir’s perfectly rounded buttocks with his magnificently tapered and muscular brown back between, we both realized it was us in high heat. He fucked me in my soft core to a synchronized beat of the drums. My very own Walpurgis Night.

After he flooded me with his cum, he picked me up and carried me out of one of the French windows, onto the pool terrace, and then off the terrace and into the bush.

He carried me toward the sound of the drums.

They were there, in the circle, fire pits at four points on the periphery of the circle. The Kenyan instruments were playing; the men were dancing. They were all naked. They were all in erection, the Kenyans and the Westerners—not just Jean-Phillipe and Tony, but Harry, the logistics guy as well. A colorful shura had been stretched out in the middle of the circle. The men danced around that in a swirl. Jean-Phillipe lay down on the blanket on his back. Aasir stretched me on top of him, facing up. Jean-Phillipe grasped my waist and helped Aasir put his cock in position, and Jean-Phillipe thrust up inside me deep. Aasir positioned himself on top of me, grasping and raising and spreading my legs. And then he was inside me too, the two men working me together, sharing me as they had done before, out on the veldt.

After they were done, me still in a mental haze, the drum beat thrumming through my brain, each of the other men there—Tony, Harry, Pili, John, Gatimu, Silas, Milo, Wamai, and other Kenyans I had never seen before, covered and fucked me—some singly, some in consort with another. I opened my arms and legs for each and every one of them.

All the time the drums beat and the whine of the long horn floated out over the dance, as, time and again, I rocked my pelvis against men’s groins, taking their cocks, pulling their cum out of them, crying out my wanton pleasure to the Kenyan night sky.

Walpurgis Night in October.

* * * *

The drum beat was picking up and the soft sound of the horns above that filtering out as the curtains closed on the dress rehearsal of the latest review at the Guys and More Guys theater in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen district. The male figures, topless and with colorful sarong-like wrappings at the waist, were still dancing around a central multicolored blanket on which one young dancer was sandwiched between two others in a double penetration sex act that was simulated during the dress rehearsal but would be quite real in the performances. The scene appeared in a haze thanks to the work of the smoke machines in the wings. The smoke became enveloping, and the dancers dropped their sarongs. After a short holding of position in the altogether, the dancers swirled off into the wings.

As the thick mist began to dissipate, only two figures remained on stage, in the center. The central figure was a magnificent black bull, his back to the audience. He was naked, his shoulders broad, tapering down to a narrow waist, every muscle of his body perfectly defined. His buttocks were rounded. Rising up and out from the black dancer’s buttocks in a V were the shapely legs of the Caucasian dancer the black bull was fucking. The act of fucking was made obvious by the forward and back swaying and clutching of the black bull’s buttocks cheeks.

The drum beats reverberated around the walls of the theater and continued beyond the close of the curtain.

“Brilliant. Riveting. Sexy, Mark. Another great Halloween season show,” Guido Coursu, the theater owner, sitting beside me, as the only other member of the dress rehearsal audience, said in a voice heavy with lust. “I don’t know where you come up with these mesmerizing reviews,” he said. “This was your best revue for October by far. This took me to primeval Africa in a perfect mood for Halloween.”

I knew it had turned him on because he’d unzipped me half way through the review and was stroking my cock. Just to be friendly I was doing the same for him.

I, of course, knew exactly where the idea for the review had come from. This had been a hard one to create. Thank God for the fashion house commercial photoshoot trip to Africa the previous month.

Guido turned his face to mine and we kissed. His hand went to the back of my head and he coaxed me to lower my face to his lap. I opened my mouth over his cock, as I knew he wanted me to do. This was the seal of approval for the revenue I had just put on stage. I gave him suck, pleased that once again I had managed to pull a stage set out of the ether, noting in my mind the need to send thank-you notes to Aasir Karu and Jean-Phillipe Jouret.