Fist of Gold

by Habu

2 Jan 2017 6167 readers Score 8.6 (76 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


I think it was the rumble of the engines of the Air France S.O.30 Bretagne commercial airliner flying into African airspace, reaching out for a landing in Bamako, Mali, that brought up the memory as I dozed. Or maybe it was my returning to Africa for the first time since departing from Morocco for the Anzio Invasion eight years previously. Or the images surfaced by looking at the animated slender hands of the Italian businessman sitting beside me. Of maybe it was all three.

The rumble was the sound of the German tanks grinding by too close to us as we hid beside the road. And the chatter was Tony, another GI of Italian origin, egging me on to rise from our hiding place when the tanks were abreast of us. “Come on, Lieutenant; they won’t be able to see us from inside those tin cans,” I heard him saying, waving his hands in front of me. The sound of someone standing in the aisle of the plane, opening and closing a briefcase in the overhead bin--snap, snap, snap--translated into the machinegun fire that mowed us both down.

After that I was in an entirely different world, a world of white and red and moaning and pain. A hospital ward in Naples. Of pain and more pain--in my thigh and torso and shoulder--and the maddening repeat of “You were the lucky one,” when I damn well knew that Tony wasn’t the lucky one if I was still alive and he wasn’t. And of Miranda, the nurse, with smiles and encouragement, laughter, cheery English accent, and kisses and more when I regained my mobility. And of Tom, the orderly, understanding, flirting in his own way. The Australian Tom of the “No worries” at my involuntary hardening during the bed baths and massages. Tom of the slender, relief-giving hand. Tom of the magic hand and introduction of the fist.

“What river is that down there?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, coming out of my remembrance doze.

“Oh, sorry. Were you asleep?”

“Just dozing,” I answered. “What did you ask?” He was a handsome man. Maybe in his forties. Dark and sensual looking, the graying sideburns only adding to his attractiveness. Trim, but well muscled, expensive Italian suit--and those slender, expressive hands with the long, groomed fingers. He had a hand on my thigh as he leaned over to look out of the window. It was all so casually done, but it was as if he knew I wouldn’t mind having it there--or higher even. We had eyed each other as early as the departure lounge in Paris, and I’d felt a jolt of electricity go up my spine when I saw that we would be first-class seatmates.

“I asked if you knew what river that was down there.”

“It’s the Niger. We’ll use it as a landmark as we fly into Mali and land at Bamako.”

“Oh. Have you been here before? Do you have business in Mali? Sorry, my name is Antonio Corti. I’m a mining engineer. Here on business. My first time here.”

“Kyle Kendrick,” I answered. “I’m an archeologist, here to consult on a Mali Empire dig. And, no I haven’t been to Mali before. I was in Morocco a few years past.”

“The Mali Empire? There’s history here?”

“Oh, yes, there was quite a powerful empire here--based on the gold trade--for a good eight hundred years starting about AD 800. Not my specialty. But my former professor at Oxford believes there are enough similarities with the Incas and what he’s found here for me to be useful.”

“Oxford? But you’re not English, are you? Or French?” He was giving me a warm smile. He’d taken his hand off the top of my thigh, but it lay against the side of the thigh on the low console between us, the fingers spread out against my leg. I looked down at the hand, and so did he. He didn’t take it away and I made no move to move my thigh away from it. I knew he was signaling, and I strongly suspect he knew that I knew.

When I didn’t move my thigh away, I was signaling too.

I smiled back. What can I say? He was a handsome man, with slender, expressive hands. Even though Miranda and I knew the score between us and what both of our preferences were, when I was at her family’s country estate in York and even more at the family townhouse in London, I was on a pretty tight leash. I was in the wild of Africa now, and I’d come when Sir Geoffrey Bentham, my mentor at Oxford, had called because of what he had been to me and had initiated me in. I had come for more of an adventure than consulting on an archeological dig on the banks of the Niger forty miles outside of Bamako.

I keyed in on this man’s signals because I had been revved up for it since I’d received Geoffrey’s letter of invitation.

The fingers of his hand spread and acquired more pressure. I moved my thigh into them, thus spreading my legs a bit. I looked at his hand again, then up into his face, and, finally, lowered my eyes, dipping my head a bit. A signal of submission. His grip tightened in recognition of my acquiescence.

“No, I’m American. My graduate studies were at Oxford.”

“Ah, American. I see that you have a cane and walked with a limp when you climbed the stairs into the plane. A war wound, perhaps?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Does it--?”

“It doesn’t keep me from functioning in any way I want,” I answered, anticipating the question.

“Good,” he said, moving his had to on top of my thigh. Again, I permitted him that intimacy. It was enough to signal that I’d permit him other intimacies, should the opportunity arise. He was signaling domination. He was a top.

“I was in Southeast Asia--Thailand--for the duration of the war,” he said. “I’m Italian, from Brindisi,” he added.

He wanted me to know he wasn’t in Europe for the war. The Italians were Axis; the Americans were Allied. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d been in the Italian campaign, marching from the tip of the peninsula, at Anzio, as far as the monastery at Monte Cassino, before I was wounded and taken to Naples, where my war ended. We had bombed the shit out Monte Cassino, an Italian historical treasure. He wouldn’t want to know that. I picked up the hand he had laying on my thigh and gently squeezed the fingers together with my hand, running my fingers over the span of the knuckles.

Another signal--a very special signal. I wondered if he would recognize it and would still be interested. Not every man was.

“You have very nice hands,” I said. “Slender. I’ll bet there is less than a nine-centimeter span from knuckle to knuckle.” That would be no more than three-and-a-half inches in American and British terms. I looked into his eyes, wondering again if he would pick up on, correctly interpret, and respond to the signal.

He smiled back. “Yes, I believe the span is no wider than that. I can make that useful.”

When I put his hand back, it was on the inside of my thigh and I closed my thighs on it. He left it there, opening and closing his grip on the inside of my thigh rhythmically.

“Are you staying at a hotel in Bamako or heading directly to your dig?” he asked.

“I’m being met. I have been given the option of staying the night in Bamako, though, and am tentatively booked at the Le Grand Hotel.”

“Aren’t we all?” Corti asked, with a winning smile. “Do stay the night in Bamako. I’m sure you’ll find it very satisfactory. You’re an unusually handsome young man. I’m sure you will find the servicing at Le Grand quite satisfying. Perhaps we could take dinner together if you didn’t have other plans.”

He’d called me a young man. He had me at that. It perhaps was for no other reason than I was within two months of losing my youth--turning thirty--that I was answering Geoffrey’s call to come to him in Mali. I was scared of what I would become after thirty. I’d always been the desirable, handsome young man. What was there after thirty?

“Dinner would be very pleasant, if my reception party doesn’t insist I go out to the camp tonight.”

“Ah, tonight,” Corti said, giving me another sunny smile. His hand moved up to brush my basket and then he pulled it away, both of us seeing the stewardess starting down the aisle to announce that we were descending into Bamako.

Corti helped me descend the stairway onto the Bamako tarmac, his support as much hindrance as help, but I sensed that he wanted demonstrate possession by having an excuse to put an arm around my back, and, as long as I would get what I wanted out of him, I could feel the arousal of being the submissive.

Geoffrey had written me that I wouldn’t have any trouble identifying the reception party at the airport, and he was right. He’d already told me that he’d hired Mandinka tribesmen for the dig because of their long association with the area and unbroken line of connection the Mali Empire. I’d looked the name up to discover that, along with the Masai of Kenya, the Mandinka were the tallest peoples on earth, ranging up to seven feet tall. Two ebony men, looking very dignified and swathed in cloth, stood head and shoulders above everyone else in the reception hall. I knew even before I saw the sign with “Kendrick” on it that the taller of the two--reaching possibly six feet ten inches--was holding up that they had come for me.

They were handsome creatures in their own way. Seemingly beanpoles, with elongated features, until you stood next to them and found that they were as muscular as most men--just that everything was stretched out.

The taller of two, and obvious leader, identified himself as Tejon Darany. He was quite dignified of carriage--and reserved, although perfectly civil. He spoke impeccable English. His French also probably was impeccable, but since mine wasn’t, I couldn’t assess him on that. The other, shorter--if something around six feet eight could be considered shorter--and younger man was identified only as Modibo. He spoke no English and only broken French, so our exchanges were awkward, brief, and rare. He obviously was under the wing of Tejon, as he looked to the older tribesman in all matters and only shyly at me. Of the two, he was the more handsome in Western terms, but these two men were so exotic that I couldn’t think of them in Western terms.

Tejon didn’t seem the least bit upset when I told him I wanted to extend my touch with civilization by spending my first night in Mali at Le Grand Hotel. He said that he and Modibo had places they could stay and families they could visit that evening, and, with very little other verbal exchange, he drove me to the hotel in a dusty Land Rover and said they would pick me up there at 10:00 the next morning.

* * * *

I was huffing and puffing--but in seventh heaven, albeit its pain wing--as Corti’s knuckles rubbed against the rim of my ass entrance. He’d taken several minutes getting to this point, aided by gobs of the vegetable grease lubricant I had gotten from a market near the hotel. We were both naked and stretched out against each other on my hotel bed--on rubber matting I’d also found in the market.

Corti’s body was beautiful, which speeded my arousal, and his quick erection indicated he was pleased with mine, as well. He had the olive skin of Mediterranean climes and was covered with an arousing pattern of curly black hair that swirled around his nipples and descended into his neatly trimmed pubic bush. The curly hair covered his forearms and thighs as well and curled in his pits, also neatly trimmed. Everything about his body spoke of grooming to accentuate his beauty. His body was thick and muscular, more of a Zeus than an Apollo--promising the experience of a mature man. And experienced he was; he didn’t bat an eye about giving me the servicing and release that I sought.

He had started slow, sensually, running his hands over my body as we lay stretched out against each other when we were naked. He kissed and fondled my body, spending considerable time on the puckered bullet wounds on my thigh, torso, and shoulder. He wanted to know the circumstance of them, but of course I couldn’t give him the specifics, so, instead, I murmured, “I want you to fuck me and then give me what I want. Then I’ll give you whatever you want. Don’t make me wait.”

He didn’t make me wait. His hands went to my thighs, coaxing them apart, pressing my legs to bend, my feet to go flat on the surface of the bed, and my pelvis to roll up, as he entered me with three fingers--I ached for more--and slowly pumped me to shuddering and begging for his cock. And then he rolled over on top of me, entered me strongly, deeply, thickly and took me quickly and efficiently.

After we had rested, he held me close into his body, with a towel-covered bolster under the small of my back that elevated my pelvis. My right leg was bent and pressed into his chest. His left arm was embracing my torso; his lips were possessing mine in a tongue-down-the-throat kiss. I was gripping his left shoulder with my right hand and beating myself off with my left. He had four fingers and the thumb of his right hand inside me, moving them in and out, searching for, finding, and giving attention to my prostate.

He asked no question about what to do to arouse and please me. He’d obviously fisted men before.

“Please be careful,” I murmured. “I want it, but I have my limits.”

“Limits we must both respect and challenge,” he whispered, “for therein lies the pleasure for us both.” He pulled his hand back and then pressed in again. I arched my back and moaned.

I jerked my mouth away from his, arched my head back, and gave a little cry of “Shit!,” then “Fuck!” and then another and another, as the knuckles of his slender hand breached my rim and his fist was inside me and bunched to stretch my passage to the limit. He expanded and contract the fist, a knuckle pressed into my prostate. Expand, contract. I dug my fingernails into his biceps. “Oh, god,” I moaned. He stifled further exclamations and sobs by taking my lips in his. Expand, contract. I involuntarily tried to pull away from him, but he held me too tightly. Expand and move a fraction deeper. I tore my mouth away from his, arched my head back, and cried out to the ceiling. “Oh, fuckin’ shit!” I shot my load, and he pulled his knuckles back out of my ass almost immediately. He had known exactly what to do to give me the maximum pain-pleasure in my ejaculation.

He held me there, in his arms, holding my eyes with his. “Is that the way you want it?” he murmured.

“That was . . . it,” I whispered, being at a loss for what to say. Never had I been so much on the edge, crossing into the divine, as with that. He was a master of the art.

“Well, here it comes again,” he growled, holding me tight, as I writhed under him and began to pant in response to the pressure of the fist.

Afterward, we kissed deeply again, and when he pulled away from me, he murmured, “And now may I take my pleasure of your body.”

“Of course,” I responded. “I think I am too weak to resist anything you do now anyway.”

He laughed.

“Are there any limits now to what I can do with you?”

“Try me,” I answered.

He did--effectively, efficiently, totally, and exhaustingly into the dark of the night. He made me feel young and flexible again.

Before he left in the first streaks of light before dawn, he told me how long he would be in Bamako and where he could be reached.

“If it becomes convenient, I would like to use you again,” he said.

“I would like that too,” I responded. Normally I would think that his choice of “use” was a translation problem, but he had, in fact, used my body as a vessel of his methodical, efficient lust, and I had come twice more for him before he was finished. That he had used my body seemed to be a perfect description that I could not object to or complain about. I had certainly used his hand to get myself off on. Everything after that was icing on the cake.

* * * *

“I didn’t see your dig reported anywhere. And I looked in a lot of media sources for it.”

It was evening and we’d had dinner out under the stars. It looked like we were going to be doing a lot of things under the stars. There were tents, in two circles, but except for the communal tents and Sir Bentham’s, they didn’t look too commodious. We--Geoffrey Bentham; his French colleague, Perrin Tolbert; and I--were sitting around a fire pit in the circle of our tents and the communal ones. The Mandinka workers were in the circle of tents that met our circle at a tent assigned to Tejon Darany. Tejon and Modibo were still in our circle, passing out after-dinner drinks and cigars. The rest of the Mandinka were in their circle. Drums were softly playing, matched by low chanting by male voices. Some of the tents were lit up internally, casting shadows through thin material of what was inside. All very atmospheric. I was in Africa. The sky overhead was a cobalt blue, the stars seemingly suspended just a few feet over our heads.

“I should hope to God you didn’t see mention of this dig--or tell anyone you’re coming here,” Bentham blustered. “This is really hush hush. There are few in the Mali government who know about it either.”

Bentham was sitting within fondling distance of me, which I sort of expected him to have gotten around to doing before now. He was my dominating top when I was at Oxford after the war. And he was a power top with perhaps the biggest dick in England. He had to fist me just to be able to screw me later.

But I had to admit that the last five years, since I’d seen him last, hadn’t been kind to him. He was gaunt and looked emaciated. And he had a wildness about his eyes and spoke more rapidly than I’d known him to do before--like he was on borrowed time. How old would he be now, I wondered. Funny that I hadn’t wondered about that when we were together in Oxford. He’d said a few times then that he was twice my age. But now it seemed like maybe that was off, like he was more than twice my age. He looked well into his late sixties now.

But then, maybe he was waiting for the others--the Mandinka servants and his colleague, Tolbert--to leave us before he became intimate with me.

“So, what is it about this dig that’s so secret and important, Geoffrey?” I asked. “I trust that, since it’s close to the river, the site is buried.”

“Tejon, go fetch the treasure box, please. Then you and Modibo may retire,” Bentham said. Then he turned to me. “You’ve heard of the writer named Rihlah, haven’t you, Kyle?”

“I believe so. The Arab who traversed northern Africa early in the fourteenth century and wrote of his travels.”

“The same. He wrote of a Temple of Kongoba, but although there is a village by the name--just over the hill there--no one but he wrote about a temple.”

“And you have found the temple site?”

“The site, yes, but I don’t think it actually was a temple. More of a storehouse. I don’t think the Malian guides leveled with him when he asked what the edifice was.”

“Storing what?”

“What is Mali famous for? What was its leading trading good during the Mali Empire? Do you know?”

“You think that gold was stored at this Kongoba site?”

“Not was. Is. Ah, thank you, Tejon. I’ll just show our colleague here what we have and then you can take it back.”

Bentham opened the rectangular box that was more than a foot long and took out a solid gold rod. It was nearly a foot long, an inch and a half wide up the base, and a good three inches or more at the bulb.

“A dildo?” I said, with a laugh. “Is this a supersized phallus?”

“A dildo perhaps,” Bentham said, smiling, “but look again. You of all people should recognize what it is.”

I drew in my breath. It wasn’t a phallus at all. It was a stylized arm rising up into a fist.

“Is that?” I asked with a stammer.

“Yes, I believe this is an ancient dildo in the form of an arm and fist,” Bentham said. “Tejon thinks so too. There are rituals among the Mandinka that go back to that era. They are, as you can see, an outsized race--outsized in nearly every way. Many of their rituals were sexual. Thank you, Tejon. You and Modibo can retire now.”

I watched the two, swathed in billowy cloth, walk to Tejon’s tent. Bentham had said they were outsized in every way and my mind was savoring what that could mean. Not in every way, I would have said. As with all men, I had assessed the knuckle span of both of the Mali tribesmen when they had met me at the plane. Both had slender hands and were within my tolerances.

I watched them go into the tent and one of them light a lantern and illuminate the interior of the tent, making it a form of shadow play as their figures moved about the tight space, both of them having to bend over for head clearance.

“Where did you get the gold object?” I asked. I thought it would be unprofessional to refer to it as a dildo, although that quite obviously was what it was.

“Where do you suppose? Right here, where we’re digging. This could be from the golden trove of the Mali Empire.” He had put his arm around me, and a hand went to my thigh. I looked over at the Frenchman, and he was watching us. “I wanted to share this discovery with you, Kyle,” he said, and then he brought my head in for a kiss.

Tolbert had his eyes on us but didn’t flinch. Of course he would have been told what Bentham and I had been to each other.

I opened my lips to him. I wouldn’t deny Geoffrey anything he wanted of me. He was my mentor, my first serious lover. A man with a cock that filled me to near bursting. A man who knew how to use his fist.

“I’ve missed you, Geoffrey,” I whispered when he’d released my lips and I’d immediately kissed him back to signal total submission. He moved his hand to my basket. I was happy to be able to show him that I was hard for him.

“How is it with Miranda?” he asked gently.

“Oh, you know Miranda. It’s much like always. Affectionate in public. Beyond that, you’d have to ask Veronica.”

“She’s still with Veronica?”

“Yes,” I answered. I didn’t have to guard my voice from bitterness. I was glad Miranda had someone and mostly left me alone.

“And you, Kyle. Who are you with?”

“I’m with you at the moment,” I said.

“I meant back in England. Have you not found someone else? Someone who takes care of your needs?”

“No one measures up to you, Geoffrey,” I answered, knowing he would know what I meant as well as I did.

“It pains me to hear you say that, Kyle.”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean by that?”

“I’m old and I’m sick, Kyle. I couldn’t get it up anymore no matter what drug I took. I was hoping that you had found someone who satisfied you. I didn’t want you coming down here thinking that that was why I sent for you.”

A man that satisfied me? I was satisfied last night. But that was just a transient Italian. Neither one of us talked about anything that wasn’t fleeting and casual. And damn right I’d come down here expecting more--what I’d gotten before--from Geoffrey Bentham. Why else would I come to a place like Mali?

“I asked you to come down so that you could be in on this find with me--so that you could benefit from it. It’s all I can leave you Kyle. But I invited Perrin down too. I think you’ll enjoy him.”

I looked over at the Frenchman. He indeed was a hunk. Maybe thirty-five. Old enough to control and teach me a move or two. But I had looked at his hands earlier in the evening. I always look at the hands of a man who attracted me. The two Mandinka tribesmen, Tejon and Modibo had elongated, slim hands, in keeping with the elongated nature of the rest of their bodies that I had viewed. The Frenchman’s hands were broad, at least four, maybe more, inches across at the knuckles. I could never . . .

But then, at Geoffrey’s signal, Tolbert was bringing his chair over close to mine, on the other side from Geoffrey. Also at this point, I realized that there was something going on in Tejon’s tent. The two figures, made quite clear in silhouette by the lantern light, were standing close together. They just now were pulling the last of the billowy cloth off each other’s bodies. They looked like stick figures, even though I knew they both were well muscled. They seemed to be moving to the rhythm of the drums and chanting of the other tribesmen in the other circle too, and I realized that the tent would be as much a shadowbox from the other side as from this one.

The two came together in an embrace and a kiss and then Modibo’s body--identifiable because he was shorter--arched back and Tejon went down on his knees, while supporting Modibo’s body in standing with an arm around the young native’s waist. It was clear that Tejon was giving Modibo head and helping him to remain steady even though arched back, his palms on the dirt floor behind him.

It was equally clear that Perrin Tolbert, bent over my lap, had unbuttoned me, taken my cock out, and was giving me head. Geoffrey had an arm around me and was unbuttoning and releasing my shirt with the other hand. He sucked on my nipples while Tolbert sucked on my cock.

Was this some sort of double ritual, I wondered. But I was too taken up with it to wonder much.

Geoffrey leaned down and pulled my shorts and briefs off my legs.

Modibo was on his back on a cot and for the briefest moment I saw the shadow of a monster cock in length standing straight up from his groin. And standing over him, stroking an even larger one, was the shadow of Tejon.

Geoffrey and Perrin manipulated my body to where my crotch was lying across Geoffrey’s lap and my head was in Perrin’s lap, where he was offering me a quite large cock to suck. I managed to turn it, though, to where I could watch the shadow scene in the tent.

Tejon wasn’t fucking Modibo--at least not yet. Modibo’s left leg was on Tejon’s right shoulder and his right leg was bent. His pelvis was raised off the leverage of his right foot, and Tejon’s left arm was extended down to Modibo’s pelvis. He was fist fucking Modibo. The music from the other circle was becoming more frenetic.

I could feel Geoffrey’s fingers at my ass entry. They were heavily greased. He was working his hand into my ass.

I cried out as his knuckles breached my rim. My cry was accompanied by one in the tent, where Tejon must have gained his own entry. I panted hard and sucked hard on Tolbert’s cock as Geoffrey started to move his hand inside my ass. Expand, release. Expand, release. Working me almost as expertly as the Italian had.

Then I saw in the tent that Modibo was holding up an object in his right hand. It was the Fist of Gold Geoffrey had shown me earlier. His left hand came out of Modibo’s ass, and the right arm went down. I watched the gold fist enter Modibo and the young native writhe, crying out as it rhythmically fucked him. I writhed and cried out as Geoffrey fist rhythmically fucked me too. Expand, release.

Modibo and I came nearly simultaneously and the music in the tribal circle beyond stopped abruptly and Geoffrey withdrew his hand. The light went out in the tent. I saw no more, as Tolbert rose from his chair, pulled me up, threw me over his shoulder, and marched me to my tent.

In my tent, Tolbert threw me down on my back on my cot, slapped my legs apart, and came down between them. He thrust his huge cock into my ass, reached up to grab my wrists and force my arms over my head, latched his lips on mine, and banged me hard into heaven and the next day.

* * * *

“Are you all right?” Geoffrey was looking at me over his glasses the next morning as we ate at a table by the fire pit, the embers of which still glowed red under the gray ash. “I hope that last night wasn’t too--”

“I only wish that it had been just you and me. It was OK because you put me in the mood before Tolbert fucked me.”

“I’ve done what I can by you, Kyle,” Geoffrey said. “I can’t help it if there’s not much I can do anymore. I’m afraid not being able to get, let alone sustain, an erection has completely stifled my libido. I can only approach feeling sexual pleasure in watching others now. I did obtain pleasure from watching Perrin fucking you last night.”

“I was happy to please,” I said, taking a big bite of the fried eggs Modibo had cooked up for us.

“You wore poor Perrin out. He is still snoring away in his tent. You certainly pleased him.”

“I was more concerned with pleasing you. I wanted to see you get better results from stroking yourself. I was performing with the Frenchmen for you. I’m sorry it didn’t happen. You had gotten half hard, I could see, with the little ritual Tejon and Modibo performed in the tent.”

“Yes, that almost did it for me. I would like to do it one more time before I die.”

“You sound morose about that. Surely you’re not dying, are you? I know you don’t look well, but--”

“Yes, Kyle. I’m afraid I am dying. I’ve been given just a few more months. I’m not sure I can hold on even that long.”

“Then why this?” I asked after a few moments of silence to process his news. I couldn’t get all weepy, though; I knew he wouldn’t want that. He was a man of reality and acceptance. “Why spend your last few months here in the Mali Savannah rather than at Oxford, among those who respect and will honor you?”

“I’ve never felt so alive as in the bush, at an excavation. I want to feel alive right up until I die. I’ve always felt bad about you, Kyle--about taking advantage of you and using you--and developing that fetish you have. Not being able to come without the fist before penal penetration. I believe if I just hadn’t--”

“You liberated me, Geoffrey, and taught me how high into ecstasy I could go.” “Penal penetration.” I could have laughed if he hadn’t just given me such bad news. He always was the scientist. Only when he was in high heat could he drop that veil and be a primeval man. I had been able to do that for him at one time, though. I wished I could do it for him one time more.

“And you did the same for me,” he was saying. “I want to leave you with something--something tangible that will support you in life. I hate seeing you controlled as you are by Miranda and her family.”

“I didn’t exactly get kidnapped into the situation,” I said. “I want to have a comfortable life with the means to do as I like. Miranda’s leash is a long, loose one as long as I’m not in England, among her circle of friends. She knew what I came here for.”

“Still, it’s my concern I have to reach peace with, Kyle. That’s why I want you here on this dig. It could set you up for life.”

“Set me up for life? If there is gold here, what will we get beside recognition? This is Mali’s gold.”

“Some part of it, yes,” Geoffrey responded. “But if my calculations are correct, there will be more than enough for those in Mali who are in the know and for those involved in the dig as well.”

“Surely, you’re not suggesting--”

“We really need not go into this now,” Geoffrey said, interrupting me and changing the subject. “I believe you enjoyed Tejon’s show with Modibo last night as well as I did.”

“Very much, yes,” I answered. “If that hadn’t been transpiring when you fisted me, I don’t think I could have gone with Perrin Tolbert.”

“Why is that?”

“The span of his knuckles. I can’t consider a man with a span of over three-and-a-half inches. It’s just a matter of self-preservation. Just seeing how broad his hand is dampened my arousal for him.”

“Ah, as I said, something I feel responsible for. You require a man with a big cock but a small hand. Difficult to come by.”

“Nothing you should worry about, Geoffrey, and not all that difficult. There was an Italian on the plane coming to Bamako . . .”

“And how long had it been before that? And didn’t you come here so eagerly because you thought I could give you relief?”

I didn’t answer that. I turned to a sudden interest in what was left of my fried eggs.

“What happened in Tejon’s tent last night . . .” Geoffrey said, “. . . did you not wish that was you under him, taking his fist and the Fist of Gold and his enormous cock? Do you know he’s nearly a foot long and those magic three-and-a-half inches in girth? Think of not just a bulge of that diameter inside you, but the whole length of a cock nearly a foot long filling your passage at that diameter.”

“I must remember to tell Modibo that his eggs were delicious,” I said, not being able to look at Geoffrey. Yes, of course, I wished that it was me with Tejon the previous night. Watching them while Geoffrey and Perrin worked me over was what set me up for being able to ride the Frenchmen’s cock as wildly and for as long as I did.

“I think . . . I think I might have been able to reach an erection and maintain it long enough to have an ejaculation if it had been you under Tejon, Kyle.” But then he sighed, murmured an, “Oh well.”

“You want to watch Tejon fuck me? You think that may give you enough of an erection to fuck me too?”

“You put it so baldly,” Geoffrey said. “We’ll just have to see what transpires.” Then he changed the subject. “Would you like to see for yourself the prospect of what can be found at our excavation? There’s gold just below the surface. It’s like it works its way up to us as we dig down to us. It wants to bask in the light of day.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” I answered.

“I’ll have Tejon drive you over there. Modibo will put together a picnic lunch for you.”

* * * *

Tejon was coaxing me to raise my pelvis up with a hand cupping my right thigh, signaling for me to bend my leg, put my foot under my knee and raise and roll my pelvis up. I knew what he wanted me to do and I did it. My left ankle was already hooked on his right shoulder. I knew why. His face was buried in the hollow of my neck. I knew he wouldn’t kiss me there or on the lips. I knew this was primeval and ritual, not affection. He was slathering my ass with vegetable grease. I knew why. I knew what he was going to do.

We were lying in some sort of animal’s wallow next to a watering hole that had been carved out of a stand of elephant grass some six and seven feet tall, the stalks densely spaced, the stalks of the wallow underneath us. Carved out by some massive animal or animals--probably elephants. No one would know we were there unless they were flying low overhead or unless, like Geoffrey Bentham, they were crouching in the elephant grass, peering through it, watching and anticipating what Tejon was going to do to me. An enclosed world of just Tejon and me, panting, me moaning in anticipation. Geoffrey watching from behind a line of Elephant grass stalks, his heavy-hung cock out, being stroked, showing signs of life.

I wasn’t doing this just for Geoffrey. I would have submitted to this anyway, but if there was a chance for Geoffrey . . .

I cried out as Tejon entered me with four fingers, up to the knuckles. It wasn’t just he and I panting now; Geoffrey was sucking heavy, ragged breaths in and out and had moved closer, just a few lines of stalks between him and the wallow.

Tejon’s thumb was thrumming my rim. I knew what he was going to do. I felt him tuck the thumb in and apply pressure. My mouth opened wide in a silent scream and I arched my head up. Looking over at Geoffrey I could see his cock beginning to stiffen. I knew what Tejon was doing; Geoffrey knew was Tejon was doing. I tensed but then, at Tejon’s command, relaxed and made a rumbling sound deep from within my belly when the knuckles breached the rim and his fist was inside me. I let out a long “Ahhhhh,” as the fingers opened and he rubbed my prostate and inner walls with his fingertips. The fist expanded, contracted. Expanded, contracted.

A sucking noise and the feeling of profound loss as the fist pulled out of me and the drawn-out whimper as it pushed back in. Out and in. Fucking me with his fist. I knew what Tejon was doing to me. I was hard as a rock. It took great effort not to blow, but I worked at not doing so for fear that he would stop fucking me with his fist if I did.

I had known what was going to happen as early as back in the camp when I saw the facial expressions shared between Geoffrey and Tejon before Tejon drove us off in the Land Rover. I knew also because the box housing the Fist of Gold was laying on the backseat beside the picnic hamper.

He did take me to the dig first, and we did scrape the earth a bit. And nuggets of gold did come out of the earth. For all I knew they had been salted there to impress me and raise my enthusiasm. I needed neither. My thoughts were elsewhere--steaming ahead to where Tejon’s fist and then his cock would be inside me. And the Fist of Gold as well.

Tejon had stripped down to a loin cloth to dig in the earth. The loin cloth left nothing to the imagination. He was longer and thicker than any man I had ever sheathed before--even Geoffrey. And he was only half hard as we dug, me down to my shorts as well. The looks he gave me told me all. The looks I gave him begged him to get on with it.

When it came time, there was no build up, no foreplay. No request. No permission given, He simply walked over to me, put his strong hands on me, slung me over his should, and carried me into the dense elephant grass. Five feet in and it was just the two of us in the world. Twenty feet in and he could have had his way with me, murdered me, of he wanted, and I’d be missing for all time. Forty feet in was the wallow and the edge of the watering hole.

He held me tighter and I opened my mouth in a silent scream again as he breached my rim with the thickest part of the Fist of Gold. I panted hard and let out little yip sounds as he fucked me, both shallow and deep, with the gold staff.

I looked over at Geoffrey, whose cock was lengthening and hardening, as, through slitted eyes and licked lips, he watched Tejon fuck me with the Fist of Gold.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I exploded, my cum arcing up onto my chest and Tejon trumpeting a tribal victory yell. He’d been chanting in the native tongue of the Mandinka all the while he was fucking me with the Fist of Gold.

He extracted the staff, and I had the presence of mind to lower my left leg from his shoulder, place both feet flat on the matting of elephant grass stalks, the thighs as spread as possible, and my pelvis raised as high as possible to give him a straight angle for his entry.

I tried to regulate my breathing, relaxing my channel as much as possible to be able to take him inside me. He came between my thighs on his knees and grasped and spread my butt cheeks with his hands. I howled in pain and ecstasy as he entered me with an erection that was every bit as long as the Fist of Gold and as thick all along its length as the thickest section of the Fist of Gold. Never had I been stretched this much by a cock. Never had a cock reached so far up my channel. I turned my head toward Geoffrey, not really being able to see him for the glaze descending over my eyes. My mouth opened wide for a long, rolling howl, as Tejon began to pump me, fucking me hard and at length to his own ejaculation that flooded my passage and oozed out of my hole.

As he withdrew, there was Geoffrey, displacing Tejon between my thighs, hard--hard enough to enter me and to fuck me in the lubricant of the heavy vegetable grease and Tejon’s cum. He only managed to stay hard for a few moments of stroking and his ejaculation was weak, but he was crying with relief and joy when he jerked and seeded me.

He stayed inside me, flaccid, but still filling, and kissed my face, my mouth, my throat, and my nipples, muttering “Thank you, thank you” over and over again.

* * * *

True to his prediction, Geoffrey was dead within two months. But in that time he regularly arranged for Tejon to ravish my body with his hand, cock, and the Fist of Gold while Geoffrey watched, and twice more Geoffrey was able to harden enough to enter me and ejaculate as well. On his deathbed he declared that he was satisfied leaving life this way.

Before he expired we managed to recover a fortune for everyone in the know of the Mali Empire gold at Kongoba. More than half of it went to a selected number of Mali officials, who were helpful in getting my share and that of the Frenchman, Perrin Tolbert, out of the country. I have no idea where Tolbert went from there and what he did. He was a sexy man, but just too wide across the knuckles. Tejon and Modibo went in together on a café in Bamako. The other Mandinka workers were delighted to maintain silence for what they received, not knowing what a small amount it was compared to the total haul.

Geoffrey got a share of the take. There now is an extra mausoleum in the supposedly closed Holywell Cemetery, next to St. Cross Church, in Oxford, England. It seems that Mali government officials aren’t the only ones who can be bought off.

I stayed for an extra month in Bamako after shipping Geoffrey’s body off to England and sending Miranda a note on my plans to buy into an Incan civilization excavation, where we found some gold but nothing like what we found at the Kongoba dig. What kept me in Bamako and at the Le Grand hotel was the extended stay of the Italian mining engineer Antonio Corti. He loved making love to me with the Fist of Gold and the mood it put me in to give him all that he wanted.

I left for South America satiated if sore and not walking straight--but with the confidence that the Incan and Mali Empires had been similar enough that I’d find some distant descendants of the Incas with slender hands and big cocks that would know exactly what to do with their hands, the Fist of Gold, and their cocks.

by Habu

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