Hunting Dr. Weiss

After we both had come, we relaxed and dozed, him still stretched out on top of me, our lips plastered together, and him still inside me, his hips slightly moving so that I could feel the full length of his penetration.

He didn't leave until 11:30. "The address is there on the screen," he said. "9:00 Monday morning. I'll leave it to personnel to tell you about the salary and benefits, but I'm sure it's better than you are managing now. You want the job, though, I have free access to your ass. And you keep clean for me. No barebacking. I now own your ass."

"You can give out jobs just like that?" I asked.

"Yes. I do the hiring of the writers," he said. And then he was gone, and I had a job at last.

He probably passed Greg, who was home early, on the stairs. The actor was in an exuberant mood, the Hamilton performance having gone well. He fucked me for an hour, not even seeming to notice that the bed was already messed up or that there were three condoms in the wastebasket that weren't his brand.

* * * *

"What the hell sort of name is Rostoland?"

"No one I asked could tell me for sure, other than it's either French or Dutch," I answered. I'd let him think that I was Jack rather than Jacques. I didn't think he'd care that there was a difference. He seemed the dominating type, which I, in fact, found attractive—especially because he was massive, all muscle, and he was black, black, black.

We were at DeStefano's Steakhouse in Brooklyn. Phil had said there was someone he wanted me to meet, and Phil was still calling the shots between us—not so much during off hours as he spread his interests around a lot, but certainly while on the clock with Gay City News, where he'd come through in getting me a writing job that more than took care of my needs. I'd thanked him by doing a job that everyone above him thought was professional enough for me to merit the position without also letting him fuck me. He still did that well, when he did it. It's just that life got in the way for both of us and we cooled down the hot and heavy within a couple of weeks. That had been almost three months ago, after the first time his wife breezed through the newsroom, picking him up for lunch, and I found that I liked her.

"Funny name for a black guy—although you aren't that black. Black enough to be my kind of meat—dark meat, good enough for me to shoot one up your tailpipe."

Was that why Phil wanted me to meet this Andre Jackson, I wondered. He'd been introduced as a photojournalist for People magazine. Phil had said it almost in reverential tones. The man was a real bruiser. Not much more than thirty and in bodybuilder shape. Not someone you'd want to mess with, certainly not in an alley. But he dressed expensively—casual, but it was all expensive. The sweater shirt had to be cashmere. That it was white and pulled tight over his muscled chest enough that I could see the form of the bar piercings in his nipples and get a hint of a left arm and pec busy tattoo pattern, that just added mystery and danger to him.

The nipple piercings hinted at gay; the crack about sending something up my tailpipe more than hinted at it—and a top. It had made me go hard. He'd be a forceful and cruel dominator, I was sure.

Was Phil selling me to him for some sort of return favor? For Phil to get an article in People magazine? Did I care? I wondered if he was a black bull—hung like a bull. He certainly met the specifications in external looks.

And then, yep, he had his hand on my thigh under the table top. The finger spread was massive, the grip strong. I laid my hand on his thigh. No pressure in the grip, though, signaling I was a submissive—and, more important, willing.

"The island of Martinique," I explained. "My family came from there to New Orleans. Both the French and Dutch were prominent there—they messed around with their slaves sent over from Africa. I probably got the name the same way you got Jackson. Some white man laid your great-great-great slave grandmother. In my case, a Rostoland was the governor of Martinique when the slaves were all freed. Some family probably picked up the name in gratitude."

"Well, you're light skinned enough to almost pass—probably more than one plantation owner fucking his female slaves in your background."

"Sorry," I said, "that I can't be as pure black as you."

"No, no, on you it looks good." His hand went higher on my thigh.

"Ditto on you," I answered and did him one better. I was sure now that Phil was giving me to this guy for sex, and I couldn't wait to find something out. I cupped his crotch. As I hoped, he was hung like a horse—and hard. He smiled and did the same with me.

Phil could hardly avoid knowing we were feeling each other up under the table. "Andre wanted to meet you, Jacques, because I'd mentioned to him that you were a good writer and he needs a writer to go on a People magazine assignment with him."

"A foreign assignment?" I asked, turning my attention to Phil, who was sitting across the table from Andre and me. "Where? What sort of assignment. I'm not wild about going into war zones. Not really into bravery or bullets."

"But you have a passport?"

"Yes. I still have family in the Caribbean to visit."

"What are you into?" Andre asked. "Into what you are feeling up now?"

"I could be."

"Ever hear of Gunther Weiss?" Phil asked.

"The male Mother Theresa? The guy with all of the awards? The guy who gave up a cushy medical position in Europe to go to Africa to save the people?"

"Yes, the same. Ever hear of Tambacounda?"

"No, can't say that I have," I answered. "Was it on the menu here?" I'd taken my hand away from Andre's crotch, but he hadn't followed suit. I widened my stance and scooted my butt to the edge of the banquette bench seat, and he was doing a serious fondle of my package. I was hard for him, and if he went on with this another ten minutes or so, he'd rub one out of me.

"That's where Dr. Weiss's clinic is. It's in a very remote area of Senegal, on the West Coast of Africa. I think you told me your ancestors were from there—from where Senegal is now. I thought you might like to see where they came from. It pays eight thousand for two months plus all expenses. The two of you, Andre and you. It's a 'hunting Dr. Weiss' piece for People. Something like the search for Dr. Livingstone or coverage of Albert Schweitzer when he went off to Africa to dedicate himself to caring for the natives. You wouldn't be losing your job with the paper; you can come back to us at the end of the assignment, and you can get credit for filing any side articles you write while you're gone."

"Just the two of us? Is it just because I'm a writer whose ancestors came from Senegal that you've gotten Andre interested in me?"

"Not at all," Andre said, with a grin. "It's because I have this medical problem. I'm oversexed and have to fuck someone daily. Phil here told me that you not only were a good writer and have ties with Senegal but also that you were a great lay. If I choose you to go with me, I'll fuck you every day."

"If you choose me?" I said. "So, it's not a done deal?"

"No, not without a sample. My hotel's nearby—the Brooklyn on Clark Street."

"I can show you a sample of my writing right here," I said. "I have my laptop with me."

"That's not the kind of sampling I want to do," Andre said.

"And if I don't want to go to Africa on this hunt for Dr. Weiss?" I asked.

"I'm still taking you to my hotel and fucking the stuffing out of you. Are you going to object to that?"

"No, not at all."

He had to be nine inches, thick and long. His muscles had muscles. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Phil sat in a chair across the room and watched the black bull with the jet-black monster cock lay me out and cock me for an hour and a half.

Andre sat on the side of the bed, feet on the floor, with me skewered on his cock, sitting in his lap, facing him, and pulled me on and off his. And he stood from the bed, with me draped on the front of him, and walked around the room, bouncing me up and down on his cock. And he fucked me on the dresser in the room, first with me supporting my torso with my fists gripping the front edge of the dresser and my back to the mirror, with my pelvis jutting out over the carpet, my ankles on his shoulders and Andre pulling me on and off the cock. And then with me doing the splits along the surface of the long dresser, facing into the mirror, my hands pressed on the dresser top in front of me to give me stability, while he stood behind me and fucked up into my passage.

Then, after a pause, he and Phil tag teamed me on the bed, me on my back, legs spread, and the two taking turns at me, crouched over me in a missionary fuck, while, exhausted, I lay there, docile, collapsed, panting, and moaning softly.

"So," Andre asked, the three of us stretched out on the bed along each other's bodies, me sandwiched in the middle, "Do you want to go to Africa with me?"

"Yes," I answered in a tired voice.

* * * *

Over the first two weeks of our assignment, Andre and I went both forward and backward in time. We didn't fly directly to Senegal. Andre wanted to establish the background on Dr. Weiss, so we went to where he was born, near Vienna, in Austria, and worked our way to London, where he initially worked, providing free clinics in slums, and then through Geneva, where he worked in UN programs, and Stockholm, where he had received international awards, and then, and only then, down to Africa, first to Tangier, and ultimately to Senegal, working our way from Dr. Weiss's birth to the present.

Andre didn't include me much in the research. Much of the reason I was along bore out why he said I mostly was along. Andre, indeed, wanted to fuck someone at least once a day. I was the sure once-a-day lay, but he also went out and cruised wherever we were, finding a rich pickup environment in the area of London where Weiss's clinic had been located and an even richer environment in Tangier, which proved to have quite an enclave of a gay community. Even I was picked up at an outdoor café by a hard-bodied, rich Arab and fucked in a backroom set up like a harem at the back of his shop in the bazaar.

Andre shared with me only a certain amount of the information he was building on Weiss. There was a file on his working life, which I could peruse at will and use to write the section on his professional background, but there was another building file in the laptop on Weiss's personal life that Andre wasn't showing me and had put behind a password.

We were moving forward in time in researching the doctor's background but backward in civilization from the doctor's privileged childhood and medical schooling in Austria, to the rougher and more primitive slums of London to where we finally tracked Weiss down—in the remote Tambacounda region in the arid east of Senegal.

Tambacounda was a small city of some 80,000 people as well as an eastern region of Senegal, but Tambacounda proved just to be a stopping place, where we changed from rail to sturdy Land Rovers for the trip into the even more rugged and remote region to the south of Tambacounda to a small village, Koukari, where Weiss had his free clinic. Such was his renown and the quality of his services that he drew patients from throughout the Tambacounda region.

I was to learn the lengths that the people of the region would go to receive his services.

The clinic compound was a small village in its own right. He had an international staff of half a dozen doctors who were at the clinic for periods of varying lengths, working for free or on grants, for the privilege of being able to put service with him on their CVs. There also was a larger staff of Senegalese nurses, orderlies, and administrators in permanent residence, all of whom had to be housed. And then, in addition to the medical wards and dining and social halls, there was temporary housing for patients and their families who had come from all over the region for health care for one of their family members. All of this was supported by charitable contributions gathered via the Internet, corporate sponsorship, and humanitarian aid. Dr. Weiss's fame was established such that that the gravy train of contributions was thick and rich.

Publicity was the lifeline of the operation, and, although we weren't received for a formal interview immediately by the man himself, we were welcomed and given accommodation in a hut of our own. I should say I wasn't received by Dr. Weiss immediately. I did see him soon after we had been driven into the compound, and it became obvious that Andre Jackson and Gunther Weiss already knew each other. The doctor came out onto the front porch of his medical building as we were unloading our baggage from the Land Rover, and Andre went up to the porch to talk to him, but I had been told to wait behind, near the Land Rover.

The two of them spoke at length and Andre gestured toward me. I could see that the doctor, a tall, gaunt, ruggedly built man with bushy gray hair and a ramrod straight back, looked at me with piercing grayish eyes, but I wasn't called forth for introductions.

That didn't bother me. My attention was taken with the bustle of activity around the compound and was accosted by, and lingered on, the figure of a chocolate-black man, in doctor's white, leaning languidly against a porch pillar, smoking a cigarette, and looking at me with a smile I well knew. One of interest and desire. I openly returned the look, because he was a beautiful man, a mixed-race man, like me, who had benefited from the beautiful genes of each race.

As we stood there, one of the local staff members came to the bottom of the porch stairs with a Senegalese family in tow. The patriarch of the family was being carried on a litter by other family members, Andre drew aside while Dr. Weiss briefly talked with the staff member and the older woman who appeared to be the sick man's wife. As they talked, they all turned to look at a young black man, no older than I was, who, looking down shyly, stepped away from the litter and turned full circle slowly. He was slim and perfectly proportioned, his only distinguishing feature being a strawberry birthmark under one of his eyes that was more interesting than off putting. He was only dressed in shorts and dirty sneakers. After a few moments of discussion, Dr. Weiss waved them away, and the local staff member escorted the family toward the patient housing sector of the compound. Weiss and Andre resumed their own short discussion.

My attention went back to the gorgeous man in white medical scrubs who was intently staring at me and smiling, and I was only pulled away from him by Andre's return, with an administrative officer who took us to our assigned hut. When he had left and we'd both washed as best we could from the sink in the room—the showers were communal showers in their own buildings, one for men and one for women, centrally located in the staff area—we settled down to rest. The senior staff support buildings were separate from those used by the local staff, which, in turn, were separate from those used in the patient area. Our hut was in the senior staff area.

"It was a long ride and we've arrived during the midday sun retreat time. We might as well nap too before we start our work," Andre said.

Andre's idea of "nap" began with a fuck, meeting his daily need. We lay there on my cot, me on my back, him, crouched over me, above me, cupping my head in his hands, his cock some nine inches inside my channel and churning, as, moving my pelvis with him in the increasingly vigorous rhythm he was establishing, I closed my eyes and dreamed of the succession of men who had been inside me—or who I wanted to be inside me. The man I'd just seen, leaning against the porch post, smoking, and smiling meaningfully at me kept coming up in my visions.

Who was he? A doctor, it seemed. Where was he from? What was the mix of him? Was he as sensual as he was sexy?

I found some of that out when I left Andre snoozing on my cot and decided to take advantage of the compound being down during the height of the sun to go and take a shower. Not everyone was down. The patients' housing quarter was astir with families milling about. As I passed along the edge of the quadrangle on my way to the men's showers, which were walled off but open to the sky, I noticed something strange—several of the young men I saw had welts on their backs and chests. They didn't look like old wounds either. Some sort of coming-of-age ritual in this region, I wondered. All of the men were young and well formed.

I was still mulling this when I got to the showers, but I stopped mulling that as soon as I stepped, naked, into the communal shower. I wasn't alone. The mixed-race black doctor—or at least I had surmised he was a doctor—I'd seen earlier in the day leaning against a porch pillar and smoking a cigarette was in the shower as well. He was naked, and his body was magnificent—finely muscled, chocolate brown, perfectly proportioned—everything milk chocolate except that he had a jet-black cock and ball sac. He was nicely hung.

He was flaccid when I entered the shower, but as he turned and saw me there—and smiled—I discerned him getting harder. I couldn't very well just turn and leave. And I didn't want to turn and leave. So, I stayed. I stood under a shower spigot, and, when I was wetted down, I soaped up. Across the shower, the man did the same. It was like he was mimicking me—or that I was mimicking him. I don't know which. Our eyes were locked on each other, so I couldn't say who was taking the lead. All I can say is that I stayed there, soaping up and rinsing off, repeatedly, in consort with him. And I hardened up—also in consort to him.

There were two shower heads separating us. He was the first one to make a move, moving one showerhead closer to me. Smiling at me, welcoming me to move over as well—which I did.

I don't know who was the first one to touch the other, but before I was aware of how we progressed into it, he was soaping me up and I was soaping him up. Then he was fondling my cock and balls, and I his. He was pressing down on my shoulders and I was going to my knees, taking his cock in my throat, and worshipping it with my mouth. He was hard as a rock when he raised me with hands under my arm pits, turned me, gestured for me to bend over and grasp my ankles, knelt behind me, and expertly ate out my ass and pulled my cock and balls through my legs and sucked them.

I moaned and gave a little cry when he crouched over my back, mounted my hips, drove his cock up inside me, and fucked me in a primeval, raw, flesh on flesh, taking, holding me in place with strong hands gripping my waist.

He fucked me deep in various off-beat rhythms that had me groaning and moaning and trying to get into the rhythm with his cock, which fully possessed me and managed to kiss and caress every inch of my canal wall, which spasmed at the touch of his bulb and the steel hardness and thickness of his commanding cock. My channel walls shimmered as I'd never felt before and the muscles of my inner surfaces gripped and rippled along the surface of his shaft. My knees went to rubber, but he held me up with the strength of his grasp on my waist.

I came in my stroking hand, the cum washed away by the stream of water from the showerhead we were standing under, and then he came as well in a series of spasms. I felt the warmth of his cum deep inside me.

He put his lips to the hollow of my neck, kissed me, and whispered, "We'll have to arrange to meet tomorrow. There's something you need to know."

And then, as I let loose of his grip on my waist and sank to the concrete flooring of the shower, he was gone.

I hadn't even asked his name. Could I face him again? I had been so wanton—just going with the flow of sensuality.