When in Niamey

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Coming to Niger to find extreme GM fetish service.
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KeithD
KeithD
1,298 Followers

"Oui, Oui! Baise-moi! Baise-moi!—Yes, yes, fuck me! Comme ça! Plus profound!—Like that. Deeper."

I lay on the plastic sheeting on the hotel room bed, my hands gripping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead, my eyes wide, focused on the suddenly cruel smile on the face of the French businessman sitting next to me on the bed. The ceiling fan in the hot Niamey hotel room was revolving lazily with a grating whoop, whoop sound. A bright-colored bird briefly alighted on the frond of a palm tree brushing against the frame of the open window across the room, peeked in, apparently wasn't comfortable with what it saw, and then flew away. I was naked, my legs spread and bent, my feet flat on the bed, pushing my pelvis slightly up. I was panting hard, moaning low.

Go loose, relax, go loose, I kept droning in my mind.

The Frenchman had a well-greased bunched hand up my asshole to the knuckles. I was rocking my pelvis gently against his hand, trying my best to be as open as possible to him. "Oui, oui, Fist moi. Fist moi—Yes, fist me," I repeatedly moaned, assuring him he could do as he liked. "Ce que vous voulez." He was paying for it. Men came from Europe to Niamey expressly for this fetish. I had come to Niamey to find this—to find men who wanted to provide it and who got off as I did in matching our fetishes.

He hovered his face over mine, looking intently at my reactions.

"Prends-le. Prenez la fist—Take it. Take the fist," he growled at me in an intense voice. He lowered his face to mine and took my lips in a kiss. When he pulled away, I gasped and groaned and arched my back. His hand had penetrated in, up to the wrist.

"Oui, oui, Fist moi!" I cried out as he opened his fingers inside me and began to move the hand, in and out, in and out, through the heavy grease.

I panted even harder, concentrating everything I could muster to adjust to the greased hand.

"Oui, oui! Baise-moi avec ta main!—yes, fuck me with your hand!"

"Prends-le. Prends-le—Take it; take it."

He leaned his face of me again, but lower this time, taking my cock in his mouth and sucking it. After less than a minute of this, I came in a flood down his throat. He gagged a bit but took it all. His face appeared over mine again. He was still fucking me with his hand and I was moving my pelvis against it.

The expression on his face was a mix of cruelty, lust, affection, and want. He took my lips again and I opened to him. He was sharing my own cum with me in the kiss.

I groaned again, as I felt the hand pulling out of me.

"Baise-moi. Baise-moi maintenant. Prends-moi. Défonce-moi. Donne-moi ta bite!—Fuck me now; take me; drill me; give me your cock," I pleaded. They liked it when you pleaded for the cock.

He was moving his body over me, coming down between my legs, entering me with his hard cock, penetrating me to the core.

"Oui, oui! Oh fuck oui!—Yes, yes, oh, fuck yes!"

His hands glided up my arms, the right hand, the one that had been inside me, trailing grease up my arm. He grasped my wrists. he was on his knees between my legs, his cock buried deep inside me.

I wrapped my legs around him, hooking my ankles together underneath his buttocks.

He began to pump me in long, slow slides and I raised my pelvis up again, taking him as deep as I could, and moved my hips with him, making the most of the rhythm of the fuck. I set my passage wall muscles to squeezing, rippling over, and milking the Frenchman's throbbing cock, giving him his money's worth. He had come from Marseilles for this. He was moaning now too.

"Vous êtes un taureau de l'élevage!—You are a breeding bull—Un éléphant de bull!—a bull elephant," I cried out, not only because men liked to hear this when they were inside me, but also because he was fucking me well.

I arched my head back and murmured, "Yes, yes! oui, oui! Plus difficile!—harder," as he dove deep and flooded me deep with his cum.

Rising from me, he looked down into my eyes, a dreamy expression on his face. He gripped my thighs, high up with both hands, moved them to my inner thighs and glided them down to my knees. I spread my legs again, not knowing what he wanted from me now, but prepared to give him anything he wanted. My cock was hardening again—for him, if that was what he wanted. He briefly toyed with my passage opening with his fingers, murmuring how open I had spread to his needs.

I whispered "Baise-moi encore—fuck me again," knowing they were words all men wanted to hear. "Mettez-le en moi à nouveau—put it in me again. Fist moi encore une fois—fist me again." But he pulled them back, patted my knees, and rose from the bed.

"Alas, I have an appointment," he said. "But remember where we left off."

When he returned from the shower, leaving the door open so I could watch him piss in the toilet and then shower, I watched him dress in his suit, waistcoat, and tie and all, primed to do what he came to Niger to do—if he hadn't just done what he had come to Niger to do.

He let several banknotes flutter onto my belly and murmured. "You are very good. I am not like this in France. I don't do this there." Both the extra money above contract and the almost apologetic excuse came as an expression of guilt, as if he could do in Africa what he couldn't do in France. And that, indeed, why men came here; it was why I came had originally come here from England.

And then he was gone. It would be several more moments before I could feel like I could close my legs, that my passage, trained as it was, could contract to normal.

* * * *

In 1955, Niamey, the capital of Africa's Niger, was a sleepy little French colonial town of some 27,000 inhabitants on the banks of the Niger River. I had been brought here—and abandoned—by a French plantation owner, who had acquired me in a Paris brothel, where I was working an exchange with the London brothel I started in. I was making the best of what I had—which was a young, supple, blond body; an easy smile; and a willingness to open my legs to men and accommodate kinky sex for money that would help me get back to England.

I was sitting at an open-air café by the river and down the street from the small hotel where the French businessman was staying. We had met here after his appointment. He was paying for me for the weekend through the escort service I worked for in the Niger capital, so presumably after we had lunched he would take me up to the room and fist me again. It wasn't the first time I had been fisted. Niger was a collection point for all sorts of kinky fetish men who operated out of the mainstream. For youth, European men went to Tangier. For more extreme fetish they came here and a few other locations in Africa and India.

I took what I had to take to continue paying for my rooms over a bakery, to put food on the table, and, I hoped, eventually to pay for a plane ticket back to London. I enjoyed some of what the men did to me to get themselves off, though, and, if I could get back to London, I'd have highly desirable skills there.

I couldn't deny that the fisting got me off too—more the thought and emotions of it than the physical pain it caused, though.

The French businessman was a handsome man. He was in his late forties or early fifties. He was starting to go gray on his head, although, as I had found out, the curly hair on his chest and his bush were still an auburn color. He was a facetious man, impeccably dressed in tailored trousers and an open, long-sleeve white shirt here in the café—this being a weekend away from his job here, when, I was sure, he would be in a well-pressed tailored suit with a handkerchief in the pocket.

I was surprised that he'd worked on me with grease up onto his forearm, but his fetish must override his sense of cleanliness. He certainly worked with determination, a mad gleam in his eyes as he hunched over me, his hand up my ass and sliding it through the grease. He was a different man then than he was now, sitting across from me at the café table, sipping his tea, and chatting amiably with me as if I were a colleague or client rather than a prostitute he had been fist fucking earlier, a male prostitute he had had in bed, covering for half the day, a prostitute he planned to resume fist and cock fucking after he finished a pastry and a shot of cognac.

I couldn't help noticing another patron in the café, a large-built, ebony black man, in the uniform of an army officer, his jacket bristling with medals. He sat at another one of the café tables and was watching the Frenchman and me—or rather, not that I was noticing him any more than curiosity dictated, watching mainly me. Two other soldiers stood at attention behind him at his table, as he tucked into enough food to feed a regiment, holding both knife and fork in his meaty hands, wolfing the food down, white teeth flashing, and scanning the landscape around him through blood-shot eyes.

As a waiter passed, the French businessman stopped him and asked who the black man at the table was.

"That's General Boulama. Assane Boulama," the waiter answered in a nervous whisper. "You'd best stay clear of him. He's head of the secret police in Niger. Nearly runs the country now. I've seen that he is looking at the young man with you. You might want to finish up and leave before he takes more notice."

Heeding the warning, the Frenchman downed his cognac and said it was time to return to the hotel room. As we were leaving, the general was calling the same waiter over to him. It was only a short walk down the street to the hotel, but I was well aware that one of the soldiers who had been standing behind the general's chair followed us at a distance.

In the room, the Frenchman pulled me gently to him and we kissed as he unbuttoned my shirt and then unbuttoned my shorts, and pulled my clothes off my body. He went down on his knees in front of me and took my cock in his mouth. One of his hands went behind me and slid into my crack, rubbing across my hole. Sighing, I opened my stance. The can of grease was on the foot of the bed, and he reached over, not losing the hold of my cock in his mouth, scooped up a handful of grease and returned his fingers to my hole.

I had my fingers dug into the wavy gray hair of his head, pulling at it, moaning deeply, my legs rubbery and held up only by his embrace around my legs with one arm, as he worked his fist into my ass with his other greased hand, when I exploded in an ejaculation.

He continued, however, breaching my sphincter with his wrist, and fist fucking me as I writhed in his grip, pulled at his hair, and gasped and moaned. I groaned as he pulled his hand out and pushed me down on the foot of the bed, on top of the plastic sheet that was still there from the earlier fuck.

I lay there, my back on the bed, my hand fisting and stroking my cock, as he stood over me and slowly undressed. He had a good, trim body. His cock was in erection. He leaned down, grabbed both of my ankles, and wishboned my legs. I moved my hands under me to my buttocks and used them to raise and roll my hips up to take the long slide of him inside me and focused my eyes on the slow-turning ceiling fan above my head that did little more than move the warm air around. I gave a little jerk and arched my back when he penetrated me with his shaft, but I settled right down as he grasped my hips in his hand and began to pump me.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Vous êtes un taureau de l'élevage!—You are a breeding bull—Un éléphant de bull!—a bull elephant!"

All thoughts of anything else happening in the sleepy town or of the gross, intimidating General Assane Boulama floated out of my brain as the trim Frenchmen fucked me expertly and I gave him his money's worth in vocal response and the countermovement of my pelvis.

* * * *

Wanting to be alone for a bit, I had left the French businessman in his hotel room that Sunday morning, saying I wanted to attend church. He wasn't interested in doing so. He lay there on the bed on his back, smoking a cigarette and, his legs spread and bent, playing with his cock as he watched me dress. Our morning had started with me riding his cock as he lay on his back on the bed and rubbed his thumbs on my nipples.

I didn't really want to go to a church. I only wanted a bit of time alone. My buttocks—my passage—was sore from his fist. He didn't seem to have gotten enough of being inside me that way. He said it wasn't something he normally could do with a young man when he was in France.

"There is something about central Africa," he'd said. "Something primitive and permissive here."

"When in Niamey," I had muttered.

When he'd asked for an explanation, I had said, "It was something that the man—the French plantation owner—said to me before he brought me here. In France he fucked me, but he didn't mistreat me. He hinted at 'when we were in Niger, in Niamey,' we could be freer with sex. This was where European men came to indulge their extreme fetishes, he revealed. I didn't know that, by freer with sex, he meant he could beat and whip me. When he did that here and I let him know I didn't want it, he threw me out."

"So, the men you go with here don't beat and whip you?" the Frenchman asked.

"They do sometimes," I answered. "Especially European men visiting down here precisely for the privilege of doing that here and it being tolerated by the authorities as long as they came with money. I work for an escort service here that serves such men." I hardly had to tell him this, as if he didn't understand it. He was a European man, visiting here on business, but also to indulge his fetish. He had been led to me by the escort service.

"But—"

"I was here, alone, without funds," I answered. "It became a matter of 'when in Niamey.'"

"Interesting," he had said. "Freer here with sex," he said. And then he laid me out on the bed and fisted and fucked me again, not seemingly having any notion that this was in the category of beating and whipping and he himself said he would not subject a prostitute to in France.

"When in Niamey," he murmured.

Then, using my belt he tied my wrists behind my back and bent me over the bed and, with his belt, he strapped me on the thighs, buttocks, and back. In short order he splashed his cum on my back. It obviously was the first time he'd done this with a young man, and he found it arousing.

"I see," he said as he left me and went to take a shower. "Only in Niamey. Freer with sex. Very invigorating." He went to his wallet and once more dropped banknotes that went beyond the contract on my reddened buttocks in acknowledgement that the kinkier sex went beyond the norm. Any guilt assuaged by extra banknotes, I supposed.

When I left him, telling him I wanted to attend a church service, I was walking on the street, deserted on a Sunday morning, toward the river, when a black van pulled up beside me and three black men in army uniforms jumped out, grabbed me, and pulled me in the van. They pulled a burlap sack over my head, bound my hands, pulled my trousers and briefs off my legs, and as the van drove around the city, the three black men fucked me in succession on the floor of the van. Rough hands grabbed my hips and three cocks of varying thickness and lengths thrust up into my ass. Three cocks exploded inside me. Three flows of come were deposited in my ass.

During the whole time, not a word was spoken. Those at the escort agency had told me that this happened occasionally in Niamey. They used the phrase "When in Niamey." Central Africa wasn't like the rest of the world, they said. There were men in power here who lived only by their own rules. They said it was just the army taking its cut of the street activity and that I should just endure it if it happened to me—that the thugs would return me to the street after they had taken what they wanted from me.

"Even if they take your life, it isn't any more than another man contracting you through our agency would take from you, if you are unlucky. They just won't be paying for it."

They didn't return me to the street after they were done with me, though.

I was exhausted and cowed when I was dragged from the van into a building and dropped into a chair under yet another lazily whoop, whoop, whooping ceiling fan. The bag was pulled off my head and I was sitting on the other side of a big wooden desk from General Assane Boulama.

"It has come to my attention that you are practicing prostitution in Niamey without paying the entertainment tax," he said, looking at me sternly. He was a massive man. The desk was a large one, but he made it look small as he leaned on his elbows, made small gestures with his massive hands, and gave me a half smile. He had taken his beribboned jacket off, which was hanging nearby on a clothes tree. His chest muscles bulged, straining the material of his white shirt, which was open down three buttons. His chest was tattooed in some sort of blue tribal design.

"I wasn't aware that there was an entertainment tax pay," I answered. "I am represented by a lawyer, who perhaps you should contact. He pays all of my fees." That's what the escort service had told me to answer in relationship to their role with me—they were my lawyer. I didn't mention how I'd been manhandled on the way here. I instinctively knew that the general wouldn't care—or, if he did, it would be to consider the prurient details. I knew even then that, if he wanted to, he would fuck me too.

"You are responsible for your own fees," He said. "I claim the right to take the fee from you myself."

"I'm not sure what that means," I said, standing up from the chair. I was trembling all over, scared. The man was overwhelming. But I had to get out of there somehow. The only thing I could think of was a bluff—to move and to keep moving and to hope he was too slow to react before I was out on the street and running.

He wasn't too slow.

"I will tax you now," he said, standing and motioning to the men I hadn't realized were still behind me. They grabbed me and dragged me from the room.

* * * *

I was bound to some sort of platform in a windowless, concrete walled, ceilinged, and floored chamber. The most intimidating aspect of the chamber was that the floor sloped to a drain in the center and there were rusty marks in narrow streams running from the edges of the room to the drain. The obligatory ceiling fan was slowly whoop, whoop, whooping overhead. I was lying on a wooden board and my arms were raised above my head and bent back and tied off at the wrists on the top edge of the board. My pelvis was elevated on a wooden block. My legs were raised and spread, manacled at the ankles and pulled up by chains hanging from the ceiling. My butt was suspended over the bottom edge of the board. I was uncomfortable, but I wasn't in the worst situation of some of the others around me.

Sweating; naked, except for loin cloths; ebony bodies were moving about in the chamber. Other ebony bodies were tied to other pieces of restraint equipment in the room. I was the only European here. The other trussed up bodies were naked, as I was. Most of them were writhing on whatever equipment they were tied to, crying out at the crack of whips or the prodding of clubs. One or two of the bodies were silent, just hanging on the boards they were tied to. The sounds of screams, moans, and groans permeated the room.

I found I was moaning and groaning too. General Assane Boulama was crouched over me, staring down into my face with a cruel smile on his lips. He was naked, massive, save for a loincloth. He had a paunch but he otherwise was muscular and glistening with sweat. The sheer definition of evil power.

I was moaning because he was stroking my cock with one beefy hand. He lifted the other hand so that I could see it, the fingers bunched up, the hand and forearm slathered with grease.

KeithD
KeithD
1,298 Followers
12