When in Niamey

"Please, please. Mercy," I whimpered. "Ayez pitié!—have mercy!" Then the hand disappeared, dipping down between my legs, and I was nearly lifted off the table to the extent my bindings would permit, my howls floating across the other sounds in the room. His hand was bigger than the French businessman's had been, bigger than any hand that had been inside me before. He took his time working it into me up to the wrist, only laughing at my pleas for mercy. His other hand continued beating my cock off.

I shot my load toward the slowly revolving fan overhead and blacked out.

When I came to, he was below me, between my thighs, his hands gripping my knees, rocking back and forth against my buttocks, fucking me with his cock. His cock, like his hand had been, was the biggest one I'd ever had inside me, stretching me to the limit. At that moment I was grateful that his fist had led the way.

"Vous êtes trop gros! Ayez pitié!—You are too big! Have mercy!"

He laughed, taking it as a compliment.

Needless to say, he showed me no mercy and that was the last time he stretched me to the limit. As it turned out, I could take him, panting and moaning, but amazed and proud that I could sheath him. He took me frequently after that and reamed me to his needs. By the end of his third fuck I fit him like a glove. I wasn't closing back up as I had always done before.

He came inside me in a gush and then held there, cooing at me and running his hands over my body. It wasn't long before I felt him hardening inside me again and he resumed pumping me, deep and thick.

* * * *

I was taken from what General Boulama said was the "examination chamber" up two flights, to a bedroom, with a lock on the door and bars on the window. This apparently was where General Boulama lived as well as worked.

I looked all around the room for a means of escape, but found none. I must have been panicked and in shock even to think of escaping. Where in Niamey . . . where in all of Niger could I, a young, blond Englishman, escape from the secret police?

I was naked anyway. I couldn't exactly run out into the street. If I did, I thought, the secret police would grab me. I realized that I was being hysterical. The secret police already had me. I did find that there was a bathroom, with a shower, off the bedroom. I took a long shower, dried myself off—there was a stack of clean towels on a table in the bathroom—went back into the bedroom, and laid down on the bed. There, in front of me, beyond the foot of the bed, I saw the hook in the ceiling and the chains hanging from it with wrist restraints at the end. I shuddered, shut my eyes, and soon was asleep.

Boulama woke me, coming in noisily, glowering at me, shutting the door and locking it, and disrobing.

"Temps d'impôts—Tax time," he said, with a grin on his face.

It was the first time I had seen him completely naked. He'd been inside me in the "examination chamber," but I had not actually seen his cock. I almost swooned now that I could see what he'd already had inside me. He was both horrifying and magnificent at the same time. He was more than six and half feet tall and heavy. Most of the heaviness was muscle, but he had a beer belly on him too. What arrested the attention, though, was that he was hung like a bull, with a drooping ball sac—the sac of a fertile bull as well. He was ebony black, and glistening with a film of sweat. He also was covered in blue tribal tattooing.

He was all business, grabbing me, getting my wrists in the restraints of the hanging chains without a bit of trouble, as he was overwhelmingly powerful, and had authority on his side. I was putty in his hands, my mutterings of objections returned only by low grunts. My feet barely touched the floor even when I was standing on my toes.

And my feet didn't spend much time on the floor as I was swinging back and forth either under the strength of the lash of the whip or in trying to avoid it. He whipped me for an eternity, not putting the full strength of his arm into it, though. He more teased me with the whip than cut me. He raised welts but they didn't cut into the skin. What was most important was that it gave him a massive erection. I'm ashamed to say that he gave me an erection too. The planter who had brought me here whipped me. Other men had flogged or caned me. I had never asked for it, but it had always made me hard and given me massive orgasms.

The whipping by Boulama did no less. When we were both hard, he dropped the whip, grabbed my thighs, wishboned my legs straight out to each side, set my hole on his cockhead, and pulled me down on him. Letting go of one of my legs he reached around me and stroked my cock to the rhythm of stroking inside me.

He was good, very good, both at fucking me and masturbating me, and when he put his cheek next to mine, I turned my face to him and let him take possession of my mouth.

"Avez-vous aimé qui?—Did you enjoy that?" he asked after releasing the kiss.

"Baise-moi encore. Fist moi encore—Fuck me again; fist me again," I whispered, not only for bravado. He was driving me wild sexually.

He did fuck me again then—on the bed—and he fisted me on the bed and then he fucked me again. I reasoned that this was his bedroom, because he stayed with me through the night, lying on top of me between my spread legs, possessing me with his massive cock. I'm embarrassed to admit that I totally gave myself to him in the fuck, going with him, taking him deep and riding the cock like I couldn't get enough of it. And once he was inside me and fucking me in a conventional position, I indeed couldn't get enough of his cock. We writhed against each other, going with each other in a coordinated rhythm of the deep, total fuck.

The next morning when I woke, he was gone. The bars were still on the window and the door was still locked. And the chains with the restraints at the end were still dangling down between the foot of the bed and the locked door.

Not long after I woke up, the door opened and my breakfast was delivered by a hunky black bull young soldier, his chest bare, in camouflage pants and combat boots. He gave me a "don't even try bolting for the door" look, closed and locked the door behind him, put the breakfast tray down on a table by the door, and came over to the bed. He grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the end of the bed. He didn't crouch down or anything. He put me on my shoulder blades, my torso streaming up to him, my knees at first hooked on his hips, but later my ankles on his shoulders; he unbuttoned himself and took out a big, hard cock. He thrust it inside me, squeezed my buttocks in his hands, and he fucked me hard and furiously to a mutual ejaculation.

I writhed under him, glad to take a cocking from a young black bull any day of the week. I wondered if he was one of the three soldiers who had fucked me in the van before delivering me to Boulama. He left without a word when he was finished, leaving me lying there, panting and luxuriating in the fuck. My breakfast was cold, but I supposed it had been cold before he brought it.

At lunch it was yet a different black soldier hunk, bending me over the mattress, getting up on the bed on his knees, with me trapped between them, and having plenty of leverage behind his backswing as he fucked me in a power doggie position. He had grabbed my wrists and held my arms out in front of me while, covering me close, he fucked me hard. He put his mouth to my ear and gave me the explanation for all of this that I had anticipated. "Considérer la pute—Take it, whore," he muttered. "Give it to the foreign visitors, yes, but give the Nigers our cut."

So, I was just a whore paying my entertainment tax. When in Niamey . . .

Dinner brought the third young black bull hunk, convincing me that these were the same soldiers from the van and that this was how Boulama got them to do his bidding—by giving them privileges. He fucked me in a side split, standing on the floor at the foot of the bed, with my weight on my right hip and my right leg rising up his muscular torso, my ankle hooked on the back of his neck, me turned to him, my right arm extended to his muscular chest, palming one of his nipples, my tongue hanging out, my eyes giving him a "Baise-moi"—kiss me—look, and him pistoning my hole.

I startled them by crying out, "Oui, me faire dur!—Yes, do me hard," to assure them I was the whore they accused me of being.

Later in the evening, Boulama himself reappeared to hang me from the chains and whip me and then take me to bed and fuck me, then fist me, then fuck me again. We showered together and he took me back to the bed and fucked me through half the night.

I was reamed to his requirements now. I enjoyed the fucking now.

I slept the sleep of the dead, to be awakened for the delivery of my lunch and a missionary fuck from young black bull soldier number one. I didn't really mind any of this. I even got used to the whipping, because he didn't lay his arm into it and it got me off. I'd taken four men in a day before, but they hadn't all been hard-bodied, big-cocked black-bull soldiers.

The pattern continued to the third day. At noon that day, though, after solider number two delivered my lunch and doggie fucked me and left, I'd eventually realized that he left the door open—not just unlocked, wide open. And, on the table by the door, instead of a lunch tray, he'd left a pile of the clothes I'd been wearing when I was snatched off the street. They were clean and neatly folded.

If this wasn't a sign I was free to go, I didn't know what would be such a sign. I hurriedly dressed—it had taken me several minutes of recovering from the glorious fuck to realize the door was open—and slithered out into the hallway. I cautiously went down the stairs, thinking that I'd be grabbed at any minute and that this was all a mistaken understanding on my part.

I heard someone in the hall below and I retreated back up the stairs and down the hall, pulling myself into a deep doorway niche. I peeked around the corner and saw two of my soldiers—I had come to think of them as "my" soldiers—dragging a young, naked European man between them. He was collapsed, probably unconscious, his head hanging over, his arms draped around the soldiers' shoulders, and his feet dragging along the floor as they carried him. They dragged him into "my" room. I didn't stay around to see any more. I scooted past that door and down the stairs and out into the street.

I first went to the French businessman's hotel to tell him why I hadn't come back to him on Sunday. But he had checked out. I then went to my own rooms above the bakery. I was surprised that no one had been there before me. What money I had was still there, where I put it. I hastily packed and went directly to the airport. I didn't have enough money to get me to Europe, but I did have enough to get me to Tangier, Morocco, on a flight leaving within the hour.

I found that "when in Tangier" was much more welcoming and accommodating to men who serviced men. I never went back to Niamey and its privileged few ways, but I never went back to London either. Tangier suited me and my lifestyle just fine. There even were some rich black bulls living there. I had been royally worked over by General Assane Boulama and his soldiers, but, in the process, I had become addicted to big black cock. And, after General Assane Boulama, there never again was a cock that was "trop"—too big, for me. So, I guess he did me a professional favor.

I found too that there were men in Tangier who had fists and liked to grease them up and use them.