Coffee, T, or Me

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“Nice Shirt.”

“Thanks,” Eddie Bocco answered. The man who had swung into position in front of him on the dance floor of Club Hercules was gorgeous. He was massive, muscular, and black—a black black even for Africa. Coal black. In contrast to Eddie, the man wasn’t wearing a shirt at all. His torso was god-like and gleaming with a thin veneer of sweat in the crowded, sweltering gay club. The building, in a high-walled compound, was hidden behind a warehouse on Ngalo Road in the Eastern suburb of Arusha, Tanzania, in the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro.

Eddie, a far creamier brown than the man dancing in front of him and towering over him despite the fact that Eddie wasn’t exactly short himself, had chosen to go in brown himself when he’d set out to find the secluded club, hidden because Tanzanian laws weren’t gay friendly. The T-shirt, over silky, brown, baggy shorts that matched Eddie’s skin color, also was brown, its background motif being an endless array of coffee beans upon which the inscription, in white, of “Coffee, T, or Me” blazened across the chest. Despite his athletic build Eddie was a submissive bottom and the T-shirt was meant to convey that. He’d picked it out of a bin in an Abercrombie & Fitch store in New York because it was coffee—coffee plantations, to be precise—that had brought him to Tanzania. It was upscale enough in material and the tailored way it draped that it commanded attention here.

The T-shirt was a bit loose on Eddie’s torso, although he was nicely muscled; it would have fit tight as a drum on the chest of the Tanzanian man who was gyrating in front of him, moving ever closer into him, and giving him a stripping assessment with his eyes. The grin on his face and his zeroing-in movement while swaying to the music signaled his interest. Eddie’s eyes went to the man’s crotch, and the bulge he saw there made him smile. Eddie wanted this man to fuck him. He jutted his pelvis out, and getting the signal, the man jutted his forward as well, and they were both swaying to the loud music with the heavy beat with their baskets rubbing against each other and their torsos arched back so that each could admire the psychic of the other. The nipples of both were taut and puckered, ready for sex. In a way, with their dicks rubbing against each other, they were having sex.

When the music stopped, Eddie found his face being pulled into that of the other man by a beefy hand cupping his neck. They kissed, with the man forcing Eddie’s lips open with his and giving him tongue. Eddie liked a forceful man. He liked everything about this man. He wanted this man’s dick inside him.

“My table’s over there,” Eddie said as they came out of the kiss. He pointed to the shadows back in a corner.

He turned and went to his table, assuming the man would follow him. He didn’t, though. Eddie shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. The night was young. If nothing else, the luscious black bull had gotten Eddie’s juices going. He went to his table and sat, reaching for the half-full bottle of Serengeti Premium he’d left there. The word “prombe” entered his mind, which was Swahili for “beer” the barman at Club Hercules had told him. It was the first word Eddie had learned in Swahili since landing in Tanzania from the States earlier in the afternoon.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make him wince, and the gorgeous black muscleman was there, banging a beer bottle down on the table top and pulling a chair up close, the back reversed to the table. The man was drinking a Bia Bingwa, a much stronger brew than Eddie’s Serengeti Premium, he knew, from having quizzed the barman about the options. It made Eddie shudder deliciously at the thought of how much stronger the man seemed in every way.

Sinking onto his chair, very close beside Eddie, the man took a deep and noisy pull on his beer, set the bottle down, reached under the table top, and grabbed Eddie by the balls through the thin silk of his boxer shorts.

Eddie winced, nearly yelped, and turned his face to the man with a pained expression on his face, but he felt his legs go to rubber and spread apart as the man’s hand squeezed, twisted, and released; squeezed, twisted, and released; squeezed and held. Eddie’s eyes were watering, his dick hardening. His buttocks involuntarily pulled closer to the front of his chair and, with a laugh, the man took a fuller handful of balls and cock base. He came in for another, deeper, more possessive kiss than they’d engaged in on the dance floor. Eddie’s moan was audible.

“You take it or give it—or both?” the man muttered as they came out of the kiss and he jutted his free arm between their bodies, grabbed his beer bottle and took another deep drink. He maintained his grip on Eddie’s package with the other hand. His accent was thick, but his English was understandable. As Eddie couldn’t speak a lick of Swahili, although he’d heard it often enough in his home back in D.C., he wouldn’t criticize the man’s English.

Besides, the grip the man had on Eddie’s istanbul escort jewels was all the language the man needed. He was crude and promised to be rough. That was enticing to Eddie. He’d been having it vanilla for too long. He’d thought that Tanzania would be cruder, more primitive. So far this had borne out.

“I take it mostly,” Eddie answered in a voice he found surprising hoarse and foreign to how he thought he spoke.

“You’ll take it here, now, from me? You gonna lay down nice a pretty for me on this table top and take my dick?”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I don’t have time to waste. You’ve got a great bod and your face is easy on the eyes too. You an athlete?”

“Professional footballer,” Eddie answered.

“Thought it was something like that. I’d like to get my hands in these shorts of yours.”

“You’re almost there now,” Eddie quipped.

“And you haven’t objected.”

“No, no I haven’t. I don’t have a lot of time to waste either. Go ahead, dig in.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” And then he did, stuffing a hand under Eddie’s waistband and grabbing both balls and the base of Eddie’s cock in his grip. Eddie winced and widened his stance. “Nice. So, am I going to fuck you? If not you, I can find someone else. You?”

“Yes, I think you’re the big boy I was looking for. You can fuck me if you’ve got more than eight inches.” It was what Eddie had come here for.

The man laughed. “Good. I’ve got an inch more than that for you. Drink up. You need to take a piss.”

“I do?” Eddie asked, with a croak. But, submissive that he was, he reached for his bottle of Serengeti Premium and finished it off.

“Yes, you do. The pissoir is outside.”

The bathroom—men only; there was no reason to have a women’s room at the Club Hercules—was in a cinderblock building against the compound wall at the side of the main entrance to the club. The courtyard there was dirt-floored, as was the floor of the outhouse. The urinal was a tin trough running down one side of the room. The stalls were on the other side, their wooden doors covered with graffiti, half the doors just hanging on a hinge. Glory holes were carved between each of the stalls. Two of them were occupied when Eddie entered, with the muscleman at his back. A black man was in each of the stalls, one man sitting on the toilet in the stall nearest the exit, beating his meat and sucking on a cock extending through the hole into the stall next door.

Two men brushed by them, headed back to the club, the hand of one cupping the buttocks of the other. At the black bull’s direction, Eddie leaned over the trough, his arms extended over his head, the palms of his hands pressed into the cinderblock wall, his shorts down around his ankles, while the man stood close beside and turned to him. He cupped the root of Eddie’s cock and his balls while Eddie pissed into the trough.

Then the man stroked Eddie off with his hand, rather quickly, as this thoroughly aroused Eddie, his spunk hitting the wall above the level of the trough. When Eddie had shot his load, the man moved around behind him, dropped his own shorts, mounted Eddie’s ass, and fucked him. He held Eddie in position, leaning over the trough, as he did it.

Eddie groaned at the thickness of the cock inside him and the depth it was able to achieve, as the man brutally forced himself in to the hilt and held, waiting for Eddie to accommodate him, which wasn’t easy, because the guy’s throbbing cock was thickening and lengthening even as he held there. The man was covering Eddie close. Nine inches indeed, Eddie thought, with a deep moan and panting hard. He’d never taken one this thick and long—certainly not being stuffed in right off the top to torture Eddie until he could take it. When the stroking began, cruel, vigorous, and brutal, the black bull pulled Eddie’s T-shirt up and off his arms. Lost to the cruel fuck, it was all Eddie could do to hold position.

While Eddie was being fucked—when he’d adjusted to the size and brutality of the crude fuck and the two of them had settled into a rhythm that no longer made Eddie want to scream—men came in and left the bathroom. No one registered surprise. Some lingered to watch. Taking inspiration, a couple of men took up station down near the end of the trough to mimic what the muscleman was doing with Eddie. Everyone in the bathroom was black, but none as black as the bull fucking Eddie was. Presumably all but Eddie were Tanzanians. This wasn’t a club for whites or foreigners. And even Eddie was only first-generation American. His parents had come from Dar Es Salaam.

The black bull covered him close from behind and above, large enough to make it seem like Eddie’s body—not itself small—was folded inside him. Eddie felt so plastered to—so one with—the man when they had established a rhythm that, once he’d settled down to no longer believing he would die from the assault, he raised his feet off the dirt floor and wrapped his ankles around the man’s meaty calves, taking yenibosna escort what weight the man didn’t bear on his arms pressed into the cinderblock wall. He was being clutched to the man’s body with the man’s arms running up his torso, one hand cupping Eddie’s pecs, his thumb stroking Eddie’s nipple, and other one gripping Eddie’s throat. The bull’s chin was lodged into the hollow of Eddie’s neck, his lips pressed to Eddie’s earlobe, the man’s tongue fucking Eddie’s ear channel, breathing heavily as his hips moved, causing his cock to churn and expand inside Eddie’s channel, as Eddie’s passage continued to soften and to yield stretch and depth to the mining cock. Eddie felt his passage muscles ripple over the surface of the hard shaft, a feeling he hadn’t enjoyed for years in his sex life. Not since the thrill of the fuck had receded into vanilla sex routine with the guys who regularly fucked him.

This wasn’t routine. This was the thrill of the fuck.

Only belatedly did Eddie wonder if the man was using protection. This came to mind because the men fucking beside them weren’t. The top next to him was staring at him as he fucked the other, slender, young Tanzanian. By watching the long strokes the top was taking, Eddie realized that he was gauging the rhythm of his fuck to the rhythm Eddie’s top was taking. A chill of extra pleasure went up Eddie’s spine at the fantasy that all of Africa was fucking him. Certainly the bull fucking him was big enough—both in stature and equipment—to stand in for all of Africa.

The man covering him tensed and jerked—and pulled out of Eddie. Eddie saw the spent condom splash into the trough below him, and he sighed with relief. He’d been more worried whether the guy was using a rubber than he’d thought.

When he pulled away from the wall, delayed by a moment because the guys next to him were getting it off, the top spouting up the back of his bottom and a hand of the top milking the bottom into the trough, Eddie’s guy was gone. So was Eddie’s T-shirt.

He left the bathroom and went back into the club to see if he could find the guy who had fucked him, but Eddie didn’t see anyone familiar among the gyrating, black, sweaty bodies crowded into small room surrounded by a cacophony of raucous noise.

He felt too high from the exotic and dirty fuck to be too mad over the loss of the T-shirt. He hadn’t been fucked that dirty ever before and it put him on a high. If Africa was going to be like this, he might spend more time here—now that he had property here. The dirty fuck he’d just had had sent him so much higher. His wad had been so much fuller, the ejaculation so much stronger. His sex life in D.C. had gotten to be too vanilla.

He left the club and walked east on the dark, dirt-surfaced Ngalo Road, back toward the lights of the A104, which was Sanawaril Road on this side of Arusha.

He sensed more than heard the open-backed pickup truck that glided up next to him. He looked around but got no more than the sensation of black, shirtless men sitting around the rim of the truck bed before hands reached down, pulled him up into the truck, and forced him down on his belly in the bed of the truck, which kept gliding along toward the A104. A dozen hands were holding him down, spread-eagling him, pulling his shorts and jock off his legs, tying his wrists and ankles off at the corners of the truck bed, and stuffing his mouth with the jock.

He was stretched out on bags of what was probably, from the aroma of them, coffee beans. Extra bags were under his belly, raising his buttocks. From each direction he turned his head, all he could see were the black, muscular, bare legs of men sitting along each side of the truck bed as the truck moved out onto the macadam road and picked up speed.

Eddie groaned as the first of many men mounted his ass and fucked him. Having been reamed big by the stud in the outside john, Eddie had no trouble taking that dick—or those that followed, although it seemed to him that Tanzanians were built big. A spent condom was dropped on the floor of the truck bed next to his face as each man finished and was replaced with the next. After a while the truck was no longer moving. It was parked somewhere in a warehouse district with just the murkiness of light from distant street lights providing Eddie with some semblance of location in the moments he could focus on anything but the variation of size, depth, and intensity in the violation of and pounding in his ass canal.

When the truck had stopped, he heard the cab doors shut, felt the dip of one side of the truck bed, as a massive body climbed over the side—a bulging chest straining at the material of a brown T-shirt carrying the inscription in white of “Coffee, T, or Me.” The next cock inside him was the thickest, longest, most vigorous yet. It dove right for his Eddie’s intestines and held there, throbbing, waiting for Eddie’s passage muscles to shimmer and caress it. When they had, the stud began to pump.

Eddie sefaköy escort couldn’t help himself. Before now, he’d just laid there, docile and submissive, letting them fuck him without a struggle, as he did enjoy being fucked and they weren’t otherwise manhandling him. But when the guy who had mastered him at the club mounted his ass, Eddie became one with the fuck. His pelvis went into motion. They moved together, like long-time lovers even if they’d done it only once before. The man’s calloused hands glided up Eddie’s body, palming his pecs and bowing Eddie’s shoulders back into his chest. They rocked back and forth on each other, becoming one mechanism, Eddie relaxing more, going soft for the man, yielding up his very core, as the man’s cock stretched the passage walls, reached ever deeper inside Eddie—possessed him fully—pumped him faster and harder, faster and harder yet.

Eddie shot his load, something he hadn’t done for any of the other men in the truck.

It was a night to end all nights. Nothing had happened to him like this. He should have been frustrated and angry. But all he could think of was becoming one with the magnificent man who, gripping his hips with strong, beefy hands, and mining his channel deep, was giving him the second glorious fuck of the night. Even the gangbang by the rest was giving Eddie a memory of Africa that he’d never forget—would always melt too.

They left him at the side of the road, which he found, indeed, was in a warehouse district. One of them stood up in the bed of the truck and pointed the way for him to head back into Arusha. The man was grinning. Although Eddie couldn’t return the grin on the outside, he could feel one on the inside. He knew this wasn’t how he should react. He knew he should find a police station. But he knew he wouldn’t. He felt alive, sexually, for the first time in years. And he knew that the attitudes toward homosexuality in Tanzania were such that he might find himself more at the center of attention and public persecution here than he wanted to be if he made a fuss.

A signpost told him he was on Industrial Road, which ran into Esso Road, which led him to the macadamed Factory Road. Yep, he was in a major warehouse district. The lights of downtown Arusha were toward the north. He turned right and started jogging into town, moving long distances at a fast pace being no challenge to him. The challenge was not to let his mind dwell on how sore his ass was. He jogged shirtless, only in baggy shorts. This didn’t make him that much different than a good many other men walking on the road. He felt like he was becoming Africa. He found that it was a good feeling. After a while, he saw the glass tower of the Naura Springs Hotel rising above the trees and most of the other buildings of Arusha. A luxury hotel; his hotel. He wondered what those guys gangbanging him tonight, especially the muscular bull god now wearing his “Coffee, T, or Me” T-shirt, would think if they knew who he was, where he had come from, and that he was staying at the Naura Springs Hotel.

Somehow he was glad they didn’t know that—that they had shown him how down and dirty, basic, and primitive—and exhilarating—man fucking could be.

* * * *

“Whatever you decide, the deal on the Makuyuni coffee plantation holds, Edward. We do wish you to reconnect with your roots.”

Eddie Bocco was relieved to hear that from the man sitting across from him in the Naura Springs Hotel’s Magnitique Rafiki Bar. It wasn’t hard to believe that Erasto Haroub was a power in the region. Eddie had watched him arrive. Everything exuded importance, from how the lobby staff rushed the entrance when the black Bentley drove up to the very look of the man. He was obese, a reflection in much of Africa of status and wealth, but he was elegantly tailored and it seemed like the gem-set rings on his fat fingers had rings of their own. Ropes of gold chains hung on his chest. He was accompanied by an entourage, which split off one at a time from the front entrance of the hotel to go to guard stations, until, when he met Eddie at the door of the bar and pumped his hand with a strong but sweaty grip, there was only one man behind him—a very handsome man indeed, who was as elegantly dressed as Haroub but with none of the signs of obesity.

It was the coffee plantation on the slopes of a small mountain above Lake Manyara in the Great Rift Valley that primarily had brought Eddie back to the land of his ancestors. Of secondary interest to him was the JKT Ruvu Stars, a Tanzania Football Association soccer team, homed in Dodoma. The Makuyuni coffee plantation was located half way between Arusha and Dodoma, and Dodoma was the apparent fiefdom of the man sitting across the cocktail table from Eddie.

Eddie knew that it was the Ruvu Stars team that was all important to Haroub.

“Thank you, Mr. Haroub,” Eddie answered. “It means a lot to me to have a foothold in Tanzania again. When do you want me to come to Dodoma to meet with the football team coaches?”

“Soon, of course. Very soon. But I don’t want to rush you with that. The weekend is coming up and I know you’re dying to get a taste of Mount Kilimanjaro, which is so close. So, I’ve brought along Amri Kapombe here to guide you around for a few days before you come to Dodoma.”

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