Diplomatic Relations

The characters and events in this story are fictional. Any opinions expressed hereafter are not necessarily representative of the author. Please DO NOT continue to read this tale if you are not an adult or you are offended by gay erotica.

• • • "What did you call me?" Terry Broad challenged Aziz with his usual supercilious glare before reaching for another Tusker. He lit the unfiltered cigarette and exhaled a long plum of smoke into the sultry evening air. He flashed a yellowing grimace at the sight of bats swarming across a blushed pink sunset. His impatience grew for a response. Anyway, it was a rhetorical question. He was perfectly familiar with that word, having spent over two years in Ghana. Aziz remained silent, although his unflinching gaze showed no trace of acquiescence. "Well, I don't know which is more irritating. You or the damn mosquitoes." Terry took a large gulp of Apateshie and spluttered as it scorched his throat.

As usual, Terry was spending a Friday evening getting sloshed at the White Bell. Its elevation above Accra's bustle of street traders and taxis helped him to maintain his natural air of condescension. The copious quantities of local gin helped to dull his senses to all the unpleasantness below. Here, he could escape the stench of open sewers and the nerve-jarring commotion of car horns. To him, the place was a small relic of a lost empire nestled amongst a sprawling cornucopia of savagery. With one overly theatrical gesture, he sluiced the ice in his glass with the gin and drained its last bitter remnants.

In his mid-forties, he had welcomed his diplomatic posting in West Africa. However, a couple of years down the line it had become something of a career 'cul-de-sac'. Promotions had passed him by and any sense of adventure that he once possessed had deserted him. His only stimulation outside the dreary monotony of work was to torment his uncommunicative chauffeur and receive the occasional fuck from one of his many young paramours. As for his wife, well, they rarely spoke except in a perfunctory fashion during his various ceremonial functions.

"Call the waiter, would you? I'd like to order another triple gin." Terry scarcely looked at Aziz when issuing instructions. Instead, he would choose to distract himself by looking down at the street; idly trying to discern any caucasian faces from the crowd. It was an innocuous amusement that counterbalanced his growing sexual decadence. He returned to his slightly out-of-date copy of 'The Times' and scrutinised the obituaries with a degree of morbid curiosity. There were a few familiar names but no one of any particular note. June 1984 was obviously not a fashionable month for a person to unravel their mortal coil. "Dropping like flies." Terry remarked to himself dryly with an air of indifference. "Ssss! Ssss!" Aziz waved at a silhouette hovering at the nearby table. A tall youthful waiter in a freshly pressed shirt approached them. He produced a notepad and looked at Terry expectantly. "You can deal with him." Terry gestured effetely at his handsome subordinate. "Pacheow, me pe se me loonsa. Three tots. Fa bra haa." Aziz returned his gaze to Terry. The shadows failed to conceal the smouldering intensity of his stare. The waiter nodded politely and hurried off towards the dimly lit bar to fetch the order. "Honestly, Aziz, your command of the Twi language is worse than mine." Terry mocked. "Thank you, Masser." Aziz replied evenly.

Terry wondered for a moment if his minion had intended to be sarcastic. Surely not? Sarcasm was exclusively the preserve of the English, he assured himself. "And so, what did you mean by your remark earlier on this evening?" He inquired, tapping the ash from his cigarette over the balcony railing. Aziz shrugged and said nothing. Terry was beginning to tire of his dumb insolence. However, the nullifying effects of the gin tempered his irritation. "Well, I heard what you mumbled at me. The precise word that you used was 'Ashawo', meaning 'a whore'. I must say, I find your sense of humour very disagreeable at times." Aziz did not reply, instead, he reached over and helped himself to one of the Tuskers. Terry stared in disbelief as Aziz proceeded to light it and blew the smoke directly into his face. He leaned across to Terry and eyeing him sullenly. "I know everything." He whispered. "Now listen here Aziz, I've had quite enough of your insubordination this evening. You have the fucking audacity to help yourself to my smokes and then talk to me in a fashion that's wholly inappropriate. Well it won't do. In fact, it won't do at all!"

Terry realised that his voice had become raised and he was attracting unwanted attention. This was, after all, Ghana, a land where social constraints were imposed either by gossip, superstition or taboo. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So what exactly do you know then? I simply must hear this." He said scornfully. Aziz unbuttoned his shirt. The flash of dark gleaming skin momentarily distracted Terry from his interrogation. "Jimmy." Came the reply. Terry's face twitched uneasily, but he quickly regained his composure. "I think it's time to go home Aziz. In fact, I have no desire to continue this rather pointless conversation."

In the car, Terry wondered what the hell was wrong with his driver? What had he meant by his taciturn references to Jimmy? Did he know something? If he did, it would follow that there could be a problem. Terry was astute enough to recognise some kind of insinuation against him. Homosexual liaisons remained illegal in Ghana and were regarded as a taboo, despite their very obvious frequency. The potential embarrassment to Queen and country might be incalculable should his various clandestine liaisons be exposed. Undoubtedly, he would be unceremoniously ushered off to some remote outpost of the globe and any possibility of career advancement would be vetoed. No amount of emollient words from the British Consulate would appease the scandalmongers at the local Ghana press. He faced the vaguely ridiculous scenario of becoming a public pariah in a country that was still primitive enough to believe in voodoo. "Oh marvellous." He remarked sardonically at the thought.

Aziz edged the car through the heavy traffic at Circle. He began to calculate how much he should demand of his master for his silence. Twenty million Cedis should cover things. He had evidence of Terry's other associations too. Maybe he should insist upon a higher amount. He felt certain that his so called 'masser' would be only too ready to accept his proposition just to keep things quiet.

There also was something else on his Aziz's mind. A more immediate urge that demanded redress. Aziz took one hand off the steering wheel and squeezed the head of his huge stiffening cock. He glanced into the rear view mirror at his personal 'Kwasi Obouroni' who was gazing pensively at the thronging bystanders.

Terry stared at his reflection ghosted against a backdrop of blurring lights and dark foreboding figures. He switched on the interior light and pushed a long wisp of greying hair from his face. He still considered himself extremely handsome for a man in his late forties. His narcissisc delusions, however, were derived from the fact that looks that would be considered rather average in London were prized in Ghana. Terry had certainly exploited his artificially enhanced kudos to the full. For the price of a drink at the Ivy Restaurant, he had sampled most of the more agreeable young caddies at Achimoto Golf Course, plus most of their friends.

Terry switched the light off and settled back into a sumptuous leather seat. "Is this the most direct route to Lagon? Don't we normally take route thirty seven?" He enquired of his driver. "We go through Achimoto." "And might I be permitted to ask why we are taking the long route tonight?" Terry retorted sarcastically. He was becoming annoyed by his driver's surliness. "I want to speak of something." Came the muted reply. "I beg your pardon?" Terry was totally incredulous. The sheer impudence of the man! The driver had clearly forgotten his station in life and become confused. In his inebriated state, Terry blamed the decline of colonialism for the increasing bolshevism and lack of respect amongst his small team of staff. He held president Nkrumah personally accountable for that. It was not surprising that MI5 kept close tabs on him while he was studying at Liverpool. At least the Yanks had allegedly possessed the good sense to help fund his eventual overthrow. Terry felt thankful for the CIA's clandestine machinations in the world arena. "I said that I know about Jimmy. And I know about all of those young man who visit your room." Aziz shouted back over the blare of car horns. Terry became incensed by the remark, but tried to keep his temper in check. "Really? Well then, I trust that I can rely on your discretion in this matter?" He replied tersely. "I take photos through window..." Aziz left the implication hanging ominously in the air. "What the hell are you driving at man?" Terry balled back. "I drive to Lagon, Masser." Aziz smiled to himself as he out peered out at a road sign for Domi through the dusty night air. "No, you damn fool, I meant what photos? And what business of yours are my personal affairs?" "Ah yes, we talk about business now. Is good. Give me thirty million, then nobody knows about this things." For the first time in his life, Terry was utterly dumbfounded. He floundered for words. "What?" He stuttered, "What! You must be bloody joking! Thirty million Cedis? You must be out of your tiny fucking mind!" He screamed.

Aziz felt his prick twitching in his suit trousers. It was such a pleasure to rile his white master. It would be an even greater pleasure to fuck him like the bitch that he evidently was. Maybe Mr. Terry Broad would then know who the real master was. "We go to 'Zongo' now, Muslim ghetto. We go meet my friend Abdul." He intoned confidently. Terry felt an escalating anxiety. Although he had undoubtedly taken more than his share of black male, he had never anticipated blackmail. Well this time he wouldn't take it lying down. He would call the police forthwith. It was then that he realised with dismay that he had left his cell phone back at the house to charge. But supposing he did manage to contact the police? What would he say? That he had been buggered by half the young studs at the local golf course and needed them to help prevent his forthcoming public debut in gay pornography? "Oh God!" He winced through clenched teeth. He would simply have to rely on his superior intellect to avoid a potentially embarrassing incident. Besides, the imbecile would probably settle for a fraction of the amount he appeared to be demanding.

"Listen man, this whole thing was preposterous! I'll give you five million and you never show your face around me again, do you hear me? He barked stridently. "Oh, and I want all the negatives and any prints you've had made of me with erm...whoever." He added. His driver said nothing. He pulled off the road at Achimoto Lorry Park and parked near a busy chop bar. "Twenty five, last offer" He responded coolly. "Or I post all photo to Daily Graphic." Terry could not quite believe his ears. In all his years of slutting around the world, he had never encountered such an unpalatable situation. "Alright, take your damn money and I'll bloody drive the rest of the way." He reached into his attache case and petulantly threw several bundles of cash onto the front seat. "As far as I'm concerned, you can just piss off and hand over the car keys immediately!" A tall figure approached the vehicle and wrapped a knuckle on the passenger window. "Eh Chally, wassup?" Aziz laughed as he opened the door. The stranger got in and immediately lit a spliff. "Yeh, cool bro, Ye ko." The stranger turned and scrutinised Terry for a moment. "Wo ho te sen?" He asked in a gruff voice. Terry had no desire to converse with him. He discerned the stranger's broad shoulders and thick muscular neck, noticing tribal markings on his cheeks that denoted an Ashanti origin. Anxiously, Terry lit a Tusker and tried the nearside door but the central locking was activated. He was effectively trapped. For a moment, he considered climbing out of the window, but then decided that he had no desire to implement such an indecorous display in public. He would simply wait for the right moment. "Abdul, where be house?" Aziz shouted as he did a u-turn. "Pass straight, chally." Abdul responded gruffly.

For some minutes, the car sped along an unsurfaced dual carriageway. A haze of dust and petrol fumes permeated the air. Aziz steered the car left at a tall church, then took a sharp right. The vehicle pitched and ground its axel along unlit trails through a shantytown. Dim candlelight flickered from within makeshift houses. The headlights picked out stacks of lorry tyres and the twisted chassis of rusting cars. The charred earth was strewn with water sachets and decaying food. Finally, they drew to a halt by a narrow alleyway. Terry realised that he would have to comply with Aziz's wishes until he was in possession of the negatives. Reluctantly he climbed out of the car and was escorted through series of passageways. He felt something soft underfoot and prayed that it wasn't of human origin.

Abdul pulled back the mosquito door and fumbled with the keys. "Eh Chally, me go bust some white man pussy!" He bragged gregariously to his friend. Saa? chally, me go mek 'im fe beg stop." Aziz laughed. Terry began to get an inkling what was on the itinerary for the evening. He was accustomed to hearing Accra patois, a bastardised English infused with the 'Ga' and 'Twi' dialects. The two reprobates intended to gang-bang him! Terry tried to calm himself. As the two-wannabe gangsters pressed him into the pitch-black room, he felt his knees pressed against the edge of a bed.

The bare light bulb revealed a clutter of discarded CDs, a stereo that had disgorged its innards and a double bed. Aziz sat down on a green threadbare armchair while Abdul locked the door behind them. Terry sat on the bed awkwardly as the pair began to discuss the merits of 'Lumba's' latest release. Terry did not care for the local hip life music. His musical tastes were extremely conservative and he only enjoyed mainstream seventies disco, but always in the privacy of his own home.

Abdul eyed the sweating white man salaciously as he switched a fan on full. "Welcome." He smiled ingratiatingly. His grin seemed impossibly warm and disarming. "How typically Ghanaian. Even the crooks are charming." Terry mused aloud. He produced his hip flask and drank rapaciously. After lighting yet another Tusker, he was offered some weed by Abdul, but declined. "Okay, let's get this thing over with." He declared. The invitation was accepted without ceremony. Abdul removed his T-shirt. Terry could not help but admire his dark, taut musculature. A musky, masculine scent wafted over to him and Terry felt a growing desire stirring in his loins. Meanwhile, Aziz unbuttoned his shirt, intermittently grabbing his rock-hard protuberance. Terry was very well acquainted with the aggressive style that Ghanaian men fucked. He had first heard about it from one of the other queens at the British Consulate. Apparently, they held the belief that fucking hard produced a strong baby. The exact pertinence of this snippet of information was initially lost on him, but with time, its relevance became obvious.

"Who's first?" Terry eyed Abdul with a degree of coyness. Abdul said nothing as he dropped his baggy jeans and struggled to drag his underpants past a ravenous throbbing manhood. He had already had his girlfriend that afternoon, but he had a lot more love juice to dispense.

"Ashawo." Abdul joked as Terry hastily removed all his clothes and lay spread-eagled on the bed. Terry viewed Abdul as he stepped out of his underwear. His powerful thighs were adorned with a fine layer of black hair. Between them, a lengthy swollen cock pointed skyward from a base of dense matted hair and huge low-slung balls. The tip of his circumcised head wavered slightly as he applied cocoa butter to the rigid shaft. When he had finished, he stared at Terry with a single purpose burning in his mind.

Terry looked over to Aziz, who was now masturbating slowly. His hand was barely able to encircle the monstrous girth of his dick. He returned his eyes to Abdul, who had knelt on the bed. Terry marvelled at the sharp relief of his broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist. "Lift." Abdul instructed Terry to raised his buttocks as a pillow was placed under his hips. Abdul had no desire for preliminaries. With one hand he angled his cock against Terry's puckered anus and thrust with all his considerable strength. Terry was surprised, but far from uncomfortable as the eager love prod slipped in unhindered, right up to the hilt. Abdul paused a moment, savouring the delicious fruit of his labours. He was not accustomed to a person receiving him with such consummate ease. Maybe it was his diplomatic training? There was obviously some hard work needed to reach this particular white man.

With all his might, Abdul retracted to the tip and rammed himself back inside. Terry gasped as the force of the bloated dick hit deeply, making him shiver with a dizzying elation. Somehow, he had discovered paradise in the midst of a hellish ghetto. As Abdul thrust himself against him, Terry lifted up slightly and kneaded Abdul's pounding buttocks. Encouraged by this, Abdul banged him even faster, his sweating pelvis slapping loudly against the recumbent white man. Within minutes, he began to feel his orgasm tingling in his balls. He quickened his tempo, looking down as Terry began to jerk himself in time with his frantic pummelling.

Aziz looked on them impatiently, keen for his piece of the action. Abdul's breath became laboured as the first explosion of rapture sent shivers through his balls. He began to squirt his hot cream deep into the core of Terry's quivering rectum. As soon as he had drained off the last tantalising drops, he yanked out his glistening cock and reached for a towel, leaving Terry feeling frustrated. Terry turned to Aziz. "I hope you can finish the job that your friend started?" he teased coquettishly. Aziz fixed him with a hard stare. Terry was unsure if he intended to slap him or fuck him. He stepped over to the bed, towering over him like a warrior closing in on his prey. Abdul may have been the hors d'oeuvre, but Aziz was definitely the main course, Terry speculated. Aziz reached for Terry's thigh and masterfully turned him face down on the bed. He directed Terry at right angles to the length of the bed and brought him up into a genuflectory position. "I want you to face Mecca when I give it you." He whispered manfully. "Do your worst!" Terry goaded. "You have to be good for something because your driving is damn awful." The provocative remark enraged Aziz. He'd endured two years of Mr. Terry's jibes, his patronising remarks and his ingratitude. Terry glanced back and caught the fiery look in his driver's eye. He wondered if he had gone too far with his taunting. Despite his extensive stretching over the years, Terry had not experienced someone of Aziz's dimensions. Aziz spread Terry's buttocks and shoved his giant cock against his dilated back passage with all his might. Terry felt his ring piece stretched to its limit as the rock solid member was relentlessly driven into him. "Slowly please or you'll do me an injury." He complained. Aziz ignored him, taking great pleasure in thrusting in his remaining inches." "Oh! It's just too much! Take it out this instant. I don't want any wahalla!" Terry protested. Aziz, however, was becoming immersed in a sensual debauchery and unreceptive to his half-hearted pleas. As Terry struggled against him, he gripped his shoulders, doggy style. Driven into a fucking frenzy by Terry's taunts, he began to slam into him with all his might. His powerful athletic frame was well versed in the finer art of banging pussy. Terry's yelped banefully as the beef bayonet battered into his Bourneville Boulevard. He squirmed against the rear guard assault, but Aziz easily restrained him. "Eh! Me go pound some fufu tonight!" He gasped, his body drenched with sweat. Abdul laughed lecherously as he slipped his boxer shorts back on. "I'll sue you for this. This is breaking and entering!" Terry complained.

However, Terry was now becoming accustomed to the gargantuan piston. Aziz was once again in the driving seat, but this time Terry was being taken on the ride of his life. A supernova of pleasure was exploding within his molten core and thrusting him into stratospheric ecstasy. As the shock wave of orgasm swept away his senses, he gasped prayers of adulation. "Aziz, oh, it's the greatest. You're the best. Only you can reach me."

Aziz grabbed the shuddering hips and drew the hungry manhole down his entire length. Groaning uncontrollably, he exploded into the slick recepticle. He slowed as he careened over a dizzying precipice of bliss and plummeted into the languorous depths of euphoria. For a moment he closed his eyes, brushing the sweating flanks of his compliant white man. "Who's the master now?" He whispered.

Terry felt his wits returning. He found the remark somewhat unseemly for a person of such low status. He drew himself off the softening member and gingerly dabbed his tender ring piece with the towel. "I can't say that I particularly care for that remark. That's the trouble with you people; no sense of decorum." He commented disdainfully. "Now where are those damn photos?" There was a palpable tension in the air as Aziz looked upon his ungrateful lover. He turned to Abdul who seemed equally infuriated by the remark. "Chally, me go Lagon." "Yo ma te." His friend nodded wearily.

Terry and Aziz did not speak as they made their way back to the car. Terry cursed and scraped his soiled shoe on a large stone before getting into the vehicle. They journeyed back to Lagon in silence.

Back at the house, Aziz dutifully produced several spools of negatives. His reward was summary dismissal and an assurance from Mr Terry that he would ensure that he would never find employment again in Accra. As the security staff manhandled Aziz out of the main entrance, he was relieved of all his ill-gotten earnings.

The following day, Terry decided to join his wife for breakfast on the terrace. Crimson blooms swayed gently in the breeze and birds chirped from well-cultivated borders. The bright, sun-drenched morning was made even more splendid by the fact that Terry's recent predicament had been resolved so satisfactorily. Accompanied by the gentle whir of the overhead fan, the couple managed, as usual, to discuss issues that were suitably prosaic for their estranged relationship. Terry even managed to smile at her. Mrs Broad sipped her tea and turned to the second page of the Daily Graphic. All of a sudden, she gasped, dropping her teacup. As it shattered, Terry looked up in alarm, noticing that she had paled visibly. "Good God! What on earth's wrong, my dear?" He quizzed. "Who's the hell is Jimmy?" She shrieked hysterically.

(c) Kofi Quisling 2006