(Posted by Pete Brown on behalf of the author. The author was subject to harassment and threats when earlier chapters were posted, and Pete is acting as "cut out").
Christmas In Maputo and Mandrasat: 2001
Njonjo, Hotel Europa's black chauffeur, unaffected by the rising heat of this Christmas morning in Maputotown, stood in front of the hotel's lobby entrance, beside his well preserved classic Mercedes. Sean and Jeremy had just finished checking out at the front desk and were laughing boisterously and sprint surfing across the polished marble floor, much to the dismay of other early holiday risers scattered among the foyer's potted palms. Thirty-six hours of boozing and fucking half a dozen of East Africa's most expensive and exotic prostitutes had not fazed or winded either young sailor. Sparring and darting around overstuffed lounge chairs, they high-fived and slapped each other on the back, then burst through the hotel's staid entrance into the hot, glaring sunlight.
"Njonjo, my man," Sean bellowed. "Right on time. Good for you."
"Bom Dias, Senhors," the chauffeur beamed. "You are feeling fit as fiddles, yes?"
Both sailors cheered and whistled as they tossed their sport bags into the limo's back seat and jumped in after them.
"Betchur ass, Njonjo," Sean crowed. "Got any cold beer on board?"
"Oh, yes indeed," he answered, sliding into the driver's seat and reaching into the ice chest next to him. "They have been waiting for you."
Out shouting each other, both sailors claimed first and best bragging rights to their exploits as they popped their beer cans, and, as usual, Sean dominated.
"Tightest pussy on the Indian Ocean, Njonjo," he bellowed. "What a fanfuckintastic liberty!"
Jeremy laughed, gulped his beer, and chocked all at the same time. He loved listening to Sean's colorful tales of his fuck conquests almost as much as he loved watching them happen, but however hard he tried, he could never match his buddy's thrusts or staying power.
Sean, fucking his cock up some cunt, was a sight to behold; everything worked regardless of position, on his back, legs spread, heels digging into the bed, his ass slamming the mattress, pumping and grinding, howling at the top of his lungs while some sizzling pussy rode his rod like a freaking piston; or on his knees, a bitch's legs clamped around his ass, bent almost in half and banging her cunt into his steel hard cock.
No one that Jeremy had ever seen fuck pussy sitting up face to face could match Sean's thick, creamy pink sausage, powered by his ass, pumping like a machine gun, grinding through oozing cunt lips up to his bush of short, blond, curly cock hairs. His hands clamped tight around the bitch's ass, jerking it against his forward blitz. Jeremy had enough pictures in his mind of Sean slamming cunt to keep him hard as a rock for multiple orgasms and multiple lifetimes.
"Thirty-six hours bare ass naked, Njonjo, and three hot pussies apiece. God," Sean squealed grabbing the huge bulge in the crotch of his levis, "I'm still fuckin horny," then turning to Jeremy, his beer can at his lips, he shouted, "Dude, which one was best for you?"
"Dude," Jeremy sputtered his response, "I don't remember their fuckin names. I didn't even know their fuckin names! The one that crossed her feet behind her head."
"Oh, Yeah!" Sean screamed. "One tight fuck. And the one that liked it doggie style. Njonjo, my man, you should have stayed with us; you missed some great ass."
"Yeah," Jeremy chimed in, waving his beer can over the front seat, "each time we had room service, we stripped down the waiter dude and had him fuck along with us. I think we had the manager in there one time."
"He was the one hung like a bull moose," Sean screeched. "Man, we had those guys lined up outside the room just waitin to get in."
"We told them to buy off the house maids and take their places cleaning up," Jeremy laughed, "cause them maids were ug-lee."
Njonjo beamed at the faces of his two passengers reflected in the rear view mirror; American sailors are such fun. He'd been chauffeuring over thirty years for all kinds of clients from European nobility to Japanese tourists, and by far, the happiest, rowdiest, best tippers in the world were drunken American sailors.
His business had been extra, extra heavy over the past day and a half, ferrying sailors between their ship and downtown Maputo hotels and whore houses, and when the American ship leaves in another day and a half, he would finally have enough money to buy the farm his wife had always wished for, easing slightly their very private, hidden pain of loss. Njonjo's contagious grin was always edged with sorrow.
Sean and Jeremy, without glancing at Njonjo or out the car windows at the sleeping pastel hued city speeding by, continued reliving their fuck feats and chugging beer until they pulled up at the guarded entrance to Maputo dock and the USS Everett Ralston. Security had been tightened over the past thirty-six hours, and the sailors had to empty their pockets, hand over their duffels, and pass through two check-points, each equipped with metal detectors.
"Why'ncha have us strip down fuckin bare ass nekkid," Sean mocked, more than a little in his cups. "D'be easier than setting off those fuckin buzzers."
"Put your shoes and your belt in the tray and walk through again," the SP instructed him, already fed up and bored with this first wave of returning sloshed and bleary eyed fuckheads and counting the hours till his own liberty got underway.
"Njonjo!" Sean shouted through the fence. "We got a couple more hours coming, my man; we'll call you."
The chauffeur flashed his broad smile and gave Sean a 'thumbs up.' The more tips, the more goats for his farm.
-0-
During the second half of his three day isolation with Zarak, Bret left the overseer's room only twice, to be douched and groomed. In what had become Zarak's new routine, the giant would wrap his fist around Bret's stiff cock and, squeezing and stroking that hunk of slave meat, lead him through Mandrasat's corridors and into a wretched latrine where Nubian grooms waited to take their time and their fuck pleasures at his holes. The remaining hours back in Zarak's quarters had been divided from the first between a daily, prolonged exercise regime he devised for Bret, sleep, and constant mouth and ass fucking, but mostly constant mouth and ass fucking.
Zarak ordered Bret to lay face down on top of him, tongue fucking him, grasping his lean muscled torso, and fondling his warm tight ass until he grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him up onto his knees, positioning his fuck hole on top of his own massive mushrooming cockhead. He had brutally instructed Bret with vicious slaps across the face and excruciating cock and ball torture on just exactly how he wanted him to ride his cock, hands clasped behind his head, grinding gut muscles he never knew he had in ways that would never have occurred to him, squeezing his hole and fuck chute tight against the thick cock's smooth stalk, sucking it deep into his belly.
Grabbing Bret just above the hips, Zarak drove his massive spike savagely up into his guts at the same time dragging his ass down its full length. Bret could feel every vein, every ridge, every inch of the monstrous shaft gouging and digging inside. Even after ten days of enslavement and endless ass fucking, the pain Zarak could inflict on Bret was still gut wrenching, even though much less than it had been the very first night at Colonel Mustafa's air base.
In the almost two week's since Tariq, and Mustafa and his guards had gang fucked him senseless, Bret's ass hole and fuck tube had been stretched wide to accommodate the huge cocks of Mandrasat, but not without pain.
Zarak had been mentally charting Bret's reaction in taking cock up his ass, noting that he would grimace before slamming down onto the cockhead and gasp open-mouthed as it plowed through his guts. His eyes would remain squeezed shut his face twisted in hurt and shame until his ass was stuffed full with beating, throbbing cock, then a second exhale, not of pain this time, but inspite of it, lusting for that searing, abrasive fuck muscle grinding into his guts. Bret wanted to fuel the fire every cock ignited within him, pounding and shoving himself against its rigid rock hard presence, digging deeper and deeper.
From the first moment of his capture, Bret had been brutalized, buried beneath an avalanche of searing, agonizing pain and humiliation. He had no defense, no training, no experience in withstanding this kind of assault; ultimately, his only option was complete capitulation, abject surrender. There was no other option except the unutterably agonizing pain Mandrasat could inflict.
Ten days of drugs, torture, and fuck madness rendered him helpless and overrode any strength his memories and feelings for his past, his education, his training, his ambitions might have. The only thing real in his life, awake or asleep, was cock, cock stuffed into his mouth, cock crammed into his ass.
Cock was his only source of relief, his only anesthesia, the only pleasure in a pit of anguish. The refuge he sought in sucking cock in his mouth or writhing his burning ass on it was not lost on Zarak; it was a significant misstep in the long journey to the auction block.
Slaves do not seek pleasure from a master's cock or to forget pain; a master's body is for a slave to pleasure in whatever way the master commands, and pain is of no consequence, nor is pleasure. A slave must never seek or even think about any pleasure of his own, any more than a chair should seek pleasure in hugging its owner's ass. A slave is no more than a piece of furniture, and that would be the object of Bret's next lesson.
Straddling Zarak's crotch, Bret rode the steel hard fuck tool raking his raw innards, shoving his long body down as far and as hard as he could, his muscles clenching, releasing, than clenching and releasing again, gut sucking Zarak's huge fuck pole deeper into his belly.
His hands clasped together on the back of his neck, his stomach and abs heaving and pulsating like a belly dancer's, his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, sucking air loudly through his open mouth, he gasped and shuddered in fuck ecstasy, pumping himself up and down, grinding against the rigid shaft brutally scraping within.
His breathing became faster and shallower; a moan beginning as a whimper, grew to cries of delirium as he convulsed wildly, impaled on Zarak's monstrous, pounding prick. Overseer and slave writhed against each other, snarling like beasts, one thrusting upwards, the other slamming back down until both froze, bodies arched, a stifled gasp in each mouth, and Zarak's muscled fucktube exploded. Huge geysers of hot cum erupted into Bret's belly as he and Zarak, their bodies welded together, hurled themselves mindlessly across the top of the giant bed.
Over and over, Zarak's cock drilled fiery streams of semen against the walls of Bret's intestines driving him to a higher frenzy, a hotter madness, then with one final, massive thrust into his slave's glove tight fuck tube, Zarak, cum blasting out his cockhole, rammed himself further into his slave's body than he'd ever gone before.
His cock hard and planted firmly in Bret's ass, Zarak dragged him down on top of himself, crushing their bodies together, thrusting his tongue into his slave's mouth. They lay coiled around each other, drenched in their sweat, moans of ecstasy and despair filling Bret's throat as Zarak, contorting his body, worked his cock out of the tight grip of his ass, and once free, with a roar and mighty convulsion, tossed Bret across the bed and onto the floor.
"Prepare my shower," he barked. "It is time to begin a new day."
Stunned, his mind encased in a thick cloud of fuck frenzy, Bret dragged himself blindly to his feet and stumbled to the open shower across the room and twisted the handle until the steaming hot water pounding over his head and body brought him back to some semblance of awareness. Stepping aside instinctively, he avoided Zarak's fists as he charged into the powerful cascade growling, "Wash me. Your Nubians will take care of you later."
Bret remembered with dread the last and only time he washed Zarak's body, the horror he felt at the giant's command to finger clean his hole, and the excruciating pain he suffered from Jullah's electric torture because he had refused. His hands shook as he took the hard brown bar of soap from the shower ledge; Zarak looked down on his slave, an evil grin spreading across his face as he pulled their bodies together and stroked Bret's back and buttocks.
"Suck my breasts," he ordered, and Bret complied instantly, closing his mouth over Zarak's right nipple, bloated and distended by the heavy gold ring piercing its base. As Zarak shoved his hands between his slave's buttocks and fingered the deep warm cum filled hole he now owned, Bret whimpered, pressing his face harder into the giant's chest, tightly sucking his mouth around the hard rubbery knob, jabbing it intensely with his tongue.
A familiar rumble began in Zarak's throat and built to a roar as his hands moved to Bret's hips and forced him down to the shower floor. On his knees and still clutching the bar of soap, Bret opened his mouth, stretching his lips to accommodate the huge fuck weapon plowing his cheeks and bulging them out. Sucking his mouth as tight as he could around the massive throbbing cock, Bret groaned long and low, escaping back into his fuck ecstasy.
So much pain Bret had endured, the crushing ache in his jaws, the unending burning throat, lips scraped raw, the inside of his mouth ablaze from the brutal thrusts of more than a hundred fucks. Swallowing huge loads of cum, in the beginning so repulsive and disgusting, shot rapid fire over and over from Mustafa and his soldiers, from Tariq and numberless Nubians, now, trembling in spasms of mindless euphoria, he groaned deliriously, adoring a god's cock crammed into his mouth, his sufferings like so much incense numbing his brain.
Zarak clamped his hands on Bret's head, holding it in place while he pumped his ass back and forth, thrusting almost it's full enormous length to the back of his throat and into it. His growls forced through clenched teeth.
Bret, the sex slave, had learned much since his first taste of cock ten days before. He could take even Zarak's mighty tool down his throat for brief moments, massaging it and quick sucking air in with a minimum of gagging and chocking.
Zarak slid his hands down the back of Bret's head and around his neck, fingering the undulating muscles and tendons, stroking them, like he was jerking cock, groaning as electric jolts raced along his fuck tool. Bret readied himself when Zarak's body stiffened and he pulled his cock back against his thrusting tongue, and when Bret sucked a full breath, Zarak shoved himself forward, pressing his cock into the warm tube of convulsing muscles and shot a second huge load straight into Bret's belly.
Bret's arms flew around Zarak's buttocks, and, rubbing the worn bar of soap into the deep crevasse between them, he dug his fingers into the overseer's hole.
Tightening his grip on Bret's neck, Zarak pulled him off his pounding cock even as it still shot ropes of cum into Bret's face and onto his chest, then, jerking Bret's arms to the side and letting them drop, he spun round, doubled over, grabbed his buttocks and spread them.
Bent in half, the hot shower pounding his shoulders and back, Zack turned his head and snarled, "With your fingers. Now!"
Bret stared for a moment at the brownish pink grainy lipped funnel before him, then soaped his fingers again and shoved two of them into Zarak's hole. The giant grunted with satisfaction at the feel of Bret's fingers inching their way deep into his muscle wrapped chute.
When Bret poked a third finger into the tight channel, Zarak clenched his gut muscles, pinning his fingers inside. As he dug against the hot wet walls of this pulsing tunnel, scraping veins and nodules, Zarak growled and hissed, slamming his ass back and forth, mesmerizing Bret and drawing him closer to the ultimate climax.
Instinctively, with half his right hand embedded in Zarak's ass, Bret reached between the overseer's legs left and encircled his fuck meat, jerking it back to meet the forward jab of his fingers. Surrendering himself, he shoved his face between Zarak's huge granite buttocks, forcing his tongue over his fingers and into the tightly clenched chute, not even sensing the soap taste on its lips.
Unconscious of everything except his pounding heart, hammering every cell in his body, he yanked his fingers free the deep wet pit of Zarak's fuck chute, his mouth mindlessly compelled to suck at its lips, his tongue to plunge deeper inside.
Zarak clenched his gut muscles, forcing Bret to hard fuck his tongue further into the tight passageway. Still jerking the overseer's gigantic cock in a stupor of fuck madness, Bret moaned in ecstasy, consumed by a fiery lust to be sucked totally, fully, bodily into the blackness of his own and Zarak's soul. He felt himself hurtling into the heart of that vortex, then, evaporating into nothingness, he was gone.
As he had done many times before with many fuck slaves before, Zarak hoisted a senseless Bret sack like over his shoulder, strode out of his quarters, and headed to the latrine. A clutch of leaping, chirping, near hysterical Nubians waited impatiently for them, their hard, black cocks slapping their bellies, their voiceless throats hissing in a fuck frenzy all their own.
-0-
Flashback
The only unexpected feature that the Seminary Collegio San Dimas held for Bret Hauser on his arrival that wretchedly hot afternoon of August 15 in 1998 was its unexpected lack of surprises, almost to the point of being a dejavu event. The beige rectangular, vaguely Italian Renaissance building with chipped and faded rust colored roof tiles, sat squarely on Via San Dimas, three stories high, ringed with three levels of identical windows and a single large heavy wooden door opening onto the street, like faded sketch in a weathered book of Victorian poetry.
"Classic," Bret thought. "Classically uninspired. I hope the inside is a little more cheerful than the outside." With a large carry-on slung over his shoulder, he walked up to the door along the unpaved edge of the road, cringing slightly at the Roman traffic zipping cavalierly by, inches from his side, and pulled the door chain on his right. The loud clanging of a bell inside was only slightly muffled by the door.
Taking a deep breath, he wondered, "Am I insane? What the hell am I doing here? At the front door of a seminary?" Finally exhaling, he said to himself, "For better or worse, I might as well stick around for the commercial."
There had been no close friends or relatives to advise him pro or con on his decisions. He'd always been a loner, but never really experienced absolute loneliness; right or wrong, he'd also been totally self-reliant, and somehow, standing here, sweating profusely, waiting for an ancient portal to open to the unknown, made some kind of cockeyed sense to him.
Bret was a prodigy; there was never any doubt about that. He devoured books and learning, always at the head of his class, always three years ahead of his peers. He'd graduated from university when most kids his age were starting out, and he'd received his MA in Contemporary Thought just three weeks previously.
The twenty year old American was no stranger to Rome, only to this almost rural outskirt of the city. Two buses and a quarter mile hike under the blazing sun finally brought him to a crossroads in his life's journey. He waited a few moments in front of the weathered door and was about to reach for the bell chain again when the sound of a heavy bar scraping across wood came from inside, and amid much creaking a small door within the door inched open. Bret took another deep breath.
The door within the door swung open to reveal a young monk, tall, slender, pale white skin in sharp contrast to a long, heavy, black robe hanging about his frame. Bending over to peer through the opening, Bret winced inwardly at the thought of how hot and uncomfortable the guy must be in that outfit, and how sweaty.
"Hi," even Bret's automatic smile had an infectious quality to it. "I'm Bret Hauser. I think I'm expected."
The doorkeep bowed slightly and stepped back, indicating that Bret should enter.
As the new arrival stooped to pass through the doorway, the dampness of a recently watered garden, the fragrances of its flowers, and the pungent aroma of the black garbed friar standing close by his side overwhelmed his sense of smell, and he quickly closed his nostrils and breathed through his mouth.
"Thank you," he whispered stepping into a small flowering courtyard. "Nice place," he said, eying his surroundings. "Pretty garden."
The young monk stepped aside, allowing Bret passage and appraising the outline of his broad shoulders and muscled torso through his sweat dampened tee shirt, and his toned thighs and buttocks tightly molded by a pair of khaki shorts.
"We have been expecting you," the monk said, trying desperately to control his breathing. "My name is Brother Giancarlo Fonseca." He extended his hand and shuddered, growing light headed at Bret's strong, firm handshake.
"Glad to meet you, Brother," Bret smiled again broadly. "I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other."
Brother Fonseca pursed his lips in hopeful anticipation. The rest of the day was pretty much routine for Bret, first day stuff, much like the the first day at every school he'd ever attended; get acquainted, get settled, look around, except that on this tour, Giancarlo never left his side, literally never left his side, even in the seminary's toilet.
"This is how we go in le pissoir," he said with no expression in his voice or on his face, showing Bret how the black robe was bunched up in front of his belly and held in place with his left arm while the right hand fished out his cock from inside a pair of short leather coulotts.
Dumbfounded, Bret stood open mouthed, watching Giancarlo pissing into a trough that ran along the base of a tar papered rough cement wall. After taking Bret and his luggage to the third floor cubical lined dormitory, the monk escort hurriedly dragged him down four flights of stairs to the basement lavatory, urgently needing to relieve himself.
A trickle of water ran through the trough, mixing with the urine, and the room smelled heavily of disinfectant, piss, and urinal soap.
Bret was no stranger to international travel, or to international toilet practices, but even in the most exotic of locales, there was always a modicum of privacy, even if it was just a tree. He'd never intentionally watched anyone pluck his cock out of his fly and piss in public.
"Jeeze, Brother," he exclaimed. "That's gross. Don't you have regular toilets?"
"But of course we do," Giancarlo replied, stuffing his cock back into his coulotts and dropping his robe in front. "The toilets are in the next room; this place is for emergency. I will show you the rest the basement and then we will go upstairs. The Reverend Pryor of the House is expecting you at four o'clock."
As the monk had said, the next room was the toilet containing six stalls, two on each side wall and two on the back wall. The smell, combined with the overall heat and humidity, was ranker than anything Bret had experienced before.
"Man," he grimaced, "do you ever get used to this stench?"
"No, of course not," Giancarlo answered with an absolute straight face. "Now I will show you the shower room."
If Bret hadn't already been slathered in sweat from his excursion through le pissoir and the toilet, the shower room would have opened every pore on his body. It was a mouldering southern swamp, heavy with the disinfectant smell of the previous two rooms.
From his years in boarding schools and at university, Bret was used to gang showers, but here, each shower was encased in a large stall, divided in half with a heavy plastic curtain in front, and was the place of Bret's earliest and greatest faux pas. After his first shower at the Collegio, the day following his arrival, he had pulled back the curtain and stepped into the center of the room, totally naked to dry off. That was when he discovered that at Collegio San Dimas, students and brother monks wore their coulotts when they showered.
Amid much gasping and shocked expressions at Bret's full exposure, there were also more than a few lingering glances at his lean and muscled, athletic body. Like Adam before the apple, Bret had never known any sense of shame at his nudity, until the day he first showered at Collegio San Dimas.
He never erred in that way again, and after his first few attempts, he managed to figure out how to take a shower wearing leather coulotts, at least the way an American would figure it out. Untie the draw strings and let the coulotts drop to the floor, then shower as usual, thoroughly washing the coulotts before pulling them up and tying them in place.
Giancarlo told him that he was not to "look at himself" while he showered, lest he give in to temptation. Bret decided that Giancarlo, and probably all residents at San Dimas needed a basic course in psychology, with emphasis on holistic sexual health, but as a dutiful seminarian, he kept his mouth shut and never gave it a second thought.
His academic career at San Dimas was stellar and his athletic prowess overwhelming. In his three year tenure at the seminary, he repeatedly received honors in philosophy, classical languages, and theology at both the North American College and the Gregorianum. He also ran marathons and competed in triathelons each year, and was an almost daily regular at the North American College Sports Center.
On completion of his studies and in recognition of his accomplishments, he was assigned to be ordained a priest by the Pope at St. Peter's in the Vatican on December 1, 2001. It was a heady honor; accolades showered down on him, and only bright prospects lay in front of him. He had in his own mind made the best of all possible choices.
-0-
Zarak tossed Bret's body to the latrine floor at the feet of half a dozen giggling and screeching Nubians, gleaming with oil and sweat. The overseer stood expressionless as his slave was dragged to the center of the room. There was no longer any need for the Nubians to restrain him as they dropped on top of him.
He wanted to be swallowed alive by the swarm of black bodies.
His legs were draped over the shoulders of the Nubian positioned at his fuck hole, his powerful arms wrapped tightly around his thighs, while a second crouched over his face, holding the back of his head with one hand and cramming his cock into his mouth with the other. In a moment, both holes were stuffed with thick, meaty cocks.
Writhing on the floor uncontrollably, fuck frenzy pounding his body, Bret mindlessly ground his gut muscles against the throbbing Nubian stalk scraping deep inside his belly, his throat muscles furiously gulping the thick, black steely rod plunging in and out. Two Nubians knelt on either side of his chest, bent over, their mouths sucked tight on his nipples, chewing and jabbing them with their tongues.
The final two Nubians squatted at his buttocks, one deep sucking his cock, the other, swallowing his ball sack. Hands and lips slid across his sweaty flesh, consuming it, tasting it, devouring it, as he surrendered to a massive tidal surge of madness.
Zarak allowed the Nubians to switch holes twice in their total fuck assault on Bret's body, then ordered them to douche him out completely and groom him in the shower to a shiny pink glow.
End Of Part 22