Coffee, T, or Me

Ah, so that is what this other man is doing here, Eddie thought. He looked at the man sitting off to the side and giving him a movie star smile. Haroub had selected suspiciously well. The man was impossibly handsome, towering, and broad across the chest. As big as Eddie was, he sought even bigger men for partners. Eddie assumed he was a player for the Ruvu Stars. Kapombe had the dark complexion of a Tanzanian but the features of a Caucasian. He likely was a mixed breed descending from when the whites ruled the area. He was tall and muscular without being overdone in the bodybuilding department. He was finely tailored and he held himself as someone who knew he was divinely put together. If Eddie had to guess, the man probably was just under thirty, a couple of years older than Eddie himself. When he smiled, his eyes sparkled as did his perfect teeth.

"Amri is one of my lawyers now, but he trained as a Kilimanjaro guide, so he will give you excellent tours of the area. And he will take care of all of your needs."

Ah, so not a footballer . . . a handler, Eddie thought.

"All of your needs and desires," Haroub repeated, giving Eddie what was obviously meant as a significant unspoken understanding. The smile Amri gave him at the same time drove home Haroub's meaning. So, they had done their research well. "We want to make you as comfortable as possible here," Haroub said. "A striker like you is all that the Ruvu Stars lack to win a national cup and to go on to international competition. We are prepared to give you anything you want to have you playing for the team. Amri will show you a good time for the weekend and then drive you to Dodoma next week, stopping to look at your coffee plantation. Even after that he will be available to serve you however you wish."

It may have been coincidental, but probably not, that it was at that moment that Amri changed his stance in his chair at a short distance from where Eddie and Haroub were sitting across each other at a cocktail table. He widened his stance and let a hand with long, elegant fingers drop down to draw Eddie's attention to the bulging basket of his carefully tailored suit trousers.

So, that was it then, Eddie thought. They wanted him on the sports team enough to find out what he wanted and to provide it. They knew not only that he had outstanding stats as a forward for the D.C. United soccer team in Washington, D.C.—and beyond that, a striker, the term given to a high-scoring forward. They also knew about Eddie's sexual proclivities and that he was looking to move on to another team because of a bad breakup with another D.C. United team member that Eddie was trying to put behind him. It was likely they knew even that he was a seeking submissive. Only one way to find out, he supposed. This Amri was a fine-looking dude. And that basket . . . their research must have extended to finding he liked them hung.

"Thank you, Mr. Haroub. You don't really have to go to all of this trouble. I could rent a car and find the plantation myself, I'm sure."

"No trouble. No trouble at all. Amri is completely at your disposal and would be delighted to service you." Eddie looked over at Amri who was smiling, nodding his head, and coming as close as he could to cupping and rubbing his crotch without actually touching it. Eddie was somewhat amused that Haroub had said "service" rather than "serve." He must have worried that Eddie hadn't gotten the point. But of course he had.

"We're leaving Amri a Land Rover—you'll need that to get to the resort on the lower reaches of Kilimanjaro—you have weekend reservations there. And he's checking in here for the night. The only problem is that there's been some mix-up in the room reservation. That will be straightened out before I leave."

Both Haroub and Kapombe looked expectantly at Eddie. Eddie guessed that Haroub wanted this deal settled before he took off.

"Oh, that's no problem," he said, smiling at each in turn. "Amri can come to my room. If they can't find a room for him, he can bunk with me. There are two beds in the room."

"Very good," Haroub said, with a satisfied sigh, as he worked hard at pulling his massive body out of his chair and standing. "I have business in Arusha today before returning to Dodoma. So, I will leave you to your pleasures. I am looking forward to seeing you at the Sheikh Amri Abeid Stadium in Dodoma next week."

There was a flurry of handshakes all around and a meaningful look conveyed from Haroub to Kapombe and then Eddie was alone with the tall, well-built, elegantly dressed, handsome, and bulging-crotched Amri. It was obvious that the man had a hard on. Eddie was pleased that he seemed to be pleasing to the man and that his duties wouldn't be too onerous for him. Eddie had to admit that he was hard too.

"So," Amri said, the first time Eddie remembered him speaking and speaking in a smooth baritone that went with the rest of the package, "Another drink perhaps, or . . ."

"Unless you're thirsty, we could go on up to my room and you could show me what you can do in bed."

A grin ran across Amri face. "I think I can fully satisfy you. I was on the Tanzanian Olympic gymnastics team."

That figures, Eddie thought.

Twenty minutes later Amri was proving out his boast. He had his knees pushed under Eddie's buttocks, with Eddie's legs spread wide and bent, his feet on the surface of the bed for leverage as the two vigorously bounced their way to the wild movement of Amri's cock inside Eddie's passage. The Olympics had given Amri a high level of stamina; he could thrust for over a half hour at a time. And Eddie, a professional athlete, was fit enough to take it. The headboard was beating a tattoo against the wall; the springs were squeaking ominously. Both men were naked. Their intertwined, undulating, muscular bodies were perfection in motion.

They had stood inside the closed hotel room door, plastered to each other's bodies, as they kissed and Amri slowly opened them both up, frotting their cocks together with one hand when he had them both exposed while he worked at disrobing them both with the other. After laying Eddie on the bed with his legs hooked over Amri's shoulders, Amri planted the palm of a hand on Eddie's sternum, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was under Amri's control on the bed, sucked him to an ejaculation, and then it was straight to the fuck. He laid Eddie flat out on the bed, nudged his knees under Eddie's buttocks as Eddie reached over his head for the headboard to hold himself steady; fed a long, thick, black cock inside him; and went for broke in the pistoning department.

From the start, though, there were none of the other forms of gymnastics that Eddie had looked forward to. In the end, it was a straight vanilla missionary fuck.

Before the night was over, their relationship was established. When they were vertical, Amri was a servant to Eddie's wishes. On the bed, Amri was the master. This mostly was to Eddie's liking. Eddie had laid hints of wanting something more exotic and Amri had ignored them all. One thing that was missing was cruelty in bed. Eddie would have wished to have more of this than Ami was providing. He wanted to be manhandled. So far, Amri was too much the gentleman for him.

Eddie was purring as they lay stretched out beside each other in the gathering twilight, having established with the front desk that Amri didn't need a room of his own but with no prospect that the second bed in the room would be used. He felt satisfied as he lay in Amri's arms, the man sent to service him, who was snoring quietly. In mid purr, though, Eddie stopped. He'd been satisfied. But he'd been satisfied by Jimbo Walsh, the team's goalie, in Washington, D.C., too. But that no longer had been enough. Eddie wanted excitement—excitement like the black bull who swiped his T-shirt the previous night had given him. Was it enough to sheath a big, black cock thrusting so vigorously that they'd been afraid that the drumming of the headboard on the wall would bring on the fire department and they had to pull the bed out into the center of the room, where then they were afraid they'd bust the bed slats?

He'd been great. He wasn't as thick or even as long as the man from last night—and certainly not as rough. It was a straight fuck even if a vigorous one. It wasn't a dirty one.

Was it enough to leave D.C. United for and the possibility of reconciling with Jimbo?

Eddie reached down for the black snake of a cock on Amri. The man snorted in his sleep but his cock was half hard. When Eddie scooted down the bed and took the cock in his mouth, it quickly went more than half hard, and Amri no longer was asleep. He had his hands on the back of Eddie's head, helping to guide Eddie's servicing of his cock, and he was moaning in a low, soothing baritone.

Not long afterward, Eddie was cowboy riding the cock and listening to the squeaking of the bed springs. Amri was stroking Eddie's cock and rolling his balls with one hand and thumbing his nipples with the other. For now, Eddie thought, yes, this was enough. For tonight, at least. And this was something he could take day by day. Maybe, in time, he could coax Amri to be more inventive on his own in bed.

* * * *

Eddie stood under the shower in his room at the Kilimanjaro Mountain Resort near the entrance of the park leading up to Kibo Peak, the highest point in Africa. It had been a long trek that afternoon through the banana and coffee plantation area on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro. Amri had been a good—and solicitous guide. Almost too solicitous. He had treated Eddie like he was made of glass. He had been at Eddie's elbow at every twist and turn on the trail, supporting and guiding him to the point of Eddie wanting to scream. He was a rugged soccer player, for god's sake, he wanted to scream out.

What he'd really wanted was for Amri to pull him off the trail, slam him against the trunk of a tree among the four-foot-high fern fronds, slap him around, and fuck the stuffing out of him. But that didn't happen. They were here, exploring the lower reaches of the Kilimanjaro slopes for just two days—one night and two days. Amri had said he would take Eddie on a proper hike to the summit, but that this would take a week of climbing up and then back down and would have to be done later. Eddie didn't know if he could take a week of being treated like a porcelain doll like this when they weren't in the bed. Amri was obviously so scared of Erasto Haroub that he dare not risk turning Eddie over to football practice with a wrenched knee.

The door of the bathroom opened and Amri entered, naked, his tall, slender, yet muscular, body magnificent. His creamy milk chocolate-colored skin was flawless and was pulled tightly over his muscular frame. In contrast his meaty cock and low-hanging balls were jet black, the exposed bulb an angry purple. Eddie sucked in his breath as Amir leaned over the sink and began to brush his teeth. His buns were tight; his dick was long enough that it could be seen swaying between his spread leg. Tooth brush in mouth, he arched his back a bit and the fingers of both hands went to one of his nipples, checking something out there.

Eddie went hard under the cascading water of the shower; reached for his cock, finding it half hard; and began to stroke.

If only Amri would turn, see him in the shower, enter the shower enclosure, push him up against the tiles, hook Eddie's knees on his hips, and fuck his lights out. Eddie craved surprise and force—a bit of rough. He wanted to be manhandled. His imagination went to him sitting on the toilet and Amri approaching, straddling the toilet bowl, grasping Eddie by the hair, and forcing Eddie's mouth on the meaty, jet-black cock of his. In his imagination, Amri grabbed his ankles as he sat there on the toilet, split his legs, crouched down, thrust his cock up inside Eddie's ass, and rhythmically bounced Eddie's body against the porcelain tank of the toilet, making clanking sounds from jarring the tank lid while Eddie cried out the glorious pain of nearly a foot of cock pounding away at the core of him, releasing a hot flow of cum up into his intestines. Pulling out of him and grasping his head by his hair and making him clean Amri's cock with his mouth.

Splashing his cum against the tile wall under the shower spigot, Eddie regained the present. He was alone in the bathroom, holding his cock in his hand. If Amri had looked at him in his masturbatory reverie, he hadn't chosen to join in. Eddie was getting the strong impression that, for Amri, sex was taboo outside the bed—as were anything he would initiate other than the missionary position. Eddie had ridden him and Eddie had given him head. But they had been purely at Eddie's initiative, and it had been confined to the bed.

Amri was sitting, naked at the foot of the bed, legs spread, when Eddie came out of the bathroom. Eddie padded over to him and sank down between his knees, reaching for Amri's cock to open his lips over, but Amri lifted Eddie and turned them both so that Eddie's back was on the bed, his legs reaching for the floor. Clutching Eddie's thighs and spreading them, Amri went down on his knees and took Eddie's cock in his mouth. Eddie moaned while Amri deep throated him and then rolled his pelvis up and went for Eddie's hole with his tongue.

The fuck that followed was vigorous enough. Eddie was gripping the top of the headboard over his head, with Amri's hands gripping his. Amri's knees were thrust under Eddie's buttocks. His cock was buried deep in Eddie's passage and churning away, and the springs of the bed were groaning hard from the rhythm of the fuck.

Amri was muttering, "Open to me, all the way. Give it all to me." And Eddie's passage walls were shimmering and going soft, the channel expanding, making way for the long, thick staff. Eddie sighed, bringing the heels of his feet up to rub Amri's buttocks. Yielding, opening, taking the cock deep, rocking his pelvis back and forth to cause the cock to rub all of the walls. Everything was fine, satisfying, Eddie was close to blowing himself. It was all . . . he should be melting, in full surrender, tripping on the clouds. He freed one of his hands, gripped his cock, and stroked it to the rhythm of the fuck.

It was all so . . . ordinary, he realized as he shot his load. Amri pulled out of him, jerked off his condom, tossed it off the side of the bed, and with a "Wooie, that was great," rolled off to the side of Eddie and started to calm his breathing.

Great? Not quite, Eddie thought. Good, yes. Nothing to complain about—certainly not. But not great. No, not quite great.

He turned and kissed his way down Amri's body, enjoying the hard suppleness of the creamy chocolate skin. Amri jerked and groaned as Eddie opened his mouth over the jet-black cock. Amri would let Eddie suck him off now and would even lie still as Eddie rode the cock, once it had reengorged. Amri had satisfied the "in bed" menu with the missionary fuck. But this would be Eddie's time to try to surpass "good." Amri had done his obligatory bed duty.

Using Amri's very nice cock, Eddie would reach better, but still not "great." Great for him would be to be taken totally, roughly, taking no prisoners—mastered by the other man. Like that big black bull had taken him the other night.

* * * *

"It's interesting country here," Eddie said, as they drove along A104. He had been quiet, thinking about the last few days after they'd cleared Arusha and headed southwest toward the coffee plantation he'd bought sight unseen for a song. He wasn't a fool. The deal on the plantation had been an inducement for him to move to Tanzania and become the striker for the Dodoma national football association's Ruvu Stars. Amri obviously had been thrown in on the deal. Eddie was agonizing over whether Amri's cocking was so much better than Jimbo Walsh's had been in Washington, D.C., to make such a drastic move. "The lowlands here are scrub—what you call the Serengeti—grasslands," he said, turning his head to Amri, in the driver's seat of the Land Rover. "But conical volcanic hills and mountains pop up here and there and the vegetation is more tropical on their slopes. Exotic and unexpected in Africa."

"Unexpected for those who know little about Africa," Amri said. Then he added, "It makes for great coffee bean growing." He shifted the gears of the Land Rover into a higher speed on a straightaway. Few other vehicles were on the road. Those that were there tended to be headed in the other direction—en route to tours to Kilimanjaro, which rose, snow-covered, behind them. "The volcanic soil is perfect for coffee. You'll love the plantation you've bought."

"I suppose," Eddie said, looking out toward the small mountain that had appeared in the distance, the mountain next to Lake Manyara, the mountain on whose lower slopes he'd been told his plantation was located.

"Once you've seen the plantation, I don't think you'll ever want to live anywhere else again," Amri said, his baritone voice low, attempting to be soothing and convincing. "Have you given more thought to the football contract?"

"Yes, of course."

"And . . .?"

"I haven't made up my mind."

"I could move to the plantation," Amri said, and then when Eddie didn't react immediately to that. "If you wanted me to, of course." Still there was silence between them. "Is there something . . . am I not satisfying you?"

"Yes, of course you're satisfying me," Eddie said, turning his face to the passenger window again. He hadn't lied. Amri satisfied him. It was just that satisfaction didn't seem to be enough. "Are you turning here?" he asked, as the Land Rover slowed down and Amri engaged the turning signal.

That was so like Amri, Eddie thought. There's no one out here to see the signal or to care, but it's in his list of "things always to do," so he does it. How I wish he'd just loosen up—get dirty and forceful; make a sharp turn without signaling.

"Yes, from here," Amri said, breaking into Eddie's thoughts, "it's a straight run up into that small mountain, to your plantation. But there's a stream off to right up ahead and a picnic area where travelers stop for a rest. I had sandwiches and wine packed. I thought we'd break the journey there."

They lay on the blanket under a tree, by the stream. The empty wine bottle lay on its side by the blanket. They were shielded from view from the distant road up into the mountain by the Land Rover, parked next to them, the driver's door hanging open. The waxed paper from the consumed sandwiches rustled around in the breeze between the blanket and the stream.

Eddie emitted little gasps and grunts with each of the thrusts, deep, hard, into his inner, soft center. He was open wide, in total surrender, to the thrust of the cock. The wine had loosened him up. His arms embraced the broad chest of Amri, who was kneeling between Eddie's spread and bent legs. Amri was holding Eddie's torso off the blanket and pulled into his chest. As always, with Amri, it was a missionary fuck, with his knees pressed in under Eddie's buttocks, tilting Eddie's pelvis up to receive the long, thick, jet-black cock deep.

At least it wasn't on a bed.

Using the leverage of his feet placed flat on the blanket, Eddie was thrusting his pelvis up with each hard thrust deep inside him of Amri's cock. The two were concentrating on getting the best fuck out of this that they could. And it was a good fuck, quite a satisfactory fuck. And it had at least seemed spontaneous on Amri's part, although Eddie wasn't fooled. He knew that every step of it had been carefully planned. If anything, it had been too carefully planned, too well laid out. If anything, Amri was trying too hard. His assignment here was too obvious.

But it was a good fuck. Eddie tensed and blurted out, "Oh God, I'm going to come." And then he did so, up Amri's belly. Amri continued pumping him, though, as Eddie collapsed in his arms, all tension melting away from him. If anything, his core was going softer, more of his attention went to the muscles of his channel walls, which released, opened even more, the muscles shimmering and undulating over Amri's shaft as it dug deeper, increased in intensity. He was pistoning Eddie hard, his breathing belabored, mining Eddie's ass deep, with Eddie flopping around like a rag doll in his embrace, when Amri tensed and ejaculated.