Date: Tue, 30 Jan 2007 21:51:13 +0000
From: Graham Collett <graham_cro_uk@hotmail.com>
Subject: dark black soul

The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional.
Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely
coincidental. Please NOTE WELL that opinions, attitudes or lifestyles
expressed or portrayed herein DO NOT necessarily represent those of the
author. This is an ADULT ONLY homoerotic story. If you are likely to be
offended by such literature, then I strongly advise that you read no
further. Lastly, please feel free to contact me with any insights, comments
or recommendations. Enjoy!

* * *

Part 1 -- INCARCERATION.

"Listen, Mr Black, in all honesty, I really don't think that you
appreciate the gravity of your
situation. In fact, I have to say I'm at a loss to know where we go from
here. Without the
cooperation of local police officials, there's very little Her Majesty's
Government can do for you.
I would like to think that..."
"I need water. They're not providing fresh water."
Bertram Black cut in, looking up wearily. Lugubrious eyes peered at
Donald Kurtz, a senior
official from the British Consulate in Ghana. Kurtz returned a
sympathetic smile that failed to
instil much hope in his beleaguered compatriot.
"Oh I see. Yes, well, of course. I'll ensure Radley gets that to you
shortly. No doubt, they'll
expect another bribe for their help in poking it through the bars."
Kurtz sighed resignedly, reaching for a white handkerchief and dabbing
his glistening forehead.
He wished to god that he was still in the sanctuary of his
air-conditioned villa rather than the
stifling torment of Kumasi Central Police Station. Its languid atmosphere
was dulling his wits. He
removed a pen and notebook and dutifully scribbled 'water' on a growing
list.
"And how are we being looked after here otherwise, Mr Black?" He enquired
somewhat
distractedly.
Black shot him a dejected glance.
"Not well." Came the lacklustre reply.
"In what way? Are you being mistreated? Please, Mr Black, do be candid
with me. It may
ultimately assist us in this, um... predicament."
Black caressed an angry looking abrasion on his cheek, wincing slightly.
His recollections of the
past few days remained a blurring tumult of anguish and confusion. He
spoke absently, gazing
through a barred window at a merging myriad of flaming city lights
beyond. Kumasi's sprawling
maze of tattered shops and peeling facades tumbled down the hillside,
diminishing into the
smouldering embers of the horizon. The city seemed a fading relic of some
imperial grandeur and
a testimony to the slow ravishment of time.
"They've hit me. Well, one of then has anyway. A thug they call 'Ni'.
Uses nylon ropes to
'educate' the inmates. Doesn't seem as if my English credentials have
saved me from his
attentions."
Again, Kurtz put pen to paper briefly then returned a solemn gaze.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr Black. I'm afraid the rights and privileges we've
come to enjoy in the
United Kingdom aren't necessarily practiced elsewhere."
It was a trite remark. Black resisted an urge to be sarcastic.
"You shouldn't worry about me, Kurtz. I'm well accustomed to being
vilified."

Kurtz noticed Black's simmering irritation and checked his watch. The
rather officious duty
officer had made it abundantly clear that Black would have to return to
the communal holding
cell by 10pm. There were minutes to spare. After a hurried series of
assurances, he got up and
shook hands with Black, hoping to convey a sense of concern. Black did
not feel greatly
heartened at this, nor by his somewhat brisk departure. A uniformed guard
entered, giving the
British official a rather farcical salute to which Kurtz nodded politely.

The guard's avaricious eyes glinted appraisingly at the spectacle of his
latest prisoner. It was as if
he were scrutinising some prized chattel. Black was attracting more than
just notoriety in his new-
found abode. In the dank, sweating recesses of the shadowy inferno,
frustrations could reach fever
pitch. Under the breathless veil of darkness, a mass of sleepless desires
festered and stirred.
Tentative hands strayed skittishly yet inexorably...
 
"You go back now, my white friend. The men, they look after you."
The guard's inflection was laden with innuendo. A knowing smile flitted
over normally austere
features, softening his furrows. Black begrudgingly returned a smile as
he was ushered along a
shabby blue corridor. As he shambled passed the main desk, the duty
officer called after him.
"Ah, English man! You enjoy Kumasi Police Station? You should, it was you
people who built
it!"
The taunt seemed like an open invitation for sarcasm but, not for the
first time, Black wisely
resisted. He was darkly amused by the likelihood that these officious
autocrats had inherited their
pomposity from their British colonists; his ancestors...
"I'm managing thanks. I'm fine." He muttered back with veiled contempt.
"You invite me to your country one day. You find me good English wife to
marry!"
The officer yelled. Black tried to stave off a smile, but failed. The
guard bade him undress and
bundled his clothes into a tattered cardboard box. He had been reminded
on numerous occasions
that being able to retain his underpants was a special dispensation that
should be generously
rewarded. The guard proceeded to unlock an ancient lattice steel door,
gesturing for him to cross
the threshold.
"Go sleep. Say Prayer."
"Yes, thanks. Thanks so much."
Feigning humility made things easier. Much easier. Black ventured blindly
through a fetid
darkness until his outstretched fingers floundered against a clammy,
uneven wall. Somewhere in
the steamy blackness, bodies stirred. An unspoken anticipation charged
the air like the brooding
prelude to an electrical storm. Indiscernible forms writhed restlessly at
his approach.

When Black had first entered the bleak squalor of the Ghanaian prison, it
had been lit by a pallid
daylight. All eyes had been upon him. Thirty or more inmates, maybe more;
dumbstruck.
Incredulous at the unlikely prospect of a white detainee. No one had
dared approach him at that
time. It was as if some imperceptible barrier had set him apart and made
him untouchable. Black
even speculated that they were in awe of him in some way. Why? Was he
really so different? Was
not incarceration contrived to be the great leveller?

For some seconds the momentous tribulations of that day had paled into
the shadows. Black
gazed in wonderment at a vision of taught muscle and lithe sinew. A
breathtaking dark host of
African men encircled him; an amorphous mass of gleaming torso and hungry
eye. Gloriously
naked, all stood proud and indomitable, quite unaware how, in Black's
eyes, they represented
such an iconic and potent masculinity. But that was nearly two weeks ago
now...

Black continued to nudge and grope his way to his allotted sleeping
space. He tried to slow his
breathing and still the flurry of runaway heartbeats. His left hand
revealed the alcove into an
adjoining cell. As with previous nights, he would attempt to sleep on the
mouldering floor. His
only comfort would be his toilet roll for a pillow. That was how it was;
a vile, barren womb of
concrete and steel. Languishing in filth like a beast. A daily
degradation, inexorably stripping
away the last lingering semblances of humanity.

Within the harsh surroundings he perceived whispers, snoring. Restive
hands brushing skin,
scratching hair. Low, longing groans at the fringe of hearing. From
somewhere in the dark there
came a ribald whisper.
"Ah, nice white man, my brudder return. Handsome white man. Let me be
your friend."
And that was how it had started...


Part 2 -- GHOSTS OF MEMORY.

Memories of the fateful night that led him to this place of torment
drifted back to Bertram Black,
unbidden. Phantasms of some ghastly nightmare haunting a swirling,
drunken miasma. The
broken syntax of conversations, monstrous snapshots, a reeling nausea.
Self-recrimination ever
plucking at frayed nerves. Ghostly fingers insinuating accusations in
some cruel and relentless
fury. It was all his fault. It was all his damn fault and there was
nothing he could do to rewrite
history. History was a bleak, unassailable fortress that imprisoned him,
obliterating hope beneath
its cold, unforgiving shadow. If only things had been different... Jesus!
How many times had he
wished for that? Inexorably, Black's mind spiralled downwards into gloomy
recollection.

The argument that night with Austin had driven him to some kind of
madness. What the hell was
his boyfriend thinking of, fucking the hotel porter in their bed? Their
bed, for Christ sakes! The
same bed that, only hours before, they had made love, made promises,
talked about a future,
about commitment. Then having to witness all those hopes smashed to
smithereens. Obliterated.
And then, Austin, standing there, indignant; even smiling! Tempers had
flared. A blind rage had
consumed Black. Fists had flown. Blows exchanged. Spiteful home truths
hurled way too lightly.
Black's anger eclipsing his pain. Stinging tears. A leaden numbness in
his limbs. A dull ache in
his chest...

During the confrontation, Black remembered how Austin's face had
contorted into a grotesque
mask of rage. Some kind of monstrous fury had overtaken him. Black was
knocked to the bed,
pinned down; ensnared like some naturalist's thrashing specimen. His
strength was no match for
Austin's. The agony of the frenzied rape still plunged like a dagger into
his stricken heart.

When it was over, Black had careened into the bathroom. Knocking over
chairs, blundering and
dizzy. There was a desire to cleanse himself. Wash away the pain. Erase
the stain of memory. He
staggered into the shower cubicle. Pink rivulets drained down into a
porcelain vortex. Blood.
Stark light jabbed like realisation at his watery eyes. Black pressed
them shut as he scoured his
violated body. Over and over. Scrubbing until crimson welts striated his
skin. Drying himself,
putting on some pants. Pouring a measure of vodka sufficient to nullify
pain, obliterate thought.

Austin was leaning nonchalantly against the ornate balcony railing,
oblivious to his approach and
apparently indifferent to his torment. He was speaking jovially on his
cell phone in his guttural
language. He was even laughing! Seemingly, untroubled by conscience or
regret. The seconds
blurred. Black remembered feeling oddly dislocated from his body. Austin
had turned as Black's
silhouette had been framed in the doorway. Again, he was laughing.

"You bastard!" Black had bellowed as he hurled the drink at his
tormentor. He had only intended
to scare him or to make him somehow share his pain. Yes, he had lost
control but... the glass
struck Austin squarely on the forehead in a cascade of glittering shards.
He had staggered heavily
against the railing. Then, with one heart-stopping wrench, it had given
way...

For a moment, Austin had looked dazed as he teetered at the edge of a
precipice. Then he lurched
backwards, plummeting into an inky chasm of shadows. Black heard the
railing clatter onto the
concrete. Seconds later, here was a nauseating thud from somewhere far
below. Then silence.

Moments later, the remaining vodka had not been sufficient to drown out
that same ominous
silence. It was only when the frantic knocking at his door turned into
thunderous blows that it
receded. It was only when the door splintered and armed police invaded
the room that Black
realised absently that he was clutching Austin's tear stained photo. The
rest was a swirling haze.
A melee of gruff unintelligible phonetics, jumbled images; flashing past,
echoing in the void. He
was on some out-of-control carousel whirling; faster, faster...


Part 3 -- SEX IN THE DARK.

There was no lavatory in the jail. Inmates had to undergo the indignity
of having to shit in plastic
bags. A putrid mountain of them occupied the furthest corner. A single
shower ran intermittently
and randomly. The men observed a strict pecking order in its use. The
sporadic downpour also
provided the only source of drinking water.

Black wished he were under that spray of soothing water as he lay
restlessly in the prickly heat.
At least Kurtz had organised some fresh water. That was something. He had
even given Black his
sandwiches and a lug of whiskey from his hip flask. He had devoured both
rapaciously.

There was however one thirst that had not been quenched. One hunger that
still lingered. He was
being driven insane with sexual frustration. It was a perpetual urge that
deprived him of sleep and
tormented his waking thoughts. All around him there was that same
undeclared need. Sometimes
he would discern groans, the sound of men pleasuring themselves in the
dark. He would hear the
rising crescendo of their panting and the faint friction noises of sticky
flesh.

Those at the bottom of the pecking order would sometimes find themselves
the object of
inescapable manly desires. In the dark, they would remain strangely
compliant, as they were
vigorously gang-fucked. There would be the sound of sweat-drenched skin
slapping rapidly
against skin. A succession of stifled and lusty groans of rapture. When
it was finally over, a
pitiful whimper would sometimes emanate from the unforgiving night.

So far, interest in Black had been tentative. But that was all about to
change. The company he was
keeping was proving to be a potent aphrodisiac. Black knew at that moment
he needed a lot more
than just a stiff drink inside him...


Part 4 -- AUSTIN AND DUPLICITY.

Black wallowed in the darkness; pensive and remote. Austin had made a lot
of promises over the
years. Deep down, Black knew that he was incapable of keeping any of
them. He had lived with
the delusion that 'things would get better' for so long that it had
become some kind of mantra in
all his many disappointments. If anything, Austin was getting worse. His
recent choice of lovers
plumbed depths that seemed quite unfathomable, even to Black.

There was one recent example. His name; 'Jocelyn'. He was rich,
overweight and overbearing. In
Blacks estimations, he had the personality of a pig and the porcine
hygiene habits to match. And
yet, after hearing of their liaisons and confronting Austin, it seemed
his boyfriend had still 'gone
there'. Jesus Christ, what a farce! Well, the guy had money, and that was
the harsh reality of it all.
Austin was an opportunist hustler who enjoyed the ego trip of his
promiscuity so much that any
prior aesthetic considerations no longer applied. Anything and anyone was
considered and a
quick fuck was his equivalent of a polite handshake. There was no line
that Austin wouldn't
cross. No taboos or boundaries in his untamed desires. Most of Black's
more reliable friends had,
at some point, spoken of their polite refusals and mild shock at Austin's
clumsy attempts to
seduce them. When questioned, Austin would either deny it or simply laugh
it off. What a piece
of work he truly was!

"Each man kills the thing he loves." Isn't that what Oscar Wilde had
written? Isn't that what they
had done to each other? Maybe that was what everyone did to each other,
ultimately?

Black remembered a time when things had been different between them. God,
so different. Those
halcyon days before he had finally peered into the gloomy underworld of
his lover's clandestine
existence. Too late, he had realised the true nature of Austin; ersatz,
devious, manipulative. But
by then, love had clasped him in its cloying and insidious tendrils. He
was too late in his
realisation that his lover's life was ruled by passion, rather than
governed by ethics. Austin, his
one great love, possessed all the qualities of a dog - except loyalty!

There were those same damn pointless arguments about Austin's continual
infidelities. If only
Black could extricate Austin from memory. And yet, he just couldn't bring
himself to leave
Austin (oh, the persistence of sentiment!). Maybe their souls were now
bound together in hate
where once they were intertwined with love? If only he could have severed
his ties and maybe
discovered someone more worthy of his devotion. It was all one big
fucking mess and the bitter
irony was that Black's high ideals had, in many ways, made him the author
of his own downfall.

Yet despite Austin's total lack of ethics, Black had loved him, adored
him, but most of all he
always hungered after his sex. His sweet injection was a needle-full of
heroin conjuring up some
divine rhapsody beyond the grinding ennui of existence. It was an
ambrosial poison that saturated
mind, body and spirit with sublime torment. For Black, there were no
comparisons. Sure, he'd
taken occasional 'paramours' in England, but they were only pale
substitutions for his one true
passion.

But that was then... A time before the absence of light in Black's mind. A
time when the
disfigured manikin that had lain sprawled in the filth of the street had
been an angel incarnate,
winging its way across a vastness of solitude.

Now there was no past. There would be no future. There was only now. The
seizing of the
moment. Nothing else mattered anymore. In the temporal glimmer of
existence, there was only
sensual gratification remaining to illuminate the dim corners of a dark
black soul. The paradox of
Austin was no more; passed. Austin; the light of his life and yet the
very heart of his darkness. All
that remained was a final surrender to a tidal wave of carnality. Being
swept up and borne away
into the distant oblivion of pleasure.


Part 5 --THE ENEMY WITHIN.

"And how are we today, Mr Black?"
Black ignored Kurtz, choosing instead to stare through a barred window at
the abstract
configurations of city lights beneath a waning sun. The vista seemed
strangely apocalyptic in its
infernal vastness.
"What the investigation will try to establish is whether there was
premeditation. Did you have
forethought in your actions that night, or was this some spontaneous
crime of passion?"
Once again, images of the fated night started to well up from some murky
abyss, clouding
Black's eyes.
"It was neither. It was an accident okay? Jesus Kurtz, how many more
times do I have to go over
this with you? How could I have known that the balcony rail would give
way? It could have
happened to anyone!"
"Correction, Mr Black. It happened to you just after a fight that was
heard by several other guests
at the hotel. You tell me that you were brutally raped in the course of
events. I'm sorry, but that
gives you a motive for revenge. Maybe even for murder. I'm afraid we find
ourselves in a very
precarious situation..."
Black's temper flared. He resented Kurtz's unremitting aloof
condescension.
"Listen Kurtz, I may not be the academic that you are. I may not even
have attended the right
public school, but at least I know how to use my pronouns
correctly...don't we?" He mocked.
Kurtz seemed slightly taken aback for a moment, but soon regained his
composure.
"On the contrary, Mr Black. You're quite the brooding intellectual when
you put your mind to it."
Black snorted derisively. Kurtz continued, unabashed.
"What, actually, I had planned to say was that we might be able to secure
your release under the
terms of the extradition treaty that exists between our mutual countries.
Believe me, Mr Black,
I'm doing my utmost toward that end."
He paused, allowing himself a modicum of smug satisfaction. Black however
regarded him
impassively.
"Do carry on Kurtz. Or is this a cue for me to appear impressed?"
"Listen, Mr Black, to be frank with you, one might be forgiven for
thinking that you actually wish
to remain in this damn hell-hole? This little corner of Sodom. Believe
me, I do understand your
frustration with proceedings, but protocols have to be adhered to. We
find ourselves in a complex
position here..."
Black cut in impatiently.
"No, you listen Kurtz. I'm tired of all this bullshit. What do you want
from me? Where's this
leading? That's all I need to know."
Kurtz exhaled. He reached into an inside pocket and produced an elegant
pack of Davidoff
cigarettes. Pausing to light it, he took a long drag, deliberately
blowing smoke into Black's eyes.
"Inducement, Mr Black, or may I call you Bertram?" A calculating smile
crossed his face. "There
are ways and means. And these 'ways and means' simply require the right
incentive. Now, if you
were to plead guilty at trial and accepted deportation, I could ensure a
very agreeable outcome.
You know, it's been known for certain overseas convictions to go away, or
at least go astray once
they reach the United Kingdom. The Home Office does have an unfortunate
tendency, from time
to time, to misplace certain foreign legal complications."
Black regarded him with contempt.
"A bribe. You're talking about a fucking bribe!" His anger flared.
"You're a fucking disgrace,
Kurtz! You're not even fit for purpose!"
Kurtz crossed his arms defensively, regarding Black with icy deadpan
eyes.
"I'm sorry that you see things that way." He chided mildly. "I was simply
making you aware of
the options, that's all. It seems to me as if you don't have too many of
those left open to you."

Black had been dragged headlong into a realisation. It was as simple as
it was monstrous; it was
money would guarantee his freedom. Lurking behind all the sanctimonious
posturing and threats
from all the officials was a thinly veiled expectation of a huge pay-off.

It had not escaped Black's notice that many of the senior police officers
drove large luxurious
cars. Even to an outsider, it was obvious that a police salary in West
Africa could never afford
them such opulence. Bribery and corruption were the accepted currency;
even it seemed, amongst
his own countrymen who he might have considered beyond reproach. Clearly,
greed was the vice
of choice and it was evidently rife at Kumasi Central Police Station.
"Welcome to the real world." He muttered to himself.

Black remembered a drug dealer who had been interrogated at the same time
as him. The guy had
also fallen prey to Ni's attentions. After several beatings and some
hours of horse-trading, Black
had overheard the man agree to pay several hundred million Cedis 'bail'.
It was to be divided
three ways between the 'interviewing' police officers...

Black's attention wavered as Kurtz's droning voice drifted from his
conscious thought. Again, he
was haunting the corridors of time. He wondered if he was a good man? A
few weeks ago he
would have declared an unequivocal 'yes'. Maybe that was just
self-delusion? A complacency
composed of the frail pretensions that personal ethics were somehow
immutable; stone tablets
immune to the flux of fate and circumstance. Time, it appeared, had
proven him wrong in his
assumptions. Maybe every human being harboured some germ of destruction
waiting to be
kindled by rage or stirred by the passions. Borne on the tide of doom,
people drifted into to
foreign lands, alien places.


Part 6 -- UGLINESS IN BEAUTY.

"Buy me this ok? There's a store nearby and I need a tee shirt. Also a
bag."
Austin shone beautiful beady eyes upon his drowsy benefactor. Black
retreated under the duvet,
disorientated. Austin wrestled back the cover, forcing Black's bleary
eyes to focus on his
ingratiating smile.
"Huh?"
Austin straddled him playfully. Was this just like old times? Black
wondered, half dazed. He
squinted up at the dark naked perfection that pressed him to the bed. But
then there was the
melancholy realisation that such innocence was lost. Or should he rather
call it 'naivety' on his
part? The play fight was just another means for Austin to wheedle money
in order that he could
dress himself like a diva and impress all the would-be lovers. Black had
been there a thousand
times. But as ever, he relented. As ever, beguiled by Austin's beauty. He
was under no illusion
that Austin was simply manipulating him, but letting go still seemed
unimaginable.

Black reached for his wallet and took out a bundle of Cedis, handing them
to Austin.
"Thank you."
The tall figure lowered itself and pressed lips to Blacks mouth.
Simultaneously, passions stirred.
Austin slipped under the sheets, holding Black in an almost smothering
embrace. Black marvelled
at his eyes; smouldering embers of desire. Captivating, intoxicating,
hypnotic. Half closed with
veiled intention, like a coiled snake. From the insatiable furnace of
Austin's loins, a slow rising
monolith awakening a desperate need within Black. Searing lips devouring
him; gorging on neck,
nipple, thigh. Lust engulfing them and the world paling into shadow,
obscured by the ascendant
incandescence of ecstasy. The love they had made was, as always,
consuming, frantic; as if it
would be their last time. And this time, it would be...

They both lay exhausted in the dappled sunlight. Black stared absently up
at the ceiling with
wistful, dreaming eyes. He had hoped to take Austin away from all his
usual temptations in the
suburban ghetto of Accra. He'd naively imagined that a stay in Kumasi
could salvage something
from the dereliction that they chose to label their 'relationship'. It
would be an opportunity to talk
about the future and if, somehow, they might have one together. But every
time Black tried to
articulate his feelings to his lover, it just sounded like accusation,
blame. Perhaps silence was the
only medium that would preserve the remnants of a paradise lost.
Nevertheless, Black resolved to
speak, to try one last time to convey his sense of disappointment and
maybe turn things around.
 
"Why weren't you ever around in Accra, Austin? I came three thousand
miles just to share your
life; somehow, to be with you. But all I've discovered is another form of
loneliness. Jesus,
London was bad enough! You brought me to the 'zongo', the ghetto, but you
were never there..."
Austin turned to him, irritation furrowing his brow. Black tried to
control his sense of indignation,
but felt anger rising. The words flowed out of him; poison from a
festering wound.

"You leave me cloistered in your family house. Meanwhile, in your life,
there's always a new
friend, a new face... a new something! Then you and him exchanging knowing
looks... saying
nothing. Then what? Within a week he's out of the frame forever. Never to
be seen again and I'm
left wondering what the fuck it was about? What happened? Then
realisation dawns on me; he
was rich, you were broke. What else is there to understand? And me? Well,
maybe I'm paranoid?
Maybe I judge you too much by your past. Are you surprised? Or perhaps I
just know your true
nature, Austin, but part of me refuses to believe it."
"What do you want, Bertram? You think I should be with you always and
never have friend?"
"Yes, why the hell not? Don't ever have those kinds of 'friends' okay?
Spend your whole damn
life with me. Go on, I dare you! I'm sick of sharing you with all those
other guys."
"I'm free, Bertram. Or? You want to put me to be in a cage like your
slave? Is that what it is?"
Black's spiralling confusion conjured up bleak images of some monstrous
colonial history.
Austin began to assume the resonance of some abused possession; a victim
of an unforgiven
western exploitation. The cultural divide grew vast and unwieldy and
Black was wracked with an
irrational guilt. In his consciousness, he felt the onerous weight of
some dreadful history beyond
comprehension or reasoning. Love was just not enough. Money was not
enough. Reality,
however, threw its opportunist punch like a sparring heavyweight.
"Austin, I can't cope with this prostitution! Aren't you better than
that? Aren't you more than
that? Isn't that the one and only real thing that enslaves you? I just
don't know what to believe in
anymore. I just don't know."
Austin regarded him harshly, but then his fierce stare became tempered
with some inexplicable
pathos.
"I... I love you... challey." The words hesitant; strangely sincere and
heartfelt.

Black was not appeased. clichés cascaded from his mouth. Frustration he
had expressed so many
times before. Wasted words cast once more into the vacuum of space.
"I'd hoped for so much more, Austin. I've wished sometimes that you could
think above the
mentality of the ghetto. You are so much better than the choices that
you're making. Christ, for
once in your life, why not just allow yourself to trust someone? Do you
want me to promise you
that I can take you away from it all? I can. I will. I swear it. I'm not
like all those other guys that
you tell me about; promising the earth just to take what they want from
you..."
"Bertram, I know that. You're so special. I promise I'll be good. I'll
change okay?"
The words rang hollow, failing to assuage Black's misgivings. He sighed,
exasperated. They were
going around in the same circles. The same pointless circles.

"You'll never change, Austin. You know that. I know that. It's how it is
and how it will always
be."
Austin regarded his lover with cool, speculative eyes.
"You know I love you deep down, Bertram. You're in me okay? Even though I
do those thing."
"Fuck you, Austin." Black whispered as his tears broke cover and traced
their inexorable decent
onto the pillow. 
Austin gathered his lover into his arms, smoothing the ravelled tresses
of his hair. But they no
longer offered Black any sanctuary.


Part 7 -- DESIRE SET FREE.

It was dark within the holding cell. Pitch dark. The heat, perpetual.
Noises. Groans in the dark.
Black now knew the true nature of men who were caged and in the absence
of women. For some
of them, it took days before they considered the alternatives. For others
it took only hours...

Out of nowhere, a hand brushed against Black's knee, meandering gently
upwards and settling on
his thigh, brushing over it lingeringly. Such boldness was quite an
aphrodisiac for Black. From
the opposite side another hand glanced over his arm. Black quietly moaned
his approval as it
strayed over his chest, clumsily teasing and tweaking his nipples.
Without warning, thick full lips
were pressed to his. Hot breath; voracious, burgeoning with passion.
Black began to loose himself
as he was swept away in the deluge of pleasure, abandoning himself to the
rich sensuous paradise
that he had longed for.
"Who do you like, white man? Who do you like make you happy?" The other
voice murmured
impatiently.
"I like both of you." Black sighed, "You're both so nice. So very nice."
From beyond the two inmates vying for Blacks attentions, there were
furtive whispers.
"Come. Nice white man, he likes it. Come, we share the food."
There was a hoarse laugh. A sound of light footfalls as others entered
the room. The owner of the
first set of hands took Black by his and dragged him alongside. Black
savoured the musky manly
body that pressed against his. Something solid jabbed at his kidneys.
"Ouch!"
"This is for you. All for you Kwasi. Remove your underpant."
"Okay, but not too rough, alright chally?
A reassuring hand petted his tousled hair.
"I will give it slowly okay? Now remove."
The other hand tugged impatiently at Black's underpants. Black lifted his
hips and slipped them
off. His straining cock slapping back against his naval. He positioned
himself flat on his back,
drawing his legs wide in some audacious invitation. It was urgently
accepted as strong hands
clasped under his thighs and angled them upwards, pushing his legs right
back. As narrow hips
advanced between his thighs, Black felt the tip of something hard and
burning pressing under his
balls. The eager Ghanaian shifted slightly, angling his manhood down onto
Black's hungry,
quivering hole. It rubbed up and down at a gateway that was already moist
with anticipation.
Black hooked his shins around the mahogany smooth hips, urging the
powerful, athletic African
to bless him with his potent, masculine force.
"You beg me for it, white man, you tell me you how much you want it."
Black had never needed anything so badly. A need for release. A deep
ravening desire for the
consuming void inside him to be filled. As the burning cock teased and
worried his entrance,
Black realised it would assuage a heterosexual ego if he begged for that
which his assailant
already longed to provide. It was a means to an end. His rear end, in
fact.
"Okay, master. Please, I am begging okay? I need it. I need you to set me
free."
It was all the prompting that was needed. Black was burning hot and
needed no forewarning. The
shaft powered into him and brought with it the most exquisite rapture.
Rhythmical explosions of
pleasure slaked and saturated the desert of consciousness in a swelling
torrent. His butt hole
palpitated around the slick black prick that hurled him into the realms
of some distant divinity.
Black was vaguely aware that his 'master' was Islamic and was offering
thanks to Allah for his
impending sexual explosion. It came. He came. So abundantly that black
felt his every jet of hot
spunk as it exploded within him.

As Black's senses reeled, the next eager suitor ushered off the old;
pinned him firm. Black was
forgetting himself. He was reminded of his friend 'Andy' who spoke
Arabic. Andy, who had been
to an Egyptian sauna, a Hamam as they called it. All the men had jumped
him. Naturally, Andy
had offered no resistance. He had been fucked senseless.

Bertram pressed the naked flesh against his. Skin on skin. Sweating,
potent. If things had been
different, Black would have savoured the encounter, but they were ships
in the night.
Transactions of pleasure that were swiftly concluded. On either side of
his mouth, steadfast
appendages vied for his oral adoration. Meanwhile, the man on top of him
was steadily forcing a
rock hard dick against his tenderised hole.

No words had meaning or relevance. Bertram tried to accommodate the
impatient cocks left and
right as the huge voracious rod vigorously fucked him. It slammed into
him so deeply that
Bertram wondered if it might do him an injury. But he loved it. He could
not see who was
providing the pleasure, but it was truly magnificent. Succulent lips
clasped on his as the cock shot
its manly load deep into his recess. Bertram regretted the swift
withdrawal, but discovered a
renewed pleasure as he felt the arms and chest of the huge, muscle-bound
hunk preparing to
mount him.

There was a time when Bertram believed in love. At that moment, it seemed
bizarre but true.
However the succession of men that had entered him had opened alternative
doors of perception.
There were lips he would have chosen to kiss, but there were lips that
desire led him to savour.

Bertram threw his legs around his new conquistador. He was potent, musky.
A dynamo, filled
with kinetic energy. He was an Ashanti warrior gorging on his prey. He
slipped into Bertram's
man pussy and took control. He pumped from on high as he gripped
Bertram's thighs. He came in
seconds. Bertram swam in the realisation that the man who was filling him
with a fleeting sense
of meaning was now filling him with his juice. He retracted suddenly,
breathless as he sprayed
the last ecstatic shot across Bertram's chest.

But there were more hungry men. Many more. For a moment, Black became
alarmed that given
the number of would-be lovers, he could quite easily end up with a butt
hole like a truck tyre. But
as pleasure swept him away, he realised that he was passed caring. He was
drunk with passion,
high on ecstasy. He was strung-out in a spinning cosmos of delirium.

The next man grabbed him roughly. They were all straight, but all
desperate for his compliant
hole. Bertram willingly gave it up yet again. The next frustrated guy
took him aggressively. He
unceremoniously forced a huge thick cock into Bertram. However as he
drove the monster inside,
he became strangely affectionate.
"White man, you belong to me only."
"I do?"
"You are mine. Just mine. You're my wife." He whispered tenderly.
Bertram was held in the breathless darkness as the man pumped him
greedily. Somehow the
words acquired a resonance and Bertram realised that the tall dark
powerful warrior that impaled
him could have been a special lover in another circumstance. Bertram
began to wank himself,
thrusting against the perfect ideal, the perfect slick length that had
entered him.
"I'm coming." He stifled as his tall, perfect man slammed into him,
buttocks thrusting as he shot
his hot load deep into the shuddering white arse.
He withdrew quickly and Bertram felt profoundly lost.

It was not long before the steamy blackness consumed him. Bertram would
have preferred to
linger in the arms someone special, but there was nothing special to
believe in. This was prison.
This was the place that a person relinquished choice and became a pawn of
circumstance.

There were already other guys fiddling with his well-serviced butt. They
all wanted a piece of the
action and Bertram felt need to come again. A desire that removed all
remnants of inhibition.

There was already a more modest cock begging entrance into Bertram. By
the sound of his voice,
Bertram guessed that it was likely to be a young man in his twenties.
However, his expertise
seemed extensive. He knew exactly what he was doing as he poked and
prodded, hitting the
delightful spots of Bertram's innards with his rigid weapon. He started
pounding, hungry as hell.
Exploring a saturated cosmos with an enthusiastic prick. He came in
minutes and grunted noisily
as his thrusts subsided.

Black was beginning to feel like one of those female toads he had seen on
'Discovery' that
becomes inundated with males during the mating season. He suspected,
however that the only
thing he might be spawning was another disaster, particularly if the
guards took an interest in his
nighttime antics.

Meanwhile the next fucker was eagerly pushing off the young guy. Black
judged him an older
man by the relaxed texture of his buttocks. The prick was the biggest
yet, but only gently hard.
This man kissed. Pressed his body against Bertram as if they were long
lost lovers; joyous in their
reunion.

Bertram felt his beard on his ravaged breasts as the old man whispered
breathless promises in his
ear. His experienced cock found it's mark and drove unrelentingly into
him and it was joy. Black
grabbed his thrusting buttocks as he drove his veined monster deep into
his molten core. It was
perfection and it was ecstasy. The old man panted as his experienced dick
pumped its boiling
eruption deep into the silky plunge pool.

There were still more men. There were still more cocks to be taken.
Bertram lay on his back and
occasionally thought of England. He lost count of the number of guys who
fucked him like a
bitch. He came once more. Then he came again. Then as the last frustrated
cock injected its spunk
into his swamped rectum, he shot off the last few frantically jerked-off
drops. He was utterly
drained and there was nothing left to know. In his final sleeping
moments, he offered a prayer to
an imaginary god for the providence of pleasure.


Part 8 -- LAWS OF KARMA.

"I've asked the guard to leave us alone today. There's a rather salient
matter we need to discuss."
Kurtz sat. Lit a cigarette, exhaling a billowing plume into the
oppressive confines. Black seemed
distant to him. But that was of no consequence. What he needed to say
would not take long.
Besides, his patience had finally run out. A crossroads had been reached
in Black's fragile
existence. He glared at his countryman with barely disguised loathing.
"Listen Black, I'll be blunt with you. I'll be damned if you think I am
going to stand by and let
you harm British interests in this region with a lengthy, public legal
battle. There's too much at
stake here. Way too much. I'm telling you this for your own good. Make a
full confession of
murder and I'll ensure that you get a fair hearing in England. Fail to do
so and well...I won't be
answerable for the consequences."
Black stared at Kurtz agog, disbelieving. The insinuation hung ominously
in the prevailing
gloom. Finally, Kurtz's composed mask of civility was slipping away,
revealing a monstrous
reality.
"I would strongly advise that you cooperate, Mr Black. I'm telling you
this as a personal courtesy.
Time is running out. More specifically, Mr Black, your time is running
out."
He fixed Black with an imperious stare. His steely gaze lacked compassion
or humanity. To
Black, they seemed twin pinholes into some dismal bottomless pit.
"Fuck you, Kurtz! Go to hell!"
A mosquito buzzed and circled from some remote space. Black felt its
bite; inevitable somehow
on his bare shin. It seemed that the entire world was a kind of vampire,
draining away life and
hope. He shifted listlessly.
Kurtz's smile was more of a grimace that exposed an ugly array of
glittering teeth.
"Clearly, there is little point in continuing this discussion. Never
mind. I had hoped for a more
amicable solution but that, as they say, is how the cookie crumbles."
He sneered, belligerently. It was an expression that chilled Black's
blood.
"No matter." Kurtz hastened, almost incidentally. "I'll bid you good
night Mr Black. I trust you'll
sleep soundly tonight."
Again, insinuation; thinly veiled threat. Black stood, eyeing the enemy,
emboldened now in his
knowing the true nature of things. In that instant, an idea acquired
volition in his mind. In
appearance, there was little separating the two of them. In another time,
another circumstance,
they could have been brothers. In that split second, his lightening fist
struck Kurtz full square on
the jaw, sending him reeling against the wall. His head rebounded from it
with a satisfying thud.

Black was vaguely aware from his newly acquired Cartier watch that it had
taken him just over
four minutes to strip Kurtz of everything. His unconscious form was now
adorned with the same
soiled, counterfeit Polo boxer shorts that Black remembered buying from
Hackney market one
cool crisp winter afternoon in London. They seemed eminently befitting
for someone such as
Kurtz.

Black held his head high as he sauntered casually along the corridor. He
was conscious now that
image, demeanour and attitude would be the determinants of freedom. Aware
that, by now, a
different duty officer would have started his nightshift. Sure enough as
he reached the counter he
was regarded evenly. Black handed him a bundle of large denomination Cedi
notes as he levelled
with the desk.

"We've concluded business now. You can return the prisoner to the cell."
The duty officer looked slightly quizzical, seemingly awaiting some
further explanation. Black
returned an arrogant stare.
"He'll be receiving a visitor soon. Very soon, I dare say. He'll ask to
see Mr Black in privacy.
"Ah, okay. His lawyer?"
Black could not prevent a sardonic smile creeping across his face. As one
hand felt the reassuring
profile of Kurtz's car keys and the other fingered his bloated wallet,
his dour mood shifted
imperceptibly.
"Yes," came his sibilant reply, "It'll be his lawyer. Please ensure that
they get absolute privacy,
will you?"
"Okay."
Outside the decaying building, a glittering cityscape appeared engulfed
by the encroaching night.
Black paused, drinking in the blackness. His effigy had acquired new
form; ersatz, devious,
manipulative. He was now a carbon copy of the world that he had come to
know.

Copyright Graham Collett 2007