Date: Tue, 14 Jun 2005 21:56:41 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat, Part 22

(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