On my back, legs spread and bent, concentrating on stretching my channel, on the mat in the grass-roofed shed behind the back-alley bar in Kinshasa's red-light district, the tall, gangly black kneeling between my knees, pressing my shoulder blades to the mat and staring intently down into my eyes, as I moaned, arched my back, all of my sensations concentrated on that impossibly long, thick shaft moved in and out inside my channel. Impossibly long, moving deep, me raising my pelvis, spreading my cheeks wide with the palms of my hands, taking as much of it as I could--taking more than I ever thought I'd be challenged to take. Loving it. Feeding my fetish.
Felix stood by, in the doorway of the shed, backlit by the swirl of bodies and the sound of off-key music and men's boisterous voices in the bar just steps away. The guide gave me a reassuring, "it's what you want; it's what we came here for" look.
"
Prends-le, mec. Prends tout
--Take it, man. Take it all," the emaciating thin, tall, but well-muscled black man murmured as he slow fucked me. "
Putain, tu le prends profonde
--Fuck, you take it deep."
Yes, yes, that's what I was doing. That's what Felix would find for me.
"
J'adore ce cul arabe
--Love that Arab ass."
All fine, except that I was American, not Arab. With South Asian--Indian--in me. Probably not much of that in a place like this.
Feeding my fetish. I surfaced visions of a big, black mamba snake wriggling inside me, moving deeper, having its way with me, nipping me here and there along my rippling walls, making me jerk and cry out at its glorious cruelty. I relaxed, panted softly every fiber of me concentrated on it going deeper and deeper, possessing me fully.
"Yes, yes, yes!" And in case the male whore didn't understand English, "
Oui out. Oh merde, oui!
--Yes, yes, oh, shit, Yes!" I had boned up on my French for this journey up the Congo.
"I think you're Jacob's first Indian," Felix, my Congolese guide for the river journey up the Congo, said, as he stood there beside the mat, just inside the doorway, his own impossibly long cock out of his fly and being stroked as he watched. The Congolese whore's pale-palmed, long-fingered hands spread out over my buttocks, brushing my hands away, squeezing the cheeks more open, lifting my hips, hooking my knees on his boney hips, and putting my weight on my shoulder blades. This gave him even deeper access to my channel, which he immediately filled with throbbing cock. I dug my heels into the mattress, thrusting my pelvis up higher, rocking against him, taking him deeper and deeper.
I reached around; clutched his thin, bunching and releasing, buttocks; and cried out "
Oui, oui, Baise-moi!
--Fuck me!" leaving no doubt about my surrender to him.
Felix had assured me that taking Congolese shaft would be an experience I'd never forget. I couldn't bely him that, as I panted hard, moaned deeply, and concentrated on opening more, taking more, reveling in the pain-passion-pleasure of it.
"
Oui, oui, plus profond. Plus profond!
--Yes, yes. Deeper, Deeper!" I cried out. The whore laughed and dug deeper.
My mentor, the Moroccan-American doctor, Mah'mud Hamid, back in Boston, who had sent me on this mission, was built large, but nothing like this Congolese whore was--or, for the matter of fact, the handsome guide, Felix, hovering over us and beating himself off--not that I'd taken Felix's cock, yet, although I ached to. Knowing I had a size fetish, as well as a black cock one, Hamid had used the statistic that Congolese men were statistically the largest to entice me to take this mission. He enjoyed covering me, but he wanted his favorite submissive back--and that, alas, wasn't me.
I took it all, moaning, feeling it penetrate deep, throbbing, fully possessing me in my central core. I continued clutching the gangly male whore's thin buttocks with one hand, helping with the steady rhythm of his slow, penetrating thrusts, and stroking off my own cock with the other hand. When I had come, I surrendered entirely, collapsing under him, fully open, fully vulnerable, face turned to Felix, my eyes focused on him stroking himself off, and let the black Congolese whore continue working me in my core.
I wasn't really Indian, although my parents were from Mumbai. I was second-generation American, a newly minted generalized doctor--which was what had brought me to the Congo on my Stanley-Livingstone-type mission.
"I told you Congolese men were the world champions on cock size," Felix said, with a laugh, shaking his own mammoth-sized shaft at me, and the vigor of the black male whore who had brought us to the shack behind the bar increased in speed and depth. "And have you seen one as black as that before?" He was making sure he was playing both of my fetishes.
Yes, he had told me Congolese cocks were champions, producing his own while we were standing at the bar between the shed and the alley earlier as we watched a small, but heavenly endowed young Congolese black guy dancing a pole.
"And if you think I'm big, look at what Jacob here is packing." He had grabbed the passing tall, gaunt-thin, but well-muscled black guy in just a pagne, a richly colored piece of cloth, knotted at the waist, as he passed while serving drinks. Jacob stood patiently, smiling, full of justified pride, as Felix unknotted the pagne and let it drop away.
"
Aimez-vous mon ami amΓ©ricain ici? Il est amΓ©ricain mais son peuple vient de l'Inde
--Do you like my American friend here? He is American but his people are from India."
"
C'est l'homme que tu veux que je baise?