"God, he was big. Christ, he was huge. Fuck, he was punishing me." The mantra kept running through my mind. And I wasn't just talking about Jomata Nyoni's height, breadth, and belly. I'd been told that he was called the Man Splitter in Uganda when he was working his evil as one of Idi Amin's enforcers, but that was about his work with an ax. Nobody had told me he was horse hung. I gasped and groaned again as he lifted my body until just his bulb was inside me and then slammed me down on his shaft again, going deep. If the water of the Mediterranean hadn't been up above our waists, which took a lot of the force out of his power slams, I don't think I could have handled it. He was as cruel at cocking as his reputation said he had been as a Ugandan thug.
I wasn't left with any doubt about being disposable in his eyes.
We were in the water, beyond where the waves broke on the beach. He was crouched down, taking the weight of my body on his thighs, facing the private beach below the villa on the French Riviera, not far from the border of Monaco. Nyoni had exiled himself here no doubt within escape distance to the principality should he get wind that France was going to get around to extraditing him back to Uganda to face war crimes trials. He'd managed to stay on the run but in the lap of luxury for thirty-five years, more than half his lifetime.
My legs were spread, my thighs resting on his massive ones. He was gripping and spreading my butt cheeks in his beefy hands, which he was using to lift me and slam me down on his cock. The man was twice as big as I was—and I'm not a small man—and three times more physically powerful. I clutched his bulging biceps in my hands. The Mediterranean rose and fell behind him, but not in my view. My view was of a broad, beefy, both fat and muscular torso, with native tattooing and the tattooing of more than one bullet scar and several knife slashings.
He'd obviously had a rough life. He was making my life rough now. I cried again in pain as he lifted me and slammed me down on the cock, reaching deep into my core, where I was still soft and rarely tested. Much more of this and he'd do damage, not that he cared if he did damage. Man Splitter, I thought. Man Splitter! I took one of my hands off a bicep, leaving it to him to keep me in place in front of and facing him with the strength of his hands. I managed to snake the hand between where our thighs met our groins, get hold of his ball sack, and roll and squeeze his balls.
With a roar, he creamed me deep when he slammed me down again. I had had to do it; it was a matter of self-preservation. He pushed me off him into a wave rolling past us, turned his body, dove into the water, and started to swim laps with strong, Australian-crawl strokes parallel to the beach.
When I was able to stop shuddering and trembling, I turned and struggled through the churning water back to the beach. As I walked out of the surf, I checked to ensure that Nyoni's two Ugandan bodyguards, Mulumba and Kato, were still stationed at the top of the wooden staircase going up to the stone terrace of the villa. They were, and they had their eyes glued on me, no doubt grinning behind their sunglasses. Younger by decades than Nyoni, they were both black bull musclemen—stereotyped bodyguard thugs. They also both had had me already and were certain, I'm sure, that they would have me again.
They had both fucked me the previous night and no doubt planned to be given the same privilege tonight, assuming I'd still be around then. I had hooked up with Nyoni in the casino in Monaco the previous night. We'd been playing at the same table, and we were both losing. But to him losing wasn't nearly as painful as I was showing my losing was. When I'd gone bust, he volunteered to stake me again.
"Why? Why would I let you do that? Why would you want to do it?" I'd asked. I knew why. He'd been signaling for more than an hour.
"Because I want to fuck you," he'd said, baldly stating his intent. "Your ass for these blue chips."
"That's OK," I'd said, "Thanks for the offer, but I think it's time for me to pack it in for the night anyway."
"Don't tell me that men don't buy you and fuck you," he said. "I saw you come into the casino with Count Orsini. I know he pays for it. I want to fuck you."
"We'll see if I see you in here tomorrow night," I'd said. "I think I'm a little scared of you."
"Good," he said. "You have reason to be afraid of what I'll put in you. But fear will make it more interesting for both of us when I fuck you."
"You certainly don't mince words, to you?" I said, trying to sound neutral, and stood up from the table.
I went to the men's room and when I came back, he was gone, as were the two goons who had stood behind him while we'd played the table.
I'd gotten no more than twenty yards from the casino when a big honking black Land Rover pulled up beside me and strong arms pulled me inside. Nyoni fucked me on the backseat while they were driving back to his villa. I struggled a bit just to establish that this wasn't by my choice, but he was much too heavy and strong for me, getting on top of me across the backseat and between my parted legs, stunning me with a backhand across the face, getting my trousers off and his fly open and then one of my ankles trapped in a strap above the column between the seats. I knew he had reinforcements he could call on from the front seat, but he didn't need them. His hand was covering my mouth and nose, controlling my oxygen supply until he was inside me, at which time there wasn't much use to struggle anymore and I collapsed under him and took the cock hard and deep in surrender, completely open to him. I even murmured how filling he was as he got going good. I think I mentioned a "Yes, yes," and "Fuck me" from time to time and clutched at his shoulder blades as symbolic of my complicity once he was inside me to help him decide I wasn't immediately disposable, and I moved my pelvis and sighed for him to work on his vanity.
He was a serious cocksman even in the back of a Land Rover, putting a lot of motion into his hips and buttocks and taking me with long, strong strokes. He obviously had done this a lot before—even the snatching aspect of it, I'll bet. "Man Splitter" couldn't help but come to my mind. The thug at the wheel spent more time looking at us through the rear-view mirror than watching the road, and the other bodyguard unabashedly turned in his seat and watched. He had been the one to trap my ankle in the overhead strap.
Once there, at his seaside villa, Nyoni let Mulumba fuck me in the backseat as well. I was too exhausted to do more than lay on my back, moaning, with my legs parted, and let the black bull muscleman do pushups on my ass. Nyoni fucked me on his bed and then Kato fucked me in the bathroom off the bedroom they took me to, nailing me over the toilet, with my hands and cheek pressed into the tiles behind the toilet tank. To keep them from having any terminal ideas, I took the follow-up fucks with a modest amount of enthusiasm, complimenting each on being high on the proficiency and equipment scale of my experience with johns. It wasn't a lie. All three of them were hung bulls and all three were cruel cocksmen, leaving every impression that they fucked for keeps. Everything was hunky-dory, of course. I had confessed to being a rent-boy for hire and Nyoni filled my wallet with money before they fucked me. Of course there was little question at the time that they were going to fuck me regardless.
