Not in Enya

"Is the prisoner here, in the examination room?" The doctor for the central jail in Nairobi and I were standing in a white-walled narrow corridor outside a door with a plastic folder attached to it to hold medical records.

"Yes, Inspector. His name is John. He's barely nineteen."

"How sure are you?"

"Very sure. I thought of calling you in immediately. He's been beaten rather badly and they used something thick . . . in addition. That's why I called you."

"What is he in for?"

"Soliciting on the street, of course. That's why it's so easy to identify them."

"So, you think?"

"Yes, of course. That's why I sent for you."

"Is that all he's here for?"

"His sheet says robbery as well. Will that make it easier?"

"It should."

The doctor ushered me into the room. "John, this is Inspector White. Inspector Cedric White. He's on loan from the British police. You can safely tell him everything."

I looked at the Kenyan prisoner, John, and then had to look away. The doctor had said he was nineteen, but he didn't look nearly that age. He was just wearing prison shorts and was barefoot. And I could see how he would have gotten in the position he was in. Other than a face that looked like hamburger now and bruises all of his willowy ebony torso, there was an androgynous beauty about him and I could easily see that he would be appealing to a certain kind of man. He was sitting on a cushion, but more on one thigh than the other and was fidgeting.

"I'm here to help you, if I can, John," I said, as I sat on what would have been the doctor's chair and the doctor closed the door to the examination room behind him. "What has happened to you?"

"Nothing. Just a misunderstanding."

"With other prisoners?" I asked.

He didn't answer. I could tell that he was withdrawing into himself.

"If you don't tell me what happened, I'll have to have you sent back," I said.

That got his attention. I could see the panic rising in him. I was about to lose him.

"I'm not from the Kenya police," I said. "The doctor sent for me because I'm not. He knows what's happened to you. You've been sexually assaulted, haven't you?"

Nothing for a moment and then a terse nod.

"It wasn't other prisoners, was it? It was your jailers."

A short pause and then, "They used their batons at first. At first." He looked away, tears in his eyes and then he looked back and said with ferocity in his voice, "You won't send me back there, will you? I can't go right back."

"No, that's why I'm here, John. I won't send you back. There's another jail. A better one. And I can put on your papers that you're in for robbery, not for anything else. If you can just not . . . while you're there. If you can hold yourself in check, they won't know, probably—we can hope—won't take advantage. Can you do that?"

Tears in his eyes, he nodded, and, putting a hand on my forearm now, murmured, "I'd do anything for you to help me. Anything."

And I could tell that he was serious, that he would do anything not to be sent back to the jailers here, even as bruised and sliced up as he was.

"If you're going to last the next two years, you need to stop saying that to just anyone, son," I said, as I stood and left the room. I didn't make it back to my office before I was being paged to go out immediately into the bush out near Embu on an emergency. Since I was here in an effort to mellow the Kenyan police out on their attitudes towards homosexuals, in which they were only parroting the national attitudes, homosexuality being illegal here still, I had to assume that something in this regard was going down. I decided to take one of the transport vans, as it was likely that some poor soul who had gotten himself into trouble needed to be removed from the scene to a more neutral corner.

* * * *

I was guided into my destination, the last building down a long, dusty track bordered by a line of African palm trees, by a filmy column of smoke. When I arrived at the smoldering building, only scorched walls now, not more than twenty by thirty feet, with what had been a palm-leaf roof, it was like I hadn't come a minute too soon.

Two local Kenyan police officers had a young man, just in sports briefs, on his knees between them and one of the local cops had a baton raised menacingly. They stopped and withdrew a couple of steps from the guy on his knees when I pulled to a stop near them.

I felt my body tense up as I got out of the van and approached them. The kneeling young man was maybe the most handsome and well-built Kenyan I'd ever seen—not tall and gangling, but well fed, though not overfed by any means. He had his wrists handcuffed behind his back.

"What do we have here?" I asked, as I approached.

"Another one of them," one of the policeman answered. "We were just ready to take him in."

I wasn't at all sure that taking him anywhere was what they had been planning to do next. With my mind on the young, beaten man I'd just left at the Nairobi jail infirmary, I wasn't at all sure I hadn't just interrupted another example of taking their time in taking him into custody. For all the belligerence these people seemed to have against gays, their violence toward them, as I had seen since I'd arrived here, certainly took on sexual overtones.

As politely as I could I maneuvered my body between the kneeling man and the policeman on one side and said, "Thank you. I'll take it from here. You may leave."

I must have spoken authoritatively and decisively enough, as the two backed off. I put my hand out to the one who looked like he was senior and said, "Handcuff key, please." I had guessed right. He meekly handed me the key. They walked way, muttering between each other—they no doubt had been told I wasn't to be messed up; I rather publicly was here to monitor a police force that had gotten a reputation for violence, especially against gays. I watched them mount their bicycles, and, with not more than two looks back each, they took to the dusty track that I'd come down.

"Now," I said, turning to the young man when I'd seen the last of the local policeman, "What's the story on this burnt building? Are you the neighborhood arsonist?"

The young man snorted, obviously able to appreciate my reference to the neighborhood, as this was the only building in evidence in any direction across a scrub plain. His response took me by surprise and not just by what he said.

"I hardly think so," he said, in refined English. "This was both my office and my home. I'm not the one who burned it down. They—the ones who burned it—were still here when those policemen arrived, but, naturally, I was the only one taken into custody."

"You speak beautiful English," I said in surprise. It wasn't the only thing about him that was beautiful and that was having its effect, as well.

"Educated at Oxford," he answered "I've only been home for six months."

That explained the robust body, I thought. He hadn't been home long enough for starvation to have had its effect. "So, what were you doing in that building to get it burned down?"

"My name is Raili Kimeu," he said. "I think we should start off being civilized."

"In which case, you can stand up," I responded.

"I like the view from here," he said, giving me a smile. I wasn't sure what he meant—then at least. His eyes were at my crotch level. This disturbed me a bit, as he was having a stirring effect on my crotch.

"My name is Cedric," I answered, and then, realizing that, considering the circumstance, I was being too familiar, I said. "Inspector Cedric White. I was sent here from Nairobi headquarters."

"To save me or to brutalize me for being homosexual?"

"Certainly not the latter. I haven't ascertained what you were being detained for yet, though. If you didn't burn this building down, who did, and why?"

"I returned from the UK to work for homosexual rights in Kenya," he answered. "It's primitive that loving your own gender is still outlawed here. I am—or was, at least—publishing a gay rights journal from here."

"Ah, I see. Well, what are we going to do with you? Did the policeman fill out any paperwork here—take down your name or anything—before I arrived?"

"Not that I saw. And you may do whatever you wish with me. Come closer."

"Excuse me?" I asked, apprehensive and shocked. Had he been able to read what had raced through my mind?

"Come closer. You don't know me, but I know you, although I had no idea you were a policeman. I've seen you at Alexander's. Were you doing undercover work there? If so, you were doing it very convincingly."

Ah, Alexander's. The underground gay bar I sneaked into in a basement in Nairobi when I couldn't take the isolation and denial any longer. And, no, if he'd seen me there he wouldn't think I was on any sort of sting operation. Compelled, I moved forward, to where I was standing close to where he still knelt, his hands cuffed behind his back.

I moaned as he rubbed his cheek along the erection line inside my trousers—an erection that had been caused by a combination of being keyed up in the previous interview with the assaulted rent-boy prisoner and the ebony beauty of this young man kneeling in only sports briefs. Obviously the house had started burning while he was asleep, and he had escaped the fire with no more than what he'd worn to bed.

"Unzip yourself and pull it out," he said in a hoarse voice. "Let me suck you off. I wanted to do that the first time I saw you at Alexander's. Then you can take me in on a charge of what I clearly am and do."

"Not here," I answered, my voice no more than a croak. "In the van, where we can't be seen as well."

I was in the driver's seat and he, still cuffed, in the passenger seat, when I unzipped my trousers and fished out my cock. I was in full erection and the only thing he said before leaning over and taking it in his mouth was, "It's so big. I knew it would be."

He blew me for several minutes to the sound of his sucking mouth on my cock and balls and my answering groans, as I palmed the back of his wooly haired head to encourage him to deep throat me.

When both my cock and my ears were throbbing, he pulled off and murmured, "Wouldn't we both be more comfortable in the passenger seat?"

He was fully naked, and I was still clothed, except for my unzipped fly and my open shirt, as he sat in my lap, my cock buried up his ass canal, him facing me, and, my lips teasing each of the nipples on his smooth, ebony, taunt-skin over well-developed muscle chest. I rocked him back and forth on my cock and lifted him and set him down with my hands on his thin waist to maximize the friction of my cock working deep inside him.

I hadn't come prepared, and everything he owned was smoldering in his house. Neither of us had mentioned a condom or stopped in the dance to the fuck long enough to mention it, so I was barebacking him with a maximum sensitivity quotient of bloated skin sliding on undulating channel walls.

"In the back of the van," I said, with a gasp. "You'll be more comfortable. The rhythm will be steadier. I should be able to reach deeper."

"If you reach deeper you'll bruise my tonsils," he said with a laugh, but he pulled off me and I opened the passenger door.

The floor of the van, behind the barred windows separating it from the driver's compartment, was hard, but there were pads on the benches on either side of the compartment. I laid him down full length on one pad and folded the other one over to put under the small of his back, raise his buttock, and create a straight angle for the slide of the cock in his ass.

There were plenty of anchors for chains, and there were multiple sets of handcuffs in the van, so there was no trouble cuffing his arms above him, running to opposite sides of the outer edges of the front compartment seat backs, nor was there a problem in spread-eagling and raising his legs to handcuff to anchors at the back corners of the interior compartment.

He arched his back as I knelt between his spread and bound-off legs, slid back inside him, and he cried out, "Oh, god, that is deeper."

I leaned my torso over his, anchoring my fists on either side of his stretched chest and raised his face to where he could lick my chest hair and suck and nibble on my nubs while, slow, at first, and ever faster, I pumped his channel.

When he arched his torso and head back as I was giving it to him hard, his mouth took in the dog tags that dangled from a chain on my neck and sucked and teethed them. As I tensed and ejaculated inside him, his was panting hard and I could hear the teeth tearing at the metal of the dog tags. He came up my belly in the wake of my last spurt of cum inside him.

* * * *

"I don't think this is either Nairobi police headquarters or the jail," Raili said as I brought the van to a stop.

Leaving him trussed in the back of the van, I'd driven to the first clothing store I could found and bought a shirt and a pair of shorts. It was an open-front store right on the road, selling mostly army surplus, and the clothes I'd bought probably had been Kenyan army issue. The bosomy, toothless women at the stall kept trying to tell me that the shirt and shorts would never fit me—and she smacked her lips like she was very glad that my body wouldn't fit into them, but I just ignored her, paid half of the marked price, which made her grin at her good fortune, and stopped a mile down the road to open up the back, unshackle Raili, let him dress, and then put him in the passenger seat, his ankles locked together by a pair of handcuffs.

He'd given me a half questioning look—he actually hadn't questioned much of what I'd said or done up to that point; there was no objection in him at all when I'd fucked him—and I merely said that I didn't think it was in his best interest to run off while we were driving back to Nairobi. I already had in mind what I wanted to do.

"It's not either of those," no, I answered. "This is my house."

"Going to fuck me some more before taking me to jail?" he asked. He turned his face to the window, giving my neat little government-issue bungalow scrutiny.

"I hope to fuck you some more," I answered quietly. "But I won't force you. If you don't want—"

"What does it matter?" he asked. "You're with the police. You'll fuck me if you want to, one way or the other."

"Was that what that was back in Embu?" I asked, keeping my voice low, calm. "You didn't fight me because I am a policeman?"

"No, I didn't fight you because I wanted you to fuck me—ever since I saw you at Alexander's. I didn't know you were a policeman then, though."

"And it's the police you feel you're fighting on the gay rights issue, isn't it?"

"Among others."

"Do you want to go into my house or not? If you go into my house I'm going to fuck you again."

* * * *

Raili was spread-eagled, belly down on my bed, arms and legs pulled to the four corners of the bed and cuffed there. I stuffed several pillows under his belly, which pointed his deliciously mounded butt cheeks toward the ceiling. And I'd spent some time eating his ass out, pulling his cock and balls through his legs and sucking them, and milking his cock to an ejaculation while I lapped at his asshole.

He spent his time moaning, groaning, and egging me on, telling me of the pleasure I was bringing him—and begging to get on with the cocking phase. If he was pretending, he was a great actor. Once I got started, of course, it wouldn't matter that much if he was enjoying himself or not. I was besotted with him. I had to have him six ways from Sunday.

When his begging for the cock became really believable, I crouched over him from above, encircled his waist with an arm, mounted him and gave him the length and girth of me deep and hard. He murmured the pleasure of feeling my silky chest hair rub across his back. My dog tags dangled down to beside his face—I'd notice later that they were bent and had teeth marks of them—and he turned his head, took them into his mouth, and sucked and teethed them and pounded his ass to a bareback ejaculation. I had condoms in the nightstand now, but, after the session in the back of the van, it seem superfluous to use them.

Besides, he said it had been the first time he'd taken it skin on skin and he didn't really want it from me any other way again, the devil may care.

I felt every inch the devil. I was supposed to protect prisoners from police predators and the condemnation of the public. But then, he wasn't really a prisoner, other than the handcuffs, I wasn't denying I swung this way, and he gave every signal that he wanted it. Or was I reading this just to support what I'd wanted to do—and then done?

Other than sex talk, we didn't speak about anything in particular or meaningful until the second fucking after I'd taken him to the kitchen and fed and watered him after the first time. I'd kept him handcuffed in some form throughout. I hadn't pitched him on what I had in mind yet.

I took him more intimately the next time on my bed. I fucked him in a side split, his wrists handcuffed together to the headboard and his ankles handcuffed together. My thighs split him, and I held him close to me, stretched along him from the back, our mouths meeting in a lingering kiss, and my dick slowly mining his ass.

"Can we dispense with these bindings now," I asked in a murmur after we'd both come. "You don't want to sleep bound like this, do you?"

"Yes, take them off. This key must go to one set," he answered, pushing a small key out of his mouth.

"You had a key all along," I said, surprised. "You could have taken the cuffs off any time back in the van."

"Yes. I got them out of your trouser pocket. I wasn't sure of you. But then, quickly, I was."

I freed his wrists and ankles. The binding hadn't been my idea—not from the first. Raili had demanded it. He'd said he didn't want me fucking him if he couldn't feel the pleasure of being incapacitated and taken advantage of by a police officer—just what I was here in Kenya to make sure a young man didn't have to feel.

"What now?" he asked of me in the gathering dark as I held him close, my dick going flaccid inside him, but still inside him. "Do we go to the police for booking now on the charge of being a homo and letting my house be burned down—and maybe assaulting a police officer?"

"I haven't arrested you . . . and we've already established that the handcuffs were your fetish, not mine. You have two choices. In the morning—I can't bear to let you out of my bed tonight—in the morning I can drive you anywhere you want in the area, let you off, and make any reference to arresting you disappear."

"Or?"

"Or you can stay with me and I'll help you with your gay rights journal."

"Help me with my journal? How? The printing press was destroyed? And why? It's against the law. You're a policeman."

"I'm a British policeman, not a Kenyan policeman, and I was sent here to try to help get rid of the effects of this antigay law. I'll help you, but I suggest some changes. Don't put the journal out in paper. Distribution is a high risk. Use the Internet like everyone else does. Run a Web site."

"A Web site? How could I manage that in Kenya?"

"By using the Kenyan government. We can put the site up under the government's nose—on a government server. I could make it one of my programs. I could say it's a homosexual sting operation and that I have all the manpower I needed to run it. No one would even look at it from the government standpoint. The only sticking point is that someone else would have to provide the changing content. I couldn't do that. I could run the Web site right from here, this house. Right under their noses. They'd never look for the source here. If you continued to do the content, though, you'd have to do it from here. And that would mean—"

"Yes."

"Yes what?" I asked.