0 comments/ 31065 views/ 5 favorites To Serve By: Sir_Will Anne was just approaching 30, she had struggled her way through a number of jobs before joining Fulcrum. She had trained as a nurse, worked in a hospital, then an old peoples home in her quest to find herself something which enabled her to work and help other people. All had been a struggle and in the end she had given it all up, taken a secretarial course and, after several attempts, landed her current job in the support team. Fulcrum had only been in business for seven years and had grown rapidly on the strength of their main database product which now powered many of the major corporate web sites. Most of their customers were major wholesalers using Fulcrum software to support on-line catalogues and ordering, but they also has won many contracts with porn sites where it was used to hold the files of pictures sent in by so-called amateurs. This part of Fulcrum's business while profitable, was not mentioned in most of their publicity! Much of their success had been largely down to Mike Andersen, a brash 35 year old sales and marketing director who worked hard long hours and traveled extensively. He had a support team of 10, four of which had been there from the start, the rest were all short timers. The reason for the high turn-over was simple, Mike was a hard guy to work for, he demanded that his staff worked similar hours to himself, seemed to care little for their home life and was in the habit of swearing and shouting at people who he believed were not pulling their weight. He had recently fired two of his team for being drunk on a Friday evening when he needed them to put together a proposal for a new client. The fact that they had already clocked up over 60 hours each that week mattered little. Mike seemed to have no social life of his own. Everybody knew he was divorced (but everybody thought they knew why his wife had left him), nobody had heard him mention a girlfriend or seen him with a woman who was not a client, and several thought he must be gay! So when, on a winter's morning, David called Anne into his office to say that she was being temporarily transferred to Sales & marketing, her heart sank. She wanted to ask what she had done wrong to deserve this transfer but, as was her nature, she kept quiet and accepted the situation. She believed that she would not be able to cope and would be out of her job in a few days, especially if she had to do any work for Mr. Andersen! She was relieved to find herself working with two others on a new account for one of the junior salesmen. She was amazed to find that the work was within her capabilities. She even enjoyed it and worked long hours because the time seemed to fly past. It also enabled her to observe the all powerful Mr Andersen from a safe distance. This tall blond haired man did not seem to her to be the ogre that everybody said he was. Yes he shouted a lot (but always with just cause), he was demanding and worked at least as hard as his team. She found the power and authority that he seemed to exude attractive and the fact that nobody knew anything about him outside work added that touch of mystery. It was on one such day when she was musing over his qualities while collating several copies of the latest proposal that she was jerked back into reality but the sound of Mike's booming voice right behind her. "Anne. Come into my office" an instruction from the master. The rest of the team looked up to see what was going on and she felt their eyes on her as she followed Mr. Andersen into his office. What had she done wrong? What mistake had she made? She felt the carpet under her feet as they entered the office. Andersen slammed the door shut behind her. Anne" he began looking down at the papers on his desk "you have done well helping Angus." He looked up briefly to see a nervous young woman looking back at him with downcast eyes. "It's OK Anne I'm not going to eat you" he smiled (slightly but a smile nonetheless), the first one she could ever remember seeing on him. "But I have an important project coming up and want to know if you will stay with us longer and join the team?" She did not know what to say at first, totally unprepared for this new turn of events. "well yes" she eventually managed to stutter, "but I have still to finish up on the other project for Angus." "Oh that" he went back to the papers on his desk "well they can do all that. I doubt we will win it anyway." She wondered if Angus knew that four weeks of his work were likely to end a loss! "Report to Margaret my secretary tomorrow and she will sort out your tickets." Tickets? What tickets? He looked up and saw the question written large on her face "Oh sorry the client is in Sweden, we leave next week for Stockholm. Make sure you pack some warm things its cold and dark over there." He gave another half smile and waved her out of the office. Two days later she found herself sitting in business class on a jumbo jet bound for Europe. Mike had apparently gone on ahead and there was just her and Margaret now jetting over to join him, weighed down with a combination of laptop computers and winter clothing. Anne had never really spoken to Margaret before but during the nine hour flight they chatted amiably about Fulcrum, work (but not Mike himself), their backgrounds. Anne discovered that this smarty dressed red-head had worked for Mike for three years. He had always been aloof but fair and had made sure she always did well out of the annual bonus scheme. The extra money had bought her designer business suits and good holidays. Holidays she had shared with her girlfriend of several years. Yes Mike knew she was gay but seemed unconcerned as log as she did her work. Margaret complimented Anne on her work, not many had made such a quick impression, and said Mike had commented that she was probably the most accurate and diligent Admin. Assistant they had. Praise indeed! Anne could not help compare herself to Margaret as they chatted. While Margaret had the sort of curves men drool over and dressed well to show off her figure, Anne usually dressed very conservatively. Nobody would call her beautiful or even pretty. Her dark hair framed an attractive enough face and she used some make-up to enhance her looks. However her slight, almost boyish figure, was usually clad, as today, in jeans and a loose fitting top which did nothing to enhance the few curves she had. Perhaps one day, she mused, if she did well and got a good bonus, she would buy some nice clothes, perhaps even some nice lingerie? Who for? Was the question that flashed through her mind. She had a number of boyfriends, but none had stayed around long. A doctor had taken her cherry during her first year of nursing school. It had been a quick painful experience and he had cared little for her satisfaction. One boyfriend had stayed longer than most and she had tried hard to keep him. He had taught her to give oral sex and she allowed him to penetrate her rear with his finger, but had baulked at anything larger. Looking back on it, she had never really had true happiness in her relationships, her desire to help and look after her partners had often sent them running as they accused her of trying to mother or even smother them. Anne quickly found out that the job in Sweden would be Fulcrum's biggest ever contract if they won it. The three of them worked hard, putting in 12 or more hour days throughout the first week. At the weekend Margaret went back to Head Office to work on one part of the proposal leaving the inexperienced Anne with Mike. She made mistakes, he fired her twice, she cried and ran out of the room on both occasions before pulling herself together and returning to carry on as if nothing had happened. Another week went past and the shouting got less, she had not been "fired" for three days now and by Saturday they had virtually finished the proposal and presentation. Mike wanted to complete it before Saturday was out so, she found herself knocking on his hotel room door at 7 o'clock, laptop under her arm. He opened the door wearing a bathrobe, he smelled good to her - just from the shower - and she was glad she had also found time for a quick shower before returning to her work. He ushered her into the room directing her to the desk in the corner where she put down the PC, fumbling under the desk to plug it in. As she was down on her knees she noticed that the TV was on in the corner of the room. Two naked figures were writhing around, a well hung stud, sliding his massive cock into the pussy of a well endowed (enhanced Anne thought) beauty. She was mesmerised, looking at the images, only come back to real-life when a rather flustered Mike mumbled a "sorry about that" and turned off the set. Perhaps he is not gay then she thought. They worked into the evening, gradually refining the presentation until Mike seemed to be happy with the format, contents and style. "A job well done" he beamed "thanks for all your help. I hate putting these things together." "I have enjoyed it Mr Ander… sorry Mike" she could not get used to calling him that. "I like doing this sort of thing." "Well you have done well lets toast to a job well done." Mike went to the mini-bar and took out a bottle of champagne. He did not wait for a response from Anne. He poured two glasses and handed one to her. "To success" He clinked her glass and took a mouthful. Anne sipped hers; it was only the second time she had tasted champagne and knew that it would go straight to her head. Mike looked at her "Anne," he started, "you have done well and say that you like the job. How would you like to join me as a special personal assistant?" The offer took Anne by surprise and she was lost for words. Not that it mattered, Mike continued, barely pausing for breath "You have done a great job, you put up with my moods and shouting and I think you would be a great asset to the team and to me personally." Anne stuttered "I don't know what to say" she paused "why me?" "Well you should say yes and as to the 'Why me' question, I know you need the money, I can depend on you to get the work done." "But you don't know me, we have only worked together for a couple of weeks and …." Mike cut her short. "I know you well enough" he looked into her eyes, "I know you don't have a regular boyfriend, that you have drifted from job to job, and I know you take orders well and without question." How did he know about her personal life? The question did not linger long in Anne's mind as she pondered the job offer itself. The personal part of the job description came to the forefront of her mind. "Errrrr Mike you already have a PA, I am sure Margaret is very good at her job?" Anne said this more like a statement than a question. She looked back into these steely blue eyes for an answer. Mike looked serious and after an unusually long pause said in quiet, measured tones "She is good, but I think you may have special qualities which Margaret does not enjoy." Anne looked confused but did not say anything. Just as she was about to ask what these qualities may be Mike put up his hand to stop her. "I think you have an inner need to serve somebody, to place yourself into their hands, to let them guide you and instruct you, in return for which you would be happy to submit to their needs." He looked into her face, her eyes looked downwards. "Am I wrong?" Anne felt the words sting her. Here was her new boss, somebody who she barely knew, summing her up, speaking her innermost feelings. Was she transparent or was he merely very perceptive? "I know people in the office wonder about me" Mike continued " they probably think I'm gay" the small change in Anne's expression told him he was correct. "But I believe in keeping my private life, just that, private. I am not like most men, I enjoy using my power, such as it is, and my authority to get what I want in both my business and private life. If you take this job, I want you to share both with me." There was a long pause. Anne's thoughts rushed through her head. There was no doubt about his meaning. She was not a whore, but she was attracted to this man. She respected him, respected his power and authority. There was also the job which she wanted, no needed. Could she live up to his expectations? What were his expectations? Mike sensed the inner turmoil as she sat, head bowed before him, fidgeting slightly, gripping her glass. "Look at me" he said softly but firmly. She hesitated "Anne look at me now" she raised her head, again those deep blue eyes. "I don't like repeating myself, but you are new, you will learn. We will start now." Anne did not know where the words came from but from her mouth she simply said "Yes Mike, I would like to learn." "Come over here and kneel by me" she looked at him, put down her glass and moved to kneel on the carpet by his feet. She knew that in that short move, she had already crossed a chasm. She looked forward, staring at his robe, avoiding his eyes, awaiting her next instruction. It was a question "Have you ever performed oral sex on a boyfriend?" "Yes Mike" her barely audible reply. "That is how we will start Anne, I need to feel your lips around my cock. I want you to show me how well you can suck my cock." Her first challenge, one she would surely fail, given her limited experience. As if on some form of autopilot she saw her hands rise and undo Mike's robe and open it up. He was naked underneath his semi-rigid cock rising from his groin. Even in this state Anne could tell it was bigger than anything in her previous experience. Her small hand could barely closed around the shaft as she lifted it to her lips. It had to be six inches long already and it was not fully hard. She took the tip between her lips, for the first time tasting him, the sweet droplet of pre-cum washed over her lips as she bent her head to envelop the whole head. Her mind raced, what had she heard others say about giving a good blow-job? Yes, use your tongue; and hers snaked around the head, caressing his purple dome. She continued to lavish attention on his cockhead, taking a little more of him into her mouth, taking comfort that she was doing well from the increasing size and hardness of his cock. Mike looked down at the slight figure trying to please him. She was not the best, but she would learn and she had not been frightened by his size like some in the past. He reached down and touched her hair, smoothing it down with his palm, running his hand through the fine strands, resisting the urge to take her hair in his fist and force himself deep in her throat. Another time; he was content to let take things slowly. He placed his hand on the top of her head and pressed down lightly. Anne swallowed more of him until his cock hit the top her throat. She felt herself gag, but forced herself to continue to use her tongue to coat his organ with her saliva. Mike released the pressure and he let an inch of him escape. Breathing more heavily she swallowed him again, wanting to take him deeper but knowing his size would not allow it. "Use your fingers to stroke me" he said simply. She complied, her hand stretching around his hard flesh, moving slowly up and down while she continued to lick the engorged head which now nudged the top of her throat again. Mike held her head in his hands, helping her increase the tempo as he started to move in and out of her mouth. Inexperienced she may be, but the sight of her moving over his shaft was erotic enough for Mike to feel the tell-tale signs of his imminent cum. He quickened the pace now banging his cock against the roof of her mouth as he directed her head to bob faster. Anne could sense the change. His hands were becoming more insistent and she could feel the hard veins in his cock pumping. She knew he must be close but was totally unprepared when his hands pushed down on her head and his cock spewed what seemed to be a large quantity of cum into her mouth. She felt him spasm again and had barely time to swallow his first load when a second, bigger quantity jetted into her mouth. His hands kept her head down over his cock; she tried to swallow but choked on the large quantity in her mouth. She managed to swallow again at the second attempt and was rewarded, if that was the right term, with a third gush of cum into her mouth. He released the pressure and let his cock slip back so that only the head remained in her mouth, A fourth much smaller jet of cum sprayed the roof of her mouth. Again she swallowed, allowing her tongue to taste him; a viscous salty taste, even sweet, not unpleasant, just different. Mike looked down at her, his wet cock barely inside her mouth, traces of his cum seeping around onto her lips. For an inexperienced girl she had taken all he had and swallowed, perhaps she did not need so much training after all? He pulled his weakening cock from her mouth, letting it rest against his thigh. Anne looked up at him "I am sorry Mike, I have not had much practice I….." his hand went to her lips, silencing her. "You did well Anne, you suck cock well." He wanted to reassure but not sound too convincing. It was important to leave an element of doubt in this girl's mind. He knew she would try harder next time. And the next! "Now Anne, I want you to please me more." She looked at him, The authority was still in his voice. What must she do to please this man more? She had taken his seed. She had done what was asked. "Please stand and go to the window." She knew better than to question, but the request seemed strange to her. She went to the large picture window and looked out over the night sky of downtown Stockholm. Although modern buildings, the scene looked strangely beautiful, the cold air made the lights in the street, six floors, below sparkle. "Undress Anne. I would like to see your body." His request snapped her back to the reality of the room. Now she was worried, he would see her unattractive body for what it was worth; he would not like her slim form, she knew it. She hesitated. "Now Anne." She had no desire to disobey; she started to move back into the room, away from the window. "No Anne. By the window." Anne was close to tears, not only must she show Mike her poor little body, but he wanted her to show it to the whole world. With a nervous hand she moved her fingers to the buttons of her shirt. She fumbled with them but eventually the front fell open, offering Mike his first view of her. A wave of his hand showed that he was getting impatient and she quickly took the shirt off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers fumbled at the stud on her jeans before gripping the zip and loosing them enough for her to slide them over her slim hips. She stepped out of them. Mike looked at her- in his eyes she was beautiful, he much preferred the slim almost boyish figure and hated the over endowed form so often seen in the porno movies. Even in the cheap cotton bra and panties that she wore she was alluring. He had chosen well. He made a mental note to get her to Victoria Secrets when they got back. Anne was now trapped between Mike's eyes and any in the street which may be watching the scene being played out in the room. If she turned her back on him, he would be displeased and she would show herself to the street. If she looked at him she would see the look of displeasure as she revealed her meagre breasts. She decided that Mike was only slightly the better of the two and reached behind her for the clasp. Unhooked, the bra dropped forward, the cups falling away from her chest. Her 34b (just) breasts now displayed to Mike; the nipples hard against the small brown aureoles. "And the panties" Mike tried desperately to remain impassive although his heart wanted to tell her that he thought she was a perfect specimen of womanhood. Her fingers hooked into the waistband and she pushed them down her legs, her small breasts barely moving as she lent forward to ease them down over her knees. To Serve Note to reader: The Japanese Tea ceremony depicted here is far from accurate. A few small details within the text hint at this. Thank you goes out to Shadows, Lady Kouka, and Lady Jalina Butterflies fluttered around her heart. The light broth she ate for lunch hovered in the back of her throat. She trained and prepared for over a year just for this moment. Pulling the silk Kimono's white sash tight around her thick waist, she pondered the path that brought her here. Two years after graduating Magna Cum Lauda from a prestigious Ivy League college, she found herself on the fast track to a large corner office. Why in the world did she need this? What need forced her to seek Him out? The dichotomy of her soul reflected the dichotomy of her plump body. Although her rounded face attested to her ancestry, two generations in America blanked out all cultural ties to her family's homeland. The blood that connected her to one of the oldest cultures on Earth had thinned. Perhaps she chose debut with this particular ceremony because it was as close to her heritage as she could find. Granted a Japanese tea ceremony performed by an American of peasant Chinese stock is ironic, but she enjoyed the beauty of it. Closing her eyes, she hoped that He would like it as well. Running her to-do list through her head, she meticulously checked each item. The water remained warm in a cast iron kettle. Her implements nestled in a silk napkin chosen to compliment the pale blue and white of her garb. The lute played on repeat in His CD player. Carefully inhaling deeply through her nose, she closed her eyes and envisioned the flowing silk trailing behind her as she entered. Exhaling slowly through her mouth as He taught, she banished the nervousness, centered her thoughts, and focused on the impending task. Before walking down the long corridor that led to the patio, she banged a large gong. Once, the deep sound reverberated to warn the spirits of her entrance. Twice, the mischievous spirits fled from the sound felt in the sternum. Three, she couldn't remember what the third gong was for, but reverently, she followed the script. Walking to the open French doors, her Kimono flowed behind her and made the painted waterfalls adorning her move and drift into the early twilight. Inhaling deeply again, she focused on her task. Knowing that He sat there, waitinf for her, nearly overwhelmed her. She repeated her lessons of the previous year. Breathing deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, she envisioned herself as the river she wore. She traveled the path that He the bedrock of the Earth laid for her; she altered the shape of the stones as the stones directed her course. Proudly, she glided out of the doors. The only skin that showed past her costume was her hands and her face. Her carefully arranged hair hid all but the very tips of her unadorned ears. Between her hair and the tall collar of her Kimono the soft skin of her neck hid. Although no makeup touched her skin, her face was a mask of serenity and composure. As she stepped onto the rocks, still warmed by the waning day, she barely heard Him gasp at her beauty. She willed the blush of satisfaction to subside, but that slight loss of His control was the most powerful compliment she had received in her life. They had known each other for over a year, but tonight she came to serve Him. Gliding toward the low table, she watched Him. He propped Himself against the firm cushions. His heavy lidded eyes watched her through His thick lashes. Slowly, methodically, she set the tray holding her implements on the table before folding her legs beneath her and settling the pools of fabric around her. As she arranged herself on the cushions, He sat up, attentive to her every move. Slender fingers unfolded the silk enshrining the wooden measuring spoon and tea whisk. Touching the cast iron kettle, she checked its temperature. Three mounds of tea billowed into the wooden cup followed by warm water from the kettle. Pulling her Kimono to expose a wrist as slender as she was thick, she whisked the tea. Chastely, she looked at Him through lowered lashes. Eyes, closed, she brought the warm brew to her face and inhaled its aroma before taking a long drink. After re-folding the silken napkin, she wiped the edges of the cup, turned it clockwise thrice, and offered it to Him. Solemnly, He received her offering. He emptied the cup before handing it back to her. After wiping the cup with the napkin, she folded the whisk and measuring spoon into the silken napkin. "Traditionally, i should have offered You the sweet first, but i offer it to You now," her soft words barely reached His ears. Reaching up to her hair, the sleeves of her robe fell to her plump elbows. She pulled the decorative combs from her hair, allowing it to cascade in waves down her shoulders and back. "Stand,' He commanded. Gracefully, she did so. The last of the fading light cast shadows on her face. She stood, outwardly impassive, inwardly quivering in anticipation. He stood before her and ran His hand through her thick, dark hair. Calmly, she breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth. "Are you ready?" His deep voice delved into her soul. Voicelessly she nodded to him. "The word?" He demanded. Looking into His loving eyes, she whispered, "Remorse." Smiling at her, He slowly unwrapped the gift she presented. The white sash whispered to the ground. He pushed back her Kimono, letting it spill from her now naked body. She stood in a puddle of silk as His warm hands stroked her bare flesh. Stepping toward her, her pushed her hair away from her neck and whispered in her ear, "Not a word, not a sound. you may not crescendo until I tell you so." She nodded inperceptively as goose bumps swam on her flesh. His lips lightly skimmed the soft flesh of her neck. "Good, girl." His praise sent shivers of warmth through her body that paralleled the burning desire his hands lit. He trailed paths of fire down her body with His lips. His hands caressed her broad back chasing the evening chill, which settled upon them. He discovered her bare mound, shaved clean as a surprise for Him. His hands encircled her wide backside as he kissed her bare lips. Breathing deeply to maintain control, she stood still against his ministrations despite the desire he built. He delved into her core finding the jewel that had remained untouched for the last year as she finished her training. "I shall not disappoint Him," she silently promised herself as He licked her near frenzy. Breathing quickly, but deeply, she kept her promise – neither word nor sound escaped her. She closed her eyes, willing release from this sweet torture. A moment before she broke her vow, a moment before she drowned in the waves of pleasure He caused, He stopped. Her trembling muscles could barely hold her upright. Smiling up at her, he relented a little. "you may lean against My shoulders if you need." Wanting to be strong but knowing her limits, she leaned heavily against His strong shoulders. Before His saliva could cool on her sex, He again tested her limits. Light pressure on her thighs directed her to spread her legs wider. Snaking His long fingers between her legs, He swam in her ocean. His fingers sought her depths as her tides flowed thickly around him. Thirstily, he drank deeply of her second offering. Leaning heavily on Him, she willed the beads of sweat forming on her body to stop. Focusing on the smooth stones pressing against her feet, she brought their coolness into her body to quell the flames He lit in her. He road her currents like a stone skimmed across a placid lake, but the strong undertow he created threatened to envelope her. Again and again he brought her perilously close to the edge before he backed off and allowed her to regain her control. With each of his journeys into her core, she leaned more and more heavily upon Him. Determined to keep her promise, neither word nor sound escaped her; her climax for His command. Finally when the full moon peeked above the trees, He stood and held her trembling form. Smiling sweetly at her, He looked into her eyes, wet with unshed tears. "My good girl," He crooned as He enveloped her. "Shall we crescendo together at last?" The tears she held back flooded her cheeks. She carefully nodded yes. He kissed her lips gently and wiped her tears from her face. "Any noise, any sound, you are now free to make. Let Me delve your depths and show you what pleasure you have given Me." Gratefully, she flung her arms around him and kissed him deeply. She paused only to whisper his name thickly before she lost herself in His pleasure. To Serve "I'm sorry, what was that you just said, Mrs. Pettington?" What a tiresome woman. I had just now been distracted from listening to her by the way she snapped her fingers at Kisula and then gave him a distasteful look when he refilled her coffee cup. "I said, Mr. Woolston, that I hardly think we need worry about these rumblings from the tribal huts. England has held this protectorate in Tanzania since the war, and we will do so as long as the London cafés need their coffee." "I do hope so, Mrs. Pettington, of course," I said. "But still, I do advise you—and Mr. Pettington—that you'd best make contingency plans on sharing out the holding of your coffee plantations so that production won't lag if the Nyerere government is brought in, as rumored. I don't think he will rush to nationalize as long as we have a transition schedule that will continue to keep production at a robust level. The new Tanzania will need this trade just as much as the old one did." "The new Tanzania," Mrs. Pettington snorted. "No such thing." And then she turned to Kisula, who was standing, ready to serve, in the doorway into the residence and gave him the evil eye. "You aren't listening, are you, boy?" she exclaimed sharply. "No ma'am," Kisula replied. "I am here to serve. But if you prefer, madam, I can remove yourself." "Yes, do," Mrs. Pettington said sharply. I sighed and looked out from the covered veranda, beyond the long lawn, toward the shimmering, blue Lake Victoria. Sitting here, with the lush frangipani and bougainvillea clambering over the porch posts and framing what was, to me at least, the most beautiful vista in the world, I could only sigh at what was—in contrast to what inevitably was to be. The Mrs. Pettingtons of the world would never see it until too late. We would not make the seventies—hell, we wouldn't even likely make the mid sixties—with the World War II British colonial system that was trying to hold central-east Africa together for God and Queen. The coffee trade must continue. The Pettingtons were one of a handful of British plantation owners in this region of Tanzania, in the robusta-growing flatlands of Mwanza on the southern edge of Lake Victoria, who produced much of the coffee beans being exported to Europe. If . . . no, not if, when the native Tanzanians took the reins of the government at the end of a British UN protectorate that had gone on longer than anyone could have imagined it would, there would be inevitable and massive changes in the economic and social structure here. The Pettingtons must realize that. Surely they couldn't be that dense. I had invited them to come into Mawaniza, to my residence, to discuss this. And only the hard-boiled wife had appeared. The husband no doubt was sticking his head in the sand, full of hope and a prayer, on this one. The others were beginning to sell an increasing number of shares in their plantations to members of the Sukuma tribe. The Pettingtons were one of only a few families holding out. But they were the largest of the landholders. They also were the most racist of them all. "Really, Clive," Mrs. Pettington was whispering in an insistent voice. "Do you just let him stand around and listen in to your conversations like that always?" "Kisula is—" "One of them. A Sukuma. I declare they are going to murder all of us in our beds one of these days. And he's a big bruising one. And so uppity." I was confused about what she meant by uppity—but only for a minute. I remembered how surprised she was when she had arrived and asked Kisula a question, and he had answered in more cultured British tones than she could manage with her Cockney background. Her attitude toward him had gone considerably downhill from there. I so wanted to point out that Kisula was son of a Sukuma chief and therefore of higher standing in his culture than she, a butcher's daughter, was in hers. "You don't need a native houseman, Clive. You need a wife—and Indian servants. The only trustworthy servants here are the Indians." "Perhaps we should talk about the harvest projections before you leave, Mrs. Pettington," I interjected. The sooner I got rid of this horrid busybody, the better, I thought. Her milquetoast husband was so much easier to deal with, but it was a mistake to try to reason with either of them. Trash. These people were trash. Mr. Pettington had been sent out here precisely because he had married Mrs. Pettington. Lord help them if they were forced out of their holdings and shipped back to London. No, not if . . . when. "First, I really would like to have another cup of coffee, Clive, if you please. Where is that darkie anyway?" "You insisted—" I started, supremely exasperated at this point, but Mrs. Pettington pressed on. "My Indian houseman would have seen the cup empty long before now. Such sloven fools, these Sukuma natives." I rose and reached for the coffee pot in the center of the table, but a strong, brown hand was there before me, and Kisula was pouring Mrs. Pettington another cup of coffee and whispering deferentially, "Yes, ma'am, thank you ma'am." "You were listening in, weren't you?" Mrs. Pettington growled. Then she turned to me. "Clive, really . . ." I had a splitting headache before I could dislodge Mrs. Pettington. I also had heard more than I'd ever want to know about the status of the available and suitable young women from Mawaniza all the way to Mount Kilimanjaro. "You are a sturdy and handsome man, Mr. Woolston," she had said, "and quite well fixed and stable in your coffee exporting district manager position. I can bring you into contact with any number of suitable young women. You must come out to Green Gate Farm in the spring. We must get you settled. And I have several very good Indian servants in mind. I . . ." Kisula had diplomatically withdrawn from the porch as the sun dipped lower and lower to the west of the lake and Mrs. Pettington showed little inclination to leave. I did not offer her supper, however, and she eventually got the message and huffed off in the backseat of her vintage Bentley, being driven by one of her stiff-form Indian servants. I entered the house, and Kisula was standing there, looking sympathetic. I could not face him after the ugly treatment Mrs. Pettington had given him. I didn't know what to say. And so, as usual, I retreated into my English-bred refusal to face reality. "I have a headache and it's been a long day, Kisula," I said. "I think I shall retire early without supper." "Yes, thank you, Master Clive," Kisula answered in that perfect King's English of his, learned at a local Sukuma school as insistent on the fundamentals as the best of our British schools in the protectorate were. "Do remember to open all of your windows tonight and to close up the mosquito netting. It will be a hot night, and you will be glad of the cross ventilation." I went to my room and picked up a novel, a new Irving Stone best-seller, The Agony and Ecstasy, the title of which made me laugh at the irony it evoked. It represented my current existence perfectly. I stripped down and pulled on my sleeping shorts, taking very much to heart that tonight would be a scorcher, and I padded around the room and opened floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood at the windows overlooking the lake for several minutes and savored the beauty of the approaching evening. A light rain had started to fall, which was a blessing. The night now wouldn't be quite as hot as anticipated. The sound of the raindrops on the tin roof were soothing, and it didn't take long for my headache to drift away—along with all memories of Mrs. Pettington's horrid visit. Drawing, almost unwillingly, away from the window, not knowing how many peaceful twilights like this I would be able to enjoy in Tanzania on the cusp of independence, I closed the inside shutters over the open window and then padded around to the other three walls, each with two windows, and shut those windows as well. The rain would have forced the mosquitoes into hiding out in the garden wherever they hid during a rain, but I knew it would only be a matter of a half hour or so until the rain stopped and they would start seeking out their human prey. I climbed through the gossamer mosquito netting, my Irving Stone novel in hand, pulled it to again, and settled on the white linen bedspread, not bothering to turn it down to sleep on the sheets. I was ensconced in a world of cloudy white, floating, as, after only a few pages of reading, I slowly sank into a peaceful sleep, in a world where there were no cares, no injustice in the world—and no Mrs. Pettingtons. Hours later, in the dark of the night, with the crickets in full chatter, the shutter on one of the windows facing the front veranda opened silently, so silently that I didn't hear it. Nor did I hear the pad of bare feet on the polished wooden floor, or feel the added wisp of breeze as the mosquito net was parted, briefly. I was in such deep sleep that I didn't feel the crisp crackle of the starched white linen coverlet or my book being carefully lifted off my chest and moved to the nightstand or the slight creaking of the mattress as 180 pounds of muscle lowered itself beside me. I did awake—nearly—though, to the strong arms embracing me and the hot breath of my lover on the hollow of my neck and his lips closing on one of my nipples. I sighed in recognition that Kisula had come to me in the night. I had not expected him to. I had expected him to be angry at the way I had let him be treated by Mrs. Pettington. I felt so ashamed and so helpless. I could not expect him to visit me—my lover, my master. But he was kissing me. He slid his hand below the waistband of my night shorts, and he found me down there and was bring me to life. I moaned and turned my face to him, and we kissed. I opened my lips to him, surrendering to his mastery, and his tongue entered my mouth, victoriously. But it was not a victory of the sword. It was a victory of peace, of yearning love. When his kiss had finished, I was moaning at his possession of me. My hips were rising and falling with the stroking of his hand on my cock. "I'm sorry, Kisula," I whispered. "She was such a cow. I should have—" "Shh, shh, Master Clive," Kisula whispered in that cultured English of his. "You cannot control it. It is what it is. But now is now." I reached down and put hands on his hips, and, knowing what I was offering, Kisula rose and knelt over me, his knees on either side of my waist and his hands reaching for the top of the headboard above my head, as I raised my face to his fully engorged cock, opened my mouth over the tip of it, and began to give him deep-throated suck. He was big—long and thick—beyond that of any of the Europeans I had been with before. And he was hard bodied and meaty. Not an ounce of fat on him, but a heavily muscled ebony beauty, chocolate brown skin with black tattooing. Who would have known that the Sukuma produced such magnificent specimens of men—or that Kisula had come to me, was showing me the depths of ecstasy I never before had known.? The agony of being here, in Tanzania, at a pivotal time like this, when time itself held its breath, not knowing, not wanting to even think, of the dangers around the corner. And the ecstasy of Kisula devoting himself to me, giving himself to my needs. Making love to me in the dark of the night while all of Tanzania held its breath—imbuing me with Africa when his hot, brown, throbbing cock took possession of the very center of me. Kisula was moving down my body. Kissing his way down my chest and my belly and possessing my cock between his thick lips, as I groaned and moaned my love for him. My surrender, willing him to do whatever he wanted with me. His lips were moving lower, tonguing at my channel opening, taking my hands by the wrist as I moved them down to stroke the tight black, thick curls on his nearly shaved head. I was writhing under the attentions of his tongue, moving my hips to his invasion and begging him to give me relief, to take me now, wanting the fullness of him inside me, opening me up, stretching me, and moving inside me, throbbing cock gliding along undulating channel walls. But tonight, he didn't listen. Tonight he continued to fuck me with his tongue, bring me to the brink, and then send me cascading over the edge in a cry of passion and release of my seed up my belly. And then he was laughing lightly, rising over my chest and widening the stance of his knees, pushing my thighs farther apart, pushing his knees under my buttocks, and causing my pelvis to rise to him. And then, still holding my wrists in his strong grip, he was entering me and entering me and entering me. I cried out a primeval cry in the taking, the never-ending taking, as he sank deeper and deeper inside me, spreading my channel, pulsating in its welcoming rhythm to the throbbing of his possessing cock. As he slid ever farther inside me, dividing me, splitting me in two. I began to moan and to groan and to move my hips, fucking myself on his gigantic possessing ramrod, begging him to take me to paradise. He laughed softly again and began to pump me. And to pump me and to pump me, as my spirit floated up from the bed and out onto the lawn and then over the lake. Forgetting all of my cares, all of my worries, living in the moment of the magnificent fuck. Becoming one with Kisula, becoming Sukuma, becoming Africa. I panted and lurched in answer to his jerks and murmurs of joy as he ejaculated in three forceful flowings deep inside me. Later, as the first birds of the morning presaged the start of another day on the banks of the shimmering blue Lake Victoria, I turned my face to Kisula, as I lay in his embrace, both of us on our sides and my buttocks spooned into his groin. "Kisula, I can't go on like this. I'm so, so sorry." "Hush, hush now, Master Clive," Kisula whispered. "It is what it is." "Kisula, I wouldn't for a million years. . . . I love—" "Shh, shh, Master Clive. You must not say it. This is Tanzania. You must not." "But are you happy, Kisula?" I asked, somewhat idiotically, grasping for anything that would make me feel better—not so much the ugly European. "My cock is happy," Kisula answered "That is enough. Can you feel my happy cock?" And I could. Kisula was hard again; his cock had been encased between my thighs under my balls and he had been slowly moving it back and forth, causing me to breathe heavily and to start to moan. "Yes, yes, I feel it Kisula. You are so huge. I cannot believe that I can—" "Mr. Cock would like breakfast, Master Clive. Do you think Mr. Cock could have his breakfast before we rise and meet the day?" And there was that pleasant little laugh of his again. "Oh, yes. Oh, god, yes," I murmured. And then I jerked and grunted as Kisula raised my leg for greater access, and Mr. Cock entered me and started to greet the day, as I groaned and moaned and melted to my African lover. * * * * It was the most important meeting of my year. The inspection trip by the country director of the coffee importing company, Sydney Thornton. The company had the protectorate divided into two production districts, but Thornton's district was much the larger, and he was the man in charge out here. My district, covering the area on the southern rim of Lake Victoria, produced the robusta blend of beans, But this was less than 15 percent of our coffee bean exports from Tanzania. Sydney Thornton, from his own coffee plantation at the base of Mount Meru, to the east, in the uplands that included Mount Kilimanjaro, supervised the bulk of the coffee bean production in the arabica beans. Sydney Thornton was a large, rotund man, of slow, cane-assisted gait and heavy breathing at the least sign of exertion. He must have been sweating up a storm under his starched white suit, but he somehow soldiered on, without mussing a crease or showing discomfiture in any other aspect than his "might this be the last gasp?" belabored breathing. I greeted him at the top of the stairs from the beaten-dirt driving court to the veranda, and we sat at the same table where Mrs. Pettington has so recently tortured me into a splitting headache. I barely knew Sydney Thornton. I had passed through Arusha, where he kept his offices, while en route here the previous fall, and he had been polite and correct, but he had not invited me out to his coffee plantation on the lower slopes of Mount Meru. He had told me he'd been here since the Germans held the country and called it Tanganyika, that his whole life had been devoted to raising and perfecting the coffee bean, and that he wouldn't recognize England if he were suddenly set down in it. I felt sorry for him now. What did a man like him do when independence came and his land and livelihood—and mere presence—would no longer be his to decide? But still, he sat there before me, not even acknowledging Kisula, as the beautiful Sukuma man stood differentially over him and offered him his choice of coffee and biscuits in that subservient murmur of his. At the moment Sydney Thornton seemed to me wholly, painfully England and all that arrogant subjugation of one peoples by another represented. The specter of the Mrs. Pettingtons of Britain's colonial world rose before my eyes and merged with this lump of a man, in his perfectly pressed, almost-intolerably hot white linen suit, stubbornly forcing the reality of Africa to bend to the old-world demand of the British Empire. And I snapped. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton. I cannot pretend any longer." And I turned to Kisula and said, "Come, Kisula, come sit here beside me. We will host Mr. Thornton together as we are. As equals. As full partners." Kisula's eyes opened wide and I could see him start to tremble. The whole, false world order of the genteel British colonial system was crashing before our eyes, here, on my Veranda on the shore of Lake Victoria. And a burden was rising off my shoulders. It no longer mattered. My job for the British system no longer mattered to me. I would take my stand and live with my banishment. "Master Clive . . . No. You should not—" Kisula was beside himself with concern. This obviously was too much for him, too soon. But I did not care. The Africans were going to seize their lands and their dignity from the white man, the colonial empires, one way or the other. I could not wait. I owed it to Kisula not to wait. I laid my hand on Kisula's arm and reached over with the other and gently took the coffee pot from him. And then I pulled him over to the chair next to mine at the table and gently pushed him down into the seat with my hand now on his shoulder. Kisula sat as if in a trance. His face was frozen in shock. I put a coffee cup and saucer in front of him and slowly poured him a cup of coffee. All the time, I could not bring myself to look at Thornton. I started to speak. "I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton, but it's time for the change. We must change ahead of a forced transition that will take the company out of our hands, whether we like it or not. Kisula is the son of a chief of the Sukuma. They will own and control all of the coffee plantations in this region soon—perhaps within a couple of years. It's time to wake up to reality. Kisula is my partner. We can't do better than to start including him and the Sukuma in our plans." It was only when I had finished this speech, delivered rapidly, almost in one breath, for fear that if I had stopped, I could not complete it, that I looked up, first at Kisula and then at Sydney Thornton. Kisula still sat, in shock. But he sat tall. All of the Sukuma sat tall. They were a proud people, with every right to be. But when I looked at Thornton, what I saw was not at all what I expected to see. He was smiling. Not a broad smile, but a small, knowing smile.