Dear Joanna

I moaned as Heyward’s hard cock worked my ass channel, and Paxton moaned as I serviced his thick, long cock and took his cum deep in my throat. Heyward’s angle was obviously best from behind, with his paunch resting on the small of my back. He wasn’t long, but his thickness presented a challenge that he overcame with much grunting and jabbing and I rewarded him with deep groans. After Heyward had seeded me and departed, Paxton moved me onto my belly on my bed, stretched out on me and covered me, mounted me, penetrated me, and fucked me into the morning.

I had heaved a sigh of relief when, upon leaving us, Heyward murmured to Paxton, “Yes, he will do very nicely.” I had won a job.

Heyward didn’t return his key to the first-class barrier gate until we reached Cape Town. We dined each night of our final four nights at sea in first class, retired to the men’s salon afterward for cigars and liquor, and then came to the second-class cabin, where Heyward fucked me, coming and then leaving quickly, and Paxton covered and plowed me into the morning hours.

In order to move on to the attentions of Paxton, I managed to be diplomatic enough with Heyward’s fucking to give him the impression that it was he I was keyed up for each night. After the first night, we discovered that he could receive maximum depth and pleasure if he lay on his back and I rode him, which I did from various angles, pleasing him with my dexterity and inhibition. If it made me feel the part of a wanton prostitute, it increased the arousal of both of us.

The days on sea off the coast of Europe had dragged and been boring. The nights off the African coast were short and exhilarating.

* * * *

4 June 1890

Cape Town, South Africa

Joanna, My Jewel:

I cannot believe it has been three weeks since I’ve been with you. I fear, though, that, now that I have reached and seen the Cape Colony, our time apart will need to be longer. This is especially so if you have found your condition to be delicate—I wait agonizingly on pins and needles for news of that—but even if you are in robust and unencumbered health, which I pray you are, I am not sure if you would find the life I have found here endurable. And we have not even gone to the company fields on the Orange River yet, which I understand exist on an even more primitive basis than here in Cape Town. I think you will—would—find the teeming crowds of natives—often called bushmen here—dark of skin and barely clothed and entirely uncouth—distressing.

In any event, I long to hear from you and of your condition. And, of course, of the health and well-being of the vicar and your family, as well. I currently will be living a better life than most here for a few weeks at least. Mr. Heyward has been kind enough to invite me to lodge in his townhouse in Cape Town as I learn the accounting needs and processes of the company. He has been extremely accommodating to and solicitous of me, and I am endeavoring to show my gratitude to him in every way possible. Hoping to see a letter from you upon the next arrival from England of a mail ship, I remain your devoted—

Peter

* * * *

Giving up and slightly scared, I relaxed, as he directed me to do, and lay there, his body half under me, my right leg in the crook of his right arm and his left arm around my back, his hand cupping my chin and pulling my head back. I moaned from the sheer thought of what Trevor was doing as the middle finger of his right hand penetrated my ass channel. A shudder went through my body as I felt the smooth-edge facets of the diamond in his ring come to rest on my prostate. He hesitated only long enough for me to moan again in anticipation before he started to rub the hard, smooth, warm face of the diamond on my prostate. I could feel my cum rising, but he anticipated that too and stopped rubbing.

“Now fuck yourself on it. You do it. Cum for me,” he murmured in my ear. He was holding the ring steady against my prostate.

“Trevor . . . Mr. Heyward,” I pleaded.

“Fuck yourself on the diamond and stroke your cock to completion,” he repeated, the murmur turning into a growl.

With a whimper, I started to stroke my cock with my left hand and rolling my pelvis so that, as he held his index finger and the diamond ring rigid, I was rubbing my prostate over the gem. It took me only a few minutes to come, after which he pulled his finger out, rolled over on top of me, the heaviness of him taking my breath away, thrust inside me, and fucked me to his own completion.

He remained there, stretched out on his side, his uncut cock, the piss slit of his bulb peeking out of the enveloping fold of skin, flaccid now and venturing out from his thatch of gray and black pubic hair, cum oozing out of it onto the sheet. Countless had been the times over the last month that I’d pushed that foreskin back with my lips to suck the cum out of the angry red bulb. He motioned to me yet again, and although half dressed and already late for the wagon that was to take me to the Heyward holdings on the Orange River, I knelt by the bed, wrapped the fingers of my hand around the base of his cock, pushed the foreskin back with my lips, and sucked him dry, as, moaning, he moved his dick in a slow fucking motion in my mouth, filling my cheeks, if, mercifully, not being able to reach my throat. He jerked three times, releasing a spurt of seed each time, each time breathing out a sigh, longer with each subsequent release. Only then, as he loosened his fingers on the sides of my head, did I realized how tight his grip had been in holding my head in place for his pleasure.

Trevor Heyward was the boss. The wagon taking me from Cape Town to the farms and mines would just have to wait. The wagon driver understood this well. I suspect that the wagon driver and all of the others working in the Cape Town office knew exactly what Heyward wanted and what my role was. They were deferential to me, but distant. The younger, better-looking young men were just happy that Heyward was still enthralled with me. You didn’t have to have a preference for men for Heyward to have and exercise a preference for you. You only needed to be fully in his control for your livelihood.

“I have half a notion to keep you here in Cape Town,” he said, as, stretched out on the bed, his head propped up by his bent arm, he watched me dress. He liked to watch me dress—and to undress—and I’d learned to do it slowly, sensually for him. As David Paxton had continually said those last days on the ship, whatever Heyward wanted from me, I was to provide—if I wanted to keep this position in the company’s accounting office.

I had gone too far in securing the position to give it up easily now. Keeping the position was only half the reason I lay under Heyward and none of the reason I let Paxton fuck me, though. As much as that was a reason, I had accepted Africa as another world—a more permissive and basic animal instinct world—than England. In Africa I could let go—and hope that none of what I did here would get back to England.

And if it did get back to England, it did. I would be in no less favorable stead than I had been when I left. I doubted that Trevor Heyward would permit himself to be painted with that brush among his London colleagues. He would not publicize how he used me.

“If you wish me to stay, I will, of course,” I answered.

“The job we have for you is at the river.”

“Nonetheless, if you wish me to stay, I will. Whatever you want of me, I’ll give you.”

This seemed to please him. “Come here,” he said. I turned and looked at him and saw that he had an erection again. I was half dressed already—in my skivvies, a shirt on my back, but not yet buttoned; knee-high socks, with garters, on my calves. I could have pointed out that I was nearly dressed, but I didn’t.

“Yes, sir,” I said, going to him, standing between his spread thighs. He pulled down my skivvies and rubbed his cheeks on my cock before opening his mouth to it. I swayed slightly within the grasp of the palms of his hands on my buttocks cheeks, until I came for him. Then he turned me away from him.

“Bend over and grab your ankles.” I obeyed the command and groaned as his mouth went to my hole. At his command, I crouched and moved my buttocks back, spreading my cheeks with my hands, pulling my channel onto his cock myself, and fucking myself on the shaft as he held my hips and gave me last-minute instructions about how he wanted the company accounts recorded and reported.

After he came, he slapped me on the butt and told me to finish dressing.

“Every two weeks. I want you back here for two days. Every two weeks—until I don’t want you anymore.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered as I was plugging my cufflinks in. I knew that I didn’t want to see the day when he didn’t want me riding his cock any more.

* * * *

The wagon ride was grueling and I was hot, dusty, and exhausted when I arrived at the main house of the river farms and mines. I was told I could live here, with David Paxton, and whatever company executives were inspecting the operation, until I could afford a house of my own—a separate dwelling for any family I brought down to Cape Colony.

“That doesn’t mean that Mr. Heyward and I will not use you when we want,” Paxton said.

I no longer would have had it any other way.

I could use the land for free, but whatever house I built would ultimately belong to the company. I had been told this before leaving Southampton, and much of the first week of the voyage I’d spent designing various houses to build. I had stopped doing that on the day we’d reached the equator and I’d been the centerpiece of Heyward and Paxton’s “crossing” celebrations. I now took my having shelved the idea as an omen.

The main house was a one-story bungalow-style rectangle raised on a platform, as the river was known to rise this far, but it was a large house. It looked even larger than it was because of the deep verandah that surrounded it on all four sides.

As the wagon drew up to the front of the house, a tall, muscular native was coming out of the entrance door. He came as a surprise. He wasn’t the short, lean bushmen I had grown accustomed to seeing in Cape Town’s native population. This man was of what now was being called the Khoikoi race, descendents of Hottentots. This was a different man altogether—a stately one, standing tall but gliding about like a dancer, and as he moved a riot of tattooing undulated on his muscular torso. He was barefoot and only wearing worn trousers that barely managed to stay up on his slim hips, held up by a thick leather belt that was so long that he’d drilled new holes in it and the tail drooped down the side of his leg. He gave me a look of haughty disdain, descended the stairs from the platform, and, giving me another long look, strutted around the corner of the house and was gone.

Meanwhile the driver of the wagon had taken my trunk out of the back of the wagon, dropped it on the ground, and was driving away. If I had expected a reception committee, I was sorely disappointed. I climbed the stairs and entered the house. The temperature dropped a good ten degrees—mercifully—between the beaten dirt turning circle in front of the bungalow and the building’s interior.

I entered a large room—all of the public rooms in the house were large. What appeared to be a dining room was beyond this room on the right. A matching room on the left was closed off by double doors. I slitted one of these doors and peered in to discover that this was an office area. As it turned out, I had entered one of the short sides of the rectangular building. Directly in front of me was a hallway leading straight back, with doorways off it. I heard the sound of sex, which answered why no one had greeted me outside the building, I reasoned. Someone was responding in a high-pitched voice in a mixture of a foreign, clacky-sound language and English to being used hard. There was enough English spoken to understand that the reaction was to being fucked. The other, lower-toned voice was David Paxton’s.

I walked into the hallway. A kitchen opened from the first door on the right. The room beyond that must be servants quarters, as I could see rough-wood beds. The furniture in the large room and dining room had been decidedly elegant—as good as I had grown up with in York. The polished wooden floors were covered with large Oriental rugs. The door on the left opened to a well-appointed bedroom, with a four-poster canopy bed. This floor was covered with an Oriental rug too. Trevor Heyward’s room, perhaps.

The next set of rooms were also bedrooms, not quite as well appointed, but good enough. The men having sex were in the bedroom on the right. Paxton was fucking a bushman who was more attractive than most—from his appearances a Baster, which was the south African term for people of mixed native and European heritage. The man was black and small, like a bushman, but with features that were more European than native. Paxton was on top of him on the bed, holding him on all fours, and fucking him doggie style.

Paxton looked up and saw me, and, without skipping a beat of his fuck, said, “You can have the bedroom two doors down on the right. The office you’re working in is the one to the left of the front entrance. I’ll be with you when I’m done here.”

When he was done there, he came out to the living room, naked, scrounged around in a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, and came over and sat across from me. As always, his body was magnificent and had the effect of hardening me up and giving me more of a buzz than the cheap whiskey did.

The native scurried out of what I surmised was Paxton’s bedroom and into the kitchen. Watching him move, Paxton laughed, and said, “That’s Adam Baartman, our houseboy. He’s a good fuck, but I guess you won’t be knowing that; you’re both bottoms. I usually come back from the field for lunch and do him before going back. We might as well establish what the routine is here. You will work here, taking breaks as you wish as long as you keep up with the accounting. Feel free to visit the worksites. It will help with efficiency. The workers will assume that you are checking on them. Adam will fix your meals whenever you want them and when I’m not using him. I go to the fields early in the morning, come back here for lunch and a fuck, and then check out the mining operations in the afternoon. You have a bedroom, but most nights you will be in my bed—when I want you. Any questions?”

“None at the moment,” I said. I could have railed at the arrogance of the man, but in the absence of Heyward, he was god here, and I didn’t object to the idea of being in his bed at night.

In fact, I noticed he had an erection now—a massive one.

“Come, let me show you your bedroom,” he said, with a husky voice.

I had already seen all of the rooms, not knowing which one was to be mine, but as he rose, so did I. Walking down the hallway, he placed a hand on my buttocks, and I shuddered in anticipation. He fucked me in the same position I’d seen him fuck Adam in just a bit earlier. As he was doing it, the first native I’d seen coming out of the house appeared at the bedroom door.

“One of the sifting machines has broken down at the diamond operation site, Mr. Paxton,” the native said without showing a bit of surprise that Paxton was mounted on my ass on the bed, both of us buck naked. “I have sent for the mechanic, but I am reporting it in case you want to see what broke before it is fixed.”

“Good, Thabo,” Paxton said in a breathy voice but without dropping a stroke. “Don’t let the mechanic work on it until I have seen it. I’ll be along when I’m finished here.”

When the native left, Paxton said, “That is Thabo Towehaar, my right-hand-man in the operations. You may have noticed that he’s a hunk compared to the bushmen of the region. He’s a Zulu. They come from the north and are given all of the respect they want from the natives of this region. They’re considered fearless and fearsome. It helps to have him with authority in the field here. But I’d advise that you not let him catch you alone unless you crave death by hard fucking. He’ll do you if he can get you alone, and I’ll not stop him.” He laughed and continued his stroking inside me.

We went for several days on Paxton’s schedule. I found I could work with it, and I enjoyed him topping me in bed much more than I had enjoyed Heyward. So, life was good.

Then came the day that I decided to check out the field operations. I started with the mines. The day was hot, and I was melting, so I took off my shirt and slung it over my shoulder as I walked along the river and toward the field. The company grew everything from fresh produce to wheat in their fields. It was delivered to Cape Town to resupply ships rounding the Horn going between England and India. It had been quite a lucrative business and still was, although it wasn’t as lucrative as the mining they now did around the Orange River for gold and diamonds.

As I was approaching the river by the edge of a wheat field, I saw the Zulu, Thabo Towehaar, coming out of a stand of tomatoes. He took one look at me and I saw his eyes narrow. I stood there, surprised and a bit fearful, as I saw a wicked grin slide across his face. He wore only low-slung trousers and, as I watched, he reached down, unbuckled his overlong belt, unbuttoned his trousers, let them fall to the ground, and stepped out of them. He held and waved his cock at me. It was mammoth and quickly hardening. He started to walk toward me, holding his belt in his hand, doubled over, snapping it. Instinctively, I turned and walked rapidly into the wheat field.

He started walking fast and so I began to run. He was running then too. I could hear the slapping of his large, bare feet on the sun-baked earth as he moved rapidly. He landed on my back in the wheat field, the stalks of wheat being tall enough to hide us from view. He was on top of me, between my spread legs. Fighting for breath from having it knocked out of me, I pushed on his beefy, tattooed chest with my fists. I caught him on the chin with a fist and then his mouth, causing a trickle of blood there. He snorted and exclaimed something in anger. Reaching over and picking up a rock, he made as to strike me in the face with it, and I surrendered, lying back on the ground, raising my arms in supplication between my face and the rock.

Grunting he reached down and unbuckled my belt and pulled it out of the loops. Gathering up all of the strength adrenaline was giving me, I pushed him off of me with a heave, scrambled up, and, in a crouch, moved deeper into the field. He tripped my feet up with one of his, though, and, with an “Offf,” fell belly down on the ground.

Standing over me, a folded leather belt in each hand, he struck again and again and again with the belts on my back, buttocks, and thighs, until I was reduced to a quivering puddle. Turning me over onto my back, he forced my wrists together and tied them off, over my head, with one of the belts. After giving another couple of licks with the other belt on the chest, as I moaned and begged him to stop, he grabbed my ankles, hooked them on his shoulders, positioned himself between my thighs, worked his thick, long cock inside me and began to pump, stretching me to the limit, reaching deeper into the core of me than I’d ever been reached before.

I worked my wrists out of the belt, but lost to his masterful fuck, I made no effort to fight him with them. I reached under his armpits and gripped and dug my nails, unheeded, into the thick muscles of his shoulder blades. I wanted him inside me but he was monstrously huge. I was afraid at any moment he would split me asunder internally. But then I was opening for him, feeling the rhythm of the fuck and becoming one with it. Bucking, bucking, bucking, crying out in passion and ecstasy; not caring if this was the end of the world. But then I gasped, as he moved even deeper inside, pistoned harder, and grasped my throat, taking my breath away.