Date: Sat, 05 May 2018 15:41:20 +0000 From: Jack Dawson Subject: The Mercenary. Part Four. Gay: Adult/Youth; Authoritarian The Mercenary. By Jackdaw Part Four: Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo August 1997 Favre spotted him straight away and new that this boy would be getting his full 9.5 inches before he left Brazzaville. He was amazed at how certain he was of it. They were driving into the orphanage compound and the children were running towards their jeeps. Smiles. Cheers. The nuns clapping with appreciation at the Legionaires' kindness. Favre was scanning the scene, looking for a boy to fuck. And there he was. Right at the back, under the large fig tree in front of the main house. Scowling. Angry. Unimpressed. Adolescent and stroppy and spoiling for a fight. Favre could see the attitude bristling off the boy and realised in that instant that he wanted to do one thing and one thing only to the little fuck: teach him a painful lesson and completely break him. Favre didn't really mind causing pain with the monster he carried between his legs but occasionally it was a real pleasure to just teach a boy a lesson with it. And as they pulled in to the compound and came to a halt he knew that he'd found a kid who deserved it. When Favre was 18 he hated himself for desiring boys. Now, 12 years later, he didn't give a fuck. He knew what he was. Accepted himself for what he was: a Class A pervert. A predator. This boy was older than he usually preyed on. He could see the boy was around 13 or 14, long-limbed and lithe and almost certainly shooting cum already. Probably had started noticing the tits on girls and wanking twice a day. Normally Favre enjoyed younger, hairless, boys. It was such a fierce pleasure to win a young boy around, gain his trust and then dominate them, shock them and possess them. Occasionally though, with older boys like this, Favre's rougher side emerged immediately. He wanted to dominate and humiliate and teach the boy who was boss. He realised, as the Nuns got the children to line up and dance and sing for them, that he wanted to remind this angry black boy that the white man was still a force to be reckoned with. Favre didn't give a shit about skin color, normally, but something about this resentful, frowning Congolese boy made him want to prove that white cock could still force its way in to an unwilling black boicunt and remind him that whites could still call the shots. He knew exactly what he had to do. He needed to be direct and completely dishonest. If he was, then this would be utterly simple. And the fucking would be cruel and perfect. Favre was delighted at the challenge ahead of him. Inside his mind for a moment he pulled away from the crowded, joyful chaos infront of him. He saw the moment in his mind's eye: Just himself, his hard cock and this angry black boy hurling in pain and anger and fear as he realised his torment wouldn't be ending any time soon. Favre could almost taste it. And he smiled. >From behind his aviator sunglasses he noticed one of his Legionaires looking quizzically at the smile on his face. "What?" said Favre, laughing. "Sir, nothing Sir," came the reply. "I was just wondering what had brought a smile to your face, Sir." "Victory" he replied, turning to the nun who was walking towards them and holding out his hand to shake her extended hand: "Bonjour ma soeur!" One hour and 5 goals later Lieutenant Favre and Sister Jeanne-Françoise were drinking lemonade on the sidelines of the makeshift football pitch behind the school block of the orphanage. He noticed that his future victim had kept himself away from the fun. "Be direct and dishonest, Favre" he told himself. So he gestured to the boy who was sitting on a low hanging branch of the tree, his legs swinging beneath him. "Sister, who is that? He hasn't joined in at all afternoon. Is he alright?" Sister looked over to where the boy was standing, by himself. "Oh that is Centime," she sighed. "Centime?" he asked, feigning puzzlement at the odd name. "We call him Simon but his parents called him Centime. You know, here in the Congo people are very superstitious. They give their children bad names so that evil spirits don't think the child is anything special and come for them." "Ah," replied Favre, "so Centime means worthless, just a penny, not worth bothering with?" "Exact," replied the nun, "and we couldn't leave him with that name, of course. In the eyes of the Lord we are all precious n'est-ce pas? So we call him Simon after Simon-Peter the greatest of the Apostles." "Quite so, ma soeur. But why is he so reluctant to join in?" "Oh monsieur, you know how it is. He has no parents, no family. They were killed in the fighting outside Brazzaville. He is angry now. He has no trust. We most be patient. We must be kind with him." "How terrible," replied Favre concealing his amusement at how simple this was going to be. "He needs friends, really, doesn't he, ma soeur. People willing to spend some time with him. Take his mind off all his worries." "Absolumment!" she exclaimed. "He needs us to be his friends." "Shall I go speak with him, Sister? Does he speak French?" The nun clapped her hands together in gratitude. "Oh would you? Yes, yes, he has enough French to understand. Would you? That would be so very kind. Show him some attention." Favre clicked his heels to attention making the Nun laugh and replied, "A vos ordres ma soeur. I shall give him the full measure of my complete attention and see if we can't bring a smile to his sad face." The good sister beamed back at him. Favre decided that he could burn through two stages at once: "Perhaps he'd enjoy the treat of going for a drive in the jeep whilst the other play the second half of football?" "Ah! What an excellent idea!" exclaimed Sr Jeanne-Françoise, "if you can persuade him I'm sure he'd enjoy himself." "Don't you worry, ma soeur," replied Favre, "I am persuasion itself and the pleasure will be all mine." "Oh thank you, thank you," replied the nun, full of simple trust. Favre took off his glasses and smiled with such disarming handsomeness the good nun felt abashed for a second. "We're here to serve. And I shall do my best." He walked towards the boy still sitting on his branch beneath the fig tree. Centime, clearly, was going to pretend not to see him coming. The football game was starting up again and Favre knew that he was out of earshot of everyone else. The two of them could be seen but not heard. As he stalked towards the boy, Favre calculated how best to get access to the boy's black boicunt. Up close the boy was simply average to look at. Dark grey shorts. White collared cotton t-shirt. Thin, inevitably, with the typical small dark curls on his dark head, dark eyes scowling at the world. Favre decided to use his size. He invaded the boy's personal space, coming right up to him, intimidating him and counting on the boy not daring to pull away from a white man, a white soldier, a white guest. "Bonjour Centime," said the Legionary, sounding professional, not friendly. "Sister Jeanne-Françoise says you might be able to help me with a problem I have with one of our jeeps. Come and take a look at it with me, if you would." Favre stood with his legs apart in front of the boy, his hands on his belt subconsciously drawing attention to his cock so as to intimidate the young teenager who still hadn't looked at him. Favre knew not to use a question on Centime and thus give him the opportunity of saying no. Likewise he knew it was pointless to enter into a negotiation. Lastly, he knew not to make a request of the boy: that just looked weak. Favre also knew, manipulative bastard that he was, that if he was too frontal, too oppositional, the boy would just freeze or walk away. So he waited in silence for a good thirty seconds, putting no more verbal pressure on the boy. "Come and take a look at it with me and we'll fix it together," he said - all the while admiring the smooth black limbs and the first signs of adult musculature on the boy he planned to inflict a very painful fuck on. A moment's pause and then the angry boy slipped off the branch. As he walked towards Favre, the Legionnary put his hand on to the back of Centime's neck. "Just like a slave-collar," he observed to himself, as they turned towards where the jeeps were parked. The boy looked at Favre for the first time when Favre popped the hood and opened up the jeep engine. He had to improvise a fault with the started-motor and said he needed the boy to hold on to things. Favre took off his glasses so that the look could be reciprocated. "Take off your shirt, Centime" he told him, "we don't want you getting oil stains on your white shirt." For his part, Favre undid buttons and rolled up sleeves showing off his masculinity to the impressionable teen. The boy stripped off his shirt. Favre didn't like blacks generally but here was a skinny chest with taut new muscles beginning to appear and boy-tits pleased him any way they came to him. He felt his cock growing. Going commando didn't hide the fact and Favre calculated that the boy might notice it. "Good," he said to himself. 15 minutes later the jeep engine was purring like a dream and Favre knew what he had to do next. Take control. "Right Centime. Let's try her out," he said. "Hop in." Centime hesitated and Favre intervened, "It's alright. I said to Sr Jeanne-Françoise that if we fixed it I'd treat you to a drive. Hop in." The boy gave his first smile and Favre smiled too. It really is taking candy off of children, he said to himself. He made sure the T-shirt stayed behind them. "Buckle-up, Centime." He said as he put the jeep in to gear. "My name is Simon," replied the boy, looking at Favre. Favre looked him straight in the eye at that, pulled the jeep out of the compound and built up speed. He turned to the boy again and said, springing his first trap of humiliation that he knew would lead to an exquisitely painful fuck, "Centime suits you much better."