Date: Sun, 23 Apr 2006 11:13:47 +0000
From: Graham Collett <graham_cro_uk@hotmail.com>
Subject: Diplomatic Relations

The characters and events in this story are fictional. Any opinions
expressed hereafter are not necessarily representative of the author.
Please DO NOT continue to read this tale if you are not an adult or you
are offended by gay erotica.

* * *
"What did you call me?"
Terry Broad challenged Aziz with his usual supercilious glare before
reaching for another Tusker. He lit the unfiltered cigarette and exhaled
a long plum of smoke into the sultry evening air. He flashed a yellowing
grimace at the sight of bats swarming across a blushed pink sunset. His
impatience grew for a response. Anyway, it was a rhetorical question. He
was perfectly familiar with that word, having spent over two years in
Ghana. Aziz remained silent, although his unflinching gaze showed no
trace of acquiescence.
"Well, I don't know which is more irritating. You or the damn
mosquitoes." Terry took a large gulp of Apateshie and spluttered as it
scorched his throat.

As usual, Terry was spending a Friday evening getting sloshed at the
White Bell. Its elevation above Accra's bustle of street traders and
taxis helped him to maintain his natural air of condescension. The
copious quantities of local gin helped to dull his senses to all the
unpleasantness below. Here, he could escape the stench of open sewers and
the nerve-jarring commotion of car horns. To him, the place was a small
relic of a lost empire nestled amongst a sprawling cornucopia of
savagery. With one overly theatrical gesture, he sluiced the ice in his
glass with the gin and drained its last bitter remnants.

In his mid-forties, he had welcomed his diplomatic posting in West
Africa. However, a couple of years down the line it had become something
of a career 'cul-de-sac'. Promotions had passed him by and any sense of
adventure that he once possessed had deserted him. His only stimulation
outside the dreary monotony of work was to torment his uncommunicative
chauffeur and receive the occasional fuck from one of his many young
paramours. As for his wife, well, they rarely spoke except in a
perfunctory fashion during his various ceremonial functions.

"Call the waiter, would you? I'd like to order another triple gin." Terry
scarcely looked at Aziz when issuing instructions. Instead, he would
choose to distract himself by looking down at the street; idly trying to
discern any caucasian faces from the crowd. It was an innocuous amusement
that counterbalanced his growing sexual decadence. He returned to his
slightly out-of-date copy of 'The Times' and scrutinised the obituaries
with a degree of morbid curiosity. There were a few familiar names but no
one of any particular note. June 1984 was obviously not a fashionable
month for a person to unravel their mortal coil.
"Dropping like flies." Terry remarked to himself dryly with an air of
indifference.
"Ssss! Ssss!" Aziz waved at a silhouette hovering at the nearby table.
A tall youthful waiter in a freshly pressed shirt approached them. He
produced a notepad and looked at Terry expectantly.
"You can deal with him." Terry gestured effetely at his handsome
subordinate.
"Pacheow, me pe se me loonsa. Three tots. Fa bra haa." Aziz returned his
gaze to Terry. The shadows failed to conceal the smouldering intensity of
his stare.
The waiter nodded politely and hurried off towards the dimly lit bar to
fetch the order.
"Honestly, Aziz, your command of the Twi language is worse than mine."
Terry mocked.
"Thank you, Masser." Aziz replied evenly.

Terry wondered for a moment if his minion had intended to be sarcastic.
Surely not? Sarcasm was exclusively the preserve of the English, he
assured himself.
"And so, what did you mean by your remark earlier on this evening?" He
inquired, tapping the ash from his cigarette over the balcony railing.
Aziz shrugged and said nothing. Terry was beginning to tire of his dumb
insolence. However, the nullifying effects of the gin tempered his
irritation.
"Well, I heard what you mumbled at me. The precise word that you used was
'Ashawo', meaning 'a whore'. I must say, I find your sense of humour very
disagreeable at times."
Aziz did not reply, instead, he reached over and helped himself to one of
the Tuskers. Terry stared in disbelief as Aziz proceeded to light it and
blew the smoke directly into his face. He leaned across to Terry and
eyeing him sullenly.
"I know everything." He whispered.
"Now listen here Aziz, I've had quite enough of your insubordination this
evening. You have the fucking audacity to help yourself to my smokes and
then talk to me in a fashion that's wholly inappropriate. Well it won't
do. In fact, it won't do at all!"

Terry realised that his voice had become raised and he was attracting
unwanted attention. This was, after all, Ghana, a land where social
constraints were imposed either by gossip, superstition or taboo. He
cleared his throat awkwardly.
"So what exactly do you know then? I simply must hear this." He said
scornfully.
Aziz unbuttoned his shirt. The flash of dark gleaming skin momentarily
distracted Terry from his interrogation.
"Jimmy." Came the reply. Terry's face twitched uneasily, but he quickly
regained his composure.
"I think it's time to go home Aziz. In fact, I have no desire to continue
this rather pointless conversation."

In the car, Terry wondered what the hell was wrong with his driver? What
had he meant by his taciturn references to Jimmy? Did he know something?
If he did, it would follow that there could be a problem. Terry was
astute enough to recognise some kind of insinuation against him.
Homosexual liaisons remained illegal in Ghana and were regarded as a
taboo, despite their very obvious frequency. The potential embarrassment
to Queen and country might be incalculable should his various clandestine
liaisons be exposed. Undoubtedly, he would be unceremoniously ushered off
to some remote outpost of the globe and any possibility of career
advancement would be vetoed. No amount of emollient words from the
British Consulate would appease the scandalmongers at the local Ghana
press. He faced the vaguely ridiculous scenario of becoming a public
pariah in a country that was still primitive enough to believe in voodoo.
"Oh marvellous." He remarked sardonically at the thought.

Aziz edged the car through the heavy traffic at Circle. He began to
calculate how much he should demand of his master for his silence. Twenty
million Cedis should cover things. He had evidence of Terry's other
associations too. Maybe he should insist upon a higher amount. He felt
certain that his so called 'masser' would be only too ready to accept his
proposition just to keep things quiet.

There also was something else on his Aziz's mind. A more immediate urge
that demanded redress. Aziz took one hand off the steering wheel and
squeezed the head of his huge stiffening cock. He glanced into the rear
view mirror at his personal 'Kwasi Obouroni' who was gazing pensively at
the thronging bystanders.

Terry stared at his reflection ghosted against a backdrop of blurring
lights and dark foreboding figures. He switched on the interior light and
pushed a long wisp of greying hair from his face. He still considered
himself extremely handsome for a man in his late forties. His narcissisc
delusions, however, were derived from the fact that looks that would be
considered rather average in London were prized in Ghana. Terry had
certainly exploited his artificially enhanced kudos to the full. For the
price of a drink at the Ivy Restaurant, he had sampled most of the more
agreeable young caddies at Achimoto Golf Course, plus most of their
friends.

Terry switched the light off and settled back into a sumptuous leather
seat.
"Is this the most direct route to Lagon? Don't we normally take route
thirty seven?" He enquired of his driver.
"We go through Achimoto."
"And might I be permitted to ask why we are taking the long route
tonight?" Terry retorted sarcastically. He was becoming annoyed by his
driver's surliness.
"I want to speak of something." Came the muted reply.
"I beg your pardon?" Terry was totally incredulous. The sheer impudence
of the man! The driver had clearly forgotten his station in life and
become confused. In his inebriated state, Terry blamed the decline of
colonialism for the increasing bolshevism and lack of respect amongst his
small team of staff. He held president Nkrumah personally accountable for
that. It was not surprising that MI5 kept close tabs on him while he was
studying at Liverpool. At least the Yanks had allegedly possessed the
good sense to help fund his eventual overthrow. Terry felt thankful for
the CIA's clandestine machinations in the world arena.
"I said that I know about Jimmy. And I know about all of those young man
who visit your room." Aziz shouted back over the blare of car horns.
Terry became incensed by the remark, but tried to keep his temper in
check.
"Really? Well then, I trust that I can rely on your discretion in this
matter?" He replied tersely.
"I take photos through window..." Aziz left the implication hanging
ominously in the air.
"What the hell are you driving at man?" Terry balled back.
"I drive to Lagon, Masser." Aziz smiled to himself as he out peered out
at a road sign for Domi through the dusty night air.
"No, you damn fool, I meant what photos? And what business of yours are
my personal affairs?"
"Ah yes, we talk about business now. Is good. Give me thirty million,
then nobody knows about this things."
For the first time in his life, Terry was utterly dumbfounded. He
floundered for words.
"What?" He stuttered, "What! You must be bloody joking! Thirty million
Cedis? You must be out of your tiny fucking mind!" He screamed.

Aziz felt his prick twitching in his suit trousers. It was such a
pleasure to rile his white master. It would be an even greater pleasure
to fuck him like the bitch that he evidently was. Maybe Mr. Terry Broad
would then know who the real master was.
"We go to 'Zongo' now, Muslim ghetto. We go meet my friend Abdul." He
intoned confidently.
Terry felt an escalating anxiety. Although he had undoubtedly taken more
than his share of black male, he had never anticipated blackmail. Well
this time he wouldn't take it lying down. He would call the police
forthwith. It was then that he realised with dismay that he had left his
cell phone back at the house to charge. But supposing he did manage to
contact the police? What would he say? That he had been buggered by half
the young studs at the local golf course and needed them to help prevent
his forthcoming public debut in gay pornography?
"Oh God!" He winced through clenched teeth.
He would simply have to rely on his superior intellect to avoid a
potentially embarrassing incident. Besides, the imbecile would probably
settle for a fraction of the amount he appeared to be demanding.

"Listen man, this whole thing was preposterous! I'll give you five
million and you never show your face around me again, do you hear me? He
barked stridently. "Oh, and I want all the negatives and any prints
you've had made of me with erm...whoever." He added.
His driver said nothing. He pulled off the road at Achimoto Lorry Park
and parked near a busy chop bar.
"Twenty five, last offer" He responded coolly. "Or I post all photo to
Daily Graphic."
Terry could not quite believe his ears. In all his years of slutting
around the world, he had never encountered such an unpalatable situation.
"Alright, take your damn money and I'll bloody drive the rest of the
way." He reached into his attache case and petulantly threw several
bundles of cash onto the front seat.
"As far as I'm concerned, you can just piss off and hand over the car
keys immediately!"
A tall figure approached the vehicle and wrapped a knuckle on the
passenger window.
"Eh Chally, wassup?" Aziz laughed as he opened the door. The stranger got
in and immediately lit a spliff.
"Yeh, cool bro, Ye ko." The stranger turned and scrutinised Terry for a
moment.
"Wo ho te sen?" He asked in a gruff voice. Terry had no desire to
converse with him.
He discerned the stranger's broad shoulders and thick muscular neck,
noticing tribal markings on his cheeks that denoted an Ashanti origin.
Anxiously, Terry lit a Tusker and tried the nearside door but the central
locking was activated. He was effectively trapped. For a moment, he
considered climbing out of the window, but then decided that he had no
desire to implement such an indecorous display in public. He would simply
wait for the right moment.
"Abdul, where be house?" Aziz shouted as he did a u-turn.
"Pass straight, chally." Abdul responded gruffly.

For some minutes, the car sped along an unsurfaced dual carriageway. A
haze of dust and petrol fumes permeated the air. Aziz steered the car
left at a tall church, then took a sharp right. The vehicle pitched and
ground its axel along unlit trails through a shantytown. Dim candlelight
flickered from within makeshift houses. The headlights picked out stacks
of lorry tyres and the twisted chassis of rusting cars. The charred earth
was strewn with water sachets and decaying food. Finally, they drew to a
halt by a narrow alleyway. Terry realised that he would have to comply
with Aziz's wishes until he was in possession of the negatives.
Reluctantly he climbed out of the car and was escorted through series of
passageways. He felt something soft underfoot and prayed that it wasn't
of human origin.

Abdul pulled back the mosquito door and fumbled with the keys.
"Eh Chally, me go bust some white man pussy!" He bragged gregariously to
his friend.
Saa? chally, me go mek 'im fe beg stop." Aziz laughed.
Terry began to get an inkling what was on the itinerary for the evening.
He was accustomed to hearing Accra patois, a bastardised English infused
with the 'Ga' and 'Twi' dialects. The two reprobates intended to
gang-bang him! Terry tried to calm himself. As the two-wannabe gangsters
pressed him into the pitch-black room, he felt his knees pressed against
the edge of a bed.

The bare light bulb revealed a clutter of discarded CDs, a stereo that
had disgorged its innards and a double bed. Aziz sat down on a green
threadbare armchair while Abdul locked the door behind them. Terry sat on
the bed awkwardly as the pair began to discuss the merits of 'Lumba's'
latest release. Terry did not care for the local hip life music. His
musical tastes were extremely conservative and he only enjoyed mainstream
seventies disco, but always in the privacy of his own home.

Abdul eyed the sweating white man salaciously as he switched a fan on
full.
"Welcome." He smiled ingratiatingly. His grin seemed impossibly warm and
disarming.
"How typically Ghanaian. Even the crooks are charming." Terry mused
aloud. He produced his hip flask and drank rapaciously. After lighting
yet another Tusker, he was offered some weed by Abdul, but declined.
"Okay, let's get this thing over with." He declared.
The invitation was accepted without ceremony. Abdul removed his T-shirt.
Terry could not help but admire his dark, taut musculature. A musky,
masculine scent wafted over to him and Terry felt a growing desire
stirring in his loins. Meanwhile, Aziz unbuttoned his shirt,
intermittently grabbing his rock-hard protuberance. Terry was very well
acquainted with the aggressive style that Ghanaian men fucked. He had
first heard about it from one of the other queens at the British
Consulate. Apparently, they held the belief that fucking hard produced a
strong baby. The exact pertinence of this snippet of information was
initially lost on him, but with time, its relevance became obvious.

"Who's first?" Terry eyed Abdul with a degree of coyness.
Abdul said nothing as he dropped his baggy jeans and struggled to drag
his underpants past a ravenous throbbing manhood. He had already had his
girlfriend that afternoon, but he had a lot more love juice to dispense.

"Ashawo." Abdul joked as Terry hastily removed all his clothes and lay
spread-eagled on the bed. Terry viewed Abdul as he stepped out of his
underwear. His powerful thighs were adorned with a fine layer of black
hair. Between them, a lengthy swollen cock pointed skyward from a base of
dense matted hair and huge low-slung balls. The tip of his circumcised
head wavered slightly as he applied cocoa butter to the rigid shaft. When
he had finished, he stared at Terry with a single purpose burning in his
mind.

Terry looked over to Aziz, who was now masturbating slowly. His hand was
barely able to encircle the monstrous girth of his dick. He returned his
eyes to Abdul, who had knelt on the bed. Terry marvelled at the sharp
relief of his broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist.
"Lift." Abdul instructed Terry to raised his buttocks as a pillow was
placed under his hips.
Abdul had no desire for preliminaries. With one hand he angled his cock
against Terry's puckered anus and thrust with all his considerable
strength. Terry was surprised, but far from uncomfortable as the eager
love prod slipped in unhindered, right up to the hilt. Abdul paused a
moment, savouring the delicious fruit of his labours. He was not
accustomed to a person receiving him with such consummate ease. Maybe it
was his diplomatic training? There was obviously some hard work needed to
reach this particular white man.

With all his might, Abdul retracted to the tip and rammed himself back
inside. Terry gasped as the force of the bloated dick hit deeply, making
him shiver with a dizzying elation. Somehow, he had discovered paradise
in the midst of a hellish ghetto. As Abdul thrust himself against him,
Terry lifted up slightly and kneaded Abdul's pounding buttocks.
Encouraged by this, Abdul banged him even faster, his sweating pelvis
slapping loudly against the recumbent white man. Within minutes, he began
to feel his orgasm tingling in his balls. He quickened his tempo, looking
down as Terry began to jerk himself in time with his frantic pummelling.

Aziz looked on them impatiently, keen for his piece of the action.
Abdul's breath became laboured as the first explosion of rapture sent
shivers through his balls. He began to squirt his hot cream deep into the
core of Terry's quivering rectum. As soon as he had drained off the last
tantalising drops, he yanked out his glistening cock and reached for a
towel, leaving Terry feeling frustrated. Terry turned to Aziz.
"I hope you can finish the job that your friend started?" he teased
coquettishly.
Aziz fixed him with a hard stare. Terry was unsure if he intended to slap
him or fuck him. He stepped over to the bed, towering over him like a
warrior closing in on his prey.
Abdul may have been the hors d'oeuvre, but Aziz was definitely the main
course, Terry speculated. Aziz reached for Terry's thigh and masterfully
turned him face down on the bed. He directed Terry at right angles to the
length of the bed and brought him up into a genuflectory position.
"I want you to face Mecca when I give it you." He whispered manfully.
"Do your worst!" Terry goaded. "You have to be good for something because
your driving is damn awful."
The provocative remark enraged Aziz. He'd endured two years of Mr.
Terry's jibes, his patronising remarks and his ingratitude. Terry glanced
back and caught the fiery look in his driver's eye. He wondered if he had
gone too far with his taunting. Despite his extensive stretching over the
years, Terry had not experienced someone of Aziz's dimensions. Aziz
spread Terry's buttocks and shoved his giant cock against his dilated
back passage with all his might. Terry felt his ring piece stretched to
its limit as the rock solid member was relentlessly driven into him.
"Slowly please or you'll do me an injury." He complained. Aziz ignored
him, taking great pleasure in thrusting in his remaining inches."
"Oh! It's just too much! Take it out this instant. I don't want any
wahalla!" Terry protested.
Aziz, however, was becoming immersed in a sensual debauchery and
unreceptive to his half-hearted pleas. As Terry struggled against him, he
gripped his shoulders, doggy style. Driven into a fucking frenzy by
Terry's taunts, he began to slam into him with all his might. His
powerful athletic frame was well versed in the finer art of banging
pussy. Terry's yelped banefully as the beef bayonet battered into his
Bourneville Boulevard. He squirmed against the rear guard assault, but
Aziz easily restrained him.
"Eh! Me go pound some fufu tonight!" He gasped, his body drenched with
sweat. Abdul laughed lecherously as he slipped his boxer shorts back on.
"I'll sue you for this. This is breaking and entering!" Terry complained.

However, Terry was now becoming accustomed to the gargantuan piston. Aziz
was once again in the driving seat, but this time Terry was being taken
on the ride of his life. A supernova of pleasure was exploding within his
molten core and thrusting him into stratospheric ecstasy. As the shock
wave of orgasm swept away his senses, he gasped prayers of adulation.
"Aziz, oh, it's the greatest. You're the best. Only you can reach me."

Aziz grabbed the shuddering hips and drew the hungry manhole down his
entire length. Groaning uncontrollably, he exploded into the slick
recepticle. He slowed as he careened over a dizzying precipice of bliss
and plummeted into the languorous depths of euphoria. For a moment he
closed his eyes, brushing the sweating flanks of his compliant white man.
"Who's the master now?" He whispered.

Terry felt his wits returning. He found the remark somewhat unseemly for
a person of such low status. He drew himself off the softening member and
gingerly dabbed his tender ring piece with the towel.
"I can't say that I particularly care for that remark. That's the trouble
with you people; no sense of decorum." He commented disdainfully. "Now
where are those damn photos?"
There was a palpable tension in the air as Aziz looked upon his
ungrateful lover. He turned to Abdul who seemed equally infuriated by the
remark.
"Chally, me go Lagon."
"Yo ma te." His friend nodded wearily.

Terry and Aziz did not speak as they made their way back to the car.
Terry cursed and scraped his soiled shoe on a large stone before getting
into the vehicle. They journeyed back to Lagon in silence.

Back at the house, Aziz dutifully produced several spools of negatives.
His reward was summary dismissal and an assurance from Mr Terry that he
would ensure that he would never find employment again in Accra. As the
security staff manhandled Aziz out of the main entrance, he was relieved
of all his ill-gotten earnings.

The following day, Terry decided to join his wife for breakfast on the
terrace. Crimson blooms swayed gently in the breeze and birds chirped
from well-cultivated borders. The bright, sun-drenched morning was made
even more splendid by the fact that Terry's recent predicament had been
resolved so satisfactorily. Accompanied by the gentle whir of the
overhead fan, the couple managed, as usual, to discuss issues that were
suitably prosaic for their estranged relationship. Terry even managed to
smile at her. Mrs Broad sipped her tea and turned to the second page of
the Daily Graphic. All of a sudden, she gasped, dropping her teacup. As
it shattered, Terry looked up in alarm, noticing that she had paled
visibly.
"Good God! What on earth's wrong, my dear?" He quizzed.
"Who's the hell is Jimmy?" She shrieked hysterically.

(c) Kofi Quisling 2006