Zambian student

Zambian Student

When I got the invitation to the wedding , I went first to my budget. Driving to Zambia was not practical, and flying was the only way, but how much.

My long-time friend Philippe, who I first met during a business project in another part of Africa and later became a personal friend, had made a vow to his then girl friend over two years earlier. They were on a boat cruise on the Zambezi above Victoria Falls -- twice as wide and twice as high as Niagara. `If we get married, this is where.'

Now, two years and one 8-month old baby later, they were going back to the African Queen to get married. Most of my fellow guests from Philippe's side had grown up together in the Belgian Congo (now the `Democratic Republic of Congo', erstwhile `Zaire' under Mobuto).  French speaking.

Nike's side were from Bavaria -- German speaking.  The wedding service itself was to be conducted by a Jesuit priest from 0Lusaka - in English, the lingua Franca of today's Europe.

In Zambia guys who like guys are not easy to find, but they are there.  And I had such great memories of my night with soldier George, his glistening black muscled soldier body thrusting his swollen throbbing manhood into me, I decided to go. I needed some more big Zambian cock.

The flight there was eventful. They announced a delay. I went away and came back after the announced time and the plane had gone.  They put me on a plane to Victoria Falls.  It's only 10 kms from Livingstone, but it's in a different country!!!  Zimbabwe not Zambia, the two separated by immigration and customs border posts, the mighty Zambezi River, and joined by a rail and road bridge across the amazing Batoka Gorge on which you get soaking wet with the spray from the falls when the wind is right.

I refused to change any of my cash into Zimbabwe Dollars -- they would in any case at the current rate of inflation be worth less an hour later.  Instead I brazenly cadged a lift on the back of a pick-up truck (`bakkie'), whose driver kindly dropped me off twenty minutes later at the outgoing Zim border post.  A couple of cheapish taxis got me to the Ngolide Lodge in Livingstone Town and a reasonable room for the night.

I took dinner that night at the Lodge and chatted up the waiters. "Nice shirt' was a good start -- my shirt not theirs.  I asked about internet access. Innocent said he'd show me -- the F&B supervisor.  He sat next to me -- quite close. Closer as I talked about porn on the internet -- all sorts of porn.  Close enough for my hand to drop down to his trouser leg. He didn't move away. I brushed against his front. He grinned at me sheepishly. I found his stiffening cock.   I stroked it while pretending to talk about the internet. We were a bit exposed.

Eventually we called it off after I'd explored his nice length through his pants.

When they finished for the night, he came and spoke to me in the shadows, saying he had to go with the other guys that night -- they'd think it very strange for him to stay behind. .

BUT -- I had to move hotels the next day to join my friends for the wedding party.  Goodbye to Innocent for the moment.

The plan was to move to the Livingstone Safari Lodge. There was a very nice young man, Humphrey -- very beddable but too young, who lent me his bicycle. I rode it in the afternoon with a French guy from China to the Falls and back.  Some of the party arrived later with small kids, and they immediately had visions of their small fry disappearing into the surrounding bush never to be seen again.  So we all moved to the (more expensive) Zambezi Sun. It' s right bang next to the falls on the north (Zambian) side.  Amazing views and you just walk out of the back gate of the hotel grounds to get there. I paid several visits and decided the smart thing was to wear swimming trunks and leave your shirt behind. Skin, they told me, was waterproof.  Many more clothed guests hire fancy green waterproof coveralls. So my skin caused some amusement to the hirers of the waterproofs. But they looked after my bicycle and my shirt, with some accompanying banter.  Nice looking guys, but too many of them at a time.

I'd been told to look out for Edward, who'd royally fucked one of our readers at the Zambezi Sun some time before. No Edward to be found, though I made fleeting contact with a young fresh faced waiter, Brian, who said he'd come to my room. But never did. Got trapped in meetings and it being difficult to get there without being seen.

So, on to the wedding. Sure enough it was all that the bride and groom could have wished. The party assembled on the Africa Queen -- a majestic three decker, which set off grandly up the mighty Zambezi.  The bride was nowhere to be seen. But wait -- what's this? A launch approaches, bearing bride and bride's parents.  Draws up along side and on steps the bridal party, all ready for the ceremony to stat.

They'd booked the middle deck, and there, floating on the water, they were married. By the priest from Lusaka, long time friend.   Lovely ceremony, with some tears of happiness and nostalgia shed by many.  The event was enlivened for me by the two waiters cum barmen, provocatively dressed in sailors' whites with cute pseudo US style sailors' caps -- the round ones.  Lots of chat but no real points of contact .

We danced the night away on the quayside to a good band with some catchy latin rhythms.  What was I going to do with the rest of my stay.  I was close enough to Botswana (via Zimbabwe) to think about visiting Chobe Game Reserve and the swamps.  BUT that went out of the window when I checked the prices -- all steep, steep and all in US Dollars. .  Do they think everyone who comes is a rich American?

It seemed that a lot of the party were going back to Lusaka the next day, because of their air tickets.   AND there would be a big second `Rendezvous' in Lusaka that evening.  It sounded like a lot of fun so I negotiated my way to Lusaka in one of the cars.   Sure enough we were too many for the available beds, so I ended up with four others sleeping in a tent in the garden.   This was good clean family stuff, no hanky panky to be had, even in Lusaka Town where I went for a few hours.  We were staying on a farm a good half hour's drive outside the city.  One of the young black farm hands had a lovely body, a sweet smile and an arse to get you hard in seconds, but no idea anyone was even interested.

The European party took their various planes, and I had a hilarious morning with the daughter of the hosts, whose school was putting on a play.   It was appallingly under-rehearsed, but she was quite good, so I could save face and say nice things.   Lots of interesting young guys hanging round the bar, but no opportunities.

I booked a seat back to Livingstone for the next day on a coach.  And that's where the real fun started.

They delivered me to the coach station at 11, as advised. Of course, no coaches actually leave at 11.  People keep arriving, and the coach yard is jam packed, so even if we were full we couldn't get out.  There were quite a few people on the coach already, sitting, waiting.  You do a lot of that in Africa -- waiting.  It was a `2 seats one side, 3 on the other' arrangement.  All the 2 seat side had one person by the window. The 3 seat side had several centre & aisle seats free.  My roving eye spotted a young black guy by the window in one of these rows, so I pitched myself in the aisle seat.  Going in the centre would be a bit too obvious, I thought.

My hunch was right -- the bus kept filling up, and when a large thighed young lady chose our row, I had the perfect excuse to move into the middle next to the young guy.   He introduced himself - he was Sam.   That was a good sign.  Now I had the delightful prospect of being jammed next to this hunky specimen of Zambian manhood for several hours.  No doubt out thighs would touch, our arms would touch -- who knows what might happen.

Finally, the coaches were deemed to be full enough -- by now it was about 12.  Or rather `twelve hundred hours' , that being the practice of referring to time in Zambia.  After much jockeying for position and hair breadth manoevring, our coach made it to the exit, and we set off on the road to Livingstone.

An appalling Stallone movie started showing on the small TV screen mounted just behind the driver. It was quite a way ahead of us, and a little bit low. I could see it better if I leaned up and forward.    I also realised that when I did that, the young lady on my left couldn't see past me to the young man. She couldn't see when I casually let my hand rest on his leg.

I'd bought some biscuits while we were waiting, and he took one when offered.  We chatted a while. He was a student somewhere in Lusaka, but now he was moving to Livingstone for a year and staying with his uncle.  He was wearing a sort of track suit in some shiny white synthetic fabric that was quite a bit too big, and had a slight tear down the inside of his right leg.  Over it he a hd a baggy fort of black jacket top. Everything loose and typical student. How could I tell what was beneath that.

As the journey and the movie went on, I let my hand rest more often on his leg.  He didn't pull away or take it off.  So I just left it there for a while. Then I moved it about, but no any higher, just yet.

Nothing.

I moved it higher.  And higher.  I rubbed the soft mound of his crotch. Nothing.

Stallone was still at it on the TV. I was at it in Row 12. 

Then we pulled in to a cafe stop.  Everybody piled out and some made for the toilets. Sam didn't, so I followed him into the cafe. Those who hadn't planned ahead queued frantically to buy something to eat.  I managed to get a pie, but Sam demanded chicken and chips. As a result he was kept waiting longer than anyone, and was last back on the coach.

We ate our food. The chicken and chips smell was strong, but several other people were also having it so the general atmosphere was quite fruity for a while, till we finished and it slowly cleared.

At this point, Sam did something interesting. He said he was hot, and he took off his black jacket top and draped it round him, leaving his arms bare, and the bottom of the jacket covering his waist and his crotch and the front of his legs. 

My mind had gone blank.  Was I or wasn't I feeling up this young black guy just now, and him saying nothing?  Was he just tolerating me, and was not at all interested, but didn't want to make a scene?  If he was interested, why was his dick still soft? What was going on?

But the jacket was covering the bit that I'd been rubbing before the stop. My hand slid under the jacket easily. This time I made straight for the bulge - why bother moving up the leg.  It was still soft as my hand caressed it lovingly.  I never looked at his face. Maybe I thought  he'd say stop if I looked at him, or shake his head or something.

But wait -- wasn't it getting just a little bit firmer. Yes indeed, slowly but surely it was firming up.  And I was obviously stroking it, and he was clearly letting me, and getting hard.

I pulled my hand back, and slid it under the elastic of his waist band.  Now I could get a proper feel for the stiffening shaft as it lay against his hard stomach. He was a smallish guy and slim, and my hand went straight to the point.  His hard young fuck tool fitted well into the length of my hand.   But I was still feeling through a layer of cloth.  I pulled away again, and this time slipped my hand inside his underpants.

At last, his naked cock flesh filled my searching hand.  I made space inside his clothes, so that I could jerk the whole length of his man prick slowly up and down.  Slowly, as Stallone was now into the second episode, and I was still leaning forward watching avidly.  I didn't want it to spoil it by getting a load of hot spunk in my hand.  Keep him on edge but not push him over. At last, as I stroked his strong young black manshaft gently up and down, I stole a glance. He grinned back at me sheepishly.  

 We enjoyed our secret sex session until we got to the outskirts of Livingstone.  Fortunately at some point we'd exchanged phone numbers, because it was controlled bedlam when we pulled into the coach stop in Livingstone. It was already starting to get dark. I didn't know how far the new place that I'd booked into was from the centre, but guessed I'd need a taxi. It seemed his direction and mine were opposite so it didn't make sense to share one. He pulled me behind the one I'd chosen, and said what I was about to say -- we must meet.

We arranged to call or exchange SMS (`text') messages to set something up.  This was exciting. It was not to end on the coach.  He wanted more. Well so did I.

After booking into the room I explored the possibilities.  He'd have to come to the lodge. BUT there was a keen gatekeeper on the public front entrance, allowing only guests in.  There was a big public bar and restaurant at the back, but the door from the bar into the grounds was very public and it turned out they only expected guests to use it.  There was also a maintenance yard with a door onto the street at the back, but this was also normally closed and locked.

What to do.  We arranged for him to come to the bar, not the next afternoon but the one after.

So I called Innocent. He was pleased to get my call, but was also busy that day.   I told him if he was free he must come to the bar and I'd smuggle him in somehow.   But he didn't come that day. I got a lift to the Falls and went skin walking in the spray again. It's so stupendous that it's worth doing several times.

The next day I went horse riding -- one of the cheaper (but not cheap) things to do.  In the afternoon I was expecting Sam, and got myself showered, freshened and greased up. Always gives me hard on getting my arsehole ready for a fucking.

 What I was not ready for was to find both of them in the bar waiting for me. Sam and Innocent -- waiting for sex.   I couldn't see how I could take them both at once, especially as it was clear they didn't know each other,  and one of the managers was standing chatting behind the bar where we all stood.

After quite a few awkward moments I found a way to speak to Innocent, and arranged to see him another time. But make sure next time I knew he was coming.  Then in as innocent (!) a way as I could manage, I asked the manager if I could take my friend into the grounds to show him around.

`Sure, no problem.'

We pushed open the door to the grounds and went to my room.  The curtains were closed, and the bed was ready. We stripped each other hastily and urgently, our cocks rising hard. His body outside the baggy clothes glowed dark and smooth in the half light. His torso was muscled and firm, with wider shoulders and flat hard stomach. His stiffened cock rose up from his hairless groin and slid into my mouth with a gasp of pleasure from him and a grunt of excitement from me.

I was sucking Sam from the coach. I was licking his stiff black youth's penis, I was getting him ready for who knows what

He knew.   He fucked my face with his swollen prick. It was big, uncut, not huge, but big for such a small frame.  He pulled it out and rubbed over my lips and cheeks. Now that he was swollen and rigid, the foreskin rolled back easily over the shaft, He stuck it back in again, held the back of my head and slid it as far as he could into my hungry mouth. I managed to take some of it down my throat.  It was thick enough to fill my mouth full, but not too thick, long enough to reach my throat but not choke me.  The perfect dick, the perfect youth. He smiled down at me, the clear eyes and white teeth shining in the dark brown skin.  Now he was in control.

`Now I want to fuck you.'

`You want to fuck me.  How do want to fuck me?'

`On your back. I want to see your face as I fuck you. I want to fuck your arse with my dick and see you feeling my big cock inside you.'

Was this the same young man who said nothing on the coach as I got closer and closer to his crotch, who gave me no encouragement in my daring grope of his private parts, except doing nothing to stop me?

I got a condom, worked it onto his engorged black fuck tool, and put some lubricant on the whole big thick length of it. . .

I grabbed a pillow, stuck it under me, and lay down on the bed on my back.

He got on the bed and lifted my legs. He looked down to his raging cock, and without touching it moved the tip around till he felt my quivering fuck chute.  He pushed the tip in. When he was sure he was in position, he leaned forward, keeping my legs wide and high. Slowly but steadily he pushed his hot stiff shaft into my arsehole, all of it, the whole man length sliding past the constricting walls of my outer ring like a piston of black man muscle.  

He watched my face. I was gasping with the thickness of it, the deep invasion of my spasming anus by the black spear of his young manhood.

`In Lusaka I like to fuck my friends.'

So there was man sex to be had in Lusaka, and he had lots of it.

His rhythm was steady but energetic. He pushed and thrust and slid and moved the hard shaft inside my hole. Exploring different angles and seeing the effect on me. My cock was raging hard, and he reached down and stroked it gently. I kept my legs on his arms, then lifted them onto his shoulders, then bent almost double and shoved back on his fuck pole.

He filled me with that wonderful manflesh, and I groaned and gasped and sighed and pleaded with him, pretending that I didn't want him to fuck me.

He withdrew a little and played with shoving just the tip of his penis into me.  I reached and pulled him into me every two or three thrusts, so that I felt the whole length sliding in right from almost the swollen head to the base.  Who was this young guy with his big black cock up my arse?  Why was I letting him loving him fuck me up the arse. Guys are not supposed to do that.

`Please don't fuck me, please, don't fuck me, I'm only a ... why is your dick up my arse ..you shouldn't fuck guys up the arse .. fuck guys .. fuck .. no please don't fuck fuck me ..  fuck me .. it's too big.. it's too strong.. please fuck me .. please don't fuck me .. fuck me no no .. please stop fucking me .. you'e got your big strong dick up my arse and you're fucking me please don't fuck me .. fuck me..  FUCK ME... `

`I fuck you .. I fuck you .. I fuck you for ever.. `

`Please don't fuck me .. its' so big.. it's so strong.. please don't' fuck me .. FUCK ME ...'

His thrusts grew stronger and faster. I squeezed my arse muscles as he pushed in.  He eyes widened at the sudden pressure on his cock  Now he need a real shove to get his big dick inside me.  So he shoved, the rhythm kept speeding up.

He grunted and groaned and gave deep shoves into me, his spunk was spurting as he slid the thick length of it time and time again into my exposed arsehole. I grabbed my cock and needed just a few strokes to shoot spunk over my stomach. He kept his cock in me moving slowly in and out. It kept hard for many minutes, and he played with it in my fuck chute as it went down.

We showered together, and I played my hands over his beautiful young black skin, muscles only now revealed, a body well shaped and a cock I couldn't keep my mouth off even in the shower.

`That was good,' he said. `I'll come again tomorrow.'

`Tell me about your friends in Lusaka.'

He talked about the group of friends he had there, 3 or 4 of them it seemed, all . And he was the chief stud, they all liked to get fucked by him.  The others also fucked each other.   He promised to give me contact details the next time I was in Lusaka.  I said he'd need to make fuck-buddies in Livingstone. He could start with Innocent.

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Other firsthand stories -- all true -- are `Zimbabwe men', `Zambian Men' .

Still trying to make time to put into print `Swimming at Miekles', Soldier at Baalbek', `Two Greek sailors' and several others looking for titillating titles.

firsthand@global.co.za