A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

As I had feared all along, it wasAnt who brought about the demise of my alter ego, the fair Martina, but not in the manner I had so alarmingly anticipated. He returned unexpectedly one evening from one of his frequent trips – so unexpectedly that later I suspected it had been done with deliberate intent. I was wearing a cute little cami and matching “boy-shorts” in black lace and crimson ribbon, with long suspenders stretching to dark sheer stockings, and tottering about on pencil heels high enough to give me a nose bleed. My mistress was even more alluringly undressed in nothing but a mistily transparent and carelessly tied negligee. It took us both several transfixed seconds to realise that Ant was not alone before we simultaneously squealed and turned to flee. But Ant was even quicker, and seized our wrists to prevent our escape.

  ‘Don’t be bashful, ladies! I told Ramzan how cute you both were. No need to be shy. He’s a great mate of mine. I’ve told him to make himself at home. What’s mine is yours!’ he grinned, turning towards the stranger.

  ‘That doesn’t include me, I hope!’ Clio, for once looking slightly less than self-possessed, hastily tied the sashes of the negligee more tightly, and said pointedly, ‘I’d like at least to put my bra and pants on.’

  ‘Spoilsport!’ Ant laughed and swiped at her bottom, but he released her and she made a swift flight to the bedroom. He kept hold of my wrist, however, and drew me close to the guest, who had, I noticed with a fluttering mixture of alarm and excitement, been staring keenly at me for most of the brief time since his arrival. ‘And this is our little Martina. Though you might find she’s something of a surprise package if you unwrap her further!’

  And that is more or less what he did, a couple of hours and a good meal and two bottles of wine and a good number of whiskies later. Clio soon recovered, and elegantly and more substantially dressed, made the best of an unexpected and none-too-welcome job. Ramzan was about my height, but with a stocky, athletic frame. He was, I guessed, Asian, one of the several million who lived here now, descendants of those who had been brought from the Indian subcontinent generations ago by the former colonialists. It was hard to tell his age, but he was certainly closer to 30 than 40. His glossy black hair was arranged in tight waves which flowed back from his open brow. There was just a hint of the oriental in the rather flat structure of his face, the high cheeks, and the narrowness of his brilliant black eyes. But his lips were thick, his mouth wide, and his teeth perfect and dazzlingly white in his beaming smile. And, more and more uncomfortably and excitingly, that look, and smile, were directed increasingly towards me.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘COME HERE. LET’S GET those stupid tart’s rags off you.’ His thick fingers moved with competence, but quite roughly as he dragged the camisole up over my shoulders and head, then stripped me of the panties, garter belt and stockings in a few deft manoeuvres. I stood there naked, my hands clasped, twisting between my thighs, as I tried, without looking like Venus surprised at her bath, to hide the stubby little concertina cock, and the denuded area of my pelvis. I shivered, but kept still as he sat on the edge of the bed and, with gentle firmness, let his hard hands move over the smooth and fragrant contours of my hips, then round to the tight little cheeks of my bottom, which flexed automatically at the exploratory caress.

  Gentle still, the cupped hands drew me even closer, until I could feel his bare brown knees rubbing against mine, and the glossy black waves of hair brushed against my belly before he glanced up, and I gazed tremblingly down at him. My prick stirred, its signals racing through me at his close proximity, the caress of his breath across my loins. The thick lips parted in a tender smile. ‘Let’s get that stupid muck off you!’

  Holding me by the hand, he drew me into the small toilet and shower room off the guest bedroom. I flinched at the coldness of the closed plastic lid of the lavatory on my bare bum as he sat me firmly on the pedestal before reaching for a jar of cold cream above the washbasin. With those hard fingers he began to smear the cream thickly all over the features on which Clio had spent so much of her time and art earlier. His thumbs pressed against my closed eyelids, covering the deep blue, and the mascara of the stiff, curling sweep of the black lashes. I remembered how painstakingly she had worked, her sweet warm breath mingling with mine as she bent, inches away from me, instructing me for future reference. ‘See, sweety? Be especially careful at the corners – it makes them look so much longer. The girls will be green with envy of you!’

  Now it was hisbreath that wafted over me as he gripped my chin with thumb and finger, and wiped vigorously to clean the greasy conglomeration from me. ‘You don’t need all this crap, Marty!’ he answered strongly. The flick of the head encompassed the scattered pile of undies in the bedroom. ‘You’re beautiful as you are. You don’t need to pretend you’re a girl. Now wash the rest of this muck off your face and let me see what you reallylook like.’

  I moved to obey. I bent over the basin, ran the warm water, and did as he had bidden, acutely aware of his closeness behind me in the tiny compartment, and the soft movement as he swiftly shed his few clothes. He was holding the towel when I finished rinsing the soap from me. The brush of his thighs against my buttocks sent my heart racing madly. I was trembling violently, and I felt so faint I could hardly speak.

  I felt the cold rim of the basin across my lower belly. He held me tightly with those hard hands, just above my elbows, and there was no strength at all in my limbs. He leant against me, his chin pressing into my shoulder, his lips brushing my ear. My bottom flexed at the touch of him against me, the lifting, hardening throb of his prick on my softer flesh. ‘You like me, don’t you, Marty? You like men. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? They don’t even call us queers any more.’

  Our eyes met in the mirror. I swallowed hard, my voice coming in a hoarse whisper. ‘I don’t ... I’ve never ... been with a boy – a man.’ The vision in the mirror blurred as my eyes filled with tears, but not before I had seen the compelling, brilliant pinpoints of his orbs penetrating mine.

  ‘Look! Come here, you lovely boy! I’ll show you.’

  He turned me, holding on to me, and his arms encircled me. I felt a hand on my bottom, the fingers outspread, thrusting me against him, and as his lips clamped over mine, the tongue thrusting passionately into my surrendering openness, our loins came together, grinding in the rhythm of fierce love, bellies, hips, thighs, searching for an indissoluble contact. And, the very centre of this blaze of passion, our throbbing pricks rubbed and clashed, our balls meshed in mad urgency. I felt the long swell and stir of his elongated penis, riding up over my bare pubis, the crease of my thigh, then my belly. My less substantial tumescence writhed against him in equally intimate urgency.

  My head was spinning, my breath lost, sucked from me by the ferocity of his kiss, and I clung helplessly against him when he finally withdrew his mouth from mine. ‘You see what I mean.’ It wasn’t a question.

  He turned me once again so that I faced the basin, but he kept as close and intimate a contact as before. I could feel the thick length of his prick now laid along the cleft of my behind. Those strong hands came around my hips, the strong fingers took hold of my soft balls and the swelling column of my penis. Its head had emerged from the ring of the brown foreskin, its satin softness coated now with the clear fluid which was oozing from the slit of its mouth. Gently he massaged, manipulating the stubby shaft, which quivered then reared in sudden throbbing rigidity, and I screamed softly at the climax that shot through me, sending a thicker ejection of creamy opaque come into the white gleaming bowl against which I was pressed.

  ‘See?’ he breathed in my ear, and this time there was the rising interrogation in the word. I could smell the distinctive odour of my sperm, could see it gleaming on those brown fingers still holding, but with new gentleness, my shrinking, folding cock.

  He turned me in his arms, and we kissed again, long, and tenderly, the passion rekindling, but still with that new lovingness, and I sank down on my knees, my brow sliding down his chest, the
finely muscled belly, my nose burrowed in the tight dark cluster of his pubes, breathing in the dizzying aroma of his sweet maleness, then on, my hands lifting to cup his potent prick. It was still elongated, but at my knowing finger strokes it reared anew, stiffened, and gratefully I bent my head, stretched my mouth wide and took the swelling smooth dome of his glans into my working mouth and tongue.

  I did not pull away when he came fiercely. It would have been difficult to do so, with the vice-like grip of his fingers in my hair, sealing me to his thrusting loins. But eventually, when my mouth and convulsing throat were full of his semen, I had to tear my soaking face away, as the pressure of his hands relaxed, and I twisted round again, bent over the basin, hawking and retching and splashing the cold water over my come-soaked features.

  He lifted and turned me, and once more our bodies were wrapped together in an embrace, his lips were sealed over mine, as though seeking the taste of his own issue in my worshipful mouth. ‘You darling boy!’

  He did not fuck me until several hours later, when we lay in the clean, faintly fragrant sheets of the guestroom bed. By this time, I must confess, I was as eager as I was nervous about being truly buggered for the first time. ‘I really am a virgin,’ I told him, as we lay, limbs and bodies wrapped around each other, kissing, and building up in deliciously leisurely fashion the heat of passion to its inevitable conclusion. ‘I’ve never done it,’ I murmured, my mouth close to his neck, my curling tongue lapping at his ear. Then my conscience, and this novel rapture that had gripped me, made me confess, in a tearful rush of shame. ‘But Clio – not long ago – she used a vibrator–’ Shame won, and I could not complete the sentence, but buried my face against his chest. My frame shook against his, and I blubbered like an infant.

  ‘She really is one sick bitch!’ he answered, cradling my head, kissing me repeatedly as he spoke. ‘Why the hell did she marry you?’

  I was aware of the syntax of his question, and reflected how well he already knew me after only a few hours’ acquaintance. Mind you, a lot had happened already, I also acknowledged, and my body quivered at the thought, and thrilled at what was about to happen. I hoped! Of course I did! In spite of all the fears, the fears of a genuine virgin in homoerotic sex, I wanted him, wanted him to possess me, emotionally and, yes, physically. I was afraid, trembling at the notion of it. But I wanted it.

  It hurt, but only for a brief while, at the onset of his penetration. I whimpered softly at the feeling of his rampant prick probing, the forcing invasion, and the brief burning resistance. Then I shook, with a new, half terrified delight, at the feel of his column of flesh, the spasming tightness of the grip of my narrow passage as he drove in, then the plunging rhythm, the feel of his hard thighs, his balls, ramming against my soft bent body, my own swaying yield to his conquering, and my complicity. It wasn’t until I actually came that I realised he had been all the while caressing, tossing me off as we swayed, locked together in our act of love.

  And, to my dizzy and amazed rapture, in spite of my having climaxed, the unique sensation of his fucking of me did not diminish my sensual pleasure in any degree, and I lay back with weak delight, curled under the thrust of his passion until the final ecstatic explosion of his own crisis, which I felt through every fibre of my quivering frame.

  It brought to a dramatic halt my feminisation at Clio’s capable hands, much to Ant’s relief, I surmised at the time. Clearly he was an enthusiastic advocate of the plan devised the following day for Ramzan to take me with him back to a 30-mile distant station among the open, rolling hills of cattle country, where he was developing a new agricultural centre and stock farm under the aegis of Van Reis’s parent company. Equally clearly, Clio was notin favour. ‘You can’t let him go with that fucking queer!’ she hissed, fortunately not in their guest’s presence.

  I stood there, silent and servile as usual, the stinging discomfort between my buttock cheeks a potent reminder of the winds of change which had blown through me. My stomach churned, with the fear of the storm which seemed likely to erupt at this clash between my mistress and my master. But also I was severely aware of the conflicting tug of emotion and desire within me. Clio’s recent transformation of me into a kind of she-male eunuch had been rousing, despite my largely passive role. Her skilful making up of my features, the lavish attentions to my body to make it as feminised as possible, and the sensual attraction of the silky flimsiness of the clothing, had been deeply attractive to that deviant facet of my nature, of which she had been so wickedly aware. Martina.The hybrid personality encapsulated in the name had been powerfully compelling, I would be sorry to lose it – or her!

  But also, and my senses were still reeling giddily at it, the events of the last 15 hours or so had had a potent, one might say shattering, effect on me. The soreness of my tender arse notwithstanding, I was enraptured with my initiation into homosexual passion. It had featured only vaguely and infrequently in my youthful and adult fantasy, and had virtually been obliterated by the cataclysmic effect of my impotent, subservient adoration of Clio for all the time I had known her. But now the blazing reality of my encounter with Ramzan left me weak, and literally trembling with fascinated hunger for more.

  I was full of remorse and compassion for Clio at Ant’s brusque dismissal of her efforts to prevent my departure with Ramzan, but weak with relief at his victory. My head spun and my bum ached, and heart and prick thrilled beneath my clean white kanzuwith selfish joy as I climbed in beside my latest lover in his Toyota Cruiser.

  Away for the first time in weeks from the total domination of Ant and Clio, I moved in an enchanting but somehow unreal land. My relationship with Ramzan was completely different. Although I was still submissive and pliable, I no longer experienced that sense of slavish negativity, where even thought was controlled, dedicated to that one purpose of obedience, that subjection of body and mind to their will. For a start, my new lover was unfailingly tender and patient. He never exerted his dominance either physically or mentally. There was no punishment, not even a spanking to link pain with passion, though I would have been more than ready to stretch myself over his knee should he have wished me to do so. ‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ I told him, my eyes filling with tears on our first night alone in his small bungalow.

  ‘What wewant!’ he corrected, those black eyes glistening as he drew me into his kisses.

  Of course, I made love with my mouth and tongue and hands. When it came to the fucking, I was inevitably the buggered, not the bugger. ‘That’s good. That’s how I want it,’ he assured me, when we lay in each other’s arms the second night of our all too brief idyll.

  ‘Me too,’ I whispered, luxuriating in the ache of muscles weary from loving. Even the soreness of my behind was part of that heady newfound joy.

  Yet the sense of unreality persisted. ‘I love you,’ I whispered, time and time again. I mean it, I swore to myself, but somehow could not believe it, even in the most fierce, ramming evidence of his possession of my proffered flesh, or the equally explosive climax we could share, as we lay heads to toes, our searching mouths and caressive hands between each other’s writhing thighs. His tenderness and unfailing consideration of my welfare added to this sense of fantasy. He was careful not to flaunt our relationship in front of others, such as his staff and, in particular, the house servants. He was quick to replace my white kanzuwith clean pressed khaki shirt and slacks. And, luxury of luxuries, new white underwear!

  But all these concessions to normality, or, one might say, examples of his regard for me, only served to remind me just how quickly and completely I had embraced my servility under Clio and Ant’s regime. Ramzan’s treatment unnerved me. I felt awkward and something of a sham in my new clothes and my elevated status before the domestics, however much they might snigger and deride my true role as Bwana Ramzan’s lover-boy. It was only naked, in his bed and in his arms, that I could forget everything in the dizzy rapture of my initiation into homosexual love. Even that, startling as it was, could not prev
ent my thoughts from straying to my mistress, and my formidable master, and the completeness of my subservience to them. Was that what true devotion meant for me, or could I really become a lover and a partner of this beautiful man who thrilled me when we lay together?

  As always, fate, or the will of others, decided for me. After I had been with Ramzan for about three weeks, one morning Ant’s Land Cruiser suddenly roared into the compound, and the tall South African strode onto the veranda as we both hurried out to meet him. His lip curled and he sneered with contempt when he saw me in my neat clothes. ‘What the feck’s all this? Get that gear off! You’re coming home.’

  Ramzan faced him bravely. Though a head shorter, his stocky figure squared up, and he answered swiftly, holding up a restraining hand. ‘Wait a minute! You don’t have to go, Marty! We need to talk, Ant.’

  ‘No we don’t! Not unless you want to lose your job. And I’ll make sure you don’t get another. Not on thisfeckin’ continent!’

  ‘Please!’ I cried. My heart was thumping. ‘It’s all right, Ramzan. I have to go. Maybe – I’ll see you again. I–’

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Ant laughed harshly. ‘Talking back now, is it? So you like being buggered, do you? You little puff! We can arrange that! There’s plenty of dicks bigger than his. Isn’t that right, Ramzan?’

  ‘Bastard!’ Ramzan raised his fist, ready to spring forward, and I cried out, stepping in front of him.

  ‘No! Please, Ramzan! Don’t fight!’ I turned towards Ant, instinctively clasping my hands, lifting them in appeal. ‘Please don’t – I’ll come–’

  ‘Too feckin’ right you will! Now get those bleddy clothes off and get in the truck. Right now!’

  Hastily I tore at the buttons of the shirt and dragged it from me, then swiftly thrust down the thin slacks and the white underbriefs, kicked them clear and shed my footwear. I was hardly aware of the delighted amazement of the Africans gathered around, and their screams of laughter at my stripping. Without looking at Ramzan, head down, blinded by tears, I scrambled wincingly over the hot gravel that stung my tender feet and climbed into the back of the 4x4, feeling the burn of the hot leather on my bare skin.