I've spent the past ten months or so designing websites. It's interesting work, which often entails travelling as I either have to photograph or video some of the locations. Recently I've visited wine groves in southern France, a bio hotel in Sicily and a holiday complex for the elderly in Barcelona. But the most ambitious project so far has been for a cultural organization promoting tourism in Tanzania. It was a fascinating trip as I was able to do things I had always dreamt of doing such as going on safari, swimming in the Indian Ocean and living in tribal villages. It also enabled me to get in touch with a primitive side of me I had never allowed to develop.

The guy in charge of the project introduced himself to me as Aston but he obviously had some unpronounceable African name as well. He was in his early thirties and very refined and cultured having been educated in England. He was always immaculate. The kind of guy you would never associate with even a speck of dust. Know what I mean? I didn't take to him immediately although he was physically very attractive. Tall and slim with a disarming smile. In fact his whiter than white teeth literally lit up his black face. But his manner was just that bit too formal. He was even dressed in a formal suit and tie. Appearance was evidently of paramount importance to him and had to be reflected in the photographic material I collected. We did a spectacular photo shoot during which he naturally wore an immaculate safari outfit. Eventually, we arrived at a tribal village.

They gave us a royal welcome and treated Aston like a king, which obviously he was to them. It didn't take me long to work out that he was the prodigal son coming home. When we were able to break our way through the garlands of flowers, he introduced me to his family. They were just as immaculate and handsome as Aston and very hospitable. They treated me like a king too and gave me the best living quarters. The vast double tent was cool and airy, shaded as it was by a spreading acacia. It was beautifully crafted in wood, stone and canvas to blend in with its bush surroundings. The wooden bed was wide and obviously hand built and there were wooden floorboards covered in rush matting. There was also a dinky wooden bathroom. Aston confided to me that it was the equivalent of a bridal suite and only used for special guests and ceremonies. I was allowed to rest up for a few hours and then invited to partake in a tribal banquet in Aston's honour. Fortunately Aston had brought along a friend of his to photograph the event, as I would never have been able to focus. In fact, by the time I'd eaten my way through the mammoth meal and drunk a number of potent African cocktails to wash it all down with, I was seeing everything double, if not treble. The last time I remember feeling like that was when I tried LSD in college.

I saw the tribal dance through a happy, horny haze there was no doubt about it. I was definitely beginning to hallucinate. Everything seemed to be happening some place else. It was a mind out of body experience and all my senses seemed to be working overtime. The primitive music was penetrating my soul. The tom-toms were louder than a symphony orchestra in surround-sound and the pounding rhythm was making my toes curl and my dick turn into a king-sized drumstick. Or maybe it was the dancers doing that. Their firm native bodies shimmered and glistened in the firelight. Their dancing was positively orgasmic. They seemed to have seismic extensions to their thighs and their movements were as fluid as an erupting volcano. The steam rising from their hot flesh combined with the smoke coming from the fire and the heady mist invading my horny head made me swoon. Or was it the luscious guy in the middle of them all?

I'd never seen anyone so beautiful. He looked like a tribal God robed in night. His nipple hard pecs were wide and solid, his deep-set eyes luminous as black pearls, his lips full and sensual. And, to top it all off, his turbulent hips swayed like trees in the middle of a tsunami, his gorgeous groin stabbing the air like a hunter preparing to impale a lion. What's more, in my hallucinatory state he seemed to be doing it all for me.

It was only when he smiled a whiter than white smile that I recognised him. I almost came on the spot. Aston without his immaculate clothes was something else altogether. I couldn't believe my eyes. The refined cultural attache had become a pagan pole dancer, an erotic icon. And, wonder of wonders, he was kicking up dust like a storm. Divested of his civilised trappings he was once more a wild beast of the jungle crying out to be tamed. And by me.

The sexual message his body was transmitting was drumbeat loud and cock crowing clear. I could already feel his throbbing penis at the base of my being, his body merging with mine. I only wondered why he hadn't declared himself to me before. Or maybe he had and double-dense dickhead that I was I hadn't even noticed. I'd been too busy trying to make a favourable impression. Keeping my eyes on the business and the lid on my sensual senses. Now Pandora's box was flying open for both of us.

As our bodies brushed briefly after the ritual rites he wasted no time in telling me he wanted to storm my bridal chamber and possess me that night. Those were his very words. Straight out of the Arabian Nights. I wanted to laugh but he spoke with such searing sincerity that I didn't dare. Besides I'd never wanted to be more possessed or stormed in all my life. He took a shower in my dinky little bathroom and I was able to cast my eyes on his humdinger of a dong. He said we were taking a huge risk of being discovered but he couldn't wait until we got back to civilisation. I couldn't wait either. My jungle juices were fairly oozing for him. He said we would have to be very quiet. By then I was willing to promise him anything just to get my hands on him or feel his hands on me and that ding-donger chiming inside me. Only later did I discover that while silence may be golden it becomes as heavy as lead when your very pores are pulsating with passion and you want to shout your joy to the rooftops and roar like an MGM lion.

The bridal bed creaked like hell. In fact you might say it too kicked up a storm. So we lay side by side in a suspended hush on the rush matting. It was as if we were on hallowed ground. Suddenly we were both overcome with shyness. Neither of us knew where to begin. The sound of silence was absolutely deafening. Always a slave to my fantasies, I began to think of the love scene in "Beauty and the Beast." I wanted to play the haunting theme song on his beautiful double-bass body. Vibrate his nipples, rub his rib cage, and strum on his dick. Make his whole body sing. As if he could read my mind, he pulled me towards him. I made a cushion of his pecs as he began to beat out a sensual rhythm on my butt. It felt for all the world as if his fingers were talking to my asshole, sending it digital messages. And as they made their torrid way towards the humming membrane of my being, my asshole did indeed feel like the call centre of my world.

He leaned over and kissed me, his tongue as curious to explore my mouth, as his fingers were to investigate my butt. I supposed I'd been half expecting to be savaged and ravaged by my beauty of a black Beast. Such are the insidious messages passed to our sexual psyche when we are young and impressionable. But he was kindness and consideration itself and as gentle as a gazelle. At least at the beginning.

I told him I loved the tangy taste of his tongue and of course that was an invitation for him to ask me if I'd like to taste something stronger. He didn't wait for me to answer. His cock glided slowly into the sheath of my mouth like a long black sabre. He tasted rich and earthy like no man I had ever tasted. I swallowed his lush vegetation whole, burying my nose deep into his thick pubic brush. It tickled the insides of my nostrils. But not half so much as his cock tickled the insides of my throat. Maybe probed would be more like it as his jungle joystick was long, thick and rock hard. I drank my fill from the rich well of pre-cum juice that began to flow freely from his juicy dick. It was sweet and sticky. I opened my mouth like an upside-down umbrella not wanting to miss a single drop. His divine ever-flowing dick seemed to grow longer and harder with every stroke of my insatiable tongue. Soon it felt like I was sucking a stick of sticky rock candy. He was a real mouth filler and I was getting a real mouthful. So stony sweet and so whip-creamy. My jaw began to give out under the strain and my lips to quiver but not nearly as much as my asshole as he lifted my willing but wilting legs into the air and I felt the feather light touch of his breath caress the whory hairs of my butt.

He teased my love button open with the tip of his tongue and left a snail-trail of spittle to facilitate the entrance of his rock hard dick. I willed myself not to cry out as I felt his bulging biceps against the backs of my soon to be bulging thighs. I held my breath as he entered me in one fell swoop, like the immaculate black eagle he was. I soared to the skies as he cushioned my cries with his thick fleshy lips. I found myself being stabbed and speared at both ends. I wanted to scream with the pain and pleasure of it but unfortunately I couldn't. It would have ruined his macho reputation in the village. I didn't know whether I was coming or going. Part of me felt it was rocketing to heaven jet propelled by his pounding penis, the other part as if it was falling from a great height onto the pointed spikes of a cast-iron railing. I was pounded and grounded until I wept silent blood but it was bloody mind-blowing marvellous.

I felt justly proud of myself. I'd marinated and creamed his manmeat and made hardly a sound while I did so. I must admit I'd left a little blood behind. Fortunately this was on the floor and not on the bed although in Sicily I'm told blood on the sheets is a sign that the marriage has been consummated. But this wasn't Sicily and for the time being our union had to remain a secret. We returned to the dinky bathroom for a mammoth wash and then crept gingerly into the creaking bridal bed and made love a little more softly and tenderly until it was time for him to slink back to his quarters. I felt sorely miffed being deserted so soon on my 'wedding' night but we had many horny honeymoons over the next few months and put together a wonderful website.

Later on in our relationship, when we were indulging in roaring, rampant unbridled sex in my apartment, I ventured to ask him his real name. It was Astraeu Oyono. Man, I can't tell you what a relief it was to call out his name as I came. It rolled so trippingly off the tongue every time he fucked me. You should try it sometime. It's a real turn on. Especially if you envisage your ass as a tribal drum. Astra-oh-ooh-oyono. See what I mean?

Wish I could give you the address of his site but it's for my (sore) eyes only.

On second thought maybe ass would be a more appropriate word!

Anyway thanks for taking the time to read this. Hope you'll join me soon in a cumful chorus of Astraeu Oyono. Especially when you see the pictures. They're a sight for sore eyes too!