Rob is surprised to find a traditional lutte wrestler from Senegal on his door… in Richmond, Virginia! He gets to host the legendary Ousmane Salimpé, who just might give Rob a ride on his magnificent wrestler meat! Can Rob handle it?
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The annual Lutte Traditionelle World Championship was held in a different city on a different continent every other year — those were the “international” years. In the non-international years, it was held in West Africa, where lutte-style wrestling was most popular. But the Lutte Traditionelle League had grown popular around the world in the last decade or so, and there were plenty of fans in America.
There were even non-African contestants. A white Italian man had won two years ago, when the championship was in Sapporo, Japan. It was the first time a white person had won.
This year, it was in Richmond, Virginia, so Rob planned on seeing every match he could. He even signed up as a volunteer to help out wherever they needed him.
As the months counted down, the arena was renovated for lutte wrestling, and the big hotel downtown redecorated itself with West African and Islamic materials. Wealthy Africans filled the streets of Richmond. The city looked unlike Rob had ever seen it before.
A lot of people thought the tournament might not happen, that it might be yet another great international project stymied by war and discord. Senegal ran it, and, by tradition and according to the league’s charter, the president of Senegal also presided over the tournament. The president had been assassinated in March. A brief military coup took over the country, and nobody recognized the general as the new president. Then Amadou Dellimaollio declared himself president for life, was promptly assassinated, then was replaced by Pierre Rampeau.
No country recognized Rampeau as the president of Senegal either, so the US refused him a visa. The international lutte league’s bylaws forbade the championship from proceeding unless the Senegalese leader presided over it.
So a slow-motion international incident seemed likely. The tournament was set up, paid for and imminent but couldn’t begin without Pierre Rampeau. The US State Department wouldn’t give him a visa, nor would they allow most of his cronies and security personnel to come to the country.
The day before the opening ceremonies, Rob was certain it wouldn’t go off. Thousands of people had already come to Richmond, but no one was certain if any wrestling would happen. Multiple nations were sending military advisors. The Russians had gotten involved, which meant the Americans had to be involved, which meant the Chinese needed to insert themselves, which got the EU acting as observers, which prompted the Arab Lague to send international monitors, and then the Indians were mad they didn’t have a reason to meddle, and if the Indians meddle in something, the Pakistanis wanted to meddle even harder. It was turning into an international kerfluffle, exacerbated by the sporting world’s eyes being upon the city of Richmond, where the biggest event of the year could not technically begin until Pierre Rampeau was brought out of Senegal alive.
Rob got a call from a woman who identified herself as the “international affairs attaché for something”. The “something” was a long blur of French words that didn’t mean anything to Rob. He thought he did pretty well at recognizing “international affairs attaché”.
“You signed up to help out wrestlers in need,” she said, in her low slurry French-African accent. “So we have done to assign you Moussa Salimpée. He will need a home to stay in for at least one week. Une semaine.”
“I’m sorry?” Rob got the gist of what she was saying, but he didn’t understand her words.
Then a couple things happened at once. She said something on the phone that sounded like French — it was English, technically, but not very good English and it included several Senegalese place-names and personal names that Rob didn’t know — at the same time that someone knocked on his apartment door, and his phone beeped to indicate another phone call. Whoever knocked on the door spoke, not to him, but to whoever else was there. That person, the one who responded, had a voice so deep it boomed and echoed like a distant thunderclap.
“Uh, I, uh… Hang on a second, okay?” Rob said into the phone.
His mind raced. What was the French lady on the phone saying? Who was calling at the same time? That was probably spam, he decided, so he didn’t answer the second call. He asked the French lady to wait a moment, having no idea she had already hung up, and he opened the door.
A nicely-suited middle-aged white man stood there, flanked by a giant black man. He was Moussa Salimpée, and he was well over seven feet tall, so his head reached above the doorframe. His shoulders were broader than the threshold. His skin was black as coal in a dark room and perfectly smooth and unblemished. Rob could tell that because Moussa wore only the plain black cloth — sort of a fancy loincloth — that lutte wrestlers wore during matches.
What the fuck is going on?!
“Good afternoon,” said the white man. Moussa showed no reaction. Rob’s phone rang again. He glanced at the screen — it was a number he didn’t recognize, and it had too many digits. The white man said, “This is Moussa Salimpée.” He had an odd accent that Rob couldn’t place. Maybe German?
“Uh-huh. Hello,” Rob said. Now he was getting two phone calls from numbers he didn’t recognize, both of them having too many digits.
Are those international calls? Rob furrowed his brow at the white man.
“Did my colleague Agathe call you and explain? Please keep this over your hat,” said the man, whose English was very good though clipped and obviously not quite right — it took Rob a few seconds to realize he meant “under your hat”.
“Uh… hello?” Rob looked at his phone. More phone calls with too many digits were coming in. He had accrued nine voice mails in the last few minutes, and now text messages were coming in too fast for him to see them. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Henri Velafleur,” he said. He handed Rob a business card, which indicated he was with the Belgian delegation to the UN. Then he shook Rob’s hand and walked away, leaving the half-naked Senegalese giant at the doorway.
“Uh…” Rob looked again at his phone. It was going crazy. He had four missed calls and nineteen text messages, at least some of which were in French, and it was buzzing again with another one. The giant African man lowered his head to come into the apartment. He had a confident stride, and he pushed past Rob. His coconut-scented flesh made Rob’s hair stand on end, and his cock twitched in his pants at the sight of the African man’s asscheeks mostly bared by his loincloth. His powerful muscles flexed as though it took all of his strength just to come in.
“Je veux manger,” the African man, Moussa Salimpé, said. His voice was so deep it rattled Rob’s bones. Rob had taken French in high school, but he remembered little, and the constant phone calls were distracting him.
“The UN?” Rob was having trouble processing this. He held the white man’s card in his hand, though the white man had left. Rob shut the door. “You’re with the United Nations?”
Moussa spoke in well-practiced but awkward English. “No. I am Senegalese.” He went into the kitchen then and opened the refrigerator. He found a baggie of lunchmeat and sniffed it. “Is it pork?”
“Uh… no. That’s turkey,” Rob said. He got a text message in some African language, so he showed it to Moussa. “Is that for you?”
Moussa read it as he shoveled turkey into his mouth. “It is a death threat.”
“Aimed at me?!” Rob’s eyes opened wide. “What the fuck-?!”
“No. Me. Do not worry, they don’t know where you live,” said Moussa. “My coach is telling you to tell me about the death threats. He is telling you to be careful, but he will not…” He thought for a long time. “Give me up to the bad muvvuhfugging nigguss, yes?” His eyes twinkled — that was from a recent Hollywood movie that Rob was too confused to recall right now. “They are Monté ven Diaolu men. They are all talk and no hat.” A big proud smile dawned on his face. He made a dismissive hissing sound and waved away from himself. “No worrying to do in paradise.”
“Why are you here?!” Rob asked. It was suddenly dawning on him that he had a muscular giant in his apartment, and he blushed with desire, his dick throbbing in his pants. Rob greatly appreciated the male physique, of which Moussa’s was admirable and copious. He had physique for days. It was just hard to appreciate when Rob’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
What am I supposed to do with him anyway? Where, aside from Senegal, did he come from?
“Did not Agathe explain?”
“Uh… I didn’t quite catch all the details,” Rob said. He was only now piecing together that ‘Agathe’ was the French woman who had called him.
Moussa frowned and put down the now-empty bag of turkey. “C’était bon turkey,” he said. “I have defected. I must remain hidden until the tournament is complete. Your US State Department will come for me next week.”
“Next week? You defected?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know what that means. Defected from what?”
“My country. Senegal,” he said with a French or presumably Senegalese accent. Rob watched lutte wrestling for the men, not the culture. Now he wished he had paid attention during all those informative interstitials during the matches.
“They did tell me that you signed up to help,” he said. He opened the fridge again. “Is this pork?” He held up some leftover pasta with bacon in it.
“Yeah, that has pork,” Rob said. “Ooooooh… I-” He grew annoyed at the phone calls, so he picked it up to answer. “Hello?!”
Somebody spoke in French.
“I don’t know what you’re saying! Stop calling me! Je viens a l’école en bus!” It was the only French Rob could recall. He hung up the phone, slammed it down, then picked it up again and furiously switched it to plane mode.
Finally, he had silence.
Moussa had found a bunch of celery in the refrigerator, and he brought it to the couch in the living room — literally, it was an entire bundle of celery that Rob had bought yesterday and not yet used any of. Moussa broke off one stalk and began munching on it, his giant mouth devouring almost half the stalk at once.
“Je me fais une femme,” Moussa said. His mostly naked body spread out on the couch. His biceps were thick and firm like cords of wood, and his broad shoulders had curves that beckoned to Rob. “Do you know any women who are discrete? Not Muslim.”
“You, uh… want a non-Muslim woman?”
“I must have a woman tonight,” he said with a scowl. Moussa was intensely annoyed that he couldn’t wrestle in this tournament. There’d be too many Senegalese around, some of them no doubt loyal to one of the previous administrations in Senegal. Any of them would be glad to assassinate Moussa, so he wasn’t going to wrestle. He’d wanted to defect after the tournament, but when he contacted the State Department in the US, they’d said they could only ensure his safety if he defected before. That was why he’d put on his loincloth to wrestle in a day-before scrimmage — a sort of a rehearsal to get warmed up and to check the lights and sound. Nobody expected him to scupper before the tournament began.
And now they were searching for him. Only the US government and the United Nations knew where he was (and Rob), so that was who kept calling Rob — every intelligence agency in the West wanted to know what Moussa had to say, as he was a national champion wrestler who knew all the recent coup leaders, military generals and presidential advisors. He’d won a gold medal in the last Olympics and was well-connected in recent governments and well-known in the country.
But Moussa just wanted to get through this part of the defection so he could get back to wrestling. He had a sinking feeling that it would never be safe to wrestle again, at least not in a lutte leage, and that he would always be seen as a traitor by a significant portion of Senegalese people.
For now, he was just eager to find une femme for the night. Back in Senegal, his coach would bring him a girlfriend every night. He would never despoil a Muslim woman, which he thought wouldn’t be difficult in the US. They were not Muslim here, and their women were loose and slutty. Nearly all of them were prostitutes, Moussa had gathered from the movies he watched and the hip hop he listened to.
That was a disgusting way for a civilization to live, he thought, but he was going to take advantage of it while he was here.
“I, uh… don’t really know many women,” Rob said. A little French was beginning to come back to him. “Je ne connais pas les femmes,” he said with a proud grin.
That did not compute to Moussa. How could the small white man not know any women whores? They were on every street corner here. He had passed thirty scantily clad women in the darkly-tinted car that brought him here.
He turned the TV on. It was on the cooking network, so he watched that — Moussa was eager to eat American food and became engrossed in the panoply of meals he saw onscreen, and after a few seconds, Bobby Flay left the screen, replaced by a beautiful white woman who made Moussa’s eyes open wide.
Before he knew it, his hands were on the bulge in his loincloth. He didn’t jack off, he only touched his dick, which throbbed beneath his fingertips. His biceps kept flexing as though he was using his muscles, but he just touched his dick through the fabric of his loincloth.
“Want me to help with that?” Rob asked, blushing.
Moussa nodded without tearing his eyes away from the screen. Rob’s hands rubbed his dick through the loincloth. His seven-foot-five body took up the entire couch, and his legs were splayed out in front of him. One of Rob’s hands reached down those powerful thighs like steel girders, and Rob kissed Moussa on the nipple. His volleyball-sized pec jerked and twitched beneath Rob’s tongue.
Then Rob untied the loincloth, which bared a giant black cock as dark as night. He stroked it with one hand. It was already at full erection, as Moussa leaned back on the couch and put his hands behind his head like he expected to be serviced.
That was exactly what Rob did. He bent over and put Moussa’s cocktip in his mouth, and he worked up tons of spit that ran down his shaft in rivulets. The taste of Moussa’s manhood was savory, bright and sunny, salty with sweat from the wrestling scrimmage he had done before slipping off into the Richmond streets.
Rob throated Moussa’s cock up and down, as Moussa moaned in pleasure. He writhed, finally grabbing Rob by the head and guiding it up and down.
“Hmmm, oui, oui, more plus deep,” Moussa said. He pushed Rob’s head down his shaft. He didn’t let on even when his foot-long cock hit the back of Rob’s throat. Rob choked but stretched his mouth open. His lips writhed, then wrapped around Moussa’s throbbing shaft.
A moist gurgling sound came from Rob’s mouth. He didn’t try to pull off, though his lungs cried out for oxygen. His hand massaged Moussa’s pecs the best he could reach — the giant’s chest was so big that Rob could barely reach his nipples with his head at his crotch.
His other hand cupped and gently massaged Moussa’s heavy, pendulous balls, as he slathered spit along the length of Moussa’s shaft. His veins pulsated on Rob’s tongue.
“Hmmm…” Moussa moaned again. He pulled Rob’s head off his cock and, much to Rob’s surprise, he dragged him to his head and kissed him right on the lips. Moussa tasted his own precum. His tongue rammed into Rob’s mouth, and he wrapped Rob up his giant arms.
“Oh god…” Rob whimpered. His own cock now rubbed on Moussa’s flat belly. He was used to the men he messed with not wanting to touch his cock, so he tried to lift his body off Moussa’s ripped torso. But Moussa had one arm draped over Rob to keep him in place, and that allowed Rob to stay where he was, his dick rubbing against Moussa’s stomach and in the valley between his pecs. Moussa kissed him deeply.
Was he kissing because he liked kissing men? Or because he thought Rob wanted it? Or was he pretending Rob was a woman? Rob wasn’t sure which, but when a burst of pre-orgasmic pleasure overwhelmed him, he ensured his moan sounded feminine. That must have been the right move because Moussa grunted with desire too, a great baritone booming grunt, and one of his sausagey fingers slipped into Rob’s asshole.
“Will you szit on my couawkck?” he asked, breathless, slathering moist kisses on Rob’s cheek. His finger gently slid in and out of Rob’s ass, sending little electric tingling shocks of desire through Rob’s body. The finger was huge, like one of those fat hot dogs. It was longer and thicker than some men’s penises.
Rob nodded. “Please, please, stick it in me.” Rob’s voice was plaintive and begging, as the finger in his ass opened him up. He sucked up all the sweat and his own precum on Moussa’s chest, neck, chin and then again kissed him on the lips. His dick was slick with fluids now, as he continued humping Moussa’s smooth, mountainous body.
“Arrêter-vous-” Moussa stopped and frowning, one arm hugging Rob tightly to him. “Are you a slave?”
“No,” Rob said.
“Good.” Moussa grunted. Unlike many of his compatriots, he believed it was wrong to ram a slave in the butthole. He didn’t understand why any man would allow that, much less desire it like this small white man, but Moussa didn’t let his confusion bother him. Many white men paid for him to “ramrod” them, as the rappers say.
As long as Rob wanted it, Moussa would be glad to plow him open. As far as he was concerned, all that mattered was whose cock went in and whose hole was penetrated.
He lifted Rob with his great big hands and sat Rob onto his cock, which stretched Rob’s tight hole wide open. Rob sucked in his breath and relaxed his ass the best he could. A burst of pain hit him, but it was followed by a long slow-melting, building pleasure that made his whole body relax and tense in time with the thrusts of Moussa’s powerful cock into his ass.
Moussa’s cock slid in and out. Rob sat on his lap, sliding up and down at the same time, a little deeper with each move of his up body on Moussa’s shaft. Moussa’s hands roamed over Rob’s smooth pale chest.
A jolt of ecstasy struck Rob, who tightened his body and stopped moving. He gasped. That must have triggered something in his ass that got Moussa going at the same time, because Moussa cried out and said something in Wolof or perhaps French, Rob couldn’t tell. Moussa’s giant hands gripped Rob by the smoothness of his back, and he caressed Rob’s spine briefly before letting go.
Then Rob resumed shift his weight up and down Moussa’s dickshaft, while Rob’s own cock jabbed up and down. It was rock-hard, leaking precum, but Rob’s ass was too sensitive, spasming with pleasure for him to jack himself off. It felt too good to mvoe his hands in a coordinated way. Pangs of vivid pleasure popped off all over Rob’s body.
But Moussa wrapped one of his giant hands around Rob’s dick, and he stroked it up and down.
Rob orgasmed while emitting a series of pants. He thought Moussa would stop jacking him off, so Rob readied to grab his own cock, but Moussa didn’t slow down at all. He kept stroking Rob’s dick even as a long jet of cum sprayed from his cocktip onto Moussa’s powerful chest.
Then another cumwad reached his chin and lower lip, and still Moussa jacked Rob off, as though he either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Rob was cumming on his chest. That must be an African thing, Rob thought with a chest-rattling moan of exquisite pleasure. Most American men wouldn’t even cornhole him in this position because they didn’t want to see his dick, but Moussa obviously didn’t mind. Rob spurted a vast sheen of creamy white jizz that contrasted with the ebony muscles of Moussa’s chest and dribbled around his pecs to his ribcage. Moussa moaned too — Rob’s orgasm caused his asshole to clench and tighten, so Moussa let out a wild chest-rattling moan. That left his mouth wide open for Rob’s last cumwad to spurt onto his tongue.
That wasn’t deliberate, and Rob gasped, trying to apologize despite his mouth being full of orgasmic moans. He thought Moussa might react violently to a mouthful of jizz.
But much to Rob’s shock, Moussa both laughed and gagged as he spat out cum, as though it was just a silly prank, and he shoved Rob down all the way on his cock, so his wiry pubic hair scratched at Rob’s asscheek. Rob moaned so loud it was almost a scream, thought the sound was overpowered by Moussa’s cavernous groan of orgasmic pleaure.
A huge creamy wad of cum sprayed into Rob’s ass. Since he sat on Moussa’s cock, it all leaked right out and into Moussa’s crotch and onto Rob’s couch. That made a big frothy, sticky mess. It flowed like a river into Moussa’s groin, and it stained Rob’s couch cushions.
“Oh god…”
The scent of jizz filled the air, creamy and thick like a fog cloud. Moussa wrinkled his nose at the funk of it. The smell didn’t bother Rob, whose body was wracked by mind-numbing pleasure, Moussa’s dick still spraying a vast flood of cum up into him. He kneaded the flesh of Moussa’s powerful chest muscles, now coated in Rob’s cum, as Rob’s guts were soaked in Moussa’s endless spray of cum.
It went on for what felt like forever. Rob breathed a sigh of relief when Moussa’s cock fell limp inside him, and he leaned forward to rest his body on the broad muscles of Moussa’s chest, which was still soaked in Rob’s own cum. Rob stayed there, his whole body spasming each time another jolt of pleasure wracked his petite frame. Moussa stayed motionless, stoic and placid, letting Rob finish his orgasm impaled on Moussa’s limpening dick.
When Rob gingerly lifted himself off Moussa’s lap at last, it reawakened the sensitive flesh of both’s men’s bodies. Rob clenched his teeth, sparks of agonizing pleasure erupting from his ass like fireworks. Moussa grunted. He looked sleepy now, and he let out a long, slow yawn.
“You still hungry?” Rob asked.
Moussa nodded.
“Okay. I’ll make you something else to eat,” Rob said. He wiped his ass off with a tissue, then did the same to Moussa’s sensitve shaft. He wondered how many voice mails he was receiving right now. His phone was showing notifications for sure, but Rob turned it over so he didn’t have to see the screen. “Once you’ve eaten, then maybe you’ll want to mess around again.”
Moussa nodded. “Find me a woman,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth like a barrel of bourbon. “Or I’ll do you again.” His nostrils flared, and his shoulder muscles rippled.
Rob laughed inwardly. Did Moussa think Rob was being punished? He didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise, but he was satisfied either way. He smiled at Moussa.