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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Selena Kitt

Dance of the Ravishers © 2009 habu

eXcessica publishing

All rights reserved

Dance of the Ravishers

by habu

Chapter 1

Opportunity

“I know that look. And yes you may. I’ll expect you home late, if at all,” Steve told me, as he rose to leave after the lecture.

“You know me so well,” I answered, with a smile, as I remained seated. “And thanks. I owe you one.”

“You owe me so many that if I called in all of my chits, you’d be walking bowlegged for a week,” Steve responded with a grin. And then he was gone. An incongruous blond, hulking Scandinavian sport stud among a swirling crowd of bent-over academics in cardigans and tweedy jackets, with the stems of well-used pipes peeking out of their breast pockets.

The speaker for the evening in the Colombia University archaeology series, Darrell Johnson, was leaning over the lecture podium still, in a speech reception evaluation discussion with my archaeology professor, Wayne Stanton, although his eyes were on me, boring into me. He was a magnificently built son of the black south. He’d been a fullback at Florida State before becoming lost to the world of digging up and identifying ancient artifacts. And he had just returned from a stint working with the famous Dr. Emmet Emory in Africa.

This sojourn with Dr. Emory in Africa had been the topic of the lecture. And I had the sense all the time he was speaking that he was speaking directly to me. This must not have been only my impression, because at the close of the talk, amid the polite applause, Steve, my roommate and lover, leaned over and whispered in my ear. “He wants you. He wants to fuck you.”

I had turned and given Steve a surprised look—not because I thought he was wrong—I knew the look that Johnson had been giving me—but because he was so understanding. I guess that was why I was still with Steve from when we’d first hooked up two weeks after I’d started graduate school the previous year. He understood me. He knew how hopelessly promiscuous and curious I was.

“It’s fine,” Steve said, and then added, perhaps to make me think twice. “It’s true I’m horny as hell, having heard about all of those mating rituals of the Mitsagusi tribe in the Sudan—all those big black studs—but I’ve been pursuing some nice tail down at the computer store. I’ll just try my luck with him. You have a big black stud right here who obviously wants you.”

I remained seated while the room was clearing and Darrell Johnson was speaking to stragglers and hangers on who had erudite private questions and comments they wanted to dazzle their evening’s speaker with. But I could see that whenever Johnson was able, he was looking out into the audience to see if I was still there.

I was still there, looking back at him with a steady gaze. Just so that there was no misunderstanding, I slouched down in my chair a bit and widened my stance and leaned my forearm on my thigh, allowing my hand to drop down into my lap and hover there between my basket and Johnson’s line of sight in a cupping gesture.

I got the sensation that it wasn’t just Johnson and me playing a dance of “I see you,” but that someone else was watching as well. I looked over at the edge of the lecture platform and saw my professor, Wayne Stanton, giving both Johnson and me the eye. The professor had been wanting to get in my pants for weeks—and, although I liked well-toned older guys like him with good looks, I was waiting for some big favor he could do for me before I gave in to him. I was sure he was just being the voyeur now, however. It was obvious to anyone knowing the signals of my world that it was too late for him to think about cutting in.

“Mr. Lafleur, is it?” the rich, silky baritone of the voice gave me a chill. I turned from where I was watching Professor Stanton watch me and focused on the approaching black hunk.

“Yes,” I answered. “But Beau; you can call me Beau.”

“From New Orleans, is it? I pride myself in pinning down dialects. Nice, open-minded city that. Ever been to Bill’s out on Bayou?”

“Yes, yes, it is. And yes, I have,” I said, smiling. And then thinking to myself: No matter how hard I signal, they seem never to be fully sure, never believing it can be this easy. It’s interesting, though, what they say or do to assure their instincts. Bill’s was a pretty rough gay bar out in the marshes on the road toward Biloxi.

“My name is Darrell, Darrell Johnson.” He reached out a big mitt, and I placed my hand in it, but not in a conventional way. As I slid my palm into his, I hooked my middle finger around his. I could feel him twitch in response.

“Yes, that’s what it said on the program, Dr. Johnson—Darrell. I enjoyed what you had to give us.”

“But there was so little time; not enough time for personal . . . interaction,” Darrell said, with a broad smile. “And I have so much more to give.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I answered, squeezing the root of his middle finger with the two fingers I now had encircling it.

“Will you come with me? Now? I’ll pay.” Darrell’s voice had dropped a register and a level of volume, and his eyes were boring into mine.

“Yes, of course. I’ll drive. And I have no need for money.”

In the parking garage of his hotel, Darrell leaned over and gave me a deep kiss on the lips.

“What room?” I asked. “We can go in separately. You can get the room key and I will enter afterward and go straight for the elevators.”

“Not my room,” Darrell answered in a husky voice. “We’re archaeologists. Walk straight beyond reception to the doors out onto the patio beyond the lobby. Wait for me there.”

Darrell fucked me roughly, primevally, both missionary style and doggy style, in the heavy foliage in the back corner of small pool area between the wings of the mid Manhattan high-rise hotel. In deep rut from the moment he pushed me down in the shadows, tearing at clothes, grunting, biting and scratching, manhandling, and poking and pinching and biting, and thrusting, again and again.

I wondered as he was ravishing me there in the dark—in deepest jungle Africa while not leaving midtown New York City—whether this is what it would be like to be out there in the Sudan in Dr. Emory’s archaeological camp. But then I recalled the previous spring when the man himself—the legendary Dr. Emmet Emory—had come to Colombia to give lectures. Dry as toast and as uptight as an old maid librarian. I couldn’t conceive of doing this with Dr. Emory. No, I decided, this was the result of a hot-blooded stud like Darrell being denied sex for months at a time and then finding me so ready, so easy.

“Oh, god . . . oh, god, Darrell,” I cried out as my knees gave way from the weight on my back and the onslaught of his deep pistoning. His answer was to turn me on my side and pull my leg up his chest and fuck me shallowly from the rear, his bulging cock head rubbing and rubbing and rubbing across my prostate, causing me to cry out in the joy of the taking and spout off into the ferns I was lying in—neither for the first or last time that night.

I stumbled up the stairs into Steve’s artist’s loft that evening, sore but with a sloppy grin on my face, only to find that Steve’s night of lust was even longer than mine was. He was still in high fuck with a young Jewish-looking conquest on our bed. The young guy’s wrists were bound to the brass headboard, as I knew Steve liked to do, and his legs were split wide, with Steve knelt between them and putting his buns into full pistoning gear. Steve’s poke for the night turned his head toward me and gave me a “Help, save me look.” But I knew that was all for show. He was having the fuck of his life.