Dance of the Ravishers: Gay Fertility Ritual in Africa

By Habu

When Beau Lafleur was awarded the prestigious graduate student slot in the Sudan based archaeological excavation project of the legendary Dr. Emmet Emory, he assumed he would have to curb his voracious appetite for gay male sex.

What he discovers, however, is a local tribe's fertility ritual, the Dance of the Ravishers. And not only are the natives seeking release but the dance affects the men of the expedition, some of whom become swept up in the tribes rituals.

For a shocked Beau it slowly emerges that the dance of sexual release may be far more rampant within the expedition’s camp than he ever dreamed.

This is a BarbarianSpy rewrite, expansion, and relaunch of the eXcessica novella by the same title.

Review Excerpt:

“Dance of the Ravishers is sexually charged from start to finish, a wild ride of continuous sexual release. (A) fun and stimulating read. Fans of rough and tumble sexual fantasies will be sure to enjoy this story!”—Emily, Rainbow Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: BarbarianSpy
• Release date: Mar 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781922187338

Habu

Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.

Book preview

Chapter One: 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 Columbia 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 also was incongruous here. Most of the academics were white males of reedy build. Johnson was a magnificently built son of the black south. According to the speech notes, 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. He was a professor now in Louisiana.

He wasn’t the only black stud on the podium who was commanding my attention, either. He had brought back one of the Mitsagusi tribe warriors from the area of Dr. Emory’s dig, a chief’s son named Maliwi, I was told, to add flavor to his lectures and to help drum up financial support for the various universities’ Africa programs. The warrior, a jet black to Darrell Johnson’s creamy chocolate, sat throughout the lecture staring above the heads of those in attendance in the direction of the center of the lecture hall, neither smiling nor frowning, but just looking majestic, albeit uncomfortable in a ill-tailored suit, and as if his mind was still back in Africa hunting antelope in the Nubian Desert. I had found my mind drifting during the lecture in wondering how hard that body of his was that had been poured into that bad-fitting suit. And as with all evidently well-built black men, I was wondering about the size of his cock, this being a fetish of mine. But as he wasn’t reacting to me in any way and the speaker was, I turned my full attention to Johnson.

The man looked a stud. I had a weakness for black men, as Darrell Johnson apparently was surmising, especially black men cut extra large as he and the warrior were. My roommate, Steve, had muttered something about the native African bunking with us in our apartment tonight, and I shuddered at being under the same roof with such a primitive hunk as this if only for one night.

Darrell Johnson’s 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 indulgent lover, ours being a very open relationship, leaned over and whispered in my ear, He wants you. He wants to fuck you.

The lecturer or the black stud of a warrior from Africa? I asked, taking it as mere banter.

The lecturer, certainly, but maybe the warrior too, Steve whispered back. Johnson is being quite open about it, but I’ve seen the warrior giving you a glance from time to time too.

I had turned and given Steve a surprised look—not because I thought he was wrong about Johnson—I knew the look that Johnson had been giving me—but both because I hadn’t sensed what he had about the Sudanese warrior’s possible interest and 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—and maybe two. Feel free to go for it.

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. It was a gesture that usually worked with blacks I wanted.

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.

And then I noticed that there was another watcher as well. The Mitsagusi warrior’s gaze undoubtedly was flitting over to me from time to time as well. So, Steve had been right about that.

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.

Originally from New Orleans, is it? Darrell Johnson said. I pride myself in pinning down dialects. Nice, open-minded city that. I’m from there now myself. Ever been to Bill’s out on Bayou?

Yes, yes, it is—an open-minded city, New Orleans. And as for Bill’s on the Bayou, yes, I have been there also, I said, smiling. Frequently, I added. And then I was thinking to myself: No matter how hard