Not in Kenya

I freed his wrists and ankles. The binding hadn’t been my idea—not from the first. Raili had demanded it. He’d said he didn’t want me fucking him if he couldn’t feel the pleasure of being incapacitated and taken advantage of by a police officer—just what I was here in Kenya to make sure a young man didn’t have to feel.

“What now?” he asked of me in the gathering dark as I held him close, my dick going flaccid inside him, but still inside him. “Do we go to the police for booking now on the charge of being a homo and letting my house be burned down—and maybe assaulting a police officer?”

“I haven’t arrested you . . . and we’ve already established that the handcuffs were your fetish, not mine. You have two choices. In the morning—I can’t bear to let you out of my bed tonight—in the morning I can drive you anywhere you want in the area, let you off, and make any reference to arresting you disappear.”