Petit Mort - poem
to Fire Island review by Emma
The Clint Folsom
erotic gay murder mystery series.
Habu reports that he enjoyed
writing this series. His premise was a no-holds-barred treatment of an unabashedly
promiscuous, laid-back, “good-guy” homicide cop with movie-star looks .
(Clint's) love of being ‘topped’ is so ingrained within his being that
each sex act is with an abandon and longing that makes men ‘feel like
kings’. If you weren’t a ‘sub’ before, you would wish to be one by the
end of the book. Once I finished reading it, I rushed to buy the rest of the
Clint Folsom series. Hot Stuff!
a review by Kpasa
Dance of The
Ravishers - Pt 1 From
the novella “Dance of The Ravishers” by habu
Illustrations by Ynal
"It's called the Dance of the Ravishers,"
Dr. Emory said to me as we watched nine male dancers swirling around two small
"I can certainly see why," I responded with a big grin. Dr. Emory gave
me a sour look. I'd been warned about that look. In fact, my partner, Steve, had
bet me I wouldn't last two months out here in the upper Nile area of Sudan with
Dr. Emory. I was accustomed to being serviced by Steve at least once a day and
enjoyed a monthly group sex bout. Dr. Emory, however, was a real stick in the
mud and was known to send young assistants home at the least hint of
impropriety. I really didn't want to go home. Emory had gotten rare permission
from the Sudanese to excavate this ancient Egyptian tomb on the banks of the
Nile near the Sulb Temple, and work on this dig could make my own reputation.
"What in the world are they doing?" the very serious Clint Winston
asked Emory. "Why it looks like. . . ."
"Yes, yes, it's just what you think. But it's all symbolic, part of the
ritual dance," Emory responded with pursed lips. "Just pretend like
you enjoy it. The invitation to the ritual dance was an honor, and we mustn't
upset our welcome. The Mitsagusi are an old and proud tribe in this
And in quite good shape and very inventive, I thought to myself, desires
building in me that I'd tried to suppress for the past four weeks. And Mustafa
wasn't helping a bit. My eyes drifted across the cloud of sweet-smelling smoke
rising from the bonfires to the delectable Egyptian of the soft brown eyes and
long curly eyelashes across the dance circle from me. Mustafa's spellbound eyes
were glued to the dancers.
I could easily be spellbound by them too. They were all strapping young bucks,
naked for this dance except for a series of woven belts with strips of leather
hanging off them so that when they stood still, it almost looked as if they were
clothed. One belt surrounded their chests just below their pecs, and the leather
strips from this fell almost to their knees. Similar belts were strapped below
their biceps and below their knees. Their penises glittered with a golden greasy
substance and all were in rock solid erection. Emory had explained with a red
face that this was part of the ritual, that the substance covering their penises
was from the fruit of the local agwallah bush, which had both lubrication and
Gotta get me some of that, I was thinking. But mostly I was watching the dancers
in awe as, to the accompaniment of insistent drums, they went through several
tableaus of simulated sexual acts between the fires with an ever-changing cast.
First, Two dancers lay prone on the ground, one on top of the other, belly to
back, and they undulated in rhythm, their cocks almost touching. During this
scene, the other seven dancers whirled around the fire circles, their leather
strips swirling around their bodies, showing off their nakedness. A second set
of two dancers replaced the first. One of these dancers was really bulked up. He
was wrestling with a thinner dancer, who obviously wasn't going to win the
match. And when he didn't, the master wrestler brought him up to all fours and
simulated fucking him from behind. The number of actors in the center tableau
increased to three with the next set. One young buck was bent at the waist, his
mouth almost to the cock of another of the dancers, while a dancer stood behind
him and undulated his hips, his cock just inches from the ass of the first young
buck. Next there were five in the
Three dancers lifted a fourth parallel to the ground, two at his arms and one
between his legs, his cock poised at the levitated dancer's ass. The suspended
dancer's head arched back and the fifth dancer brought his cock very close to
this dancer's mouth. In the last change of scene, one dancer lay atop another
dancer, while a third dancer straddled the chest of the one on top and wagged
his cock; A fourth dancer approached the two prone dancers from behind.
God, this was a real turn-on, I thought, and my eyes searched for Mustafa again
across the fires. He was looking at me now, as well, and I could see the burning
desire in his eyes. I had been right. Mustafa wanted me as much as I wanted him.
And then with a last swirl around the fires, the dancers were gone, jogging out
of the circle and into the gathering darkness in a syncopated line. The drums
stopped, and the show was over. It was only then that I realized that the smoke
from the fire was having an effect on me, that I was drowsy and felt a little
sluggish. I looked around at the group of archaeologists gathered there in the
Mitsagusi camp that had been set up quite close to our own and saw that they all
were similarly affected.
"So, where are they going off to now?" Winston asked.
"This is their annual fertility ritual," Emory answered. "The
tribe has a very peculiar tradition. The men cannot marry until they are thirty,
and when they do so, they are monogamous and completely heterosexual for the
rest of their lives. But between the ages of twenty and thirty they are expected
to maintain their virility by servicing each other. After this dance, these
dancers go off into the bush and continue the ritual of service. Before the sun
rises, they each have to be serviced at least twice, and preferably three
times—each time by a different partner."
"Sounds like an invitation to wholesale AIDs," Winton snorted.
"No, not at all," Emory said. "The tribe keeps mainly to itself,
and I've never heard of a case of sexually transmitted decease among their
"How do they decide who does who?" I asked "I mean, it seems like
in a group of nine who had to do it two or three times with different partners
tonight, there may be some nasty infighting going on, and someone might not be
able to get his quota."
Emory gave me a highly disapproving look. "They have a leader who makes the
assignments. He's called the Bull and is chosen naturally by his
"Ah, yes," I said before I could check myself. "I had no trouble
picking the Bull out. He was also the tallest and most studly of the
"Humph," Emory retorted, giving me that "I've got my eye on
you" look. "Well, enough of this. We should be going back to our own
camp. We have a busy day ahead of us, and I'm feeling a bit drowsy and
The dancers had really set me on edge. I had a raging hard on, and I didn't know
if I could keep my hands off Mustafa even for the two months Steve had been
willing to spot me in our bet. I was sitting in my sleeping shorts in my tent in
the light of two candles, trying to do some background reading on the artifacts
we would be looking for in the tomb, when a breeze swirled the gauze curtains at
the doorway to the tent and I looked up to see Mustafa standing there in the
shadows, looking at me. He was dressed in a white muslin caftan, with a thick
red silk sash around his waist. As I watched, he slowly unwound the sash, and
when it fell to the ground, his caftan opened to reveal a beautiful, naked,
lithe body, with a respectable-sized cock and balls swinging between his legs.
I made an animal sound and pulled him into the tent and against my chest. Our
lips and tongues found each other, and I felt him push the front of my shorts
down and hold our cocks together in both of his hands. His lips traveled down to
my nipples and then to my navel. And then he was taking my cock into his mouth
and making love to it. My knees were trembling. Steve had won. I hadn't managed
to hold off for even half the time he had predicted. Mustafa's tongue was
driving me wild. I pulled him up by his arms and laid him on his back on the
edge of my cot. I quickly had a tube of lubrication and a condom out of my night
drawer, applied them, wishboned Mustafa's legs, and fucked him deeply until we
were both exhausted.
I was nearly asleep when Mustafa left me, telling me that he'd return
momentarily to take his turn fucking me. I vaguely remember hearing a muffled
cry, as if from an unknown bird, after he had drifted through the swaying
curtain at the doorway, and a shuffling sound, but then I turned onto my belly
on the cot and slept until deep into the night.
I slowly came to my senses, or at least partially to my senses, my head still
affected by the strange smoke from the Mitsagusis' fires, with the sensation of
a heavy load on my back. My body was being covered by a quick searching of hands
that covered every curve and explored every crevice. Mustafa had come back to me
and was going to fuck me, I thought. And I was very pleased at this. I felt a
cock rising up the small of my back between my back and the belly of my lover. A
big cock. No, a huge cock. And that's when I realized that this wasn't Mustafa.
This was the Bull. The Mitsagusi tribe's Bull. I both shuddered and was
exhilarated at the thought of this. I was going to be fucked by that strapping
leader of the Mitsagusi youths.
The Bull rose up on his haunches, straddling my hips between his knees. He was
holding me flat against the bed with strong hands palmed out over my shoulder
blades. And then he entered me. Steve was unusually thick, but he wasn't this
thick. Whatever that agwallah bush pulp was, it was a wonder, because the Bull
slid into me almost effortlessly. And although, I felt stretched to the limit, I
felt little pain. But, boy did I feel the pleasure.
Bull could fuck me all night if he wanted, I thought, his big black dick
churning inside me, and I still thought that some twenty minutes later when he
was still plowing me at depths that Steve had never reached. I was moving my
hips with his and moaning real good for him, so I'm sure he got the message that
I enjoyed this. After entering me, he had folded his strong body over mine and
held my arms over my head by my wrists. He even did some serious work on my neck
with his swollen lips and teeth, and the guttural sounds he was making indicated
to me that this wasn't only to fulfill his ritual. I was very happy he had
chosen me as one of his three for the night, and wondered if any of his eight
compatriots would be angry that I had supplanted his turn with the Bull.
When the Bull had flooded me deep with his cum, he rose off me; slapped my butt,
which I took as a signal that he'd had a good time; and was gone. When I could
gather some of my wits about me, I struggled out of the bed and over toward the
wash basin to clean myself off.
En route to the wash basin, I found myself in the grip of the husky wrestler
from the dancer's tableau. He pushed me to the ground and we fought for purchase
and domination. There was no doubt he was going to win, but I kept wrestling
with him until I was completely exhausted and lay panting on the ground with his
knees encasing my thighs. A strong arm wrapped around my belly from behind and
he lifted my pelvis to his awaiting cock. He wasn't as thick as the Bull, but he
was thicker than Steve. He was on one knee and had his other leg in a crouch
position, his foot flat on the ground. The agwallah bush pulp smearing his club
allowed my ass to slide back and forth on to his cock as effortlessly as the
Bull had entered me, and the wrestler just pumped me up and down on his cock
like I was a curling weight. It was quite enjoyable, really, and I felt
particularly privileged that two of the dancers had sought me out to share their
ritual with me, an outsider. The wrestler came inside me and left me, and I
struggled to my feet again, still intent on cleaning myself off.
I never made it to the wash basin, however. One pair of strong hands shoot out
of the dark and grabbed me by the hips from behind, while another set grabbed me
in front by the shoulders and bent me over frontward. Another dick, more slender
than either the Bull's or the wrestler's, plowed into my ass, while the dancer
in front of me forced a short, but thick greased cock between my lips and
started circular motions with his hips. The agwallah bush pulp not only was a
very good lubricant, but it also tasted pretty good too. The face-fucking dancer
must have been a little anxious, because he came quickly. Perhaps he was
surprised that I had enthusiastically taken on the job of jacking him off with
my mouth. The ass-fucking dancer took a little longer, but when I wiggled my
butt for him, and reached back and squeezed his balls, he cried out as he came.
I heard the crack of a hand across his mouth, however, no doubt applied by the
Bull, and he didn't make any further noise.
These two satisfied customers handed me off to multiple sets of roaming hands.
Two figures appeared behind me, each putting one hand under one of my elbows and
a palm on a shoulder blade as two hands on each of my thighs pulled my body up,
holding me there, in suspension, parallel to the ground. They wishboned my legs,
as two other hands were on my butt cheeks, pulling them apart, and a set of
heavily muscled legs and a rock-solid, thick cock approached me between my legs.
I arched my back and my head snapped back as a cock almost as splitting as the
Bull's pushed its way into my now well-churned hole. As I should have expected,
a dick pushed into my mouth when I snapped my head back. I writhed my body for
my lovers, and they both came fairly quickly. I was so glad that I'd had so much
practice in group fucking. And now I understood that I wasn't being singled out
by a couple of the dancers to help fulfill their ritual; they were mirroring
their ritual on me while fulfilling one of their three obligations for the
Thus, I wasn't really surprised when the four dancers who had held me in
suspension lowered me onto the body of another dancer whose long, slender cock
replaced the plump sausage of my last butt fucker. The two dancers at my arms
gave control over to the man under me, who got me in somewhat of a full Nelson,
immobilizing my arms. He fucked up into me for a few minutes, during which time
the two dancers at my feet had kept my legs spread-eagled. A second dancer
straddled my chest and had me suck him off. After a few minutes of the solo work
at my butt, my legs were bent up against the back of the dancer straddling my
chest and my hips were rolled up. Another dancer then crouched behind me and
forced his slender cock in above that of the man under me, double-fucking me.
The dancer under me pumped in and out, while the one above me undulated his hips
and rotated his cock inside me. The dancer on my chest had reached back and was
stroking my cock vigorously. All four of us shot our loads in quick succession.
They left me then, exhausted, stretched out on my cot. I had been through the
whole ritual with the entire, very virile youth class of the Mitsagusi tribe,
and I not only had survived the ravishing but had thoroughly enjoyed it. Maybe
this would hold me for a couple of months and Dr. Emory wouldn't be destined to
find me porking his precious Egyptian assistant, Mustafa. But probably not.
Fingers of light were forcing themselves through the waving gauze curtain at the
doorway when I woke again. I struggled off my cot, pulled on my jeans and a
T-shirt and hobbled to the doorway. I pushed aside the curtain and looked
searchingly over toward the Mitsagusi tribal camp. Regrettably, they were gone.
Sometime before dawn they had struck camp and were on the march, beyond the
horizon of the flat landscape of sandy earth that stretched from every direction
of our camp.
I looked over at Mustafa's tent and saw him bent over and as bowlegged as I was
as he struggled through his doorway.
So that's why he didn't return to me. I wondered briefly what arrangements the
tribe had made for their third servicing of the night. Maybe they'd had one go
at each other before they'd visited Mustafa and me. Then again, Clint Winston
never showed up for breakfast, and when I did see him next, he could hardly
walk, but he had a mighty big smile on his face. Whatever the truth of this, I
knew that neither Mustafa nor I would be reporting the ritual ravishing to Dr.