Simpson awoke in the cold predawn, aware of a duty he needed to perform. For a moment, he nuzzled the face of the sleeping chocolate colored eighteen year old next to him, gently kissing Little Mandla's full, ripe lips. The boy startled awake and half sat up, but Simpson pulled him back down and whispered, "Sleep. Stay here and rest. I will be back." Moaning with contentment and smiling, Little Mandla settled back into the bed as Simpson kissed him once more and then slid out into the chilly morning.
He dressed quickly and stepped outside in time to see Thabo pulling a pickup truck up in front of the Russians' cabin. Simpson pulled his Land Rover up behind it, taking care to lock the doors as he stepped out. Zama loitered nearby, shotgun at the ready. Simpson jogged over quickly; this was his job to do. He huddled with Thabo and Zama, the former armed again with his pistol, then went to work. The sun was just cracking the eastern sky as he pounded on the door to the cabin. There was silence, so he pounded again. The sound of a chair being knocked over, what might have been a bottle dropping to the floor and rolling, a few footsteps....and the door opened.
The older, fatter Russian swayed in the opening. He was fully dressed but not entirely stable on his feet. His face was puffier than it had been the night before, and a wave of alcohol-soaked air floated out of the cabin from behind him. He stood silently glowering at Simpson.
"Right then, cheerio, pip pip, up and at `em!" Simpson cried in his best false-English accent. The irony was completely lost. The big Russian staggered out of the cabin, followed closely by his younger companion, who looked to be in no better shape than he was. They were careful to ignore Simpson as they walked past him, but seemed to make a point of brushing Thabo back. The younger one, in the rear, jerked his thumb back over his shoulder toward the cabin and said "bags" to Thabo. Then the two walked to Simpson's Land Rover, tried the locked doors, and then leaned back against the vehicle. The big man pulled out a cigarette with shaky fingers and began smoking it.
Thabo turned to walk into the cabin, and Simpson went with him. The place was wildly disordered, although the damage did not seem to be permanent. Thabo and Simpson each collected the men's bags and emerged from the cabin. They walked to the pickup truck and slung them in the back. That brought some life from the Russians, who pushed away from the Land Rover and swarmed toward the pickup, loudly protesting. Simpson wheeled around and put his face in the face of the younger Russian...he could not have stomached it for the fatter one....jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the pickup truck and shouted "In!"
Both Russians stood stock still, murderous looks gathering on their faces. Once again, the steely click of Zama's safety being thumbed off got their attention. Staring at them with an impassive face, Zama swung the barrel from them to the pickup truck. Furious, the men leapt into the back of the truck. Then the older, fatter one spoke, an angry grumble:
"You vill be sorry. Ve sue you. Ve send men vith gun."
Simpson roared with laughter. "Sue us? We already have your credit card debited. It will be debited again for the damage to the cabin and for Little Mandla's medical expenses. Men with guns?" He threw his head back and howled. "There is no Russian mafia here and we both know it. As for these threats, two can play at that game. The minute I return from dropping you off I will post information about your visit here all over the web. How does gay sex with black men play in Moscow, boys? Now sit down and shut up!" The Russians, already pale from drink and dissolution, turned sheet white and collapsed as much as sat in the bed of the pickup among their luggage. Thabo got into the cab to drive, with Zama sitting beside him, shotgun in arms. Simpson pulled his .458 from out of the Land Rover, ostentatiously worked the bolt, stuffed a couple of rounds into the chamber and put it in full view, on the dash of the vehicle. Both cars pulled out of the compound, the truck in the lead.
It was barely light by the time they reached the main road, still two-lane, to Johannesburg. There they stopped. As per their plan, Thabo, Zama, and Simpson got out and motioned the Russians to exit, pulling the luggage out from around them. This brought loud protests from the departing clients, who had been assuming they would receive a ride all the way to the Joburg airport. They were not answered. The group had not long to wait. From out of the dim light lumbered a bus, which Thabo flagged down. The vehicle was crammed full of people and belongings, even the roof being covered. Onto that roof Thabo and Simpson threw the luggage, while Zama glared at the Russians, shotgun at the ready. Simpson gave the driver some money and instructions. The clearer the realization as to what was happening became, the louder became the Russians' protests. But to no avail....at last, Simpson and Thabo pointed meaningfully toward the crowded interior. Howling with indignation, the two Russians crawled aboard and crammed themselves in among the African people, the latter now fully enjoying the joke, laughing, and taunting the new arrivals. Off the bus went, trailing fumes and smoke, leaving Simpson, Thabo, and Zama to collapse in howls of laughter and congratulatory handshakes all around.
Upon their return to the compound, Simpson asked Thabo to charge the Russians' credit card an exorbitant amount for every conceivable charge they could imagine. Cleanup to the cabin was already underway from help hired to come in for the purpose. Simpson made a mental note to do something nasty in cyberspace to the two offenders, and then with a sense of a job well done, entered his own cabin again.
There he found Little Mandla, dressed again only in shorts, by the table, a breakfast already prepared. Simpson thanked him profusely, and insisted that he sit down to share the meal with him. He relayed the story of the Russians' departure, with suitable embellishments, and by the end of the breakfast Little Mandla was laughing as hard as Simpson. The two settled into a companionable chuckling. Little Mandla smiled at Simpson and ducked his head.
"Thanks, Boss...Andrew," he said softly, his eyes averted, "You are a good man." Simpson reached over to cover the youth's hand in his, squeezing it softly. After a moment, Little Mandla rose to remove the breakfast things, Simpson rising also to help. As the youth turned, Simpson caught his breath. He had not noticed his back before, but beneath the beautiful chocolate skin were darker discolorations here and there: bruises, and recently made.
"Little Mandla!" Simpson cried. "Did those men do this to you?" He brushed his fingertips as lightly as he dared over the puffy, damaged skin. Little Mandla held still and nodded his head, whispering "Yes."
"I did not notice last night," said Simpson. "I am sorry....I am so ANGRY!" he cried. "Does this often happen to the men? We must stop this and close the camp immediately, this is terrible!"
Unexpectedly, Little Mandla wheeled around with a look almost of fright on his face. "Oh, Andrew! No, please not to close camp. This not happen often, really. You close camp....how we work?"
"But Little Mandla, it's wrong. You could have been killed. Nobody should make a living being beaten. Really, we must!"
"No, Andrew, please! Me, the other men, what we do then?" Little Mandla's expression of concern matched Simpson's look of horror. The two stood for a moment staring at each other. Then anguish over the immediate situation of Little Mandla's injuries overcame Simpson, and he reached out to pull gently on the youth's arm.
"We will discuss this later. But come, I have something for those bruises." Simpson took Little Mandla back into the bedroom, and slipping into the attached bathroom he found some arnica gel that he had brought in anticipation of cuts and bruises in the African bush. Gently, oh so softly, he applied the cooling, slippery ointment to the bruised areas of Little Mandla's back. Around and around his palm slid on the slick surface of the discolored skin. The youth whispered "thanks, thanks" in a soft rhythm as Simpson did his work.
Seeing that some of the bruises ran down below the waistband of Little Mandla's shorts, Simpson reached around from behind and unbuttoned the garment, which fell to the floor. Applying the gel to these lower bruises, Simpson was relieved to see that they went no further than the upper hips. He sank to his knees as he worked, facing the high, firm buttocks which showed a darker, deep chocolate color. Simpson took the opportunity to surreptitiously inspect the youth's anus, which did not seem damaged from the Russians' attentions, for which he was thankful.
"Alright, turn around please," Simpson said softly, gently guiding the youth by the hips. Little Mandla turned slowly, revealing a full erection. Simpson stopped, awed by the simple perfection of the organ, like some beautiful flower, the head a bud ready to open, a lighter pinkish brown peeking out of the receding foreskin, swaying on a long, veined shaft. Little Mandla's heavy, very dark ballsack was drawn up tight against his body, and a small patch of dense peppercorn curls clustered around the top of his magnificent organ. Little Mandla put his hands over his rigid cock and murmured, "Sorry, Boss, it have mind of it own."
Simpson let his gaze travel up the eighteen year old's smooth, muscular tube of a body, just the hint of abdominal muscular development giving way to two thin slabs of chest muscle with purple black nipples now standing in little cones dotted with scabs from the night before. He was relieved to see no bruises on the youth's front side, evidently the Russians had done their work only on his back. Simpson's eyes rose until he caught and held the boy's gaze, looking down at him with gratitude....and maybe love?...from beneath long, curling lashes. Simpson smiled, and laying the tube of ointment aside he gently removed the strong brown hands from covering the organ. It sprang up again. Simpson grasped it by the shaft, sliding his hand up and down it several times, which made Little Mandla moan and mutter "O! Boss! Andrew! You no have to...."
By way of reply, Simpson took the head, now fully emerged and glowing from a coating of precum, into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, his lips going back and forth over the sensitive flared top of the cockhead. Then he moved his hands from the shaft to grasp the African youth by the back of his legs, being careful to go no higher so as to avoid further damage to his bruised skin. Pushing his head forward, Simpson took as much of the rampant penis into his mouth as he could, causing Little Mandla to throw his head back and moan in sheer pleasure. The youth's hands moved to Simpson's shoulders, then to entwine themselves in his silky hair, to caress the white man's head which was giving him so much pleasure. Sucking strongly, Simpson bobbed his head up and down, trying to take more of the shaft and swollen dickhead into his mouth with each cycle. Up and down he went, scooting closer to the boy's trembling brown thighs, up and down as Little Mandla lolled his head from side to side, moaning softly.
Simpson felt a quivering in the youth's strong leg muscles, heard a quickening and then a catch in the African's breathing, and then Little Mandla tensed and pushed forward. Two, then three, then four shots of semen spurted from his throbbing shaft into Simpson's mouth, where they were swallowed greedily. Little Mandla was lost in ecstasy, quietly intoning a rapid chant in his own language, his fingers holding Simpson's head like a vise, quivering and pushing, and then it was over. The youth slumped, gasping for breath. Simpson slowly moved his head back and forth, swallowing, draining the penis of its white liquor, as Little Mandla gasped out his thanks between ragged breaths.
Finished, Simpson released the turgid penis with a plop, looked up and smiled at the boy.
"Andrew! I do that for you now, yes?" said Little Mandla, a huge smiled playing on his face.
"No," said Simpson, "you need to rest now. I....I just wanted to do that for you. I like you, Little Mandla....a lot," he said. "But you rest." Rising, Simpson took the youth gently by the arm to the nearby bed and eased him down between the sheets. Settling on his side to spare both his back and nipples, Little Mandla nodded and murmured thanks again, then soon was asleep.
The youth would stay that way for most of the day, sleeping off the physical and emotional trauma of the night's assaults. In the meantime, Simpson stalked off in the direction of the main offices, and to the computer. Going to every chat room and usenet group he could think of, posting pictures and commentaries to every service he could find, he did what he could to ruin the macho reputations of the Russians, and he did it with a vengeance. When he was finished, thinking he had done what he could, he paused for a moment to imagine with relish the long bus trip the two culprits were probably just now finishing, crammed in tightly among Africans. He shared lunch with Thabo and some of the cleaning help, talking about general subjects, and then stretched out for a nap on a couch in the office, wanting not to disturb Little Mandla back in his own cabin.
Awaking refreshed from his nap, Simpson found Thabo arranging some stores in the back of the main offices. "Thabo, could we please talk? About the future of this place?" The African nodded and followed Simpson back to the couch, where they sat.
"Thabo, I don't know if you saw, but Little Mandla is bruised all over his back. Those men must have beat him as well as cut him. We can't have that, Thabo. I....I am thinking of not having any more clients here." Simpson immediately saw a look of growing alarm in Thabo's face, and rushed to quiet it on the basis of his own interpretations. "Don't worry, Thabo, you will always have a job here. Zama, also. Maybe we could....maybe we could host photo safaris, or a bed and breakfast, or...." He knew the minute he said it that his last suggestion was as lame as it could be, but Thabo was looking increasingly worried.
"Boss Andrew, no! what all the men do? Men come here from villages, earn good money, get tips from clients, no close, Boss Andrew!" Simpson stared at him.
"But Thabo....look, Thabo, I will be the first to admit that the idea of hunting down real men and then possessing them, sexually, even for a night or two, was powerfully attractive to me. It is why I came here. But I don't think it was a worthy motive. I think it can bring out the worst in people, Thabo. See what the Russians did? And isn't it demeaning for the men?"
"But Boss Andrew, most men, black and white, know it a game, they come to play, you know? Then they have fun with men they catch, with being catch. Please, Boss...." Simpson looked at him in consternation. First he exploited these Africans himself for his own pleasure, now he was in a position of telling an African what was in his best interest. It was intolerable.
"Thabo....there are `prey' still here, right? I have not see them, but they are still here?"
"Yes, Boss Andrew, I was gonna ask, what we do with them, but two still here: Strello and Mandla....Big Mandla."
"Can we go talk to them, ask their advice?" Simpson asked. Thabo nodded and rose, leading the way into the afternoon heat toward the lodge with the word "Prey" on the outside. Simpson did not know what horror he would find within: men chained to walls, dirty mattresses on floors, whips. Thabo knocked, then pushed open the door...to Simpson's surprise it was not locked from either the inside or outside...and led the way in.
The lodge was not palatial, but was at least the quality of a good American motel, with room service. It was air conditioned. The outside door opened onto a large, comfortable room with two exercise bikes and a treadmill in one corner, two television sets, several couches and tables, two large refrigerators, a computer, stereo, and a pool table. At the far end of the room were two doors. One was half ajar, revealing a clean, comfortable bedroom (if a bit messy, with an unmade bed and clothing on the floor) beyond. On one side of the lodge was a door leading to a kitchen and laundry area, on another a door leading to two bathrooms. Two men lounged on one of the sofas wearing shorts and t-shirts, watching television. They jumped to their feet as Thabo and Simpson approached.
Thabo rattled off an explanation in an African language, taking enough time to have explained the whole issue, Simpson was sure. Then he turned to introduce Simpson to his two employees. "Boss Andrew, this Mandla," he said, indicating a massively muscled, dark brown man. Mandla, in his early twenties, stood a little over six feet. Great lobes of muscle bulged from under his t-shirt, and a gap between shirt and shorts revealed mounds of developed abs. An oval head sat atop a thick neck, with head trimmed very close, almost shaved, small ears like seashells, thick lips and broad nose. He extended a big paw at the end of a heavily muscled arm and enfolded Simpson's hand in a surprisingly gentle shake. A smile creased his dark face, bringing a flash of masculine beauty and friendliness to this mountain of muscled steel. "And this Strello," said Thabo.
Strello looked to be about eighteen. His skin was a rich, oiled tobacco brown, a deep color with honey highlights, simply a beautiful and smooth complexion all over. Strello stood about five feet, ten inches. He wore a beater t-shirt that revealed a well developed, stocky but entirely muscled body; if anyone deserved the expression "built like a fireplug," Strello was it. A one inch cap of kinky hair covered his head and surrounded a handsome, boyish face, pug-nosed with thick, flat lips that seemed to press outward as if to be kissed. His handshake was firm, and he held Simpson's hand perhaps a beat longer than necessary, looking into the white man's eyes, seeming to appraise and examine him.
The introductions over, Simpson determined that Mandla and Strello could speak some English, then invited everyone to sit around a table. Thabo opened one of the refrigerators and brought out beers for everyone. Simpson broached his idea of closing the camp, explained the dangers and his view of the indignities it offered, told of Little Mandla's injuries. As with Thabo, both men looked increasingly concerned as he went on.
"Boss Andrew, I never hurt here. I go out, oh, mebbe ten times....caught three times!"said Mandla; and here he blushed a dark maroon beneath his chocolate skin. "But it good, Boss Andrew...the white men, they pay well. Nobody hurt me."
Simpson regarded his massive frame and thought that likely nobody would try to harm Mandla. He turned to Strello. "And you, Strello?"
The youth noded his head emphatically. "Nobody hurt me, Boss, I caught five times. Really, it not so bad. It a little fun," he said, and actually giggled.
"But listen," Simpson pressed on, "do you want to make money like this? People are using you."
Mandla looked perplexed. "But Boss Andrew, I see on television, people in your country....you from States? Yeah, people in States `used' also. People in factories, they hurt, killed sometime. Everybody use somebody, Boss. This fun! Besides," he added, more seriously, "De Groot's best place to earn good money around here. People in villages, they wait for money from here, Boss Andrew! We even make a little just waiting here," Mandla explained, a point which Thabo agreed to by nodding.
The conversation continued in that vein through their beers and another round. It was clear that it was not as cut and dried as Simpson had thought. But he could not escape his misgivings about a business based on hunting down Africans, even with paintballs. As he talked less and listened more, he also began to think about alternatives. As the men began on their third round of beer, he leaned forward.
"Alright, listen. I have some ideas. So far De Groot's....and you know, I think we will just keep that name....De Groot's has been based on men coming here....white men....and hunting Africans, correct?"
"Boss Andrew, some Japanese come sometimes," said Thabo. Simpson nodded.
"Alright, well....must it always be that way? There must be men in the world who would want to come here and BE hunted." The men looked thoughtful. "What if men from other countries wanted to come here and have African men hunt them down and `possess' them for a weekend? I think there may be a market for that," and thinking back to his experiences of some clubs and bars in the greater New York area, he could not help but grinning at the thought of several chocolate queens he knew or knew of who would pay lavishly for such an experience.
"Or how about men coming here to organize into teams for paintball combat," he continued, "with the winning team `possessing' the losers for a few days?" Mandla, Strello, and Thabo were now clearly thinking hard about the possibilities. "We could hire men from the villages, and pay them well, to referee such combats. In addition to doing what you have been doing before, of course, sometimes, with men hunting....with men hunting you," he nodded at Mandla and Strello. "We could advertise all sorts of interesting and creative ways to use the land here for these purposes," he said. The Africans immediately broke out into an animated discussion in their own language, and Simpson could tell from the nonverbals that the talk was enthusiastic.
"Boss Andrew, these some good idea," said Thabo, turning to him to speak for the group. "Maybe even get more customers, hire more men from village, you know?" Simpson nodded enthusiastically. "You and me, we work on it Boss, advertise right away!" said Thabo. "Can we get business soon, Boss Andrew?"
Simpson thought about it. "It might take a couple of months. Most men cannot just drop plans and come, although perhaps a few will. But Mandla and Strello, and you, Thabo, and Little Mandla and everyone here can stay on until then...we can fix the place up, get it ready, you know? Prepare the land for team combat. Add sleeping quarters."
The three Africans huddled again, speaking quickly and enthusiastically. Thabo announced a general agreement, and there was congratulations and toasting all around. Simpson rose from the table, followed by Thabo.
"Well, we begin work tomorrow. I will prepare some ideas tonight. Can we get some more workers from the villages to come help with preparations?" Thabo nodded, and Mandla and Strello rattled off several names of men they knew with needed skills. With a plan agreed upon, Simpson and Thabo turned to go. Mandla shook Simpson's hand quickly, but again Strello's grasp lingered on, and, squeezing Simpson's hand, he actually winked at him and said "later tomorrow, Boss Andrew" in a whisper. Simpson felt a stir in his groin, but was not entirely sure he had read Strello's meaning correctly, so he simply nodded.
The sun was setting as Thabo and Simpson walked back toward the main offices. Simpson collected some cold food as dinner for himself and Little Mandla. Thabo agreed that Simpson's lodge was a good place for Little Mandla to rest overnight, then the youth could return to the "prey" lodge with the other men. Simpson carried the meal back to his cabin and entered.
Little Mandla was sitting on a couch, leaning forward a bit so as to keep his bruised back free from contact with the leather, watching television. He leaped to his feet, a huge smile splitting his handsome, chocolate face.
"Andrew! I sleep most of day, Andrew. I think I better.....these," he said, looking down at his nipples, "not hurt much now. Back a little better."
"That's great, Little Mandla! You need all the rest you can get. Please stay here tonight again, then you can return to your own room tomorrow." The youth grinned and nodded agreement. "Eat!" said Simpson, gesturing at the food he was laying out on the table. Both men helped themselves and sat companionably on the couch to watch the show, a syndicated rerun of an American crime drama. What must people in other countries think of the States from watching such crap, Simpson thought. Putting the food away, they continued watching similar shows throughout the evening. During breaks, Simpson explained the new plan for De Groot's to Little Mandla, who seemed delighted with some of the schemes and puzzled with some others, but was generally accepting. The youth seemed relieved to find that his employment would remain secure.
Even though he had rested all day, Little Mandla was still tired from his ordeal, so Simpson suggested that they retire early. Simpson took a quick shower, followed by Little Mandla. Simpson remained naked, and as the youth emerged from the shower the white man helped to sponge his body dry gently, then applied two small dollops of antiseptic to cover each nipple and again rubbed some arnica gel onto the lad's bruises, which were turning some interesting colors. As Simpson ministered to the lad, both men developed half erections, a fact each acknowledged silently with looks, nods, and chuckles. Finishing his task, Simpson stepped to the bed and slid between the sheets. Although his erection was tenting up the covers, he would not force himself on the African youth during his recovery.
But Little Mandla had different ideas. The boy walked to Simpson's side of the bed and bent over, kissing Simpson on the lips. "Thanks, Andrew, Boss, for everything," he whispered, nuzzling Simpson's face with his full, ripe maroon brown lips. Half kneeling on the bed, Little Mandla ran his fingers through the white man's silky hair, then down his neck to caress his shoulders. Passion rose strongly within Simpson, but he was hesitant to touch the youth in return, for fear of further damaging his injuries....but his fingers slid lightly over the youth's unharmed thighs and arms.
Both men were panting from their prolonged kissing, from explorations of tongues and lips, when Little Mandla reached to the bedside table and produced some lubricant which he had evidently found or placed there earlier. He whisked back the sheets and Simpson's reddish, iron stiff penis sprang up. Little Mandla greased the rigid organ well with the lubricant, then bent slightly and oiled his own rectum. Little Mandla then sprang upon the bed and positioned himself above Simpson's organ, facing the white man, and placed the swollen red cockhead against his own anus. Wincing a little, Little Mandla lowered himself....the cockhead pushed against his starfish and then pushed through. Little Mandla gasped, waited, and then lowered himself some more, slowly, until Simpson was fully inserted and Little Mandla squatted above him. Simpson could see the scabs on the boy's nipples but not the bruises on his back, and in this position neither set of injuries would be exacerbated.
Smiling down at the white man beneath him, his back erect and shoulders held back, Little Mandla's face took on a dreamy look as he began to move up and down on Simpson. The white man was meanwhile in ecstasy, his rigid rod fully engorged in the warm bottom of the African youth, the firm, tight butt of the boy bouncing up and down on his thighs. Simpson clutched the youth's firm thigh with one hand and with another clasped the purple black, rigid penis that was slapping his abdomen and chest, leaking precum down onto his skin. Simpson began pumping the youth's organ in time to Little Mandla's rhythm of rising and falling. Both men were breathing heavily, gasping, muttering in their own languages, their eyes drinking heavily of each other's delicious bodies with the different and delightful skin tones and hair patterns. Simpson began pushing his pelvis up and down to match Little Mandla's rhythms, and kept pace with pumping the rampant purple black rod in his hand.
Little Mandla came first, crying out, pushing forward even as he tried to keep up a rhythm of bobbing up and down on Simpson's cock, spraying the white man's chest with drops and globs of thick, white sperm. Simpson himself was so close that the break in Little Mandla's rhythm did not delay him much. He now pushed his pelvis up strongly and roared with sexual delight as, deep inside the black youth's gut, his rampant penis pumped dollops of semen. Simpson's hand gripped the chocolate thigh tightly, while his other hand slowed, milking the last of the African's semen from the thick tube. Then both men slowed and stopped, quivering, the final waves of ecstasy washing over them. And then Little Mandla slowly leaned forward, Simpson's rod still inside of him, and laid his forehead on Simpson's shoulder, now running his fingers through the white man's silky hair. For a few moments more both men held that position as Simpson's rigid cock slowly retreated back down the shaft of Little Mandla's anus, and then plopped out. Little Mandla giggled, leaned forward some more to kiss Simpson once again, and then flopped down beside him on his side, pulling the sheets up over them. Once again with arms around each other, the two men drifted off to sleep: Little Mandla quickly, Simpson but a few minutes behind him, caressing the kinky head that lay on his chest....but thinking thoughts of Motumbo until sleep overtook him.
To be continued, comments welcome lokiaga@prodigy.net