Date: Mon, 26 Sep 2005 11:37:30 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Big Game 6

Opening his eyes in the early dawn light, Motumbo tensed.  Everything was
strange, the room unfamiliar.  Looking around he saw the rustic furniture,
heavily made from unfinished, varnished raw wood, the horns and heads of
hunting trophies on the walls, the polished wood floors with animal skins
for rugs.  Then he noticed the white man next to him.  For a moment his
thoughts went back to the times he had been the trophy for white men who
came to De Groot's, going back a year or so now.  Was this one.....  and
then he remembered.  This was Andrew, the strange white man who came back,
who came back looking especially for him.  What did it mean, who was this
man, and what did he want?

Motumbo turned on his side toward the sleeping white man to look at him
more closely.  He had been little chance to do this sort of thing in the
past.  Most of the men who "won" him had seemed to prefer that he keep his
eyes averted, that he act passively.  It was not especially his nature, but
it did not last long and the money was good, it was more than good.  But
this Andrew, he seemed different.  Motumbo listened to the white man's soft
breathing and gazed at his body intently, trying to unravel the mystery who
was sleeping beside him.  A mixture of off-white, light tan, and light rose
colors played on his skin.  The man's body was muscular but not as heavily
developed as his own.  A mop of light, soft hair spread out on the pillow
from his head.  Motumbo reached out tentatively to touch it again, as he
had the night before.  Gently, he entwined his fingers in it, marveling at
the strange texture.  He leaned into it and smelled it, pressing his lips
to the cornsilk texture.  And then Andrew awoke with a start, and turned
toward the African whose fingers were still in his hair.  He smiled, and
Motumbo smiled in return.

"Motumbo," he said, and turned toward the African.  Lying on their sides
facing each other, the men lightly embraced, their morning semi-erections
lying against each other's abdomens, now slowly growing harder.  Each man
traced the features of the other with his fingers, exploring the
differences in facial features and hair, but recognizing the underlying
similarities and the bond between them.  Slowly, Andrew moved forward to
kiss Motumbo.  Lips caressed lips, tongues met and slid around and then
past each other, ran along teeth in the other's mouth.  Lips so full and
lips more thin sucked and slid on each other.

Hands grasped both penises together and slowly pumped, while other hands
reached around to caress muscular bottoms.  The two slid even tighter
together, sharing the faster tempo of their breath, feeling each other's
chests rise and fall now.  Eyes looked deeply into eyes.

Turning half away, Motumbo found the lubricant and began smearing it on
Simpson's rigid red cock, while the white man closed his eyes and moaned.
The African reached behind himself and lubricated his own asshole and then,
nodding at Simpson, rolled over onto his belly, cocking his hips up, laying
his cheek on the sheets.  He was offering himself up in the way Simpson had
done the night before.  The white man had taken him like this on their
first night, months ago, but now the black was giving himself as a gift,
not as a prize that had been won.

Softly whispering the black man's name, Simpson slid up and over the
African's strong thigh and positioned himself behind his upturned bottom.
One palm supported his body on the sheets while his other hand guided his
cock to the wrinkled dark purple brown asshole.  Simpson pushed the flared
cockhead and then pushed again.  It popped inside.  Slowly, as Motumbo
quietly gasped and moaned, Simpson pushed himself all the way inside, then
craned his torso up and over Motumbo's body, supported by both hands on
either side of the waiting black man beneath him.  His rigid red cock was
now firmly buried in between the hard bubbles of Motumbo's butt.  It was a
wonderful sight.  Simpson began to rock, moving in and out, the slick,
glistening purple red dick sliding in and out of the African's anus.
Motumbo moaned softly in time to the rhythm of the thrusts.

As he pushed in all the way, Simpson's muscular lower belly and upper
thighs slapped against the meaty cushion of the rounded African butt,
pushed hard against the man's sensuous flesh.  As he pushed in, Motumbo
cocked his pelvis back and up, rolling the meaty hams up to meet his white
lover's thrusts.  Faster and harder Simpson pumped, now slamming forward to
push as hard as he could, pulling out almost all the way and slamming
forward again.  Like a train chugging at top speed toward a cliff the white
man pistoned in and out, in and out, and then with a wild howl pushed
forward and held it, grinding his groin into the African butt as he spurted
his cum deep into the black man's gut.  Gasping and cursing quietly,
Simpson held his position, grinding into the ass, and then slumped in utter
exhaustion, breathing heavily, lying on the muscular African's back, his
face on the fleshy shoulders.  Catching his breath, Simpson kissed and
licked the deep, dark skin, tasting it, tonguing it.

Recovered, Simpson leaped off and grabbed the lubrication, smearing it on
his own anus.  Turning Motumbo over onto his back with the other hand,
Simpson greased up the enormous purple black pole that now sprang up into
the air.  Simpson moved quickly over the African's lower abdomen and
grasped the huge, rigid black cock, positioning it against his own bottom,
and then sat back quickly.  The pain was intense as his rectum took the
whole organ in at once.  Simpson, completely impaled, sat quietly for a
moment, looking down at the magnificent shield shaped chest and hills of
abdominal muscles below him, his softening cock dribbling the last of his
semen onto the African's muscular belly.  Motumbo crooned soothing words
and ran his dark hands over the white man's thighs and chest.  Then Simpson
nodded, and first slowly, then quickly, began riding the African cock
inside of him, rising and falling, rising and falling.

Motumbo's powerful hips and thighs pushed up to meet Simpson's downward
motions.  His knees on either side of the black man, Simpson bounced up and
down for a while, then leaned forward to kiss the full maroon brown
lips. But half of Motumbo's organ was still inside of him, and the black
man was now freed to thrust upward with even more vigor.  Simpson now held
quite still, kissing and sucking Motumbo's lips, while the big African did
all the work, thrusting up and down, up and down, until he also cried out,
muffled by the white man's mouth that was over his, and pushed up, holding
it, while a fountain of cum sprayed up inside of Simpson.  The African
pulled back and then thrust again, and then again, spurting again, and then
collapsed back flat on his back.  Simpson put his head to the side of the
African's, cheeks pressed tightly together.  The magnificent black cocks
remained in his ass a few minutes longer, then with a plop fell out as it
deflated from iron rigidity to mere meaty weight.  Simpson pushed his legs
back, entwining them with Motumbo's, and stretched out on top of the
African.  Moments passed in silence, and then Simpson half rose to look at
Motumbo's face.  Both men smiled, then chuckled, then laughed softly.....but
neither one could have said what they were laughing at.  No words were
spoken, but in time, with one accord, they rose and showered together,
tidied the room and dressed.  Then, making small talk about the weather and
the plans for the new De Groot's, they went out into the morning light and
toward the main offices.

There they found Thabo and some of the staff nearly done with breakfast.
Some good natured ribbing about the lateness of their arrival, some pointed
comments about what could have delayed them.....Motumbo and Simpson took it
in good humor, and exchanged many quick, meaningful looks between
themselves.

There was more discussion about the new plans, Motumbo being made fully
aware of the new activities and facilities that were planned.  It was clear
he was impressed, and also clear that he was aroused by the escapades
promised in the new plans.  And so began a week of steady activity and
preparation.  Each night, and during the day when they could, Motumbo and
Andrew Simpson returned to their lodge and threw themselves into the bed,
powered by a strong passion.  Each new coupling offered a chance to
experiment, to explore each other's bodies.  When not riding the tidal wave
of their sexual passions, they spoke of small matters, each resolutely
staying within the moment: how the training and renovations were coming,
which of the staff were working out and which were not, what changes needed
to be made.

Little Mandla, up and about and healing, and Strello, both kept a managed
distance from Simpson during this time.  Oh, they risked occasional winks,
or arranged to be standing in narrow hallways that Simpson would need to
pass through, and neither could keep from the occasional suggestive joke,
but neither one was possessive.  Both knew they would get another chance at
sharing Andrew's bed, and in the meantime there was no lack of other
outlets in the busy camp.

All the while, business began pouring in by way of the Internet.  Requests
for reservations even sooner than the projected starting date were pressed
upon Simpson, and mindful of the need to generate a cash flow, as well as
proud of the progress that had been made, he began accepting some
reservations that would be very soon.  The activities desired for these
early bookings then received top priority in the training and construction
that was going on.  The week marched forward as the time of the first
bookings became sooner and sooner, and before long the end of Motumbo's
promised seven days were approaching, the day his friend would stop on the
way from Johannesburg to take him back, if that was what he wanted.

It was on the evening before the day of Motumbo's friend's return that,
sitting at a late private dinner in their own lodge, each spent from a hard
day of work and the athletic lovemaking they had just shared, Simpson took
the plunge and raised the question that had been hovering over them all
week.

"So....Motumbo.  Your friend, he comes back tomorrow?"

"Yes, Andrew."  Motumbo cocked his head and looked carefully at Simpson,
his eyes half hooded by his long lashes.

Simpson nodded.  He waited.  He tried a different tack.

"Motumbo, does your wife...your woman, does she know what you do here?"

Motumbo nodded.  "Yes, Andrew, she know.  Is OK, long's I come back, you
know?  She like the money."

"But she wants you to come back."

"Yes, Andrew.  From time to time.  That my home."  And here he looked
aside.  Simpson glanced sharply at him and sucked in his breath.  Another
moment passed.

"Are you going back tomorrow then, with your friend?"

"Maybe.  Maybe yes.  Yes, I think so, Andrew."  Motumbo was looking at the
floor now.  Another moment passed, and Andrew pushed his chair back
suddenly and rose to his feet.

"Motumbo....you already know this.  I don't know how else to say it.  I need
you.  This last week has been...it has been what I dreamed of back...." And
he gestured vaguely in the direction of what might be New York.  "Motumbo,"
he continued with rising energy, "if you need to go back to see your wife,
alright, I understand.  Maybe I need a break sometimes too, OK?" Motumbo
looked up quickly and flashed a smile, while a wintry grin crept across
Simpson's otherwise pained features.  "But Motumbo.....I need you.  Come
back."  He sat down heavily, took a deep breath, and said it: "I love you."

Motumbo stared hard at the white man, and then put his thick, large brown
hand over Simpson's.  The "L" word hung all by itself in the space between
them as Simpson's heart thudded out a passing moment.  "I like you also,
Andrew."  Well, there it was.  The lesser "L" word.  Simpson sighed softly.
Motumbo continued: "I must go tomorrow.  But I be back, yes, I promise.
You know....I can't stay here always."  Simpson gulped and nodded, turning
his head and wiping his cheek on his shirt.  Composing himself, he turned
back to Motumbo, whose face showed a mixture of pain, resolution,
compassion....and maybe the "like" he had just expressed?  Could it become
more, over time?

"I know, Motumbo," Simpson said.  "Go, but come back.  Or," and he sat up
straight in his chair, "or can you bring your wife here?  We can find a
space for the two of you."

Motumbo gave a not very encouraging shrug.  "I dunno, Andrew.  That her
home.  Her own house, y'know?  I ask, but I not think so.  Andrew," he
said, squeezing the hand again, "I be back soon, OK?  Lotsa money to be
made, guests come soon.  And I got a idea I tell you about when I come
back."

Simpson turned his hand over to entwine his fingers in Motumbo's.  Looking
down at the interlocked fingers, light and dark, he thought he had never
seen such a beautiful sight.  He nodded and smiled, and whispered "OK."
They sat there in silence a few minutes more and then made for the bedroom
where, long after their passion was spent, as the oil lamp burned the last
of its fuel and guttered into a thin curl of white smoke, Simpson lay
awake, caressing the crispy haired head of the sleeping man next to him as
it lay on his chest, an occasional tear making its track down his cheek.

Simpson put on a brave face the next morning when, an hour before noon,
Motumbo's friend pulled up in the compound.  Simpson and Motumbo exchanged
a brief embrace in the lodge, then Simpson waited and waved in the door of
the dwelling while Motumbo entered the truck, which rumbled off into the
distance leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.  Simpson stared after it,
sighed, and headed for the main lodge.  The first reservations for guests
were now a week away, and planning was proceeding apace to be ready for the
unexpectedly early new business.

All that week Simpson threw himself into his work.  Strello and Big Mandla
were the team that would "entertain" the first guests, and Andrew avoided
the temptation to have sex with either of them by keeping them and himself
in a constant state of exhaustion from work.  The night before the first
guests were to arrive, everyone flopped into their own beds early and slept
long into the next morning, while Thabo went alone to pick up the guests
from the nearest town of any size, where their bus would deliver them.  By
the time Thabo pulled back into the compound in the afternoon, everyone was
up and waiting.

Two slim, blonde and fair-skinned twenty-something men stepped out of the
car.  Simpson consulted his notes again: James and John Leggett, 24, twins,
Brits from London.  Further down was the notation that they were
advertising creatives.  Simpson set the notes aside and strode forward to
play the good host.  Introductions were made all around, Simpson making
sure that key members of the staff were also introduced.  Then he asked
Thabo to take the men to their lodge to settle in.  He knew that a nurse
would be waiting there to draw blood for the mandatory STD test that
everyone at De Groot's, staff and guest alike, took on a regular basis.

Later that evening, Simpson greeted the Leggetts at a dinner of wild game
in the main lodge.  The twins' manner was a trifle twee for his tastes, a
little too willowy and languid, a bit too much of the Aubrey Beardsley
thing, but then they weren't there for him and they were paying good money.
Simpson went over the terms of tomorrow's games, and both men seemed to
understand the rules completely.  At the end of the dinner, Simpson bade
his guests a good evening and counseled a good night's rest, to which they
agreed.  He himself, after scouting the territory, slipped unobtrusively
down to his own lodge and turned out the light quickly.  Still saddened
over Motumbo's departure, he was not in the mood tonight for a frolic with
Little Mandla or with Strello.  Plus, Strello at least needed to save his
strength.  Simpson quickly slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Before dawn the next morning, Simpson was up early, first to knock softly
at the door of the "Prey" lodge, where he spoke softly with Big Mandla and
Strello to make sure they were ready.  Then turning onto the path to the
Leggett's cabin, he saw they already had a light on.  They opened the door
to his gentle knock, and stepping in he saw that they had just finished
their light breakfast.  They were clothed and equipped as well, and had
been just about to emerge.  All three men stepped into the early morning
coolness, where Simpson turned again to assess the twins' state of
readiness.

Each was clothed in light tan, or "flesh" colored skin tight breathable
spandex, with sturdy sneakers on their feet.  Each had a light cotton hood
to cover their heads.  Each had a small rucksack with some food and a
bottle of water.  They were the first to take advantage of the new program
of attractions at De Groot's.  They were going to be prey.  The Leggetts
represented the flip side of Simpson's own adventure some months ago, with
the exception that their clothing would protect their fair skin from the
African sun, a necessity for them if not for the rich, dark skins of the
Africans Simpson had pursued before.  Simpson led them to a small gate at
the perimeter of the compound and, offering some last words of advice,
ushered them through it into the wild lands beyond.  They were off and
running.

Simpson waited half an hour and then, as expected, saw Strello and Mandla
walking down the path, clothed in sturdy shorts and shirts with snakeproof
boots and broad-brimmed hats....and armed, each one, with a serious-looking
paintball gun.  The three men laughed and joked, each one exhilarated in
his own way at the new game.  Simpson made sure their radios were working,
then led each one to the fence and out into the wild.

The Leggetts did not last until noon.  Unaccustomed to the rugged
landscape, scratched (but in minor ways) by thorns and brambles, first one
and then the other took his paintball, splat! in the middle of his chest.
Tired and hot, and anticipating the consequences of their capture, neither
seemed to mind.  Thabo and Simpson drove out to pick up the Leggetts, who
were made to sit in the back of the truck while Strello and Mandla,
grinning from ear to ear and swinging their paintball guns like trophies,
sat in the four passenger cab with Thabo and Simpson.  Back they went to
the compound, where the twins and the two Africans, temporarily going their
separate ways, washed up, drank water, and ate lunch.  Then Strello and
Mandla took up residence in a new lodge especially built for the purpose,
and waited.

In the early afternoon, Thabo knocked on the door of the hut where Strello
and Big Mandla were waiting.  Strello opened it.  Both he and Mandla were
clothed in simple athletic shorts and T-shirts.  Thabo led into the house
the two blonde twins, James and John Leggett.  Each was naked, freshly
scrubbed, with their hands loosely bound behind with a soft cord.  Their
bodies were slim and willowy, no fat but only a boyish wash of thin muscle
over their long frames.  Straight blonde hair hung over their ears.  The
twenty-four year olds' complexion was cream and light rose.  Beneath a
patch of dirty blonde pubic hair, each had a half erection that swayed and
bounced as they stepped into the lodge, eyes cast down.  Thabo, barely able
to suppress a smile at the reversal of the usual turn of events, announced
to Strello and Mandla that their two trophies from the morning's hunt were
here, and were theirs to do with as they pleased.  Then he withdrew.

Strello and Mandla exchanged a quick glance of victory and anticipation,
then slowly walked around the captive white men, whose erections were
slowly growing.  Walking behind them, Mandla swatted first the one and then
the other, hard, on their rosy round bottoms, leaving a red mark where his
hand struck.  The twins each gasped, but kept their heads downcast and did
not object.  Strello, also standing behind the twins, slipped off the cords
that bound their hands.  Returning to stand in front of them, Mandla
prodded James in the chest and said, "Remove my clothing."  James sank to
his knees in front of the large African and slipped off his sandals.  Then
he rose and tugged up and off the huge black man's T-shirt, to the best of
his ability.  Mandla's massive frame was more apparent with his shirt off,
the great lobes of his chest and dense abdominal padding making him a
formidable sight.  Thick shoulder and neck muscles rose to the
close-cropped head of hair.  The big man, standing over six feet tall,
regarded from beneath hooded eyes and curled lashes the naked white man,
several inches shorter than he.  "This, too," he said, snapping at his
athletic shorts.  James sank again to his knees, his now rigid red cock
bouncing, and tugged down the shorts, which fell to the floor.  A massive,
thick, purple black penis popped out, curving out from beneath a dense
patch of kinky pubic hair, above a heavy scrotum containing two nuts the
size of golf balls.  Mandla reached down and grasped his organ, then taking
a step forward began to gently slap James's face with it.  As the huge cock
stiffened it also began to leak precum, and Mandla painted the white man's
face with it, leaving a pattern of glistening clear liquid on and around
his button nose and rosebud lips, streaking the blonde hair hanging down
over his forehead.

In the meantime Strello, still standing behind the naked John Leggett, had
stripped off his own T-shirt and thrown it aside.  He stepped up close
behind John and pulled the blonde man back into him, clasping him in front,
running his dark brown hands over the thin cream and rose chest and belly,
burying his face in the silky blonde hair.  "Pull my shorts off" he growled
into the ear of the white man, who stood about his own height.  Reaching
back, John tugged down the athletic shorts, which fell to the ground.
Strello kicked them and his sandals away.  His thick, heavy cock, black as
midnight and smooth as satin, was fully erect and pushed downward between
the two men.  Strello ground the thick, meaty shaft in between John's
rounded, rose and cream colored buttocks while at the same time he ran his
hands down the slim abdomen of the white man to pause at the bush of silky
pubic hair, then to grasp the long, slim, iron hard rod that now stuck
straight out from John's body.

For his part, Mandla now sank his fingers into the thick blonde hair of the
white man who was kneeling in front of him and moved James's rosebud lips
to his thick, flared cockhead that was dribbling precum.  James opened his
mouth and Mandla pushed forward, gagging the white man, but still the
African shoved his enormous dick into the waiting mouth.  "Take it!" Mandla
commanded fiercely.  James squirmed, his palms pressing against the
muscular tree trunks of Mandla's thighs, as he gagged and swallowed in an
attempt to accommodate the thick sausage that now slid against the back of
his throat.

Strello pushed and ground his swollen dick into the ass crack of the
squirming white in front of him, smearing John's reddish asshole with the
precum that oozed out of his black cock.  With one hand Strello pawed the
white man's thin chest and belly, pulling John's body back into his own,
while with the other he pumped the rigid red cock, spraying drops of precum
from the end of it.  John's breathing became harder and harder, his legs
began trembling, his hips bucking in the rhythm of the black hand that slid
up and down his pole, and then with a shout he spouted out a long rope of
cum, then another, that dotted and splattered the floor in front of him.
No sooner had the last drop landed than Strello roughly pushed the white
man to the ground in front of him.  John fell onto his hands and knees, his
still erect rod slapping the wood floor, and Strello dropped immediately
behind him.  He placed his thick black cock at the entrance to John's
rectum, already slick with precum, and with no other lubricant gave a push.
John cried out and lowered his head, sinking down onto his elbows, but
Strello had his hips and upper thighs in his strong hands and would not let
the white ass escape.  Strello pushed his thick dick all the way forward in
one mighty lunge as John cried out, writhing in pain.  Fully landed,
Strello waited, balanced on his knees, pulling the round pink butt toward
him by the hips.

"Why this happ'nin' to you, eh?  Why?" Strello roared at John.  The white
man sobbed and gasped, and choked out, "Because you won me, sir."

"What I do to you now, eh white boy?" Strello shouted, jerking the pelvis
toward him even tighter.

"You....you will fuck me, sir."

"Call me master, boy."

"Yes, master.  You will fuck me, sir" gasped John.  And at that Strello
immediately lunged forward into a frantic pumping, fucking the pink,
rounded ass in front of him while John gasped and slobbered, covering the
floor in front of him with his tears, saliva, and leaking precum.  Harder
and faster, pumping like a piston, Strello ploughed the white man's butt.

All the while, Mandla had begun moving his swollen dick in and out of
James's mouth as the white man continued to kneel in front of him.  James
gagged and struggled for breath as the huge rod slid in and out, in and
out, never fully landed because its size was simply overwhelming.  Mandla's
eyes shifted back and forth between the sight of Strello power fucking the
white man on the floor and the blonde head into which his own black dick
was sliding.  And then the tingling began in his thighs and belly, the
gathering of the storm, and Mandla cried out, pushing forward and into
James's mouth farther than ever before as the white man squirmed and pushed
in desperation against the black man's massive thighs and belly.  Mandla's
head rolled back and his eyes rolled up in his head as he shot great gouts
of semen directly down the throat of the struggling white man in front of
him.  The minute his ecstasy had passed he pulled his great organ out in
one movement, leaving James gasping, semen dribbling from a corner of his
mouth.

Mandla, still panting, reached down and pulled James to his feet, then with
his great strength lifted the white man up into the air by his hips.  The
rigid red cock came up to Mandla's thick, maroon brown lips and the black
man lunged at it with his mouth, taking the whole long, slim length of the
white man's penis into his mouth with ease.  James supported himself with
his palms flat on Mandla's thick shoulders and held on for dear life as
Mandla's head pistoned back and forth in a blur, sucking the white man's
cock.

On the floor, Strello's hips were fanning back and forth, his hands still
pulling John's round bottom to him, until a very sudden and violent orgasm
slammed through Strello unexpectedly.  He roared and pushed, lifting John's
knees off the ground as he pulled the white ass back toward him to receive
the heavy offering of white spunk.  John cried out again, still unused to
the very size of the black tool that now pumped semen into him.  James,
lifted up to Mandla's mouth, now threw his own head back and howled as he
shot his load into the African's mouth, quivering and shaking as the black
man drained every drop.  Animal howls filled the lodge for a minute's time.

Strello pulled out of John, leaving a thin trail of semen running from the
end of his dick to the white man's gaping asshole, and stood up as John
collapsed to the floor, moaning, his tortured anus gaping wide.  Mandla
gave James one last suck and then dropped the white man on top of his
brother on the floor.  The two blonde twins curled into each other's arms,
whimpering.  The two Africans broke into laughter, exclaiming loudly in
their native tongue and shaking each other's hands.  Then the victors in
the day's hunt went to a nearby table, their dicks still swollen and
leaking fluid, to celebrate with the bottle of whisky that had been left
there.  On the floor the twins caught their breaths and huddled
together....but as the physical pain subsided, slowly and then more broadly
a pair of satisfied grins spread across their faces.  James looked at John
and winked.  John nodded back.  They had lost, but they had won; the
consequence had been what they had hoped for even if it was what they had
feared, and it surely topped anything the club and bathhouses of London had
ever offered.  At the table, Strello and Mandla planned the next bout....it
was going to be a long night.  A blessedly long one.


To be continued
Comments welcome:  lokiaga@prodigy.net