Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2006 18:57:54 -0800 (PST)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Big game 12

As Motumbo, Strello, and Big Mandla led their captives away that morning,
the rest of the staff at DeGroot's turned their attention to the two Swedes
who had chosen to experience a Ball Room adventure.  Eager for the fun to
begin, they had asked for their session to start promptly after lunch.  The
two adolescent boys, Thatho and Mthobisi, and the older teen, Little
Mandla, shared lunch with the two middle aged Swedes, the five of them
laughing and joking through the meal, but the two Swedes also quietly
appraising which boy they would begin with.  A brief, whispered
consultation after lunch produced the decision that Little Mandla would be
their prey in the Ball Room that day, the thirteen and fourteen year old
boys would work tomorrow.  The arrangement was satisfactory to all
concerned, and Little Mandla prepared himself to enter the Ball Room.

Simpson, Thatho and Mthobisi escorted Little Mandla and the Swedes up the
outside stairs to the entrance to the Ball Room.  Little Mandla quickly
shed his clothes, the Swedes pausing in their own disrobing to assess his
slim, muscular figure, the cap of peppercorn curls, the full, ripe lips and
broad nose, the deep caramel color.  Broad grins creased their faces and
they whispered to each other in their own language as Little Mandla, his
long, slim penis bobbing with the beginnings of an erection, smiled at them
and then entered the Ball Room.  A minute passed and then the Swedes, their
bodies tanned and toned in their early middle age, entered the chamber as
well.  Sealing the door, Simpson and the boys stepped quickly to the
observation port and looked in.

The lightweight plastic balls filling the room distorted the low light.
Simpson and the boys could indistinctly see Little Mandla's lithe, brown
body swimming through the balls, the outline and contour of his strong,
slim form blurring and wavering.  In a moment the lighter tan bodies of the
Swedes were evident, moving in two different directions so as to outflank
and corner the African boy.  Little Mandla seemed determined to make a
contest of it, and muffled laughs and shouts could be heard from within as
the two men slipped and slid, nearly catching him twice as he wriggled out
of the way with dexterous turns.  But the end was inevitable.  One Swede
caught Little Mandla's ankle and held on for only a moment, but it was long
enough to slow him down and then the other Swede was on him, enfolding the
brown body in his tan arms like an eagle taking its prey.

Giggling, breathless from the chase, Little Mandla surrendered.  Floating
in space, an illusion of weightlessness created by the magic of the balls,
lighting, and air system, the three snuggled in close, Little Mandla
stretched out between their bodies.  The Swedes ran their hands up and down
Little Mandla's dark caramel skin, nuzzled his peppercorn hair, kissed and
sucked his wide, luscious lips, rubbed their long noses against his broad,
rounded one.  Hands grasped cocks now as they rolled in space, arms and
legs entwined.  Reaching for the tube of lubricant strapped to his ankle,
one Swede oiled his rampant, pink dick and quickly entered Little Mandla
from behind with no further ceremony, the African crying out and gasping.
The pain soon subsided, though, as the second Swede slid down to engulf the
boy's iron hard, leaking purple black dick, running his tongue up and down
the shaft, swallowing precum and flicking his lips over the exposed, flared
cockhead.  Now Little Mandla began moaning in pleasure, a sound echoed by
the Swede behind him who was fucking him very slowly, pulling back almost
all the way out, then sliding forward to press firmly in as far as he
could, then back out again.  The cycle was slowly, slowly repeated, as the
stimulation on Little Mandla's prostate and the expert sucking he was
receiving soon became unbearable.  The African boy entwined his dark brown
fingers in the dark blonde hair of the man who was sucking him and cried
out, squeezing his tight rounded buttocks together and pushing out a long
rope of semen into the waiting mouth that engulfed his dick.  The
tightening of his muscular bottom as he clenched and ejaculated was what
the patient Swede behind him needed, and he instantly moaned loudly and
exploded into the African boy's asshole, filling his rectum with white cum.

Little Mandla had only just finished squirting the last of his boyjuice
into the Swede in front of him, trembling and gasping, when the man,
swallowing the last drop, pulled away and slid halfway up his brown torso.
Little Mandla was expecting the Swede to bring his own rigid pink cock up
to his full maroon and brown lips, but that did not happen.  The Swede
stopped halfway up and pivoted the African boy's legs up to his chest.
Then the Swede pushed his own groin up under Little Mandla's rounded
buttocks.  It became clear what was going to happen, and Little Mandla
gasped in fear.  One Swede still had a rampant dick inside Little Mandla's
asshole, holding him tight by the arms, fully landed inside his gut.  Now
the second Swede who had just sucked Little Mandla dry put his own swollen
cockhead to the African boy's cock-filled anus and pushed.  The rectum
stretched, loosened as it had been by the slow fuck he had received, but it
could not stretch enough to make it entirely comfortable.  Little Mandla
cried out in pain and surprise as the Swede pushed his dick up alongside
the rod of the other Swede, both rigid cocks now fully inside the African
boy.  Little Mandla struggled a bit but his arms were held tight from
behind by the man who had just fucked him.  Now his new assailant began
sliding in and out, slowly, and pulled Little Mandla's heaving torso tight
against his chest as he held him from in front.  Little Mandla was
breathing heavily in evident discomfort, but no longer crying out.  The
first Swede stayed anchored--in fact, his dick was trapped inside the boy's
rectum by the pressure of the second penis--while the second Swede fucked
him slowly, slowly, in and out, up and down.

Simpson and the boys outside exchanged looks of concern mixed with lust,
but they could not ultimately tear themselves away from the spectacle.  The
three men remained locked together as the second Swede moved in a slow,
deliberate cycle, in and out, in and out, until he too cried out and pushed
up, squeezing his hips together to send a spray of cum inside the African
boy's gut.  Trembling and bucking, the three held tight together for a
while and then a while longer, the African boy held captive between the two
men who were fucking his butt simultaneously.  After long moments both
Swedes pulled out at the same time, a stream of cum following them from
Little Mandla's gaping bottom.  The three rolled together as they
recovered, each in his own way, and it was clear from Little Mandla's
caresses and fondling of his two captors that he had fully recovered from,
and had even enjoyed, being ravaged in that way.  Simpson and the boys knew
there would be much more of that sort of thing, both in the Ball Room and
back in the Swedes' lodge, for the rest of the night, but they withdrew,
having other duties to attend to.

Simpson worked in the main lodge office the rest of the afternoon,
processing applications and doing other paperwork.  Business was beginning
to look up; requests were coming in more frequently, including some really
novel suggestions for sexual adventures that Simpson wished he had thought
of.  A couple of requests he rejected out of hand, involving violence or
degradation beyond what he could possibly stomach, but for the most part he
smiled in anticipation at some of what was proposed.

Chele came over in the late afternoon and began preparing the evening meal.
Thabo pushed a cart down to the lodge where the Swedes were enjoying Little
Mandla, and he was enjoying them, in new and interesting ways.  He returned
with Thatho and Mthobisi and joined Simpson and Chele, who kept rising up
to fetch food from the kitchen, at the table.  Conversation was light and
cheerful, with Thabo and the boys translating between Chele and Simpson.
Twice during the conversation she softly laid her hand on Simpson's forearm
as it lay on the table, and he could not help but think that the same hand
had caressed Motumbo within the last twenty-four hours.  After the meal,
Simpson returned to the office nearby to finish his work while Thabo went
to check on the Swedes and the boys scattered to amuse themselves at play.
Chele bustled about cleaning and making preparations for the next day.

Simpson worked steadily and as he finished realized that the lodge was
utterly quiet; he surmised he was alone.  He was mistaken.  Having made his
work space tidy and shut off the light, he stepped into the hallway to find
Chele sitting there in a chair; she had been placed so she could observe
him, but for how long?  Simpson smiled at her, nodded and bade her good
night.  But she rose to walk with him as he went out the door, smiling at
him and speaking softly in her language.  As they stepped out into the
night air Simpson nodded at her again and half turned to head for his
cabin.  She put her hand on his forearm again and spoke, looking into his
eyes.  Uncomprehending, he nodded, smiled, wished her good evening again,
and made as if to step away--but she would not release his arm.

Then it hit him.  Although equipped with a well functioning gaydar, and
often oblivious to the advances and hints of women, a man as attractive as
Andrew Simpson had not gone through life without receiving the sexual
advances of females.  He saw in a flash that it was happening here.  He
stared at Chele open-mouthed for a moment, the two frozen in time.  Then
she took half a step toward her own lodge and tugged gently on his arm.
Almost stumbling, he followed, his mind racing.  As they neared Chele and
Motumbo's lodge, her hand slid down his forearm to his hand, grasping it
lightly, and she led him in the door.  Simpson couldn't think, he could
only float along in the moment.

They slipped inside and Chele closed the door.  She turned to him, holding
both his hands playfully and speaking softly, coyly to him in her own
language.  He could only stare; his lover's lover was seducing him, that
much was clear.  Women were not really his interest, although Chele was
undeniably beautiful.  And yet, and yet there was also an attraction in
fucking the one his own lover fucked.  What should he do?  Simpson's
rational mind seemed absolutely locked, and he could only go with his
feelings in the ongoing rush of events.  He smiled at her.

Chele dropped his hands and, still smiling seductively up at him, reached
up to run her hands through his silken hair.  It was clear she had not done
this with a white person, with a white man, before.  She looked and felt
appraisingly.  Then she moved her fingers to his shirt and unbuttoned it
quickly, reaching down to unfasten his trousers as she neared the bottom of
his shirt.  Helpless, Simpson stood in an instant in only his underwear and
boots, his trousers bunched around his ankles, his shirt on the floor.
Chele stepped back to appraise his muscular, light skinned body, nodded,
and then in one smooth motion removed her own one piece garment, which fell
on the floor.  It was all she wore.  Her body was unmistakably feminine,
with a thin waist, full rounded pelvis, and high, firm breasts, with her
skin a lovely dark chocolate.  She reached forward and tugged down
Simpson's underwear and, to his surprise, his penis bounced out in an
erection.  She gasped, seeing her first white cock.  Simpson kicked off his
boots as he stood, his bunched trousers with them and then tentatively
reached to cup her breasts, to pull her toward him, hands sliding over her
smooth shoulders and back.

The two now embraced in a flash, grinding against each other, now falling
to the antelope skin rug on the floor.  Their passion was intense and
physical, Chele giving as good as she got.  They kissed hard and
passionately, sucking and gently biting, licking, sharing breath, squeezing
and kneading skin and muscle.  When he impaled her, Simpson's mind flipped
back and forth between the immediate and unaccustomed pleasure of fucking
her and the realization that his iron hard pink rod was sliding in and out
of Chele just where Motumbo's own midnight purple staff had been so often,
so recently.  He fucked her hard, slamming back and forth, conquering her
with his rigid cock.  Maybe Motumbo's pumping dick was the image that
helped sustain this unaccustomed intercourse to the end, for he remained
hard until he cried out, arching his back, squeezing his hips and bucking
as he slammed down into the woman who cried out in her own ecstasy, filling
her with his white man's cum, and the two clutched each other, thrashing
and bucking as the passion subsided.  Simpson slumped forward and lay on
top of her, her dark brown arms entwined over his heaving white back as she
held him tight.

An hour later Simpson awoke with a start, his flaccid penis still held just
inside Chele, who lay beneath him gently snoring.  He shifted and she
awoke, looking directly into his eyes.  They held the gaze for a moment and
then kissed.  But the unaccustomed passion did not return to Simpson, and
Chele seemed to understand that, seemed not to demand what he could not
give again, contrary to his nature.  They kissed again, this time in
affection, and he rose, then pulled her to her own feet.  They embraced
once more and then dressed.  Smiling at each other, Chele opened the door
and waved shyly as Simpson slipped out and walked down the moonlit path to
his own lodge, where he collapsed onto the bed in a deep and dreamless
sleep.

Simpson stared long and hard at the ceiling the next morning as it
gradually lightened in the dawning light.  He ran through a list of
possible feelings he had, might have, felt he should have.  Should he feel
attracted toward Chele?  Should he feel guilty about fucking Motumbo's
woman?  Should he use that to split the two up, to keep Motumbo with him?
Should he slip out of bed and go back up the path to Chele's lodge and
enter her bed, leaving his own sweat and cum on Motumbo's sheets?  Some
deep breaths and quiet reflection led to none of those things, nor to their
rejection.  What had happened, happened.  He had acted in the moment, and
as far as he knew, so had Chele.  Why plan?  He rose and showered, then
dressed and headed out into the day.

In the main lodge were Thabo and the boys, Little Mandla still serving as
the toy of the Swedes who had won him in the Ball Room.  The smell of
breakfast cooking filled the room and then Chele entered.  She squeezed
Simpson's arm and smiled broadly at him as she passed, and he returned a
smile, but nothing passed between them to betray last night's intimacies or
to alert Thabo to anything unusual.  When she joined the men and boys at
the table, conversation was light and general--except that the boys' role
in the Ball Room later that day, when they took over from Little Mandla,
was discussed, advice and encouragement being given.  It was clear, though,
that the young teens were eagerly awaiting the adventure.

More preparations and work occupied the rest of the day, until mid
afternoon, when a sound of distant singing alerted everyone to the arrival
of the "slave coffle."  Thabo quickly slipped back into his tribal
chieftain clothing, and the boys eagerly went with him to perform their
duties in this fantasy.  The three captives were fed and then washed, by
the boys, and put into a makeshift hut at Thabo's direction.  While those
preparations were being made, Simpson consulted with Motumbo, Big Mandla,
and Strello as to how the adventure went.  All agreed that so far it was
going well and seemed to be what the captives had asked for.  Simpson and
Motumbo interacted easily and naturally, as before--the previous night
might never have happened in that space.

In the late afternoon Simpson went to change into some clothing they had
found that might be seen as nineteenth century garb.  A few rocking chairs
had been put on the verandah of the main lodge, so insofar as possible some
attempts to recreate a look of the antebellum American South had been made.
Simpson was nervous at the role he was to play in this drama but also a
little excited, anticipating the enactment of a new and forbidden fantasy.
He stepped out onto the verandah and waited.  Thabo, back into his
chieftain costume, went to the hut and brought out the captives, naked and
loosely tied.  They were marched up to the verandah and there they waited,
eyeing Simpson curiously even as they kept their heads down.

The three captives stood, their hands loosely tied behind them, and Simpson
stepped down off the verandah and walked around them slowly, looking at
them, inspecting them.  He stopped eight feet in front of Jim.  Nodding to
Thabo, he said, "I'll examine this one first."  Thabo said something in his
language and dragged Jim forward.  He stood in front of Simpson, head down,
eyes furtively glancing at him.  Simpson took a deep breath and launched
into his role in earnest.  He grasped Jim's head in his hands, his fingers
in the crisp, crinkly hair, his thumbs on the dark skin of his cheeks.
Simpson tilted Jim's head up to look in his eyes; the black man looked
aside, avoiding his gaze.  Simpson tilted the head back farther and then
inserted his fingers through the full, moist lips and into the mouth.  Jim
gasped, but he was fully into the experience.  Simpson pried his mouth open
and Jim complied so the white man could see the condition of his teeth.

Was it then that some ancient, ancestral experience began to take hold of
Simpson?  Or would Jim have done the same out of human nature regardless of
history, had their roles been reversed?  A spirit of dominance and
ownership began to wash over Simpson like a drug.  This black man before
him became a body, a mass of warm, animated flesh, to be owned and
dominated.  On that spirit was slavery based, and it began to take hold of
Simpson; but submission to it was taking hold of Jim as well.

The white man slid his hands down Jim's thick, athlete's neck, slid along
the strong, corded shoulders, thumbs and fingers digging into the muscle to
test their strength.  Fingers splayed, his palms slid down the massive,
rounded curve of the chest, sliding along dark chocolate skin that
glistened with sweat, with tiny rivulets of sweat that ran down the rich
skin in the hot sun.  Simpson slid his white hands down around the slim
waist and around the pelvis and tops of the hips of the man, feeling,
probing, testing the firm meaty feel of his muscles.  Simpson walked behind
and ran his palms over the two long hills of muscle on each side of his
back, down the narrow valley of the spine that opened up into the high,
firm, rounded bubble butt of Africa.  Simpson pushed lightly on the back
and the man bent forward, his hands still bound behind him, hands riding on
the high curve of his buttocks.  Simpson spread his butt cheeks, exposing
the reddish brown starfish anus, checking for piles.

The slave straightened up as Simpson walked back in front, the lust of
slavery now fully on him.  Thabo brought forward a simple stool, which
Simpson sat on in front of the black man's heavy penis which was now half
erect above a heavy, dangling ballsack.  Simpson sat on the stool and slid
his hands up and down the thick trunks of the slave's muscular thighs,
kneading and probing.  Now there was but one thing left to inspect.  He
cupped the heavy ballsack, feeling the warmth and the slight scratchiness
of the tiny hairs.  His hands slid through the peppercorn patch of hair
above his penis and then grasped the organ, which sprang into a full
erection, a heavy tube of midnight purple with the lighter brown hood now
escaping from the foreskin.  Simpson grasped the organ with one hand and
began pumping, slowly, squeezing as he pumped, sliding his hand up and
down.

The slave's breathing became heavier and his hips began to rock ever so
slightly in time to the rhythm of the white man's manipulation of his
manhood.  Simpson's tanned white fist slid up and down, up and down, faster
now.  The slave's breathing came faster, heavier, his full lips parted, and
then he cried out and thrust his pelvis and shoulders forward, his engorged
penis shooting ropes of semen straight up as it was gripped in the white
man's hand.  Again and then again he bucked forward and pushed, gasping,
and then stopped, shuddering, as Simpson's hand slowed, milking the last of
the cum which ran down the shaft of the penis, down his white hand,
dripping onto the dust.

Simpson rose and wiped his hand on the slave's butt, then nodded at Thabo.
Thabo pushed Jim away roughly by the shoulder and, at Simpson's nod,
brought John forward.  The white man was in a fever of lust now, his own
trousers tenting out in front and a wet spot of precum beginning to form.
John received the same treatment, at the last his semen shooting out even
higher than Jim's and adding to the wet spots in the dust.  Finally,
Antoine was brought forward, his thin, lightly muscled tube of a body a
contrast to the professional athletes before him, his shaft lighter in
color and thinner, although as long.  When Simpson finished probing and
prodding, violating the black man's private spaces with his white hands, he
once again grasped the erect cock and pumped it until Antoine spurted.
This time, the slave cried out in an ecstasy, shivering beyond his own
control, nearly weeping with the power of the orgasm that carried him away.
Fully sated, Simpson rose and wiped his hands this time by sliding them up
and down the crack of Antoine's butt, then pushed him away as well.

"I'll take all of them," he said, as prearranged, to Thabo.  The three men,
dicks dangling and still leaking silvery threads of cum, were led back to
the hut.  There, Simpson knew, the fantasy would end.  They would be
released and would return to their own modern lodge which stood nearby,
there to bathe and get dressed and, after that, come to the main lodge for
a celebratory dinner.

Simpson took a deep breath, his own passion subsiding, thinking hard about
what had just happened.  Would he have done this thing, in fact, two
hundred years earlier?  Would anyone, or was this peculiarly his heritage
as a white American?  Did the answers matter if everyone was caught up in
the passion of the fantasy and adventure?

Thinking these things, he greeted Thatho and Mthobisi as they crossed the
compound, gleefully heading toward the Ball Room.  The Swedes were finished
with Little Mandla, and had asked for the twins to be ready early; they
might even forego the evening meal in their eagerness to catch and fuck the
two young African teen boys in the unworldly atmosphere of that Room.
Simpson knew the staff would manage that adventure.  He changed his
clothing and showered, his underwear a sticky wad of precum, and sat in
reflection as the evening shadows came on.  Chele came in and greeted him
with a squeeze on his shoulder and friendly sounding words, then she began
preparing the evening meal.

Thabo came in to report that the slave fantasy was ending and the next Ball
Room fantasy well underway.  And then there was a knock on the door and in
came the three African Americans, fully dressed and, to Simpson's surprise
and relief, beaming broadly.

"Man!" said Jim, and then repeated it over and over.  "Man, man, man...What
a trip!  Man that will stay with me a long time.  Something to think about,
eh?"  Simpson looked hard at him and nodded, standing up.  "Yes," Simpson
replied, "something to think about."

John came up and shook his hand.  "You and your staff did it just right,
Andrew.  Thanks.  Now, isn't it happy hour?"

Simpson chuckled and led the men to the bar, Antoine following him with a
friendly hand on his shoulder.  The men were given full doubles and sat
down with looks of tired satisfaction on nearby sofas.  Motumbo and Thabo
came in and were greeted with friendly cries, drinks were poured for them,
and the conversation ran lightly over the high points of the last two days.
Simpson still couldn't believe it, but who was he to question?

Over dinner Antoine leaned toward Simpson and said, "Andrew, I think I have
a business proposition for you."  Simpson looked inquiringly at him.
Antoine went on.  "This thing we did, it wouldn't be for everybody, but I
know, and I'll bet you do also, plenty of guys both black and white back in
the States who would want something similar.  And what I'm thinking of," he
said, and then paused: "What I'm thinking of is going into partnership with
you on a subsidiary attraction here: a plantation.  Wouldn't be too hard to
build one, you have the room, it doesn't have to be complete or authentic,
just enough to create the fantasy.  I can help finance it.  White guys come
here to have slaves, black guys come here who want to be a slave for a
couple of days.  It would draw business.  We split the proceeds.  What do
you think?"  Simpson laughed and shook his head; he just couldn't believe
it.  But he agreed with Antoine, and the two began to lay plans during the
rest of the dinner.

At the end of the evening everyone stepped out into the evening air,
bidding each other good night and going their separate ways.  Motumbo
stayed behind, standing by Simpson as they enjoyed the evening air.  The
big African turned to Simpson and spoke softly.

"Andrew, so, I stay with Chele tonight but--" he paused.  "Tomorrow, maybe
I come stay with you, huh?  Chele know about it, OK with her.  Maybe--maybe
I miss you, eh Andrew?"

Simpson looked in astonishment at the tall dark man who stood beside him in
the moonlight.  He smiled and nodded.  What was Chele up to?  And did it
matter?  He smiled again.

"Alright, Motumbo.  You go make Chele happy.  Until tomorrow."  They
embraced briefly, and then went their separate ways in the night.

To be continued
Comments welcome:  lokiaga@prodigy.net