BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH
the FOREPLAYERS
copyright The Foreplayers 2012
Published by Camel Caravan Press at Smashwords
Interview with
The FOREPLAYERS
authors
of
BEATING about the BUSH
“Four women on four different continents set out to write a novel in-the-round by email. After 600 words, the Foreplayers as they call themselves, find their lighthearted romp set in the African wilderness far raunchier... ”
“Raunchy? Isn’t that the truth! And who thought of using the Italian word cazzino for one of our lead characters?”
“Who knows, should we let them know what the name cazzino really means?”
“How about we just tell them the names of our male characters are rude, crude and… ”
“Don’t forget about Chengelele, the aeroplane... ”
“Pay attention! We’re trying to write our promotion piece.”
“OK, listen. The tension created by the Foreplayers innovative writing style gives rise to an array of multi-faceted characters and story-lines not usually associated with an erotic novel. Readers will be as surprised as authors Luscious Lorraine, Temptress Theo, Sultry Shelley, and Juicy June, by the outcome of Beating about the Bush.”
“Can’t you just say we’re four nymphettes who team up to write a racy novel?”
“But we’re real authors, with book, magazine and newspaper credentials… ”
“Credentials? Excuse me Luscious, but what kind of credentials do readers want?”
“They probably want to know how many people we’ve slept with… ”
“This isn’t just any racy novel, it’s Corn Porn.”
“It’s let’s-have-a-few-laughs-and-get-nice-and-juicy-and-fuck reading for lovers.”
“Absolutely. Corn Porn will be this decade’s version of edible undies... ”
“...the thinking man’s dildo... ”
“...the intelligent laydies vibrator.”
“Maybe we’re missing the best bit — three of us have never met.”
“What difference does it make if we’ve never met?”
“I’ve done it with someone I’ve never met. Does that count?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Laydies, laydies, laydies, can we get back to business? The Foreplayers have collectively lived in sexteen countries, enjoyed over 24,000 orgasms with over fifty-four partners of underdetermined sexual orientation… ”
“Sounds bloody boring… ”
“What about the orgasm thing?”
“What orgasm thing?”
“Well apparently, I’ve contributed to at least half the orgasms.”
“Hang on, you’ve had 12,000 orgasms? How do you keep count? Notches on the bed post?”
“Carrying around a bed post is far too cumbersome. I have a pornographic memory.”
“Will someone shut this woman up? I’m surprised she ever found time to write Beating about the Bush.”
“Don’t forget, Juicy did make the subject lines of our e-mails interesting. That’s proof of our round robin style. Or else they’ll think we’re making it all up.”
“I was making it up!”
“You can get arrested for that.”
“I was arrested once. But it wasn’t serious, and the policeman did have a really nice butt, and an awfully hard truncheon… ”
“Hey, we didn’t do anything with truncheons, did we? We did bondage, rape, three-somes, four-somes, five-somes… ”
“We did five-somes?”
“Sultry, it was you who put the finishing touches on Ulla and the Texans splashing around in the mud.”
“Juicy’s responsible for that. She does the water stuff.”
“Not me. That scene has Lucious’s name written all over it, what with the Texan tied to a tree and the Samburu warrior watching from the bushes.”
“Me? Dildo’s and bondage may be my deal, but not mud. No, Temptress was responsible for that one.”
“Not blurry likely! No dribbly bits for me!”
“Well, who wrote it then?”
The FOREPLAYERS
Luscious Lorraine, Temptress Theo, Sultry Shelley, and Juicy June
Chapter One
Jungle Juggling
The tall, khaki clad, bush-tanned man unsnapped the opening and out popped his head, just as Samantha snapped the now faded picture at her bedside. Everything about that moment years ago was enchanted, including the Polaroid SX-10 that spewed out the magical photo that developed before her eyes.
Now, in her Park Avenue studio, Samantha was alone by choice. Cheetah print sheets hugged her round bed. On the carved mpingo wood night-stand stood the framed photo — vivid company on sleepless New York City nights.
“God-damn it, Daddy, why’d you have to kick the bucket?”
Despite the tear-stained satin pillowcases, Sam smiled, recalling how after taking that photo, Daddy had emerged from the tent, grabbed his rifle, and stepped over the record setting rogue crocodile he’d shot in the early morning hours, before sweeping her onto his shoulder on their way to breakfast at The Bundu Lodge.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Sam picked up the treasured frame. Her father’s image gazed back, challenging his daughter to once again read the loving but stern inscription on the back. Sam complied. Her father’s familiar flamboyant hand shook her with his endearing counsel: “What the fuck are you doing with your life, my little one?”
***
The romp was in full swing when George, urged on by the throbbing between his legs, whisked the rollicking redhead out to his newest toy, Chengelele. The antique two-seater sat in the darkness at the end of The Lodge’s red clay runway. “It’s the same one Redford used on Meryl!” she cooed, proving that Out of Africa really was her favourite movie of all time. “Help me up.”
Gleeful and gloriously naked before him, George hoisted the carrot-topped bimbette onto the wing. She screamed drunkenly while dangling, her legs kicking the air, her damp muff, several shades darker than the hair on her head, waving inches from George’s face. One final shove from George’s strapping arms landed the dream seeking damsel in a heap on the cockpit floor. George couldn’t have been more pleased — or rewarded.
George scampered up like a baboon after a banana, although the banana in his shorts made it tricky. Taking his place in the pilot’s seat of the De Havilland DH60X Gipsy Moth, the stage was set for the redheaded woodpecker to live her fantasy of being satisfied by a modern day Redford. While she frantically unbuttoned George’s safari shirt, he helped himself out of khaki boxers. Sporting only his pilot’s cap, George had no sooner made himself comfortable when the fiery hotty eased her well-lubricated chassis down onto his cock. Rubbing her breasts against his tanned and hairy chest she moaned, “Oh George,” while performing a kneeling version of The Twist on his manly mechanism, “I just love flying a georgestick, it’s so much friendlier than a joystick.”
“You so sure?” George asked, guiding her left hand from his nipple to the plane’s control column in front of him, and directly behind the lady straddling his lap.
Quizzically, the bimbette’s fingers explored the control column jutting from the floorboard behind her. George could feel her wet vaginal sheath pulse around his cock. “Don’t knock it, till you’ve knocked it.”
In a flash, her dance on George’s pole halted. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s Chengelele’s namesake.”
“Don’t tell me... Chengelele means dildo!” she squealed.
“Dildo is dildo in any language, my dear. Chengelele is Swahili for penis.”
“Well fiddle-de-dildo, Georgy,” she said lifting herself off of George’s eager shaft. “Now don’t be so greedy. A faux Chengelele by any other name is still an inviting dildo. Grab some lube and let’s tame that bad boy!”
With a hearty laugh, George quickly inserted three fingers in her now vacant lair while his thumb attended to a grateful clit. She gasped when George’s sopping digits were removed to prime the dildo for pumping. She resumed her perch on George’s pole, but it wasn’t long before he lifted her sumptuous hips off his cock. Like Redford, he liked giving unexpected gifts.
“Noooo,” she whimpered in distress. Her moan of deprivation quickly turned to moans of ecstasy as George eased her gently down onto the now moist Chengelele of the Redfordesk mount. Keeping in mind that timing is everything, George allowed the bimbette’s relationship with the control pole to ripen, before lifting her off and easing her down once again onto his own ready rod. She gasped and moaned in abandon until she was the one gently but deliberately moving herself from one joystick to the other, while the full moon light cast a cued quixotic glow onto her sweat laden skin.
But unlike the manual controls of the Gipsy Moth, George was on auto-pilot. He knew the script by heart, and after her forth orgasm he’d lost count and interest. Despite the enjoyment of having her naked breasts crashing into his face as she manoeuvred between the joystick and his somewhat softer, at this point, appendage, George knew it was hopeless, and looked forward to a cold Tusker and some chevda. By the end of the aero-escapade, the owner of the bouncing boobies was satiated and, he hoped, too exhausted to notice he still hadn’t come.
***
Sam had no sooner de-arched from her orgasm when her clit began throwing another tantrum.
“Again? Not again... I’ve gotta think. What am I doing with my life,” Sam muttered. “New York City, my thirtieth birthday, and you poke your head up, with not a dick in sight.”
The day had been filled with celebrating family, friends and suitors. As was usual at these gathering, Sam had spent more time than she cared fielding the heavily laden hints about marriage and babies. The only response Sam could muster was to sink further into her yearly shoulder-slumping-birthday-invoked-depression. No one would have guessed, and even Sam could’ve ignored it, except today. Today, Daddy’s counsel echoed through her fear-filled sadness, “Birthdays are a hell of an excuse for a piss up, but those ending in zero are game changers.”
Sam took a deep breath. She’d confront her fears tomorrow. Tomorrow she would look at the back of the frame again. Tomorrow she would find her Daddy, her champion, ready to pat her on the back as she takes on the naysayers and makes the tough decisions. Not tonight. Tonight was still her birthday and she could do whatever she wanted on her birthday, thirtieth or not. And what she wanted was to sleep.
But Sam’s struggle for control was in vain. With each headstrong attempt to ignore the calls from below, Sam’s defiant and dainty diva pulsed, taunting her to come and play. Eventually practicality ruled, and getting it over with seemed the best course. Then she’d sleep.
No sooner had Sam de-arched from yet another digital-O than she found herself battling her petite partner in pleasure, once again in a rip-roaring rage. This time Sam obeyed.
“Can’t figure,” she gasped “why I’m suddenly so wrapped up in myself. I’m not usually a double dipper… ” Her answer came later. In fact eleven times later. Though she had to bring out a remote controlled Rabbit to relieve cramping fingers, each inning’s orgasmic intensity increased to perverse heights. Unable to put two thoughts together, Sam finally gave up trying to think outside the box.
Satiated by Sam’s surrender, her little Doctor Toughlove calmly withdrew its horny hold and retracted. Deep inside the slumped, satisfied and sweaty Sam, a revelation took place. “I’m not ready,” she announced. “I’m not ready for the New Yorker version of a white-picket-fence. Not ready for sewing gold plated buttons on the school blazers of 2.5 children. I’ve followed the script; the best schools, the best clothes, the best job. Enough’s enough. The time has come. Many times… Yup, that’s it. Forget about the gold buttons in need of a child and planting perennials on a penthouse terrace overlooking Central Park. The only planting I’m doing is the sowing of rock-hard, wild oats. And think I know exactly where to look... ”
Flashing neon from the 61st Street Cinema’s marquis outside her window reflected off Daddy’s picture frame, giving the croaked croc a psychedelic appearance, and redirecting her attention to the night-stand. Sam pulled out the tight drawer and dumped the contents on the bed, extracting a gold trimmed, decade old brochure which she clutched to her bodacious ta-ta’s.
Sam received the Bundu brochure for her twentieth birthday, along with the croc shot of her father and a check to cover the cost of an extended trip to the infamous Lodge. The money was long gone, spent, despite Daddy’s objections, towards her Harvard MBA. But the fantasy lingered; evidenced by her boudoir and bathroom, fashioned in the same Bundu décor reflected in the glossy pages in her hands. Even the towers of intricately carved, intertwined human figures on her Tree of Life headboard, were the same as the traditional Makonde designs that decorated The Lodge’s spa. Browsing through the pamphlet, it was her groin that twitched at the heading:
BUSH MASSAGE
at
BUNDU’S
TREE OF LIFE SPA
Let the adrenalin rush of your
encounter with the Big Five
be smoothed away by our
Big Five Therapies
RhinAroma
An essentially oiled full body massage that cossets every nerve ending
inside & out, leaving you smooth, glowing & scented of Africa.
Buff Aloe Melt Down
Stimulating Yohimbe bark & soothing Aloe for
deep manipulation of your body’s core muscles.
Stoned Leopard
The ultimate in sensory delight, pure, heated basalt stones
glide away tension, unblocking trapped energy.
Lion’s Gate
Designed to pamper you from your head to your toes and everything in between.
Cheatahhhhhh
A quickie for those times when full body surrender has to wait.
Confident her father would approve, Sam turned her back on security. Now the only dread Sam felt, was fear that the mystique of The Bundu Lodge had perished during her straight-laced journey through the glass ceiling, to the joyless top.
***
Gazing despondently into the mirror, George viewed the ravages the night had inflicted. With his tanned craggy face and startlingly blue eyes accentuated by grey flecked brown hair, there was no doubt that George was, at the age of forty-five, and after a long night carousing in Chengelele, still extremely good looking. His body had fared just as well. His stomach was washboard flat, and he took pride in hard leg muscles shown off by extra short shorts. He was an African version of the Marlboro man, with an easy smile and air of confidence verging on cockiness. This persona was supported and intensified by excesses in alcohol, women and the great outdoors. He was the epitome of a Kenyan Cowboy. All of this, along with his expertise in the bush, had secured him his job as General Manager of The Bundu Lodge, an exclusive getaway in Northern Kenya.
The Lodge, as it was also known, was more than just your run of the mill safari lodge. Bundu not only abounded in wildlife and stunning scenery, but had the distinction of being designed by the internationally renowned artist, Antonio Cazzino. George resided in one of the celebrated Bundu tents, where the atmosphere and adventure of Africa found union with luxury and comfort. The tents gave guests a tree house view, and it was from his own tree top veranda that George stood contemplating his domain.
When the rustling of sheets drew George’s attention from the exotic environment to the intricately carved crib of the water bed, he was caught off guard. There, riding the waves, were the glorious black and white stripes of a zebra stretching voluptuously. The surprise was surreal, but quickly dissolved when George realized he’d once again been seduced by design; specifically, the designs of that great giver and getter of pleasure, Antonio Cazzino. Antonio Cazzino, whose desire became his vision, and whose vision became his promise. No one who succumbed to the Bundu brochure’s sales pitch was ever disappointed, despite its extravagant claims:
“Sensual luxury by Antonio Cazzino thrives in the details,
and his trademark Animal Week Sheets, prove the rule.
There are seven designs, providing the Monday to Sunday
guest of the exclusive Bundu Lodge in Samburu, Northern Kenya
with different bestial bedding each nightfall.
Whimsical designs will entice you, as each consecutive
evening the bedding becomes more seductive.
There is Snake Monday, Giraffe Tuesday, Wild Dog Wednesday,
Leopard Thursday, Cheetah Friday, Zebra Saturday
and Sunday’s Feathered Foray.
Each night, your body will be captivated by the silky
warmth of 800 thread count linens, so wildly realistic,
they will certainly entrap the most discerning hunter.”
And they did. And not just for week long guests. It dumbfounded George how despite all the times he’d seen a woman beneath the slinky sheet-skins, the seductive effect still delivered. Cheetah was George’s favourite, but since Saturday was game night, in both senses of the word, he had most of his sexual forays with Zebra. Last night’s romp was no exception, and though he thought he’d had enough, here he was again, spellbound by the trophy; the Meryl-wanna-be bimbette stirring restlessly beneath equine sheets. Hardly breathing, George watched from a distance as the glorious zebra stripes raced up and down the woman’s frame, her back and haunches barely revealed. George’s blood also started racing, but just as he was about make a lunge for the wild mare, a mongoose’s persistent peep peeping interrupted his trot to the starting gate.
Chapter Two
Jambo Juiced
Two weeks later, and Sam’s therapeutic side trip into hedonism was taking off. The Lodge’s private black and gold twin engine prop with its plush, sleek interior, contrasted sharply with the grey buildings of Nairobi, or Nairobbery, as quipped by the guidebook. Sipping papaya sweetened champagne from a crystal flute, and snacking salted dry roasted crickets, Sam headed for the hills — Simba Hills that is. A blur of increasing schoolgirl giddiness took hold as the exotic, unrestricted savannah overwhelmed a straight-laced civilisation receding into the distance.
The banked landing over the welcoming JAMBO on The Lodge’s largest rooftop spurred new waves of excitement. Away from the confines of strict building codes, architect Antonio Cazzino’s genius and artistic temperament had been allowed to run riot. The resulting structure was a sprawling and elaborate two-level maze that borrowed from numerous architectural schools of thought. Even from the air, the folds and flow of geometrically patterned Arab tenting melded seamlessly with stone buildings that cherished elements of Medieval Europe. Inside, mahogany and teak furniture and decorative trim had been shipped from Thailand, lending a further exotic feel to the place. The resulting Bundu Lodge, with its subterranean casino, was as impressive as any of the pleasure palaces on the Las Vegas strip, but with more intimacy and class.
As the aircraft nimbly bounced onto the bush runway, they passed a somehow familiar old craft labelled Chengelele, before coming to rest beside a row of waiting zebra-striped, safari-roofed Land Cruisers. Sam, the first to alight, taking in the 360-degree view from her swivelling bucket seat as she was whisked to reception. After check-in, she was escorted to the Lion’s Lair, where her brown leather Hartmann luggage had been unpacked. On the carved Makonde table, late afternoon lunch of sherried vichyssoise, spiced ahi tuna salad and oatmeal chocolate chip snaps answered her last need. Sam’s only requests, before closing the door on her first day enfolded in Daddy’s spiritual embrace, was a noon breakfast tray, and a guide for tomorrow’s afternoon outing.
“Howzit ndugu,” asked George, before Sam had a chance to completely open the door at two o’clock the next day. When she came into view George lost a beat. Ah, whoa, wrong room? Not ndugu... definitely no bro’ of mine. More like sister. No, wait. Not a sister! No, no, no. No sisterly intentions coming this way, George’s thoughts and shorts banged together, before politely saying, “Right, um, Ms Stillport?”
Sam, refreshed, glowing, and surprised at the khaki-clad Crocodile Dundee figure at her door, nodded her head in acknowledgement.
“General Manager here at Bundu, George is the name. Reception reckoned you wanted to take a look at the local manyatta,” he said extending a hand. “I have a small matter to discuss with the Samburu chief and the warden. Happy to act as your guide.”
“I’d be honoured,” she replied, giving a mock curtsy, pulling up just enough of her camo mini-dress to reveal her tanning salon tan line. “But please, it’s Samantha. Friends call me Sam.”
Ah, she registered as Sam, George thought, now understanding why he thought Sam Stillport was a man. “Well then Sam, ready for some local culture?”
When The Lodge’s manicured path turned rough and narrowed, George paused to let Sam walk in front. He began his well-rehearsed tour-guide monologue with an eye on the brunette prey. When Sam sensed his gaze, she also paused, then deliberately slowed her pace, her hips rocking like a lazy see-saw.
As the African scenery unfolded around her, Sam set to work. She was here to engage sensuality. Keeping men in line at the Exchange was an ego trip. Her body yearned for a libido trip. No thinking. No thought. Just primal passion. And as thought cleared, Sam was quickly rewarded with the tingling intensity of blue, blue eyes — like twin lasers — boring into her bottom. When thought fought back, she wondered whether she should have worn shorts, then dismissed the idea. After all, if there was any chance of action — she wanted to be completely open to it — a short dress was the way to go. Daddy would have been proud.
But being way-laid by distracting thoughts would get Sam nowhere with the ego escorting her to the manyatta. George was giving her the full measure of his tour guide speech and she hadn’t heard a damn word. Though he was definitely in the three B category - brash, blustery and all balls, there was something there. Already this manly man was invading her like the thorn stuck in her Gucci sandals, just niggling away at you. But while she was interested in being niggled by George, the thorn had to go. Stopping to steady herself on a felled tree trunk, Sam could feel her dress ride up a little, exposing the damp patch at the crotch of her teeny weeny panties. Straightening up she glanced back catching George off guard. His eyes bulged like a baboon seeing a banana tree — had he noticed? Restraining a smile Sam turned back toward the manyatta and, not too quickly, headed down the packed dirt track humming The Wiz’s, Ease on Down the Road. Could be fun...
“I should warn you. The Samburu might not be so pleased to see you,” George said, staring at the tight bum bouncing along ahead. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he knew that keeping his newly formed vow was not going to be easy. “The tribe’s new generation of young men are to be circumcised, cock on block time. You’re in luck, it only happens every two years or so, but they likely won’t want a foreigner, especially a lady, around.”
“Maybe I can persuade them,” Sam said, glancing back and giving a wink.
“Be careful what you wish for. Here in the bush things are a bit different, back to basics. The actual nip and tuck is about as exciting as watching a warthog give birth. Families live in fear their young men will dishonour them by running away. But it’s steeped in mountains of pretty interesting ceremony, not to mention mountains of bits and bobs. Even the healing is ritualized. Celebrations called ilmugit go on forever. These party animal ndugus love celebrations. Hell, they’ll celebrate just about anything. Each new warrior... ah... the new um... “George’s lines came to a grinding halt as Sam deliberately bent over to remove a stone from her sandal.
“He what, George?” Sam asked, as she slowly stood up, giving George a tour of her tummy by way of her cleavage.
“Ah... well... right. Each new warrior that’s about to have his bits hacked off is given a bull and cow. The bull is slaughtered with the help of two older morans.”
“Morans?”
“Warriors.”
“Mmmm, warriors... has a nice ring to it... ” Sam’s hands slowly glided down each pulsing cheek while walking. “What’s with the bull? Do they eat it?”
“Course, they never waste meat. First they drain the bull’s blood and mix it with the cow’s milk. The initiates drink only this for two days before the big day. But the main ceremonial event is when the new moran presents the bull carcass to his mother, and promises never to eat meat in front of a married woman again.”
“Did you say, never beat meat again?” Sam called back.
“Funny. Listen, I’ll stop if this is boring you. I’m just trying to be a good safari guide, my dear.”
“Talk about their bodies, then you’ll be giving me my money’s worth.”
Blurry bloody mad these New Yorkers, George muttered to himself, while trying to get another glimpse of what was underneath the dress in front of him.
“Well, one of the pre-requisites to manhood is the ability to carry a new-born calf home on their shoulders, making these men specimens in their prime. Then they do this thing where they decorate themselves with red ochre. Erotic, eh?” George continued his recitation without missing a beat, all the while testing his hypothesis that beneath Sam’s tight dress there was no VPL. No visible panty line, no panties. Down George, he thought, but his bone was already pressed hard against his now even tighter shorts.
“Yum... maybe they’ll let me help?” said Sam.
“Easy girl. Or as they say here, pole-pole. Don’t be disappointed if they won’t let you stay and watch, particularly if you go charging in there like a randy gazelle. They’re private people and guard their ceremonies like a lioness guarding young cubs.”
Despite George’s comments, Sam’s pulse quickened. Maybe this would be the erotic African episode she was hoping for. Putting aside thoughts of the mutilation of parts she would rather fondle than see slashed, Sam let the fantasy of dozens of naked, dusky young men parading in front of her prevail. So long as she could see them before the circumcision she would be happy. Maybe when it’s time to smear red ochre all over their firm bodies. And who knows? Maybe today I’ll be able to entice a stray warrior back to The Lodge, and, among other things get myself an invite. That would make up for last night.
The night before, a driver had taken her to a manyatta on the other side of the Simba Hills. Sam had intended to stay in, but after a peppermint scented shower, the scrumptious cold lunch and a luxurious nap, her second wind kicked in. She went in pursuit of native prey, but much as Sam tried, she’d had no luck. Even the ploy of buying a Samburu’s blanket right off his back hadn’t worked. Instead of getting the young warrior to disrobe in front of her, she ended up with a new blanket wrapped in plastic and labelled, Made in China. Events continued downhill when to her frustration, the women of the tribe took control, and Sam wound up spending a bewildering night listening to the singing and crooning of an endless parade of children, and sampling various foods — both equally revolting. Must ask George what the hell I drank, she thought; think it had buffalo balls in it.
Engrossed in her own thoughts, Sam followed the path as it meandered alongside the river, while the calls of birds squawked their progress. Vervet monkeys chattered at them from the rooftops, swinging amongst the tall trees.
“Up there,” said George, pointing to a nearby fig tree. “A troop of vervet monkeys. The males have blue balls.”
Sam stopped, and squinting into the sun stared at the excited monkeys.
“Blue balls?”
“So the females can see who have the biggest balls in the troop. The bluer they are, the bigger the balls, the better the mate.”
“Well then, that’s proof that travel really is mind expanding,” Sam said, hackles rising. Does he really think this is a turn on? “Puts a whole new light on blue balls, doesn’t it George? Makes one wonder how stiff the competition is for safari guides.”
“Some of us,” George said, shoving his hands in his pockets until the tight shorts got tighter, “don’t need any blue to advertise. Mine speak for themselves, and they sure as hell aren’t blue.”
“Speak? Oh my! So glad you told me. Here I’ve been thinking you’re a ventriloquist,” Sam scoffed, no longer interested in banter with the GM. She had her body, if not her sights, focused on her warrior trinket.
Pulling his hands out of his pockets, George laughed. He’d crossed a line, and though this vixen had seemed game, he reinstated guide mode. Besides, he wasn’t interested in sloppy seconds. “Nope, but if you listen carefully you’ll hear the Samburu.”
In the distance, singing and drumming could be heard harmonizing with the lowing of cattle. The path climbed a hill and there before them was the manyatta. Looking from a distance, Sam saw that this manyatta was similar to the one she’d seen last night. Inside the outer thorn encrusted wall, made entirely of narrow supporting branches, mud and cow dung, there were numerous huts spaced at regular intervals. The dust from the cattle filled the air, mingling with the wood smoke of the cooking fires. Just outside the prickly covered entrance, children squatted in the dirt playing with a car made from scraps of old wire and bottle top wheels. Close by, a group of women stood chatting.
“Sweet, sweet! Give me sweet,” shrieked the children when they saw Sam, charging up to her and tugging on her arms. Their sandals, locally called 'thousand milers' for the used tires they were made from, flapped excitedly.
“Let me talk to them first, and see if you can come in,” said George.
“They’re women. They’ll relate better to me,” Sam announced, edging him to one side.
The women cackled in delight. Used to George’s preening and domineering manner, the elder women endorsed Sam’s behaviour by leading her by the hand into the centre of their group, deliberately leaving George on the outside.
Sam looked at the women surrounding her. They all appeared ancient and desiccated as they babbled at her incomprehensibly, plucking at her hair and clothes. They were fascinated with the silky tresses, so different from their own shaved heads.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Sam loudly, carefully enunciating every word. When the women continued to stare at her uncomprehendingly, she began miming. George, obviously amused, settled back to enjoy the entertainment.
Sam presented her audience of tribeswomen with a perfect enactment of a circumcision. She began by pointing to a tiny boy who remained engrossed in his toy car. She then raised her hands to indicate a larger child. Pointing to George’s crotch, she then scissored her fingers. George raised one eyebrow. The women roared with enjoyment, their ornate necklaces bouncing against their withered breasts. This white woman was more fun than the ones George usually brought around. The laughter attracted some attention, and a man appeared from inside one of the huts wearing trousers, a Bermuda shirt and incongruously, a bowler hat.
“Good lady,” he said, “what can we do today for you here? I am lucky enough to be called Ole Ngurube, but you may refer to me as Pilot.”
Smiling at his quaint English, Sam said, “Well, George here said there was a circumcision ceremony taking place. I’d be honoured if I could see some of the ritual.”
“Good lady, rest assured you may indeed witness some of this rite, for a small fee of course. We have to appease our ancestors, and if you see today that which you wish, you will buy a goat for the feast. Then you may witness the feast of the boys having their father’s skins off.”
Realizing that he meant foreskins, Sam opened her bag, and after a moment of bargaining, handed across a wad of money.
“But Bwana George, I am sorry to say that you must remain with the women,” said Pilot. Turning to Sam, he explained, “The last time he was witnessing such an event, Bwana George became ill and fell asleep quite suddenly.”
George shuffled his boots in the dust uneasily. “A man can’t help but feel faint at the sight of such an act being inflicted on the family jewels,” he countered. “Yeah well, I’ve got to go and see the warden about that rogue buffalo anyway.”
Once George took his leave, Sam followed Pilot inside the compound. The women and children remained outside, still laughing and imitating Sam. Sam cautiously picked her way through the cow dung and brushed flies away, following Pilot into the nearest hut. The only light came from a small hole in the ceiling, which, she could now see, also served to let smoke escape from the cooking fire.
“First you must drink some milk,” grinned Pilot. “Very good Samburu milk, not like British milk,” he said disappearing from the hut, leaving Sam to wonder what was in store for her. Returning a few seconds later, Pilot offered her a chipped enamel mug. Groaning inwardly after the culinary horrors she’d been given the night before, Sam peered into the mug. Inside was something that resembled semolina gone bad, decorated with what looked suspiciously like dead flies. Trying to block the smell, Sam took a gulp.
“That’s just wonderful thank you, but that sure is good and plenty,” she gasped handing the mug back to Pilot.
Looking around, Sam realized she was the only woman present. A group of warriors lounged against the walls of the hut staring curiously at her. Their bright red blankets were slung casually over their shoulders, and their muscles flexed unconsciously as they clutched the spears at their sides. Most of the men had ornate beads decorating their ears, and long, intricately braided hair hanging down the middle of their backs. Sam was suddenly conscious of her own revealing attire, and of the lusty possibilities.
So much potential. How’s a girl to decide? Those decorative braids are amazing, and great cheek bones, but what bodies! One by one, she surveyed the men standing languidly in front of her. Their lean bodies, and each finely tuned muscle, begged to be touched; her thoughts drifted back to her previous booty boys.
Wall Street may be a jungle, but those men don’t have an ounce of animal in them. But these guys... Men with a capital M — M for muscles! Not treadmill muscles made while watching videos and looking in a mirror. These are bringing home the ox muscles, chop the wood muscles, I want you muscles, fuck me now muscles...
Trying to control her shallow gasps, Sam took a few deep breaths and tried unsuccessfully to divert her attention from the barely covered buttocks before her. They were perfect; not even a tan line detracted from their virtue. While she continued salivating over the beefcake smorgasbord in front of her, Sam noticed a group of boys chatting quietly amongst themselves. They seemed to be in their teens, and when Pilot returned, she asked if they were the initiates.
Pilot pointed at the warriors who were anointed with the red ochre mud from the river. “Those are the elders. They have no longer the fathers’ skins. And those are the ones to be men now,” he said, pointing to the group of younger men. “They have for now been hidden in the bush for many days at a secret place.”
From another hut came a haunting sound of singing and crying. “The women,” said Pilot dismissively, heading off Sam’s unspoken question. “They are crying for the loss of the boys to the men. When the boys are removed of the skin, they are the men, and no longer belong to the women. You may not enter the hut where the skin is taken, this would be very bad. But later there will be a feast, and your goat will be the guest of honour. Maybe you will come and feast with us?”
After George’s description, Sam was not terribly disappointed that she was not to see the young men as she had hoped. Instead, Sam strategised that maybe by coming back to the feast she could have the encounter she longed for with one of the magnificent elders. Her optimism improved considerably when without warning, one of the warriors strolled over and insolently looked her up and down. Sam held her breath, and not just because of the overwhelming smell of cow dung enveloping her. The flies tickling her nose, and the sun shining in her eyes from the single hole in the ceiling ceased to exist. For a moment time stood still, and she stood motionless, fully engaged in the man’s scrutiny. He reached out a bare, muscular arm and touched her necklace, letting his hand drift down onto her bare breast, stopping just short of her low cut dress. Sam gasped at his audacity, her pulse quickening as his fingertips lingered. She watched his eyes, but they never met hers; his face showed no expression. As he pulled his hand away, a finger barely grazed against her cloth-covered nipple; it hardened involuntarily. Circling her slowly, the warrior inspected Sam as if she were a cow at auction, stopping only to lightly stroke the small of her back. Her tight dress intensified her sense of vulnerability. Her legs, which were slightly spread, trembled, and she felt dampness oozing from deep inside. Facing her again the daunting man stepped back, and without taking his eyes off her body, said something to Pilot. Sam held her breath.
Pilot smiled, waggled his head, and then turned to Sam. “This is Kitok In’Jabon, he is one of the elders. He has asked if you will eat him tonight?”
I could eat him now, Sam thought, her tongue already tasting his skin. At that moment a gust of wind blew in through the open door and caught Kitok In’Jabon’s blanket. Sam had to bite her lip at what she glimpsed beneath the folds.
“Thank him very much. I look forward to eating him tonight,” she said breathlessly. “Now, I better find George and go back to The Lodge. I’ll be back before dark.”
“Good lady, we look forward to your presents,” smiled Pilot raising his bowler hat.
After being escorted to the manyatta entrance, Sam waved her good-byes, and set off on the path toward The Lodge. As she turned a corner, she stopped by an acacia tree to wipe some cow dung off her shoe. In a clearing, she spied George, disconsolately kicking a stone. She slipped her shoe back on and yelled, “Hey hero, take me to The Lodge.”
Upon hearing her voice, George slowly turned toward Sam. He did not respond verbally. Instead, he acknowledged Sam’s demand with an exaggerated courtly bow. Sam, completely turned off by George’s obsequiousness, rolled her eyes. She was just about to let out a verbal crack of her whip when George slowly rose from his stately genuflection, and gave her the royal finger.
Amused, Sam stood stock still. George, with a look of granite, slowly approached her — his fully extended middle digit leading the way. Within inches of her face he stopped, and looked her straight in the eye. Sam’s loins, still rippling with savage thoughts of Kitok In’Jabon were confused as they warmed to this new version of George. Again her legs were unsteady, and again, she felt her vulnerability. She’d misjudged something. Sam waited, meeting George’s gaze. His dangerously blue eyes continued to bore into hers. Seconds passed. George relaxed his visual grip, tensely closed his fist, lowered his arm, turned from Sam, and began to walk purposefully towards The Lodge.
The hike back was soaked in severe silence. Her flippant castration of Armani-clad Wall Streeters never gave her a moment’s worry. But this was not New York, and George was no paper pusher. They moved together in a quiet bubble filled with George’s seething anger — anger ignited by the embarrassment of being demeaned by a guest in front of the tribe. Sam focused on her next step, all the while compelled to chart a course for escape, knowing how futile her attempts would be. Unlike the mugging she’d eluded on 42nd Street last year, there would be no cop in earshot, no 911 operator, and no witness.
Small talk seemed unwise. She was no longer in the land of, change-the-subject-and-we’ll-forget-the-whole-thing. What land this was she was not quite sure, but one thing she did know-George was a whole new species. A picture of him standing in the middle of the Stock Exchange floor flashed in her mind’s eye. It was George, in colour, surrounded by a hushed, staring mob of traders; all ex-lovers, all in black-and-white. It was a visual interpretation of what her intuition already knew — don’t mess with George in Georgeland — at least not with the old rules.
As the outer perimeter of The Lodge came into view, Sam’s apprehension faded, and her cadence relaxed. George however, maintained his pace and left her in his wake.
They went their separate ways, stretching an invisible thread that connected their libidos under the heading, 'A Challenge'. Their groins pulsed in unison as they each sought their separate relief. Sam headed for her room where a bubbly bath caressed not only her ripe clit, but also her diabolic desire to domesticate, and then discard her new prey. With her coitus collaborator positioned perfectly beneath the oscillating spray of the shower, a sweet, steamy smile settled serenely upon her face. Sam’s eyes closed, dreamily awaiting not just the approaching orgasm, but hopefully, the orgy of black hands and mouths covered in goat grease offered to her thirsting body; tantalizing thanks for her generous gastronomic contribution at tonight’s feast. Thoughts of George invaded her tribal fantasy, but Sam gently, and somewhat reluctantly expelled them. Her attention was needed elsewhere as the loving spray of the shower gently moved her love button to and fro mimicking, she hoped, the savage tongue-lashing awaiting it tonight. George could wait.
Chapter Three
Rat Hanger
George unzipped his fly and poked his head out. From the stilted mahogany landing George’s tent was erected upon, he could see the dawn breaking over the African savannah. An early morning chorus of birds and wildlife greeted the sun enthusiastically. Before leaving, George turned back for one more look at the blonde. Stirring from her previous foetal pose, she rolled onto her back, the leopard spots sliding off to reveal breasts he’d become well acquainted with the night before. George’s loins quivered again. The blonde groaned, and languorously draped a hand over one of her plump plums. George’s attention focused on the hardening nipple between two of her fingers which seemed to force her legs to part and sigh, “Come...”
George was transfixed by a view into her porthole of passion where two fingers from her other hand were now busy. George reconsidered his departure but on cue, that incessant peep peeping interrupted his lust.
“Ahhh, shit Flatty,” he said, pulling in the reins. There at his feet, fluffing herself up with excitement was Flatty, the banded mongoose he had rescued from imminent death several years before. Flatty had missed last night’s gymnastics and for good reason. George had taken to sequestering her whenever he entertained since, on previous occasions, she had twittered in anger, building herself up to a homicidal peak. Eventually she would fly at the woman involved and sink razor sharp teeth into any fleshy bit she could find. George had, over the years, tired of consoling women and patching them up. He found it easier and safer to eject Flatty, and face her rage and indignation in the morning.
“Sorry old girl, forgive me?” said George, picking Flatty up and blowing gently into her face, carefully avoiding any lingering resentful nibbles. Flatty clucked with pleasure as she disappeared down the front of his shirt and curled into a ball, giving George the look of being quite pregnant. Once she settled, George returned to his reverie. Flatty let out a low menacing hiss. “OK, OK, wind your neck in. I’m all yours.” Taking a deep breath, he adjusted his cock and quickly trotted down the stairs to where his 62’ Sherpa T Bultaco awaited. Imported from Spain, it was the same bike he’d ridden in trials competitions in England during school holidays. Now he did a bit of Bundu bashing in his free time, though officially it was for checking on the 40,000 acres of the Simba Hills directly encircling The Lodge.
On his way to the main camp, George stopped for a quick inspection of the new cricket pitch. While contemplating the state of the wicket, he ambled into the tented office where Flatty sprang for her sisal cushion on the floor and, cat-like, immediately fell asleep. Tatudi, the enigmatic Indian Operations Manager was already adding up the bar bills from the night before.
“I am thinking that you are having good night, hey Boss? A real RasMalai,” Tatudi said in his lilting Indian accent.
“Yah my boetie, you’ve got that right. That RasMalai was sweet and very, very edible,” replied George, using the Afrikaans slang for brother. Although he’d been sent as a child to boarding school at Eton, a mishmash of Swahili and Afrikaans words spattered his conversation from his many years of living in Africa. This increased his popularity with women considerably, as did his impeccable English, upper-class accent.
“But blimey Boss, I am seeing five bottles of Bollinger that she is signing for. She must be thinking you were being worthy of it.”
“Ah you know, like, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. All in the line of duty, Tatudi. A big spender. You can see she only went for the best, and ordered Bolly with it,” chuckled George.
“Oh yes, I am seeing that. The night’s receipts were amply enhanced. But boss, I am wondering if she can be remembering her night of jig-jigging?
“Yah well, I only hope she can’t, y’know. Blurry Tarzan here was not king last night,” said George, grabbing his crotch in an earthy rendition of a rock star.
Tatudi’s hearty laugh reassured George his secret vow was still safe. Years of legendary carnal know-how had built George a sturdy sack reputation. But that was about all that remained sturdy in the sack since castrating ¡La Bella Donna! Zabaglione began infecting his dreams.
“Oh my golly, I wouldn’t be worrying your head too much about that,” Tatudi laughed. From anyone else, laughter would be taken as condemnation. From Tatudi it was comforting. “After much drinking, the RasMalai will not be noticing anything was amissing.”
“Ahh hey, you know, probably not…”
“She is still being upstairs, then sir? I will be telling the staff not to be cleansing your room while she is being occupied in such splendid disarrays.”
“Thanks, but I’d like to get the place cleaned. Wake her up. She can sleep it off at her place.”
A minute flicker of Tatudi’s eyebrow was the only visible sign of surprise at George’s unusual callousness. Although George was very much a love ’em and leave ’em sort of guy, he normally did so with such gentlemanly charm that the disposed-of beauty was hardly aware that she had been discarded.
“Ok, very well boss, very well. I will be attending to this straight away.”
“Great, but before you go, my boetie, how’s the rest of the quest register looking?”
“Well boss, you might be wanting to spend few moments refreshing yourself. The woman’s friend is only just getting back from the night game drive.”
“Jeez Tatudi, is she OK?”
“Oh, don’t be alarming yourself boss. She seemingly is being distracted by the usual wagabonds of our neighbouring Samburu tribe. Apparently she was wanting to be joining in with some of their… umm, post dancing ceremonies. Anyway, you might be wanting to, as I am saying, be refreshening yourself, as I am thinking this might be just the woman… ”
“Yah right, don’t think so. Chicks that go off partying with the locals leave me cold, you know that. Especially when it’s with that Samburu lot over there,” muttered George, the natural creases on his face deepening. These same lines had been interpreted by more than one woman as evidence of profound depth and caring. Usually it was just annoyance.
“They think they can come to Africa and beat about the bush with the natives, like Adam and Eve. Stupid twits, hey? No bloody akili. Zero up here,” he continued, tapping the side of his head long after the words had been spoken. “They’ve got no idea the fools they make of themselves, not to mention the travesty they inflict on the locals. Blurry bunny huggers the lot of them. They screw around with the Samburu’s lower, primordial head, but it’s the Samburu’s upper, evolved head that gets screwed. Nah,” confirmed George, “not my type of monkey.”
A shuffle of small footsteps softened by the summer dust approached the tented office, accompanied by the silhouette of a woman walking alongside the outer canvas wall. Immediately the tune, Two Silhouettes on the Shade popped into George’s head. Prior to coming into view, the figure, like a drawing sketched in charcoal, paused at the open door. Or rather two torpedoes announced their presence, so large they entered the room before the woman herself.
A sharp intake of air passed through George’s lips, and his mind automatically ran through a list of exotic fruits before settling on fully ripened honeydews. “Mondo melons of heaven,” he breathed out slowly.
With the woman’s face still hidden behind the canvas flaps, George allowed himself the luxury of staring unabashedly at the pointed protuberances. As he indulged his vision, his penis pressed hard against his snug shorts; the quivering in his loins matched only by the quivering of his fingertips and lips. It was noon, and his manhood still hadn’t experienced its essential solo encounter for the day. There’s only one solution, thought George. A quick pull on Percy the plonker, or I’ll have to grab those torpedo tits…
The female form dropped forward slightly from the waist to peer into the room. Barely bound breasts threatened to tumble from what George recognized as the red plaid karasha normally worn by Samburu men. Just behind one shoulder, the cloth was held tightly together by a ring of colourful beads, while her other shoulder and much of her chest was bare. The karasha hung to just below her knees, a beaded belt accentuating the curve of her hips.
“Hi ya’ll,” delivered in a mid-Western twang refocused George from the mammoth mammaries to the mouth and eyes belonging to the breasts. Sam’s mouth remained slightly parted, but her eyes roamed the room. They rested on George.
The realisation that the exasperation from the day before was attached to these projectile breasts startled George’s daydreams, and detracted from his lust. But as cerebral interest waned, penile desire fought back and conquered. When he noticed Sam’s scrutiny, George manoeuvred his hardened manhood behind the collection of large erect tusks Tatudi used as paperweights.
“Welcome,” said George, relying on his most hospitable general manager style to reset the tone of their last encounter, “Or as we say around here, jambo and karibu. It’s Sam, isn’t it? From yesterday’s walking tour?” said George, using his most professional tone.
“It’s actually Samantha,” she answered, drawing out the middle syllable, ignoring the tension permeating the room.
“Samantha. How can I help?” George asked, attempting to lean casually against Tatudi’s desk. “I gather you just got back from another excursion,” he continued, folding his arms in front of him while his Bata desert boot scraped an imaginary mark on the floor.
“Umm, I did,” she replied nonchalantly. Belying her seeming indifference, her tongue played at the edge of her upper lip, in what George interpreted as a pleasant memory from yet another night at the manyatta.
Damn cheek, thought George, feeling a familiar annoyance with this sort of behaviour. Who does this chick think she is, walking in here like she’s some kind of wild woman? Samburu markings on her skin, suppose that was from her evening romp. Man, this sort really gets up my furries, he thought. But George’s displeasure could not persuade his desire to step aside. The savage Samburu stamps, along with her dishevelled, long brown hair were a turn-off, but the breasts betrothed George’s lust. As hard as it was to ignore those memorable mounds, they didn’t define her. Samantha was a woman’s woman. Her breasts not just a body part, but a natural part of her body, and she wore them as comfortably as she wore the karasha that glided over her like a second skin.
As he watched a few strands of her mane seek shelter in her cleavage, George succumbed to Sam’s wild side. While one set of freshly manicured fingertips casually reached for the shy strands of hair, Sam walked towards Flatty. “Oh, cute!” A hush descended on the scene. Even the cicada’s that had filled the air with their reverberating chirrups fell quiet.
“Yah, well… let me introduce you,” said George, breaking the silence. The cicada’s breathed a sigh of relief and began their incessant chirping once again. “Flatty, The Lodge’s banded mongoose. Well y’know, more like my mongoose. She was orphaned when a Bateleur eagle killed her mother. I found her cowering under a rock, starving and shit scared. Brought her back to The Lodge and raised her,” he said, attempting to make eye contact, and failing. “Had to nurse her using a hollowed out reed, three times a day.” This casual aside usually sent most women’s ovaries rattling.
“Really?” Sam drawled, approaching the sleeping vixen, more interested in the mongoose than in George’s attempts at animal husbandry.
“I wouldn’t wake her,” George cautioned, his eyes fixed on the rippling cloth, his muscles tense, ready to leap to the rescue of the damsel at a moment’s notice. “Flatty gets cranky around the ladies. Jealousy, I’m afraid. She’s kind of taken a liking to me. Probably because it was me who found her. She can be a bit vicious if she’s woken, so go easy.”
At that moment, Flatty launched herself onto George’s shoulder, and with full focus on Sam, hissed menacingly with bared teeth, the long black and white striped tail whipping back and forth violently. George waited for the customary shriek of alarm, but the woman didn’t flinch. Instead, she cocked her head and looked Flatty calmly in the eye. George held his breath. Seconds passed and finally the indignant bundle of fur dropped from George’s shoulder and retreated beneath Tatudi’s desk.
Interesting, thought George, very interesting, as he took another look at Flatty’s victorious nemesis. He couldn’t help thinking there was something about this woman he liked, and it wasn’t all T & A.
“I’m looking for the dining room. Am I close?”
“I’ll tell you what, I’m headed that way myself. Glad to act as guide again. Give me a sec and I’ll take you there,” offered George, his firm penis forgiving her.
“Don’t put yourself out. I’m sure I can find it myself.”
“Yah right, I’m sure you could...,” muttered George under his breath.
“If you don’t mind, I’m trying to find a blonde girl. We flew here together. I was to meet her and her friend at their tent, but no answer. We’re supposed to have breakfast together. They’re probably wondering where I am.”
Tatudi’s presence in the room became palpable as an underlying tension between he and George surfaced. Samantha tilted her head, sizing George up. As her gaze wandered from George to Tatudi, Sam’s attention was drawn to the desktop tusks, and then to George’s hardened horn hiding unsuccessfully behind. Her eyes slowly travelled back to his face, absorbing all the relevant details of his muscular body en route. Clarity struck when her new friend’s comments came into focus; could George be the Robert Redford type Lucy had lusted after for a date?
“You know,” Sam said. “I don’t need to find the girls after all. Or at least not the blonde. Think I know just where she’s been,” she said, lowering thick eyelashes.
George also knew. Though perhaps housekeeping had already helped the blonde vacate his bed. Silently he glanced at Tatudi who, having already discreetly turned away from the scene, was furiously contemplating his invoices
“Agh hell man, wouldn’t worry about your friend. I’m sure she’ll turn up,” George offered. “Look, let me show you a short cut to the dining room. It’s no trouble. Hakuna matata, as we say here.”
“So long as you’re sure, Robert… ahhhh sorry, George,” said Samantha, tossing the lingering length of hair formerly trapped in cleavage over her shoulder, and walking towards the door.
George was thrown off balance. Was it just coincidence? Did every tourist see that damn movie? Silence seemed the best response and besides, the last thing he wanted was to talk about last night’s game. Saving his Danish accent for another day, George refrained from delivering the line; I had a farm in Africa. His sights were set on new prey.
But safety first was George’s motto, and Sam was at risk. To avert danger, he picked up furious Flatty who had taken a combative stance between his feet, and sequestered the hissing pet behind the screen door of ‘her’ room, before gallantly escorting Sam into the mid-day sun.
The five minutes it should have taken to walk to the dining room, turned into an hour as George played upon Antonio Cazzino’s architectural prowess. Cazzino had built The Lodge for his personal pleasures, since unlike his other projects, he was the client. Though George omitted to mention the now infamous Bush Balls, he hoped to lure and entice Samantha with the history of Bundu Lodge.
Recreating yesterday’s post position, George walked behind Sam during their entire tour. Conversation was difficult as he contemplated the savoury effects of those golden orbs moving with such grace under the fabric of her red fluttering karasha. How he kept his hands off her full, luscious ass-cheeks was self-control beyond mortal bounds. How he wished himself between those buttocks! He’d be gentle at first, then hard, harder, hard…
“What’s that?” interrupted Sam, as they neared a rondavel, makuti thatching hanging from the roof.
“The Rat Hanger. Inside pikipikis, lots of pikipikis,” said George. “We like to give our guests access to a few motos. No bikes allowed in the game parks, but we’re private. Make our own rules.”
“I see Mr. Cazzino is a bit of a collector,” Sam said, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.