Date: Mon, 26 Jul 2004 05:00:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Big Game

Simpson stepped onto the porch of his cabin into the cool of
the dark, early African morning.  He knew the weather would
not stay that way.  Soon the turning earth would bare itself
to the sun and rising temperatures would make it advisable
to seek the shade.  Of course, he would not--he had more
important things to do today.  Mentally running through a
checklist, patting himself down, he went over the necessary
gear that he was to bring:  a wide-brimmed hat for sun
protection for his fair skin, sturdy three-quarter boots for
snake protection, thick canvas shorts and shirt, water
bottle, two-way radio.  And his own conditioning:  he had
trained for months for this, running, lifting weights, not
to mention target practice.  He was ready.

As his eyes became adjusted to the dark--it must be, what,
four in the morning?--he could make out the other buildings
of the compound:  the other cabins, only one or two of which
were occupied at the moment--the main lodge--storage
buildings--and the long, low, stone building with narrow
windows with the sign out front that simply said "prey."
Prey.  So, where were they and where had they hidden
themselves, out there in the dark?  Five had been let loose,
he was told.  And he was to have only five rounds.  He liked
the challenge, though--it would make the gathering of a
trophy even sweeter.

Breathing in the sweet, herbal, grass-scented air, Simpson
gave thanks he had found this place.  You could certainly
never do such a thing in the States, or Europe, or.... well,
anywhere.  Africa, yes, if you paid enough and knew the
right people and went deep enough into the bush.  Which he
had, all of that.  Well, he was ready.  Today, he understood
he was to be the only hunter on the land.  That was fine
with him--more choice, less crowding.

DeGroot came walking up out of the dark, crunching on the
gravel walks.  "Did you eat, did you have coffee?" he asked,
gruffly.  Simpson nodded.  He wasn't sure he liked DeGroot.
Didn't matter.  DeGroot had an experience, a product to sell
that could be had no other place.  Simpson wanted it and
could afford it.  End of story.  The Afrikaner checked his
watch.  He nodded curtly at Simpson.  "It is time.  Here is
your weapon."  He thrust the high-tech looking gun at
Simpson.  Taking it, examining it, he found he was not
unfamiliar with it, having used something very similar from
the same manufacturer back in the States.  He nodded his
acknowledgement.  "Five rounds," said DeGroot.  "If you
waste them, you are done for the day.  They know that.  You
have until 1700 hours."  Again, Simpson nodded, liking the
camp owner even less.  DeGroot added:  "They were released
half an hour ago.  Remember, they might fight back.  Good
luck."  Turning on his heel he walked away.

Simpson took a deep breath, cradling the weapon in his arm.
Swinging it up to his shoulder, he found it equipped with a
6X scope and, sure enough, but five rounds.  Well... again,
he appreciated the challenge.  Half an hour's head start....
then it was time to head out.  Already he could sense the
curve of ultraviolet rays creeping over the horizon, the
presence of the sun's power sneaking on ahead of it.   A
solitary bird cried out on the grasslands... or was it a
bird?  He would soon find out.

Shifting the weapon to carry it by its sling over his
shoulder, Simpson walked over to the low stone building for
"prey."  He could hear faint sounds within, but they were
not his quarry... not today at least.  Looking at the dusty
paths that led from the building were no help; they were
well-trodden and confused with many prints.  He pursued the
path a little ways.  It led directly to the perimeter of the
reserve, marked here by a thick hedge of wait-a-bit bushes.
Simpson knew that elsewhere there were high, barbed-wire
fences keeping outsiders out--and the prey inside.  Forget
the honor system; barriers of steel or thorn made a real
enclosure beyond which he could not go--nor could the prey.

Simpson edged along the perimeter for a while, scanning the
interior of the reserve.  He could make nothing out in the
early dawn darkness.  Taking a different tack, he followed a
line of scrub bushes inland, dodging from clump to clump to
avoid being seen.  Thinking ahead, he filled his pockets
with stones as he went along.  Coming to a broad-trunked,
spread-limbed tree, he scrambled up it and hid himself among
the leaves in a spot where he could nevertheless make out
the grassland around him.  There he waited silently as the
sun rose.

Before long the fiery sun rolled up over the horizon,
bringing the African plains to life.  He could make out
mainly birds, but a few grazing animals went by in the
distance:  gazelles, springbok.  There was only one kind of
predator to worry about within the preserve.  He pulled out
binoculars and carefully scanned the horizon.  Plains--a
clump of trees--a flock of birds rising up from some bushes-
-more plains.  Back to the bushes.  Why did the birds fly?
Simpson adjusted the focus.  There beyond the green and
brown was something else.  It moved.  He scanned around the
area then back to the bushes.  Still there.  Taking his
bearings and a landmark, he slipped down quietly from the
tree and was on his way like a leopard on a scent.

From the tree to a ridge of rock that rose a bit above the
plain.  He peered over and scanned the bushes again.
Unmistakable now, dark brown or black, a natural color but
not of the earth or vegetation.  He saw a line of vegetation
behind which he could slink, over to his right.  He slipped
over to it, taking his weapon off his back and holding it to
keep it from thrusting up into a line of sight.  Closer he
came, and closer, then found a taller patch of bush.  He
crouched down behind this cover, perspiring heavily from the
effort as the sun began to assert its authority.  Slowly,
slowly rising up he took out the binoculars.  His new angle
made all the difference.

Crouched on his haunches and hands, looking in the direction
of the tree where Simpson used to be, was a man no older
than eighteen.  His skin was a dark milk chocolate, his
short cap of kinky curls jet black.  He was thin but
muscular, the rounded shoulder muscles narrowing down to
skinny arms with high, thin, rounded biceps.  His legs were
wiry, muscular but thin.  A simple brown loincloth covered
his groin but did not conceal a firm, rounded, high bottom.
The youth looked out of an almost Asian face, thin high
cheekbones and almond eyes, in the direction of the tree.
Simpson thought about it.  He could be in range with another
scramble, but was this the trophy he wanted?  He was
authorized to take just the one; maybe he should wait.

As he watched and deliberated, the lad shifted, rocking back
and then scooting away, to his right, in an effort to
outflank the imaginary enemy in the tree.  Once he shifted,
Simpson's heart stopped.  The youth's movement uncovered a
magnificent specimen:  Heavily muscled, a shield-shaped
chest above a thin, taut abdomen rippling with muscles.  His
skin was a beautiful coal black, shining with a light
coating of oil and sweat.  Perhaps twenty, this man crouched
on his hands and knees, still looking at the tree, unaware
of being observed from his flank.  From this posture, the
man's African bottom stuck out almost describing an angle,
muscular and firm and out-thrusting.  A white loincloth
wrapped his private parts but seemed especially---full,
somehow.  The man's face was hourglass shaped beneath a mop
of short, twisted tufts, a wide, deep brow, narrow, flat
cheeks, and then a strong jaw and prominent, full lips with
a wide, full nose.  He stared intently through long, curling
eyelashes in the direction of the tree.

Simpson's hasty judgment betrayed him.  He should have
stalked closer.  Instead, confident that he could compensate
for the range, he angled the cross-hairs of the scope up,
braced against the stiff trunk of a bush, and fired.  It was
a mistake.  A branch in front of the man was hit.
Instantly, reflexively, the man jerked to his right and was
off.  Damn!  Could he tell where the shot came from?
Simpson's only hope was that the pair would think the shot
came from the area of the tree.  Or, he could hope that he
ran into the three other prey.  Where were they, he suddenly
wondered, and looked around warily.  They had no weapons,
but there were stones, sticks.... and five against one.

Watching over his own shoulder as well as ahead now, Simpson
continued skirting low to the ground, carrying his weapon
ahead of him and flat against the ground.  Scrabbling along,
he came to another clump of bush and reconnoitered.  The two
men he was stalking had moved off a couple of hundred yards
and he could see them signaling furtively to someone even
farther on.  It appeared as if Simpson were following the
trailing party of his prey.  The younger, dark milk
chocolate youth stretched his skinny body along the ground
and slithered quickly across an expanse of high grasses
while the magnificent coal black man kept watch, a stone in
his hand.

It gave Simpson an inspiration.  Reaching for a stone in his
own pocket, he picked a time when both men were occupied in
moving--and he hoped the other three were too far on to see
him.  Moving to a crouch for a better position, he wound up
and threw the stone as far as he could in front of his prey
but beyond them, in the direction toward which they were
moving.

It worked.  The thin youth froze, looking intently in that
direction, making a motion with the palm of his hand to the
closer prize whom Simpson had now decided was his main
trophy.  The man flattened his muscular body close to the
ground and looked in the direction where the stone had
landed, keeping stock still.  From where he crouched,
Simpson could see the high rounded hill of his white-garbed
buttocks contrasting with the deep black of his skin.
Slowly, carefully, Simpson used the moment of distraction to
close in.

He slithered forward carefully, silently.  Closer, closer.
One hundred fifty yards, then one twenty-five.  Two dark
heads came up to look warily forward.  Simpson paused,
fetched out another stone, look beyond the men to where
their companions must be--he still saw nothing--and flung
the second stone as hard as he could in the same direction.
Hearing a hit, the men hunkered down again, now indecisive
as to what their next move should be.  Slowly, carefully,
inching along in the hot sun, heedless of flies and insects
and the dust that occasionally blew across his face, Simpson
got closer and closer.  One hundred yards, then a little
closer, and a little closer.

There was a sharp snap; he had crawled over a dry branch,
breaking it.  Simpson flattened himself completely, looking
through a clump of grass.  The two men were looking left and
right warily, wondering if their enemy had flanked them,
still unaware that he--Simpson--was coming up from behind.
The white hunter dared not move.  The men looked around--
then the dark milk chocolate youth looked behind him and
caught a glimpse of something unusual, a still but
unfamiliar shape in the grass.  Startled, he stifled a cry
and gestured behind him.  The larger, black man spun around
on his haunches, fingertips on the grass, ready to spring
away.  Simpson reacted instintively, bringing the gun up,
planting the cross-hairs on the man's dark chest right
between two round, black nipples, and squeezed the trigger.
A bloom of scarlet appeared on his chest, and there was a
cry of dismay to the right.

Whipping out his radio, Simpson called in:  "I have one
down.  Come collect him.  I'll leave this on for you to
triangulate on my coordinates."  Then he sat up, resting in
the tall grass as from one direction far away came the sound
of the Land Rover and  closer in the other direction was the
sound of bare feet running away.

Later that evening, after dinner, cognac, cigars, and
DeGroot's repeated congratulations, Simpson sat in the
living room of his cabin clothed in a dressing gown before a
small bundle of burning wood in the fireplace.  Soft
lamplight lit the cabin.  There was a knock on his door.
"Come in," he said, and DeGroot entered.  He nodded at
Simpson, his face carefully professional.

"Your trophy is being cleaned and prepared and will be sent
right over," said the camp owner.  "You did well for
yourself, one of our best," he continued.

Simpson nodded, looking back at the fire and then at
DeGroot.  "Tell me," he asked, "what's in it for them?  Why
do they do this?"

DeGroot shrugged and looked into the fire.  "Well, you know,
life in the villages is very hard.  If they escape five
runnings they are paid handsomely, so handsomely that it
seems like a princely sum when they return to their
villages.  Not all do return right away, some sign on for
five more runnings.  Nobody ever makes it to ten escapes,"
said DeGroot, smiling, shaking his head.  "Although--
although sometimes I wonder if some of them, a few, you
know, actually don't try to escape.  Life in the villages
really can be very hard, you know, and maybe they see the
consequences as preferable.  At any rate," he said, shaking
his head, "whether you choose to tip the, uh, staff for its
services is up to you.  They appreciate it.  Frankly, they
may expect it.  A little goes a long way in the bush."

Simpson nodded.  There was a knock on the door behind
DeGroot, who turned.  One of the camp staff stepped into the
room, his head bowed and eyes carefully averted.  Looking
back into the darkness beyond the door he nodded--and into
the soft light stepped the coal black man Simpson had tagged
that day, the scarlet paint from the pellet now scrubbed
off.  In fact, his whole body was cleaned, glistening from a
bath, tiny diamonds of water in his black tufts of hair--and
he was entirely naked.  He stood in the room, head bowed.

"Well, we'll leave you now," said DeGroot, and he and his
employee left the room, carefully closing the door behind
them.

Simpson sat, quietly appraising the naked black body before
him.  Slowly, the man raised his head and made eye contact
with the white man in the chair.  A smile, shy at first and
then spreading wider, parted his full, moist lips.  Slowly,
the long, thick, purple black cock that hung halfway down to
his knees began to rise, gradually arching straight out with
a slight curve downward, over a dangling, full ballsack and
beneath a small patch of dense, nappy pubic hair.  The
lamplight of the room played over the hills and valleys of
his muscular body as he stood there, smiling, awaiting the
consequences of having "lost."  If this was in fact losing.

Simpson beckoned him forward.  Coming to stand very close to
the white man's chair, the black's penis was now rampant.
Simpson bent over and took it into his mouth, sucking it,
kneading the large dickhead with his lips.  The man sighed,
and whispered "Boss!"  Simpson kept sucking as the man's
hips began a slow rhythm back and forth, his wet, jet black
tool riding in and out of the white man's pink lips.
Simpson reached around and grabbed his muscular butt,
pulling him forward closer still.  Tentatively, and then
more assertively when the gesture was not refused, the man
put his strong black hands on Simpson's shoulders.  Faster
he rocked now, and then he dared to push the dressing gown
off of Simpson's shoulders, which fell to the seat of the
chair, revealing his white shoulders, chest, and belly.  He
slid his dark fingers over the unaccustomed white skin,
wondering and exploring.  With half-opened lips, through
shuttered eyes the black man looked down at his dick going
in and out of the pink lips until his semen rose within him.
Crying out, he whispered fiercely "I come, Boss, I come,"
but still Simpson held on, and the black man bucked forward
and spewed his semen into the white man's mouth, where it
was swallowed greedily.

The black man was still shuddering, his penis still rampant,
when Simpson rose and guided his trophy toward the bed.  The
white man pushed the black onto the bed on his hands and
knees.  Reaching for the tube of lubricant by the bedside,
Simpson greased up his penis--but not the waiting, wrinkled
black anus in front of him--and rammed his organ straight
inside.  The black man writhed and cried out, but did not
move.  Fully landed, Simpson began slamming back and forth
quickly, conquering the man's butt as he had conquered his
body, had earned the right to this privilege, earlier that
day.  His white thighs pressed against black thighs,
ballsack swayed and slapped against ballsack, his red
rampant cock sliding in and out of a hard, protuberant black
butt.  Simpson did not hold back this first time but came
violently, roaring, pushing hard into the man and forcing
him down, flat on the bed as his semen shot into the moist
rectum.  There the two lay as Simpson recovered breath.

Then the white man rose and extinguished the oil lamps,
threw a few more logs on the fire, gathered up two snifters
of cognac which he placed on a nearby table, and went back
to the bed.  He slipped under the covers beside his trophy,
slid a palm over the broad muscular chest, tweaked a nipple,
and then cupped the head of tufted hair in his hand.  "What
is your name?" he asked.

"Motumbo, Boss."

"Well, Motumbo, my name is Simpson.  And this is just the
beginning of a long weekend....."