Date: Sat, 31 Dec 2005 16:48:45 -0800 (PST)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: big game 11

Andrew Simpson stepped out into the bright morning and breathed the fresh
air.  He had just passed one of the few nights he had spent alone at
DeGroot's.  This was not a problem for him, other than the fact that
Motumbo was still occupying a guest lodge with Chele, and although Andrew
was having a serious talk with himself about letting go and sharing, the
talk was barely working.  Strolling around the compound, he passed Thabo
wheeling a cart with breakfast in it toward the guest lodge that was one
large room with a mattress floor.  Andrew nodded at Thabo and they
exchanged smiles; even at this early hour there were groans coming from the
lodge; no doubt the Americans were pounding some Japanese butt as soon as
the sun came up.

Entering the main lodge, Simpson found Motumbo there already, while Chele
bustled about in the kitchen.  She had again prepared a marvelous
breakfast, and was bringing out serving dishes to the table.  Motumbo's
eyes darted back and forth between Chele and Simpson, a shy and uncertain
smile on his face.  Chele greeted Simpson, smiling broadly at him and
giving him a quick, gentle hug before she scurried back into the kitchen
for more food.  Simpson watched her go, his heart twisting.  She really was
very beautiful, and a kind and lovely person to boot; how could he compete
with such a one?  But when he sat down next to Motumbo at the table, the
African quickly covered Simpson's hand with his large brown one and
squeezed it quickly, smiling brightly at him.

Thabo returned for breakfast and Chele joined them.  Thabo reported, to
laughter all around, how his knock on the door had brought a yelp of "leave
it outside" from within, amidst moaning and banging sounds.  Simpson
marveled at Chele's laughter, at her evident acceptance of the business
done by DeGroot's.  As they finished their meal they heard the sounds of
footsteps from outside as the staff gathered for a briefing, as Simpson had
requested.

Both Mandlas and Strello, plus the boys Thatho and Mthobisi were there.
Simpson gathered them in the great room of the main lodge and cleared his
throat.

"As you know, we have a party of two from Sweden arriving next weekend,
requesting a Ball Room adventure.  Little Mandla, and Thatho and Mthobisi,
I think that will be you, either taking turns or all at once as they
request when they get here."  Little Mandla and the boys nodded, beaming,
as they thought ahead to their role in the weekend's adventures.

"Now we have another party, and I have just confirmed that they will be
here, and have received payment, so it's a `go.'"  Simpson paused, cleared
his throat, and continued, avoiding eye contact.  "It is a party of three
African Americans, from two cities in the States.  They^Å."  He paused.
"They want to reenact a slave march and sale."  He paused and looked
around.  He might as well have announced the day's weather forecast for all
the reaction this drew from the staff, who nodded and maintained their
attention.  Simpson decided to elaborate.  "They want to be bound and
marched a day out, to sleep as if captive under the stars, as if on a march
to the slave castles on the west coast.  Then they want to march back, and
the day following be `sold.'  Of course, they expect, uh^Åthey expect
sexual activity connected with all of this."  Simpson looked searchingly at
the the staff, who returned his look passively.

Simpson burst out in a bit of pique: "Look, Thabo and Motumbo both thought
this was a good idea, and I suppose they are coming since they've paid and
I've approved it, but^Å. Come on, this is a slave reenactment!  How can we
do this?  How can^Å.."  his voice trailed off and he stood there shaking
his head and looking down.  Thabo looked at him thoughtfully and with
kindness and then spoke.

"Boss Andrew, we see here lots of strange things the people want."  The
rest of the staff murmured assent and exchanged looks, some of them rolling
their eyes and some chuckling at the memories they had.  "Some guests, they
want we should tie them up and beat them.  Some, they ask real blood to be
drawn.  Stranger than that!  We do that Boss, if they like.  Who know why
people want what they want?" Thabo shrugged hugely.  Another murmur of
assent all around.  Simpson looked doubtful.

Motumbo spoke up.  "Andrew, you never own slave, eh?"  Simpson's eyes
widened and he shook his head vigorously.  "These men, they never been
slave, eh?"  Simpson shook his head again.  "Well, it all a game.  We, we
never ran no slave march, but can act like we do, eh?  Some people come
here, they want be little boy, some want be girl^Åit all a game, Andrew."

"Are you all sure you are OK with this?" asked Simpson.  Every man and boy
murmured agreement and then, without his prompting, began brainstorming
about ways to make the experience as authentic as possible without actually
harming the clients in any permanent way.  Simpson sat down open mouthed,
still aghast but resigning himself to the creative enthusiasm of his staff.
After an hour they had it all planned out among themselves, including the
assignment of Simpson as the "purchaser" of the "slaves" at the end of the
march.  Simpson had to admit that the idea was beginning to intrigue him,
which warred with his sense of propriety, justice^Å.and perhaps guilt?  He
resolved to himself to discuss the matter with the clients once they
arrived.

As the meeting broke up, Motumbo took Simpson aside.  "Andrew," he said
softly, "Chele go back to home today, I go with her, just a few day.  I be
back by weekend for guests."  Simpson looked at him and nodded, forcing a
smile.  It seemed like another step Motumbo was taking away from him,
despite Motumbo's reassurances and promise to return on the weekend.

"I will miss you, Motumbo.  I will miss Chele's cooking."  Both men smiled
broadly at that, and Motumbo nodded.

"She good cook, eh Andrew?  Maybe she come work here, help Thabo?"  Simpson
thought quickly; that would mean Motumbo would leave less often; it would
also mean that Chele would be around all the time.  Would Motumbo really
leave her bed to come to his?  Treading carefully, Simpson smiled again and
replied, "Maybe so, let me know."  The two men embraced tightly, and then
Motumbo slipped away.  Simpson occupied himself with paperwork in the
office so that, half an hour later, he heard rather than saw Motumbo and
Chele's old truck start up and rumble out of the compound.

The week flew by for Simpson since its end would bring the dubious slave
march; but also it dragged its heels, since its end meant the return of
Motumbo.  The time was put to good use, however, in preparation for the two
parties that would arrive soon.  Big Mandla and Thabo were just pulling out
of the compound at the end of the week to fetch the guests arriving that
day when Motumbo and Chele drove their old pickup truck into the area.  The
couple emerged with beaming faces, Chele stepping quickly ahead to embrace
Simpson lightly and say something cheery in her language.  Simpson smiled
back, and then caught the sight of an unusually large number of parcels in
the back of the truck.  Motumbo came up from the other side of the vehicle
and also hugged Simpson, murmuring "Good to be back, Andrew" in his ear.
Simpson stood between them, feeling awkward, for but a moment and then
Motumbo cleared his throat and jerked his chin in the direction of the
truck.

"Chele, she come to cook, Andrew.  You say we can try hire her?"  All was
clear to Simpson, and it was also clear that Chele was now intending to
stay for some time.  He swallowed hard, forced a smile, and said "Of
course."  Motumbo and Chele, the latter needing no translation, smiled
broadly and immediately began carrying packages and luggage from the truck
to the lodge they had used.  Simpson grabbed a bundle or two himself, and
three times in passing Motumbo paused to squeeze his arm or shoulder and
smile a wordless thanks.

Hours later, after another wonderful lunch prepared by Chele, the first
vehicle came back into the compound.  Big Mandla had the two Swedes, tall,
lean and good looking in their early middle age.  Simpson greeted them
warmly and directed them to their lodge, inviting them to the main lodge
for drinks and dinner later on.  An hour later Thabo rolled in and parked
his vehicle.  From it emerged three black men.

Walking up to greet them, Simpson recognized two of them as NBA players.
He was trying with difficulty to place them, having not been that much of a
sports fan.  They introduced themselves as Jim and John, obviously aliases
but Simpson was willing to accept that.  Each was a tower of iron muscle,
not overly tall but more so than the normal range.  It was clear they had
developed powerful physiques, the better for slamming opponents with.  The
third man Simpson did not recognize, and introduced himself as Antoine.  He
was slim and of average physique; no doubt a professional of some sort.
Simpson thought for a moment about how different most African Americans,
intermixed with white and Indian blood as they are, look from native
Africans.  These guests were nearly as dark as DeGroot's staff, but their
facial features and a certain tone of skin distinguished them from those
born in the mother continent.  Which was not to say they were not
attractive men; Simpson felt his dick twitch as he welcome the three to the
camp.

Simpson hosted both of the client parties for cocktails and dinner at the
main lodge.  The African Americans arrived first, and Simpson poured drinks
all around.  Once they had all settled comfortably into chairs and sofas,
Simpson proposed a toast.  Then, looking all around, he began: "Well^Å.."
and could not think what to say.  There were some awkward chuckles, and the
three men eyed him with interest.  He decided to plunge right in.

"Look, I just have to say, this makes me uncomfortable.  I mean, we'll do
our best, I don't think you'll be unhappy, but^Å." He trailed off.

Jim, a powerfully built man with short twisted tufts of hair, stepped in.
"Makes you feel guilty, huh?"  Simpson shrugged and nodded, silently.
"Maybe, not the right thing to do?"  Simpson nodded again.  And then
Simpson asked one question: "Why?"

The three men looked at one another and shrugged.  "I dunno man," said
John, "kinda turns me on, y'know?  Like when I see a white man, I wonder,
what would he do back in the day?  And more important, I guess, I wonder
what I would do.  I want to find out."

"For me, yeah, it's something I have to sort of get out of my system, you
know?  Maybe kind of come to terms with the ancestors?  A rite of passage?
My ancestors were on the boats, but they were also running the slave
coffles," said Antoine.

Jim looked around, put back his head, and laughed.  "Man, me, I like the
idea of getting fucked hard by a homegrown African, and then getting felt
up by a white man!"  All three of his companions roared with laughter at
that, and if Simpson said his penis lay still at that point, he was lying.
Jim continued: "Look, Andrew, it's just a game.  You feel me up without my
asking on the streets, you're dead.  But here?  That's why we paid so much
to come.  It's different, y'know?"  Simpson nodded.  He refilled drinks,
feeling better about the adventure to come.  At that point the Swedes
entered the lodge.  There was much friendly talk and sexual banter, even
though the two groups were not interacting by way of their games, and the
play continued throughout the dinner.  At the end of the evening, Simpson
bade all parties a good night and wished them well in their adventures to
begin the next day.

It was early the next morning that Simpson went to observe the start of the
march.  Thabo was dressed as a chieftain, and accompanied by Motumbo,
Strello, and Big Mandla.  Simpson stood some distance away, but close
enough to see and hear.  Without knocking, Thabo flung open the lodge door
and was followed by his three "soldiers."  Thabo began shouting at them in
his language, echoed by the three staff members who invaded the lodge.
Roughly, but not so roughly as to harm the clients, Motumbo and his crew
turned the three African Americans out of bed.  Surprised exclamations and
muffled protests were evidence that the clients forgot for a moment what
they had arranged for themselves, but then the objections subsided into
mutterings.  Simpson could see that each man was dragged from the lodge
with his hands tied behind his back.  Tied by soft cords, but securely
tied.  The three men were hussled into the dawn light, genuinely looking
none too happy.

Jim was wearing some expensive looking pajamas.  Big Mandla stepped up to
him and, drawing a knife, simply cut the garments from his body.  "Ah, man,
that's Armani!" Jim protested, and was rewarded with a slap from Big
Mandla.  Rip and rip, and the powerful athlete stood naked, his hands tied
behind his back.  His penis was a dark hose hanging down over a heavy
ballsack, under a dense thatch of pubic hair.  His body was milk chocolate
muscle, flesh rolling in hills and valleys of strength.  His butt was the
high, upward rolling, rounded butt of Africa, no mistaking that.  John
stumbled after him wearing only briefs, which Motumbo likewise cut off with
a knife.  He had seen Jim's treatment, and kept his head lowered, a sullen
look on his face.  John's body was similar to Jim's, a shade darker, the
perfection of muscled black manhood, a heavy penis angled down and to the
left.  Finally, Strello pushed Antoine out of the lodge ahead of him,
already naked.  Antoine was slim, a tube of thin pads of muscle but again,
the high bubble butt of African men.  His long but slim penis was half
erect, and Simpson wondered whether Strello had fondled him while in the
lodge.  Antoine's head was up and his eyes defiant, but he kept silent.

The three men all had their hands tied behind their backs, and they were
then joined together by soft rope tied around their necks.  The crew of
Africans pulled out simple lengths of white cloth and swiftly fashioned
loincloths, wrapping the fabric around the captives' loins to hold and
protect their heavy genitals on the march.  At the last minute their
captors discretely bent down and slipped heavy sandals over the captives'
feet; not historically accurate, but their tender American feet would need
the protection.  Simpson noted with relief that the day was overcast, and
so sunstroke dangers would be reduced.  Down the path to the gate and out
of the compound Big Mandla, Motumbo, and Strello now led their captors,
winking behind them at Simpson, while Thabo continued to intone something
in his language.  He was "selling" his countryman off to a distant bondage.

Throughout that day the captives were marched through the African bush.
The crew from DeGroot's had "whips" of soft fabric that would smart but not
tear skin, and they used these every time one of the slaves slowed down or
would trip.  Although the sun was behind clouds, sweat began running down
the bodies of the captives, making their dark chocolate skin glisten.  At
one point Antoine, who was in the middle, begged to stop so as to urinate.
Motumbo stepped up to him and stripped his loincloth off at once and said,
"Do it."  Antoine looked bewildered and asked "Where?"  Motumbo slapped
him, saying "Right here, now do it."  Antoine looked dazed, then
concentrated for a moment and began urinating, the yellow stream splashing
around the legs of Jim, in front.  Big Mandla pulled off the loincloths
from Jim and John and commanded, "You, too!"  John, behind, wordlessly
began peeing on Antoine's legs, while Jim, in the front, grunted once or
twice and sent his spray of urine out onto the dust.  As soon as they were
done, yellow drops falling from their pendulous cocks, the loincloths were
quickly wrapped around them again and the march continued.

There were three breaks for water, but no real lunch.  The captives sat in
a huddle under a tree, beginning to feel miserable, while the African crew
ate well and joked among themselves.  At the end of their meal each of them
brought a crust of bread to a captive and pushed it into their mouths; the
African Americans seemed grateful for it.  Then it was back on their feet
to march on.

The day was not as long as it would have been in history.  Simpson did not
want to kill off his paying customers, of course.  Toward the end of the
afternoon the slave coffle approached a camp that had already been set up;
not historically accurate, but some compromises had to be taken.  There was
a large tent, for use by the African captors, and some straw spread under a
tree, which was evidently where the captives were to lie.  They flopped
down on the straw, hands still bound, and were given water.  Then their
hands were unbound but ropes still ran from one neck to another.  And in
truth, where would they run to if they did want to escape?  Strello brought
bowls of a sort of thin porridge to each captive slave, which they consumed
greedily, slurping the stuff directly from the bowls.  At a makeshift table
nearby, the African slave masters enjoyed a tasty and more substantial meal
as the sun dipped below the horizon.

As the light was waning, Jim called out, "I gotta shit."  Their captors
walked over and made all three rise, leading them several yards away.
Loincloths from all three were stripped away.  "Do it here," Strello
commanded.  Jim and the others looked at him in disbelief.  Strello shoved
the big man down, bringing the rest of the party with him.  A look of anger
flashed in Jim's eyes, but the "reality" of the whole exercise was
beginning to take hold of him.  "Here!" commanded Strello again.  Jim, his
eyes cast down, squatted on his haunches, concentrated for a moment, and
then with a grunt and a gasp expelled a long, brown tube of shit down from
his ass and onto the dusty ground.  Realizing this might be their only
chance, Antoine and John assumed the same position and, in a few moments,
each was dropping turds onto the ground.  "What do I wipe with?" asked
Antoine, and was rewarded with a slap from Big Mandla.  The three captives
were jerked to their feet and led back to their straw.  Their loincloths
were not returned.

Night had now fallen, broken only by the stars and the flickering oil lamps
of the camp.  The captives sat in silence, deep in thought or exhaustion.
And then their masters came to them and jerked them to their feet again,
leading them to the big tent some yards away.  Some hope for more
comfortable accommodations grew in their minds, maybe some cover or a
blanket for the night.  It was not to be.  The three captives were thrown
to the dirt floor of the tent, and then Motumbo and Big Mandla untied
Antoine from the other slaves and led him to a mat a few feet away in the
center of the tent.  There Antoine stood, his head down but his eyes
watchful, as Strello walked slowly around him, appraising his body.
Antoine's tub of slim muscle shone in the lamplight, a flawless milk
chocolate.  As he walked around the slave, Strello reached out to tweak a
nipple or slap a rounded butt cheek.  Slowly, Antoine's penis began to
rise, a long, heavy hood on a long but slim shaft, like a tulip, with heavy
balls tucked in close beneath, below a short bush of thick black hair.
Strello's own trousers were tenting ominously in front.

Then suddenly Strello pushed the slave Antoine to his knees, and with his
hand on Antoine's shoulders pushed him to his hands and knees.  In a flash,
Strello's trousers were off, revealing his ponderous penis thick and erect.
Scooping up a nearby tube of lubricant, Strello put only a dab on the tip
of his organ.  He spread Antoine's legs and positioned himself behind the
slave, then leaned forward and pushed again on his shoulder.  Antoine
gasped and went down, his arms splayed, while his pelvis remained up, his
now erect penis stretched out behind him, his bubble butt poised and
waiting.  Strello put the lighter brown dickhead of his midnight dark shaft
to Antoine's asshole, still smudged from his earlier shit, and pushed with
one might shove.  Antoine cried out and struggled to rise, but Strello was
on top of him, pinning him.  Now Antoine moaned, gasped, and cried "stop!
stop!" but to no avail.  Holding himself up off of Antoine's caramel brown,
thin back with his palms flat on the ground, Strello began pounding the
slave's ass, Africa fucking African America hard and fast.  Antoine writhed
and wept, but Strello was without mercy.  His butt cheeks clenching and
unclenching as he slammed in and out, in and out, Strello soon came,
slamming hard, pushing his iron dick hard into Antoine as he pumped his
semen into him.  Strello pushed, shuddered, held his position, and then in
an instant pulled out of the captive with a plop and rose, his dick still
hard, leaking and dirty, and roughly grabbed Antoine up off the ground.
The milk chocolate slave's dick was still hard as he was dragged to the
other two captives and tied up again.

Jim and John had been sitting, staring, their mouths half open in
disbelief^Å.but their penises also slowly hardening at the spectacle.  Now
Motumbo walked over and untied Jim, jerking him to his feet long enough to
bring him to the mat, then pushing him down onto his back.  As did Strello,
Motumbo put but a dab of lubricant on his huge cock, then pushed Jim's legs
up toward his chest and, positioning his iron rod at Jim's unwiped asshole,
pushed.  Jim gasped and his torso curled up, his hands pushing at Motumbo.
His erect cock wagged and flopped on his lower belly, his heavy ballsack
swaying left and right.  "Naw, bro, wait a minute!" Jim cried, pushing his
attacker away.  But Strello and Big Mandla rushed forward to grabbed the
athlete's arms, pinning him back to the mat, as Motumbo impaled the slave
completely on his enormous dick.  Jim cried out, but Motumbo immediately
set up a powerful rhythm of fucking.  Back and forth, in and out, holding
himself up off of the captive, staring down and laughing in derision at
him, Motumbo fucked him hard as Jim's arms remained pinned by his African
captors.  Motumbo took longer than Strello, but eventually grunted hard,
bucked twice, and clenched his buttocks, pushing forward with all his might
into the slave's bottom as he shot ropes of semen into the black man's gut.
As soon as he was done he rose, his iron dick still hard, and Big Mandla
and Strello immediately pulled Jim back to the captives, securing him once
again.

They returned with John, who now struggled a bit even though his erect
penis betrayed his excitement.  With Motumbo's help they pushed John flat
onto the ground, where he landed with a huff.  Big Mandla wasted no time
with lubricant.  Scrambling around behind the slave, he entered him, his
way eased only by the stuff left over from John's earlier shit.  John cried
and cursed, squirming and struggling to escape, but Motumbo and Strello
held him tight as Big Mandla banged him hard, African muscle pistoning a
purple black dick as hard as steel in and out, in and out.  Big Mandla came
faster than either of his friends, mercifully, finally lubricating John's
manhole with gouts of his semen as Big Mandla pushed hard, ejaculating into
the slave's ass.

With John jerked to his feet, the other captives were treated likewise and
were led back outside beneath the tree, where they were securely tied.
Their captors returned to the tent, where the sounds of laughter and
drinking could be heard late into the night.  The three slaves huddled
beneath the tree, cuddling together for warmth, but each felt the
still-erect dicks of his friends poking or slapping at his thigh as they
took what rest they could during the short night.

The next day the African captors rose with the dawn light, roughly shaking
their slaves awake, feeding them another bowl of the porridge and some
water.  Then they pulled the slaves to their feet again, affixed the
loincloths loosely about their genitals and hips, and began the return
march.  A shorter way was taken this time, so as to return to the compound
by mid-afternoon.  The slave coffle was made to wade through a waist high
creek halfway through, and they emerged wet and dripping on the other side,
water running off their dark skins in rivulets that soon dried in the sun
that was beginning to emerge from behind the clouds.  The slaves were tired
and subdued by the time the compound came into sight.  Thabo was there to
greet them, once again in tribal garb.  He showed the way to a hut, where
the captives were stripped entirely naked and untied.  Buckets of water
were brought in and soap, and the teenage boys, Thatho and Mthobisi,
gleefully took on the task of washing the captives, scrubbing their skin
with brushes, pushing back their foreskins to clean their swelling cocks,
sticking soapy fingers into their stinking assholes to scour them.
Exhausted but clean, the three slaves were given some porridge, this time
with a little meat in it, and then shut, naked, into the hut.  There they
would await their inspections by the white master who would purchase them.

To be continued
Comments welcome:  lokiaga@prodigy.net