Date: Thu, 25 Aug 2005 10:55:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: big game 4

Simpson awoke in the cold predawn, aware of a duty he needed to perform.
For a moment, he nuzzled the face of the sleeping chocolate colored
eighteen year old next to him, gently kissing Little Mandla's full, ripe
lips.  The boy startled awake and half sat up, but Simpson pulled him back
down and whispered, "Sleep.  Stay here and rest.  I will be back."  Moaning
with contentment and smiling, Little Mandla settled back into the bed as
Simpson kissed him once more and then slid out into the chilly morning.

He dressed quickly and stepped outside in time to see Thabo pulling a
pickup truck up in front of the Russians' cabin.  Simpson pulled his Land
Rover up behind it, taking care to lock the doors as he stepped out.  Zama
loitered nearby, shotgun at the ready.  Simpson jogged over quickly; this
was his job to do.  He huddled with Thabo and Zama, the former armed again
with his pistol, then went to work.  The sun was just cracking the eastern
sky as he pounded on the door to the cabin.  There was silence, so he
pounded again.  The sound of a chair being knocked over, what might have
been a bottle dropping to the floor and rolling, a few footsteps....and the
door opened.

The older, fatter Russian swayed in the opening.  He was fully dressed but
not entirely stable on his feet.  His face was puffier than it had been the
night before, and a wave of alcohol-soaked air floated out of the cabin
from behind him.  He stood silently glowering at Simpson.

"Right then, cheerio, pip pip, up and at `em!" Simpson cried in his best
false-English accent.  The irony was completely lost.  The big Russian
staggered out of the cabin, followed closely by his younger companion, who
looked to be in no better shape than he was.  They were careful to ignore
Simpson as they walked past him, but seemed to make a point of brushing
Thabo back.  The younger one, in the rear, jerked his thumb back over his
shoulder toward the cabin and said "bags" to Thabo.  Then the two walked to
Simpson's Land Rover, tried the locked doors, and then leaned back against
the vehicle.  The big man pulled out a cigarette with shaky fingers and
began smoking it.

Thabo turned to walk into the cabin, and Simpson went with him.  The place
was wildly disordered, although the damage did not seem to be permanent.
Thabo and Simpson each collected the men's bags and emerged from the cabin.
They walked to the pickup truck and slung them in the back.  That brought
some life from the Russians, who pushed away from the Land Rover and
swarmed toward the pickup, loudly protesting.  Simpson wheeled around and
put his face in the face of the younger Russian...he could not have
stomached it for the fatter one....jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of the pickup truck and shouted "In!"

Both Russians stood stock still, murderous looks gathering on their faces.
Once again, the steely click of Zama's safety being thumbed off got their
attention.  Staring at them with an impassive face, Zama swung the barrel
from them to the pickup truck.  Furious, the men leapt into the back of the
truck.  Then the older, fatter one spoke, an angry grumble:

"You vill be sorry.  Ve sue you.  Ve send men vith gun."

Simpson roared with laughter.  "Sue us?  We already have your credit card
debited.  It will be debited again for the damage to the cabin and for
Little Mandla's medical expenses.  Men with guns?"  He threw his head back
and howled.  "There is no Russian mafia here and we both know it.  As for
these threats, two can play at that game.  The minute I return from
dropping you off I will post information about your visit here all over the
web.  How does gay sex with black men play in Moscow, boys?  Now sit down
and shut up!"  The Russians, already pale from drink and dissolution,
turned sheet white and collapsed as much as sat in the bed of the pickup
among their luggage.  Thabo got into the cab to drive, with Zama sitting
beside him, shotgun in arms.  Simpson pulled his .458 from out of the Land
Rover, ostentatiously worked the bolt, stuffed a couple of rounds into the
chamber and put it in full view, on the dash of the vehicle.  Both cars
pulled out of the compound, the truck in the lead.

It was barely light by the time they reached the main road, still two-lane,
to Johannesburg.  There they stopped.  As per their plan, Thabo, Zama, and
Simpson got out and motioned the Russians to exit, pulling the luggage out
from around them.  This brought loud protests from the departing clients,
who had been assuming they would receive a ride all the way to the Joburg
airport.  They were not answered.  The group had not long to wait.  From
out of the dim light lumbered a bus, which Thabo flagged down.  The vehicle
was crammed full of people and belongings, even the roof being covered.
Onto that roof Thabo and Simpson threw the luggage, while Zama glared at
the Russians, shotgun at the ready.  Simpson gave the driver some money and
instructions.  The clearer the realization as to what was happening became,
the louder became the Russians' protests.  But to no avail....at last,
Simpson and Thabo pointed meaningfully toward the crowded interior.
Howling with indignation, the two Russians crawled aboard and crammed
themselves in among the African people, the latter now fully enjoying the
joke, laughing, and taunting the new arrivals.  Off the bus went, trailing
fumes and smoke, leaving Simpson, Thabo, and Zama to collapse in howls of
laughter and congratulatory handshakes all around.

Upon their return to the compound, Simpson asked Thabo to charge the
Russians' credit card an exorbitant amount for every conceivable charge
they could imagine.  Cleanup to the cabin was already underway from help
hired to come in for the purpose.  Simpson made a mental note to do
something nasty in cyberspace to the two offenders, and then with a sense
of a job well done, entered his own cabin again.

There he found Little Mandla, dressed again only in shorts, by the table, a
breakfast already prepared.  Simpson thanked him profusely, and insisted
that he sit down to share the meal with him.  He relayed the story of the
Russians' departure, with suitable embellishments, and by the end of the
breakfast Little Mandla was laughing as hard as Simpson.  The two settled
into a companionable chuckling.  Little Mandla smiled at Simpson and ducked
his head.

"Thanks, Boss...Andrew," he said softly, his eyes averted, "You are a good
man."  Simpson reached over to cover the youth's hand in his, squeezing it
softly.  After a moment, Little Mandla rose to remove the breakfast things,
Simpson rising also to help.  As the youth turned, Simpson caught his
breath.  He had not noticed his back before, but beneath the beautiful
chocolate skin were darker discolorations here and there: bruises, and
recently made.

"Little Mandla!" Simpson cried.  "Did those men do this to you?"  He
brushed his fingertips as lightly as he dared over the puffy, damaged skin.
Little Mandla held still and nodded his head, whispering "Yes."

"I did not notice last night," said Simpson.  "I am sorry....I am so ANGRY!"
he cried.  "Does this often happen to the men?  We must stop this and close
the camp immediately, this is terrible!"

Unexpectedly, Little Mandla wheeled around with a look almost of fright on
his face.  "Oh, Andrew!  No, please not to close camp.  This not happen
often, really.  You close camp....how we work?"

"But Little Mandla, it's wrong.  You could have been killed.  Nobody should
make a living being beaten.  Really, we must!"

"No, Andrew, please!  Me, the other men, what we do then?"  Little Mandla's
expression of concern matched Simpson's look of horror.  The two stood for
a moment staring at each other.  Then anguish over the immediate situation
of Little Mandla's injuries overcame Simpson, and he reached out to pull
gently on the youth's arm.

"We will discuss this later.  But come, I have something for those
bruises."  Simpson took Little Mandla back into the bedroom, and slipping
into the attached bathroom he found some arnica gel that he had brought in
anticipation of cuts and bruises in the African bush.  Gently, oh so
softly, he applied the cooling, slippery ointment to the bruised areas of
Little Mandla's back.  Around and around his palm slid on the slick surface
of the discolored skin.  The youth whispered "thanks, thanks" in a soft
rhythm as Simpson did his work.

Seeing that some of the bruises ran down below the waistband of Little
Mandla's shorts, Simpson reached around from behind and unbuttoned the
garment, which fell to the floor.  Applying the gel to these lower bruises,
Simpson was relieved to see that they went no further than the upper hips.
He sank to his knees as he worked, facing the high, firm buttocks which
showed a darker, deep chocolate color.  Simpson took the opportunity to
surreptitiously inspect the youth's anus, which did not seem damaged from
the Russians' attentions, for which he was thankful.

"Alright, turn around please," Simpson said softly, gently guiding the
youth by the hips.  Little Mandla turned slowly, revealing a full erection.
Simpson stopped, awed by the simple perfection of the organ, like some
beautiful flower, the head a bud ready to open, a lighter pinkish brown
peeking out of the receding foreskin, swaying on a long, veined shaft.
Little Mandla's heavy, very dark ballsack was drawn up tight against his
body, and a small patch of dense peppercorn curls clustered around the top
of his magnificent organ.  Little Mandla put his hands over his rigid cock
and murmured, "Sorry, Boss, it have mind of it own."

Simpson let his gaze travel up the eighteen year old's smooth, muscular
tube of a body, just the hint of abdominal muscular development giving way
to two thin slabs of chest muscle with purple black nipples now standing in
little cones dotted with scabs from the night before.  He was relieved to
see no bruises on the youth's front side, evidently the Russians had done
their work only on his back.  Simpson's eyes rose until he caught and held
the boy's gaze, looking down at him with gratitude....and maybe love?...from
beneath long, curling lashes.  Simpson smiled, and laying the tube of
ointment aside he gently removed the strong brown hands from covering the
organ.  It sprang up again.  Simpson grasped it by the shaft, sliding his
hand up and down it several times, which made Little Mandla moan and mutter
"O! Boss!  Andrew!  You no have to...."

By way of reply, Simpson took the head, now fully emerged and glowing from
a coating of precum, into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue, his lips
going back and forth over the sensitive flared top of the cockhead.  Then
he moved his hands from the shaft to grasp the African youth by the back of
his legs, being careful to go no higher so as to avoid further damage to
his bruised skin.  Pushing his head forward, Simpson took as much of the
rampant penis into his mouth as he could, causing Little Mandla to throw
his head back and moan in sheer pleasure.  The youth's hands moved to
Simpson's shoulders, then to entwine themselves in his silky hair, to
caress the white man's head which was giving him so much pleasure.  Sucking
strongly, Simpson bobbed his head up and down, trying to take more of the
shaft and swollen dickhead into his mouth with each cycle.  Up and down he
went, scooting closer to the boy's trembling brown thighs, up and down as
Little Mandla lolled his head from side to side, moaning softly.

Simpson felt a quivering in the youth's strong leg muscles, heard a
quickening and then a catch in the African's breathing, and then Little
Mandla tensed and pushed forward.  Two, then three, then four shots of
semen spurted from his throbbing shaft into Simpson's mouth, where they
were swallowed greedily.  Little Mandla was lost in ecstasy, quietly
intoning a rapid chant in his own language, his fingers holding Simpson's
head like a vise, quivering and pushing, and then it was over.  The youth
slumped, gasping for breath.  Simpson slowly moved his head back and forth,
swallowing, draining the penis of its white liquor, as Little Mandla gasped
out his thanks between ragged breaths.

Finished, Simpson released the turgid penis with a plop, looked up and
smiled at the boy.

"Andrew!  I do that for you now, yes?"  said Little Mandla, a huge smiled
playing on his face.

"No," said Simpson, "you need to rest now.  I....I just wanted to do that
for you.  I like you, Little Mandla....a lot," he said.  "But you rest."
Rising, Simpson took the youth gently by the arm to the nearby bed and
eased him down between the sheets.  Settling on his side to spare both his
back and nipples, Little Mandla nodded and murmured thanks again, then soon
was asleep.

The youth would stay that way for most of the day, sleeping off the
physical and emotional trauma of the night's assaults.  In the meantime,
Simpson stalked off in the direction of the main offices, and to the
computer.  Going to every chat room and usenet group he could think of,
posting pictures and commentaries to every service he could find, he did
what he could to ruin the macho reputations of the Russians, and he did it
with a vengeance.  When he was finished, thinking he had done what he
could, he paused for a moment to imagine with relish the long bus trip the
two culprits were probably just now finishing, crammed in tightly among
Africans.  He shared lunch with Thabo and some of the cleaning help,
talking about general subjects, and then stretched out for a nap on a couch
in the office, wanting not to disturb Little Mandla back in his own cabin.

Awaking refreshed from his nap, Simpson found Thabo arranging some stores
in the back of the main offices.  "Thabo, could we please talk?  About the
future of this place?"  The African nodded and followed Simpson back to the
couch, where they sat.

"Thabo, I don't know if you saw, but Little Mandla is bruised all over his
back.  Those men must have beat him as well as cut him.  We can't have
that, Thabo.  I....I am thinking of not having any more clients here."
Simpson immediately saw a look of growing alarm in Thabo's face, and rushed
to quiet it on the basis of his own interpretations.  "Don't worry, Thabo,
you will always have a job here.  Zama, also.  Maybe we could....maybe we
could host photo safaris, or a bed and breakfast, or...." He knew the minute
he said it that his last suggestion was as lame as it could be, but Thabo
was looking increasingly worried.

"Boss Andrew, no!  what all the men do?  Men come here from villages, earn
good money, get tips from clients, no close, Boss Andrew!"  Simpson stared
at him.

"But Thabo....look, Thabo, I will be the first to admit that the idea of
hunting down real men and then possessing them, sexually, even for a night
or two, was powerfully attractive to me.  It is why I came here.  But I
don't think it was a worthy motive.  I think it can bring out the worst in
people, Thabo.  See what the Russians did?  And isn't it demeaning for the
men?"

"But Boss Andrew, most men, black and white, know it a game, they come to
play, you know?  Then they have fun with men they catch, with being catch.
Please, Boss...."  Simpson looked at him in consternation.  First he
exploited these Africans himself for his own pleasure, now he was in a
position of telling an African what was in his best interest.  It was
intolerable.

"Thabo....there are `prey' still here, right?  I have not see them, but they
are still here?"

"Yes, Boss Andrew, I was gonna ask, what we do with them, but two still
here: Strello and Mandla....Big Mandla."

"Can we go talk to them, ask their advice?" Simpson asked.  Thabo nodded
and rose, leading the way into the afternoon heat toward the lodge with the
word "Prey" on the outside.  Simpson did not know what horror he would find
within: men chained to walls, dirty mattresses on floors, whips.  Thabo
knocked, then pushed open the door...to Simpson's surprise it was not locked
from either the inside or outside...and led the way in.

The lodge was not palatial, but was at least the quality of a good American
motel, with room service.  It was air conditioned.  The outside door opened
onto a large, comfortable room with two exercise bikes and a treadmill in
one corner, two television sets, several couches and tables, two large
refrigerators, a computer, stereo, and a pool table.  At the far end of the
room were two doors.  One was half ajar, revealing a clean, comfortable
bedroom (if a bit messy, with an unmade bed and clothing on the floor)
beyond.  On one side of the lodge was a door leading to a kitchen and
laundry area, on another a door leading to two bathrooms.  Two men lounged
on one of the sofas wearing shorts and t-shirts, watching television.  They
jumped to their feet as Thabo and Simpson approached.

Thabo rattled off an explanation in an African language, taking enough time
to have explained the whole issue, Simpson was sure.  Then he turned to
introduce Simpson to his two employees.  "Boss Andrew, this Mandla," he
said, indicating a massively muscled, dark brown man.  Mandla, in his early
twenties, stood a little over six feet.  Great lobes of muscle bulged from
under his t-shirt, and a gap between shirt and shorts revealed mounds of
developed abs. An oval head sat atop a thick neck, with head trimmed very
close, almost shaved, small ears like seashells, thick lips and broad nose.
He extended a big paw at the end of a heavily muscled arm and enfolded
Simpson's hand in a surprisingly gentle shake.  A smile creased his dark
face, bringing a flash of masculine beauty and friendliness to this
mountain of muscled steel.  "And this Strello," said Thabo.

Strello looked to be about eighteen.  His skin was a rich, oiled tobacco
brown, a deep color with honey highlights, simply a beautiful and smooth
complexion all over.  Strello stood about five feet, ten inches.  He wore a
beater t-shirt that revealed a well developed, stocky but entirely muscled
body; if anyone deserved the expression "built like a fireplug," Strello
was it.  A one inch cap of kinky hair covered his head and surrounded a
handsome, boyish face, pug-nosed with thick, flat lips that seemed to press
outward as if to be kissed.  His handshake was firm, and he held Simpson's
hand perhaps a beat longer than necessary, looking into the white man's
eyes, seeming to appraise and examine him.

The introductions over, Simpson determined that Mandla and Strello could
speak some English, then invited everyone to sit around a table.  Thabo
opened one of the refrigerators and brought out beers for everyone.
Simpson broached his idea of closing the camp, explained the dangers and
his view of the indignities it offered, told of Little Mandla's injuries.
As with Thabo, both men looked increasingly concerned as he went on.

"Boss Andrew, I never hurt here.  I go out, oh, mebbe ten times....caught
three times!"said Mandla; and here he blushed a dark maroon beneath his
chocolate skin.  "But it good, Boss Andrew...the white men, they pay well.
Nobody hurt me."

Simpson regarded his massive frame and thought that likely nobody would try
to harm Mandla.  He turned to Strello.  "And you, Strello?"

The youth noded his head emphatically.  "Nobody hurt me, Boss, I caught
five times.  Really, it not so bad.  It a little fun," he said, and
actually giggled.

"But listen," Simpson pressed on, "do you want to make money like this?
People are using you."

Mandla looked perplexed.  "But Boss Andrew, I see on television, people in
your country....you from States?  Yeah, people in States `used' also.
People in factories, they hurt, killed sometime.  Everybody use somebody,
Boss.  This fun!  Besides," he added, more seriously, "De Groot's best
place to earn good money around here.  People in villages, they wait for
money from here, Boss Andrew!  We even make a little just waiting here,"
Mandla explained, a point which Thabo agreed to by nodding.

The conversation continued in that vein through their beers and another
round.  It was clear that it was not as cut and dried as Simpson had
thought.  But he could not escape his misgivings about a business based on
hunting down Africans, even with paintballs.  As he talked less and
listened more, he also began to think about alternatives.  As the men began
on their third round of beer, he leaned forward.

"Alright, listen.  I have some ideas.  So far De Groot's....and you know, I
think we will just keep that name....De Groot's has been based on men coming
here....white men....and hunting Africans, correct?"

"Boss Andrew, some Japanese come sometimes," said Thabo.  Simpson nodded.

"Alright, well....must it always be that way?  There must be men in the
world who would want to come here and BE hunted."  The men looked
thoughtful.  "What if men from other countries wanted to come here and have
African men hunt them down and `possess' them for a weekend?  I think there
may be a market for that," and thinking back to his experiences of some
clubs and bars in the greater New York area, he could not help but grinning
at the thought of several chocolate queens he knew or knew of who would pay
lavishly for such an experience.

"Or how about men coming here to organize into teams for paintball combat,"
he continued, "with the winning team `possessing' the losers for a few
days?"  Mandla, Strello, and Thabo were now clearly thinking hard about the
possibilities.  "We could hire men from the villages, and pay them well, to
referee such combats.  In addition to doing what you have been doing
before, of course, sometimes, with men hunting....with men hunting you," he
nodded at Mandla and Strello.  "We could advertise all sorts of interesting
and creative ways to use the land here for these purposes," he said.  The
Africans immediately broke out into an animated discussion in their own
language, and Simpson could tell from the nonverbals that the talk was
enthusiastic.

"Boss Andrew, these some good idea," said Thabo, turning to him to speak
for the group.  "Maybe even get more customers, hire more men from village,
you know?"  Simpson nodded enthusiastically.  "You and me, we work on it
Boss, advertise right away!" said Thabo.  "Can we get business soon, Boss
Andrew?"

Simpson thought about it.  "It might take a couple of months.  Most men
cannot just drop plans and come, although perhaps a few will.  But Mandla
and Strello, and you, Thabo, and Little Mandla and everyone here can stay
on until then...we can fix the place up, get it ready, you know?  Prepare
the land for team combat.  Add sleeping quarters."

The three Africans huddled again, speaking quickly and enthusiastically.
Thabo announced a general agreement, and there was congratulations and
toasting all around.  Simpson rose from the table, followed by Thabo.

"Well, we begin work tomorrow.  I will prepare some ideas tonight.  Can we
get some more workers from the villages to come help with preparations?"
Thabo nodded, and Mandla and Strello rattled off several names of men they
knew with needed skills.  With a plan agreed upon, Simpson and Thabo turned
to go.  Mandla shook Simpson's hand quickly, but again Strello's grasp
lingered on, and, squeezing Simpson's hand, he actually winked at him and
said "later tomorrow, Boss Andrew" in a whisper.  Simpson felt a stir in
his groin, but was not entirely sure he had read Strello's meaning
correctly, so he simply nodded.

The sun was setting as Thabo and Simpson walked back toward the main
offices.  Simpson collected some cold food as dinner for himself and Little
Mandla.  Thabo agreed that Simpson's lodge was a good place for Little
Mandla to rest overnight, then the youth could return to the "prey" lodge
with the other men.  Simpson carried the meal back to his cabin and
entered.

Little Mandla was sitting on a couch, leaning forward a bit so as to keep
his bruised back free from contact with the leather, watching television.
He leaped to his feet, a huge smile splitting his handsome, chocolate face.

"Andrew!  I sleep most of day, Andrew.  I think I better.....these," he
said, looking down at his nipples, "not hurt much now.  Back a little
better."

"That's great, Little Mandla!  You need all the rest you can get.  Please
stay here tonight again, then you can return to your own room tomorrow."
The youth grinned and nodded agreement.  "Eat!" said Simpson, gesturing at
the food he was laying out on the table.  Both men helped themselves and
sat companionably on the couch to watch the show, a syndicated rerun of an
American crime drama.  What must people in other countries think of the
States from watching such crap, Simpson thought.  Putting the food away,
they continued watching similar shows throughout the evening.  During
breaks, Simpson explained the new plan for De Groot's to Little Mandla, who
seemed delighted with some of the schemes and puzzled with some others, but
was generally accepting.  The youth seemed relieved to find that his
employment would remain secure.

Even though he had rested all day, Little Mandla was still tired from his
ordeal, so Simpson suggested that they retire early.  Simpson took a quick
shower, followed by Little Mandla.  Simpson remained naked, and as the
youth emerged from the shower the white man helped to sponge his body dry
gently, then applied two small dollops of antiseptic to cover each nipple
and again rubbed some arnica gel onto the lad's bruises, which were turning
some interesting colors.  As Simpson ministered to the lad, both men
developed half erections, a fact each acknowledged silently with looks,
nods, and chuckles.  Finishing his task, Simpson stepped to the bed and
slid between the sheets.  Although his erection was tenting up the covers,
he would not force himself on the African youth during his recovery.

But Little Mandla had different ideas.  The boy walked to Simpson's side of
the bed and bent over, kissing Simpson on the lips.  "Thanks, Andrew, Boss,
for everything," he whispered, nuzzling Simpson's face with his full, ripe
maroon brown lips.  Half kneeling on the bed, Little Mandla ran his fingers
through the white man's silky hair, then down his neck to caress his
shoulders.  Passion rose strongly within Simpson, but he was hesitant to
touch the youth in return, for fear of further damaging his injuries....but
his fingers slid lightly over the youth's unharmed thighs and arms.

Both men were panting from their prolonged kissing, from explorations of
tongues and lips, when Little Mandla reached to the bedside table and
produced some lubricant which he had evidently found or placed there
earlier.  He whisked back the sheets and Simpson's reddish, iron stiff
penis sprang up.  Little Mandla greased the rigid organ well with the
lubricant, then bent slightly and oiled his own rectum.  Little Mandla then
sprang upon the bed and positioned himself above Simpson's organ, facing
the white man, and placed the swollen red cockhead against his own anus.
Wincing a little, Little Mandla lowered himself....the cockhead pushed
against his starfish and then pushed through.  Little Mandla gasped,
waited, and then lowered himself some more, slowly, until Simpson was fully
inserted and Little Mandla squatted above him.  Simpson could see the scabs
on the boy's nipples but not the bruises on his back, and in this position
neither set of injuries would be exacerbated.

Smiling down at the white man beneath him, his back erect and shoulders
held back, Little Mandla's face took on a dreamy look as he began to move
up and down on Simpson.  The white man was meanwhile in ecstasy, his rigid
rod fully engorged in the warm bottom of the African youth, the firm, tight
butt of the boy bouncing up and down on his thighs.  Simpson clutched the
youth's firm thigh with one hand and with another clasped the purple black,
rigid penis that was slapping his abdomen and chest, leaking precum down
onto his skin.  Simpson began pumping the youth's organ in time to Little
Mandla's rhythm of rising and falling.  Both men were breathing heavily,
gasping, muttering in their own languages, their eyes drinking heavily of
each other's delicious bodies with the different and delightful skin tones
and hair patterns.  Simpson began pushing his pelvis up and down to match
Little Mandla's rhythms, and kept pace with pumping the rampant purple
black rod in his hand.

Little Mandla came first, crying out, pushing forward even as he tried to
keep up a rhythm of bobbing up and down on Simpson's cock, spraying the
white man's chest with drops and globs of thick, white sperm.  Simpson
himself was so close that the break in Little Mandla's rhythm did not delay
him much.  He now pushed his pelvis up strongly and roared with sexual
delight as, deep inside the black youth's gut, his rampant penis pumped
dollops of semen.  Simpson's hand gripped the chocolate thigh tightly,
while his other hand slowed, milking the last of the African's semen from
the thick tube.  Then both men slowed and stopped, quivering, the final
waves of ecstasy washing over them.  And then Little Mandla slowly leaned
forward, Simpson's rod still inside of him, and laid his forehead on
Simpson's shoulder, now running his fingers through the white man's silky
hair.  For a few moments more both men held that position as Simpson's
rigid cock slowly retreated back down the shaft of Little Mandla's anus,
and then plopped out.  Little Mandla giggled, leaned forward some more to
kiss Simpson once again, and then flopped down beside him on his side,
pulling the sheets up over them.  Once again with arms around each other,
the two men drifted off to sleep: Little Mandla quickly, Simpson but a few
minutes behind him, caressing the kinky head that lay on his chest....but
thinking thoughts of Motumbo until sleep overtook him.

To be continued, comments welcome
lokiaga@prodigy.net