Message-ID: <23133asstr$952600201@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <20000309061441.11151.qmail@hotmail.com>
From: "Father Ignatius" <fatherignatius@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed
Subject: {ASSM} Ricksha Boy: Servicing the Tourist Industry (M+F interr)<*>
Lines: 649
Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2000 06:10:01 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/23133>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: kelly, IceAltar
Ricksha Boy: Servicing the Tourist Industry
(M+F interr)<*>
Father Ignatius (c)2000
--
This story was inspired by recent discussions, apparently serious,
between the South African Minister for Tourism, the South African
Tourist Board and industry representatives, on the subject of how
the South African tourism industry should structure itself to take
better advantage of the international sex tourism market (I am not
making this up).
--
This is my first story on ASSM. I'd be pleased to hear from you,
at mailto:FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you
liked it, and why.
--
This is my first story on ASSM. I'd be pleased to hear from you,
at mailto:FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you
liked it, and why. There is a tribe in Kenya called the Masai who
are reputed to have the most enormous dicks. Reputed, hell: they
have pictures of them in anthropology textbooks and National
Geographic and so forth, standing with one leg wrapped around a
spear, staring with impassive eyes into the camera. But it's not
their eyes that your eyes are drawn to. There's something about
this that particularly appeals to Scandinavian girls. Maybe it's
the long, cold winters but when they're huddled, shivering, in the
libraries of Copenhagen and Oslo, the sight of these pictures is
enough to drive an endless stream of them to book passage on the
next cruise ship down the east coast of Africa with but one thing
on their minds. The Masai are available when the boat gets to
Mombasa but I see these Nordic goddesses disembarking at Durban
where my friends and I are waiting to keep the end up, so to
speak, for the Zulu nation.
We pull rickshas. You may have seen them in movies about
Singapore. There's a seat for two, sitting side by side, above a
single axle and two wheels. The yoke out front in Singapore-style
rickshas is typically filled with an exhausted looking fellow in a
conical hat. Nowadays, he might be riding a cut down, modified
scooter. In Durban, we do it differently. Your ricksha is pulled
by an enormous Zulu warrior in full, traditional, tribal war gear
featuring a bonnet with bobbing ostrich plumes, a sort of kilt
made from lots of furry monkey tails and something similar, on a
smaller scale, around each well-muscled calf and elbow. That's
about it, really. Plenty of space left to show off rippled
stomach, well-muscled torso, thighs, et cetera.
We also have assegais and big cowhide war shields. These tend to come and
go because the cops keep trying to shut down on carrying lethal instruments
in the street and then the tribal elders kick up a fuss in Parliament about
our right to carry traditional weapons and so it goes around and around.
Personally, I prefer being without: it's enough trouble handling a ricksha
in traffic without having to worry about a big shield that catches the wind
and a spear that'll have someone's eye out if you're not careful. We tend to
store them in odd corners, like the newsagent's cubicle and with the
attendant of the public lavatory. After the tourists have had their ride, we
rush off and get them for the photograph so they can go away thinking that
they've had their share of savage, untamed Africa amidst the concrete and
glass of Marine Parade, Durban's answer to Atlantic City. You can see us
like that on all the postcards, looking very fierce.
There's one other thing. The Chamber of Commerce makes us wear
non-traditional, non-tribal, non-ethnic running shorts. This is because the
sort-of-a-kilt is just that and no more. It's just a curtain of furry
monkey tails. When we're running along Marine Parade with our rickshas,
every so often we give our nervous, disoriented, foreign passengers a little
extra thrill by yelling "Jee!" and leaping high into the air in the yoke,
tipping them backwards and using their weight to gain height. This
increases the tips which is a good enough reason for doing it.
At these times an extra, non-furry, monkey tail is occasionally seen coming
out for a look at the hot, African sun. This leads to letters to the
papers, denunciations from the pulpit and, most importantly, complaints to
the Chamber of Commerce. Hence the running shorts. We had meetings about
it with the Chamber, trying to talk them out of it. "Think of the
postcards," we said. "It'll really put Durban on the international tourist
map." We even tried playing the traditional weapons card but the Chamber of
Commerce decided that Durban was quite far enough onto the international
tourist map already, thank you very much, and so the running shorts stayed.
Word leaks out somehow, though, which brings us back to all those young
Scandinavian girls who, as usual, were well represented among the latest
bunch of passengers trooping down the gang plank of the latest cruise ship
one late afternoon. There was only one thing on their mind and they were
eyeing out, for Masai-like characteristics, the semi-circle of ricksha
attendants. There we were--the pick of young Zulu manhood competing to
thrust on them services of one or another kind. There were two things on
our mind and sex was the other one. The first thing was commercial
advantage, exploitation of the exchange rate for foreign currencies and
anything else Jake can think up for us. Currently, it was periodic shucking
of Westernised upward mobility and returning to our exploitable roots.
When I was new at this game I made the mistake of introducing myself for
what I am--an Eng. Lit. graduate enrolled for a teacher's diploma at the
Durban campus of the University of Zululand. I found this didn't press the
expected "Out of Africa", fresh-from-the-savage-untamed-jungle button so
now, inspired by John Barth, I call myself Giles Goat-Boy instead. Nobody's
seen the joke yet, as far as I can tell. We used to be called "ricksha
boys" in the bad old days when the term "boy" was indiscriminately used for
any black male, even grizzled grandfathers. That's all behind us now--or,
at least, we're finally mellowing out about it to the point where some of we
youngsters, at least, can either laugh about it or extract commercial
advantage rather than getting all bent out of shape and wanting to start a
riot.
Old habits die hard though, and, every so often, somebody says "ricksha
boys" by mistake and then there's nervous throat-clearing and no-one catches
anyone's eye for a while. It has its uses, though. Some tourists, who
didn't know better, once said to Kenny, "You ricksha boy?" and he laid the
whole white guilt trip on them, threatened to demonstrate the manhood under
the monkey tail kilt, the works. Out came the wallet in shaking hand and
enough greenbacks got sprayed around to buy a cow back home in the village.
Kenny, who was only pretending to be bugged to start with, spent the money
on a hugely expensive biochemistry text book he'd been wanting--thanks to
import duties and the exchange rate, textbooks cost a bomb here--and had
enough change for a memorable dirty weekend. So that was all right, and a
good enough reason for doing it. The tourists were Korean so he wasn't
being entirely fair but life isn't fair. That's one of Jake's favourite
sayings.
Whatever they call you, you have to be pretty damned fit to cut it pulling a
ricksha. Long up-hills with a pair of fat foreigners in the seat are a
killer. Not only for this reason, I try and specialise in those young,
slim, single Nordic beauties. Kenny goes for fun-loving couples who look as
if they have spending money. He takes them off to a beer hall where he has a
deal with the owner. Together, they introduce his tourists to the dubious
pleasures of traditional African beer. It's brewed from millet, it's opaque,
dirty milk in colour and tastes ammoniac. It reminds me of that Noel Coward
song about "Yams and hams and human hands and vintage coconut wine/The taste
of which was filthy but the after-effects divine." The divine after-effects
include a pleasing relaxation of any inhibitions in young female tourists.
But I'll get back to that. Jake specialises in finding out what tourists
want and getting them to it. Bars, brothels, plastic-ethnic tourist-trap
native villages, beadwork, whatever.
Kenny and Jake are my friends and partners in profit. We're from the same
village up country and have been through school, university and a number of
tourists together. Kenny's doing his Honours in biochemistry. Jake
graduated last year in Business Science and his day job is assistant manager
in one of the beachfront hotels. Jake's always on about "servicing the
tourist industry". He's fixated about it. And that's what we do. And
that's what we were doing at the bottom of that gang plank, spying out the
talent. A group of three young girls came down together. They were all most
acceptable. "One each for Kenny, Jake and me," I thought, always the
optimist. I trotted forward, plumes bobbing and monkey tails swinging.
They halted and I waited a few seconds. Just as someone was going to have
to speak, I yelled "Jee!" and leaped high in the yoke. As I landed, I went
down on one knee.
"Greetings, beautiful foreign princesses," I said, "Welcome to Zululand.
What can I show you lovely ladies of my country?"
There was some nervous laughter and backing away. Too hard a sell, I cursed
myself.
"We're booked on a coach tour," muttered one and scuttled away, dragging her
friend. It was a pity to see them go.
"I'm not booked on anything," said the remaining one, eyeing me
appraisingly. I eyed her right back. She had long, straight, fair hair;
legs right up to her bum; a jolly bouncing bosom under a tight, dark blue
tank-top; a shortish white skirt; sensible leather sandals, a speculative
grin and obviously had more spirit of adventure than her friends.
I tried again. "What can I show you of my country, beautiful foreign
princess?"
She rolled her eyes. He bullshit detector was obviously in perfect working
order.
"A good time?" she asked, amused. She gasped as I immediately rose to my
feet, lifting her by the waist on the way and, with an authentic tribal
yell, dumping her into the ricksha seat. Here's a tip for you: lift first,
then yell, otherwise you lose customers. I learned that by experience. I
jumped into the yoke, leaped high again and again heard her gasp as she was
swung backwards. I trotted off immediately, denying her the chance to have
second thoughts and get off. I hoped she wouldn't be too upset when she
discovered the cost of the ride. All around us, other rickshas were filling
up. I took an unexplained trotting detour along the wharf and back. That
was to give Kenny a chance to pick up a fare and start out of the dock gate
before us. When he had a good start I tore after him with much leaping and
shouting macho-sounding challenges in Zulu.
"U-Ndi luphakeme kakhulu!" I screamed threateningly. That means "The
Drakensberg mountains are very high". No argument there.
Kenny had on board a plump, middle-aged couple who, little did they know,
were about to discover African beer. He looked back over his shoulder
dramatically and made a big fuss of taking up the challenge.
"Amanzi abilayo ashisa kabi!" he shouted at the top of his voice. That means
"Boiling water is excessively hot". And so it is.
The tourists were smiling nervously, hoping that being good sports was the
right thing to do in the face of what could well have been tribal warfare
brewing, fuelled by insults of the "Your mother wears Army boots" variety.
Kenny made a great show of accelerating and I of challenging him. It's very
recommended to do this soon as there's a convenient downhill slope and it
helps a lot to have momentum before the up-hill comes. Kenny had the
advantage of his tourists' weight on the downhill and I of my tourist's
lightness up-hill. With much dramatic gasping and wheezing he maintained a
lead. For some mysterious reason, I couldn't catch up. The mysterious
reason was that we both knew that middle aged couples tip better than young,
single girls. If he "won", they would tip him and buy him beer; whether I
won or not, my young Nordic goddess would just think it silly. And so it is.
But the tips are a good enough reason for doing it.
We were both well started on Plan A which involves Kenny bringing back beer,
my bringing back a girl and Jake bringing back a set of the traditional
tribal women's garb of skirt, blanket and hat. I'll get back to that. I had
now worked up a sweat and the Nordic goddess of the day was well placed to
admire the muscles of my back and legs writhing under my glistening ebon
pelt in a way fit to spark speculation in the most maidenly mind. Damn
those running shorts. As Kenny turned off towards the beer hall, jeeringly
calling out "Inkunzi iphunga izimpukane ngeshoba" as he went, I came to a
dramatic halt and collapsed, rolling over, so she could admire my heaving,
manly chest. Cheeky sod, Kenny--"The bull whisks off the flies with its
tail", indeed. Maybe his mother wears Army boots after all.
My Nordic goddess was sitting, composed and amused, looking down on me.
"Am I supposed to offer buy you a drink now?" she asked. We understood each
other.
"Thought you'd never offer," I said, recovering rapidly. "By a bizarre
coincidence..."
"...we're right outside a bar. Yes, I saw that."
Abandoning the ricksha, in front of a fire hydrant, we went in. The hum of
chatter died away promptly as it always does when a Zulu warrior in war kit
appears with a young Nordic goddess. It's worse when we have an assegai and
shield: you get folk trying to hide under the table. I guided her to a
corner booth, testing the water by familiarly squeezing leg and buttock in
the process. This is the moment of truth when we discover whether or not she
is truly a Masai-tourist. There was no problem at all with this one: she
reciprocally ran a hand up my thigh and sat close on the bench. There was
an immediate "Welcome to Zululand" response from within the running shorts.
Encouraged, I put my arm around her waist and, starting with my palm on her
leg, ran my middle finger up her inner thigh and under the hem of her skirt.
That's my best turn-on: when my fingertip senses the change to the soft,
private skin at the top of the thigh. I ran my finger along the pantie line
bordering thigh and pelvis, up and down. Kirsten stirred in her seat,
pressing back. Reaching as far forward and down as I could get, I slipped
three fingertips under the panties and encountered a welcoming wetness.
Using two finger to spread her folds, I coiled my middle finger back to sink
inside her and then slide back out over her clit. She gasped and
straightened up, gripping the table.
The waitress chose that moment to appear, smirking knowingly. We played
casual and fooled no-one.
"Hi, Giles Goat-Boy!" chirruped the waitress familiarly. "The usual?" She
almost sniggered.
I must have a word with her about that. It's not supposed to appear so
obviously planned and routine. Jake wants everything to appear spontaneous.
It's a turnoff for tourists to feel that they're being herded through a
process like cattle. They get that from the airlines. From us, they get
individual care and attention.
"Thanks, and...?" I looked at the Nordic goddess.
"The same," she said, looking me straight in the eye. One hand went to my
thigh and became aware of life within the running shorts. She moved her
fingernails up and down and provoked further signs of vibrant, interested
life. This was a no-nonsense creature, all right. Which was great. Saved
time.
"Hullo, Giles Goat-Boy from Zululand," she said, as the waitress departed.
"I'm Kirsten from Uppsala, Sweden."
"How do you do, Kirsten? May I help you to see some of the sights of
Zululand? How long do you have?"
"The boat leaves at ten in the morning tomorrow. What sights can you
offer?"
"Well," I said, going for broke, "that's one of the great sights of Zululand
that you're playing with right there."
She laughed. "That's good to hear. I should maybe ask how long _you_
have."
"You'll have to see for yourself."
"I look forward to it. What's his name, this great sight of Zululand?"
I never got that question before. "Ummm, I call him Young Africa," I
improvised.
"And hullo to you, too, Young Africa," she said, running a fingernail down
his dorsal side. He strained against the cloth. I wasn't going to be able
to walk. Maybe that's why they're called running shorts, I thought crazily.
The waitress reappeared with two pints of ale and we toasted each other's
health and future happiness. "Not too far in the future," I thought.
"Why do you wear those ridiculous shorts?" she asked. That question, I was
used to and ready for.
"It's the missionaries," I said, without batting an eyelid.
"The missionaries?" She didn't know whether to laugh or be aghast. It's
the usual reaction.
"'Fraid so. The first noose of colonialism is also the last to be cut
free."
Her bullshit detector was obviously sending out warning signals (as well it
might) but she decided not to risk offence and took it at face value. It's
the usual reaction. And now it was time for business.
"I run a conducted tour up into the hills to stay overnight in an authentic
Zulu village. You can get back before the boat leaves." I nearly added,
"Without running shorts" but decided not to over-do it.
"Sounds good," said Kirsten, "when does it leave? And how much?"
"When we get back to the dockside. They can't leave without me."
And I named a shameful amount of money. She didn't seem to mind. There are
advantages to being on the wrong end of an unfavourable exchange rate. I
took care to relieve her of the cash amount before she had time for second
thoughts, or saw the tour coach. Jake would have been proud of me. You may
ask, "Where to we keep the money?" Answer: in the head-dress: it's the most
elaborate garment we wear.
To give Young Africa a chance to calm down to the point where I could walk
around in public, we behaved ourselves while we sank the beer. When we
left, I lifted Kirsten back into the seat and used the opportunity for an
exploratory feel. Her immediate response was to wrap her arms around my
neck, her legs around my waist, and kiss me very hard and deeply.
Embarrassed, I struggled free.
"The cops..." I muttered. She gave a "don't care, I'm a tourist, I'm out of
here tomorrow" peal of laughter.
"So, let's get out of here," she commanded, and I did. No theatrical jumping
and shouting this time. It was straight back to the docks with business to
do. When we got there, Jake and Kenny were already waiting by my minibus
taxi. Jake had the skirt and blanket and the hat for later and Kenny had
the latest consignment of beer from the beer hall. I made the introductions
and left Kirsten with them while I took my ricksha to the lockup. When I got
back, she was appraising their manly charms and seemed to like what she saw.
"And now," I announced, "we're off."
"Wait a minute," said Kirsten, uncertain for the first time. "This is it?
This is the coach? This is the tour? One tourist and three guides?" It
was the moment of truth.
"_Bus_ tour," I emphasised. "Minibus tour, in fact. We're trying to fight
high unemployment on a budget, here," I said, giving it my best roguish
grin. "Also, we're offering a specialist, individual service here." I
opened the door and gestured an invitation. There was an audible, and well
deserved, "ping!" from the bullshit detector and then she seemed to decide
"the hell with it" and grinned back and climbed in. The next step was for
Kenny, Jake and me to take off our running shorts. The Chamber of Commerce
rent-a-cop, who was wearily familiar with the ritual, resignedly started
drifting across the car park to take issue. With joyous, juvenile cat-calls
we climbed in and took off with a roar of exhaust into Durban's late
afternoon traffic and to the road out of town.
I drove and Kirsten was sitting beside me. Her hand appeared on my thigh
before we cleared the city limits and re-awoke the interest of the
untrammelled Young Africa. He rose to the occasion manfully. Kirsten gave
an approving whistle.
"Now that's what I call a real monkey tail," she said. She slid down and I
felt her breath, alternating hot and cold as she first exhaled through open
lips and then pursed and blew. Kenny and Jake's inconsequential chatter
died away into an interested, and awed, silence. Young Africa really,
really liked it and I felt my attention to courteous, considerate driving
eroding rapidly. Kirsten's warm, wet mouth appeared round Young Africa's tip
and she swirled her tongue around in a way that nearly caused an accident.
Unwelcome memories of "The World According to Garp" flooded irresistibly to
mind. I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. Kirsten sat up and looked
around.
"Are we there already?" she asked.
"No, and, unless you behave yourself, we'll never get there."
She crowed her crow of laughter again. "Maybe I can play with Kenny and
Jake in the meanwhile?"
"Yes, yes!" said Kenny. Even Jake smiled.
"I've got a better idea," I said, "Who wants to take over the driving?" No
one did so I sulked and drove on.
Kenny said, "The tour begins with a sample of traditional African beer." He
produced his latest commission from the beer hall owner and, as we began the
climb into the Valley of the Thousand Hills, we tested its
inhibition-lowering properties on Nordic goddesses and Zulu warriors. Much
expensive tourist scenery started going past and Kirsten had the grace to
admire it. A few beadwork sellers waved their wares from the side of the
road but I ignored them: Jake has no commission agreement with them. When
we passed the sports club in the gathering twilight I announced, the way we
always announce, "That is the site of the famous Battle of Isandhlwana where
the proud Zulu nation threw off the colonial yoke". It wasn't and they
didn't--although it was a damned good try--but Jake is very hot on sending
the tourists away with a sense of achievement. Kirsten was politely
interested briefly before returning to the beer. She was clearly more into
anthropology than history.
We turned off the main road and, as we bumped down the track to the village,
we started to sing the homecoming chant in our manly basses. It's very
authentic and the tourists love it. Kirsten was enthralled. In the last
minutes of daylight, we drew to a halt outside the hut and we switched to a
song sung as battle approaches. The next bit always embarrasses me but Jake
insists on it. He says we have to give them something to write on their
postcards home. We took up our shields and assegais and started a shuffling
dance as we chanted and formed around the giggling, uncomprehending Kirsten.
She found herself shepherded into the hut between me and Kenny as Jake
darted ahead to light the paraffin lamp. It swayed as it hung on the pole
and our crazily dancing shadows swooped and swirled around the walls after
us as we circled around.
We switched from shepherding Kirsten and Kenny moved between her and me,
chanting a challenge and stamping. I thrust him aside and moved between him
and Kirsten. He snarled and pushed back. It dawned on Kirsten that we were
competing for her. Horrified, she backed, wide eyed, against the wall, with
the back of her hand pressed to her mouth as we two virile exemplars of
young Zulu manhood ran at each other, shouting challenges and slammed our
shields together. We shoved at each other and competed to be between
Kirsten and our opponent. It was clearly a competition for her sexual
favours. The assegais thrust and weaved and tried and failed to find a path
around the shields. It's all part of the act of course and the outcome is
decided in advance. I was going to get first go at Kirsten, that was
settled. After all, it's my minibus taxi. Nevertheless, the spectacle of
muscular, half naked warriors working up a sweat fighting for her favours
often has a memorably aphrodisiac effect on the Nordic goddess of the moment
and that is a good enough reason for doing it.
Jake intervened, as he always does, when he judged that there had been
enough dangerous waving around of sharp steel. By some mysterious process,
it appeared that my might had prevailed and, as I roared my triumph like a
rooster on a dung hill, Kenny discarded his shield and assegai. He and Jake
each seized Kirsten firmly by a wrist and led her towards the sleeping mat.
She had a ready glitter in her eye which might have been lust or a
commercial satisfaction that she was about to get her money's worth. She
had more than demonstrated her willingness but, as they lowered her onto her
back on the sleeping mat, they held her fast by wrist and knee anyway,
because the next bit was tricky. They pulled her knees apart and I threw
aside my shield and knelt between them, assegai in hand. That's the tricky
bit: sometimes they think they're going to be sacrificed to the terrible war
god, or something, which distracts them horribly. Kirsten had her moment of
doubt, too, and she gasped and pulled back. Jake's hand flashed from her
knee to her mouth and he held her firmly down.
The assegai point came out, its honed edge a glittering, golden line in the
yellow light of the paraffin lamp, and slipped under the bottom edge of her
tank top. I held the blade flat against her belly and pushed it up towards
her breasts. Her eyes were wide, she squeaked and writhed but Jake and
Kenny held her fast. I turned the blade so the upper, rounded edge stretched
the fabric up and away from her cringeing, twitching skin and thrust the
point out the neck of the garment. I wrenched and it cut through and fell
to the mat, leaving her torso golden in the light of the lamp.
"Jee!" we all yelled, simultaneously. She jumped nervously, her eyes on the
assegai point. It slipped between her breasts, under her bra. Another
wrench and it snapped away, exposing her golden, tanned breasts. Her
nipples were maroon in the lamplight. Jake and Kenny dipped their heads,
each to suckle one. Kirsten's eyes became less round as she began to
realise that this was a sexual overture and not ritual slaughter. This
realisation seemed to encourage her enormously. Kenny and Jake lifted their
heads to give her a good sight of the next stage and her nipples puckered
and hardened in the chilling, evening air. Young Africa was pushing aside
the monkey tails.
Kirsten watched as the assegai point disappeared up her short skirt and
trembled as the blade touched her skin and reappeared at her navel. A third
wrench destroyed the skirt and exposed her panties and a fourth disposed of
them. The crazy yellow lamplight made her blonde bush looked like brass
shavings. Kenny, Jake and I made crowing noises of triumph and we started a
horrible sound. It starts as a growl and rises into a howl. It's fit to
frighten the jackals away and it certainly got her attention. "Uppsala was
never like _this_," I hope she was thinking.
As we fell silent, I lowered my head between her thighs. I panted hot,
animal pants on her leg. She jumped as the tip of my tongue touched her and
then held very still. I worked my way up her leg with little lip bites and,
when I got to her bush, jumped straight to the other leg, noting the smell
of rising excitement as I passed. I worked back, this time with big,
swiping, dog licks and again, when I got to her bush, jumped the gap and
carried on along the opposite thigh. Young Africa was straining and ready
to go.
I straightened up and looked down at her, pinned firmly, wrist and shoulder,
to the sleeping mat by Kenny and Jake. I gave her a big, happy grin. She
smiled and lifted her legs. She placed her heels on my buttocks and pulled
me towards her.
"Yes..." she said, "yes. Fuck me."
I stooped down again and lifted her knees over my shoulders. I placed my
open mouth over her mound and licked. She gasped and her pelvis pushed back
at my face. I put my hands atop her thighs and pushed down. I opened my
mouth as wide as I could and sucked. She rewarded me with a little animal
whimper. I backed off and started licking, up and down her slot, big dog
licks. She gave little cries, squeaks, every time I passed her clit. I
pulled her folds gently apart with my fingertips, pulled back the little
hood from her clit and pressed back so it stood out, hard. And waited.
Her ankles, at my waist, pulled. Tugged. She was urging me on. I tongued
her clit, waggling my tongue side-to-side, fast as I could. She called out,
cooing, gasping, gurgling. I straightened up again. Her legs fell aside.
As I looked at her, her eyes went to the rampant, tip-gleaming Young Africa,
thrusting keenly out amongst the monkey skins. She looked at Kenny and
Jake. Their manhood, too, was proudly on display. She reached out, with
her fingers, struggling to grasp them. They released her wrists, she licked
her thumbs and firmly grasped both their cocks, forefingers around the
firemen's helmets and wet thumbs firmly in their faces. Kenny and Jake
straightened up instinctively, dreamy looks coming to their eyes.
Her eyes returned to me and again I felt her heels nudging at my buttocks.
I bent forward and placed my palms flat on the sleeping mat, my fingers
burrowed under her shoulders. I probed forward and felt Young Africa touch
warm, welcoming wetness. Her calves were clamped at my waist, pulling me
on. With a happy growl, I sank into the honey depths as far as I could go.
As I did, she wrapped her legs tight about my waist and whispered a fiercely
satisfied "Yes!". The legs gripped and held me fast, straining forward into
her depths. Her eyes were closed and there was a tight grimace on her face.
Jake and Kenny were motionless too.
"Oh, boy," she finally said after many long seconds. The grip of her legs
loosened gradually and I pulled back as she let me go. Then she squeezed
again, drawing me forward and back into her furthest recesses. And relaxed.
Back, and down, and back, and down. As I settled into the rhythm she
wanted, her legs released me. She put her feet flat to the floor and pushed
herself up to meet my thrusting. I was vaguely aware of Jake and Kenny
either side of me, moving and gasping and sighing in time with me in the
gathering gloom of the guttering lamp.
And then Kirsten released them and wrapped her arms tight around me. She
held herself to me as close as she could, hanging monkey-like from my torso,
resting on the small of her back, being carried back and forth a little with
every thrust. She pulled my face down to hers and thrust her tongue into my
mouth, making little whimpering noises as I sawed back and forth. Then her
head went back and hung as she started making little mewing noises. She was
close. Her legs wrapped themselves around my thighs and she started urging
me on, faster and faster. I could feel Jake and Kenny's breath. Their
hands were on her body, cupping her straining buttocks, her neck, as a long,
groaning cry was wrung from her as she came and came and came, convulsing
around me, gripping me harder than ever, driving me over the edge, to
explode in her and pour and pour and pour my seed into her.
She slowly relaxed her arms and lay back on the sleeping mat as I looked
down at her, the sweat on her forehead glittering in the lamplight--my
beautiful Masai-tourist. Her eyes opened slowly and focussed on me. The
mischievous grin slowly constructed itself on her face and she said, "Oboy.
Best guided tour I ever went on." Her legs slowly released me and I rolled
off, breathing heavily, to lie next to her, one arm across her rib cage, the
other snaking under her neck. She cuddled and leaned up and kissed me.
"That was great," she said. She looked down at Young Africa. "He seems to
have lost interest," she observed. "But," she looked at Jake and Kenny,
"there's more business to do here."
She crawled over to Jake and gently took his straining cock in her mouth.
Her head bobbed up and down as a faraway expression painted itself onto his
face. She released him and turned around, on hands and knees, to face away.
She looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Come, jungle tiger," she said, "take me jungle style." She reached a hand
back, took his cock and guided him forward, into her. His hand went to her
hips and he pulled her back at him as he thrust himself forward at her. She
reached far back behind her to grab his thorax, breast-bobbingly urging him
to be faster, harder, and then, when she had him up to speed, beckoned to
Kenny. He walked towards her on his knees. She cupped his balls with one
hand as he came within her reach and guided his cock into her mouth with the
other. She rocked from one to the other as I watched them in the failing
lamplight. With a satisfying feeling that my duty had been done I fell into
a deep sleep and heard, from far away, the sounds of Jake and Kenny
servicing the tourist industry in their turn.
I slowly woke in the morning to the realisation of bright sunlight. Shit!
The ship was leaving. What was the time? No watches are included in
traditional tribal gear nor clocks in authentic native villages. I
blundered over the sleeping bodies to get to the clock in the minibus. We
just about had time.
I ran back inside, kicking at Jake and Kenny.
"Her damned ship's leaving," I said. They scrambled up. Kirsten was
awakening slowly. She stretched happily and the mischievous grin came out to
say, "Good morning".
"Hullo, big boys," she said, "and what's next on the guided tour? Do we get
breakfast?"
Well, for the record, we don't, but what I said was, "We're going to be late
for your ship." She gasped in horror and looked about for her clothes. Not
a hope: they were history.
"Get in the 'bus," I said.
"But I have no clothes," she wailed. "What am I going to do?"
"Get in the 'bus," I said, "Now. Unless you want to swim after your ship."
Jake and Kenny grabbed and hustled her, naked and squeaking indignantly, out
into the morning where a few interested villagers got an eyeful. I revved
up the bus and we bumped up the rutted track towards the main road.
"The tour of the authentic native village concludes," said Jake, loudly
enough to invade Kirsten's distress, "with the award to each of the ladies
on the tour a set of traditional native dress." He produced the skirt, the
hat and the blanket and Kirsten was restored to dignity as I exceeded the
speed limit back to the Durban dock. We could hear the warning blasts from
the ship as we got near. They were ready to pull up the gang plank and sail
on to Port Elizabeth to give the Nordic goddesses a chance to found out what
the young Xhosa men have to offer.
I stopped by the sidewalk to let Jake out before I drove round to park the
minibus. He ran off to the lockup and brought my ricksha round to meet us
in the car park. We lifted Kirsten in and pulled her, full speed, up the
wharf to her ship, leaping up, tipping her backwards, yelling "Jee!", the
whole trip. They saw us coming and waited. When we got to the foot of the
gang plank, Jake grabbed Kirsten's bag and Kenny and I grabbed Kirsten and
carried her raucously up to the top at the run as she screamed with
laughter.
A sour-faced purser was waiting to block us from getting on the boat. He
knew exactly what was going on, of course. He was just jealous, as well he
might be. Oh, well, our services create a demand for his. Ours are more
fun, is all. We got big farewell hugs and kisses all round from Kirsten.
"I'm going to tell all my friends at home about you," she said. So that was
all right. She went off in a happy daze and her new native blanket to get
her passport stamped and the purser ushered us firmly down the gang plank.
At the bottom, the Chamber of Commerce rent-a-cop was waiting to make us put
on those damned running shorts. Oh, and by the way, there are no tigers
here, or jungles. It didn't seem right to point that out at the time,
though.
--
This is my first story on ASSM. I'd be pleased to hear from you, at
mailto:FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked it, and
why.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+