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