"Mr. Simpson? Mr. Simpson?" It took a moment, but the forty year old man with the fair skin, salt and pepper hair, and blue eyes suddenly started and turned from the window-wall of his office to acknowledge his secretary, thirty yards away at the door.
"I have the Warner files, Mr. Simpson, let me just leave them here." The middle age woman, a picture of efficiency itself walked briskly to his desk, placed a foot thick pile of paper on a corner of the gleaming, polished mahogany, then withdrew. It took her a little while to traverse the distances on the thick carpet. Andrew Simpson sighed heavily, called back from the most pleasant daydream, a daydream in which a coal black man with a shield-shaped chest figured prominently. Simpson was moving now ever closer to a decision he knew he must make. He glanced quickly outside through the rain streaked expanse of glass at the grey Philadelphia morning sky. He looked at the departing form of his secretary, middle-aged and broad as a couch but deadly efficient. The thought flashed upon his mind that he had eschewed young, attractive help in favor of the older, the more mature, the more efficient--the less sexually complicated. How often had he fended off the ribbing of his colleagues with an appeal to that efficiency, to all the hours he billed for the firm? "Mrs. DeNiro," he said.
"Yes, sir?" she turned smartly and stopped.
"Thank you. Please ask Mr. Heliger to step in, if convenient."
"Yes sir," she replied, and then she was gone.
Simpson turned back to view the gathering autumn, the inevitable dusk, the reminder that each human must sooner or later go through fall and then winter. He wanted to turn back the calendar. He intended to do it soon, and perhaps today was the time. Ten minutes later there was a knock on his door, and Dandridge Heliger eased his grey eminence through the door and into the office. "Andy, wanted to see me?"
Andrew Simpson turned again and looked at him, pausing, considering. He gathered a breath and took the plunge.
"Dandy, thanks for coming. I.... I am resigning my partnership. I can work out the details with Stone, he can do all the paperwork. Let's just say.... let's say it's for my health." He looked again at the gathering grey.
Heliger stepped closer, but it took him a while given the vast ranges of Simpson's office. "Andy, can this be? Is it.... is it serious? What... what can I do?" he rumbled in his patrician tones.
Simpson saw the opportunity to enact the perfect role for the circumstances. He sighed audibly, looked down, then up at the senior partner of the firm. "I have been advised to rest and to seek a better climate. I might get back into the game some day, and you know I'll miss.... this...." he waved vaguely around him. "But it's something I have to do. I don't have a choice. Thanks for understanding." Heliger nodded, and the two shook hands.
It didn't happen right away. A week, a dozen meetings, and three trees worth of paperwork later, his condo on the market, his possession sold, his few relatives assured of his insanity, Andrew Simpson looked out of another window onto the hazy leaden Atlantic far, far below, as he winged his way toward Africa. Was he insane? He himself had to admit it: he was following the vision of his daydream, wrapped up in memories of the man he had met...the man he had won....in African months before. Was that man still there, did he even remember Simpson? Was this some adolescent crush? What were the odds that Motumbo had any recollection of Simpson? It was a crazy chance, and he knew it.
A whole day and two flights later he still was not at his final destination, but he was sound asleep at the airport hotel outside of Johannesburg, spending three days recovering. He never left the steel and glass confines of the modern hotel, far from the slums, far from the bush. He lived on room service, sleep, and fantasies. Finally, he bought--not rented--the Land Rover he had previously ordered and, loaded with the provisions he required, he set out in the direction of the future.
A four lane modern highway led to a two lane, which led to a dirt road which led to.... the savannah. The crowded traffic gradually thinned, the last overloaded buses and crammed, rusty old sedans slowly thinning out. His speed slowed as the quality of the road deteriorated, swerving around potholes, taking narrow roads on curves where he prayed no other vehicle was oncoming. Simpson drove with the map and directions on the seat beside him, consulting them every now and then, stopping from time to time to stretch his muscles, to eat the prepared food he had brought, to drink water and to look out across the rolling grasslands. Finally, as late afternoon shadows of the trees were lengthening, he turned down a dirt driveway marked by a small sign and, in a few minutes, pulled up to the compound he knew so well. The gates were shut. He blew the horn and after a few minutes a man he remembered came down the path from the cluster of buildings he could see on a hill. It was a man who had first brought to him, that night just a few months ago, his magnificent "prize:" Motumbo. He had never learned the name of the middle aged African who now approached, his wiry hair tinged with grey. But he recognized him and, after peering through the fence, the man nodded, grunted, and opened the gate to him. The African stepped up to his window.
"Welcome, Boss," he said, his face careful but inquisitive. "Boss De Groot, he gone. He leave you papers in the big house. Come in, Boss," he said. Simpson offered him his hand. The African looked at it in surprise, considered for a moment, and took it. He stepped back as Simpson pulled through the gate and stopped. As the African closed and locked the gate, Simpson stuck his head out. "Ride back up the hill?" he asked. Again a moment of appraisal, and the African nodded, then got into the car.
Simpson again extended his hand. "My name is Simpson. Andrew Simpson. And yours...." The African paused again for but a second, considering, wondering, and then said, "Thabo, Boss."
"We have met before, Thabo."
"Yes Boss," said Thabo, averting his gaze, looking straight ahead.
"Thabo....Thabo, I hope that you will continue working for me. But you don't need to call me `Boss.' Simpson or, if you must, Mr. Simpson, or even Andrew will do. Thabo is your first name?" The African nodded, now looking with frank interest at the white man beside him.
"Well, I wish you would stay and work for me as you did for De Groot. But if it is Thabo' for me, it had better be Andrew' for you." Simpson broke into a broad grin. Thabo continued to stare at him as if a mythical beast had risen before him. Then he nodded and said, "Yes, Boss Andrew." Simpson chuckled; it could wait. The two drove the short distance to the buildings of the compound.
Stepping out of the car, Simpson looked around. "When did De Groot leave?" he asked.
"This morning, Boss Andrew," Thabo replied.
"Are there.... Guests? Are we expecting any tomorrow or in the next week?"
Thabo hung his head slightly, shaking it. "We got one party, Boss Andrew. They to be here two more days. No other business. Boss De Groot....well, he not do so much with business, you know, Boss? Too much bottle in the last month," he said. Simpson nodded; he had received intimations of De Groot's impending collapse before. He didn't mind. He was not entirely sure he wanted to keep the business going as it had been. They drove a few more yards, and Simpson was compelled to ask the question he had been rehearsing for months.
"Thabo....do you remember Motumbo? He was.... He and I.... well...."
Thabo took mercy on him and nodded, looking away from Simpson. "Yes, Boss Andrew. Sometime he work, sometime not. Not a lot since you left. He in his village, Boss, not far." Simpson nodded, his heart beating more rapidly. They finally reached the buildings of the compound, pulling up to the largest dwelling, the caretaker's lodge. Now, it was his.
Turning to his luggage, and with Thabo's help, he unloaded the vehicle and moved his belongings into the caretaker's lodge. It looked as if De Groot had simply packed his own luggage and left. There were even cigarette butts in an ashtray. With Thabo's quiet assistance, Simpson had his belongings stowed away in good order before long. By then, night had truly fallen. The cries of the night birds and animals could be heard, some distant and some far off.
"You hungry, Boss Andrew? We got some springbok steaks" said Thabo. Simpson broke into a wide grin.
"That would be splendid, Thabo. And....our guests, have they eaten? Should I introduce myself?" he asked.
Thabo averted his gaze, his tone becoming carefully neutral. "They busy, Boss," he said. "They got a trophy this morning, been busy all day. I take food to their cabin later. And drink," he said, emphasizing the last word. Simpson thought for a moment, considering the meanings in what Thabo had left unsaid.
"Alright, Thabo, I will meet them tomorrow. I would love some dinner." Thabo brightened at this news and hurried off to prepare some food while Simpson continued to unpack. It was strange; it certainly looked as if De Groot had simply decamped with only his clothing, yet the space did not seem marked with another man's personality. It felt like home. With its wood construction, wild animal skins for throw rugs, rough-hewn furniture and massive stone fireplace, it seemed the perfect hunting lodge, yet it also seemed to Simpson as if he had lived here, not just since he began imagining it a few months ago, but forever.
Simpson had a small, bright fire going in the fireplace when Thabo returned with a covered tray. Thabo set in on the table and removed the cover, revealing a massive steak and vegetables. Simpson smiled broadly as he walked to the table, where Thabo was laying a single setting.
"It looks wonderful Thabo, thanks," he said. "Will you join me, have you eaten? It looks like enough for two."
Not for the first time, Thabo looked at Simpson in wonder. Then smiling shyly, he replied, "Thanks Boss Andrew, I ate. But.....thanks. You eat, Boss."
"That's `Andrew,' Thabo."
"You eat, Boss Andrew." Smiling again, thinking he might have to yield to the inevitable, Simpson sat. Surprised at his own hunger, he tore into the meal while Thabo watched with an air of satisfaction. After a few bites, he looked at Thabo. The African was not tall, of tough, wiry build, flecks of grey in his close cap of kinky hair. His broad, fudge colored face broke into a smile.
"Thabo, who is still working here, since De Groot left? Who is on staff?"
"Yes, Boss Andrew, we got me, the cook, two cleaning women they come in from the village once a day, Zama the night guard^×he walkin' round outside with the shotgun at night^×and three, uh... three of the prey, Boss." At this last mention Thabo's gaze shifted away from Simpson's. In embarrassment? In deference? Simpson wondered what Thabo thought of the business De Groot ran....the business Simpson himself had bought. "Oh, and the doctor from the government post down to the village, he come over whenever we got new clients or....prey, Boss Andrew. He test `em, make sure everybody healthy." Simpson nodded again. It was a wise arrangement. He decided he might press the issue of "prey" a bit.
"And the prey....the young men..." Thabo's eyes caught Simpson's more directly for a moment, then flickered away again. "Three of them. Is one with the clients?" Thabo nodded and murmured yes under his breath. Simpson continued: "What kind of people are these clients?"
Thabo looked hard at his employer, appraising, assessing. "They not so good men, Boss Andrew," he said. "Russians. They drink a lot. We's had some good clients from Russia but...not these ones."
"When do they go?"
"Day after tomorrow they last day, Boss Andrew." Simpson nodded, but determined to keep his eye on them. And he had some hard thinking to do about whether to continue "the business." Pushing back from the table, he thanked Thabo, who smiled in satisfaction and collected the dinner things. As Thabo moved toward the door, Simpson walked up behind him.
"Thabo, please introduce me to Zama," Simpson asked. Thabo nodded. On the way to the kitchen, he whistled loudly. A tall, rail thin man in his forties seemed to materialize from the darkness, his own dark color congealing from out of the shadows. Over his shoulder he carried a semi-automatic shotgun. Thabo introduced Zama and his new employer. Zama was a man of few words, carrying himself with an air of formal elegance and restraint, but Simpson reflected that he would not want to be on the wrong side of the gun. With a slight bow, Zama blended again with the night shadows.
Simpson told Thabo he wanted simply to walk around the compound. It was not large, and the outer fence was clearly visible, piled mud and earth in some places, high chain link with razor wire in other places. Thabo nodded and suggested, needlessly, that Simpson not go beyond the fence.
"Should we tell Zama I am out and about?" asked Simpson.
Thabo grinned broadly. "He know where you are, Boss Andrew. All the time. You can't see him, he can see you." Simpson nodded, both reassured and disconcerted at the knowledge of Zama's armed omniscience. He and Thabo bade each other good evening, and then Simpson began to walk slowly around the compound. It was just as he had remembered. From the building marked "Prey" came a soft light and the soft sounds of men's voices in quiet discussion..... these men would be "released" tomorrow, running from the predatory Russians...or enticing them? Simpson had never been sure during his visit, and De Groot seemed to imply some ambivalence on that score.
Simpson walked from building to building, then down the path that led to the more remote clients' cabins. He thought he recognized the one he had occupied, then a couple that stood empty. Then, at the end of the path, was the cabin occupied by his sole "guests," a soft light showing at the windows. The sound of men's voices could be heard as he came nearer, stepping softly, voices not in conversation. There was a cry of pain, not agony but discomfort. A harsh chuckle, then another in a different voice. Instructions growled. Something said urgently in a voice with unmistakable African tones. Then the sound of a slap on flesh, and a gasp. Teetering between concern and diffidence, between knowledge that the Russians had paid for their pleasure and a concern for the nameless African who was yielding it, Simpson paused. Then, in spite of himself, he stepped silently down the packed earth path toward the cabin. Nobody had bothered to curtain the windows. Simpson peered around the corner of a window and looked inside.
In a softly lit room stood a large, fleshy white man, nearly bald, with a jowly face covered with moles and warts. His rolls of flesh were partially covered by the black man he held in front of him, holding the African by his upper arms, the man's back to the white man's front, pulling the dark body into his fleshy torso. The African looked very young, eighteen if that. His skin was a medium brown that seemed darker in the light, highlights of dark honey here and there. The young man was slim but with a taut, muscular body, well defined chest and abdomen. His lips were two full rolls of flesh beneath a rounded, flared nose. A cap of tight peppercorn hair covered his head atop a slender neck. The youth's penis was dark and long, half-erect now beneath another small patch of peppercorn curls, beginning to arc out at an angle in front of his body above a heavy ballsack that hugged tightly to his body. The youth's hairless skin glowed in the soft light.
Another naked white man, at least a decade younger than the big man who held the African pinioned, strutted up and down in front of their black "captive." This man had a full shock of blonde-white hair, and a well developed, muscled body. He was talking incessantly, softly, and evidently in Russian. The youth could not have understood him, but the dark eyes of the captive African followed the younger man, maybe in fear, maybe in anticipation, it was hard to tell. Twice the younger Russian stopped to run his hand over the black youth's hairless chest and torso, each time pausing to pinch and twist the youth's purple dark, cone-shaped nipples, the young African wincing each time. And once...the Russian slapped the youth's face with an open hand. Simpson started, and some impulse in him wanted to burst into the cabin, but he held himself back. The two white men had paid for this, and the African had known what he was getting into....and would be paid himself for his troubles. Still, Simpson had a bad taste in his mouth about it.
A few more minutes of this passed. The younger white man's penis was now fully erect and purple, sticking out at attention. A thin thread of precum swung from the tip as he walked. To tell the truth, the African's penis was fully erect as well, arcing a little upward despite its length and weight. The heavy white man remained where he was, but continued to pull the African in toward him, grinding his groin into the black man's firm, protruding buttocks as he held the youth by the arms. In spite of himself, in spite of his disapproval, Simpson's own cock had begun to swell.
The white men exchanged some words, and suddenly the large white man pushed the African forward onto his hands and knees on a nearby bed. The heavy white man's penis could now be seen, also erect, beneath heavy folds of abdominal flesh. Reaching quickly for a tube of lubricant, the large white man greased his shaft liberally. Then stepping back up to the African who was on knees and elbows on the bed, the heavy white man put his erect tool to the prominent bottom of the black youth and push, hard. The African cried out, raising his head up and grimacing. The heavy white man pushed forward on the man's thin but muscular shoulders, pushing his head back down, and continued to push his groin into the firm black butt before him. The African groaned and squirmed but did not resist. There was a pause, and then the white man began pushing in and out, back and forth, his heavy flesh making a slapping sound as it connected with the chocolate flesh kneeling before him.
Now the other white man jumped onto the bed in one quick motion and positioned himself at the African's head. He reached down and lifted the black man's chin, aligning the thick, rolled lips with the leaking head of his rampant cock. The African was gasping in pain from the assault on his rectum, but he understood what was required of him. Opening his mouth, he took the younger white man's cock into his mouth. The black youth was now being fucked fore and aft by the white men, his own cock turgid and full, swinging almost down to the bed beneath his groin, his own midnight ballsack slapping against the testicles of the heavy white man who was pistoning in and out of him from behind.
Again, the heavy white man pushed the black man on his back, and then began slapping the rounded buttocks between which his rampant red cock was sliding in and out. Each thrust brought another slap, each slap harder than the last. The white man whose dick was being sucked held the African now by both ears, tweaking and twisting them, now by the head, digging his fingers into the tight, crisp hair, now slapping the black man's thin, muscular shoulders. The bed creaked with the increasing rhythms of the two whites. The African who was captive between them moaned and squealed softly, but was powerless to escape being fucked from both ends.
With a mighyt push and a shudder, the heavy white man came, pushing forward, nearly toppling the black youth as well as the younger white man at the other end. His breathe seethed and he slapped the black youth's butt twice, quite hard, then shuddered, then stood still, breathing heavily, his eyes closed. It took the younger white man a few minutes and then he also came, bucking his hips as his cock poured semen into the black youth's mouth, a gurgling sound of frantic swallowing coming from the captive's throat. The younger white man held that position, shuddering, and then pulled out, a trail of white semen coming from the black youth's thick lips as the red penis pulled away. The younger white man collapsed down onto his back and panted heavily, catching his breath. With an audible plop, the heavy set white man pulled his own wilting dick out from between the firm, rounded black bottom. With one push of his arm he swept the black youth off of the bed, then staggered forward to collapse next to his younger compatriot. Both white men lay side by side, panting, each one now reaching out to softly stroke the body of his companion, the younger man running his fingers over the mounds and lobes of the heavy man's flesh. The African picked himself up off the floor and walked stiffly to a chair in the corner of the room. There he sat, his own penis still erect and unrelieved, awaiting further instructions.
Simpson could take no more. He knew the Russians had paid for this, but he had a bad feeling about their treatment of the African, who sat gingerly on the chair, eyes closed. Simpson pulled away from the window and walked back up the path as quietly as he could. He was glad the two were leaving soon.
In the caretaker's lodge, in what was now his own bed, Simpson quickly fell asleep. But his dreams were all of a very dark, beautiful man with a shield-shaped chest, and when he awoke he found, to his wonder, that even at his age he had had a wet dream in the night.
Simpson rose and showered, dressing quickly. When he emerged, he saw that Thabo, alerted by the light in the lodge, had laid out breakfast. The black man was just preparing to depart.
"Good morning, Thabo," said Simpson.
"Morning, Boss Andrew."
"The Russians....are they hunting again this morning? Should I greet them, speak to them?"
Thabo's face was carefully composed. "They not go out today, Boss Andrew, they say they keep Little Mandla another day. Sometimes they clients, they do that, pays twice, if the one they catches agrees."
"Little Mandla...that was the name of the one they were with?"
"Yes, Boss Andrew, they say he OK with that."
"Did you hear that from Little Mandla himself?"
"No...no Boss, I didn't no hear, but Little Mandla, he take care of hisself." Thabo's face was still cautiously neutral.
Simpson considered, but decided that if Thabo was alright with the arrangement, he would be too....for now. Sitting down to his breakfast, Simpson gathered up his courage to say what he had planned to say.
"Thabo....I want to go visit Motumbo. Can you tell me how to find him? Is it easy enough?"
Thabo looked appraisingly at the white man, interest and comprehension growing. "Sure, Boss Andrew, not hard to get to his village. If he there. I think he is. You drive out?" Simpson nodded. "I fix food and water for you....and a gun, you need a gun out there," he said. Simpson nodded again and thanked Thabo, who likewise nodded, then left. Simpson quickly ate his breakfast. Finding a hat and a jacket to ward off the sun, Simpson walked out into the morning that was already warm and sunny. He was pleased to see that Thabo was just gassing up his vehicle, and that a basket of water and provisions had been stored in the back. Walking to the vehicle and peering in, Simpson recognized a Winchester in .458, well oiled, nestling in the gun rack behind the driver's seat.
Thabo gave directions, which did indeed seem clear. The two men rode down to the gate, shaking hands again as Thabo stepped out to open the gate and let Simpson through, then close it behind him. The men waved to one another as Simpson drove off, slowly for the sake of the terrain, quickly for the sake of his impatience, in the direction of Motumbo's village.
To be continued... Comments welcome, lokiaga@prodigy.net