"Huh?!" muttered Motumbo, startling awake in the early dawn. He pushed himself up on one elbow, which turned Andrew Simpson over. The white man had been sleeping with his head on the African's muscular chest, but was now himself awakened. Motumbo looked around in confusion. Then they heard it again, louder: a knock on their door.
"I'll get it," said Simpson as he staggered out of bed to walk across the floor of the lodge, naked. He didn't know who was at the door at this hour, but if they didn't want to see a naked white man, then they shouldn't be knocking. His morning half-erection bobbed as he walked. Simpson opened the door a crack, then wider, upon finding Big Mandla at the door.
The huge African's eyes widened a bit and he looked the naked white man up and down. It was not the first time he had seen Simpson naked, by any means. Both men had seen all there was to see of the other, and in frantic sexual action as well, when Big Mandla and Strello had shared their conquest of the two blonde Brit twins with the rest of the camp. Still, Big Mandla's eyes lingered for half a second on the white man's incipient erection before he remembered his errand.
"Oh! Boss Andrew, Thabo, he want to know where key to second car. We go get next two sets men in hour from Jo'burg," said the big man.
"Come in, come in," muttered Simpson, stepping back from the door to let the large, muscular black man enter. "Just a second," said Simpson, and darted into the rest room, not bothering to close the door, where he stood at the toilet and relieved himself, a strong steady stream splashing in the bowl. He finished and flushed and re-entered the great room, nodding again at Big Mandla, and nearly colliding with Motumbo who had risen and was hurrying from the bedroom. Motumbo's morning erection was fully realized, his heavy shaft sticking out at nearly a ninety degree angle, seemingly impossible for such a big tube of meat. "Piss," whispered Motumbo urgently to Simpson. The white man headed for the bedroom to search for keys while Motumbo rushed to the bathroom. All the while, Big Mandla looked at the spectacle with a grin on his face.
Simpson poked through trouser pockets and opened drawers to find the keys to his vehicle, which Big Mandla would drive following Thabo to pick up two parties that were arriving that day. He could hear the initial start and stop of Motumbo's piss in the bathroom next door as his large African lover pushed the yellow fluid past his erection, then the strong flow as the stream came on full force. Simpson found the keys in a moment and went back into the great room to hand them to Big Mandla.
There he found Mandla standing just inside the bathroom doorway, watching the last of Motumbo's urination. The two exchanged soft comments in their native tongue and then Big Mandla chuckled and, reaching out his hand, softly slapped Motumbo's naked bottom...and lingered there a moment. Simpson stood in the doorway and watched, in amusement rather than with jealousy. The floor creaked under him and Big Mandla turned with a start, pulling his hand off of Mandla's rounded butt and holding it behind him, his dark skin darkening even more with a blush. Motumbo himself, slowly shaking the piss from the end of his penis, looked at his white lover, then at Big Mandla, then raised his eyebrows and smiled at both.
"Here is the key," Simpson said, handing it to Big Mandla, who murmured a thanks and dropped them into his pocket. "And here is Motumbo's butt again," he said, stepping forward to grasp Big Mandla's arm by the wrist and placing his tan palm against the hard, rounded buttock of Motumbo, who chuckled. Big Mandla's mouth flew open wordlessly.
"It's alright," said Simpson. "You like?" Big Mandla continued to stare open-mouthed, but did not remove his hand from Motumbo's butt. "Motumbo, OK with you?" In answer Motumbo nodded, grinned, and pushed his bottom back into the cupped hand that Big Mandla held against him. Big Mandla grunted and, shifting position, grasped both of Motumbo's buttocks with his big hands, kneading them deeply while Motumbo braced himself against the wall behind the toilet and pushed back. For a moment Big Mandla stepped back to shed his clothes in a flash, then returned to fondling the strong, bubble bottom of the other African. The penises of all three men were now becoming fully erect, one purple and pink, and two deep midnight purple black shafts.
Motumbo pushed off from the wall and spun around, enfolding Big Mandla in an embrace, while their two huge organs slapped and batted each other, two bushes of crinkly pubic hair mashed together. Their strong brown arms now entwined each other, pulling shoulders and buttocks in towards their own bodies as they ground their torsos together, their breath coming more heavily now. Then their lips found each other, two sets of full, moist maroon brown lips locked together as tongues explored tongues and slid along teeth.
Simpson, his own breath coming heavily now, reached out to tug on two elbows. "Come," he said, urging them in the direction of the bedroom. They quickly complied, heading for the bed with huge, engorged poles swaying, strings of precum already flying from the lighter pink-brown tips that were now fully exposed. Motumbo and Big Mandla flung themselves onto the bed, while Simpson stood at its edge, slowly pumping his own organ while he watched the spectacle. The two black men mated like Cape buffalo, like two oak trees coming together. Powerful, meaty chests rubbed against each other as first one and then the other rolled on top, each in a competition of lust to dominate the other. Their heavy penises now lay pointing straight up between their bellies, their dark skins shining with sweat and a sheet of precum as they slid and squirmed on each other.
Big Mandla managed to turn Motumbo onto his belly...perhaps not without some help...and reached quickly for the tube of lubricant on the bedside table. Resigned to the situation, Motumbo cocked his pelvis up and back, waiting to be impaled. Big Mandla's engorged dick, now slick with the lubricant and precum, was positioned at Motumbo's asshole, the head placed up against the wrinkled anus. Squatting on his haunches, Big Mandla pushed. As big a man as Motumbo was, he was unused to being fucked by so large an organ as that on Big Mandla. Motumbo gasped and cried out, but kept his bottom turned up, offering a large, rounded, bubbled bottom to the huge African behind him. Big Mandla pushed again, then in a long, slow slide landed himself entirely within Motumbo. The big black man on the bottom cried out again, closing his eyes in pain, but maintained his position.
Big Mandla now held himself up off of Motumbo's back, his palms flat on the bed on either side of Motumbo, and began swinging his pelvis back and forth, back and forth. Slowly, then in a definite rhythm, the massive Mandla fucked Motumbo, fucked him as Motumbo had never been fucked before, allowed him to learn what it felt like to be fucked by a huge African dick. Moaning and gasping, Motumbo took his punishment willingly, continuing to push back and up into Big Mandla, matching his rhythm with his own cocking of his pelvis. Then faster and faster Big Mandla went, pushing his huge penis all the way into the open hole between Motumbo's rounded buttocks, until Big Mandla roared and pushed forward. He shivered, then pumped back and forth quickly, pushed and cried out again and held that position, gasping and trembling. Then Big Mandla slumped forward on top of Motumbo's back, heaving, fighting for breath.
He did not stay there long. Simpson had not been idle. He had slicked up his own rampant purple pole with lubricant and precum, and now moved quickly onto the bed. He rolled Big Mandla off of Motumbo, the long, still-rigid penis sliding out with a slurp and a pop, the big man lying on his back right next to Motumbo. Simpson quickly positioned himself on his knees between Big Mandla's thighs and lifted both legs up and back. Motumbo raised himself onto his elbows to watch the fun. Simpson placed the pink, swollen head of his rigid cock against Big Mandla's brown anus and pushed hard. Big Mandla cried out, but Simpson landed himself entirely in one push. His penis, of adequate size for a white man, was not as large as what Big Mandla was used to being fucked with, so the African soon smiled and nodded at Simpson. The white man stretched out over the African, holding himself up off the man with his palms on the bed, looking deeply into the dark eyes of the black man beneath him, and began fucking him with long, powerful strokes.
Both men were breathing heavily, into the rhythm of the fucking, Big Mandla's legs pushed back by Simpson's arms. Big Mandla reached up and locked the brown fingers of his hands behind the white man's neck, entwined in his cornsilk hair, while Simpson's purple cock plunged in and out of his butt. Simpson broke his gaze and turned quickly to Motumbo, who had been enjoying the spectacle. "Fuck me," he said simply, then went back to an intense absorption with Big Mandla.
Needing no further encouragement, Motumbo got into position behind Simpson, lubricating his massive pole, while Big Mandla's semen dribbled out of his own asshole and down his inner thighs. The white man's bottom had been stretched in the night by their usual lovemaking, but nevertheless it was still all Simpson could do to take Motumbo's massive pole which he slid bit by bit into Simpson's ass. The white man helped to impale himself as his rocking motion in and out of Big Mandla pushed his own butt farther and farther onto Motumbo's rigid cock. As soon as Motumbo was fully in he pushed forward with all his might. Simpson landed flat on Big Mandla's chest and belly while Motumbo stretched out flat on Simpson's pink and tan back.
Simpson set the pace, a white man sandwich in between two powerfully muscled African men. In and out of Big Mandla he swung, while Motumbo matched his rhythm from behind. Simpson's pale pink lips found Big Mandla's luscious, full maroon brown lips and they kissed deeply and passionately, sharing breath as they moved toward climax. Big Mandla's cock remained rigid between his and Simpson's body. Motumbo's hands grasped first the white man and then Big Mandla, he nuzzled Simpson's neck and chewed on his cornsilk hair as his own strokes became stronger and stronger.
Oddly enough, Big Mandla was the first to come, again. Crying out, arching and twisting his body as much as he could while supporting the weight of two men, his prostate stimulated beyond endurance by the white man's fucking, his dick unloaded a pool of cum that slicked up his dark and Simpson's light chest and belly skins. Then Motumbo came, groaning and swearing under his breath as he pushed forward, crushing both white and black men beneath him as he poured his semen into the white man's rectum. Before he was done, Simpson came, his body straining to buck and push but with no room to do so as electric waves of ecstasy washed over him. All three men gasped and heaved, clutched and groaned, and then one by one they subsided. A moment of quiet descended. Sweat and semen leaked from Motumbo, down Simpson's sides, neck, and bottom, to join with Simpson's own sweat and cum that was leaking down onto Big Mandla. White and black joined into one for a few moments of bliss.
Big Mandla came to his senses first, chuckling and pushing both men off of his powerful body. "Got to drive, Boss!" he said with a grin. Slapping first a white butt and then a black one, Big Mandla rose and went quickly into the shower. Motumbo and Simpson lay in bed a moment longer, smiling and looking into each other's eyes, stroking each other's faces, and then went to join Big Mandla in the shower, the three men steaming up the small room as they cleaned themselves and each other. Then Big Mandla was off on his errand while the other two got dressed.
Simpson and Motumbo led the staff through procedures for the event that would occur the next day. There was to be a paintball hunt, much like the one that first introduced Simpson to Motumbo, but with this new twist: it was to be a battle, a contest between the two visiting parties. Three white men from the States were to compete with three Japanese men, the winner to "own" the other party for the next forty-eight hours. The Africans on the staff, previously used to serving as prey, were now serving as referees and marshalls for the conflict. Grins of excitement were on every dark face as they looked forward to the coming battle, and to its outcome. These preparations, and making sure two lodges were in good order, took up most of the morning.
It was shortly before lunch that Simpson heard the sound of the gate to the enclosure opening in the distance, and the oncoming noise of a vehicle engine. As it got closer it seemed to him only a single vehicle, not the two that had set out for the paying guests. Looking at his watch, Simpson realized it was a little early for Thabo and Big Mandla to return anyway. There was the sound of a truck braking outside. He rose to see what the matter was.
There was an old pickup truck parked in the open area in front of the main lodge. Motumbo was standing by the driver's side door, speaking to someone in the truck. Then the big African turned and saw Simpson, half turned back to the truck, spoke something in a low voice, then turned again and began walking slowly toward Simpson, his face alternating smiles and worried, backward glances. He stepped up to Simpson, who was trying to read his lover's face.
"Chele," said Motumbo.
"Pardon me?"
"Chele," the African repeated, then stepped to the side, his head down, gesturing back at the truck. Looking over Motumbo's shoulder, Simpson caught his breath. It was Motumbo's woman sitting in the driver's seat, a big smile splitting her beautiful face. "Chele," Motumbo said again, "She come for visit. She come to see. She...Boss, she say she stay here this night." Motumbo was looking anywhere but at Simpson.
Simpson tottered for a moment, balanced among several dangerous emotions, looking back and forth between the man and the woman. Yearning, fear, calculation, strategy, despair...and then he spoke.
"Of course, Motumbo," he said softly. "And you must stay with her. Take..." he looked around, "take that lodge over there, it won't be used tonight," he said.
Motumbo's head jerked up, his face a mask of relief but also washed with worry and indecision. "Boss... Andrew.... This OK? Really? It just tonight...maybe," he said. Simpson could not speak now, afraid of what he would say, but he nodded and thumped Motumbo on the shoulder. Summoning up courage and speech, Simpson walked over to the truck and extended his hand to the woman.
"My name is Andrew Simpson," he said, "Welcome." The woman smiled broadly, perhaps not understanding a word, and whispered something in another language. Simpson nodded, turned, and walked back to the main lodge, passing Motumbo on the way, winking at him and flashing a forced grin...then continued winking to clear his eyes of the unwanted tear or two that snuck out, unbidden, as he walked into the lodge.
Simpson just picked at his lunch, and could only seem to shuffle papers around for the next hour. Every now and then he would walk to the window; the lodge that Motumbo and Chele would take for the night was just barely in view. Simpson could see little, but imagined much.
In mid-afternoon the gate to the compound opened again and in drove the two vehicles with the new guests. Simpson stepped out to meet them. Thabo drove three Japanese men in his vehicle, all in their twenties or early thirties, slim and handsome with shocks of thick, glossy black hair, all speaking passable English. Big Mandla drove the three Americans, of about the same age, two brown haired and slim, and one blonde, the blonde large and strapping, with beachboy hair. The groups had evidently met at the airport, and as they milled around collecting luggage they covertly eyed each other, sizing up their chances in tomorrow's contest. Simpson introduced them all, greeting them cordially, but his mind was in a fog, and he had to admit as the men were escorted off to their respective lodges that he could hardly remember a name among them.
Simpson caught sight of Motumbo and Chele strolling around the grounds a couple of times that afternoon. Motumbo was gesturing, a proud look on his face, no doubt explaining his role in the renovations and new constructions. A shy smile played on Chele's face as she admired both the facilities and her man, looking up at him proudly from time to time as they walked along. Simpson shook his head as if to clear out cobwebs. He knew she was a presence in his life, he reminded himself...he knew they were not going to be apart permanently...he knew he'd have to share Motumbo...he knew, he knew, he knew...but that didn't make this any better.
Dinner that night was a rollicking affair. Both the Americans and the Japanese flirted shamelessly across the table, inhibitions loosed by the cocktails and wine, by the tasty game dinner, as boasts and frank calculations of each other's sexual prowess were hurled from one side to the other. Simpson sat at the head of the table with a fixed smile, Thabo at the other end. Thabo eye his boss covertly throughout the meal, knowing of the anguish that Simpson was feeling. Simpson rose at the end of the party and bade his guests goodnight, then watched as each party strolled down the path to their respective lodges, still offering humorous challenges to each other as they went. Standing in the quiet moonlight for some time, Simpson thought he heard sounds from Motumbo's lodge. Try as he might he could not tune theme out. Sighing, he turned and headed down the path to his own lodge.
Simpson's head was cast down as he entered, so he heard before he saw: "Hey, Boss Andrew!" It was a low, soft, sexy growl. Startled, Simpson looked up to find Strello stretched out on the couch, smiling, dressed only in shorts. The light from the oil lamp on the table flickered and danced on his shiny, deep chocolate skin. "Boss, you want company? Motumbo, you know, he come back to you Boss, you no worry `bout that. But tonight, you want company?"
Simpson stared at Strello for a moment, open-mouthed. Then a slow burn and a jerk in his loins answered for him. He chuckled. "Yes, Strello, I would. It's very kind of you to think of me."
"I not kind, Boss, good for me, y'know?" said Strello, bounding up off the sofa, vitality coursing through his short but strong, stocky body. "C'mon, we play like we customer," he said, grabbing Simpson's hand and tugging him toward the door. Now laughing in spite of himself, Simpson followed out into the night and up the path. In a moment it was clear where Strello, still holding his hand, was leading him.
By the foot of the stairs to the high entrance of the Ball Room, Strello flicked on the electricity. Lights shone through the windows one floor up, and a hum indicated that the air system was working at full blast. Strello tugged Simpson up the stairs. On the landing by the entrance, Strello shed his shorts and shoes, his semi-turgid penis flopping against his thigh. Simpson followed suit, soon standing naked in the evening breeze. Strello opened the door to the building.
"You go, Boss," he said. Simpson nodded and ducked inside the air lock. The door behind him closed, he opened the door in front of him, and pushed off into the dimly lit sea of lightweight plastic balls. A few strokes and he was away from the door. Hearing a noise, he looked behind him and could just vaguely make out a dark shape where he had been a moment before. Strello had entered and was pursuing him.
For perhaps fifteen minutes the two men floated, swam, and soared through the balls, enjoying the illusion of weightlessness, enjoying the sexually charged thrill of the chase. A couple of times Strello nearly had Simpson, grazing his ankle with his fingers once, but Simpson lurched, rolled, and escaped. Strello was relentless, however, and eventually cornered Simpson in a top corner of the room. Closer and closer he came, and then Simpson turned the wrong way, making the wrong guess, and Strello was upon him. Simpson did not struggle much. Rolling together, laughing, first one on top and then the other, the two frolicked like naked otters in water. And then Strello got Simpson around the waist, holding on firmly with his arms, his head by the white man's fully erect, pink and purple rod. Twisting, Simpson caught Strello by the hip and pulled, bringing their bodies together.
Slowly turning in the sea of balls, the two sought each other's bodies with their mouths. Simpson swallowed Strello's large nutsack in his mouth, gently sucking, his tongue feeling the gentle scratch of the kinky hairs on the wrinkled skin, while one hand slowly pumped Strello's iron hard purple black cock and the other hand anchored itself on a rounded deep chocolate buttock. Strello grasped Simpson's pink and tan bottom with both his hands, his strong brown fingers kneading the flesh deeply, and took aim for the white man's rigid shaft. Strello enclosed just the pink head of the white man's shaft in his full lips, massaging the knob with his lips and slipping his tongue over and under it. Simpson quivered and pushed involuntarily, sliding his shaft further into Strello's mouth. The black man's broad nose was soon mashed against the white man's heavy ballsack as his mouth sucked the swollen rod. His massaging fingers now probed Simpson's anus as well.
Simpson gently spat out Strello's ballsack and moved his mouth around to the African's brown and purple wrinkled asshole. He tongued it, causing the black man to twist with pleasure. Then he moved his mouth back down, and took the iron hard black cock in his mouth, spewing precum across his chin and chest. Strello began pumping, bucking his hips back and forth as he fucked the white man's mouth, while for his own part he sucked greedily on Simpson's pink and purple dick, sliding his tongue up and down the shaft as he took the penis in as far as he could. Locked together, both of their hips now pumping back and forth, both men loved each other's penises with their mouths, balanced between the pleasure of sucking and of being sucked, until Simpson groaned, arched his back, his thighs quivering, his whole body tense, and shot a load of semen down Strello's throat. Strello pulled back some, grasped the shaft with his fist, and slowly pumped as his full, moist lips enclosed the dickhead and milked it of every drop.
Simpson was still shivering when Strello belt the tingling start in his knees and thighs, felt the movement and shift within his own loins, and with a roar muffled by holding the white man's dick in his mouth, pushed his pelvis forward, filling the white man's mouth with his own spunk. Simpson held on tight and began swallowing greedily, milking the black man's huge, pumping dick as floods of white spunk ran out of it. Both men's chests were heaving, their breath ragged, as each finally let the other's drained dick slide from his mouth. In a moment, Simpson twisted and repositioned himself, turning around so as to lie head to head with Strello. In the soft twilight of the world of balls, Simpson held the African's head, caressing his crispy hair, exchanging kisses. The two came closer, wrapping arms around each other, and held tight as their breathing continued returning to normal.
"Motumbo, he come back, you see tomorrow, Boss," whispered Strello. Simpson chuckled, nuzzled the African's soft broad nose and lips with his own mouth, and looked deep into Strello's dark eyes.
"Thank you, Strello. Perhaps you are right. But for tonight...for tonight it's just us, OK?"
"OK, Boss." and the two remained there until the early morning hours, floating in the sea of balls, awaking, loving, and returning to sleep again and again throughout the night.
To be continued....
Comments welcome: lokiaga@prodigy.net