LOST TEMPLE OF HUN-GAMIN, CHAPTER THREE
The glistening skin of the wrestlers undulated as they strained against each other. I moved closer to get a better look, so as to facilitate the recording of this event for my anthropological field notes. It was wrestling season among the Hun-Gamin, and this was the final match. My old friend Muscles, one of the first to welcome me to the Hun-Gamin tribe, was up against a taller and rangier fellow named X. The nude bodies of the wrestlers had been liberally annointed with the juice of the lubricanthia vine, and the early morning sunlight reflected pleasantly from the slippery pectorals and buttocks.
Wrestling had different rules among the Hun-Gamin than in most other places. The object was to be the last contestant to ejaculate. Other than that, there were really no other rules, and no holds were barred.
As I leaned forward, anxious to observe every nuance of this practice, X pinned Muscles' shoulders down, his strong hands gripping Muscles' biceps, Muscles' legs straining helplessly against X's shoulders. The crowd gasped as one as X's exceedingly long and slender erection brushed against Muscles' thighs. With a triumphant cry, X aimed and thrust between Muscles' firm rounded buttocks, sliding all the way in.
Muscles cried out as well, struggling against this sudden invasion. X waited a few moments, then slid most of the way out before re-entering, fucking Muscles with smooth, long, graceful strokes.
Muscles' own erection twitched against his firmly ridged belly. I knew from personal experience that he had a fondness for those long graceful strokes, and if he didn't do something soon, X was likely to bring him off, thus winning the match. Precum bubbled from the tip of Muscle's cock, and sweat mingled with the slippery lubricanthia juice that covered him. Finally he gave a single mighty thrust with his legs as X was on the outstroke, forcing him onto his back. With an enraged bellow Muscles pounced on X, pinning his arms back. Muscles got his legs around X's thighs and bent him backwards. X's long erection was pointing directly at me, and I took this opportunity to make a brief sketch for my notes.
Then Muscles got one arm in front of X and wrapped his hand around the long, supple dick, stroking it with excruciating slowness. Muscles' own rod was much shorter and thicker, and he thrust it deep into X, moving with the same lazy yet forceful movements. X began to babble requests for Muscles to fuck him harder and faster, which only had the effect of encouraging Muscles to go even slower. I was very glad I'd finally mastered the Hun-Gamin language and no longer needed the loathesome Dr. Chamberlain to translate. This performance just wouldn't be the same without the dialogue.
"Please fuck me harder," X gasped. "This is torture. Can't you feel me throbbing in your hand? You've got the match. I'll come any time you say. Please, just let me cum, and I'll be your slave."
"You'll cum when I decide you're going to cum," Muscles grunted.
"I love having you inside me," X groaned. "Oh, this feels so good. I love feeling you stretch me open and fill me up, and I love the way your big, strong chest feels against my back. Please do that with your hand again?"
"What, this?" Muscles' thick fingers moved deftly over the engorged head of X's prick, and X nearly shot his load right then, but Muscles hand moved lower, encircling the base of the long cock, squeezing and holding very still.
The wrestling ring was absolutely silent except for the heavy breathing of the Hun-Gamin watching, yours truly included, and X's tortured moans as Muscles went all the way up inside him and froze, motionless.
Suddenly a bright flash of color entered the ring. A large and obscenely colorful rainforest butterfly fluttered in a wide circle around the wrestlers. As we watched from the edges of our seats, the butterfly dipped lower, toward the glistening, pulsating pillar of flesh jutting straight out from X's body. It landed, right on the glans, and perched there, beating its wings up and down, shifting position slightly. I tried to imagine how those delicate insect feet would feel in so personal a location.
Muscles took his hand away from the base of X's cock. His hand trailed slowly up X's torso so as not to startle the butterfly. He found X's nipple and gradually squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger.
X threw back his head and let out an agonized scream. Ropes of white semen spurted from his long dick, frightening away the butterfly. Five, six, seven jets. And as the weapon was still aimed directly at me, the first three jets landed on me, one obliterating my notes and sketches, but I didn't seem to mind at the time.
Muscles waited until the defeated X stopped erupting, then he began fucking him hard, riding to his own orgasm, which came with a triumphant bellow as he filled his defeated opponent with large quantities of manjuice. The crowd went wild with applause, or at least at least those of us applauded who still had two unoccupied hands. My own hands were occupied with both of my neighbors, so I admittedly didn't applaud, but I did shout encouragement.
Invigorated by the morning's activities, I decided to pay a visit to Joao, the ex-drug lord. I hiked through the rainforest with a smile on my face, a song in my heart and a bulge under my loincloth. Life was wonderful. Dr. Chamberlain had vanished (and good riddance), I lived in a rainforest paradise and for the first time in my life, I knew the utter contentment that went along with several consecutive weeks of total sexual fulfillment. No longer was I frustrated and shy and inhibited.
I bounced cheerfully up the steps to Joao's house, knocking at the door as I opened it.
"Come in," Joao said distractedly, and I entered to find him staring at the curtain hanging over a small window beside the door and frowning. He was wearing nothing but black silk pajama bottoms, his graceful torso tapering out of them to a smooth chest with delicious large brown nipples, long dark hair cascading down his back. He turned, saw me and smiled, taking my face between his hands and administering a long, passionate kiss. I pulled him toward me, showing him exactly how I felt about him.
"Joao," I sighed.
He exclaimed with delight over the flowers, then tossed them aside and pulled me toward an armchair with very wide arms and shoved my chest so that I fell into it. Then he deftly undid my loincloth and tossed it over a CD rack containing hundreds of recordings of passionate classical guitar music (some of which was playing in the background as all of this was going on). He climbed on top of me, balancing across the arms of the chair, reaching for the potted lubricanthia vine nearby. I helped him massage the fresh lubricanthia pulp over his tight little rosebud, working it deep inside as he groaned ecstatically. When he was good and slippery he carefully lowered himself over me until I was all the way inside. This sudden immersion into quivering warm flesh made me quite lightheaded, and all I could do was sit there helplessly while his full lips explored mine, and his thumbs toyed with my nipples, and his body moved up and down, and in a sort of sinuous spiral motion as well. Until finally I couldn't take any more, and I wrapped my arms around him and began thrusting in long, smooth strokes, his chest smooth against mine, his own erection trapped between the two of us. When I felt myself ready to ejaculate, I arranged myself so that I was aimed at Joao's prostate gland, and I spurted my hot essence directly against this target, a technique I'd learned from the shaman. My education served me well, for Joao threw his head back and let out a long lusty cry as he covered my chest with his own fluid.
After he kissed me several hundred times and expressed assorted flowery sentiments about how he loved and worshipped and adored me, and after he had arranged the tropical flowers in a pair of matching black vases, and after we had a quick shower, he returned to frowning at the curtains. "I do not like that flouncy valance," he said in an extremely serious voice. "I must go into town and find a better curtain. Would you like to take a ride with me?"
"I can't go into town dressed like this," I said, retrieving my loincloth from the CD rack. When I had first come to the rainforest I had been dressed in sensible expedition garb, but I had quickly adopted the local fashion, donating my civilized attire to Dwin-Ge, who had converted them into his idea of what civilized men should wear, and I must say that several of his innovations, such as the easy access rear panel, were quite advanced. Of course, I had none of these garments with me, so Joao led me to his giant walk in closet, which was full of snakeskin cowboy boots, and silk shirts made to be worn unbuttoned, and a different pair of sunglasses for every day of the year, and other stylish ex-drug lord attire. It took us several minutes to get ready due to the fact that every time Joao saw me dressed in a new outfit he was overcome with lust and insisted on applying those full lips to various areas of my body, but finally the two of us were bouncing along in his sports utility vehicle, down barely penetrable jungle trails and thick forests of lubricanthia, and Joao's own hemp fields. Finally we reached the nearest town, Los Cojones, which consisted of a dusty cantina with motorcycles parked outside it, a Walmart and a Club Het resort with eleven-foot barbed wire electrified fences around it.
"Look at these things," Joao said disapprovingly. "Our simple way of life is being compromised by your imperialistic capitalism. Oooh, I wonder if the new Antonio Banderas DVD is in yet?"
"I despise Walmart," I said firmly. "I shall have a drink and wait for you."
I looked at my choices. As I glanced at the cantina, a large man wearing a camouflage t-shirt and oil stained jeans came flying backwards through the door, landing on a vintage Indian (with matching sidecar) and letting out an enraged bellow as he landed. Right. Club Het, then.
As I approached the towering perimeter fence and walked along it in search of a gate, I was shocked to see an unmistakeable hairy torso sprawled out on a beach chair alongside the pool. I hadn't seen Dr. Chamberlain in some time. So this was where he'd been hanging out. Several middle aged females with an aura of desperation around them had surrounded him and were plying him with margueritas and trying to get him to rub them with cocoa butter. I rolled my eyes and proceeded to the gate.
"I'm a guest of Dr. Chamberlain," I informed the guard.
"Ah yes, Mr. Dahl. We've been expecting you."
Dahl? I was perplexed, as my own name is Smithfield Smythe. But I stepped quickly through the gate, avoiding the vicious guard dogs chained nearby, and hastened to the bar, where I ordered one of the signature drinks, the Date Rape, which contained rum, vodka, tangerine liqueur, bourbon, whipped cream, crme de menthe and Pepsi. I charged this monstrosity to Dr. Chamberlain's room and repaired to a dark corner booth, the better to hide from the unattached females prowling the vicinity in predatory circles.
I was barely inebriated when Dr. Chamberlain entered the bar accompanied by a heterosexual couple, sitting down near my booth, unable to see me due to the subdued lighting, which dimmed even further whenever the bartender utilized the blender. As a contingent of unaccompanied females had flocked to the bar and was ordering various flavors of frozen marguerita, it was rather difficult to see.
"Ken! So good to see you again!" Dr. Chamberlain was addressing a tall, blond, suntanned man in his forties. He wore lime green golf slacks, matching white shoes and belt, and a white shirt with the curious phrase "Cargospresso!" emblazoned across it. He was in rather good shape, and the shirt clung to his gym hardened torso. His wife was wearing a nondescript sundress bearing the same logo, with Birkenstocks. She was staring at the curvaceous local girl who had come to take their order as though she was very thirsty.
"It was almost worth the trouble at the gate," Ken replied cheerfully. "I certainly hope some local prowler hasn't infiltrated Club Het by impersonating me."
I choked on my Date Rape.
"Well, you're looking good." Dr. Chamberlain was almost drooling as he surveyed Ken Dahl's protruding nipples.
"Roger, you're one of the only people from the old days that I've stayed in contact with." Dahl threw an arm around his wife, who nearly reflexively jabbed her elbow into his gut, then settled against him with an exaggerated smile. "Yep, now that I've been through the entire program at the Family Values Institute for Homosexual Recantation, I've never felt better. In fact, that's where I met the little woman. We're going to be conceiving some babies any day now."
I noticed that Mrs. Dahl had a curious scar on her shoulder the exact shape of a double bladed labrys axe, as if there had been some birthmark or tattoo removed. Her attention was distracted by the return of the minimally attired cocktail waitress. "What's your name?" she whispered.
"Juana." The waitress licked her lips.
"Yes." Mrs. Dahl sighed.
I was starting to feel a bit nauseous; whether from the Date Rape or the company I did not know, but just as I decided to leave the frozen marguerita contingent departed in a hurry at the news that the lifeguards had changed shifts. The blender thus silenced, the lights blazed brighter, and I judged it unwise to leave just yet.
"So," Dahl said. "About this deal."
"Yes," Dr. Chamberlain said in a particularly oily voice. "I think you'll find the place perfect for your company's needs. There is a large settlement of able-bodied workers for the factories and plenty of land to clear-cut for your coffee farms. Since I have officially been designated their legal representative insofar as these sorts of matters, we're ready to go ahead with the deal."
"The other stockholders in Cargospresso will be here within the week," Dahl said. "Our IPO will go ahead at the first of the month, and we should have plenty of cash at that point to seal the deal."
"What is Cargospresso, again?" Dr. Chamberlain frowned.
"A global chain of stores selling nothing but cargo pants and specialty coffees," Dahl said proudly. "We will build our main garment factory and coffee bean processing plant here."
Now I was definitely feeling nauseous. I forced myself to down the rest of the Date Rape in one swallow, then staggered to my feet and disgorged my stomach contents all over Dr. Chamberlain, blinding him.
"Oh dear. I'm so terribly sorry," I apologized, deftly snagging his credit card from the edge of the table and making a quick exit.
Joao was not in the sports utility vehicle when I emerged from the Club Het compound; however, the back of it was piled with shopping bags. I decided to take a quick glance inside the cantina to see if perhaps he'd gone inside.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, I was startled to see Joao pinned down on the pool table by several large bikers, who were preparing to have their way with him. Fortified by the lingering aftereffects of the Date Rape, I stepped in front of them.
"Leave this man alone," I ordered. "He is mine."
The bikers clustered around me cracking their knuckles and rubbing the straining crotches of their jeans and leathers, I addressed the largest one, whose skin tight Levis rode low enough on his flat belly to reveal several inches of the line of hair descending below his navel. An impressively fierce black jaguar was tattooed on his chest and visible beneath his open leather vest, and my pale and nervous face stared back at me from his mirrored sunglasses.
I had the presence of mind to whip out Dr. Chamberlain's credit card and extend it between thumb and forefinger. "Why don't you gentlemen run off to Walmart and buy yourself some motorcycle accessories with my credit card? Perhaps we can meet at the Club Het for a drink afterward. That place is swarming with pussy. Just show the card at the gate and they'll let you in."
"Pussy." The lead biker scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"I need a new oil filter," commented one of the bikers.
"Do they have any Tommy Hilfiger stuff?" another of them inquired. "I only cut the sleeves off of this shirt last week and it's already starting to unravel."
The leader of the bikers grabbed the credit card and set off for Walmart, the rest of them trailing in his wake.
"You rescued me!" Joao sobbed. I gathered him into my arms and kissed the top of his head tenderly. To my surprise, he dealt me a sharp elbow to the sternum. "They were going to gang bang me on top of this pool table, and you rescued me! You idiot! I've already got a webcam set up in this place!"
"That's enough." The bartender had produced a shotgun and was aiming it at us. "You not only chased all my customers away, you disrupted the only live entertainment we're likely to have in this place all week! Not only that, but now I probably won't score tonight. Assholes. Get out of here."
Chastened, I slunk through the door and out to the sports utility vehicle, dodging blows from Joao all the way. He made me drive while he sulked in the passenger seat, until he remembered he'd just bought a Ricky Martin CD, and he slipped it into the player while staring in fascination at the picture on the cover.
I was forced to listen to "Livin' La Vida Loca" forty-seven times before we finally got to Joao's house, and once there I quickly got back into my loincloth and fled into the rainforest, the infuriatingly catchy melody still ringing in my head.
Soon the comforting sounds of drums and flutes from the Lost Temple of Hun-Gamin filled my ears, chasing away the ghost of Ricky Martin, and I reached the immense stone building just at sunset, as the men were lighting the torches that illuminated the centuries-old stone building. The delicious aroma of feast reached my nostrils, and as my stomach had recovered from the Date Rape during the long hike through the rainforest, I headed in the direction of food.
"There you are!" Dwin-Ge smiled fetchingly and kissed me on the cheek. He was dressed for a formal occasion, his hair tightly braided with small jade ornaments laced into it, a bold black and white pattern painted on his face and on his smooth, lean torso, a skintight codpiece decorated with feathers from colorful rainforest birds his only garment. "Where've you been all day?"
"I went to Los Cojones with Joao," I answered. Several Hun-Gamin standing nearby made faces at the mention of Los Cojones.
"I just hate Los Cojones," Dwin-Ge grimaced. "We had a contract to do a weekly song and dance extravaganza at the Club Het there, but for some reason all the lifeguards insisted on watching every performance, and somebody drowned during one of them, and there was a big lawsuit, and they fired us."
"Speaking of litigation, I've got important news for the Shaman." I accepted a plate of food from Dwin-Ge and began devouring it hungrily.
"He was here earlier," Dwin-Ge said. "He gave us the special sacred herbs for preparing the feast, then he went off to meditate."
I had thought the spices in the manioc frittata tasted different from Dwin-Ge's usual recipe, and indeed I was already starting to feel a bit euphoric. Oh well, it was too late to stop now, and I was very hungry, so I had a second helping.
"What's the occasion?" I asked Dwin-Ge.
"Tonight we select Hun-Gamin's chosen one," Dwin-Ge replied with a wink, and that's all he would tell me. So I had another helping of manioc frittata, and then I settled back peacefully beneath a fifty foot tall carved stone phallus to enjoy the preliminary hallucinations.
All of a sudden, I found myself in an exquisite garden. Fountains bubbled, statues posed provocatively, a myriad of delicate botanical fragrances had their way with my willing nostrils. I stood up and discovered that I was naked, but this no longer alarmed me as it was a relatively common occurrence these days.
I padded barefoot through the garden, finding it was laid out in the manner of a maze, which delighted me, as I am fond of puzzles. I worked my way to the center, which was marked by a five-tiered fountain. Pleased that I'd solved the puzzle, I sat down on the edge of the fountain and idly dipped my fingers into its waters, and when I did that, I heard a low sound, like that of a bullroarer or possibly a didjiri-du. As an anthropologist, I am highly trained in these low mysterious sounds, and I spent some time trying to figure out exactly what it was - perhaps a conch? - before noticing that I was now standing on a plateau approximately eight feet square atop a mountain so tall that I could see the curvature of the horizon.
Overcome with acute acrophobia, I fell to my knees and clutched at the ground with both hands.
"Get up," ordered a stern voice behind me. Slowly, I turned around, to behold the most perfect specimen of male homo sapiens sapiens I have ever seen, and to this day I have never gazed upon so sublime a representation of the species. His proportions were (with the exception of one important area) pure Euclidean, his hair a dazzling fractal mane, his sun caressed skin was a festivity of refracted warm ultraviolet tones. His eyes were the color of Baltic amber, his epidermis a baroque symphony of tactile temptation, his smoothly sculpted face was to the concept of handsome what Mendel is to the concept of genetics. I immediately began experiencing respiratory and cardiac difficulty, possibly due to the altitude.
"Look, dude, will you just get up?" He tapped his sinuous pedicured left big toe impatiently. I focused my gaze upon it and found I was able to forget all about the height. I rose slowly to my feet before letting my eyes travel along the arc of his instep to his firm calf, along the supple curves of his knee to his graceful thigh, along the aerodynamic sweep of his hip, his flat belly with its fine calligraphy of pubic hair, his nut brown nipples balanced on symmetrical pecs, his broad shoulders, and finally I was able to look him in the face.
"P-p-p-pardon my awkwardness," I said, blushing furiously. "My name is Smithfield Smythe, and I'm very pleased to meet you, and I apologize for my shyness."
"S'okay. I get that all the time." He shrugged. "I'm Hun-Gamin."
My jaw dropped. "Hun-Gamin himself?"
He nodded. "Like, I can choose to appear any way I want to, and in your case I'm sort of based on the skateboard guy who brought you a pizza your first week in college and that guy in that .gif file your roommate e-mailed you during finals sophomore year."
I turned even redder. "I'd almost forgotten about that .gif file."
"I'm like, sort of this nature spirit," he said. Did I mention that his voice was the most soothing baritone I've ever heard, almost the same frequency as a recently tuned Bentley? "Every time a guy has a lustful thought for another guy, I grow stronger. And that, like, pisses off some of the demons that live around here for some reason. Go figure. Anyway, this temple in the rainforest is my sacred spot. If anything ever happens to it, I'll be like totally dead."
"I will do anything within my power to prevent that!" I did as good a job of clicking my heels as anybody ever did naked. "Just tell me where to start."
"Dude, chill out," He smiled, showing teeth that would take several thousand dollars worth of cosmetic dentistry to replicate. "We'll talk later."
And with that, his full, sensuous lips landed on mine, and his tongue worked its way into my mouth (his breath tasted like Godiva chocolate, by the way), and his big, firm hands were on me, and I could feel his massive erection nudging against my breastbone. The implications of that were a bit frightening, and my shoulders must have stiffened, because suddenly he was massaging them.
"Whoa, dude. Check this out."
I suddenly felt it shrinking. It wasn't going soft, it was merely shrinking, reducing to a more manageable dimension. As I watched in astonishment, it became thick and veiny, then smooth and slender, the head bulging and narrowing. A foreskin grew over it, then retracted back. "That's amazing!" I spluttered.
"It's magic." He grinned. "What's your favorite? I can do them all."
Well, I don't know if we did them all, but we got up to at least variation three hundred and twenty-four before he reached his orgasm. I spent a long and pleasant interlude with my mouth around a short, slender uncut one, my fingers clutching the smooth hemispheres of his ass and pounding him against my face, my tongue swirling anticlockwise, my nose buried in his angelically soft pubic hair, his warm hands stroking my face as rapturously lustful sounds issued from his throat.
At some point, although I'm not precisely sure about the exact sequence of events, everything is rather blurry due to sensory overload, he slipped inside me, becoming quite narrow for the actual moment of penetration, then swelling until he pressed against all of the best places, making me squirm against him. He had brought me to at least ten orgasms by that point, yet for some reason I never became flaccid. I merely blacked out and lost consciousness for several seconds, after which I proved to be good as new.
He lifted his knees up and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his strong arms around me, cradling me against his chest, his soft lips kissing my earlobes and my neck as he slowly pumped into me. I had become a helpless bundle of nerves and synapses, existing only for his pleasure.
Then he put his hands at the nape of my neck, stroking slowly down my spine, and I felt a massive orgasm begin. My toes curled, every muscle in my body went rigid and I pressed myself as close to him as I could, feeling his own tension rise. Our mouths joined, and I felt him swell inside me, becoming even larger, just before he erupted, his essence squirting deep inside me. And as that happened, I arrived at my own peak, which was much more intense than anything I've ever experienced before in my life, and I felt the separation between my mind and his melt like a wet lump of sugar. I knew what it was like to be Hun-Gamin himself. I had become a part of him. And he was inside me in the most intimate way possible. He knew my entire life, every thought in my head, each experience I'd ever endured, even the ones that make me cringe. And still he regarded me with complete acceptance, and love, and affection, and lust.
We cuddled in each other's arms for a very long time. "I have chosen you," he said softly, his deep voice comforting in my ear. "I will always be a part of you. If you ever need me, just call my name."
"I love you, too," I murmured back, struggling to waken the language center of my brain.
"You have an important mission," he said while kissing my forehead repeatedly with those marvelous lips. "You must save my temple. A powerful demon is trying to destroy it. A demon in the form of a man."
"A demon?" I blinked stupidly. Well, I suppose if there could be a rainforest spirit named Hun-Gamin, there might very well be demons. And I was inclined to believe anything Hun-Gamin felt like saying, even though he might have been a completely subjective hallucination.
"Does a hallucination kiss like this?" He laughed, demonstrating and making my blood boil. I throbbed against him, hard again, and he wrapped his smooth fingers around me, stroking me with excruciating slowness. "Now that I have your attention. One of my demonic enemies has possessed my former chosen one. He failed the shaman's initiation, and the demon took over his mind, and now he is plotting to destroy my temple. He is in the body of one called Roger Chamberlin."
Drat that Dr. Chamberlin for intruding upon this moment. I groaned and Hun-Gamin stroked me even slower. "Okay, I'll kill him. Anything you want. Just don't stop what you're doing."
"No, it's not as easy as killing him," Hun-Gamin whispered. "Listen carefully and I will tell you what you must do."
?????
Dr. Chamberlin signed for the FedEx, using Ken's name. Well, it was Ken's corporate account, and it was business related, in a sense. He tore open the sturdy packaging and withdrew an expensive, fashionable suit, along with oxblood wingips, and a white button down shirt, and snowy white silk boxer shorts, and an expensive tie bearing a faux tribal design.
He threw back his head and laughed fiendishly.
Tomorrow, wearing this very suit, he would destroy the Temple of Hun-Gamin forever.