Simpson stepped onto the porch of his cabin into the cool of the dark, early African morning. He knew the weather would not stay that way. Soon the turning earth would bare itself to the sun and rising temperatures would make it advisable to seek the shade. Of course, he would not--he had more important things to do today. Mentally running through a checklist, patting himself down, he went over the necessary gear that he was to bring: a wide-brimmed hat for sun protection for his fair skin, sturdy three-quarter boots for snake protection, thick canvas shorts and shirt, water bottle, two-way radio. And his own conditioning: he had trained for months for this, running, lifting weights, not to mention target practice. He was ready.
As his eyes became adjusted to the dark--it must be, what, four in the morning?--he could make out the other buildings of the compound: the other cabins, only one or two of which were occupied at the moment--the main lodge--storage buildings--and the long, low, stone building with narrow windows with the sign out front that simply said "prey." Prey. So, where were they and where had they hidden themselves, out there in the dark? Five had been let loose, he was told. And he was to have only five rounds. He liked the challenge, though--it would make the gathering of a trophy even sweeter.
Breathing in the sweet, herbal, grass-scented air, Simpson gave thanks he had found this place. You could certainly never do such a thing in the States, or Europe, or.... well, anywhere. Africa, yes, if you paid enough and knew the right people and went deep enough into the bush. Which he had, all of that. Well, he was ready. Today, he understood he was to be the only hunter on the land. That was fine with him--more choice, less crowding.
DeGroot came walking up out of the dark, crunching on the gravel walks. "Did you eat, did you have coffee?" he asked, gruffly. Simpson nodded. He wasn't sure he liked DeGroot. Didn't matter. DeGroot had an experience, a product to sell that could be had no other place. Simpson wanted it and could afford it. End of story. The Afrikaner checked his watch. He nodded curtly at Simpson. "It is time. Here is your weapon." He thrust the high-tech looking gun at Simpson. Taking it, examining it, he found he was not unfamiliar with it, having used something very similar from the same manufacturer back in the States. He nodded his acknowledgement. "Five rounds," said DeGroot. "If you waste them, you are done for the day. They know that. You have until 1700 hours." Again, Simpson nodded, liking the camp owner even less. DeGroot added: "They were released half an hour ago. Remember, they might fight back. Good luck." Turning on his heel he walked away.
Simpson took a deep breath, cradling the weapon in his arm. Swinging it up to his shoulder, he found it equipped with a 6X scope and, sure enough, but five rounds. Well... again, he appreciated the challenge. Half an hour's head start.... then it was time to head out. Already he could sense the curve of ultraviolet rays creeping over the horizon, the presence of the sun's power sneaking on ahead of it. A solitary bird cried out on the grasslands... or was it a bird? He would soon find out.
Shifting the weapon to carry it by its sling over his shoulder, Simpson walked over to the low stone building for "prey." He could hear faint sounds within, but they were not his quarry... not today at least. Looking at the dusty paths that led from the building were no help; they were well-trodden and confused with many prints. He pursued the path a little ways. It led directly to the perimeter of the reserve, marked here by a thick hedge of wait-a-bit bushes. Simpson knew that elsewhere there were high, barbed-wire fences keeping outsiders out--and the prey inside. Forget the honor system; barriers of steel or thorn made a real enclosure beyond which he could not go--nor could the prey.
Simpson edged along the perimeter for a while, scanning the interior of the reserve. He could make nothing out in the early dawn darkness. Taking a different tack, he followed a line of scrub bushes inland, dodging from clump to clump to avoid being seen. Thinking ahead, he filled his pockets with stones as he went along. Coming to a broad-trunked, spread-limbed tree, he scrambled up it and hid himself among the leaves in a spot where he could nevertheless make out the grassland around him. There he waited silently as the sun rose.
Before long the fiery sun rolled up over the horizon, bringing the African plains to life. He could make out mainly birds, but a few grazing animals went by in the distance: gazelles, springbok. There was only one kind of predator to worry about within the preserve. He pulled out binoculars and carefully scanned the horizon. Plains--a clump of trees--a flock of birds rising up from some bushes- -more plains. Back to the bushes. Why did the birds fly? Simpson adjusted the focus. There beyond the green and brown was something else. It moved. He scanned around the area then back to the bushes. Still there. Taking his bearings and a landmark, he slipped down quietly from the tree and was on his way like a leopard on a scent.
From the tree to a ridge of rock that rose a bit above the plain. He peered over and scanned the bushes again. Unmistakable now, dark brown or black, a natural color but not of the earth or vegetation. He saw a line of vegetation behind which he could slink, over to his right. He slipped over to it, taking his weapon off his back and holding it to keep it from thrusting up into a line of sight. Closer he came, and closer, then found a taller patch of bush. He crouched down behind this cover, perspiring heavily from the effort as the sun began to assert its authority. Slowly, slowly rising up he took out the binoculars. His new angle made all the difference.
Crouched on his haunches and hands, looking in the direction of the tree where Simpson used to be, was a man no older than eighteen. His skin was a dark milk chocolate, his short cap of kinky curls jet black. He was thin but muscular, the rounded shoulder muscles narrowing down to skinny arms with high, thin, rounded biceps. His legs were wiry, muscular but thin. A simple brown loincloth covered his groin but did not conceal a firm, rounded, high bottom. The youth looked out of an almost Asian face, thin high cheekbones and almond eyes, in the direction of the tree. Simpson thought about it. He could be in range with another scramble, but was this the trophy he wanted? He was authorized to take just the one; maybe he should wait.
As he watched and deliberated, the lad shifted, rocking back and then scooting away, to his right, in an effort to outflank the imaginary enemy in the tree. Once he shifted, Simpson's heart stopped. The youth's movement uncovered a magnificent specimen: Heavily muscled, a shield-shaped chest above a thin, taut abdomen rippling with muscles. His skin was a beautiful coal black, shining with a light coating of oil and sweat. Perhaps twenty, this man crouched on his hands and knees, still looking at the tree, unaware of being observed from his flank. From this posture, the man's African bottom stuck out almost describing an angle, muscular and firm and out-thrusting. A white loincloth wrapped his private parts but seemed especially---full, somehow. The man's face was hourglass shaped beneath a mop of short, twisted tufts, a wide, deep brow, narrow, flat cheeks, and then a strong jaw and prominent, full lips with a wide, full nose. He stared intently through long, curling eyelashes in the direction of the tree.
Simpson's hasty judgment betrayed him. He should have stalked closer. Instead, confident that he could compensate for the range, he angled the cross-hairs of the scope up, braced against the stiff trunk of a bush, and fired. It was a mistake. A branch in front of the man was hit. Instantly, reflexively, the man jerked to his right and was off. Damn! Could he tell where the shot came from? Simpson's only hope was that the pair would think the shot came from the area of the tree. Or, he could hope that he ran into the three other prey. Where were they, he suddenly wondered, and looked around warily. They had no weapons, but there were stones, sticks.... and five against one.
Watching over his own shoulder as well as ahead now, Simpson continued skirting low to the ground, carrying his weapon ahead of him and flat against the ground. Scrabbling along, he came to another clump of bush and reconnoitered. The two men he was stalking had moved off a couple of hundred yards and he could see them signaling furtively to someone even farther on. It appeared as if Simpson were following the trailing party of his prey. The younger, dark milk chocolate youth stretched his skinny body along the ground and slithered quickly across an expanse of high grasses while the magnificent coal black man kept watch, a stone in his hand.
It gave Simpson an inspiration. Reaching for a stone in his own pocket, he picked a time when both men were occupied in moving--and he hoped the other three were too far on to see him. Moving to a crouch for a better position, he wound up and threw the stone as far as he could in front of his prey but beyond them, in the direction toward which they were moving.
It worked. The thin youth froze, looking intently in that direction, making a motion with the palm of his hand to the closer prize whom Simpson had now decided was his main trophy. The man flattened his muscular body close to the ground and looked in the direction where the stone had landed, keeping stock still. From where he crouched, Simpson could see the high rounded hill of his white-garbed buttocks contrasting with the deep black of his skin. Slowly, carefully, Simpson used the moment of distraction to close in.
He slithered forward carefully, silently. Closer, closer. One hundred fifty yards, then one twenty-five. Two dark heads came up to look warily forward. Simpson paused, fetched out another stone, look beyond the men to where their companions must be--he still saw nothing--and flung the second stone as hard as he could in the same direction. Hearing a hit, the men hunkered down again, now indecisive as to what their next move should be. Slowly, carefully, inching along in the hot sun, heedless of flies and insects and the dust that occasionally blew across his face, Simpson got closer and closer. One hundred yards, then a little closer, and a little closer.
There was a sharp snap; he had crawled over a dry branch, breaking it. Simpson flattened himself completely, looking through a clump of grass. The two men were looking left and right warily, wondering if their enemy had flanked them, still unaware that he--Simpson--was coming up from behind. The white hunter dared not move. The men looked around-- then the dark milk chocolate youth looked behind him and caught a glimpse of something unusual, a still but unfamiliar shape in the grass. Startled, he stifled a cry and gestured behind him. The larger, black man spun around on his haunches, fingertips on the grass, ready to spring away. Simpson reacted instintively, bringing the gun up, planting the cross-hairs on the man's dark chest right between two round, black nipples, and squeezed the trigger. A bloom of scarlet appeared on his chest, and there was a cry of dismay to the right.
Whipping out his radio, Simpson called in: "I have one down. Come collect him. I'll leave this on for you to triangulate on my coordinates." Then he sat up, resting in the tall grass as from one direction far away came the sound of the Land Rover and closer in the other direction was the sound of bare feet running away.
Later that evening, after dinner, cognac, cigars, and DeGroot's repeated congratulations, Simpson sat in the living room of his cabin clothed in a dressing gown before a small bundle of burning wood in the fireplace. Soft lamplight lit the cabin. There was a knock on his door. "Come in," he said, and DeGroot entered. He nodded at Simpson, his face carefully professional.
"Your trophy is being cleaned and prepared and will be sent right over," said the camp owner. "You did well for yourself, one of our best," he continued.
Simpson nodded, looking back at the fire and then at DeGroot. "Tell me," he asked, "what's in it for them? Why do they do this?"
DeGroot shrugged and looked into the fire. "Well, you know, life in the villages is very hard. If they escape five runnings they are paid handsomely, so handsomely that it seems like a princely sum when they return to their villages. Not all do return right away, some sign on for five more runnings. Nobody ever makes it to ten escapes," said DeGroot, smiling, shaking his head. "Although-- although sometimes I wonder if some of them, a few, you know, actually don't try to escape. Life in the villages really can be very hard, you know, and maybe they see the consequences as preferable. At any rate," he said, shaking his head, "whether you choose to tip the, uh, staff for its services is up to you. They appreciate it. Frankly, they may expect it. A little goes a long way in the bush."
Simpson nodded. There was a knock on the door behind DeGroot, who turned. One of the camp staff stepped into the room, his head bowed and eyes carefully averted. Looking back into the darkness beyond the door he nodded--and into the soft light stepped the coal black man Simpson had tagged that day, the scarlet paint from the pellet now scrubbed off. In fact, his whole body was cleaned, glistening from a bath, tiny diamonds of water in his black tufts of hair--and he was entirely naked. He stood in the room, head bowed.
"Well, we'll leave you now," said DeGroot, and he and his employee left the room, carefully closing the door behind them.
Simpson sat, quietly appraising the naked black body before him. Slowly, the man raised his head and made eye contact with the white man in the chair. A smile, shy at first and then spreading wider, parted his full, moist lips. Slowly, the long, thick, purple black cock that hung halfway down to his knees began to rise, gradually arching straight out with a slight curve downward, over a dangling, full ballsack and beneath a small patch of dense, nappy pubic hair. The lamplight of the room played over the hills and valleys of his muscular body as he stood there, smiling, awaiting the consequences of having "lost." If this was in fact losing.
Simpson beckoned him forward. Coming to stand very close to the white man's chair, the black's penis was now rampant. Simpson bent over and took it into his mouth, sucking it, kneading the large dickhead with his lips. The man sighed, and whispered "Boss!" Simpson kept sucking as the man's hips began a slow rhythm back and forth, his wet, jet black tool riding in and out of the white man's pink lips. Simpson reached around and grabbed his muscular butt, pulling him forward closer still. Tentatively, and then more assertively when the gesture was not refused, the man put his strong black hands on Simpson's shoulders. Faster he rocked now, and then he dared to push the dressing gown off of Simpson's shoulders, which fell to the seat of the chair, revealing his white shoulders, chest, and belly. He slid his dark fingers over the unaccustomed white skin, wondering and exploring. With half-opened lips, through shuttered eyes the black man looked down at his dick going in and out of the pink lips until his semen rose within him. Crying out, he whispered fiercely "I come, Boss, I come," but still Simpson held on, and the black man bucked forward and spewed his semen into the white man's mouth, where it was swallowed greedily.
The black man was still shuddering, his penis still rampant, when Simpson rose and guided his trophy toward the bed. The white man pushed the black onto the bed on his hands and knees. Reaching for the tube of lubricant by the bedside, Simpson greased up his penis--but not the waiting, wrinkled black anus in front of him--and rammed his organ straight inside. The black man writhed and cried out, but did not move. Fully landed, Simpson began slamming back and forth quickly, conquering the man's butt as he had conquered his body, had earned the right to this privilege, earlier that day. His white thighs pressed against black thighs, ballsack swayed and slapped against ballsack, his red rampant cock sliding in and out of a hard, protuberant black butt. Simpson did not hold back this first time but came violently, roaring, pushing hard into the man and forcing him down, flat on the bed as his semen shot into the moist rectum. There the two lay as Simpson recovered breath.
Then the white man rose and extinguished the oil lamps, threw a few more logs on the fire, gathered up two snifters of cognac which he placed on a nearby table, and went back to the bed. He slipped under the covers beside his trophy, slid a palm over the broad muscular chest, tweaked a nipple, and then cupped the head of tufted hair in his hand. "What is your name?" he asked.
"Motumbo, Boss."
"Well, Motumbo, my name is Simpson. And this is just the beginning of a long weekend....."