Since the days when Stanley went looking for Doctor Livingstone in the deepest part of Africa, our view of the dark continent has changed drastically. Once the private preserve of a few European colonial powers, Black Africa has for the most part now become independent and fiercely nationalistic. Railroads crisscross through once-impenetrable jungle and there are jet streams to be seen in the blue African sky; much has changed, and changed remarkably, but Africa remains for the American and European what it has always been, a continent of savagery, mystery and fascination.
In this fast-moving and timely novel, author Bentley Eagleton exposes the cruel heart of modern African country with all its raw violence and brutal sexuality. The scene is Ethiopia, long the medieval fief of Emperor Haile Salassie, and the principal characters are a former Texas wildcatter and a prissy college girl who have been sent by a giant oil company to explore for new sources of petroleum. The two are as unlike one another as it is possible for two human beings to be. Tex Bushmill is an uneducated, easy-going, self-made millionaire brought out of retirement for what promises to be a particularly challenging job. He likes the natives with whom he is obliged to work, and they like him, won over by his strength, robust sensuality and essential kindliness. Bushmill throws himself exuberantly into the social and sexual life of the tiny Ethiopian village where the two are working, accepting and enjoying the differences in customs and morals with which he is confronted.
For Denise McAlister, unfortunately, adapting to Bushmill's reckless zest for life and the rampant sensuality of the native population proves difficult. The girl regards the Ethiopians as simple savages, and Bushmill is obliged to teach her the hard way that these uneducated naked people know more about life than she does. But the young woman is stubborn; falling slowly but surely in love with the devil-may-care Bushmill and succumbing to the relentless erotic pressure of life near the Equator, Denise hangs onto her principles until the novel's dramatic ending.
Wild-Cat is somewhat more than a story of red-hot sensuality and love in the Tropic Zone. Author Eagleton has chosen to tell this gripping tale through the medium of sexuality, but his ultimate purpose is more far-reaching than a simple love affair. He is talking, instead, about the gap between radically different cultures and the chasm which exists between white, technologically-advanced America and an Africa which is still immersed in primitivism.
Is it possible, Mr. Eagleton seems to be asking, that we lose something else of a more intrinsic value when we acquire too much technical sophistication, too many gadgets and too many college degrees?
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
All airports look alike, philosophized Bushmill sourly as he tightened his safety belt for the landing. Yeah, there were superficial differences, like when you fly into Paris at Orly the first thing you see are those rusty old hangers staring you in the face. At Fort Lamy in Chad, they've got runways made out of sand instead of concrete and you don't grab a cab, you grab a camel. At Da Vinci in Rome, there's more confusion and noise than you'd expect to find on the bottom level of hell. . . little differences, but basically, they're all the same. There's always the stench of jet fuel and the buzz of tension in the air. And those marvelous announcements on the loudspeaker in seven languages you can never understand.
Bushmill shook his head, trying to drive away the tiredness and depression he suddenly found within himself. Are you getting old? he asked himself seriously. This is your first landing at Addis Ababa! But there was a dull pain in the back of his head which told him that even
Ethiopia's main airport would be like all the others, hot, noisy, confusing, full of busy people going no place in a hurry and losing their bags in the process.
The oil man fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, realizing simultaneously that the no smoking sign was on for the landing. Why do I never want a cigarette unless I can't have one? he asked himself irritably, a black mood settling over him like a low cloud ceiling.
"Did you have a good flight, Sir?" came a soft musical voice from somewhere over his right shoulder, a voice with a distinct Irish hit to it.
Startled for some reason, Bushmill looked up into the clear green eyes of the stewardess who had been so attentive to him during the long flight from Rome. She was a pretty girl, about twenty-five, with auburn hair and a long smooth neck, and like all stewardesses, she looked cool and confident, the kind of gal who would be all right in an emergency. Bending over him with more solicitude than seemed precisely necessary even for a first-class passenger, she brushed away some cigarette ashes which had fallen on the empty seat beside him. Bushmill watched her breasts shift mysteriously beneath the fresh beige top she was wearing, suddenly feeling the vague stirrings of desire deep in his loins.
And might she be free for dinner? he asked himself.
And suppose she was, you old fart! he retorted mentally. At your age, do you seriously think you could still work any magic with a twenty-five year old stewardess on a one-night stand?
Bushmill contented himself with nodding and flashing a tired smile, feeling the blood drain uncomfortably down from his brain as the big seven-oh-seven wallowed down out of the sky like a big-assed bird, heading for a white strip of runway beneath them which seemed impossibly small.
The airport looked new, refurbished, modern.
"I guess that's one advantage of getting the be-jesus bombed out of you during the war," he muttered, half to himself.
"I beg your pardon, Sir?" came the stewardess's soft Irish voice, sounding a little perplexed.
For a moment, Bushmill was startled to find that he had spoken aloud, having been lost for a moment in a day-dream as he remembered the war. Of course, the girl would not have been born until after the shooting was long over.
"I mean," he explained vaguely, "carpet bombing is the ultimate form of urban renewal, isn't it?" And then he felt silly, sure that he was making no sense at all.
"I guess so," responded the green-eyed stewardess dubiously, running one soft smooth hand nervously through her reddish-brown hair.
Without realizing precisely why he was doing it, Bushmill found himself patting the rough texture of the material covering the vacant seat beside him. It was his first flight since the accident, the first flight in a long time he had made alone. And alone meant without Milly.
A woman is like a habit, he reflected, like smoking. Damned hard to lose! And for twenty happy years, his habit had been to take his wife with him on every trip . . .
"Will you be staying long in Addis Ababa?" the Irish tones of the stewardess again invaded his mind as she flashed him a timid smile. Naturally unaware of what he was thinking and what that empty seat beside him meant, she settled herself comfortably in it, relaxing in the place which would have been Milly's had Milly still been alive.
"A few days," he responded shortly. "And then I'm going out into the bush for awhile."
What the hell are you waiting for? he asked himself irritably. Find out if she's free tonight, and where she's staying, and you've got yourself a date for your first evening in Addis Ababa! For a moment, Bushmill felt like a teenager again, getting ready to ask a girl for the privilege of taking her to the junior prom. Why the hell not? He wasn't that old? When Milly was alive, she had always recognized that he needed an occasional extra-marital fling to keep his batteries charged. She would hardly mind his going out with a girl now that she was dead and in her grave. But for some reason, he still found it difficult to get the words out.
It was still hard to shake the memory of that horrible weekend in Salt Lake City, for example, with that wretched cocktail waitress, the one who had responded to his amorous efforts with such artificial, unlikely passion and then ignited a cigarette the moment it was over. Afterwards, she had asked him for money, and Bushmill's face burned with the recollection. Plus, even worse, there had been Bess, the curvy wife of his executive vice-president, who had gone to bed with him for the sole and simple purpose of advancing her husband's career.
And this green-eyed beauty? What would she be like? Bushmill was not sure he could face another bedroom disaster. Perhaps what he really needed was a good night's sleep. Alone.
"And what hotel are you staying in, Mr. Bushmill?" she asked, as if she were reading his mind.
"Some people are meeting me at the airport," he responded honestly. "I really don't know where they'll stick me for the night."
"I'm sure it'll be someplace very nice," she offered optimistically.
Oh, it'll be the Addis Ababa Fucking Hilton, thought Bushmill, unable to shake his bad humor. If they've gone to all the trouble to get me out of retirement and fly me over here for one stinking job, I don't suppose they'll count the pennies when it comes to finding me a place to hang my hat for the night.
Suddenly Bushmill found himself reminiscing over the happy years he had spent as a wild cat oil man. In those days, he had slept anywhere he could, anywhere he pleased, and with anyone he liked. But you're in the big time now, boy, he reminded himself, and this outfit spends as much on light bulbs and Dixie cups every year as you used to spend on exploration and drilling operations in the old Bushmill Oil Corporation. These cats have got money to burn!
Wonder why they wanted me, anyway? he speculated for the thousandth time. Of course, I used to have a pretty good nose for sniffing out that old liquid gold, but it's been almost a decade since I was out in the field doing any real drilling. Hell, I'm forty-six years old and this company must be full of college kids with computers and slide-rules, guys with Ph.D.'s in petroleum science and geology . . .
The stewardess leaned closer, lowering her voice, "Do you really think you'll find oil in Ethiopia?" she asked coyly.
"And what makes you think I've come here to look for oil," retorted Bushmill, instantly suspicious. She laughed and there was the sound of the River Shannon in her voice. .
"Why . . . you are Tex Bushmill, aren't you? Or have I got the wrong man?"
"You . . . you've heard of me?" he asked, not knowing whether to be flattered or alarmed.
The big rubber wheels of the aircraft screamed in agony as they skimmed across the hard cement of the landing strip and the entire plane shuddered as the pilot applied the brakes.
"Ah, Mr. Bushmill, for a year and a half now I've been flying back and forth between all the oil fields in the Middle East, Libya, Saudi Arabia, The Persian Gulf, and I've brought martinis to half the oil men in the business. Sure, and after the third drink, they always start to talk about the famous old-time Texas wild-catters and . . . when I saw your name on the passenger list, I guessed that you must be the one they tell all those wild stories about. I'm afraid you're something of a legend, Mr. Bushmill."
Oh Christ, muttered Bushmill to himself. I'm thinking about taking her to bed and she's thinking what a living legend I am. Shit, I'm ancient history as far as this chick is concerned. What a great combination we'd make!
Give it up, Bushmill! You're wasting your time!
The aircraft taxied slowly down the strip while the passengers behind him prepared to disembark. Bushmill could already feel the heat of the late Ethiopian afternoon. It was three o'clock local time and his first briefing at the oil company headquarters was not due to begin until nine o'clock the following morning. There were hours of empty time stretching out in front of him. Maybe dinner and drinks were still possibilities, even for a living legend. And then, perhaps his hotel room would be air-conditioned and with any kind of luck, the oil company would have been thoughtful enough to have reserved him a room with a double bed.
He glanced over at the girl, seeing a mischievous Irish smile dancing about the corners of her eminently kissable mouth, as if there were a devilish leprechaun inside of her just begging to be released.
"Perhaps.. . "
"Yes . . . "
"Later when it's cooler . . . you could show me around the town . . . " he finally managed to stammer, a little awkwardly, wondering how he could have ever allowed himself to get so out of practice. "I've never been to Addis Ababa before . . . "
"Hmmmmmmmmmm," the girl smiled at him thoughtfully.
"Then later, we could have dinner and perhaps a drink," he added. There was a slight jerk as the aircraft rolled to a dead stand-still.
"Why Mr. Bushmill," she chuckled. "I thought you'd never ask. I've never had a date with a legend before."
* * *
Like most men who have lived dangerous and adventurous lives, Bushmill had developed the habit of waking up fast, passing from the most profound sleep to total consciousness in an instant. It was a talent which had saved his life more than once. Propping himself up on one elbow, he studied the naked sleeping form of the Irish stewardess beside him. As he had hoped, the hotel was air-conditioned, but excessively so, and Bushmill had always had an instinctive dislike for these new-fangled contraptions. Entering the room the night before, he had switched off the mechanism, deciding that he prefered to breathe warm but natural air.
But the night had been exceedingly warm and in the course of their frantic love-making, the white crisp linen sheets provided by the luxurious hotel had ended up somewhere below them on the floor. Gillian, the green-eyed Irish stewardess, was hardly the kind of girl who wore pajamas, a fact Bushmill appreciated more and more as he feasted his eyes on her voluptuously naked body. It was still early, and Bushmill hated to wake the girl, having kept her awake half the night with his incessant, relentless love-making. To Bushmill, it seemed that all the lust of two years of almost total abstinence had come unstrung like a tennis racket the night before and the Texas oil man had found himself the proud possessor of one enormous, indestructible erection after another.
Now it was morning, early, with the sun barely above the horizon and the auburn-haired stewardess was snatching a few well-deserved hours of beauty sleep before she had to report back to the airport for the return flight from Addis Ababa to Rome. Bushmill hated to wake her as she slept like a child, but somehow he felt the way he had felt twenty years before as a young husband on his honeymoon, unable to keep his trembling lustful hands off of the brand-new bride who slept beside him.
His fingers quivering with renewed desire, the Texan softly stroked the fullness of her incredible pear-like breasts. The man watched, his eyes glowing, as even in sleep her tiny brown nipples responded to his caress, rising and stiffening as his demanding fingers swept over her tender young flesh.
Yielding to his overpowering desire, he bent and brushed his lips over the tempting surface of her succulent breasts, his hand wandering lecherously across the flat smooth surface of her tummy.
My God, she's beautiful! he marvelled to himself, watching her stir restlessly in her sleep, her legs instinctively spreading apart to accommodate his touch. Feeling almost like a rapist about to assault an innocent child, Bushmill's eyes widened with unquenchable desire as he surveyed the light brown triangular patch of pubic hair nestled invitingly between her silk-smooth thighs. His long, slowly rising penis was visibly twitching with rampant desire and the veteran oil man nearly surrendered to the obscene desire to press his face up between her thighs and slither his tongue into the soft, curl-fringed folds of her cunt.
But Gillian was still fast asleep, her fiery hair sprayed out over the whiteness of the pillow like a flame against the morning sky and Bushmill restrained himself with difficulty, despite the fact that his massively hardened cock was now jerking urgently between his thighs.
This sleeping girl would never realize precisely how much she had done for him. Yesterday, aboard the aircraft, he had been nothing more than a tired, lonely widower, no longer sure that he still possessed what it took to make a woman happy. Thanks to her, his confidence in himself was now fully restored, and he wondered if this new glow of self-assurance would stay with him during the course of what promised to be an exceptionally difficult day. Impulsively, Bushmill rose from the bed and studied his reflected image in the full-length mirror on the wall. Yes, his lean muscular body was still all right. Despite the million dollars he had in the bank, there was no trace of the traditional rich man's flab about him. A life-time of hard vigorous work had kept his muscles firm and even the last two years of semi-retirement since Milly's death had not sufficed to soften him up beyond the point of no return. He was still all there.
Grinning sheepishly, the Texan took his throbbing cock in his hands and gazed at it affectionately. This was one more thing to be thankful for, he thought, since his reliable old penis seemed as ready for action as ever. And if there was any truth to the old proverb about sons being like their fathers, there was reason to hope that his long muscular genital organ would continue to render good and faithful service for another few decades. After all, Bushmill's father had conceived him when the old man was seventy-one, and then proceeded to marry a fourth wife, a thirty year old woman, attending regularly to her needs until his untimely death at the age of eighty-five.
"What's for breakfast, Tex?" came a sleepy voice from the general direction of the bed.
Bushmill turned slowly, a little embarrassed at having been surprised in the act of admiring his naked body in the mirror, watching as Gillian sat up cross-legged, her deep, heavy breasts seeming fuller than ever as she leaned forward. There was passionate desire written across the girl's lovely Irish face.
"For breakfast?" said Tex with a feigned lewdness to his voice. "I'd like a little more of what I had last night."
"Hmmmmmmmm, sounds interesting," she grinned at him with a lascivious little twinkle in her eyes. "Thinking of drilling again, eh Tex?"
"I don't know. You brought in one gusher after another last night," she slightly giggled at him.
Her softly caressing fingers closed gently over his throbbing cock as Bushmill lowered his lean hungry body onto the mattress beside her. Bushmill had often heard that there were stewardesses who like to come in for a crash landing every now and then with an attractive passenger, but Gillian had proved to be pure Irish sensuality converted into flesh and blood, certainly one of the sexiest women he could ever recall having encountered. The oil man had found himself in many beds with many different women in the course of his long adventurous career, but he had never before found a girl who liked just sheer fucking as much as this green-eyed beauty did.
And it was refreshing to know that she wanted nothing from him but eight inches of hotly throbbing cock, since she showed no signs of being aware that he was a self-made millionaire and a recent widower, and this an excellent marriage prospect for an ambitious young girl.
"Let me see," he murmured as he ran his fingers lustfully over the incredible smoothness of her buttocks. "There must be something we haven't already done at least twice. And I like to hit all the stops."
The stewardess glanced at him with steadily growing desire, gazing at the tough masculine body beside her. Being an air hostess meant spending many nights alone in strange hotels, and Gillian always tried to find an antidote for her loneliness whenever it was possible, usually making her splendidly sumptuous body available to the best-looking male passenger aboard the aircraft. She was sometimes ashamed of the indecent urgency of her sexual needs, but there was something incredibly arousing and sensual about flying, and when the wheels of the aircraft touched ground, the girl usually discovered that she needed a man and needed one badly.
But in her brief and active career, she had never encountered anyone quite like Bushmill before!
The oil men who formed a large percentage of her passengers had frequently swapped unbelievable yarns about Bushmill, telling what she had always assumed were tall tales about his legendary prowess at finding oil, making money and getting out of tight scrapes. But no one had ever troubled to mention to her the fact that the Texan could also screw like a nineteen year old sailor after six months at sea. Her eyes widening with desire, she looked down upon the hugeness of his still rising penis and suddenly found herself overcome with a desire to stroke it back to the incredible hardness that had caused her to fuck herself half to death on it last night.
"There is something we didn't do last night," she murmured sensuously in his ear, her hot breath exciting him.
"What's that?" mumbled Bushmill happily, knowing from-the lascivious little grin on her face what the answer was going to be.
Instead of replying, the girl bent over him, moving torturously slow, her soft lips parting as she licked away a tiny droplet of semen clinging to the tip of the smoothly bulging head.
"Gillian . . . " he gasped as the softness of her reddish brown hair cascaded down over his naked loins. Despite his wealth of erotic experience, Bushmill had always felt that there was something wrong about taking pleasure in this fashion and giving none in return, despite the fact that he enjoyed this particular act enormously. For a moment, therefore, he suffered from the temptation to just roll her over on her back, and fuck her silly the way he had done so many times last night. But there was something about the way she was behaving which told him that the auburn-haired Irish girl needed to suck him off as badly as he did. Perhaps it was her way of repaying him for all the miracles he had worked on her wildly thrashing young body the night before.
The tiny pink tip of her tongue glistened as she held the quivering length of his cock in her softly caressing fingers. The oil man was unable to repress a lascivious groan of pure physical pleasure as the wetness of her red, moistly gleaming lips glided down sensually over the sensitive tip of his penis. Beginning to pant softly like a bitch in heat, the lust-stricken young stewardess ovaled her mouth wider and lowered her head further, snuggling her nakedness down beside him as she enclosed half the length of his hugely swollen penis in the soft wet warmth of her mouth. Liquidly, her tongue swirled around the scarlet flesh of his cock head, causing his hips to twitch convulsively.
"Mmmmmrnmmrnm!" Gillian crooned softly, her cheeks hollowing as she slowly sucked his desire hardened shaft even deeper up into the back of her throat. Bushmill lay as still as he could, given the circumstances, realizing that this was her show, having decided to let her do whatever she wished. The girl's curvaceous, lust-provoking body was quivering with excitement as the swung one knee over his thigh, letting her body sink down until the now wetly working lips of her vagina came into crushingly erotic contact with the hardness of his thigh. Then, she cupped the sensual heaviness of his sperm-filled testicles in her hands as she excited herself even more by rubbing the tiny tingling bud of her nakedly spread clitoris against the overheated surface of Bushmill's flesh.
Bushmill looked down incredulously at this amazing Irish girl, her beautiful face hidden by the scarlet strands of her hair, falling sensuously across his stomach, and realized that this was the kind of situation that men have wet dreams about. It was true that Bushmill and the girl were from different generations and the man found it difficult to reconcile himself to the idea that there were women who genuinely enjoyed using their lips as another cunt this way. She was fucking him now passionately with her mouth, sinking down until the head of his iron-hard cock brushed lewdly back against her tonsils, and then slowly withdrawing back upward, her lips tightening sensually around it. Then, without warning, and without withdrawing his quivering hardness from between her lips, she spoke, her voice muffled and passionate, answering the question which had been lingering in the back of his mind.
"Please . . . please cum in my mouth," she murmured liquidly, her words distorted by the throbbing presence of his penis between her lips. "I want to taste it. . . and . . . feel it hot in my belly . . . "
Then moaning hungrily around him she went to work on him like a madwoman, undulating her lithely churning hips as she scoured the sensitive red flesh of her openly throbbing cunt against the hardness of his thigh. With lingering tenderness, she began to work her hotly sensuous lips up and down the full, saliva-glistening length of his rigidly throbbing cock, her tongue lewdly swirling around licking the mushroom-shaped head.
"Oh Christ!" Bushmill muttered in savage erotic delight. "Gillian . . . "
But there was no reply and the girl slowly brought him to an agonizing peak, at the same time inching herself closer and closer to a furious orgasm by rubbing her hungering pussy moistly against his surging leg. With the fingers of one hand, she gently squeezed the shaft of his cock, taking him deeper than seemed humanly possible into the buttery moistness of her throat while the other hand milked desperately at the desire-swollen sack of his testicles. Bushmill felt his desire mounting to an intolerable level.
"I'm cumming!" he suddenly found himself gasping. "Oh Christ, Gillian, Tm going to cum in your mouth!"
His eyes glazed with lust, Bushmill saw her wide-stretched lips lock tightly around the circumference of his wildly ejaculating cock as she sucked him like a female maniac. Instinctively, he curled his fingers into the flaming mass of her soft auburn hair, holding her head hard between his hands as he began to fuck savagely up into her greedily sucking mouth. Bushmill felt the searing orgiastic juices from her overheated vagina gushing profusely onto his thigh, and the knowledge that she too was cumming triggered his own erotic release.
"Mmmmmmmmmhhhhhhh!" she moaned, as the white hot spray of cum streamed from his insanely jerking penis, pouring massively into her spasming throat. Gillian gulped urgently as her cheeks filled and hollowed out with his hotly searing cum, her Adam's apple bobbing frantically while she struggled desperately to swallow every last drop of the lust-inciting liquid.
For a long time, neither one of them moved. Beneath him, Bushmill could hear the redheaded
Irish girl purring like a contented mother cat as she lasciviously licked his slowly wilting penis clean with her sperm-slickened tongue. Then finally, when his cock was again soft and flaccid between her warmly passionate lips, she released him, whimpering with pure joy. Bushmill bent, suddenly moved, and placed a deeply probing kiss upon her semen-smeared lips.
"Thank you," he muttered simply.
"It's okay," she panted gratefully. "Anytime, Tex."
Rolling off the bed and walking into the shower, Tex Bushmill found his mind returning inexorably to the worry which had been tormenting him for a week. Why had the largest oil company in the world offered him, a retired rough-neck independent oil driller, the chance to come out of retirement and fly to Addis Ababa to tackle this hush-hush assignment, whatever it was? It was still a mystery.
But it didn't matter! Whatever the reason behind it all, Bushmill knew somehow that he was going to be able to handle it. The night with Gillian had restored his self-assurance, bringing back his confidence in himself and his abilities. He was too young to be over the hill and he had just proven it. He would probably never see the girl again after breakfast, he reflected sadly since airline schedules were being changed all the time and only chance would ever bring them together again. Would she ever understand precisely what she had done for him? Probably not.
It didn't matter. Whistling softly under his breath, Bushmill grinned to himself, took a deep breath, and stepped into the shower.
CHAPTER TWO
"Would you be so kind as to explain to me again, Mr. Wagner, precisely why you feel we need this roughneck in the first place?"
Tom Wagner ran his hand through his gray thinning hair and looked out past Miss Denise McAlister through the open window of the Anglo-American Oil Company at the slums of Addis Ababa stretching away dismally into the distance. Wagner was paid $45,000 a year to act as an executive for the company and he had always secretly suspected that it was substantially more than he was worth. But ever since Miss Denise McAlister had landed at Addis Ababa airport, he knew he had been earning his salary, every penny of it. An old timer in the oil business, Tom Wagner found it difficult to believe that anyone could be as easy to look at and as hard to get along with as the young woman who was now sitting on the couch in his office. She was young enough to be his daughter, and good-looking enough to be a movie star, but the moment she walked into the room there was no question in anyone's mind precisely who was in charge.
"I've known Tex a long time . . . " he stammered a little awkwardly. "We were wildcatters together in Texas after the war and . . . "
Her eyes flashing, Miss McAlister interrupted the nervous executive with a brusque gesture.
"And yet you, Mr. Wagner, managed along the way to acquire a college education and become the executive vice-president of the world's largest oil company but from what I hear of this Mr. Bush . . . "
"Bushmill," prompted Wagner quickly.
"Yes, Bushmill is not acceptable in polite company."
"Well, you see, Miss McAlister, in the forties that's before your time, of course Western Texas wasn't precisely what you'd call polite company. There were range wars and border crossers and claim tops and . . . "
"Let me ask you one thing," said the blonde, sandy-haired young woman, lighting a filter cigarette smartly and crossing her long, finely tapered legs. "Is Mr. Bushmill familiar with the basic principles of electro-seismographic analysis?"
Wagner's office was air-conditioned, but he found himself getting hot under the collar anyway. Irritated, he got to his feet and glared down at the young woman before him. He had had just about enough of Miss Denise McAlister for one day but he was also keenly aware that his forty-five thousand dollars a year pay check depended to a great extent on how well he managed to keep his temper in her presence.
"No," he replied calmly, "I don't suppose he does, since Tex never finished grammar school, and as I recall, he never had much use for gadgets anyway. But I'll tell you one thing he does know."
"What's that?" asked the young woman, looking interested.
"He knows how to find oil. Don't ask me how he does it, but he sank more live wells than any other wildcatter in history, back in the days when you could still wildcat and make a living, and he did it all without an electro-seismogra ph."
Impatiently Denise McAlister got to her feet and walked vigorously up to where Wagner was standing. Despite his irritation at the situation, Wagner could not keep his eyes off of the full, widely-spaced breasts which moved provocatively beneath her crisp white blouse. That college education of hers, he meditated lustfully, ruined one hell of a fine lay. Poor old Bushmill is going to have his hands full with this bitch-goddess! I wouldn't trade places with Tex if they gave me drilling rights to Saudi Arabia!"
"I'm afraid I remain unconvinced," said the woman archly. "For your information, the Anglo-American Oil Company does not engage in what you call wildcatting operations. We have the best scientific equipment in the world, and if there really is oil out there, I'm quite confident we can find it without this Mr. Bushmill's assistance!"
"All right, Denise, we'll go over it one more time," Wagner said steadily, looking her directly in the eye. "Under the terms of the agreement with the Ethiopian Government, Anglo-American has to keep the exploration team small so we attract as little attention as possible. This means we can't send fifty technicians and a ton of equipment out into the field with you. It also means, we won't be able to give you the kind of armed protection you really should have for a trip like this. Conditions out there are ten times worse then they ever were in Texas. Once you leave Addis Ababa, you'll be out of contact with civilization for several weeks and you're going into an area inhabited by warring tribes and wild animals. I'm sure you know everything MIT could teach you about scientific petroleum exploration, but I'm also sure you're going to find things out there they never heard about in Cambridge, Massachusetts. That's why we're paying the small fortune it costs us to get Tex Bushmill out of retirement."
"And I suppose this Bushmill is some kind of an expert on Ethiopia," she retorted acidly.
"No, I don't imagine Tex knows how to spell Ethiopia," Wagner began to shout. "But he . . . ahh, look, Miss McAlister, we're getting into a fight over nothing. Bushmill should be here any minute now and once you've met him, you'll fall in love with him, I promise you! Everybody does! Like you say, the guy's a trifle uncouth, and if you don't watch out, he'll be patting your fanny for you. Why I remember . . . "
Wagner looked up suddenly to find that the young woman's cheeks were bright red with indignation, with the mere suggestion that some crude buffoon from the Texas panhandle would dare to place his vulgar hands on her buttocks. Quickly, Wagner glanced at his watch, seeing that it was already past nine o'clock and realizing that Bushmill could be arriving at any moment. He also saw one forty-five thousand dollar paycheck riding on the razor's edge of an impossible working relationship between a prissy female know-it-all fresh out of college, and a hard-boiled old oilman from western Texas. One thing was clear in Wagner's unhappy mind. He had to see Tex before Miss McAlister did! If these two met head-on the most likely casualty of the resulting explosion would inevitably be none other than Tom Wagner himself. If she were anyone else but the favorite niece of the majority stock-holder . . .
"Listen . . . uh . . . perhaps you could excuse me just a moment," Wagner muttered uneasily, desperately trying to come up with an excuse to leave his office and intercept Bushmill. "I'll just see if Tex has checked in with the reception desk."
* * *
In front of the palatial new building in which Anglo-American had established its temporary offices, there was a wretched, filthy, old blind man sitting with his arms outstretched in supplication, begging for alms. Feeling unusually well-disposed towards the world in general, Bushmill stopped and threw a handful of Ethiopian coins into the ragged old hat the beggar had between his skinny legs. Unfamiliar with the money, Bushmill lacked the slightest idea of the size of the contribution he had just made to the poor old devil's health and general welfare. Furthermore, he found that he did not much care. The Texan's sense of morality was simple and direct: in life, there were winners and losers, since this was an inexorable law of nature. But Bushmill had learned, wildcatting in the arid plains of western Texas, that the difference between riches and rags could all depend on where you chose to sink your well. You could win big after breakfast and then lose even bigger before lunch, and thus it behooved a winner to be generous with his winnings.
There was an attractive young dark-skinned woman sitting behind the reception desk and she flashed Bushmill a friendly, open smile as he entered the foyer of the luxurious new office building.
"Name's Bushmill," he announced informally. "Somebody in Anglo-American was expecting me about ten minutes ago."
"Ah, yes, you have an appointment with Mr. Wagner at nine," she informed him in pleasant, lightly accented English.
"Is that Tom Wagner?" he asked with a raucous laugh. "Don't tell me that varmint got himself an honest job at last."
The receptionist looked a trifle upset at this unexpected reaction. To her, Mr. Thomas Wagner of the Anglo-American Oil Company was a personage of slightly less importance than the Emperor of Ethiopia. She gulped nervously and nodded.
"That's right, Sir. Mr. Wagner's office is on the second floor, and the elevator is to your right."
But the tall, exuberant Texan was feeling good this morning and he had no patience for pushing buttons in an Ethiopian elevator. With a good-humored chuckle, he winked at the startled receptionist and bounded up the flight of stairs, anxious to find his old friend, Tom Wagner, and commence swapping yarns about the good old days when they had drilled together in the oil field of Texas.
A second later, the elevator Bushmill ought to have taken opened its doors and Tom Wagner stepped out into the foyer, looking exceedingly nervous.
". . . a man named Bushmill.. . " he began, but the secretary merely gestured in the direction of the stairs.
"He's on his way up to see you, Sir," she reported dutifully, "You could catch him if you took the elevator."
Wagner whirled but the doors of the elevator had already slammed shut.
"Oh sweet suffering Christ!" the oil executive moaned as he began wearily climbing the stairs.
* * *
Bushmill looked through the glass partition, saw the young woman standing by Wagner's desk, and fell in love with her instantly. Just like old Tom Wagner to get himself the best-looking secretary in all of Africa! he mused to himself.
The girl was tall and slender, with long, blonde hair which fell almost to her shoulders. Her facial features were smooth, regular and regal, and Bushmill guessed that several generations of good breeding had gone into the creation of this splendid young woman. Her skin was fine and light and looked to Bushmill as if it might bruise easily.
"God Damn," he muttered, "that's the best-looking piece of rigging I've seen in a coon's age! And I bet Wagner's got her all tied up!"
Below the crisp whiteness of her blouse, Bushmill's experienced eyes traced the outline of her full voluptuous young breasts. They seemed incredibly large for such a slender girl and, beneath the cotton of her blouse, Bushmill observed that she was wearing a heavy, robust brassiere to hold those magnificent breasts in place. As soon as he dragged his eyes off her alluring chest, he took the time to appreciate the way her body tapered into a narrow waist and a flat stomach before spreading again into full, womanly hips. Her skirt was unfashionably long, covering her legs to the knees, and Bushmill nodded with approval. The Texan liked woman and he loved their bodies. But there was something old-fashioned in him which made him disapprove of those young girls who appeared in public dressed in next to nothing. Sure, they were fun to look at, but there were no surprises left when you got them into bed. This girl, on the other hand, obviously knew she had plenty to offer and did not feel it necessary to advertise her charms.
"Hi, honey," he said cheerfully as he entered the room. "Where's your boss?"
"I beg your pardon," she responded icily.
Before she could move her hand to stop him, Bushmill had pinched her cheek, winking at her lewdly.
"Now if I were Tom Wagner, I'd have you on my knee from nine to five," he assured her jocosely, "And never leave you alone for a minute."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
There were ice cubes in her voice as she backed away from him in haughty revulsion.
"That's all right, sweetheart," Bushmill assured her cheerfully. "Don't know what I'm talking about half the time myself. Now, where's your boss?"
"I.. . I," the young woman flustered, flushing with anger.
"Hey, lovely, I skipped breakfast this morning, and I'm itching for a cup of coffee," Bushmill announced, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Why don't you mix me up a cup while I'm waiting for old Tom to show up."
"Well, I never . . . "
"That's black with two sugars," Bushmill ordered, patting her lightly on the left buttock. "Now make it snappy, huh?"
The girl whirled and faced him, her magnificently voluptuous breasts rising and falling provocatively as she panted with cold fury.
"You must be . . . Mr. Bushmill . . . " she snarled at him.
"Tex to man friends," smiled Bushmill easily, noting that this gorgeous secretary was upset about something, but for the life of him, he could not imagine what the trouble could be. After all, he had been as friendly as . . .
"I am Denise McAlister," she told him levelly, enunciating each syllable of her name as if she were reciting one of the ten commandments. Tex was a little startled at her behavior. Clearly, something was wrong here.
"You're not Wagner's secretary?"
"No, Mr. Bushmill, as it turns out, I am your field supervisor."
There was a silence in the room so deafening it could have shattered glass. Bushmill tried to think of something humorous to say but for once in his life the Texan's sense of comedy completely failed him.
"But.. . you're young enough to be my daughter," he roared, shaken to the core. "What the hell do you know about drilling for oil?"
"I have a master's degree in petroleum science from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology," she told him, her eyes narrowing with indignation.
"That's not enough!" stormed Bushmill in high dungeon. "Do you know anything about drilling for oil?"
"And my uncle is the president of Anglo-American," she concluded.
"I reckon that's enough," nodded Bushmill with resignation. "Honey, you and I are gonna make a great team."
* * *
It had been a classic case of hate at first sight. They had stood toe-to-toe shouting at each other until poor Tom Wagner had found his way back into the office and then they had both shouted at him. Bushmill called the oil executive an unprintable name for having gotten him into this mess and announced that he was quitting. Denise McAlister, her cheeks flaming red, had fought back the tears and announced that Bushmill was fired. Tom Wagner, on the other hand, had taken several deep breaths, meditated for a moment on the pleasures of making forty-five grand a year and reasoned with the "two of them, reminding them both that Bushmill had been signed to an exclusive, iron-clad contract and thus could neither quit nor be fired.
* * *
"How was I to know you weren't a secretary?" demanded Bushmill, as he slammed the Land Rover into four wheel drive to negotiate a shallow stream which crossed what the Ethiopians euphemistically referred to as a secondary road. There was a frigid silence from the passenger seat and the Texas oilman felt his blood boil. She had not spoken to him, except in cases of urgent necessity, during the hot miserable two hundred mile train ride from Addis Ababa to Harrar. There had been a strained, terse, two minute dialogue at Harrar over the question of food and gasoline supplies the two of them would need during their overland trek from Harrar, a provincial capitol to a village called Warandab which was nestled obscurely on the banks of the Fafan River. And then there had been eight more hours of total silence. Bushmill was not sure whether he hated Denise McAlister or merely disliked her intensely but his occasional efforts at starting a conversation had been dismal failures, since she had apparently settled her mind on her feelings concerning him.
"You object to working under me because I'm a woman!" she charged angrily. "I've never seen such a perfect Male Chauvinist Pig."
"I object to working under you because you're an ignorant, insolent, twenty-five year old bitch!" rejoined Bushmill between his teeth, bouncing the Land Rover over the sun-whitened bones of a long-deceased cow. "And I don't give a shit who your uncle is!"
This exchange seemed to settle matters for the moment, and there were no further attempts at communication until they cleared the forest area and emerged onto a dry, trackless plain, which was the beginning of the Ogaden desert. The terrain was still fairly hilly and Bushmill, who enjoyed driving, amused himself and terrified his companion by roaring up one side of each hill and then plummeting blindly down the other side. The road was degenerating steadily and Bushmill was obliged to jam on the brakes as a nearly naked native man suddenly emerged from some bush and strolled nonchalantly across the road.
"Watch out for that man!" the girl cried in fright.
Bushmill slowed, waving to the native, and grinned as the Ethiopian returned his greeting. The man was wearing nothing but a meager strip of cloth tied loosely around his waist and hanging between his legs. Denise McAlister took one horrified look at the man's nakedly swaying genitals and then turned her head abruptly away.
"Pretty hard to miss him with his dong hanging out," commented Bushmill with an obscene little smile on his face.
"Kindly do not use that language in my presence," Miss McAlister reprimanded him.
"Why? Do dongs embarrass you?" he needled her.
"I don't know why the government doesn't make them wear pants at least," she complained,, blushing.
Bushmill sensed that the moment was right for a little philosophical conversation. True, he had never been to MIT, but this was a subject on which he had some pretty specific ideas.
"Why? It's hotter than a coal fire in hell around here and that fella sure wasn't going to a fashion show, so why should he wear clothes? Wearing pants is a western hang-up. These people have got the right idea."
For a moment she thought she was going to freeze him out again, but the girl seemed to find this a point worth disputing.
"It has been proven," she lectured him in her schoolteacher's voice, "That nudity causes sexual promiscuity . . . "
"And I think that sexual promiscuity, or fucking as we called it in Texas, is just fine," announced Bushmill, with the tone of a man announcing an immortal truth.
Denise saw that the wily Texan was luring her into one of those obscene conversations he seemed to find so entertaining, and she refused to rise to his bait. Traveling in this heat had made her sleepy, and she turned on her side in the seat facing away from him and cradling her head on her arms. Denise was a serious-minded woman with a serious project ahead of her and she found herself wondering if anything could be accomplished in the presence of this crude, vulgar man. Besides, all this talk about nudity and promiscuity upset her profoundly but the tiredness swept over her in relentless waves and before she could stop herself, the young female petroleum engineer had drifted off into an uneasy slumber. She dreamed feverishly, seeing herself standing naked in Tom Wagner's air-conditioned office while the two men told dirty stories about their wildcatting days together in Texas. It seemed impossible that the two of them could be unaware of the fact that she was totally undressed, but neither man seemed to be paying the slightest attention to her. Then, in her dream, Bushmill reached out, his hand sweeping licentiously across the smoothly yielding flesh of her buttocks.
She woke with a start, realizing that the vehicle was stopped and the Texas was shaking her gently awake. She sat up, trying to shake the sleep out of her eyes. For some reason, Bushmill was grinning like a satyr.
"We're here, Baby," he announced jubilantly. "This is Warandab!"
Focusing her eyes, Denise gazed out the mud-splattered windows of the Land Rover. They were surrounded by tall, handsome, brown-skinned people both men and women, and they were all stark naked!
CHAPTER THREE
Warandab in the morning. The Ethiopian sun was already high in the sky, streaming in through the windows of the camping trailer which the Anglo-American Oil Company had provided for the comfort of Miss Denise McAlister while she occupied herself with the business of finding them a few new oil wells. In the soft hazy glow of half-consciousness, the young female ran one hand through her long sandy hair, squirming restlessly between the fresh white sheets and trying to decide how much of what she recalled from the day before had really happened and how much had merely been part of a bad dream.
Afraid of what she might see, Denise cautiously pulled the sheet up to cover her naked breasts and pushed aside the curtain to take her first look at Warandab by daylight. The village was really nothing more than a confused conglomeration of mud huts and dilapidated buildings, and there were naked, happy, healthy-looking children playing jubilantly in the streets. Tall statuesque women, wearing only the traditional loin-cloth around their hips, swayed to and fro, carrying baskets of vegetables and buckets of water and calling to one another cheerfully as they went about their errands.
Denise could have accustomed herself to the idea of naked African natives, but while the people here all seemed to have light brown skin, she recalled having read somewhere that Ethiopians were not members of the Negro race at all; they were merely unusually dark-skinned Caucasians, and the girl observed that their features were perfectly European. Indeed, some of them could have passed for students or faculty members at M.I.T. with unusually dark sun tans, and this made the fact of their nakedness more difficult for the puritanical young woman to accept.
A native man walked by the trailer, the merest scrap of bright red cloth covering his genitals, and Denise quickly closed the curtain before he could see her. I'm making one decision right now, she told herself with determination. Not one of these savages is going to get a job with the Anglo-American Oil Company unless he presents himself decently dressed! We have a duty to civilize these people whether they like it or not! And you can't be civilized if you run around half-naked!
Feeling the tiredness in her bones, Denise sat up in bed, guiltily realizing that she had been too tired the night before to search through her bags for her nightie and had crawled into bed wearing only a brief pair of panties. This was to be strictly avoided in the future, she decided firmly. After all, with a crazy man like Bushmill around and all those naked savages, a girl could not be too careful.. .
Suddenly, the door of the trailer opened, and a tall bronze figure entered quickly, without knocking and without invitation. He was wearing no clothing except for the traditional brightly-colored loin-cloth stretched across his hips. Denise McAllister filled her lungs with air in preparation for a piercing scream, certain that she was about to be raped, and then did a double-take: It was Bushmill!
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. Lean and muscular, Bushmill's body was uniformly tanned and he wore the loin-cloth as naturally as if he had been wearing one all his life. Her cheeks ablaze with indignation, the young woman covered her voluptuously naked breasts with the sheet and slid hastily back into bed. Bushmill chuckled, crossed his arms over his robust chest and leaned nonchalantly against the door.
"Coffee's ready," he announced cheerfully. "You going to sleep all day?"
"How . . . how dare you?" she managed to gasp. "What are you doing in that ridiculous . . . "
"What, this?" Bushmill pretended to be surprised at her alarm. "Well, while you were catching up on your beauty sleep, I've been out making contact with the folks who live in this town. Mighty nice people! I went around to see the Ras this morning with some presents, naturally and he told me that Western clothes were just plain silly in this climate. I decided he was right, and one of his wives sat down and made us a couple of these snazzy loin-cloths. Here, this one's for you!"
With a deft flick of his wrist, Bushmill tossed a dark blue loin-cloth onto the foot of the bed followed by a string of native beads made from brightly colored seashells.
"What on earth . . . "
"Go ahead," he urged her lasciviously. "Put it on and you'll be the best-looking chick in the tropical zone!"
"You've lost your mind," she hissed at him bitterly! "Get out of here and put some pants on."
Bushmill chuckled at her contemptuously. "There is nothing in my contract, lady, which says I have to wear pants," he told her levelly. "I'm supposed to assist you in sinking a few test wells and, goddamn it, I can do it stark naked if I please!"
"If you expect me to run around dressed like a savage . . . " she began to bluster, but Bushmill cut her off rudely.
"Listen, for starters, you've got to change your way of thinking about these people. They're not savages! I spent most of the morning with Tatar who is the oldest son of the Ras, and the kid speaks pretty good English. In this part of the country, the world of the Ras is law, and we won't get to first base with our drilling unless we get these people on our side. You can think whatever you like about them, lady, but don't call them savages out loud because there's a government school not far from here and half the tribe speaks the same language we do."
Denise McAlister was coldly furious at being lectured in this fashion by a man who had never finished the eighth grade. "Take this thing away!" she ordered sternly.
Bushmill glanced at the skimpy native garment but made no move to retrieve it. "Now, listen honey," he said calmly, his voice softening a little as he realized he had pushed the young woman too far. "I don't seriously expect you to run around naked, but we do have a little bit of a public relations problem on our hands here. The Ras is giving a banquet tonight in our honor.. . "
"Fine," the young woman retorted crisply.
"You will kindly inform the Ras that everyone attending this party will be decently dressed . . . "
"Look, Denise, you're still missing the point. First, the Ras has given you a present, and he expected to see you wear it. And the second thing is that these people are decently dressed by their own standards. Don't you see that here Western morals mean nothing! Why last night when we came in, the whole tribe old men, women, and children was skinny-dipping together in the Fafan river. They think that Europeans wear clothing because it's cold where we live and if you tried to explain that you kept your breasts covered because you were ashamed of them, he'd think you were nuts. And if you tried to tell him that his women he has five wives, by the way should be ashamed of their breasts, he'd throw both of us out of the village."
"I'm not ashamed of my breasts!" she stormed at him."
"Fine," interrupted Bushmill. "Then you can leave them out tonight when we go to the Ras' party."
"That's out of the question!"
"Well, honey, we can argue about it later. Right now Tatar and I are checking over the equipment Tom Wagner had sent down here. I've gotten a couple of the boys together and we're building an operations shed now. Come on down after you've had your coffee."
Bushmill grinned insolently at her and closed the door behind him, leaving the loin-cloth and the string of beads resting at her feet on the bed.
Disturbed at the way Bushmill seemed to be able to talk circles around her, the girl threw off the covers and stood up to wash the sleep from her eyes. What Bushmill had said about morality had to be wrong but somehow it made sense the way he explained it. She still hated the Texan passionately, but in all fairness, she had to admit that he was throwing himself into the work with unusual efficiency. Already, he had made contact with the local authorities and organized a labor gang.
Denise gazed at the loin-cloth and the beads, and impulsively decided to put them on, just for an experiment. Kicking off her panties, she fastened the native garment around her waist, allowing the light soft cloth to hang freely down over the blonde curly hairs of her pubic triangle. Then she slipped the beads over her head and turned to face herself in the mirror.
My breasts are too large, she observed, and they jiggle whenever I move. And I could never let anyone see me like this no matter how important it was.
Without warning she suddenly found the recollection of what had happened that terrible night back in Boston sweeping back over her. For years, she had tried to banish the memory of it from her mind, but all this lewd talk had riled her subconscious, bringing back scenes and images she had long struggled to forget. It had been a stupid thing to do, even for a Sophomore in college but the boys had fed her so much whiskey that she had forgotten for a moment the iron rules of morality her parents had taught her as a child. The night had been dark, moonless, and exceedingly hot and under the circumstances, the idea of going skinny-dipping in the Charles River had seemed naughty but not genuinely evil. They had had a good swim in the dark murky waters but somehow when she had swum back to land, she had found herself alone there with three young men from another college. They had lifted her from the swirling waters of the river and stretched her tired body out on the cool softness of the grass.
It was only when they put their hard demanding hands on the softness of her virginal flesh that Denise realized that she had fallen into a trap. They had deliberately maneuvered her away from the others, and these three were not friends of hers from school at all, but three strangers who had attached themselves to the party earlier in the evening. She did not know their names and it was far too dark to see their faces clearly. What did they want with her?
The answer was not long in coming.
"Spread'er legs!" growled one of the men lewdly and Denise felt her delicate, inexperienced body going limp with stark terror. They were going to rape her! She opened her mouth to scream, and suddenly found a cruel muscular hand on her throat. "You make a sound, Big-Tits, and I'm gonna hurt ya bad," came a threatening voice, and Denise felt the scream dying in her chest. There was still too much liquor swimming in her blood stream for her to react intelligently to the situation, and she felt her muscles melting like butter as the three men spread-eagled her on the grass, wrenching her long tapered thighs apart and pinning her arms to her sides. They were all naked, and she could feel their hard, pulsating young cocks brushing lewdly against her body as they worked her into position.
Denise groaned in horrified agony as she watched one of the shadowy figures crawl between her widely-spread thighs and lower his head down towards her nakedly exposed vaginal slit. It suddenly struck the innocent young girl that he was going to put his mouth there, on her vulnerable virginal pussy, and the thought of this obscene perversion filled her with horror. They were going to defile her forever!
The man's hungry lips made contact, and a muscular spasm rippled powerfully through
Denises helplessly spread body. She tried to inch away from him as he vilely licked his way into the softly quivering flesh of her vagina, but the other two men put all their weight on her and she found it impossible to move so much as a muscle. The man's obscenely probing tongue screwed tantalizingly into the tightly resisting tunnel of her pussy and Denise groaned softly, knowing that she would never again be the same after this dreadful experience. It was insane to have stripped off the clothing which concealed the delights of her lust-provoking young body from the passionate eyes of the world, but she had felt safe and comfortable in the company of her friends, and it had never occurred to her that these three strangers would separate her from the others and try anything as bizarre as rape! "Please . . . please," she murmured, keeping her voice low so that she would not alarm them into hurting her. "I'm a virgin! I've never done it before."
"All to the better, baby," muttered the man whose tongue was swirling around obscenely up between her outstretched legs. "We like'm good and tight!"
Clearly, there was no mercy to be found here. These were not college students at all, but toughs from the slums of Boston who had invaded the campus residential area between Harvard and M.I. T. for a little fun with the ivory tower softies who lived there. These were real people, not professors or graduate students, and they meant precisely what they said about raping her.
"Ooooooooggggghhhhhh!! ! ! " she .gasped in dire humiliation, as the young hoodlum sucked the soft pink tip of her clitoris up between his lips, biting it roughly. Another thing was also fairly obvious. These three did not particularly care whether they hurt her or not; they were concerned solely with their own pleasure.
Oh God, this can't really be happening to me! She groaned as she felt lewdly cruel hands roughly caressing the softly shimmering orbs of her breasts, their fingers tweaking and twisting the delicate tips of her nipples. The tongue of the boy between her legs was spearing up into her wide-split vagina now like a tiny serpent's tongue, the lewdly probing member testing the defenses of her precious little hymen, and sending shock-waves of pain through her tormented young body. She felt no pleasure. It was all too sudden, too violent.
Then, without warning, the man rose up over her, and she could see his white teeth leering down at her in the darkness of the river bank. A few dozen yards from where she was stretched out nakedly, the cars on Memorial Drive hurried heedlessly by, and on the other side of the street, the city of Cambridge was sleeping. unaware that an innocent young woman was about to lose her virginity to the savage assaults of three vicious rapists.
"Ya ready, baby?" he asked her scornfully. "Better hand onto something, chick, 'cause I got a lotta cock here, and I ain't gonna stop until I got all eight inches sunk deep up inside that aristocratic little belly of yours!"
"Noooooooohhhhhh!" she groaned in agony as the brutal, lust-driven man slid his muscular body into position over her, the broad blunt tip of his cock already brushing obscenely against the fearfully quivering flesh of her vagina.
"Come on, sweetheart, give it a feel," one of the other men urged her lasciviously, releasing her hand. "That there is the biggest cock in Boston!"
Her arm ached from where they had been holding it tightly, but with one hand loose, a spark of resistance ran through the girl's mind and she knew she would have to make the most of that one free hand. Quickly, she snaked her arm down between her legs, deciding that if she could hold him off somehow, there was a remote possibility that. . .
Her fingers wrapped immediately around the rapist's heavily burgeoning penis, and despair settled over her like a gray cloud. God, it was huge! Inexperienced with men, she had seen the tiny wiggly penises on little boys, but it had never occurred to her that a man's fully erected member could be this big. And hard! She squeezed, trying to hurt him, but instead he merely grunted with pleasure and realized that she was only making things worse for herself.
"Like it, baby?" he taunted her as he pulled her trembling hand away. Giving her no opportunity to reply, the two men on either side of her sat on her arms and raising her ankles in the air, pulled her vainly-re sis ting thighs apart, exposing the whole flat plain of her sparse, hair-lined young pussy. The rapist ran his fingers lightly over the delicate pink slit of her helplessly spread vaginal mouth, opening her up as he guided the brutal head of his lustfully pulsating cock into the tantalizing softness of her cunt.. .
The girl shook her head, trying to bring herself back to the realities around her. Her university days, and skinny-dipping in the Charles River were now things of the past for her. She was here in Ethiopia, a high-salaried employee of the Anglo-American Oil Company, and she had been sent here to find oil. Of course, Denise was not so naive that she did not realize how important her uncle's influence had been in landing her this job. But having an important relative did not mean she would keep her position if she failed to prove herself in the field. Oil was still very much a man's business and she knew perfectly well that if she muffed this assignment, she would never be given another.
But Bushmill, with his stupid talk about nudity, had stirred up again all those bad memories. Yes, they had raped her good and proper, three times, one after another. And the pain had been indescribable. When they had left her, she had staggered out of the bushes and rejoined her friends, saying nothing about what had happened to her. In fact, she had never told anyone, but the bitter memory still burned within her, like a hotly smoldering coal. She felt that she had learned a valuable lesson for the future. Her own voluptuous young body was a danger to her, and if she wished to avoid being the object of men's tyrannical lusts, then she had better keep those desire-provoking curves well covered from now on!
You look like a character in a movie, she told herself as she studied the softly tantalizing curves of her sumptuous breasts and flat smooth stomach in the mirror, like the female lead in a porno film. But . . . not bad, really and if men weren't always jumping on you it would be a great way to get an all-over tan. I'd like to see Bushmill's face if I really showed up at the Ras' party wearing this outfit! The old lecher would probably . . .
Well, of course, he wasn't really that old, and that was half the problem. Denise had gotten a good look at the man's lean, muscular body when he had come bursting into her trailer. There were streaks of gray in his hair all right, but his body was hard and youthful looking and Denise decided that the Texan had probably donned the skimpy loin cloth in order to show off what he had to offer.
Enough of this silly business! The young female engineer quickly stripped off the native costume and dressed herself in a pair of sensible slacks. Then she imprisoned her sensuous womanly breasts in the strongest brassiere she could find before slipping into a severe, business-like blouse. She knew she had to get busy or this Bushmill would take complete charge of the operation. Without waiting for orders from her he had already made contact with the local population, engaged labors without her consent, and in general acted as if he, not she, were in command of this expedition. Denise McAlister tightened her jaw as she swept an errant lock of soft sandy hair out of her eyes. So this male chauvinist pig thought he could walk all over her did he? Well, they would see about that!
* * *
"Bush, why dat lady look mad all the time?" inquired Tatar as he and the Texan split a jar of native beer in the shade of the operations shack. Bushmill followed the native's outstretched finger and spotted Denise setting up her scientific equipment near the camper. With the temperature over ninety, the young blonde woman was dressed as if she were momentarily expecting a snow-storm and her face seemed hard and serious as she unpacked each item of the delicate electronic equipment with which she expected to sniff out the presence of black gold beneath the surface of this Ethiopian mud. She did look mad, indeed.
"I dunno, Tatar," the oilman responded with a lazy grunt. "That is a very beautiful and a very peculiar lady down there, and I'm not sure what makes her tick."
Tex Bushmill studied the young man who had so quickly become his friend and number-one assistant. Tatar had inherited his father's craggy noble features and quick-wits, and Bushmill guessed that when the old man pushed onto wherever good Ethopians went when they died, Tatar would make an excellent Ras. The kid was smart, and Bushmill could picture him, dressed in a dark business suit and a striped tie edging Miss McAlister out for top honors in the graduating class at M.I.T. Of course, Denise considered him nothing more than an ignorant savage since his formal education consisted of a few classes in English at a missionary school. What Denise would never understand was the fact that Tatar knew all kinds of things they did not teach at M.I.T. He and his father administered the lives of some five thousand members of their tribe, some here in Warandab and others scattered about in the surrounding bush country with their flocks. Of course, there was nothing particularly democratic about the Ras' form of government in fact it was autocratic as hell, but it seemed to work and as far as Bushmill could observe, the people were happy. The land was naturally poor, but by working together, the tribe managed to get enough to eat. None of the women wore brassieres, but they laughed and sang as they went about their chores. The tribe was too far from Addis Ababa to be controlled by the Emperor of Ethiopia, and they had only the faintest notion of the outside world. They even kept slaves, in total ignorance of the fact that the practice of slavery was frowned on by the more civilized world, but here in Warandab, slaves seemed to have approximately the same status as adopted orphans in Europe. They were treated as members of the family and to Bushmill's eyes, it was impossible to say who was a slave and who was not. They also practiced bigamy, a fact Denise was certain to find distressing, and the
Ras had at least seven wives. Tatar had none, because he was barely eighteen, but his sexual needs were taken care of by some of his father's younger concubines, naturally with the old man's knowledge and consent.
No, civilization it wasn't! But to Bushmill, it looked like fun, and he was glad he was here.
"Maybe you have not loved her good?" inquired Tatar delicately, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a swig of the cool, refreshing native beer. "Our ladies act like that when the man not love them good."
"Ah . . . look, Tatar," Bushmill stumbled, realizing for the first time that the village must have made the natural assumption that Denise was his woman. It would be tough enough explaining that they were not even married; how could he ever hope to explain to a member of this masculine-dominated native society that she was his boss? And that "loving her good" might be his fondest desire, but he was not yet in a position to do so?
Still, he had to marvel at the native man's acuteness. Of course, that was Denise's problem and he could have kicked himself for not having spotted it a long time ago. The girl was obviously suffering from an advanced case of horniness! And he would have to do something about it soon or the two of them would be at each other's throats before long.
"Here, the ladies want to be loved much," commented the Ras' son, as if he were explaining the facts of life to a very young child. "Sometimes twice a day when the sun here is not too hotly. Not get loved enough, ladies am like her, mad all time."
"Tatar, old buddy," Bushmill explained, a little embarrassed. "I think you've got the situation on the point of your spear, but the fact is that that's a lady, but not my wife. We aren't married, get it?"
The youthful native prince looked somewhat puzzled, and from what Bushmill had been able to observe of the social life in this tribe, marriage vows were not matters of great importance.
"She had jealous husband?" questioned Tatar, obviously a little perplexed.
"No, she has no husband. We work for a company which sent us here together to find oil. But we are not even friends."
"Ah! But this is problem," the Ethiopian commented gravely. "You love lady tonight, anyway, okay? Make her happy before coming to feast. Is important."
"That's a little short notice, son," commented Bushmill, observing that Tatar was clearly upset about something more serious than Denise's love life. "What's the difficulty?"
"Difficulty is my father," confessed the youth. "The Ras is very difficult man-and he not like the lady no smile. If she no happy at feast, it may be that he send you all away."
"Good grief, why should he do a thing like that!" murmured Bushmill in protest. "I've about come to the conclusion that we're sitting on a mess of black greasy stuff which could make you all rich. He'd be cutting his own throat!"
"You not understand. South, there is Narthusi people. Big tribes and many warriors. They not come here because we got no good hunting land. You find oil and maybe they cut Ras' throat for him. Ras plenty worried. I worried too. He say, better we be poor and Narthusi not come. I convince him we find oil and buy guns to shoot Narthusi, but he still not happy. He not trust girl what not smile!" ' The first complication, groaned Bushmill internally. And once again native wisdom was not far off the mark. Of course, if the Ras and his people struck it rich with oil, there would be other tribes who would try to take it away from them. Tribal wars were fought for a good deal less in Africa. This worries the Ras with good reason, and then he sees a sour-faced blonde who looks like she doesn't care what happens to the Ras and his people, and the old-timer starts thinking about evicting us before we sink our first well. The only way to convince these people that Denise and I are dedicated to their welfare is to show them that we will defend them in the Narthusi attack. But how?
"Don't worry, Tatar," the oil man told his native friend, exuding a glow of self-confidence which he did not genuinely feel. "The Anglo-American Oil Company looks after its friends. If we strike oil, we sign a contract with your father, and we will defend him if the Narthusi try to interfere, and Miss McAlister feels the same way!"
"It good if she nice to my father tonight," Tatar reminded him earnestly. "He have special entertainment for you. Good party! You love her first and she smile plenty!"
Oh she'll smile, all right, Bushmill promised himself grimly. She'll smile if I have to kill her. I probably won't "love" her today, but I will eventually, and when I do, brother, then she'll really smile!
* * *
Denise sat in the trailer, looking at herself in the mirror. She had showered thoroughly, put on lipstick and rouge, and done her hair attractively, and now she was trying to decide what constituted proper dress for a banquet given by a native village elder in Southern
Ethiopia. Bushmill had reported the situation to her very graphically, and she knew that if they were expelled from the area because she personally had been unacceptable to the Ras, she might as well tear up her diploma in Petroleum Science and look for a secretarial position somewhere. Yes, her uncle was a big wheel in the company but no one could save her if she blew their chance to drill for oil in this fertile zone. It had already cost Anglo-American a small fortune in bribes in Addis Ababa just getting permission to explore here.
Bushmill had told her to dress up, and sadly she surveyed the small collection of clothes she had taken with her. It had not occurred to her as she was leaving Addis Ababa that she would be doing any partying here in the bush, and she had brought nothing but sturdy rough working clothes along. Dubiously, she picked up the brightly decorated loin-cloth, and the girl decided that it left no more of her exposed than would the bottom half of a bikini. In any event, it would have to do, she decided, and put it on. This left the top half of her to worry about, and she pawed through her clothing looking for something which would complete this curious ensemble. She rejected the top of her bathing suit since the colors clashed, but then her glance fell upon a brassiere she had brought along by accident. It was a light filmy bit of fluff and she had never worn it because it seemed to permit her firm-fleshed breast a little too much freedom for comfort. But the color a light tan -formed a neat contrast with the lively tones of her loin-cloth, and when she dropped the beads around her neck, she realized with a shock that this was going to be her outfit for the evening. Of course, anyone who looked carefully could see the soft dark circles of her nipples, and Bushmill would undoubtedly make some crude vulgar comment, but it could not be helped! If the Ras was as touchy as he seemed to be, then it was important for her to do anything she could to stay in his favor.
There was a discrete knock at the door of her trailer, and Denise fought off the temptation to hold something up over the sumptuous orbs of her breasts as she opened the door.
"Oh, sorry, thought you were dressed," Bushmill apologized casually, his eyes dancing desirously over her half-naked, lust-provoking figure.
"I am dressed," she told him sullenly. "Do you think this mascarade show will make the Ras happy?"
"Baby, it would make any man in Ethiopia happy," he told her appreciatively. "Of course, you could leave off the bra, and really give him a heart attack. I don't think any of the women around here have tits to compare with yours."
"I'll thank you to refrain from making comments about my ti . . . my breasts!" she flared at him, her cheeks coloring at the crudeness of his remark. "Let's go!"
CHAPTER FOUR
"Now we have smoke, yes?" said the Ras with a slight burp which he did without repression. The Ras smiled at Bushmill who grinned back and then leered at Denise who did her best to return a ladylike smile, despite the quantity of liquor she had consumed.
So far, the dinner had gone exceedingly well. The food had been incredibly good, even if there had been certain delicacies neither of the two Americans had cared to think about too profoundly. There were twenty-odd people sitting around in a circle, evidently all the important men and women in the village plus several of the chiefs wives, and every time Denise had emptied her glass, one of the adolescent native girls who were serving the dinner had promptly filled it up again with rich brown native beer. Working under the brutal sun all day, Denise had become quite dehydrated and was beginning to realize that she had drunk a trifle too much.
I'd better let Bushmill do the talking, she reminded herself. He can probably hold his beer better than I can, and women are apparently supposed to be seen and not heard around here. Besides, he seems to have a way with these people . . .
Bushmill burped politely, since it seemed to be the thing to do and smiled at Tatar as the young man got out a box of what seemed to be crudely rolled cigars. So far everything was going all right, and the Ras seemed to be delighted with Denise's bosomy beauty and with the compliment she had paid him by wearing the native dress. Bushmill saw the wives looking curiously at her brassiere and chattering among themselves as they speculated on what it might be. The Ras himself was a genial pleasant man with a fair command of English, tall and bony with his black short-cut hair turning white with age. Bushmill recognized immediately that the old man had a great deal of native shrewdness in him, and he decided never to underestimate his intelligence.
The box of native cigars appeared before him. Afraid that Denise might refuse the black hand-made objects in favor of one of her own menthol filter-tips, Bushmill took two, handing one to her in the hopes that she would realize that it was offensive to reject a gift from the Ras. She smiled at him sweetly and accepted the vile-looking object as if it were precisely what she had always dreamed of.
You fucking phony, he told her mentally as he leaned forward and ignited the tip of her cigar. You can behave yourself when there's an oil deal at stake, can't you? And then piss all over me in private! Well, Miss, I'm going to fix your wagon, Texas style! I don't know how, you horny frigid bitch, but I'm going to fuck you all the way up to those big tits of yours as soon as I get the chance!
Tex Bushmill sat back against a pillow and relaxed, letting his stomach work on the enormous meal he had just consumed and taking a deep drag on the native cigar. He nearly choked as the pungent dark smoke billowed into his lungs, but" he caught himself in time and managed to let the air out slowly, feeling his mind reel suddenly for some reason. Too damn much of that home-brew beer, he told himself sharply, feeling abruptly a good deal drunker than he was a moment before. Then he sniffed the dark heavy smoke which was rapidly filling the air as the Ras' guests all puffed happily on their cigars. No, it couldn't be! And yet.. .
"Excuse me, but where do you get the tobacco for these?" he inquired casually.
"It grow wild," Tatar explained simply. "We call it Benga, the women they gather it from fields. Like?"
"Oh God! Yes," groaned Bushmill happily.
"Like! Ah, do you like it, Denise?"
"Hmmmm?" the girl started as if she had been floating in her own private blue fog. "Yes, it's . . . it's dreamy. Never tasted anything like it."
That's because you never went to pot parties at M.I.T., Bushmill grinned wickedly to himself. I haven't seen marijuana this good since I was a juvenile delinquent in Dallas! This has the makings of a real good party!
There was a ripple of conversation around the table as the beer mugs were filled again, and Denise felt a wave of well-being sweeping over her. She puffed on the richly aromatic cigar, noticing that she was unusually relaxed and at ease but unable to decide why. Of course everything was going well. Bushmill was behaving himself for once, and the Ras could hardly be friendlier. It was warm in the room, and she was glad that she had refrained from wearing any more clothing. . . she felt an elbow in her ribs and looked up dreamily. The Ras was asking her a question.
"One of my wives asked me what you wearing," the Ras said bluntly pointing at her breasts. "I had to tell her that I not know but would ask."
"Oh . . . it's a . . . " Denise glanced desperately at Bushmill, but he was puffing contentedly on his cigar and seemed unavailable to help her out of her difficulties. "It's a brassiere," she finally stammered.
"Oh don't think there is word for that in our language," the Ras said seriously. "What is for?"
"It's . . . " the girl struggled, trying to clear her marijuana-fogged mind. What were the damn things for anyway? How could she explain? "It's just something we wear for . . . ah . . . decoration."
The Ras communicated this fact to his wife who continued to look interested. She whispered something back to her husband who once again addressed himself to the young blonde.
"My wife says it very pretty and useful to carrying things," announced the Ras. Again Denise felt Bushmill's elbow invading her ribs.
"Give her the bra!" hissed the Texan in an undertone. "Here's our chance to make a real hit. Give it to her!"
The girl knew that this was all wrong, and for a second she thought she saw the lewd flutter of a wink passing between Tatar and Bushmill, but her brain was too sluggish to come up with an objection. No, there was no way out! She would have to remove her brassiere and give it to the Ras' wife whose ample bosom would more than fill it up. Her fingers were clumsy, but she managed to get the snap unfastened, and Bushmill obligingly lifted the frail garment off of her shoulders and passed it across the table to the delighted native woman. With an act of will, she refrained from covering her naked breasts with her hands, knowing that the tiny brown tips of her nipples were hardening obscenely with the forbidden pleasure of being stared at so openly by the crowded room of people.
There was raucous laughter and a buzz of conversation again, but Denise dragged on her cigar to steady her nerves, preferring not to look up and see what the cause of the merriment was. Two native musicians were sitting in one corner playing drums and a strange reed instrument, and the room seemed to be swimming with noise and activity while several couples danced in the middle of the circle with wild orgiastic movements. Time seemed to be passing slowly, and something strange was happening to Denise's sense of balance because the room appeared to be rocking slowly back and forth as if they were at sea. She felt peculiar but happy, and somehow the fact of being half-naked in a room full of people no longer upset her as much as it did before. After all, everyone else was nearly naked as well, and at the moment no one seemed to be paying much attention to her. Bushmill was still sitting beside her, swigging beer and drawing on his cigar as he enjoyed the frenzied dancing, and the Ras, far from being shocked at what was going on, was smiling and tapping his foot in time with the music. It was a great party!
Tatar was dancing immediately in front of their table, gyrating his lean muscular body and thrusting his hips obscenely towards the tall, languid native girl who was his partner. Denise had been admiring her youthful body, noticing how firm and slender the muscles of her thighs were and how her high-set perky breasts bounced provocatively. Like everyone else at the party, the girl was wearing nothing but some beads and a loin cloth which was tied in a bow at the hip. She was perhaps fifteen years of age at the maximum but possessed a full, voluptuous womanly body despite her tender years. Suddenly the girl said something low and urgent in the native tongue, and Denise's pot-glazed eyes switched to Tatar's face in time to see the young man nod, his face now positively contorted with undisguised lust.
With a slow deliberate movement of her hand, the native girl deftly undid the string which secured her loin cloth and let the garment fall to the floor. Every masculine eye in the "room fastened itself on the soft dark triangle of her pubic curls as she denuded herself, and there was a ripple of amused comment. Denise gasped at this unexpected bit of exhibitionism and looked to the Ras, waiting to see if he would call a halt to these obscene proceedings. But the old man merely grinned at her lasciviously and nodded as he puffed on his cigar. Denise seized Bushmill by the elbow and leaned over to whisper in his ear.
"Wha . . . what's going on?"
"Beats the hell outa me," confessed the oil man cheerfully, his eyes widening with the contagious lust spreading quickly around the room. "It looks like we've got a native ceremony in store for us. But whatever happens, don't blow your cool!"
Denise struggled to control her emotions as she studied Tatar's partner. The young native girl was obviously trying to tempt him now, running her hands lasciviously over her body and caressing her dark brown nipples until they popped forth with eager lustfulness. Tatar gyrated around her like a madman, a significant bulge forming in the front of his loin cloth, and one by one the other couples stopped dancing and sat around in a circle, watching intently. No one seemed too surprised as the black haired native girl lowered her smoothly shimmering body to the floor, her long tapered legs spreading instinctively apart. The young American woman found herself clinging to Bushmill's arm as if for protection, almost gasping with horror as she watched the girl's hand moving in tiny teasing circles across the flat plain of her stomach down towards the soft dark hair which surrounded the temptingly thin slit of her vagina. Her glistening young buttocks were twisting and gyrating as her fingers crept daringly into the moist furrow of her loins, dancing lightly over the surface of the tiny jeweled button of her clitoris. Denise felt her breath quickening as she instinctively drew closer to Bushmill, suddenly realizing that she was in Africa in a room full of savages. In the meantime, she continued to smoke her cigar down to the very end, dragging deeply on the stump and sucking the swirling narcotic smoke deeply into her lungs, unconscious of the deadly effect it was having on her senses.
In fact, her body seemed to be tingling wildly, and she discovered that in her mad desire to be close to someone, she was pressing the tiny hardened nipple of her right breast into the muscle of Bushmill's bare arm. She burned with guilt, but the tip of her breast seemed to be transmitting electronic impulses through the rest of her body, and the pleasure had suddenly become too much to be denied. In fact, all sorts of strange unfamiliar sensations were taking possession of her inexperienced young body. God! What was happening to her! What was happening to all of them?
Tatar glanced quickly once around the room as if to assure himself that he had the group's consent for what he was about to do and then abruptly snatched away his own loin cloth, baring his genitals. Denise heard herself gasp as her dazzled eyes came to rest on the young man's beautifully long penis, dangling half-erected over the nakedly writhing body of the young woman on the floor beneath him. Naturally, he was not circumcised, and his thickly rising cock seemed to grow more menacing by the moment as he dropped to his knees between the willingly outstretched thighs of his adolescent partner.
"My God! They're going to . . . to make love!" the naive young female finally concluded to Bushmill, her voice whispering into his ear. "How disgusting!"
Is it really? thought the Texan, watching appreciatively as Tatar's hungry lips coursed over the girl's ripely succulent body, teasing her into a wild frenzy of female desire. Those are two damn beautiful bodies down there, and what they're going to do is generally considered the nicest thing two people can let happen between them. We usually do it behind locked doors, and these people do it in public after dinner and a good cigar, but does that make it disgusting? Baby, I think you need some expanding of your horizons! Let's see if we can't show you what lust is all about!
Denise was sitting protectively close to him, the turgid little nipple of her right breast still pressing urgently into the muscle of his arm, and it was simple enough for Bushmill to slip one hand discretely down between her legs while the other hand casually circled her hips. The Texan realized that the girl was spaced out on the "banga" or native marijuana and would not know what was happening until after it was too late to stop him. And since they were shielded by the table, no one would be able to see them, and she would simply have to sit there and take it.
There was a murmur of excitement from the audience as the girl reached down between her outstretched legs to take Tatar's excitedly throbbing penis into the softness of her fingers and began stroking it into total quivering rigidity. The native woman knew what she was doing, and Denise found that she could not tear her eyes away from the horrendous obscenity before her as she watched the brown-skinned girl slowly push back the soft thin foreskin to reveal the bright scarlet tip of his cock-head. God! He was huge!
She felt a tiny jerk at her waist, as if something was coming undone, but the blonde American woman was too preoccupied with the obscene spectacle being enacted before her to pay much attention to anything else. Bushmill, however, was keeping one eye on Tatar's progress, and one eye on his own. Moving carefully so as not to alarm her, he fingered apart the bow she had tied at her waist to hold the loin cloth in place, and then slowly inserted his fingers beneath the surface of the material, inching his way gradually towards her now nakedly exposed pussy.
She caught him at it just as his fingertip invaded the soft blonde fleece of her golden pubic triangle, and she snatched desperately at his muscular forearm.
"What on earth are you doing?" she hissed at him viciously, now wishing that her mind were in better working order. Bushmill merely smiled at her blithely, the corners of his mouth twisting into a wicked grin.
"Having a good time?" he inquired politely, overcoming her resistance and pushing his obscenely probing fingers even farther into the moistly tantalizing zone of her pussy. "Better not do much wiggling, Miss McAlister or the Ras will think we aren't having fun."
He was right! The Ras kept looking anxiously in their direction every few minutes, apparently worried that his foreign guests were finding this little "entertainment" boring by North American standards. Denise could squirm modestly in a vain effort to avoid Bushmill's evilly invading hand, but she could not slap his face and start screaming or the Ras would be offended and expel them both from his territory.
Meanwhile on the rug before them, Tatar was romping over the nakedly prone girl like a puppy on a picnic, kissing and caressing her everywhere as she pulled at the muscular strength of his hardened cock lustfully, guiding it inexorably towards the tiny hair-lined slit of her pussy. It seemed hardly possible that this massive object would fit in that tiny space, but the native girl seemed unworried, and she arched her body up lustfully to him, openly begging to be impaled. The slender young Ethiopian needed no further invitation. His strong tawny body crashed down upon the voluptuous softness of her breasts, and the thickness of his rigid cock stabbed viciously up between her outstretched legs as he flicked his hips powerfully forward.
"Aaaaaaghhhhh!" the native girl's scream -half joy and half agony echoed across the room, and Denise felt an indescribable thrill run through her marijuana-dazed body. She shook her head, trying desperately to bring this wildly depraved scene into some kind of focus. Tatar, the Ras' son, had plunged his heavily-hardened young male penis into the softly billowing pink flesh of the native girl's widely stretched vagina, piercing her to the core with one savagely powerful downstroke. Immediately, the girl's lithely slender legs curled welcomingly up around his back as if she were using the muscles in her sleek thighs to coax him into fucking even more deeply into her.
Denise shook her head, trying to fight off the swirls of erotic stimulation which seemed to be attacking her from all sides. Before her she could see the glistening shaft of Tatar's cock every time he withdrew partially from the wetly clasping channel of the girl's hotly absorbing cunt and his enormous sperm-filled testicles crashing obscenely into the indecently exposed plane of the girl's loins. But what Tatar was doing to the girl was the least of her problems! What really counted was the fact that Bushmill's hand had burrowed its way all the way up between her tightly clenched thighs, and one finger was teasing lewdly at the softly quivering flesh of her clitoris.
"Please stop!" she beseeched him. "Stop or I'll fire you!"
"You can't fire me," he commented blithely, bending over quickly and planting a moist kiss on the tingling tip of her right breast. "Nothing in my contract says I can't stick a finger in your cunt."
"Stop or.. . or I'll have you arrested!" she threatened him, weakening.
"Sure, baby, call the Chicago Police," he mocked her scornfully, his hand working its way even deeper into the palpitating pink flesh of her naked vaginal slit. The girl leaned back, despair sweeping over her as she realized precisely how helpless she really was. Of course, there was nothing she could do to stop Bushmill without causing a scene, and given the delicate diplomatic status of their presence in Warandab, a scene was one thing she did not dare to create. The girl understood little or nothing about the Ethiopian mentality, but it stood to reason that it must be in their eyes a great honor for her to have been invited to a party this intimate. Therefore, if she showed herself displeased, they would be that much more offended. And this meant that she had no option but to sit there and take it, both the lewdly indecent sight of the boy named Tatar, pummeling this nymphomaniac native girl up between her legs and the indignity of drunken Bushmill putting his vile greedy hands on her innocent young body.
On the rug before them, meanwhile Tatar's young partner was going slowly out of her mind with excitement. Bushmill was no expert in East African sexual customs, but he guessed astutely that in some mysterious fashion, the tribe was putting them, the two Americans, to the test. The people sitting around Tatar and his friend were clearly excited, a fact which suggested that a scene like this was not something they saw every day. Several men were fondling the breasts of the women sitting next to them, and Bushmill had no way of knowing who had come to the banquet with whom, since sexual caresses seemed to be going around the room more or less at random.
And if Bushmill's blonde friend from M.I.T. thought she was above the lusts and passions of ordinary human beings, he was proving her wrong. Denise's breath was now coming in tight labored gasps, and her hips persisted in twitching unnaturally even though her mind was still in active rebellion against what Bushmill was doing to her. There was a burning sensation deep in her belly which Denise correctly identified as the beginnings of massive sexual excitement plus a trickle of warm perspiration dripping torturously down through the tantalizing valley between her full ripe breasts and on down to Bushmill's hand as he massaged her obscenely between her legs.
The girl's shattered mind was whirling in confusion. Her neat, orderly universe was falling to pieces as she felt thrills of perverted, forbidden pleasure rippling the offended flesh of her loins. Bushmill was cleverly touching her in just two places now, no longer using force, and yet she could not find the strength or the moral courage to thrust him away. One of his arms was wound around her shoulder, and with his index finger, he was agitating the tiny brown nipple of her left breast into an excruciating state of hardness. The other hand was still worked deeply up between her legs, his middle finger parting the softness of her pubic curls and worming its way lewdly up into the little-used walls of her vagina. The man's thumb expertly stroked the pulsating softness of her clitoris.
"No . . . no, please don't; you know I don't dare stop you; you're driving me crazy," she pleaded with him, feeling the last vestiges of her self-control slip away as he caressed her with expert skill. "Don't do this to me!"
But Bushmill merely chuckled callously and began kneading her breast more teasingly with his hand, making the tiny buds of her nipples throb with wanton pleasure. With the other hand, he intensified his vile assault on her genitals, worming a second finger sensuously up inside of her wildly pulsating vagina, finger-fucking her until she feared she was going to scream aloud. Involuntarily, the girl found herself relaxing slowly, her long smooth thighs gradually giving up resistance and parting as Bushmill stimulated her genital organs beyond anything she had ever believed possible. She squirmed again, pulling at his arm half-heartedly as though she really wanted him to stop. The man's wetly drenched finger danced wickedly over the passion-moistened walls of her impaled vagina, and it suddenly occurred to the young M.I.T. graduate that, Oh God! If he did this to her much longer, she was going to cum . . .
No! That had to be avoided, at any cost, she told herself with as much determination as she could summon in her marijuana-dazed brain. If he made her cum with his hands, she would never be able to stand up to him again. She had to fight back! Making a desperate, last-ditch effort to distract herself from the wildly erotic spasms of sensual pleasure shooting through her over-stimulated nervous system, Denise opened her eyes, trying to concentrate on something, anything which would take her mind off what Bushmill was doing to her tortured little cunt.
Before her, the bodies of Tatar and his native girl friend seemed like a blur of brown motion as the Ras' son pistoned the steel-like shaft of his cock rhythmically deep into the warm moist lips of the young girl's free-flowing pussy. Denise shook her head in a desperate attempt to drive away the cobwebs and watched in amazement, never before in her life having seen the act of sex performed by other people. With each out-stroke, the young native boy withdrew until only the lust-swollen tip of his penis remained inside of her quivering vaginal lips, and the girl's nakedly hungering young buttocks seemed to reach up and plead to him as he retreated from her embrace. And then, on the forward stroke, Tatar would surge powerfully into her, forcing a cry of pure animal joy to her lips as he thrust the rigid shaft of flesh back deep up again into the receptive softness of her vagina. Despite her lack of experience as an observer at sex games like this, the young female engineer realized that the native girl was teetering on the edge of a fantastically powerful orgasm. Tatar altered their basic position now by cupping the wildly churning cheeks of her lean, flexing buttocks in his hands and raising her orgiastically gyrating body completely off the floor while he fucked into her with every ounce of strength in his desert-hardened body. Denise could see the girl's fingernails digging fiercely into the man's skin as she urged him onward to superhuman efforts.
"Aaaaggooooohhhaaaahhhh!" groaned the girl in a reckless high-pitched voice, and then she screamed something in her native language. The meaning was clear, even if the words were unfamiliar, and Denise realized that the two young wildly entwined Ethiopians were both cumming like a pair of maniacs. The girl's nakedly writhing body arched up wildly into the air to meet the stream of hotly steaming cum which was flooding out of Tatar's heavily ejaculating cock while her tight, hair-lined little cuntal lips clasped him in a vise-like grip as though never wanting to let him go.
Denise McAlister doubled over as if she had suddenly been kicked in the stomach by a mule. Nothing in her past, no sensation she had ever felt or fantasy she had ever dreamed had prepared her for the power of that orgasm, and when the spasm swept over her, for the first instant she thought she was dying. Then, as if time and space had all stopped for a moment, she heard herself gasp.
"I.. . I'm . . . I'm cum . . . I'm cumming!! ! " Even Bushmill looked a trifle surprised at the fury of this orgasm. The party had reached a fever pitch by this time, and there were several couples copulating wildly on the floor, so no one paid much attention as the American girl's smoothly curved young buttocks twisted and gyrated insanely around the white man's deeply sunk fingers for a moment.
"Oh . . . Bush . . . " she began to groan in something halfway between agony and ecstasy as she wrapped her arms passionately around his neck. "I'm cumming.. . I hate you . . . but, oh God! I'm cumming, my darling . . . "
And then, abruptly, her lovely voluptuous young body went slack, and her eyes rolled uncontrollably in her head for a moment then closed. Methodically, Bushmill checked her pulse and decided that the native beer, the marijuana and the first cum of her life had been a little too much for her. She was out cold!
Well, you've come a long way, baby, but you've got one hell of a long way to go yet! he told her mentally, putting her head against a pillow; I guess we'll have to let lesson two go until tomorrow.
"Oh Bush!" he heard a native voice calling him from somewhere on the rug where several couples were entertaining one another with great vigor. Bushmill got to his feet, a little unsteadily because of the beer/pot combination, but basically in good shape. Tatar was kneeling up over the girl he had just fucked into such total oblivion, inviting the Texan to join them on the floor.
"You have made American lady happy?" Tatar inquired as the Texan stepped over a gleefully rutting couple.
"Yeah, I reckon. She's about as happy as possible," grunted the oil man.
"This girl is call Ayrub," announced Tatar cheerfully. "She slave of my father."
"Oh, happy to meet you, Ayrub," said Bushmill gallantly. He was not quite certain what protocol demanded of a Texan meeting a naked Ethiopian slave girl on the floor, but old-fashioned good manners normally did the trick. Ayrub smiled and Bushmill decided that she was the most beautiful woman north of the Equator.
"You make Ayrub happy?" suggested Tatar amiably. "I have pain in side."
"Anything to oblige a friend," said Bushmill jubilantly as Ayrub teasingly unfastened his loin cloth. "Anything!"
CHAPTER FIVE
Bushmill awoke fast, his hand slipping deftly beneath the pillow to touch the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight caliber pistol he had carried with him into the bush. There was someone within the hut which he had taken over as his headquarters, and he had gone to sleep alone after the Ras' wild party. Without making a sound, he eased the revolver out into position, his finger curling quickly around the trigger. It was only an hour before dawn, the luminous dial on his watch informed him, but the room was still dark and all he could distinguish was the shadowy outline of a figure moving toward his bed.
Another step, friend, he warned this unknown visitor mentally, and Haile Salassie is gonna have one less Ethiopian to be emperor of! His finger tightened on the trigger as his eyes scanned the darkness for the flash of a steel blade . . .
"Bush!" came a hiss in the darkness, and the Texan sat up immediately, recognizing the voice of Ayrub, the Ras' young slave girl, the voluptuous teenager he and Tatar had both fucked senseless at the party. So she wanted some more of the same, did she? Well, she was going to have to wait until morning, since Bushmill was one tired Texan . . .
"Bush, the Ras he send me! Tatar is much sick. He gone die!"
"What?" Quickly, he thrust the pistol back under the pillow and jumped to his feet, groping in the darkness for his loin cloth. The kid had said something about a pain in his side, but after a meal like that . . .
"You come now, okay?" she asked him soberly. "The Ras, he not very happy."
Bushmill followed Ayrub's lithe figure through the sleeping village, passing the trailer where Denise was sleeping off the combined effects of Benga and booze to the mud-wattle building which served as the Ras' Palace. A guard with a spear nodded at them soberly and stepped aside as they entered, and the Texan followed the sleek-bodied native girl down a long corridor which led to Tatar's quarters.
The Ras was there, looking old at this hour of the night, and worried. Tatar was naked on the bed, surrounded by weeping women who were bathing his face, massaging his feet and generally doing everything they could think of to make a very sick man uncomfortable. Bushmill pushed several of the women aside and surveyed the pain-wracked body of the boy before him, seeing that his light tan skin was covered with cold sweat. The diagnosis was not difficult. The boy was obviously running a high fever and experiencing violent pain in his right side just below the rib cage. Bushmill touched the point on Tatar's side where his appendix lay and found the boy's flesh hard and discolored. Appendicitis!
"Where is the nearest hospital?" he demanded sharply, looking at the Ras.
"Addis Ababa," replied the old man weakly. "Is too far."
"He was right. The capitol was a minimum of two day's hard driving in a Land Rover, and Tatar's life expectancy was now a matter of hours. And once that appendix burst, the kid would die of peritonitis. Bushmill took a deep breath, wishing that life would spare him these ugly decisions in the future. The Ras could in no way be taken to a doctor, and there seemed to be no way of getting a doctor here in time. Unless Tatar and his appendix parted company, the young man was going to die. This all added up to one thing Bushmill was going to turn surgeon!
* * *
Denise woke in a cold sweat as she heard the banging on her door, and insanely her first thought was that those three hoodlums from Boston had tracked her down and were about to rape her again.
"Denise!" she heard Bushmill's voice calling her urgently, and she somehow understood immediately that something bad was happening. She was still nude, since Bushmill himself had put her to bed after the party, and he had not bothered trying to cover her naked unconscious body with a nightgown, but the young girl wrapped the sheet around her voluptuous body and staggered to the door, realizing that she was now sober again, even if the Ras' party had left her with a terrible hangover.
She opened the door timidly, only to have Bushmill burst into her trailer followed by a crowd of natives carrying the semi-conscious body of Tatar. Without bothering to ask her permission, the Texan directed the Ras' servants to lay the body of the youth out on her bed, and then motioned the Ethiopians back out into the night.
"What . . . what's happening?" she stammered. Bit by bit, the events of the previous evening drifted across her mind, and it occurred to her that she should be furious at Bushmill for the humiliating experience to which he had subjected her.
"Boil some water," directed the Texan fiercely as he spread the contents of a medical kit out on a dresser next to Denise's bed. "Thank God we've got enough morphine!"
"What's wrong with him?" the woman asked, her voice quivering as she pulled the sheet more tightly around her naked breasts. Bushmill was preparing a hypodermic needle, and the girl found herself fascinated with the body of the young man stretched out before her. Last night, Tatar had been so alive, so full of energy and lust, that it hardly seemed possible for him to be lying here now, half-dead!
"He's got acute appendicitis, and we're going to have to get it out of there for him," Bushmill retorted bluntly, brushing the vein in Tatar's right arm with alcohol and then carefully sliding the needle beneath the skin. "How are you coming with that boiling water?"
Denise shook her head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and set the kettle she normally used for making tea to boil over the flame of her camping stove.
"But . . . you're not a doctor!" she objected strenuously as the enormity of what he proposed to do settled over her. "You never even finished grammar school and . . . "
"All right, then you do it!" the Texan snarled at her tersely. "After all, you went to M.I.T.! "
"No, Bush neither one of us should try!" she told him urgently. "If he dies while you're operating on him, the tribe will turn against us and we'll never get any drilling done!"
"And if we don't operate, he's certain to die!" rebutted Bushmill, not quite getting the point.
"Yes, but if you don't operate, it's not your fault that he died," she reasoned excitedly, hating herself for what she was saying. "It would just be an unfortunate sickness, and we'd all be sorry, but we could still go on with our work . . . I mean, they sent us here to find oil, Bush, not to play at being doctors!"
Bushmill felt the white-hot anger welling up in him as he listened to the woman haggle over the life of a young man, but he controlled himself, knowing that he would need all of his coolness and calmness if he were going to bring this off successfully. He had seen it done under primitive conditions once before in Texas, but the man who had performed the surgery was a doctor, and Bushmill had merely assisted. But the operation itself was simple, amazingly simple, and the patient had lived.
"You're going to have to help me," he instructed the girl. "I'm going to take his appendix out, but you have to do your part, understand?"
"I can't do it," she gasped miserably, turning away. "Please . . . I can't stand the sight of blood."
"Well, you're going to have to get used to it, Miss!" the man snapped at her angrily. "This is a disinfectant spray. I want you to hold it next to the incision and give him a squirt whenever I tell you to. Okay?"
"Yes . . . okay, Bushmill, but this is on your head! Don't let him die!"
"Let's get going!" Bushmill glared at her angrily, wondering for a moment if he had ever met anyone he had as much difficulty in getting along with as he did with this blonde-haired bitch. And the fact that she was beautiful hardly made it any easier. So far neither one of them had mentioned the incident of the night before, but Bushmill knew that she would hardly have forgotten his viciously lewd assault on the chaste intimacy of her genitals. She was holding her fire for the moment, but there would be hell to pay later.
Breaking out a sterile napkin, Bushmill deftly picked his knife out of the pan of boiling water and poised it over Tatar's naked skin. A few inches away, the boy's limp penis lay flaccidly between his legs, but the morphine had done its work, and the Ras's son was off in a never-never land of pleasant dreams.
Cut, he told himself, and he ran the razor's edge of the blade over the spot where he suspected the appendix of lying. The skin parted neatly, and red blood trickled out of the wound.
"Antiseptic?" he ordered.
"I'm going to faint," Denise warned, feeling her stomach churn with distress as Bushmill probed deeper with the knife, slicing his way cautiously into the boy's abdomen.
"I can't do this alone so if you faint, he dies," Bushmill commented, his voice steady. "So stay on your feet, little girl." Then he widened the incision a little more, placed some sterile towels around to staunch the flow of blood, bit his cheek and went in after the appendix.
* * *
On the third day after the operation on Tatar, Miss Denise McAlister and Mr. Tex Bushmill reached a kind of temporary truce. They had fought at least once about everything from standards of decency in dress to the wisdom of improvising appendectomies, but when it came time to sink their first test wells, the fighting descended to the level of guerrilla warfare, and life for Bushmill was becoming close to intolerable. She had never directly referred to what had happened at the Ras' party, but it was quite clear that she proposed to hate him until the end of her days. And when it came to drilling for oil, she had as much respect for his opinions as he had for hers, which was none.
Without precisely agreeing to split up, they ended up by sinking two separate wells, one to the East of town where Bushmill's sixth sense told him there was oil at two thousand feet, and one a mile or so Southwest near the edge of the desert area where Denise's expensive scientific equipment informed her there had to be rich deposits of oil at only five hundred feet. Bushmill had hiked out the day before, hid in some underbrush, and inspected Denise's oil site, looking at the land carefully and trying to feel out what was beneath his feet. Then he smiled happily and returned to his own well.
Now he stood watching his native workers as their gasoline engine worked the bit lower into the dry loamy soil, and saw the Land Rover approaching from the general direction of Warandab. Ah, so the gracious First Lady of Anglo-American was coming to pay a call to his humble hole in the ground!
"Better park the car over there!" he grinned at her insolently as she pulled up.
"Why?" she snapped at him, knowing from the expression on his face that he was being impish.
"You don't want it all covered with oil."
"I find your so-called humor increasingly tiresome, Mr. Bushmill, and my instruments tell me that the likelihood of finding an oil deposit here is about nil. Anyway, I just came out to get you. The Ras wanted to see you and they sent a runner out to see you, thinking you might be at my site. "
"It's probably about Tatar," guessed the Texan, instantly worried. "Did you check him out?"
"His temperature is back to normal and he was eating a banana a few minutes ago," she reported dryly. "Tough bunch, these Ethiopians! Your surgical technique would have killed a lesser man!"
Bushmill fought back the temptation to say something nasty, knowing that his real triumph was due to come very shortly. The soil samples coming up from his site were looking better and better, and one look at Denise's site had convinced him she was in for a nasty surprise.
"Oh, by the way, how deep are you out there?" he inquired mildly.
"I was at four hundred and ninety when I left a half-hour ago. My men are still letting it down."
"Excellent!" Bushmill roared with a smile. "You should be hitting this afternoon, about five hundred feet, I would say, or a bit more, and these people certainly can use a fresh water source!"
"Fresh water?" she sputtered indignantly.
"My instruments read crude oil at five hundred . . . "
* * *
Bushmill looked around absent-mindedly for Ayrub, and failed to find her, despite the fact that the Ras and his entire family was clustered around Tatar's bed. Perhaps this is one of those formal family occasions to which slaves aren't invited, he reasoned, and then dismissed the matter from his mind.
"We have much thank you to make," beamed the Ras, sincerely and ungrammatically, "My son be now all good again!"
Bushmill shrugged off the compliments with a smile, and sat on the corner of the bed to check the status of Tatar's stitches. His tawny-brown flesh was healing with incredible speed, and the Texan saw that it would be merely a matter of days before the youth was on his feet again. If there were going to be internal complications, they presumably would have shown up by now. The kid was going to be okay!
"We give you present, good?" nodded the Ras. "You accept?"
"Of course, I accept," smiled Bushmill graciously, sensing that he was expected to say yes. "It is a great honor to receive a present from the Ras," he added with a bow, thinking that a little diplomacy would not hurt.
The Ras nodded with satisfaction and clapped his hands. The door opened and Ayrub entered, her eyes cast modestly downward, flowers in her hair and a new loincloth around her sensual young hips.
"Hi, Ayrub," smiled Bushmill cheerfully. "Hey where's my present?"
There was an awkward silence. Tatar looked at Denise and winked and then the American girl looked at the Ras and shrugged helplessly. Someone had to tell him.
Tatar cleared his throat nervously, putting his hand on the Texan's meaty shoulder.
"But Ayrub is present," insisted the youth. "She belong to you now!"
* * *
Bushmill stumbled out of the Ras' palace into the heat of the afternoon sun, a little dazed with Ayrub walking obediently behind him. The Texan had lived a long and exceedingly adventurous life, but this was the first time he had ever owned an Ethiopian slave-girl before. Denise McAlister was walking a few feet behind, her face tight and ashen and with one look at her stern countenance, Bushmill recognized that she was going to get moralistic on him again. Of course, at M.I.T. they seldom kept slaves, and the notion was certain to upset her well-educated sensibilities. What she would never realize, naturally, was that the idea of one human being owning another upset him as well, but Ethiopia was not Cambridge, Massachusetts, or even Texas! The Ras had doubtless observed how much Bushmill had enjoyed the young girl's body the night of the party, and his gift was sincere. He had to accept this offering, no matter how much it conflicted with his fundamental feelings on human rights, or risk seriously offending the entire tribe. Ayrub was the most attractive woman in the village, and when Tatar and the Ras had decided to make her a gift to the American, they had deprived themselves of the most beautiful thing in their lives . . .
"You're going to have one hell of a time getting her through U.S. customs, buster," came Denise's voice from behind him, and Bushmill took a deep breath, preparing himself for the inevitable conflict. Nevertheless, the thought amused him, and he tried to picture himself strolling casually through Kennedy International Airport with Ayrub resplendent in a new loincloth tripping lightly along beside him, the magnificence of her high proud breasts stunning the crowd. "Oh her?" he would say casually to the customs official. "Since when do slaves need passports?"
But the McAlister woman interrupted his daydream, bringing him harshly back to the realities of the situation.
"I'm serious!" she snapped at him as they paused at the entrance to Bushmill's hut. "I've endured a great deal from you in patience, but this time you've gone too far! What happens if the word gets out an official of the Anglo-American Oil Company owns slaves? Can you imagine what the New York Times would do to us?"
"I won't tell anyone," offered Bushmill hopefully.
"And you missed a great opportunity to show the Ras and his people what we Americans think about this business of keeping slaves!"
"I thought we weren't supposed to play at being missionaries?" Bushmill retorted wryly, finding that keeping his temper was not impossible after all. Denise was mad, as usual, but this time he sensed a new element in her rage. Could she conceivably be a tiny bit jealous? Bushmill glanced over her shoulder and saw Denise's foreman running towards them at top speed under the boiling sun. What now?
"We aren't, but there's such a thing as behaving like decent human beings! May I ask what you propose to do with her?"
"Well, seeing as how it's siesta time, I thought I'd take her into my hut and sharpen my talons on her naked flesh," replied the Texan with a broad wink. "What else are slave girls good for? Maybe she can cook, who knows?"
"I think you're a . . . "
"Listen, here comes your boy Friday," Bushmill interrupted her gently. "Looks like he has something on his mind."
The young man whom Bushmill had selected to work directly under Denise as a foreman was a tall, graceful, enthusiastic youth who was a cousin of Tatar's. He arrived, arms and legs whirling in excitement, and threw himself in the dust at Denise's feet.
"Mistress, we found!" he cried, obviously in a state of great joy. "We find, just like you say! It come rushing out!"
"You see!" gasped McAlister in delight, turning on Bushmill with triumph in her eyes. "Oil at five hundred feet!"
"Ah, I didn't hear him say anything about oil, Denise," corrected Bushmill gently as he squatted down next to the delighted native man. Tatar's cousin was doing his best to kiss Denise's feet, and the young female engineer nearly fell over backwards trying to avoid this unwelcome attention. "Hey friend, exactly what did you find?"
The Ethiopian looked surprised.
"We find water, Mr. Bush. Just like you say. He very clean good water."
"Water?" repeated Denise McAlister dumbly. "You knew there was water down there?"
"They need water for irrigation," the Texan explained carefully. "And if they can bring more acres under cultivation, everybody can eat a little better."
"But we came to find oil!" the young woman gnashed her teeth in poorly concealed rage. "Why didn't you . . . "
"Don't worry, Denise. They'll probably present you with some great big stud of a slave-boy for finding that water, and I'll locate enough black greasy stuff to keep Anglo-American happy."
"You're a bastard, Bushmill!" McAlister told him earnestly, her eyes flashing with a mixture of shame and rage. This was the second time he had humiliated her! First he had forced her into an unwelcome sexual reaction, and now he was smashing her self-confidence as a petroleum scientist. How would he attack her next?
CHAPTER SIX
Bushmill had carried it all off very smoothly, cutting Denise McAlister down to size with one withering comment after another, and then laughing callously as she stalked angrily off towards her water-well. But now, alone in his hut with Ayrub, he began to suffer doubts. What on earth was he supposed to do with a slave girl? Of course he did not really consider her a slave, the idea was impossible, but did she know that she was free to go any time she wished? Or was the concept of freedom beyond her comprehension? After all, what would she do if she were free? Who would feed and take care of her? And if he sent her away, she would surely feel that she had been rejected. After all, she had every right to consider herself the most honored woman in the village, since the Ras had chosen her to express the tribe's gratitude to Bushmill.
It was a problem, but at least there was no immediate necessity for a permanent decision. And he was happy with the notion of having a woman at his disposal, particularly since his chances of getting into bed with Denise seemed slightly less than zero. Something about the relentless heat from the sun was making Bushmill unusually sexy, and the idea of sleeping with Ayrub turned him on even stronger every time he thought about it. Of course, he had already screwed the little slave girl half silly the night of the Ras' party, but the truth of the matter was that he barely remembered what had happened. Between several quarts of native brew and a few of Tatar's special cigars, he had been flying high that night, and his memories, as a consequence, were fairly dim.
But now, he was cold sober, his flesh tingling with desirous anticipation and lust. This time he would remember everything that happened!
The brown-skinned native girl was standing shyly in the corner of his hut her hands clasped modestly across her breasts, obviously awaiting his orders. Did she really want to sleep with him? He asked himself, suddenly realizing that there was a possibility that she was going to submit to his lusts only because she was a slave and had no other choice. Or did she want his lean, gnarled body as much as he wanted her voluptuous young figure? Bushmill could not stand the notion of subjecting a woman to something she did not really want, and he decided to make the experiment. He would fuck her, as well as he knew how. If she responded, he would keep her, at least until it was time to return to the USA. If she remained cold and impassive, he would think up some story and restore her to the Ras immediately.
The Texan moved closer to the slim-bodied native girl, and ran his burning fingers over the softly yielding flesh of her high, well-formed young breasts.
"I want you to lie down on your back and I'm going to fuck you," he announced distinctly. "Do you know what 'fuck' means?"
The girl smiled dubiously and shook her head, stepping closer to the oil man so that the dark brown nipples on her chest brushed sensuously across his chest. Bushmill realized that her knowledge of English was limited to the fragments she had picked up second hand from Tatar and the Ras; it would be impossible to explain with words. He had to show her.
Slowly and painstakingly, Bushmill unfastened the strings which held his loin-cloth in place, and let the garment drop to the floor. His penis already swelling with the rampant desire in his veins, reacted to this sudden exposure by jerking a little and rising slowly to half erection. Bushmill heard the young girl draw in her breath sharply as she viewed the massive demensions of his excitement. Next he leaned forward and pulled away the slave-girl's fragile garment to free her quivering young loins. Naked like this, he could see that the girl was indeed very young, despite the early development of her breasts. The thin, darkly curling pubic hair covering the tender crevice of her vagina was still soft and sparse, and even in the dim light of his tent, Bushmill could see the delicate pinkish folds of her vaginal lips, surrounding the entrance to a cunt which had not had much heavy use. At the maximum, Ayrub could be fourteen or fifteen; when had she lost her virginity? Probably she and Tatar had been playing sex games together since they were children, but the girl had obviously not been exposed to much real fucking.
She was still looking at him, her arms dangling submissive by her sides as Bushmill's sensuous eyes roamed over her delightfully vulnerable body. The Texan felt the sex urge sweeping over him powerfully now, and he tried to remind himself to be gentle.
'This is fucking," he explained, taking one of Ayrub's hands and leading it boldly to his gradually stiffening penis. "I put my cock into your cunt. Got it?"
"I got, Master," she replied softly, glancing briefly at his face and then humbly dropping her gaze. "You fuck Ayrub?"
"That's right," Bushmill breathed in reply, feeling his chest tighten with rampant, mindless desire. God, he had to have her . . . the sooner, the better!
The two of them sank slowly to the floor, and Bushmill's arms wrapped around the smoothness of her youthful body, crushing the girl's impossibly full breasts against his chest. His fingers caressed her buttocks, and he found that the sensuously curving young moons were strong and sinewy from working in the fields. She raised her face to be kissed, and Bushmill obliged, thrusting his tongue searchingly into her throat while her hands stroked his hair. He wanted to touch those gentle hands and place them on the hardness of his cock, and as the two of them lay facing each other side by side, he took both of her hands in one of his, and guided her fingers to the pulsating rod of flesh at his groin.
"OH . . . is big!" she muttered in amazement, her fingers deftly sliding up and down the length of the man's massive organ. "I want in . . . how you say?"
"Cunt," he growled at her fiercely as she crushed the yielding rubbery softness of her abdomen against him.
"Yes, I want in cunt," she managed to put the words together, her voice deep and throaty as Bushmill's lust communicated itself to her. The girl rolled over onto her back, pulling the
American on top of her, the urgency of her desire written plainly on her face. Bushmill's iron-hard cock was thrust pleadingly against her loins, and the girl teased him playfully, arching her supple back and rubbing the flat smooth plane of her stomach hotly up against his throbbing manhood. Her legs scissored obediently apart as Bushmill reached down between their straining bodies, using his fingers to spread apart the moistly palpitating lips of her cuntal opening. She was already wet with the orgiastic fluids produced by the excitedly waiting walls of her vagina, and the Texan knew that he could go ahead and ram it to her whenever he liked. Ayrub apparently was not one of those women who need an hour of diligent foreplay to get churned up!
"My God, you're soft," he muttered in ecstasy, maneuvering the smoothly rounded tip of his bulging manhood against the wet sensitive flesh of her gently throbbing cuntal slit. The girl responded to his words by undulating her body up against him with a soft, slow teasing rhythm, working the potent tip of Bushmill's cock expertly up and down the wetly clasping crevice of her vagina.
This is one turned-on little slave girl, the American meditated lustfully, feeling Ayrub's fingernails running urgently over the tanned skin of his back while she bucked and heaved beneath him, trying desperately to force the head of his cock up into her ravenously gyrating little cunt. Bushmill held back a moment longer, enjoying the sight of this brown-skinned beauty working herself into a fever of acutely powerful erotic desire. Chuckling lewdly, the Texan worked his muscular hands beneath her churning young buttocks, and lifted the Ethiopian girl bodily into the air, insinuating the brutal hardness of his aching cock just beneath the surface of her widespread vagina. The girl seemed to open up to him like a flower touched by the morning sun, and Bushmill felt her getting moister by the second as her lithe young hips twitched convulsively beneath him. She needed it, and she needed it bad!
With a desperate convulsive lunge, Ayrub succeeded in wrapping her long slender legs up around Bushmill's waist so that the American man could escape her voraciously waiting little cunt-mouth no more. She was tired of being teased.
"Master . . . " her voice was deep and throaty as she pronounced the difficult English words. " . . . you fuck Ayrub now, please?"
Bushmill had never been the kind of man who needed a written invitation for moments like this, and it would have been the struggle of a life-time had he decided to break off their encounter at this point. Ayrub was caressing his sperm-filled testicles teasingly in one hand while the fingers of her other hand were wrapped tightly around the thickly throbbing shaft of his cock. With tiny, bird-like cries, she was inching the hotly pulsating head of his penis up into the moistness of her cuntal lips. Bushmill had tried to remember that he was dealing with a very young adolescent girl and that he had to be gentle but at this critical moment, his sex-lust overcame him. The man's powerful hips surged forward, tunneling his flesh-rending cock like a runaway freight train up into the gaping hot mouth of her pussy.
"Ah! Aaaaahhhhh!" she groaned, half in pleasure and half in pain as the broad, bulbous tip of Bushmill's cock popped heavily up into the warm, elastic-like sheath of her vagina, racing up inside the cruelly stretching walls until his cockhead collided violently with her cervix. And then he stopped, since it was humanly impossible to go any deeper, the soft, sperm-filled sac of his balls slapping obscenely down against the smoothly upturned cheeks of her ass.
Ayrub mumbled incoherently in her native language, too stunned by the violence of this skewering to mutter even a word of English, her body twisting with sensual agility as she tried to adjust her over-stretched young cunt to the massive foreign presence lodged deeply up in her womb. Bushmill was fundamentally a kind, generous man who would never dream of hurting a young girl, and he knew that Ayrub needed time to adjust to the brutality of his invasion.
But his body would not stop!
Insanely, he began to fuck deeply up into her, ramming his log-like cock ruthlessly into the gyrating, churning depths of her over-stuffed vagina. Beneath him, the young native girl twisted and writhed like a dervish dancer gone crazy. He knew he was hurting her, but for some strange reason, he found himself turned on beyond belief by his own bizarre brutality, and he ground his pelvis cruelly into the squirming flaccid flesh beneath him, chuckling like a madman as the spread-eagled girl groaned wildly out in masochistic ecstasy.
It was the old story of dominant man and submissive woman, and briefly Bushmill wondered why this uneducated native girl could understand instinctively that things had to be this way while Denise McAlister, with all her years of higher education, had never quite figured it out.
But Bushmill was too excited himself to spend much time philosophizing over the vagaries of the human condition. His hands roamed lewdly between her widely spread legs while he fucked up into her soft young body with the kind of rich erotic madness he had not known for years. Accidentally, the tip of his middle finger drifted licentiously over the tiny puckered lips of her anus and the girl gasped with sudden, unexpected pleasure.
So she's one of those, eh? he muttered to himself. In his long experience with a vast number of women, Bushmill had discovered that approximately one out of ten were anal-erotic, and he realized that he had just discovered another one. There was a thin rivulet of moisture trickling down the crevice between her legs bathing everything with orgiastic fluid, and Bushmill stroked her again on the same spot, experimentally. She turned her head aside with shame as he fingered the tiny puckered circle, but there was no disguising the pain of raw erotic pleasure which tumbled from her open mouth as he toyed with her sensitive little rectal lips, feeling them puckering, outward and open, in lewd invitation.
"Yes . . . do like that!" she begged, obviously humiliated beyond measure, but unable to hide the savagely perverted emotions he was rousing within her. Maddened by the lasciviousness of what he was doing, Bushmill pushed against the tight round little opening, feeling the elastically working flesh clench together and resist for a moment, and then surrender as he applied more force with his fingertip.
"Aaaahhhhhh!! ! ! " Ayrub gasped as the man's teasingly invading middle finger popped up into the smooth rubbery walls of her nether passage as far as the first knuckle. He knew he was causing her pain, but the hurt seemed to increase her excitement, and in another moment he felt her body screwing back against his hand and her rectal walls clasping and unclasping rhythmically as if she were trying to suck his finger even deeper into her violated young anus. The whole pelvis soon caught the rhythm and their bodies, sweating profusely in the heat of the tiny hut, ground together like well-oiled gears. Bushmill felt as though his cock was going to explode like a hand grenade from pure pleasure and his testicles seemed to weigh a pound apiece, filled with the rich potent sperm from deep in his body. After a life-time of experience, however, the Texan was no longer fearful of a premature ejaculation and he had developed a keen sense of a woman's feelings over the years. This girl, he realized was on the brink of a soul-shattering orgasm, and only needed another few strokes to push her over the edge.
Bushmill did the necessary, grunting from the exertion as he screwed savagely down into Ayrub's succulently yielding young body and feeling her desire-heated young vaginal flesh clasping tighter and tighter around him. She was close, very close, and Bushmill really began to put his back into it, skewering violently into her inflamed young cunt and rectal passage, and listening with joy as she gurgled forth her ecstasy.
Suddenly, Ayrub's body went rigid, and her muscular thighs tightened around his back. Her legs were jackknifed up so far that her. knees were crushed harshly against the softly rising mounds of her breasts, exposing the whole tantalizing surface of her backside for him to batter and abuse as he pleased.
"Oh . . . I . . . I . . . happen!" she cried with a frantic groan, and despite her erroneous grammar, Bushmill knew what she was talking about. The Texan preferred this moment to all others, and there was inevitably a great peace in his soul while he watched a woman writhing beneath him in the throes of a violent orgasm. The girl was "happening" with a vengeance now, and Bushmill watched her eyes go wide with stark carnal pleasure, her nostrils flaring widely and her loins dancing recklessly beneath him.
"You sure did happen," he grinned lasciviously down at her as the delicious spasm slowly passed through her love-stricken body and faded away.
"Oh, I happen so hard," she cried, half out of her mind with the wildly ecstatic pleasure. "I not ever happen like that before."
"Well, that's good ole American know-how for you," commented the Texan complacently, realizing now that his worries about owning a slave girl could now be forgotten. She wanted it as badly as he did, and Bushmill no longer felt the slightest tinge of guilt about keeping her, at least for the duration of his stay. Of course he would rather be playing love-games with Denise, but. . .
"Hey, Bush?"
"Yeah, Baby," he responded, flexing his hotly pulsating cock within her satisfied womb. "I make you happen, good."
"Good, I feel like happening."
"You lay on back, okay."
"Whatever you say, little one."
* * *
Denise gazed blackly at the water pouring out of her oil well and walked despondently back towards her trailer. All right, Bushmill had been right, damn him! How did he do it? Perhaps she had been wrong to place such blind faith in her instruments but the Texan seemed to find oil by feeling it through his feet, and perhaps she had misjudged him. Of course, he was crude and sometimes vulgar, but then he had not had the same educational opportunities she herself had enjoyed. But his fingering her into unwanted orgasm that night at the Ras' party was unforgivable. If she only had been strong enough to fight off the wickedly lewd sensations he had aroused within her . . . No, there was no use going over it again in her troubled mind. She had behaved like a two-dollar whore, and she knew it. Bushmill had detected the weakness in her the same way he found oil beneath the ground, some kind of special sixth sense.
Maybe it was time to make peace. After all, everything which had gone right so far on the expedition had been his doing. And perhaps, after all, there were a few things about petroleum exploration that he could teach her. She decided not to apologize directly, but she would stop by his hut, and they would have a friendly chat. Glad that she had finally made up her mind, the girl walked purposefully towards Bushmill's hut, determined to pave the way for better relations between herself and the veteran oil man. After all, he was such an attractive . . .
She stopped short, just outside the man's hut, startled by a long low groan from within. It had been a woman's voice, muffled and indistinct. It must be Ayrub, but what on earth was Bushmill doing? Quickly glancing around her, to make sure she was unobserved, Denise circled his hut, and tip-toed up to the rear of the mud structure, putting her eye to a chink in the wall she had noticed the day before. Of course, it was shameful to be spying on him like this, but as his field supervisor, surely she had the right to inform herself concerning the man's activities . . .
For a moment she could hardly see in the shadows of Bushmill's hut, but slowly, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she was able to make out two figures stretched full length on the carpet-covered floor. They were both naked, and Denise drew her breath in sharply as she realized that for the second time in a week she was witnessing the stark act of sex. All her strict moral training told her to turn her head from this vilely degenerate scene and go away, but something even stronger than her religious education held her rooted firmly to the spot, fascinated by the two intertwined bodies before her.
Bushmill was slowly withdrawing his virile hardness from the soft warmth of Ayrub's wetly glistening young pussy, a look of reluctance on his face as if he liked being where he was just fine and hated to leave. But the girl quickly sat up and rolled her master firmly over on his back, and the American man submitted with a lustful grin on his broad, handsome face indicating that whatever was going to happen, Bushmill was not fighting too hard. Denise took a deep breath, hoping no one would see her playing at being a peeping Tom, and crouched in the shade behind Bushmill's informal field residence. She gasped quietly as she studied the thin, sticky trails of the girl's orgiastic fluid running across Bushmill's flat smooth stomach and the sight of his bulging cock pointing up at his belly-button like an arrow. Ayrub turned sensually on her side, a broad lewd grin on her lovely young face, and she took Bushmill's muscularly glistening hardness in her hands and began to stroke it.
She was gentle and expert, handling the American's manhood as if it were the most precious thing in Ethiopia, and Denise McAlister's eyes widened with shock as the girl slowly peeled back the soft thin foreskin to expose the bright scarlet flesh of the head. Nor was the man unmoved by this special erotic attention. As the young female petroleum expert watched, Bushmill's hips began to grind upward instinctively and he groaned aloud with pure sensual joy, as Ayrub bent teasingly over his loins. Suddenly, her tongue flicked agilely forward, the pink tip lashing provocatively out to make contact with the man's jerking rod of hardened flesh.
"Ahhhhhhhhh, that's good," Bushmill grunted in perfect happiness as he felt chills of stark erotic pleasure rippling up and down his backbone. Then the dusky maiden closed in on him with a vengeance, bringing her open mouth all the way down and enclosing the intensely sensitive head of his cock within the warmly enticing cavern of her mouth. Her tender red lips clamped down on him, circling around his cock-head with a savagely erotic pressure and Bushmill groaned with sheer joy.
For some strange reason, Denise found herself shivering uncontrollably. What had happened to her scientific attitude? Why was she letting this frightfully lewd scene affect her in this way? Somehow she found herself angry at Ayrub. Why should she resent this poor depraved native girl, who surely did not understand how evil her actions were? The dark-skinned girl had been raised from childhood to please men and she had no other function in life. And yet . . . could it be jealousy? Denise shook her head in alarm, shaken to the roots of her being by this thought. Was she falling, despite everything, in love with Bushmill? Did she secretly want to take Ayrub's place, to crouch submissively between the Texan's lasciviously outstretched legs and suck his long throbbing cock up into the forbidden sanctuary of her own virginal young mouth?
McAlister found her body trembling like a leaf as she watched the man grind his iron-hard rod even more deeply up into the back of Ayrub's throat while the girl expertly massaged the soft resilient skin of his testicles with one hand and caressed the base of his cock with the other. Rhythmically, her head bobbed up and down while Bushmill cooperated by flexing his loins, driving his rigid penis deeper and deeper into the cruelly-stretched sanctuary of her throat.
Denise watched, unable to tear herself away from this obscene spectacle, her own voluptuous body twitching as she felt great torturing swirls of heat building deep in her empty loins. What did this mean? Was she letting this savagely perverted act get to her? God, Bushmill was going to go all the way, she realized. He was going to cum in that poor girl's mouth, spewing great jets of his white-hot sperm deeply into the back of her throat while she hungrily sucked him dry like the sex-slave she really was! Denise knew she could not bear to watch, and she also knew that she was powerless to move away until she had seen it all, every licentious act in this obscene play.
"Like that!" she heard Bushmill groan, his voice low and lusty. "Hang on, baby, 'cause here it comes!"
McAlister held her breath, unconsciously digging her finger nails into the delicate flesh of her hands as she watched Bushmill's hands invade Ayrub's long black hair, gripping her head as if he feared she would ruin everything by attempting to escape this final, total humiliation.
But the thought of escape apparently never entered the girl's mind and she crooned ecstatically as the hotly searing cum bubbled forth from the depths of the man's loins, surging into the back of her throat like a waterfall. Ayrub's cheeks expanded as her mouth filled with sperm, and Denise found her own mouth involuntarily salivating and her throat swallowing instinctively as she watched the girl's Adam's apple bobbing frantically up and down. Not for a moment did she cease sucking, however, choking and gagging a little as Bushmill's geyser of semen poured endlessly up into the back of her throat.
Then, it was over.
"Oh . . . God," muttered the Texan gratefully as he lifted the girl's cum-smeared face from his slowly deflating penis. "Ayrub, you perform like a champ!"
The girl curled up happily, not understanding his words precisely, but realizing that she was being praised.
"I do good?" she asked hopefully.
"You do great!" Bushmill affirmed emphatically.
"I do good like white lady Deneeeze?"
McAlister turned white as she heard her name mentioned. What would he say?
"Ayrub . . . I know this is difficult for you to understand, but Denise is not my woman," he explained awkwardly. "We don't fuck," he added more clearly.
"But you want fuck lady Deneeze?" Ayrub insisted, gazing at him with her large luminous eyes.
"What makes you think so?"
"I see. You want her fuck much, no?"
Bushmill nodded solemnly, and Denise felt her heart begin to beat wildly.
"Guess you're smarter than you look, Ayrub," he told her honestly. "Yes, I love the lady Deneeze, but she sure as hell doesn't love me."
Denise stumbled away from the hut, white-faced in the heat of the afternoon sun, her head throbbing with doubts and regrets. She should have realized all along that Bushmill was not the type to court her with flowers and boxes of chocolates. He was, as she had observed earlier, a classical male chauvinist pig, and he was trying to bring her to heel, to dominate and subdue her. But he was doing it out of love, not hatred, and under the circumstances, this made a great deal of difference.
The sun was burning down on her with incredible ferocity, and the girl wandered through the sleeping village, feeling strange inside and more upset than she had been since the night those three young hoodlums had raped her on the banks of the Charles River. She tried to imagine herself stripped completely naked and lying in bed with Bushmill, and she was shocked to find that the fantasy sprang into her mind with amazing ease. Taking a series of deep breaths, she fought to get her emotions under control. It was all clear to her now. The moment they had met there had been that strange electricity in the air, and she had unconsciously reacted by being stupidly hostile towards him. And now what should she do? Somehow, she had to prove herself in his eyes, to demonstrate that she was good for something besides lovemaking, especially since she had severe doubts that she would be any good at all in bed, given her almost total lack of experience.
Filled with a new sense of resolution, Denise set out on foot for Bushmill's rig. She had drilled and found water instead of oil, but before he was declared the winner of the first round, they had to establish whether or not he had done any better. It was tough going under the blazing sun, but she stubbornly stumbled over the dry earth to where Bushmill's drilling tower sat silently under the homicidal afternoon sun. The laborers were all off taking their traditional afternoon siesta, and there was no one on the site as she arrived.
Methodically, Bushmill had set out in his operations tent soil and rock samples, each labeled according to the depth of the drill, and the girl studied the samples carefully. No, there was no question about it. The samples from fifteen hundred feet positively reeked of crude petroleum. He would strike oil within a day of drilling. He had been right and she had been horribly wrong!
There was a movement behind her. Frightened, the girl jumped to her feet, her hands immediately going to her breasts as three spear-carrying natives approached her from behind the derrick. Her immediate temptation was to flee, but she had observed that these Ethiopian hunters could run like gazelles and if they wanted her, they could certainly catch her before she got ten feet away. Besides, why should they be hostile? True, she did not recognize them, and they somehow looked distinctly different from the men of Warandab, but there was no reason to suppose that they intended to do her any harm . . .
The three men reached her, and for a moment there was utter silence as they stood and studied her desire-provoking young body.
"How do you do?" she offered tentatively, realizing that it was a brainless thing to say to three half-naked savages who could hardly be expected to speak English. The three natives glanced at each other, gradually surrounding her, their hands reaching out eagerly to touch her clothing.
"Wha . . . what do you want?" she cried, seeing now clearly that these were warriors from another tribe and not men from her village at all. "Don't touch me!"
The point of a spear poked her in the back, and she jumped forward in alarm. One of the men twisted her arms painfully behind her back while the other fastened her wrists together with a leather thong.
"You go!" grunted the third man, pointing off into the distance. "Or we kill!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a sight Bushmill had seen before, many times in a long and adventuresome career, but next to a naked woman in his bed, there was really nothing he would rather look at.
Oil. Black and crude and stinking, jetting high into the sky, geysering powerfully out of the bowels of the earth as if it had been held prisoner there too long and was happy to free itself at last. This oil would run automobiles in New York, and battleships for the Peruvian Navy, and airplanes for Lufthanza. It would mean more money for the stockholders of the Anglo-American Oil Corporation and bring a smile to the dour face of an accountant in New Jersey. It would mean royalties for the Ethiopian treasury and perhaps hospitals and schools for the people themselves if the government chose to spend its new wealth wisely. It would mean . . .
Bushmill stopped dreaming for a moment and looked around him at the happy but mystified natives whose brawn and muscle had made possible the sinking of this shaft. And what would it mean for them? It meant that oil companies would set up headquarters here, and offices and stores would spring up. The Government in Addis Ababa would become aware of Warandab at long last and send priests and policemen. The young men would see the Westerners walking around in pants and cast aside their loin cloths in favor of blue jeans. Tatar would cease to be a warrior and put on, perhaps, the gray garb of a bureaucrat. The Ras would lose his ancestral power and the government, anxious to keep up appearances, would make him give up his extra wives. And Ayrub would learn to be ashamed of her naked breasts and cram those beautiful spheres into a brassiere where no one could enjoy them.
And yes, the smoking of Benga and the happy mindless screwing at parties would naturally have to cease. There would be law and order, civilization and prosperity in Warandab, and after a hard day of work in the oil fields, men would return tired at night to their lawfully wedded wives. They would be prosperous and life would be dull. There would be juvenile delinquents and traffic jams and syphilis.
For a moment, he nearly succumbed to the temptation to cap this geyser, cover it with earth, and tell his men to say nothing to no one. But in his heart, he knew that it was already too late. In fact, it had been too late when the technicians in New Jersey had examined aerial photographs of this area and decided that there might be oil here. They had sent him here to find it, and had he failed, someone else would have followed in his footsteps and succeeded. He was sorry, sorry for Tatar and sorry for little Ayrub, but it was too late. Perhaps it had always been too late, but when the Ras had welcomed them as friends and allowed them to explore for petroleum deposits, that wise old man had foolishly sealed his own doom. A whole way of life would be washed away in the spouting pillar of black liquid gold, and there was nothing that Bushmill could do about it.
It was the Garden of Eden all over again, and he himself had played a starving role as a serpent with an apple!
It was difficult work managing the geyser, and Bushmill found himself drenched with inky black liquid as his team of men fought to bring the violent stream of crude oil under control. A runaway well was a dangerous thing, particularly since an enormous quantity of methane gas was escaping at the same time, and Bushmill had to be everywhere at once, making sure that none of his men decided to relax with a Banga cigar and blow them all to Kingdom Come. The Texan had seen fires before on derricks, and someone nearly always died before they were able to extinguish the blaze. He had done enough damage to Warandab without getting anyone killed, and he worked like a maniac to ensure that there were no tragedies on this job.
He was feeling his age as he meandered back to his hut. News of the discovery had spread through the village like wild-fire, and a crowd of joyful cheering natives were clustered around his temporary residence. But he pushed through them with a tired smile, and peeled off his oil-soaked clothing. Ayrub had heated water for his bath and he was soaking half-asleep in a rusted iron laundry tub when Tatar came in.
With that sixth sense which had saved him so often, Bushmill recognized instantly that something had gone seriously wrong. The young native had by now recovered one hundred percent from his surgery, and had taken to wearing his loin cloth rakishly low so that everyone could admire his scar. Now, however, the friendly innocent smile was missing from Tatar's face. He was armed, a knife strapped around his waist and a spear in his hand.
"Bush . . . we have trouble!" he blurted out.
"I can see that from your face, kid. What's up?"
"Where Denise?"
"Dunno!" mumbled the Texan, sloshing water out of the tub as he clambered nakedly to his feet and reached for a towel. "Come on, Tatar, being inscrutable is for Orientals. What's happening?"
"Bush, there was men from Narthusi tribe here today. Old lady, she see Denise walk with Narthusi. Not come back. We send out men and they find much Narthusi near here. Many guns."
It looked bad. Back in Addis Ababa, Tom Wagner had warned him that tribal wars were common in this part of Ethiopia where the government's influence was slight. The Ras and his people had always lived in peace because they were not warlike enough to attack anyone else and too poor to be worth attacking. But there had always been danger of trouble breaking out, particularly if the land around Warandab became valuable enough to be worth fighting over. In fact, it was the probability of trouble which had convinced Anglo-American that they ought to pay the small fortune it took to get Tex Bushmill out of retirement. And it looked like he was about to earn his paycheck!
"Okay, gimmie the facts," he ordered briskly as he climbed into his pants. A loin cloth might be good for acquiring a tan, but when there was fighting to be done, Bushmill preferred a pair of trousers. "Do we know they've got Denise?"
"We know she not here, Bush," explained the native unhappily. "The Narthusi man, they very bad and not smart like Warandab man. But have gun."
"And you? What have we got in this place to shoot with?"
"We have spear," acknowledged Tatar with a helpless shrug. "Warandab man is very brave."
Yeah, you're a bunch of heroes, thought Bushmill grimly as he extracted the thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson from his suitcase and began slipping cartridges into it. I've got a gang of spear-throwing heroes at my back and my boss goes and gets herself kidnapped! And we've got precisely one gun! Why the fuck didn't I stay in Texas?
And Denise? Suddenly Bushmill gripped the butt of his pistol, feeling his mind fill up with cold murderous rage as he thought of that beautiful young woman in the hands of a gang of savages. And Denise was not wise enough in the ways of primitive peoples to know how to talk herself out of a situation like this. She would probably bluster and threaten them, and someone would slip a spear between her ribs. He had to get her out of there, and fast!
But how?
"We go now with many spear. Save Denise," announced Tatar grimly. "Kill Narthusi man."
"I thought you said the Narthusi had guns," questioned the Texan dryly as he followed the Ras's son out of the hut and saw a few dozen spear-carrying warriors assembled in the clearing waiting for him to take command.
"Warandab man not afraid!" Tatar spat from between clenched teeth.
Bushmill stared at the warriors, feeling his body lose its tiredness as the prospect of going into action loomed closer. No, there was no point in getting half the young manhood of the village killed in a pointless futile assault on men with rifles.
"Tell 'em to go home," he instructed the startled Tatar. "We not fight?"
"We fight, maybe, you and I, but they aren't coming with us."
"We go alone? You and I?" Tatar was looking as pale as it was possible for an Ethiopian to be. "We got one gun!"
"Precisely. Do you remember what I taught you about handling dynamite?"
"Tatar remember." The native's face broadened into a grin. In fact, he had learned to handle explosives with remarkable speed.
"Good," murmured Bushmill softly. "Let's stock up some fire power and get going."
* * *
There were muscles in her body she had not known existed, introduced to her for the first time by the fact that each one of them was screaming with pain and weariness. Her clothes were in rags from being dragged through brambles and thorn bushes and over craggy stones as they had led her to the Narthusi camp. Her full, ripe breasts were both hurting since she had fallen repeatedly with her hands tied behind her back every time one of the Ethiopians had jabbed her tender young buttocks with a spear to make her hurry, and every time she had lost her balance she had tumbled forward onto the soft cushions of her breasts.
Who were they? What did they want?
She lay in the hut, her arms still tied behind her back, her chest heaving with exhaustion, thinking that happiness consisted merely in not being hurt. Happiness was lying still in the comparative coolness of a mud hut instead of being driven like a condemned animal across sun-blasted fields with a spear in the back.
She was alone. They had shoved her rudely into this hut and left without a word. Why? What was going to happen? How long would it take Bushmill to figure out that she had been kidnapped and organize a search? It had been difficult to estimate distance over such rough, uneven ground, but she guessed that they had walked ten or fifteen miles from Warandab, generally South.
There were footsteps breaking the silence of the late Ethiopian afternoon, unshod, naked feet walking carefully over dry caked earth, and coming her way. The door opened slowly and silently, swinging free on hinges made of leather, and an enormous figure blocked the light. He was the biggest man she had seen outside of a football team, about six foot five in height and perhaps two hundred fifty pounds of dark muscular flesh, but he moved with smooth, cat-like motions, ducking gracefully as he entered the diminutive hut. He was followed by two other men, both tall slender youths. For a moment, they stood studying her, like biologists observing a recently captured animal.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Denise sobbed, looking up at the big man and guessing from his size and air of authority that he had to be a chief, or leader of some kind. The man crossed his arms and squatted down next to her, and she read lust in his eyes. Was it that? Had they brought her here to serve their bestial erotic desires?
"You are oil lady," rumbled the man, making an effort to pronounce the difficult English words understandably.
"Yes . . . yes, I am a scientist," she gasped, relieved at least to know that she could communicate. "I work for the Anglo-American Oil Corporation with headquarters in New Jersey, and if you let me go . . . "
Suddenly his hand flashed out of nowhere, catching her on the side of the head and sending her sprawling sideways into the dirt. Her cheeks stung and for a moment she was too shocked even to groan with pain.
"Slave not speak," rumbled the Narthusi chief.
"Slave?" she gasped, hardly able to believe her ears. "I . . . I demand . . . "
"You find oil for Narthusi people. Make rich!" ordered the leader, and Denise finally realized why she had been abducted. They thought she could find oil anywhere, without equipment or instruments. Bitterly, she recalled that her record thus far was fairly poor. They should have kidnapped Bushmill if they wanted to find oil.
"Listen, let me go back to my camp and I promise . . . "
"You not talk like slave!"
"Well . . . I've never been a slave before," she groaned, making a half-hearted attempt at humor.
"We teach you," he grinned at her lecherously, and then muttered something in his native language to the two men who seemed to be his assistants. Smiling sadistically they nodded in agreement, and crawled towards the terrified woman, their hands reaching out threateningly towards her . . .
"No . . . please, leave me alone," she shrieked in horror, suddenly recalling all over again what had happened to her that night on the Charles River in Cambridge. It was going to happen all over again, and this time it would be worse!
The two men were not gentle. With harsh demanding hands, one of them simply ripped the frail white fabric of her blouse off of the soft creamy flesh of her shoulders, while the other yanked her skirt down over her smooth, lust-provoking thighs, splitting the material neatly along the seams. The first man seemed surprised at finding the lush fullness of her breasts covered by a brassiere, obviously something he had never seen before. After investigating it, he attempted to yank it roughly from her shoulders, but the bra was tough and he gave up after a few tries and slit it neatly with a knife, freeing her supple young tits to the heated air. Then they methodically rolled her over onto her stomach and unfastened the leather tong which held her wrists together, forcing her hands over her head and re-attaching the strap to a peg of wood driven into the ground, so that she was held prisoner. Then they turned her onto her back again and glanced up at their leader, as if waiting for further instructions.
The chief of the Narthusi tribe grinned in satisfaction as he saw this lushly beautiful
Western woman writhing helplessly before him, now clad only in a tantalizingly brief pair of tattered white nylon panties.
Her eyes alive with simple terror, Denise looked down between the high sumptuous mounds of her breasts at the massive body of the savage Narthusi leader. The man was grinning at her sadistically and when he saw that he had her agonized attention, he rose up on his knees, unfastening his loin cloth with deliberate slowness.
Then she saw what he had in store for her. The moment his loin cloth dropped onto the mud floor of the hut, the man's gigantic cock began slowly rising like a cannon on a battleship steadily training on a target. Denise's experience with male genitals was somewhat limited but she had enough experience with the opposite sex to realize that the man was unnaturally large. Her shattered mind was not functioning very well at the moment, but slowly she understood. He was going to fuck her with that massive thing of his. The Narthusi's cock seemed to be about nine powerfully masculine inches long from the bulging scarlet tip of the head to the point where the heavily thickening trunk of it blended into the flatness of his stomach.
Denise had studied the laws of physics at MIT, and she knew that certain things were simply not possible. There was not enough room inside her tiny, little-used cunt to accommodate an object of that size. In fact, it did not even look possible for him to force the huge thick head of his cock into her vagina without ripping her open all the way up to her breasts. It was impossible!
And, in the back of her head, she knew he was going to do it anyway. She struggled uselessly against the cruel bonds which held her prisoner, not realizing of course, that the desperate writhing of her nakedly succulent body was working the giant into an absolute frenzy of animal passion. The Narthusi leader laughed callously as he bent forward and ripped away the frail remainder of her panties as if they were made of tissue paper, baring the softly quivering triangle of her pubic hair to his lust-widened eyes. Then he grunted something in his native language to his companions, and even in her advanced stage of hysteria, Denise guessed it was something obscene from the way the two men laughed, rolling their eyes as their hands roamed avidly over her succulently naked flesh. The leader bent forward, his cruelly smiling lips only inches from the soft mysteries of her helpless vagina, and pressed her long sleek thighs outward and wide apart.
"No, please," she groaned automatically, knowing she was wasting her breath pleading for mercy. They were going to fuck her senseless and there was no power on earth capable of stopping them now. Bushmill her only hope was far away, and to her own amazement, Denise found herself wishing she had let the Texan make love to her when she had had the chance. Yes, of course, it was against everything she believed in, but if she had to yield her desirable young body to a man, she would have preferred it to have been him, not this savage Narthusi warrior.
The native chieftain looked down at the girl's soft blonde pussy, knowing that this was the best-looking female south of the Temperate Zone and deciding that he was going to take advantage of his opportunity to the hilt. His spies had brought him word that there was a golden-haired white woman exploring for oil around Warandab, and he had known that the Ras and his people were neither warlike or well-armed. He had toyed with the idea of letting this blonde goddess find the oil first and then moving in, but his savage sense of strategy told him that kidnapping her had been the right course of action. After he had satisfied his animalistic desires on her helpless flesh, they would all go to Warandab, and his warriors would chase the Ras and his tribe away. And then when the blonde woman found oil, he would be on the spot to claim it. The native chieftain had never seen the inside of a schoolroom, but a few decades of tribal warfare had made him crafty. Once the foreigners found oil, the Ras would become rich and important and other foreigners would come with men and guns to protect him. But with no oil as yet, and the oil-lady in his hands, no one in Addis Ababa would pay much attention to a battle between two savage tribes. He had made the right move. And in the meantime, he had the woman at his complete and utter disposal to rape and plunder as he pleased. And he thought he knew where to start!
His cock twitched with evil desire as he lowered his head even further, studying the lust-provoking triangle of her thinly curling pubic hair. The Narthusi had never seen a blonde woman before, and a female with a blonde pussy was little short of miraculous as far as he was concerned. He had to have it! His conquest of the foreign woman would begin here!
Grunting savagely, the man put his fingers into the light blonde hair surrounding her tight little vaginal opening, stroking her cunt curiously. The girl's groan excited him and he decided that it merited a kiss. Exhaling explosively, he pressed his head downward between her open thighs and began planting a series of moist noisy little kisses on the quivering pink-rimmed lips of her cunt, lashing out with his expertly working tongue and giggling like a maniac as he heard her cry out in anguish. It occurred to him that the woman's behavior was certainly somewhat peculiar. Any woman in his tribe would have been honored at this bizarre perverse treatment and yet the foreign woman was acting as if she were being hurt.
Perhaps she was a virgin, and merely frightened? It was a possibility, and the Narthusi chief ton, his eyes glowing lasciviously, slowly wormed a middle finger deeply up into the wetly fluttering walls of her cunt probing for signs of a hymen. No, she was tight, very, very tight, but this was no virgin. She had been fucked before, but obviously her man had not been doing much of a job on her. Well, he would remedy that.
"Oh please . . . don't put your finger up inside me like that!" Denise begged him hopelessly, her head coming up off the floor to look down between her naked breasts with horror as the Narthusi burrowed his face lewdly back up between her obscenely spread legs. The man was crouched on his hands and knees before her, pushing her firm young thighs even wider apart with his shoulders so that the whole flat plane of her loins was accessible to his again teasingly flicking tongue. She wiggled desperately, but the two men on either side of her pinned her roughly to the floor, and a sense of crushing helplessness swept over her. There was no depravity or degradation now to which they could not subject her to at their will.
The native man was working her nakedly spread young genitals into a wetly glistening froth now, running his thick red tongue all the way down from the tingling little tip of her clitoris to the tiny, defensively clenched hole of her anus below. Denise tried to force her inner thigh muscles to relax, telling herself with what logic there was left in her mind that she was liable to need all her strength for the hideous pain to come. But instead, a strange series of lewd little rippling sensations swept over her as soon as she rested her head back on the floor and closed her eyes. She had been readying her outraged body for a brutal pitiless rape, preparing to scream and fight as the huge native chief rammed his bludgeoning rod deep up between her legs and into her naked flesh. But there was no pain in having her loins licked so hungrily like this by a man's tongue, and suddenly Denise felt her hips down below twitch involuntarily as the man sucked her sensitive little clitoris into his mouth, caressing it expertly with his lips.
Ooooooooh goddddddd!! ! ! she groaned helplessly to herself and thought he would certainly stop there with this vile merciless tonguing of her widely held genitals, but torturously his mouth dropped even lower as he cupped his hands beneath the smoothly curving softness of her buttocks and used his powerful arm muscles to hoist the sleek tense moons of her ass cheeks up into the air. With a sardonic snicker, his thumbs pressed outward, spreading them wide and his tongue flashed out to bathe her tiny puckered anus with saliva.
"Ooooooh god! No . . . Please . . . leave me alone there!" Denise pleaded in an agony of humiliation as she felt one strange bizarre sensation after another racing fiendishly up her backbone. Her tightly clenched little anal ring seemed to be tingling with some weird erotic pleasure, and despite her terror, the young American woman realized that the situation was perilous. She knew enough, at least in theory, about human sexuality to realize that some men preferred the rear entrance to a woman's body, and if this savage decided to assault her there, he would surely, rip her in two. As if he understood what she was fearfully thinking, the Narthusi chief seemed to lose interest in the ripely-inviting mysteries of her cunt and concentrate all his interest on the ripely quivering young flesh of her buttocks. Cruelly he pried the vainly resisting moons still further apart, probing with the tip of a finger at the entrance to her tightly puckered little rectum. He had intended to fuck her in the vagina, but this little hole now seemed even tighter and more promising. The huge native chieftain was a sadist, and raping the rich American bitch anally would also cause her more pain and humiliation, an idea which excited him.
Frantically, the girl twisted and jerked her nakedly exposed body, thrashing her hips from side to side as she desperately struggled to break free from the lewd rectal penetration of his lasciviously working finger. But the two other men, holding her by the ankles, pressed her knees all the way back to her breasts, calling out lewd encouragement to their leader as he gleefully wormed his thick middle finger up into the tightly resisting little opening as far as the first knuckle.
"Aaaaaagggggghhhhh!! ! ! " she groaned, feeling his fingertip pop suddenly through the tightly puckered circle of her back passage and on up through the helplessly resisting walls. But her protests were useless and she found herself weeping with impotent humiliation while the Narthusi chieftain lewdly explored the soft buttery depths of her rectum. He twisted and rotated his middle finger around inside, deliberately widening the narrow opening and ignoring the stripped young blonde woman's shrieks and moans of pain and humiliation.
Then, as suddenly as he had penetrated her, he withdrew making a vulgar little popping sound as he slithered his finger free of her now slightly stretched rectum. She knew instinctively that he had not given up on his vile perverted project and that the worst was yet to come. His fiercely muscular hands stretched the smooth, fearfully quivering cheeks of her ass still farther apart as he maneuvered himself licentiously up into position between her wide-held thighs. The man holding her ankles back over her head leered down at her in lewd anticipation of what they were soon to see.
Oh God no! She prayed mentally, her beautiful young face contorted in fear and trepidation. Not this! Anything but this!
She held her breath as she felt the man's thumbs press outward against the tiny defenseless circle and the hard rubbery tip of his hotly pulsating cock pressing inwards against the tightly clenched opening of her anal passage. She knew he was going to rip her apart, and she concentrated all the strength left in her fragile body into the single-minded task of holding him out. This was one battle she could not afford to lose!
But lost it, she did! The flat smooth stomach of the Narthusi warrior bulged with muscle as grunting savagely he pressed the fierce hardness of his cockhead into the tight rubbery little ring of her anus.
"Ooooooh god, don't, please don't," she half screamed in helpless shame and pain. But gradually the girl could feel the soft puckered entrance to her rectal passage giving relentlessly away before him, surrendering to the huge man's overwhelming strength and weight.
Her scream split the air as the thick bulbous head of the man's super-hardened cock popped just up inside her asshole with brutal force and a spasm of sheer agony abruptly took possession of her bent-double body.
"Oooooh god!! ! " she moaned out piteously. He had won! She had lost! He was going to sodomize her mercilessly now and the fight was over but her body convulsed protestingly anyway, her firmly rounded young buttocks writhing and gyrating in a hopeless attempt to throw him off. Unfortunately her frantic squirming only served to increase the man's sodomistic pleasure as with another savage grunt above her he ground a slight inch deeper up into her wide-split rectal depths.
Two inches, and then three, inexorably, and grinning in lewd triumph above her, he slithered his heavily impassioned cock up into her, each fresh penetration bringing a groan of utter anguish to her drug parched lips. God, they had no mercy, no pity!
The man himself was grunting ceaselessly now with exertion as he flexed his powerful loins for one last punishing plunge to the interior of her belly and Denise found she could scarcely think.
They were destroying her mind as surely as they were destroying her up between her buttocks. Now he was half-way into her with his huge, lust-hardened cock and it felt as though a monstrous battering ram was being remorselessly pressured up into the tiny opening of her virginal anus!
"Little white lady like, ass fuck?" the Narthusi mumbled down at her with the lewd grin still on his face, and flicked his hips forward for the last time, and Denise felt his iron-hard cock rushing up into her anal depths like a ceaseless drill plowing through the earth.
"Oooooooh god help me!" she cried, and then felt the flatness of his pelvis smack hard into the upturned nakedness of her ass-cheeks. He was all of the way in her now! She could feel the obscene heaviness of his balls slapping down between her nakedly upraised buttocks. She was still doubled up, bent almost in two, the other two men holding her ankles wide with her knees crushed painfully back against the delectable softness of her breasts. Then, without waiting for the blonde young American girl to adjust to the heaviness of his cock sunk deep up between her wide-split buttock cheeks, he panted hoarsely, and began to ass-fuck her, slowly at first, and then faster. Denise, her teeth clenched tightly together, tried to take her punishment in silence, but every time he plunged his cock up into the depths of her cruelly filled belly, her mouth opened involuntarily and a tiny agonized chant began to issue forth into the steamy atmosphere of the mud-hut. Inside of her savagely skewered rectum, the natural lubricating juices began to flow, and her muscles, the resistance ripped mercilessly from them, involuntarily relaxed and the man began to fuck into her faster and harder, the sweat beginning to glisten and shine now on his gleefully laboring body.
* * *
It was evening and the Narthusi camp was ablaze with light from smoldering torches as Bushmill inched forward on his stomach. Below he could see the tribe working itself into a state of mindless frenzy in preparation for their attack on Warandab the following morning. Tartar, inching forward silently in the darkness somewhere to his right, hissed at him suddenly, and Bushmill froze, straining his eyes to see what the problem was. Ah yes, the Narthusi were not as stupid as Tatar would have him believe. They had posted a few sentries and a tall native man with a spear was standing on the high ground a few dozen yards away from where they were standing. He would have to be eliminated, and it could not be done with the pistol.
Tatar placed his finger to his lips with the universal sign for silence, and noiselessly slipped the steel blade from the sheath around his waist. Then he rose silently to his feet. Bushmill was regarded as an agile graceful man who was light on his feet, but he was amazed at the soundlessness with which the Ethiopians could move. Tatar's naked feet seemed to glide over the parched earth without touching ground, and Bushmill's eyes followed him confidently as he crept towards the inattentive sentry.
It was ugly and the Texan had to steel himself not to look away, forcing himself to watch in order to strengthen his stomach for what lay ahead. He knew he would have to do worse things himself, before the night was over. Tatar circled behind the guard, moving like a ghost of death. The knife held carefully behind him so that there would be no tell-tale flash from the blade to betray his presence. Then he moved, with deadly lightning speed, clasping his hand over the sentry's mouth before the man could cry out a warning and methodically slit his throat from ear to ear, working the blade in deep to make sure there would be no mistakes. Wiping his blade meticulously on the other man's loin cloth, he then lowered the lifeless body to the ground and gestured to Bushmill that it was now safe to proceed. The two men inched their way through the uneven high ground overlooking the Narthusi camp, seeing the natives below, circling their camp fires in great agitation as if they were anxiously awaiting some important event.
"What are they so steamed up about?" the Texan muttered to his companion.
"I know not," replied Tatar with his usual disregard for the finer points of modern English grammar. There were a series of improvised wattle huts in the clearing, and Bushmill observed that there were no women in sight, only warriors, and guessed that the Narthusi men had left their families behind. Down there somewhere was Denise, and the Texan worried about the possibility that they had molested her sexually. The American girl was not strong enough to take much maltreatment, he fretted. She was too . . .
"Bush!" came a hiss to his left, and the oilman followed Tatar's outstretched finger. There were three men emerging from one of the huts, carrying the nakedly stripped body of a blonde woman. The crowd of warriors cheered raucously and Bushmill felt a cold shiver racing up and down his backbone. It was Denise! But was she dead or alive?
"Them Narthusi man like woman much," commented Tatar grimly.
"What are they going to do to her?" Bushmill fought to keep his voice low and controlled. But dammit, he was just beginning to realize that he loved that woman!
"I think they fuck her," offered the native man dubiously.
"You mean . . . "
"Yes, I think they all fuck her. They too many mens. They kill her like that."
Bushmill felt the blood boiling in his brain, and his hand closed around the package attached to his belt. It was suicidal. There were at least one hundred men down there, some of them armed with rifles.
But they were going anyway!
* * *
Denise felt the hands roaming lasciviously over the tenderness of her naked bruised flesh and saw the lights from the fires and the torches reflecting in her eyes but she felt strangely unworried. Her mind was wandering vaguely, and she found it difficult to concentrate on what was happening to her, or what the future would bring. And why should she bother trying? She was utterly and completely helpless, a prisoner who could not move a muscle in her own defense. They had sodomized her mercilessly, and now there would be more of the same. If she had survived the Narthusi's long lethal cock rammed all the way up into the delicate passage of her anus, she could survive anything. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would kill her. But it no longer seemed to make much difference.
She was thinking of Bushmill as they tossed her battered body onto the ground in the middle of the crowd, dully wondering where he was and what he was doing at this precise moment. Had her disappearance been noted? Or was the Texan still enjoying himself with Ayrub? It made little difference. Even if her fellow American knew precisely where she was and what was happening to her, it would take an army to get her out of here in one piece, and Bushmill did not have an army at his disposal. Too bad . . .
There were men's bodies all over her now, pulling on her arms and legs as they spread-eagled her on the ground in preparation for a new series of violent rapes. She no longer had the strength to resist, and the girl willed her savagely abused body to relax as she found a new man crouched between her widely spread thighs, preparing to thrust the glistening shaft of his hardness into the moistly, throbbing crevice in their hands, looking forward to the same depraved privilege. It was the traditional
Narthusi treatment of female prisoners.
The first explosion killed fifteen men outright and wounded an equal number, but the dazed girl did not even turn her head to see what had happened. Neither did the lust-impassioned native who was about to fuck her, and she groaned as she felt the long hardened shaft of his cock slithering smoothly up into her cum-lubricated young cunt. He was the third -or was it the fourth? man who had fucked her there, not counting the one who had made use of her mouth, and her vagina was now well stretched and drenched with the wetness of their native semen. She closed her eyes, hearing men screaming in pain and alarm, and groaning as the native rapist flexed his loins back and forth, driving his invading pike deeply up into her well-fucked cuntal walls.
But, the others were reacting. Someone had thrown a bomb of some kind into their midst, and they courageously prepared to defend themselves, pulling spears out of the ground, and picking up rifles, their eyes night blinded by the camp fires, it was difficult to know where the attack had come from and yet those fifteen corpses on the ground testified that somewhere out there in the darkness . . .
Another satchel of dynamite whirled through the air and a scream went up from among the Narthusi as they scampered desperately away, trying in vain to escape the angry flames which came shooting out in all directions when the home made bomb struck the ground and detonated.
"Got another ten," muttered Bushmill as he jumped to his feet, fishing inside his knapsack for another bomb. "But they're getting organized and splitting up. You go that way, and try to drive 'em back into the clearing!"
Tatar grunted in agreement and vanished off the darkness while Bushmill surged violently forward, trying to calculate how close to Denise he could throw his fire bombs without harming her. A man lunged dangerously towards him out of the dark, and Bushmill cooled him with a bullet through the brain. He hated to waste the ammunition, but things were happening too fast to calculate exactly how many shells he had felt in his revolver. He was in the clearing now, and to his left, he heard another blast as Tatar gamely launched another satchel of explosives, placing it dead in the middle of a group of warriors. Bushmill grinned viciously and eliminated the men closest to him by tossing another bag at their feet and then taking cover behind a rock while the dynamite did its work.
The carnage was terrible, and Bushmill nearly slipped in a pool of human blood as he rushed forward, desperately trying to find Denise in the confusion before the Narthusi got their wits together and counter-attacked. The Texan was forced to use his revolver and shot a second and third time in self-defense, but in the meantime Tatar was raising absolute hell on the other side of the clearing, throwing two bombs in quick session, and slaughtering most of the men on his side of where Denise lay stretched out helplessly in the middle of the battle.
The girl was coming slowly to her senses as one explosion after another rocked the ground beneath her, and she felt the warrior's penis wilt within her body as the man realized that his tribe was under attack and he would have to fight or flee. From the point of view of those Narthusi who were still alive, they were being attacked by a much larger force, and they died in groups, never knowing that they were meeting their maker as a result of only two men and a few dozen sticks of dynamite.
A few men turned to fight, rushing around in the darkness with their rifles in their hands, but the few dozen men who were left alive unanimously decided to retreat, at least until the situation cleared up a little.
Suddenly there was a man bending over her, a long cruelly-gleaming machete in his hand and she looked up into his savage coal-black eyes and understood immediately that he did not intend to let her escape alive. The girl was too startled to have understood the meaning of all the explosives around her, and she could only stare at him in stark terror as he raised his arm to slash the cold steel across her throat.
A revolver spoke twice somewhere near her, and the man's body was already lifeless as it collapsed across her naked figure, the blood from a horrible wound in his chest seeping sickeningly onto her breasts as the knife lay uselessly on the ground beside her.
Shaking her head in a desperate attempt to clear her mind, she pushed the native's body off her and sat up, trying to make out amongst the shadows and lights who was friend and who was foe. Dimly, she recognized Tatar holding two Narthusi at bay with his spear, and then her heart leaped up as a figure in Western dress ran towards her across the clearing. She realized who had fired the pistol shots which had saved her life.
Bushmill!
"Denise!" he roared, rushing madly toward her, mindless of the fact that two spear-welding savages were closing in on him fast.
"Bush! Watch out!" she screamed a warning, but the Texan seemed to be obsessed with the necessity of rushing to her side and paid no attention. A spear spun viciously toward the American as Denise McAlister rose unsteadily to her feet. Bushmill ducked, barely in time, and his lips drew back over his teeth as he leveled the
Smith and Wesson at the nearer of the two natives and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened, and Denise screamed again as the two Narthusi closed in fast with knife and spear. Hardly conscious of what she was doing, Denise snatched up the machete dropped by the man who had lost his life attacking her and stumbled forward, without the slightest idea of what she was going to do with this deadly weapon.
Bushmill fought back gamely, swinging the empty pistol around sharply and smashing it into the face of the nearest native. The man dropped like a stone, but before the American could recover his balance, the second man caught him square at the base of the skull with the stout shaft of his spear, sending Bushmill sprawling to the ground. It was a bad moment. Bushmill rolled over as fast as he could, remembering suddenly that he was on the wrong side of forty and getting a little old to be fighting mobs of African warriors single-handedly. He groped for the knife he was wearing on his waist, but it was already too late. The native had the razor's edge of the spear poised at his chest and was preparing to lunge!
Then, just outside the native's field of vision, there was a blur of motion, a flash of blonde nakedness, and Denise brought the machete down hard on the man's neck, virtually taking his head off. It was all the time Bushmill needed, and he bounded to his feet as his assailant melted into the ground. Tatar was running towards them from the other side of the clearing, and Bushmill saw that the Narthusi were all either dead or in flight.
"You . . . you saved my life!" he cried to Denise as she collapsed into his arms, her sumptuous breasts heaving nakedly against his blood smeared chest.
"Happy . . . to be of service," she muttered thickly. And then she was out like a light.
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
She awoke in her own bed, naked between clean crisp white sheets, and as her eyes popped open, she knew in the first clear moments of consciousness that she was all right. There were bruised spots on her breasts and thighs but this was not much of a price to pay after all she had been through. Her sleep had been lovely and deep and she hated to come out of it. But something told her that she had been unconscious for many, many hours and it was time to return to the real world.
Bushmill was there, dozing in a corner and his eyes flickered open as she sat up in the bed, drawing the whiteness of the sheet up to cover her exposed body.
"Uh . . .Good morning, Sunshine," he grunted awkwardly. "Ah . . . are you feeling all right?"
"Yes, Bush," she told him warmly. "Thanks to you, I'm still in one piece."
"I seem to recall that my worthless old life got saved yesterday too," Bushmill flashed and embarrassed grin. "I never figured you to be that handy with a machete!"
"Never underestimate and M.I.T. girl," she giggled. "We may not know much about oil but we're great for hand-to-hand combat. Oh, how's Tatar?"
"He picked up a cut on his thigh when a spear grazed him, but I sewed him up and he's fine. I believe he's relaxing with Ayrub."
"Ayrub? I thought she was your slave girl?" the girl's eyebrows arched questioningly.
"She was. I presented her to Tatar this morning as a reward for heroism on the field of battle. Those two kids have been fucking each other since they were three years old. It would have been a shame to keep them apart.'
"Oh, poor Bush!" the girl reached out and patted his hand quickly as he perched on the corner of the bed. "Now you haven't got a slave to your name."
"Well, I'll have to shop around for a good second-hand slave girl," he grinned at her, but in fact both of them were beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. They had been enemies for so long that they had not yet developed the habit of being nice to one another, and after all they had been through together, it was impossible to go back to being nasty. Bushmill moved closer to her on the bed, letting his hand rest lightly on her waist.
"Did they . . . I mean . . . were you . . . ? " he stammered a little, surprised to find that his cheeks were reddening.
"Yes," Denise whispered back, also blushing. "If you're asking what I think you're asking, the answer is yes. Every way they could think of. But I don't seem to be hurt. I mean, everything feels okay inside. I guess I'm tougher than I look."
There was another long silence and Bushmill shifted closer to her on the bed. The man was wearing only a pair of shorts, and Denise found herself conscious of his hard muscular body. For some reason, she was no longer afraid of him, even though she knew how urgent and powerful Bushmill's lusts could be. His hand rested gently on her waist and slowly he began to caress her body. But she felt no temptation to shrink away from him. After everything which had happened to her since her arrival in Ethiopia, it seemed pointless to go on playing the innocent virgin. She knew perfectly well what he wanted, and she knew now that she was mature enough to give it to him. He had saved her life, and she had proven herself worthy in his moment of need by saving his. Now there should be no holding back for either one of them.
But still it was difficult to let herself go. The habit of guarding her female modesty was still strong, and she felt herself blushing as the man slowly drew down the' sheet and exposed her voluptuous nakedness to his lustful eyes.
"You're beautiful," he muttered, making no apologies for what he was doing. Bushmill knew better than to ask her permission. At this stage of the game, it was time to take what he wanted. He should have done it a long time ago!
Denise felt her flesh begin to quiver as Bushmill's hands swept lasciviously over her naked skin, and for a moment she almost surrendered to her conscience and told him to stop. But he was so gentle that somehow the words refused to form in her mouth, and she merely groaned in contentment as he stroked the firm, fully rounded globes of her breasts. Her tiny brown nipples hardened slightly as his fingers roamed hungrily over them, and she felt a tingle of forbidden pleasure racing madly through her nervous system.
Bushmill sensed that Denise had been changed profoundly by her experience and would never be the same again. Now she was lying submissively beneath him while his hands licentiously explored the tempting hills and valleys of her trembling body, and she showed no signs of wanting to retreat. His hands roamed dbwn to the light blonde triangle of her pussy, and he could see the tiny pink button of her clitoris peeking timidly through the moist pubic hairs. For a moment he was tempted to bend over and kiss it, but he restrained himself, knowing that he had successfully created the proper kind of mood for a seduction, and one false move would destroy everything.
The girl groaned, closing her eyes as the Texan's hands expertly stroked the softly pliable flesh of her thighs, allowing him to push her legs even farther apart and put one hand directly onto the tempting blonde "V" of her pussy. Her hips twitched involuntarily as his fingers combed their way through her pubic hair, and while she felt humiliated lying with the precious mysteries of her womanhood exposed to him like this, it also felt better than any other sensation she had ever known.
The bed squeaked slightly as Bushmill stood up, removed his shorts, and then knelt down again, this time placing his body between the young blonde's welcomingly outstretched thighs. He caressed the full tantalizing mounds of her breasts and she found herself cooing and humming with pleasure. Her eyes were still closed, but she knew the man was now naked, and she burned with desire to touch his cock. Was it already hard, or was it still soft and flexible? She felt like a whore, wanting to know this significant bit of information, but for some reason, it was terribly important that she know.
Her eyes popped open, and she stared down through the valley between her lush mountainous breasts at Bushmill's naked loins.
He was hard, fully erected, and to her unsophisticated eyes, his huge penis looked like a cannon ready to fire.,Her hands reached out trembling, yearning, but she had been too inhibited for too many years, and she could not bring herself to touch it!
Bushmill was conscious of the battle raging in her mind, and he was careful not to force the issue. He had to lead her along step by step, never pushing her any faster than she was capable of going.
"Oh Bush," she called to him, her voice fluttering with emotion. "I'm not going to be very good at this!"
"Leave everything to me," he mumbled, feeling her body growing warmer by the minute. An expert at detecting a woman's hidden nature, Bushmill guessed that inside of McAlister's frigid exterior there was a sex-Tigress trying to get out. With a little luck and a lot of skill, he would find the way! The only question was how long he could restrain himself. Below him, he could see the whole of her wetly throbbing vaginal slit presented up to him like a pagan sacrifice, and he longed to just crawl on her and ram his hotly pulsating cock up into her belly. But he knew it would be premature, and the man was determined that everything should be perfect. She was aroused now, but he wanted her screaming with lust before he took her. In the meantime, he would continue to do everything he could think of to turn her on.
Denise closed her eyes again, rocking her head passionately back and forth, and Bushmill looked down with growing desire at the beautifully formed mounds of her breasts. The girl had the most amazing tits he had ever seen and he had wanted to fuck them ever since the day he had first walked into Tom Wagner's office and mistaken her for a secretary. Now he had to do it!
Smoothing his hands directly over the softly trembling tips of her nipples Bushmill rose up over the girl and placed his knees on either side of her rib cage. She opened her eyes and then shut them again as if she too were afraid of breaking the spell. Gently, the man lay the long hard pole of his cock down in the valley between the voluptuous young mounds of her breasts. Bushmill felt his own carnal excitement increasing by leaps and bounds as he reached down on either side of her chest and pushed the softly resilient mounds together, enclosing his cock in a tight, warm little smooth-fleshed cunt.
"Oh . . . Bush . . . ", he heard her groan, putting her hands on top of his and helping him push the valley of her breasts tighter around his cock. "Do anything you want! Fuck me between them, if you like."
That was all the invitation he needed. Flexing his loins experimentally, Bushmill felt the long stiff pole slide sensually up into the velvety yielding tunnel formed by her succulent breasts. Denise was getting excited too by being used this way and he watched her gasping for breath as he pushed his hardness all the way up the soft, sensually warm channel until the scarlet tip slithered out from between them just beneath her chin. It felt good, in fact, it was about the best thing Bushmill could ever recall, and he panted happily as he fucked back and forth between her nakedly quivering breasts. He had to force himself to stop occasionally whenever he was coming too close to cumming, tweaking and twisting the tiny brown tips of her nipples to keep the erotic desire alive in her. Denise's body was twitching and jerking involuntarily now, and from his vast experience, Bushmill realized she would go for almost anything at this point. After all, she had told him to do anything he wanted . . .
Anything?
He found that his eyes were focused unwaveringly on the sensuous redness of her lips, and he discovered within himself the preposterous desire to fuck her there. In the mouth!
No, it was impossible. It would be moving her too fast and she would surely rebel, he told himself, but the more he thought about it the more he knew he was going to have to try it anyway. Bushmill had reached that point of excitement when he was no longer fully in control of himself. In fact, he nearly came, merely thinking about the idea. Moving forward a little, he let the hardness of his cock inch its way up across her chest. Denise seemed to be in a kind of weird sexual trance, muttering and groaning softly to herself as his huge, throbbing cockhead moved inexorably toward her tantalyzingly open mouth.
Without giving her time to react to the perversion he was about to inflict upon her, Bushmill locked his hands behind her head and rose up off the bed so that the dagger-like point of his cock was pointing directly at the pinkness of her openly parted lips. Her eyes fluttered open as if she were confused about what was happening and the two of them looked at each solemnly for a long moment without speaking.
"Go ahead," she whispered softly and then closed her eyes in resignation. Bushmill had expected cries and groans of protest, but instead her head bobbed forward voluntarily and the tightly rounded ovals of her lips closed firmly around his bulbous cockhead. Bushmill was in heaven. His mind slipped out of gear, and he found he could no longer think. Her lips were smoothly caressing the lust-hardened shaft of his penis, and her cheeks hollowed in as she stubbornly sucked him back into her throat, as deep as she could take him.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh, Christ!" he mumbled in ecstasy as she started using her tongue on him, swirling it delicately around and over the sensitively pulsating head and causing his over-stimulated cock to jerk convulsively in her mouth. She was sucking him as if she had done all of this a thousand times before, as if she wanted this one perverted act to make up for all the missed opportunities of her entire life. Bushmill had only intended to fuck her open mouth for a minute, just to see if it could be done, but now he realized that it was important for both of them to go all the way. He had to let her make him cum in ther throat. Her whole life was going to be changed after this experience, and she needed something dramatic to start her off on her new career as a sensual loving woman. This would be the start, and if she wanted it this way, then he was willing to let it happen this way!
Bushmill began to fuck brutally into her open throat, flexing his hips wildly in and out of the tight, rounded little hole formed by her hungrily clasping lips. It was not going to be long now, he sensed, feeling the heat rising in his loins and the pressure building up in his balls. His cock seemed to be longer and harder than ever before in his life, as if it were about to explode . . .
And then suddenly, he felt that savage rushing within his loins and knew that there was nothing he could do now to stop himself. He was cumming like a maniac and the steaming hot semen was gushing out of his testicles in a thin, searingly pouring stream. The girl groaned and gurgled as she experienced the unfamiliar sensation of having her throat filled to the brimming with a man's hotly flowing cum. She gulped gluttonously, swallowing and sputtering desperately as she tried to keep from losing even the tiniest drop of his precious sperm.
Oh god, she thought, as she felt her belly filling almost to the bursting with the warm, white liquid. Oh god, I hope he never stops cumming!
Bushmill felt his body shaking and quivering above her as the last, final drops of his liquid masculinity were sucked hungrily out of his balls and he gently tried to raise himself off of her. But to his surprise, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and pulled him even closer, licking and nibbling at his slowly deflating penis as a young child would with a candy sucker. The man gazed down at her in disbelief, watching the thin, white rivulets of cum which were trickling down over her chin as she slowly, voraciously sucked his limp cock back to life again. She nibbled and kissed him teasingly, until the flaccid flesh slowly began to rise again, and only when it was hard and firm once more did she allow him to escape from the warm, semen-flooded sanctuary of her mouth. He raised himself up on his muscular arms and looked down at her in amazement.
"Don't tell me you learned that at M.I.T."
"Bushmill, stop insulting my Alma Mater and fuck me," she ordered.
"Will you marry me?"
"Bush, we'll talk about it some other time. Right now, I think I'd like to be laid, good and hard!" Denise was grinding the moistness of her pubic mound desperately up against his loins trying desperately to sink his long, re-hardened cock into the moistly hungering depths up between her widespread thighs. "You aren't going to give up drilling just because had one gusher, are you?"
The veteran Texas oil man grinned down at the sexually awakened young woman squirming impatiently beneath him, and decided that opportunities like this only come once or twice in a lifetime.
Bushmill kissed her sperm-smeared lips. Then he sank another well.
