Safari

SAFARI
By Orlando Paris
(Drummer Issue #14.1977)

The BOAC night flight from London to Nairobi had the hunkiest flight attendant on board I'd ever seen. Lean, tall, with a with-it moustache darker than his sandy hair, he spotted me even before I'd noticed the bulge in his trousers.

"Going with us — pause — Sir?" A dumb question, but I wasn't thinking of that, I'd just noticed the bulge.

"Nairobi," I answered. Then, just to keep the conversation flowing, "I'm going on safari in Kenya."

"Alone?"

"Well, I had planned on picking up a guide."

"I'm sure you will, sir. In the meantime, I'd like to make you as comfortable as I can."

From then on, on that memorable flight, I found my usual role reversed, I was in command. I ordered drinks, asked dumber questions than he ever dreamed of, demanded a pillow, was served a late dinner, ordered a blanket, insisted on changing seats to an unoccupied seat in the rear of the plane, and for the most part he loved it.

It never took him long to answer my call bell, and when I asked him his name — it was Adrian — I merely said, "Well, Adrian, you will do as I say, won't you?" He needed no lessons.

"Yes, sir." Eyes downcast, looking in my lap, not at my face.

After the movie — which I never saw, for in the dark Adrian sat in the aisle seat beside me, doing with his hands what I would later make him do with his mouth — the lights were turned back up, and Adrian served other passengers a midnight snack.

Finally, when the lights were dimmed again, Adrian returned, and as soon as it was safe, or seemed so, Adrian went down on me. Of course I liked it, but I liked it even more, for as I've said, that is not my usual role, and the novelty of giving orders for a change intrigued me.

A call bell sounded and a tiny light went on halfway up the aisle. When Adrian returned from his inane errand I let him have it.

"No more, you fuckin' limey slave, until you guarantee there'll be no interruptions. I'm going to sleep." And I pretended to go to sleep. It wasn't long before Adrian was back. Even in the dim light I could see his pleading eyes, begging me to let him service me. I told him to get me a cold beer. Two beers later, when I was ready to burst, I went to the tail of the plane. A stewardess was dozing nearby, but I grabbed Adrian and shoved him in the tiny rest room ahead of me.

"Strip!"

Adrian stripped, folded his clothes and placed them on a shelf.

"Kneel!" Adrian knelt. "Take it out and hold it in front of your open mouth." Adrian did that and I began pissing. When he choked the piss ran out of his mouth, down his body, across his chest, into his groin and down his thighs but his cock stood erect. It was just the kind I usually worshipped. I grabbed my cock and pissed on his head until that long sandy hair was sopped, and then I let him swallow the rest.

"Suck it, you fuckin' limey cocksucker." Adrian sucked. He sucked slowly at first, then, his enthusiasm obviously enhanced by the experience, he gradually brought me to one beautiful climax, draining every drop of my sperm, continuing to suck, but in a milder way until I'd had it.

"O.K., slave, stand up and wash off and get dressed, but don't you dare come. I want to see it hard in ten minutes. If it isn't I'll bring you back in here and break your pretty face."

I zipped up and left. In ten minutes Adrian was beside me. He unzipped, still hard as iron.

"Keep it that way," I said, "and serve me breakfast first."

As we disembarked from the plane Adrian looked me in the eye for only the second time on the entire trip. He offered me his hand, concealing a note. I shook his hand, accepting the note.

"Thanks for a nice flight," I said, smiling with, I suppose, a sarcastic tilt to my upper lip. He gave me a little salute, and I went down the ramp into the cool Nairobi morning.

I retrieved my luggage through an easy customs and cabbed to the InterContinental Hotel. I had a great room with a small balcony overlooking what can best be called a teeming city. But Nairobi is a spotless city, and the teeming is people: bright, colorful, and lively; traffic was what you'd expect in a smaller city. The air was fresh, full of anticipation for me.

I showered and lay on my bed to collect my thoughts, to shake off my jet lag, to make plans; and I read Adrian's note.

"INSIGNIFICANT PIECE OF YANKEE SHIT, BE AT THE THORN TREE CAFE OF THE NEW STANLEY HOTEL AT 3:00 PM SHARP FOR YOURS!"

I read and reread the note. At first I was pissed, then intrigued, then aroused. I took another shower, a cold one.

With no trouble at all I found the Thorn Tree, an outdoor bar on Kimathi Street and Kenyatta Avenue, and, of course, I was there at precisely 3:00, not a minute earlier or later.

Adrian was nowhere in sight, but on the dot of three one of the most beautiful black studs I'd ever seen came up to me. He smiled and politely asked me if I were Adrian's friend. I admitted to that, and he asked me to follow him. I did, of course, and he led me inside and up to a room on the fourth floor. He knocked, and when we heard the reply from inside he opened the door for me, ushered me in, and left. The curtains and shades were wide open, and the light of the afternoon sun shone directly into my eyes. I had to stand still, afraid to trip over furniture.

From behind someone grabbed my wrists, secured them; noosed my ankles; and blindfolded me. Whoever it was came around front, opened my shirt, slipping it over my shoulders, un-cinched my belt, ripped open the fly, and shoved my pants and nylon briefs below my knees. I started to protest when my wrists were first grabbed, but I was told to shut up. It was not Adrian's voice: it was more mature, confident, perhaps that of an older man.

Minutes went by. There was no sound but the traffic noises from the street. I was not touched. I had the feeling I was being very carefully examined, not just looked over, but sized up for potential. Gradually, certainly without trying, I became erect; whatever fear I may have initially felt had disappeared in the absence of a brutal attack. I was not gagged: I could have screamed if that would have done any good.

"I understand you want to go on safari," the voice said. Even more so now I was impressed by that voice for it was calm, very cool.

"Yes." I paused, and then my earlier training reminded me to add 'Sir!' at the last moment.

"Good. How much time do you have?"

"Two weeks, sir."

"You will pay the prevailing rate." It was not a question, but I answered anyway.

"Yes, sir."

"Limits?" This one threw me. It always did.

"No, sir . . . except . . ."

"Except?" I gave my standard answer.

"No permanent bodily injury or scars."

"Alright, then — it's settled." The noose around my ankles was removed, and I was led into what seemed like a bathroom and told to get in the tub and lie down on my back. I did, and immediately felt a stream of warm liquid on my face. The stream moved down my body, and the blindfold was removed. I looked up to see Adrian, his legs spread, a look of absolute glee on his face as he pissed all over my clothes and body. He clamped his cock with his fingers and the piss stopped.

"Open your mouth, you cocksucking American prick!" I opened my mouth, and Adrian released his cock, perfectly aiming his piss between my lips.

"Swallow it," he commanded. I swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed. When he was finally done, he lifted me by the neck and untied my hands.

"Take a shower," he said, "and when you're done come out and meet my good friend, Alan Relby." He laughed good-naturedly. "And don't pull it. I want to see you hard out here in three minutes."

I showered, and it was tough to follow Adrian's order, but for the second time that day, I switched the water to cold. I stepped out, dried myself off and went out into the living room of what turned out to be a large, but simply furnished suite.

"Drop the towel," Adrian commanded, and as it slid from my waist my cock sprang up to its proud, hard position. I had no time to be embarrassed. There before me stood one of the handsomest looking hunks of manhood I'd ever seen. He was everything his voice had promised; tall, swarthy, mature and confident. His bearing was neat and efficient, his features well defined, his eyes a blue which now was warm, which I would learn could change to ice. He had an easy smile, was cleanly shaven, and sported a short but beautifully cut head of the most brilliant platinum hair I'd ever seen. It made him look a shade over the 32 I'd pegged him at.

Alan's handshake was firm, warm, and inspired the same confidence his voice had. We exchanged pleasantries — which was a bit awkward, my standing there completely nude with a hard on — but Alan slowly began removing his clothes, and he told Adrian to do likewise. In a minute we were all nude. I had seen Adrian nude, of course, and knew we were well matched, but Alan Relby's physique dwarfed us both. I wondered how his clothes could have contained that body without splitting every seam.

A knock came at the door, and the same African who had brought me up came in with a tray of drinks. He was introduced to me as Michael, a student, and when he had set down the drinks he shook my hand, grinning widely, flashing beautiful ivory teeth from his ebony face, every detail warm and friendly. Michael, too, stripped; and his gleaming body, as black as mine was white, looked as if it belonged in a muscle magazine. Alan took command, as I guess we all expected, and outlined our plans. First, he explained, he just wanted us to relax and get to know each other.

That we did, and if you think twosomes and threesomes are fun, try a mixed foursome sometime. We chatted, made love, and drank till dinner time. It was not quite an orgy; we were getting to know each other, fast, without any of the shit etiquette demands, and yet without the shitty anonymity of an orgy. I don't know who did what to whom or when or where, and it doesn't matter: it wasn't fancy sex with all the extras; it was just plain loving, fooling around, and enjoying ourselves and each other — a perfect way to laze away the end of my first African afternoon.

Adrian kissed me goodbye; he had to catch his flight back to London. Michael kissed me goodbye; he had to get back to his studies. Alan kissed me hello.

"Before we go down to dinner," he said, "I'll tell you just once what you are to do. If you don't have them, buy good boots tomorrow morning at Rogers' store — it's around the corner — and wear nothing — and I mean nothing — but one pair of wool socks, a pair of jeans, and a shirt. I will pick you up at your hotel at noon. And, one more thing, from now on you don't come, you don't masturbate, without my permission."

"Sir?"

"What?"

"Can I wear a belt? I have a money belt . . ."

"No. You won't need either a belt or money. Put your money in your hotel safe." Then Alan loaned me a suit of khakis.

Over dinner Alan filled me in on his plans. We would drive northwest to Kisumu, near the Ugandan border, on Lake Victoria, then swing northeast over the mountains and onto the great plains to Wajir, then swing back past Mt. Kenya to Nairobi. Then a day or two of rest before taking off South past Mt. Kilimanjaro to Mombasa on the Indian Ocean coast, then again back to Nairobi. Two weeks, and, with any kind of luck at all, we'd see more wildlife than in all the zoos of the world put together.

Alan did add that I could bring my camera and all the film I wanted and also told me to buy a knife with thongs to go around my waist and thigh to hold the scabbard. He remarked, in a rather off hand way, that if he ever saw the blade out of its sheath he would assume I was in mortal danger and would be prepared to use his rifle.

"Otherwise, I am going to assume that you are the absolutely most useless, helpless idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know."

At that, and with an admonition to get a good sleep (I'll let you go cruising when we get back to Nairobi), Alan shook my hand again and shooed me away from the cafe table where we had been drinking coffee and brandy.

I did not cheat. My body must have had some inkling of what lay in store, for I slept long and hard, and awoke late, feeling ready to take on all of Africa.

I purchased the boots and knife as Alan had told me, packed my camera and film and a toothbrush in my flight bag, and took the rest of my luggage down to the bell captain. I put my passport, wallet, and money in the hotel safe, and with nothing more than I had been told to wear, I was waiting for Alan when he rolled up to the hotel portico in his Land Rover.

His safari outfit was certainly not fashioned at Brooks Brothers; he wore rugged khakis, heavy boots, aviator's dark glasses and a long-peaked baseball cap. He didn't speak to me until we were out of town, winding our way past pedestrians with wrapped burdens on their heads (at least the women carried them) and everyone looking old or of a child's age. The heat was fierce. There was so much to see, I was wild he wouldn't talk to me. Then, when the people had thinned out and we were well out into the countryside Alan pulled off the road.

"Get out and strip!" Alan commanded. I really had no choice. When I stood naked he came around the front of the car, stood in front of me, and slapped me hard across the mouth. And again. And again. I could taste the blood.

"That will teach you to shut up. We are here to see animals. We will be stalking animals. If I hear one squeal out of you we are turning back. You won't see any animals if you’re squawking all over the countryside. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Alan went through my flight bag, found my toothbrush, broke it in half, and threw it away.

"I'll brush your teeth. You disobeyed me. You expect to be punished, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will be. In the meantime, you'll ride nude and shut up unless spoken to or unless you see an animal. If you can't follow that simple rule I can tie your hands to a lead from the Rover and you can walk behind me while I drive at about ten miles an hour. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Again a slap, this time hard enough to knock me off my balance to the ground. I looked up at him.

"I told you to shut up. Now, pick up your clothes, throw them in the back, and get in. I'm leaving in twenty seconds."

I grabbed my clothes, chucked them into the Rover, and hopped into my seat just as Alan pulled back onto the road. The leather seat was broiling from the sun, and I nearly yowled at the pain on the back of my thighs. I sat on my hands, but Alan told me to put my hands at my side.

We drove on in silence for about a half an hour, until we came to a stream. Alan told me to put on my socks and boots and knife. He slowed the Land Rover to a crawl, and then stopped. He got out, armed with his rifle, and beckoned me to follow. We were maybe twelve yards from a rhino with her calf. She stood chewing on her cud, her upper lip hooked and moving like a giant bird's beak. Her ears flicked at the birds that fluttered around her head — I was later to learn they were Red-billed Ox-peckers (seriously) — and her calf seemed to be playing, though his bulk made him seem less than agile. She splashed away from us, and we turned back to the car.

"We'll see more later," Alan said, "when you've learned your lesson and can wear a shirt and jeans again. For now — you're too stupid for me to let you stay out in the sun too long."

I was already beginning to burn. We got back in the Rover and drove off, Alan talking about the rhinos, where the male had likely been, how dangerous they can be, in spite of their seeming ungainliness. He talked about the birds we saw, about the buzzards, about the feeding habits, the sleeping habits, the mating habits of one kind of animal after another.

It was OK for me to talk now, and I plied him with question after question. The sight of the rhinos had excited me, thrilled me, even more than I had anticipated. It was in no way like seeing them in a zoo. I felt that already my safari was worth the trip, and though I was to see more rhinos in the days that followed, nothing was quite like seeing that first one with her calf.

Before the sun went down we saw a tree with some kind of antelope — it was a puku — hanging in a crotch high up out of reach. We stopped, and Alan showed me the leopard's claw marks on the tree's trunk.

"We have a half an hour's drive to the lodge. If the puku is still here in the morning you'll see your leopard. Put your clothes on."

I got dressed in the car as we drove along. Alan told me that this was a straight lodge, as they all were, but that they knew him well. I would unpack the luggage and carry it. I would wait on him and serve him. The rule of silence still held.

The lodge was a cluster of small houses, each with its own porch. There was a common house where the kitchen and bar was, and for the most part the other guests were white Americans and Europeans. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, and though I was not collared or leashed, I felt as if I were and acted accordingly, but no one seemed to notice or care. I would serve Alan his gin and bitters and then sit beside him and drink mine, and we talked about animals. The same was true at dinner, and after as we retired to our own "house."

From the side of the Land Rover Alan had me unstrap what turned out to be a folding metal crate. He had me set it up on the porch. It was about three feet long, two wide and four high. He told me to strip and get in, which I could barely do in a crouch, backing in on my hands and knees. He dropped the gate and produced a small lock and looked the gate shut. Before he left my knees had already begun to hurt from the wire of the cage's floor. He told me to yell like hell if I were in danger, but if I yelled and he came for no reason then I'd live to regret it. I knew Alan did not joke around.

An hour and a half later Alan returned with another man. They pulled chairs up on either side of my crate, set a tray on my crate to hold their drinks, and sat conversing as if they were in a London club. I was in such agony I can’t remember what they were talking about, but it was inconsequential: the weather, the wages of bearers, the price of elephant steaks, how the hell should I know; my tongue bled from the biting I gave it to keep from crying out, from cursing Alan from here to California and back.

Alan spilled a drink which fell over my head; believe me, I was grateful for the cooling and the few drops my tongue was able to lick from my lips.

The talk turned sexy, and Alan asked his guest if he'd like to use me. The guest was a bit embarrassed, I'd guess, and he stalled. Alan unlocked the cage, grabbed my hair, and yanked me flat out onto the porch.

"Stand up!" he ordered. I stood, cramping, aching and not caring at all about being seen by a stranger while I had this raging hard on.

Alan sent me for more drinks, and when I returned with them he told me his guest wanted sperm in his drink, which I was to provide then and there. The two men watched me while I beat my meat, but they would talk about unrelated topics and laugh at me, and sexily egg me on by turn, so that it took forever. I shot my load into the guest's drink. He tossed it off, and then bid us good night, stepping off the porch with a wave and a toodle-oo.

Alan spread-eagled me to the bed, fucked me, and just before falling asleep inside me said, "You know, if you had made one false move you would have spent the night in your cage."

The next morning I saw my leopard. Alan and I parked a half mile away, and we crawled through the tall yellow grass as silently as we could. The antelope was still in the tree. We crawled another 200 yards, and there, sitting at the bottom of his tree, sat "my" leopard. His bearing was at once the essence of caution and arrogance. His head was spotted — I had thought just their bodies were — and it was just barely visible through the top of the raggedy grass. I edged closer, and the grass stalks rustled, and the leopard was gone, vanishing in plain sight, in plain daylight — the fiercest daylight I've ever seen.

Alan motioned me away, and we backed out, crouched, and after we had gone a bit we stood and walked, Alan covering our retreat with his rifle.

When we got back to the car I had to strip again, for I had made the grass rustle and frightened off my leopard, but I didn't care; I was ecstatic at the sight of my leopard.

We drove on, and as we approached Nakuru I was ordered back into my clothes, but not until after I had served a roadside lunch of sandwiches and iced coffee we had gotten from the lodge that morning.

At the lodge in Nakuru, the same routine was established as the night before, but Alan refined it, when his guest arrived, by placing a candle on the top of my cage which dripped onto my ass. The guest refused my services, but graciously, saying he rather enjoyed watching a man in a cage for a change. I thought they would talk all night; my knees were beginning to bleed, the cramps in my back and legs were fierce, and the hot wax dripping on my ass hurt like hell. Finally, the talk turned sexy again, and the man allowed how he might like to be blown after all. I was released, performed my service, and after I was laced to the bed Alan lashed the hell out of my ass and back for having scared off the leopard. At last came that glorious fucking I was learning to anticipate with so much pleasure.

From then on the days melted into one another, and I can only remember the highlights; and there were many of them. I was getting a natural high from the animals and a sexual high from Alan’s abasement. As we crossed the equator above Kisumu, I was strapped across the hood of the Land Rover on my back. The rim and rough treads of the spare tire under me dug into my flesh, and it forced my back to arch painfully toward the sun. I was kept there nearly an hour, my back burning from the heat of the motor, my front side burning from the heat of the sun. My legs were tied to the ends of the front bumper, my wrists to the sides of the windshield, and my cock stood up like some crazy phallic hood ornament.

Alan stopped when he thought we were exactly on the equator and pissed on me, standing up in the Rover. Then he drove under a tree for shade. He made his own lunch, taking his time, and finally brought me his thermos. I greedily drank the piss it held. Then Alan squatted and shit onto a paper plate, forced it into my mouth, held my nose, forcing me to swallow it, and then he climbed up on the hood of the Rover and squatted over me, shitting again, making me lick his ass clean, and finally standing over me to piss on my face again. At least it washed off the shit.

Alan released me, and that afternoon I saw my first herd of giraffes. They loped along with the Land Rover, kicking like awkward chorus boys, but making time we clocked at over 30 miles an hour. They stopped to graze, and we stopped; they were not afraid, nor were they curious, just indifferent. I was happy just to sit on a rock watching them. To say that I nearly came from being so close to such beauty and freedom epitomized would be no exaggeration.

Alan promised me I would never forget this crossing of the equator; nor will I forget our return trip.

The night before the "guests" were a pair of dykes who wanted me out of my cage, which at first seemed like a blessing; my knees were scabbed and could use the rest, but after serving drinks they asked that I be made to stand at attention beside them. They used my crotch for an ashtray, flicking hot ashes on my cock and balls. Thank God Alan drew the line at their stubbing out their butts on my cock, much as they pleaded with him. In the end he let them stub one out (each) on each of my tits. I was sweating, crying, ready to scream, when one of them planted a kiss full on my lips and I puked all over her pretty white dress. Alan did not punish me for that, but let me sleep curled up beside him. I had been prepared to sleep chained at the foot of his bed, again.

The next day I saw "my" lions. There were three lionesses drinking from a stream and about twenty five yards away a lion stood roaring. I was hypnotized. The lions could hardly have cared — even if they knew, and I think they did — that we were there. After all, it was their land. They were its royalty, and all else were but insignificant serfs. After what seemed like hours, they all moved on, looking kind of hang dog, but royalty nonetheless. Alan remarked that he hadn't been sure which way they would choose to move; had they come toward us . . . oh, well, it was worth it. They were a bit scraggly, but, by God, they were real live free lions.

I walked, or jogged, back across the equator, wearing nothing but my socks and boots, secured to the back of the Land Rover by a long rope tied securely around my balls. Alan did not drive fast, but he never slowed down either. I tripped a couple of times, but was able to grab the rope and keep myself from being castrated, though my whole body was a mass of strawberry welts and raspberry bruises. At least by then I had begun to tan fairly well all over, and the sun did not bother me; in fact, I liked it, and would often ride nude, if given the choice. When Alan stopped, gave me permission to ride again, he announced that I would probably be used by Africans that night, I knew his promise of an eventful pair of equator crossings had come true.

The Africans have few qualms about homosexuality, one way or another. It's just not very prevalent because they prefer to do the fucking and will do little else, so without any passive partners they don't much do it. Alan, of course, had a passive partner, and he gave me to them as a gift. I would say there were about thirty of them in this African lodge, and although only about eight or ten of them had me, they were the best hung of the thirty. Like elephants, every one of them. I must have been like some exotic dessert at the end of a banquet, for I was treated with great tenderness, even kindness, even respect, in spite of the fact that Alan had had me staked out, spread-eagled.

In bed, afterwards, my ass swollen, bleeding, oozing sperm, Alan let me suck him off. I was falling in love with the son of a bitch.

The following day we passed Mt. Kenya on our way back into Nairobi. There, just short of the equator, lay one of the most beautiful mountains I'd ever seen, snow-capped in the morning mist, looming ever larger and larger as we skirted it, and after lunch, behind us, it remained as the one permanent hunk of anything on the face of the earth. Like Africa itself, it was there, had been there since God knows when, and would remain forever. Mt. Kenya is the lion of the earth, majestic in its splendor.

By the time we reached Nairobi, I'd been broken in, I had a good tan, I'd seen leopards and lions and a thousand other animals, and I was now happy as I'd ever been, slave to a king.

Alan told me to have my clothes washed, but to be in them when he picked me up in two days at noon. At least I could shower, but no, I could not stay with Alan. When he let me off at the InterContinental he told me he would send Michael around.

I came out of the shower to find Michael grinning at me; I'd forgotten about locks on doors. He hugged me, and then he did a strange thing. He stood back and admired my bruises and welts, the lines from Alan's belt across my back and ass, the rope burns around my balls, the blisters on my tits.

"You are a man," he told me and lay the warmest kiss on my mouth I'd had in a long time.

Michael and I did the town. He told me where to cruise, took me to the Radio City Cinema (really) to try the upstairs john, and then we sat in an outdoor cafe all night and talked about his country and mine. It was weird, but I adored his country, its people, its animals, its freedom, its open wildernesses, lakes, river, and streams. By contrast, he adored the States, its chrome and glass luxury apartments, its beautiful people, its long, shiny cars, its cowboys, its wild west, its sexy discos. I did not disillusion him, but urged him to come see for himself. Looking off into the night, Michael promised he would, if I'd take him around on safari. I gave him my name and address and promised him I would. I hope he takes me up on it.

Adrian was not in town, a bit to my relief, for I had about had it, sexually, and needed a night off. Oh, I slept with Michael, but it was the warm, soft, slurpy kind of night, not the hard, brittle, agonizing kind. That, I was saving for Alan. Michael knew, apparently, what I'd gone through without my having to tell him, and not once did he make a false move. He didn't go anywhere near my ass.

I woke up looking for Alan, and when I realized where I was and with whom, I woke Michael, and we just lay there, smiling at each other.

Together, we breakfasted, and Michael took me shopping; I bought some fantastic materials, found a tailor who could make shirts for me in under a week, and then, after a large lunch, with gallons of gin and wine under my belt, Michael returned me to my room. I slept for a couple of hours, and Michael gently woke me up. He looked sad, and refused to answer when I asked him why. I'll see you next week, I told him. I did not cheer him up. O.K., I told him to put on a happy face, and I guess he did, because I can only remember a happy evening full of laughs. He took me to my room, half loaded, and we kissed just inside the door, with the lights still off. When at last he turned to leave I saw the tears streaming silver down those beautiful black cheeks.

Ready again to leave at noon the next day, I invited my sure punishment. Although I did not greet Alan when he picked me up in the Land Rover, but got in obediently without a word, before we had gone two blocks I blurted out my concern for Michael.

There was no reply from Alan, except an increase on the accelerator pedal as though he wanted to get somewhere faster to do something quicker. I was sweating with fear. Alan couldn't help but see it. I took off my shirt and wiped my armpits with it.

When we stopped for lunch I expected to be beaten. I was not surprised, then, when I bent over to pick something up to have Alan's boot find its target, right in my sore ass. I flew flat on my face, and every time I started to get up I got kicked. Alan kept telling me, ordering me, to get up, but then came the boot. Then he told me to get my pants off, but I couldn't do it fast enough to please him, and the kicks landed all over my body, again and again. I was dirty, badly bruised and bleeding when he finally planted the sole of one dusty boot on my face.

"I could make your face level with the dirt," Alan said. I could only see him with one eye, but I could tell he meant it were I to make one false move. He told me to take off one of my boots and socks and to hold the sock up. When I had done that — and, remember, the sock was filthy from a week's wear — Alan took out his cock and pissed on it, soaking it good, and then told me to stuff it, all of it, in my mouth. I did, and when it was all in it was all I could do to breathe.

"One more time, one more act of disobedience, and the boot goes up your ass, you lousy, scruffy shit-eating bastard — understand?"

I nodded, and Alan let me up, shoved me into the Land Rover, and threw my jeans and boots and my other sock in after me. I thought I had been reprieved, forgiven, but Alan, in his fury, told me I hadn't even tasted what was in store for me.

Alan, after we had sped further down the highway, suddenly slowed to a crawl, and finally stopped. He told me to take the gag out of my mouth and get my camera. I did; it was already loaded, and he told me to set the range for fifty feet. I set the rangefinder as I'd been told, and then, stark nude, I was ordered out of the car and told to walk down the road. I started walking, the Rover trailing close behind. And then I saw him.

Standing by the side of the road, not a quarter of a mile ahead stood the biggest goddamn elephant I've ever seen in my life. It was easily identified as a bull, for his tusks were huge and prominent, swooping out and around his trunk, coming so close together at their tips it was a wonder his trunk could pass between them. He had enormous ears, which he flapped the way cows flick their tails at flies. He wasn't doing anything, just standing there, pawing at the ground occasionally with a gigantic hoof.

I felt the bumper of the Land Rover hit me behind my knees. "Move," Alan whispered, and again the Rover nudged me. I turned around to plead with Alan. "Turn around once more and I'll run over you." I turned back toward the elephant and started walking. Now, I don't know if you've ever walked, totally naked, except for a camera, down the middle of a road in Africa, straight into the range of a bull elephant, but there I was, doing just that, and I began pissing and shitting myself as I walked — my bladder and ass just voided like that.

Fifty feet from the elephant, Alan told me, his voice a nice calm whisper, to shoot as many pictures as I wanted, but to go no closer. I took the whole fucking roll, one after another, as fast as I could, then, without permission, scrambled into the Rover. Alan honked the horn loud and long, and taking his own sweet time, "my" elephant turned and ambled away from the road. Alan gunned the engine, and we raced past the spot where a moment before he'd stood. After scaring the shit and piss out of me, all the old bull did was wave his silly little tail at us as we passed him by.

It was the first time I'd seen Alan laugh as hard as that; in fact, he had to pull up and stop he was laughing so hard. My trembling — hell, I was shaking from head to toe — finally calmed down as did his spasms of laughter, and we were soon on our way. It was, of course, OK for me to talk about animals, and I asked him if we'd been in as much danger as I'd thought. You'd better believe it, he told me.

"If the authorities ever catch me working you over they'd just laugh, but if they caught me shoving you down the road to play with a bull elephant, they'd have had my license in about two minutes."

I thought about that for a second, and then Alan told me to wipe the shit off my thighs with my shirt and then put the shirt back on.

We drive on into the most beautiful scenery on earth, endless plains stretching from here to gone, with here and there a herd of antelope, a few giraffe and occasionally a herd of huge water buffalo. A tiny dust storm on the horizon was identified as a moving herd of elephant. The sky was as clear as I'd ever seen, with just a cotton ball of fluffy cloud here and there. The sun was hot, but not brutal, and the air so pure you'd believe you were breathing the purest oxygen. Again, my natural high was climbing.

"Keep looking off there to the right," Alan said, and my eyes strained to see whatever it was I should see, and in about five minutes I began to see it — Mount Kilimanjaro!

I had read about it, imagined it, made it magnificent in my dreams, but it was more magnificent than I could ever have dreamed or imagined, much more exciting than the written descriptions I'd read in Hemingway. Nothing was said, even though I could have spoken if I'd wished. As we approached the great mountain with its towering peak of snow I could only now and then glance at Alan's face. He, too, was enraptured, only glancing at the road now and then, seemingly staring, bewitched, at the mountain. It was like some mighty Valhalla, a magnetic lode drawing to its bosom those of us fortunate enough to have laid eyes on it. At best I am not very articulate. Now, all I could say was, "Wow." Low, softly, smoothly, as the sight of the mountain overwhelmed me.

That night we pitched camp for the first time. Alan wanted no part of a lodge. He wanted me awake and alert as the first rays of dawn struck the top of the mountain. I built a fire as Alan instructed me, cooked and served first his food, then mine; and then Alan strung me up, my arms tied to a limb of a tree.

"When you wake up in the morning," he said, "you will know how good it is to be alive." And with that he started laying on his belt. First he worked my ass, then my back, then the back of my legs. I could not help but scream, and Alan came around in front of me and told me to shut up and started on my front side. My chest was crisscrossed with long swelling welts, and then he wrapped the belt in swift blows around my legs. Finally, as if he had been just building up to it, he let his belt slap across my belly and gradually, harder and fiercer with every stroke, he lowered his aim to my genitals. I had a wild hard on which pulled my balls up and forward, and as I shrieked with pain at every stroke of the belt, Alan only swung with greater effort.

Just before I passed out I noticed how heavily he was sweating and I remember seeing his erection swaying from side to side as he laid on his lash. And then he stopped. He grabbed my balls, twisted them viciously and shot his load of sperm all over my cock and balls. It was then I passed out.

Before dawn I was kicked awake. I could barely move. I have no idea how long Alan left me hanging, but my shoulders felt dislocated. The sheet I was lying on was sticky with blood. I, and the blanket that covered me, stank of piss. Somehow I managed to stagger to my feet, and Alan shoved me under the tree limb where I'd been strung up. I thought to myself that the beating would start all over again, and I felt myself, in spite of the real pain and aching agony, getting hard again.

But Alan had another surprise for me. I was just standing there, and suddenly, although very briefly, I was drenched in cold clear water. Alan had rigged a portable shower on the limb and its cool cascade brought me back to life with a jolt.

"You may talk," Alan said, "but first, let's have some coffee." I took the coffee pot from the coals and poured two steaming cups. In spite of the freedom to talk, I didn't; I just sat at Alan's feet adoring him. When we had finished the coffee he told me to piss and shit. My cock and balls were swollen, and it hurt to piss, and hunkering down to shit was no joy, either.

 Now," Alan told me, "go over and lean against the tree and look off there to the South." Alan covered the coals of the fire with dirt, and the night suddenly became much blacker. I stared off to the South as I'd been told for about a half an hour. And then I saw it.

First, just a point of light, and fractions of a second later, a blaze like an arc light: the sun had caught the snow on Kilimanjaro's peak before dawn. A minute later dawn began, and with it came not only a new day, but a new life. As Alan had promised, I knew then how glad I was to be alive. I watched "my" mountain grow in the light to its incredible proportions, lighting up in the dawn as if it were emerging from the sea, like the dawn of creation you keep hearing about. When the display was about over I turned to Alan. He saw the tears of gratitude in my eyes, took me in his arms, and kissed me full on the mouth.

Alan rubbed salve all over me, gave me a clean sheet, and told me to go back to sleep. I thought I'd never be able to go to sleep, but I did, the second my head hit the ground.

Alan kicked me awake again around noon, and our roles were resumed. I was told what a useless shit I was, told to pack up the gear, given a beef jerky, and told to sit in the car and shut up.

Again, the plains as we skirted the base of the mountain. Again, the occasional herds of animals, always the mountain, and as we drew away from it I kept looking back to see it, to watch it fade in the afternoon sun.

In Mombasa in time for drinks we stopped at the Nyali Beach hotel. I bathed Alan in a luxurious shower, soaping him, scrubbing him, rinsing him with a soft cloth, and then drying him. He made me strip, and he examined my wounds. None was swollen with infection, though they were all a bit raised. He checked my cock and balls, and except for some blood blisters, they were OK. There, too, the swelling had gone down.

We dressed for dinner and drove into town on Kilindini Road to La Frontanella, a cool, completely relaxed courtyard restaurant where we had more drinks and a superb meal. Alan asked me what I'd like in the way of sex, joking, and jokingly I replied that I'd like a large African cock down my throat and another up my ass at the same time.

"In your condition," he laughed, "that's exactly what I'd like to see." He paid the bill, paid the headwaiter to have someone guard the Land Rover and hailed a cab. We drove into the old section of town, the old Arab quarter, a maze of huts, where only a fool would walk on foot. It was dark, scary and mysterious. The cab dropped us at Khamisi's, whatever that was, and we entered a dimly lighted house that proved to be an old world bordello. The light came from oil lanterns, and the rooms were peopled with veiled women and a few young boys. Alan spoke to Khamisi himself, a flaming queen, and then we went out for a gin, presumably while Khamisi lined up my studs. At the bar nearby Alan gave me two condoms, and told me to use them or else he'd never touch me again.

We re-entered Khamisi's, and the flaming one led us upstairs to a room empty but for a bed and a couple of chairs. And then they came in, two of the largest blacks I have ever seen, and two of the blackest. They wore only nylon stretch bikinis, both white and bulging. Alan lounged back in a chair to watch, and with some misgiving, I began to shuck off my clothes. When I stood nude I could see the two boys watching me, eyeing my cock and buttocks, and their own endowments began to swell to enormous proportions.

Following Alan's advice, I peeled off their bikinis, sized them up, and rolled the rubbers onto their cocks. I went down on the largest to get it well coated with saliva, sat the other on the bed and went down on him. The first one mounted me from the rear. I would have screamed if I hadn't choked. They were the two largest cocks I'd ever had, and I was taking them both at once. I sucked like mad to take my mind off the pain in my ass, and the pain soon eased as my sphincter muscles stretched to accommodate the plunging piston. The pressure on my prostate was incredible, constantly sliding, rubbing against it, and thought I was in no way used to the taste of a rubber in my mouth, the first boy's cock swelled to the point where I could feel every vein with my tongue, and the ridge of his cock's head was almost too large to pass outside of my teeth. They pumped, and I sucked and twisted, and suddenly they both plunged.

I couldn't taste the sperm, of course, and I couldn't feel the rush of sperm up my ass, but when they both pulled out their condoms hung loose at the tips, each with at least two tablespoons of sperm. I lay back, exhausted, and the boys stripped off their rubbers and poured the sperm out onto my chest. They rubbed it around, getting me even harder, and were about to start giving me a fabulously lubricated hand job when Alan threw me a towel. The boys pulled on their white bikinis, smiled politely as if we'd just had tea, and left with a cheery 'Good night!'

I dried the sperm off of my chest and made to get dressed, but Alan told me to lie back down. He went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with half a tumbler of whiskey.

"Germs," he said, splashing the whiskey onto my chest and stomach. He gave me a clean towel, and in spite of the stings on my cuts, and now on my cock and balls, I wiped myself dry. I dressed, we cabbed back to La Frontanella, and drove back to the Nyali Beach hotel, where again Alan made me shower. Once again Alan let me sleep curled up beside him.

The next morning we got an early start, driving up the coast to Takaunga and Malindi. We stopped and swam in the ocean whenever Alan felt like it. It was fun, splashing around, refreshing as any good workout, and for me it was always tinged with excitement, for Alan played with me. He did not play with me as a pal or buddy; he played with me as if I were a toy, a rubber ball to be punched, thrown, and held under for his own amusement. These sessions — there must have been five or six of them in two days — got progressively rougher, and I got progressively harder. By the afternoon of the second day of driving and swimming my balls ached with the need to come, and I begged Alan to let me jack off.

That made him furious: the least little complaint or whine from me intensified his desire to see me suffer and learn to accept the vicissitudes of life with stoic calm and indifference. He took me out into the ocean waist deep and ducked me, not at all playfully now. He was much stronger than I so my struggles were pitiable. He held me by my hair at arm's length and simply held my head under water as long as he liked, over and over and over again. I must have swallowed half the goddam Indian Ocean.

I was very near drowned when, after an hour or more of this, Alan dragged me back up onto the beach. My gut was swollen with all the water I'd swallowed, and it protruded as if I were pregnant when Alan forced me to stand at attention. Then he slammed his fist into my belly. I fell to the sand vomiting water and bile, retching my guts on the beach.

There were fewer animals along the coast, and Alan turned us back inland for the drive back to Nairobi over the lower plains. They reappeared with greater frequency as we drove inland, and one day I saw my greatest prize, a whole pride of lions, at least a dozen of them wandering along about a mile away. We parked the Rover, and Alan told me to put on my boots and knife.

As we moved at a fast crouch toward the pride, I strangely felt no fear. I was trembling a bit, but it was from excitement. We continued to move, and the lions continued to feed. The females were feeding; the satiated males — two of them — were just standing, yawning, loitering. They did not even seem to be on guard. 'On guard?' I asked myself, 'on guard against what?'

About 500 yards from the pride Alan motioned me to freeze. We squatted in the dry grass and just watched — it was unbelievable. The lions seemed totally indifferent to us, but we were on their turf, and if they had spotted us and were feeling like it they could easily have had us for dinner. Their grace, their regal attitude, their beauty and freedom impressed me as no other sight in my life; I was purely and simply awestruck.

Alan placed his lips to my ear.

"The wind is shifting around," he whispered. "We'd better go." It was all I could do to tear myself away, and back at the car I pulled myself aboard, not with relief but with regret. Alan sensed the change in me.

"You're learning," he said, with a tight smile. "With only two more nights to go, I may be able to make something out of you after all."

The first of these nights Alan mummified me with Ace bandages from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, leaving only my genitals exposed. The bandages were tight, and I could not move a muscle. I'd been in bondage before, but never quite this totally, and with every single muscle immobilized, I strangely felt the greatest freedom I'd ever known. I realize that sounds paradoxical and I'm not sure I can explain it, but it had something to do with being but completely in Alan's hands. I was able to breathe, I was in no pain, but I couldn't even twinge a muscle, not even flicker an eyelid. I think the exposure of my cock and balls had something to do with it, for I was very aware of how vulnerable they were. Occasionally Alan would give them a slap, occasionally he would gently stroke them, and just before leaving me he bound them with thongs. When he left he told me he was leaving, and I instantly thought of being some lion's breakfast. But there was absolutely nothing I could do. I was gagged — again with one of my filthy, pissed on socks — and could not cry out. I could not move.

But again, strangely, I was not afraid. I was incredibly happy, and to repeat myself, I felt, paradoxically, the greatest freedom I'd ever known. I heard Alan moving away from my bound body, and his sounds faded completely. I was alone now, ecstatic with joy. I could feel my cock throbbing against its narrow leather bonds. The feelings grew inside of me, from deep inside of my groin, and without willing it, unable to control it, my cock and balls approached orgasm. It took maybe an hour; the only movement was my blood coursing through my veins and arteries, but it was just enough movement to bring me to climax, and I remember vividly the unparalleled sensation of my sperm ejaculating high into the African night accompanied by a soft moan of sheerest happiness. I could not even shudder, and for, being contained, my spasms lasted longer, perhaps a half-hour, than any previously or since. For hours I lay awake, enjoying the immense high.

Alan returned and released the Ace bandages, but he made me continue to wear the leather thongs wrapped tightly around my genitals. He could see that I had shot; there were cum stains all over the bandages, but he never mentioned it, just smiled knowingly. I suspect he understood what had happened to me all too well.

That day, as we approached Nairobi for the last time, with Mr. Kilimanjaro just a faint shadow in the distance on our left, I began to feel the pain of leaving Africa, of leaving "my" animals, of leaving Alan. As a treat for me, I thought, we saw more animals that day than any other, and my camera ate its film up voraciously. My heart continued to pound with ex-citement, my shouts of glee scared thousands of antelope, and I am sure Alan thought me completely mad: I was like a small boy in a candy store, absolutely ape with joy.

I have no idea of how much sleep I'd had the night before, but my enthusiasm never flagged. At the last lodge we ate our best dinner ever, and I was wide awake with excitement as I set up my cage for the last time. Sleep was the last thing I was thinking of. Alan sat alone on the porch this time, thank God, and he talked well into the night, explaining, as best he could, what Africa meant to him. Here was this great man sharing the wealth of his knowledge and insights with a nude boy crammed into a wire crate! Later, much later, Alan took me from the cage and trussed me on my back with my wrists lashed to my ankles.

For a long time his fingers moulded the cheeks of my ass and would briefly stray to my cock and balls. I begged him for it with my eyes, but he kept teasing me, stroking now with just the tips of his fingers. Then he greased up his hand and very slowly he started to penetrate, first with just one finger, and finally with all five. His hand was massive, and I doubted that his knuckles would ever clear, but he kept up a steady, even pressure, twisting his hand clockwise and counter-clockwise, and before long they were in. My ass sucked at his hand now, drawing it into me to the wrist and beyond. Alan stopped for a while, greased his forearm, and then began to move inward again. I could feel him inside me, of course, but more than that I could feel every flicker of movement, and I had a wild feeling of possessing Alan. As his arm gradually entered me, Alan took my cock in his mouth and lovingly began to suck me off. He sucked beautifully, with great expertise, bringing me to the edge of climax, holding it, and all the while coordinating the movements of his fist and arm with those of his tongue and cheeks. Anything like this would have had me off in two minutes, but Alan managed to hold it off for at least an hour, and when I finally came with a screaming ache of pleasure, Alan never stopped, but just held me with his warm sperm-filled mouth and his arm supporting my arching back. He swallowed my sperm and then began again. I came four times that night, and not once did Alan take his mouth from my cock nor his arm from my ass, and except for torturing my balls with his free hand he gave no evidence of any sadistic streak. I was his and he was mine, and I was deliriously happy.

When I finally went completely soft, with no sign of ever returning to tumescence, Alan released my cock and slowly, gently withdrew his arm. He untied my wrists and ankles, which had bled, but which I had not noticed, and then he ordered me to my knees on the floor before him. He told me to look him in the eyes and open my mouth, and he just stood there with his hands on his hips, not moving a muscle. Suddenly I could see his balls tighten up, the canal along the bottom of his cock flood, and he shot — shot what seemed like a pint of hot sperm — all over my face, my hair, my chest, and into my mouth. I had not touched him, nor had he touched himself. He had come from just looking into my eyes, looking long and hard into the eyes of the man he had created, an extension of his own great mind, the product of less than two short weeks of shared experience, danger, heat, and love.

We drove into Nairobi the next day, and I looked forward with dread to the ending. Michael was not there. There was a note from him which explained that he had had to go back up-country for his father's funeral; he had not wanted to spoil my visit to his country by imposing his grief on me.

I cleaned up at my hotel and attended to all that had to be done, and picked up my shirts from the tailor shop. Alan had promised me one last dinner, and I dressed for it in clean new clothes. I was determined to be as brave as I had been with the lions; not to have been would be to betray all Alan had taught me, but I knew it was not going to be easy.

Alan came to my hotel room to settle up. He handed me a bill for services rendered which was precisely the amount I'd been told a guide would require.

"I'm embarrassed," I said, signing travelers cheques, "I don't know about tipping."

"Well," Alan replied, "I'll let you take me to dinner, and one more thing . . ."

"Sure, anything."

"Your filthy rotten stinking clothes. Will you give them to me?"

I made a small bundle of the filthy rotten stinking clothes, the pissed socks, the shitty shirt, the stained jeans, the knife I had worn so close to my balls, the new boots that now looked ready for a graveyard. I wrapped them in some of the bright material I'd bought and tightly tied it with the leather thongs from my knife.

"Not now," Alan said. "After dinner."

In spite of my fears, we had a fantastic dinner, talking about the sights, the animals we'd seen, the fun we'd had, the laughs we had, and then, with utter finality, it was time to go.

"I'm leaving in the morning," Alan told me. "I won't be able to see you off." I knew he was lying.

Back in my hotel room Alan held me for a long time. The lights were out in the room, and only a little light filtered up from the street. I desperately hoped he couldn't see my tears.

"Goodbye," Alan whispered — he paused for a beat and added, "my friend."

I bit my lip clean through.

"Goodbye, Alan," I said, swallowing hard. "I love you."

"And I love you," Alan answered softly, adding much more gruffly, "Now, give me those filthy rotten stinking clothes."

I handed him the bundle, but before taking it he slipped a thin chain over my head, and I felt an amulet thump against my chest.

And then Alan was gone.

The amulet was a silver lion's head.

As I checked in at the airport, leaving Nairobi, leaving Kenya, my heart welled up in my throat and the girl at the ticket counter handed me a note.

"WELCOME ABOARD, SIR! YOUR FLIGHT ATTENDANT WILL BE YOUR OBEDIENT SLAVE, ADRIAN."