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The sun was nearly set over the plains of Kenya as I sat down with my evening scotch. The chaise was comfortable, and I closed my eyes to listen carefully to the sounds of the veldt in the purple dusk of early evening. The cough of a lion in the distance, the soft scurry of some small animal as it went about its nightly food gathering, and the chirping of insects all blended into the natural choir that sang to the veldt in the evening. The safari was over, the clients safely on a plane back to home, and the myriad of sounds soothed my mind almost as much as the scotch.
It had always been that way, I thought, even when I was just a boy following his parents into Africa on behalf of the Queen. My father had taken the position of wildlife manager over several thousand acres of Kenyan plain and bush when I was five, and, except for occasional trips to visit family, Africa has been my home since. I did go back to England for school, and upon graduation, I returned to take the post held by my father for so many years. I lasted in the job for a while, but I soon learned I was just not fitted to the role of bureaucrat. Being young, and without many responsibilities, I went into business for myself as a safari guide.
By this time in Kenya’s history, leading hunters through the countryside in search of the perfect horns, the largest tusks, and all the other coveted attributes of the native wildlife was a thing of the past. The Kenyan government had realized that the wildlife was worth much more alive, running through the grasslands than dead, stuffed, and hanging in someone’s trophy room, and had completely banned hunting. I was relieved, really, because the hunting had reduced the population of certain species, and I loved watching animals more than hunting them. My new-found occupation was the conducting of photographic safaris.
I took another sip of the excellent single malt. I had purchased two cases on my last trip to the Isles, and congratulated myself on my selection. The smoky taste brought back memories of my hunts and the hunters, and as I again closed my eyes, my favorite hunt came to mind.
I had received a letter in January from one Colonel Reginald Lewiston Fitzgerald, British Army (retired), inquiring about services and pricing for a three-week photographic safari in April. He would be pleased to be accompanied by his wife. He further asked if the trek would be made on foot, or if vehicles would be provided. Evidently, Reginald spent most of his time reading about the safaris of the early nineteen hundreds. I replied with my prices and details of my services, including the fact that he would not have to walk, but would instead be driven about the plains in the comfort of all-wheel drive vehicles. In a few weeks, I received a check to reserve the date, and on April second, I drove to the Nairobi airport to pick up my clients.
Colonel Fitzgerald was not exactly what I had expected of a retired British Army officer. He walked rather hunched over, not ramrod-straight as do most military people I have met, and his clothing was somewhat rumpled. When he said a gruff “Hello,” I caught the unmistakable odor of gin. I attributed the rumpled appearance and the gin to the length of the flight, and to a probable fear of flying. The protruding belly, I decided, would be the result of too much good cooking and a lack of exercise.
Conforming even less to my expectations was Vera Fitzgerald. I had envisioned a greying woman plump with the weight of bearing heirs for the Colonel, and probably stiffly prim and proper from years of being “the Colonel’s Missus.” She would be dressed in an equally prim and proper summer suit. I was, instead, greeted by a flashing smile and a firm, but soft handshake from a young, red-haired woman wearing a khaki bush outfit. Vera couldn’t have been over twenty-five, and although the bush pants and loose shirt tried to hide it, her figure filled them quite nicely. The pants molded themselves to a tight, feminine bottom and long, slender legs, and her full breasts caused the shirt to gap invitingly. Her hair was done up in back, to get it off her neck, but small wisps had become displaced and lay seductively on her forehead and cheek. She spoke with the soft accent of upper-class British society, and her face with it’s deep, dark eyes and full, sensuous lips was mesmerizing. She moved with a sinuous grace that spoke of the refined fitness of a woman in her prime. Vera was as out of place with the Colonel as I would be in a Victorian drawing room. It was not my place to question the radical differences in the two, but I did wonder a bit.
After greetings had been exchanged, I drove the Rover to the baggage claim, followed by the truck that would serve to carry all the Fitzgerald’s safari gear. In an hour, we were on the way, and by late afternoon, we drove into the first camp. My crew of trackers, cooks, and miscellaneous help had set up the tents, portable shower complete with hot water, and table and bedava bahis chairs. The always wonderful odors were coming from the cook tent. A comforting fire was burning, and after the Fitzgerald’s had selected the luggage they would need and it was carried to their tent, we settled down to dinner. In my father’s day, this would have been a fresh killed antelope roast with canned vegetables and fresh fruits from the bush, but clients today have more refined taste. Tonight, we dined on aged steak grilled over hot coals, baked potatoes with cheese, fresh peas from the Nairobi markets, and for dessert, strawberries and cream.
I discovered it was a joy to watch Vera eat strawberries. After dipping them into the cream and then in sugar, she wrapped her full lips around each one, drawing off the sweet topping before popping the berry into her mouth. She seemed to savor every inch of the berry. I’m sure she didn’t mean it to be erotic, but those lips sucking over the berry brought thoughts to mind that were better left alone.
With dinner over, we sat by the light of the gasoline lanterns and I started to layout the itinerary of the three weeks. I had barely gotten started when the Colonel excused himself, and returned from the tent with a quart bottle of gin.
“Would you have a glass and some ice?,” he asked. I motioned to one of the cook’s helpers, who soon returned with a short tumbler of ice.
“I’m afraid this will be the last of the ice until we return,” I said. “It just isn’t practical to keep ice in the bush.”
“No problem, son,” said the colonel. “I had expected as much, and it won’t bother me a bit.” With that said, he poured the tumbler full and drank about a half inch of the clear liquid.
I returned to my discussion of our trip, the animals we would likely see, and what they could expect in the way of accommodations and the few hardships made necessary by the country. As I talked, both Vera and the Colonel nodded, although the Colonel spent more time emptying his glass than listening. He had emptied it and poured a refill as I spoke of the camp facilities they could expect. I was especially careful to instruct Vera to never go out of the camp unless accompanied by myself or one of the trackers. I explained that we would construct toilet facilities as we traveled that were sufficiently secluded for her privacy, but that there must always be someone with her. African wildlife is still wild, and the occasional leopard or hyena sometimes can present a threat.
When I had finished, I noticed that the colonel’s glass was again empty, and that he was passed out cold in his chair.
“Reginald has had a long trip, and he is really exhausted,” apologized Vera. “Would you help me get him to the tent?”
The cook woke me the next morning at sunrise, and by the time the Colonel and Vera made their way to the table, I had finished a cup of excellent coffee and a cigarette. The Colonel didn’t say much as he ate his pancakes, but Vera was full of questions about what we would see that day. She seemed excited by the prospect of seeing animals in the wild. The Colonel seemed rather uninterested in everything. After finishing breakfast, he spent the time filling two hip flasks with more gin. Vera left to take care of some female thing or other, and upon her return, we started over the plains in the Rover. At that time of day, the lions would be bedding down under the acacias to sleep off the night’s feed and I soon found a pride. Vera, it turned out, was the photographer. She took both movie footage and stills with what appeared to me to be consummate skill. The colonel contented himself with looking out the window, and, when he thought I wasn’t looking, took large swigs from his hip flask. In an hour, he was giggling at the antics of the cubs, and shortly after, was asleep.
We drove over a small rise, and the panorama of the plain exploded in Vera’s eyes. I always plan several of these “surprise” views, because it really impresses the client, but Vera was astounded. She stood open mouthed for a few minutes, and then seemed to be trying to take both movies and stills at the same time. I laughed, and she looked at me, frowning.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald, forgive my laughing, but you’ll see a lot of this in three weeks. You don’t have to use all your film at once. You might try looking for unusual animals, or other unique sights and photograph them instead of trying to get it all today.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I guess I’m acting like a rank amateur. It’s just so magnificent. I’ve never seen anything this wonderful in my life.”
And so it went for the first week, Vera wondering at the sights in between taking pictures, and the Colonel slugging away at his flask or asleep. After that, the Colonel stayed in camp, complaining of an upset stomach. Privately, I thought that more exercise and less gin would have helped him greatly, but his stomach condition must not have been all that bad. The cooks told bedava bonus me that he spent all day drinking and sleeping, only waking up in time for our return from the day’s foray. The Colonel, it appeared, was a lush.
One afternoon, I had taken Vera to photograph a zebra herd. Vera was in awe of the number of animals and at the small foals that frolicked together, and then ran to the mares for a quick nurse before returning to play. As she snapped pictures through a zoom lens, she asked why one zebra was running back and forth among the others. I explained that shortly after a mare has foaled, she goes into heat again. The zebra running around was the herd stallion, and he was searching for mares that were ready to breed.
Vera switched to a movie camera, and almost as if taking my queue, the stallion stopped by a mare. He nuzzled the mare’s flanks, testing her. When she didn’t kick or run away, he nuzzled her tail. The mare promptly urinated. The stallion sniffed the puddle, and then, raising his head, curled his top lip up over his nose. I explained to Vera that he was testing the mare’s scent for signs that she was ready. As I talked, the stallion walked around the mare, and began to get an erection. Vera’s mouth opened in time to the growth of the large organ, but she kept filming. The stallion began rubbing the mare’s flanks in earnest, and even at our distance, we could hear the his high-pitched squeals. The mare pulled her tail to one side and spread her legs wide, preparing to take his weight. The stallion mounted the mare, his now straight organ dribbling liquid as he searched for the entrance. As he bit the mare on the withers, he found the opening and thrust in. Over and over he thrust, driving himself deep inside the mare. She responded by squatting deeper to take his thrusts. The stallion began to piston in and out in quick, short, jerks, then shuddered, and stopped moving. After a few moments, he slid off the mare to stand panting behind her. The engorged organ dripped semen as he waited to recover. The mare casually went back to grazing.
I looked at Vera. She was still filming, but her face was flushed, and her free hand was resting on her inner thigh, moving slightly. Her breath came in short pants. As she finally pulled her eyes from the camera, I saw that her pupils were dilated, in spite of the bright afternoon sun. It took a few moments for her to compose herself.
“Is it always like that?,” she asked softly.
“He was so gentle, almost loving. She was…almost a slut in the way she squatted down for him. And the size of his…are they all that large?”
“Most animals behave much the same way. For the stallion to pass on his genes, he has to mate with as many mares as possible, and they have to accept him. The mare, on the other hand, can only pass on her genes if she carries a foal, so she does everything she can to make the breeding successful. There is no rape in the animal world. And yes, all stallions are that large.”
“How many mares will he breed?”
“All of them in that herd, at least all of them that he can. He will lose some to stray stallions that manage to drive off a few to start their own herd.”
“He must be very virile, to do it so often.”
“That’s why he’s the herd stallion. He is stronger than the rest of the stallions, and can do all that breeding while fighting off the others.”
On the way back to camp, we had to cross a small river. The Rover can handle water up to the top of the tires, so there should have been no problem, but I lost traction and became stuck about about ten feet from the opposite shore. There was a tree close by, so I decided to winch us out. I showed Vera which switch to work to release the cable, and, cautioning her to stay in Rover, I waded out to hook up. After I finished hooking the cable to itself around the tree, I turned to see Vera wading in the river. I waded back, and asked her why she was in the river. Her reply was that she was hot, and had sought to cool off. I asked her to get back into the Rover, and then used the winch to get us across. After I secured the winch, I asked Vera to go around the Rover and take off her bush pants. She looked at me in disbelief, but I said “I won’t look. Just do it.”
She walked to the back. I didn’t have to wait long for the scream I knew was coming.
“Get them off of me, get them off of me!”
“I can do that, but it might be better if I tell you how and stay here.”
“Just come around here and get them off.”
Vera was covered with the small, black leeches that live in the rivers. I had taken the precaution of tucking my pants into my boots before wading out, but she hadn’t known to do that. I lit a cigarette and began touching the glowing tip to each leech. As the heat hit each black blob, it would curl and drop, writhing, to the ground. I finished each long, tanned leg, and then lifted her shirt tail. There were more on her tight hips deneme bonusu and high up on her soft, inner thighs. As I finished removing these, I said to Vera, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to take off shirt also.”
As she removed her shirt, I saw a few more on her back and belly, and a couple suspicious bulges in her bra. “The bra also. I see a couple inside there.”
The bra fell to the ground and I paused at the full, firm breasts that stood proudly from her chest. I removed one leech from her right nipple and two from under her left breast. I noticed that Vera was no longer squirming around, but was instead breathing deeper, and not saying anything. Her nipples were erect, and she stood with her eyes closed. Her eyes opened when I said “Vera?”
“Yes?” The voice was deeper and slightly raspy.
“You have some in your panties too.”
Without a word, she stripped off the bikini panties, revealing a shaven mound and lips. She looked me in the eyes, and then said, “The Colonel used to like it like that, so I keep doing it.”
“This sounds terribly forward, but you need to sit down and spread your legs.”
Vera sat down on her shirt and spread her legs wide. There were three leeches on her smooth mound, and one each on each full outer lip. I almost missed the one nestled between the lips, but Vera didn’t seem to mind as I carefully separated them and applied the cigarette to the black blob. As I worked, I noticed that she was leaning back on her elbows, and breathing deeply again.
“OK, they’re all gone now. The little red marks will go away quickly, after you rub on some of this antiseptic cream. Then you can get dressed.”
“I can’t. You put it on.”
I took a deep breath, and began massaging the cream over her body. Vera stayed leaning back, her eyes closed and her breathing becoming deeper. When I came to her breasts, I thought I detected the faintest, little hum escaping from her lips, especially when I worked the cream into the nipple. There wasn’t a good way to put it on other than to put it on my fingers and then lift the nipple and let it slide free. In the process, I noticed that both nipples had become swollen and the dark circles around them had puckered into wrinkled, bumpy mounds that raised the nipples even higher. When I applied the cream to her soft, shaven lips, she gave an involuntary jerk before resuming her quiet acceptance of the situation. When I finished, Vera’s face was flushed, and I was finding the bush pants to be very uncomfortable. I had tried to remain clinical in my treatment, but Vera’s body and apparent response made it difficult.
“There, you’re all done. The marks are going away already.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t do as you ask. I won’t make that mistake in the future.”
We ate dinner in silence, and put the Colonel to bed on schedule. As we were leaving the tent, Vera said, “Isn’t there something to do at night? I’m not ready for bed yet.”
There was a village nearby, and I had contracted with the residents to stage a dance for my clients. Most clients like seeing the native dances, and I usually included one in every trip.
“Well, I was going to take you to see some native dancing tonight, but under the circumstances-“
“Oh, I’m over that now, and I need to do something. Can we still go?”
I sent one of the trackers ahead to arrange everything, and we detoured to a local water hole for some dusk photos of antelope and giraffe. When the full moon was bright, I drove to the village. As we entered the circle of huts, a fire was burning, and the population from child to senior was dancing in the firelight. We took seats beside the village chief and I made introductions. Vera was surprised that the chief spoke English.
“From my school days in Nairobi,” commented the chief with a smile.
He went on to explain that tonight’s dance was a traditional meeting dance for young men and women. The women dance for the men, moving around the circle until they find the man of their choice, and then dance for him. After a time, the woman beckons to the man, and they dance together, working their way further and further from the fire until they disappear into the darkness.
“What do they do then?,” asked Vera.
“They do what men and women have done since the beginning of time.,” smiled the chief. “They seek a secluded place and enjoy each other.”
Vera sat fascinated by the dancing. The native girls are very supple, and dance in only short, leather aprons. During the dance, they sway seductively, causing their breasts to bob and shake, and when they select their man of choice, they flip up the apron, exposing themselves, telling him he has been chosen. The men rise and begin to dance, and it is not unusual for bulges to develop under the sarong-like clothing they wear. About halfway into the dance, Vera’s hand strayed to her breast and began gently rubbing. Her other hand found it’s way to her thigh, also gently caressing. As the last dancers left the firelight, we said good-bye to the chief, got back in the Rover and started for camp.
When we reached the open plain, Vera said, “I need you to stop. I have to…well I need you to stop.”
“We don’t have that much further to go.”
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