African Adventure

The path led down a small hill into a shallow ravine where a deep stream flowed. Women in colorful cotton dresses were at work doing laundry, kneeling by the stream and washing each piece by hand. He looked for the guard and found him sitting on a rocky ledge, admiring the way the wet cotton dresses clung to the washer women. He attracted the guard's attention and leaned his rifle against the rocks, placing the leather bag next to it. Then he waded into the stream until it was up to his waist and sat down in it, submerging himself completely in the water until his lungs demanded more oxygen. He surfaced and looked around.

Sara was standing by the edged of the stream, apparently unsure of what to do. He considered, for a moment, the idea that she might be slow and decided that she was probably just overwhelmed and a little shocked.

"Dump the laundry on the ground, bring the buckets over here," he called and made his way to a portion of the stream where the water ran shallow, knee deep, through waist high boulders.

He stripped off his pants and tossed them onto the pile of clothing. Sara was wading gingerly through the water towards him.

"No worries. The guard will warn us if anything dangerous gets close."

She froze at his words, searching the water for threats that she had no knowledge of. He laughed, knowing it was cruel, but doing it anyway. When she reached him he took the small bucket out of her hand and showed her the soft, material inside.

"Soap," he said, "Not very nice soap. The ladies have started adding some fruit scent to it lately, so it's nicer than it was."

He took the larger can and held it up.

"Rinse bucket."

He set the rinse bucket and the soap can on one of the boulders and looked her in the eyes.

"Wash me," he said.

As she worked, he talked.

"You might be regretting your decision back on the trail. But you don't really have any other options now. On the trail I could have killed you and ordered your body taken back. That option isn't open to us now. The boys would get mad if I killed you without offering them, all of them, the opportunity to play with you. Imagine that for a moment. Imagine going through what you just went through two or three hundred times. It would probably kill you. Maybe not. But your options now are simple. You can go to them, or you can go to me. You might survive with me. This is a new world. There is no right or wrong. No considerations of morality. There is only survival. You need to learn the rules of this new world if you want to survive. I have the knowledge you need. So long as you don't make my life difficult I'll keep feeding you that knowledge. Make my life difficult or dangerous and the boys will be lining up on the parade ground for their turn on you.

"Rule number one is that you do what I say when I say it. You can ask all the questions you want, but only while you are carrying out my order. I may or may not answer your questions.

"Rule number two, forget morality. You are not going to be judged on your moral character. You are going to be judged on your ability to please me. To put this in terms you understand, you will act like a whore for me. Or like you think a whore would act. You shouldn't feel guilty about this. It doesn't make you a bad person. You do what you have to in order to survive. A month from now you can be back in the civilized world, telling a shrink or a priest all about your horrible experience. And they will tell you that you are still a good person, to be proud you found the strength to survive, and to go out into the world and live your life.

"Rule number three; you are mine and mine alone. If one of these bastards tries to rape you, you had better fight like hell. Put your thumbs in his eyes. You don't want to survive this hell and die slowly of AIDS or hepatitis. Neither do I. So you'll be useless to me if I even suspect you've picked something up.

"Rule number four; fit in. Watch the other women. They have survived, and will continue to survive. Learn. As part of this you'll need to learn a new language. We speak Esperanto, sort of, around here. Language helps define identity. Here's your first lesson. Repeat after me. 'Mi estas la virino de la kapitano'. I am the Captain's woman."

"Mis estas la virino de la kapitano," she repeated.

Her eyes widened.

Robert nodded as Sara absorbed the words, comprehension manifest in her eyes.

"Jes, Sara. Vi estas mia. You are mine, and right now you are nothing more than property. Like a farmer's horse. I think we understand each other; as much as we need to. I'll keep you alive, I'll even protect you from the worst of this nightmare. You pay attention and do whatever I tell you to do, even if you don't understand my reasons. We don't have time for grieving now. Later. Tonight you can grieve, cry even. But first you must survive today."

He searched her eyes for a long moment, watching the inner conflict reflected by her body language. She raged quietly against circumstance, hope and despair wrestling within her heart. In the end, he perceived acceptance. A commitment to personal survival, if nothing else, and, perhaps, a degree of hope.

"Bona virineto. Good girl," he said, looking directly into her eyes.

He held the eye contact, watching her face color and then fix itself with a determined look. She applied soap to his body, roughly at first but then she caught sight of the amused look on his face and she thought better of her meaningless show of rebellion. When she came to his waist she hesitated until his laugh goaded her into action. Uncertainly she stroked his penis with her soapy hands, curiosity writ large upon her face. The curiosity was replaced by a moue of distaste as her hands reached between his buttocks. She had to kneel to wash his legs, and looked adamantly at the water as she did so.

He nodded in approval and walked into the deeper water to rinse himself off. Then he walked over to the shallows and leaned back against a rock. He imagined the water carrying away the stress of the past week and felt his body respond by relaxing.

"Puru vi, Sara. Wash yourself," he ordered, "You're a beautiful woman. Belulino. You shouldn't be covered in filth."

He looked over at the women by the side of the stream, every last one gawking at them.

"Kio vi gapas? Cxu vi bezonas plilaboro?" he snapped.

The women quickly resumed working, dropping their eyes to the laundry they scrubbed.

She scooped up a handful of soap and began to lather her upper body. It was a moment before she realized that he was watching her. She blushed furiously and turned her face away to hide her emotions. She turned her back to him and stepped further into the water until it reached up to her waist. Carefully she washed herself, wincing when her hands passed over her labia. She sat down in the deep water to wet her hair, using her fingers to work the worst of the knots out and resolutely not looking at anything. She began to work the soap into her long blonde tresses, absurdly wondering what she would be able to use for conditioner.

Robert watched her bathe, fascinated by the motions of her hands, flowing over the lines of her body. Her modesty made the actions all the more erotic to him, her half-clothed state made her seem more naked than naked. Her T-shirt clung to her body, molding itself to her contours, half-revealing the flesh beneath those areas it clung to. When her hands dropped below the water to scrub, his imagination quickly filled in the details of her actions. He could, he realized, order her to stand and scrub herself in front of him. He considered doing this, but did not. He was enjoying the way she moved naturally, without direction. She had a certain grace to her actions that was at odds with the mechanical world he had brought to the jungle. Although not a part of the jungle herself, she fit better here than anyone else. He wondered why this might be.

When she began to scrub at the bloody T-shirt he muttered, "Don't scrub too hard," to himself, "It never really washes off."

He shook himself physically, trying to bring himself back to reality. He laughed when he realized this.

"And what is real?" he asked himself.

"Puru laj vestoj, Sara. Wash the clothing," he told her.

Robert walked out of the water, striding over to his rifle and the leather bag. Finding a place in the sun to sit, he propped the rifle next to him, opened the bag and started to pick through it. The bag itself was a fashion designer's idea of what a backpack should be. Perfect for 'adventure' day trips and completely out of place in the jungle; like a Cadillac at an off-road rally. The contents themselves were about what you would expect from someone who had packed for an adventure but never really been away from civilization. Some of the clothing could be given to the women, and the Tylenol and such would go to the infirmary.

At last, all the way at the bottom of the bag, he found what he had hoped for. He popped open the small container and found a half empty set of birth control pills.

'Virginal and naïve, but not stupid,' he thought to himself, surprised at the small feeling of satisfaction the thought created.

He counted the pills and then lay back against the rock, basking in the warmth of the sun and calculating.

'It'll be close,' he thought, 'but it should do.'

If all went well he, and thus Sara, was in for a very long walk. The walk would be hard enough for her, but if she were pregnant it would likely kill her. He had tried to ensure that the 'army' be well supplied with condoms, but George had over-ridden him, citing several arguments. So far as he knew, he had maybe six condoms left and he had a use for those in mind.

With this thought he turned his head to see how she was faring. She knelt by the stream, apart from the other women, and struggled with the washing process, imitating, as best she could, their actions. The other women, for their part, ignored her. Robert knew this was because they didn't know how to deal with this new situation. Normally the women regarded him as something of a protector. He had stopped the worst excesses of violence directed against them, some of them so horrific that he occasionally had nightmares. He had also given them meaningful positions within the organization and, in general, made the daily hell of their existence bearable. More, he didn't have sex with any of them, despite the attempts several had made to attract his attentions. That made him a neutral party in any arguments he was called on to resolve. But Sara was a wild-card. How would he act now that he had a woman of his own? That question, or some variety of it, he knew, was running through their heads. Already he was acting more like the men they were accustomed to; abusing his woman by parading her about naked. The men they were accustomed to were to be feared, not trusted.

Robert sighed. His reputation among the women was about to be diminished by his treatment of Sara and by the realization that he was not uninterested in women, just in the ones that had tried to entice him. There would be jealousies to contend with. He rubbed his jaw and considered the situation. The women would not risk seriously pissing him off, so the worst Sara could expect was dirty looks and the occasional whispered comment. Not that those wouldn't be bad enough for her, and counterproductive to his efforts. Still, there was nothing for it; the women could make his life less pleasant, the men could make it very short.

He glanced over at Sara again. She continued to wash, rubbing soap into her T-shirt in a futile attempt to remove the bloodstains. As he watched, she leaned forward to rinse the T-shirt, again, in the water. The action displayed the tuft of soft pubic hair and the soft folds of flesh hidden within. His eyes, captured by her beauty, noted the way her small breasts shaped themselves, pulled downward from her chest by gravity. The back and forth motion of her scrubbing made them move in a way that he found hypnotic. Her arms were still red and angry from carrying the rice bag through the jungle and she had bruises on her torso where she had been kicked and on her shoulders where the ropes had been. Her wet, golden hair hung down to one side of her face. His eyes followed the line of her body, down her spine, lingering on the soft curves of her unblemished ass and then down her shapely legs, covered in scratches from the march. Even her ankles, he laughed, were lovely, though her feet were covered with ruptured blisters.

He felt himself stirring, the impulse to rise and take her so strong that it momentarily over-rode years of painfully acquired self-discipline. He stopped himself and considered options, mentally playing out possible outcomes of his actions. He needed her to get over her shock, to accept, at least temporarily, her situation and the actions she was going to have to take. He also admitted to himself that acting wasn't enough. He didn't simply want feigned obedience and false emotions, he wanted her genuine submission. There was no practical reason for this, just his own perverse desires. He rolled this thought around in his mind for several minutes, eyes fixed hungrily upon her naked form.

In the end, he suddenly found himself listening to his own advice, 'Here there is no right or wrong. No considerations of morality.'

He rose and walked over to where she knelt. Leaning his rifle, unconsciously carried with the long habit of a lifetime, against a rock he knelt behind her, pushing her legs further apart. She squeaked in surprise and tried to crawl forward, into the water. His hands grabbed her hips, restraining her.

"Nothing but sounds of pleasure, Sara. I don't want to hurt you, but I will," he told her in a low voice.

One hand slipped between her thighs, caressing her sex with firm circles of his palm, cupping her soft mons. She whimpered, half in fear and half, he thought, hoped, something else. His fingers parted the folds and held them spread, pinned like the wings of a butterfly as he placed the head of his cock against her. He pushed slowly in to his full length, placing his hands on her hips to hold her tightly to him. It had been years since he had a woman without wearing a condom. He simply held her still against him, focusing his entire attention upon the way she felt upon him, the soft warmth of her suffusing his entire body with a warm glow of pleasure.

"Vi estas mia, Sara. You're mine. To use as I want, when I want, how I want. Push back against me. Moan. I want to hear you."

Sara moaned quietly, barely audible and tentatively shifted her body. When she pushed herself back against him, she moaned again and then gasped in surprise.

Robert reached forward with his hand, taking a grasp of Sara's hair and pulling her back until her back was pressed against him. His hand reached down, pushing up under the bra to find her small, firm breasts. His hand played at the nipple, slowly rolling and pulling at it as it hardened beneath his touch. He growled softly as her body both fought and welcomed him. He leaned his head forward, teeth playing at the lobe of her ear, tongue tracing the swirls of it as her nails dug into his arm.

"Don't fight it, Sara. It's not wrong to feel pleasure. Your body was built for this, to give and receive pleasure. Let your body guide you. Listen to the instincts of thousands of years of evolution," he whispered into her ear.

Robert pushed forward with his hands, forcing Sara again to her hands and knees, sliding her forward until only the glans of his member was still inside her. Gently he pulled her back until her ass was pressed firmly against his abdomen. Slowly he manipulated her body, moving her back and forth on his cock. He savored the feel of her body, soft flesh gripped in his hands, the wet silk of her sex caressing the length of him. He groaned softly, pleasure becoming sound, and continued to take the pleasure her body had to offer him. His muscles trembled as adrenaline shot through his body, the pain of her nails, the scent of her musk, the feel of her flesh, and the brazen situation creating a primal cocktail of stimulation.

Robert drew in deep breaths of air, nostrils seeking for more of the scent of Sara's excitement. He reached forward with one hand, grasping a handful of her hair. His free hand reached back and came forward, smacking Sara hard on one globe of her ass, driving her forward in reaction, both physical and emotional, his cock almost slipping from her. His hand pulled at her hair, yanking her back against him and burying himself deeply inside her. He repeated this action, again, and again, forcing Sara to ride him.

"Kio vi estas, Sara?" He demanded. "What are you, Sara? Tell me."

"I'm your woman," Sara whispered.

He laughed in delight as the quiet admission slipped from her lips, a brief intelligible phrase amidst her animal moans. The motions of her body, tentatively seeking pleasure, shyly inching towards sensations that she craved but could not yet accept, drove him over the edge of reason. Mad with lust, every sense overwhelmed by her, his cock swelled painfully and he thrust into her, hard and deep, his body pumping semen into her in waves of ecstasy. His hands held her firmly, one gripping at her waist, holding her to him and pushing her down, while his other remain entangled in her hair, pulling her head back. She squirmed upon him, her body flying from her control and shamelessly pursuing the forbidden pleasure that suffused her. She cried out in wonderment, pleasure, and shame and Robert lifted his head skyward, shouting his mastery to the sky in a fierce, wordless cry.

He held her motionless against him, her sex massaging his member, as she trembled and gasped. His hand released her hair, allowing her head to drop forward, forehead to the water.

A shiver raced down her spine as his laughter rang out, she feared the omission as the sound seemed to yell out his victory over her; she stiffened slightly as she tried to deny the sensations that raped her senses, the pleasure that claimed her whole body, each thrust screamed out as if to reveal to her his domination over her. Struggling to refuse to surrender more she found she could not stop the building need, she didn't know how to escape the delights, her body would not allow her to deny the pleasure, her hips undulated, her ass rubbed wantonly against him with each press of his flesh deep and hard into her sex, the walls spasmed and quivered, the heat searing from within, all thoughts soon lost to the mere animalistic act of mating until she screamed out in longing, throaty groans and husky moans escaped her parted lips as she rode the waves of pleasure that slammed through her.

"Bona virineto, Sara. I think you will survive this," he told her.

He stroked idly back and forth into her, mind pondering the possibility of taking her again. He looked at the shadow of the sun and decided that there was not enough time. Regretfully he withdrew from her and knew that he would treasure the small sound of protest she made. Robert shouldered his rifle, stood and waded deeper into the stream, standing waist deep in the water and wiping his penis clean. When he was finished he walked back to shore and picked up the leather bag, checking to ensure that nothing had fallen out.

"When the clothing is clean, Sara, go back to my hut. All the clothing," he emphasized, pointing to the pile on the bank of the stream, "Hang the clothing to dry. Use the hammock as a laundry line if need be. Then kneel on the floor of my hut and wait for me. Do not talk to anybody and do not wear any clothing. None."

Then he turned and walked away, his attentions now fully intent upon the tasks before him.

Men striding through the encampment bare-ass naked was not an uncommon sight, Robert had made entire platoons run around naked and armed to drive home how important it was to always have possession of your rifle, so he drew few, if any, glances. At the hut he drew on one of the spare pairs of pants he kept in his footlocker, a T-shirt, socks, and boots. Placing a hat on his head and shouldering his rifle he checked his watch and decided that breakfast would have to be skipped.