Amazon Adventure

CHAPTER 1

My plane was twice as old as me, and had come to the end of its days. I had nearly done the same, crashing in the jungle. Both me and the prof were battered, bruised and had some minor cuts, but had come off better than our plane. That was good.

What was bad was that we did not know where the hell we were, except it wasn't in the valley we were supposed to be. And that even that was far off the beaten track, visiting remote tribes before their land was destroyed or they got shot by loggers, drug traders or even government soldiers. He was documenting some of the languages. I was the pilot. He didn't like being called the prof, which is why I did it. He would have accepted doc, since he had a PhD, but insisted he was not an academic, just a post-doctoral researcher.

We stayed near the plane that night and the next day, on the off-chance that someone came looking for us. A plane is easier to see than a lost man. It was badly overcast and very likely to stay that way, so the following morning we decided to try to find a village. We knew we were being watched, so hoped there might be some sort of settlement. It was also possible that were being watched by a tribe that had no settlement. These were generally the most dangerous.

Going downhill and looking for water we eventually found a village. There were only a few women there. We supposed other women must be out foraging and the men hunting or worse. Two of the women had spears and looked at us in a way which did not look friendly. Someone must have gone to report, because a man came to the opening of a hut, barely standing. He looked about as old as my plane and in not much better condition. His beard and cross on a chain around his neck suggested he might be a missionary. Otherwise he had only a loincloth.

He said something and then collapsed. Two women carried him back in, and looked at us.

We took it as an invitation, and came cautiously in. He was lying on a mat, unconscious. There was little else. The mouldy cover of a Bible, a spoon, a broken watch and some rags which may have once been clothes appeared to be all his possessions. Things tend to rot in this climate.

The prof took his hand and said gently "Pax vobiscum".

The old man's eyes opened and he weakly put his other hand on the prof's, and said something. The woman brought a bowl of water.

"Pater noster," said the prof, which I knew was the start of the Lord's prayer, and the old guy croaked along with it, then fell unconscious again with exhaustion. I felt his forehead. It was a fever, but we were not medics.

The prof tried some languages on the woman, but she stayed impassive. Finally, he guessed something and she gave us the bowl of water, which we shared. She said something, and another woman brought us some more.

We just sat there for a couple of hours until an older woman came in and roused the old man. He took some more water and spoke into her ear. She looked surprised, even shocked, then looked at us. She went out and a little later we were brought some food.

We hung around for three days, sleeping in the hut. We were able to clean ourselves up a bit, and I tore my shirt to make bandages, hoping to hell our cuts did not get infected. We were down to shorts as far as clothing went. Whether we were guests or prisoners and whether we would live or die, I guess depended on the old priest.

He came conscious occasionally and spoke only briefly, mostly in the local language and mostly raving. But a bit in Portuguese. I can do some Spanish, and they're similar, but it was difficult. Between the two of us (mostly the prof) we picked up the fact that the tribe was called the Man Killers. It is not unusual for there to be longstanding war between peoples in nearby valleys and to have names like this. He had apparently not been very successful as a missionary, as soon became evident, but wanted a Christian burial, which we promised to do.

The prof said that it was common just to leave the dead out in the forest to be eaten. Recycling you might call it. However, some groups practised a more immediate form of recycling by cannibalism.

In his rare lucid times, the old man spoke with some of the women. I suspected he was saving our lives, but he also must have told them to dig a grave for him, which they did, as if for an animal trap. I managed to get two branches and tie them into a cross, which seemed to please him when I showed it to him.

Finally, he died. He put the cross round his neck into the prof's hand and said something. The prof said something in Latin, the old man gasped a few words, smiled and was gone. We didn't know his name. I expect God did.

The prof hung the crucifix around his own neck.

"If I guess right, I may be saving our lives," he whispered. "Or this might be exactly the wrong thing."

The natives watched us expressionless as we carried the old body to his grave. We threw in his few possessions and said the Lord's Prayer together, though I made some mistakes. Then we filled in the grave and piled rocks to keep it from being dug up by animals immediately. I fixed the cross in place.

That was it.

The women went to their work. I had no idea what was going to happen, so we went back to the priest's hut.

CHAPTER 2

"What the fuck's going on? What happens now? Where are the men?" I asked, shaking the prof.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I'm being optimistic, but I think the old man told them that the Christian god had sent us down from the sky to replace him. That's why he gave me the crucifix. Just possibly they think maybe he was right about what he was selling after all."

"Of course, I don't know how much of the lessons they remember and how they will interpret them. It is possible that when the men come back, we will be crucified."

"Oh shit!" was all I could say. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Stop! You're hurting me!" he called out. I hadn't realised I was shaking him so hard.

"I think it might be all right. I don't think there are any men," he added

"You what? You mean they've been killed, by some other tribe?" I asked.

"Well possibly, but I think this is a tribe of women."

Despite my desperation, I had to laugh.

"Yeah, right: a tribe of Amazons! And where do the little girls come from?"

"Have you seen any?" he asked. "In all the villages we visited, there's always been curious kids. There's no-one here younger than teenage, and the younger ones are lighter skinned than the old ones, and a bit more European in looks. I think he is the father."

I gave a sardonic laugh.

"I thought priests were supposed to be celibate and not take the title father seriously!"

"Maybe," said prof, "but just before he died, he said take care of my daughters. Now as a priest he could refer to the flock as his children or sons and daughters. I think he meant it literally."

"So why no sons?"

"Well, they could have some genetic mutation so that no sons are born, or maybe they die soon after birth. They must only mate with outsiders. Maybe they are sometimes raped by marauders. Maybe they capture a man from a neighbouring tribe and keep him until he has produced children then kill him. But I think most of the women could well be half white, so I think they're his."

I had an idea, two in fact, but I only told him one.

"Perhaps that is what he achieved. He gave up celibacy so they would not have to capture and kill men, but he could not totally eliminate war between tribes. It's the only way they can keep their territory."

The idea I didn't tell him was that there was no genetic mutation. Baby boys were just put into the jungle to be eaten.

The prof was enthusiastic.

"Yes, I think you're right. And as he was past it sexually, he persuaded them we were a miracle, to carry on his good work."

We both considered the implications.

"So," I said, "if we give them babies when they want, then we do good work by saving the lives of other men, and continue to live ourselves."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he answered seriously.

"Could be worse," I said.

"I could be wrong," he answered.

The next day we were on tenterhooks as nothing appeared to happen and we seemed to be ignored. Were they expecting us (or at least the prof) to do something? A miracle perhaps? Some food was put in front of us and the prof tried to communicate but was met with blank looks.

There seemed to be more of the natives around, some with spears. I guess they had been foraging. But no children and no men. They were clearly waiting for something.

The something was when what was clearly a hunting group of women came into the village. Some were injured but all were cheerful. Four of them were carrying bloody bits of meat which they threw into the centre, which produced cries of excitement.

They were human parts - cocks and balls. They had killed men, which was a matter for rejoicing. It had been a war party, not a hunting party.

I knew among the remote tribes that young men frequently killed other young men from neighbouring groups. They did the same.

Some animals were cooked on a fire and the war trophies hung in the smoke. I had seen things on necklaces of some of the older women, but not known what they were. Now I knew. They were her record of men she had killed.

Everyone was cheerful, as the food was put out and we were directed to mats in the middle.

They stopped talking and looked at us. What in heaven's name did they expect?

The prof stood up, said "Pax vobiscum" and made the sign of the cross. I guess it was not quite what they were expecting, but seemed good enough, as they tucked into the feast. We did the same.

"I suppose he said grace, in the local language," said the prof. "Now just let me listen."

There were lots of actions, so the first thing appeared to be the warriors describing their battle, and the wounded ones being commiserated or congratulated, probably both. Then the topic turned to us, pointing and again with a lot of gestures. We had come down from the sky, the old man had died and been buried, with shrugs - who knows why? I thought I could hear a few Portuguese words which they must have picked up.

"For fuck's sake, prof, I hope you're good enough at lingos," I whispered, and he shushed me.

The feast was at an end and there was some dancing. Not for us, for their own satisfaction. But still, now things were looking more hopeful, to see healthy young women naked and happy was no bad thing.

I noticed some going out with spears and some coming in. They obviously had a strict guard rota. Life was dangerous.

We were helped to our feet and our shorts pulled down. We stepped out as they were pulled away and, naked as the day we were born, faced a large group of naked women, most of them healthy young ones.

My cock started to rise.

I'll admit I'm an adrenaline junkie, or I wouldn't have been flying a beat-up old plane across poorly explored forest for a living. I get off a bit on danger. And I hadn't had a fuck or a wank in a while.

Maybe we were going to fuck.

Maybe they were going to chop it off. In either case, I was going proud.

The prof was not like that. He had his eyes closed and was muttering "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"

I took a risk. Not a calculated one. A guess, a chance. Perhaps the wrong one.

"Listen, prof," I said.

"I know it's embarrassing with all these women looking at you, but you mustn't get a hard-on. Concentrate on keeping it soft, whatever you do. Some are old enough to be your mother, others could be your sister. You mustn't get an erection! They're all looking!"

He opened his eyes.

Sure enough, it started to rise.

The old women's look of satisfaction told me I was right.

Two of the successful warriors lay down in front of us on mats and opened their legs. They looked apprehensive, but the one in front of me had a gleam in her eyes. Another adrenaline junkie. I smiled and she smiled back. Prof's girl looked about as happy as he was.

We knelt down.

"Follow me," he said, and made the sign of the cross. I did the same. It was a good guess.

As we pushed in, we must have felt the same thing.

"She's a virgin!" said the prof. "I don't think I can!"

"She's a warrior," I said. "She can take pain, probably expects it. Now fuck as if your life depended on it! It probably does."

I couldn't resist mine. That young face, those lovely tits. I could see that mixture of apprehension and excitement. Someone like me. I put my hand to her cheek. Maybe I was kidding myself, but she smiled as if we understood each other, and I pushed hard.

Her smile stayed, but she tensed, trying to show nothing had happened.

I had to leave the prof to it.

The young woman, the audience, the danger! I was rock hard as I slammed into her! The thrill and complete abandonment of a good solid fuck!

Then I was coming in a wave of pleasure and relief, shooting buckets! She had remained silent, like the good warrior she was, but now she gasped and said "Oh!" and held me tight. It was a great feeling, the best I had felt for a long time.

I pulled out and onto my knees. I was relieved to see the prof was managing, his ass pumping away. Then it was obvious he was coming too.

I heaved a sigh of relief. He parted almost immediately, but as he did, she put her hand out and stroked his cheek. I think he had scored as well.

His dong was quite a bit bigger than mine, I noticed.

"Psst," he said. "I'm guessing the priest might have said something, so let's do the Lord's Prayer."

Still on our knees, we put our hands together, and I mumbled along.

Nobody waved spears. Maybe it was right. Maybe they had no idea. But then we were miraculous strangers from Jesus. Perhaps we were supposed to have mysterious ways.

Maybe they expected us to be miracle workers.

Because the other two man-killers came and lay down in front of us.

The prof moved his head and said the word that he reckoned meant 'no'. Then in Portuguese he told them very firmly that it was the end of our gifts for the day. Tomorrow we would bestow further benefits. He pointed to the sky, he held up his cross, he made signs with his hands.

I don't think they understood, but they would have recognised the Portuguese even if they did not understand, and I suppose he was establishing authority. It seemed to work.

A bowl of water was put in front of each of us. The prof washed his cock, so I did likewise. Then he made the sign of the cross and strode back to what was now our hut. I copied him.

"Are you a priest?" I asked him. "I didn't even know you were religious."

"I'm a fucking atheist!" he said grumpily. "But I went to a Catholic school. Now it seems I have to be a priest to stay alive, so pax fucking vobiscum to you!"

We just lay with our thoughts for a while.

"By the way thanks for what you did earlier," he said. "I'd never have got it up."

"Thanks to you," I said. "I think you've been a real miracle worker. Not only are our cocks not on a necklace, we might actually be using them again."

CHAPTER 3

The next morning, we had to deflower the other two war heroines. Mine had several scars and looked tough as nails, but her cunt was in fine shape. It was all done in public view, of course, and we went through our little ritual.

In the evening the first two came to our hut. The prof said "Pax vobiscum," made the sign of the cross, and got them to put their hands on our cocks. This was something they had obviously never done in a friendly manner before. They looked at each other and mine shrugged. I followed the prof as he put his hands on her breasts, closed his eyes and said "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful." I was happy to do the same.

When our cocks were fully hard, the girls got the idea, and lay down.

Side by side we fucked two healthy young women. I tried not to think of what they had done to earn the reward.

When we had finished, they lay there expectantly.

The prof made the sign of the cross, and motioned them to go. That seemed to do.

"It's tough making it up as you go along, eh prof?" I said. "Flying blind without instruments?"

Every day we each fucked two girls and the prof started to learn their language. I began to get a few words and gestures.

My first girl, the pretty one, was starting to get into it, now we were private. She was surprised, but did not stop me when I kissed her, and we started mutual stroking. The second one, the warrior, lay firmly, taking her punishment.

I thought I was doing well until the pretty one started her period. Everyone seemed angry, and we were worried. They had obviously expected a miracle. She went away.

I was surprised when my warrior started stroking my face as well as holding my cock, and saying something. It was almost as if she was comforting me. She moved my hands to her body, and I fondled her as well as fucking. She put her scarred face to mine and kissed me. A week later, she started her period. Surprisingly, the pretty one came back.

Just maybe the prof was having better luck. It had been more than a month. He was still fucking them every day, and there was no blood. Two weeks later his second one bled, but the first was looking very happy. There had been two full moons when it seemed like a success. There was some sort of conversation with the prof, and she left. Her swelling over the next moons was clear.

I had begun to suspect something, and the prof confirmed it. My two girls were a sort of lesbian couple and so were his. There was a lot of that in the tribe. Not really surprising, I suppose.

My two girls came back to fucking me when they did not have their periods. His two girls lived more or less as a husband with a pregnant wife, and he had another pair to service. Three months later, the lucky bastard appeared to get another one pregnant. After two moons, there were replacement girls.

Not that I didn't enjoy fucking my two girls, and in my previous life I would have been happy to go bareback without consequences. But I was here to give babies. Any pleasure was purely coincidental. And a long run of failures might result in my genitals on a necklace.

Of course, we knew, but they did not, that women have a fertile time, so fucking near the periods was unlikely to be effective. It took a while, but the prof persuaded them we should fuck women for one week in roughly the middle, so it ended up with us servicing many more women, and I started to score. There were many more villages in the valley, and women wanting to have a baby.

I was picking up a bit of the language, and noticed a word or phrase being used quite often, so I tackled the prof about it.

"It's your fucking fault!" he said angrily. "Calling me prof! The old priest must have been Father Joseph, because they called him Papa Jo. Now they call me Papa Prof!"

"They call you Papa Fuck, because it's a word you often use, and Papa Jo of course never did."

I was not unhappy with my new name.

The tribe lived much as others did, except that women did everything (instead of most things).

Parties came back after skirmishes with wounds but no loss to either side. I think Papa Jo would have been proud of Papa Prof's work, though he did not invoke Jesus, just tried to persuade them that killing provoked retaliation. I think the main disagreement came from the older women with necklaces.

The first baby was a girl. As was the second. And the third.

But that could happen anyway.

Sadly, we did not get to see them grow, as when they were a week old, the mother and her companion took the child away to another village. It seemed this one was a front-line one to defend their territory against two neighbouring tribes. Everyone was capable of fighting. Papa Jo had insisted on being here to try to keep the peace, with little success.