Congo Drums

Jim Jackson was at the stern, where the Congolese woman was washing out some clothes. Despite the language barrier between them, I expected to see them disappear below at any moment. The biggest wrinkle was that the young driver was there too, probably trying to cajole Jim to give him the same thing Jim was trying to get from the woman. Neither Bull nor Sondra Miller were in evidence on deck.

I knew where Charles Miller was, though. He was sitting close beside me on a padded bench, set where we could watch the southern bank of the river glide by. He had an arm around my shoulder, and he had my cock out of my shorts and was slowly masturbating me. He was purring like a kitten and was kissing and licking the side of my neck.

"Would you like me to go below with you?" I asked. Ethan had told me that Miller was a necessary evil to getting this documentary in the can and I didn't have any other prospects for projects at the moment—and the driver had cocked me so well that I was feeling generous and not too picky.

"No, dear boy, thank you," Miller murmured. "This is quite nice as is. Just get nice and big and come for me, and I'll be satisfied."

That's when I realized that he couldn't get it up and that this was the next best thing. That's why he was so calm with his secretary, Jim, fucking his wife. Sondra probably hadn't agreed to come on the safari at all without a boy toy. I felt sorry for Miller, and when he pulled my head back and put his lips on mine, I gave him a kiss to remember. I also ejaculated for him, and although, he dipped his face down to my lap to clean me up, I stood afterward and said I would go down to my cabin to clean up better.

Jim Jackson had the Congolese woman bent over a crate and was fucking her from behind when I reached the top of the stairs down into the cabin area. The driver was sitting on another crate and watching.

I heard them as I was coming down the steps into the lower corridor. The door to the Millers' cabin was slightly open and I looked in as I passed. Bull was naked and on his back on the double bed in the cabin, and Sondra, also naked, was straddling his pelvis and riding his cock. Before I moved on, I saw her dip her face down to his and him run his hand into her luxuriant cascade of blonde hair and take her lips in his. He brutally attacked her lips and, with a tug of her hair and a thrust of his hips, turned her in the bed and was mounting her to take over the driving. She threw her head back and laughed a hoarse, lusty laugh and then cried out as he thrust hard up into her.

I ached to be so lustfully and roughly handled.

Knowing now that Miller couldn't perform for Sondra, I felt much more forgiving of—and a kindred spirit with—her. I passed on to my own cabin door. The Indian, sans his dhoti, was waiting patiently for me in there. If one can say they were fucked gently, this would have been that fuck. I sat in the chair that Ethan had slouched in just a couple of nights previously, while the Indian gave me the most sensual blow job I think I've ever had. I tried to return the favor with him standing and me kneeling in front of him, but I doubt I succeeded all that well. He was just too long for me to come anywhere close to deep-throating him as he had done for me.

He then amazed me with his strength. He appeared so tall and thin that I could not imagine that he had the strength to lift me and stand, a bit crouched, in the center of the cabin, while I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist and he entered and entered and entered me with that long, snake-like cock of his and rotated it around inside my channel and stroked it in long glides in and out until I was yodeling to the ceiling and no doubt announcing my very satisfactory taking to all aboard the boat.

Later he took me even more slowly and sensually, face on, atop the bunk, with me looking down the length of our torsos and watching how impossibly all of that was slowly sliding up inside me and, though going in rock hard, seemed to have the flexibility of a hose inside me, finding every nook and cranny of my channel and caressing it with the bulb of the cock.

The Millers, Jackson, and I all had to contain our mirth later in the day when we were shown what the Congolese considered the highlight of the safari, which was a tree commemorating the birthplace of their former leader, Mobutu Sese Seko, founder of Zaire. The members of the party, each giving looks to the other, properly praised the event, though, not wanting to be on the bad side of any of the Congolese this far up the remote river. Charles made a great to do of directing Jim to take multiple photographs of the site, but, in sotto voce assured him that they didn't need to be good photographs.

I felt a chill in the air that evening after we had finished our dinner at the campsite in Lisala. No one else claimed to feel it, though, so I put it out of my mind. Once again Bull suggested that we make an early night of it, as we were pressing on to what he called a "beautiful fishing village" at Iaté. The rest of us interpreted that to mean that we had to stop somewhere for the night before going on to something we really wanted to see, so it might as well be at the collection of mean little huts at Iaté. We had come for the excitement of the national animal preserves, and it was taking us considerable time to find them.

With a smile Bull told us that we would be crossing the equator in merely five days. We all suppressed groans. We wanted the experience of crossing the equator, but we weren't wild about the idea of having to wait for five days to get it done in what had become one monotonous day after another if you didn't take the good sex into account. I was willing to take the good sex into account.

No, not the good sex—the great sex.

At dark that night, Charles Miller appeared from the direction of the boat with another full bottle of scotch under his arm, causing me to wonder just how many bottles he had brought on the journey and if he was thinking of the need to ration them for the return trip. The driver and cook were on the drums again, and, again, Miller and I sat parallel to the Miller's tent so that, while he was slowly and expertly sucking me off, we could watch the show in his tent. Tonight it was a spectacular silhouette show, with Jim and Bull standing, facing each other, and Sondra suspended between them and taking cocks in both entrances.

I wondered how Miller could so calmly take this until, as if he could read my mind, he said, "I can no longer give Sondra what will keep her with me. And I enjoy watching those who can, servicing her."

I had to agree that that was simple enough. Thanks to their performance, I was quite randy when I went back to my tent. Thanks to the driver and the Indian boat man, my randiness was fully serviced. I had watched Sondra get double plowed one way. The driver and the Indian showed me there was more than one way to double plow.

I was quite content riding the driver's cock, facing his face, as he lay on his back on my cot. I lost my contentment and gained a half hour of "Holy Fuck!" when the Indian slid in behind me, encircled my chest with his arms, pitched me forward, and entered me with his snaking cock on top of the driver's thick one. They played me like a calliope and left me just a few hours before dawn, exhausted, sweating profusely, and with my tongue hanging out.

The sweat turned out not to be from the sex. By the time Bull entered my tent at dawn to rouse me, I was wrapped in a blanket alternating between chills and hot flushes, sweating like a pig, and chattering my teeth.

Bull pronounced the dreaded word: malaria.

As I was being bundled aboard the float plane, I heard the drums playing. It seemed to me that they were a bit more loose in rhythm and had a lighter beat than before the driver fucked me. I hoped I'd had a good influence on the driver's music. Bull was helping to tuck me in on the plane and was regretting that I hadn't been able to stick it out to cross the equator later in the week. My regret was that I had to leave before I had experienced Bull's cock—and Jim Jackson's, for that matter. The medic was looking really good to me, and I wondered what might be possible on the way back to Kinshasa. Would the plane fly high enough to qualify for the mile-high club? I wondered.