Pat spent that day mostly watching the labourers cut back the bush so she could get her sightings and, of course, fighting off the mosquitoes. The crazy hothouse atmosphere made everything wet and limp, even the pages of her waterproof field book.
John had a more pleasant assignment. Accompanied by a local driver, he took a Suzuki jeep up the old logging road along the river. He had little to do, just locate a suitable site for a flow gauging station. The flat, deep river bed beside the swamp did not look suitable, too subject to changing its shape and course. He would probably find what he needed where the river came out of the hills.
The logging road left the river where the ground started to rise, so they stopped the Suzuki and cut a way onto the bank. Here the river was clear, flowing noisily over a flat bed of rounded stones. Beautiful, relaxing, but John's experienced eye told him just how dangerous a river like this could be even minutes after the sort of storms they had here. The two of them waded up through the cool water, looking for the best place. It was slow going, but better than cutting a path through the jungle.
Mission accomplished, they returned, John sketching the river as he went. It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the camp.
That night their hosts cooked a proper Aussie barbecue to welcome the visitors, with sausages and steaks sizzling over the fire and plenty of cold beer in the cool-box. Pat was the centre of attention while John sat back in the shadows with an old driller who had been in the Territory for years before Independence and had an inexhaustible fund of stories. Tales of warriors and witchcraft, of planters and District Officers gone crazy. War-time stories, harrowing river journeys, lost missionaries and small planes, of the Kuku-Kuku people who were still cannibals on the quiet and could be found in the hills behind the swamp. John shivered at the thought. Did they ever come down as far as the river where he had been today?
Pat had little work next day because the labourers had not finished enough lines to fix the next few drilling sites. While they set about the unpleasant task of chopping through the swamp with bush knives, Pat decided that she might as well take time off for a swim. Tim walked her back as far as firm ground. As soon as he left her, Pat turned a corner and took to the bush to take a long-awaited leak. She pushed her way into the waist-high kunai grass looking for a safe place. Maybe shyness took her in further than necessary, but at least she felt unobserved. She squatted in a shaded spot where the grass gave way to trees.
She had just settled to her task when a crashing in the undergrowth made her freeze. Someone was coming! They would catch her with her shorts and panties around her ankles and nothing but grass to hide her nakedness. Her alarm was only partly calmed when she saw Tim pushing through the edge of the trees. Presumably on the same errand, and on impulse she decided to stay hidden rather than court embarrassment.
She saw him fairly well through the stems of a small palm, standing side-on with his back to a tree. He reached for his fly and drew out his penis, large and soft. What curiosity, she thought. I'm a respectably grownup adult and I'm hiding here watching a man pee. I can't remember behaving like this since junior school. Fascinated, she watched Tim peel back his foreskin and bring the pale mauve knob into the sunlight. It suddenly struck her that he had not come to pee at all. He was gently massaging his sex, his fist pulling back the skin and then sliding it forward again, hiding the plum in its hood. Rapidly, his cock stiffened. It flushed red, and the tip became a swollen purple plum.
Tim seemed as absorbed in the sight of it as Pat. He loosened his grip and turned it from side to side as it lay on his palm, looking at it closely from all angles. Then, taking it delicately between finger and thumb, he resumed his slow massage. Searching for extra sensation, he fumbled inside his shorts and pulled his jewels out into the open. Using a gentle finger, he circled their hairy pouch while his other hand maintained a steady rhythm.
Butterflies fluttered in Pat's stomach, and her exposed sex started to demand the same attention. She could not take her eyes from the hypnotic hand shuttling back and forth. An over-powering urge came on her to stand up and call to him, to invite him to put his manhood to better use.
Tim had shut his eyes and he was biting his bottom lip. His tip flashed in and out of sight like a dancer under a disco strobe. She started to straighten up, but too late. Tim suddenly doubled up, his fist working at his stomach. A spasm shook him and, like a spring uncoiling, he sprang upright and leaned his shoulders against the tree behind. With his back bowed impossibly forward and the base of his cock gripped in both hands, the sperm surged out of him and fell to the grass.
Pat could almost hear his tension release as he stood there, sex pointing forward to nowhere and the sweat of his effort rolling down his brow. She crouched down again. Tim opened his eyes and stood up. He thrust a practiced finger in behind his balls and started to squeeze the last of the juice out of his roots. Pat watched him milk the big vein of his cock until the last pearly drop fell sluggishly to the ground. Then he forced it back into his shorts and turned away.
What a disappointment, she thought. That didn't look much more fun than a good sneeze. A small voice of sinful pride told her that she had been responsible for the explosion. Poor Tim. She hoped his field break would come soon.
He seemed quite normal when he greeted Pat after work. She spent the evening quietly with John, sitting on the jetty with their legs dangling over the sea, beer in hand. They watched the flying foxes head for the jungle through the dusk, like a Dracula movie without the sinister music. The warm sea lapped gently and, at this distance from the swamp, the mosquitoes were bearable. Behind them, the camp generator fussily brought light to the gimcrack huts. A full moon rose rapidly from its ocean bed and touched the little waves with ghostly light as they caressed the beach. John sighed with the beauty of it.
“Keep your hands off me!” said Pat in a brittle voice.
“But I didn't….” He sounded confused.
“Just wait until I get you alone,” she threatened. “Then we'll see how hungry you are.”
“Did anyone ever tell you what a teaser you are?”
She laughed. “Well, it's not just you that's panting for it. Watch.”
Taking her stubby beer bottle out of its cooler, she put it between her thighs, tucking it well up under her crotch. Its short brown neck peeped out like an absurd male parody. She leaned forward a little, resting her weight on her hands, and closed her eyes.
At first John thought nothing was happening, but then he looked more closely. Pat was tensing and relaxing the muscles of her stomach and thighs, rhythmically squeezing her centre. He leaned nearer to study her, but she ordered him away.
“Take it out!”
John looked back over his shoulder. They were visible in silhouette from the shore, if anyone was watching.
“Take it out. Just for me!”
Reluctantly, and without making his movements obvious from behind, he fumbled in his lap until his sex was free and pointing at the moon. “There!”
Pat opened her eyes and looked across at him, feeling a soft drunkenness creeping over her. Her gaze fixed on his upright sex. “Pull back the skin. I want to see.”
As John obliged, she pressed downwards, throwing all her weight onto the shoulder of her beer bottle. Her body was perfectly still, but she was clenching and releasing the bottle deep in her shadowed lap. Her head started to nod slightly with her rhythm, her hair swinging the moon-shadow across her face. Then, with an explosive moan, her climax rushed over her. She whipped a hand up between her thighs to press the bottle even harder against her, crushing the delicate folds inside her shorts. She lifted her face to the moon and held, for a moment, as taut as a statue while the waves of pleasure ebbed. With a sigh, she relaxed and smiled at John. The cabaret was over. It had all happened in minutes.
“Jesus, I never thought you could do it so quickly. Where did you learn to do that?”
She laughed sheepishly. “I had a toy rabbit when I was little. He used
to keep me warm at night. Poor old rabbit. He really took a beating. Come on, let's join the others.”
“What about me?” John was still sitting with his swollen sex pointing up out of his shorts.
Pat looked impish. “That's your problem. You can borrow my beer bottle if you like, but don't cut yourself trying to fit it over that.” She handed him the warm bottle.
“What the hell! I'll just have to wait.” He gave the bottle a kiss and threw it into the sea.
They walked back to land, trying to look casual. “I've never let anyone see me do that before. Did you like it?”
“I'm gasping for it, you bitch. If I walk any faster I'm going to come in my navel!”
She started to giggle at the thought of it. John smiled crazily as she fell into helpless laughter. “Let's go jogging,” she gasped as she sat down to recover her poise.
A tropical storm threshed against the huts during the night, waking everyone by hammering on the tin roof and wetting the hammocks with spray from the rain. Peace returned sometime in the early hours, and the day dawned fresh and clean. The sandy ground showed no sign of the deluge.
With work progressing slowly on the new drilling locations, Pat was free. John had nearly completed his work, but he scrounged a Suzuki jeep to drive back up the old logging road. He needed to find a vantage point where he could look out over the terrain and get a feel for it. He managed to lose the local driver so Pat could take the empty seat.
Tim saw them off as they squeezed into the tiny jeep.
“Mother warned me not to get into cars with strange men,” said Pat as she settled herself in.
“Well, we're all a bit strange here,” said Tim. “Don't let your guard down! And look out for the Kuku-Kuku.”
“They don't come here, do they?”
“No. Not often. Just passing through.”
“What do they look like?”
“Little fellows, almost pygmies. Friendly enough. Very square and strong, no clothes. If they're all got up in paint and feathers and carrying stone clubs, they're either off to a party or you're lunch. Have fun!” The Suzuki jolted away.
Driving through the forest was an adventure. The road was no more than two ruts through the grass and creepers, but wide enough to let the sun into the deep canyons between the trees. Butterflies fluttered in the sunbeams, some as large as saucers and all bearing sharp rainbow colours. Once clear of the swamp, the track snaked up a hillside, climbing rapidly and bringing breath-taking views of the dark forest with the sea blue beyond it. The track was very rough at the hairpins and the jeep skipped and bounced around them.
The forest was still dense when they reached the flat ground above and pulled into a clearing that must have served as a truck loading bay. The loggers had not been gone long, for the jungle had only recently started to reclaim their diggings. John pulled up in a patch of dappled shade. The place stood silent, only the jungle hum and the occasional bird call. He climbed out. “We should have brought sandwiches.”
“I've got something better than that.” Pat stood in front of the jeep unbuttoning her bush shirt. Like Pavlov's dog, John started towards her, arms out. “No! Stay there and watch.”
She's playing with me again, he thought, but this time there's no one else around. She pulled the shirt out of her shorts and slid her arms out of the limp cotton. Slowly she spread the shirt over the bonnet of the jeep, taking her time, smoothing out the wrinkles with the flat of her hand.
Then, turning to John, she reached back in that double-jointed female way to unclasp her bra. She looked at his face, a little crooked smile showing that she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. The loose cups of her bra concealed her, but she did not move to take it off.
“Do you want to see them?”
“You know I do.”
“Drop your shorts.”
John entered into the game. Unbuckling his belt, he dropped his shorts to his ankles. She eyed the swelling in his pants. “It looks as if someone is pleased to see me.”
“He'd be pleased to see even more of you.”
“Hmm. Maybe he deserves a little more.” She shrugged her shoulders and the bra fell from her. She threw it into the jeep. Her breasts were tanned, round and full. The puckered brown points gave the lie to her apparent coolness. They were expecting action.
Still with the same dopey smile, she stood and looked at him, pretending to consider whether it was worth the effort of going any further. “He's not standing up very tall. Are you sure he's interested?”
“I can guarantee it. It's just my pants holding him down.”
“Drop them then. I want to be sure.”
With a frustrated sigh, John slid his pants down to his jungle boots. His sex swelled and lengthened, levering itself up until it pointed straight at her from between his shirttails. Its blind eye stared at her.
“Not bad. Maybe I'll give him a little treat, just to see if he can stand it.” She undid her shorts and pulled them awkwardly off over her jungle boots. She wore the smallest black lace panties. “I'm dressed for the occasion, you see.”
“Christ, you're beautiful.” John was losing control. “Take them off.”
She looked down at herself. “Do you think I should?”
“If you're not going to, I am.” He hobbled towards her. Just as he got close enough, she spun around and thrust her bottom out at him. Christ, he thought, she's magnificent. And she knows it. He crouched behind her smooth roundness and reached for the delicate scrap of fabric. He rolled it down her legs and, with his hair just brushing against her rump, worked the panties over first one booted foot and then the other. As he hung them like a flag on the wing mirror, he saw she was lost. She had closed her eyes. With her head and bottom pushed back and supported by her fingertips on the jeep bonnet, she was tense, waiting for him.
He had no time to enjoy the tableau. The desire she had been deliberately provoking over the last few days swept over him. He steered into the hair peeping out between the tops of her thighs. Not caring for pain inflicted, not helping with his hand, he let his cock find its own way into her. As soon as the slippery warmth kissed his tip, he thrust forward, folding her lips in with him.
“Aah!” She winced and relaxed as his first retraction set everything to rights. She fell forward onto the jeep and, resting her head on her arms, let him carry her away.
John's hunger, no longer fierce and urgent, abated a little, and a feeling of remoteness came over him. His sex was deep inside this beautiful woman, working its way slowly backwards and forward just as it should, and his spirit was full. He watched her straight back with its muscular furrow, watched it heave forward as he drove each thrust home. He loved the narrowness of her waist and the flowering of her hips below. Her brown hair had fallen forward and hidden her face completely. He reached for her hips, to get a better purchase and pull his cock deeper into her.
The sun dappled them both, glinting in the tiny beads of sweat growing on her back. A butterfly fluttered its radiant turquoise way into his field of vision. It settled on her back, sipping at the moisture there. In her deep erotic dream, she would feel nothing of it.
His deep rooting was beginning to wake her and she was panting in time with his thrusts. His grip on her hips held her steady as his cock took control. She had clenched herself around his shaft, squeezing him and driving him on. Her ecstasy mounted rapidly and she groaned as her orgasm shook her.
John came moments later, finally driven over the edge by her tempestuous delight. He clung there, pressed hard against her bottom, waiting for his vision to clear and his heartbeat to return to normal.
It was the smell that first made him realise that they were not alone. An odour compounded of infrequent washing and nights spent in smoky grass huts with no chimneys; a pungent tobacco-like smell. Standing just behind him were three men.
They were short and square, just as Tim said they would be. They were dressed—if dressed was the word—in no more than greasy, hand-knotted
belts with loose g-strings. Behind they had tucked several shiny leaves into the belts. The Pidgin name ‘arse-grass’ jumped into John's mind. They had no paint on their black skins, nor did they have feathers in their hair.
Their heavy-featured calmness held a silent threat, but the thing that froze the two terrified foreigners in place was their weapons. The two younger men, one not much more than a boy, had bamboo bows held horizontally in front of them. The long, wickedly barbed arrows were ready to snake out at an instant. The oldest one, a grandfather, held a club across his chest. Its head was a star-shaped stone doughnut, pierced for the crude shaft.
The old man said something, and his son, if that was who he was, gestured John aside with his arrow tip. Helpless and hobbled by his shorts, he shuffled sideways, his wet, limp slug falling free. Not moving the threatening weapons, the three of them looked admiringly at Pat's behind, speaking softly among themselves.
“Wh—what's happening?” Pat was too scared to move.
“They're just looking. I can't do anything. They'll kill us both if I try. Christ, want do they want?”
“Me—if you're lucky.” Pat's voice sounded thin, and she was starting to snivel. “Don't move, and perhaps they won't hurt us.”
Their captors seemed to have decided what to do, although the sight of Pat bent over naked in front of them left little to decide. The old man laid his club on the jeep where it filled Pat's vision and moved behind her, hooking his other club out as he went.
John's eyes were draw irresistibly to the wet sex offered at the top of Pat's long legs. Grandfather pointed a stout ebony penis at it, but he would not be able to reach his target. Even on tip-toe, he was too short. He started to paw at Pat's back.
“What's happening. John, I can't see.”
“He's too short. Open your legs a bit more.”
Foreign Affairs Page 15