A Love Game

by Nicole Dere

  Suddenly Marty appeared from the kitchen, where he had been dozing on the mattress in their little annexe. ‘What’s going on here? What do you think you’re doing? Let go of her!’ He looked even wilder and more frightened than the burly figure who was trying to pull Jan off the settee.

  The appearance of a second nude white form, complete with shaven head, disturbed Patrick Odhiambo even more. The bizarre couple looked like alien forms from some nightmare horror film. ‘You can come too!’ he urged, dragging his eyes from the weird sight of the male sexual apparatus, which seemed even more diminutive because of the complete lack of pubic hair, like the organs of a prepubescent child.

  In contrast to Jan’s modesty, Marty was making no effort to hide himself. But all at once she, too, seemed to discard her former shyness, as she sprang to her feet and stared intently at Marty. ‘I don’t know if anyone has seen him. I don’t think so. There’s no sign of Adamu or Muriamu. Keep watch, Marty! Just in case anyone comes!’ She moved and spoke with sudden decisiveness, against the uncertainty of both men. She turned back to Patrick and stepped close to him, seized his large hand in hers. ‘Come with me! Let me explain things.’ Another urgent glance back at Marty as she began to pull Patrick with her towards the door to the kitchen. ‘Keep watch! I’ll take him to our cubbyhole. I need to talk to him. It’s OK. I know him. He’s from our school.’ The colour invaded her pale face, her voice quavered slightly as she added, ‘Where me and Patrick ... we used to ...’ She gave a smothered gasp of impatience and embarrassment and tugged Odhiambo forcibly after her, through the doorway, then again through the entrance to the small compartment, and the mattress, with the rumpled sheet. It and the pillow were still indented with Marty’s shape.

  ‘Sit down, Patrick.’ The colour returned, an even deeper tide of crimson sweeping up from the base of her neck, and, in spite of all her resolve, she cast her eyes down, away from his piercing stare as she folded down to squat cross-legged upon the thin mattress. She was startled by her own reaction, the sudden sense of shame, of indecorum at her nudity and the realisation of how unaccustomed such an emotion was now. It added to her sense of confusion. She had become so cut off from such feelings, which had been part of the old world – a world so distant, and from which she had been so completely isolated. This crashing of Patrick Odhiambo through the barrier with which her new life had been surrounded was all the more disturbing. She was afraid, for him, for herself, for all of them. She had to make sure he left, and did not return.

  He had knelt in front of her. She was aware of his eyes on her, his helpless examination of her nakedness. She remembered with painful vividness their moment of greatest intimacy, the one tryst, in the baking heat beside the river; the sight of his exposed penis, its magnificence; its texture, the throbbing life under her touch; its taste, and smell, the fearful thrill of that great surge of his come, on and on, smothering her, choking her, rousing her so powerfully she was soaking wet herself beneath the flimsy cover of her tiny briefs, which hid the nakedness he had never seen, despite the fierce exaltation of sex they had shared. She shivered now, her skin goosebumped, as she recalled the desperate hunger in his bass voice, so moving despite its crudeness. I have to fuck with you!

  But he had not done so. Somehow, against his splendid rampant masculinity and her own urgent lust, she had proved the stronger. He had surrendered, fallen weakly back, and she was the one who had ripped at his clothes, dragged down his khaki shorts and brought him, with her hands and her mouth, to that shattering climax.

  She had been terrified afterwards, sick with fear, that he would betray her somehow. Yet again, he had not done so, merely stammered out a humble, lovelorn apology, and kept his soulful distance, right up to the time of her sudden disappearance. Until now. And with what further disastrous consequences? But suddenly she felt a surge of resolution. She had conquered before, and she could do it again. Only this time she knew what she must do – give him what she had denied him before.

  She knelt up and flung her arms around him, much to his amazement. His eyes were wide, with shock and with alarm. ‘No! Janet! I have not – you must come with me, I will save you–’

  She thrust herself at him, her body and limbs enveloping him, like a wrestler, bore him backwards with the force of her attack. ‘Please, Patrick! We’ll talk – afterwards. First, I want you – to do what we should have done before. What Ishould have done. You said you wanted to make lo– to fuck me!’ Once more she was clawing at him, striving to undo the buttons of his white shirt, thrusting him down onto the crumpled pillow. For an instant, his black shining face looked dazed, as though he could not believe or understand what was happening, then another expression altogether swept over his handsome features, and she knew then there would be no more words. He flung her off him, brushed aside her thin arms, and the force with which he did it sent her pulse racing. She lay and watched him whirl and fling and writhe his way out of his few clothes. Her throat caught, was dry with pleasure and need at the splendour of his beautiful body, the shining shades of its darkness, the rippling play of the muscled frame, and, most potent of all, that magnificent upthrusting column of his penis – Odhiambo’s cock, at last, was to be hers, and she was to be possessed by it.

  Their desire was too raw for finesse, it was almost brutal, and that was just how she wanted it. She was on her back, her back arched in one suppliant curve, her legs raised high, knees drawn up, feet sweeping the air in rapid movements that she could feel deep inside the centre of her fire. His body reared up, the pectoral muscles beautifully delineated, the ripples of his stomach, the perfect little eye of his navel, the tight little scrub of those black pubic curls – she anticipated the touch and the scratch of them (later she was stirred again by the soreness of the red abrasive area left on her own denuded pelvis). But all this splendour might have lasted no more than an endless second. She had no idea, as, some time, her worshipful fingers reached out to that solid thickness of his flesh, that she guided into her fiercely palpitating, eagerly waiting vagina, joyously surrendered to the very cervix to its entrant, the perfect lifting, yielding, devouring cunt in the fusion so long awaited.

  When the ferocity of their passion had subsided, and Jan returned to the conscious world again, she could feel him, sated but still deeply entrenched and she squeezed her supple thighs like a wrestler about his hips, holding him to her, in her, and drew him down with her as she relaxed and let her shoulders sink back on the mattress. ‘Don’t leave me! Stay with me!’ she whispered, her arms tightening about his sweat-damp shoulders, just as the other, hidden muscles within sought to keep him inside her. She lifted her face against his neck, nuzzled and lapped at his salty skin, and hugged his face against the cushioning softness of her breasts, then began to whisper, her lips touching the delicate small scroll of his ear.

  ‘My dear Odhiambo! Thank you for that. It was as wonderful as I’ve dreamt it would be so many times. After I left – when my husband had abandoned me – I didn’t know what to do, where to go.’ She felt him stir, felt the rumble of his voice and swiftly cut him off, sealed his moving lips with hers, in a soft kiss. ‘No. Please listen. You must let me explain. He was right. It was finished between us, long before. I had been with him since I was a little girl – a virgin schoolgirl. I never knew another man.’

  She spoke even more quickly, against the rising tide of embarrassment that was colouring even more her already flushed features. She pressed her face against his, glad that she did not have to look into his eyes, endure the pain of his disenchanted gaze. ‘I’m not really a good person, Patrick. Not normal. I ... was having an affair ... in love with another woman. I’ve always liked girls – it’s part of my nature.’

  Again he tried to interrupt and she managed to stifle his attempt once more. ‘No! Please! Just listen! I want you to know. You have to, to understand why ... why I must stay here. Why I wantto stay. Marty and I – we’re both here because we want to be. We volunteered to be like this–’ her arm tigh
tened as she pulled his face down again to the swell of her breast – ‘all of it: the nakedness, the obedience. Like slaves.’ Her face burned again, she felt the withering effect of her shame, and her eyes filled with tears – and also underneath a hot sense, too, of anger at that shame, so that her breath caught, her voice wavered and was almost stopped by tears. ‘Both of us! We are here because we want to be. There’s nowhere else for us – and the other two, Ant Van Reis, and Clio, we belong to them and obey them, willingly. We don’t want to leave them – ever!’

  She moaned faintly, at the hopelessness of explaining such madness, for it was clear that he was utterly at a loss. She could feel him wilting inside her, and her muscles clenched anew, she pressed her belly and thighs tighter still to him to stop his prick from slipping out of her. ‘So you must go, Patrick, please, before anyone sees you and makes trouble for us.’

  For the last time he tried to speak, and she lifted her mouth to his once more, sad at the lack of understanding she could see and feel from him. She jammed her pelvis against him, squeezed him between her lifted thighs. Their breath mingled as she whispered heavily, ‘But before you go – while you’re still in me, Patrick, my love ... fuck me one more time, will you? And this time, let’s do it slowly. I want it to last, so I’ll never forget it – or you, my darling!’

  She began to move very slowly, undulating her body, setting the rhythm, and thankfully felt the immediate throbbing response, heard his soft gasp, as he took up the pace of this new coupling, striving to match the slowness, and the restraint she had initiated, and felt with satisfaction his sigh and shudder of response. She leant back, withdrawing her head and breasts slightly, creating a cooling gap while their lower bodies and twined lower limbs remained fastened together. ‘God! That is magnificent!’ she groaned, while he stared at the exotic and weirdly arousing spectacle of that white shaven head rolling back and forth on the crumpled small pillow.

  It was indeed a leisurely intercourse, and Odhiambo’s cock behaved magnificently. Jan became lost entirely in its splendour, dreamed of it going on to infinity and beyond, and content for it to do so. But, like all good things, it came to an end, the inevitable need and hunger for more and more took charge. Odhiambo began to thrust faster, deeper, until there was no further to go, and he rode furiously, they both did, on and on, clashing together, like champions going for the line, and they crossed it in magnificent style, he perhaps technically the winner by a short head, but wonderfully riding on with her after his thundering climax until she too came with that shattering trail of sun and starbursts, after which their bodies subsided, weltered in a pool of sweat and sexual juices and came again to reality and the oozing parting of the ways.

  Which literally took place quite an interval later, with Jan so untypically wrapped in a silk dressing gown surreptitiously borrowed from her mistress’s wardrobe and Patrick back in his smart school uniform, freshly showered and scented, his head still dizzy with the altogether more pungent fragrance of his lover’s musk. He was stunned to silence, kissed her one last time in the shade of the veranda before he crept away, still unseen they hoped, and a naked Marty let out a huge sigh of fervent relief, while his cute little sphincter at long last was released from its puckered, prissy tightness of anxiety.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE POLICE CHIEF OF the South-West Province, where Kengui was one of the largest townships, was, like most of the senior and mid-ranking officers in the military and police forces, a northerner. He was atypical of the area’s inhabitants in the comparative darkness of his complexion, his height, and the girth of his stomach when compared with the slighter, lighter brown shade of the native cattlemen and subsistence farmers of the region. He was of course a member of Kengui Sports Club, whose African and Asian members had for many years now outnumbered the dwindling ranks of European expatriates. The relationship between the differing ethnic groups had long since mellowed during the 40 years or more of independence, witness the relaxed atmosphere and mixed skin colours always to be found in the bar and at the numerous functions held by the club. Commandant Onama was quite happy to chat affably and share a few beers with Ant Van Reis and the good-looking mzunguwoman he had taken from her husband, and to enjoy, in their absence, like many others, a lecherous chuckle over the widespread scandalous rumour that the cuckolded fellow, along with another European girl deserted by her old man, lived under the same roof as the lovers. It had been hot gossip for quite a while, but that was months ago and had long been replaced by other scandals. Besides, Ant and his floozy were no longer habitués of the club, though they still attended the formal dances and special sporting events.

  Onama quite liked Van Reis. Unlike many of the other mzungus, he was a man’s man – liked to get out in the bush, to hunt. Of course, as he would often tell you, he was a “bleddy mtu” himself – “born and bred in Africa”, even if he wasone of those red-necked Dutchmen. So the police commandant was quite dismissive when one of his constables informed him that they were being pestered at the front desk by some man with a complaint about Van Reis, accusing him of keeping people captive out at his place in the bush. ‘It’s some schoolboy, sir. He refuses to go away, says he must talk to you. Says these people are whites. They are being held as slaves.’

  The commandant was about to order his man to drive the kid out of the station compound or throw him in a cell for making a nuisance of himself, but then the constable told him the name. ‘Patrick Odhiambo, sir. Says he mustspeak to you.’

  So the lad was a northerner. There were more and more of them moving down south, to take up places in secondary schools – and a damned good thing too. The more the better. And the scurrilous rumours concerning the Van Reis household tickled Onama’s prurient imagination. Maybe it would offer an excuse for him to ride out and take a look at the stock farm. Maybe he could stir up this little hornets’ nest of vice. Memsa’ab Clio Dixon was a tasty piece of white meat. He’d danced with her a few times. Wouldn’t mind getting to grips with her in a more private setting. ‘All right. I’ll see him. Send him in in a few minutes.’ He settled himself down in his comfortable, imposing chair. He felt his crotch tighten and swell against the khaki cloth of his smart trousers, and dropped his large hand to massage himself titillatingly while he waited for his visitor.

  What Patrick Odhiambo had to tell him stirred his senses even further. Patrick had gone back to his school after his re-encounter with Janet Thoroughgood in a confused and highly emotional state, veering from delirious joy to blank despair via sheer incredulity. Had he dreamt the whole thing? But no! His senses and his body remembered too faithfully the details of their sexual union to be the stuff of dreams. The only madness had been real enough, and that had been the crazy insistence of Janet and her companion that they were there of their own free will, voluntary captives, naked and shaven-headed, living in a cell off the kitchen.

  He had left them because of her vehement, almost hysterical pleading for him to go, and also because he was in such a state of blissful semi-trance at the wonder of having made jig-a-jigwith the beautiful woman he had loved and missed for months now. She had forced him to agree that they could not meet again, that that one wonderful experience must be the one and only time they could ever have. And for days since his return to school he had struggled to keep his word, at first filled with resolve to obey her wish. But not only could he not forget her. He could not control his desperate sexual hunger, or turn his memory and his body from his addiction. Day and night his blood raged, his prick stiffened, his balls ached with want. Whenever he could he kept himself aloof from his fellow pupils, sought relief in feverish self-abuse, which eased that drumming physical hunger but left him desolate with despair and disgust. Eventually he convinced himself that she had somehow been bewitched. It was possible! Drugs, or even some other way of controlling her mind and her willpower had enslaved her. Her pathetic partner, too, though Patrick had no time for thought of Marty’s fate. Janet was all that mattered. Still he fought
for several more days against his instincts, before he finally caved in, and left the school before dawn to head into Kengui, and the police headquarters there.

  ‘They are kept there naked. They live in what is really a food store, a tiny place off the kitchen, worse than the servants’ quarters. They are slaves to the bwanaand memsa’ab. I tried to make them leave with me, but they would not. She said they did not want to, but I could see she was too afraid. It is like they have put some spell upon them. Please, Commandant! You have to save them.’

  Onama could feel his penis engorging, pressing against the restriction of his underpants and uniform trousers until he felt it necessary to stay seated behind his imposing desk. His imagination was filled with the images of the pretty mzungugirl. As a leading citizen and club committee member, he had gone along to see the play put on at the club, in which Jan Thoroughgood had played a leading role. She was hot stuff all right, in that skinny, understated European way, with scarcely any tits or ass, but somehow incredibly sexy, in that loose, randy way all the young white women had. Probably just a case of forbidden fruit, other pastures etcetera – something different. After all, most mzungumen couldn’t wait to get their dicks into some black pussy as soon as they got out here. And why shouldn’t their women feel the same about the male equivalent? Clearly this Odhiambo lad had dipped his wick into his ex-schoolmarm’s inkwell, even though he wouldn’t admit as much.

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ he told Odhiambo, ‘but we’ll have to be discreet. You get back to school, leave things to me. I’ll go out and take a look. If anything comes of it, you’ll be called in as a witness. But keep your mouth shut meanwhile, OK? Don’t breathe a word. It could cause one hell of an uproar if there’s nothing to it.’ He silenced the beginnings of Patrick’s indignant protest with all the weight of his authority and seniority. ‘These white girls like their sex very spiced up. They’re not village girls, eh?’