by Nicole Dere
Patrick knew he could do no more. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He fled, glad to escape without being flung in a cell to cool off, or, worse, receiving a fierce beating for his temerity.
Onama was once again sitting behind his desk, once again feeling the mighty tightening swell of his cock and balls against the restraint of his clothing, as he stared at the neat, demure figure sitting opposite. Mrs Janet Thoroughgood crossed her legs, and Onama watched the crisp white linen of the short dress ride a little further up the shapely limbs, revealing more of the flesh whose paleness was virtually unmarked by the African sun. He stared, too, at the vividly dark red of the toenails daintily on show through the open sandals. So delicate those toes, and the narrow tiny foot, clearly a stranger to the constant contact with the hard earth, and the numerous devouring little bites of the sand fleas, the jiggas, which the hard-working local peasant women had to endure. Not exactly what you would expect from someone constantly kept a naked prisoner, even if she was confined to indoors. Nor would you expect such a captive to turn up in his office voluntarily, dressed enchantingly in that little white dress, through which he thought he could discern the faintest ghostly hint of the outline of a bra and pants – or was that merely his wishful lecherous thinking working overtime, causing his prick to strain so violently to escape the constraints of his own clothing that he dare not move from the shielding cover of his desk?
The only slightest hint of any shred of truth in Odhiambo’s fantastic story lay in the floppy-brimmed white sun hat she was wearing. It was the sort of unflattering headgear worn by members of both sexes on safari in the game parks, or on the beaches of distant Mombasa. It did her absolutely no favours, so at odds with the rest of her mouth-wateringly desirable appearance.
Onama had never been noted for his subtlety. It was not a quality appreciated in the police force. The favoured method of interrogating suspects or even witnesses was to make them stand on one leg during the usually lengthy duration of questioning, and when they inadvertently put their other foot down on the ground through loss of balance or sheer weariness to slap them hard enough to send them sprawling. So now, after staring disapprovingly at the ugly little hat, he said, ‘Take it off.’
Jan was relieved at the nod which indicated which garment he was referring to, but a flood of colour invaded her neck and features as she quickly obeyed. Clutching the hat tightly with her right hand, she raised her left and passed her palm lightly over the damp, shining surface of her skull. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve had some trouble – a skin infection. I’m afraid ...’
‘It also affects your partner? Mr Dixon , is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jan stared down at the crumpled piece of cloth in her lap. She felt the heat in her face, the burning tips of her ears, mercilessly on show since she had lost her hair, so long ago, it already seemed. She had been prepared for an ordeal, had felt almost sick enough to vomit when Ant had told her and Marty about the conversation he had had with the chief of police, in which Onama had mentioned the scandalous rumour circulating about the Van Reis household. ‘He wants to talk to you, in his office. On your own. You’d better do it. Clio or I will drop you in tomorrow.’
All last night she had lain awake. She and Marty had clung together. ‘You’ll have to tell Ant about Odhiambo,’ Marty urged. ‘It must have been him who’s been spreading it around, about us.’
‘No! Please, Marty! Promise you won’t tell them anything about Patrick. I’ll talk to the police chief. Convince him.’ The tears came once more. ‘But I couldn’t ... I don’t want them to know about Patrick. What happened ... please!’ She wriggled in close, twined her legs around his waist, thrust her belly close, and reached down between them, to take gentle hold of his limp, damp little prick in her fingers. She began to tease and stroke, to move the sensitive tip of his glans back and forth across the lips of her own sex until she felt him stir, and swell, and thicken under her expert stimulation. When, eventually, she knew the time was ripe, she gripped more tightly, thrust her vulva hard against him, trapping his penis between their clashing bellies without releasing him, until he gave a whimpering cry and she felt his thickening surge as his appendage reared up and discharged its semen over their loins.
Now she had a sinking feeling she knew what had to come next. It wasn’t only her hat she would have to remove for the police chief’s delectation. Ant had said as much when they were preparing her for this meeting. ‘You do whatever he wants. Whatever it takes. He could make big trouble for all of us. I don’t know who the hell has been talking.’ (He had had a blazing row with Clio about it, accusing her of loose lips on the subject of their two love-slaves. Jan had been terrified that he would find out about Odhiambo’s visit, but it had not been mentioned.) ‘If I thought it was Adamu or Muriamu I’d flay the hide off them, but I don’t think it is. Anyway, I’ve had a chat with Onama and told him you’d go down to town and see him yourself. Convince him. So! If he wants to shag you, girl, you drop your drawers and say yes bwana, OK?’
Clio had been much more sympathetic. She’d even made sure she bought a bra of the right size and matching bikini briefs to go with it. ‘If you wore one of mine we’d have to put a pair of socks in there to fill it out,’ she chuckled. But she wasn’t being bitchy. In fact she’d been especially gentle andloving the day before, in a steamy after-lunch session in the bedroom from which even Marty had been banned. Nevertheless, the message had been the same as Ant’s: if it’s necessary, let him have you, any which way he wants. And one look at the police chief’s piggy eyes boring through the thin stuff of her few garments put the matter beyond all doubt for Jan.
‘There’s been some very wicked things said about you, Mrs Thoroughgood – or can I call you Janet?’
It was scarcely a question, and she nodded, as she felt the tide of colour flood her features. A blush like a rose, the symbol of innocence and purity. My God! She must be a pretty good actress after all, she thought. Except she wasn’t acting. She might be a debauched erotic, and homoerotic, participant in the kinkiest four-way relationship either side of the equator, but she could still feel all the genuine embarrassment of a Victorian virgin bride discovering for the first time just what it was sticking out like a tent pole beneath her hubby’s pristine nightshirt. She continued to listen as he went on.
‘Now, I could do this officially. Keep you here, bring the others in for questioning, call witnesses, but ... Van Reis is a good friend. He assures me these rumours are all untrue, that you are there of your own free will ...’ Another pause, even more significant and causing another enchanting blush to suffuse her face. ‘And that whatever you get up to among yourselves is entirely to your liking. Do I need to say more, Janet?’
She shook her head, murmured faintly, ‘No, sir.’
‘Please! No need for that. My name is Samwel. OK?’
‘OK,’ she whispered helplessly. ‘Samwel.’
His big shining face lit up. ‘Good! There is just one thing that worries me. One of the rumours – the most alarming one, as far as I am concerned – is this story of beatings, that you and the other fellow are whipped. I can of course send for a doctor, and a nurse to be present – and a magistrate, of course. But ...’
His pause was once again significant, its meaning plain, and produced the third pretty blush. ‘You would like to examine me here, in private.’ His big face shone with anticipation and he nodded, too busy licking his lips to utter a word. Instead, he rose, turned quickly away from her, all too aware of the straining bulge at his crotch, and drew the curtains across the window, even though they were on the first floor of the station. Somehow this action made the room seem to shrink, and to grow much warmer. He sat behind his desk again. Still he did not speak but held out his right arm, its pale palm uppermost in a gesture of invitation, like a sultan summoning his favourite concubine to perform.
Which was pretty much how Jan felt as she stood nervously before him. Her body felt bathed in sweat, her face burning. She groped awkw
ardly behind her, between her shoulders, and realised, just as she had when she had put them on, how unused to wearing clothes she had become. She found the zip fastener, and drew it down its full length, which ended at her coccyx. She hunched forward slightly, shrugged the sleeveless dress down off her shoulders and arms. It clung about her hips. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts, which were cutely but decently concealed by the satin-strapped, lace-trimmed bra. Instead she helped the dress on its way with a push and a wiggle of her hips so that it fell in a clinging white band about her ankles, from which she stepped daintily clear.
Onama’s lips were parted, his breathing suspended. His hand rose once more, the great forefinger pointed downward, made a twirling motion, and Jan turned slowly, obediently, presenting her slender back view to his gaze, which she could feel sliding almost tactilely over her flesh, exposed except for the thin straps of the bra, and the few centimetres at the crack of her bottom covered by the briefs.
She turned again to face him, hot with shame, yes, but acknowledging that secret moist beat of excitement beneath the tiny silken triangle hiding her pudenda. I am the youthful Salome before Herod. She had to clear her dry throat before she could speak. ‘You see? No lash marks. No bruises, even.’
‘All of you! I don’t see allof you!’ he rumbled. Those narrow glittering eyes held her, and she nodded. Once again she reached behind her, and with that feminine contortionist’s skill, unhooked the bra and shrugged the cups clear of her breasts. Her thumbs slipped into the strip of material at her hips and she bent swiftly, with a little movement of her legs, and skilfully negotiated the passage of her briefs over her feet without removing her sandals. They were all she had on as she dropped her underwear on the chair on top of the dress and stood before him, resisting the urge to try to hide herself with her arms and hands. ‘I told you. I have nothing to hide. Everything that happens to me at Mr Van Reis’s happens because I want it to.’
He understood the import of her words but his eyes and his attention were chiefly drawn to that bare white spot where he would have expected to see the dark little triangle of her pubes. He nodded plainly towards it. ‘This skin infection you mentioned. Just what the hell was it? It affected you down there also?’
She had thought she was past the stage of blushing, but she discovered she was not. ‘No. It’s – I find it’s much more ... comfortable in this climate to ... to be bare. And my head–’ Her hand moved once more to smooth her skull again. ‘–I’m afraid I lied. It’s – I just wanted to see what it was like – what it would feel like. There was a girl – a singer – who had her head shaved. I thought it would be ... good. Different.’
He nodded distractedly. The vision of a white girl – a baldwhite girl – standing naked except for her shoes, in front of his desk, in his office, was becoming too powerful for him to handle. He had planned to take her somewhere private, maybe the Kengui Hotel, and book a room. But now he could not wait. To hell with it! He snapped on his phone. ‘I am not to be disturbed. On any account. Not even if war breaks out! Understand?’ He stood, moved round her and checked that the door was securely locked. He no longer cared whether she could notice the throbbing hard-on stretching his pants. ‘You know what I want now?’
She nodded, glanced round questioningly. There were two imitation leather armchairs and a low coffee table, but he nodded at the wide desk. ‘On there.’ She bent to slip off her sandals and he barked, ‘No! Leave them on! Come!’
The unyielding wooden surface felt cold and hard on her behind as she eased herself up onto its edge, then gingerly lowered her back onto the expanse which Onama had hastily cleared by the simple expedient of sweeping everything to the floor with his arm. Frantically he stumbled as he lifted first one foot then the other and flung off his highly polished shoes without bothering to untie the laces. He ripped savagely at the belt circling his jutting belly, clawed open his flies and thrust his uniform pants down. He kicked them free of his stockinged feet, and the voluminous striped boxer shorts followed a split-second later. He fought and tore his way out of his smart drill jacket and his shirt, before the last remnants of restraint failed him. The sole remaining garment about his upper body, the white sleeveless singlet, rode up above the rotundity of his stomach and clung like a brassiere about his substantial man-breasts, where he left it as he seized Jan’s raised legs and tucked them under his vast arms like the handles of a wheelbarrow. He launched himself in a blind stabbing frontal assault at the exposed bare vulva lifted for his penetration. The rounded helm of his large penis lunged like a bayonet towards the furrow of Jan’s cunt, and she reached down frantically between their clashing bellies, groped with blind but expert skill to seize his projectile-like cock and guided it to her narrow aperture. The lips parted with the miraculous ease of the Red Sea opening and swallowed the massive glans, more than halfway up the solid shaft, and she gasped, with fierce pain and intense pleasure.
It did not take long. They slammed together, with audible slapping eagerness, and bucked frenetically, his immense brown buttocks shaking and clenching, her slimmer ankles and feet waving either side of them until the white sandals flew free and her red-tipped toes wiggled and curled with savage ecstasy. Through her spinning, dissolving mind ran the shockingly indecent recognition of hitherto unknown pleasure at the feel of that huge dome of a belly hammering down on her and forcing her straining thighs so far apart. What joy to be fucked by such a truly fat man! Then thought spiralled away on the starburst whirl of coming, and coming, and feeling his manhood pumping and pumping away inside her.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘IT WAS HUH–HORRIBLE!’ Jan wept. Her tears wet Clio’s soft, warm breast, against which Jan’s cheek was resting as the taller figure mothered her gently to her bosom. They were both naked, sprawled on the disordered bed. Clio’s fragrant right boob was already damp from the excesses of their passionate loving, and the powerful slaking of that passion by Jan’s skilful tongue and searching expert fingers. ‘I could hardly walk afterwards. Well, you saw me, didn’t you? Hobbling from that bloody Jeep he sent me home in!’ She shuddered, nuzzled like an infant against Clio’s dark, still erect nipple.
Jan felt another stab of guilt at her crocodile tears, and her excellent acting, better than any she had managed during her brief career on the amateur stage. She was so good because she wanted to convince herselfas well as the others. Onama wasa fat pig, and he had ravaged his helpless victim completely mercilessly. And you fucking loved it, every shafting stroke, you little bitch! She hated that inner voice, even as she felt her still tender cunt spasm with lubricious memory at the savage joy she had felt lying across that hard desk, feeling that glorious barrel of a man round which she had wrapped her legs, the great slap of that girth against her own eager flesh and the explosive zenith to which they had soared together.
She hated to acknowledge what a total debauchee she had become these past months; the joy her flesh and her spirit took from the wild variety of sexual experiences she had known since her husband – sorry, ex-husband now, the legalities had all been completed, she was a divorcee – had discarded her. How abused and innocent she had felt when he had so brutally abandoned her. (Again her nice conscience pricked her with the vivid reminder of her face buried deep in Mags’s proffered cunt, and Dave pistoning solidly into her own uplifted pussy from behind, when she was still the legal marital partner of the innocent and unsuspecting Patrick). All right! Not perfect by any means, but now! Not only this divine decadence of lesbian loving with Clio, but screwing with the virile Ant, in yet another piggy-backing trio of fornication, then endless playing with poor sweet Marty, tossing and being tossed, or the female equivalent thereof. And more: mad-pash shagging with Odhiambo, and the all-too-solid flesh of the police chief. No one could accuse her of not being catholic in both the style and participants of her whoring. Except she wasn’t getting paid, unless you counted free board and lodging. But she was becoming one of the most versatile and dedicate
d amateurs around this neck of the woods, and that, uncomfortably, wasthe truth! Events were, however, being set in motion which were about to alter the situation drastically and permanently, for herself and for those most closely associated with her.
Commandant Onama had two most urgent problems pressing on his mind. The first was his eagerness to meet for a second time with the little bald white witch he had so furiously but briefly engaged with across his desk in the office. That could be arranged without too much difficulty. Ant Van Reis could scarcely refuse him a second turn, and as many others as he chose, at the delicious Jan Thoroughgood. And who knew where that might lead. Maybe between the legs of the delightful Clio Dixon too. Just now and then. He wouldn’t be too greedy. And again the Boer could hardly refuse. Otherwise he and his pack of tarts and his little queer could all end up in jail. Their kind of decadence might be accepted in England but not out here, in a law-abiding nation.
The first of the police chief’s problems was solved fairly swiftly, though Van Reis was somewhat reluctant, not to say truculent. And this time the rendezvous with Jan took place as the Commandant had wished: in the civilised surroundings of one of the Kengui Hotel’s best rooms, with crisp clean sheets on a double bed, and a shower room en suitewhose limited dimensions made their shared ablutions after their lengthy solace on the bed just as exciting as their previous couplings. Maybe even more so. The exotic spectacle of the slim pale figure, her little bottom fitting neatly into the more than adequate span of his widespread hands and her white legs lifted around his ample waist, with the narrow soles of her little feet jammed against the slippery white tiles, and the water streaming dazzlingly down the huge dusky bulk she clung to like a frenzied monkey, drove them both to startling new heights of desire and achievement.