“Kigali!” I shouted delightedly as a beaming black face emerged from a mud hut, “How the devil are you?”

“Mister Carstairs,” he replied, “Trust you to appear when the fighting is over.”

“Home office orders,” I explained, “Not allowed in war zones, but how the devil are you and what happened, I thought this was Boko Haram territory?”

“Ha, they have gone and will not return,” he said as a number of women started to emerge from the shadows, bare breasted women, some with long flowing skirts to their ankles but naked above the waist.

“But how can you be sure?” I asked quite pointedly.

“Oh I am sure, perhaps one day I shall show you,” he said, “But the Namingu Tribe is back in control again and the fighting is over, and our ladies can be beautiful again, instead of having to cover up all the time.”

“So I see,” I agreed.

“Has to be better than a Burka in this heat,” Miss Robinson opined from the rear of my Land Rover.

“Quiet,” I hissed but my de facto boss never was noted for tact.

“Ah, you have a woman Carstairs?” Kigali observed.

“Yes, my boss, Miss Emaline Robinson,” I said resignedly as I looked at my companion, with her severely cropped hair and tight battle dress blouse constraining her ample D cup breasts, you could say she was the very epitome of a dominant lesbian and in fact she had a petite girly female civil partner Edith back at HQ

“It is not allowed under Namingu law, sorry,” Kigali said “The male is always the boss, always, except in the house, you know this Carstairs.”

“I know Kigali but you try telling her,” I replied.

Miss Robinson bridled, she was not going to tolerate any man telling her what to do, no matter what colour.

“She is too old for you Carstairs, I will find you a nice Muslim girl,” Kigali promised, “Sweet, innocent, pure…”

“You male chauvanist pig!” Miss Robinson protested.

“All right, that’s enough,” I insisted.

She took offence at that, she was older than me admittedly, thirty seven perhaps, and she certainly was not taking orders from me, or from any black upstart.

“You have spirit, I like spirit, maybe you come to see me in the night?” Kigali suggested wickedly.

“Oh really!” Miss Robinson sighed.

“Sorry old chap, she bats for the other side,” I explained.

“She is Islamic, surely not?” he challenged.

“No, no she likes women,” I replied.

“Mr Carstairs my private life has nothing to do with you!” she insisted.

“She is unruly, like fish wife, you must make your woman show respect Carstairs.” Kigali insisted.

“No can do,” I said, “And she’s not my woman.”

“Well said Carstairs,” Miss Robinson replied, “Now can we please get on?”

“Er,” I said, “Yes well we just want to know who is in charge.”

“I am, Kigali, [email protected] all lower case,” Kigali replied to Miss Robinson’s amazement.

“And legal system?” I asked.

“Namingu,” he said.

“He makes it up as he goes along,” I explained.

“Very funny,” Miss Robinson retorted.

“No literally as chief he makes it up as he goes along,” I explained.

“Not quite, we have to have a tribal meeting to confirm changes but that is about it,” he grinned, “But we have much to talk about, will you join me for a glass of wine?”

“No, we must get on,” Miss Robinson insisted.

Kigali gestured to the slowly swelling crowd around us, “I did not ask you, I asked Mr Carstairs.” he insisted.

“Delighted old chap,” I replied, and I climbed out of the shade of the Land Rover into the oppressive heat of the African sun, “Lead on.”

“What about her?” Kigali asked.

“What about her?” I asked.

“She is bad example to women,” he explained.

“She is a pain in the ass,” I agreed.

“You,” Kigali ordered Miss Robinson, “Come here.”

“I shall do no such thing,” she replied.

Kigali gestured, as if from nowhere half a dozen tribesmen in Khaki uniforms with AK47 rifles and wickedly curved tribal knives appeared.

“Out!” Kigali insisted.

“Get out Emaline you are making a spectacle of your self,” I suggested.

For once she obeyed, “I do not like being spoken to in that manner!” she insisted as the men crowded around her and pushed her towards Kigali.

“You need to show respect,” Kigali insisted.

“You do Emaline, Kigali is god here,” I reminded her, “What about that drink?” I asked.

“She must show respect,” Kigali insisted, “Look at the way she dresses! dis respecting our laws.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Mis Robinson demanded.

“You dress like a man, you are a woman, dress like a woman!” he insisted, “Show your beauty!”

“I think he want’s to see your bosoms Emaline,” I suggested.

“Yes, it is the law, since Boko have gone all women must show their faces,” he grinned, “And their bosoms!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Miss Robinson protested, but Kigali squared up to her and smiled as he reached forward to undo a button on her blouse, she slapped his hand away as soon as he realised but in an instant six men grabbed her and pulled her hands to her side.

Kigali undid a further button and then gestured for a knife.

“It is unnatural for bosoms to be constrained,” he opined as he deftly cut each button from her blouse in turn leaving only the already undone top button attached, then he pulled the blouse wide open.

Miss Robinson stared helplessly as Kigali pulled her jacket over her shoulders and spread the blouse wide revealing her Khaki bra.

“Such magnificent breasts, they deserve to be free, free to touch, free to suck free to squeeze,” he explained and with a deft flick he first cut the over arm straps and them sliced through the centre between the cups.

Miss Robinson’s magnificent DD cup breasts spilled from the ruined bra cups.

She trembled with fury, “This is an outrage!” Emaline snapped, as she struggled making her breasts sway seductively “I shall report you!”

“Emaline,” I insisted, “Mr Kigali is the law, now please shut up!”

“Thank you Carstairs,” Kigali responded, and he gestured again.

Swiftly the men dragged Miss Robinson’s jacket and ruined blouse off her back and threw them to the ground at Kigali’s feet.

He reached down and rifled through her pockets, “Where are your condoms?” he asked, “Namingu warriors cannot fuck westerner whores without condoms!”

“Steady on old chap,” I insisted, “She’s hardly whore material?”

“Then why does she wear whores clothes?” he asked, “Sexy underwear calculated to turn mens heads?”

“I hardly think a wonderbra constitutes sexy,” I ventured but Kigali made a sign an suddenly Miss Robinson’s knee length skirt was raised to reveal a skimpy thong.

“Oh!” I replied, and Kigali stepped forward and deftly cut through the side of the thong allowing it to fall to the ground.

Miss Robinson shook with anger, “Now take off your boots,” Kigali insisted, “Women should be barefoot and pregnant, is that not how the saying goes?”

“Something like that,” I agreed.

“Take them off or we cut them off,” Kigali insisted, so as the men released their grip Miss Robinson reluctantly removed her khaki boots and stood bare breasted and barefoot.

“Now the pregnant part, shall you do the honours Carstairs?” Kigali enquired.

“Rather not old bean,” I said.

“Carstairs, for heavens sake!” Miss Robinson pleaded, as the men gripped her firmly once more, “do something.

“Sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t fancy you,” I apologised.

“No get me some condoms you idiot!” she insisted.

A pack of 24 Durex appeared as if by magic, “Now when you’re ready Carstairs?” Kigali insisted.

“More interested in the sweet young Muslim,” I opined.

“Ah yes,” Kigali agreed, “I know just the one!”

“Carstairs!” Miss Robinson pleaded, “They are going to rape me!”

“Rape is illegal,” Kigali reminded the men, “Remember there is a two dollar fine for raping a westerner!”

“Carstairs!” Miss Robinson pleaded but the men had already piled their rifles into a stack and were gathering round her.

We stopped to watch, they circled around her like Hyena hunting a Buffalo until one made a lunge and then another, she fell to the ground with a tribesman at each breast, grasping suckling sucking until her nipples were inches long and two other were able to drag her knees apart as a third teased her labia and clit with his thumb until it dissappeaerd within her slippery moist wetness.

“Ugghhh,” she gasped and then a further man was upon her, naked below the waist he knelt astride her and offered his enormous erection to her lips, she refused so he pinched her nose and when she gasped for breath he brutally rammed his cock deep inside her throat.

I looked up, a tribesman was filming with a tablet computer, “We have our own website,” Kigali said conversationally, “Pay per view, she should be popular.”

“About this Muslim?” I asked as another tribesman dropped his shorts and sank between Miss Robinson’s knees to spear her with a single lunge which sent his erection deep into her dry puckered unexcited cunt as she screamed in agony and distress.

“Just need one up the backside for the full set,” I opined as we looked on.

“Later,” Kigali insisted, as we watched the guy start to hum energetically, “They take it in turns, it is all very well orchestrated,” Kigali explained, “Almost like Sandhurst!”

“Really?” I queried, “How quaint.”

The two guys humped at her mouth and cunt in militarily correct synchronisation until someone blew a whistle and they all changed places, it was quite surreal.

There must have been a hundred people watching by now.
“Yes, I have a delightful young,” he said reverting once more to an English middle class sort of speech.

“Not too young Kigali, home office rules,” I reminded him.

“Eighteen,” he said, “Old by our standards, young by yours.”

“Excellent!” I said and he led me to a very large mud hut, so large that the structure was of steel beams and the inner walls made of concrete blocks.

Harsh neon lighting hurt my eyes even after the African sun and there gleaming at the far end were cages where sad eyed lighter skinned girls cowered as they tried to hide their nakedness.

“This one,” Kigali beamed as he reached a cage and gestured, “Is she not perfect?”

“Indeed,” I agreed as I looked into her hate filled eyes as she peered through the slit in the tent like Burka she wore.

“I thought you would like her Carstairs,” he confirmed, “So would you like to become a honorary Namingu Warrior?”

“Not really, two bloody weeks at training camp annually,” I complained.

“No honorary, you killed a Lion remember?” he reminded me.

“Bloody lucky I did the bloody thing was attacking my bearer,” I explained.

“So prove your manhood Carstairs,” he suggested, “Hold your end up.”

Now holding my end up was the least of my problems, any girl in a burka is exciting, mysterious, you assume she is beautiful and my end was definitely up, straining in my pants.

“Look if its all the same to you,” I replied limply.

“Good excellent!” he laughed, “Bring!” he ordered and he led me outside.

The whole damned village was watching Miss Robinson now at least a dozen Namingu warriors clustered around her still taking turns to fuck her twenty four strokes at a time, long enough to drive her wild not enough to make her cum, until Kigali made the sign.

In short order the tribesman fucking her mouth let fly swiftly followed by the one in her cunt, and then the whistle blew and they changed around and a second tribesman shoved his rock hard dick into her cum filled mouth as another eased his tool into her now cum lubricated cunt, again he pumped spunk almost immediately and it was all so evident that Miss Robinson had started to cum as well.

There was an old English pub bench in the village centre, two seats facing a table top all in one unit.

Kigali waited until all the warriors were sated and then ordered the girl brought.

Four of his prettiest wives escorted the girl, ably assisted by two warriors with spears and they made her stand before me while Kigali spouted some nonsense in local dialect, it must have been funny, he got a laugh.

“Your trousers Carstairs,” he ordered.

I felt a right prat as I dropped my Khaki shorts and Army issue underpants, fortunately my end held up, nine inches or so of solid pink and I stood there the epitome of Britishness, stiff upper lip and stiff cock even in the most extreme circumstances.

Next they pulled the girl to the bench, sat her on the table top and lifted her robe, unbelievably she wore denim jeans under it, but not for long, a razor sharp spear cut the outside of both legs and the belt loops and the denim fell to the ground.

The tribesman cut the sides from her white panties and they too fell away.

“Care to do the honours Carstairs?” KIgali asked.

“Delighted old chap,” I agreed as I gritted my teeth, the whole weight of expectation of my race weighed on my shoulders, would I succeed or would the Brits be humiliated again.

“In one smooth motion like a yard of ale,” Kigali reminded me.

The girl’s eyes were ablaze with hatred and fear, “Indeed, hold her,” I replied as I squared up to her.

“Ready,” I asked her as my cock nudged her pussy lips, she was terrified, pissing herself but thankfully damp.

I composed myself, Namingu tradition required a Warrior to claim a virgin with one swift motion, to sheath himself immediately and administer twenty four strokes without cumming.

“Go!” I said aloud as I thrust as hard as I could, it hurt like hell ramming my meat into an unwilling and only partly lubricated cunt, and instead of spearing her easily my thrust also lifted her from the bench. I strained to thrust against her but at least my cock was in her, and it started slipping even further in as her weight forced her down and forced my cock up inside her.

“NNnggg” she protested and I realised she must be gagged beneath the Burka, but for myself the pain was subsiding and she was moistening, and I hadn’t had a woman for nearly a week, so I was definitely going to make the most of it.

Pink candifloss crocodiles, the Church at Chalfont St Giles, its bloody odd what you think of while trying not to cum.

Kigali blew a whistle, twenty four strokes, time for another warrior, “Sod it,” I thought and then I decided they could all get stuffed and I would just ride her to a climax.

I shook my head and carried on humping.

A young girl stepped forward brandishing a knife, I was quite worried until she started hacking the girls remaining clothes off, first the Burka below the neck, a blue blouse and a black bra, releasing the girl’s tits, nice firm tits with long erect excited nipples which I grasped and kneaded and finally only the the face covering remained.

She stared through the slit in the fabric, her eyes dulled now, sad eyes defeated eyes, the hate turned to despair, it seemed such a same that the passion had gone, that she just stood and let me do what I wanted with her, just like a whore, except I was fucking her bareback.

I realised her nipples had hardened, that the look in her eye was confusion, she was excited against her will, and with that realisation I lost control and started to pump spunk as I reached my orgasm.

“Sorry old chap, carried away,” I explained.

“No problem,” Kigali said, “I can now pronounce you man and wife!”

“What?” I asked.

“You fucked more than twenty five times, so you are now married,” he said.

“Since when?” I asked, as i pulled my cock from the girl and wiped it on a piece of the girl’s ruined burka.

“I make the rules!” he laughed.

I turned to the girl, “John Carstairs, delighted to meet you,” I opined and I went to shake her hand..

”Oh, my apologies,” Kigali ntervened, ”You may kiss the bride.”

He gestured to a woman who ripped the remains of the burka from the girl’s head and dragged a wad of cloth from her mouth. “Fucking bitch!” the girl spat in fluent Lancashire.

”Good god she‘s English!” I exclaimed

“Sandra Oppenshaw, from Oldham,” Kigali explained, “No we don’t know what she was doing with Boko Haram but.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” the girl opined.

“Fuck you to death Carstairs, undoubtedly.” Kigali chuckled, “Actually you did us a favour.”

“I’ll kill the fucking lot of you,” Sandra insisted.

“But she’s beautiful,” I stammered.

“Fuck you,” she replied, “You’re dead all of you, as soon a they know I’m here.”

“Shut up you stupid slut or you’ll get yourself shot,” I explained but she was going nowhere, there were far too many girls and tribesmen just waiting to overwhelm her.

“Sign here,” Kigali suggested.

I stared, someone had printed a marriage certificate already for Kigali to sign.

“If you take her away I will pardon her,” Kigali explained, “You do understand don’t you?”

“Haven’t a clue old bean,” I said, “But she fucks quite nicely so maybe we can get a divorce in the morning?”

“You have got to be fucking joking,” the girl snapped, “Just get me out of here, you owe me that at least.”

“I owe you nothing,” I explained, “But kiss me and suck my cock hard again and maybe I will reconsider.”

“You must be fucking joking,” she sneered.

I slapped her face, she scowled in shocked silence.

“Well done Carstairs, let her see who’s boss,” Kigali exclaimed.
I held her head in my hands, brought my lips close, “Meet me half way,” I whispered and closed my lips on hers.

My tongue parted her lips and explored her mouth, “No!” she protested quietly but she let me explore further and my cock started to harden once more and then I eased her down onto her back on the dirt floor and eased her thighs apart and drove my cock deep in her now spunk lubricated womb.

She gasped, but it was the gasp of a tormented clit being caressed, and more mouth to mouth kissing silenced her completely, “It’s all right, just your first fuck, you’re confused.” I reassured her.

“I will kill you,” she promised, but I ground my pelvis against hers and her eyes widened.

“You like it really,” I observed, “Go on scream if you want to!”

“I hate you,” she insisted.

“Passion is good,” Kigali announced from somewhere behind me, “Love and hate two sides of one coin, I knew he would come so I saved you for him.”

“Quite a philosopher our Mr Kigali,” I explained, “Studied classics at Oxford, though he spent more time in the pubs than actually studying.”

She seemed stunned, “Kigali?”

“Oh yes,” I agreed, “A man of many talents,” and I started to cum again.

“Oh no,” Sandra gasped, “Stop!” but I could no more stop than fly to the moon, not that wanted to as I floated in ecstasy for a moment.

“So Carstairs, will you take her with you?” Kigali asked.

“Or the alternative?” I asked.

“She remains here, but the taboo has been broken, she is no longer a virgin, she can bear the tribe many lusty sons,” Kigali suggested, “Or we slit her throat, one or the other.”

She looked alarmed.

“Tell you what,” I said, “See what she looks like scrubbed up and I will give it some thought.”

“Excellent,” Kigali replied, “I shall have the men frighten the crocodiles away from the bathing pond!”

“Excellent,” I responded, “But first I have a filthy cock which needs a soft mouth to clean it.”

“Yes,” Kigali agreed, “It does not matter what they look like when they are sucking a filthy cock.”

“So forget washing her,” I suggested, “Do you know I think she will do very well Kigali, thank you very much!”

“Good, then you must join me for dinner,” Kigali insisted as one of his wives helped Sandra to kneel before me and showed her how to lick my cock clean.

It stirred again, stiffened as she licked it and quite unforgiveably a few last globs of spunk splattered her face and chin as she tried to clean it.

“I need a drink!” I insisted. I pulled my shorts on, combed my hair and wished Sandra a “Good evening,” and followed Kigali out of the door and back to the village centre where Miss Robinson was still entertaining the tribe.

I couldn’t quite believe my eyes.

Miss Robinson was standing by a tree, one tribesman leaned on the tree and quite obviously had his cock deep inside Miss Robinson’s ass, another had his cock deep in her pussy while a third hung from a tree branch and she was quite obviously sucking his cock.

But it was the collared Gorilla standing a few yards away held firmly by four burly tribesmen which really intrigued me, surely they didn’t intend?

To be continued.

“

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