Hunting black pussies

Kgosi had somehow found out that in 7 sleeps it would be my birthday.

And he had the best anniversary gift in mind a white man could ask for!

I still don't know how Kgosi found out about my birthday.

I had never told him. We had no shared calendar, no shared language beyond our hands and a couple dozen borrowed words. But one evening, sitting by the fire while his wives were grinding sorghum and the sun was bleeding out behind the kopjes, he held up seven fingers, pointed at me, at the sky, and at me again. Making the sleeping sign with both hands together against his tilted head.

Seven sleeps. He drew a line across his throat with a slow thumb, smiled, and clapped his hands together once.

I laughed and nodded. But it took another three nights before he explained what he actually meant, and by then he had already made his mind up for the both of us.

The offer came out in stages, over four separate fires, each time with more detail than the last. He knew a little village, two suns away. Two suns: two days of walking. Not a big place. Poor. Few cows. But plenty of young daughters.

He said "daughters" with his hands the way a man describes a good herd. He held up nine, ten fingers, opening and closing them again, meaning many.

The important part. His warriors—and here he named his two best by tapping his own chest twice, then two spots on the ground—would come with us. The rest would handle the village's own warriors. Kgosi drew a fist across his throat, quick, businesslike. He made a little open-handed gesture, like brushing flies off a table. Gone.

And after that, the young ones, the daughters, would be turned loose to run.

And anything I caught was mine.

He made the clean under across his crotch sign—the same one he'd used back home for the girls who had never been used—and he pointed at me and down at the ground and at me again. Mine to open. Mine to deflower. On my birthday.

I sat there with the fire popping and the smell of woodsmoke in my nose and thought, A white man could not ask for a better anniversary gift.

The one problem, which Kgosi spotted before I even said anything, was that I would be doing the journey on foot. And I was really not sure if I could keep up with his warriors.

He walked the route with me the next morning—two suns, he said again, holding up two fingers and dragging them across the horizon—and by the end of the first day, my calves were already complaining. He watched me try to keep pace with him for four kilometers and looked at me with an expression that was almost pity.

I must have looked worried, because he stopped dead, pointed a finger at me, held both hands out in front of him at chest height and rotated them left and right, like a man turning a steering wheel. He pointed at me again.

The jeep. Of course. The jeep.

I nearly kissed him. Relief went through me like a drink of cold water.

So that settled it. He and his two warriors would run the distance. I would drive, and we would meet them there. And in the meantime, I had seven sleeps to make myself fit enough not to embarrass myself when the running actually started.

For five mornings I walked. Long loops out past the cattle posts and back, past the tin shack of the Indian trader and the dry riverbed where the women washed clothes. I got up while the stars were still out and came back with dust in my teeth and my shirt black with sweat. I ate less meat. I drank more water. By the fifth evening I could jog the whole loop without stopping, and I felt a strange, stupid pride in it, like a boy training for a school race. I decided to give my muscles a day off on the sixth day.

On the seventh morning, my birthday, Kgosi turned up at the mansion before the sun had cleared the trees.

He had his two best warriors with him. Tall men, both of them, lean as whips, with ochre on their chests and short spears in their fists and hide shields slung on their backs. They looked at my house the way men look at a thing they don't need.

Kgosi shook my hand and, without a word, reached behind his hip and brought something out.

A skull.

Not a whole skull—a cleaned one, the top half of it, the jaw gone, boiled and scraped and brown as old leather, with two big teeth still stuck in it. The village headman's. He held it up at eye level for me to inspect, tapped the crown twice with his thumb, as if to say there he is, that one.

He was smiling from ear to ear.

I made the knife-across-the-throat sign at him and raised my eyebrows. The warriors?

He nodded once, slowly, and put the skull away. He made the same gesture again—the first across the throat—and held up four fingers, and six, and waggled his hand. Most of them. Enough of them.

We loaded up. The two warriors climbed in the back with their shields and spears and a goatskin of water, and Kgosi sat up front and pointed at the horizon like a man who owned it. Which, in fairness, he more or less did.

Four hours.

Four hours of red dust and thorn trees and the wheels grinding over ground that had never been graded, and by the end of it the sun was straight overhead and the air was thick as soup. Twice we had to stop for cattle. Once for a dead donkey. The warriors in the back didn't say a word the whole way, just sat with their knees up and their eyes half-closed, saving themselves.

Kgosi tapped the dashboard twice and made a flat patting motion with his palm. Stop.

I pulled the jeep in behind a thick stand of acacia and killed the engine, and the silence that came down was so total it was almost loud.

He turned to me and put a finger straight up against his closed mouth. He slid out, and we followed him, and he took us the last three hundred meters on foot, crouched low, moving through the grass with the warriors behind him making no more noise than a shadow.

We came out on the lip of a shallow valley.

Below us, in a clearing ringed with scrub, sat the village. Maybe twenty huts, round and thatched, a couple of kraals at the far end with no cattle in them. Smoke coming up from three fires. And walking around down there—nothing but women.

Young ones and old ones. Girls in short skin wraps and bead belts, some with nothing on the top half at all, all of them going about their business under the midday sun. Two women pounding grain. One with a baby on her hip. A cluster of five or six girls in their teens sitting in the shade of a hut, plaiting each other's hair and laughing at something.

Kgosi watched them for a long moment, and reached into his waistband and pulled out four short lengths of rope.

Coiled tight, greasy with animal fat, each one maybe a meter and a half long. He pressed them into my hand. He pointed at his own ankles, crossed his wrists, and made a tight little knot with two fingers.

The clean under sign—twice—and he pointed at the girls down below.

Tie the virgins.

He stuck both thumbs up and grinned at me, and he was gone.

We went down that slope like three stones rolling.

The old women heard us first. They always do. There was a shriek from somewhere near the grain mortars, and the whole village seemed to turn at once, and the grey-haired ones bolted—flat out, no hesitation, straight for the bush with their skirts in their fists and their mouths going. Smart. They'd seen this before.

The young ones froze.

That's the thing nobody tells you. The old women run and the young ones stop, and they stand there in the open with their big brown eyes wide and their arms half-raised, staring at the thing coming down the hill at them, unable to decide which way is away. It buys you the first ten seconds, and the first ten seconds are everything.

Kgosi and his warriors had fanned out wide, one left, one right, so the girls were being herded inward without knowing it, funnelled back into the middle of the huts. Somebody screamed a name. Another girl started laughing—that high, panicky laugh—and broke and ran, and once one ran, they all ran.

I picked my first.

Young. Short-cropped hair, skin the color of wet coffee, a wrap of hide around her hips and a belt of beads, and small firm tits swinging as she went. She saw me coming and turned and bolted, and she went straight into a hut—the nearest one, the one with the low doorway—because when you're scared, you go to the place that's yours, and she'd been born in that hut.

There was nowhere to go. One room, one door, and me filling it.

I heard her squeal when she realized. She backed up against the far wall with both hands flat on the mud and her heels scraping, and I came in low and got her around the waist and took her down onto the mat. She fought—properly fought, elbows and knees and a sharp little bite on my forearm that left teeth marks for a week—but she was maybe forty-five kilos, and I was twice that, and it was over in a moment.

The rope.

Kgosi had taught me the knot two nights before my birthday, sitting by the fire with a strip of leather, showing me over and over until I could do it with my eyes closed. It's a bastard of a thing: a slip loop that pulls tight under any kind of strain and locks against itself, so the more she kicks, the tighter it gets, and the only way to get it off is to cut it. He'd made me practice it eleven times and made me do it again in the dark.

I looped it around her ankles, pulled it snug, and gave it the sharp tug that seats it.

She stopped fighting almost immediately. She lay there on the mat with her chest heaving, ankles bound and crossed, looking up at me with her mouth open, and I could see the sweat running down the side of her neck.

I was out the door before she'd caught her breath.

The second one was smarter. She'd seen what happened to the first, and she'd run a different way—around the back of the huts, ducking between the walls, thinking she could slip out through the scrub on the far side. She nearly made it. I came round the corner at a sprint, and she was already past the last hut, so I had to go flat out, and she heard my boots and looked back over her shoulder at exactly the wrong moment and stumbled.

I got her by the arm just past the kraal fence. She spun and tried to pull free, and I pulled her in against my chest, and she came willingly enough after that, breathing hard, one hand pressed flat against my shirt like she was checking whether I was real.

Back to the first hut. The first girl was exactly where I'd left her—on the mat, ankles tied, sitting up now with her knees drawn to her chest, watching. The second one got the second rope, and I tied her down beside the first, and the two of them looked at each other and at me and at each other again and started talking fast in a language I didn't know, their bound feet knocking together on the mat.

I was out again.

Four more.

The third one ran straight through a fire—through the smoke, over the ashes, hopping and swearing—and I went after her through the same smoke and came out the other side coughing and half-blind and got a fistful of her bead belt.

The fourth climbed onto a grain mortar to get away from me, which was a mistake, because she had nowhere to go once she was up there, and I just stood underneath with my arms out until she jumped.

The fifth was the fastest of them all, and I had to work for her. Properly work. She took me right across the village twice, in and out of the huts, and at one point she got past Kgosi, and he let her, standing there with his arms crossed and a smile on his face, enjoying the show. She was laughing by the end. Laughing and crying at the same time. When I finally got her, I caught her from behind with both arms around her middle, and she went limp in my hands like a cat that has decided it's had enough and hung there while I got my breath back.

The sixth one I got at the edge of the village with a dive that took the skin off my knee and both of us into the dust, and she screamed the whole way back.

I'd used up my four ropes. When I came out of the hut with the fifth girl, one of Kgosi's warriors was standing there with another coil in his hand, and he threw it to me without being asked and shook his head slowly, like you're slower than you look.

By then the whole village had gone quiet.

The old women had drifted back in from the bush and were standing in a loose ring at the edge of the clearing with their arms folded, watching. Two of them were laughing. Kgosi and his warriors had gathered four more girls into the center of the clearing, sitting on the ground, ankles crossed, waiting, with a warrior standing over each group like a shepherd.

And there, in that one hut, were six of them. My six. Bound at the ankle, on the mat, in the half-dark, stacked in a row against the wall.

The first one had stopped looking frightened. She was watching me the way Kikuyu had watched me, back on that first night—that same confusion, that same dawning curiosity. Two of the others had their legs open a little, knees fallen apart, and the air in that hut smelled of sweat and dust and young cunts, and every one of them was breathing hard.

My cock had been hard since the top of the slope. It ached in my shorts. It had been hard while I chased them, hard while I wrestled them, hard while I tied them, and now it was painful, and there were six of them in there, and every single one of them was clean under.

Kgosi came and stood in the doorway behind me and looked past my shoulder at the row of them.

He made the clean under the sign one more time.

He held up six fingers, and he held up the skull of their headman, and he held up seven—my seven sleeps—and clapped his hands together once and laughed out loud.

Happy birthday, white man.

…

The first one was the one I'd caught in the hut. The one who'd bitten my arm.

She was sitting with her back against the wall, knees up, ankles crossed and bound, and she watched me come in without blinking. The other five watched too. Nobody spoke. Somewhere outside, one of the old women was still cackling about something, and a goat was complaining, and inside that hut it was so quiet you could hear all six of them breathing.

I picked her up under the arms and carried her to the middle of the floor. She was light. She didn't fight this time. She just hung there with her hands on my forearms and her eyes going everywhere at once.

Kgosi's warrior had already driven the four poles. Four short stakes, forearm thick, hammered into the dirt at the corners of an animal hide, one at each hand and one at each foot. The ropes were already looped to them.

I laid her down on the hide, spread her out, and tied her.

Left wrist. Right wrist. Left ankle. Right ankle. Each one snug but not cruel, and each one with that knot—the one that only tightens. When I pulled the last one taut, her whole body went rigid for a second, testing the ropes, and she understood that she was spread open on the ground in the shape of an X, that she couldn't close her legs, and that the thing between her legs was now public property.

That's when she started to cry.

Not loud. Not the screaming kind. Silent crying, the way a girl cries when she doesn't want anyone to see—tears running sideways down her temples into her hair, jaw clenched, breath coming in little hitches through her nose. Proud crying. She'd decided she wasn't going to give me the noise.

I took the raffia first. It was a short skirt of split palm fiber, dyed, tied at the hip with a twist of leather. I pulled the knot, and it came away in one piece, and I dropped it beside her. Underneath it was a hide wrap, soft and worn, and under that was nothing at all.

And there it was.

The girl was soaked.

Not a little damp. Soaked. The lips of her were dark and full and swollen and shining wet, and there was a thin slick thread of it running down the inside of her thigh to the hide beneath her, and she was so obviously, undeniably wet that there was no arguing with it. Her body had already made its decision, hours ago, somewhere between the running and the ropes. Her mouth was still saying no, and her cunt was saying, "Please."

Her crying changed quality when she felt me looking. She knew. She knew I could see it.

I ran one finger up the whole length of her slit, slowly, from the back right to the top, and her hips jumped off the hide, and she made a noise before she could stop it. A long, low, involuntary moan that she clearly hadn't authorized, because she immediately clamped her mouth shut and turned her face away.

I pushed the finger in.

She was tight. God, she was tight—the walls of her clamped onto one finger like a fist, hot and wet and working. I pushed in to the second knuckle, and she let out another moan, and this one she didn't manage to swallow, and one of the other girls on the far side of the hut said something, and they all laughed, softly, at her.

She said something back. Sharp. Defensive. And I crooked my finger inside her, and she stopped talking.

I got out of my shorts. My cock came out hard and heavy and already slick at the tip, and it swung up against my belly, and I knelt between those spread legs and looked at the two of them side by side—the pale white shaft and the dark wet slit—and took a second to just look at the contrast before I spoiled it.

I laid the head of it against her.

Just against. Not in. Flat along her lips, resting in the wet, and I moved it up and down a couple of times, coating it, and her whole body started to tremble. Her toes curled against the stakes. Her fingers closed on the ropes. Her breathing went short and fast, and her eyes were fixed on the thatch above her like a woman praying.

I pushed.

Her mouth opened. Slow at first, then wide. The head of it went in, and the ring of her stretched around it, and I heard the sound come up out of her chest—not a moan this time, something lower, something that had never been used before. I kept pushing. Millimetre by millimetre, letting her do the work of opening, and she was so tight that it was almost difficult, her walls gripping and squeezing and trying to push me back out.

Two inches in, and she cried out.

A real cry. Sharp, high, wounded. Her whole back arched off the hide, and her bound hands clawed at the air. I held still for a moment and pulled back slowly, and when I looked down there it was.

Red. Bright red, smeared all the way down the length of my white cock, mixed with her slick, a long streak of blood against the pale shaft like something spilled on a tablecloth.

A virgin. Clean under. Exactly as advertised.

The other five had craned their necks to see, and now they were all talking at once, fast and excited, and one of them was pointing at my cock and saying something that made two of the others gasp. The girl on the board was panting, cheeks wet, eyes on the roof, and there was a small, complicated, half-proud, half-terrified smile starting at the corner of her mouth.

I pushed back in. Deeper this time, and the second push was easier, and the third easier still. She was still hideously tight, but she was wet enough now that her own blood and her own slick were doing the work for both of us, and each push seated me a little further into her.

She writhed under me. Genuinely writhed—hips rolling, heels digging in against the ropes, stomach muscles jumping. It was pain, clearly. And it was also clearly not only pain, because on the fourth push she stopped fighting the stretch and started meeting it, tilting her pelvis up, and on the fifth she did something that made me nearly lose it: she opened her legs wider.

Wider. On her own, tied as she was, pushing her knees out against the ropes to give me more room, opening herself up so that the thickness of me could get where it was trying to go. Instinct. Pure animal instinct. Her body had just worked out what a cock is for, and it was making room.

She was becoming a woman, and she was doing it with a white man's cock buried in her, and she knew it.

I gave her one long steady shove and felt the last of it slide home, and now my balls were against her, and the head of me was pressed flat against the far wall of her, and I was all the way in, all of it, every inch, inside a girl who had been untouched two minutes earlier.

She made a sound that wasn't pain and wasn't pleasure—just amazement. Her eyes came off the roof and found mine for the first time, and she held there, mouth open, breathing hard, sweat running off her collarbones, and she said one word in her own language that I didn't understand but that I have never forgotten the sound of.

She said it again, quieter.

I didn't move. Not a stroke. I just stayed there, buried to the root, letting her feel the shape of it, letting her get used to being full. One minute. Two. Her breathing came back down. The clench of her around me eased and then—almost experimentally—tightened again, squeezing me and testing, and I felt her do it a third time on purpose.

The five of them were silent now, watching the way you watch something you know is about to happen to you.

I put my hands on her hips and started to fuck her.

# Chapter Four—Balls Deep

I started slow because I had to.

The first few strokes were barely strokes at all—long, dragging pulls out to just past the head, a slow shove back in until my balls touched her. Every time I came back down, those dark lips stretched around the pale shaft of me, gripping and clinging and turning almost inside-out, and every time I pulled back, the lips came with me, sucked out, reluctant, shining wet, and snapped back when I pushed in again.

White cock, black cunt. The contrast never stopped being obscene. That thick, pale thing splitting her open, the two colors rubbing against each other in the wet, my white hands clamped on her slender dark waist, my white thighs slapping against her black arse. It looked like something that shouldn't fit. It looked like something that had been designed for exactly this.

And she was tight. Even after the first minute, even wet as she was, every single stroke was work—her walls clamped down the whole length of me, hot and clutching, trying to keep me, and each time I bottomed out, the head of my cock bumped flat against the far wall of her, against that soft little teenage mouth of her womb, and every single time I did it, she made a noise.

Not crying any more.

Somewhere in the second minute the crying just stopped. It didn't fade—it stopped, like a tap being turned off, because something bigger had arrived and taken the space where the crying used to be. Her jaw unclenched. Her shoulders dropped back onto the hide. And her eyes, which had been screwed shut, opened and went glassy, and she started to feel it, properly, for the first time.

Lust came up through her like water rising in a well.

Her hips started moving. Not the panicky little wriggle from before—real movement now, rolling up to meet me on every downstroke, tilting to take me at the angle that suited her. Her heels pulled at the ropes, not fighting them any more, just using them for leverage so she could push herself onto my cock. Her bound hands curled and uncurled in the air. And her mouth—that proud little mouth that had refused to give me any noise—opened up and let it all out.

She moaned. Long, low, filthy moans, one on every stroke, rising in pitch when I hit deep and dropping when I pulled back, and she was not even slightly embarrassed about it any more.

Behind her, the other five were losing their minds.

They'd stopped talking. They were just staring, all six eyes... all ten eyes, wide open, faces half-lit in the light from the doorway, watching their friend get fucked into a state none of them had ever seen. And the sounds started coming out of her, and they couldn't make sense of it. One of them whispered a question. Another one shushed her. Two of them had their hands between their own legs without realizing it—one of them actually pushed a finger into herself while she watched, and the girl next to her noticed and gasped.

They'd been told what would happen to them. Nobody had told them it would sound like this.

Her first orgasm came out of nowhere.

One second she was rolling her hips and moaning in time with me, and the next her whole body seized—rigid from the ankles up, toes splayed, stomach muscles in knots, back lifting off the hide so hard that the ropes creaked. Her mouth opened wide and nothing came out for two full seconds, and she screamed. A long, ragged, unbelieving scream that filled the hut and went out through the doorway and across the whole village.

And she shook. Really shook—all over, teeth chattering, thighs juddering, the muscles of her cunt clamping onto me in hard rhythmic waves, milking and squeezing and trying to drag my seed out of me. Her eyes rolled up. Her fingers clawed at the ropes. She was making a noise that was almost a sob.

First orgasm of her life on a cock. On a white cock. From a girl who'd been told to lie on her back and be a good wife.

I didn't give her a break.

I kept going straight through it, fucking her right through the middle of her own orgasm while she was still shaking, and the tightness went through the roof—oversensitive, gripping, twitching, her cunt fighting me the whole way. She groaned and tried to close her legs and couldn't, because the stakes had them, so she just had to take it. Take every stroke on a pussy that was already finished and had no say in the matter.

She came again within a minute. Smaller than that time, a rolling aftershock ran through her in waves while she whimpered under me.

By now I was sweating properly. My shirt was long gone, my chest was dripping, my thighs were burning, and my balls were drawing up tight and hard against the base of my cock, so hard that every time I drove in, they slapped against her wet arsehole and she felt it. She felt them. Her head came up off the hide, and she looked down the length of her own body at me—at the white cock going in and out of her, at those heavy white balls swinging against her—and something clicked behind her eyes.

Her bound hands came up, and her fingers spread, and she pushed against my chest, not to stop me, just to touch, to feel the hair and the sweat and the weight of me, and she said a word over and over, fast, urgent, the same word, and I didn't know it, but I knew what it meant.

More. More. More.

I sped up.

Harder, faster, no more dragging pulls—short, sharp strokes now, right to the hilt every time, my whole weight behind them, the slap of my hips against her filling the hut like applause. Her tits bounced with every thrust. Her head rolled side to side on the hide. She was moaning constantly now, with no gaps, one long broken sound, and the five girls against the wall had gone completely silent and were watching their friend being taken apart with their mouths hanging open.

Then it hit me.

My balls went hard as stones, one last time, drawn up tight and locked, and the first load came up my shaft like a shot from a gun and blew out of me deep inside her. And she felt it. She felt the first hot jet land on that soft little wall at the end of her, and she made a sound I've never heard from another woman before or since.

Her second orgasm crashed into her on top of it.

Her whole body came off the hide. Bound ankles and all, she arched up under me and screamed, and inside her, her cunt went into overdrive—hard, deep, rolling contractions, wave after wave, dragging on my cock and pulling my seed out of me and pumping it back up towards her womb with those milking movements that Nature had built into her and that had never once been used before tonight.

And I kept coming. Load after load, holding myself buried to the root, the head of my cock pressed flat against her cervix, firing white into black, while her body shook and shook under me and her fingers dug into my chest hard enough to leave little crescents.

She was being knocked up. On her birthday... well, on mine. A white man's seed, deep in a Black girl's womb, on ground that had never known a white man's cock until that afternoon.

Her contractions slowly eased. Her body sank back down onto the hide. Her heels slid along the ropes and settled. Her hands dropped from my chest to the ground, palms up, utterly spent. Her eyes were open, fixed on the roof, wet lashes stuck together, mouth half open, breathing like she'd run here from my house.

She had that look. That same look Kikuyu had worn back at the village, the one that says I have just found out something about my own body and I am never going to be the same.

I stayed in her while it finished. When I finally pulled out slowly, the head of my cock came free with a wet little pop, and a thick rope of white slid out after it, running down over her dark lips, past her arsehole, and onto the hide. She didn't even move to look. She just lay there with her legs still spread, wide open, exactly as she'd been left, like a woman who had decided she was finished being shy for the rest of her life.

The five girls along the wall were staring at the mess between her legs with their mouths open.

One of them—the fastest one, the one who'd made me work for her—finally said something out loud.

Kgosi, standing in the doorway behind me the whole time with his arms crossed, answered her. He looked at me and made the clean under the sign and then tapped his wrist.

Five more to go!

To be continued.