African Safari Adventure

Author's Note

:

In the following 33,000 words of fiction, I will cross many taboos. There will be incest aplenty. There will be interracial sex. There will be non-consensual sex--written without any intent to make the act erotic. There will be sex of dubious consent, written in the same manner. There will be allusions to homosexuality and lesbianism. Marital infidelity will be a subplot. There will be mentions of anal sex. There will be a scene with group sex. There will be heterosexual sex and--if I achieve my aims--some erotic coupling with a strong emotional component. If you have a problem with any of those topics, I request that you move on and find a story that better suits your tastes. If you decide to take a chance on my novella, I hope you enjoy it.

My African Safari Adventure

Chapter 1: Beginning and Ending

I was born in Hyde Park, Chicago, in 1903. My parents were considered "eccentric" by most, though they preferred to call themselves "progressive." My father was a lawyer by education and training, and a naturalist by passion and avocation. My mother wrote and published many books--both fiction (mostly romances) and non-fiction (mostly travel memoirs). Between my parents' two incomes, we were quite well-off financially. We never lacked for anything, though we mostly kept any ostentatious displays of wealth to

objets d'art

we kept in our home, to be seen only by invited guests.

Before I was to be sent away to finishing school in Switzerland, my parents and I left Chicago for what turned out to be more than a year, to visit central Africa and "safari". This adventure took place in 1921 and 1922, when I was eighteen. In fact, I celebrated my nineteenth birthday whilst on safari. The fact that my parents took their young daughter with them into the darkest jungles of Africa and--not inconsequently--into some amount of danger might seem strange to outsiders, but never to me. That was just the way they were.

They always treated me as being entirely capable and self-sufficient, even when I was a child. I have to say that, in many ways, I was an adult at a young chronological age. I was well-read. I was acquainted with the classical arts, including both the

trivium

and

quadrivium.

I could play piano well enough, and some said I was a deft hand with a paintbrush--though of course I was nothing like the Impressionists, whom I adored. Father gave me a small painting by Camille Pissarro for my sixteenth birthday; I always treasured that painting even when we had to sell it during the Great Depression.

Physically, I had some of the curves of a woman, though I was of modest bust and slim hipped. My body was well suited for the times, as the Flappers were then, at the moment of my eighteenth birthday, coming into fashion. However, I did not bob my coppery red hair, instead letting it flow freely down below my shoulders at the advice of my mother. She told me that I should be proud of my body, even if my hair color was an unfortunate genetic prank. (Privately, I called my hair color "electrified carrot.") My eyes were celadon green and my complexion pale. I was tall, being over five feet, five inches in height when we left Chicago by train for the port of New York, where we would take a steamer to our first destination: the port of Luanda.

My father arranged the complex logistics of our adventure. We would be traveling by train, steamship, riverboat, raft, trails that might vaguely resemble roads and--primarily--by mule train, escorted by a score of porters who would take care of the day-to-day camp chores as well as act as our guides. The trip would cover many thousands of miles, including almost three thousand miles within the African continent itself. This was to be a daunting adventure!

Many people, I am told, consider safaris to be a means to an end--the end being hunting and killing the great animals who have inhabited the savannahs and jungles of Africa since before man was civilized. Such wanton killing was by no means in our plans: we were going to study the unique flora and fauna, observe the animals we encountered and--if we were lucky--take photographs that would become part of mother's next series of books. She already had a name for the next series:

Alice in Jungleland.

Yes, I am Alice. Mother was Kathryn and father was James. And Uncle Hubert was Hughie.

So far as I knew, Uncle Hughie wasn't in any sense my official blood relative. He was "Uncle Hughie" by virtue of the fact that he and my parents were inseparable. For as far back as I could remember, Uncle Hughie was an integral part of our family, going out to dinner with us, spending nights in our large home, smiling and laughing with my parents. He was my father's Best Man at the wedding; he paced along with James as they waited impatiently for my mother to finish giving birth to me. When I was born, Uncle Hughie was the first to offer my father a cigar--imported from Cuba, of course. Only the best cigars would do for Uncle Hughie. He worked not a whit, having access to a trust fund established for him by wealthy parents. Having no job gave him the ability to spend most of his days and nights with my family. He was welcomed without reservation.

When mother hosted a party to celebrate the publication of a new book, Uncle Hughie was there, drinking the best French champagne and hugging her with pride. When father hosted a party, Uncle Hughie was always the man who made the keynote speech, the one who played piano to entertain the other guests. He was such a part of our family that it was impossible to think we would safari without him joining us.

There you have our party: Kathryn, James, Hughie, and me. I was the lanky and awkward filly: too old to be a teen but too young to be a married woman of society. (That is what the Swiss finishing school was for.) Of course, our party included nineteen ebony-skinned porters and two experienced guides who also acted as translators, as well as fourteen draft mules to carry canvas tents, blankets, Kathryn's photographic equipment, James' journals, and all the comestibles and supplies our party might require for the nine or perhaps ten months we planned to be away.

I would depart Chicago a virginal filly; I would return fourteen months later as an experienced woman.

This is my story.

*****

The safari at first proceeded much along the lines James--my father--had laid out back in Chicago. Once arrived in Luanda, our goal was to depart the Territory of Angola as quickly as possible. The Portuguese recently finally but rather forcefully had occupied the Territory in response to the requirements of the 1884 Berlin Conference. The tenets of Portuguese occupation--which was based on forced native labor driving lucrative exports of rubber, ivory, and various agricultural products--were anathema to my progressive parents, and to me. Though slavery had been officially abolished nearly a hundred years before (in 1836), the sight of so many people forced to toil endlessly on behalf of their "colonizers" was heartbreaking.

Our main objective was to reach the recently formed country of Northern Rhodesia and continue to safari all the way to the famous Victoria Falls. Along the way, we expected to spend several weeks within the Kafue Game Reserve. According to our research, the Kafue Reserve was home to at least 100 different mammalian species, as well as to at least 50 reptile species and many hundreds of different avian species. We would camp in the Reserve for some time while James catalogued what we saw; Kathryn would take photographs using an experimental Leica 35mm camera that father had obtained directly from the German factory, as the company wished its new cameras to be tested in the field before entering production. Along with photographs of the Falls themselves, what we saw (and what my mother and father documented) at the Kafue Reserve was going to be the highlight of our trip.

The Zambezi River would take us back from the Falls towards Angola via hired riverboat, though we would have to struggle against its east-flowing currents. It was actually easier--and safer--to fight against the current of the Upper Zambezi than to risk the deadly river rapids below the Falls. According to our plans (as I understood them), we would exit the river somewhere in Angola, return to Luanda, and from there steam back to civilization. That was the plan, in broad outline.

It was to be a trip of nine or perhaps ten months' duration. When we returned to Chicago, I would prepare for Switzerland. Unfortunately, because of various exigencies that arose during our travels, the trip lasted more than a full year. When I returned to Chicago, I decided I had traveled sufficiently for a woman of my years. Departing my warm and secure home for Switzerland, and living away from my family at a European finishing school for several years, was simply out of the question. Instead of schooling in Switzerland, I got married to a lawyer, found work at the University of Chicago's Oriental Institute, and raised a son during the Great Depression. Subsequently, I divorced my alcoholic husband and joined the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I was 38 when I joined the military. Among other duties assigned to me during my service, I photographed various Army activities in Normandy, arriving in France just a few weeks after D-Day.

Eventually, I joined the newly created United States Air Force, where my background was put to use in photo-intelligence activities. I was promoted to officer rank. I enjoyed those years very much--so much that I was saddened to finally retire from the Air Force as a Major in 1963, after more than 20 years of military service in various roles. I so missed my role in intelligence activities that, when I was asked to join another civilian agency, I gratefully accepted. I supported that other agency in various capacities for more than another decade. During that time, I lived in McLean, Virginia with my third husband, whom I met while in civilian service. (He was 12 years my elder but by then I was not focused on the physical side of marriage.) Also during that time, I studied for, and received, a Doctorate in Experimental Psychology.

My son, Hunter, joined the Army at the same time I did. He never came home from the war.

But enough about how my story ends. You've read the beginning and you've read about the end. Now it's time to tell you the middle.

*******

Chapter 2: The Camp

A safari is a safari. It is a journey through dense jungle and dry savannah, following what trails exist or making trails where none might be found, continually searching for wonders that God and nature created while at the same time striving to avoid the myriad dangers God and nature also created. For an eighteen-year-old filly from Chicago, this new world was fascinating, completely engrossing. I was enraptured by the sights, the sounds, the smells. I suppose I may have gone a bit overboard in my appreciation for the ever-amazing scenery. After a few days on the trail, I was assigned my own, shall we say,

companion

to ensure that I didn't die whilst in the midst of enjoying everything around me.

Dumi was about my own age, more or less, the son of one of our two guide/interpreters. He was much taller than I was--already nearing six feet in height, with large, expressive eyes that radiated good will and laughter. Those eyes were set on prominent cheekbones that would be the envy of women everywhere. Dumi was as slender as a reed, with long, leanly muscled legs that carried him swiftly along the trail. Of course, his skin was as black as the darkest night, though that skin was smooth as silk and free from facial hair. Fortunately, his father taught him some rudimentary English, so we could converse after a fashion.

Dumi and I walked together on the trail, placed in the train somewhere between my parents and the pack mules. His job was to guard me from danger, and he took that job very seriously.

"No, Alice," was his favorite phrase, said with a lilt in his voice I found impossible to ignore.

"No, Alice--don't go there."

"No, Alice, stay away from that tree. Snakes."

"No, Alice, hippo in that water. Danger."

Frankly, we had a one-way conversation most of the time. I didn't have much to say to him in return to his warnings. I mostly nodded or smiled, or rolled my eyes at what I perceived to be his over-protectiveness. Then something on the trail would catch my attention, and Dumi's warnings would be forgotten.

At night, we made camp. Tents would be set up: one for my parents, one for me, one for Uncle Hughie. One for the two guides to share with Dumi. If the porters had tents of their own, I was not aware of them.

There was also a bathing tent. In this tent we had two canvas tubs, resting next to each other. We bathed every other day: the women (my mother and me) one night, followed by the men (my father and Uncle Hughie) on the next night. The porters heated water, provided soap and towels, and took care of the dirty water when we were through. When the tent wasn't used for bathing, the porters used it to see to our laundry needs. It was quite civilized, I suppose, for the darkest African jungle. In any case, use of the bathing tent kept our bodies clean and relatively odor free.

The same could not be said for our porters, obviously. At first their body odor was nauseating, then it became a distraction. Eventually--after a week or two on the trail--I found I no longer noticed their bodies' smells. I had come to accept the smell, just as I came to accept other bodily functions. Must I explain there were no privies in the African jungle? One did what one had to do, and witnesses be damned.

It was all a part of the safari experience.

When I first saw a man's penis, I stared. It was long and dark, and the man (one of our guides) seemed to have a lake inside him, for that was how long he spent making water against the side of a tree on the trail. As the weeks passed, I became used to the sight, as I became used to squatting myself and taking care of my own needs. There was something freeing, I think, in just letting one's body take care of its natural functions without hiding, without being ashamed.

Of course, we brought paper and ladies' sanitary napkins with us. We were not barbarians! We had paper and baths, and we changed our underclothes frequently. I must say, the natives stared at us when we changed clothes. They didn't just stare at mother or me; they stared at us all. Father explained that it was likely they had never seen skin as white as ours before this safari.

My pale skin darkened somewhat in the hot, humid, sun. My arms and legs grew tan. My face was protected by a large wide-brimmed hat, and so remained as pale as ever. My body, hidden underneath my clothes, remained pale as well. I understood then, as I understand now, that we were all something of a novelty for those who guided us, who tended to our needs, and who protected us from Africa's many dangers.

*****

The Kafue Game Reserve was every bit as picturesque as we had been led to believe. The destination was well worth the nearly five months of effort to reach. I believe my father had intended this part of the trip to take three months, or perhaps four at the outside. However, the trails were difficult and we Chicagoans were not accustomed to the pace; therefore, we arrived a bit later than planned.

We camped at Kafue for more than a month while father painstakingly cataloged what he saw and mother took photographs. Uncle Hughie, of course, lounged around the camp, smoking a cigar and sipping from a flask. When I asked him why he wasn't helping Kathryn or James, Hughie just laughed. "My forte is the piano," he smirked. It took me a moment to catch his pun; I rolled my eyes at him in response.

Hughie took another puff of his cigar and blew it out in a nice smoke ring. "No piano here, alas. Thus, I am indolent. Being indolent suits me; do you not think so, Alice?"

I laughed and nodded. Then I went to find Dumi so that we could make our own explorations.

Over time, we had made our own special game, Dumi and I. We would find a secluded place--a place Dumi pronounced safe--and I would disrobe for him. I would let him look at my pale body. Sometimes, if I were in a mood, I would let him touch me.

In return, Dumi would drop his breeches and let me inspect his manhood. Often, it would rise up and harden as I watched, as fascinated by this new phenomenon as I was by any other encountered during my African adventures. Dumi possessed a penis that was extraordinarily long, dark as ebony but with a lighter-colored head that shaded towards dark purple--a magenta or perhaps aubergine tone. It was hooded, as he was uncircumcised. He was beautiful.

Below his beautiful penis hung two large, soft, stones. They fascinated me; they were so uniquely male! I had nothing like them. I longed to cup them, hold them, explore them, learn everything about them.

Dumi and I liked to look at each other's bodies, naked in the hot African sun and, sometimes, we touched each other. Dumi had a fascination with my pale areolae and long pink nipples. Often, he would softly pinch them and roll them in his long fingers, causing within me the most delicious of sensations. In turn, I had a fascination with his hooded penis and what hung below. I would often stroke Dumi's penis to see how long and hard I could make it grow. I learned that, when it was fully erect, my two hands could not encompass its length; though I captured his hard shaft with both my hands, the now-revealed head of it was still free.

As I explored Africa, I also explored Dumi. And I let him explore me, as well. We both learned from each other.

*****

The Kafue camp became a sort of home for us all during the month we camped there. As time progressed, we developed a routine. I began to learn the names of the porters. I spent time with Dumi's father--Adwin--whose grin was infectious. Just being with the two of them always put me in a better mood. I felt we were all of us--including the porters--becoming a large, extended family of sorts.

One aspect of our camp I must relate is the sleeping arrangements. As I have written, James and Kathryn had their own tent--as befitted a married couple. Uncle Hughie had his tent, and I had mine. By the time we had reached Kafue, though, I realized that people didn't always spend the night in their assigned tents.

I believe I first noticed the varied sleeping arrangements when James spent the night in Uncle Hughie's tent, while Uncle Hughie spent the night with Kathryn. I thought it odd at the time, but did not remark upon it the next day. On another night, Kathryn spent the night in Uncle Hughie's tent, leaving the two men alone in the larger tent meant for a married couple.

The rotation of the sleeping arrangements continued. I decided there was some regularity to the pattern, a periodicity if you will, not unlike the rotations of the planets in the clear skies above us. Mother and father shared their tent together frequently but, about once every three or four nights, Uncle Hughie shared the tent with one or the other of them. I did not understand, at the time, what was causing the variance in tent partners.

Nor did I understand the sounds that emanated from the shared tent. Frequently, I heard grunts and gasps; often, I heard moans. At first, I thought someone in the tent must be in pain but, on close inspection the next morning after such nights, I noticed no grimaces or winces, as would be the case with muscle spasms or the like. Instead, I noticed only grins and laughter, and small, playful touches between the three of them.