Dance of the Ravishers

I was awakened, lying on my side, my body encased by that of Mustafa's, by the song of a Siva's warbler. It was still pitch dark, but the sounds from outside my tent warned me that it wouldn't be dark all that long and Mustafa needed to get back to his own tent before anyone else in the camp stirred. Mustafa felt me move, and his cock stirred to life inside my ass canal. He kissed me on the neck and started to stroke my inner thighs with his searching fingers.

"No, not again, Mustafa," I whispered to him. "We don't have time. You need to get back to your tent before the others waken. If Dr. Emory finds out about us, he'll send us both away, and neither of us can afford not to be on this tomb dig at the Sulb Temple."

Mustafa grunted his disappointment, but he knew I was right. he pulled himself away from me, gave me a gentle, tantalizing kiss on the lips, enveloped his beautiful, lithe body in a black caftan, and slipped through the gauze curtains at my tent doorway. I rose and walked over to my wash basin and scrubbed the night of very pleasant sex from my body. I should be tired from the lack of sleep, but this archaeology project on Sudan's Jabel Abyad Plateau on the side of the upper Nile was so fascinating that I could hardly wait to get out to the dig. We were slowly, but surely, excavating the entrance to the first ancient Egyptian tomb that had been located in this area for decades.

Mustafa and Clint Winston were already at the tomb, working painstakingly with their whisks and spoons when Dr. Emory and I arrived. The morning sun was baking the sandy earth around us, but Mustafa looked cool in his white cotton caftan. Clint was stripped to the waist, and I stripped down for work myself as Dr. Emory set up his books and files under the shade of a canvas tarp. It would take weeks for us to uncover the entrance of the tomb with our whisks and spoons, but every spoonful of earth was being examined for whatever treasure it might contain.

After a half hour of intense work under the beating sun, I stood and turned toward the canteens we were storing in a cooler and took several deep swigs of water. My gaze went over to the twisted shape of a baobab tree nearby and I was surprised to see a tall, heavily muscled African standing there in the partial shade of the tree. He must have been nearly seven feet tall. He had both hands wrapped around a sturdy stake nearly as tall as he was with the stubs of branches coming out of it at various angles, and he had one foot raised onto one of these stubs, near the base of the stake, resting his weight on that. He was wearing only a loin cloth and had an animal skin pouch slung at his side. And he was magnificent. My butt twitched and my cock lurched when I realized who it was.

It was the Bull of the Mitsagusi tribe. Two weeks previously, the nine twenty-something youths of the Mitsagusi tribe, led by the Bull, named because of his superior physical endowments, had invited the men from the archaeology camp to view their annual fertility dance. The ritual dance had included a series of male-on-male sexual release simulations, which the tribe had performed for real in the dark of the night that followed on both Mustafa and me—and perhaps on Clint Winston as well—separately in our tents. I had no idea what either Mustafa or Clint had thought about this, but I was a group banger from way back and had thoroughly enjoyed the ravishing. And I had particularly found fulfilling that huge, black cock of the Bull churning inside me. When I had awakened the next morning, the Mitsagusi camp, and the tribe along with it, had disappeared.

"Isn't that. . .?

"Yes, yes it is," Mustafa muttered under his breath.

"How long has he been there?" I asked.

"Since before I arrived," Mustafa said. "Clint is just about going crazy from fear and anticipation over his reappearance."

I went back to work, and every time I looked up, the Bull was still there, patiently standing, from time to time redistributing his weight on the stake. The baobab tree must have accorded him some partial shade, but he continued to look cool and collected despite the beating sun, which was turning Clint and me into a dark brown leather.

Near noon, Dr. Emory snapped his binder shut and announced that we should take a lunch break. Clint went over to a water bucked and sluiced his now-sandy torso down with ladles of water and turned toward me with a questioning eye.

"I'm not really hungry," I said. I brought a book, and I think I'll go over to those acacia trees by the Nile and do some reading."

"Well, make sure you get into some shade," Dr. Emory said. "It's hotter than usual today. I think we will suspend our work here until later in the afternoon, when the sun isn't as high. We'll see you then."

The three walked off. I had begged off lunch because of the Bull. I wanted to know why he was standing there. If he had returned for one of us, I wanted to know if it was me he sought.

I sluiced my torso off with the cool water from the bucket and was putting my arms through the sleeves of my shirt when I looked up and saw that the Bull had changed position. He now was standing straight and tall, the stake having been dropped to the ground, and he was holding out a hand toward me, beckoning me to him.

It was me he had returned for. My cock began to stir and my balls ached. I had thought that it had been more than a ritual when he had fucked me so long and hard in my tent two weeks previously before turning me over to service his eight hot compatriots in turn. I rejoiced at the thought that he would have returned, I hoped to ravish me again.

I walked to him and put my hand in his, and he led me over to the bank of the Nile to a hidden little recess inside a rock formation that was covered in the dappled shade of whispering acacia trees. Beyond them, right on the eastern bank of the Nile, taller date palms swayed gently in the faint breeze filtering down the river.

He turned me and we stood, facing each other, very close, but not touching. He was nearly a foot taller than I was, but he lowered his face to mine and brought our foreheads and the tips of our noses together. His eyes were looking deeply into mine.

I instinctive knew that we would not kiss, that this was not the Mitsagusi's way, but he smiled and fanned the palms of his enormous hands around my hips and on my butt cheeks as I slowly slid my hands down his magnificent chest and belly and around to his hips. I found ties here to the belt holding his loin cloth up and unfastened them and let the cloth fall to the ground. My hands went for his cock. It took both of them to come anywhere close to encasing his length, and my fingers barely touched when wrapped around the thickness. He wasn't called the Bull for nothing.

I slowly came down to my knees before him and started tonguing the head of his cock. I had both hands wrapped around his cock from the root, one starting where the other ended, but there was still a good four or five inches uncovered for me to work into my mouth. After about ten minutes of this, the Bull grunted and raised me back to my feet with strong hands under my elbows. I didn't need a translator to tell me that he was ready to fuck. I could see it in his eyes.

I doubted that the Mitsagusi were much for preliminaries in these matters, and the Bull proved that assumption to be correct. He stood back from me then, sliding his blunderbuss of a dick from my grasp. He opened the pouch at his side, extracted a large pulpy-looking piece of golden fruit that I couldn't identify. He then casually pushed his cock into it, and stroked back and forth. He was fucking the fruit.

I naturally thought this a bit strange until I remembered that gold-flecked greasing substance that the Mitsagusi youths had smeared on their cocks for the Dance of the Ravishers. Dr. Emory had said it had come from the fruit of the local agwallah bush, the magic pulp that kept the member hard, both the member and the canal well lubricated, and the experience practically pain free for the owner of the canal.

Wonderful, I thought. Get lots of that smeared on your cock, Bull, old boy.

While the bull poked his fruit, I undressed, so that, when he came to me, I was as naked as he was.

And he came to me swiftly and with little ceremony. He pushed me gently back on a smooth rock outcropping, spread my thighs with his beefy hands, and put his forehead and nose up against mine again. His hands cupped my buttocks and rolled my pelvis up to him, and his eyes possessed mine as he slowly entered my ass with that huge, pulp-lubricated and medicating cock of his. He took it slowly, correctly gauging from my eyes when I was on the edge of unbearable pain, and pausing until my eyes had cleared, but there was never a question in my mind that he was going to back off from this. It didn't take all that long to get past the first five inches of my ass canal, and then the fantasy of his big, black cock in me and the wonders of the agwallah pulp took charge, and my undulating ass canal pulled him in for the long, stretching journey to the center of me. From a feel for the depths my other lovers had mined, I gauged that his dick must be more than a foot long and thick as a baseball bat. I was in love—and if not exactly in love, at least in hot, hot lust.

When I felt his hairless pubes rubbing against my inner thighs, he began to pump me. And to pump me and to pump me and to pump me. The agwallah pulp was doing both its endurance and lubrication tricks very nicely. I would have like to have wrapped my legs around the small of his back, but I somehow suspected that the entwining of bodies was something not taken lightly with the Mitsagusi. The Bull had gotten around to encasing my body with his when he had ravished me after the ritual dance, but even then I thought this had been a particularly intense choice that was up to the warrior fucker to make. So, I just kept my legs spread. They began to ache after about twenty minutes of being pumped in this position, though.

The Bull must have seen this discomfort in my eyes, because he pulled out of me and turned me around, belly to rock, and reentered me from behind and pumped me for another eternity. He came deep inside me, and I thought we were finished, but the agwallah pulp had kept him hard, and after only a few minutes of rest, he resumed pumping me. We must have reached a new plateau of meaning in this fuck for him then, because he encased my legs closely between his, tightening my ass channel when it seemed already stretched to the limit and incapable of being tightened. In the first real intimacy I had felt from him, he played with my nipples with one hand and slid the other one down between my belly and the rock and stroked my cock and pulled on my balls until I ejaculated. And then he encased my torso with his. He had his elbows and forearms holding my arms close to my side, and his chin hooked on my shoulder.

He began a frenzied writhing on top of me that rubbed my nipples and belly and cock head on the smooth rock, gyrated his own big, hard nipples around on my back, and churned his cock inside me. He was chanting in whatever language the Mitsagusi chant in and seemed possessed. A good ten minutes later, the Bull came in a flood of cum—spasm after spasm, that left me gasping for air and doing a little bit of chanting myself.

There was no afterglow. He pulled out of me and retied his loin cloth, which was no small feat, since he was still hard as a rock, and walked off, disappearing through the shimmering leaves of the acacia trees.

I know he enjoyed himself, because he visited me again nearly every two weeks for the remainder of our season working on the tomb. And I always welcomed him with open arms and open asshole, and with melting thoughts of that big, black cock churning inside me.