Dr. Emory glowered silently at me all the next day while we were excavating around the tomb entrance at our ancient Egyptian burial site on the banks of the upper Nile in Sudan. And his precious young assistant, Clint Winston, couldn't seem to look at me at all. No doubt Clint had gone straight to the archaeological team head and had revealed that I had taken him repeatedly on the altar of the nearby Subl Temple the previous night, just as he had wanted me to do, and that we both then had been assaulted—quite pleasantly, I might add—by the youths of the local Mitsagusi tribe. It would have been a miracle if Emory hadn't heard the frenzied drums of the tribe as both Clint and I were being delightfully ravished—not for the first time—by this group of very capable Sudanese lads.
I knew Emory couldn't maintain control of himself for very long, that he was bound to explode in his famous wrath against any of his archaeology assistants who went off the beaten path during a dig. But even though I would very much regret being sent home, I would not trade the wonderful fuck fests I'd had with the Mitsagusi tribe's Bull and my fellow excavators, the Egyptian Mustafa and the young blond beauty, Clint.
The expected explosion came as we were finishing up dinner on camp stools under the stars that evening.
"Mr. Lafleur," Dr. Emory addressed me through clinched teeth. "I wish to see you in my tent at nine this evening. I trust that you can clear the schedule of your night's activities to consult with me."
Ignoring his innuendo, I told him that I certainly would attend to him at the appointed hour. I used the time between dinner and our meeting to begin packing. It didn't take a genius to read Dr. Emory's intentions. The old stuffed shirt was going to expel me from the excavation team—regretfully just when we were about ready to open the tomb.
When I had dressed in my cleanest khaki bush shorts and shirt, I stoically left my tent and walked slowly across the small compound to Dr. Emory's tent. I had hoped that either Mustafa or Clint would be in the common area to show support for my last walk, but the compound seemed deserted. When I announced myself at Emory's tent opening at nine and received permission to push the gauzy door curtain and come inside, I practically dropped my teeth.
Dr. Emory was sitting in a twig chair, in a dressing gown, which was open and folded back on each side. Other than the dressing gown, he was completely naked. He was in great shape for a sixty-year-old man, which could be expected from the rough, Spartan life he led on desert archaeological missions. He was lean and sinewy and leathery from decades in the beating sun, with good muscle structure and not an ounce of fat. The hair on his head was still a brownish red, with just a bit of graying at the temples. But his body hair, of which there was an abundance, was almost completely gray.
I would remark on his male equipment, something that was always a problematical topic for a sixty year old, but I couldn't see it. His prick was buried between the lips of his precious young blond assistant, Clint, who was completely naked and kneeling before his mentor, his face buried in Emory's lap and his head bobbing up and down rather vigorously. One of his hands was between Emory's legs, and I guessed that he was rolling and pulling on the old man's balls. Emory was holding the back of Clint's head in one of his strong hands, ensuring that Clint's face remained in his lap, servicing him.
But this wasn't my only shock. My Egyptian lover, Mustafa, was standing behind Emory's chair. He was wearing a white caftan that was completely open in front, revealing his beautiful, lithe, brown body, and his dick was being held to Dr. Emory's cheek by the good doctor's free hand. He was stroking his cheek with Mustafa's hard cock. Mustafa's eyes were slitted in obvious desire as he watched me walk into the tent, and he was running his moist tongue around his lips. He had an arm draped across Dr. Emory's shoulder, with his hand buried beneath the fold of Emory's dressing gown on his chest, no doubt doing some nipple play on the professor.
"Ah, Mr. Lafleur has arrived. Come in closer into the candlelight, son."
I dumbly stumbled to the center of the tent.
"But, professor. . . . Your reputation for this sort of thing . . ." I stammered.
"I cultivate my reputation quite assiduously, Mr. Lafleur. It keeps the investors happy, and I've never had one of my specially chosen assistants complain. All of my students seem to enjoy the extra tutoring."
"But I thought . . . I thought I was going to be sent away."
"Sent away?" Emory snorted. "Sent away before I'd done you? Think again, son. I was just about to get around to you. Surely you guessed. Look at the assistants at this camp. . . . And do you see a single woman here? I had assumed that you, of all my choices, would have guessed the score here."
