Dance of the Ravishers

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."

"Then you aren't mad at me?"

"Hell, yes, I'm mad at you. You are in danger of having the whole Sudanese establishment down on our heads, in danger of having us thrown out of this country just when we're about to open the tomb. You didn't think I'd heard the drums? You didn't think I'd come and seen you fucking young Clint here and then the Bull of Mitsagusi fucking you?"

"I don't understand," I stammered.

"You desecrated the Mitsagusis' temple last night by carrying our Clint here up to the altar inside the temple and fucking his brains out. What the Mitsagusi youths did to you was a cleansing ritual, and it was far better than you should have expected. They could have killed you both for what you were doing on their altar. I'm not entirely sure why they didn't do that."

"Oh," was all I could say. But I had some inkling why we hadn't been killed. The leader of the Mitsagusi youths, the one called the Bull because of his extraordinary equipment, had been my secret lover for nearly two months now, ever since he had fucked me as part of their fertility ritual dance. This explained both why he had taken me so brutally on the temple altar and then so lovingly later last night on my own cot. He had to punish me for desecrating his people's shrine, but he was too smitten with me to give me up.

"So, what shall we do with you, Mr. Lafleur?" Emory asked, his statement cutting through my musings. "Perhaps while I'm thinking, you would be so kind as to strip down for me right there in the candlelight," he continued. As I did so, both he and Mustafa watched my every move. Emory continued to rub Mustafa's cock against his cheek and occasionally gave its head a kiss. He raised a long, sinewy arm from Clint's head and reached behind him,

within the folds of Mustafa's caftan. I saw Mustafa twitch and raise up on the balls of his feet, and I very much thought that Emory had found his sweet asshole with a long, sensuous, searching finger.

"Very nice, Mr. Lafleur," Emory said when I had stripped down and stood proudly before him. "That's a very, very nice cock, Mr. Lafleur. I goes very well with the rest of you. I had hoped for this. That's why I was saving you for last this digging season. Could you stroke your cock for me, Mr. Lafleur? Could you show me what you look like in full service mode, please."

I did as he asked for several minutes until he commanded, "Enough! We mustn't hurry our pleasure here. Now, Lafleur, could you go over to my cot and lay down on your back, please. And, Clint, this is very invigorating, but could you transfer your soft lips to Mr. Lafleur's very noble prick, and perhaps Mr. Lafleur could do you the honor as well."

I went to the bed, and as Clint rose from in front of Emory and moved toward me, I almost gasped in awe. Old Man Emory was still very virile, very hard, and very long. He had what must be an eleven incher between his legs. What a perfect setup he had established here. He picked eager assistants he was sure would love an eleven-inch cock up their ass canals and took them out into the desert and porked them for months, with someone else paying the freight and everyone being the happier for it.

Clint positioned himself on top of me on all fours, his very experienced mouth servicing my cock and balls, while I was doing the same for him at the head of the cot.

"Loving tableau," Emory said. "Now, how can we enhance that? I know. Mustafa, my lovely, could you go over and wishbone Mr. Lafleur's legs and fuck him, please."

Mustafa was delighted to comply. It was nothing less than what he'd been doing to me nearly nightly for several weeks. I arched my back and gave Clint's cock a little extra loving, as Mustafa's cock entered me and slowly plowed up my canal. In no time, he was pumping me in a slow, steady rhythm, which Clint and I were trying to bring into harmony with our mouth work. I enjoyed Clint's unusual prick. He was quite small when in tumescence but grew significantly in thickness and length as his cock hardened. Having him come to life and change from a timid youth into a raging bull under my attentions was very pleasurable.

Mustafa went off rhythm, pushing back in unexpectedly at a point I thought he was stroking back and he gave a little cry and a grunt. I turned my head and peeked around Clint's elbow and saw that Mustafa's caftan was gone and Emory was now right behind Mustafa, his pelvis plastered to Mustafa's buttocks. Mustafa was arched back, trying to accommodate the long journey of Emory's cock up his ass channel. Emory had his hands on Mustafa's chest and his fingers were pinching Mustafa's nipples. Mustafa's head was thrown back and Emory was greedily working on Mustafa's mouth with searching lips.

Emory must have left playing with Mustafa's chest with one of his hands, because I felt fingers insinuate themselves around the base of my cock, the palm of a large, but thin hand spreading out on my lower belly. The fingers slowly worked their way up from the base of my prick, pushing Clint's tongue and lips back up to the tip of my cock head. Then, Emory's hand had full possession of my cock and Clint came back above me on his knees, arching his back and writhing as I vigorously gave him head. With a sharp cry, he jerked his cock out of my mouth and shot out over my stomach.

This was some sort of signal for Emory. "Leave us now, Clint and Mustafa. You may watch from the shadows, but I want to see for myself what sort of goods I've acquired in Mr. Lafleur now."

Mustafa pulled out of me, and Clint got off me, and both melted into the shadows, as Emory flipped me on my stomach and started stuffing that surprisingly big, hard sausage of his into my willing hole. I was holding my legs out wide and he had one hand in the small of my back and the other wrapped around the root of his dong, relentlessly screwing his way into me. He was saying far much nicer things about my body and the allure of my asshole than he'd ever said about my work, and I was a little pleased myself at this unexpectedly turn of events. He was entertaining my canal as he plowed into it, giving my prostate extra attention, and rubbing his bulbous cock head along my undulating ass walls. The thought amused me that he was a champion digger and excavator both at the dusting tomb mounds and in my moist and trembling ass.

I gasped and groaned as he closed his legs against mine, pushing my thighs together and tightening up my ass. He arched his sinewy body over my back and his hands slid up to my arm pits, where they swirled around in the hair of my pits, and then traveled around to my pecs and nipples, and, finally slid up my arms. Taking a strong hold of my wrists, he brought his heaving chest down to my shoulder blades. He moved his strong body around on mine, rotating his cock around my ass canal eleven inches into me. I sighed and moaned for him. I was feeling drowsy and would have liked this to go on forever, but he felt his climax coming on and lifted his chest back off me, planted the balls of his feet firmly in the African soil serving as the flooring of the tent, and pumped me in long, vigorous strokes until he came in a flood of semen inside me. The old man still had it in him, and he was giving it all to me. A shudder and a second and then a third spouting, and he was finished.

But he didn't leave me then. He pushed me back up onto the cot, and, coming up with me, he turned me on my side, my butt encased in his belly. He then signaled to Mustafa, who stretched out on the other side of me and raised my leg so that Emory could continue to give me full advantage of his eleven inches. Mustafa stroked my cock and he and Emory and I kissed until both Emory and I had cum again.

We were quiet there for the longest time, the three of us entwined. When I had sensed that Emory and Mustafa were breathing regularly, I slowly extracted myself from the pile and moved toward the tent opening.

"Did I say you could leave?" I heard Emory bellow, as he rose up off the cot with a cat-like move of a man a third his age. "Here, Mustafa and Clint. Take his arms and leg." And, with that, Emory pushed me down onto my shoulder blades on the African-soil floor of the tent floor and lifted my legs in the air, handing them off to Mustafa, who spread them out wide. Meanwhile, Clint had gotten hold of my wrists and pulled my arms out from my body, immobile. Emory was behind me, crouching over me, and I felt the head of his rejuvenated dick at my asshole. He proceeded to piledrive his cock down into me with long, deep strokes, all the time reminding me who was in charge and how I was to be more circumspect with my sexual activities from there on out and that I could leave his tent when he told me I could. He gave Mustafa a terse invitation, and then the two of them were belly to belly above me, kissing each other deeply, and I had two cocks inside me, working me in counter thrusts like pistons. Clint was crouching over my head now, and the third cock pushed its way into my mouth and pumped into me with frantic thrusts.

It was a good twenty minutes before Emory and team finished me and the good professor gave me permission to hobble out of his virile presence.

Later that night, while I dreamed a pleasant dream of being ravished by a host of cocks, I was awakened by a call of nature. On my way back to my tent, I heard noises coming from Dr. Emory's tent. There were grunts and groans in a low baritone, resonating voice that sounded quite familiar to me. I stealthily moved over to the doorway of the tent and pulled the gauze curtain back just enough to observe what was going on inside from a dark corner. I was shocked and angry and frustrated.

My proud, magnificent, seven-foot hunk of Sudanese lover, the Bull of the Mitsagusis, who had fucked me for weeks but who almost never had permitted me to touch him intimately and who only once had let me kiss him on the lips, was belly down on a sturdy camp stool in the middle of Dr. Emory's tent and Emory was vigorously topping him between his enormous, bulbous butt cheeks. Emory was closely covering the black giant's strong back with his chest and had his hands digging into the Bull's pecs and nipples, just as he had done to me earlier that evening. And they were kissing, deeply kissing.

I stumbled away from the tent. I was good enough for the Mitsagusi Bull to fuck hard and deep and often, but I wasn't good enough to be his intimate lover. And Old Man Emory was. No lesson would have better shown me that status and power meant everything even here in the remote upper reaches of the Sudanese Nile.

I blindly thrashed about in the dark, trying to find my tent, but, rather, finding myself at the doorway to Mustafa's tent, where I had often been visiting at this time of night. I could see the weak light of a couple of candles through the opaque canvass of the tent. I pushed the door curtain aside and lurched into the circle of candlelight.

"I couldn't sleep," Mustafa said. "It's just too hot tonight. I wanted to be cool."

He had brought the camp's brass bathtub into his tent and filled it with cool, soapy water and was lying on his back in the tub, luxuriating in the cool water.

Yes, I thought. Just what I need. Clean water and soap to wash the stench of Africa and my Sudanese lover and my controlling mentor off me.

I ripped off my sleeping shorts and climbed into the tub, and splashed water all over the African soil under the tub. And I turned Mustafa over, bringing him up on all fours. I wrapped my arms around his chest, holding him tight to me, and brutally thrust my cock into his ass and madly fucked him doggy style, cleaning myself of Emory and the Bull. Mustafa grabbed the rim of the brass tub with white knuckles and threw his head back and howled in ecstasy.

"Yes, yes, yes. You've never done it this strong and this deep. Ride me. Ride me strong; ride me deep!"

I was sure that his howls could be heard all over the camp, even in Dr. Emory's tent. But I didn't care.