I don’t usually write longer stories but this one just sort of extended on me; don’t worry if like myself you prefer smaller bites at the cherry, there are a couple of obvious breaks where you can stop off and return to later. This tale may offend some readers – there are always one or two – since it contains elements of incestuous, interracial, group, lesbian and anal sex, a little drug taking and with questionable consent to some of it too; consider yourself warned.
A SHORT PROLOGUE
I went to Central Africa soon after leaving university; I prefer not to say which specific country, so let’s just refer to it as C-A. I’d fallen for a religiously committed doctor, so when his church dispatched him to C-A to set-up a medical centre and spread the Lord’s word, we married and I went with him. I never fully shared John’s religious calling, but I never faltered in my support and commitment to his hospital. We spent twelve years in C-A, with our son Mark being born during the second.
All three of us, along with half the village fell victim to a vile parasite which infected the local water supply; dozens died, including John. I was at deaths door myself for two weeks and remained ill for a further three months; Mark thankfully, along with almost all of the other kids seemed to shake off his infection quickly and more easily. I, was cared for by the villagers during my recuperation, but when a replacement medical team arrived, it was deemed that damage to my liver left me susceptible to a fatal re-infection; Mark and I returned to England.
It was a bleak period for us both, losing a husband/father and having to leave a home and friends that we’d come to love soon after. There was a farewell party with gifts presented to mark our departure and promises made of our returning one day; though I think we all knew, that we’d never see each other again. The return to England proved less traumatic than I’d feared, both my own parents and John’s were very generous financially, as too was John’s church; we arrived to find a small, but very suitable house already furnished and decorated, which I apparently owned free and clear.
This house, along with a small pension from the church and payouts from two life-insurance policies tided us over the transition back into the real world, during which Mark settled into school and I found myself a part-time job. We settled down into our new existence and I was pleased by how little that period of trauma appeared to effect Mark; he seemed happy and scored very highly in his final junior school tests only a year later. More good news: with those results in hand — and I’ve always suspected some intervention from John’s church? – Mark was granted a full scholarship to a very good and local private school.
Mark progressed through the ‘terrible teens’ and to be honest I never minded; given the early disruption to his life, I was just happy to see him suffer and at times instigate the same sort of trouble and strife as every other teenage boy. My own life proceeded quietly, I changed jobs a couple of times, built a new social circle and had a few dates, I even got laid on a few occasions; just ‘the usual’, though I never formed another serious relationship. I stayed in touch with the villagers in C-A through those years too; writing a regular open letter to the village — the world wide web didn’t stretch that far back then — and receiving many in return, it was a wonderful link to the past
Mark did well at secondary school too and at eighteen went to university to study medicine. The local university was highly regarded, though I suspect that Mark’s decision to choose it was due in part to his not wishing to desert his lonely old mum. I was pleased and indeed grateful when John’s church came up trumps for us once more, providing Mark with a substantial bursary for the duration of his studies. I should perhaps say that John’s church were always good to us; they were aware of my mild antipathy and Mark’s complete disinterest, but in remembrance of John’s contribution and sacrifice, they’ve supported us all the way.
Once at university Mark discovered the church was financially supporting other young men in their studies there too; all from overseas, including several from C-A, though none from the region in which we’d lived. Perhaps because of his albeit distant, memories of life in C-A, Mark befriended several of those young men and there was often one or another calling by; I sometimes suspected, more in search of a few home comforts and a decent meal as much as anything else?
Even with the church’s support these lads were still poor by our standards and all worked at whatever jobs they could find and fit in around their studies. Rather than the university vacations being a time to rest, relax and visit home and family, for these guys it was a period when they worked double-shifts for six and preferably seven days a week; not much of a holiday. I perhaps grasped their problems better than Mark; they were proud young men who kept their troubles to themselves, Girne Escort but none ever considered how much more I might have retained of their languages – both the patois-French and Lingala, a local variant of Swahili — than Mark had.
As the months went by, my ear for their language improved, though I was careful never to reveal what I overheard to Mark and more especially to the boys themselves; in line with this, beyond basic greetings and such, I never spoke it to them either. I regularly heard things which enabled me to help them out without damage to their pride, often learned of personal issues and on more than one occasion discerned some vulgar, but still rather flattering comments and suggestions regarding myself. It was at just such a moment when I heard the word ‘Mtungi’ spoken, which certainly gave me food for thought.
It had been Mark’s suggestion, but I too thought it a fine idea: The C-A boys would have no opportunity to celebrate with their own families and the basic and overcrowded flea-pits in which they all lived were hardly conducive to cooking a decent meal. A blanket invitation was issued to them all: Christmas lunch was available at Chez-Harrison for any who wished to join us. The initial response had been good, but by the day itself there were only three boys able to attend, the rest having been allocated the Christmas shifts by their employers, with the luckier ones at least being given double-pay for it.
Joel, Mgumba and Pele — that wasn’t his real name, which was something even his countrymen struggled to pronounce, but he was very black and an exceptional footballer — arrived at 11:00am and the introductions were brief and straightforward; I’d met them all before. We exchanged small gifts over a glass of sherry — how frightfully English — and once Mark had explained mistletoe to them, I gave each a chaste kiss beneath it, before returning to the kitchen, while the boys laughed and joked in the lounge. The door between was open and it quite lifted my day to earwig on the comments and suggestions that my appearance had generated.
With the genetics of my Scandinavian ancestors showing through, I’ve always been tall, slim and fair of both hair and eye, John used to describe me as ‘a poor man’s Lady Di’. I may be almost forty-four now, but though I say it myself, I’ve worn well and carry those years comfortably. My usual dress style is a sweatshirt and either jeans or joggers, not very alluring, but eminently practical for both my job and living with a teenage son. However, for today things were a little different; it was a party after all.
I’d chosen a dark above the knee skirt and a new cream-coloured silk blouse which was sufficiently diaphanous to show the outline of my brassiere beneath; the lingerie too was all new, skimpy, lace and adequately coloured — a pale cerise — to ensure that it was visible through my blouse, but without looking cheap and obvious. Stockings were the order of the day; I think the first time I’d worn them since my wedding day! The high-heeled shoes, once again new, were perhaps just a little slutty? A colleague from work had a pair exactly the same and she referred to them as her ‘fuck me sandals’. With the exception of a handmade, yellow enamelled brooch which I’d been given just before leaving C-A, I wore no jewellery whatsoever; not even my wedding ring.
It was another hour before things were under control in the kitchen, during which the conversation between the boys had become increasingly ribald. I couldn’t hear much of what was said in English — their voices invariably dropped to a whisper — but as that would have included Mark, I suspect that they toned things down somewhat anyway. That said in Lingala however, I heard clearly, all of it graphic, much of it lurid and some, in my limited experience, physically impossible! Parts of it had the butterflies in my belly fluttering, but none of it deterred me; indeed when I again heard Mtungi mentioned — three times! – I was further enlivened.
With all prepared I served the boys an aperitif, a non-alcoholic though mildly stimulating herbal drink from C-A, of which I’d been gifted a couple of bottles when we left; this was the first time I’d opened one. It has quite a sharp bite and a rather bitter after-taste, one small glass was enough for any of the guys and when we sat down to lunch they all moved on to wine. I’ve never been one for alcohol, so I finished the small amount remaining in the bottle over lunch; the boys were far less parsimonious with their wine intake.
Once lunch was over the boys helped me clear the table and wash up, where after the new computer game I’d bought for Mark caught all of their attentions. After watching them for a while I drifted off to sleep on the couch; It’d been an early start that morning and I’d slept far from soundly the previous night. I’m not sure how long I slept for, nor in the first instance what had woken me, but I did so with a start and was for a moment Magosa Escort disoriented. When my faculties did return, my first thought was ‘Oh shit, are you sure about this Judith?’ but I knew it was now too late for a change of mind.
All three of the C-A boys were ranged around me, wearing very little beyond predatory expressions; Mgumba was completely naked! The closest was Joel so it was probably his touch which had woken me and seemingly not before time. My skirt had ridden or been eased high up my thighs, leaving my stocking tops and the crotch of my panties plainly visible; a couple of my blouse buttons had been unfastened too, sufficient to display my cleavage and a hint of that lacy bra. I suspect that it’d been Joel’s fingers working on those which had disturbed me.
Mark meanwhile was sat across the room, his countenance in the moment that I looked his way being a complex mixture of emotions, doubt, trepidation and perhaps a little fear; it didn’t last though, in the moment that Mgumba pounced, I saw Mark’s expression overlay with the same… hunger, as the other boys. Pounce was the operative word! Elbowing Joel aside Mgumba pressed one hand over my mouth while his other savagely ripped open my blouse and he all but shouted into my face: “I want you Mtungi woman, now!” Turning to the others he added: “Hold her, I get the first fuck!” He’d spoken in Lingala, but I suspected from his change of expression, that even Mark had understood the gist or at least the tone of Mgumba’s words.
Things got hectic from the off — as I’d expected they might — with Pele grabbing my arms and Joel a leg; Mgumba was sat on my other leg, one hand still clamped over my mouth as his other quite literally tore the clothes from my body. Mark wasn’t involved, nor even in sight, but I’d no doubt that he was still there, witnessing his mother’s ravishment. Within seconds I was wearing nothing beyond my stockings and those ‘fuck-me sandals; which certainly seemed to have worked! Mgumba’s hand plunged between my thighs, two fingers driving directly into my pussy as he growled “Tight as a goat, but slippery as ghee.” His discovery, once again came as no surprise to me.
That single penetration was all the foreplay Mgumba afforded me, moments later the fingers had been removed, he was between my thighs and it was his cock that was penetrating my slick channel in a single thrust. It been some while since a man had been there, but my memory was good enough to tell me that Mgumba was nicely endowed; he filled me. It was fast, aggressive and crude — to be fair it might easily have been Mgumba’s first time with a woman — it didn’t last long either. A dozen strokes perhaps, but certainly not more than twenty; I sensed his approaching climax and Pele must’ve done so too. It was he who called for Mgumba to pull out: “Not inside her… not yet… keep the Mtungi tight for the rest of us.”
Acceding to that demand Mgumba withdrew at the last moment, his first emission spattering onto my bush, with the rest spraying across my belly, with the odd splash reaching even to my boobs as he roared out in his conquest. He was afforded little time to revel in it, Mgumba’s roar was still echoing in my ears as Pele dragged me from the couch to the floor and Joel from behind then pulled me up roughly onto my knees, his erection already nuzzling at my vulva. I still had no opportunity to voice a protest, or indeed anything else, Pele’s hand was in my hair, my mouth gaped open as he jerked upward and his cock filled the yawning void; a moment later Joel too found his target and I had two men inside me at once!
I’d seen women taken like this; from both ends — Mtungi women! — but I’d never imagined that I might ever do so myself. These two were a little less… frenetic than Mgumba had been, but they still fucked me like an animal, a dog, a bitch in heat perhaps? That was certainly one of the analogies Joel I wasn’t sure if those shivers were in horror and disgust, or from excitement.
When Joel adjusted his position I could see Mark once again, he was still sat in a chair fully dressed, but all signs of doubt and fear had left face, his hand was inside his trousers and his expression was lecherous… hungry… for me… his mother! No; as Pele’s next sentence reminded me, Mark’s hunger was for the Mtungi. Those words from Pele could easily have proved my undoing: He suggested to Joel that they “turn the bitch around and swap ends” Joel agreed and as both eased away and released me, I spun around like a young gazelle to accommodate them. They’d spoken in coarse and colloquial Lingala, Judith shouldn’t have understood a word of it… but a C-A Mtungi certainly would have done.
I could no longer see Mark, but I heard the conversation — or parts of it – that he was having with Mgumba. Joel and Pele’s narration and the suggestions and incitements they exchanged blocked much of it, but I caught the odd word and could guess the rest: “Mother — no – tomorrow — yes – rape -…in the eye — Kıbrıs Escort no – incest — can’t — yes — pregnant – no — Mtungi?” I was distracted by another roar, this one issuing from Pele, as he abruptly pulled out to ejaculate across my buttocks and back, a few seconds later my mouth was finally freed as Joel withdrew too. But that proved to be a short respite, Joel shuffled around to penetrate my pussy for a second time and as he moved away it was Mgumba that appeared in my eye-line, though not for long.
I heard the rip of fabric — my once beautiful blouse? – and an instant later, all went black, or at least dark grey, Mgumba had blindfolded me; it had to have been for form’s sake rather than any expectation of anonymity. There was more shuffling around to be heard, then a cock probed at my lips, a little less aggressively than those that’d come before, but still insistent. As I opened my mouth to accommodate this latest cock, the boys fell silent and when it entered and passed across my tongue, I tasted what… a hint of talcum powder, perhaps antiperspirant? What I didn’t taste was semen, nor my own juices; this cock hadn’t yet been between my legs, so it could be only one.
The cock tentatively probed, withdrew, then probed again; the silence continued and having eased his pace already, even Joel stopped fucking me; buried inside me, but motionless, waiting, as were they all, for my reaction. As Mark’s cock began it’s second withdrawal, I lifted my hands from the floor, grasped him by the hips and in the moment that he commenced his next hesitant penetration, I jerked him forward to drive his shaft deep into my throat. It was as if I’d fired a starting-pistol, Mark grabbed me by the hair and fairly pounded his cock into my mouth, every bit as fiercely as those that’d gone before, while around me the three C-A boys now wildly cheered.
Those cries of encouragement were delivered in English, patois-French and Lingala, the words used being equally crude and obscene in all three with ‘Mtungi’ being oft employed; I think even by Mark, did he even know what it meant? Perhaps the best indication of how enthralled the boys were with Mark’s incestuous penetration came from Joel; it must’ve been more than a minute before he again thought to re-start fucking my pussy! When finally he did, each thrust was accompanied by a chant of ‘Mtungi’, becoming louder with every penetration and amplified still further as the others joined him in this metronomic incantation.
That was when I had my first orgasm of the day and it was a doozy; I might’ve screamed the house down had it not coincided with Mark coming full in my mouth. That was perhaps what had finally triggered it, but it left me too busy swallowing and choking on the flood of Mark’s spunk to say much of anything; a problem I was by then getting used to. Joel climaxed around the same time, unloading his first emission deep inside my pussy — no one else seemed to notice — before spraying the rest across my buttocks and bum; whether that was before, during or after my own orgasm I really couldn’t say. In those moments my senses only had the capacity to absorb my own pleasure and the wonderful sensation of feeling my son’s semen streaming down my throat.
That was far from the end of my afternoon, though with the lads’ initial craving now sated, the pace did get a little less frantic, even if their desire didn’t drop by one iota. The efficacy of that powder which I’d added to the wine — another parting gift from C-A — had been explained to me, but I’d had my doubts, expecting the wine’s alcohol content to counteract its potency? Apparently not; immediately Mark had vacated my mouth, he was replaced by Mgumba, it was barely ten minutes since he’d fucked my pussy, but already he was as hard as he’d been then. Two minutes later another of the boys — Pele presumably? I was still blindfolded. – was back between my legs.
It was a while later that discussions, led as ever by Mgumba, turned to my bum: Mark clearly had reservations about taking a turn in my pussy, so Mgumba was urging him to ‘take the Mtungi’s arse instead; she’s yours, so it’s only right that you’re the first to open her up.’ That had me shuddering, I’d known it was a possibility, even a probability, but it frightened me all the same. Mark still demurred, but in that moment the man still fucking me — it was Pele — growled, “We’ll all be taking her arse anyway, so you may as well be the first to have her…” He then jammed a finger into my bum, adding “…the Mtungi’s tight, but it’s as slick as her cunt in there; she can take it.”
I gasped at the assault, but couldn’t deny his assessment, I’d anointed my bum with the same herbal salve that protected my pussy; another present from C-A and with the assistance of which I could allegedly ‘accommodate a water buffalo’. Further mutterings which I didn’t catch, then Pele withdrew from behind — he’d not climaxed — to be replaced by… well, it didn’t take three guesses! Hands spread my buttocks and Mark’s cock-head nudged against the rosebud which lay between; Mark again hesitated, until goaded by more coarse encouragement, he drove powerfully forward to penetrate at least two or three inches into my bum. Magic-salve or not, that intrusion saw me gasping for breath; not easy with a prick still filling your mouth!