Interesting stuff

This isn’t my story, but a friend’s, and it all happened a long time ago. We talked about it many times after she came back, usually when we were quite drunk, and often approached it from different angles, so I heard her describe each moment about half a dozen different ways. I’ve tried to remember them all and include the bits I think she felt were important, as well as the bits that made me wet.

When I knew her then, she was 19, natural blonde, slim, middle height, very pretty, with a wide smile and blazing brown eyes. We were at school together, so I know for a fact that she was fighting boys off with a stick from the age of 14 onwards. We all were, of course, but some more than others, and as you may know or have guessed, I wasn’t really fighting them off so much as welcoming them with open arms. Yes, and legs, too, a lot of the time.

She could have had anyone she wanted, but she chose Jeff, a hairy socialist who soon had her studying sociology at uni, got her to dress as badly as he did, and hang about in grubby pubs with like-minded real beer drinkers, plotting the downfall of John Major’s government though peaceful but meanigful civil disobedience.

You can guess what I was doing. Disobedience of a different kind basically. But I don’t think Julie went without fun; in fact I think Jeff used to lend her to visitors, rather like Eskimos do; I’m not certain, but a couple of times she said things which left me with that distinct idea.

Anyway, they decided to go on a minibus tour of Africa. Armed with nothing more dangerous than stout hiking boots and a small tent, they went off with half a dozen complete strangers for a two-month journey across the continent. After all this time I can’t remember their route, and the only place name I remember is now Kano, because she told me this story about what happened there and it’s been impossible to forget. I still close my eyes and visualise it when I’m feeling especially wicked and want to cum hard and fast.

They’d been travelling several weeks, and on this part of the journey they’d been in the bush or whatever for a few days, reached this place called Kano in Nigeria. Even now it’s a lot of mud huts, and Julie said it was just a shanty town in those days, which would be late seventies.

Their campsite was on the edge of town, and on the edge of the jungle. But there was a wide area of flat ground out in the open for the minibus and the tents, and fresh water from a standpipe. There was a shower block too – luxury for people who haven’t had a wash for seven days. They parked as far from it as they could because water attracts all the wrong kinds of wildlife, especially at night. But a 5-minute walk across the site, on the edge of the trees, was a square grey concrete room with a door opening but no door, and no glass in the narrow horizontal window slits.

The inside was bare blocks as rough and untreated as the outside, with just a wooden bench, a tap, and a single pipe running across the middle of the room at roof level, drilled with holes. Turn on the tap and anyone in there got drizzled with fairly clean water, which then ran out through slots around the bottom of the wall where the roaches and other crawlies lived.

Sounds disgusting but it was the Ritz by local standards.

The boys went first – one of the girls thought it would be a good idea if they cleared the place of local wildwife – and then it was the ladies turn. There were three of them, and there was enough room for them all, but for some reason she could never remember Julie was last, and as she was undressing and folding her clothes on the bench the other three were heading back to the van, shiny clean and all towelled up.

She said that unless you’ve travelled across Africa for a week or ten days without a proper wash you have no idea how luxurious this almost warm dribble of water was, and she was savouring the moment, real soap, proper lather, and a lovely clean smelling skin. She washed herself thoroughly and at length. Even though Playboy models had been shaving for quite a while, there were few facilities and rather less call for that sort of thing out here. She’d started the trip neatly trimmed but now she was fuzzy all over, and she thought it was hygienic as well as attractive as she trimmed herself for the first time in a fortnight, shaping a neat triangle.

When she was telling me about this in the living room of my small flat, thousands of miles distant, she said there wasn’t anything that gave it away, ot a noise or movement or anything, just a feeling. Suddenly she just felt naked and vulnerable, and instinctively looked about to reassure herself there was nothing to worry about – and saw the eyes at the window-slits high on the wall.

All four slits were crammed, and through the gaps she could see half a dozen pairs of eyes, wide-eyed and staring. She was in that ugly half-squat you do in the shower, one hand between her legs, pulling her pussy around as she shaved very carefully with a cheapo Bic disposable, and she was face to face with half a dozen uninvited voyeurs.

She tried to turn her back on them, which was silly, because they’d all seen everything she’d got by now and in any case, whichever way she looked there were faces at the windows, staring wide-eyed and silent. They weren’t doing anything scary, but just being there watching was frightening enough. And so was the silence, just the water splattering off her body and onto the concrete drowing out the distant but constant buzz of Africa.

The watchers didn’t make a sound, even when they saw her looking straight at them, they just stared at her naked body. It was a stare that said everything, she said to me every time we talked about it, a look like a lion with a tethered goat, and she immediately knew what they were thinking. And she believed that everything which followed was inevitable from that moment on

She decided not to panic, but to get dressed quickly, even though her clothes were dirty and she had planned to wash them in the shower and walk back to the van in her towel like the others, but that didn’t seem such a good plan now. And that walk from here back to the camper van didn’t seem so short either – it might as well have been a ten-mile hike. So she planned out her moves carefully and then started.

Steadily, not rushing, she stepped to the tap on the wall, intending to turn it off, and then dress carefully without rushing, and walk purposefully back to the van, not hurrying, and definitely not running.

There were two of them at the door staring. She couldn’t say if they’d been there all along or if they’d jumped down from the windows, but she felt as if they were deliberatly blocking her escape.

They were tall and very slim – thin, really – wearing filthy t-shirts and brightly coloured shorts, no shoes. It was hard to tell ages, but she guessed early teens but she was still scared of them. Very scared. There were half a dozen of them, one of her, and this was no kind of civilisation. There were no mobiles, no phones, no faxes, TV sets or radios. Just Africa. And half a dozen teenage boys, staring at her whilke the shower water splattered behind her.

She’d forgotten her plan not to panic, and was frozen still, hand on the tap, but not turning it off or getting dressed in the calm, unfrightened manner she’d planned. So she was still naked, water dribbling down her body. She remembered drips on the end of her nose and feeling it splashing her back and dribbling down her bum, trickling down to drip off her pussy.

Both boys, she realised, had an erection, lifting the front of their shorts. One was wearing electric blue, the other black, thin wispy ones like football shorts. Both had tents in the front, and that was when she became really frightened. And, she realised, very wet. Not from the shower, but from her own juices, seeping warm and sticky into the puckering lips of her pussy. She could feel it swelling, opening, feel the cool evening breeze kissing her wetness.

Fear always has that effect on me, but she said that she’d never been aware of it before. Some opinions are that it’s an evolutionary thing – in times of war women get raped and over the course of thousands of years fear makes them wet so they dont get hurt by the rape which inevitably follows military conquest.

But whatever the truth of that, there’s no doubt she was afraid of them – she guessed their age at around 14 or so but there were six of them, all taller than her, and she was in Africa, miles from civilisation.

She thought she’d try a smile, see if that defused the tension of a naked white woman being stared at by six young African men all with a hard-on. Then she thought they’d see it as an invitation – and before she’d finished thinking THAT thought she’d started wondering if it might not be better to do just that – act willing, let them have her, and then just walk away. The alternative might be a lot worse.

Then she though Jeff would come looking for her at any moment, and all she had to do was keep these lads talking and he’d be along in sec to rescue her.

Or they might want to dispense with him in order to keep her

All of this in fractions of a second. It’s not often you have to make decisions that might change your life in a few moments but for Julie this was such a choice.

She decided to stick to plan A, act as if she was used to being stared at while naked, get dressed quickly but not fast enough to provoke THEM into making a life-changing decision in a split second, and walk steadily back to the minibus.

While she’d been deciding all this her shower-room voyeurs had dropped off the walls they’d been clinging to as they peered in through the windows and had gathered at the door. There were six or seven, maybe more. All were wide-eyed and open mouthed. All were wearing the same flimsy football shorts which were tented out at the front, making their erections look huge.

Dropping your knickers is something girls do all the time. It’s usually fun, usually a moment of some importance, very seldom life-changing. But that evening when Julie fumbled at her knickers as she plucked them from the bench, her nervous, trembling fingers lost their grip and she dropped them on the damp floor.

The lad nearest her darted forwards. His hand whisked in front of her, and he straightened up holding her panties with a broad smile. He didn’t give them to her, but held them aloft like a playground game, taunting her with them, inviting her to make a grab that was doomed to failure.

He was standing close, and she could smell his body, bitter and sour, though his breath was sweet – and hot. Her nipples were an inch from his chest, and she suddenly felt even more vulnerable and naked. She would have picked up her shorts but there was another lad gathering her clothes from the bench and pulling them tight against his body. It was another game from the school playground, reminding her how young they were. But the way their shorts were propped out from their bodies reminded her how grown-up they all were as well.

The two holding her clothes took her wrists and just pulled her out through the door, twisting behind the shower and trotting into the trees, following a path that went downhill and away to the right. She knew she should shout out loud, call for Jeff and get help, but she told me she was too afraid, that they’d hurt her or worse if she made a fuss. Then she thought it could be worse if she didn’t get help, and she screamed as loud as she could.

They laughed excitedly, as if her fear had aroused them still more, and kept on trotting, not fast, not slow, and she knew she was already too far from the minibus and its boom-box music for her scream to be heard. And she knew that no-one would come looking for her just yet – they’d all assume she was using the bush toilet and leave her alone, respecting her privacy as had been the custom on the journey. You didn’t follow people who go off alone to perform their ablutions, you give them a wide berth.

In the centre of a clump of bushes was a flat area they obviously knew well – scattered around were old cans of pop or beer, cigarette ends and cartons – and a blanket.

Idiotically she started to worry about what she could catch off the blanket, what old stains had smeared and soaked it, and what kind of ticks and bugs were living just below its woolly surface, but as they laid her down, rough and scratchy on her back, and pulled her into a star-shape by her wrists and ankles, she realised that was the least of her problems.

There was no foreplay, no preliminaries. Quite clearly they needed no stimulation themselves, each one with a hard cock bursting through the front of his shorts. And they made no attempt to prepare Julie, either. Maybe they’d looked betweeen her legs at her swollen, wet pussyl or maybe, she thought, with a pussy-wetting thrill, they’d raped women before and knew that foreplay wasn’t needed. It was the first time she’d used that word in her thoughts, but she knew they were about to rape her – and the knowledge made her wetter than ever. Years later the memory of that moment still had the power to thrill her and repeat the effect. Me too, every time she mentioned it.

With a boy holding her at each corner, there were two at her feet and they shucked their shorts over their erections with some difficulty, hard dicks jutting out into the African twilight, wobbling around under their grubby T-shirts as they laughed among themselves in a language that just seemed like grunts to Julie. Then they grasped their cocks and began stroking slowly, staring down at her. The ones holding her sensed this was the moment and tightened their grip, tugging her wider and flatter as one knelt between her knees and the other strutted around, wanking his large cock ostentatiously and licking his lips as he gazed at her, his voice low and growly, his eyes flicking from her frightened face to her dribbling pussy, not sure what he wanted to be watching at this crucial moment.

As his compatriot leaned over her, the pussy vanished from view, so his gaze concentrated on her face, and her expression as she realised that wriggling around and yelling wouldn’t stop what was happening. Then that realisation changed again, as the first one pushed his cock up inside her.

She tried to tell me what it felt like when he first put it in. The first time we talked, in my flat, she would only say it was horrible. After she’d left I went to bed and fingered myself stupid trying to imagine the feeling of being raped out in the jungle by a young African lad, and over the next weeks I tried to draw the details out of her to fuel my imagination, but it was months before she told me any more. I encouraged her countless times by saying I thought it was very horny and exciting and it was making me wet listening. It was making her wet remembering, and she told me once that on those nights when her new boyfriend was pumping away without much effect she’d close her eyes and travel back, in no time at all she could feel the rough scratch of the blanket on her back as the first one moved his weight on top of her.

She was shouting at him to stop – she couldn’t remember her exact words, but she remembers beating on his chest (like those dumb blondes in black-and-white films, she said to me once, laughing at her own silliness to make it bearable) and she remembers yelling quite loud, until he found the slippery gap between her lips and just whooshed into her with one long thrust – whooshed, that’s how she described it, the actual word, and maybe you need to be a girl to fully understand the completeness of that feeling, but it takes your breath clean away, eight or nine inches of solid cock pushing vigorously into you. She stopped shouting, and more or less stopped wriggling, stopped rolling from side to side underneath him in her pathetic attempts to shake him off, and gave in to the inevitable.

I understand the shock of being penetrated by someone you havent invited into your pussy. But I also understand that having a hot, hard dick in your wet pussy has precisely the effct that nature intended regardless of how it came to be there. It feels good, no way to change that fact, and being fucked feels good as well. It’s meant to, after all. And the fact that you dont want this person to be fucking you doesnt stop your pussy from liking it and reacting just the same as if it was your boyfriend, your hubby or Johnny Depp.In fact it can heighten the feelings enormously simply because it IS the wrong person, the wrong cock. It’s a complex topic this, and you’ll get little sense out of most women, and none at all out of a group of two or more. It’s hard to explain how you can hate the person doing it to you but love the feelings he’s making in your pussy. When you cum, as many do, the conflict of emotions and the fear of the situation can create orgasms that do indeed make the earth move. Even without that, it’s the most intense sexual experience you can have.

Julie said there was no conscious moment when she changed, but she soon became aware that her body couldn’t or wouldn’t ignore the sensations of being steadily fucked by a large, stiff cock. Her wriggling had become a steady rhythm, and she was rocking in time to his thrusts, mouth open, breath coming in little short gasps. Her limbs had relaxed their fight, and her captors recognised the signs. They loosened their grip, and let her go, hands holding his waist, feet flat on the floor, knees raised. Her pussy was wet and hot, and she could feel the waves of pleasure as she started to lift herself towards him, matching his thrusts, instinct and reflex controlling mind and muscle, making her fuck him back .

When she realised they’d all seen that and knew her body had rebelled against her mind, and that’s why they’d let go of her, she began to cry for the first time, sobs forced out of her mouth by the beat of each thrust. She started saying no, no no through her tears, slapping at him ineffectually, which made his watching friends laugh and jabber excitedly. When she pressed her palms on his chest to push him away he smiled too, and said something over his shoulder that made them laugh even more.

Then he looked down at her and smiled something in his strange language, but he didn’t break stride as he spoke, just carried on fucking her, long and hard and deep, making her wonder if these were the ones who ran for hours through the jungle chasing lions, and if so, how long he could carry on fucking. We were both laughing when she told me that, but I can tell you it made me wet my knickers.

After a while (she had no idea of time, so it could have been a minute, or ten) it began to feel good, like a really good fuck is meant to feel. In other circumstances she’d be spreading herself wide, lifting her hips, pulling him deeper, and the idea of him forcing her to enjoy his uninvited cock, making her unable to close her body to him, instinctively responding, unwillingly liking it, was suddenly very wet-making. And when she heard herself gasping she realised she was no longer screaming protests but just rsponding to being fucked hard, making a noise like the soundtrack of a porno movie. Hearing herself making those noises was a big moment, a turning point.She knew her body had taken control, knew her mind couldn’t stop it happening, knew she was going to cum. Her knees rose up and her hips swivelled, taking him deeper.

It took a long time for her to tell me about that, more than a year, but one night she let it all out, saying she knew that this was what her body wanted, to feel him as far in as he could be, bone on bone, solid cock sliding in and out, and it felt so good she just had to give herself up to it. He noticed, of course, and grinned triumphantly, pumping himself in and out faster and faster. Her hands were no longer on his chest, pushing him away, but round his shoulders, pulling him down onto herself as her hips bucked and she came, loudly and obviously, much to the grinning delight of her captors, hopping around excitedly and grasping their cocks in readiness.

It was a huge orgasm, made bigger because she’d been trying to hold it back for so long, and because not just the boy with his cock inside her but all the ones watching as well, had known she hadn’t wanted to cum, and seen that she was unable to stop herself. In the west, in law, getting excited and showing signs of evident enjoyment, even climaxing, doesn’t mean you aren’t being raped. In the real world, and especially so far from civilization as Julie was, it means you belong to the man with his cock in you, you’re his woman for however long he chooses to fuck you and please you, and you both know it. If there’s anybody watching, and waiting, they know it too.

When it was over, and her body had stopped spastically thrashing around (I always go like that when I cum, she once said, and to be honest I would have very much liked to see it) she tried to wriggle away from under him, but she was pinned to the blanket, his cock inside her trapping her like a butterfly on a cork board. Then he carried on fucking her at his original, steady pace. He’d known she was cumming, and had deliberately made it happen. She started to cry again, lashing out and making them all laugh at her helpless struggles.

She stopped fighting after a few seconds this time, rather than minutes, and then her knees were right up, high and wide, her hands gripping his waist as her pussy responded to his thrusts, and she was unable to prevent the reflexes of her body, unable to stop herself wanting more. This is the whole point. You may not be strong enough to stop him taking you, but you don’t want him to think you’re liking it, and give him that victory as well. But nature won’t let you stop it. His cock makes your pussy wet and your legs spread wide, and then it makes you cum.

She’d reached that moment now, half-way to cumming again, and all her instincts were making her fuck him like an enthusiastic lover, behaving as she would in private moments with a lover, trying to make herself cum for him, and trying to make him cum as well. Yes, it’s true. At that precise moment in time, she wanted to feel him cum, to finish the whole thing off. She was sliding herself around on his cock, that erotic hip-rolling move only girls can do properly.(And black guys too, as it happens. Just watch one dancing, and you’ll get the idea.)

She would have cum again, was about to cum again, but he pulled away without warning, his cock slithering out of her pussy, leaving her hips still rotating, that embarrassing air-fuck that lets everyone know you haven’t finished and you want the cock back inside, you want to be fucked some more.

He didn’t care, just shuffled upwards and sat on her chest, dangling his cock in front of her face, dropping it onto her half-open mouth. Julie gulped him in without thinking. It was a reflex action, and I relate to that absolutely. If someone fucks you well and makes you cum and then taps you on the teeth with a hot wet cock, you just have to suck it. Because you want to. And at that precise moment, Julie wanted to suck him. Perhaps not as much as she wanted to cum again, but it’s the next best thing (just my personal opinion, this).

Emotionally and psychologically this is a big moment. Maybe you can’t stop a strong young man from forcing your legs apart and sticking his cock in you, but you don’t have to suck it. The only reason you do is because you’re ready to do that, he’s made you want to. Holding him in one hand, lifting her head from the blanket, that’s what Julie did, that’s what she wanted to do. And he loved it, loved watching a white woman sucking him, loved showing off to his mates, chattering away and doubtless telling them how much she liked to fuck and suck while they grasped their shorts in excited anticipation. But he’d also got her pinned down with his weight on her chest, and he was blocking her view. She always said that the first she knew about the other one was when she felt his cock touch her wet pussy and start pushing up inside.

You know that feeling, she said to me years later, deep in a third bottle of white wine and talking about Kano, as we ususally did when drunk. She’d never talked about it in detail to any of the others, but she felt okay with me because right from when she told us as a group, one night in a pub in Wilmslow, she could see that I found it exciting. So she knew she could tell me the details without being criticised or judged, and she felt able to admit that it still excited her to think about it.

Irresistible I said, meaning the erotic and arousing sensation of sucking a nice hard cock as another one fucks you at the same time. We both laughed, because we’d never discussed threesomes before, but now we’d shared another secret because we both knew the other had hands-on experience.

Unstoppable, she said, laughing down the funnel of distant years at the memory of how it made her feel, and the greedy way she sucked his spurting cock and opened her body to the other one now plunging away at her pussy.

After the first one swung himself clear she gave herself completely to fucking number two, legs up high and wide, every girl’s reflex to a big cock fuck, and almost at once felt herself cumming again, legs locked around his, heels drumming on the blanket, her hands clawing at his bum, dragging him in.

He liked that, fucked her faster while she was still thrashing about, grunted, and then pulled out and splattered her with long hot spurts while his mates clapped and chattered with delight.

As he was climbing off the others were pulling down shorts and exercising their hard cocks with long up-and-down strokes, and a heated conversation developed. At first she thought they were arguing about who would be next (which made her pussy twitch) and then it seemed that the leader, the first one, wanted to go before her friends came looking. There was a bit of hard talking from the ones who still wanted their turn on the white pussy, and Julie just lay there waiting, spread out on the blanket, tear-tacks running down her dirtied face, runny nose, spunk-splattered body and a dribbly pink pussy. Irresistible, I told her when she described it. Not my Dior moment of the day she agreed, joking about a TV ad running at the time.

She’s still not sure she could have got far if she’d tried to run away. They might just have let her go, since they were on the brink of leaving anyway. But she didn’t even try. Though half of her wanted them to leave, the other half, the physical burning in her pussy and the small, quivering movements of her hips, wanted to stay where she was while the rest of them took her one by one.

It was three or four years before we reached that point in our conversation. Nobody wants to be raped, she said, though I think we both did at that precise moment, past midnight on a soggy Lancashire evening, with the wine-bottles rapidly emptying and alcohol-fuelled hot liquid dribbling directly into our knickers, but once it’s started, it just kind of takes over…

At that exact moment, she said, I think I really wanted them. So do I, was my answer, and I realised that she was stroking herself lightly and unobtrusively. Four more great big black cocks, she said dreamily. All that spunk, I said, and we sat there, softly stirring away until we made ourselves cum, the closest we ever got to sex together apart from shagging in the same room at parties (and on one of those occasions swapping partners halfway through) but everyone does that in their college days, no?

The matter was settled by the youngest one, doe-eyed, coffee-colour skin, cute and innocent. Except for the lump sticking out in his shorts, just like the rest. Then he pushed them down, and he didn’t look innocent at all, his cock waving around in front of him. She didn’t move, didn’t roll away, didn’t kick or punch, just lay there, watching his cock coming closer, like she was hypnotised, she said, or maybe because I just didn’t want to get away.

He knelt between her legs, shuffling higher, pushing her thighs gently wider with large, warm hands, rough and calloused, scratching her soft skin, and lay on her, taking his weight on his hands and then sinking to his elbows, so she could feel his dirty T-shirt on her nipples, his legs between hers, and his cock resting on her tummy. He raised his bum in the air, up and back, letting it fall between them, brushing her pussy, making her squeak and flinch. If I close my eyes I can see her now, wide-eyed and trembling, frightened but inviting, wanting.

Very gently his thumbs brushed the dirt and twigs off her face and when he was satisfied he took her head in his hands, holding her still while he leaned down and kissed her gently, firmly on the lips. Like a Barbara Cartland pirate, she said to me, bad, but good.

And while he was kissing her he just relaxed the weight from his elbows and his cock sank into her, long and slow, and he began to move back and forwards, fucking her gently.

She tried to explain how tender he was after the roughness of the other two, and that she’d been left half-way to orgasm by her second rapist, which gave this one a sort of head start. I know what she meant.

At first she was still, but soon began to move beneath him, her breath heavy in his mouth, the heavy breathing that’s a physical response to the weight on top of you and the movement inside you. Kissing him back was just an automatic response, but soon she had her arms around him, one hand on the back of his head. Her knees were up, heels digging into the blanket as she lifted herself up against him, fucking him as he fucked her.

I really, really wanted this fuck, this cock, this cum, she said one afternoon in a city-centre wine bar. Lunch had gone on too long and we were talking about Africa again. She meant her own orgasm, and his, deep inside her. She said she’d got to the fuckme-fuck me stage, when that’s all you can think about and more or less the only thing you can say, when you’re starting to breathe loud, you go all saggy in the face, your mouth hangs open and every nerve-ending in your brain is wired between your legs. I think all girls know this feeling, and know they don’t look their best. But they don’t care. All they care about is the feeling of being fucked.

Then it stopped.

He was high above her, head on one side. Lsitening.

Julie just carried on without him, flexing her hips, swinging her pelvis to and fro, sliding her pussy along his shaft, fucking him smoothly and gently. I’ve seen myself do this many times, in Roger’s movies. He loves it when I’m not getting fucked any more but I’m not ready to stop, so I don’t. I just keep on, moving all by myself. It makes me look greedy, and that’s exactly how I feel. I told Julie I understood this feeling long before I watched myself do it and found out how seriously horny it looks.

But then she heard the voices, far off and distant, but unmistakable, calling out her name. She still doesn’t know if she would have shouted back, but a large black hand was pressed over her mouth, keeping her silent, unable to make a move or a sound.

And as she listened to the voices she could make out Jeff, his voice high and reedy. Maybe he sounded that way because he was worried, stressed, or frightened. But it called to her mind a picture of his thin shoulders and arms, his straggly blonde beard. She saw him white and feeble as he was when they left England, not burnt and reddened by the sun as he was now. The 14 year-old-holding her down had broader shoulders, thicker, stronger arms with knotted muscles, small, tight buttocks and a large, heavy cock that spread her pussy from side to side and reached deep inside, filling her with manhood.

Her hips were still moving slowly, rocking and swivelling as she slid her pussy along his shaft while he remained motionles, his cock long and rigid for her to use. Distantly she heard the voices calling again, and hearing her boyfriend shout out her name like that while she was lying on her back with her legs apart being raped by some African jungle kid and enjoying it very much was the horniest moment of her life and she started to cum.

She knew it was going to be big and loud, and even before her body began trembling all over and the speed of her movements increased from fantastic to frantic, he seemed to know too, and clamped down harder on her mouth while she fucked herself to an orgasm which still hadn’t been beaten last time we spoke about it, though she’d spent all the intervening years searching for a man who could give her that “African moment”, as we used to say.

She was still quivering a minute or two later, but as she calmed down and the voices carried on calling her name, the teenager began to raise himself up, easing his still-hard cock out of her body, ready for flight, but she wrapped her arms tight around him, locked her legs across his back and carried on fucking him, whispering dont stop now, or something like it, and though he remained stock still, he stopped trying to pull out of her, and looked down, watching her face with liquid brown eyes as she rocked underneath him, squeezing and teasing him with her pussy, fucking him for his pleasure until he started to move himself, a half-hearted action, as if he was unsure.

She reached down and gently cupped his balls, a lover’s caress, still whispering in his ear, cum now, cum now, and stuff like that, pussy slithering along his length, kissing and biting his neck with her mouth, squeezing his balls gently until they tightened and jerked and he was cumming silently, jetting into her so fiercely she swore she could feel each spurt travelling up his shaft and bursting inside her as Jeff distantly called her name.

He was still twitching inside her when a large black hand grabbed him by the shoulder, tearing him aside, his cock plopping wetly into the open. The other three had waited, and watched, and now it was their turn. Julie’s pretty boy stood up, grabbed his shorts and ran off, a graceful, long-legged stride that tightened his rock-hard bum with each step, cock slapping from side to side as he diasappeared into the trees, leaving her alone with three more teenagers and their long, hard cocks.

There was no need to hold her now, and she gave herself up to them without a struggle,so they waited patiently for their turn, torn between watching their friends at work between her legs and scouting the trees for signs of the search party, still tramping through the bushes calling her name, their voices rising and falling in the distance as they tracked away from the blanket in the clearing.

Sweaty and scratchy, Julie opened her arms and legs and allowed herself to be fucked rough and hard by each of the trio, sometimes crying, sometimes gasping with surprised pleasure, once or twice yelling in the throes of cumming, always with a hand pressed across her mouth to stifle the noise, her body sometimes still, mostly bucking and twisting as it responded to the thrusting cocks between her legs and occasionally thrashing wildly as she came, all the while listening to her boyfriend and companions distantly calling her name. Not once did she call out in answer.

They eventually found her, sitting on the blanket, fully dressed but dishevelled and distressed. I went for a walk and got a bit lost, she said, and told them she’d been answering their calls for some time. They’d been arguing about the occasional noises from this direction but Jeff said it was just jungle animals and he’d know her voice anywhere. He also assured them that no wild creature would call out like that if there was a human nearby, so they’d searched in the opposite direction.

She never forgave him for that, and dumped him the day after they returned to England on a sharp December morning to find Pan Am 103 had just fallen out of the sky onto Lockerbie. Which puts things into perspective somewhat, she said on one of our long, alcoholic discussion evenings.

It had been a month or so, certainly after Christmas, when she first she told us girls about Africa (very briefly) and another three months before she and I started to talk about it in detail. She never forgave herself for that evening, though. She understood why her body had responded, why her pussy had got wet and even why she had climaxed, but she never understood wanting it, clawing at the last three with her fingertips, opening her legs wider and pulling them deeper, revelling in the feel of their cocks as they fucked her, wanting more and more, aching to cum, aching for them to cum as well.

Universtity, she said, was a waste of time, her sociology course irrelevant and meaningless compared to a vast and savage reality she’d experienced that evening.

She dropped out and wandered from job to job, and about three years later she set off to travel the world again, maybe looking for answers she hadn’t found in Cheshire, maybe loking for more experiences that reached into her emotions as deeply and keenly as she knew was possible. I saw her once again after that, a brief return to England when her parents divorced. Tanned and slender, blonde hair burned lighter gold by the sun, she was still gorgeous, could still have had anyone.

Instead it seemed she’d had everyone, or at least everyone she met, still without finding whatever it was. She’d paid her way with pussy, she said laughing, a brief flash of the Julie I used to know, buying car rides, plane tickets, hotel nights and even just food with her firm young body. In Malaysia she sold herself for actual money for the first time, because she needed clothes, she said, and found it easy. In Macau she’d worked in a brothel for three months. Very popular with the locals, she said, half-pleased, half disgusted.

She was back on a plane a week later, raising cash for the ticket by hanging around in the bar of a Heathrow hotel, waiting for the offers of a bed for the night and a couple of hundred pounds. She phoned me before she left, and then vanished for six or eight months. She died on a German motorway when a car full of American soldiers veered off into the trees. Julie had been on the back seat with three of them, none wearing seat belts, or anything below the waist.

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