Congo Drums

At dark that night, Charles Miller appeared from the direction of the boat with another full bottle of scotch under his arm, causing me to wonder just how many bottles he had brought on the journey and if he was thinking of the need to ration them for the return trip. The driver and cook were on the drums again, and, again, Miller and I sat parallel to the Miller’s tent so that, while he was slowly and expertly sucking me off, we could watch the show in his tent. Tonight it was a spectacular silhouette show, with Jim and Bull standing, facing each other, and Sondra suspended between them and taking cocks in both entrances.

I wondered how Miller could so calmly take this until, as if he could read my mind, he said, “I can no longer give Sondra what will keep her with me. And I enjoy watching those who can, servicing her.”

I had to agree that that was simple enough. Thanks to their performance, I was quite randy when I went back to my tent. Thanks to the driver and the Indian boat man, my randiness was fully serviced. I had watched Sondra get double plowed one way. The driver and the Indian showed me there was more than one way to double plow.

I was quite content riding the driver’s cock, facing his face, as he lay on his back on my cot. I lost my contentment and gained a half hour of “Holy Fuck!” when the Indian slid in behind me, encircled my chest with his arms, pitched me forward, and entered me with his snaking cock on top of the driver’s thick one. They played me like a calliope and left me just a few hours before dawn, exhausted, sweating profusely, and with my tongue hanging out.