Safari Trail’s End

It might have been better if I had tuned in to what was on the tour guide’s mind.

We set out in a Land Rover, the four of us—Madzinga and Taguma in front and Dirk Vandergrif in the back, with me. The road was rough even from the beginning and deteriorated steadily the deeper we drove into the scrub bush that was the Zambezi National Park. We were jostled about in the Land Rover, and Vandergrif made no effort not to be pressed into my side or to grip my knee or thigh to steady himself. If he expected it to arouse me sexually, it did. He was a powerfully built and ruggedly handsome man. I could tell that it aroused him. The crotch of his shorts filled out. I could see the line of his engorged cock through the material—even that he was cut. Madzinga was driving; Taguma regularly looked into the backseat with a grin that seemed to convey that he knew something that I didn’t.

As it turned out he did.

We saw elephants—in groups of parades—and giraffes—in towers—out in the open areas, and where there were stands of scraggly umbrella trees, we saw monkeys. What we weren’t seeing was lions, and although I didn’t really care if we saw one or not, Vandergrif insisted that I needed to see one, and kept urging Taguma forward along worsening road tracks deeper into the scrub. Another thing we didn’t see was the larger Land Rover the rest of the group had taken. That should have alerted me to what Vandergrif was doing.