Fist of Gold

Tejon was coaxing me to raise my pelvis up with a hand cupping my right thigh, signaling for me to bend my leg, put my foot under my knee and raise and roll my pelvis up. I knew what he wanted me to do and I did it. My left ankle was already hooked on his right shoulder. I knew why. His face was buried in the hollow of my neck. I knew he wouldn’t kiss me there or on the lips. I knew this was primeval and ritual, not affection. He was slathering my ass with vegetable grease. I knew why. I knew what he was going to do.

We were lying in some sort of animal’s wallow next to a watering hole that had been carved out of a stand of elephant grass some six and seven feet tall, the stalks densely spaced, the stalks of the wallow underneath us. Carved out by some massive animal or animals—probably elephants. No one would know we were there unless they were flying low overhead or unless, like Geoffrey Bentham, they were crouching in the elephant grass, peering through it, watching and anticipating what Tejon was going to do to me. An enclosed world of just Tejon and me, panting, me moaning in anticipation. Geoffrey watching from behind a line of Elephant grass stalks, his heavy-hung cock out, being stroked, showing signs of life.