Chapter 1: Chapter 1
After two days worth of driving, me and my team finally arrived at the village. My uni sent out eight people, but each person would be in charge of one village each. Since we got to the airport in the big city, I’d noticed that the people were bigger and taller than in my town. But they were even bigger when I arrived in the tribal village.
The men who gathered to greet our jeep were towering, sculpted from dark hardwood and corded muscle, their bare chests glistening in the oppressive heat. I felt like a sapling among redwoods, my pale skin screaming under the sun.
Jabari stepped forward first, his calm smile putting me slightly at ease. “Welcome. I am Jabari,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. His hand enveloped mine completely.
The chief, Zola, spoke perfect English, his kind eyes crinkling. “We are honored by your study. You will live as we live.”
The truth of that statement settled onto my shoulders over the next twelve hours, a tangible weight of unfamiliar rhythms.
The children were my easiest point of entry, their laughter universal as I clumsily attempted their games, their curious fingers poking my pale arms. By dusk, my body ached with a deep, satisfying exhaustion, my mind pleasantly stuffed with new words and gestures. The evening meal was a smoky, spicy stew eaten from a shared bowl, the firelight dancing on the faces of the men who seemed to watch my every move with a quiet, focused intensity. As the fire died down to embers, a man named Kwame, whose silent gaze had followed me all day, approached. “You sleep in my hut,” he stated, his voice leaving no room for question. I followed him, too tired to argue, the weight of a month’s celibacy just a dormant, dusty fact in the back of my mind.
His hut was dark, smelling of earth and smoked leather. I collapsed onto the pallet of furs he indicated, the world dissolving into a black, dreamless void almost instantly.
I don’t know what woke me.
A sound. A shift in the air.
My eyes snapped open in the absolute blackness, and it hit me like a fever—a sudden, clawing need that coiled tight in my guts and throbbed insistently between my legs. It was a raw, physical imperative that stripped away all academic pretense. My cock was already stiff, straining against my shorts, a slick of pre-cum dampening the fabric. I gasped, pressing the heel of my hand hard against myself, a weak attempt to stifle the ache. The humid night air felt like a weight on my skin, every scent—the musk of the furs, the distant smoke—seeming unbearably potent, sexual.
The need was a blind, pulsing animal inside me, and I knew I couldn't stay here. I shifted on the furs, my movements stiff with urgency, and reached out to shake Kwame’s shoulder where he slept beside me. “Kwame,” I whispered, my voice ragged. “Is there an empty hut? I need to sleep alone tonight.” He opened his eyes slowly, the firelight from the dying embers catching in his dark, knowing gaze, and I felt a hot blush crawl up my neck as I lied, “I… I just need some space to think.” A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face as he sat up, his massive frame looming in the gloom. “I know the perfect place,” he said, his voice a low rumble that slid right under my skin, and he rose to lead me out into the deeper dark.
He led me away from the main circle of huts, his silhouette a solid shadow against the lesser dark. The village was silent except for the crunch of our feet on dry earth. “Your body is strange to us,” Kwame said suddenly, his words cutting through the quiet. “Like a girl. So short. Skin like milk.” He glanced back at me, his eyes roaming. “And your buttocks… they are full. They rival the best mother in the tribe for giving life.” A stunned, nervous laugh bubbled out of me. “Uh, thanks,” I managed, the heat in my face burning. He made a soft, thoughtful sound, as if my acceptance of the compliment was the strangest part of all.
The hut he showed me was small and empty save for a worn mat. The moment the hide flap fell closed, severing his penetrating gaze, the dam broke. I fumbled with the drawstring of my shorts, shoving them down my thighs, my cock springing out hard and aching. I spat into my palm, the sound obscenely loud, and wrapped my slick fist around my shaft, a sharp groan tearing from my throat. It wasn’t enough. The image of Kwame’s evaluating stare, his words, fueled a deeper, shaming need. I wet my fingers again and reached behind myself, pressing against my hole, circling the tight ring of muscle. A gasp hiccupped in my chest as I pushed the tip of my finger inside, the stretch a bright, shocking counterpoint to the frantic pump of my fist. My hips jerked, fucking into my hand and back onto my finger, a filthy, desperate rhythm. “Fuck,” I panted into the dark, sweat beading on my lip, the month of tension coiling unbearably tight in my balls.
I fumbled for my backpack, my fingers scrambling past notebooks and insect repellent until they closed around the hard, silicone cylinder. I pulled out the dildo, its familiar weight a promise of relief. Spitting on my hand again, I slicked the shaft thoroughly, the gel-like lube in my bag too conspicuous to use now. I knew that I would be here for a month so I kept myself ready. Kneeling on the mat, I positioned the rounded tip against my hole, which was still loose from my finger. I started fucking myself and let out a small moan as the head pushed past the tight ring of muscle. A sharper, fuller burn spread through me as I worked more of the thick length inside. Kwame's comments ring in my head that my ass rivals the best woman. I don't know why but that sentence is making me much more horny, fueling the degrading, hot twist in my gut.
I don't know why but that sentence is making me much more horny, fueling the degrading, hot twist in my gut.
That comment makes me really horny.
It makes me think for a bit. In this village, everyone lives bare naked, with only accessories like a necklace or scarf around them. Yesterday, due to being ashamed to be naked, I walked around using a skin-tight spandex that pops my ass out. For the whole day I know that some of the men in the village are staring at me. And now I know that the men think that my ass is as seducing as the best woman, it’s making me feel much more horny.
I continue fucking myself harder knowing this.
The synthetic shaft plunged deeper, fucking into me with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the mud walls. My other hand worked my dripping cock, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. I pictured their eyes—Jabari’s calm assessment, Kwame’s intense stare, the younger ones’ curious glances—all fixed on the way that spandex had clung to my ass all day. They’d seen everything. They’d wanted it. A broken moan ripped out of me. “Fuck, yeah, stare at it,” I panted to the empty hut, my hips bucking back onto the toy, taking it all. My balls tightened, a coil of pure heat about to snap. The filthy truth was I’d wanted them to look. I’d dressed for it. The thought was a lightning strike down my spine. “Gonna come,” I gasped, voice shattered. My strokes turned frantic, my hole clenching around the fake dick. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and shameful, stripes of cum shooting across my stomach and the dusty mat beneath me as my body shuddered through it. I collapsed forward, spent and slick with sweat, the dildo still buried inside me. The silence afterwards was absolute, and hollow.
The silence afterwards was absolute, and hollow.
But the itch, the deep-down fucking need, didn’t fade with my come. It throbbed in my gut, warm and insistent. I lay there on the mat, sticky and spent, but still achingly hard. “Fuck it,” I whispered to the dark, my voice rough. “You’re here. You’re hot. That ass is the sexiest goddamn thing in this whole jungle, and it’s a fucking waste just lying here.” The self-talk felt stupid and electric. I pushed myself up, my body humming. The decision clicked into place, sharp and clear. No more shyness. No more spandex.
I left the shorts and the toy in a damp heap and stepped out into the night.
The central fire was a low pulse of light and sound ahead. I walked toward it, the cool dirt under my feet, the night air on my bare skin a kind of terrifying freedom. The hide flap of the main hut was pushed aside, spilling firelight and the low murmur of men’s voices onto the ground. I didn’t hesitate. I just walked in.
The talking stopped.
Heat from the fire washed over me. Twelve pairs of eyes, maybe more, locked onto my body—my flushed skin, my hard cock, everything. Jabari was seated by the fire, his calm expression gone, replaced by stunned intensity. Kwame was there, his dark gaze sweeping over me with a hunter’s focus. Solome, the younger one, let out a soft, sharp breath. Zola, the chief, watched silently from his place of honor, his face unreadable.
The silence was heavier than the humid air.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, and my voice didn’t even shake.
The silence stretched, thick and hot as the fire itself. I swallowed, my throat dry. “I said I needed company.” I crossed to where Jabari sat, his muscles tense, and lowered myself to the mat beside him, letting my thigh press against his. A current seemed to jump between our skin. They began whispering in their own language, a low, rapid flow of sounds I couldn’t understand, their eyes like physical hands roaming my body.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned my face toward Jabari’s, my lips close to his neck, breathing in his scent of smoke and earth. Then, my movements clumsy with desperate need, I let my hand slide from my own thigh to his. His skin was hot. I found the thick length of him already hard beneath his loincloth. I closed my fingers around it, feeling it pulse, and heard his sharp intake of breath.
Guided by a hunger that obliterated all thought, I bent my head, my lips parting, aiming to take the head of his cock into my mouth.
At the same time, my other hand went behind me, fingers seeking my own hole, still loose and slick from earlier. I pushed two fingers inside myself with a wet, audible sound, arching my back to present myself to the circle of watching men. A shameless moan escaped me. “I really need some company,” I gasped, the words ragged and true, my eyes pleading as I looked up at their faces from my kneeling position between them.
Jabari’s hand came down, not to push me away, but to cradle the back of my skull, his fingers tangling in my hair. “You offer this?” he grunted, his voice thick. All I could do was nod against him, my mouth watering. He yanked his loincloth aside. His cock sprang free, thick and ruddy and leaking. I didn’t hesitate. I licked a hot stripe up the underside, tasting salt and musk, before swallowing the head.
A collective groan went through the hut.
My world narrowed to the weight of him on my tongue, the frantic scissoring of my own fingers in my ass, and the circle of hungry eyes. Solome moved first, shifting behind me on silent feet. I felt his hands, calloused and sure, grip my hips. He spat, the sound crude and wet, and then the blunt, wide head of his cock was pressing where my fingers had been. “Yes,” I hissed around Jabari’s shaft, the word garbled. Solome pushed in with one relentless thrust, sheathing himself completely in my tight, willing hole. I screamed, the sound muffled by the flesh in my mouth, my body stretched and speared and finally, fucking finally, full.
Jabari began to fuck my face in earnest, his hips pumping, his grip unforgiving. Tears streamed from my eyes as I gagged, drool slicking my chin. Solome set a brutal pace, his balls slapping against my ass with every drive. The pain was a bright, cleansing fire, burning away every thought, every pretense of study. I was just a hole, being used, and it was the most honest I’d felt in a month. Kwame appeared in my blurry vision, his own erection in his fist. He aimed it at my face, grunting, “Open.” I let Jabari’s cock slide from my lips with a wet pop, gasping for air just in time for Kwame’s hot, bitter come to stripe across my cheeks and mouth. I licked my lips, tasting him.
“More,” I begged, voice shattered.
My plea hung in the smoky air, a raw vibration. For a second, there was only the crackle of the fire and the wet sound of Solome pumping into me from behind. Then, chaos—beautiful, devouring chaos.
Hands were everywhere.
Jabari pulled my head back onto his cock, his thrusts deeper now, hitting the back of my throat. I choked, tears streaming, and he growled something in his language, a sound of pure approval. Another tribesman, one I didn’t know by name, knelt in front of me, his cock nudging my frantically working hand. I took him too, my mouth stretched obscenely wide, fucking myself on two thick shafts. Spit dripped in a continuous strand to the earth floor.
Solome’s pace turned punishing, his grip on my hips iron-tight. “Tight little milk-skinned bitch,” he grunted in heavily accented English, each word a hot breath on my neck. The crude name sent a fresh bolt of depraved heat through my core. My own cock, trapped and ignored against my stomach, leaked a pathetic puddle of pre-cum.
A new pressure, insistent and blunt, pressed against the already-stretched pucker of my ass alongside Solome’s pounding length. I screamed a muffled scream. A third man. They were going to take both holes at once. The stretch was an impossible, burning agony. I convulsed, gagging on the cocks in my mouth, my vision spotting.
“Wait,” Kwame’s voice cut through, cold water on the frenzy. The pushing stopped. Jabari slid from my lips with a pop. I dragged in heaving, sobbing breaths, my body trembling violently, impaled and on display.
Kwame crouched in front of me, his eyes level with mine. He wiped a thumb through the mess of spit and cum on my chin. “You offer yourself to the village. To all?” His voice was calm, analytical.
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, a desperate, jerky movement.
“Then it will be done properly. As a welcome.” He stood and barked an order.
The hands lifted me. I was turned onto my hands and knees, Solome still buried deep in my ass. They pulled him out, and I whimpered at the sudden, empty ache. Rough hands spread my cheeks wide open to the firelight and the watching eyes. I heard the wet sound of someone spitting, felt it land hot on my exposed hole.
“Jabari first,” Kwame commanded. “He was first to greet him.”
Jabari moved behind me. There was no gentle press this time. He slammed home in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The air left my lungs in a punch. He set a deep, relentless rhythm, his pubic bone hammering against my tender flesh. It was too much. It was everything.
Another man lay on his back in front of my face. “Clean me,” he ordered, guiding his soft cock to my lips. I obeyed, licking and sucking, my world reduced to the smell of sweat and sex, the pounding from behind, the coarse textures under my hands.
They rotated. When Jabari finished, spilling inside me with a guttural roar, another took his place immediately. My ass was used, slick and loose, a communal vessel. They took my mouth, my hands. They came on my face, in my hair, across my back. I lost count. I lost myself. The pain blurred into a continuous, grounding burn, a focal point in the whirlwind.
Through the haze, I saw Zola, the chief. He never moved from his seat, never removed his loincloth. He simply watched, his expression one of deep, contemplative interest. His gaze felt heavier than all the others combined.
Eventually, the pace slowed. I was a limp, used rag, dripping with their release, trembling from exhaustion and overload. Kwame squatted beside me again as the last man pulled out.
“You are welcomed,” he stated. He lifted a gourd, not of water, but of a thick, oily paste. With deliberate fingers, he smeared it over my ravaged hole, the touch clinical. A cooling numbness bloomed, muting the throbbing ache. “This will help. You will not be able to sit tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a concern. It was a fact. A brand.
“Take him to the river to clean,” Kwame ordered two of the younger men. They lifted me, my legs buckling. As they carried me out, I caught Zola’s eye. He gave me the faintest nod.
The night air was shockingly cool on my feverish skin. The stars were a brutal, indifferent spray across the velvet sky. The men half-dragged me to the riverbank and pushed me into the slow-moving water. The current tugged at me. They scrubbed me with rough sand, scraping away the physical evidence, saying nothing. Their touches were no longer sexual, but efficient, like washing a tool after use.
When they were done, they helped me back to Kwame’s hut. He was already inside, lying on his furs. They deposited me on the mat beside him. The numbness from the paste was fading, replaced by a deep, radiating soreness that promised to be crippling by morning.
Kwame looked at me in the dark. “You surprised them. You surprised me. The pale scholar has fire underneath.” He rolled onto his side. “Sleep. The hunt goes out at dawn. You will watch, and you will learn the price of the meat you eat.”
He said nothing about what had just happened. It was simply done. A settled fact.
I lay on my stomach, every muscle protesting. The scent of sex and strange herbs clung to my skin. The echo of flesh pounding against mine played on a loop in my skull. My mind, finally quiet of its intellectual chatter, was filled with a single, crystalline realization.
My study had officially begun. I was no longer an observer. I had become a datum, a participant in a ritual I didn’t understand. And as the profound, aching throb between my legs pulsed with every heartbeat, I knew, with a scholar’s cold curiosity and a slut’s shameless hunger, that I would let it happen again.