Sexual Adventures: Taboo Erotica E-Book

Bryci Stevens

• Herausgeber: Taboo Pulp Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

We know you're going to just read the free sample preview anyway. You should. This book is hot. A trashy, sleazy, *full-length* (100+ Pages) post-censorship erotic novel. But, if you really want, here's the briefest of excerpts:

He swung toward the bed, gestured angrily with his arms and spit forth a jumble of Swahili-Chubuka dialect that sent Kimadi and Mwezi, naked and terrified, into the night. His cold eyes stabbed toward the still-crouching Jomo and he too scurried into the concealing darkness like a startled animal. Hunter stared after him for a long silent moment before he turned to me.
"But... but I didn't know... " I stammered out my innocence.
"Lady, I doubt very much if you know which end your pussy's on!"
"You've no right to say such a thing to me, Jim Hunter!" It was awful. I fought to hold back the tears that blinded me. "I was only trying to do my job... and with little help from you, let me add.
Maybe I am still a virgin. Maybe I don't know as much about sex as I should but... "
"Then it's bloody well time you learn!"
Hunter's hands went to his belt, released the center tine and ripped it from the loops with a loud crack. He held it deliberately out before him and let it drop to the floor at my feet. The ruggedly handsome face was drawn and there was a bloodless white rim to his mouth.
"That... that's rape!"
"That's right!"

Leseprobe

Sexual Adventures

Bryci Stevens

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

The African veldt is a blast furnace in midsummer, but the line of naked natives with their great dangling organs kept my mind off the searing heat of the sun.

As I leaned closer to study the dark-skinned genitals with their enormous, thick, meaty trunks and finger-size veins, I could see the pulse beat of the blood that fed them. I stared in open-mouthed amazement at the dark, hairy bag and the mammoth penis that hung before it. It was impossible not to stare at a penis of such monumental size!

I could feel my cheeks flush with excitement. This was what I had studied sociology for, what I had come to Africa to find-the much-discussed sexual giants, the race of Negroes with ten inch penises between every set of legs.

Tucking the clipboard of notes beneath my arm, I walked slowly down the line of naked Africans and stopped before a particularly outstanding specimen. Jomo was the largest of the five men, his skin the darkest, his eyes the most insolent of them all. They caressed my body like gloves, clutching and poking into the private places. They cupped each curve and followed each line. They were offensive, savage eyes. But I forced myself to remain calm. I couldn't allow anything, or anybody, to interfere now with my part in this vast research project. It was an honor to work with Dr. Maher and the Institute of Sexual Research. The Board of Directors had nearly vetoed my appointment as it was, saying I was too young and too inexperienced for this type of investigation. The fact that I was female didn't help any, either. I was determined to prove them wrong and this was my chance.

I studied the African's body structure, made a few sketchy notes, then deliberately reached out and cupped the man's heavy testicles in my hand. Jomo's lean, strong body tensed with surprise then slowly, gradually he relaxed. The thick lips parted in a lewd, knowing smile, and he thrust his huge genitals proudly forward to be examined.

The long sac hung down between his dusty legs like the pendulous scrotum of a bull. I fingered the dark treasures in my hand. The oval glands were a full two inches in diameter, firm and unyielding to the touch. The man's testis weighed nearly two pounds. And his huge penis, my fingers would not meet around it! I let my hand slide up and under its enormity. It lay fat and willing in my palm, a magnificent ten inches, possibly more. I sensed that the sight of his own gigantic black penis in a white woman's hand excited him. The veins fattened with blood and grew shiny tight.

The notes I had made were conservative at best. Reluctantly I let the heavy organ slip from my fingers. It fell back against his thighs with an audible sound, a lewd obvious sound that I pretended not to hear, and I continued with a hen-scratching of hurried notes... "With respect to penis size, I believe the Sudanese Negro has the largest penis of present day mankind. It resembles the penis of a donkey more than a man, both in size and shape, and frequently measures twelve inches in its relaxed state."

I could feel Jomo's insolent eyes following my every move with hungry interest until finally they came to rest on the crotch crease of my khaki skirt. For a long moment I considered ignoring him completely and moving on to the next man, but the size of the thick penis arching out from his dark loins changed my mind. Research was not intended to be pleasant, only factual. I couldn't allow my personal reaction to cloud the fact that Jomo was, indeed, a fine specimen of his race.

I reached for the small metal tape measure in my pocket and stretched it along the length of his bobbing penis. Ten and one-half, no, eleven inches! Without thinking, I raised my eyes to his and nodded approvingly... and knew instantly that I had made a grave mistake. His sensual, heavy-lidded eyes looked down at me in stark hunger. I felt the roll of meat in my hand squirm and come alive.

Quickly I pulled my hand away and the pendulous cock dropped between his legs and swung there suggestively. He was sweating... and so was I.

Then I was suddenly, painfully aware that Jim Hunter had left his perch on the sun-heated fender of the Land Rover and was walking slowly across the twenty feet of ground that separated us. His cold, disapproving stare burned into my back. It was hard to ignore a man like Jim Hunter. He was every inch the professional white hunter-tall, lean, mean, nasty, weather-tanned and disgustingly capable. If you didn't have an inferiority complex before you met Hunter, you developed one shortly after making his acquaintance. I hated men like that. They made me remember I was a woman and something less than self-sufficient in my own right. Hunter took everything with a grain of Kenya salt, especially my research project for the Institute. Only the promise of an exorbitant fee had prompted him to agree to guide me into the interior. From the look on his face, I knew he was already regretting that decision. I sighed inwardly and tried to avoid the accusing eyes.

"Miss Vaughn... " he began.

"Hmmmmmm?"

"I'd like to speak to you... alone." His voice carried an audible frown.

"Just a moment, Mr. Hunter," I answered with obvious impatience. Didn't he realize that interruptions could very easily negate the test? "I'll be finished with this man in just a moment."

I reached out for Jomo's enormous organ and began the deliberate manipulations to bring it to its full-fed capacity. The loose skin grew shiny tight. Drops of moisture formed along its length and wet my hand with his excitement. I was affected nearly as much as Jomo by the sensual sight of this great, black penis fattening in the palm of my own hand. My fingers slid back and forth until the meat grew hot to the touch and throbbed noticeably. Warning drops began to ooze from the dark, slitted head. I reached for the tape... an eleven-inch organ poking straight out from Jomo's hairy loins... a black marble effigy to shame his small white cousins! And it certainly bore out previous notes on the clipboard. I wrote with renewed enthusiasm... "In certain Negroid races, I have noticed that the male sex organs vary from tribe to tribe where, in certain instances, they deliberately breed for size and shape by raiding North African villages and mating with the stolen females. While they are slightly shorter in length than the North Africans, the Central African possesses the greatest degree of rigidity attributed to any Twentieth Century man... "

"Miss Vaughn," Jim Hunter began again in the patronizing tone one uses on an errant child.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Hunter. What is it?"

"I don't like to have to do this in front of the crew but... " he scowled down at me, "I don't think you realize what you're doing. In Africa, a white woman just doesn't... doesn't play with a man like that. I think-"

"You aren't being paid to think, Mr. Hunter, only to act as my guide and interpreter. I thought we had settled all that before we left Nairobi. You knew the purpose of this safari before you named your rather outlandish price."

"The purpose of it, yes, but you neglected to mention a few little details. For instance, you forgot to mention that you intended to personally jack off every man's... " Hunter shrugged his shoulders helplessly when polite words failed him.

"Penis, Mr. Hunter?" I was being deliberately sarcastic but mine was a difficult job at best, without his insulting inferences. "Face facts, Mr. Hunter, personal contact with a man's penis is obviously the most direct method of determining the extent of his erection. And after all, that is what I'm here for, isn't it? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with it."

I turned my back on him and returned to my notes... "I have noticed that in certain Negroid races of the interior, the penis may even be spotted in color, shading from pink to brown to near-black. The cause of this color variation is in the skin pigmentation. This occurs only in the erotic zones of the body, i.e., penis, inner labia, anus and tongue."

My hand went on with the laborious notes, tallying the facts, totaling the conclusions, but my mind was still on the mammoth organ that sprung from Jomo's dark loins. It wasn't spotted... or pink... or in any way less than perfect; like the others. It was a deep, rich mahogany brown, fat and sleek and hard to forget.

He watched the girl for a moment, then snorted in disgust. From safari guide to jungle pimp in one easy lesson, nobody would believe it of Jim Hunter. He could take a bloody picture and nobody would believe it. My God, what was Africa coining to these days? He crossed his legs, rubbing one thigh against the other, hoping to scratch the growing itch he knew could not be stilled so easily, and looked forward to setting up camp tonight outside the Chamani village kraal. A few bottles of beer would bring a young Chamani girl to his bed tonight, and a little dark meat never hurt any man.

I watched through the half-open flap of the tent as Hunter pulled the warm body of the girl closer to him. I felt a little guilty but it was, after all, all in the line of duty. Pencil poised and ready above the clipboard, I soothed my conscience by remembering his angry outburst earlier in the evening. I fear that I had stared with open disapproval when the native girl presented herself so brazenly before one and all. When I questioned his moral intent, Hunter had risen and walked directly to his sleeping tent with her.

"Mazungumzo!" he had shouted back at me, over his shoulder in anger. "Mambo ya mume na mke! That means intercourse in medical terminology, Miss Vaughn. Is that what you want to know? Have I made my intentions clear enough?"

Even now I was embarrassed remembering his crude comments, but I could not let petty attitudes interfere with research. I watched, unseen in the flickering lantern light, as Jim Hunter worked the rough surface of his tongue across this woman-child's fat brown nipples, sucking enthusiastically, noisily, until he was rewarded with the traditional outcry of pleasure. He chuckled aloud, obviously pleased with himself as well as the girl. Commendable custom the Chamani women had, I suppose, this practice of loud vocal compliments to a visitor's abilities. It was good for a man's ego and, thus, good for the girl in the long run. He sucked the small, pointed breast even deeper into his mouth and began a rhythmic cycle of suckling. The child, not more than twelve years of age but a woman by Chamani standards, responded in joyful cries, each louder than the last. Hidden in the darkness, I could see it was no longer Jim Hunter's ego that was in need of succor... but the throbbing penis that hung loose and heavy between his naked legs.

His hand trailed down across the honey-brown stomach and tangled in the bramble bush of curls between her legs. His fingers fastened in the thick thatch and tugged painfully. She moaned soft whimpers of passion beneath his touch. Hunter twisted his hand and pulled hard against the resisting curls.

"Come on, honey," I heard him say to her. "This time with feeling!"

The answering groan would have paid homage to a visiting chief. Hunter smiled, and the brown sugar tit slipped from his lips. He let it go. He had paid sufficient court to the girl's pride, everyone had heard. It was a well known custom, and I made notes to remind myself that it was an insult to leave a Chamani woman without supplying many loud cries of pain for the village to hear. A true warrior is so strong and so fierce that he cannot help hurting a weak helpless woman. If she did not cry out in pain, if she was not hurt in the lovemaking, then she was not wanted.

Remaining hidden, I watched as Hunter raised his lean naked body and crouched upon his knees above the youthful brown crotch. Firelight danced past me through the open doorway and made strange patterns on the girl's dark skin as Hunter spread his palms on the flat of her stomach and kneaded the soft brown flesh. The cries of praise that slipped the girl's lips were like night bird calls at dawn. I caught myself wondering how it would feel, and small thrills trebled down my own spine. I shivered in the hot humid night.

Hunter's strong hands worked the damp bronze flesh with long even strokes, sliding forward over her hips, then back upon her thighs. From my place of hiding, I could see the small, hard knob of the child's clit raise up into view. As Hunter's heavy penis drug between the open lips, back and forth, back and forth, the toy knob elongated and took on a shape of its own. I could hear their labored breathing from my hideaway less than eight feet away. The girl-child reached down between them and pressed the willing lips apart. Now the full wet welcome of her open hole was free to him, and she lay a line of cunt kisses along his aching penis.

Hunter's lips were dry so he licked them wet. He thought about the tart-sweet taste of a woman's juicy hole. He thought about the pungent odor of rut and French perfume mingling in a man's nostrils. He closed his eyes and wallowed in the mental mulch of rut. Then he thought about the Chamani custom of plugging the vagina with fern leaves to keep all men's sperm within, that all Chamani totos would be the sons of all warriors. He recalled the musky odor that filled the tent when she had opened the door for his seed... and put the temptation to eat her from his mind. It was a rare and staggy smell, meant only for a man's cock to wade in, a shame! He sighed and spread the fur-pelted lips for the hard head of his penis.

He watched the girl beneath him. She was silent, unmoving, waiting for the strong hard stake to fall. Her heart was pounding wildly, he could see the pulse at the base of her neck, but she made no sound. Even the life sounds from the kraal a hundred yards beyond had stilled. It was as if the jungle waited for his plunge into this woman. As indeed it did, another of the Chamani customs which challenged the endurance of the warrior male.

Slowly, very slowly, Hunter pushed the swollen head into the girl's raging hole, slowly until he felt the hungry maw slip over the ridge, and there he stopped. He must wait. It was a torturous thing, this tribal ritual of "heading" a woman, nigh on impossible for a man too long without bed service. Hunter chewed on his lower lip and tried to free his mind of its ravenous hunger. He thought about the small leak in the Land Rover's gas line. But the hot beat of the girl's pulsing blood was about to drive him over the raw edge. He clamped his jaw down, took long, deep gulps of the sweet night air, and tried to remember the last trip out when he'd trailed a wounded water buffalo through the high marsh grass of Dbundo Swamp. A roaring torrent of desire was building in his balls and threatening to explode the puny dam of flesh, despite the delaying action of his thoughts. Hunter held his breath and counted to twenty in Swahili.

He could hear the girl's quiet breathing and see the flickering firelight across her small, hard breasts. The need to use the woman burned in him with the same wild, flickering light. He wanted to bury himself in her guts and put out the fire with the gallon of semen that threatened his balls to the bursting point. But he waited. Bwana Hunter, the Chamani Elders knew, was a mighty warrior. Hunter was a strong, brave man. He would not dishonor their women by breaking tradition. Hunter chewed on his lower lip and fervently hoped he wouldn't break tradition, but the monster between his legs had a mind of its own.

Hunter closed his eyes and concentrated on deep breathing exercises. In, out, in, out. My God, not that! Don't think in-and-out, you damn fool, you'll blow it for sure and certain. He could feel the tight elastic ring of the woman's vagina clamping around his strangling penis. It was squeezing the head off. Don't think about it, he told himself. His right knee ached. There must be a rock, maybe a stick or something, caught beneath the bedroll. He was afraid to shift his weight from the knee, afraid the motion would strip his gears. Wait. He had to wait.

He could make out the girl's moving lips in the darkness of the tent. My God, Hunter thought, she must be damn near done with that bloody chant by now. He could have sung three choruses of Ave Maria in Swahili in that length of time! And he was getting close to the edge, too close.

Then he felt the signaling squeeze of the girl's tight little cunt suddenly begin milking his bursting penis with quick sharp bites. Hunter tensed his lean hips and lunged full hard into the snug velvet brown hole... and the whole crazy world blew up around him! Wave after wave of lava-hot semen washed the length of his penis and flooded him inside out with the searing heat of it. Amid the strange ten-second chant of the villagers which answered the girl's own proud yell, Jim Hunter became no more and no less than a Kenyan savage himself. He tore at the girl's tender flesh without mercy, pounding the full length of his hard penis into her with two hundred pounds behind each and every thrust. There is nothing civilized about African lovemaking, nothing to tame a man's passion, nor cool his blood.

The wailing chant died out in the village. Their visitor had been made welcome. Slowly the night sounds began again. A monkey chattered, a night bird shrilled, and the little noises of life and death resounded in the night. Hunter collapsed, sated and content, beside the naked brown maiden. He closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of the jungle, the chittering of the tiny bushbirds, the rustle of leaves overhead, then...

"Tell me, Mr. Hunter, do you find it stimulating when the girl yells like that?" My voice sounded strained and loud in the dim tent. "Does it excite you into climax or enhance the sex act in any tangible way?"

He sat bolt upright a [...]