South African Safari Sequel

Ch 06

Paul finishes his time in South Africa and returns to Miami

This story is entirely original and fictional. South African Safari was published on Literotica several months ago. There were requests for more chapters after South Africa Safari. I continue to examine the adventures and regrets of Paul Goodfield, a neurotic survivor of abuse who alternates between one night stands and longer term more complex relationships. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, All rights reserved. Brunosden

When I awakened, it was already "late" by ranch standards—it was probably 8 or so. Ron was gone, but hadn't roused me when he did so. I washed, dressed and headed for the kitchen—the center of all activity in the manor. Ron was just finishing coffee, and he had obviously already eaten. But the sideboard contained boiled eggs, porridge, fruit and various breads. I served myself and sat beside him as Harriet brought my black coffee.

Ron looked over and did a double-take when he noted the black-rimmed glasses. I hadn't worn them since the flights over, and I guess he didn't notice when he picked me up. "Are you trying to look older? Or wiser? Or nerdier? Whatever, you succeeded." And he chuckled.

Then he sipped and went unusually quiet. But, as I finished, he remarked that the guys were waiting in the library to discuss the breeding part of the business plan. I remarked that I had little comment on that part of the plan. Assuming his projections on costs of the stock and its maintenance and his projections on sales pricing were accurate, I really had nothing to add.

So we walked together to the library. All of the friends I had met previously were there, save one who couldn't get off that morning. Ron opened the meeting and described again his plan, noting that he would need some flexibility on the stock depending upon opportunistic availability. We talked a little about the cost projections which Ron assured me were pretty accurate—provided we had some flexibility on timing so we weren't competing with the big boys. He was going to move slowly on the most expensive animals—like white rhinos.

I concluded, "Based on the business plan, it appears that you will need just over USD1 million until you reach break even cash flow. Thus, you should increase the costs by about $80K per year to reflect financial carrying costs of the program. It seems unlikely that you'll make much of a dent in the livestock loan for five to ten years. So we should look for a term loan rather than a revolving credit which must be paid down periodically. There is an alternative: a co-investor or partnerships. Do you think there might be a local appetite to take 'shares" in rare breeds? If so, the borrowing costs would be decreased significantly. You could sell the shares on an animal by animal basis—so the investment could be small—perhaps just a few thousand per investor. It would create a feeling within the area of co-ownership that would be very healthy. Even clubs or schools could become co-owners."

Several of the nephews perked up at the idea, but no one was aware of anyone with that kind of capital in the Durban area. Ron, however, said he would call some people he knew who might be interested. Later, Harriet became very helpful—she thought it was a great idea, and she was ready to organize the village and apply for foundation or government funding to keep the village involved as co-owner of the breeding enterprise. Giving the village a stake would have the added benefit of enhancing security.

Ron and the guys talked a little about timing—and decided that once the project was underway, they would "phase in" as employees so as not to burden the venture with high labor costs. We all rose, shook hands, and the guys left to go to their regular jobs. I had the feeling that more than a few younger guests were going to be attracted to these handsome rangers. They were stunning examples of African manhood.

"I'd like to talk about the hotel part of the plan next. If that's okay with you Paul."

"Of course. You said you had some ideas."

"About six months ago I met this guy at the Underground. He's the General Manager of the Durban Ocean Resort. It's a top hotel with about 200 rooms, all with balconies or terraces on the Indian Ocean. The hotel is owned by a local wealthy Indian family, but it is operated by a chain of African beach resort hotel operators, called African Sea and Sun, AFSS. Apparently, the family gets an annual "rent" for the property and then a share of the net profits. Russ works for AFSS, but is the liaison between the operator and the owner. He says the family owns many African hotel properties and all are managed by AFSS. The family has been pleased with the results.

I think our project could go one of two ways: we could approach AFSS to run the resort operations—or, through Russ, we could go to the family and see whether they might be interested in co-investing in a bush hotel which could then partner with DOR. I can already see the marketing tag: Enjoy sea, sand and bush. Since the hotel is only an hour away by van, day trips could be offered—and that would raise our tourist count quickly without having to expand the number of villas immediately. I've even heard that a dozen or so cruise ships are now calling at Durban. Day trips again might be possible—but we would need someone with tourist industry knowhow."

"I think that's a great idea. I'm going to find us a consultant. I'll keep the costs down. But, we need someone who has done this before to insure that we get a fair deal and that we think of everything. I think it might be a great weight off your shoulders not to have to run the hotel part of the business plan. And of course, it would significantly reduce our cash needs if they became co-investors."

"You keep using the words 'us' and 'our'. Have you changed your thinking about this Paul?"

"I've been thinking a lot about us, Ron. I guess I'm not as forward thinking as I give myself credit for. I came to Africa for a holiday and to give you some help on the venture. I certainly expected that we'd have some fun—as we certainly have." I paused and smiled, recalling the many occasions when we had come together in pleasure. "But, I'm not ready to commit to anyone. And I don't think that I'm ever going to be ready to leave Miami for the bush of Africa—however attractive the promise of life with you seems. I'm really just beginning to realize who I am in Miami. I've got family and an exciting job."

"I wouldn't ask you to give this up and move to Miami. And even if you were willing to do so, I'm not ready to commit to a lifetime in Africa."

"Can you forgive me for leading you on? For using you in my path of self-discovery? As my therapist? As a sex toy?"

I could see the pain behind the liquid eyes that were staring at me as I spoke. Then Ron smiled, "Sex toy, eh? Well we'll see what I can be useful for later today and tonight. I understand. Deep down, I think I knew what your response was going to be. But, you can't fault a guy for dreaming. Can you?" He was clearly hurt, but he was trying to work through his pain.

"Speaking of dreaming, let's take a look at the numbers."

"Somehow I knew we were coming to this. I think I'm going to need some coffee."

I spread some pages on the table, and together we reviewed the assumptions and conclusions. Ron seemed uncomfortable with the analysis—he was out of his element—he was anxious to get to the bottom line. But, he did confirm the practical inputs and assumptions, making a few changes here and there.

And so we got there: The hotel operation (villas, kitchen, manor remodel) would need another $800K in capital and $1 million for operating funds (including debt service) until break-even cash flow was reached in two-three years. All of that could easily be secured by the full value of the manor and property. That part of the plan could work financially given the value of the manor property. So as to the hotel, it was mostly going to be operations and marketing. If he got a co-invester, the time line could be accelerated and profitability was possible within a year.

The breeding operation would require another $1 million of capital (to acquire stock) and $1 million of operating funds until profits from animal sales kicked in—probably five years out.

And so we had a plan: partner the hotel operation with the new partner investing or lending around $2 million. Plan B on the hotel meant mortgaging the ranch and contracting with an operator. And find a bank or investor (with an outside chance of putting the livestock-partnership idea into effect) that would fund another $2 million (without recourse to the property).

It was a tall order. But, it was realistic and do-able. At least Ron (we) now had a target requirement. And Ron seemed to think it would appeal to the Singh family—if Russ were involved. It did seem to be a logical fit for DOR.

We finished late. And I could tell Ron was more exhausted from the paper work than he would have been with a hard day's labor on the property. He proposed an al fresco late lunch, and when I agreed, he went in to ask Harriet to prepare a basket. He found a nice bottle of South African chard and added it to the food. Then we changed and headed out to the bush for lunch.

Soon we were spread out under a large acacia tree enjoying the sounds of the bush: the rustling leaves and grasses, the calls of exotic birds, and even an occasional roar. One fish eagle continuously soared and circled our spot, probably looking for fish in the nearby pond, but perhaps wondering if we might leave something. Before we started to eat, Ron looked over slyly.

"Can I interest you in a fender fuck?"

My eyes shot open. "Of course, one of my favorite things."

He leaned over and unbuckled my belt and opened my shorts. The he unbuttoned the shirt. His lips reached my nipples as he sucked both until dark and hard. My cock had been freed and stood tall. His tongue rolled down following my treasure trail until it reached the base. He repositioned between my legs and then swallowed the head. His tongue poked into the slit causing my ass to rise from the blanket in anticipation. Then he sucked long and hard. His hands meanwhile were pulling my shorts to my knees and then he cradled and massaged my balls. God, he already had me at the edge. This shaggy hunk of a beast was devouring me. I couldn't take more. So I pushed him away, stood and finished undressing—as he followed. The blanket was already on the Rover fender. He had obviously planned this. I knew exactly what to do. I undressed Ron; then I moved to the fender and poured myself over it, presenting my little muscled ass for his use.

Ron moved behind, pushed me higher on the curve and bent in to tongue my opening. He went deep and then deeper as his rough farm hands pulled my cheeks apart. Then, I felt the lube and his index finger teasing my nut. I wanted to drop back to give him more depth, but a sturdy hand held my shoulders in place, hard against the top of the fender.

Slowly he allowed the blanket to slide. I felt the tip of his massively hard cock at my entrance. It was already wet from his precum. He was as into this as I was. I dropped another inch and the head was inside, stretching the ring. Another inch and another. And he was poking the prostate. With powerful hands on my waist, he bounced me on his dick, sending shock waves of pleasure. Then he released me and I dropped back several inches—and he bottomed. I was so full. The sliding rhythm of a drop over the fender followed by strong hands on my hips pushing me back up, only to be repeated again. I could tell he was smiling. He knew that this position had given me the best orgasm and biggest cum of my life. There was something that was his alone to give.

The motions became more frantic. And I could feel his cock growing ever larger. One last drop. One last bottom. And he exploded hard into my gut. But, he didn't pull out. He pushed me up onto the bumper, swiveled me and embraced me tight to his chest. My legs went around his waist, trapping him still longer. His mouth came to mine and our tongues began to duel. And then I too erupted, spraying cum over our touching chests.

I heard a sound and my eyes climbed to the top of the acacia tree—where the eagle was watching us intently. Our "Go away" voyeur had grown into an eagle—a fitting end to a series of spectacular physical acts of love.

Tomorrow I would leave to return to Miami. But we had one more night—and Ron had promised to introduce me to The Underground, and probably also to his friend Russ (who I later learned had been to the ranch and Ron's bed before).

Just before sundown, we returned, showered and took one last look at the business plan. "I think you are better with local funding for the venture. But, if it doesn't materialize, we will go to work. I'm pretty sure that we could raise a few million in investment capital—but it is likely that our investors would be less patient than those you might find locally. There might even be a gay angle in Miami."

Clubbing in Durban had not really matured. There was no protocol—yet. But one thing was certain. The action started earlier, around 9 rather than 10 or even later in Miami. Most of these guys had jobs that started early. And it was strickly integrated.

Ron suggested safari wear as a good starter—but he advised that a tee and briefs or boxer briefs—or maybe even a jock if I was feeling like an exhibitionist--were necessary. Apparently, we'd lose the safari wear after a few torrid African rhythm dances.

We arrived a little after 9—the drive from the ranch had only taken 30 minutes and parking was relatively easy. The place was packed and loud. We approached the entrance, guarded by two huge African men, dressed in safari clothes and carrying rifles. (Later I learned the rifles were props). There were boxes in either side of the entrance. On the left was a large box, bolted to a heavy barrel, marked, "Honor System, Deposit $5 per person." On the right was another marked, "Dishonor System, Deposit all your Inhibitions. Take What You Need." Inside that box were hundreds of foil-wrapped condoms in various sizes.

Ron paid the admission, and we walked into a large metal warehouse building which, given the size of the doors, had probably been one a garage. Strobes and LEDs lit the shiny metallic interior of the arched roof, completely changing its color every few seconds. The concrete floor had been swept and polished. And there was a huge long bar at the far end. Behind the bar on an elevated platform (probably a former car or truck lift) were a DJ and several sets of African drums—the source of the music. No tables or chairs, but ten topless Land Rovers, six on each side, were lined up bumper to bumper to provide temporary "stadium seating". The game spotlights on some of the Rovers were pointed toward the dance floor, giving it the quality of an ice rink with pools of light surrounded by darkness. Really no décor at all, save the lights and the incredibly loud beat that seemed to vibrate the entire place. The floor was already nearly full with young men. There was no question. This place was erotic. It was temporary, makeshift, but designed for cruising. It was young Africa at its best. Who could have imagined such a creative use for the topless Rovers?

Ron spotted Russ and a few other guys in one of the Rovers and headed there, pulling me behind. Russ called out to us and pointed to the highest bench seat. "I saved the boxed seats for my best friend and his best friend. Good to see you, Ron. This must be the famous Paul of Miami."

Russ looked incredibly like me. He was probably half-Indian, half Afrikaner. So his skin was medium dark, his eyes were even deeper and darker than mine. He had strong eyebrows and a sharp nose. His hair was straight, long and very black. He was tall and slim, not quite as muscled as I. Probably didn't spend much time at labor or in the gym. His safari shirt and shorts were white, and I noted some striped ribbons on the epaulets (which Ron later advised were those of the DOR—so Russ had come directly here from work). Russ's shorts were tight and I noted red bikini briefs and a good sized basket underneath. They embraced. Russ held the clinch for a little longer than a straight bro-hug. And I noted that Russ was staring at Ron with puppy-love eyes. He was much more careful with me; he didn't yet know that I was returning to Miami the next day.

Quickly, Ron brought him up to date. "We've got a very fine business plan. And I'll want to discuss it with you later this week. But, this is Paul's last night in Africa. Let's make it a good one." Russ visibly brightened. He didn't have all the details, but he had enough.

We had a number of drinks, mostly local beers, and frequently moved to the dance floor. I was often with Ron, but occasionally with Russ who seemed careful and polite. After about an hour, with the heat in the shed rising, shirts started to disappear—first the button ups, then the tees. I noted that, contrary to what I had expected, the crowd was very much integrated—whites, browns and blacks. It didn't seem to matter on the dance floor. In fact, I was pretty sure one of the guys scoping me out was one of Harriet's nephews. He was already shirtless and his chest muscles were of Mr. Africa quality.

Ron was a good dancer, despite his bulk. And because of his strength, when we danced, we were glued together. He held me so tightly that I barely touched the floor. I could tell he was erect for most of the night. But Ron also danced with Russ—and Russ plastered himself around Ron when they did so. I noted that Ron was usually holding Russ from the floor with both hands firmly planted inside his shorts on his butt. I guess that's Ron trademark dance routine.

We stayed for several hours, and the atmosphere became much more clearly erotic. Some of the action was taking place in the Rovers—the bench seats were ideal—many of these guys probably didn't have a private room or the funds for a hotel room—even if the social norms permitted them to register with another guy. Suddenly, it hit me. The Underground was another world for these guys. By necessity, they were all closeted outside this shed. What a contrast to Miami! Then I realized it wasn't so many years ago that similar conditions existed everywhere—even Miami. I wondered how quickly South Africa would adapt.

At midnight, what was obviously a regular custom, startled me. After a surge of African drums, the DJ announced it was the bewitching hour. And all shorts suddenly disappeared—leaving the entire crowd in briefs, boxer briefs, bikinis or jocks! Now I realized why Ron had given me dress advice earlier.

Ron (in the ubiquitous camo boxer briefs that camouflaged absolutely nothing) grabbed Russ (in a silky red bikini) and headed for the dance floor. I was watching the action, when someone tapped my shoulder. I had been correct. It was one of the nephews. He was tall with labor-built smooth muscles, a large diamond stud in one ear (which I'm sure he had not worn when we met previously), and two heavy gold nipple rings, each studded with a large diamond. He gave every impression that he was king in this place. "How does Ron manage to keep his hands from such a nice-looking Yankee? Shall we dance?"

He didn't wait for my response, but pulled me onto the floor and hard into his chest. His hands planted inside my briefs on my ass cheeks and we began to move to the insistent African beat. It wasn't really a "slow dance"—rather a deliberate, erotic series of steps, keyed to insistent African drums. Very tribal. Very erotic. My hands went to his hip dimples and squeezed. He had the smallest hardest ass that I've ever gripped. It was like carved marble. His brilliant smile was brighter even than the spotlights and the musky, sweaty glisten on his ebony chest, throat and face were intoxicating. His hips kept an insistent thrust into me as he bent me into him. This wasn't foreplay. It was part of the fuck. And shit, he was packing! He had on a shiny, silky j-strap which barely (author: sorry about that) held his jewels. When pushed to the side, his dick gave him a peculiar sidehorn. While we danced, he rearranged—and it stuck a full four inches up above the band of the strap and was riding my abs, stroking itself on me as he pulled me into his chest or riding my cleft when he spun me around and pulled me back into him. We were already at second base. "I'm guessing that Ron is ready to share you with me tonight? He seems to be into Russ at the moment."