I can't believe it. I am pissed, no- fuming, that my husband let his pervy game come to this. It's not that we are swingers or sexual deviants; he just gets his rocks off watching me be a little too flirty and a strange pair of hands touching me up. Usually, by now, he would have dragged me back to the hotel and given me a good seeing to.
However, this situation was anything but normal; firstly, I was in a street whore's shantytown brothels. I must say, Africa is not known for its hygiene, but this pace makes a refuse site look tidy. And the stench from a battered mettle bucket used for whatever it is used for smells worse than an open sewer.
Not to mention the heat. It's late-morning and must already be over a hundred in here. The slated shutter that pretends to be a window lets in no light or breeze neither does the corrugated iron door. Mud bricks and a tin roof make it feel like a prison.
This place should be condemned, with biohazard warnings and defiantly not used as a knocking shop. Somehow, its depravity is so deep it almost feels primordial, like permission to rut. I am not sure how to react, but I am not sick enough to do something about it.
Also, I have my back to the grossest and dirty mattress I have ever seen. Even my refuse personnel would refuse to take it away, never mind some whore have a nipper gang fucked into her. That was it, the reason I am not screaming my head off, wanting to get the hell out.
In here, it would be my penance to be impregnated, and then I would deserve a baby. That's why I have a cold sweat, half wanting, dreading the door flying open, and a group of horny Africans burst in and use me in all and every way possible. The other, well, there is no other if I stay here.
It's like the saying 'You can take a horse to water.' Meaning if a horse is put equidistant from two water troughs, it can't decide which is closer, so it doesn't move. I feel like that, conflicted, my head screaming for me to move, but my pussy wants to stay. So I leave it to fate, namely the limped dick white boy standing next to the bucket, more commonly known as Hubby.
The other thing that firmly anchored me to the foot of the bed was the enormous black cock pointing at me like a loaded gun. Unfortunately, it belongs to the ugliest middle-aged African I have ever seen. Karma is not on my side. I only hope Huddy is.
I digress. That's enough about this Mombasa shanty town brothel, more about me. My name is Pandora, and I am a five foot ten natural D cup blond from the Bible belt of good old U. S of A. We are in Africa because our Reverent, The Reverent Tom, suggested we take a sea sun and sex vacation to some of the best beaches in the world.
That wasn't long after our bible group joined the BSAfrica movement, The Reverend came to us with a really good deal for a two week vacation in Mombasa. - Made in Africa - I thought and couldn't stop thinking about the extra passenger I would be taking home.
As we are already halfway through the holiday, time is a ticking, along with my biological clock. However, the sex part to date hasn't worked out, as Hubby, in all his wisdom, decided to do some sunbathing au-natural, as they say. The midday Kenyan sun saw an end to that, and I haven't seen any action till now.
That's why the big black cock pointing at me like the barrel of a shotgun is so intriguing and enormous. I can't take my eyes off it; it looks bigger than my favorite black dildo. And those ball sacks that swing underneath look like they are carrying enough jizz to float a boatload of kids. It's like my head is screaming at me to run, but my pussy is the one running.
The African standing in front of me starts to swing his member; it's like a metronome ticking down the baby-making seconds. My eyes follow it as I slowly fall into a trance. Subconsciously my hand moves out to touch, but I stop myself. That's when the African shuffles forward. I move back until my heels are pinned under the mattress.
Now I can't move or raze my feet. My only option is to fall over backward. I glance nervously at Hubby as the African slides the straps of my summer dress off my shoulders, it falls to the floor, and I am left standing in my bikini. The pieces of cloth covering my virtue seem way too small. I suddenly realized I had been ripped off one hundred dollars for three tiny triangles of textile. Never mind what a pair of fat black fingers were about to do.
Slowly the African raises his hands and gently puts one palm on my stomach. He starts to airbrush around my breasts with the other hand, getting closer with each circle. I almost don't notice the pressure on my chest until I start toppling over. In response, I raised my hand and turned it into the universal signal to stop.
The African hooks a finger into my bikini top before letting his hands fall to his side. Luckily the strap didn't fail, and I quickly slid an exposed breast back in place and glowered at Hubby. He just stood there with his usual childish grin, obviously enjoying himself.
Hot anger spreads through me. If limp dick would let a fat potbellied African do what to his wife! I was so angry all I wanted to do was hurt that white boy. Then something flowed through me like I was possessed. Before I knew it, my lips were close to the African's ear, so close if I stuck out my tongue, I could have licked him. "How many brothels do you own?" I whisper. Ok, that sounds worse than it is. Let me explain.
For the last nine days, I have been stuck in the hotel room listening to my husband whine on about how the mid-day sun might have made him sterile. Witch had nothing to do with the global sterility pandemic and the realization that most Caucasian males could not father children.
He pointed out women were also affected and turn it into my fault. The fact we had been trying for two years and my mandatory pee sample always came back positive had nothing to do with it. He would always shout me down with the quote from The Reverend about how it was all part of God's plan.
For my sins, I didn't hold back on how red and swollen his balls looked, never mind his little useless pole. The argument would always turn to the global sterility pandemic and how for some reason, middle-aged sub-Saharan men were certified baby-makers.
My threats on maybe that's why The Reverent sent us here seemed to fall on a limp dick. If only I had known then what BS as in BSAfrica Movement really meant and what The Reverent was really up to. That, as they say, is a story for another day.
So Hotel frustration builds, we would end the day scheming at each other. He would tell me it was my fault, and I would threaten to put him in a cock cage for the rest of the vacation and let him watch the pool guy pound a baby into me. AS for the predicament I now find myself in, it was very much the case of - Be careful what you wish for.
Anyway, this morning my husband decided he was well enough to take a trip. The receptionist suggested we go into town to an apothecary shop called the Witch Doctor and get a pot of their famous Aloe Vera sunburn remedy. She sorted out the bus route and at the same time pointed out all the brothels Kenya's capital city seemed to have.
All the ones ringed in red had certified fertile men in them. That was, of course, if I was interested.
During breakfast, we mulled over the map and all its red circles. I couldn't help but make snarky comments about how he needn't come. His services weren't required. He would retort how he should let some big black pole dang some sense into me. I replay that wasn't the only thing. After a few glasses of the waiter's special sunburst fruit cocktail, we just settled down to baby eyes and giggles. It reminds me why I love this man.
So we set off, me in a straw hat, shoulder strap summer dress, and bag. He wore his usual cotton hat, shirt, pants, and sunglasses, what a pair of walking cash machines we must have looked. As it turned out, I was not far wrong, but not for the reasons anyone might think.
What a bus, it was one of those shilling rides, a twelve-seater kitted out to sit twenty. If you can call him that, the conductor mostly stayed outside swinging on the open side door, shouting at people as we went by. I was unlucky to sit next to a short fat African who took up more than his share of our bench, and when the ticket boy sat down, it was like a game of sardines in a hot, smelly tin can of a bus.
I first thought the African was asleep, head against the window. But as soon as we hit a pothole, his hand fell down onto my knee. It didn't matter how many times I pushed it away. It always fell back, so eventually, and to Hubby's amusement, I let it stay. After nearly thirty-five minutes of bouncing through every bump, I suddenly felt a sweaty hand on my thigh. Somehow my skirt had ridden up, and it covered me no more than a mini skirt. I squeezed Hubby's arm, and his eyes rolled down to the African's hand.
A grin spread across his face when he leaned forward and caught a glimpse of my bikini bottoms. He then put his hand on my thigh. Instead of pulling my skirt back down, his smile turned mischievous. He then slid his hand between my knees, and his grin widened. I stared at him, confused. It wasn't until he used his hand as a lever and started to prise my knees apart did I get his intention. I gave him my best 'Don't you dare' scowl and rolled my eyes down to the fat black fingers that were now sliding between my legs.
His nod was slow and deliberate, 'What's the harm?' my scowl deepened. He nodded again, and I relented and let him pull my legs apart. For the next ten minutes, I telegraphed my finger fuck through twists and pulls on his arm. He just kept his childish smile and spared my legs wider.
At the first stop, I couldn't get off quickly enough and found we had landed on a dusty shantytown street. I was about to ask some Asian-looking stall keepers for directions when something stopped me. These men looked too smart, clean-shaven, and tidy, nothing like the dirty moth-eaten t-shirts and stained boxers the locals mainly wore.
When one of the men got up to serve me, I noticed he had the top of his little finger missing. Just as the man came at me, all mean and sower-faced, the fat African who had been fingering me grabbed me by my arm. Shook his head in a firm 'no,' and dragged me away. Hubby just followed after like a lost puppy.
As we turned down ally after ally, the African looked over his shoulder all the time, like he was scared of something. The further we moved into the slums, the more he relaxed and the greater the dilapidation got. Also, the sense of poverty became increasingly oppressive as well as the stench.
Finally, the African pulled me up in front of a battered corrugated door and nodded at Hubby to open it. I glowered at him as I was pushed through. It took my eyes a moment to adjust, while I never adapted to the heat and smell.
