A gay story: South African Safari Sequel Ch. 04 South African Safari Sequel Ch 04
Paul returns to South Africa
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. All Characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, All rights reserved. Brunosden
(First person narrative by Paul Goodfield continues.)
I had decided to take the “easy” route to South Africa since the firm was paying. So on Saturday I flew to Newark and a few hours later I was on the United non-stop to Johannesburg–16 hours. The mid-day flight took off without incident–a good performance for EWR, one of the most congested airports in the US. The great advantage of this flight, in addition to being non-stop, was that it arrived early enough to catch the charter service to the camp in the Kruger. So in about 24 hours, I could be all the way there. I had brought melatonin–and the last week had been a blur of work to permit a two week hiatus–so I managed to sleep for a large part of the trip. Two movies helped. Although if asked, I couldn’t give you their names. As did my focus on Ron’s business and financial plan. I hadn’t had time to read it before–and I soon realized it really needed a great deal of development.
On the last trip, it had been an unusually warm May. But not this time. It was definitely winter, but not bitterly cold. Sweater weather. But, I guess the plunge pool (unheated) and outdoor shower were going to be out of the picture for this time.
Ron met me on the camp’s private strip with the Land Rover–and again I was his only passenger. Once again, he blew me away with his simple, sturdy, outdoor man’s man image. He wore the typical safari beige shorts, tight and belted in leather with a tucked-in safari shirt with epaulets of the camp’s logo. His tanned arms were crossed over his pecs emphasizing their massive size, and any gay man would have marveled at the obvious size of his package and the massive rugby ass and thighs. No one would mess with this guy. He greeted me formally (there had been no suggestion of our past relationship–only that I had specifically requested his service as ranger for the four days). However, I pulled him into a bro-hug, and he blushed deeply when another ranger looked over. Compared to him I was a tall, slim twink. And thanks to the long plane ride, I was wearing the glasses–so I also looked a bit nerdy, I’m sure.
But, when we arrived at the “camp,” he pulled me into his arms and sucked the breath from me. “Wow, Paul, it’s been a year. You look great. You’ve put on weight–and all of it in the right places. You must be fighting them off all the time. That gym must be pretty nice.” All the old thoughts of a year ago came flooding back–here I was in the arms of the guy who had rescued me from the depression of a broken abusive relationship. He was a hunk–but he was also a de facto therapist and Daddy figure. Doc-of-the-Bush.
“It’s been a long trip, Ron. I’m going to skip the afternoon game drive–unless there is something I absolutely shouldn’t miss.”
“A lot is going on in the bush. But you can skip today. Do you want to do dinner tonight or are you going to sleep through?”
“That pretty much depends on you. Can you stay with me?”
“I didn’t want to presume. I am the hired help, remember. But, as a short-timer–now only four more days–they can’t do much to me. So you set the rules–and the times–and the bed, Paul.”
“Then, stay. And we’ll have dinner later together. I’d like that.”
“Well. Get settled. You know the routine. I need to tell them we aren’t going on a drive this afternoon and turn in the gun. I’ll be back in a half-hour.”
I unpacked–it took about 5 minutes, stripped and stretched out on the bed, pulling the furry throw over to help with the chill–I was going to wait to shower with Ron when he returned. I had already decided. I wanted these few days–at least until we went to the ranch, to replicate the experience we had had the previous year. I had to know whether Breck had changed me completely–so I was going to move him out of my psyche for a few days and see what happens. Little did I realize that I was playing with fire: walking into the arms of a big earthy man that had pulled me up before “for a few days” while walling off the thoughts of a sexy new and thoroughly cosmopolitan partner that I was beginning to think was going to be long term.
My eyes flipped open perhaps an hour later. Ron was sitting in the easy chair near the sliding doors just watching me sleep. It was déjà vu. At our first meeting, I had found him staring at me reclined nude on a chaise by the plunge pool–again while I had slept. But this time, he was nude, stroking his 8 incher while intently watching my ass which had slipped out from under the small throw. He looked delicious–everything I remembered. His hair was long, halfway to his shoulders, and the sun had bleached perhaps the last two inches of most of the strands. It had probably been six weeks since his last home leave. And presumably because he was leaving, management had given him a little leeway on the “short hair” rule. His hairlesstorso was even wider if possible. The pecs were square slabs. And he was deeply tanned. It gave him the Tarzan look. Only the sculpted pubes suggested he was not just a man of the jungle.
His eyes were of course the same deep penetrating blue. (At that moment, I realized that I was really into guys with deep blue eyes. I guess that’s genetic programming.) Their depth and the square, intent face gave the impression that he missed nothing–and could control with just a gaze. The shoulders were wide; but his gut seemed to have softened a bit and his ass looked even bigger and more muscular. The active life of the bush and the wonderful camp food had not given him the same results that he had developed at the gym, playing rugby and with “university poverty.” He was definitely young Daddy material.
His uncut dick was dark and inviting, as it hardened with his strokes. His attention was clear. When he noticed I was awakening, he remarked, “What a cute little ass. I’ve been staring at it for awhile. We had some fun with that a year or so ago.”
I started to make comparisons with Paul (a little shorter, bigger ass, thicker waist, wider shoulders, thick rugby thighs), but I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to do that. I wasn’t going there.
Paul and I were “on vacation.” Or maybe a trial separation. I was a free guy. No commitments had been made. Although I did remember that one of his last comments seem to suggest that he was going to try.
“You look as delicious as ever. You must be cold. Come under this throw with me. I need to feel you against my body.” Without a word, Ron crawled under and I took him in my arms, pressing my chest against his and smashing my shaft into his crotch.
Once under, he pulled me in tight. Our dicks were tight against abs, playing tag with each other. “It’s really nice to have a client who knows exactly what he wants. And takes it.” His lips bent to mine, and we opened to each other. Then I felt the shock as his cold hands grasped my shaft and balls.
“Holy shit. You’re cold. I guess you know how to destroy a perfectly good erection.”
He ignored my taunt. “I’ve been waiting a year for this, Paul. Welcome back to my place.”
I shivered a bit, I guess, because he withdrew his hands and put them between his thighs. “I guess they were a bit cold. Sorry about that.”
“Remember, Ron, you’re in bed with a Miami boy now–my Chicago days are way behind me. Anything under 80 degrees is sweater weather! Maybe I should have brought a ski jacket.”
He laughed but now convinced that he had warmed his hands, he brought them back around and pulled me into him. He was hard. “I guess it’s been awhile.”
I climbed on top as he conveniently vee-d his legs and let me drop in, our cocks resting side by side. I rested on my elbows and stared into his eyes. He was a beautiful man, and I could see the hunger. He pulled the duvet over us, creating a nice warm tent that concentrated our musky aroma. Then I felt his now-warm hands massaging my cheeks, probing into the cleft with his long strong fingers. I responded by bending down to take his nipples into my lips, sucking on each. He gasped in pleasure as they hardened, and I felt his cock jolt. Aha! Another guy with a direct nerve connection from tit to shaft.
We remained in that position as I alternated between his lips and his nipples–and his temperature rose. He was squirming and pulling me so hard into him that I thought he might break a rib. I think he recognized that, at least for the first, I was going to pitch. Then, I reached under the pillow and drew out the tube of lube. “I presume we can once again dispense with wrappers? Or have you found some friends?”
“I have been a little more active–I’ve found a club in Durban which flies under the right wing radar. I get there every six weeks or so–we’ll go when you are with me in Durban. I’ve met a few guys. But, I always wrap–and make them wrap. So, if it is the same with you, we can go bare.”
“It’s just about the same for me–I’ve joined a really hot club in Miami, but we always wrap.” I decided not to mention Breck yet–and I knew I was clean.
“I’m pleased that I helped you to jump back into the pool. You left a big impression on me, Paul. I’ve never had someone like you. And I haven’t found someone like you yet. But, I’m still looking and trying. Thanks for coming back to me. But enough of this history. I want your big long snake in me now.”
I was definitely relieved. Ron hadn’t been celibate while waiting for me. He was looking for someone during his leaves in Durban. And now he knows that I haven’t been a nun in Miami.
So I slipped back and knelt between his legs. Somehow the room felt warmer–or maybe it was the two of us. He lifted his hips and I took the head of his dick in my mouth as my other hand pulled a zebra-print throw pillow under and started working the lube into him. He had this large muscular ass–what he jokingly referred to as his rugby arse–that would support my body in a few seconds. The ass of a thousand squats. And he was tight, really tight. I had forgotten that about him. This was definitely going to be fun. His balls were so big, hot and swollen. He must have been imagining this moment all day–perhaps longer. He’s been storing spunk. I probed with my index finger, found the target and started to stroke one of my favorite pussy-pets. His subsequent hiss turned into a growl. I guess pussy-cats don’t meow here in the bush; they growl. I added a second and a third and started the fingering that would open him to me.
He was squirming and darkening. Thrusting his hips up into me. “I’m ready, Paul. Put him in.”
I lined up, placed the head at his entrance and started to push. He relaxed the muscles and breathed. I popped in and froze. Then I looked up. Our eyes locked. He was smiling, showing no evidence of pain. So I pushed a little harder and started to penetrate, a little more with each hip thrust. With each stroke, he growled again until finally, he reached around, gripped my hip dimples and pulled me hard onto him. I bottomed and my balls bounced on his ass. So I fell into his crouch and started to stroke, deep, long and hard. He began to color–from his typical outdoor rosy tan to a deeper shade, almost red. His cock lengthened and the hood pulled back, revealing a dark head and dripping slit. I reached down and brought some to my lips. He was silent, obviously concentrating on my attention to his love nut. And getting close. So I released his thighs and he enveloped my waist, holding me tight–as I stiffened my legs and pulled in my gut to stretch over him and reach ever deeper into him.
His cum began to spurt on our chests. And each spurt was accompanied by a deep growl. I pushed down into him. And that brought me over. I spasmed, then gushed, filling him with my hot creamy seed. Then again. And again. The release was exquisite. Our spunky chests touched. Our lips met. And then my head fell into the hollow of his shoulder. He wanted to prolong our connection–so held me tight to his body. He was doing what he knew best: enveloping and protecting a lover. I had remembered him well. Ron was the considerate, compassionate friend and lover. And he was a power bottom.
The next days followed the pattern we had set a year or so before. We were alone together every day. We spotted leopards–one obviously hunting, the other sunning on a large smooth black rock perhaps after a long session of impregnating a female, a large pride of lions with a half dozen juvenile cubs–one of the lionesses clearly massively pregnant, herds of elephants, hundreds of hoof stock, giraffes, and Cape buffalo. It seemed surprisingly peaceful–for what we knew was a vital hunting season. Many of the females were pregnant, being protected by dominant males, and needed food. It was cold–at least early in the morning and late afternoons, and near the end of the dry season–so spotting was easier–and hunting of prey was also easier. The water holes were fewer and smaller–and all the wild needed water. We did see the two juvenile rhinos–and it did appear that he was unusually protective of her (his territory). When we approached a little close, he raised his horn in threat and pawed the ground, promising a charge if we got any closer.
The bush fucks that we had enjoyed before were more difficult because of the cold. But there was one on which I insisted. I still remembered the “fender fuck” that Ron had previously pulled off, one of the most unusual places to be taken–with some unique points of contact and stimulus. The sheer excitement of being taken naked in the open with the wild all around. I asked for it again. Before a sundowner, one late afternoon when it was still warm, he pulled out a picnic blanket and draped it carefully over the now-warm, curved fender. I had stripped–at least waist down and was left with only a tee. He pulled it over my shoulders and bent down to lick my nipples.
He moved me to the fender and pushed me belly down on the blanket. I was perfectly positioned to be taken: my ass was pointed up and was open. My legs fell to either side of the bumper. He lubed me and his own rampant dick. Then he slowly pulled me down over the bend of the fender, using gravity to impale me with his cock. As we continued, he stood rigid and he moved me up, over and back down, going deeper each time. The sheer uniqueness of the act was so exciting. But, Ron’s giant hooded dick was filling me with each descent. And his powerful shoulders and thighs were in complete control. I looked up, and sure enough, there was the Go-Away bird–our voyeur–chatteringat our show. (In awe? Envy? Or disapproval?) Faster and faster he moved me, thrusting his thighs into me deeply, stroking until both of us released simultaneously. A patented, spectacular fuck in the wild. Too bad they can’t put that in the brochures! Or the camps would be filled with gay adventurers.
In the past, Ron had been careful and tentative. I was a paying guest. And one who had been jilted and was vulnerable, maybe fragile. And so he had been compassionate. Now he recognized that I had been healed. And that I was definitely into man-on-man sex, rough and hard, as pitcher and receiver. I think that changed him too. I know that we were inside each other several times a day and night. I could feel he wasn’t backing off–he was an aggressive man of the bush and an athlete. He was bigger and more confident. With many, he would easily slide into a “full top” role, running the show so to speak, making the decisions, fiercely protecting his partner. But, I met him stroke for stroke, fuck for fuck, blow for blow.
“You’ve changed a lot, Paul. I liked the old Paul. I think I love the new Paul.”
*******
Our time at the camp was soon over–and his stint as head ranger had also ended. Breck and I had failed to link although we had sent daily text messages. He was really disappointed that he was cooped up in sterile hospital computer rooms while I was “cavorting in the wild.” If only he knew!
Ron was planning for a new life–and he wanted me to help him get it underway. So on Thursday early afternoon, I settled up and placed my duffel in his jeep. The staff came out in force to see him off, presenting gifts and food baskets. I would miss the camp. Twice now my stay at the camp had changed my life. Connecting once in a while to the natural cycle of life is great therapy–particularly for a city boy gay filled with the neuroses of inadequacy and non-attachment syndrome. I thought immediately how much Breck would love this–and then I realized it had been several days since I had talked with or even thought about him. I promised myself that we would come here. It had that kind of magic for me. But why would I need Breck here when I had Ron?
It took about an hour to cross through the Kruger heading south, but we were then on paved roads of varying quality heading south east. Ron explained that, as in most African countries, the best roads tended to follow the coasts–so we headed through Swaziland (a small country, landlocked within South Africa and with no real checkpoints at the borders–at least most of the time.) Durban was on the coast. The Southern Indian Ocean swept its beaches, and so it was much warmer than Kruger–year round. He hoped to reach the ranch that night, but if the road conditions were difficult and it took longer than expected, we would stay at a lodge in Richards Bay–about a hundred miles north of Durban on the coast. But, we were lucky. There were no road closures. We reached the ranch just after ten.
It was different from what I had imagined–or ever seen before. The manor house–it was indeed a manor house–was just off the road, down a lane bordered on either side by tall plane trees. A few lights were on–Ron had called ahead and asked the housekeeper to open up and leave dinner. He explained that she lived in the village, only a few kilos away with a large family. Her husband also worked on the ranch. Her family had worked for his for years.
The house was large, white-washed stucco, with the typical Dutch Colonial roof outline with whimsical scallops at the eaves and topped in thick thatch. Small paned windows were symmetrically placed across the two story front. Later, I would see that there were two wings out the back–symmetric again–one housing the owner’s suite, the other the kitchen and family dining space with large French doors opening to the center. The entire main part of the first floor of the house was dominated by a formal dining room, a huge reception room with heavy, mostly leather furniture arranged in several separate conversation groupings, an office/library and a “split” staircase leading to the second floor bedrooms–six of them, lined up precisely across the front. The floors were wide boards. The walls were white washed but timbered. As were the ceilings. There were a few skins and animal heads on the walls. (Ron later explained those were two generations old.)
“Ron, you didn’t tell me you were rich. This is a mansion. How much land is here?”
“I really not rich. I think we call it land-poor here. I have enough property that needs to be taken care of, but not enough money to do so. Dutch farm families in South Africa tended to be pretty large. About 150 hectares (over 600 acres). It used to be larger, but during the Period of Reconciliation, we were ‘encouraged’ to parcel out fringe properties to villagers for farming. That hasn’t been entirely successful because we are far enough from Durban and in the bush, that wild animals make husbandry difficult–and farming is erratic because herds of elephants and buffalo can make a pretty big mess of a vegetable plot in just a few minutes.”
“We’ve fenced off five different areas and are in the process of creating five different eco-systems to breed desired animals for zoos and wild animal parks. The electro fences are pretty effective–except of course for elephants and the occasional warthog that burrows. It follows a pattern tried in several other areas around the country. So far it’s been a rich man’s hobby rather than a profitable business. I’m hoping to change that.”
I noticed some small houses of stucco with thatch roofs and even a vestigial “Dutch” style entrance porch) which he doubtless would call “camps” or “villas.” They looked to be of nearly completed construction, lined up along a new dirt road, along the kitchen side of the property. before I could ask, Ron added, “Our business plan is to have a dozen or more villas–half for self-catering. The others will dine in that grand room over there.” He pointed to the apparently unused formal dining room. “We’re going to offer something a little different from game drive camps. We’re going to show how wild animals can be bred, and since they will be rare, guests will see species that are very rare in the wild. It’s sort of a nitch play on the successful safari business model. Right now construction is halted. I’m out of money. I spent the last on a truckload of commercial kitchen equipment that I got from the auction of a bankrupt restaurant in Durban. I’m hoping to start up the reconstruction in a few weeks.”
“Those who choose the full treatment will get gourmet food, mostly locally sourced, spa treatments in the rooms above that we will remodel as treatment and massage rooms, and a rare experience in the bush. But half of our guests will self-cater, and thus we can reach those with far less to spend. However, they too will get the experience of seeing rare breeds–sort of a luxury experience on a budget. We are also going to offer day trip experiences.”
“The village is completely in favor. We’ll probably employ several dozen on a full time basis–and the self-caterers will patronize the only grocery store, the open-air market, and presumably a few restaurants that might grow out of home-cooking.”
Ultimately, I’ll turn the owners’ bedroom into a lodge luxury suite and build a separate space for me some distance from the manor.
“You’ve got it all planned out. Having read the plan, seeing this makes me understand a lot better.”
Ron led us into the kitchen where the housekeeper had left us grazing plates heaped with cheeses, breads and smoked meats in the old-fashioned fridge. Ron poured some beers. “This is brewed in Durban and is not bad.” We pulled up chairs and ate and drank–listening to the night sounds of the bush and the jungle. Then it was around to the owners’ suite. “You’ll see that I became addicted to the big canopied beds at the camp.” The room was dominated by a huge bed, draped in white, with artfully embroidered mosquito netting creating a tent-like feel.
I also noted the huge deep copper tub in the corner–and behind it, a large rain shower. The walls and floor of the shower were stone. And the “bath” had been screened from the bedroom by a large floor to ceiling stone two-way fireplace. It seemed that the bath was indeed part of the bedroom. Later I learned this was because most of the older houses had bath houses separate from the bedrooms–but the bedrooms were large, so many had simply moved the bath inside the bedroom. Durban’s winters were mild, but for several months, there was a definite chill–and the whole concept of an unheated outhouse would not work with a luxury resort. The WC was in an adjacent small room which also held a long vanity with two copper sinks.
There were no closets–only large heavily carved Dutch-style wardrobe cupboards. It was charming–and very masculine. It fit Ron’s personality perfectly. He already seemed to be easing into the lord of the manor role.
Slowly, Ron began to remove his boots and clothes. Then he stepped into the rain shower. “Will you join me? For our first shower in our room?”
His words shocked me a little, but I wasn’t going to start that conversation yet. So I joined him in the enormous space–and we hugged and necked like teenagers in the gentle warm rain. Ron turned it off, reached for a fluffy towel–obviously new–and began to dry me, drawing it around my back and using it to draw me into him. Then he lifted me easily and carried me to the duvet covered bed. He placed me carefully and then stretched out over me. It was the possessive cocoon again–legs outside mine pulling me under, arms around my back pinning my arms to my sides, and lips touching mine. His tongue emerged and he forced my mouth open to him. “Welcome home, lover.” There was no question who was the “owner” in this “owners’ suite.”
Minutes later we were both ready. He moved to the side, pushed me forward and held me to him. He edged my left leg forward and I felt the lube and the fingers opening me. It didn’t take long. I was tired, but I was into this guy. This was his favorite position, sliding in from the backside. I felt his fat dick pushing at my entrance. Then he slid in, slowly and carefully, folding the thick hood back, stretching me to his girth and stroking my prostate over and over. As he penetrated deeper, his chest began to move over my back, forcing me farther forward, into the soft mattress and under him. I could feel his warm lips on my neck. He moved inside with the deliberateness of a hunter stalking prey. He thrust his cock into me over and over, stimulating the love nerves with each forward stroke, getting deeper and deeper. He seemed to have enormous control. The pattern lasted for minutes as his hands roamed under, pinching nipples, stroking abs, cupping my balls, and squeezing my shaft. He brought me up and up; then stalled; then began again. Finally, he moaned a deep animal’s sound, sucked in his gut, straightened his legs, pulled me hard into him, and filled me with his cream with long, strong emissions–as his hand stroked my shaft and coaxed my balls into giving it up. His fist was soon filled with my seed which he brought first to his, then to my lips. Ron reached down and pulled up the duvet. We would sleep in that position–his cock inside me, his chest pressing me into the soft mattress until I reached sleep. It was quiet and beautiful. And loving. A far cry from the raw, rough sex with release that I had come to expect in encounters after cruising at MiamiBods.
As is typical on a farm or ranch, we rose with the sun. The housekeeper had arrived and prepared an enormous breakfast. Then Ron announced the plan: “Today we tour. Tonight we play. Tomorrow we work on the business plan. And tomorrow night I’m taking you to Durban’s only young dance club. Actually, it has no name, but the patrons all call it The Underground. It’s the only place that I’ve discovered gays.” He was definitely taking charge. I had moved from the guest who controlled at the Kruger camp to I’m not sure what on Ron’s home turf. Ron was going to give me a lot to think about–and I don’t mean only the details of his business plan. TBC BD