Unknown - The missionary_s daughter

Though he had been sucked dry a few short minutes ago, the wildness of the white girl's orgasm had started a slow aching pressure deep within his balls again, and he gripped the cheeks of her still rotating ass and squeezed with a crushing strength, feeling her cringe as great gasps of passion began spewing from his own throat.

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" he rasped and groaned and increased the viciousness of his strokes so that his pelvis smacked like a wooden paddle hard against the ragged pink flanges of her loins, and his lust-hardened black cock dipped deep down into the far, far hidden recesses of her pulsating belly. He felt himself coming and threw his hands down behind her knees, shoving her soft tender thighs up over her shoulders and ground as far down into her open and yielding cunt as he could go, bringing groans of left-over passion from her lips still locked tightly to his. Her arms still clasped him in their death grip, the ache in his balls was unbearable. He felt he had to cum now or he would die!

He felt the bursting at his loins and gasped into the moistness of her mouth, hearing her whimpering cry and feeling the tightening of her arms around his neck. Then with a deep soul-shattering grunt that went on and on into her mouth, he exploded into her, shooting his hot, liquid sperm deep down into the liquid depths of her open and receptive womb.

Then they lay still, locked in the lewd embrace of love for seeming forever though it was only minutes, their interlocked limbs presenting a vivid and strange picture of black fucking white. And then he rolled off her sweat soaked body, noticing her chest still heaving from the effort of their final orgasm. He reached behind him and dragged up a clean mat and lifting her legs pulled it under her over the wet one, lifting her body gently part by part as he worked. When it was in place, he lay down beside her thinking to sleep.

Julie Davenport's head was filled with the wonderful Balloo. She wondered why such a strong man was not a king like Daranje Kawat. She further wondered if he had ever tried. No, he couldn't have, because there was never a survivor from the trials except the king unless the stories she had heard were in error.

"Balloo?" she finally asked. Would his English be up to an explanation? "A man goes through many trials to become king. Can he die in these trials?"

"Yes," he said, she presumed to both ideas.

"Why do you have trials, to pick the strongest for king?" she asked in a whisper, hoping she wasn't breaking any tribal taboos with her questions, but Balloo seemed at ease.

"No. Sometimes the strongest perish. I have seen that."

"Did you ever want to try?" she asked hesitantly.

"I am not king," he said with finality. It confused her.

"Well, what are the trials for?"

"To pick true king."

The answer left her right where she was in the beginning, without understanding. What was a true king? Balloo probably did not know what made a true king so he could never answer such a question. That was one she would have to ask Daranje Kawat himself, she decided, wondering if it was safe to ask him and if he would answer.

"Will… will I get to talk to Daranje Kawat again?" she asked Balloo then.

Balloo sighed heavily. The white ones were talkative about so many things. "No. Daranje Kawat has said all."

"Yes," her temper flared. "He has told me what he wanted to tell, but suppose I have questions of him?"

Balloo pondered a minute. "To speak with the king, one must bring acceptable gifts," he explained. "He talked for tortoise. He geev Kinche for you."

"Oh, Balloo, you're not serious. The tortoise was chance. Do you mean that without that I still would not have been able to know why you were holding me?" She felt absolutely incredulous.

"When is need, the Gods provide," he said dully, wishing she would stop asking questions and snooze quietly with him.

Julie could see that Balloo was going to be no help. As far as a gift for the king in order to get to talk to him, well, she had nothing. Strange. She couldn't shake the mysterious quality of the idea that the king gave nothing without a gift first. He was like a mechanical doll with only one kind of key. Put a bowl of fruit on the altar and you shall receive. Give a gift and get grace. Do and be done to. Well, maybe it made more realistic sense than her father's teaching, "Ask and it shall be given." She remembered how many times growing up she had asked and it was not given. When she complained, her father would rationalize with such comforts as the idea that God knew better than we and it probably wasn't good for us, etc. Now that she thought about it, she decided to bring up the subject when she saw her father again and ask him what the point was of saying that it would be given upon request, if it would not… for whatever reason?

Yes, she thought, going over the ideas now in her mind. Give first and then be given in return. That made a lot more sense. And of course, it is necessary to give something the receiver wants, not something he doesn't care to have. What would a king of these primitives want? If she searched in the jungle for a beautiful flower or a small animal or bird, would such things please this king? She didn't really know his tastes other than for tortoise.

"Balloo? What kind of gift that I could find, maybe, in the jungle, would please King Daranje Kawat? Does he like flowers?"

"Why, Missa Julie?" He sighed more heavily than ever. He was just dozing off into the most comfortable of naps.

"I have questions, Balloo," she said fretfully.

The big man got to his feet wearily and left the hut. In a very short time, two women came for her and led her to a large sunken vat which a whole stream of women were filling with water from small clay bowls they carried on their heads. Since the women could not speak English, there was no way for Julie to know what was happening. She had been taken as naked as she had lain on the mat inside. The robe had been left behind. Suddenly, she was pulled on each side by a woman into the tub of water. Sand was brought and her flesh was scrubbed once more until it was a bright pink. Her hair was combed with an ivory four-pronged comb, and then she was dunked into the water all over several times. Again her hair was combed, and with water still dripping from her body, she was taken from the vat and clothed in a finer robe than before. It was still a dud brownish yellow color but the weave was finer and the material softer.

When she was taken to the king's huge hut, his palace, and put through the same dusting procedures with which she was already familiar, her heart jumped. She must have been granted an audience with the king in spite of the fact she had no gift for him. Perhaps Balloo had been lying to her to shut her up. But when she was led into the same room in which she had seen the king before, there was only Balloo, sitting alone at the table. Then it occurred to her that they had heard her father's decision and they were getting her ready to be sent home. She was seated at the table with Balloo and sat quietly for awhile. Finally, she spoke quaveringly.

"You… you heard from my father?"

"I know not," he answered, abruptly, she thought. Her heart reached out. She felt lonely, as though she had lost a friend somehow. Then a question bothered her.

"What happens to me, Balloo, if my father refuses to leave?"

"The king will say."

She reached hesitantly to touch the flesh of his arm. "Will you protect me? I mean, if… if…"

"No."

Her hand drew back, whipping into the sleeve of her robe as though it had been stung by a bee.

"Wh… why?" She felt tears rise to her eyes, not so much because she lacked protection but because she suffered the loss of him.

He sat back, chuckling, which was the way of his people so often. "Missa Julie no want man. Missa Julie want king!"