Chad in Africa
My friend Brendan and I looked forward to our vacation to Africa. It was an unusual safari into the heartland, to see the Africa of old. Just eleven of us were on the tour. We met our guide, Mutambwa, who said his name meant “provider” in his native Zambia.
Our group being small, we got to know each other fairly well. We toured wildlife preserves by day and slept on tents in the jungle. On our second week, we were to visit an authentic tribe in Zambia where villagers supposedly lived as they have for centuries. I was skeptical that such primitive livings still existed, but was anxious to see what was in store for us.
We were wary in approaching the village, which was far from any well-traveled roads. We saw women carrying water, naked kids playing games with sticks and stones, and a few dozing old men. Everyone stopped and eyed us intently, as though they had never seen civilized white people.
“Hey Brendan, I think they want you for dinner,”
Brandon and I unpacked in our tent. “Hey, too
bad they don’t eat people anymore,” Brandon said, laying
n his cot.
After our nap, I wandered outside, and saw Chad stringing wet shirts on a clothesline to dry. He was stripped to the waist, and I wasn’t the only one eyeing his muscle-meat. His parents weren’t around.
“Hey, Chad, so what do you think of this place?”
I asked as an excuse to take a closer look.
I eyed Chad’s splendid torso, which was sleek and tan, virtually hairless. He was a young man in his prime, obviously proud of his build. His pecs were heavy and firm with lean muscle. His torso tapered to a narrow waist, and his flat tummy showed his fitness. I was almost drooling as I looked over his hunky body.
“OK!” Mutambwa yelled. The other tourists emerged from their tents. “We all meet right over there at sunset, OK?” The natives will show us traditional practices, then we’ll eat like they do. Sorry, no Big Macs and fries here!” he joked.
“Hey Chad, Brandon and I are gonna walk around,
check things out,” offered. “Wanna join us?”
A tattooed black man wearing rings around his neck and arms approached us, and offered us necklaces. We allowed him to put them around our necks and arms. He obviously enjoyed this, and slid his hands on our arms and torsos as he installed his ornaments. He then grabbed Chad’s and my hand and led the three of us away. At this point, we didn’t know where we were or where he was taking us.
“Uh, guys, I’m wondering if maybe we should
have stayed closer to the village,” Chad said.
The villager took us back to the village center, to our relief. Mutambwa and the others were already assembled, sitting on logs facing a fire and male a villager, who had more tattoos than I ever seen on anyone. He had a bone through his nose, and other decorations. Chad, Brandon and I went to our tents to put on shirts, and returned to the demonstration.
I was sorry to see Chad shirted, but know there would be more opportunities to see him stripped to the waist. “This man very important,” Mutambwa explained. “He is chief. He take the meat and cook it much tasty. He have high rank here.” Mutambwa sat down and the black man began to show traditional practices. First, he beat the drum, the rhythm special for this occasion, as other drums in the village picked up the beat. He showed us a crude blade used for carving, sharpening it on a smooth boulder. Next, he produced a wooden fork with four prongs, inserting it into imaginary meat and pretending to savor a nice cut of flesh.
The night was upon the village at this time, fire providing the only light. The atmosphere was almost spooky, as villagers seemed to scurry about hastily, carrying bowls as children curiously peeked at us through bushes.
The black chef showed us a rack on which he cooked long pig, and then with a big smile slowly approached a man in our group. We laughed as he took the man’s arm and sized it up to everyone’s amusement. The chef rubbed his belly and licked his lips as though he coveted the man for dinner. If the chief really wanted to eat the white man, our little band obviously would be defenseless against the whole village. Who know if our own guide Mutambwa would side with us or revert to his ancestor’s cannibalistic ways, I wondered.
Then the chef moved on to a middle aged woman, theatrically pinching her arm, and the scenario was reminiscent of live shows back home where an audience member was brought into the act.
The chef poked a few more in our group, and spent a
minute grabbing Brandon’s pec, as we laughed. The chef was quite
animated, showing off for us. I worried that he might overlook Chad
– what a waste that would be! But he finally approached the handsome
young American, poking his belly, taking his arm and showing its meat
The chef tied Chad to an overhead strap and boldly stripped down his jeans. Now wearing only boxer shorts, Chad was clearly embarrassed. Brandon and I were enjoying this part immensely, and we hoped there would be a role for us in working over the strapping body.
Chad’s mother whispered her concern to her husband, who replied, “Dear, it’s all good fun. Let’s just accept it. Nothing we can do anyway. It’s nature’s way. Black man eats white man. It’s God’s will. You always say, ‘everything happens for a reason,’ right?”
The chef patted Chad’s sleek belly with a big grin to our amusement, then took a piece of charcoal and circled a part of Chad’s fillet as though to select a cut of meat for himself. He smacked his lips and rubbed his fat belly in the universal code for “this is good food.”
Then he offered the charcoal to Brandon, who knew what to do. Brandon is an ass-man, and he pulled down Chad’s boxers to pinch and then circle a tender cutlet of Chad’s fine, white bubble butt. “Looking tasty, man,” Brandon whispered as he marked the wrestler’s meat. Then it was my turn, and I patted and plumped up Chad’s developed breasts, his soft, sleek tummy, his thick, meaty legs and broad back before circling a firm breast as my choice. I noticed Chad got hard as I handled him.
When the chef tossed the charcoal to Chad’s father, all were silent. The hungry father didn’t hesitate, though, feeling his son’s thickly muscled upper legs with both hands before circling a cut of rich leg meat. While cradling his son’s balls, he said, “We’re proud of you, son. Don’t struggle and embarrass us, OK? It’s all for the best. You’ll make a delicious meal for everyone.” Chad was speechless that his father would abandon him to this humiliating fate.
When his father offered the chalk to his mother, Chad knew this might be his last chance for relief. He began to plead but his mother circled his genitals and tugged his cock, saying, “No worries, son. Lookin’ good.”
After the Americans had made our selections on Chad’s luscious body, two large villagers appeared. One oiled Chad’s ass, and began to thrust his huge cock into Chad’s firm, inviting white buttocks, while the other rubbed Chad’s torso. Chad moaned as the big cock poked up his ass, for he had never been rear-ended before.
Then they traded roles, and Chad was butt-fucked before
everyone once more.
Finally, the savages tied a bone across Chad’s mouth. The chef showed us how a white man selected for feast was basted and seasoned to taste. The savages removed their limp victim from the strap and placed him on the crude table. He invited the Americans to participate, and we eagerly brushed the oil on the hapless young man who hung from an overhead strap. The chef smacked his lips in anticipation, and I was so hard I thought I’d cum in my shorts.
Chad was tied to a stake that was laid horizontally, resting on two “Y” posts. Women placed sticks underneath for the fire, and boys excitedly drew near to see a white man cook. One took a fork to the flesh and pretended to eat meat from it, laughing. This was a special occasion, and the village drums beat faster now. The chef showed how to start a fire, and allowed Chad’s dad the honor of igniting the kindling, which he accepted.
I nudged Brandon and smiled. “I hope this is
for real. If they free him, I’m gonna demand a refund!”
The villagers approached, their eyes almost glowing in the darkness, their excitement evident. A young naked boy walked up to Chad, having never seen a white victim before, and felt Chad’s leg before running off.
Chad moaned as the flames licked his body, and his cooking thrilled us. He tried to cry out, but the bone in his mouth muffled his words. The chef allowed us to turn the stake for even cooking, and to spread more basting oil and seasoning on our fellow tourist. Some spoke to Chad as he cooked, telling him how delicious and juicy he’d be, how fine he looked basted and strapped to the spit, how buff young men were food. The aroma of the cooking meat was incredible. The savage boys were fascinated, and I noticed that some were playing with their cocks as they watched Chad cook.
Mutambwa said something in African to the chef, who gave an order that we couldn’t understand. “I hope he didn’t tell the others to descend on us and throw us all on the fire,” I told Brandon.
The drumbeats continued faster and louder as the men held Chad’s beautiful body high for all to see. The savages roared their approval, dancing and jumping up and down in glee. They were hungry for the juicy flesh of the white boy.
Chad breathed heavily now, in anticipation of the first slice into his lightly cooked body. I thought I’d cum in my pants. I noticed Brandon was drooling. Mutambwa smacked his lips in anticipation, and the chef rubbed his belly as though to indicate where Chad’s flesh was destined. The burly men strapped Chad to a crude table. The chef held the carving blade high over Chad’s torso, which glistened in the light of the torches. He looked so magnificent, masculine but helpless, his muscle meat now good for nothing but sustenance and protein.
His father said, “Be strong for us now, boy.
You’re meat is for us now. Thank you for your sacrifice.”
The villagers surrounded the victim, eagerly waiting for their share of the fresh white meat. The chef handed small slices from the shoulders and upper back to the boys, who gnawed eagerly on the tasty meat. I got a slice of Chad’s firm breast meat with the nipple, which was an honor often reserved for tribal elders, Mutambwa explained. Brandon chewed the selected cut of plump buttocks. He offered me a bit of butt to taste and I let him sample the pec meat. More cannibals excitedly gathered for their share. I watched them warily.
As I ate, I felt something inside my shirt. A small
naked savage boy boldly slid his hand inside my shirt and rubbed his
hand on my belly. I hoped Chad provided enough meat to keep the savages
satisfied until we left.