Wanna Swap with Kelly
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AfricaChapter 11 free porn video
My ladies and I had a wonderful time being tourists in Paris. With three beauties, hand holds and arms draping shoulders, exchanged amongst the three, though Helena and I always remained in physical contact so Eva and Lindy traded, I got my share of envious glances. The bolder gentlemen even attempted flirting, especially with Eva. It never bothered me. It made me feel proud or at the worst confused that such incredible women had chosen me as their lover.
The exchange that ended Lindy's and my lovely shared shower earlier, accusing Nick of misrepresentation of my father's true minionship, didn't really bother me all that much either, but it did compel me to confront Snake as soon as we arrived at his suite for the evening's Tales.
"You lied to me," I said.
"About what?" he asked.
I wondered if he meant to say, "Which lie."
"About my father being Simon's and not yours."
"Are you sure?"
"Eva confirmed it."
"And you trust her over me?"
That threw me a moment, but I remembered the cause of the doubt. "Why would Helen want her clones impregnated by me if she intended them to be anything but Simon's?"
"You're asking me to figure out Helen?" he chuckled.
"You yourself consider her Simon's. You may have raised her, but she chose your enemy."
"Didn't you yourself convince me she's swaying my way?"
"Damn," I thought. "I'm arguing against someone thousands of years older than me." But I persisted.
"I think you know Helen's thoughts more than you claim. She's been your reluctant spy for millennia. But besides that, who chose me to impregnate Eva? I know you have no sway over her. I figure Helen wouldn't either. It could only have been Simon."
Snake chuckled. "It's a game we play, Simon and I. Don't forget Natasha and the way he tried changing the fetus's DNA. And what about that woman of his in San Francisco back in the 19th century. I managed to sway her, and he had quite a grip on her both genetically and environmentally. And what about Helen? You see how Naomi reacts when Simon's pawing at her brain."
"I think it has to do with your strengths," I speculated. "You know how to access Helen without her even knowing it, with subtlety and finesse which you have in spades, whereas Simon has a more blunt method, going along with his absolute arrogance. But in a way that very arrogance turned Helen in the first place. And that woman in San Francisco. You're a far better seducer. He seems to use the rapist method."
He grumbled, "Yes he does."
"So ... You're saying it's like a dare. I have given Helen's clones and Eva your DNA, and he's going to change the resulting genetic results to favor him."
"Kid, you're a stud. You got smart, healthy genes and powerful sperm. You're an impregnation machine. That makes you useful to him as well as me. But don't forget, all those women are Simon's. Eva is first generation along with being his angel. So their children..."
" ... will be more his than yours."
"Exactly. But it's a tease as well; maybe even a trap."
"You mean he wants you to try to go after them."
"Of course. An angel's child? Angelique's child? I don't think I'll be able to resist."
"What would make it a trap?"
"That I won't get into," he replied, his head subtly gesturing towards Eva while his eyes made brief contact with her.
I nodded. "So my father?"
"Call your mother."
"Would he even know?"
"No. But your mother would."
I sighed. "My mother would know whatever you want her to know."
"You think I have that much sway over her?"
"Don't you?"
This time Snake sighed. "I suppose I do, but I'm not big on such controls."
"But what about Helena and me with Eva?"
"What about it?"
I looked at Eva. She smiled at me. My heart skipped a beat. Such beauty. Such sexiness. So adorable. So perky. So bright. "Never mind," I said.
He chuckled. "Take your seat," he said.
I did, beside that exquisite blonde creature with Lindy on the other side of her on the couch, Miwa sitting on the floor between her legs just as Helena sat between mine. All were dressed in a comfortable and alluring minimum of clothing just like the rest of the angels. Seeing the diversity of races, the pinnacle of beauty for each, wearing clothing that only added to the sexy perfection of their bodies, never could get old.
Snake began to tell his tale.
A careful walk in the darkness, pairs of warriors separately approaching the southern African village with several minutes between each embarking and all in different directions, find no guards watching out for the enemy. A trap has definitely been set, but the plan works against its planners. And the quiet warriors, even if from different people, feel relief that murder of what would probably be at the least ambivalent guards has not been necessary.
Stealth and quickness prove to be just two examples of the exemplary nature of these warriors, the finest of the jungle people and Nick's clan. They also know how to kill with efficiency in a way that prevents any alarm from the victims. A shout will definitely cause problems for their mission. The blades used have a diversity of material, stone and wood and metal, but all have been sharpened to fine edges and cut through throats disabling the source for alarms.
Timing also serves their purpose. The invasion occurs about an hour before sunrise. Those that have made hostages of the villagers have fallen asleep, often in bed with the women they have raped. So two of these assholes, even when they realize the threat, too late to defend themselves but early enough to yell, albeit briefly, find no ears awake and receptive to their warning. Except for one.
The youngest hostage taker, and ironically the one left in command by his father, stumbles out of the second largest hut, the one containing wives and offspring of the village chief. His loin cloth his only clothing, it hides genitals wet with rape. Seeing strange men darting from one hut to another, he yells back at his second in command, the one supposedly guarding his uncle but who has gladly helped in his rapes, bringing the chief to watch the outrage and humiliation in horror. The shout awakens the man.
Immediately afterwards he watches two men, similar in attributes to the ideal warrior, leave the chief's hut and approach him. He takes a defensive position with his long knife, his proudest possession, suddenly more frightened than he has ever been, having never known any real threat to his life before. He has been well taught in its use, and bravery has been expected of him. Yet fear takes over and demands him to run. That those two majestic warriors, after glancing at him and looking past him, suddenly ignore him and enter the hut with blades ready, does nothing to allay his flight instinct.
But he takes barely a step before being enclosed in incredibly powerful arms, the one across his neck has a hand that squeezes his wrist until holding his blade becomes impossible. And then a man a year younger than him steps into his sight from behind him.
"Hello cousin," the young man says, smiling viciously. "The sick followers of your sick father have been dispatched quickly, barely knowing of their death. You, though, deserve worse." In horror, the rapist watches his cousin pick up his blade and measure its sharpness. "Very nice," the cousin says, sheathing his own blade and bringing the tip of the newly acquired one to press against the groin of his cousin, piercing the edge of his scrotum and the flesh beside his genitals before slicing upwards and cutting off the loin cloth while cutting him deeply. Grabbing the piece of fur, he stuffs it into his cousin's mouth before thrusting the sharp blade deeply into his abdomen. The Leader's first son loses all tautness in his muscles, including those that control his piss and shit, and it is a stinky sack of flesh that Salomé holds.
"Bring him to the central pyre, please," the young man asks Salomé.
Looking around, seeing her fellow warriors standing in front of huts no longer seeking hostage takers, she nods at him and at those warriors, who begin carrying the recently killed to the same location.
"I thought you wished to watch him die slowly," she questions the young man.
"I didn't think he'd stink so much," the bright teenager responds.
"Such is death," Salomé replies. "Especially such quick death as found in battle."
"How long will it take for him to die?"
"By midday probably."
"Good. Good enough."
They nod at each other and separate, Salomé carrying the dying young man to the central pyre accompanied by her two warrior kin, one bearing an older man with a wide, bleeding cut at his throat who, unlike his young commander, has ceased living.
When the youth steps into the hut, his eyes suddenly brim with tears. He chokes out curses at his cousin and his uncle through a tightened throat while cutting away the leather straps attached to posts at the top and bottom of the bed which have held his mother and her sister wife spread open and naked. He can't help seeing milky liquid seep from his mother's pussy and the reddened and painful looking orifice just below it.
Staring into her traumatized eyes, he tells her while cutting away the straps, "I have killed the monster, but he does not die. No, he suffers, and death will never come quickly enough for him."
She nods and only looks a little less traumatized.
By the time he has freed everyone, including his four siblings and his father, Nick has arrived in the hut along with his oldest uncle. His father kneels before Nick and scrapes the ground in front of him.
Nick sighs. "Get up, chief. We have too much to do for you to grovel."
"I have failed to protect my wives," the man mutters. "I should have seen my brother's malice and madness. I should not have let him and his men in. I should have never been ambivalent. I am weak."
"Nonsense," an unexpected voice responds, high, almost squeaky. The surprise in the chief's face makes Nick chuckle. "Your mad brother made your village weak, not you," Chintoo continues. "He extracted all your best warrior, including those meant for you and your wives' protection. Instead of protecting you, he made you vulnerable while keeping the best for his own protection. Some leader."
"Speaking of protection," Salomé says, having entered the hut seconds before, another bow from the chief annoying her. "Stop that. Do not bow ever again. You must show strength for your village. We intend arming them all, including your women and the older children. I know that is against your ways, but it has become necessary. Your defenses have been too depleted to do otherwise, and arming those who had never been armed before will surprise those who make it to your village. I and a young warrior woman will help train the women."
The chief actually laughs. "I only know one warrior woman who could do such a thing." Looking at his son, he sees the love and the embarrassment. "Myo is here?"
"Yes Father. She escaped her village just as I did ours, but with greater secrecy. Unlike me, I don't think the Leader even knew. Arm your wife and I will my mother and brothers and sisters. Show her how to stab and how to retreat from stabbing."
"Good," says Salomé, kissing the young man's head. "I must go help Myo." The chief chuckles again at his son's loving glance at her, continuing the glance at her departure. A second woman has entered his heart.
"Son, you seem to have a thing for warrior women," the chief remarks.
His son shrugs. "Who can blame me? She's amazing, and she's gorgeous."
"Won't Myo be jealous?"
"What?" Shaking his head, seeing his father's wisdom and insight preventing him from lying about a recently developing love between him and his best friend, he sighs. "I think she has found someone much more deserving of her affection."
"Impossible," says his father.
"He looks like Nick and Salomé, and he's an incredibly effective warrior."
"So you're both jealous," his father chuckles.
"But..."
"Look to your heart, son," says the chief, bringing his sight to his first wife, his son's mother. The pain he sees in her eyes burns into his soul. He manages to finish his statement, "Feel the depth of love from a lifetime of friendship and imagine her having the same feeling."
He enters the bed, kneeling before his wife. "I'm so terribly sorry," he tells her. "I failed you."
Somehow the wife lifts her body from supine to kneeling before her husband, taking him into her arms. "You must be strong," she murmurs. "We must be strong. We must transform shame into anger and revenge. We must use the disgust and humiliation against them. We will tear your brother and his men limb from limb for what they did to us, to me, to you, to our village."
Nick chooses to interrupt the intimate moment. "Revenge will make you stronger, but only if restrained and calculating. Blind fury only makes you blind and foolish. Focus on your purpose, on not just defending against your mad brother, but in his utter defeat, on his humiliation. Success is the greatest revenge of all."
"And how will we defeat him?" the chief asks. "He does have a formidable army."
"We actually have two forces to defeat," his brother, the hopeful heir as leader, informs him. "They approach from two different places."
"The great village and our youngest brother's," the chief nods. "They are heading here?"
"They will arrive late this morning," Nick tells him. "But we have advantages he has no idea about. He thinks he will finish his supposed trap, but of course it will be the opposite. We will trap him. And even before he arrives, he will be facing what the hostage takers in your village have faced, the stealth of my warriors. Many will be eliminated before he gets close, murdered in their sleep. I have warriors already heading out to do this. And we know from your warriors where his favorites lay."
"Can you get to him?" the chief asks hopefully.
"I wish, but unfortunately no. Unlike the captors here, he is surrounded by vigilant guards, and too many to not set off alarms. Though a decisive assassination, it would be too costly, too dangerous, too much risk that it would be unsuccessful. Targeted attrition, perhaps not as effective as cutting the head off the monster, will definitely wound it significantly."
The chief nods. "But how do we defend the village?"
"We don't," Nick smiles. "Like I said, his trap has become mine."
The village en masse head in the direction Nick's spies and assassins tell him will be unlikely to be passed as the two forces move in to take possession of the village.
When the force from the main village enter the smaller one, anticipating battle after losing many of their best warriors mysteriously, they find the village empty, at least outside the huts. The fire at the center still rages, and the smoke has strong odor, but not of death. In fact the green herbs cast upon it hides the stench.
They find it soon enough inside the huts, where their former comrades lay upon pallets and under blankets, corpses only warm from the warmth of the day.
Not long after their disturbing discoveries, a supposedly triumphant force ready to finish things up, but unsettled as well from their own loss of their best warriors, finally walks into the village, the Leader near the front, always well protected.
Seeing the leader of the first force looking worriedly at him while standing in front of the chief's hut, he brushes the man aside despite the warning.
A familiar older man leans over his dying son. He hears his son murmur an apology to him. "Can you save him?" he asks the healer.
"No, Your Magnificence."
"Then go," the leader orders decisively. "Now! Let no one enter."
But even alone with his son, his mourning sobs become known outside the sticks and grass that create the door, an undignified, surprisingly feminine sound.
And that light door even lets the listeners hear the son plead for his death.
"I cannot," they hear their mighty leader speak.
Moments later, looking weaker than any had ever seen him, he topples out the door and grabs his most trusted guard. "He suffers," he tells the man. "He must not suffer any longer."
The guard nods stoically and dispatches the son, the only one to see his death.
Outside the hut, the Leader takes several moments to pull himself together. Finally he looks at his commander. But before he orders anything, he hears the telltale sounds of battle, yells of pain. Though distant, there are many of these yells so are easily heard. "Attack!" he yells, pointing in the direction of the noise, the direction from which he has entered the village.
Two forces converge into one and head towards the pointed way. Suddenly getting his sensibilities back, the Magnificent One realizes his error. "Wait!" he yells at the last of his men. He runs to one and pulls him aside. "Gather as many as you can and defend the village." When the young man looks indecisive, he roars his frustration. "Find a leader amongst you and give him my command," he says. The man nods and disappears within the mass of warriors. Finally a clump of them returns. "More," he orders the man being followed. The man nods and heads back, running into the mass.
Looking at his guards, he sighs. "Spread them out to the edges of the village," he tells them. "Make it known from whence the attackers come."
"But..." his most trusted one begins, the one who has killed his son.
"Only you stay with me," he tells the man, to the man's great relief.
Moments later, too soon for protection, the expected attack comes, and from all sides, excepting the direction of the battle, instead of one. The village's size makes a single direction unnecessary. Further surprising the Leader, it's composed of his people and not those of the jungle or of the God Warrior's people as he has been expected to see. Except for two ferocious specimens of the latter. In fact, they seem to be the God and Goddess in the flesh. And the thunderous, earth shaking roar emanating from the warrior god seems to prove it. He watches his warriors immediately tumble to their knees.
"Get up, damn you," he yells.
"If they do, they die," the God roars.
Though the promise proves true, those that do stand manage to kill as well, as does, more frequently, his own guards who have never fallen to their knees. But the villagers swarm. The fact that the Magnificent One realizes they are the villagers is the final surprise of the onslaught. At least half, and maybe more, are women. And though they can hardly spar well against his well-trained warriors, their anger seems to make their attack that much more vicious. And perhaps worst of all, their aim tends to be low, emasculatingly low. And they being women make his men hesitate to a fatal degree. "Kill the bitches!" he yells.
That command seals his fate. "No!" yells one of his better warriors, in fact the one who has brought back the warriors to fight the rear attack. The man immediately drops his weapon and kneels. "No," others yell, following his lead. Maybe a third left, those who do not join the rebellion soon lose their lives.
Meanwhile, as the battle nears its end, the tall, beautiful goddess with a young woman dressed like a warrior on one side of her, and his nephew, the son of the chief of this village, stroll towards him and his guard. The guard barely makes a defensive move before getting skewered by the goddess as if he had never trained as a warrior instead of being the best of them.
"Damn that hurts," says Salomé, rubbing her belly, but otherwise seemingly unharmed.
The Magnificent one looks at the wound closing up and at the bloody weapon in his dead guard's hand. He drops to his knees and bows, scraping the earth, his hand no longer bearing his blade. "You really are the Goddess Warrior."
Salomé chuckles. "Something like that. But I'm afraid your abjection comes a little late."
"Should I kill him?" asks Myo. "He's not blood."
"I killed my cousin," the young son of the chief reminds her.
"You had every right. The asshole raped your mother. But the gods may not forgive your soul for any more killing of your blood."
"But my uncle," the youngster spat, "left him with my mother. The monster begetting a monster knew what would come of it. He might as well have raped her himself."
Realization strikes the Magnificent One like a slap to the face, and fury replaces groveling. He grabs his weapon and rises, meaning to kill his nephew to revenge his oldest and most treasured son, the son he trained to be an even greater leader than even he has been.
An instant later, he finds himself lying supine on the ground, weapon somehow stripped from his hand which is held down by the goddess's hand, her butt keeping him from moving, feeling like a great weight on his abdomen. He sees her other hand holding the wrist of the female warrior which still holds a blade.
Both anger and sadness appears on the pretty young woman's face. "Why didn't you let me?" she muttered. "He threatened my..."
"I know," Salomé chuckles, the pause quite loud in what the word unspoken must be. "And I understand completely. But unfortunately, the asshole's more useful alive."
The handsome warrior who has been uncomfortably close to the chief son's love approaches them, but the chief's son becomes silently ecstatic when she barely gives the incredibly handsome man a smile, returning her gaze to him.
"Tie him up," Salomé orders. "In the same bed as his son. But make it quick. We need to return to the fight."
Beckoning a couple warriors of the southern clan, the handsome warrior suggests to Salomé and the two teens, "You three go on ahead. Your skills are needed for the fight." He winks at both youngsters who grin at his complement. "We'll be along soon."
"Good," says Salomé. "You come celebrate with us when it's over?"
"If it's okay with everyone," he responds, glancing at the young man.
"It will be," Salomé chuckles.
As they take off at a slow run, the chief's son asks Salomé, "What was that about?"
"How much do you two know of lovemaking?" she asks them.
"We..." the young man hesitates.
"We have only kissed and touched each other," says the braver warrior, the female.
"Is that true?" asks Salomé.
"Yes," the young man admits.
"But you're yearning for more."
"She ... I..."
"I think he's afraid, and maybe I am too," the female warrior says.
"Afraid of what?"
"He thinks I'll laugh at him or something. And I think I won't please him as well."
"Your lust for each other will end your love and, most importantly, your friendship," Salomé guesses.
"Yes," both youngsters respond breathlessly, less from the running than the speaking aloud of their deep concerns.
"But what if you had some training, like training to be great warriors? What if great lovers, with experience and talent, trained you like old warriors train the young?"
"But," the chief's son stammers.
Salomé chuckles. "Jealousy."
"He's so much more handsome than me, and so much more ... capable."
"But I don't love him," says the young woman. "Do you love Salomé?"
"I..."
"You lust after her, and you're quite fond of her. I feel the same about him. But in the end, who do you see beside you in bed every night, making love, making babies?"
"You?" he says, too much of a question.
She slaps him on his shoulder playfully but with surprising power. It barely alters his course. "Are you sure?" she says with a grin.
"Absolutely. Absolutely sure. No question. You? You ... you want to be my wife?"
"Of course. A wife of a future chief, niece to the leader of our people. Who wouldn't?"
"So it's just power that you're after. You're just using me."
"They say power's an aphrodisiac. It would make me a very horny wife."
"Myo?"
"I'm teasing. I'd be your wife even if you were a lowly soldier. Who else's would I be?"
"True. What with your teasing and your mean streak, not to mention you being a better warrior than any man. Every other man would feel threatened."
"And you don't?"
"I think it's hot."
"I ... do too. You don't know how horny I am, and it looks like I'm about to get hornier."
They were yards from the battle in full and bloody swing. "So afterwards?" asks Salomé.
"Expert training sounds good," says the young man.
"Yes," said the young woman, drawing her blade. "I can't wait."
Salomé chuckles just before the three of them enter the fray.
Demonstrating her capabilities, she has to be the only warrior able to fragment concentration into three equal foci, her two young protégés and of course the enemy. Both hands hold weapons, and at least one keeps its use as guard over those two, although they prove not to need it except for a couple times.
She marvels at Myo's quickness at both lunges and dodges, and the young man reveals both strength and cunning in his fights, moving perfectly in defending against thrusts and countering them with his own well-placed thrusts. Both also use two blades with impressive skill.
"I wonder if the chief would let me borrow his son as guard," Salomé wonders to herself, "along with that remarkable future wife of his. Their youth could prove useful in disarming future threats by greatly lessening expectations, always a great strategy. And they're both so fucking cute."
Not long after those thoughts occupy her mind, a familiar booming voice ends the battle. It makes Salomé curse, though, because its distraction threatens her two young friends. She has to suffer another wound to defend them both when they lose their focus. Her three quick kills end up the last casualties of the battle.
"Stop fighting!" Nick bellows. "Your Magnificent Leader has surrendered, no more Magnificent, nor Leader. Speak asshole!"
"Lay down your weapons. No more death on my behalf. Kwicknick speaks true. The most powerful god, the greatest warrior of heaven and earth, favors my oldest brother over me. I have misguided you, not heeding the message given to me with our various defeats lately. They have been through Kwicknick's hand, these defeats, through his command for my abdication. He has left me alive long enough to bring you this message." With that, the former Magnificent One shifts his body, even with bound hands, until the blade of the soldier, kin to Nick and trainer of a young female warrior, enters below his ribcage, piercing lungs and heart as the man collapses onto it.
"I thought you needed him, Grandfather?" Salomé asks.
"He wanted to die," Nick shrugs.
"You could have stopped him."
"Maybe."
"Do you need his head?" asks the warrior, removing the bloody blade from the corpse.
"Allow me," says Nick, the warrior handing him his blade. Unlike anyone else except Salomé, he decapitates the man with little effort. Removing his fur shirt, he plops the head into it and ties up the bottom.
"You can stop gawking," says the young man to Myo.
"He's even more gorgeous than my warrior," Myo sighs.
"And a much more experienced lover," Salomé chuckles. "Unfortunately I avoid bedding down with my grandfather. Perhaps you two would prefer to join him this evening."
Noticing the plea in her best friend's face, and realizing the fairness of it, Myo decides, "Not necessary. Besides, I want to play with you, too."
"Good, because the feeling's mutual," Salomé grins. "You should know if you decide to learn from the master, there may be important consequences."
"What would they be?" asks the chief's son.
"He's very good at impregnating women. It's sort of his reason for being."
"Why's that?" asks a very interested Myo.
"His children, he can talk to them and have them do his bidding. He can do it without really talking. They communicate through their minds." Salomé taps her head.
"Would they ... be like him?"
"You mean like a god? No. They would be as mortal as you. But they would be healthy and more likely attractive, though that depends on the mother. They take on more of the mother's features, but would tend towards being more handsome or beautiful than her. They tend towards the smart side as well, but that again depends on factors such as being taught things as they develop, but would be more receptive to teaching than others."
"When he talks to them," asks the chief's son, "does he command them?"
"Good question, future chief," Salomé smiles. "I'd say he more influences their actions rather than commanding. Minions, those he fathers, do have an obeying nature towards him. They often think of him as their master. But my grandfather hates being thought of like that. He believes they should have a mind of their own, even question his influences."
"Do they question him?" asks the son.
"Probably not as much as he wants them to, but yes. I'm especially good at that," she chuckles. Her face goes blank and returns to animation. She chuckles again.
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