Chapter One: A Tussle in Timbuktu

Sir Harold Chesterhill and his company get into a bit of trouble in Timbuktu...

Chapter One: A Tussle in Timbuktu

It seems these days, I awaken with perspiration soaked pillow and on this summer’s evening, the memory of the duel was hot in my mind and I was at full stimulation. The image of pistol smoke still danced in my dark bedchamber. The experience occurred over and over, in sequence, and although some of the details were not present for every nightmare, the events of my antiquity still seem to cause quite a stir. Perhaps, I should start at the beginning. 

 Many years ago, I was on safari hunting large game in the darker regions of Timbuktu with a small company of other gentlemen from His Majesty’s Kingdom. Firstly, there was Winston Pendleton-Smythe, the recent heir to the Pendleton fortune following the untimely demise of his father at the hands of a large Scandinavian woman during a private session of the ol’ gas pipes. Then there was Magistrate Templeton, whom had acquired a taste for the large native females and demanded he be invited to join the expedition. Finally, there was Charles Betherford, whom had just been banned from the social institutions for events I dare not repeat, but let me tell you, that you best avoid his devious little finger! 

A week into the voyage, whilst we were airing our nude forms near a river, being pleasantly amused by the natives being eaten whole by the crocodiles, the devil’s beasts, we were approached by a gaggle of female beasts with great bushels of clay caked hair and grunts of passion. Apparently, the blinding sight of our bare skin and British musk had attracted this group of females and they saw fit to work us over. This much was clear by the snarls and huffing, in addition to their state of nudity to match our own. 

 Our escape was not hasty enough, the four of us were snatched up and with five women to a man, and we were carried to the grass huts with intermittent bites on the trip. Once we reached our apparent destination, we were separated and each taken to a hut with no less than five of the natives shouting and jostling in close pursuit. As I had landed hard on my head with nothing but a grass mat to cushion the fall my control over my more esteemed faculties was lost. Fortunately, I was able to recover my monocle prior to the commencement of the festivities. 

 The first blows targeted my genitals primarily and were only intermittently accurate and at one point, the largest of the women raised my crumpled form above her head, let out a war cry, and threw me hard upon the urine and faeces stained earth. One particularly devious tigress smothered me at great lengths with her immense seat. The whole event nearly did me off and in the end, I was only able to sustain a meager climax, a feat not accomplished since the early reunification of Germany, what? 

 Once the females corresponded with grunts and made their way out of the hut, I gathered the session had been completed. I recovered my pipe and began to smoke fine Peruvian flake while I strutted with forever crooked mast from the now sweltering domicile. I noticed Magistrate Templeton, with a particularly devious face, and Mr. Betherford had also completed their sessions however, Mr. Pendleton-Smythe was missing from our meeting. 

 We scoured the huts in search of our missing compatriot only to make a morbid discovery in one of the straw domiciles. Mr. Pendleton-Smythe’s body lay mangled with a malformed member. He had apparently succumbed to the rigors of the she-beasts’ mating. True, it did take a robust British Gentleman with a vigourous constitution to last the duration of the proceedings and clearly Pendleton-Smythe was not par for the course and unfortunately for the heir, son was quite like father. Additionally, evidence was on site that during the drubbing dear Pendleton-Smythe had voided his bowels and tally wags in the excitement. 

 The remaining three, we British few, retired to our camp near the river and licked our wounds with the aid of our maidservants. Most of them were Sepoy, and accustomed to such rituals which fared well in the afternoon sun. Unfortunately, as traumatic as it may seem, it doesn’t compare to the dreadful events that were to follow, and make this the safari of nightmares.

Author's Note

Bully!

Reviews

[Magistrate Templeton]

Tallyho!
I recall this tour through Timbuktu with much clarity. I've always desired to go back to that place to see those young ladies yet again. I particularly wish to find this one trick with flappy neither regions so that I can have her slap my face with the bundles of moist skin betwixt her legs.

Bully indeed!

Keep your mustache clean!

Magistrate Templeton
Dictated but not read