Chapter 1: Sir Percy Shows My Wife A Big One

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Humor, Wife Watching, Swinging, Gang Bang, Group Sex, Orgy, Interracial, Black Male, White Female, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Double Penetration, Size, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Sir Percy Shows My Wife A Big One - An English filmmaker and his professorial wife travel to Africa to investigate a legendary tribe. Much sex as we go along, nearly all consensual, and fanciful. Forthcoming chapters will feature bukkake, huge gang bangs with a willing female, lots of oral sex, masturbation, scientific analysis, and all kinds of fun stuff. All completely fictional of course, with no chance at all of anyone mistaking it for real life.

My wife's clear voice reverberated around the cavernous, yet surprisingly well-attended auditorium. The dark hall was imbued with the cloying smell of cheap pipe tobacco, moderately expensive perfume, and a few centuries worth of sturdy English peasantry. A colour slide from our recent expedition was projected on the wall behind her.

" ... and the largest subject measured 34.65 centimeters long and 18.2 centimeters around, when fully erect."

I could hear some gasps of astonishment above the murmur of the crowd. They soon retreated to an incredulous silence as she advanced to the next slide.

It was an image of a dark-skinned African native about 30 or 35 years of age, clad in tribal gear, clutching a long wooden spear at his side. He grinned into the camera. An animal skin was slung over one shoulder, and draped down across his chest. He wasn't alone.

My wife had knelt next to him, holding a clearly visible tape measure against the erect phallus he sported. You couldn't see the numbers, of course, but there was no doubt that the prodigious length nearly exceeded her forearm.

" ... measured over 184 cc's in volume. At least 50 examples measured in excess of 125 cc's over the course of the observations." Another excited murmur ran through the auditorium, and I chuckled to myself.

But I suppose I should start the narrative somewhere near the beginning, rather than spring out at you with the dénouement at this early stage.

Seven months earlier...

It all started at a meeting of the Anthropological Society of the Royal Museum at Sir Basil's old haunted house in the southwest of England, Blechley Manor. My wife Teresa, or Tess, held degrees in sociology, biology, anthropology, and a half dozen other –ologies, and she had been cornered by that old goat, Percy Eddington-Eddington. Pee, as we called him, had tramped around the interior of Africa for a couple of decades as a somewhat disreputable guide and expedition manager, surviving on the odd Great White Hunter looking for a new mangy lion skin, to replace the old mangy lion skin in his den, or selling a fantastic story to the supermarket tabloids in the States about great unknown monsters of Lake Victoria or some-such. The various native governments had booted him out of one equatorial country after another, and he finally ended up back in England, making himself a pest to the National Health system and writing angry letters to the Times regarding the lax moral habits of Girl Guides and the absolute going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket-iveness of the British Motor Car Industry. But now he had Tess in his sights.

I saw Tess glance at me with the resigned, wistful smile, like of a parakeet caught in the paws of an arthritic, declawed tom-cat with no teeth. She knew she would survive the attack, but she had better things to do at the moment.

I made my way over to them, stumbling over the chaise lounge and upsetting a tea table of biscuits and lime-juice. Brushing the watercress off my jacket with a nonchalant wave of the hand, I greeted old Pee.

"What ho, old cock. I'd have thought they would have locked you in a padded room at Colney Hatch and thrown away the key, by now." I grinned cheerily.

"Go soak your head, you young ass. I'm talking to your wife about something of earth-shattering importance, and we don't need you butting in and going on about some bally cricket match you just photographed," he replied with an air of haughty self-importance, an air made difficult to carry out with any real aplomb by the raspberry jelly stain on his bush jacket and the remains of a piece of cucumber sandwich stuck to his mustache.

"Oh, Sir Percival, be nice!" Tess shooshed him. "You really should remember you're not out in the bush trying to face down some cannibal chieftain or a raging bull elephant or something like that."

"Bahhhh!" he harrumphed and, taking one last glance down my wife's bodice, strutted off to annoy some other unfortunate prisoner of the night.

"What on earth was that all about?" I asked, guiding Tess to the remaining tea table and handing her a couple of steaming fluid oz. of Earl Grey's finest.

"The old coot. He has this ridiculous notion that there's some long unknown tribe in the Congo that hasn't had any contact with civilization in a thousand years except for him and two German missionaries sometime during the reign of Queen Victoria. He claims the men there are endowed with gigantic phalluses (or is it phalli? I'm never sure sometimes... ) that they've developed through years of selective breeding and some sort of odd diet they have, and that they'd make marvelous subjects for our next project."

I knew what she was talking about. The Royal Geographic Society had underwritten our last expedition, running a census of the walrus population in Greenland, and the BBC documentary had done well in the ratings, beating two political debates and the Yugoslav Song of the Year competition for the first half hour, until it was edged out by a football match between the Surrey Young Lads Club and the Edgingham Bakery Guild. Now they were after us to go out and bring back "something that'll keep them from changing the dam' channel so fast", as the executive at BBC-1 had said.

We were at the Anthropological Society to listen to some sort of magic-lantern lecture by Dame Rosemary Thistlefuzz on the 'Harvest Dances of the Maori of New Zealand", but all I remember about it was the seemingly endless number of slides of large brown women bending over in the fields, and equally large brown men with odd tattoos, sticking their tongues out at the photographer. The lecture ended early, thankfully, when Dame Rosemary accidentally dropped her pince-nez in the salmon dip and the cat tipped the entire tub over onto the 14th century oak flooring.

"He's obviously sprung the last gasket he had, and has gone completely batty, the old relic. I think he should be condemned and shut away permanently." I replied, with some gaiety. It always amazed me how long some people could go on being a horror to their relatives and neighbors.

"Oh, I don't know." Tess suddenly said, pensively. "There is some reason to believe he might be on to something, actually. I've heard stories, and there is a large part of the Congo that has been off limits to outside travelers for decades. Either we Brits or the French, or heaven forbid, the Germans, have always had some sneaky dealings down there, and ever since that old dictator took power back in the 60's, no one has been near the mountain areas. Besides which, he said he had proof and was going to... -– oh, there he is again!" Tess grabbed my arm with girlish glee and rose up on her tip toes to kiss me. "Now be a dear, and hear the man out. It may be fun!"

The runaway express train of Sir Percival hove to around the south-west corner of the piano, dropping anchor (if I may mix a metaphor) between Tess and the stuffed sausages which I'd had my eye on since arriving. He stuck out one bony old claw to grab at her, and she backed away, trodding on my toe and letting out a squeak of surprise.

"There you are, my dear. Come, take a look at this" he whispered conspiratorially, like an altar boy about to sneak a smoke behind the rectory. He reached into a pocket in the depths of his jacket, shaking dust, dead beetle carcasses and gawd-knows-what-else on the stuffed sausages as he hauled out an oilskin wrapped package about eight inches square and an inch or so thick.

"These are photographs I took there in 1957. They've been lost in my kit for so long, I almost forgot I had them. They should be the proof you need." He carefully unwrapped the twine from around the package, and unfolded the greasy covering. "I had to sneak these out wrapped in the hide of a Cape Buffalo that had not seen eye-to-eye with me one night whilst I attended to one of the daughters of the chief. She was a randy young thing, and our romantic rendezvous was just getting started when a crashing in the bush next to us nearly made her turn white with fright, and I had barely got my gun into position before the bugger charged us –"

"Ok, ok, Sir Percy, get to the point, get to the point," Tess determinedly pushed at him. He harrumphed again, picked a piece of cucumber sandwich off his upper lip, and peeled the top layer off of the stack of grainy black and white photographs. He shoved it out to her. I saw her look at the picture for a moment with an almost blank look on her face, until something clicked. She turned beet red from her bodice to her eyebrows, and I thought I saw her swallow as if in fear. Could have been trepidation, though, now that I think of it. Or a piece of sausage.

I peered over her shoulder. The picture was of a group of dusky African natives, standing, sitting, and more or less reclining in triumph over what to all appearances was a recently expired elephant, judging by the number of spears protruding from it. It wasn't until I focused on the natives that I realized that what I'd taken to be war clubs dangling from their belts were in fact a collection of the largest set of whangees I ever seen outside of the Beverly Hills Polo Club locker room with Forrest Tucker and Milton Berle that afternoon in 1965. A sharp intake of breath beside me indicated that Tess had rejoined the living, and was now staring at the photograph in her hand.

"I ... I have to see them!" she breathed excitedly, "Do you realize what this could mean?" she rattled on, all of a sudden going on about medical advancements and genetics and something about Cialis and Viagra and "let's see Ron Jeremy crow now!" with a girlish glee. I knew that, like a bulldog with a heaving bosom, when Tess gets her mind set on something, she doesn't often let go.

And she'd gotten the ear of this bull between her teeth and was shaking to beat the band. She fingered breathlessly through the rest of the old photographs, her manicured finger lingering just a little too long over some of the subjects, if you ask me. She punched me in the arm.

"We HAVE to go there, Roderick, we just HAVE to!" she cried, "I don't care what it costs, the BBC will pay dearly for this anyway, and I could write a paper that will have the Society eating out my hand for the next decade ... and you could take the pictures and film the whole thing."

'IMAX? ' I thought to myself, dismissing the thought as fanciful, if not somewhat appropriate in any case.

"Well then, old girl, I guess we'd better get caught up on our shots, cover the furniture with sheets, and do something with your mother for a few months." I didn't add that I'd not be averse to covering her mother with a sheet either, biting my tongue in the hopes of continued domestic bliss.

And that was pretty much that. We flitted about the soiree for a few moments more, finally disgorging Percy from our baggage train, bidding Dame Rosemary goodbye with our condolences on her lost lorgnette, and went home to pack our kit bag, update the will, and make reservations to fly to the Congo. Three weeks later, having deposited Mother with Tess's sister and laying a large sum of bank notes on the sibling to ensure continued devotion to the aged relative, we were on a plane to Braazaville, along with 5000 feet of unexposed moving picture film, a medical unit complete with every electronic and mechanical geegaw you need to make a diagnosis, develop a cure, and dispense medication; and Tess's teaching assistant. Mariana was 22, a graduate student at Oxford, spoke excellent English, was half West Indian, and had enormous breasts. I didn't care about the Oxford scholarship, the excellent English, or that she was half-West Indian.

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