Chapter 3: Mombasa

Before we left to go on R&R we were again briefed by Captain Miles Shepard, the military attaché who had briefed us on our arrival in Kenya. While we NCOs were visiting Mombasa Colonel Jones and Harry would be staying at the British High Commission in Nairobi. Harry had been in the same year as Miles Shepard at Sandhurst, and no doubt the two of them would spend time reminicing together, and probably spend even more time poodle-faking the tastier females at the High Commision.

"Remember chaps," said Captain Shepard. "HIV AIDS is rampant in East Africa, and we don't want you taking a tropical present back to your wives and partners. Every bar or club you go into, either here in Nairobi or in Mombasa, will be full of women on the game. There is nowhere you will be able to pick up girls who are not prostitutes, so get used to the idea that if you want female companionship you will have to pay for it – and always use a condom."

Several of the blokes groaned at this information. 'No way do I pay for a fuck' being the most heard declaration. That was an ill-informed sentiment to be expressed in a country where 'respectable' women don't leave their homes without a male relative alongside them. It is only in so-called Western civilisation that young women are free to go out and find a sexual partner, without there being any idea of marriage. In most parts of the world young women who do that sort of thing are whores, which is why men from different cultures than ours think that all our girls are whores, and that the men folk of our countries have no honour in allowing their female relations to behave in such a manner. We forget, at our peril, that the culture of the West is seen as decadent, dishonourable and disgusting, by many other cultures, and when, rightly or wrongly, they think that the West is trying to inflict that culture on them they take great, and usually bloody, offence.

It is about an hour's flying time from Nairobi to Mombasa, and en route the aircraft passed within a few miles of Mount Kenya, which is practically on the equator. It was impressive, and slightly surreal, to see a peak of shining snow resting on a base of thick white cloud, as if it being held in place in the sky.

All the tourist hotels in Mombasa employ females who will fuck for pay – prostitutes in all but name. Although prostitution is illegal in Kenya the authorities turn a blind eye as it brings in the sex-tourists, and with them hard currency. However the US owned hotels, which are in the majority in Mombasa, keep it all above board and legal, technically at least, so that their shareholders back in Middle America never realise that they are making money from immoral earnings.

All females – including the casino staff, the entertainment staff, the in house cleaning staff, and the catering staff - employed at these hotels are paid a regular wage, even if it is a mere pittance. They are then expected and encouraged, if not actually compelled, to supplement their income by providing 'extra services' to the hotel guests. What the girls do in their off duty hours, and how much they may charge, for whatever extra services they may provide, has nothing to do with the hotel; however the management does deduct 20% of the girls extracurricular earnings, for 'health insurance for the girls'.

We shouldn't really be surprised by the hypocrisy shown by the hotel owners. They are business men, followers of the Profit Motive, and let's face it, the reason for girls seeking employment in these hotels is to make a lot of money, mainly on their backs.

It is the dance hostesses, part of the entertainment staff, who are the most visible of the 'cunts for cash' system operated at the hotels. They are dressed to catch the eye, advertising their attributes, like the bar girls in Annalise's bar. The girls receive a percentage of the fee paid by the punters for a dance, and also a percentage of the money spent by the punters on drinks.

The Silver Sands Beach Hotel and Casino is one of Mr Crump's finest, and it was where Team Kilo stayed while in Mombasa. The hotel employed enough tasty twat to satisfy a regiment of horny squaddies, so there was no need to venture into Mombasa Town for female company. The hotel catered mainly for Europeans – although there was a sprinkling of Asian and Arab guests – and employed females from all over the world.

African women do not particularly enjoy indulging in anal sex, whereas all men, regardless of racial origin, do - I'm assuming 'men' as givers, rather than receivers, in this context. Asian and Arab men in general prefer pale skinned, blue eyed and blonde haired women – European, US and Oz girls – who usually are anal sluts and enjoy back door loving. This results in African girls being in less demand, and therefore charging fewer dollars for access to their bodies, than their paler skinned sisters. Team Kilo members, not having the disposable income of the big bucks businessmen and high roller sex- tourists staying at the hotel, were more than happy to copulate with African girls in an economically priced fuck fest.

We were accommodated in bashas built in the grounds of the hotel. These bashas were definitely upmarket rondavels, with en-suite toilets and showers, and satellite TV. They were not air conditioned, thank God – which is noisy, and dehydrating to the body – but had electric powered ceiling fans; well, not actually ceiling fans as there were no ceilings. The thatch of the roof could be seen between the wooden beams that supported the roof, and the fan was connected to a beam. Somewhat disconcerting were the resident roof snakes, who dealt with any rodents that had the temerity to eat the thatch. We were assured that the snakes were not venomous.

The six stories high main building housed the more opulent shagging suites, besides two large restaurants, several bars, a dance floor and stage, and a casino. The majority of the dancers/ showgirls and the casino staff – croupiers and waitresses – were European or American. Most of them were students, or on their 'gap' year, or at least that is what they told their folks back home, but they all fucked for dollars and went home a damn sight richer than when they had arrived. Catering and cleaning staff were mixture of East Europeans, South Americans, and Asians – mostly Filipinos and Indonesians – and Africans. The bar waitresses and the dance hostesses were uniformly African.

The rates charged by the female employees of the Silver Sands Beach Hotel for their 'company' varied according to their job description and race. Any girl could refuse to fuck if they didn't fancy the man, although a big wad of dollars usually assuaged any qualms they might have entertained.

The first night at the hotel I saw a little black girl, a dance hostess, with the sweetest of smiles. I asked her to dance – ten East African shillings a dance – then booked her for the entire evening. At the end of the dancing I took her back to my basha and we fucked our brains out.

Actually it was more gentle and sweeter than that. Kylie – I don't think that was her given name – was a soft and cuddly type of girl, with a decent set of Bristols, a lovely African arse, and a smile that didn't just beam but warmed like the rising sun. Her voice was low pitched and gentle, and she was a comfortable sort of girl to be with.

I had hurried back to my basha with Kylie as soon as the dancing had finished. I'd already fucked English, Irish, Welsh and German females and I was mega keen to dip my wick into a black girl.

It didn't take long to unwrap my purchase – dance hostess at the Silver Sands Beach Hotel wore skimpy, sexy garments that were soon shrugged off. Of course Kylie wasn't black but a pleasant shade of mid brown, without the paler bits around her genitals or breasts as you would find on 'white' girls. Her skin was uniformly the same shade; any pimples, spots, or blotches that she may have had were not as obtrusive as such skin blemishes would be on a pale skin.

Kylie had been around Europeans enough to know that we like French kissing – or whatever it's called in Kenya. Her tongue, red wet and warm, filled my mouth, and I tasted the Amaretto she had been drinking – quite pleasant in fact –and she kissed skilfully and passionately.

Although the fan was whirling we both were soon perspiring, and I licked in the hollow of her neck where some of hers had gathered. It had a tangy lemony taste, while she smelled of mimosa, coconut oil, and something I couldn't quite define but assumed it to be her own individual fragrance, and it was a very appealing scent. Kylie's body shape was similar to Miriam's, and I had a moment of unease, wondering if unconsciously I had chosen her as a surrogate for Miriam. However it had been Kylie's smile that had first attracted me, not her tits, which had been the main reasons I had first copped on to Miriam.

My mouth went to the mounds of Kylie's breasts, and I was pleased to find that her nipples were large, and, after a few moments of my sucking on them, dead hard, You probably realise by now that I'm a sucker for nipples – pun intended – and I spent some time in sucking nibbling and licking those rock hard, almost black, studs of delight. Maybe my mother bottle fed me, and I'm making up for lost time in the mammary department?

I trailed my tongue down her body, over her smooth rounded belly, licking out her naval, which had her giggling. I bit gently into the cushioned swell of her mound of Venus, which was lightly coated with black hair. Kylie let out a gasp, whether of shock, disgust or pleasure I wouldn't know. African men rarely kiss and lick a female's genitals, and although Kylie would have serviced many Europeans cunnilingus was probably something she wasn't used to. Finally I arrived at the Gate to Paradise, the honey pot, cunt, vagina, minge, twat, pussy, gash, slit, fanny. Whatever the name used it remains the Holy Grail for men, and I was going to give Kylie's Holy Grail the best tongue worship it had ever encountered.

At first glance her outer lips, much darker than her skin, almost charcoal black, looked leathery and unappealing. But as I applied my mouth and tongue to the flesh I found it soft, succulent, and swiftly swelling, as I licked and sucked. Her inner lips were a scarlet red against the dark of her labia major and they too were sucked and licked and nibbled on, as I parted the outer lips with my fingers. My tongue made its slow slithering way up to her bud – dark and hard as her nipples –and soon her gasps were of pleasure, and she cried out in a language not Swahili or English, I assumed it to be her tribal tongue – as my teeth and my tongue teased her into bloom.

By this time she was lying naked on the end of my bed, her legs over my shoulders and her hands clutching my head. I was kneeling, still fully dressed, my face between her thighs. Her legs were thin, as most African women's are – I suppose slender is a more accurate description – but her thighs were meaty and firm, and clenching, as waves of delight flooded through her. It was not only delight that was flooding through her; she was juicing like a Del Monte factory on double shifts. A spicy, salty – very tasty – flow streamed down her thighs, and over my face and mouth. I thought maybe I had discovered the source of the Nile.