Chapter 1

Mandy had whined the entire week before they left. She had whined and sulked during the plane flight, and was now whining, sulking, pouting, and occasionally snarling. Going on an African safari, far from chili dogs, pizza, MTV, and her friends, was not her idea of a holiday.

For once, though, her parents had held firm. They intended that this would be a good old fashioned family holiday, and were determined to enjoy it if it killed them, and her. No amount of whining, cajoling and begging had managed to sway them.

Thus she was now standing on the runway in a baking heat, watching her father wave forlornly at baggage handlers who zipped by as if he were invisible. It was little wonder, what with the enormous amount of luggage sitting beside him.

Mandy herself was very far from invisible to the baggage handlers, as well as all the other bemused, astonished and wondering Africans within sight. If she noticed the stares, she gave not sign. She was, after all, used to be stared at, though not in quite the same way.

She was, as she well knew, a lovely, even stunning young woman. Her development had started early. Even when she was eleven years old, her physical maturity was such that she was taken for a girl several years older. She'd learned quickly that the men who looked at her so closely could be manipulated in a variety of ways to her benefit.

At eleven, that merely meant cooing and blinking her eyes. By twelve she was wearing tight or revealing clothes and positioning her body in such a way that older boys and even grown men would groan and flash carnal visual images in their minds.

By the time she'd turned thirteen, she was an expert at manipulation, at controlling and manoeuvring men, using their weakness for her nubile teenage body to make soft jelly of their hearts and minds, and hard steel of their prongs.

She'd lost her cherry before entering high school, to a handsome teacher who'd responded by changing her F to an A. Usually she didn't have to actually sleep with them of course. A little cooing and sultry whispers, combined with a kiss or two sometimes did it.

For more difficult cases, she'd casually rub herself against them, or let them cop a feel of her boobs, or crotch, and sometimes even jerked them off.

She'd gotten great grades in High School without having a particularly nimble mind, or studying hard. Others wondered about that, but as a leader of her peer group in school, few openly questioned her methods for academic achievement.

It was the same in college. She'd started just this year, and had found the college professors even more willing to come under her sway. The high school teachers had the added worry, first of arrest, and even after she passed the age of consent, of firing, if caught with her.

College teachers didn't really have to worry about that. Affairs between students and teachers weren't unusual. They could freely make use of what she offered in exchange for good grades, and not worry about consequences.

Now, as she stood on the runway, clad in her tight short shorts and her purple tank top that was cut off just below the breasts, she was the near perfection of a sexual creature. She didn't even have to try and pose anymore. Any position she took could automatically bring males organs to erection.

Her body was that of a goddess, perfect in it's Ivory Whiteness, gleaming with health. There was not a pimple, mole, or freckle anywhere on it. She was tall and effortlessly graceful, her movements that of a ballet dancer.

Her breasts were large enough to cause double takes, but not large enough to detract from the perfect symmetry of her shape. They were high and perfectly round and of a firmness few young women ever achieved, even during arousal. Her nipples were tiny pink nubs in the exact center of each breast, which, when hard, lengthened to an almost unnatural length, standing out hard and ultra sensitive.

Her legs were the kind that made men run into poles, so transfixed were they by the long gleaming contours of her perfect thighs, shapely calves and sweet and lovely knees.

Her ass would have won awards if such were given, and if she had ever deigned to enter any contest. It was the perfection other women longed for, had operations for. Not an ounce of fat, not a hint of imperfection marred her sweet and sumptuous buttocks. They were more perfect in their shape when she slouched in her sneakers than most women achieved in six inch heels and tightly shaping pants and jeans.

Her face was the profile of delicate loveliness. Her eyes were wide and bright, bright blue. When she wanted, they were they eyes of an appealing child. Within an instant they could turn sultry and wanton.

Her nose was a mere button, a little snub thing that made the women sigh and smile. Her mouth was narrow and luscious, her lips full and sensuous, her teeth, brilliant white perfection. Taken as a whole, her face was enough to make grown men and women weep, the men with regret, that they would never know her intimate acquaintance, the women with amazed jealousy.

Her hair was the perfect frame for such a wondrously sculpted visage. It was chest long and as feathery soft and fleecy as the finest silk. At the same time, it was luxuriously thick, cascading around her head and splashing over her shoulders and down her chest and back like a lustrous waterfall halted in mid-fall.

All of these taken together drew lustful and envious stares and gasps wherever she went, and contributed to what was, admittedly, more than a hint of arrogance, haughtiness and vanity. Being rich always tended to draw people into immodesty. Being rich as well as stunningly, dazzlingly, ravishingly, gorgeous, gave her an ego hard to reign in, even on those odd occasions that she tried.

Of course, her luscious silhouette and mouth watering face were not the only reason she was drawing stares at the moment. The main point of attraction for the Africans was her hair, which was a bright, but not unattractive shade of pink.

If she had been aware of the amusement, or confusion her hair color was causing, she would have simply sniffed about the crudeness and lack of sophistication of the watchers, utterly certain that wherever in the world she happened to be, whatever she happened to be wearing was THE height of fashion, and that included hair coloring and style.

She was not aware of the bewildering looks though, since all her attention was focused on herself, and the unhappiness and uncomfortableness she was presently feeling. These were not things Mandy was normally forced to contend with.

Seldom in her short life had she been refused any pleasure, comfort or want, however fleeting or transitory. Everywhere she went she was granted boons favours and generosity. At home, her slightest wish was her parents most important demand. Nothing was denied her.

Of course this went a long way to explaining her self indulgent nature, her selfishness and vain outlook on life. Mandy was about as spoiled as any human being that walked the face of the earth, and as shallow as a dried river bed.

Though she was far from stupid, an original thought had never crossed her pretty little mind. She followed the dictates of her social group to the letter, her every move governed by whatever happened to be "IN."

Now here she was sweating, SWEATING! In a sauna that was permissable, but out in the open, in her clothes, it was utterly intolerable.

"Dadddeeeeeeeeee," she whined. "Can't we go indoors where it's air-conditioned?"

"The building isn't air-conditioned sweetheart. It's hotter than out here," he replied.

"Not air-conditioned?" She was truly amazed. In her experience all buildings were air-conditioned. What kind of a place was this?

"Ahhh, here comes our drive I think," her father sighed with relief.

Mandy turned to see a boxy looking car racing towards them in a cloud of dust. She squinted her eyes against the sun, then put her hand over her mouth as the thing drew up in front of them, hurling small pebbles and dirt all around.

"You Charles Taylor?" a voice demanded.

"I am."

"Righto."

A figure jumped out of the box and moved around to stand in front of them. Mandy looked up in disgust. The man was in his early thirties, tall, with coarse dark hair and weathery tanned skin, he wore a cheap brown short sleeved shirt and dark green pants tucked into boots, not even designer boots.

He was sort of handsome, in a rugged, cowboy type way, with a thick, barrel chest and enormous, biceps. His hands were big and rough from work, and his chest hair curled out through the half open shirt. Mandy wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Pleased ta meet yah." The man said, holding out his big hand at Taylor. "I'm Joe Steel."

"How do you do?" Charles said, shaking hands. "This is my wife Lucy..."

"Charmed." Lucy said, waving her hand back and forth in front of her face to stir a little breeze.

"And my daughter Mandy."

"Hi there Maddie." he grinned, his eyes sliding quickly and appreciatively up and down her body.

"Mandy." she said, stiffly, glaring in reproach.

It didn't do to let the help become to chummy to begin with, and nobody dared call her Maddie.

With no further delay Joe had begun hefting their bags one and two at a time, and tossing them into the rear of the "Rover" as he called it. He showed not even a hint of effort at the heavy bags and was quickly done, whereupon he jumped into the drivers seat to await them.

Charles held open the rear door and Lucy and Mandy carefully stepped in.

"Don't you have air-conditioning?" she complained.

"You're joking?" He laughed. "Air-conditioning! What a laugh!" He then proceeded to laugh, long and hard, before stomping on the gas pedal. The three passengers were thrown back against the weakly padded seats as the Rover bumped and bounced across the dirt field and out through the airport gate.

In a short length of time, they were driving through an incredibly dirt and tacky looking excuse for a city, with hordes of Black people wandering around aimlessly and shrieking in some ugly foreign language that Mandy knew wasn't French or Italian, the only two acceptable languages other than english.

"How far is the hotel?" She grumbled.

"Hotel? We ain't goin' to no hotel, gorgeous. We're heading right for the jungle. We'll pick up the rest of the gear in Bankoland, then head inland."

"You mean we'll be travelling in this?!" she demanded in astonishment.

"That's it beautiful."

"But... but... but... we CAN'T travel in this!" she exclaimed.

He looked back at her in irritation. "And just what's wrong with this? This is a helluva fine machine, girl. It'll take you through damn near anything without stalling."

"How long do we have to be riding around in this thing?" She demanded.

"This is your ride for the duration, Princess." he grinned.

"Daddeeeeeeee!"

"Now look, precious, we could hardly travel in a Rolls in the middle of the jungle," he tried to placate her.

"Couldn't you get something that was at least air-conditioned!?"

"You'll never get acclimatized with air-conditioning pinky." Joe grinned.

"What?"

"He means you won't get used to the heat, darling."

"I don't want to get used to the heat!" she stamped her foot on the floor.

"You ain't got no choice there, pinky."