C: Jungle Queen

Jungle Queen

by Angela Hadley

As dawn breaks, the women come to me. Curious, they crowd around me,
muttering to each other in hushed tones that I can't understand.
There's a half-dozen of them, of various ages, dressed in pale fabric
sharply contrasting with their dark-brown skins.

My own skin, so white in comparison, seems to be the object of their
curiosity. The oldest of the women reaches out a gnarled and callused
hand to touch my breast. I squirm at the contact, and look up to where
my arms are tied. The plaited reeds chafe my wrists.

One of the younger women is pointing at my legs and chattering
incessantly to her companion, who giggles and holds her nose. The old
one says something, and the two move off quickly, in obedience.

Under this scrutiny I'm acutely conscious of the brown stains down my
thighs. Whether through blind panic when they tied me up, or simply
from the natural needs of digestion, I shit myself the night before.
And then, having been thus undignified, I had no qualms about peeing
down my legs as well.

At that stage I felt I'd nothing more to lose. My native guides had
fled at the first sign that we'd strayed from our allotted route. They
dropped the cases and left me in the dark. The map was useless, so I
transferred some essentials into my already overloaded knapsack, and
tried to find a place to rest the night.

I'd hardly gone a hundred yards, when four painted, spear-carrying,
brown-skinned natives dropped soundlessly from the trees like
paratroopers. They could not, or would not understand my protestations,
and I found myself escorted to their village.

Such were the dangers of fieldwork, I reflected. I supposed it was
bound to happen. I wondered whether I'd be killed straight off, or if
some other horror awaited me.

My pondering was swiftly answered. The village was asleep and silent.
In short order my captors stripped me, tightly bound my wrists and
strung me up, nude, to a tree-branch. My clothes and knapsack
disappeared.

I hung there, bouncing slightly as the branch bent with my weight, the
balls of my feet just reaching the ground beneath the leaf
litter.

The four men gathered round me, and it was at this point that my bowels
involuntarily released. I shut my eyes for a few seconds, and when I
opened them again I was alone.

And now the old woman says something to the others, and the women
leave, just as two return, each carrying an earthen pot. The old one
mutters something to them, and they come up close to me. They've
brought leaves tied up in bunches, and at the old one's signal they
proceed to wash my body, pouring the cool water onto me in narrow
streams, from my shoulders to my ankles.

The feel of the water on my skin is refreshing after the hot night, the
sticky shit and the flies, and despite myself I relax a little,
relishing the gentle touch of these two girls, as they stroke the soft,
wet leaves down my body.

In spite of the old woman's abrupt snapping, the attentions of these
two seem almost reverential. I feel gentle pressure on my calves, as
the younger girl crouches behind me to clean up my mess.

The other stands facing me. She pours a little water on my head, and
runs her fingers through my hair, specially cropped for this trip. Her
face is very close. Occasionally her black eyes meet mine, but she
glances away, intent on her task.

She is, by any western standard, beautiful. She has perfect, dark-brown
skin, almost black, and slightly textured. It gleams in the dappled
morning light filtering down from the treetops. Surprisingly she has no
sign of body-piercing. I smile at the realization that -- even now --
my academic mind can't help continuing its research.

She sees me smile, and the corners of her mouth tilt upwards. I'm
strangely reassured by this. From feeling that I was all but lost, and
shortly to be murdered, or worse, the careful attentions of these women
has given me some hope.

I'm clean at last, though still strung up to the tree-branch. My body
feels fresh, however, as the narrow beams of light play across my pale
skin. The old woman has departed, and left me in the care of these two
girls. The younger one has brought a small bowl. She carries it
carefully in her cupped hands and passes it to her companion.

The older girl, the one with the stunning face, takes the bowl and
brings it to my lips. Eagerly I drink the lukewarm brew, feeling the
sweet, viscous liquid pass down my throat. I hadn't realized how
thirsty I'd become. She waits while I take a breath, and then I'm
drinking again, finishing the last of what must be nearly a pint.

She wipes my mouth with a damp leaf, stands back and looks me up and
down. Turning to her companion, she utters a single word and they leave
me.

The day draws on. I hang naked in the clearing, alternately dozing and
waking, wondering what will happen next. I feel sure the drink they
gave me must be narcotic, as I seem not to be apprehensive about my
fate -- just curious.

Throughout the morning I see no-one else, and then the two girls
approach again. They've brought more bowls and leaves. Once more they
give me their attention, dipping the leaves into a red oil and smearing
it over me.

They work methodically, rubbing the ointment into my skin, leaving no
part of me untouched. The older one massages the oil into my scalp,
over my face and neck, and into my ears and nostrils. She dips her
finger and runs it behind my lips. The stuff is tasteless, but it has a
vaguely burnt aroma.

The younger girl spreads the oil up my outstretched arms, over my
shoulders and back, pressing the leaves into and between my buttocks.
Meanwhile the older one is coating my breasts, rubbing the nipples with
her fingers. She chuckles as they respond to her firm touch. Then she's
spreading the red oil over my stomach, and down still further to my
thighs.

She hunkers down, dips a twisted bunch of leaves into the bowl, and
reaches up between my legs. I hold my breath as she parts my flesh, her
gentle pressure easing me open. The ointment squeezes into me. I feel
it oozing, finding its own way.

The girls continue their massage, until at last, even between my toes,
every part of my body is coated with the red oil. The older one stands
up, wipes the last of the oil from her bowl, and gently dabs it onto my
closed eyelids. When I open my eyes, she's smiling.

The younger girl picks up the bowls, and they stand together, facing
me. Both have beaming faces, their task successfully completed. I hang
before them, the oil glistening on my skin.

In unison they drop their heads and bow toward me. Then, a second
later, they straighten up, turn and walk away.

Once more I'm left to ponder what comes next. I no longer feel like
dozing. My skin fairly fizzes in reaction to the oil, which must surely
contain some powerful agent. My nipples have remained erect, and the
oil between my legs is having a similar effect. My breathing has become
more rapid as my body reacts to this strange, chemical
stimulation.

Some time later -- an hour, maybe -- I marvel at how my body seems to
be perpetually aroused; I wonder what some western conglomerate
wouldn't pay for this oil's formula. Then I hear the beat of a drum,
not far away, and getting closer. The beats are about one a second, or
perhaps a little quicker.

Soon the drummer appears from between the trees. A young man, rather
like the four who ambushed me, he's holding his drum -- a pot or other
container with a skin stretched across it -- under one arm, and beating
it with a stick. He marches forth, followed by a disorganized gaggle of
what I assume are villagers. The men appear to wear the least: just
loincloths between the lurid paint upon their shining black
skins.

The women are dressed demurely in enveloping cloaks, of white or
pastel-colored fabric. I think I see the girls who attended me amongst
them.

The drummer marches on, stepping and beating in a wide circle, as if
delineating a patch of ground, with me at its center. The villagers
follow him, eventually to station themselves in a circle around
me.

There is much chatter, and pointing of fingers. I hang there, naked,
between them. The miraculous red ointment still glistens on my skin.
I'm amazed not to be in fear of my life, or ashamed at my exposure.
Instead, I feel a kind of exhilarated inevitability. If this is how my
life is to end, then so be it. Is it not fitting that an anthropologist
should meet her fate amongst the subjects of her study?

Abruptly the drummer stops his beating, and the village falls silent.
Almost at once, he strikes up a faster rhythm, and all eyes turn to
watch the entrance of a troupe of men, the leader of which begins to
dance in frenzied synchronism with the drum. As he dances toward the
center of the circle, the men following dance with him.

They, like the men of the village, are dressed in only loincloths, but
as well as the brightly colored paint, they wear beads and bones of
many shapes and sizes. This makeshift jewelry flashes its frenzied
colors as the men throw themselves into the dance.

It soon becomes clear, through the unambiguous symbolism of their
movements, that this is a fertility ritual. The men gyrate, stomp and
jump, but the way they thrust their hips in time to the drum, and run
their hands up and down their painted bodies -- its meaning is
unmistakable.

Suddenly, the Chief -- if that's who he is -- passes close by me, and
the drumming ceases. The dancing stops too, and the Chief walks up to
me. He puts his hands on his hips and looks me up and down. The heavy
jewelry rattles slightly as he catches his breath; trickles of sweat
run down his muscular chest as it rises and falls. Moisture glistens on
his shaven scalp in the sunlight.

To my surprise he is a young man, perhaps no more than twenty-five. His
black eyes hold mine, as he breathes heavily and licks his open
lips.

Once more the drummer takes up his beat, this time softly, and with a
leisurely rhythm. The Chief places one hand across his chest, and pulls
a string securing his jewelry. With a crash the bones and beads fall to
the ground. He steps toward me.

I feel the flush of his hot breath on my face. I can almost feel the
heat from his perspiring body. When he steps closer still, and reaches
up to take my arms in his grip, I feel engulfed.

He pulls my arms downward, making the chafing reeds pull on my wrists,
but also letting my heels touch the ground. Then he lets go, and the
supple tree-branch bounces me up and down. The Chief watches my
movement, fixing his gaze on my gently quivering breasts.

Then he takes hold of me, running his big hands round my back and
pulling me toward him. I feel my nipples pressing into his chest as he
runs one hand down my back and pushes long fingers between my buttocks,
pulling me closer to him. I feel the pressure from beneath his
loincloth against my flesh. It is firm and insistent.

I remember those ever-present rumors about a lost tribe whose sexual
prowess is beyond anything yet encountered, and wonder if I have
inadvertently discovered it.

The Chief thrusts himself against me, and I'm aware of the moisture
forming between my thighs. My breathing becomes short and rapid. He
pulls away a little, and with a single motion loosens his loincloth. As
he tosses the fabric away, I glance down to see his member, huge and
menacing, glistening, impetuous. I shut my eyes as he grasps my rear
with one hand, and with the other guides himself home.

As he presses himself into me, inch by inch, the delicious pleasure of
it takes my breath away. I cry out, repeatedly, the drum beats echoing
my ecstasy. And as the final, full length of him drives inwards, I
climax with a force I've never known.

And yet, there's more. I cling on to him, in my limp relief, legs
wrapped around his powerful frame. He pumps me, up and up, on and on,
bringing me again to a paroxysm made all the more ecstatic by the
torrent of his seed flushing full-bore into me.

He withdraws as he subsides, leaving me drenched and panting. And
though he steps, satiated, away, it is but a few moments before I once
again feel the ache of desire wrack my body. I cannot believe how much
I feel the need for sex, so soon after climaxing.

I need not have worried. The other dancers, one by one, come up to
service me, each one possessed of an organ made in heaven. These men do
indeed boast extraordinary prowess. Whether by training or innate
instinct, they are remarkably skilled in the application of their
prodigious physical endowments.

I lose count, of course. I'm hardly conscious by the time the sixth or
seventh dancer has performed his ritual pleasure, yet my body,
delirious with delight, still responds with unprecedented
endurance.

They leave me, then. Still hanging from the branch, I'm dripping with a
mingled mixture of my own and others sweat, my own and others juices. I
still feel the faint pangs of desire, of lust for those beautiful black
bodies, but I realize that it's probably only the red oil, and the
strange drink the girls gave me, that's confusing my body's
cravings.

Soon, the two girls return. They stand facing me, and place their bowls
of water and bunches of leaves on the ground. Then they bow low before
me. Standing upright again, the older one comes to me, takes my head in
her hands, looks into my eyes. Then they wash me, as before, cleaning
off the sweat, the oil, everything. Their attention is just as thorough
as it was, and when they're done, the older one takes a sharp implement
from the pouch at her waist, reaches up and severs the reeds.

The girls catch me as I fall, and I cry out as my shoulder muscles
cramp. In a daze, barely conscious, I lean on the girls, as, one each
side of me, they take me to their hut.

There, they feed me and put me to bed. Later, they clothe me, in such
glorious fabrics I wonder if I'm dreaming.

Days, weeks pass. Their native tongue is still a mystery to me, but by
degrees we begin some rudimentary sign language. They still look after
me; I do nothing for myself. This hut, it turns out, is not theirs
after all. It's mine.

And so are they -- these young women, whose job it is to keep me well,
and to prepare me for my men.

I sometimes think of going home, to resume the academic life. To write
a book, maybe, about an anthropologist who got lost in the field, was
captured by a tribe, and had extraordinary experiences.

Someday, perhaps.

Meanwhile, I'll remain what I've become -- the jungle queen.