Tears of the Maasai by Frank Coates

Author:Frank Coates
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART 2

EUNOTO

CHAPTER 21

PEABODY’S GUIDE TO EAST AFRICA (5TH ED):

Marriage is a matter of luck. It has no eyes. (Maasai proverb.)

The girl slipped through the low doorway of the hut. Her cool necklace brushed gently against small black nipples. They grew tight and sensitive at the thought of being with him. She had watched him like an eagle on the wing, from early evening to moonless night, so she knew he was alone. Not an action had been ignored. Not a word missed. From the dim edges of the firelight she watched. Like a lioness guarding her cubs, she would have leapt upon any other entito who made an approach.

In the darkened hut she whispered his name. He grunted a reply.

She fumbled her way towards the voice in the darkness. At the bed platform she slid her hands about until she touched the top of his plaited hair, then traced her fingers down his slender nose. There, the small scar on his cheek where a mock battle had nearly cost him an eye. And there, beneath his full lips, the sweep of his wide jaw.

She asked him how he knew it was she. Her whisper was unnecessary. No one could hear them in the dark forest of the moran’s meat camp.

He knew she had watched him all night, like a monkey watching fruit fall among leopards, but in reply told her he was a warrior and missed nothing.

His broad chest was cool in the darkness. She let her hand rest on his belly and asked him if she could stay.

He asked why. He liked to tease her.

She felt his stomach muscles ripple under her fingers as he spoke. In reply, her hand slipped down to the tight hairs at his groin. She skirted them to play along his thigh muscles. There was a tension in them that made her heart glad. She knew this body.

He remained silent but he sucked in a breath as her fingers wrapped around him.

She offered the promise of her body if they married.

It was not the first time this had been suggested during their love games. He thrust his groin to the rhythm of her hand.

She said she craved the feel of his strong spear inside her. To drink its juices. There was great joy in store for him—far more than that permitted with a moran. The love games were for children. She was a woman, he a man, soon to be an elder. It was time to marry, she said.

He gave an ambiguous grunt.

She stopped stroking and moved her hand to his thigh.

He put it back.

She began to stroke again—the long slow strokes she knew he enjoyed so much.

He moaned and let his body relax. Her warm soft body was pressed along his side and her hand was there, the stroking rhythm perfectly timed.

She played with him, knowing just when to stop, to make the pleasure last.

His breathing quickened. It was unbearable. He released a loud gasp and his hot sticky juice shot to his chest and belly.

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