Summary of this Story:
Day two in the dirt-poor village outside Kisumu, my church mission gear vanished. Locals stripped me naked for public service, build a schoolhouse, stainless kitchen, root cellar, fix the busted stuff. Real job: breed as many women as possible. Monica socked my jaw reclaiming my backpack, then fed me ugali and goat in my hut. No English, but country tunes lit her up. Virgin three days prior, she straddled fierce, yelped as her hymen tore, ground till I flipped her, unloaded deep. Sarah delivered satellite internet; Terry translated kitchen fights over “white man stoves.” Backhoes unearthed Dad’s containers. Rotations brought twins giggling to Lady Gaga, Natalie humming net drums with her bubble butt swaying, millet porridge steaming. Heat scorched one-ten. Filtered well water saved my guts. Sunburnt ass paraded red. Filled them all, no drips, hands on bellies laughing.
Here is your Story: I Bred Village Virgins on My Kenyan Mission Trip
Day two of my church mission trip to a dirt-poor village outside Kisumu. All my gear got swiped by the locals. They’d yanked me naked and said I was here for public service. I’d throw up a schoolhouse, a stainless kitchen setup, and a root cellar. I’d fix whatever busted after that. But the real kicker? I was here to fuck. To knock up as many women as I could.
This patch of Kenya had been a war zone for a century straight. Clan against clan. Loyalties switched overnight. Guys dropped to machetes, spears, arrows. Church crews had hit the village before. All women. Their shacks used to be rickety sticks. Now packed dirt. Walls beefed from two to four inches thick. Breezy crap that fell apart quick, air leaking through every crack.
Building Better Huts
One team showed ’em wooden molds. Mix sand, clay, dry dirt. Splash water. Pound it with rocks till it set like concrete. Stack walls with two-to-four-inch air gaps for insulation. Round huts, twenty feet across, twenty high in the middle. Roofs from tall dried reeds. Those crews bulked ’em up too. Stack, braid, weave. Tie with sisal rope, pile on layers. Four feet thick. Kept heat in five times better. Inside temps hit eighty to ninety when outside baked at one-ten. No fans. No power. Hell, no doors.
First two days, I banged five women. All eighteen to twenty. None spoke English. Or Portuguese, Swahili, whatever scraps I knew. Terry scraped by with some Portuguese. Barely. My first swig of their well water wrecked me. Puked and shit for a week. Dehydration kills with the runs. Body battles the bugs. Sucks, but they warned me. Fixed it fast. Rerouted the well into five big concrete filter tanks some old crew left behind.
Two hours later, clean water poured out. I held up two bottles for the women. Well water: murky tan with floaters. Filtered: clear as glass. Drink this, I said. Took days. But they switched over.
Daytime heat: one-oh-five to one-ten. Thomas from the church back home said their summer dragged on for months. Could spike hotter. End of ten days, no more shitting every two hours. Filter did the job. Dug up Dad’s fifty shipping containers too. Bill of lading in hand. First one: two mini diesel backhoes. Little monsters, each worth ten guys shoveling. Used ’em stateside for ponds, retaining walls. Simple. But not pro-grade. Had limits.
Rolled ’em out. Parked under acacia shade. Sun scorched everything fast. Black vinyl seats went red-hot in seconds. Naked white ass on that? Burned like hell.
Meetings with Terry translating. Kitchen and cellar site okayed. Village square. Tear down two old shacks. Showed blueprints: long layout. Five stainless steel cooktops. Rocket stoves from their clay and concrete. Terry flat-out, no “white man stove.” Meant anything modern. I pushed for one anyway. Dad shipped methane digesters. Giant black plastic bags, sealed tight. Load with water, scraps, wood chips, grass, shit. Breaks down to methane gas. Filter through cheesecloth. Hose to the burner. Light it: forty to fifty minutes of flame. Back home we run five in a row. Gas lasts forever. Saw online some guys linked ’em for winter heat in cabins.
Women worked fields, dug ditches, patched walls by hand. Hand-fed the cows. Plowed with a wood-and-steel rig pulled by oxen. Town got lucky. Built high, thirty feet above the flood line. Rains just quit. No floods this time.
First Hut Lunch
Near noon. Parked the backhoe in shade. Hut for lunch. And the next girl. Inside: card table, folding chair, laptop, backpack. Same chick who’d jacked it day one. Sockted my jaw when I snatched it back. Set out a fat loaf of ugali, pulled-pork-style goat chunks, bowl of steamed kale.
“Thanks,” I said. Eased toward my gear. She grinned. No words. Hit the cot. Name: Monica. “Christian” names for outsiders. Ate slow. Rifled the backpack. Laptop, iPhone, iPod, video camera, still cam, cords, batteries, all intact. Plugged in. No Wi-Fi. But iPod jams. Little bookshelf speaker. Battery powered it five hours. Solar charger topped it. Bigger battery: eight hours on the laptop.
Queued up tracks from home. Monica shook her head at most. Perked at country. Found the playlist. She lit up.
Third day fucking her. No punch when I got close. Kissed right off. Hand on my dick. I flinched. She laughed, straight white teeth gleaming. Brown eyes, green fleck in the left one. Kept kissing while she jerked my cock. My hand to her pussy. Fumbled it. She winced, jerked. Grabbed my fingers, guided ’em right.
Sex eighth time. No common language. She’d been a virgin three days ago. Total rookie. Monica straddled. Cock at her slit. Dropped hard. Yelped, hymen tore. All of ’em virgins. No backing off. Ground fierce. Lift-slam beat. Grabbed her hips, slowed her down. Scared she’d break my dick. Pulled her face to mine. Fixed the angle. Kissed. She rolled her pussy slow. Broke the kiss to moan. Hands on her hips and ass. Thrust up from below. Worked her tits, B or C cups. Village women came tall skinny, short fat, light brown to deep black skin. Weird mix. Fingers on the tits. She kissed back. Yanked my hands to her neck. Rubbed shoulders, back. Kept fucking.
Daytime record? Three and a half minutes. Hottest yet. Balls pulled tight. Flipped her onto her back. Eyes bugged. Yanked hips back, slammed in. Eyes rolled, head jerked, hands hauled my hips. Hungry tugs. Pulled out full, pounded home. Teased once, cockhead at the entrance. Eyes locked mine. She grinned. Mouth opened, I drove in. Legs quivered. Tits jiggled. Did it again. She just moaned. Thirty seconds: I unloaded. Cum flooded her. She knew. Laughed, hand flat on her belly. Ten-fifteen thrusts after. Collapsed on top. Kissed till my dick softened. She cupped her pussy, no drip. Sat up, stared. Played with her tits. More kisses. Thirty minutes. Sarah barged in, hollered. Monica bolted.
“Gonna need a locking door,” I laughed. Used to share the hut. Night roommate, late in, early out. Lately solo. Mine alone now.
Sarah back with a crate: satellite internet kit, solar panels, monster batteries. Led me to the install spot. Hidden from the containers. “Thanks, Sarah.” She smiled, waved, split. Women warming up. Cracked the boxes: forty-foot aluminum tower, three sections, guy wires. Ten bags of concrete in the containers. Pour a base, cut the wire spread. Picked the site. Ten-by-ten shed for the gear, panels on the roof. Straightforward build.
Told Terry. She blanked on internet. Said it’d fix her sat phone hassles. She jumped in. Her and three women: dug the foundation, set rebar and concrete, rammed-earth walls, five days. Flat metal roof from a container. Panels mounted. Terry hauled four six-by-six concrete blocks. Old stockpile, two thousand pounds apiece. Rebar tie-ins. Nudged ’em with the diesel. Cables to the blocks, easier than fresh pours.
Terry and Sarah raised the tower. Sarah stronger. Faster. Terry: mount the dish first. No climbing for her. Wires inside the shed. Hooked up. Three hours fiddling with satellites. Basic net online. I whooped. They stared. Terry grabbed the sat phone. Demoed the hookup. Bad weather? Still works. Winter storms kill it. “Green light good. Red? Dead.” She nodded.
Two weeks in. No more dick-grabs from Terry. Quit the monkey shit. Sunburn though, sloppy day torched my ass cherry-red. Woman’s plant salve cooled it. But red-ass parade for days.
Second week, rotations. First-day twins returned. Friendlier. Hugged, tickled, tugged my cock at the hut. Slapped their hands playful till inside. Pushed me on the cot, two-on-one. Held off till music. Knew “yes, no, here, there.” They loved Lady Gaga pop.
This round: kissed one, other sucked dick. Swapped spots. Tried eating pussy. Giggles. “Here. Here.” Lick-suck. Picked up “clit.” Their turn on it. “Too hard. Too soft.” Sucked harder till the wet smacks. Echoed the words. They giggled. Learned body parts too.
Near dinner. Came slower. Breakfast one girl. Lunch one. Dinner two. Chubby nerd from the start, down ten pounds. Abs peeking. Humping credit. Filled both. Laid back.
Hot as balls. Walked naked, cock swinging free. Village setup: twin four-leaf clovers. Petals ringed the huts, three outer clusters. Center pavilion for meetings. Five p.m., hotter than ever. No breeze past the big structures. Humidity thick like soup.
Joined kitchen crew chat. Easier when you’re done, some said. Others bitched about distance from huts. Lots stored food at home. Plan: massive underground cellar. Containers held subzero freezers for meat and fish, coolers for veg and fruit. Solo? Two months. Now with helpers: Terry, Sarah, others dug like beasts. Five matched one backhoe.
Kitchen wrapped. Women inside: cut wall holes, built clay-concrete rocket stoves, added decor. Three methane bags downhill by the fields. Hose buried uphill to the kitchen. Double burners, valves, ten-psi gauge reading low. Home bags hit thirty. Forty-fifty minutes high heat. Women eyed the burners nervous. Lessons later. More work ahead. But lunch first.
Hut: new girl in the chair. Big grin. A-cup tits. Bubble butt. Three food bowls. Ate up. She hopped on the cot, hummed some weird tune. Natalie. Tried electronica, no dice. Net drums. Japanese? She grinned, air-drummed with her hands. Finished eating. Cot time. Yanked my cock, sucked it in. Gusto screamed experience. But hips dropping on the stiff dick, yelp. Tiny blood speck. Didn’t quit humping. Tits still tiny. Squeezed ’em anyway.
The next morning, Natalie showed up early with a clay pot of millet porridge, steam curling off the top in the hut’s stuffy air. Her bubble butt swayed as she set it down on the card table, right next to the solar charger’s blinking green light. We ate cross-legged on the cot, her humming that same drum beat between bites, fingers sticky with the stuff. After, she guided my hand again, slower this time, no wince, progress. Filled her once more, sweat pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. Door stayed shut. No interruptions. By noon, she’d waved goodbye, leaving the empty porridge pot on the table, millet crust flaking at the rim.
