Lodge ya Pori
"Off-season at the safari lodge. Empty rooms, skeleton crew, one guest. The thick manager's wife has nothing to do—except show him the local wildlife. She's the most dangerous animal here."
The safari lodge is empty.
Rainy season. Off-peak. The tourists are gone, the staff reduced to a skeleton crew. The manager, Mr. Kariuki, apologizes profusely.
"You're our only guest. We weren't expecting anyone."
"I needed to get away from the city."
"Then you've come to the right place." He hands me a key. "My wife will show you around. She manages hospitality."
His wife manages far more than that.
Bi Naima is fifty years old.
The lodge manager's wife for fifteen years, she handles everything her husband ignores—guest relations, housekeeping, the thousand small details that make a lodge run. She's also thick in ways that the safari uniform can't contain.
"Welcome to Pori Lodge," she says. "I'll be your personal guide."
"For the wildlife?"
"For everything." Her smile has edges. "The wildlife, the grounds, the... nocturnal activities."
"What kind of nocturnal activities?"
"This is the bush." She leads me toward the rooms. "Many things happen after dark."
The tour is extensive.
Every building, every path, every spot where wildlife congregates. Bi Naima knows them all—has spent fifteen years learning this land. She also knows where her husband doesn't go.
"The guest cottages are very private," she says. "Thick walls. No neighbors. Even the animals stay away."
"That sounds ideal for rest."
"It's ideal for many things." She opens my cottage door. "Dinner is at seven. Or I can bring it to you personally. Some guests prefer... personal service."
"What does personal service include?"
"Whatever you need." She holds my gaze. "We aim to satisfy every guest completely."
She brings dinner at seven.
Far too much food. Far too much wine. She sets it on the small table and doesn't leave.
"It gets lonely," she says. "Off-season. Nothing to do. No one to talk to."
"Your husband—"
"Is reviewing ledgers. Counting savings. He loves numbers more than people." She pours two glasses of wine. "More than me."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." She moves closer. "Be here. Be present. Be someone who sees me."
"I see you."
"Then see all of me." She reaches for her uniform buttons. "Let me show you what the off-season is really for."
Her body is magnificent in the lamplight.
Heavy breasts straining the sports bra beneath her uniform. Belly soft and round. Hips built for the bush—wide, sturdy, powerful. She's spent fifteen years in the wilderness, and her body shows it.
"My husband hasn't touched me in two years," she says. "Too tired. Too focused on business. I've been waiting for someone like you."
"Someone like me?"
"Someone alone. Someone willing." She climbs onto my lap. "Someone who needs what I need."
I take her in the safari cottage.
Outside, the bush comes alive with night sounds—hyenas laughing, lions distant, the whole African night. Inside, she's the only animal that matters.
"Fill me—make me feel alive—"
I fill her.
Thrust into her thick body while the kerosene lamp flickers, while the mosquito net sways, while the sounds of the bush cover her screams.
"Harder—like a wild animal—take me like you're hunting—"
I hunt her.
We fuck until dawn.
On the bed. On the floor. Against the cottage door—her thick ass pressed against wood while I pound into her from behind. The bush goes silent around us, as if listening.
"Again—please—the sun will be up soon—"
I give her again.
One last time before dawn breaks over the savanna. Fill her while she screams, while the first light touches the acacia trees, while somewhere her husband sleeps through everything.
"Game drive at six," she says, dressing quickly.
"Will your husband notice—"
"My husband notices nothing." She kisses me at the door. "Except numbers. Meet me at the vehicle. I'll show you the wildlife."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight, I show you more." She slips into the darkness. "Every night until you leave."
The game drive is professional.
She points out elephants, giraffes, the morning parade of animals heading to water. Her husband drives; she narrates. No one would suspect.
But when we stop for coffee at a scenic overlook, she brushes against me unnecessarily.
"The hippo pool," she whispers. "Tonight. My husband sleeps by nine."
"Hippo pool?"
"It's private. Romantic. And the hippos cover every sound."
The hippo pool is everything she promised.
A platform overlooking the water, the massive shapes of hippos moving in the moonlight. She's waiting when I arrive, already undressed, her thick body glowing.
"This is my favorite place," she says. "I've never shared it."
"Never?"
"Never." She pulls me down onto the platform. "You're the first. Be worthy."
I take her while the hippos watch.
Their snorts and grunts covering her screams, their massive forms moving in the water below while I move inside her. It's primal, ancient, something the bush demands.
"Yes—like this—this is why I live here—"
She comes while the hippos call.
Shakes on the platform while I fill her, while the African night witnesses everything, while the wilderness takes us both.
Every night for a week.
Different locations each time. The hide overlooking the watering hole—zebras drinking while I drink from her. The abandoned ranger station—dust and desire in equal measure. Once, during a night drive—stopped by the roadside while lions prowled nearby, her thick body in the back seat, the danger making everything intense.
"You're leaving tomorrow," she says on my last night.
"I have to get back—"
"I know." We're in my cottage, tangled together. "But you'll return."
"Will I?"
"Off-season lasts three months." She traces a finger down my chest. "Come back. Stay longer. Let the bush take you."
"And your husband?"
"My husband sees numbers." She kisses me. "I need someone who sees me. Come back. Promise."
I come back every year.
Off-season at Pori Lodge. One guest. Personal service from Bi Naima. The wildlife watching while we create our own nature documentary.
"You're addicted," she tells me one year.
"To the bush?"
"To me." She mounts me on the hippo platform, the familiar shapes moving below. "To this. To being wild."
She's right.
The city has never felt the same since.
Nothing feels as alive as those nights at the lodge, with the bush as witness and Bi Naima as my guide.
Some safaris, it turns out, you never want to end.
I'm still on mine.