Indiana Jonesing
C|Suite Letters
Dear C|Suite: I never, in a million years, thought I would be writing a letter like this. But a recent expedition to the Amazon jungle spurred my inner writer and I was inclined to leave this legacy.
All my life I had been looking for an adventure, and ever since I got to this godforsaken land I was feening for some action; some sort of life threatening foray that could really make a man’s nut-sack rumble and churn with excitement. They don’t call the Amazon the “Puma’s sac” for nothing. I knew what I was getting into when I had flown—for the first time ever in my life— to the sac. If you expect to feed on the Puma’s sac, you better be prepared to get mushroom slapped. When you are here, in the most hostile of jungles, you must pick your poison: food or poison; as most of the berries, animals and plants can kill you.
Low and behold, one night underneath the moonlit sky through the jungle’s canopy, two women—who’s names I later found out to be Brianna and Tegan, emerged; they were American as I; two college-aged women (with beautiful tits and ass) seemed to have lost their way in the jungle. They had managed to escape the pursuit of a militia group/gang, and had found the small town of Coca that I was residing in for the night with my slowboat crew.
Scared and frightened, they looked for security and found me at the local tavern; sipping on Gin and eating chicken wings. I figured my night was going to be uninteresting barring some unforeseen scenario. I was naïve to think any normalcy would come of this situation. Turns out, these two highly attractive women flew here to protest. Poaching has been escalating here in recent years; Ivory from elephant tusks, Jaguar penis, etc. And, like two White college girls, they didn’t plan properly and hadn’t weighed out the pros and cons of such an excursion. It turns out, I was the only one in town with a sturdy slowboat to get them down river to the U.S embassy that was miles away.
“How do we pay for your generosity and guidance?” Brianna asked while Tegan nodded.
I told them both that I was certain we'd find a way to work "something" out. And being two college girls, I believed they knew…. what I knew— that they both probably knew what they had to do, in order to repay the debt of gratitude they both owed me for my services. College girls are notorious for paying with their bodies.
Suddenly, gun shots rang out. We hurried and fled to the boat and took off down river. All the excitement must have aroused both Brianna and Tegan because after I charted a course for my crew, I was basically assaulted by both women down below. With only the light of the moon peaking through the small cabin window I managed to feel my way around two vixens; my wang experiencing the sensation of multiple orifices; first a mouth, then Brianna’s vag—? No. Tegan’s vagina. I think.
Being greeted by a smooth toothless blowjob(she was a pro) and a forthcoming, velvet-like vagina, was better than the Gin and Chicken wing night I had planned for myself, previous to this erotic escalation of events.
Two things got hard that night: My ability to see what I was feeling…and my dick. These women knew how to pull rope and straighten a man’s line. Before I knew it, there was a ton of semen on the deck.
The excitement didn’t end there. As soon as I had finished, the sound of gun fire ripped through the humid night’s air. We all got above deck and realized that the poachers had caught up with us in their own craft. All of my crew (all two of them) had been shot and were bleeding out faster than it took Tegan and Brianna to wipe off my jizz from their face, mouth and tits—it was a lot of jizz. We quickly jumped off the boat and into the murky and harsh Amazonian water; we made a hasty escape to the shoreline while letting the slowboat continue down river.
We moved inland about half a click; made camp for the night. I tried to light a fire at first; it turns out wood, when soggy, doesn’t work well. Good thing Brianna stepped up and got a fire going for us all.
We sat around the fire for a bit. They both wanted to know more about me—even though just a few minutes ago we were all doing nasty and uncouth things to each other for survival. They asked me how long I had been an “expedition guy”. I thought that was cute as I had never heard that one before. Then they asked me how long I had been living in the jungle before all of this, given the Indiana Jones-esq attire I had on.
“Well, for me let’s see. I’ve been here... three long weeks now; first time on a plane.” I said nonchalantly. “Until recently, I was a GM at a Kroger up in Raleigh, NC. Although, one could say, that the way that store was managed, that was the real jungle. And then the doctor said I was sick. So I said, ‘Ah, what the hell…lets go down to South America.’”
Yup, I am ill. I caught a bit of the travel bug….and cancer. Doc gave me about a month to live. And let’s face it, as I said before; you’re not going to go walk into the Amazon expecting to walk out.
Anyway, you should have seen the look on both of their faces. I mean, holy shit. Like them, I would be shocked too; given all that we had been through in the last couple of hours; the gunfire, the hot moonlight- sex in the boat, and my honest, heartfelt confession about my travels.
I was shocked too... that they both fucked me like a rock star.
I’m nobody, really. Nobody ever sucks and fucks me like they did that night. Was I misleading? Perhaps.
But really, what is more absurd? Two White girls; thinking they are going to solve the world’s problems with a plane ticket and some poster board? Or, some dude who just wanted to play pretend and have one last adventure?
C-Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.