For two days John and I had been following the same red dirt track across the desert country of Western Australia. We were driving his little old blue Morris Minor, not exactly the sort of vehicle for outback exploration, but were were both always the adventurous types. Last year we had hitch-hiked around the south-west of the State, and this coming summer we were planning to take two months to drive in this very car from Perth in the west, right across Australia to Melbourne in the east, and up through Sydney and Brisbane on the east coast to the Great Barrier Reef and back. This two-week trip was to be a practice for the longer one to come.

Right now we were crossing the Pilbara region, following this red dirt trail. The only black-topped road in the whole region - the two-lane coast highway, a hundred miles or more west of here - took most travellers. We were not most travellers. We were of the few who liked to see the out of the way places.

The predominant colors were the blue sky with its white patchy clouds, and the red-orange clay of the desert floor. There had been a rare rainfall in the not-so-distant past, although there was no trace of the water now, not even mud. But it did cause patches of the area to burst into bloom. Long dormant plants, particularly the hardy pink and gold everlastings carpeted large swaths of the desert.

It awed us that other beautiful plants such as the Sturt Pea, which looked like exotic orchids, brilliant red and black, could give shelter from the ever-beating sun to such horrors as the omnipresent scorpions and venomous snakes.

About mid-afternoon, we saw a darker line on the horizon. We sensed that it was the place we were seeking along this lonely track, where we had not seen another vehicle or person all day. But it was the best part of another hour before we reached our goal, and when we did, it came as somewhat of a surprise.

Suddenly the track veered to the left, and we found ourselves running along the top of a cliff. We stopped the car to get out and drink in the drastic change in scenery. Perhaps a hundred feet below us was a blue-green river, maybe a hundred feet wide. On the other side of the river were full grown trees and bushes, lush greenery, stark contrast to the stunted scrub we had been driving through for two days. On this side, red rock cliffs dropped down to the river below. It was a green gem in a red landscape.

John summed it all up in just two words: "Fuckin' unbelievable!" he exclaimed.

We had heard about this place by word of mouth. Very few people actually saw it for themselves. It was a good hundred miles or more east of the paved coast road, and you needed to carry extra gas to reach it, no matter which way you came. It was four hundred miles to the nearest gas in either direction.

The place is called Millstream. From the mid-1800s there had been a cattle station here, but the cost of transport had driven it out of business years before John and I arrived. Few came here now - just the occasional adventurous tourist, a hopeful prospector or two looking for gold, and the nomadic remnants of the Yinjibandi tribe, the native aborigines of this area, to whom this was a sacred place.

But the story I'm telling you now took place fifty years ago. Today Millstream is a National Park, and a paved road runs in there, and you have to reserve and pay to camp.

All those years ago, when John and I arrived, we were quite alone. It was our own private oasis. And what made our oasis so much more amazing was that this little length of riverlet, less than half a mile of it, came up out of the ground from springs at its eastern end and seeped back into the ground at its western end, the only permanent flowing water in hundreds of square miles.

The track before the car wheels led along the top of the cliffs which tapered down to river level at the western end. We followed the track along and down to where the river narrowed into a creek, which was narrower and shallower at this end, becoming more of a swamp than anything, as the water soaked back into the ground to disappear once more. It was shallow enough to drive across, so we did so. We were almost to the far bank when one front wheel sank into a deeper hole and water splashed up into the engine compartment. The engine stopped and a plume of steam puffed out through the front grille.

John tried to restart the engine, but nothing happened, just the starter motor turning, but it didn't ignite.

Finally, we gave up trying to start it, but managed to push it forward and up the gentle bank onto dry ground. There was an ideal place to camp just a few meters along, so we pushed the useless vehicle to the spot.

"The car'll go when the engine dries out," John decided. "Let's leave it for now."

We set up camp, spreading out our sleeping bags, and digging a shallow fire-pit, ready for cooking later, then some exploring. All along this northern shore of the little river, trees and shrubs and creepers and even palms - imported by the homesteaders and now run wild - grew in abundance for maybe fifty feet from the river, a sub-tropical paradise. Beyond that, in stark contrast, the desert began again.

But the water was inviting us, blue-green and cool. We stripped naked and soon were swimming about like a couple of platypuses, enjoying the water and the fantastic location.

Of course, being naked, we couldn't resist some "grope-it" games as we wallowed in the shallows. That, of course, led to a couple of inspiring woodies, leading me to suggest, "Let's go back to the camp. I wanna bum-fuck you"

John agreed readily. We had been fuck-buddies since college, even though he was engaged to a terrific girl.

Back at the campsite, John waved his cock at me. "You've got to suck this for a bit before you fuck me," he warned. He looked a little ludicrous standing there in just a slouch hat and hiking boots, but it made me even hornier for his ass.

"Mmm, get on down here," I said, flopping on my sleeping bag, and patting a space beside me.

"Not just yet," John cautioned. "I'm pretty stopped up from driving so long. I need to take a big crap and then wash up again." He rummaged in the trunk and found our roll of toilet paper, then headed off into the bush looking for a suitable log to squat over.

While John was off taking his shit, I lay in the sleeping bag in the shade, playing with my woody and soaking in the sights and smells and sounds all around me. This was heaven!

But nothing lasts. In an instant, it became hell!

John let out a scream.

"Holy fuck!" I heard him cry, then "Oh fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" as he came hurrying back. He was still carrying the roll of toilet paper with one hand, The other was used to hold onto butt, as if something were wrong with it.

"What's wrong?" I cried, jumping up and hurrying toward him.

""There was a fucking snake under the log I sat on to take a shit," he moaned. "The fucking thing bit me right on the buttocks."

I helped him to the sleeping bag, and he flopped on it face down. Sure enough, there were two puncture marks on his right buttock, and already the area round them looked red and puffy.

"Did you see what type of snake it was?" I asked. "Maybe it wasn't a poisonous one." It was a rather vain hope. Most of the snakes out here were poisonous, except for the pythons, which could crush a small kangaroo and swallow it whole.

"It was short and thick, brownish, with lighter stripes," John panted, fear creeping over him.

"Shit," I exclaimed. "Probably an adder." We both knew what that meant. All the Australian adders are deadly poisonous.

Years before, when I was in the Boy Scouts, conventional teaching was to apply a tourniquet, slash the wound, squeeze and suck out as much poison as possible, then apply Condy's Crystals to the wound. But newer teachings said that was all useless, except for the tourniquet, but where do you apply a tourniquet to someone's buttocks?

"I've got to get you to a hospital," I cried, but even as I said it, i realized the nearest one was nearly four hundred miles away - and anyway. the car wasn't running. Just in case, went over to try it once more. The keys were still in the ignition. As before, the starter turned, but the engine did not fire up, and it had had ages to dry out.

I went back to John. By now he was sweating profusely. I touched his forehead. He was feverish. He was also peeing himself, and a stain spread over the sleeping bag.

John tried to talk, but he slipped into unconsciousness. I was left alone there, feeling absolutely helpless. My best friend was dying right beside me and there was nothing I could do about it.

I looked out beyond the the green Eden, now soured, to the harsh desert area beyond. There was something out there! At first I thought I was hallucinating.

Though the desert heat-haze, there was a figure approaching. It was the figure of a man.

Even at the distance, maybe a couple of hundred yards, the approaching figure looked grotesque. The black man was basically naked, but painted with red and white clay, with ashes and clay in his curly hair an beard.

The man was striding easily and purposefully toward us, as if he knew we were there and were coming to meet us.

He was a full-blooded Australian Aborigine, wearing nothing but a small loincloth, pushed out by an impressive tool behind it. His body was decorated in patterns of red ochre and white clay. He carried a spear and throwing stick. A leather thong round his neck secured a small leather bag - a dilly-bag - which dangled at his back. He stopped a few feet away and stared at the sight of two naked white men, one unconscious.

"You blackfella spik Inglish?" I tried my hand at what I thought was Pidgin.

"Bloody right I do, mate," the black man replied. "Probably better than you do. Went to school at Christian Brothers College, and to Perth City Tech."

Modern English sounded so wrong coming out of the mouth of a primitive man.

"Looks like yer mate's got himself bit, eh?" he observed. "Probably an adder, I'd say. Gonna have to use a bit of the old black man's magic on him if you don't want him t'die."

He knelt down beside the unconscious John. "Hm, nice bum," he observed. "Shame to have to scar him up a bit. Got a sharp knife?"

I found him my sheath knife, which was with my clothes. He rejected it. "Not nearly sharp enough," he said. "No matter." He took his little dilly-bag from around his neck, and from it withdrew a sliver of white stone, quartz, maybe, At one edge it appeared wafer-thin and sharp.

He knelt beside John and reached to cut his buttocks.

"Don't!" I objected. "St. John's says not to cut the wound these days!"

"My people have been doing it this way for thousands of years, and y'don't hear of too many Abos dyin' of snake bite, do ya? You want yer mate to live, don't ya?'"

"Go ahead," I conceded.

The black man made two slashes vertically though the two puncture wounds with his stone knife. Blood flowed copiously. He bent and sucked at the wounds, spitting the blood on the ground. He then dug into his dilly-bag once more, bringing out a small paper envelope. He opened it and poured poured some reddish powder into the wounds. The blood began to foam up. "This'll kill some of the poison, bring a lot of it up to the surface, disinfect the wound, and help clotting later," he explained."Find some pieces of towel or something to sop up the blood and foam that forms on his skin, and keep some pressure on it."

I did as I was told.

"And burn the bloody pieces of towel when you're done."

"Is that part of the magic?" I asked.

"Not really," he explained, "we just don't want the poisoned blood getting in your food or something, do we?" I felt rather foolish.

"Now we've got to make your mate very sick," he told me. "You stay with 'im while I find the stuff I need to do the trick. In the meantime, light your fire."

The aborigine stalked down to the creek's edge, knelt on all fours like an animal, sucked up some water, rinsed out his mouth several times, then stood and strode off into the bush.

I sat with the sleeping John while the afternoon sun headed toward the west. It was maybe an hour later when the aborigine returned.

He was now carrying a small bundle wrapped in leaves in one hand, his spear and throwing stick in the other, and a larger cloth bundle under that arm.

"Stopped to pick up the rest of me gear," he explained. "Left it buried nearby a couple months back."

"Got a small pot?" he asked, as he knelt and stirred up the fire I had lit. I found him what he wanted. From the leaf-wrapped bundle he withdrew several strange items. Some pieces were definitely animal, other items appeared to be vegetable, and one looked to be a scorpion. He diced them all up with his stone knife, put them in the pot, went to the stream and added some water, then put the mess over the fire to boil.

When the concoction had cooled, he told me, "Roll him off onto the bare ground. 'e's gonna be very sick after we feed 'im this stuff, and ya don't wanta get it all over yer sleeping bag. In fact, ya might wanta throw that in the creek to soak right now. It's covered in piss and blood as it is."

I took my sleeping bag to the creek and pushed it down to soak.

"Help me turn 'im over," the black man said."And you can hold 'is head while I pour this shit soup down 'is throat." Whatever "this shit soup" was, it sure smelled vile.

Together we poured it bit by bit down John's throat until it was all gone, then we let him lie there on the ground until he started to puke - and shit. John puked and shit, puked and shit and even pissed some, until there was nothing more left inside him. I held his head at times while he was puking, and ended up covered in puke and shit myself.

"Better carry 'im down to the stream and wash the two of you up," the native suggested.

When I had done as suggested and returned to the campsite, our saviour had used our shovel to dig a hole and bury all John's mess. The campsite was neat as a pin.

I put the still-unconscious John on the other sleeping bag.

"'e'll be fine tomorrow," the aborigine assured me. "'e'll be a bit weak, but 'e'll be right as rain soon enough. Now, got anything to eat? I could sure go for some canned spaghetti or baked beans!"

I raided our larder box to cook up a meal of beans and bacon, toast and coffee for our painted, semi-naked guest. With John seemingly out of danger, and sleeping soundly, I now had time to size up my guest a little more. For the first time it struck me that he might be semi-naked, but I was stark naked, except for a cloth hat and my hiking boots, untied and wet from the creek.

Sitting on a rock in the lengthening shadows, I regarded our guest — and he regarded me.

Finally, he spoke up.

"Guess it's time to explain myself, eh? Well, it's like this. I've been on me tribal walkabout - just me and myself, gettin' back to the old ways, findin' me roots, as the Yanks might say. I was born in this area some thirty years ago. My mother was a full-blooded Abo. My dad ... who knows? But 'e was a white man. And because I was a half-cast, Aborigine Affairs took me from me mother and the tribe and I was raised for a couple of years at Sister Kate's Orphanage near Perth. Me name was Wally Gilligat then. The Browns, me white foster-parents, adopted me when I was nine, and I became Wally Brown. You might have seen me play footy. I play for the Demons."

I knew the Demons, all right. That was the name for the Perth team in the West Australian Aussie Rules league. Their club house and oval was quite close to my parent's house, and my dad was a paying member of the supporter's club. In fact, I knew Wally Brown, too, but I would never have recognized him here. I had seen him both on the field and in the club after the games, but we had never been introduced.

"Holy shit!" I told him. "I've seen you play lots of times."

"Anyway, I've been wanderin' around this part of the desert for two months, gettin' back to nature and me tribal values, and stuff like that. I've been looking for some sort of spiritual sign or something. I think I got one today. Out of the blue, it struck me that someone was in trouble, that I had to help 'em.

"I just started walking, and the next thing, there you two were. I think that was the sign I wanted."

"Well, I glad it happened," I told him sincerely. "Without you, John would probably be dead."

"'e your lover?" he asked bluntly.

Just as forthrightly, I told him, "He's my bumhole buddy. We fuck each other."

"You love 'im?"

"Yes, but he is in love with his girlfriend."

"Hmm, too bad for you," Wally replied.

Dark came quickly in these latitudes. All kinds of parrots were flocking in to spend the night in the trees, screeching and screaming noisily.

Wally helped me retrieve the wet sleeping bad from the creek and wring it out and hang it over a branch to dry.

"It'll be bone dry by morning," he observed.

It was getting cooler fast now the sun was gone. I pulled on a sweater and some jeans.

I stirred up the fire and put another small log on it, and made I us both another cup of instant coffee.

"What was in that stuff you fed John?" I asked Wally.

"Hmm, the main part was the guts of a lizard that's immune to snake bites. I actually caught and ate it yesterday, but somehow I knew I'd be needing the guts so I wrapped 'em in leaves and buried 'em yesterday.

"Then there was the root of a plant that makes ya vomit, and the bark of another one that gives ya the shits, and finally a scorpion that lives side by side with adders and never gets eaten."

"No wonder it made John sick!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, but it got the poisons out of 'im," he pointed out.

"And how do you know all this stuff?" I asked.

"To be honest, I don't know how I know," he told me, seriously. "Maybe someone told me these things while I was still with the tribe, but I don't think so. I just know 'em," he said, seeming mystified by his own skills.

"There's lots of things I've always just known how to do, like throw a spear or a boomerang, or find water where there is none, or find a bird's nest, or edible grubs, or snake or turtle eggs … or make powerful medicine …" he finished off.

We sat in silence for a while, musing over what he had just said.

"And why the paint job?" I asked, nodding to the ochre patterns adorning his body.

"Part ritual, part camouflage, part practicality," he told me. "The clay protects me sensitive areas from the sun and the bugs. Black skin still sunburns and suffers from bug bites." We had a chuckle over that.

It was absolutely surreal to be sitting here by the campfire chatting away with this bedaubed, primitive figure. We chatted a little more as we drank our coffee, but the long day was catching up with me.

I settled down cuddling beside John for the night. I had offered Wally the terry-towel cover from the back seat of the car as a blanket, but he replied, "I'll be apples, mate. I've been sleepin' on the bare ground for two months now. Another night's not gonna harm me." and he curled up into the fetal position right on the ground nearby.

I pulled the sleeping bag around me and the snoring John, snuggling close to him to share our warmth, grateful that I still had my friend, and dozed off listening to the night cries of the Australian outback.

When I awoke, nestling the still-sleeping John in my arms, I opened my eyes to see the painted figure of Wally bending over me. Beyond him, I could see the red cliffs across the river, the morning sun beating off them.

"Hey, mate. Mornin', You got a pair of scissors and a bar of soap I could borrow?"

I glanced at John, sleeping like a baby.

"Let 'im sleep," Wally suggested. "The longer 'e sleeps, the less pain 'e'll be in when 'e wakes."

I found him our scissors and a bar of soap, and Wally headed off down to the creek. While I restarted the campfire and dug out some eggs and bacon, to cook for breakfast, I could hear him splashing away down at the creek. When I went down to get a pot of water to make coffee, he was busy staring into the water at his own reflection, cutting his own hair.

"It'd probably be easier in the car's rear-view mirrors," I suggested, "or I could cut it for you."

I didn't mention that that would also give me a better look at his large, black, uncut cock, which dangled down between his legs enticingly as he bent over in the water. His loin-cloth lay on the bank, discarded.

"This'll be fine, mate," he said, and continued snipping, the clayed and ash-filled locks dropping into the water.

I returned to the campfire, and a few minutes later I heard him dive right into the creek. He splashed round for a while, soaping himself, and the clay paints melted away. Eventually he waded ashore, stopping only long enough to check his refection in the water, and wash off a few remaining streaks of clay. Then he set about shaving, using the water as a mirror once more, the bath soap for lather, and his stone knife as a razor. His beard and moustache came away in soapy clumps.

When he strode up the back to the campsite, he was once more the Wally Brown I had seen play footy at Perth Oval, and in the club bar and restaurant - albeit a naked Wally Brown now.

He unrolled the cloth bundle he had brought with him on his return. It turned out to be a pair of jeans, a shirt, some work socks, his wallet, and a set of car keys.

"Left me pick-up in Carnarvon. That's where I started out from," he observed, seeing me eye the keys. Carnarvon was a coastal town some two hundred miles to the south.

"You walked all this way?" I asked, amazed.

"Had plenty of time," Wally shrugged casually, pulling on his jeans, much to my regret. I was enjoying watching his large cock waggle. He nodded toward John.

"How's 'e seem?" he asked.

"He's breathing normally," I said. "Even snoring some." I set about cooking the two of us bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes, with toast and coffee for breakfast. As we ate, I eyed Wally once more, no longer a primitive, painted savage, but a handsome black man, eating a normal camp breakfast. I also eyed his ample package, a nice bulge at his crotch.

He saw me staring at his basket, and smiled. I blushed under my desert tan.

"Bloody good tucker," he observed. "Nice change from lizards and rabbits and roots and berries."

"It's the least we can do for you," I told him. "You saved my friend's life. If there's anything else I can do for you, just ask."

A cheeky grin spread over his face as we sat there on the ground in the shade of the river gum trees.

"There is one thing ..." he began.

"Anything!" I assured him.

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything!"

"Well," he began, "I've been out here all alone for two months. What I'd like most is to fuck a nice tight arse. You game?"

"Bloody oath!" I assured him. "Where do you wanna do me?"

"Right there on the sleeping bag beside your mate," he suggested. "It's as good as anywhere, and 'e won't know the difference!"

It didn't take me long to throw off my sweater and pants and get naked in the warm morning air. Wally was even faster, and his large black cock was standing erect, waiting for my hole.

"How you wanna do it?" I asked.

"Well, I watched a couple of dingos do it yesterday morning, so I thought doggy-style might be nice. They was male dingos, to boot, so it would be kinda fitting."

"You got it!" I agreed, and knelt on all fours on the open sleeping bag, close to John.

Wally kneeled behind me, and I heard him spitting on his hand, then his fingers found my hole and probed, working his spittle into my tract. More spitting, and I presume he has rubbing the moisture along his thick shaft. Then he was parting my buttocks.

I felt the head of his cock find my man-portal, and he applied some pressure. My hole gradually yielded to the incoming bulb of his cock, opening wider and wider, stretching to admit the invader. I didn't mind at all. John's cock was nice and long, but it was thin, Wally's thick pole was assuring my ass that it was going to get royally fucked this morning.

Then he burst through, and his rod plunged deep into me.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked.

"Fuck no! It feels fantastic! Go for it!"

And he did. He wriggled up so he was standing on his feet, knees bent, and began to fuck me like an engine, pounding at my ass, driving his piston in and out of me, making my balls bounce when he thrust against me.

"Oh, fuck!" he said. "I'm gonna come soon. It's been so fucking long!"

"Go on," I assured him. "Shoot your spunk way up inside me!"

Just as Wally began to spasm, there was a weak voice from the sleeping bag beside us.

"Holy shit!" John croaked. "A bloke tries to have a little nap, and when he wakes up his best mate is getting his arse fucked by some black codger I've never been introduced to. What's the world coming to?"

"This is Wally," I panted, still being fucked by the aborigine. "This is his payback for saving your miserable life."

John tried to laugh but grimaced in pain instead.

"Holy shit!" he said again. "What hit me? I feel like I've been run over by a train."

Wally had shot his load in me by now. He pulled out of me, and we both sat on the sleeping bag beside John.

"You'll feel some aches in every muscle in yer body," Wally told him. "The snake's poison causes some paralysis, but it should all wear off by the end of the day. It's good to meet you - alive."

"Hey," John exclaimed weakly. "I know you! You're Wally Brown, aren't you? Play for the Demons?

"You got it, mate," Wally assured him. "Now you just relax and look after yerself. I bet yer hungry, aren't ya?

"Bloody rights!" John agreed.

"Well, maybe yer mate can whip ya up some scrambled eggs. And maybe later I can catch us a fish or two for tea. In the meantime, you rest up, and drinks lots of water."

I made John a pan of scrambled eggs, but he was too achy to feed himself, so I had to spoon-feed him. I made him comfortable on the sleeping bag, propping him up with both our pillows.

Wally wandered off after our breakfast fuck, taking his spear and throwing-stick with him, and I filled John in on what had happened while he was out cold.

Wally hadn't returned by lunch, and I made a couple of Spam sandwiches for John and I. He was improving rapidly and was able to feed himself. We washed the bread down with more water and more coffee.

I spent much of the afternoon exploring and wallowing in the warm water of the riverlet, while John slowly recovered. By mid-afternoon, he was up and walking, but still feeble and suffering quite a bit of pain.

He sat on a rock and watched while I attempted to get the old Morris Minor to start, with little success, and I was afraid of completely flattening the battery. We were still at it when Wally returned, carrying a largish fish impaled on his spear.

He put the fish in the water, close to the bank, to keep it fresh. He strode over to where I was tinkering.

"What's the matter, boys?" he asked. I explained how it had stalled when it hit the river with a splash, and hadn't started since.

"'ere, let me have a look," he said. I have to admit I was thinking 'What good can a stone-age man do looking at a twentieth century engine?' when he added. "I don't think I mentioned that in me other life I'm head mechanic for Hortons in Perth. That's why I went to Perth Tech." Hortons was the largest automotive sales and service dealer in the West. I gladly stepped aside to let him try.

He fiddled round under the hood for a while, then asked. "Ya got a small screw-driver, a set of spark gauges, and a fine gap file?" All three items were 'musts' in our tool kit, and I handed them to him.

"It's the distributor breaker points," he explained. "They're so badly pitted ya aren't getting a decent spark. l can file 'em down for now, but you'll probably have to do it again and again. I'd get a new set the first large town you get to."

Wally tinkered around for a few more minutes, then he replaced the distributor cap and said, "Try her now." I turned the ignition key, and John's old Morris leapt into life.

"We owe you again," I told him, "This time for supper and for getting our car going. What can we do to pay you back?"

"Well, a fish dinner would be nice, and a ride to the coast when ya leave. It's time I got back to the city and me other life."

"Done!" I exclaimed.

"And another bum-fuck would be nice," he added, slyly.

"I was hoping you'd suggest it," I grinned.

"Bloody nymphomaniac homo," John muttered, but it was just sour grapes because his buttocks were still too sore and inflamed from the bites and the incisions.

So after a dinner of a nice, firm, white-fleshed fish Wally told a us was a Barra, Wally did me again, and then he cheered John up by giving him a blow-job, and later all three of us curled up together in the sleeping bags for the night.

Next morning we were ready to hit the road again. John and I were heading much further north, and Wally was heading back south to Perth. We gave John the whole back seat so he could stretch out, and we folded Wally's six-foot six frame into the front seat.

It took us about two hours of the dusty trail to reach the coast road, and we pulled off into the sandhills to take a break to have a dip in the ocean. John was almost back to normal now, except for a little pain, and a little weakness, and the makings of a couple of nice scars on his right buttocks.

In fact, he was downright chipper as he stripped off like Wally and I and waded in. We didn't go too far in after Wally reminded us we were not far from Shark's Bay and some of the most shark-infested waters in the world. Having survived an adder bite, John didn't want to take his chances on surviving a bite from a Big White - or even one of the many lesser carnivores that infested these waters.

Instead, we headed back into the sandhills for a little farewell threesome. I lay on the sand, my hard cock pointing up, and John squatted down on it. That way, he could make sure his sore buttocks did not get a pounding. At the same time, Wally could move in from the front and give John the chance to suck on his big black cock. It was satisfying for all three of us.

We said goodbye to our "primitive man" with regret. John had never gotten to see him in his ritual paint as I had, but he had gotten to experience his marvellous naked body. As John and I drove away north, I looked in the mirror to see Wally at the side of the road with his thumb out to a truck heading south. I was happy to see that the truck slowed down and stopped, and Wally clambered in. Then he was gone, and I never saw him in person again, but I still have memories of our two days in that oasis in the red desert.

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