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The Brazilian Wanderer

Pachamama's revenge
Heidihad almost forgotten what dry clothes felt like. Two months in the rain forest had been an unbelievable experience but the constant heat, humidity and hammering rain was wearing. She knew how lucky she was to be here - in her first year at Cambridge and invited to join one of the most important studies into Pre-Columbian anthropology, spear-headed by Randall: the foremost authority on the subject, best-selling author and History Channel heart-throb. He also happened to be a top grade asshole.

She sat up on her bunk, stretched her long legs out and tried to get what air there was between her damp toes. "I swear I'm going to kill him, Ems," she asserted to her disinterested tent-mate.

"What's he done now?" Emma lazily offered in response. Between the noise of the rain and Heidi's apparent need to offload she could tell it would be another nap-less afternoon for her.

"Oh, only continually belittle my research - he's constantly picking apart everything I do and yet never lets me see any of his work. What does he think I'll do? Change my Facebook status to 'Hey guys! Proved they made blood sacrifices to Pachamama today LOL!!!1!1!'? Honestly Ems, I think I've learnt more about spiders here than anything else."

"And rain!" Emma chuckled.

Heidi was as expressionless as ever, it felt like weeks since she'd had anything to smile about. Though there was some truth in her remark about spiders. From her first night in the camp the huge diversity of wildlife fed her always inquisitive nature. Their guide, Jorge, had taken them on a night walk and showed them how, if you held your flashlight to the side of your head - shining the beam in the direction you were looking - the light would reflect back from the eyes of any spiders there. She did so expecting to see one or two - only to be rewarded with the black jungle canopy sparkling like a Christmas tree.


Randall was admiring himself in the mirror, he'd just finished shaving and was busy striking camera-friendly poses in the mirror. This would be the last time he'd shave until the cameras had gone - they were due in three days - just enough time for his stubble to reach the rugged stage.

He was preparing to take the team out for a dress rehearsal - he's was a stickler that everything should be just right. He took one last look at the reflection of his torso before throwing on a shirt and striding confidently to the girls' tent.
"Come along ladies. The rain's stopped, it's back to work." However tiresome the constant rain was, the smell of the jungle after it stopped was intoxicating. Once Randall had led the team back to the site, he then proceeded to give them all the performance he would give on camera in a few days time.

"This is the altar of Pachamama, the goddess of the earth and fertility. It's hard to imagine how spectacular it would have looked before the conquistadors stripped it of its gold and jewels. But they left behind the unassuming items - this mixing cup for instance - which shamen would use to create a powerful concoction of opiates and jungle venoms to communicate with their gods. The stone altar still has the grooves where the blood of sacrificed virgins would have flowed as an offering to Pachamama." He interrupted the act to flash a snide remark to Heidi "You would probably have been top of their list to offer to her!"

Heidi would have been embarrassed if she wasn't already stunned with rage: the bastard had stolen all her findings. By now though she'd been broken. He'd won. She quietly seethed as she realised he would get rich off her work while she would go back to being a struggling student. As he turned on the impassioned TV academic act again, his arms moved in exaggerated arcs, knocking a nearby branch. Something small and brown fell from the branch on to his shoulder. Heidi watched wide-eyed as four spindly, hairy legs raised up - she recognised it immediately as the attack pose of the deadly Brazilian Wandering spider.

"For God's sake, don't move, Randall," Heidi told him in as calm a fashion as she could muster. Unfortunately Randall wasn't as good at keeping calm as she was - his body jolted and instinctively the spider plunged its fangs into his skin.

Randall immediately went into shock. Emma, the only one with proper nursing skills, sprung into action, organising the guides to carry him back to his tent after she'd stabilised him. While trained, she wasn't an expert in toxicology - days away from any proper medical care all she could hope was the contents of her medicine cabinet would be able to keep him alive until help could come.


An hour later, Heidi, came to the tent to check up on them. The adrenalin that had spurred Emma into action had left and she was suddenly weary: "Well, he's not going to die, it looks like he's got off lightly. I've pumped him with morphine, which should take away most of the discomfort - he should hopefully be up and about again before the production crew arrive. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about the priapism?"

"The what?" Heidi asked.

"That," replied Emma, pointing to Randall's solid erection bringing the thin sheet covering him to a sharp peek.

Heidi eyebrows raised as she saw it twitching : "Poor Randall!"

"It's very serious, Heidi," Emma insisted. "There's no way he'll be able go in front of the cameras with that thing poking out of his shorts. I'm hoping that if we keep him in isolation it should gradually go down - any stimulation could keep it like that for weeks!"

"What about the documentary? There's no way we can re-schedule the shoot."

"Heidi, you have all the knowledge: if he's not exactly family viewing, you'll have to step in."

For the first time in weeks, Heidi allowed herself a small, devious, wicked smile.


If Randall's brain could comprehend what was happening to him, he would have thought he was in hell. Compression on his optic nerves had bathed his world blood red. His own heart beat was deafening. His body left rigid from the paralysing effects of the toxins.

From the shadows a figure loomed into his view. Through swirling purple mists she appeared to him. H er face the model of youthful beauty but as ancient as man's earliest desires. Her eyes ablaze, her mouth fixed in a sneer of cold command. Her hair as dark and wild as the jungle itself. Her statuesque naked body standing over him. The low lights reflected from the contours of her shimmering skin.

"Pachamama!" was the only sound he could pass between his lips.

He could feel himself becoming uncovered, his erection still rigid and unswayingly pointing skywards. Her legs, as strong and lithe as the anaconda parted across him - her nails, like the claws of the jaguar, raked his chest.

She smelled of sex: raw and powerful. The tip of his member was just millimeters from her slit - all he wanted was to grab her and take her, but the temporary paralysis from the spider's venom prevented him - he was completely under her spell. He could feel the wet heat from her open pussy and there was nothing he had desired more. "P-p-please," is all he could meekly whisper.

Her firm, round breasts stroked his face - he tried vainly to take a nipple between his teeth but his reactions we're dulled. Her body writhed on his - their sweat covered skins sliding against each other.

She climbed all over him, spreading her thighs either side of his face. With one hand she started to lightly stroke his full balls while her other hand slid along her glistening slit. As her slender fingers delicately parted her opening, a single drop of her juices fell on to his face - just out of reach from his tongue. He watched as she slid a finger inside her, drawing it out to tease her swollen clit and then push deep back inside. Over and over she did this while he could only watch.

Her head tossed back and forth as she repeatedly brought herself to orgasm, whipping his engorged cock with her long dark hair. He couldn't hold back anymore; his body shook and shuddered violently as he fired his seed into the air. Breathless and senseless, he then slipped peacefully into unconsciousness, his shaft standing prouder than ever - as it would be for the next month.


Tying back her hair, Heidi kept her eyes fixed on her slumbering tent-mate as she slowly tip-toed to her bunk. She smiled to herself as she brought up the covers and drifted into a very contented sleep, dreaming of her new career presenting history documentaries.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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