Safari Heat The dusty heat of the Kenyan savanna wrapped around the open-top Land Rover like a blanket that refused to let go. Mark Thompson gripped the roll bar with one hand, his other resting on his wife’s thigh as the vehicle bounced along the rutted track. At thirty-eight, Mark still kept the athletic build from his rugby days back in London, though his sandy hair had started to gray at the temples. Beside him, Claire Thompson, thirty-five, fanned herself with a wide-brimmed hat. Her sundress clung to her curves in the humidity, the thin cotton doing little to hide the way her full breasts moved with every jolt of the truck. Their eyes weren’t on the herd of zebras grazing fifty meters away. They were locked on Aisha. Aisha Kamau stood at the front of the vehicle in her khaki shorts and sleeveless safari shirt, one booted foot propped on the seat in front of her as she pointed out a distant pride of lions. She was twenty-nine, tall for a local woman at five-ten, with smooth dark skin that seemed to drink in the sunlight. Her body was built like a goddess sculpted for pure sin-wide, strong hips that flared dramatically from a narrow waist, thick powerful thighs that flexed with every shift of her weight, and an ass so round and firm it made the fabric of her shorts strain. Her breasts were heavy and high, easily an F-cup, pressing against the buttons of her shirt in a way that had every man in the group stealing glances. Her face was striking too: high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep berry, and large expressive eyes framed by long lashes. “...and if you look carefully, you can see the dominant male on the left,” Aisha said, her voice