The journalist felt his sweat soaking through the thin fabric of the shirt. He was not having a good time. For the last two days, he'd been bombed by South African Mirage fighters and forced to run from ambushes by UNITA guerrillas, while Cuban artillery roared overhead. He was feeling feverish, hungry and wishing he could return back to Paris. But duty called and the readers of his worker's paper needed to know what was going on.
The fact an AKM assault rifle was still pointed at his back by a hulking baboon didn't calm his nerves.
"You said, the commander would be here?" The Journalist asked again. He didn't speak much Portuguese and the MPLA fighters didn't speak French, so English had to work.
"She will!" snapped the baboon, not bothering to hide the threat in his voice. "Stay still and wait!"

He did as he was told, the files buzzing all around him. Hell, the country was oppressive. He couldn't imagine living here. Even being on the edge of the rainforest, it was torture. Insects bit him, his clothes stank and the heat was intolerable. Not to mention how the fighters treated him.
There was a sudden commotion and a rumble. The Angolan communist fighters started to whoop and roar as a battered green shape rumbled in from the open ground. He knew enough to place it as a T-62 tank, supplied by the Soviets with a massive 115mm gun that rattled and bounced as the machine drove past tents and cooking fires. When it stopped before him, he noticed the figure in the turret and gasped.
She was a very fat woman indeed, though those were common anywhere in the world. But this one, a lioness, had some of the biggest breasts he'd ever seen. Huge mounds of ochre flesh, packed into the tightly strained fabric of her shirt. They had to be as big as beachballs, no even bigger. Those new-fangled yoga balls in fact. But then he saw the arms that gripped the machinegun on the pintle mount. Muscular and bulging with sinew.
The lioness roared at her cheering troops and with a grunt she went to get out. There was a pause as evidently her hips had gotten stuck in the hatch of the tank, before she pulled hard and shot free with a pop.
Now she was out and he could see the doughy protrusion of her gut below those immense breasts and the width of her squishy thighs. A large sheathed knife and a map case were the only things attached to the belt of her camouflaged trousers as she waddled over, grinning at her cheering troops before pausing before the journalist.
She must have had a good foot in height on him. And the smell, an overpowering funk of sweat and body odour emitted from her. Patches of her shirt seemed soaked. He had to fight back a cough.
"And this?" she growled. Her wiry hair was twisted into braids, affixed with bright beads and topped with a large red beret. One of her troopers muttered something and she laughed.
"A journalist eh? Come to Africa to hear how a real revolution works?"
He nodded and cleared his throat. "You are the commander here?"
"Commander Kholwa Leite of the People's Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola!" she declared, putting her hands on her hips. "This is my battalion. You are the communist, the french one eh?"
He nodded again.
"And you are here to see how a war in Africa is fought against capitalists and oppressors?"
"Yes, commander"
"Good, you have at least some spine to you. Not like most of your pampered western intellectuals. Sipping their coffee and writing their books in Paris cafes while real workers fight?" Her eyes affixed him with a stern gaze. "I don't get many papers here, but your intellectuals have no idea how a war is fought"
"Well" he stammered. "I'm here to show them the truth then. To report back how you and your fraternal Cuban allies are-"

"Bah!" she shook her head. "Do not speak to me of the Cubans. Useless. Weak. The war is being fought by Angolans, not by foreign shits" a thick glob of salvia was spat at his feet before she scratched at her belly. "I do not need a pathetic journalist, skulking around my camp for this offensive. You will leave this place. I do not care for what some French rag thinks"
She turned , her massive, equine-like ass pointed at him as she went to stride away haughtily.

The journalist felt a surge of indignation. His face flushed and he balled his fists before reaching out against his better judgement. "Hey!" he yelled out, his hand grazing the belt of the huge lioness. "The socialist workers of-"
He didn't finish. There was a grunt and then a blast. But not the blast of the AK rifle behind him. It came from his front.
A huge, bassy and deep blast. One that sounded from the sweaty crack of the lioness' trousers.
PPPRPRPRPRPRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTTT

A hideous stench, akin to fruit left out to rot in the sun, blasted at his senses. His fur was ruffled by the wave of sour wind that was propelled from the depths of the feline butt over his face and head. For second, all he could comprehend was the smell, before he crashed unconscious into the mud.

Kholwa gave a chuckle as she strode away, the fumes emitting from her backside like the wake of a boat. She didn't need some wet shit journalist around the place. She had a war to fight.






An older picture by the amazing  Volkenfox to whom I am so grateful. FLAW heads to Africa this time, to the dark wars of the dark continent. Specifically the three way civil war, turned mini world war that was the Angolan Civil War/Bush War. Cuban backed communists verses South African backed nationalists. And in the middle, is a busty lioness with a ruthless streak that spares nobody.