Say Nothing of This

by ChrisCross

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt, Coercion, Consensual, Rape, Gay, Fiction, Farming, Historical, Military, DomSub, MaleDom, Rough, Gang Bang, Interracial, Black Male, White Male, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Size, Politics, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: The setting is Zimbabwe in the mid 1980s, when the whites are being pushed out by a new black ruling class and the land is still lawless, the police more lawless than the rest. A Shona tribe police chief in central Zimbabwe wants fourteen-year-old European boys. The Whitfelds, trying to hold onto their dairy outside Gweru, have a fourteen-year-old blond foster boy, one who already is tasting sex from black men and craves more. The Whitfelds's answer to being able to stay on is an obvious one.

“We shall say nothing of this.”

“No, I shan’t,” I murmured as I panted. I didn’t think I could count on the tall black man with the slender body, big hands, big feet, and the long cock to stay silent among his peers by what he could get from an English boy. But that was not my problem.

Moyo, the gardener, and I were in the potting shed, both naked. I was perched on a bench, leaning back, my shoulder blades pressing into the rough wood of the shed’s siding, grabbing the edge of the shelf overhead with the hands of my spread arms. Moyo was standing between my spread thighs, at the front edge of the bench, his big brown hands on my waist, and his long cock lengthening and shortening as he moved it in and out of my bung hole.

I looked down the sleek torso of my fourteen-year-old body to my yellow-blond bush and my dick, erect and waving back and forth. He was fucking me shallowly, but he was fucking me good. This was exactly what I wanted from him.

He had a lot of length to work with, but he was moving not more than four inches inside me--we’d just begun--and a chill of pleasure went up my spine to be able to see his black bush and a few inches of the root of his cock as he moved it in and out of me. That was even better than having him all inside me and me knowing I could sheath a dick that long--it made me shiver to be able to see where it was spreading me open and lengthening and shortening as it moved in and out of my hole.

I heard a sound and looked beyond him, to the door of the potting shed. Papa, Ronald Whitfeld, was out there. He’d seen us, but he was hesitating, and then he pointed his face at the ground as if he hadn’t seen us and slid off to the side and was gone.

“We shall say nothing of this,” the gardener muttered again, not knowing Papa had seen us.

“No, I won’t,” I repeated.

Moyo was a Shona tribesman, from a dominate tribe in the Midlands Province of Zimbabwe. He was tall for a Shona and muscular from his work in the fields. He was slim, though; there was no fat on him. It was all ebony muscle and sinew. He had big hands and feet and a long cock. When he fucked me, I felt he could reach up into my stomach. He fucked me on my fourteenth birthday and had been fucking me like this ever since. Small-bodied European blonds with pretty faces are favorites here in Zimbabwe of men who liked them young, whether girls or boys.

It wouldn’t have mattered if I had told Papa--or Mama--for that matter. Ever since Zimbabwe had taken its independence six years earlier, the whites whose families had lived here for generations and had no place else to call home were being systematically expelled from the country and sent away. All power was drifting out of their hands, and the native Zimbabweans--the Shona and other Bantu and Zulu tribes--were taking over, sometimes brutally. They wanted us to leave when they were able to take over performing skills we’d kept to ourselves for generations. They wanted us to decide it was too risky and violent for them to stay and for us just to walk out of our businesses and homes and leave them for the Shona to take--like Moyo was taking me now.

Papa and Mama would look the other way when Moyo was fucking me not just because I wasn’t really of their blood but mostly because they were afraid of Moyo, afraid that he held the power to have them expelled from Zimbabwe.

He leaned his pelvis closer into me, digging deeper. And he picked up the rhythm of the fuck. I moaned and reached down for my dick and started stroking it. It would be only a matter of moments now before the pleasure washed over us both, each of us for our own goal in the coupling.

Some whites had been thrown out immediately, but the whites had been clever for generations. They hadn’t shown the Shona everything they had to know about running the economy, so some whites had managed to hold on, at least for a while. The Whitfelds were among those. The family ran a modern dairy not far out of the provincial administrative town of Gweru, in the country’s central region, some distance south of the capital of Harare. Papa’s expertise was still needed, but for how long?

Moyo and other black Zimbabweans on the farm were slowly learning all of Papa’s dairy business skills. It was only a matter of time when Papa wouldn’t be needed here any longer, but both he and Mama lived in the hope that that day would never come.

I felt safe with Moyo fucking me--I loved having a man’s cock inside me--because I’d overheard Papa and Mama talking one night. They thought that Moyo was a spy at the dairy for the police in Gweru. The police in Gweru ruled the province behind the scenes. They did what that wanted when they wanted. Mama and Papa well knew that. Early after independence, two black sedans had pulled up to the house. The chief of the police in Gweru, General Bango Bulawayo, was in the backseat. I saw him point to Mama on the porch, and they took her away. She didn’t return for three days. They would not tell me what she had done or what they had done with her. She had said only, with pursed lips, “We shall say nothing of this,” and had disappeared in the house for nearly a week. When I saw her again, and ever since, she’s been quiet, skittish of sudden noises and moves, and distant.

It’s clear that Papa and Mama are afraid of Moyo and of what he might say to the police in Gweru. That’s why I come to him to penetrate me for the first time and let me ride him. He can make my papa just turn away.

Not that Ronald Whitfeld is my real papa or Valarie Whitfeld my real mama. My parents died in a plane crash when I was four and the Whitfelds took me in and made me part of their family. I knew I wasn’t wholly part of their family, though. They have real children of their own, Donald and Victoria. As soon as the real trouble for the whites started in Zimbabwe, the Whitfelds’s real children were sent to boarding school in England. I wasn’t. I was here, learning to grow up, with a black Shona man’s dick inside me.

My parents are terrified of General Bulawayo. I’m not. He is a giant of a man, big, a bull, but not really fat. He’s muscular and glowering and bigger than life. And he has a big cock, a very, very big cock. Once, when he’d come to the farm to talk with Papa, I had been standing outside the house when he emerged from it. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Then he unzipped and exposed himself to me before getting back into his black car--and I just stood there and watched. That’s how I know he was hung like a bull.

Two weeks ago we took dairy cattle to the regional agricultural fair in Gweru. General Bulawayo was there, strutting around. Mama and Papa scurried about, doing their best to avoid him and being seen by him. I didn’t, though. I even saw--and touched--his cock.

I was in the toilet tent, pissing into a trough. I was the only one in there. And then General Bulawayo came in. I saw two of his bodyguards--he also traveled with big, black bodyguards nearly as big as he was--posting at the tent door when he came in. When he saw me, he smiled and stood right next to me. I was pissing in the trough and he took that big, big cock of his out of his pants and he pissed in the trough too. He was looking at me. Of course I was looking at his big dick. I’d never seen anything that long and thick before. I had been thinking about it since that day he’d exposed himself to me on the dairy farm. Moyo was long, but he wasn’t thick like the general was.

When I finished pissing, I just stood there, waiting for him to leave first. He didn’t leave. He reached over and touched my dick. I heard him say, “Nice,” and then he said, “You can touch mine. I want you to touch mine.” I couldn’t really move. He was more than touching mine. He had three fingers on it and was pushing the skin off the head of it. “Touch mine,” he said in a gruffer voice, and so I did.

“Do with mine what I’m doing with yours,” he said.

I pushed the skin back from the head of his dick and heard him groan. It was a thrill to know I could make a big black man groan. His dick was fascinating. The huge mushroom head on it was purple. Moyo’s was a pinkish color. And the dick itself was a jet black, not the chocolate brown of the rest of his skin. Moyo’s dick was the same color as his skin. The shaft was fascinating. I rolled it around in my hand, testing the bulb for firmness.

Perhaps shocked that I wasn’t shocked, the general groaned again and ran a hand down underneath the back of my shorts and into my crack. He was looking around at the toilet stalls, but there were on doors on them. Otherwise I think he might have carried me into one and fucked me right there. I would have gone with him without struggling. I had been going with Moyo for months. I was scared of the general’s dick, but because it was so thick, not because I didn’t want it inside me.

But then we heard voices of men arguing with the bodyguards posted outside, wanting to enter the tent, and we both quickly pushed our cocks back in our pants and buttoned up.

As he turned to go, he growled, “Say nothing of this.” Of course I didn’t. My parents already were afraid of the man.

That was two weeks ago, and I haven’t been able to forget about that gigantic dick of his.

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