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.

But now, here, was Moyo. Just thinking about the general and his big cock had me so that I tensed and jerked and spouted my seed up Moyo’s belly. That turned him on more too. He placed a hand on the small of my back and pulled me onto his cock to the root. I yelled a word I’m not supposed to use and clutched at his shoulder blades with the nails of my hands as he started fucking me in long, hard, fast slides, giving me all of his cock.

I writhed in his embrace, until, with a exclamation of his own, he pushed me back against the back wall of the shed, banging my head on the wall and leaving me momentarily dazed. I was alert enough, though, to see him pull his cock out of me and jack off in a long, high arc that splashed down on my belly. I watched him shake cum off the head of his cock, and then he stepped back from the bench, pulled me down to a kneeling position in front of him, and I opened my mouth to his cock and gave him suck.

He left the shed first. I cleaned off my belly with water and a rag that were in a bucket in the shed, pulled on my shirt and shorts, and walked out of the shed.

Mama was on the porch house. She waved to me. Her voice was shaky. “There you are, David. I’ve been looking for you. Run out into the field. Hide somewhere.”

“Why?” I asked.

She was so hysterical she couldn’t speak. She was coming off the front porch herself and going around the side of the house. She was going to run into the field herself. She was just staring down the road and waving.

We lived on flat land. You could see a vehicle approaching from far away. I looked out on the road. There were two black sedans, each raising a cloud of dust. Seeing that I wasn’t going to run into the field, Mama continued doing so, yelling, “Run, David. Save yourself.” That I didn’t start running as well didn’t stop her from continuing to do so until she was no longer to be seen in the field.

Moyo came around to the side of the shed to watch what was going on. “Walk out to the side of the road, David,” he said.

So I did. The sedans stopped in front of the house. General Bango Bulawayo was sitting in the backseat of one of them.

“Get in the car, boy,” he said. The car door opened.

I climbed in over his knees and sat down in the commodious backseat of the big sedan beside him. He told me that the man on the other side of me was his deputy, Colonel Lando.

The colonel was unbuttoning my shirt and the general was unbuttoning my fly as the cars were turning in the road to return in the direction they’d come from.

“Do you think he will, just like that?” Colonel Lando asked, looking across me at the general.

“He will lay right down for it, yes,” the general answered him. “Moyo tells me the boy begs him for it.”

The general’s big cock was standing up from the open fly of his police uniform. I was pushing the foreskin of it down from his cock head with my fingers again--because he told me to. But I also did it because I wanted to. The colonel was rubbing his fingers over one of my nipples. The general was unzipping my shorts.


My heart is racing. I’m moaning, shimmering with anticipation, as milk chocolate, beefy-fingered hands glide over creamy white skin. I tremble as they search for and explore curves and crevices, zeroing in on my heaving, fourteen-year-old chest. I groan as rough-padded fingers rub, and twitch, and pinch my tender nipples. Moyo hasn’t worshipped and violated my body like this before fucking me. No one ever has. I’ve already come once, making him laugh.

I arch my chest up from bed before the hovering milk chocolate monolith, rising to the inevitable, begging for his touch. I cry out as his full lips find my nipples and his mouth opens around aureoles, closes tight, and he gives them suck. I groan and melt as his teeth slide across my engorged nipples.

I have never been taken like this before. The man is gross and overpowering and magnificent and malignant all at the same time. He told me in the car what he was going to do to me--how he was going to use my body--and then he and the colonel did it, one after the other, as the car glided across the landscape toward the town. Now he’s doing it again.

“Skin so milky white, so young and fresh,” the general murmurs. “You will never be the same again when you leave this room.”

I Open mouth to gasp at the hint of a bite on a nipple, only to have heavy lips crush mine and a thick tongue push in. I open my eyes to his, very close now. His are filled with desire, determination, insistence. What does he see in mine? Want? Fear? Need? Submission? Surrender? most, if not all, of that, I believe.

But he doesn’t care. He said in the car that he would have me fully--use me to the edge of my endurance--whether I submitted or not. And he’s having me fully, penetrating me repeatedly at both orifices with beefy fingers, tongue, and cock, and pumping his cum into me.

I ease my back down on bed, as he rises up below me. I am breathless as I watch giant hands gliding across my body, slowly working their way to my center. Milk chocolate hands on soft, creamy white belly and thighs, nudging my thighs open, taking his time opening me to him again, as he’d done several times already. All he has to do is touch me on my inner thighs and, mesmerized, I open my legs to him as I have done for him before. Purring as hands glide around silky inner thighs.

“Smooth. Milky white. Young, unspoiled, vulnerable. Desirable,” he mumbles, voice thick with the sexual despoiling he’s looking forward to. Then he smiles cruelly and says, “Ultimately fucked by a black cock.”

The hulking, bullet-headed, muscular solider sinks between my opened legs. His grinning face dips out of sight. I arch my back and gasp again, as his thick tongue rims, flicks in, and then invades.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I cry out.

Grasping his close-cropped kinky black hair, my immediate, defensive impulse is to push away. I know he can ruin me, rip me apart, shred me. The defensive instinct is quickly replaced with the overwhelming desire to sheath and throb on that monster cock and to hold him in closer, inside me, stretching me, bruising my walls.

“Lay me out. Take me. Fuck me!” Who is that who is crying this out, I wonder.

My small, slender body twitches to the dancing of his tongue on my anus. His big, thick finger snakes inside me, thicker than some men’s cocks, exploring, searching. It’s agony in the brief seconds he needs to find and center on the core of sensations. I writhe in the grasp of his huge, strong hand pressing done on my lower belly as the pad of his finger finds the spot, tweaks, rubs, and quickens the flow. Panting, moaning. Can’t ... get ... breath. Electricity, sparks, release and flow. Low, hoarse laughter from between trembling legs, where his tongue laps the rim of me around his buried finger.

“Got to fuck this. Got to fuck this now. No more playing. Open your hole to me now, boy,” he growls.

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