Trouble in the City

by

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including NonConsensual, Rape, Coercion, Fiction, Sadistic, Torture, Snuff, Interracial, Violent, .

Desc: Fiction Sex Story: A change in government in a mid-size African city breaks down into a murderous frenzy of sexual violence against the foreign population.

This is pornography but definitely not erotic. Be charitable because English is not my native language.

Bamiji City is the capital of the small central African country of the same name, Bamiji, which is run under the thumb of an ex-military strongman whose regime is extraordinarily corrupt, kleptocratic, and repressive. Following a discreet coup in the early 1990s by a small group of middle-ranking military officers, which overthrew the country's long-time more or less democratically elected civilian administration, the new regime members resigned their commissions (so that they, too, could call themselves a civilian government), and since then they and their legion of hangers-on have become enormously rich and happy to show it off. But their gains have been the nation's losses, as their graft and nepotism annually remove much of the national GDP, and there is almost nothing left over for infrastructure improvement, modernization, job creation, and the other goods that government is supposed to bring. Unemployment is outrageously high and gangs of jobless black youths spend their days idling in the main square and taking orders from middle-ranking criminal organizers who use their connections up the hierarchy to the upper ranks to dominate the petty crime scene, smuggling of drugs, alcohol, sex workers, and guns, street prostitution and gambling, protection rackets among the black commercial class (but not among the international corporations), and general thuggery.There are some Moslems in the city, descendants of the Arab slave traders, but they remain lower class, live mainly in squalid ghettos, and don't mix with anyone.

The financial corruption of the elite siphons off the nation's wealth, and political repression ensures that there can be no popular opposition to it. The common people generally suffer from it, but they do manage to get by one way or another – the sizable expatriate community, on the other hand, usually find that the situation suits them very well. There are many foreign businesses, NGOs, and diplomatic missions, and especially the top middle-management executives for the local offices of many of the world's top multinational corporations, set up in Bamiji to service the needs of the wealthy elite and one another, and to help in the exploitation of the country's formerly vast natural resources and the huge aura of profitable opportunities that surrounds those industries.

Most of the foreign community is white, and the whites stay as much as possible within their fortified enclaves, gated communities, exclusive hotels, and armored office buildings, especially at night. The adults' expenses are well subsidized, by their own organizations as well as by the Bamiji government, and they can find all of the low-paid domestic staff they might ever wish, as well as reliable drivers for their bulletproof town cars. The white young people are therefore relatively rich and play sports in segregated gyms and playing fields, go to first-run films at multiplex cinemas located in the hotels, and go clubbing at night, but the clubs too are in the big international hotels, with very tight security, and they enter and leave by driving in and out of fortified basement parking garages. They are never seen on the streets after dark, and seldom alone at any time, especially the women – every once in a while there will be rumors of the robbery or rape of a white person (it will never be reported in the news), but since everyone knows the rules, it is normally assumed that the victim should have known better; you could almost say that he or she really brought it on him- or herself.

The international hotels are ringed by blast walls with long lethal spikes on top, and from time to time a local young black man is found in the morning impaled on the spikes after his friends convinced him that he could scale the wall and open the gate for them; the friends who boosted him up couldn't get him back off the long spikes and had to leave him to greet the city's workers on their way to their shops and offices with his wide, blank stare. The overall effect of the city can seem bizarre – the local people have found ways of coping; the expatriates put up with security inconveniences in order to live a lifestyle many rungs of the ladder higher than what they could expect at home; commerces and basic services carry on fairly smoothly; there are even national elections every five years which are crafted to seem "free and fair" but which always return the ruling group by huge margins. But at the same time, there is a subtle free-floating atmosphere of anxiety, resentment, and distrust always just beneath the surface, and a sense that as normally as life may be carrying on right now, any small trigger might turn it into a conflagration.

This is the story of the day when that happened.

In the centre of the city, not far from the main square with its huge fountain and extravagant statue of a 19th century European queen surrounded by figures representing the rivers in the country, there was a five person office of so-called import-export traders, called London-Bamiji Trading, staffed by whites from Great Britain who run various commercial scams based around kickbacks to regime leaders, especially the deputy prime minister but many of his friends as well. Government officials place orders for everything from weapons to food to construction materials – the shipments arrive only half-filled or not at all, are checked in and verified by corrupt officials, the trading company is paid for a whole shipment, and half of the profit goes back to the officials involved. They are Mr Baker, mid-30s, playboy looks, a smooth operator whose genius invented the operation in the first place; his blonde wife Mrs Baker, also mid-30s, slightly overweight, big tits; the second in command, Mr Cosgrove, overweight, pale and pudgy, about 45, affable and well-liked but with a creepy private life, rumored to be with prostitutes either female or male; and then two very pretty helpers and front office attractions with titles like Sales Manager, Accounts Manager, changing frequently, both in their late 20s. One, Mrs Armitage, a tall brunette with a very decent rack, is married but her husband works in London and she visits him regularly; the other, Miss Carmichael, is pretty, almost beautiful, young-looking, a great butt, and nearly engaged to a white biochemist who worked in Bamiji City for a pharmaceutical multinational that is conducting human trials that would be too expensive to do in Europe because of all the the safety protocols. It's not clear whether the two young ladies are aware of the fraudulent nature of the business, but the other three certainly are.

To absolutely everyone's astonishment, this time, when the periodic elections came round, the regime was voted out by, not a large, but by an incontestable margin. It had tried to stack elections as usual by denying the opposition party state-run media time, relying on patronage to obtain jobs and benefits for the relatives of opinion leaders and influential local gentry. The elections were peaceful, but when the results were announced, the regime, caught on the back foot by its surprise defeat, claimed fraud and sued, but less than a day later the court ratified the result. The regime conceded defeat and welcomed the new administration, seemingly graciously but actually because nearly all of the top officials had already crossed the national border to a new life.

The office staff of London-Bamiji were not too concerned. Mr Baker was confident that he could build new corrupt relations with the incoming regime, but (though they kept very good false records), all but one of the staff had come to the office to spend a few days going through the files and computers and shredding or deleting any bits that might raise questions, just in case.

Early the following morning, the police quietly began rounding up all top level officials of the old regime who hadn't yet left the country, but word of that hadn't begun to spread yet. The police came round to Miss Carmichael's boyfriend's flat, confident by some means that she would be there, and politely asked her to come with them; they refused her boyfriend's request to accompany them but promised to keep him informed. In the police car, she innocently tried to speed dial her colleagues at the office, but the policeman next to her gently took the phone away and slipped it into his pocket. At about the same time, two police vans drew up in front of the office, showed Mr Baker a legal warrant, and politely escorted the staff into one van, leaving the other to transport all of their files and computers to the station. At the station they were waved through the reception, where people can come in to make complaints, and into a large intake-processing hall for people who are being officially registered for arrest, hearings, interrogation or whatever.

There were long tables along the wall with black male and female police officers around them and a disarray of many folding chairs facing them. People were milling around everywhere, it was very noisy in the hall, and they were shocked to see one frightened black man being led past them completely naked, well-behaved officers holding his arms on either side and his dick swinging back and forth. Mr Baker and his staff realized that they were the only white people in the packed hall. They noticed two black men in front of one table with their backs to them, one of them naked with his hands behind his head, the other, a very big man, nearly naked and struggling to get his sock off as a policeman steadied him. They recognized the second man from TV as the leader of a well-known Youth Sports Club, which doubled as an organized petty crime gang for unemployed young men.

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