Luka, a Kikuyu workers’ supervisor of the British coffee plantation near Marsabit in northern Kenya paused as he was coming to the overseer’s cottage in the twilight to deliver the daily production report. Tonight was the night the Mau Mau would raid the farm, but he’d been told to keep to the routine until that attack began. He held up short, though, when he discovered the Danish overseer, Lars Kornfeld, was fucking the farm owner’s fourteen-year-old son, David, on the front porch of the cottage.

The handsome, muscular, well-endowed, thirty-year-old Kikuku tribesman had seen the Dane fuck the boy before and he himself was a sought-after cocksman of men on the farm, so he didn’t leave. He stayed in the shadows, watching. He unbuttoned the fly of his bush shorts, freed himself, and stroked as he watched. He wanted to cover the boy himself, and the looks the boy had given him in recent weeks indicated he could, as opportunity arose. Luka didn’t think the boy had had an African cock before—not a big black one like his. The boy was almost smug when the Danish overseer fucked him. Luka thought he could take that smug look off the white boy’s face with what he had to put inside him.

The small, blond, perfectly formed boy was a saucy little thing, more than willing to ride Kornfeld’s shaft, which was exactly what he was doing now. Perhaps tonight was the night Luka would have his piece of the lad. The boy’s parents were down in Nairobi. British royalty periodically made the rounds of the empire’s colonies, Now, in the fall of 1956, it was Lord Mountbatten’s turn. He had come to Africa, to Nairobi, and all of the British loyalists in Kenya were turning out to celebrate the visit.

That left the willing lad here without parental supervision, and their Danish overseer was making the most out of that. So was the boy. He didn’t show any reticence about being fucked by a man.

Kornfeld, tall, blond, late-thirties, large-boned, and gangly, was sitting in a straight chair on the wooden porch. The chair was tipped back a bit against the house wall. He was fully clothed, although his khaki bush shirt was open and flared to show a muscular and tanned, hard torso, highlighted by curls of nearly platinum-blond chest hair. His pants and boots were on his legs, but the fly was unbuttoned and flared and his thick platinum-blond pubic bush spilled out of the opening. Nothing but the root of his thick cock could be seen, because most of its length was inside the boy’s anal canal, but a few inches of the root appeared and disappeared as the boy rode it.

And the boy was riding it with abandon. As Luka watched and stroked, he ached to have his time with the boy. He’d show the youth what a master was. He’d enjoy having Africa screw Britain. He bet that Britain would enjoy it too.

The small lad sat in the man’s lap, facing him, wearing only his bush shirt, flapping open, and his boots. His hands were inside the man’s open shirt, clutching Kronfeld’s sides under his armpits. The boy’s boots were pressed into the side rungs of the chair beneath the seat, his legs bent so that he was riding the shaft like a jockey on a horse during a race. And he was riding the shaft hard, rising high and descending fast, fucking himself. There was no question that he was doing this willingly. His head was arched back and he was yodeling to the beams of the porch above his head.

Kornfeld was clutching, spreading, and squeezing the boy’s buttocks cheeks, opening David’s channel up as much as possible so that the small boy could fully take the big, thick cock.

When they had really gotten into the rhythm of the rise and fall, their panting, moaning, and murmurings in the foreground being backed by the natural twilight sounds of the African bush in the background, the boy’s right hand moved around to grasp his own cock and stroke while the overseer’s right hand moved to the boy’s chest to explore and settle on tweaking the youth’s nipples. They were rushing to a climax, but fully knowing there could be another and then another through the night. The boy’s parents were far away for the next two nights.

They came almost simultaneously—all three of them—David with a little cry, Kornfeld with a tensing, a shudder, and a spouting, and then again ... and again, and Luka, in the shadows, in an arc that hit the side of the foundation of the porch. With a sigh and a wish—and an intent—for it to be him inside the boy, Luka withdrew.

Tonight might be the night. Yes, it just might be tonight, he thought, as he melted into the darkness. Apparently Lars Kornfeld wasn’t really expecting to receive a daily work report from him. He had noted the rifle propped up beside the chair on which the two had fucked. Perhaps it wasn’t all that much of a secret that a Mau Mau raiding party was in the area and trouble was in the air. Kornfeld most definitely didn’t know that Luka was a Mau Mau himself, though.

David’s parents weren’t the only British colonialist in Nairobi to celebrate the visit of Lord Mountbatten this weekend.

They held there, David in Kornfeld’s embrace, sitting in his lap, facing him, both of them concentrating on the shaft inside David’s channel, going flaccid. They gently rocked against each other to continue the effect of the cock moving in the channel, causing the muscles of the boy’s passage walls to clutch at it and shimmer. Would they fuck again? After Kornfeld recovered, would he carry the boy into his cottage and have a proper fuck—or two or four—on the bed. David’s parents were both in Nairobi through the weekend, and the overseer was a virile man.

His parents were in Nairobi. So were all of the other British colonists with farms in this region.

Kornfeld went ridged when he became aware of the distant sounds of drums.

“Mau Mau,” he said. It came out as a hiss?

“What?” David asked.

“Of course. Most of the colonists are gone. Down in Nairobi. I heard hints of trouble. But not the Mau Mau.”

Mau Mau was the term given for a native rebel movement in Kenya among the Kikuyu, Meru, and Embu African people intent on pushing the British colonialists out of Africa. Small uprisings had popped up in the recent years of bands of warriors attacking farms with machetes.

Kornfeld lifted the boy off his lap and pushed him to the side. He reached for the rifle next to the chair. “Here. Take this. Go back to the main house and find the safest spot you can—somewhere where you can face any danger coming into the house. I’ve got to call in the irregulars.”

The irregulars were a small force of paid soldiers conscripted by the Britisher farmers to move around the country where they believed there would be trouble from the Mau Mau. The rebels were intent on attacking with machetes and fire. If the irregulars, with their rifles, could be quickly called in the Mau Mau were no match for them. Luckily, they were headquartered not far from here, which had made this region one of the safest in Kenya.

The main house had an eight-foot-high compound wall around it. Kornfeld’s cottage was one of a small group located just inside the entrance to the compound. He had other rifles in the house. He, with the assistance of the farm servants could hold off the Mau Mau until help arrived. Or he thought and hoped he could. Just as he hoped the farm workers would be loyal.

Pulling his shorts back on and taking the rifle, David raced back to the main house. The sound of the drums was getting closer. That was a technique the Mau Mau used—raising stark fear among the colonists. It was the drums, but beyond that it was the machetes. Being mown down by gunfire was one thing. The thought of being mutilated—cut to death—with a machete was much more fearsome.

The house was deserted. The house servants all were gone. So much for the hope of counting on their protection.

Where was the safest place for him to be? Not the main rooms, certainly. The cook’s bedroom behind the kitchen, he thought. Who would expect to find one of the colonists there? And from the other side of the bed, where he could crouch down between the bed and the wall, he could be hidden and he would command the single door into the room.