Chapter 1

Igwe held the tearful woman close in his arms. To be frank he cared little for her tears, or her fears and trauma's that had led to them. He did, however, appreciate the full warm curves of her body as he held her close.

With one hand around her waist he held her close, while his other gently stroked her short dark hair, comforting her. At six foot six inches he towered over the latest white woman to join his philosophy circle.

His decision to form a philosophy circle had been a stroke of genius in his campaign to seduce the relatively few attractive white women in Zimbabwe. Those disaffected with their life and looking for relief from the boredom of endless poolside sunbathing had been happy to join his circle. Their husbands were happy to be left to drink beer in one of the many exclusive hotel bars rather than join their wives discussing philosophy!

Many had subsequently learned the folly of their negligence when their loving 'faithful' white wives gave birth to a bouncy, screeching, black baby.

Angel sobbed in his strong arms, only to glad to find a man who understood her. Igwe was careful that his burgeoning erection did not disillusion her. His hand rose slowly to gently stroke her back. Her natural reaction was to move closer to him and her full firm breasts pushed against him.

At 34 years old, and with two children, Angel was lucky to have full firm mounds that did not sag. Igwe appreciated his luck in having those mounds pressed firmly to him. He had no doubts how this evening was going to end.

His time in America studying psychology had served him well. Here in Africa he had no qualms about using the knowledge gained to twist and manipulate the minds of white couples. Enhancing their concerns, preying on their fears, offering them security, pampering them, while at the same time scaring them at the same time. Preparing them to accept the need to please him. These white couples were unnaturally afraid of the teeming black masses of Africa. They were often only too happy to accept a luxurious lifestyle, and often willing to take part in sexual adventures, if that is what it took to be part of the in-crowd.

Personally he preferred those not willing to be seduced. It was much more fun bedding them!

"My husband just doesn't understand me!" Angel sobbed.

Igwe grinned as he stroked her hair and looked down at the pretty tear stained face buried on his chest.

Stupid woman!

Why should her husband try and understand her? He was a man! It was a woman's role to serve and please her husband. African women knew their place, but these confused western women had lost touch with their role pleasing men.

'If only I could talk to him like I can talk to you!" Angel sought to gather her senses, suddenly aware that her nipples had unaccountable become erect as she pressed against this charming, educated, and sophisticated black man.

Igwe's nostrils flared as he took in the sweet freshness of the white woman in his arms. Washed, scented, and clean. So typical of these well brought up English women that married skilled and educated professionals. Yet so lacking in the basic understanding or relationships. She was well presented in her stylish western style dress. He would love breaking her in. Teaching this woman her true role in life. He dismissed her husband's acceptance and tolerance of her strange concepts of 'modern womanhood.' He regarded it as evidence of her husband's weak will, and the failure of his masculinity.

"I understand," he murmured into her soft dark hair. His hand rose from her back to gently stroke the softness of her slim white neck. Angel was relieved not to be held quite so tight, though his strong masculine presence was comforting. His fingers on her neck were soothing, calming, mesmerising as they drew soft circles on her neck. If only her husband would stroke her like this!

The sudden intrusive thought of her husband disturbed her. She was acutely aware of the stiffness of her nipples as they strained against the material of her soft lacy brassiere. She had found herself dressing differently since joining Igwe's circle. There were no men in this circle, and all the other women took such extra-ordinary care in their appearance. Angel had found herself wearing lingerie she rarely wore for her husband any more.

She did not want to seem rude to Igwe, and his strong hands, while gently stroking, belied the power of this man. They had a power over her that she sought to suppress, even as tingles shivered the soft skin of her neck.

He urged her to sit on his sofa and offered her a Turkish Apple tea. She gratefully accepted and sat demurely while he prepared the drink. She did not notice as he lightly sprinkled crushed mbanje into the drink. He was confident she would not consider the presence of the crushed herb unusual.

She had been married to her doting husband Mark for 18 years. She was a faithful wife, and loving mother to their two teenage daughters. A devout catholic, and regular churchgoer, her current unexpected and unwanted arousal disturbed her. The tea would be calming, help her regain her distance, and reserve.

"He won't let me drive the car since the accidents," Angel complained.

Igwe stifled a laugh as he prepared the drink. Glad she could not see his face. Of course, her husband had banned her from driving! It was the one sensible thing Mark had done.

"Hmm, well you have had three crashes in the last month."

He turned back to a fidgeting Angel, and noted her nibbling her lip. He would bruise those soft lips with passion tonight. Angel ignored his words.

"He has undermined my status in the eyes of my friends," Angel went on.

In doing so he had probably saved your life Igwe thought, but he let it pass.

'Disgraceful, he should take more care of your position!" He responded instead, knowing what she wanted to hear.

Angel looked up at him grateful for his support, as he sat close beside her on the sofa. She edged closer. She found tears edging to the surface again, and cursed her edginess and nervousness in front of this sophisticated African. He was so different to most of the poor Africans teeming through the streets.

Without warning tears coursed down her cheeks, Igwe leaned over and pulled her close. He understood that she was still recovering from a minor breakdown. That she was weak and vulnerable. Her husband should have been here, but he wasn't and Igwe intended to take full advantage.

His black hand rose and lightly stroked Angel's soft white arms. He cradled her into his shoulder. His hand rose to cup the soft curve of her cheek. His finger lightly stroked aside the salty tears. Angel snuggled closer, unresisting as his hand lifted her face.

He was not a handsome man, though he was unmistakeably a powerful, dominant male. At 45 years old he was eleven years older than her, but the years seemed meaningless. His dark, craggy looks, his Saville Row suites, and casual confidence all combined to make her feel secure in his presence.

In many ways he reminded her of her burly strong willed father. He had also been a businessmen with powerful connections.

"Oh," she gasped.

His lips had descended and were kissing away her tears. She smiled at this touch. His hand on her cheek held her head firmly in place, as lips lightly caressed her eyes. She closed her own, and lay still as his lips closed over her eyes.

Her heart leapt. This should not be happening. Her eyes flitted open, as he kissed her forehead, then dropped to her nose, and she laughed. He grinned at her.

Then his lips dipped and met hers.

Her heart rate soared as this masterful man softly kissed her lips. She sought to pull away, but there was no heart in her effort, and his hand effortlessly held her head in place, as the kiss became more demanding.

Angel melted into the kiss, her sweet lips responding. It had been 18 years since she had kissed another man than Mark, but now her lips were seeking out his hungrily.

Igwe savoured the soft lips of the English woman. He kissed, now lightly, now passionately; alternating in his pattern, savouring the lips, he held her close. Then his tongue slipped out and licked along the line of those delightfully parted lips.

"Oh... please," Angel sought to push him away and recover her senses. It was like pushing against solid rock. For a 45-year-old businessman he seemed remarkably strong. She had since the family's arrival in Zimbabwe become to understand the remarkable strength of African men. Most went from years doing hard farm work, to the relentless and furious energy of the burgeoning factories.

More than once that quick grope in a hotel bar, or between the tight close aisles of a shop, had developed into something more. With one hand holding her firm and still, while a second explored, or a friend's hand explored. At first she had been shocked and horrified. She had screamed. But this was Harare, not a quite English bookstore. She had quickly learned that her screams simply attracted more African men. Like hyena's scenting a kill they would swarm around hoping for an opportunity to sample her charms. Not that the Africans ever seemed threatening, even when she struggled and sought to push them away. Always they would have that happy grin as their hands rose under her skirt, or fondled a breast, or bottom! The bare faced cheek and sexual aggression of these men was something she had never had to cope with in England!

Once, early after they arrived, she had taken her daughters shopping. When an African tried to push her into the changing booth she had screamed her help. Male African heads had popped around corners, and over and through shelves to see the fun. Men had rushed to the vicinity, but instead of coming to her aid, 14 year old Amanda and seventeen year old Rebecca had been seized, fondled, and stroked. Her two bemused, confused daughters held while grinning Africans touched and fondled them. She was convinced that only the unusual interference of the shop's security guard had saved them all from a mass gang rape.

Grateful as she was she had refused his demand that she give him her address. "For the report," he had said. Even while shaken and her emotions ruffled she had retained the sense not to give this African man her address. He may be her saviour this time, but knowing the address of a pretty white woman, and her two pretty teenage daughters, may have been too much temptation. Even if he only sold the information to more bold criminally minded Africans.

She was not so naive not to realise that there was a real 'market' in Africa for attractive white women, and an even bigger market for pretty white teenagers.

Now as she sought to push Igwe away, she was reminded just how strong he was. While one part of her told her to be sensible and remember her husband. Another stronger, suppressed emotion fluttered to the surface. This man was so strong it was sending wicked signals to her loins. She fought to control that irrational reaction. She was a career woman, an intelligent educated woman. She was happy.

Igwe tilted her chin, his mouth descended. With a fierce passion his tongue darted into her mouth.

Her senses departed and she kissed him back.

Her lithe and nimble tongue seemed to have a life of its own as it met Igwe's tongue, darting and challenging. Even as she berated herself she breathed in his masculine presence. His dark demanding presence as his hands wandered unrestricted. This was forbidden... her eyes closed and she welcomed his demanding passionate kiss.

It seemed so long since her husband had kissed her like this. The thought of her husband jerked her back to reality. Her eyes flashed open and looked up at Igwe as he kissed her. His eyes were locked on hers. His eyes were dark, mesmerising, and powerful. She was losing herself in those eyes, when she again sought to pull herself together.

Then one of his strong black hands closed on her breast.

"Oh... no, my husband," her hand rose and grasped the hand at her breast. It was like trying to move a steel girder, but this bit of steel, was warm. It cupped her breast, and caressed and fondled. No amount of feeble pushing on her part was going to free her breast. Then his hand at her neck grasped her short page boy style dark hair, and jerked sharply down.

"Arghh... oh," she gasped as her pretty white face was pulled sharply up and presented to Igwe. She was not used to pain, and the shock of it ran through her body. Then his big heavy body seemed to bear down on her and her lips seemed to open automatically to receive his kiss.

She was shocked and felt betrayed as her body reacted in ways it shouldn't. She didn't want to feel like this.

She didn't, she really didn't...

Then his tongue met hers and her mind seemed to swirl and fly.

Igwe grinned to himself as he played this naive and innocent white wife. His hand had risen and clasped her full and firm breast. He savoured its fullness. He loved white women. They looked after themselves so well. An African woman of 34, unless she had married early to a rich and powerful man, would have spent 31 of those years in the fields under a not sun. She would probably have nursed several children, and was unlikely to have ever had a proper diet.

These white women took such care over themselves. Over their figure, and diet, and appearance. As his hand seemed to weigh the full breast in his hand he estimated that Angel possessed breasts that did not snag, and he delighted in it.

He cupped it, squeezed it, stroked it, and fondled it. A white woman's breast. The breast of a woman married to a white man. He remembered the 15 years guerrilla warfare in the bush. The whites claimed to have won that guerrilla war, but as he held and enjoyed the fullness of that white breast, He knew no white policeman was going to burst through his door. No red faced angry white soldier was going to shoot him down like a dog for touching a white woman.

His fingers found a stiffened nipple through the cloth of her dress, and bra. A bra he noted that seemed lacy and frilly. Had she dressed for him? He nipped that thickened pert nib sharply.

The woman beneath him squealed into his kiss, but he did not release her mouth, or his grip on her nipple.

Pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain.

He released his grip, and she sighed into his demanding passionate kiss.

Even as she relaxed he ran the palm of his hand over her nipple, and felt her body tremble. He estimated that excited little tingles would be surging from her abused bud, as he fondled her that full mound and then lightly stroked his thumb over the over-excited nipple, enjoying her squirm in his arms.

So few of these well brought up, middle class English women seemed to fully understand the nature of pain, and its relationship to pleasure. He would delight in teaching Angel. Oh yes, he would teach her all about the pleasure of pain, and pleasing his cock.

He looked over at the door to his villa.

No, there was no sign of an outraged husband. He glanced across at the shotgun on the wall. He laughed quietly. If her husband did turn up and burst through the door he, Igwe, was the one with the right to shoot the intruder dead.

Not that such an eventuality was likely, though a small part of him wished to be so. Four large German Shepherd guard dogs prowled the gardens of his ten acre villa in the exclusive Harare suburb of Borrowdale. Big bored dogs that would have delighted in the sport of finding an intruder. Chuku Olanes, his devoted bodyguard would be alert. Keeping an eye on the CCTV cameras. Chuku owed Igwe his life. After a moment in the war when Chuku had been seized by a crocodile while creeping across a golf course near Victoria Falls.

Quick work with a machete had denied the crocodile a live meal. Chuku had rarely left his side since, and had soon learned there were opportunities for Chuku. Igwe after all usually found a new and interesting white woman to seduce every few months and was generous with his discards.

Igwe turned back to the lovely panting Angel, as she lay half beneath him. Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him. Those delightful now bruised lips quivering. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing deep and irregular.

She was a delightful English Rose in her prime. No, he grinned to himself, the whites had not won the war after all, as his dark hand began flicking the buttons that held the bodice of her dress together.

"Noooo! Please... we have gone too far!"

"I love my husband he loves me!"

Her hands reached for his. He ignored them. Her efforts were light and ineffective. Lacking the strength to keep his eager hands from those firm white orbs increasingly coming into view.

His hand pushed inside the dress. He delighted in the sight of her lacy brassiere. A fashionable stylish bra that did little to hide the rounded, full mounds within. His hand swept the material aside and he took the warm firm white flesh into his hand.

Angel gasped, and thrust her breast into his hand. It was as though she had no control of her own body. Hot sensations radiated from that strong hand. This was not some boy struggling for a quick grope. This was a strong masterful man taking what he wanted, and she struggled against the sudden urge to spread her legs.

Igwe stared with delight at the slightly darkened nipple that still held a touch of pinkness, such a contrast to an African woman. He delighted in the sight, and the feel of that surprisingly firm orb, which as he had guessed did not sag. His head dropped, and Angel jerked beneath him as his greedy lips took that nipple into his mouth, then widened further to gorge on round white woman flesh.

Angel jerked as his hot mouth enclosed her nipple. His lips suckled, and then her drew her nipple deeper into his mouth and she felt his teeth nibbling on the sensitive tip. Her toes stretched as pleasurable sensations overwhelmed her breasts, radiating across her chest and sending tingling sensations down to her curling toes.