The scream broke the tranquillity of the warm, hazy afternoon.

That the scream was cut off by a horrid, choking, gurgling noise terrified all who heard it.

The afternoon had been calm, unhurried, as the farm workers went about their usual daily routine. Birds sang. A light breeze eased the heat of the sun. There was little humidity in the air. Tall maize, and sunflower, swayed to that slight breeze.

It was from the sunflowers that they had come, inappropriate as that seemed. One moment there had been only flowers swaying, next the thugs had emerged. 'Thugs' was certainly more appropriate name than war veterans. Few looked old enough to even remember the Independence struggle.

They had no difficulty creating terror. They were brutal and savage. Setting about without a word spoken with machetes, clubs, and knives. They had guns, but refrained from using them. They had no wish to alert farmers further away by the sound of gunfire.

Their targets were the African workers. Those in the farmhouse were for later. That the farm workers were African meant little to these thugs. They worked for a white farming family, and that made them traitors to their own kind as far as these brutes were concerned.

It took only ten minutes of brutality and violence to subdue the farm workers.

Inside the house Bob Clarke and his wife held each other close. They were armed but had not intervened. The farmer's organisation had been adamant on a non-violent response. Fearing that a white reaction would only allow the rogue government the excuse for even worse abuses.

Their children and guests were already hidden around the farmhouse.

During the Independence struggle most white owned farmhouses had built in hidey holes to hide the family and valuable possessions. With the recent upsurge in violence most farmers had stocked and cleaned up these bolt holes left over from the war. Hopefully these thugs would accept their presence and not look further.

The door crashed open. Booted in by hard men with hard boots. They swarmed inside with fierce faces. Dark faces, with a variety of emotions, from exultation to fear. Faces maddened by gangi, alcohol and the heady victory of their unopposed violent seizure of this farm.

Bob Clarke give his terrified wife a reassuring hug as the black thugs swarmed in side. They watched as a lifetimes precious memories were smashed and sent crashing to the floor. Cursing, laughing, threatening men surged around them deeper into the house.

Threatening, gesticulating and yelling at the white couple. Daring them to respond or defy them. Another African entered the house. He was clearly a leader. Though even he seemed wary of the madness among his men.

'You!' He yelled, pointing to the couple.

'What are you doing on my farm!'

'But this is my farm!' Bob protested. His reward was a heavy blow that felled him. Victoria shrieked and dropped to her knees beside her prone husband.

'Wrong, you white bastard! This is my farm. This has always been my farm. You stole it from my family. Now I demand it back.'

'But I bought it from the government nineteen years ago!' Bob cringed from another threatened blow. Victoria sought to shield her husband. The Africans laughed.

'Government! What government. This country has no government! Not anymore. Besides how could a government sell to you what is already mine! This land has been in my family for generations. You and your kind stole it!'

His glare was fierce. Bob could see the madness in those eyes. The hatred. Even his own men shrank back in wariness from their leader's anger when aroused.

'I worked this land.'

Bob's voice was low, determined and adamant. The Africans watched their leader. 'I planted this land and nurtured it. Converted it from bush. Irrigated it. I invested, in machinery, in plant, in people. My workers depend on me. I have made this land what it is today.'

'What this land is today... is mine! Those workers helped you steal my land. They helped you steal the crops and the profits that should have been mine! They must be punished. They will be punished.'

Even as he said this there was more commotion outside. Fierce yelling between the Africans, sounds of argument and dispute. It ended in violence. Even inside the farmhouse they could hear the sickening blow of a machete on human tissue. More screams broke out, and running, of many people running. The horror was compounded by gleeful laughter and wild shrieks of joy as evil enveloped the farm. A drift of smoke came through the window. Its acrid smell evidence of the disaster unfolding outside.

Bob struggled to his feet. The Africans spread out searching the farmhouse. The couple could hear glass breaking the tearing sound of wood. Tears rolled down Victoria's cheeks. Bob stared defiantly at the leader of the thugs.

'Who else is here?'

'No one.'

Bob's words were defiant. Sounds of destruction filled the air from both inside the farmhouse and the surrounding lands. There was an armed police presence just down the road, but he knew better than to expect any help from that quarter.

The African grinned at Bob. He knew full well there were others here. His reports had been clear on that though who the visitors were he did not know. His men would search the farm and surrounding land very thoroughly.

He picked up a picture from the floor. One that had been swept from the nearby dressor. He studied the picture. He looked at Bob, and studied the picture further.

'Then who are these Bob?' He gestured the photograph of Bob and Victoria, together with their children. Louise, Robert Jnr, and Samantha.

'They are our children.' To the thug's unspoken question Bob added that they were at school. The African grinned.

'Even I know it is half term Bob.' Bob was caught off guard, flustered and in pain he struggled for an answer.

'They are on a school half term project in Nyanga.'

The African grinned and looked again at the picture.

'I hope you are not lying to me Bob.'

Bob felt a cold quiver of horror and fear creep down his spine.

The African looked carefully at the picture trying to estimate their ages. One of the girl's was clearly the eldest. She looked to be in her older teenage years. He wondered how long ago the photograph had been taken. Her hair was dark and wavy. The boy was probably younger there was a strange look in his eye. The other girl was clearly younger, the tomboy of the group, with a mischievous grin in her eyes. Yes she looked very pretty too. Even the boy had a prettiness about him. The African chose the word with care, prettiness rather than handsome. He wondered, and looked at Bob and Victoria.

A wild shrieking whoop erupted from deeper inside the villa. More whoops as other Africans joined the first.

'No, please no... ' a girl's voice pleaded. Bob's heart sank at the sound of his eldest daughter's shrieking protest.

'I do hope you were not lying to me Bob.' The thug repeated looking at Bob. There was little mistaking the threat within that glance.

The sound of many feet thudding on carpeted floor coming closer. Africans bustled into the room carrying a struggling young, dark, haired girl, her feet no longer touching the ground.

'Look what we found!'

The Africans shrieked with laughter and pleasure, dumping the girl in a sprawl at his feet. The leader looked at the picture, then looked at the girl and back at the picture.

'I think you lied to me Bob.'

He nodded to his men and a rain of blows descended on Bob. Who slumped to the ground under the blows.

'Dad!' Screamed the girl at his feet. She moved to go to her father, but a strong hand grasped her wavy dark hair and with a cruel jerk pulled her to her feet. Louise had the sense not to struggle.

'Please, please don't hurt him, ' Louise pleaded.

Her mother stood there shocked, silent, disbelieving that her sheltered stable world had collapsed in shattering terror. The African leader's gaze was fixed on the girl. Her flushed excited face and her bouncing, quivering breasts bouncing with passion and anger inside her blouse. So full and firm they looked as she wriggled in her captor's grasp. She was lovely, fresh faced and seemingly refreshingly innocent. Though he doubted that any such soft, white beauty could be innocent after growing up in Africa. Her soft body pushed against his own as she strained to see her father.

He was hard. Instantly achingly hard! He would make her father watch. The sudden thought made him laugh. All in the room fell silent at his laugh. Bob struggled to his feet.

'Please release my daughter. She has done you no harm... Sir.' The latter word was grudgingly forced out, and the African leader laughed aloud at the sudden change in the Bob's attitude.

'Continue searching the house.' He ordered his men, before turning back to Bob. His hand in the lush dark hair of Louise he forced the girl to stand on her toes off balance.

'What have we here then Bob?'

'Please, Sir. Let her go. She is my daughter.'

'Born and bred on this farm?' He asked. Bob nodded. Disturbed and confused by the manner of the Africans question. Bob and Victoria watched appalled as his hand came up and cupped one of their daughter's full breasts. He grinned at them and squeezed. The girls eyes widened at the rough groping of her breast. She was indeed innocent. As a regular churchgoer she had not even allowed any of her eager suitors to touch her breasts. Now this dangerous African was openly groping her full breasts in front of her parents. She flushed in shame. Bob held back Victoria who seethed in his grip.

'It seems to me that this girl is no more than another crop harvested and fattened, ' at this point he give her breast another squeeze, 'on land of my fathers.'

'What do you mean? Unhand my daughter! You can't treat us like this.'

'Oh, but I can.' Casually his hand wandered to the girl's other breast and began caressing that large, full mound. Louise struggled to control the fear, to suppress the strange excitement she felt at being in this African's power and being so confidently fondled. Her breasts were tingling, despite her shame and embarrassment.

'You have farmed the land stolen so long ago to know what I mean. You plant sunflower seeds, but to get then best price you must convert them to oil. You grow barley, but get a better price if you make beer. So also this girl will also be a good cash crop.'

Her parents looked at him appalled.

'First, of course, she will need to be processed... ' His men were just as confused as her parents. 'Just like the sunflower and the barley she will need to be... processed-I like that word.' He looked over Louise with a greedy, rapacious, lusting grin.

He pushed the girl into the arms of one of his men.

'Take her upstairs and prepare her for processing.' Suddenly the confused thugs face lit up.

'No!!!' Victoria screamed, broke free from Bob, and hurled herself on the African leader. He had been expecting this reaction and easily held her off. With a quick push he hurled her back into the arms of one his men.

'Take her outside and give her a good fuck!'

'No... please don't do this.' Now it was Bob who was wailing.

' I do so find that a length of black cock can be so calming when placed inside a well brought up white woman.'

The words were said with a mocking imitation of the British upper classes, a struggling Victoria was carried outside by several grinning African men.

'Come Bob, I'm sure as a farmer you will be curious to see how we process a pretty white girl like your daughter.' Bob was pushed from behind, even as his shocked daughter was hauled up the stairs.

'Keep searching the farmhouse.' Bob ordered his distracted and curious men.

Bob's arms had been tied tightly behind his back. He was roughhoused up the stairs. The hard slap of a black hand on the soft roundness of his daughter's bottom brought yelps from his daughter, and laughter from the African men. The protests of Louise brought only further slaps, yelps and laughter. Bob sought to protest only to be forced to his knees on the stairs and beaten again. His daughter pleaded with them for mercy, but there was little mercy in these rogues who had seen an opportunity for profit and fun and were determined to take what they could.

It was embarrassing for Bob to hear his daughter plead on his behalf. Always he had sought to protect his family from the dangers of Africa.

He had failed and now his family would pay the price.

Bob was pushed roughly into his bedroom. Like all white owned properties in Africa the room was wide and spacious, more than capable of allowing the crowd of Africans to take their comfort.

Louise was held protesting face down over the lap of the leader of the thugs. That thug looked up at Bob as he was bundled into the room and forced to his knees. He smiled at Bob as his hand caressed and then slapped the rounded curve of his daughter's derriere. Louise yelped and wriggled. The wriggles forced her large full breasts to rub over the African's spread thigh.

Bob kept calm. It was important not to let the bastards know they were getting to him. The African nodded and his friends forced Bob into a chair and bound him quickly. A loud slap resounded through the room and Louise screamed. Bob struggled with his captors to no avail, another slap and another shriek from Louise.

Louise had never been handled so. She was used to being the queen bee. Her father and mother had always pampered her. Her father's workers had treated her with deference and respect.

This brute was nothing like any man she had known.

His large black hand slapped hard on her soft bottom. She yelped and squealed.

Slap.

She sought an inner calm.

Slap.

She cried, tears streamed down her face.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

A large hand grasped her breast and she shrieked again, to laughter throughout the room. His other hand ceased the punishing and instead darted between her legs and cupped her vulva.