Say Nothing

“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 about what he could get from an English youth, someone from the white farm owner’s family. But that was not my problem.

Gashirai, the gardener, who was nearly forty and experienced in this well before he had fucked me the first time, 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. Gashirai was standing between my spread thighs, at the front edge of the bench, his big brown hands clutching my waist, and his long cock lengthening and shortening as he moved it in and out of my bung hole. I clutched his hips tightly between my knees, signaling I wanted him right where he was, and rocked my pelvis against his penetration.

I looked down the sleek torso of my eighteen-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. I fisted my dick and bent it to the side, while slow stroking it, so that I could watch his brown cock lengthening and shortening inside my hole.

He had a lot of length to work with, but he was moving not more than four inches inside me at his greatest depth—we’d just begun—and a chill of pleasure went up my spine to be able to see his black bush and several 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.

“Give it all to me,” I whined, craving the sensation of being invaded to at least nine inches by a black man’s cock.

“In time,” he muttered, “All in good time.”

I heard a sound and looked beyond him, to the door of the potting shed. Papa, Thomas Whalen, 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.

“I will put it all in you, but we shall say nothing of this,” the gardener muttered again, not knowing Papa had seen us.

“No, I won’t,” I repeated. “Fuck me. Fuck me deep.”

Gashirai was a Shona tribesman, from a dominant tribe in the Midlands Province of Zimbabwe. He was tall for a Shona and muscular from his work in the fields, wiry from his advance in years. He was slim; 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 eighteenth birthday—I had begged him to do so, saying it could be my decision now—and he 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 female or male.

My being eighteen didn’t mean much to him, though. There was a time that he would be shot dead for screwing a white person, no matter their age or willingness. Thoughts of that died hard even though the actual practice in Zimbabwe had changed dramatically with independence.

But 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 us to stay and for us just to walk out of our businesses and homes, to abandon them for the Shona to take—like Gashirai was taking me now.

Papa and Mama would look the other way when Gashirai was fucking me not just because I wasn’t really of their blood but mostly because they were afraid of Gashirai, 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, tightened my knees on his hips harder, dug my heels into the wood of the bench under me to give me leverage to rock harder against his thrusts, and started stroking my dick harder. It would be only a matter of moments now before the pleasure washed over us both, each of us rushing toward 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 Whalens were among those. The family ran a modern dairy farm 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? I was the only one at the farm he was passing some skills in the technical processes to.

Gashirai and other black Zimbabweans on the farm were slowly learning most of Papa’s dairy business skills. It was only a matter of time before Papa wouldn’t be needed here any longer, but both he and Mama lived in the hope that that day would never come. They assumed that I felt the same. But they hadn’t given me any reason to. I was just a foster child. I was given no access to a higher education. I only was trained in how to run the dairy. But there had been no hint that I ever would gain an ownership share of the dairy. I was just as much a hired hand as Gashirai was, with the paltry recompense making us both virtual slaves. I just got to live in the main house and eat at the Whalens’ table.

I felt safe with Gashirai fucking me—I loved having a man’s cock inside me—because I’d overheard Papa and Mama talking one night. They thought Gashirai was a spy at the dairy for the police in Gweru. The police in Gweru, now fully Shona controlled and manned, ruled the province behind the scenes. They did what they 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 Mambo Tutani, 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. She wasn’t the smiling, joking woman she once had been.

It’s clear that Papa and Mama are afraid of Gashirai and of what he might say to the police in Gweru. That’s why, when I reached eighteen and couldn’t take the loneliness and lack of sexual connection with someone else anymore, I had come to him to penetrate me for the first time and let me ride the long cock I already knew he had. I felt safe letting him take his once-forbidden pleasure inside me. He could make my papa just turn away. Papa was afraid of him.

Not that Thomas Whalen is my real papa or Ruth Whalen my real mama. My parents died in a plane crash when I was four and the Whalens 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 Whalens’ real children were sent to boarding school in England. I wasn’t. At no time was a higher form of schooling or professional training beyond learning the dairy business offered to me. I was here, learning to grow up, with a black Shona man’s dick inside me.

My parents are terrified of General Tutani. 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.

He had already exchanged looks with Gashirai, and I intuitively knew that Gashirai had told him that he had fucked me and I had been willing for it. He called out to me before getting back into his sedan, asking if I wanted what he had shown to me. I didn’t answer because he didn’t stay to get an answer. Maybe the expression on my face answered for me, though.

Two weeks ago we took dairy cattle to the regional agricultural fair in Gweru. General Tutani 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. There might have been more; it would have been fine with me if there had been more.

I was in the toilet tent, pissing into a trough. I was the only one in there. I knew General Tutani was in the area, though. We had spied each other across the beaten earth square bordered by the game booths. We looked at each other for a moment and then I turned and walked to the toilet tent. I didn’t know that he would follow me, but he did.

General Tutani entered the tent. I saw two of his bodyguards—he also traveled with big, black bodyguards nearly as big as he was—posted at the tent door when he came in. When he saw me, he smiled and stood right next to me. The piss trough was a long metal one, but he 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. Gashirai 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. He slid his hand under it and palmed my dick and balls together. I was breathing heavily but I made no move to pull away from him. 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 just cupping mine. He had three fingers on its tip and was pushing the skin off the head of it. We both were aware of the drop of precum showing on my slit. “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, the chief policeman of this district, groan. His dick was fascinating. The huge mushroom head on it was purple. Gashirai’s was a pinkish color. And the dick itself was a jet black, not the chocolate brown of the rest of his skin. Gashirai’s dick was the same color as his skin. The shaft was the embodiment of power and strength. I rolled it around in my hand, testing the bulb for firmness. He too produced a big drop of precum.

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, and I know he was thinking of carrying me into one and fucking me right there. I would have gone with him without struggling. I had been going with Gashirai 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. I wanted to be dominated and have a taste of cruelty. I wanted to feel while I was being fucked. I knew the general would do that.

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. And who would I tell anyway? How would I tell it without revealing that I had wanted more from it?

“I will come for you when it pleases me to,” he muttered as he turned to leave the tent.

“Yes,” I agreed in a low voice.

That was two weeks ago, and I haven’t been able to forget about that gigantic dick of his.

But now, here, was Gashirai. Just thinking about the general and his big cock had me so that I tensed and jerked and spouted my seed up Gashirai’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 gasped as he bottomed and then again when he pulled back to where he must only have had the bulb buried, and then I cried out as he gave me all of it again—and then again and again.

I writhed in his embrace, until, with an 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 front porch of the house. She waved to me. Her voice was shaky. “There you are, Daniel. 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, Daniel. 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.

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

So I did. The sedans stopped in front of the house. General Mambo Tutani 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 Maphisa.

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. I did nothing to stop them. I just sat there submissively, knowing what they intended to do—wanting them to do it.

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

“He will lay right down for it, yes,” the general answered him. “Gashirai tells me the youth 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. The colonel was unbuttoning his. The colonel was lowering my head into his lap. The general was already penetrating me with his beefy finger.

Here we go.

“He is getting hard,” Colonel Maphisa said, his voice showing awe. “He is not struggling against us.”

“I told you so,” the general answered.

* * * *

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, eighteen-year-old chest. I groan as rough-padded fingers rub, and twitch, and pinch my tender nipples. Gashirai hasn’t worshipped and violated my body like this, in the cell at the Gweru police headquarters building the sedan had brought me to, before fucking me. No one ever has. I have been held in here more than most of a day, the general has entered the cell several times and fucked me, and I’ve already come more than once, making the general laugh. I am completely at his mercy. He has taken his time taking his pleasure with me.

I’ve always been the left-out child—the one off to the side assigned the chores the “real” sons and daughters didn’t want to do, craving but not getting attention. I was being given attention now. I was wanted now. I had value now. I was commanding emotion in others.

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. His hand is gliding down my lower belly, fingers running into my pubic hair, taking possession of me and stroking as he sucked.

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—and again. The man goes hard constantly.

“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 my 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—or perhaps further—whether I submitted or not. He has made clear that he owns me completely, and I do not doubt it. And he is having me fully, penetrating me repeatedly at both orifices with beefy fingers, tongue, and cock, and pumping his cum into me.

I suppose it’s supposed to mean something to me that he is a black African and I am a white European—Black Africa taking its revenge on long-oppressing and using white Europe. Africa fucking Europe. I suppose I should be feeling some heightened violation of my body, of my whole nation, that there are black hands on my white body and a black cock in my ass and my mouth and that he is dominating me, making me endure sexually whatever he and his minions want to do with my body, but all I feel is heightened arousal and pleasure at being so desired and used by raw power and strength.

I ease my back down on the bed, as he rises up above me, stretched out over me, hovering over me on knees and elbows. He tells me that he is going to take me again as if it is my first time—and his first time violating me—that I am to set my mind to that scenario—that a big-cocked black man is going to fuck a white youth and that there’s nothing the youth can do to prevent it.

And I conjure up his scenario, wanting the feeling of being taken for the first time, so when he fucks me this time, it is so much more of a taking for me than ever before. I am breathless as I watch giant black 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. This time slower, building up to the anticipation of greater intensity than ever before. His whispers of what he is going to do to me both arouses and frightens me to the quick. I whimper for him as he teases my legs open, knowing what he intends. 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. Defenseless to my desire and lusts. Free Zimbabwe fucking the European colonialists.”

The hulking, bullet-headed, muscular soldier 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 him away. I know he can ruin me, rip me apart, shred me. He has hinted as much in his steamy, crude whispers. The defensive instinct is quickly replaced by 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.

“I will,” he answers, “And there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. Concentrate on that. I will have you however I want you, and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it.”

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 down 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, white boy,” he growls.

The muscle-bound milk chocolate general, with his jet-black monster cock and plump balls, stands between my spread legs, his massive chest and arm muscles bulge, undulate, and glisten in the strobing of light through the languidly moving blades of the overhead fan. With a big grin on his square-cut face, he captures and places my hands so I feel the awesome length and thickness and the bulbous, purple-black cap and popped-out blue-on-black veins of his hardened cock in my trembling hands.

My arms are extended down, my hands wrapped around his cock. My fearful fingers take the measure of the beast, all the more imposing in its blackness against his otherwise milk chocolate. while he tells me quite clearly and graphically—and breathtakingly—what he is going to do with all that manhood and how much pleasure he is going to get out of me and expects me to get out of his cock—to the point of making me tremble in anticipation and having the added pleasure that, out of all those he could pick to fuck this day, he is here with me.

“Gonna put this big black snake in that little hole of yours again, English boy. Think you can take it one more time? It doesn’t matter what you think. You will be taking it. Are you going to scream when I stick it in like you did the first time, in the car? Yes, you’re going to scream. I’m going to ream that hole of yours, English boy. I’m going to put my name on it.”

I go up on my elbows, panting hard, my legs splayed up and out, my ankles held in his big hands, and watch him first rotate that purple-black cap around and just inside the rim, entirely with the control he has over his hips and his hardened cock—no help with his hands. I am seeing it enter me for the first time. He has fucked me several times before this, but this is the first time he’s letting me see the thickness of him spreading my hole as he pushes inside it. The sight of that makes me want to both swoon and come. And then slowly, almost magically, he penetrates me, making the pillar of power and strengthen follow its bulbous head and disappear inside me, me arching my back, trying to stretch to accommodate him and involuntarily giving him deep moans and groans of being stuffed.

He’s all in and I’ve taken it, the slow deep penetration. But then he laughs, withdraws it all the way, and then rams it home again, deep. I cry out, going into spasms in his loosely encasing arms. My head arches back and my eyes roll back in my head. He withdraws again and thrusts hard and deep again. And again. He is fucking me now in long, hard thrusts.

In his mind he isn’t fucking me; he’s fucking England.

“No, no; yes, yes, y-e-s. It’s too big!” It’s the size I’ve always dreamed of. “It’s splitting me!” It’s stretching and filling me to perfection. “I can’t take this!” I can’t get enough of this. “Yesssssss! FUCK ME!”

And he does—royally. Fucking England.

The general brings his mouth down to my nipples as he plows me, sucking and biting me there. My mind races, imagining I can feel the veins sliding against my ass walls as the cock journeys in to the quick. And then he stands up from me and repeatedly pulls his glistening jet-black cock out slowly to where I can again see the rim of the purple-black cap, and glides it back in to the root until he loses control and starts pumping me wildly, showing that he is panting for me—at the height of his passion, dipping his mouth to mine and brutalizing my lips with his. His hands grab my hips, moving my pelvis with his thrusts. He cries out. I lay back, every fiber of my being concentrating on the purple-headed massive black cock buried deep inside me, overwhelming me with feeling, taking me to heaven once again, as he has done before, as it pumps and pumps his warm cum into the core of me. Again the flood inside me, oozing out of me, bathing those black balls.

I have . . . never . . . felt more complete, never been this close to heaven.

All of that throbbing inside me, hard for me, wanting to be inside me, and filling me repeatedly—followed by my insides being creamed yet again with his semen and him holding for a few minutes, masterful, virile, powerful, nasty, cruel, quick loading. and then doing it all again. And my being able to take it, each time more slippery than the last because of the accumulation and mingling of juices—and then turning me on his cock until he is close in behind me, capable of going even deeper inside me, and then fucking me again, holding my wrists with his hands, dominating me. Him shooting off every fifteen minutes or so for what seems like forever—me climaxing repeatedly, encasing that jet-black hunk of licorice and being encased by that milk chocolate rippling network of perfect muscle.

I lay back on the bed in the small room with bars on the windows and a strong steel door, panting and moaning, slowly recovering.

He had said at one point that I would never be the same after I had left this room. It was the general who left the room and I stayed, the windows barred and the door locked. But, even so, I knew I would never be the same from this time forward. He had FUCKED me. He was a primitive black man, in many ways gross and cruel, too old for me, overwhelming and demanding. He had used me brutally, caring only for his own pleasure. He had taken me totally. He had fucked England. But he had made me FEEL. He hadn’t really taken me unwillingly, though. I wanted it. I had been FUCKED. He had been deep inside me, fusing with me with that purple-headed black cock.

The door opened and Colonel Maphisa, naked, came in. Behind him the policemen named Chumn and Hundo, also naked. The colonel grabbed my ankles, flipped me on my belly, and pulled me down to the foot of the bed. He mounted my buttocks, leaning over me and holding me to the bed by gripping my upper arms with his fists. He was strong, he was jet black, he was hung. He slid right in. I hadn’t closed from the general being in me, and none of these men was thicker than the general was. The colonel started to pump me.

He too fucked England.

Standing behind him, patiently waiting their turn, playing with the hard cocks, the jailers, Chumn and Hundo. They too will fuck England.

The night of the fuck continued.

* * * *

Two days later the colonel delivered me back to the dairy farm outside Gweru. Both Papa and Mama were standing on the porch as the black sedan stopped out on the road, Mama with a broom in her hands. The broom is noticeably shaking. Both looked defeated and a bit guilty. Mama turned and slipped back into the house. Papa stood there, watching. Gashirai was standing next to the potting shed, also watching.

As I got out of the car, Colonel Maphisa whispered, “Say nothing of this.”

I nodded, but I wanted to scream, What of this does everyone not know and understand already? It was quite simple as far as I could see. The whites in Zimbabwe were now receiving the bill for the sins they and their ancestors had committed here—and the blacks in charge of the country now buggered whoever they pleased. And if they pleased to fuck young white men, they did so.

Later that night, I heard Papa and Mama talking downstairs at the dining room table. They were going over papers.

“The offers aren’t enough,” I heard Papa say. “It’s not enough to start all over again in England.”

“Daniel . . .” Mama said, “. . . we can’t just—”

“A little more time. If this dalliance of the general’s can just give us a little more time, we’ll manage.”

“We can’t . . . it’s not right,” she said. Then their voices got too quiet for me to hear. Suddenly, Mama burst out, “What do you know about it? It hasn’t happened to you,” and she started stomping up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Papa called after her, “We agreed to say nothing of this.” I turned to the wall and put a pillow over my head.

For days the two moved about me silently, with a sadness in their eyes and very solicitous of my comfort, obviously remorseful for having used me to prolong their life in Zimbabwe but equally intent on continuing to use me. They weren’t really my parents. I still wasn’t their son. I was a commodity, something to let be used to enhance their position. I could be sacrificed for their needs. This underscored that. But I never had considered them my parents. I never had “felt” part of them or part of their family. I think that’s why I seduced Gashirai into fucking me even though I was only eighteen. Eighteen years is a long time to go without feeling.

I wanted to feel at the core of me. The most intimate way of achieving that, I reasoned in my eighteen-year-old mind, was to have someone else at the core of me, throbbing there, making me feel their possessing presence. Gashirai had a long cock. I wanted to feel another human being at my core. It didn’t take much seduction, certainly—it seems to be the dream of every black Zimbabwean to fuck a blond European girl or youth, as the Europeans had fucked over the black Zimbabweans for decades. With Gashirai, it was easy enough to give myself to him and to take his cock from him. He had an extraordinarily long cock. It could reach deeper into me than any other man I surveyed as soon as I obsesses with using a man’s cock to fuse with another human being—to feel—any other man, that was, until I had been fully taken by General Tutani. Gashirai, my first, did make me feel. But, no, he didn’t take advantage of me, although that’s how he wanted to see me. I gave myself to him—gladly, willingly. General Tutani made me dance on the clouds.

General Tutani made me feel.

Gashirai had been liberating. But then along came the general, with his magnificent black cock with the purple head—and his roughness and directness, his power and virility. His vitality. When he snatched me from the farm, took me to a prison cell, and filled me to the stretch with that black, purple-headed cock, penetrating me to the depth and breeding me again and again and again, he wasn’t just using me. He wasn’t just fucking England. I was feeding off him. It was almost a religious experience for me. I was fused with another human being who was deep inside me—making me feel. So, I was using him too. The Whalens used me by giving me to the general, but in so doing they gave me what I had been seeking for my eighteen years and not gotten from them.

I was lost to the general and that black, purple-headed shaft inside me. I could lie under him forever, pinned to the ground by that cock, feeding on the wave and wave of the feeling it gave me.

Four days later Gashirai and I were in the potting shed. He was leaning against the bench, and I was perched in his lap, skewered on his cock, my legs wrapped around his waist, my fists locked behind his neck. He had just shot his load inside me and was stroking my buttocks with his fingers. He was giving me a good fuck, but now that I had experienced the overwhelming, total taking brutality of General Tutani . . .

“I hear them—the cars,” Gashirai said, pulling out of me. “Get dressed and come out to the road.”

“The cars?” I said. “You’ve been listening for them? You knew they would come again.”

“Yes,” he said. “I knew that you have pleased the general and he would want you again.”

No apology. I didn’t need one. I had no apology to give either on wanting to push that black foreskin off the general’s purple cock head and pull it into the inner core of me to throb and release its seed deep inside me—to make me “feel” and to use his raw lust for my own needs as he wanted to use me.

We dressed quickly and went to the pottery shed door. The two black sedans were nearly here. Mama and Papa were in the house, watching. I knew that because I could see them hiding behind the drapes in the windows of separate rooms. This had driven some sort of wedge between them. They were willing to use me, but they were not unified in how willing they were.

“Go out on the road,” Gashirai said. “Don’t make them wait for you.”

I started walking to the road, to where the cars would stop, to where the general or the colonel or one of the two big black jailers would extend a hand and say, “Come.”

That’s what it was all about—coming. That’s what it was about for me too—a big black, purple-headed dick churning inside me and then coming and pulling cum out of me too. I didn’t hesitate in getting in the car. The general himself had come for me. He laid back in the seat of the car, as the sedan went into motion, and sighed as I unbuttoned him, pulled him out, pushed the black foreskin down off the purple head of his mammoth cock, positioned the head at my hole, and sank down, down, down on the staff of feeling the fusion with another human being—a master.