"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.
