This work is copyrighted to the author © 2018.  Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story.  All rights reserved.

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Note:  I’ve never been to Botswana and know diddlysquat about the place.  So don’t blame me if the facts don’t jive - Peace, brothers.

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WARNING:  This story deals with aberrant sex practices. Some sex is consensual, some not.  I don't condone it.  I'm not advocating it.  I may or may not even like it.  It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.

Before you read it, please note the following:

   * If you are under eighteen, do not read this story!

   * If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!

   * If it's illegal in your jurisdiction to read nonconsensual sex stories, don't read this story!

Support Nifty: If you can afford to cough up a few bucks, the good folks who make this all happen would be much obliged.

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Sunrise Over Botswana

An Erotic Horror Story

By

Hunsi

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Chapter I: The Mobutu Office Complex, Gaborone, Botswana

"... And you, Caitlyn, have you an opinion on the matter?” Okar Mbanefo, her employer, tried in vein to solicit a response from his young office assistance regarding the change in office policy.

Of course, just as Okar had expected, she hadn’t a reply. The truth is, she seldom did whether in agreement of not. It simply wasn’t within the soft-spoken Irish import and mother of one to do other than remain a shadowy silhouette in the background and conform to the opinions of others.

"Well, okay then, we'll leave it there and get back to work," he said as he brought the office meeting to a close.

After closing his briefing book, he leaned back in his chair for a moment and watched as young Caitlyn Flynn gathered up her things. The Trinity College graduate in African studies was as sharp a tack as any of the other foreign hires he had recruited since Pan-Africana Enterprises went worldwide. Yet whenever he looked at her all he could see was the meek, self-effacing young woman that truly lie beneath.

The truth be told, there wasn't an once of Pluck to be found in the mousy Irish little red-head. Once more, given her unassuming, almost child-like disposition, it wasn't hard to tell why Okar would be so quick to come to the defense of his bright, though thoroughly ineffectual office assistance whether she sought it out or not.

"Ms Flynn, have you a moment?"

"Is there a problem, Mr. Mbanefo?" She asked, then waited for him to refasten the shirt buttons that had popped free when rising up out of his chair. For those who knew him, having to wait for him to gather himself up before speaking was just a matter of course.

A rotund, hulk of a man, Okar Mbanefo was nothing less than a 6 foot 4 black bowling ball on legs. His largeness being such that even the double XL slacks, white shirt and tie looked boyishly diminutive wrapped around his torso.

He was an imposing figure too be sure. Though by measure, he wasn’t all that dissimilar from the rest of the black male populous, a majority of whom were far more robust than their European counterparts.

They had significantly larger libidos as well, something that our meek and retiring young Irish import had to learn to accommodate. As did her son, Aden. That is if he wished to make anything of himself in Botswana- a black rule country and indisputably one of the most unyielding, especially when it came to the status of whites. A group they saw as a sub-species, not unlike that of the family pet.

"No, no problem, Caitlyn,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that resonated throughout the room. “It’s just that you look as if you've much on your mind."

"Yes, Sir." she replied, with a voice that tailed off into a whisper.

"Young Aden is it?" he asked, and she, to wit, acknowledged with a nod.

"Let me guess. It has something to do with his upcoming change of schools. Aden’s big leap to secondary," he followed, again feeling at liberty to impose himself into a very private, personal space, something she seldom to never invited. But with the burden of her worry weighting heavily on her, she felt herself needing to do so now.

And why not? At his core, Mr. Mbanefo had a good heart. Plus, he was a deftly perceptive man, and in this case, his thumbnail analysis of what was worrying her couldn't have been more on the mark.

Initially, the difficulties inherent in making the transition between the two radically different cultures seemed a bridge too far for her to cross. For her, it was having to adjust to the cultural bias in a male-centric workplace. For her son, it was the difficulties inherent in going from the traditional Irish prep-school to the Baptiste du Pre Academy where the pod system was employed.

Clearly, that was the kind of change that should have put the kibosh on her accepting Pan-Africana Enterprises offer to join them right from the start. And if not for the money, and the much needed multicultural work experience the job offered, she most certainly would have thought long and hard before putting so much on her son.

But, for whatever reason she didn’t, and indeed, Aden put up quite a fuss after that first day of school.

Though fortunately, nothing is truly fixed in place for the young, and given their natural malleability, adjustments and accommodations do come about. Some quickly, some not, and in Aden’s case, it took but the time to complete that second day at school.

To say she was surprised to find him at home the following day all smiles would be putting it lightly. To be true, she had visions of far worse, as in throwing things about, especially when he learned that teaching cultural diversity wasn’t exactly high on the agenda at Baptiste du Pre Academy, whereas black rule was.

In fact, it was very high on the agenda, with each class beginning with a pledge to the Botswana flag and a reading from a book of Baptiste du Pre’s writings that preached the superiority of the Negroid race in both governing and in social structure.

Caitlyn knew that before hand, of course, and when asked, she was quick to tell all concerned that she agreed with the concept wholeheartedly. After all, in Africa, in a black rule country, the majority believe black rule has been long in coming, and wanted their sons be to taught that it is theirs to rule the roost, and for whites to serve them.

Now, there’s one to digest, and making the swallow all the more difficult was the small matter of the uniform he was required to wear. Called the podboy whites, the white shorts and top were nothing less than a visual mark of their separation, and meant to be that way. Just as the smart combat Khaki’s fatigues, boots and beret worn by the native Botswana boys were meant to mark their separation from the crowd as well. Only contrary to the message sent by the podboy’s wear, the message they conveyed was one of one of dominance, power & control.

At the very least, having to wear them was enough to make any red-blooded Irish boy's heart to go arrhythmic. But again, not so her son. He didn't even seem to mind at all having to wash his whites nightly in the sink by hand, then hang them up to dry alongside his mother’s delicates as detailed in the written instructions.

Of course, she found the whole separate but unequal treatment of the boys discomforting to say the least. But as Aden took to it simply as a matter of course, she said not. And, as his happiness was all that truly mattered, she just left the matter be. Never once asking herself why he’d ever want to go back to school and put himself through all that, rather than just hide away beneath the bed.

A question that even now she found herself puzzling over, as her boss, Okar Mbanefo, was trying as he might to be of help to her.

“Ah, yes, I thought so. Your thoughts are an array of concern regarding your son, Aden,” Mr. Mbanefo's voice cut through her thoughts, lifting her out of her malaise. "New school, new pod, bigger boys and all the more expected of him. All going to give you reason enough to worry I suppose. "

"Yes sir," she nodded.

"Well, if it helps I think you're concerns are a bit misplaced. From what I've heard he's doing quite well with his mates thus far. He's a real pleaser I’m told, and all the boys love him.”

“Yes, Sir, I know, sir, but if you’ll pardon me, sometimes it all just seems so, so . . . oh, I don’t know, she said, to voice tailing off, faint as a whisper.

“Please sir, I rather not say,” she then dare venture.”

“Hum, well than, allow me to guess. Given the flush on your face, I think it safe to say it has something to do with all the touchy-feely you see going on between them, correct, Caitlyn?”

“It’s certainly a big step away from all that punching and fighting and rough necking you see going on in those competitive battlegrounds you westerners call a learning institution.”

“Yes, sir, that’s true. There’s no combat, no seeking the competitive edge here, but then too, it all just seems so, so, so . . .” she said, then left to linger.

“So, so, What?” he prodded. “So contrary? So different? Or, perhaps it is something you fear that might call into question matters of sexual preference?” He was quick to follow, wanting to put the unspoken out there. And for once, our meek and self-effacing young Irish import steeled herself to look up into his eyes. Something that for a woman in the Botswana workplace was simply unheard of, much less tolerated.

“Madam, please!” he said, sternly, his eyes furrowed down deeply. “I can absolutely assure you, there are no homosexuals in his school! None! Homosexuality is a deviate abnormality, an affliction found only in white culture, in white boys alone!!”

“What you are seeing, and obviously misinterpreting, is his pod-mates efforts to bridge the racial disparities, and to impart in him the skills he’ll need to serve his future employers. Primarily openness and resilience, just the kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.”

“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t mean sound so ungrateful. I just want the best for him.”

“I know, and I do understand your worry, Caitlyn. The bigger boys will take some time to adjust to, no question there. But on the other hand, think of it as a savings. Why, you needed worry about patching him back up when he comes home all black-and-blue from the bullying. They’re going to be treating your Aden boy quite kindly, and much to his liking, their going to be giving him every bit of what they have to give.”

“Thank goodness for small favors, huh, Ms. Flynn,” he chuckled as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Now, come-come, wipe the frown of your face and give me a big smile.”

“That’s my girl,” he cheerfully embraced her feeble attempt to look pleased. “Just remember, Caitlyn, nothing hurts more than not having a mother’s full support, and reassurance when he comes home tired and worn, and quite frankly, all fagged out!”

Chap 2

Caitlyn Flynn’s residence was located on a hillside street just a short 5 minute cab ride from the Mobutu Office Complex where she worked. It was just a small 2 bedroom home, but what it lacked in living space, it made up for with a terrace that ran the length of the house. It was an amenity that not only provided a place to lounge, but also provided her an out-of-the-way place to sit when Aden and his pod-mates played their rowdy, butt slapping games inside.

After work that day, she was outside enjoying the late afternoon breeze when she saw Aden and Tayo Mpule hand in hand making their way up the hillside steps and onto the terrace.

The handholding, even as unsettling as it was to her, was just one in a number of things that kept her awake at night. Her son was the outsider after all, and as such would be the first to be hurt if anything went wrong.

Still in all, not all was doom and gloom. Though slim as a twig and malleable to a degree, she was at least comforted by the fact that her son, Aden, was taller and older than Tayo, and thus, making it less likely he’d suffer an unwanted advance on his person. It also helped to temper her response to the handholding, as well as the sight of Tayo’s other hand resting on her son’s ass when coming to a stop before her.

“Hiya, mums,” Tayo said, then beamed a smile bright as the mid-day sky while slipping his hand inside the elastic waistband of Aden’s shorts.

It was truly an assault of her sensibilities made all the worst when he began squeezing her son’s ass as he would a horn on a bike, and all the while showing nothing but his casual indifference, as if it was all but a matter of course. And he made quit a show of it too, beaming as would a cat with a mouth full of canary, and until only grudgingly pulled out his hand when Caitlyn rose up from her chair to give her son a hug.

Which she did, and as any mother would, she threw one arm around his waist and the other upon his bottom to draw him in close. It was only then that she found his backside wet, and was about to ask him about it when she heard the rest of his pod-mates bounding up the steps.

“Hey, Mons, sorry we be late,” said young Jimo Obasi while the other 6 of his chums nodded in unison.

“Yous, see, after school we went to Jimo’s house for a sweet treat. But only cuz Aden boy said he was hungry and couldn’t wait to dig in,” he said with a smile, while his pod mates tittered.

“Shush,” he told his mates before continuing on with his dialogue. “Well anyway, after he was done eating his custard pudding . . .” he stopped mid-sentence, thrown off as he was by the eruption of giggles behind.

“Quiet, bean heads,” he again turned to scolded his chums, wanting to stop them from giving away the store.

“Sorry, mom, but as I was saying, once Aden-boy finished eating his treat we saw that he’d leaked some on his pants and had to clean up the mess. Only when he put his pants back on we saw that some of it was still leaking out. And when Jimo’s mom saw it she got mad. Mostly at Aden boy, cuz she said it weren’t our fault cuz we’re boys, doing what boys are supposed to do. But with white boys things are different and Aden-boy should of known better. Especially when wearing his white Linen shorts, cuz they don’t soak up much and it just drips right down onto the floor.”

“So she spanked him and wiped his butt clean with her hankie,” he said, then concluded his detailed account of their little escapade with a huge grin while holding up a gooey, soggy, soaked hankie he had pulled out from his back pocket.

“Jimo’s mom said that since it was your sloppy boy who ruined her hankie, you got to replace it with one of your own. That way if he’s leaking all over the place again tomorrow, it’ll be your hanky that ends up all messy and smelly not hers.”

Some minutes later, after the departure of his pod-mates, not much more was said between Caitlyn and Aden. That is, until a bit later that night when hand-washing their delicates in the sink she stopped to ask her son a question. “Are you happy, Aden, my sweet?”

“Yes, mom, I like my friends and they like me. They’re not at all like those bullies back home who just wanted to push me around and call me names just cuz I wasn’t muscly like them. Here the boys like me the way I am. And that makes me happy, and wanting to please them as much as they please me.”

The following day . . .

Having been called into Okar Mbanefo office, Caitlyn Flynn sat before his desk listening in on the call between himself and Theodore Effong, the dean of Baptiste du Pre Academy. It was a call Okar had initiated on her behalf to help ease any lingering fears she still might have regarding the touchy-feely things she had seen, and feared it might be homosexual in nature.

“Yes, Theo, I absolutely reassured her that there no homosexuals either at Baptiste du Pre Academy, or anywhere outside those white homo-centric societies with which she is familiar.”

“Well, that’s why I called, Theodore. I’m not entirely certain. She sounds appeased, but hearing it from another certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes, yes, I agree. Sending the lad over in advance might help smooth out some of the ruffles can only help to reassure. Maybe even get it across to her that what she is seeing isn’t homosexual at all. That it’s simply his pod-mates chosen teaching method. A sort of performance art if you will, a technique used to get him to hang loose and open, with or without the amyl, yet still show the kind of tough-boy resilience to bounce back and ask, “Please sir, can I have another!”

“What’s that? Samuel Akombe? Oh yes, good choice.”

“Yes, yes, Theo, just tell Samuel the lad looks a peach. Blue eyes, curly red hair, a freckled nose, and lips as lush and full as those of a lady that are not meant for talking.”

“Yes, I know, Theo, me either. I can wait to saddle up. Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. Bye, Theo.”

“Well, I have some great new for you Ms. Flynn,” he said upon hanging up the phone. “Dean Effong is going to send over Samuel Akombe to meet with Aden-boy to help settle him before school starts. Samuel is the designate top of the Black Panthers pod. He's smart, the best Striker in the league, and a real come-to-life statue of David who could charm a father-confessor into spreading his cheeks. You can’t do better than that!”

The next morning, Caitlyn rose early to make potato cakes for Aden's breakfast. He simply loved them, and being that it was a Saturday morning, she thought to top off the treat by allowing him to sleep in. Walking into the kitchen, she opened the upper half of the Dutch-Door, then took a moment to lean out and breathe in the crisp cool morning breeze before turning back to put on her apron and gather the ingredients to make the morning meal.

It was at that moment she heard a tapping upon the door. Turning around, she saw the most strikingly beautiful boy leaning in through the open Dutch door window. In his hand a Sunflower bouquet, and rising from his lips, the words of a poet.

“My flower she blossom purest white,

She mark’d with eye that beam’d delight,

its leaves she kiss’d, and straight it drew,

from beauty’s lip the vennil hue.”

Yeats, W. B., & Finneran, R. J. (1989). The collected poems of W.B. Yeats. New York: Collier Books.

Caitlyn stood breathless, spellbound, disbelieving her ears. And all this coming from a boy, black as obsidian, but with a face of a man fit to grace the Hollywood screen. An idyllic face that topped a sleek, angular frame that called to mind the image of a Kalahari Bushmen running through the grasslands with spear in hand hunting down his prey.

“Oh my, that was spoken so eloquently.” Where in the world did you . . .”

“. . . Where did I learn that?” the boy finished the thought for her. “At school, moms, Baptiste du Pre Academy. I read my Yates,” he replied while beaming a smile that went on forever. “And I agree with professor Olgues. You Irish do have a love for words.”

“Oh my,” she swoons. Did you say you were from the Academy? You’re Samuel Akombe?”

“Yes, Madam, and my expressed the heartfelt sentiments were for you, but I’m afraid the Sunflowers are for Aden boy.”

“Those are for Aden? Flowers?” She asked pointedly.

“Yes, Mom, but as you can see, they are flowers in need of a vase. Have you one to spare, Madam? Something pretty she might like to place them upon the sill.”

“She?” Caitlyn again queried while retrieving a vase from the cupboard. “Pardon, Mum, it’s just poetic license. ‘My flower she blossoms.’ Understand?

“Now, if you might direct me to where I might find ‘her’?”

“Aden?”

“Yes, of course, my lovely sweet Irish blossom.” Caitlyn hadn’t the words to respond. His words and the sentiments they expressed brought into the open all she had forever feared to face. It ran so counter to the role of a man and that of a woman as she knew them to be, that even now she found it impossible to come to terms with her feelings. Save one! No matter what compelled Aden to seek out the affections of boys, she’d always be there for him no matter what.

Then too, there was Samuel. That beautiful, magnificently sculpted man-boy who had the world laid out for his taking. That would include her son, and by the sound of her throbbing heart, herself as well. Not by the self-absorbed boy she saw with flowers in hand, but by he man she saw in him. The hunter, the provider, the heartthrob, the essence of masculinity that stirred her loins and left her breathless and quite frankly, of a mind to do whatever he asked just to sate her need for his closeness.

“It’s Saturday, he’s sleeping in.”

“Beauty sleeps, huh, moms? Well, come mum; it’s time our blossom opens up to greet the morning sun, and for you to make the introduction,” he said, taking it upon himself to enter the house while Caitlyn removed her apron. Then with Samuel following, she tip-toed her way down the hall until reaching his door.

“Is this it, Moms?” He asked as he raised his nose to sniff the air. “Ah, yes,” he inhaled, “I can smell ‘the blossom purest white, snug in her bed, ’mark’d with eye that beam’d delight...”

Then as he reached for the knob, Caitlyn thought to back away, but was stopped in her tracks before her escape his reach. “No, no, Moms you need come in,” he smiled, near salivating over the strange brew he was concocting. “She needs her mom at a time like this. The comfort of her mums hand can only help to encourage our blossom to open up to the fullest.”

A minute more and we find Caitlyn sitting upon Aden’s bed running her fingers through his hair to quietly awaken her son. While Samuel, quick to the trigger, was shucking off his clothes just a step inside the door.

“Morning, mama,” Aden stretched, slowing awaking to her smile.

“Morning, my sweet. It’s time to awaken as someone has come to visit,” she followed, looking back over her shoulder at Samuel, standing there holding out the sunflowers while his fully engorged 9 inch cock heavily bobbed and weaved a gravity defying 30 degrees to the vertical.

“This is Samuel Akombe. He’s come to meet you,”

“Actually, that would be Samuel Mathieu Akombe, moms,” he followed wanting it known. “Mathieu is my father’s name, and I’m the designate Top of the Black Panther pod, the pod that you, Aden, have been assigned to for your 4 year stint at Baptiste du Pre Academy.”

“We’re going to pick up where them li’l peckers left off. Teach you the skills a boy need know to service his future Mbanderu and Mangwato employers. Primarily openness and resilence, just the kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.”

“But first, I thought it only right that we should meet,” he said, while eyeing Aden hungrily, wolfishly, as he walked around the bed to sit opposite moms – the flowers and his long, pound heavy bloated black snake leading the way.

What followed was a scene plucked right from the pages of ‘The Baron and his Maid.’ Starting from the moment he handed Aden-boy his flower bouquet then have him turn around, head down, ass up, with cheeks spread for the benefit of his mother.

“See moms, this isn’t her first time, and her eagerness shows.” To wit, Caitlyn, caught in his orbit and without the means to escape the gravitational pull, sat breathless, wordless, and wracked by a tremulous array of emotions. And nowhere was there room in her head to question the right and wrong of all this. Not even when Samuel cradled Aden’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to Aden’s, leaving her son breathless, gasping, left to persevere on passion alone.

With Aden’s face still clutched between his hands, Samuel looked back over his shoulder towards moms, his long, bloated cock sliding back and forth along the top of her son’s ass.

“Oh, yes, moms, Aden-boy is plenty eager. Now, if you would kindly spread a bit of spit on my tool and line me up I’ll do my best to fill her desire.

Which she did in, languishing in her turbid state, while Samuel, pushed in and began pumping like an oil rig rocker while Aden’s huffing, smothering voice could be heard above the mix. “Now watch, moms, you’ll see, I’ll show’ya.”

“She needs no hands. She cums just like you!”

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Book II

Aden Boy’s First Day at School

Learning his place . . .

Aden could scarcely contain his excitement on the day classes were to start at Baptiste du Pre Academy. The place where he was to be given the opportunity to study under the finest professors and be among the most gifted students in all of Botswana.

It was theirs to study Chemistry, and Physics, and the highest order of mathematics, while it was Aden’s to be taught the skills he’ll need to serve his future employers. That’s to say, with openness and resilience, just the kind of qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.”

Or, so said Theodore Effong, the dean of Baptiste du Pre Academy in his office as Aden boy was getting outfitted with his new Black Panthers uniform.

The tailor, a very fastidious man, was running though a last minute checklist to insure the best of all fits, when Aden boy braved to speak up.

“Sir, Dean Effong, is this my uniform?”

“Of course, look at the black power fist on your singlet. That stamp is there to inform one and all who this property belongs to, and they best keep them nigga hands off if they wish to stay healthy.”

“Yes, Sir, I know. It’s just like the one I saw posted on their Pod Room door.”

“But, but, but, Sir . . .” he said as he looked down and took in full the horror of that spaghetti-strap singlet that did, indeed, have a black power fist stamped upon that white cotton swathe of cotton draped over his chest. But it also read ‘Tender White Chicken’ in bold pink lettering!

None of which he much understood, but the one thing he did know was that below that thin swathe of cloth he was bare all the way down to his shorts. None of which looked the least bit boy-like. Likewise, his shorts, which weren’t khaki, but cotton, the same thread-bare cotton as his top. And worse yet, those shorts were hemmed up so high up the rear that more lay bare then not.

“Yes, so, why the cry, ‘but, but, but,’ my sweet boy?” Is there a problem? Are they too snug, the crotch seam too high? Not pretty enough?”

‘Pretty enough,’ the words rang like a bell in his head, and the ring descended not an octave when a few minutes later, Dean Effong was escorting him down the center aisle of the Pod Dorm like a father would escorting his daughter down the chapel aisle.

And walking arm and arm, they very much looked the part. Dean Effong dress in his black administrative robe, and Aden dressed in a costume that lacked only the lace. Strolling pass Pod room after Pod room that housed the Congolese Black Mambas, the Nigerian Devils, the Kenyan Bushmen and the Solmali Ball Busters, just to name a few of the pod rooms they past, and until at last they reached the Black Panthers pod, where he was to hook up with the boys who were going to teach him the true meaning of ‘openness and resilience,’ the qualities employers are looking for in their white boy hires.

“Just you remember, boy, openness and resilience” he Dean Effong said to him as the door open to a pack of wildly excited boys, and fronting them was none other than Samuel Akombe, the boy, the man, the pillager who knew his Yeats.

“Give me a moment, Samuel,” Dean Effong said to him, though in truth, he might as well have been speaking to that pound heavy cock of his that was bobbing and weaving a gravity defying 30 degrees to the vertical.

“Now, don’t you forget, boy,” he again turned back to say, “Openness & resilience, or as you Europeans like say, you take a licking, you keep on ticking.”

“That’s what you’re here to learn, and that’s what your future employers will expect of you. Whether slinging you ass in bar, or tending to room service in a flop house. They’ll counting you, like they do all white boys, to serve, smile and say thank you, Sir, no matter the pounding, and then jump back up and be quick off to greet he gent in the room across the way. You understand me boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied with a smile, showing not a hint of indecision.

So, there you have it, my dear readers, and I best not hear even a tint of accusal in your voice. The truth is, there is no victim here. It’s simply in Aden’s nature to do whatever he must to once again be held in Samuel Akombe’s embrace. No matter the hurdles, no matter the suffering, it was a place he wanted to be, needed to be, to make himself feel whole!

“Good, boy,” Dean Effong uttered, “Very good!,” he followed, smiling warmly as Samuel pulled him into his lair, and then stood back and watched Samuel spin his magic to win the boy over with his irresistible mix of masculine beauty and all consuming power. The power to bring on the sweet torture that boys like Alex would’ve walked over a hot bed of coals just to offer their ass up to him.

So as the sun set over Botswana, we leave Aden, rolling along with the wave after wave of spent cum while mouthing distance utterances and looking off into the void, seemingly lost in a dream . . .

Das Ende

Hunsi

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