An African Seduction Ch 03

Angel rose from her dressing table satisfied at last. She glanced at the clock 6.45pm. The Philosophy Circle met at 7pm. She had plenty of time; it took only five minutes to drive there. Her husband Mark would be ready to drive her there and pick her up at 9.30pm as arranged as soon as she was ready.

She was tempted to ask him to pick her up earlier this time, but something restrained her. She should have strength and character to deal with Igwe Orizu!

It is not as if she short of experience of using her looks and charm to twirl men around her finger. But Igwe was different! She suppressed the errant thought.

He was a man, and like all men mouldable and biddable when a pretty woman smiled. She would not allow what happened last time to be repeated. She would not!

Last week almost to the hour he had seduced her. She had been weak, unhappy, and he had exploited her mood to seduce her! She would not allow him to take advantage of her again!

She found herself thinking of his cock. That big thick black horse cock!

Her pussy started to moisten and she cursed her self, slapping her thigh hard to distract herself from such deviant thoughts.

She was happily married! She sighed, well not entirely happy. It had been 19 years and at times it seemed longer. Three children. She had given birth to Rebecca when she was just 17 years old to her own parent's quite fury. They had been too hidebound by convention to prevent her marrying Mark once they realised she was pregnant. Mark had defied their fears by remaining loyal and steadfast. Even when she had been sectioned and sent off to that horrible mental hospital he had stood by her, helped her get back out again. Worked with tremendous patience to help her get back on her feet.

If only he had a bit more spark. She never once considered that her own random and frequently irrational behaviour had drained him in turn.

Not that her behaviour was really irrational. She had to bite her tongue when the doctors said things like that. Impulsive yes, she took opportunities as they arose. That was not irrational.

Then her uplifted spirits fell again. Reminding herself that she had crashed the car three times in the last month!

She looked at the photograph of her second daughter Amanda, now 18 years old. Born almost a year after Rebecca. Amanda was a beauty that reflected off her mother and could not stop a smile resurfacing.

The smile soon fell.

Here they were a successful, professional married couple, but their two eldest children were not with them, or at least not now. She felt their loss. Rebecca was still in England finishing off her sixth from studies and would not come out to Zimbabwe for months. Only after she had finished her A level exams.

Amanda should be here, but she was not. She was instead just 15 minutes up the road in an exclusive boarding school. It had seemed irrational and mad to put their daughter in a boarding school so close to home.

Until they landed at Harare and she had seen the black hordes swarm like rampant elephants towards and around their daughter. Amanda had always attracted male attention, but strangely seemed unaffected. She had never had a boyfriend. In England men were polite and interested and politely sought to court her. Here in Africa courtesy was in short supply and sexual demand high.

The first hand to get up Amanda's skirt had been a black hand belong to a porter hauling luggage in the airport! Shocking, as that had seemed at the time it had been only a taste of the aggressive sexual forwardness of the African male.

Within a week of their arrival Amanda had her pussy stroked by a black man in the swimming pool of the hotel they had stayed at that first week.

Her breasts had been fondled by a wealthy African sitting at an adjacent table during dinner in the exclusive and expensive L'Escargo restaurant.

It was impossible to go to the shops without getting goosed and groped.

Amanda had found it all unsettling. Suddenly the image of an exclusive boarding school had seemed very sensible indeed.

They still saw her at weekends, but Angel struggled at times to understand how things had turned out. Giving birth to Robert two years ago had been a surprise. Soon that surprise had worn off as she had been reminded of the reality of young children!

Here in Harare they had a garden with two acres of land. She only had to open the patio door and Robert would disappear for hours. The African gardener kept a close eye on him.

Unfortunately Robert was fearless and only today had wandered back into the villa with his impish grin holding up for her inspection the green snake he had found. Angela had screamed in shock, setting Robert off in tears, and only agitating the snake.

A green snake! She had thought it was Green Mamba one of the deadliest in Zimbabwe. Kaifus the house domestic had ran into the room, and quickly ran out again. Daniel, the gardener had appeared soon after. He had taken the snake from Robert and taken it outside. Ignoring her screaming he had calmed Robert.

"Not mamba", he said. "Boomslang."

A Boomslang snake!

Angel felt faint.

The nearest antidote to a Boomslang bite was in Johannesburg, an eight-hour flight away. She might have been bitten!

So as she stood from her dressing table she was ready, indeed after today she felt a desperate need to escape and a night at the Philosophy Circle was just what she needed to clear today's event and calm her soul.

She could deal with Igwe Orizu. He was just a man after all. She glanced at her perfection in the mirror. Yes, fully armoured and protected by her beauty she could deal with any man.

"Oh wow! You look terrific." Mark looked up in amazed delight that his beloved Angel had taken trouble to look so good. After the last few months it was a relief to see her caring for herself again.

It still surprised him that at 36 years old and three children his wife could look just as stunning now as when he first met him. Her natural grace, and high cheekbones were all the classic signs of a stylish woman. She looked far younger than she was, and he was confident that he had been lucky enough to marry a woman who would probably always retain those classic good looks.

Now her eyes had a fire and determination in them he had not seen in months. Light touches of her makeup highlighted those eyes and her lips had a gloss that stirred his cock.

Her lipstick was not heavy and overdone, just the light touches that emphasised their natural shape. He was relieved she had refrained from the slapdash approach to her make-up that over the last months had seemed to be a barrier to the world.

His wife looked as though she had finally re-entered the world, and his heart soared in relief. She was getting her act together again.

"Are your ready?"

She nodded back at him. He paused for a moment looking at her. She noticed at looked at him quizzically.

"Not sure I want to take you anywhere looking that good!"

She frowned at him suddenly worried. Mark heart jumped at that frown. The last thing he wanted to do was set off her fragile temperament. This Philosophy Circle seemed to be doing her the world of good. He had even encountered her humming to herself this week.

"Just joking Honey! Let's get going."

The drive from the Greendale suburb to the Borrowdale suburb was short. It was also typical of this area with high walled exclusive luxury villas. Tree lined avenues. Flowering shrubs, with high bougainvillaea trees swaying slightly in the breeze, and little traffic.

He passed a neighbourhood watch sign as they drove. He had joined the neighbourhood watch. Back in the UK he would have dismissed such an organisation as a just a group of nosy parkers.

Here where the police took two hours to cycle out to respond to a call, he had recognised that there was a real need for the community co-operation. He had been surprised to find Africans and Asians also in the group. It had so many members that he had only to do two 2-hour patrols a month.

The neighbourhood watch had been a way of meeting his neighbours that he had not expected. It had also been an eye-opener as to what went on after dark in even this respectable suburb.

The patrol members went out in different shifts. So far Mark had done four shifts from midnight to 2am and met a variety of mainly white members. In his first patrol he had been taken to what he discovered was their own Neighbourhood Watch Station. Here he had been inducted, shown how to use the handcuffs, and the police radio they were provided with. Not that they could contact the police with it.

The idea was to radio back to their own station which would be manned through by Geoff Stott. Geoff would then telephone around and Watch members and call them out to any trouble. Oh yes and tell the police, which was followed by a mix of jokes and bitterness about African police!

They had driven slowly and quietly around the suburb while George Cook, and Peter Roberts briefed him on procedures, what to expect, and how to react.

Mark had been surprised at the thoroughness and discreet way they responded to strange vehicles in the area. It surprised him at how quickly they recognised a car from outside the suburb.

They had cruised past the closed and darkened Greendale shops and pulled up a few hundred yards tucking themselves off road under the spreading branches of a large tree. George wound the window down and the sound of loud music and raucous drunken laughter drifted through the night.

"What's that?" Mark asked.

"There is a bar up there. An African bar."

"I had never noticed it before."

"It's set back a bit. It's a cheap dive for the local domestics and gardeners. A place to avoid."

"I have never been in a place like that!"

"You never want to be! It's for blacks!" Peter's outburst barely suppressed his racism. Mark had been astonished to find just how deep seated was the racial prejudice of the local white population. His own view of the black population was he thought healthily balanced. He would treat each African as he found them.

"We pulled over to warn you about it. You have a wife don't you. Make sure she goes home from the shops via Stanton Road. You don't want her walking past this place even in daylight!"

"You should let her walk anywhere after it gets dark! Their bad enough during the day but once it gets dark no one is safe!" George added.

Mark took their comments with a pinch of salt. He had found most Africans friendly and hospitable. Except those that were working for the controlling political party seemed to be an odd crowd with big chips on their shoulders, and just as bitter as these local white men he was sharing his car with.

There was a sudden silence in the car. Mark looked around to see what had taken their attention.

To his surprise a white woman was walking down the road. As she passed a streetlight he noted she was pretty Probably in her early 20's. Wearing a typical lightweight flowery dress that seemed to flow around her as she strolled.

"It's Sharon Bowles," Peter mentioned. She lives nearby in Downing Road. Mark perked up. He and Angel lived in Downing Road. He had not seen this pretty woman before.

As she reached the dirt road, she paused. She looked carefully around. She glanced hard over at the car, but the shade of the tree hid them from her eyes. Then she looked again up and down the road. Mark could see her nod to herself, then she stepped off the road and headed at a slightly quicker pace towards the noise and ruckus of the bar.

"Bitch!" The retort burst from Peter Roberts. The vitriol in his voice was alarming. Mark restrained himself from comment. He was conscious that he was new and not wanting to upset potential new friendships.

"Filthy Slut!" George Cook's comment dripped hate. Mark was even more alarmed. He struggled with his own thoughts and responses.

"It might not be what you think."

George and Peter both turned to look at him. Disbelief and scorn on their faces. They struggled with their exasperation.

"Mark, have you ever taken your wife shopping in the Greendale suburbs?"

Mark nodded looking across at Peter. George butted in.

"Tell me Mark on those shopping trips has your wife ever groped and fondled?" Mark swallowed hard. It was impossible to take his wife or daughter shopping without some enterprising bold African, or two, or three demonstrating a physical interest!

His silence told.

"So what do you think happens at 1am in the morning when a white woman walks alone into a bar full of drunken Africans?"

At that moment he heard the door to the bar slam closed. Followed immediately by whooping and yelling breaking out in the bar.

Mark looked away.

The image of that pretty woman in her feminine flowery dress being fondled and groped….pulled across a bar table as horny Africans gathered around. He started fixedly out of the window and tried to suppress his sudden excitement at the thought of Sharon Bowles being repeatedly fucked by those rowdy excited Africans.

"Look Mark. I know you are fresh out from England with English ideas and tolerance and understanding but this is Africa." Mark turned back to George, and Peter piped up.

"Believe you me Mark, when a white woman takes black cock in Africa. It's just the start of the rot."

"Not that a white man would have anything to do with her again!"

"Or even her own family if they found out!"

Mark looked at the Rhodies. He had no doubt their sincerity and passion. He wondered if they had any understanding if the depths of their own racism. He hoped he would never descend to such depths of despair as these two.

"Well I'm not sitting here, knowing what is going on over there!" George started the car and they drove off.

Strangely enough he never shared an evening patrol with George and Peter again. Not that he avoided patrols with others like them. Indeed their distrust of the Africans was behind their determination and perseverance with these night patrols.

He also learned a lot about Harare at night and his neighbours. Clearly not all were so fervently anti-black. He recalled the night with Joe Vogert, and Fred Smith. Their keen eyes had spotted a car deep in some woodland. Naturally suspicious they had approached from behind, parked quietly and closed with the vehicle.

It was a large estate, and the seats had been lowered. About ten feet from the car Joe said it was the Roberts car. It must have been stolen and abandoned. He was looking to see if any parts had been stolen, when the car seemed to shiver.

They stepped back a moment, then Fred seemed to glide forward silently.

"Bitch! She's back to her old tricks!"

Mark stepped forward to look.

He could see a pair of white legs; a pumping black body hid the rest. His heart leapt in surprise. He had never seen others make love. Never been close to others indulging in sex. Here just a few feet away a white woman was illicitly engaging in sex with a black man. One of his most deep- rooted fantasies taking place literally feet away.

Joe waved them back. As they climbed back inside the car Mark looked between them.

"Do I take it that was Mrs Roberts?"

They both nodded looking sour.

"I guess that was not Mr Roberts?"

"Mike Roberts was crippled in the war. A mine blew up his armoured car."

"Aye, Africans planted that mine, and now his wife lets African men between her legs to get what she can't get from her husband anymore!"

"It's a disgrace."

"Something should be done about it."

Joe and Fred looked at each other, then as though remembering his presence looked at Mark. Then they looked at each other as though making a secret agreement before looking away.

On another evening he was out on patrol with Karl Voigt and Donald Mc Donald when they had come across a villa with its gates open at 1am in the morning. The normal practice at such a find was to pay a visit to the owner and ask if he knew his gates were open.

To his surprise Donald had said no, and they had pulled up a few hundred yards away.

"Watch and wait," said Donald. "I know this house. I suspect her husband must be away. I don't think he has a clue what goes on when he is away. This is the sort of thing you need to see for yourself."

Karl wound his window down, and the subdued sounds of laughter and music came from the villa.

A few minutes later three African men strolled down the road. Each carried packs of canned bear. Without hesitation they turned into the villa gates.

Donald nodded his head.

"I heard Sue Clarke ran a wild house when her husband was away. Now we have seen it for ourselves."

Mark looked across at Karl who nodded.

"Burglars would never have walked in so openly carrying beers."

Mark could see the sense of that. They drove off shortly afterwards to look out for people who wanted protection.

Now as Mark drove Angel to tonight's meeting he fell into what seemed a natural sweep of his surroundings.

Although it was evening the rich scent of flowering trees pervaded the warm African evening. The drive from the Greendale suburb to the Borrowdale was a seamless drive through secluded well maintained villa's that anywhere else in the world would costs hundreds of thousands, if not millions, but in Zimbabwe fetched prices in the low tens of thousands. An amount that was still an impossible dream for ordinary Africans.

He glanced across at Angel. She was reclining with her eyes shut, and he revelled in the picture perfect beauty of his wife. At times like this he could disregard the confused insecurity her tempers frequently displayed. The last few months had seen a marked improvement.

Indeed this week they had made love to three times! He couldn't remember the last time they had made love three times in a week. He would happily take Angel to this Philosophy meet, or any other event if it helped her recovery, and their sex life improved as well

He glanced back at her and his gaze focussed on her breasts. Remarkably full and firm after three children. The way in which Angel had relaxed back into her seat, had perhaps without intention resulted in her full breasts standing full and firm from her body.

For a moment a brief image of black hands clasping and squeezing those perfect white orbs came to mind. It was a hugely exciting vision, but one he knew would never happen. His wife was far too conservative to indulge in an affair, especially with a black man.

Although she denied it he suspected she had inherited a closet racism from her undoubtedly racist father.

He glanced back at her. She looked so peaceful in repose, with her head resting on the backrest. As usual she had applied very little make up, but even so she was lovely.

Another image flashed into his head.

An African holding her pretty head firmly as he pushed a black cock between his wife's parted lips.

He suppressed the image, even as he did so he wondered if he wanted to suppress such a fanciful image. Fanciful indeed, in nineteen years of marriage his wife had sucked his cock only three times, and then only half-heartedly, and certainly not to completion!

The idea that a black man might persuade her to suck cock was mere fantasy. Though he mused it would be nice fantasy to think about. He loved his wife, but to say she was conservative sexually was a huge understatement.

It seemed ironic that such a beautiful woman could have such a low interest in sex. He had no doubt that many men would look at his wife and desire her. He smiled, as he pondered if their interest would survive discovering her low sex drive.

They arrived at the luxury villa in Borrowdale, which hosted the meet. As he arrived some cars were leaving. Others were pulling up, or parking at the main house. He turned in and drove up the long drive.