Descent into Chaos

By Habu

On the cusp of the long slide into disintegration of Rhodesia, British Foreign Office official Brian Kennelly arrives in Africa, ostensibly to assess the 1963 situation in Britain’s African colony. But he really has primarily been dispatched at the behest of the powerful Earl of Devon to try to convince the earl’s third son, Alister Cullingworth, and his wife, Pamela, to return to England before they are swept up in the chaos of Rhodesia’s struggle for independence.

The wrinkle is that Brian has been the subservient lover of both Alister and Pamela at different times. He arrives in Rhodesia with conflicting and confused emotions concerning what he wants—and who he wants it from. He finds Alister and Pamela in a primeval, self-destructive struggle of their own that underscores their rejection of the British ruling class traditions they both stem from and that solidifies their connection to crumbling Rhodesia. Brian’s visit fosters the slow realization that he wants them both—at the same time.

NOTE: This is a revised and extended reissue of the e-book “Dark Primeval,” previously published by Excesica LLC.

Editorial Review:

From A. Ferguson, Romance & Erotica Books Examiner, 4/5 Stars!
“As far as erotica tales go, this one, while short packed a powerful story of one man's journey of learning who he truly is... Habu gets what erotica is all about and the story comes off as a powerful read. This one is definitely recommended to add to your list of erotic reads.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: BarbarianSpy
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781925190311

Habu

Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.

Book preview

Chapter One: Oxford Initiation

The dream keeps recurring, the reliving of that first time that was all too real. I have no idea why the other young men had zeroed in on me. Perhaps I wasn’t quite as proficient as others were on the rugby grounds, and I know that I didn’t have some of the family background that they could boast—that I was there at Oxford at the sufferance of a patron—and perhaps it was because the lessons came too easily to me—more easily than to some of the more prideful of them.

But in the dream, of the reality that would not leave me, they are swirling around me in the club house after a match, in the changing room outside the steamy showers—more ominously than they did in real life, a sensation informed perhaps by what actually happened to me subsequently. They are jeering me and snapping their towels and prodding and poking me, hemming me in and jostling me into the blind-ended area of lockers separated by a long bench bolted to the damp-wood floor.

He pushes through the crowd, my senior, the one assigned to help me fit in at Oxford. They scatter as he churns through them, with a piss off here and a leave ’em be there. Sitting down beside me on the bench, he waves them all away and wraps his arms around me and rocks me, protecting me from the threatening swirl. I’m trembling, traumatized, not knowing why this is happening to me—why I can’t fit in. I’ve been warned that this is the way at these institutions, a centuries-old custom. To get along, you have to go through fire. I was told it steels you and that this was why I was being sent here—to be steeled for better things, a rosier future.

He is patting my arms and chest, and in the haze of the dream—just as it was in real life to the recollection I have permitted myself—he moves to running his hands over my naked body. I have no idea when the transition occurs—when it moves to predatory, dominating, from comforting. In each dream I try to will myself to isolate that moment when I could have done something, could have escaped this—at least then. Trying to focus on my own role, on how much of what happened was because I welcomed it. But by the time I realize it—and when I’m well past resisting it—he has a grip on my penis and a firm hold with his arm around my shoulders. And our lips are joined, and I, in spite of myself, am moaning and snuffling as I come in his hand.

I’m embarrassed, mortified. I struggle to arise afterward, but he just smiles and says it’s his turn. And then I notice that we aren’t alone—that the others are back. Not nearby but hovering on the periphery, grinning, their eyes slitted, their hands on their own penises.

I babble and cry, wanting to be anywhere but there, not understanding—not wanting to believe it is happening, although in the dream it is happening more vividly—the sensations more pronounced—than anything in the later reality that, after all of these years, I have numbed myself to drive out of my mind except for those dark, lonely, primeval nights when the dream steals in and overwhelms me.

The wood surface of the club room bench is cold and scratchy on my back, and I flood my mind with the concern that I not get splinters in my back—trying to force out the image, the reality, of him hunched over me, straddling the bench below me, spreading my legs with a painful grip on my ankles. Smiling down into my face, as much a sneer and a leer as a smile. Telling me to relax and enjoy it in a faraway voice, as if from the bottom of a swimming pool.

The pain, the excruciating pain. The attempt to rise, to escape. The others now coming closer, though. Two holding down my shoulders, two holding my legs, his hands on my waist and belly, pinching at my nipples and squeezing my balls. The curdling cry slicing through the mushy hubbub, and the realization that the cry out is mine, trailing off in sobs as I am filled and stretched—and, irrevocably