I recently came across a blog by a mixed-race girl named StefiA, 
who is obviously fascinated with her racial background.  You can 
still find some of her 2010 blog at: 

            http://stefia.blogspot.com

In one of her posts, she revealed that a blood-test showed her 
to be 67% European, etc. -- as detailed in the story below.

She also mused a bit on the difficulties of "passing": "You'd have 
to move away.  If you stayed in your own area, people would know, 
but if you moved away, nobody would.  When I was at college, nobody 
knew my background, and I could have gone 2 years without anyone 
finding out, if I'd been clever enough.  But the documents I've got 
today, however, have my race on them; my Texas birth certificate 
says I'm 1/2 AA and 1/2 Caucasian.  (My dad put down AA for 
himself; back then probably not many people put "mixed" or 
"mulatto" -- so I'm down as 50/50 rather than 25/75.)  If I ever 
needed to show this certificate for any reason, I'd be stuffed.  
Now, I've no idea if they ever had to show their papers for 
anything back in the early 20th century or not, or how easy it 
was to get fakes done."

In her blog, Stefi refers to an actress as a "quadroon" and admires 
her ability to change her look completely.  I looked up the actress 
in question, and she's quite correct that she can look VERY 
different, depending on her hair, her tan, the lighting, and whom 
she is standing next to.  In particular, she looks much darker when 
she is standing next to one of her blonde, blue-eyed friends than 
she does when she's standing alone. 

http://www.allstarpics.net/pictures/0061213/jessica-szohr-picture-gallery-120.html

It's actually hard to believe it's the same girl.    

Seeing the pictures and reading Stefi's posts, I put together a 
collage and imagined a story, which I submit here.

Real racism is a terrible thing, and Lakewood and I both deplore 
it.  But Stefi admits in a blog that she enjoys "role-playing" 
the slave part, and this story is presented in that spirit, as a 
sexual fantasy.  

We love you, Stefi, and we dedicate this story to you.  We hope 
that you are happy and successful, that this story finds you, 
and that you enjoy it.  -- J.D.  






                A HALLOWEEN SPOOK STORY

                          by

                        Joe Doe



I'm 24% African, but most people assume I'm white, with maybe a 
little Italian or perhaps Mexican blood.  I certainly look white, 
except maybe when I'm standing next to Hannah (my best, whitest, 
and richest friend).

Hannah and I have been friends for ages.  I never really thought 
of her as racist, although I knew she was shocked when, at the 
ripe old age of 11, I very matter-of-factly told her about my 
heritage.  I knew she was from the South and was very conservative, 
but race never interfered with our friendship.  

We had our differences.  Hannah could be a bit of an ice queen, 
and, although she could be pretty wild at the bars, she was quite 
prissy with her regular boyfriends.  on occasion her fed-up 
suitors would dump her and turn to me for comfort.  

Matters came to a head when she accused me of stealing all her 
boyfriends, to which I replied that maybe they didn't want to 
simply spend all night masturbating while admiring her picture.  
She got very angry and said my "hot black blood" made me a 
"Jezebel" and a thief.  It was one of our few fights, and the 
only time she had ever used my background against me.

We made up and resumed our close friendship.  Her ugly comments 
receded in my mind.  In fact, on several occasions when one of her 
snooty blonde friends would remark about my "tan" or question my 
lineage, she would always rush to my defense, frequently 
"explaining" that I was part Italian.  She often would comment, 
"I wish I could tan as fast as Stefi does.  She's GORGEOUS."  

I didn't really think of myself as a "white girl," but I knew that 
most people, Hannah included, viewed me that way, and, hanging 
out with Hannah's crowd a lot, I didn't think much of it.  

Then, one day, Hannah told me that some of her friends were going 
to spend much of October on at a "Plantation Retreat," where rich 
white folks pretend they own black people as slaves.  When she 
asked me if I wanted to "tag along" I jumped at the chance.  Real 
slaves, in the old South?  What a turn-on!  I definitely have a 
kinky side, as does Hannah.  So, when she offered to pay my way, 
I jumped at the chance.  It was no problem, since I was, like they 
say, between jobs at the time. 

We flew down to Miami first class for the first leg of the trip and 
then took a luxurious private jet to the island where the retreat 
was held.  Many Confederates had relocated to the island after the 
Civil War, bringing along their "property."  They bought the island 
from its owner, France (or maybe Spain), and re-instituted slavery. 
Today, it may be the only place left where chattel slavery openly 
exists.  Sugar, pearls, and tropical fish are the main exports.  

The natural scenery was amazing.  And, besides that, the island was 
filled with beautiful antebellum mansions, had a gorgeous Greek 
Revival courthouse, and boasted a town square that reminded me of 
the French Quarter and the Garden District in New Orleans.  The 
marble and gilt resort hotel where Hannah and I stayed would have 
put the Four Seasons to shame.  Everything and everyone dripped 
money, and I knew staying there must be costing Hannah's plutocrat 
father a fortune. 

The service was incredible, and, although I was a little 
uncomfortable being waited on hand and foot by "darkies," 
I did get turned on watching the black bucks and wenches 
being auctioned naked on the block in the courthouse square.  
Hannah whispered in my ear, "I wonder what you'd bring?" 
I just laughed and replied, "More than you would."   

Hannah laughed, too, and it was a funny moment, but I also felt a 
deliciously naughty tingle inside.  I loved watching the auctioneer 
put the slaves through their paces on the block.  Hannah and I 
never missed an auction.

The island was an odd mix of the historical and modern.  The roads 
were unpaved, there were very few cars, and most of the people rode 
on horses or (like Hannah and I) in lovely gilded carriages.  We 
wore modern clothes, but most of the residents dressed in their 
best "GONE WITH THE WIND" garb.  Yet no one seemed to mind the fact 
that a Southern belle from 1840 was constantly checking her iPhone. 
It was very odd, but quaint and delightful all the same.

The first night we donned formal, antebellum dresses and had dinner 
with the Judge, an old Southern aristocrat with white skin, white 
hair, and a huge white mustache that was a constant crumb-magnet 
during dinner.  I had noticed him earlier that day at the auction, 
where he made a point of inspecting and handling the attractive, 
naked wenches very thoroughly.  

"Breedin' is key," he explained.  "Which is why I like to check 
'em head-to-hoof and make sure all their openin's are moist and 
tight and disease free.  I like 'em docile, which is why I stock 
my house only with wenches, and whup 'em good with the strap or 
the paddle when they give me lip.  Take two or three of the pretty 
ones to bed with you, an' it saves on heatin' bills, too."

He laughed heartily, but Hannah feigned embarrassment, so we 
changed topics. The Judge and I got along wonderfully, and, 
despite his age and his backward views, he was really quite 
delightful and oddly charming.  

When the evening was over, he said, "I wish I had a daughter like 
you," and he kissed my hand.   Hannah, for once, did not seem at 
all jealous and talked me up, probably because the Judge was portly 
and in his seventies, and she knew I'd never go for him, no matter 
how rich he was, although I did enjoy flirting.

The Judge lived in a townhouse across the courthouse square, only 
a few yards from our hotel, which gave him easy access both to his 
work and to the slave auctions, which were his true joy.  His house 
servants were all young and attractive female black women, and 
Hannah told me later that the Judge prided himself on his ability 
to "feel the goods" in the slave markets and trade women like 
horses.  "His slaves pleasure each other, and the Judge, and then 
each other again, with him watching.  From what I hear the old 
billy goat can go all night!"

That night, I had an odd dream.  It was Halloween, and I had been 
carried backward in time by the ghosts of the past.  I was standing 
naked on the block, with Hannah watching from the crowd.  And the 
Judge, smiling broadly, was coming towards me for my "inspection."  
It was horrifying, yes, but it was also one of the most erotic 
dreams I had ever had.

The first day was both fun and amazing, but, by the second day, I 
noticed Hannah's tone had changed, and she was decidedly more 
bossy and assertive.  I chalked it up to my over-reacting to my 
embarrassment at having my rich friend pay my expenses with the 
local Confederate currency, which I, unfortunately, did not have.  

I thought it was peculiar that she introduced me to everyone as her 
"basketball star girlfriend," an odd reference to a championship 
high school team I had played on.  At our formal dinner that night, 
she also pointed out what "a fabulous runner Stefi is."  It was 
another peculiar reference, since she was a more avid runner than 
I.  Nonetheless I did appreciate Hannah's quickness to compliment 
me to everyone on what she called my "natural athleticism."

At Hannah's insistence, we spent hours by the pool, flirting with 
the guys.  Hannah slathered on the sunscreen, as did I, but, 
because of my natural complexion, after a few days I started to 
turn a dark toffee color.  This made me increasingly uncomfortable, 
given the nature of the retreat, but Hannah (who by this time was 
quite bossy and in charge) insisted that I ditch "my granny 
clothes" and "have fun and show a little skin" even though she 
always wore a white dress and big floppy hat to protect her from 
the sun.

She even bought me a sheer scarlet thong bikini and insisted that 
I throw away my modest black one-piece.  

I was shocked when I got back from the pool later that day to 
discover that my purse, as well as all my bras, shoes, pants, 
shorts, panties, and long dresses were gone, leaving me with 
nothing but halters, belly shirts, mini-skirts, and my new 
bikini.  Hannah immediately called the hotel clerk to report the 
robbery, and although a search of the miserable slaves' quarters 
behind the hotel revealed nothing, the Judge ordered that the 
dozen or so slaves who had access to my room be thrown into the 
jail until he could decide their punishment.

The next morning I awoke to find that my sandals and my blue 
contact lenses had been stolen, as well as all the hair care 
products I used to straighten my hair.  This proved the slaves 
who had been arrested were innocent, since they could not have 
stolen these things while they were in jail.  Hannah told me 
that she had heard that the slaves were going to be paddled in 
the courthouse square at lunchtime and suggested we go over to 
see the Judge right away.

It felt odd to walk barefoot across the cold marble floor of the 
courthouse, and the fact that I was walking through such a stately 
building dressed in noting more than a mini-skirt and a belly 
shirt, drew quite a bit of attention.  Without my contacts I 
couldn't read any of the directional signs, and I nearly fell 
down the stairs.  Thank goodness that Hannah, laughing, was there 
to catch me.  What a wonderful friend.

Hannah was a savior that day,  I was a mess, but she looked quite 
smart in her long flowered dress.  If she hadn't been there to help 
me, I doubt the guards would have let me in to see the Judge at 
all.

The Judge's chambers, at least, had an oriental rug, which was 
easier on my bare feet than the cold marble floor.  But the room 
was chilly, the temperature set so it was comfortable for the 
Judge in his white linen suit, not for a barefoot, scantily-clad 
young woman.

In the past I had had the pleasure of sitting across from the Judge 
at his elegant dining table, dressed in a lovely antebellum gown.  
But today I had to stand barefoot in front of the Judge's massive 
oak desk and state my case while he allowed his amused and 
appraising eyes to roam freely over my bare arms, my bare legs, 
my bare flat belly.

I protested to the Judge that it was unlikely that ALL of the 
slaves were guilty, and it was quite possible that none of them 
were, given the second theft had occurred while they were in jail. 
He was unimpressed, replying coldly that "all darkies are thieves, 
and those that didn't actually steal this time will benefit from 
the lesson, just the same."  

Hannah sprang in to join my defense.  "I know seeing Stefi come in 
here, dressed this way, looking so tan, you must be wondering if 
she doesn't have some sort of...unnatural sympathies.  But I agree 
with her, and I think an example can be made without beating them 
too severely."

His tone softened somewhat, and he agreed to commute the sentences 
to 10 paddle strokes each.  

As we were leaving the Judge's chambers, Hannah whispered in my 
ear, "For goodness sakes, Stefi, cover your headlights when you're 
talking to the Judge.  I thought your nipples were going to pop 
right through your shirt."

I could feel the blood rush to my face as I realized my pokies were 
standing out proudly.  No wonder the Judge was smiling at me; what 
a sight I must have been.

We went outside and watched as the servants who had literally 
slaved over us were stripped naked and strung up for a 
bare-bottom butt-whipping.  Their guilt or innocence meant 
little to the crowd, who jeered at the poor wretches and 
laughed and applauded every stroke.  I couldn't see well, but 
found myself wincing at every pop.  

Sensing my discomfort, Hannah tried to comfort me.  "Remember, 
Stefi, whether they're guilty or not, it's a good lesson for 
the other darkies not to be uppity."

"You think so?" I asked, unsure.

"I KNOW so," she replied.  "After all, look at the effect it's 
having on you."

The words struck me oddly, as if they had a ominous double meaning, 
but it wasn't until Hannah refused to buy me any replacement 
clothes, or shoes, or new contact lenses that I began to suspect 
her motives.  I realized that I was in a strange country with no 
passport, cell phone, identification, or money, and I was wholly 
dependent on her good will.  One-by-one, all of my other supports 
had been been slowly, systematically stripped away.

This realization should have made me angry, but it didn't.  For, 
although I felt certain that Hannah was setting me up, I was also 
aware that she knew of my secret fantasies.  Was it vengeance for 
stealing her boyfriend, or a fantasy fulfillment favor?  Or both?  
I decided to play along and see.  

"Maybe you could just get me some chains, and for Halloween I could 
be your slave," I suggested wryly.

"Hmmmm...Halloween.  Interesting.  Be careful what you wish for, 
my little jigaboo," she giggled.  "I might well decide to make 
you my Halloween spook."

Fortunately, Hannah did purchase me one new formal gown to wear to 
dinner with the Judge.  Unfortunately, it was pure white, which 
made me look all the darker.  It was also quite daring.  I was 
very aware of the Judge staring at my bare brown shoulders and 
brown breasts as we dined.

Hannah quickly worked the subject around to "passing" and asked 
the Judge if he had ever held a hearing to determine a girl's 
racial heritage.  He admitted that he had, but, sensing my 
discomfort, quickly demurred, claiming it was a "complex subject, 
not suited to dinner with two ladies as lovely as you and Miss 
Stefi."

Hannah pressed on.  "I bring it up only because Stefi is getting 
quite tan, and I've heard some unpleasant gossip about her 
complexion at our hotel.  I was afraid this might happen, so I 
brought along a copy of her birth certificate.  I wanted you to 
have it, but keep it sealed in this envelope.  Don't open it 
unless you have to."

I felt a rush of shock, excitement, embarrassment, pleasure, and 
anger, as I watched her pass the envelope to the Judge.  Once 
again, Hannah, in the guise of helping me, was sawing the floor 
out from under my feet.

"Why on earth would the Judge have to review my birth certificate?" 
I said, challenging her.  

"Well, if there is a hearing...or something," Hannah said.  "Not 
that there will be a hearing.  But you know how women gossip.  
I'm afraid there's a lot of talk at the hotel, dear, and. if you 
get much browner, a formal hearing might be the best approach."

That night at the hotel Hannah and I got into a major fight.  On my 
Texas birth certificate my father had listed himself as "black," 
which meant that, if the Judge checked it, I'd be TOTALLY screwed.  
Hannah was shocked.  She claimed that she had never read the 
certificate, merely taken it out of the mailing envelope and 
sealed it another envelope for "safe-keeping."  She promised to 
discreetly check with the Judge about whether the oversight on my 
birth certificate could be corrected.  

I told her to keep her mouth shut and forget about the birth 
certificate, thank you very much.

"Don't worry, Stefi...if anything happens I'll stand right by your 
side at the hearing," she said.  "I'll try to remember not to wear 
something too bright, since I don't want you to look any browner."

The latter remark was certainly true, since I knew how dark I 
looked standing next to my ultra-fair friend.  Normally I 
appeared quite white...or perhaps Italian or Latina.  But I 
might as well been the Queen of Sheba standing next to Hannah, 
the Nordic princess.  

The next day I realized that, whatever her motives, Hannah's 
warning about the gossip was true.  When I came in from the 
pool, I heard her talking with several of the women during 
tea, and I clearly heard references to "Stefi's nose" and 
"her lips."  Naturally, the conversation stopped dead as I 
approached, towel in hand, drying my increasingly kinky hair.

"My, Stefi, you look GORGEOUS" Hannah said.  "Your tan is AWESOME!"

"Yes," one of the women sniped.  "Maybe we should start calling her 
'Sambo' instead of 'Stefi.'"  All the women laughed, even Hannah, 
although she did apologize to me later, when she realized how much 
it had hurt my feelings.  However, the damage had been done, and 
my new nickname was now "Sambo."

		******************************

The next night at dinner, Hannah told the Judge what had happened 
and said we simply HAD to have a hearing, to clear my name, as 
everyone in the hotel was now calling me "Sambo" and gossiping 
about my kinky hair, broad nose, and pouty lips.  Reluctantly, he 
agreed to schedule a hearing for the next morning, but Hannah 
insisted that we push it back until Halloween, "so Stefi and I 
have a chance to prepare her defense."

"What defense?" the Judge said.  "This girl has been dining at my 
table for weeks.  Clearly she is white."

"Exactly my point, your honor," Hannah said.  "But we still need a 
defense.  If she were declared black, she'd have to be sold as a 
runaway.  Isn't that right, your honor?"

"Perhaps," he hedged.  "Although we could simply ask her to leave 
the island."

"And risk having your ruling overturned and you accused of 
favoritism?  No, if she were found guilty, you'd have to 
march her outside and sell her right in the courthouse square.  
'Barefoot on the block,' as they say.

I swallowed hard.  My feet would not be the only part of me that 
would be bare.

"And, naturally, you'd have to look her over first...give her a 
good feel.  Maybe even put in a bid.  You'd have to show the 
people of the island that justice was truly color blind.  Can you 
imagine how humiliating that would be for poor Sambo, having to 
squat, and prance, and jump, while strange hands explored her body? 
Humiliating...but necessary."

I squirmed in my chair as his ran over my black skin.  "Yes," he 
said, clearly imagining the moment.  "A full inspection would be 
best."

"And, of course, she'd need to be punished, too, for 'Passing.'  
That way people would know it wasn't you entertaining a Nigra 
wench at your table, but a cheat.  They'd know it wasn't your 
fault; you were the victim of a crime."

"What did you have in mind?" he said.

"'Before the sellin',' the saying goes, 'there needs to be a 
paddlin','" Hannah said.  "So you see, we need the time to 
prepare a proper defense, since the stakes are so grave."

"What specifically are you concerned about?" the Judge asked.  

"I'm worried that if any documents were found suggesting 
Sambo's...I mean Stefi's...heritage, it might form a prima 
facia case against her," Hannah explained.  "We'd need 
something to refute it.  That's why I'd like to get some 
blood drawn and have a formal DNA test.  If we schedule the 
hearing for Halloween, we should get the results back in time 
for the trial."

A DNA test?  And now my "hearing" had become a "trial."

"Is that really necessary?" the Judge asked.  "Anyone can see the 
young lady is white."

"Of course.  But if there were some mistake on the birth 
certificate...."

"Ah, yes, the birth certificate.  It's in my safe.  I'd forgotten 
about that."

Damn Hannah!  Why did she have to keep bring up that fucking birth 
certificate? 

"I was also concerned that the "one-drop rule" might set an 
impossibly high standard for Samb..Stefi to meet."

"Indeed it might," the Judge agreed.  "Although I'm not sure we 
have the one-drop rule in the statutes on the island."

"You don't.  I checked," Hannah said.  "But it might be invoked as 
common law."

"True, it MIGHT.  Very well.  We'll have the hearing on Halloween, 
in the afternoon."

"It might be better to have it first thing in the morning," Hannah 
countered.  "That way you won't have to hurry back from lunch, and 
you can take your time inspecting the goods at the Sheriff's 
auction, which is going to be at noon.  Plus, if there are any 
punishments you need to administer that morning, you can get them 
out of the way early, before the auction," she added.  

My bottom cheeks tightened at the thought.

Unfortunately, the Judge agreed with Hannah, and my hearing was 
scheduled for 10 am Halloween morning.  From my point of view, 
the timing couldn't have been worse.  There would be no time to 
reconsider the matter and no time for an appeal.  If I were 
convicted that morning I would be remanded to the Sheriff, who 
would oversee my humiliating public spanking, then make a tidy 
commission selling me in the courthouse square at noon.

The Judge was an honest man, within the limits of the corrupt 
system over which he presided.  I knew he would try to give me 
a fair trial and rule based on the evidence.  But, if my birth 
certificate was opened and accepted as prima facia evidence, and 
the "one-drop" rule was in force, the hearing would not be a long 
one.  The Judge liked me, but I could tell from the look in his 
eyes that he was already imagining running his thick hands over 
my body and seeing me squat naked on the auction block.

The Judge, sensing my trepidation, tried to put me at ease.  As we 
left, he took my hand and told me not to worry, "for, I confess, a 
girl as lovely and fair as you are has nothing to worry about in 
my court."  He kissed my hand, and I knew everything would be all 
right. 

Afterward, I challenged Hannah over the DNA test.  "Don't you see, 
silly?  I'll get the test, then alter the results.  That way even 
if the birth certificate says you're black, we'll have proof that 
you're white."

		******************************

We spent the days before my trial at the home of Veronica Bluth, 
a blond, blue-eyed bitch that I despised to the bone.  Actually, 
Hannah spent it there, studying in the law library and getting 
fitted for the lily-white dress that Veronica's Negro seamstress 
was making for the big day in court.  

As for me, Veronica and Hannah thought I should work on my 
"fantastic tan."  I was shocked the first time they led me 
into the fields.  

"Okay, Sambo, take off all your clothes," Veronica said brightly.  
'Nigra naked'!"

I looked over at the white overseer, who was watching from his 
horse.  

"Are you nuts?  Take off my clothes?  Outside?  In public?"

"Yes, silly," Hannah replied.  "It will help you get a great 
overall tan.  I mean, I'm sure we'll win your case, but, if 
something goes wrong, we don't want you standing on the auction 
block with tan lines, do we?"

Suddenly, the reason for the week long delay in my trial became 
apparent.  My ever-thorough friend wanted me golden brown all over.  
"I can't run around naked in public."

Veronica chimed in.  "All the other darkies are naked too, most of 
them, anyway.  I keep the whiter ones naked, so they tan up a nice, 
chocolate color all over, just like you will."

"But Hannah...."

"You won't have to work or anything, just stand around and don't 
get into trouble."

"But...th-the overseers...they'll see me n-naked."

"You look just like the other dark girls, Stefi," Hannah said.  
"Come on, don't embarrass me in front of Veronica."

"Maybe we should get the paddle," Veronica suggested.  From the 
look on her face I didn't doubt she'd do it.  

Angry and embarrassed, but resigned, I quickly stripped off, 
watching as the giggling Hannah and Veronica tossed me a bottle 
of sun tan lotion for my breasts and backside and took my clothes 
back into the mansion.  

As I turned around, stark naked, I caught the overseer leering at 
me.  "Like what you see, asshole?" I challenged him.

"You are uppity," he said, looking me up and down.  "Lucky for you 
Miss Veronica says you're off-limits...at least for now.  Says 
there's gonna be a big crowd for the Halloween auction.  I'm 
gonna be there, too."

I swallowed hard.  He knew just what to say to take the wind out 
of my sails.

I got so bored standing there that, by the time Hannah and Veronica 
got back, I had joined the darkies in the field and was helping 
clear away the debris from the last sugar cane crop.  Hannah 
laughed and complimented me for being a "natural." 

"We'd better not let word of this get out," she chuckled.  "Might 
not look good at your hearing."  

Word did get out, of course.  The Judge mentioned it several days 
later when I met him briefly in the lobby of the hotel.  He didn't 
recognize me at first, since my hair had gotten quite kinky and, 
particularly in the lobby light, I looked very dark.

"I didn't realize....  I thought you were...."  The Judge stopped 
short, and I felt my heart sink.  Putting on his glasses, he 
scrutinized my face carefully.  "Did you do something with your 
lips?  They look plumper.   And your nose looks bigger...and 
flatter.  You look like a different girl."

The scowl on his face made it clear that it wasn't a compliment.  
I felt very awkward.  "Hannah has me working on an all-over tan," 
I murmured.

I squirmed as the Judge stared at me.  "But...but I'm not THAT 
different looking.  I'm still the girl you had dinner with."

The Judge said nothing, but walked over to the lobby desk, where 
a dish of Hershey's chocolate kisses sat.  He unwrapped one and 
dropped it in my hand.

I stared at the piece of candy rolling around in the palm of my hand.  The color was an exact match.

I realized in an instant that I had been kidding myself, thinking 
that I could somehow enjoy the fantasy of playing slave girl with 
no real consequences, since my friend the Judge would get me off.  
But this was no game.  I looked into his eyes, and then around the 
lobby, at everyone who cared to make eye contact with me.  No doubt 
about it: I was chocolate.

"I think I may have been getting too much sun," I confessed.  
"Maybe we should postpone the hearing for a few days."

The Judge nodded, but then I heard Hannah's voice.  "Postpone the 
hearing?  That's nonsense!" 

"Hello, Miss Hannah," the Judge said, greeting her with a kiss 
on the cheek that I did not receive.  "So nice to see you.  
Sambo...Stefi and I were just discussing the possibility of 
postponing her hearing.  After all, what's the rush?"

"Justice delayed is justice denied," Hannah countered.  "Poor 
Stefi has been besmirched too long.  Did you know that management 
has asked me to forbid her from using the pool?  No, we have to 
get this matter settled as soon as possible."

"But she's so...dark!"  the Judge said, in a voice that caused me 
to scrunch my toes against the marble floor.  

"Oh, I've sent away for some makeup to fix that.  There's just a 
little delay because of us being on an island and all.  The day 
of the hearing, she'll be as white as me."

Heather held her pasty white arm next to mine.  I swallowed hard 
as I realized how very dark I looked.

Naturally, I thought the hearing should be postponed, but soon 
Hannah and the Judge were talking like I wasn't there.  Hannah 
quickly switched the topic to some "amusing" stories she had been 
telling him about me, apparently behind my back, like how I only 
got into college through affirmative action (a lie, since I had 
listed my race as white on the forms) and the time I got locked 
out of my apartment naked, or the time I peed in my pants waiting 
in line for the ladies room.  "Monkey shines," the Judge called 
them, laughing.

"I know Miss Hannah's trying to humanize you, before your hearing," 
the Judge said.  "You're lucky to have such a fine advocate.  
But, seeing you standing there barefoot and hearing those stories, 
I can really see what a hot little monkey you really are," he 
chuckled, playfully tweaking my nose.  

I have become popular at the hotel and something of a mascot.  Men 
whisper about me as I walk barefoot through the marble lobby and 
stare at me as I sun myself at the pool.  Without my glasses I find 
it difficult to read, so word has spread that I'm illiterate.  And 
of course my far-sightedness has also led to clumsiness, which is 
further used as evidence of my African nature.

Hannah told everyone what a wonderful dancer I am.  On Saturday 
night, she had me dance in front of the hotel.  As the men came 
by, they'd laugh and toss coins at my feet.  

Each day I grow more tan, and, as my skin tone changes, my white 
identity is slowly eroding away.  I know when the men are looking 
at me, they are imagining what I'll look like naked on the block.  
I have wondered, too.  Several times I have stood in front of the 
full-length mirror in my hotel room, stark naked, admiring my 
all-over tan, my firm breasts, and my tight bottom.  I'll bring 
an excellent price, I'm sure, but the auctioneer will want to make 
sure everyone gets a good look.

I squatted.  I jumped up and down.  I bent and spread.  

Once, Hannah came into the room and caught me posing.  She smiled, 
apologized for interrupting my "practice," and then left.  For 
some reason, I sort of wished she'd stayed and watched me a while.  

I imagined the auctioneer tapping my bottom with the crop as he 
discussed my "charms" in the most humiliating and degrading terms.  
As I pose some more, my fingers began teasing my pussy, tentatively 
at first, then more and more vigorously.  I was nearing a climax, 
when the door opened and Veronica entered, with Hannah right behind 
her.

I yelped and pulled my hand away...though not too fast. 

"Sambo!" Hannah gasped.  "Shame on you!"

"Oh, the poor thing can't help herself," Veronica said.  "You know 
how hot-blooded THEY are...and without normal restraints.  Go on, 
girl, no need to be shy."  She patted my cheek.

"Th-thank you, Miss Ver-onica...."

Now, why had I thanked her?  Why had I called her that?  It didn't 
matter; she would be "Miss Veronica" from that moment on.  And soon 
"Miss Hannah" would claim a similar courtesy. 

In any case, despite my self-consciousness, they insisted I go 
ahead and finish diddling myself.

		******************************

A few days later my DNA test came back.  My hands trembled as Miss 
Hannah handed me the results.

67% European [EU] 
24% Sub-Saharan African [AF] 
7% Indigenous American [IA]
2% East Asian [EA]

24% Sub-Saharan African!  I was truly screwed!  But that wasn't 
the part that worried Miss Hannah.  "Unfortunately, they sent a 
duplicate copy to the courthouse, and it's been added to your 
file," she told me.  "The Judge probably won't open it until 
your trial, though.  Don't worry, Sam-...Stefi...I'll think of 
something.  Besides, those tests can be really inaccurate.  Well, 
at least sometimes.""

And how, I wondered, did they know to send a second copy of the 
damning test to the courthouse.  Not to worry...Miss Hannah 
thinks of everything. 

		******************************

The makeup has not arrived.  Hannah claims she's re-ordered it, 
and I shouldn't worry, for it is is "magical" and will "work 
wonders, like the Emperor's New Clothes."   When I pressed her 
to let me see the order on the Internet, she got snippy, and told 
me to "mind my own business."  Then she added, "With a girl like 
you, makeup often doesn't look good anyway.  Sometimes bare is 
best."

Bare is best.  As we watched the naked slave girls being fondled, 
poked, and probed in the courthouse square, the words sent chills 
down my spine. 

		******************************

Halloween is only a few days away, and, with each passing day in 
the fields, I grow darker...and my hair gets kinkier...and I slide 
closer to the abyss.  Halloween is a time of ghosts, and the dead, 
and past lives.  This Halloween promises to be the scariest -- and 
sexiest -- Halloween ever.  

Thank you, Miss Hannah.  Happy Halloween.




Edited by C. Lakewood