The late afternoon sun blazed fiercely overhead in the South Carolina sky. Its brightness glistened in the beads of sweat on the young man's wrinkled brow, and it shimmered in the trickles of blood that streamed down his massive black shoulders. The whip cracked, his body tensed, and the leather scourge tore�_"again and again�_"into his gleaming flesh.
John Reed was a big man. Though he had recently begun to lose some weight, his 200 plus pounds were settled sturdily on his six-foot frame. His kinky black hair was longer than that of most of the male slaves; it wreathed his heavily-featured face in a symbol of black defiance�_"one of the few such gestures available to a man who was imprisoned by the very social system within which he was born. John Reed, it had been discovered earlier that day, had stolen a hammer from the blacksmith shop in which he worked so that he might try to repair the roof of his cabin. Now, he must pay for that hammer.
John's shirt was off, and his trousers were tattered rags clinging to his body and thighs. The lash whistled in the still, muggy afternoon air and smashed into the small of his back. Involuntarily, he dropped to his knees.
"Get up, nigger bastard!" screamed the petite white woman behind him. She raised the whip again, her eyes glassy with exhilaration, a filmy dew of perspiration covering her finely-boned face, and she hurled the leather toward her kneeling victim. The tip of the lash drilled at the back of John's neck, sending a current of white heat raging through his skull, and knocking him face down into the dust. He lay there, barely conscious, gasping for breath through dirt-clogged nostrils and mouth.
The white woman raved. "You filthy black scum... get up! Get up before I kill you!" The sound of her whip, John's breathing, and her voice were the only sounds�_"though almost a hundred people, black and white, looked on. Most of the white faces mirrored disgust, though some were clearly mesmerized with glee; without exception, the black faces were twisted in anger. This was the Stanton plantation. Mr. Stanton was away at a slave auction in Charleston, and Mrs. Stanton was exercising her power, as she always did when he was away.
John struggled, with agonized hesitation, to his feet. Mrs. Stanton waited, every muscle and nerve in her body tensed and trembling slightly with anxiety as she watched him struggle with his balance. For a moment he wavered, threatening to collapse again, and she shouted to two men standing nearby. "Prop him up," she commanded. "Now turn him around to face me."
For almost a full minute they stonily stood and glowered at each other. Then her arm flashed out and the whip snaked out across the short distance between them, exploding loudly in the pit of his abdomen.
A low-pitched growl escaped his throat as John started to double over. The two men bent him back and three more blows whistled across his hips and thighs. Her aim was perfect. With the efficiency of a surgeon she used the whip to slash away the tattered remains of his trousers, the point of the rawhide biting painfully into the flesh that surrounded his sex. But she spared that part. And as she paused, the whip dangling at her side, her heavy bosom heaving, it became evident to all who watched why she left him untouched there. John's magnificent cock, its mahogany body with its cushiony pink crown bulging at the tip, fully the length and thickness of the woman's forearm, hung almost regally from his body, framed by the heavy, dangling scrotum beneath. Her stare was frozen on him there.
Dropping the whip where she stood, Mrs. Stanton walked slowly across the dusty ground that separated them. "Undress me," she ordered. The two men stepped toward her. "No. Him," she directed. John did not move. His whole world was swimming about his head dizzily; his body, racked with aching, burning pain, threatened to topple from its own weight at any moment. She hissed furiously, "I said you, darky. All you apes want is a white woman. Here's your chance�_" maybe. Take off my clothes." And with lightning suddenness her tiny hand slashed out, slapping his face and dragging her claw-like nails across his cheek.
A bolt of rage shot through him and John's giant black arms struggled to be free, to attack and crush her insect body. But the two men had little trouble restraining his greatly weakened efforts: his left arm was twisted behind his back and he was too exhausted to turn away when, at the last second, he glimpsed the glaring white knuckles of a doubled fist streaking toward him. The bridge of his nose crumbled on impact and the pounding, numbing pain that enveloped his whole head was matched by the sense of drowning he felt as the warm blood that gashed from his nostrils poured into his open, gasping mouth. His body sagged and tears flooded his eyes. He struggled desperately to remain conscious. Faintly, as though from a great distance, he heard a woman's voice. "Wake him up," it echoed in his splitting skull. "Wake him up." The shock of ice-cold water pouring over him snapped John back to awareness of his surroundings.
"Once more is all I'll say it," the mistress of the plantation now said in a controlled and frigid tone. "Take off my clothes or I'll cut off that big black cock and give it to your woman to remember you by." John knew she was serious. His wife's frightened eyes met his; she stood with their children on the near edge of the crowd. Without a word he reached out to unbutton Mrs. Stanton's white blouse.
A tremor of anticipation ripped through her when his powerful fingers began to struggle with the tiny pearl buttons of her ruffled blouse. Mrs. Stanton closed her eyes as he felt a moist trembling in the deepest part of her sexual being. The rough flesh of his hard knuckles brushed lightly against the gently cared-for softness of her gleaming white and silky bosom. One by one, with long, deliberate pauses in between, he undid the buttons of her blouse.
When finally he had finished, John's fingers lightly held the lapels of the blouse open. Though scores of eyes stared at the two of them from all directions, only his two eyes could see the bulging fullness of the bra-encased breasts that the opening of her blouse had revealed. A ripple of sound whispered through the crowd when, upon removing her blouse, Mrs. Stanton's breasts �_"though still covered�_"had their magnificent dimensions exposed. She turned her back then, for him to open her brassiere. He unhooked the snaps, but before the casings fell from her breasts she reached her hands up to cup and conceal them from the assembled throng. Slowly, she turned to face John. And slowly, she let the garment drop from her bosom.
Her long, blonde hair now fell about Mrs. Stanton's delicate ivory shoulders. From where the hair stopped, her chest began to swell. And John's eyes, though burning from the dust and sweat that had assaulted them, were drawn to the soothing beauty of her heavily swollen, milky tits. They were young, as she was, and proudly uplifted; and they curved gently forward, each inviting breast capped with a coral-pink nipple the size of her half-opened mouth. "Are they attractive to you, John Reed?" she coyly purred. As she talked, John could see a rapid engorgement of her nipples taking place. They were swelling to erection, and he could feel a similar response in his own loins.
"Yes'm," he answered her as he knew he was supposed to. And he hated himself for it.
"Then you may kiss them, as you remove my skirt."
Assuming that he was free to respond to her suggestion as he pleased, John tried to ignore the cushiony globes as he leaned forward and fumbled with the ties at the waist of her skirt. "You may kiss them," she repeated firmly. And he knew that his assumption was incorrect.
His lips at first softly brushed against the firm buttons of pink. But when she inhaled sharply at his touch and pressed her tits harder against his face, John knew she wanted more. He parted his lips and gingerly drew the quivering tip of one of her nipples into his mouth. His hands, meanwhile, continued to work at undoing the skirt she wore. He nibbled gently with his lips, then his teeth, at the throbbing pinpoint of her senses, and between his legs he felt a stirring in his balls and a distinct swelling and hardening of his cock.
Soon the fasteners gave and Mrs. Stanton's skirt was loose enough at the waist to slip down over her hips. As she felt it give, as she felt her slave's hands sliding the linen garment over the silken smoothness of the underclothing that enclosed her buttocks, the young woman clasped John's head firmly in her hands and pulled his face urgently to her. His mouth opened wider and swallowed a third of her breast. His tongue swirled quickly about the firmness of her nipple, dusting lightly at the erect little hairs that grew at the edge of the corolla; her fingers worked their way feverishly into the hot black mane of curly hair atop his head, and she moaned softly.
John's hands followed the path of the skirt down the curving smoothness of her hips and thighs and calves. He removed his slurping mouth from her tit in order to bend further forward and assist her in stepping out of the garment as it bunched at the ankles. She wore no stockings. No corset. Only a pair of long white underpants. His fingers hooked into the snugness of the panties at her waist, and very slowly he began to roll them down over her abdomen, hips, and buttocks. The creamy whiteness of her flesh contrasted sharply with the rugged blackness of his own as his fingers moved deliberately down the gently swelling fullness of her abdomen, revealing more and more of her, inch by inch.
Her pubic hair was blonde. Her cunt gave off a mildly pungent odor of perspiration and of "womanness." Before the pants were below her knees she had pulled his head tightly in to the swarm of hair at her crotch and had whispered urgently for his tongue. He found the edge of the tangy groove at the front of her cunt and bored into the thickly moistened tangle of gleaming blonde hair with his gobbling tongue, slipping it in and out of the greasy tunnel of her sex. He tore violently at her panties, freeing her legs which she now spread wide for him.
Just as his head moved instinctively under her now wide-open cunt, Mrs. Stanton's frantic shouting reached John's ears and shocked him back to a realization of the situation. His eyes scanned the crowd, which was pressing in from all sides; his wife had turned her head away but his children's eyes were intently watching his gulping mouth and Mrs. Stanton's dripping cunt.
"Eat me, nigger," she was shouting almost insanely. "Eat my white pussy with your big fat lips!" There was no escape. John reached up and spread open the slippery folds of scarlet flesh above his head, revealing the tiny pimple of her clitoris at one end of the chasm of her sex, and the dark velvety mystery of her anus at the other end. His only defense was a devastating offense.
Pushing his tongue out as far as it would extend, the slave rammed it into the most forward point of his owner's cunt, then literally burrowed the whole length of the channel to the edge of her asshole�_"digging and gouging at her sex every tiny fraction of an inch. He repeated this journey twice more before he felt her hand on his cock and heard her voice urging him to take it and masturbate while he ate her. John was seated on the ground beneath her wide-open legs. While his tongue slurped and bored its way into her, while his lips sucked and gobbled, he was forced now to take his own cock in his hands and jerk off.
He felt his children's eyes on him; he felt the eyes of the whole plantation. He knew that life could never be the same for him or his family, bad as the past had been. Shame and disgust and fury raged inside him, but John knew there was nothing for him to do but submit. If he didn't, he and his entire family might die.
Even in his huge hands John's cock appeared massive. It was rigid and upright now, the pulsating veins quivering beneath the sheet of blackness. His fingers slipped rapidly up and down the length of the shaft and all the pain and anxiety and fury that he felt was directed into a single emotion, an emotion rooted in his huge, flaming prick.
Mrs. Stanton squatted lower now, reached behind her and pulled her buttocks apart. His hand still pumping furiously up and down, bringing his climax closer and closer, John now gazed up into the tiny opening of the brown eye that was Mrs. Stanton's rectum.
"Suck it, blackie," she wildly exhorted him. "And pull that meat faster." His one hand pounded away and almost without his knowing it, the other hand began to play with his balls. John was aware of the debauchery of the moment�_"but he had lost control. Her soft, ivory cheeks flared open above him; the squinting eye of her asshole stared down at him, demanding his attention. Tilting his head further back, John drove his tongue deeply in the blackness of that secret recess, and as he bored and reamed away at it, he felt Mrs. Stanton's knees buckle as she almost collapsed in the ecstasy of the experience.
She was literally riding his face now, tearing at the lips of her cunt while his tongue ground mercilessly into her anus. His hands worked mercilessly at his sex. And he was ready to come. The churning waters were pounding at the gate. Any second now... any second now... His fingers worked frantically to bring him over the top... Any second...
Suddenly then she was gone. And he was being dragged roughly to his feet, his aching, throbbing cock waving, unfulfilled, in the warm South Carolina sun. Mrs. Stanton stood before him. "I just needed something a little bigger in there, boy." She turned around and bent over, again pulling her buttocks open wide. Ravenously, he reached out for her. But then she stood up again and faced him. "But don't you come now," she warned. "I'm serious. If you come"�_"she paused and motioned one of her armed bodyguards in the direction of his wife and children�_""if you so much as dribble in me, black boy, your whole family is dead." She then resumed her position. "Come on in, boy," she laughed.
Stunned, and afraid of whatever he might do, John stood immobile. But the two men at his side pushed him up to the bent-over woman before him, whereupon she reached back, gripped his still rock-hard cock, and guided it to the target of her asshole. It seemed impossible that it would fit. His cock was at least three inches thick, and the dark rim of her anus' lips surrounded an opening barely the size of a pinhole. He lifted his eyes for a moment. There was a shotgun loosely trained on the ground where his family stood. They were dead if he refused; and they were dead if he came. He had no alternative but to attempt the impossible.
Very tentatively John moved the velvet knob of his cock into the valley formed by the white woman's parted cheeks, and he pushed firmly but gently at the grommet of brown that sat like a bulls-eyes in the midst of the lush softness of her flesh. His tongue had lubricated the hole well, and it gradually began to open before him. But then it stopped, stretched tight, with only half the head of his spear having penetrated. Her voice was strained, but she called back to him, "Come on... push... uhhh... get in... " And he did. With agonizing slowness the head of his prick squeezed into the tiny aperture�_"and already the churning preliminary feelings of imminent orgasm had gripped his balls. "Ahhh... God... ohhh... deeper... " she moaned, her hips now rolling in big, round motions as her hands pulled at her cheeks to open wider. A fraction of an inch at a time.
And more and more demanding was that feeling in his loins growing. "Ohh... fuck me, fuck me," she pleaded almost deliriously. And John realized there was only one way! His hands pressed heavily on the silky-soft cheeks of her buttocks, pushing them open more than she had been able to; then, with a single powerful lurch of his hips, he buried six inches of his throbbing brown club into the depths of her anal channel. She screamed and fell forward onto her hands and knees; he followed, and with a second thrust dropped the remaining half of his member into her wildly bucking haunches. She had lost complete control and was thrashing before him like a fish out of water. But she was impaled on a twelve-inch black spike and could go nowhere. She moaned and screamed as the veil of orgasm began to envelop her. The fury of her actions was taking its toll on John as well. His cock was inflamed. It was only a matter of time; seconds�_"minutes if he was lucky�_"before it would burst inside this woman's guts, spewing his juices everywhere. And killing his family.
She was trapped in a serial orgasm that ripped through her, mounted, seemed to peak, then mounted more. And more. And more. The muscles that surrounded John's sunken shaft twitched and squeezed at him. Now, somehow, she had reached down between her legs and had gripped the pouch that held his balls�_" she pinched and pressed and massaged and manipulated it expertly. And the boiling juices were in control now. He had lost it. His eyes crammed shut as he desperately tried to restrain himself. Her hips bucked and rolled; her anus gripped and squeezed his cock; her fingers worked gnawingly at his balls; she moaned and cried and whimpered, her whole emotional being fragmented by the ceaseless ecstasy that roared through her. He was coming. Now, he must stop. He must stop! Mentally he forced himself to repress the explosion. But it was useless. He felt the fluids surging up his pipe.
Mrs. Stanton pulled herself free. She was finished. "All right, big black buck," she screamed hysterically, "come on, let it go... let everyone see it!" John's entire body was shaking with the independent spasms and contractions that took hold. His huge cock exploded, come�_"white, foaming, burning, sticky semen�_"spurting everywhere as he fell to his side and rolled in the dust, tears of joy and anger and euphoria and shame and pain streaming down his rawboned cheeks, every muscle in his body insanely flexing and unflexing as a sea of come passed through the burning phallic eye at the tip of his cock and covered him with its buttery-thick substance.
Mrs. Stanton walked away, laughing, and left him there. The rest of the whites followed.
Mrs. Reed helped her husband back to the cabin he shared with her and their children.
Late that night with the children in bed�_"rolled up in burlap blankets in their corner of the one-room cabin �_"-John and his wife, unable to sleep, talked.
"There is no alternative," he whispered.
"But John... " she started to plead, then fell quickly silent. A sound outside. Footsteps. Then a rummaging sound in the community woodpile.
"Just that dog," John said. A smile of relief spread across his wife's warm face, and she snuggled closer to him, burying her head securely in the muscular angle formed by his neck and shoulder and chest. "Go on," he murmured.
"No. I suppose you're right. It's just the children�_" everyone's children�_"that I worry about."
"So do I," he said firmly. "That's why it has to be done. If we do it here, it can spread across the South. Then maybe our children can be free."
"It's just that... well, everywhere else that someone has tried, it's failed. The system is too tight for successful revolt."
"Maybe... " he answered distantly, and she knew she had lost him, that his mind was contemplating things other than her warnings.
"Let's go to sleep," she said softly.
Then gently they made love.
They kissed, softly, and his fingers found her soft, mother's breasts and toyed with their large, firm nipples. His hand moved smoothly over the plump mound of her belly, pushed through the wiry tangle of her public hair, and slid easily into the dark, wet cavern of her sex. She groaned.
John moved his body between his wife's invitingly spread legs, reaching down and bending her long, sleek limbs up and out, doubling her knees back to her chest. Only shadowed moonlight provided even a hint of visibility, but it was enough for John's eyes to follow the curves of his wife's dusky, cinnamon flesh from the point where her large breasts swelled, over the disk of her abdomen, through the darkness of the hair spreading outward from her mons, and into the deliciously moist and mysterious folds of her cunt. It opened wide for him, seemed to beckon, and with a long, slow stroke he slipped the entirety of his rigid cock into the hot creaminess that waited. The walls of her cunt trembled. Very slowly at first, then with gradually increasing rapidity, he drew his spear out, then drove it back in�_" then out, then in... out... in...
"Oh, John... Oh, John," his wife moaned as her cunt flexed and squeezed and sucked on his member. The slow revolutions of her hips now changed to shorter, quicker thrusts as she sought to swallow him whole.
Deeper and deeper and deeper, faster and faster and faster he worked, pumping his steel-hard manhood into her yawning, gulping cunt. Pile-driving now, slamming his hips against the brown cushions of her upraised buttocks, cramming the fullness of his massive cock furiously into her omnivorous vagina. They were approaching eruption together. Then suddenly he slowed, then stopped�_"she gasped and cried out and writhed beneath him�_"and with a huge forward motion he buried his cock as deeply as it had ever been into the tunnel of her sex. And with a high-pitched whine she came, her cunt gulping and sucking madly on him as the raging heat of orgasm exploded in his loins and his juices swirled up to meet hers and they rolled over in each other's arms, dizzily swimming in the inhuman joys and agonies that enveloped them, their fluids spurting in untamed climax... again... and again... and again...
CHAPTER TWO
On his way to work the next day, as he leisurely strode across the small meadow between the slave quarters and the blacksmith shop, John spotted a gang of field hands trooping off to work under the burning morning sun. He thought about their lot for the next few minutes.
He wasn't sure who his parents were, but he had at one time been told that he was born of fourth-generation American slaves. And, somewhat wryly, he was proud of that. Very early in his life John had learned to read and to speak English with definite competence. It had been no small aid in his getting the job in the blacksmith shop. It was a good job. On the one hand he didn't have to work under inhuman conditions and at the direction of frequently inhuman overseers, as the field slaves did; on the other, however, he never envied the plight of the house slave who, for all his good food and light work, had to "yassah and "nawsuh" every minute of his life and who invariably lost his soul a lot faster than anyone else.
The slave trade had been outlawed for years�_"for as long as John could remember. But me pirate ships still delivered slaves by the thousands to Southern ports each year. He watched the column of field hands disappear over a small hill and he wondered how many of them were so fresh from their native soil�_"where, he had heard, they often worked farms not unlike this one �_"that they could not even speak English.
John was a skilled worker. He had always been proud of that fact and had felt lucky, and a bit superior to most of the others. Until yesterday. For some time now, word of a slave revolt had rippled quietly through the black community. John had, in fact, been specifically approached on more than one occasion. But he was not willing to risk his life or that of his family in a venture that seemed doomed to failure. Until yesterday. The plans had continued to develop, however; arms had been cached and only the lack of unity among the slaves and an opportune moment stood in the way of attempted freedom. Since yesterday, John was sure, the first of these problems no longer effectively existed. It was now only a matter of time.
"Hey, nig-nog, wake up!" The harsh, rasping voice suddenly pulled John's wandering mind back to earth. Emil, the white smithy that he worked with, approached and wrapped a falsely friendly arm about his shoulders. John shrugged him off and nodded. Despite his own size he was dwarfed by the hugeness of this man. "What's the matter?" Emil laughed. "That skin and muscle still hurt? Hey! How 'bout that big, fat muscle between your legs, boy? How's that feel today?" The white man doubled over in laughter at his own question. John ducked his head and stepped inside the shop.
The day was unbearable. Not only did the morning sun develop into a blistering heat as the afternoon wore on, but none of the passing whites could resist comment on the previous day's entertainment Egged on by Emil they asked John how he liked it with a white woman�_" was she as good as that dark meat he was used to?�_"and they wondered aloud at the legitimacy of the legend of black sexual insatiability. John worked on through the verbal assaults, refusing to even acknowledge them except on those few occasions when the white prankster became insistent. Then, obediently, John would go into his foot-shuffling act of mock embarrassment and the delighted interrogator would invariably wander off laughing�_"after seriously warning him not to let yesterday give him any bright ideas about white women. "Oh, nawsuh," he would assure them, and then quickly get back to work.
Finally, it was almost over. In the distance John could see the field hands coming in from their work and almost instinctively he slowed his own efforts and began putting his tools away. The sun was setting, but the summer furnace heat hung densely in the air. He mopped his dripping brow and watched the parade of blacks pass the shop. Emil had been going at him nonstop all day and was still at it.
"Pretty soon you'll be able to get home and wrapped up in your big black mama's arms, huh? Lay that long black pipe in there, huh?" Then the giant blacksmith had an idea. Striding quickly into the passing group of slaves, he reached out and gripped the arm of a thin, spindly-legged black girl, perhaps twelve years old, and dragged her back to the shop where John stood watching in the doorway. "Gonna show you how we whites do it," he announced, smiling as he passed. Helpless anger glowed in John's deep brown eyes as he watched.
Emil leaned back against a heavy post that supported the ceiling. "Take off your clothes," he told the child.
"Oh, wait a... " John started to protest.
"Shut up!" the huge white man snarled. John knew better than to say more. The girl looked imploringly at him, but he averted his gaze.
She undressed quickly. The white man stared at her tiny fragile structure, then ordered her to turn around slowly so that he might examine her more closely. She pirouetted haltingly for him, her dark eyes reflecting the fear that gripped her thoughts.
The fire used in the men's work roared only a few feet away, and the light it cast picked up a shimmering rainbow of colors on the child's slowly turning jet-black body. Her legs were toothpick thin, though gracefully formed; her waist was no larger in circumference than the blacksmith's biceps; her breasts, only recently beginning to form, poked sharply out in space, each one tipped by a deep purple pebble of a nipple; and her child's face vividly displayed her fear and apprehension of the unknown acts she sensed she would soon have to perform.
Emil sat down heavily on the dirt floor. He beckoned to the girl. She came forward. "Open my pants," he ordered. She hesitated then bent forward and fumbled with his belt, then the buttons of his fly. Emil boosted his hips off the floor. "Take them off," he told her, and he watched with evident satisfaction as she wrestled with his heavy trousers, then his enormous leather boots. In her childish lack of inhibition, the girl bent and bowed and squatted in every direction as she struggled with his clothes, giving the delighted blacksmith unhindered views of her emerging femininity beneath the fuzzy pubic hair at the front of her sex and under the hard little black bulges that were her buttocks in the rear. The sight she displayed affected him physically, and the huge slumbering penis that now lay exposed in his lap began to stir.
"Good," he said when she had finished. "Now come in here." He directed her between his outstretched, parted legs. "Kneel down." She was not much larger in any respect than one of his bared hairy legs, and when the black child knelt before his rapidly growing organ her size seemed to diminish even more, her soft and unmarked dark flesh surrounded by his massive paleness. Silently he gestured, and she knew what he wanted her to do�_"she had watched other adults make love in the public atmosphere that marked the slave quarters. She leaned forward, wrapped both of her tiny hands around the giant cock rearing up in front of her and paused for a moment, looking down on the slit-like aperture atop it from which a trickle of clear liquid was beginning to ooze. Then, opening wide her soft and heavy lips, she bowed her head and took his eager cock into her mouth.
His eyes lit up. His mouth opened and the big white man inhaled deeply. John tried to look away but he couldn't. A mixture of disgust and anger, and raw excitement forced his attention back. Emil grinned brutishly up at him, then reached forward to take the child's small head in his hands and force it further down the length of his prick. She gagged and choked at first, but soon caught on and was then expertly sucking and gobbling on his fat-knobbed member.
The big man closed his eyes and moaned loudly. The girl was no responding to his responses and was experimenting herself. She slurped furiously up and down, then pulled her mouth free momentarily in order to run her narrow tongue teasingly over the prick's swelling head, sliding it cunningly into the groove that puffed at its tip as though gasping for air; both of her hands easily wrapped about the tool's giant length and they worked hard rubbing up and down its body. Emil's head rolled slowly from side to side and he groaned ceaselessly as his hips began to respond now and push up to meet the child's downward thrusts with her dripping mouth.
Remembering what she had seen yesterday, the little black girl then reached beneath the surging prick with one hand and grasped and jiggled and massaged his balls. Her other hand continued to ride up and down his cock with frightening strength for one so young. And her mouth gulped as she sensed something happening and she gagged, tears filling her eyes, her brown cheeks swollen with his manhood, and she tried to swallow the impossible entirety of him. She handled his balls loosely, but quickly, shaking them like dice in her cupped palm.
With a sudden shout Emil came. He pushed his cock deeply into her throat and buried the spurting gobs of semen deep inside her. The child coughed and choked on the thickness and the volume of fluid that gushed down her throat, but valiantly she swallowed the gobs of come that seemed to be endlessly flooding into her. And still, as she felt his cock violently expanding and contracting between her tightly-sealed lips, her fingers worked feverishly on the remainder of his sex.
She got up to go when the last few drops had dribbled out and she had licked him clean, but he clamped his legs about her frail ebony body and pulled her back. "I'm not finished," he drawled, "am I, boy?" He turned, sneering, to John who waited in a corner to take the child home. No answer. "Well, I'm not. Get me back up, girl." She dutifully went to work on his limply dangling cock�_"working it gently with her fingers, her palms, and her mouth. In the meantime Emil's hand had snaked down between the girl's kneeling legs and his heavy, callused fingers worked in and out and around her rapidly moistening adolescent twat.
When at last the white man's cock was again rearing up in full bloom and the African child's cunt was as lubricated as possible, he reached down and lifted the girl's trembling body to his lap, then to his chest, then suspended over his face where his mouth opened and his tongue bored up into her. Suspended in the air above his head, the girl's legs began to thrash, her haunches trembled, and the tight muscles in her buttocks clenched and unclenched as the man's mouth devoured her juices, sucked on her rubbery-soft cunt lips and moistened her sex thickly with saliva. The girl whimpered in fright at the sensation that gripped her, and she rolled the hard tips of her nipples in her fingers in an act of masturbation that heightened her excitement. Then suddenly she felt herself being lifted again, away from his mouth, and when she looked down she saw his monstrous upright cock pointing directly at the narrow gap between her open legs. He guided her down on top of it.
For a moment or two he seemed to be groping in the dark as he sought out the tiny hole of her vagina; it was so small and his cock so thick that at first he was unaware of having found it. But then slowly he pulled her down on it. For the first time the child spoke. "Oh, no. Oh God, no... " she whimpered. And when he continued to stretch her open and pull her on like a tight-fitting glove she broke down in convulsive half-screaming sobs, her legs one minute kicking wildly to be free of this invading monster that threatened to split her in two, the next minute doubled up in a fetal position as she resigned herself to its entry and hoped to open her tight passageway a bit more. With a sudden violent pulling motion he suddenly tore the full length of his staff into her young belly. Blood trickled down onto his marauding, thrusting thighs and the girl started to pass out from the ripping agony that dragged through her like barbed wire. He pushed her up, then pulled her down, then up, then down and an inhuman cry gurgled in her lungs as the man's actions became more frenzied and in his excitement he began at first to giggle, then to laugh out loud. Faster and faster he ruthlessly rode the girl's tiny body up and down his massive staff, now smeared with the blood that poured from her womb. His hysterical laugh rose up to mingle with her gurgling death-rattle cry, and he felt the final convulsion rising deep in his loins. His head reared up and he grabbed a tiny breast in his teeth and he clamped them tightly shut, tasting the hot tartness of her blood in his mouth as he felt the trip wire of his orgasm released and the hot sticky fluids from his guts rise up through his length of burning pipe and gush and bubble into the pit of her intestines. They screamed and thrashed on the dirt floor together, his cock implanted in her belly, his teeth imbedded in her breast, his come spurting up to mix with the blood that gushed from her cunt. He shrieked in hysterical laughter.
And in a seizure of uncontrollable fury, John drove a pickax through the white man's skull.
CHAPTER THREE
A deafening quiet shrouded the plantation the next morning. In the night the slaves had stolen back to the fields and buried the white man's body in a section that would not be worked again for some time. Time. That was the only question. They were not yet ready to strike and calm must be maintained until they were. But the atmosphere was heavy with heat and tension.
When the little black girl failed to show up for work the slaves pleaded that she was ill. The overseer believed them. And through the night and into the next day black women worked feverishly on the child to keep her alive.
John went to work as if nothing had happened. And when he was asked about Emil�_"had he seen him? Did he know where he was?�_"he just lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head and, with mock concern, said, "Nawsuh... ain' seed him since yes'day." He continued his work without further comment.
But something was wrong. The overseers sensed it and the other whites sensed it; and the slaves knew they sensed it. But all they could do was wait.
The sun arched slowly across the morning sky and wilted living things below. Inside the sweltering blacksmith shed John worked furiously in the glow of the fire, forging tools that the slaves might convert to weapons when the time came. In the fields the workers relentlessly pursued their tasks, and they dreamed of the time rapidly approaching when they would walk freely from the plantation. In a tiny cabin among the cluster of shacks the slaves called home, a woman tried desperately to stem the hemorrhaging of a little girl's intestines. In an untended section of the fields, crudely buried beneath the loose-packed soil, a body began to decay as flies buzzed overhead. And in the big white house Mrs. Stanton and her neighbor, Mrs. Wheatley, sipped tea, munched on cakes, and talked of the difficulties involved in being a plantation owner's wife so often left alone while the husband was away on business.
It was early afternoon when Sally, the elderly mulatto woman who was Mrs. Stanton's personal servant, stepped inside the blacksmith shop. After distastefully eyeing the shack's interior furnishings, including John, she crisply announced that he was wanted by the Mistress in her study�_"immediately. Then she spun quickly around and disappeared.
For a moment, afraid that he had been found out, John thought of running. Then he caught himself. If she had found out about the killing she wouldn't have sent for him like this; and in broad daylight he had little chance of escape anyway. As he trudged up the hill to the house John tried to prepare himself for what awaited him. But what was it?
He walked to the rear of the house and started to knock, but the door swung open. Jeffers, the aristocratic, white-maned butler, waited. "Come in, Mr. Reed. Mrs. Stanton is expecting you." The house was cool and smelled faintly of magnolia. And panic suddenly gripped him. He didn't belong here: his heavy, greasy boots would scar the polished floors and stain the golden carpets; the sweat that covered his brow and soaked through his shirt gave off an odor both pungent and foreign to this place; he felt he dared not touch anything, or in his clumsiness it would inevitably break. Hesitantly and gingerly he followed Jeffers, who turned him over to Sally, who hated him and everything black �_"because she was not white. She led him briskly down a thickly-carpeted hallway and up a flight of stairs. They approached a closed door and Sally stopped. "Go on in," she said sternly, and she walked away.
He was alone. And frozen in his tracks. Behind the door he heard the faint sound of women's voices talking and laughing. He had no place to go but through that door. Very tentatively he gripped the knob and turned it. The door swung open easily and less than ten feet away sat Mrs. Stanton and three other women around a table having lunch. They were naked.
"Come in, come in," she smilingly greeted him. "Care for some lunch?" The table was covered with food, much of which he had never seen or tasted in his life. The other three women smiled and their eyes examined him closely. They whispered to each other.
"No, ma'am. Thank you."
"Ladies," Mrs. Stanton announced in very formal tones, "this is Mr. Reed. Mr. Reed: Mrs. Wheatley, Mrs. Burke, and Mrs. Simmons."
"How do you do," they said in unison. John nodded.
"Have a seat," Mrs. Stanton urged him, motioning to a chair nearby, "we'll be right with you." He sat down and waited. The women were talking animatedly.
"I do think you're about... "
"Is that really so? I mean... "
"Well, it's a marvelous idea, anyway... "
John watched, and only half-listened. The women were all young and immaculately groomed and white. None of them wore a stitch of clothing. Mrs. Wheatley was rather chubby with large soft breasts, heavy thighs and buttocks that spread out widely across the chair in which she was sitting; her skin was an almost transparent white except in spots where it blushed bright pink, and though it appeared supple as it stretched over her more than ample dimensions, it was not flabby. Her back was almost turned to him. Mrs. Stanton sat next to her.
Across the table, on the left, sat Mrs. Simmons. Her red hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, which were thin and finely boned. Her breasts were not particularly large but they poked proudly and firmly out at him, their pale-hued nipples apparently in perpetual erection. John's gaze dropped below the level of the table. Mrs. Simmons' legs were long and slender and were demurely crossed. Mrs. Burke, short, dark and aristocratically poised, sat the furthest distance away. Her raven hair was piled high atop her head; her round, full tits swelled out over the plate from which she was delicately eating; and below the table her legs were spread wide, and she was playing with herself.
"Well," said Mrs. Stanton with an air of finality as she daintily wiped her mouth with a lace napkin, "I suppose, ladies, we might as well get down to business:" She turned to John. "Take off your clothes, please, Mr. Reed," she said firmly. Then, smiling a pseudo-sweet smile: "Join us."
He hadn't expected this�_"stupidly, he then supposed. He didn't know; he thought maybe this was how white folks ate lunch together. Naked. He should have realized there was a point to it all but he had become so involved in simply observing things that the thought of participation hadn't even entered his mind.
"Oh, don't be Embarrassed," said the tall, red-haired Mrs. Simmons as she stood and walked suggestively toward him. "From what we hear, you have no reason to be," she giggled. The other ladies joined her. She started to unbutton John's shirt for him. His eyes flashed from face to face; they were very intent. He decided not to resist and he began to unbuckle his belt, as Mrs. Simmons' long slim fingers worked deftly on the buttons of his shirt. And then his fly.
He felt ridiculous standing there stark naked in front of the four women, even if they were naked themselves. Not knowing what to do, he did nothing, and the ladies slowly walked around him, examining him as he had seen them do horses at an auction.
"Yes, Diane," Mrs. Wheatley said to Mrs. Stanton, "you certainly weren't exaggerating." She stepped in front of John and picked up his limp cock in her hand, seeming to weigh and squeeze it like a piece of fruit. "No, indeed," she added, "it is magnificent." He felt his prick begin to stiffen slightly at her touch. "And it's lively enough," she added with a Utile laugh in her voice. She winked at John. He half-smiled nervously back at her.
"Well, let's not dilly-dally," little Mrs. Burke perked up. "Who's first?"
John observed that the very heavy black bush of hair that guarded Mrs. Burke's sex was wet from excitement. He knew who she wanted to be first. And he didn't care. Realizing now that all they wanted was a little solid sex to fill their barren lives, John was only too happy to help out It was, after all, next to blacksmithing, the thing he did best. Yet he hoped they wouldn't become impatient. He was only human, after all.
The ladies began to bicker about who would be first �_"none of them wanting to appear impatient, of course, but all of them remembering an appointment they had that would soon call them away. Mm Stanton finally interrupted. "Well, John, it appears that we'll just have to ask you to decide who's first." John had hoped she'd ask him this. His reply was quick. "Miz Stanton," he drawled as thickly as possible, "I jes' don' know. Y'know, I never met none of these ladies 'fore. If'n it was purely up to me though... " He paused. "It is John, go ahead," Mrs. Simmons interrupted eagerly. "Well... " he said sleepily, "as I say, if it was purely up to me, I'd ask the ladies to help me decide a little first."
Mrs. Wheatley, who was still balancing John's half-hard cock in her hand, was the first to respond. "Like this?" she asked. And she bent forward and slipped her bright red lips over the dark knob at the end of his prick. "Ummmmmm... " she slurped. "It is nice." Her words were muffled.
"Well," Mrs. Simmons huffed, "if you'd give one of us a chance... " She stepped in front of John, Mrs. Wheatley stepped back and she took his giant member between two fingers, holding it upright. Then with a super-delicate stroke she slid her tongue from the tip, down the seam of the cock's underside, stopping only at the very base. Then back up the same route, where she suddenly slipped as much of the rod in her mouth as would fit and took a deep, long suck. The prick hardened and grew substantially, and with a sigh John leaned back against the chair for support.
Little Mrs. Burke was next. She knelt down in front of John and took his prick in both her hands. It was wet from the other ladies' mouths, so her hands slipped swiftly and easily up and down its length. John closed his eyes. Then he felt her hot, wet mouth enclose the sack that held his dangling testicles and her tongue swirl around the hardened nuts inside. Her fingers continued to flit up and down his flaring spear while she sucked on his balls and massaged them with her agile tongue. John felt the muscles and the arteries that ran throughout his cock beginning to flex and pulse, and a spreading sense of heat enveloped his loins.
Mrs. Burke hadn't stopped when Mrs. Stanton's tongue slid down the valley formed by his powerfully muscled buttocks and stroked lightly at the door to his rectum.
Mrs. Wheatley's mouth returned as she bent at the waist and started to nibble hungrily at the mushroom head of his erect penis.
And thus, with Mrs. Stanton kneeling behind him reaming out his dark asshole with her tongue; with Mrs.. Burke seated between his legs, her head uptilted with her mouth drawing deeply on his balls and her fingers rubbing rapidly up and down his cock; and with chubby Mrs. Wheatley's full lips nibbling on his penis tip, did the afternoon truly begin for John. He came very quickly this first time, bursting his hot creamy load inside the gobbling mouth of Mrs. Wheatley, an action that so excited her that she collapsed before him, her fat legs slapping happily against the floor, in a reactive orgasm of her own.
One down. Three to go.
After having waited patiently, the long and slim-legged Mrs. Simmons announced her intention to have a go at John by herself. The other ladies agreed that it was her prerogative; she had, after all, been thoughtfully tolerant, and anyway John was dangling limply and it might take quite a bit of effort to get him back up again. Mrs. Burke and Mrs. Stanton, not having climaxed, were to be sure, a little concerned. But they agreed to wait their turn.
When it was settled, Mrs. Simmons arose from the chair in which she was sitting, strode purposefully to the spot where John was standing, wrapped her slender arms about his bulky neck, and pressed her parted lips determinedly against his. It was evident from her stiffness that she had never kissed a black man before, but in a matter of seconds, she relaxed and her tongue worked earnestly in concert with his. John slipped his thick brown arms about her body and pulled her close. She responded by pressing her tits zealously against his chest and dropping her hand between their bodies to carefully fondle his soft and supple penis. At her urging they lowered their bodies together to the floor.
Then, turning John onto his back, the redhead placed a few fingers lightly on his lips as if to say, "Be still," and she moved gracefully down to a kneeling position at his feet. The other three women watched intently as she bent forward and ran her tongue teasingly over the sole of his foot, around the arch and up behind his heel; she smiled with satisfaction as she felt the muscles in his leg tense in response. With agonizingly slow motions, she shifted her lips up to his ankle, where she nipped at his Achilles tendon, then to his calf where she dallied, taking bits of flesh and hair in her teeth and gnawing softly, and finally to his steel-muscled thighs where she alternated from one to the other, abrasively dragging a dry tongue up the sensitive inside. As her tongue reached the wrinkled pouch containing his balls it would stop, perhaps stroking up only a fraction of an inch more to toy teasingly with one of the sparse hairs that protruded from the sack. Then she would move back to the other leg, starting at the knee and working north. John was breathing heavily now, as were the three women who watched, and his cock began slowly to harden again and to rise up as if it were a dead giant being brought back to life. The women sighed deeply in approval as their fingers now moved surreptitiously toward their sweating crotches.
The slim redhead suddenly shifted her attention to his chest, where she buried her face, nibbling and sucking at his nipples; only her hand remained in the vicinity of his sex, where her long fingernails scraped with feather strokes up and down his thighs, occasionally across his balls, but never touching his now fully hard cock. Her tongue dragged down his chest, across the hard ridges of his stomach, then stopped and drilled softly into the opening of his navel, her fingers still relentlessly brushing all about, but never touching his cock. John moaned and shifted his legs and hips about uncomfortably. The watching ladies now openly were masturbating. And Mrs. Simmons dipped her head still lower, her tongue licking and her lips and teeth nipping at the burnt copper flesh of his abdomen, while her fingers calmly danced about his quivering organ. She nuzzled deeply in his pubic hair, taking a big mouthful at one point and sucking the soft skin beneath until it burned. Then her hand stopped and she moved her face up and only an inch away from the aching head of his upward-thrusting prick. None of her was touching him now; the only sensations he felt were from the silky softness of her hair as it cascaded and whisked lightly across his belly, and the warmth of her hot breath swirling down about his sex. The tip of her tongue then reached down and licked almost imperceptibly at the tip of his cock and his body responded by trembling all over as a huge, icy shiver tore through him. He almost exploded in orgasm on the spot. But then, at the moment that he expected to feel her mouth slide down over his cock, she moved away.
John's eyes had been clenched shut and he opened them now as he felt himself start to bellow with displeasure at her depriving him of satisfaction. His open eyes then saw her slim body reverse its position, moving her knees up to a level with his shoulders and stretching one leg across his chest so that now she was kneeling astride him, her head poised agonizingly close above the tip of his rearing cock, and as he looked straight up her gleaming cunt opened, just inches before his face. They were set in a posed sixty-nine position, but nowhere did their bodies touch.
John's eyes stared up into the folds and recesses of her glorious, bush-crowned sex; the heavy lips were spread wide for him and the opening to her vagina was set in lonely expectancy, shimmering in its scarlet wetness, at the center of her twat. With a burst of power, the black man reared his head up and bored his outstretched tongue deeply into the waiting hole; the redhead screamed at the shock and drove her drooling mouth down, fully swallowing most of his massive cock. His hands reached up and grabbed her knotted buttocks and pulled her cunt brusquely into his madly lapping face; her fingers dug into the cavern between his legs and clawed frenziedly at him as her head bobbed frantically up and down, sucking and slurping and gulping and gobbling insanely on his fiery black rod.
But now it was John's turn to play, and just as he felt the two of them nearing the precipice, he slid out from under her and pulled his dripping stiffness from her mouth.
"Oh no," she shouted frenziedly, as she struggled to get back. "Oh... you fuck... " But before she could finish, John had flipped her onto her back and thrown her legs over each of his shoulders as he knelt before her gaping slit. "Ohhh... ahhh... yes... " she moaned, both in realization and in expectation of what he was doing.
He dropped his head and shoulders then so that his face was directly opposite her delectably drooling cunt. His tongue snaked out, slipped into the deep dark channel and licked tantalizingly at its slipperiness. She writhed and twisted helplessly before him and cried out for something more. So he repeated the motion. Very slowly. Her hips bounced and squirmed beneath her and he reached his fingers in and pulled the heavy lips open to view the secret depths of her yawning inner cunt. Then he placed the throbbing head of his cock into the vestibule of her vaginal tunnel, and he waited.
"Oh, God... oh, Jesus God... please don't... no... yes." She writhed and twisted and bucked at the sensation of her cunt stretched open but not invaded. So with a deeply slow and deliberate stroke he slid the full length of his mammoth cock down the creamy tube of her vagina. She went wild, her cunt twitched and flexed and gripped at his rod; but just as slowly and deliberately as he entered, he withdrew�_"leaving only the tip hanging precariously on the lip of her entrance. Then again�_"very slowly, very easily�_"he descended into the deepest parts of her body, parts never before touched by an outside instrument. Then out again. Then in. Out. In. Out. Each stroke taking at least ten seconds to complete. Not much more than an inch a second. Then in. Then out.
The redhead's hair tangled and twisted as she rolled from side to side, whimpering, sobbing, pleading with him to move faster. And he did. A bit. But each moment that his cock hung so dangerously close to exit seemed like an hour to her; and each moment that it lay completely submerged, sending violent tremors and searing flashes of heat through her belly and thrashing limbs, seemed to pass in a second.
John was not unaffected, either. His stomach ached with ferocious intensity and his cock throbbed and burned. He was going to come. Soon. It was boiling up in his groin and threatening to explode. Her cunt lips pulsed and sucked on his member and her voice cried out tearfully as the giant slid back in once more. He started to shake with his own orgasm out�_"then suddenly, savagely, he ripped his prick entirely from her belly. "Ohhhhh... Christ!" she screamed, "Goddamn it... fuck... fuck me, you goddamned nigger!" And with the same suddenness, the same savagery, he drove the spike back in and buried it to the root inside of her. She became delirious, flipping and rolling and kicking about. And he came. And when she felt the boiling geyser of come slosh explosively into her gut, she felt her own emotional sensibility snap and she gave herself up to the frightening power of their mutual, raging orgasm. And they gurgled and clutched at each other, spouting and spewing their juices into and around each other's foaming sex. They shook with the ecstatic cries of supreme relief as the fulsome wake of their sexual hurricane tore through the entire room.
And but a few feet away, three women collapsed beside them, their fingers and hands plunging rapidly in and out of their own belching cunts. And they too came. And they fell upon each other, their mouths gulping for a tit, for anything, to grip with their teeth as their bodies shook with the racking violence of their self-generated orgasms. And like the couple still stormily writhing about on the floor, they seemed to come forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
The four white women and the one black man lay in a blissful stupor for long moments. The room reeked of the odor of sex. The only sounds were of their heavy breathing. Mrs. Burke�_"tiny, dark, and apparently insatiable�_"broke the silence.
"Mr. Reed?" she whispered huskily. "Mr. Reed?"
"Yes," came his languid reply.
"Spank me... please."
For long, and�_"for her�_"agonizing seconds, he didn't answer. Then, sounding as though it took a summoning of all his strength just to respond, he said, "In a minute." And for more extended and suspended moments the only sound penetrating the dank and heavy atmosphere was of five exhausted bodies seeking to regain their strength.
"Now John?" came a meek and almost childish question a short time later. And after another long silence came his weary answer: "All right... now."
John pulled his massive dark bulk to a seating position on an armless wooden chair and waited. Mrs. Burke crept to his side�_"and waited. "Well, come on." He motioned to her to lean across his lap. Her eyes glowed up at him like burning coals, her mouth twisted in a tight smile: "Make me." And John understood.
For one so small, she struggled furiously with him as he wrestled to pull her across his knee. He twisted an arm and dragged her toward him. "You animal," she hissed, and her hand slashed out and tore with her fingernails at his face. Suddenly angered, not only at her but at the entire situation, with them using him like some pleasure instrument, he erupted. "I said, come here," he growled. And as she kicked and twisted in his grasp and, seeing the fury in his eyes, began to plead for mercy, he lifted her in the air and slammed her, face down, across his lap. Wrapping his left arm across her back and around her chest in order to hold her down, John raised his right hand and paused for a moment to sight his target. Her legs still kicked and thrashed, causing her round, white buttocks to squirm and quiver like independently alive spheres rolling in his lap. They seemed to beg to be kissed�_"and whipped.
His huge hand came down first on the smooth right cheek and the loud slap of flesh against flesh was joined by the little lady's shrill gurgle and scream of pain and pleasure. Her cheek blushed bright pink at the impact and was joined by its companion on the left as he slapped sharply down on it. The other women now began to crowd about, watching intently; and with each succeeding swat Mrs. Burke's thrashing about decreased, her screams turned to sighs, and her legs parted as she arched her buttocks higher to meet his downward blows. They crashed down again and again. Between her parted thighs the gleaming evidence of her satisfaction began to appear�_"and at the sight of her moist responsiveness John felt his own sex growing again.
"Harder, harder!" she implored him, pushing her ass higher as if to increase the intensity of feeling. "Oh, harder... beat me," she was moaning absently, "... kill me... " And then, just as the pounding reached its furious acme, she stopped; the only sound she uttered was a reedy, piercing screech, and the only movement in her body was a violent quaking that gripped and shook her from her head to her ankles. John rained faster and harder blows down upon her shivering buttocks as the now bright red globes spread wide open, exposing the dark brown ringlet of her asshole to the four sets of intently gazing eyes. The orgasm seemed to hold her in its grasp endlessly; then, as John continued to deliver slap upon slap to her glowing spheres, the violent shaking of her body began to pass. And with a loud sigh, Mrs. Burke relaxed as the final spasms decreased in intensity.
"No! Don't stop," Mrs. Wheatley suddenly shouted, rushing forward. John looked up and saw the imminent presence of orgasm in the chubby woman's face�_"orgasm vicariously created. "No... no," she cried, and reaching a stubby index finger out toward the crevice between Mrs. Burke's inflamed buttocks, she drilled sharply and deeply into the climaxing woman's tight little asshole. The small woman across John's knees screamed in sudden pain and renewed pleasure, and the violence of her dissipating orgasm swelled back up inside her. Mrs. Wheatley, in the meantime, had peaked also, and she fell to her knees before John and the delirious woman in his lap, one finger vigorously reaming out the dark-haired woman's rectum while her other hand groped crazily about her own gushing cunt. John lowered Mrs. Burke to the floor with Mrs. Wheatley and watched as they weathered the storm of mutual orgasm together. And while he watched he played absent-mindedly with his penis, which had by now regained its strength and was rearing up before him in anticipation.
The party's hostess, Mrs. Stanton, was quick to observe John's condition. She crept immediately forward and took the cock in her hands, then guided her moistened lips over its cap. With very little movement of her head Mrs. Stanton began to delicately nibble and nip at the vertical rod. And John leaned back, closed his eyes, and decided to relax and enjoy orgasm gently for a change. But Mrs. Stanton was only stalling; she was waiting for Mrs. Wheatley to recuperate. Still, the chilling tremors of excitement that rippled through John didn't fail�_"even for the third time in so short a period �_"and the syrup of his manhood began to beat up in his loins.
Mrs. Stanton gradually increased the accompanying head movements. John responded by sighing deeply and easing himself from the chair to a prostrate position on the floor. Faster and faster grew the intensity of the lady's attentions. Then for a second�_"a split second�_" there was a tiny pause, but the stroking, gobbling, sucking action resumed so immediately that John didn't even open his dreamily closed eyes. And therefore he didn't know that at the top of his rigid cock Mrs. Stanton's mouth had been replaced by Mrs. Wheatley's. And, a bit later, by Mrs. Simmons'. Then Mrs. Burke's (who the other ladies had some trouble prying loose). Mrs. Stanton again. Then Mrs. Wheatley for the second time around. But by this time John was moving excitedly about on the floor, and as Mrs. Wheatley sensed the imminence of the giant white eruption that was due at any minute from the center of this black man's loins, she refused to give up her post. She had tasted the sweetness of his come before�_"and she was ravenous for it again.
Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Simmons, seeing the difficulty they would have in tearing the bouncy, rotund Mrs. Wheatley from his joint, soon found delighted pleasure in each other. Moving off to the most private corner they could find, the two exquisite young ladies kissed and touched and poked and licked and found fantastic pleasures with each other.
But Mrs. Burke�_"tiny, raven-haired, aristocratic Mrs. Burke�_"just paced. Her blue-black hair, once piled elegantly atop her head, now tumbled every which way about her neck and shoulders; and her aristocratic bearing, once the most striking outward characteristic of her manner, had been transformed into the impatient animal nervousness of a raw emotion seeking an outlet. And she paced. And scowled. And fumed.
John was going to come again. But it was the third time and thus it did not suddenly thrust itself upon him, but rather announced its intentions by spreading a gradually increasing warmth throughout his thighs and belly. So he passed the word to Mrs. Wheatley�_""I'm going to come," he gasped�_"and her mouth became a gulping whirlpool voraciously trying to devour him. She pressed her head forward and down and the whole of her kneeling fleshy capaciousness seemed to settle more heavily into place; and wriggling, squirming, living things appeared to scamper back and forth beneath the rolling layers of her flesh. Her legs opened wide to support the vigorous motions of her body as she groped at and bobbed madly up and down upon his flaming cock. And, because of the kneeling position she was in, as her legs opened so did the chunky balls of fat that were her buttocks. While she drooled and sucked at John's cock then, the secret disk of her anal eye peered out from the mountains of white flesh that surrounded it. And Mrs. Burke peered back.
Chunky Mrs. Wheatley was happily gobbling at John's threatening cock when she first felt the tiny fingers of Mrs. Burke's hand twiddling with the oily lips of her vulnerably exposed cunt. The shock tripped a surprised response in her and her teeth snapped sharply closed on John. He bolted; she mumbled a mouth-stuffed apology and continued. But from then on, whatever Mrs. Burke did in her handling of Mrs. Wheatley's ample and slippery trough of sex, it was transmitted like a vibrating tuning fork through the heavy woman's body and out through her slurping lips.
Mrs. Burke decided she had better lubricate Mrs. Wheatley's asshole before it was all over. The most immediate lubricant was the cunt drip that now streamed from Mrs. Wheatley's vagina; so the dark haired lady dipped her fingers in and rubbed the odorous balm about the tightly-stretched membrane that protected the rectum. She sighed longingly as she looked at the luscious dark hole, wishing that just for now she could be a man and fuck that asshole into insensibility; and in response to her touch, Mrs. Wheatley gasped, and wished for a moment that it was a man behind her so that her hungry asshole might be invaded by something more than a finger. The touch of Mrs. Burke's finger brushing at the smoothness of her anus literally shook Mrs. Wheatley, and in the process so excited John that the liquid in his guts began to bubble up the stem of his prick. He was coming. "He's coming!" Mrs. Wheatley gulped out loud when she sensed it. "He's coming... " Mrs. Burke repeated as she reached for the banana and the cucumber that lay on the nearby table where they had had lunch.
The cucumber was first. It was stuffed inside the widespread cunt without much trouble and, in fact, threatened to sink from view, so gaping was the vaginal opening. But Mrs. Burke, now gasping for breath herself with the frightening power she suddenly felt herself wielding, held tightly to the end of the fat green fruit so that she might manipulate it as she desired. Then she moved the banana into place. She lightly placed the hard black knob at the end of the curved piece of yellow fruit against the straining doorway to Mrs. Wheatley's asshole. Then, as she reamed the walls of the woman's sucking cunt with the cucumber she had inserted, with a sharp twist she punctured the resistance and tore viciously into the anal channel. Mrs. Wheatley flipped. She gagged and coughed and choked on John's cock while the two edible spears Mrs. Burke was wielding simultaneously invaded her asshole and her cunt. She screamed an other-worldly shriek as the two fat rods rubbed against each other through the thin membrane wall separating colon from cunt. And John, with a sudden grunt, exploded into her fully stuffed mouth. The gulping thick egg white from the huge black spear inside her throat threatened to choke the ecstatic Mrs. Wheatley; and the invading fruit that ripped painfully and wonderfully into her vagina and her rectum threatened to split her screaming body in half. Then, with an accompanying choking gulp, as she gagged in her desperate efforts to swallow every drop of John's come�_"she came. She fell into a quaking fit of epileptic proportions, shaking and quivering like a jellyfish trapped between the sunken spears that impaled her through three separate openings, her mouth, her asshole, and her cunt. And there�_"suspended between the restless stabbing instruments that bored and reamed and drilled their way into her�_"chubby Mrs. Wheatley shivered and danced her creamy way into a coma.
"You may go now, John," said Mrs. Stanton coldly. The four women and he had been serenely at rest for some time when she spoke. They all had expected things to continue, and were startled both by the suddenness of Mrs. Stanton's announcement and by the severity of her tone.
"But, Diane... " Mrs. Burke began sleepily to protest. Mrs. Stanton ignored her. "Boy," she snarled through angrily clenched teeth, "I said move."
"Yes'm," John responded obediently, sarcastically exaggerating the thickness of his drawl and the devoted zealousness of his manner. He quickly got to his feet and started dressing.
Mrs. Stanton's tone had also affected the other ladies; they suddenly remembered who they were, and who he was. "Step on it, nigger," Mrs. Simmons snapped as she stretched her long, thin, unclothed form to its full height and placed her hands on her hips as if to add firmness to her words. Little Mrs. Burke suddenly resumed the full imperiousness of her bearing and mumbled as she strode off across the room to retrieve her own clothes, "As we were saying earlier, Diane, about these niggers: the young ones just aren't the same as... " Mrs. Wheatley was still too groggy to move or speak, but the slowly changing expression on her face identified her agreement with the abruptly changed mood.
As John was finally struggling into his boots the insanely enraged Mrs. Stanton suddenly wheeled to confront him directly. "If you're not out that door in five seconds, Sambo, I'll cut off that fat black prick and nail it to a tree... One... Two... Three... " John stumbled and fell as he raced for the exit and when the door closed behind him, he could hear the women's convulsive laughter ringing through the thin crack at the base of its hinges.
His heart pounded heavily in his chest and he had to stop halfway down the stairs to catch his breath, so furious was the rage that burned inside him. He knew of course, what had been going on all the time. But he had made them crawl and nuzzle at his cock and for a while he felt he had controlled them. Now they laughed at him and made him run and stumble like some frightened child became they were through, and he was black, a slave�_"and they were white. Any day now, he thought as he tried to calm himself, any day now this will be all over. When the time is right, when the plans for the revolt are all laid, then he would take that yellow-haired bitch and...
His mind groped for acts of sadism heinous enough as he slowly descended the stairs. At the bottom he paused for a moment, trying to remember which way to go, when Sally and Jeffers abruptly appeared around a corner. She was speaking hurriedly and confidentially to the elderly butler and they were as startled by John's unexpected presence as he was by them. They quickly stopped talking. Sally glared at him. "I presume you are finished," she almost spat at him. He nodded and she briskly brushed past him on her way up the stairs. Jeffers motioned to John to follow.
As soon as they reached the back door the white haired servant turned and in guarded tones said, "You better go, son. Fast. They found the body and Sally's upstairs telling Miz Stanton right now. They already suspect that you done it." John didn't pause to reply. He was out the door and racing down the dirt path to the track that led to the slave quarters before his mind had had a chance to formulate an answer to the question that enveloped him like the darkness: What to do? Where to go?
While John and the four ladies had been exerting themselves, the afternoon had passed. It was dusk and the darkness of night was quickly taking over. And in the darkness danger seemed to prowl everywhere. It floated in like a fog, enshrouding the plantation's buildings and equipment, which squatted motionless upon the earth, resting for the night. There was power in the darkness, secrecy, but most of all terror. He stumbled clumsily and crazily down the path at top speed. The slaves shacks appeared dimly in the distance and his heart began to thud furiously with the intense mixture of emotion�_"joy at the subliminal security and warmth that home represented and fear of the unknown reception that awaited him�_"that raged in his chest.
The sound of voices. John dove for the cover of nearby bushes and lay still, agonizing over the seemingly ear-splitting noise of his thumping heartbeat and his panting breath. They were white men, two of them, unhurriedly strolling past. John strained to hear their words. "... big black mama... she... get hold of him... too much... " Only fragments, scattered pieces of their conversation, reached his ears, words occasionally punctuated by a harsh, rasping laugh. He couldn't tell if they were talking about him. Then the voices faded. And John resumed his dash for home. His wife and children. Their safety. That was what mattered most. A large wooden shed loomed up before him: the processing house where newly arrived blacks were quartered. He was close. At the edge of the clearing. He felt safer.
Nightmare hands suddenly gripped his legs. He fell. Struggled to get up. But arms and hands and bodies pinned him down and clamped his mouth shut. It was over. They had him. They would kill him. He fought back like a madman, struggling and kicking free. He had seen what they did to slaves who fought back. Fire. Knives. Lynching. Scenes from the past flooded his brain and he clawed frantically to be free of the octopus tentacles that wound about his limbs, his neck, his body. He was caught. He was dead. God! If they would only kill him now, he thought, instead of dragging it out and torturing him. His frantic eyes blazed in the darkness and he looked to see the faces of his captors.
They were black. He recognized the faces of his friends.
"Be still!" hissed the man who held his mouth clamped shut. "Be still or we'll all get it." John quieted down and waited. Were they betraying a brother to save themselves? What were they doing? Why had they grabbed him? "The cabins are swarming with white men," the voice continued, "looking for someone, asking questions. If you would have barged back in there you'd be dead in no time. They already suspect that you're responsible anyway."
John stumbled over his words. "Wh... what can I do?"
"Just get the hell out of here. Now. We'll help you get at least to Jackson's Woods. From there on you've got to make it alone."
"What about my wife... my kids?"
"They should be all right," the slave breathed down at him. "Those white folks are lookin' for a man. They ain't interested in women or kids. But they sure want you. Anyway, we're gonna come at 'em in just a few weeks now. Everything's set for the middle of next month." The man smiled down at John. "Now you get out of here. We'll meet you up North in a month, maybe." John smiled back. It seemed impossible. But the plans were really tight. It might work. Maybe...
He got to his feet and looked around at the faces of his friends. They smiled, shook his hand, and wished him well. Then, together, they melted into the darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
The woods were dark and dense. Only a thin sliver of moon was out that night and it provided almost no illumination for the escaping slave. On the one hand that was good: darkness would make it more difficult for searchers to find him. But on the other hand, it slowed him down too, and if he wasn't completely out of the county by daylight he was a dead man. He pushed on.
Twigs snapped underfoot and he ducked to avoid imaginary blows that he thought he saw coming from behind the shadowy pillars of trees. Branches that swayed in the sultry Carolina night air seemed to threaten the frantic, driven black. He constantly looked behind him in anticipation of a search party.
John really didn't expect to escape. He had heard of the underground railroad, of a black saint of a woman they called Harriet Tubman, but he wasn't sure he believed any of the stories. He had never known anyone to escape. There was no reason he should be first. But he forced himself to drive on into the forbidding night. It was better than giving himself up or just waiting for them to find him. That would be suicide. This way, at least he had a chance; not much of one, he admitted, but any chance was better than none. An owl occasionally spotted him and warned the forest's other night creatures, who scampered noisly out of the man's path. He fell, again and again, until his clothes were tattered and his flesh was exposed to the thorns that reached out to grab and tear at him. He felt the hot trickle of blood on his arms and legs and body. And his face was crisscrossed with tiny slash marks caused by barbed branches that seemed alive as they snaked across his path. He winced. He fell. Tears of fury and pain and desperation welled up in his eyes. And he pushed on.
His legs buckled and threatened to give out. He seemed to have been running for hours, but he knew better. No one can estimate time under duress like a slave can, and when finally John stopped to pause and catch his breath, he calculated that he had probably been running for not more than an hour. Considering the darkness and obstacles provided by the forest, he was no doubt still less than five miles from the plantation. Fighting desperately with the need to rest, he pushed on.
Soon he collapsed. He stumbled and fell headlong into a thicket of briars. There he lay for long silent minutes. The blood thundered through his veins and arteries and exploded in his heart and brain. He thought he was dying. He had to be. He was unable to catch his breath, unable to calm his heartbeat, and possibly unable to bear the pain that racked his body any longer. He fell asleep.
The barking of dogs nearby yanked him back to consciousness. Without a thought he lurched back into the woods, in the opposite direction from the sound of the animals. Then he stopped and spun around, confused. The dogs were coming from the wrong direction, from the direction he had been running to, not from. He listened again, more closely. They weren't coming at him. They were stationary, and as the barking died down for a moment he could hear the sound of voices. They were too faint for him to determine whether they were men's or women's voices, but he could at least note that they were talking calmly; then there was laughing. There were only two or three voices, not the search party he had expected. Slowly John crept in the direction of the sound. Not more than twenty yards from the spot in which he had been sleeping there was the edge of a clearing. He paused there and strained his eyes against the blackness to see where the sounds were coming from. An expanse of lawn stretched out before him and extended to a distance beyond the range of his vision. Nothing else. Just an open meadow. And now, deathlike silence. He waited, frozen to the spot, for the next bark of the dogs, the next sound, to set his direction.
"Mr. Reed... is that you?" The familiar female voice slashed out of the darkness and spun John around to face it. It was Mrs. Burke�_"tiny, aristocratic, dark-haired Mrs. Burke�_"and in one hand she held a pistol, in the other the leash restraining an excited Doberman pinscher. She was accompanied by another woman he had never seen before. They stood less than five feet away from him. "Please don't be alarmed, Mr. Reed, it's only me. And please don't try to run away. I may not shoot very straight, but if the dogs don't get you, our screams will bring the whole plantation down on you." He didn't speak, didn't move. He could say or do nothing. But wait to see what was next.
After a few moments of stillness and silence she spoke again. "Good," she smiled, "I'm glad to see you understand. I know why you're running away. The little quadroon girl that Diane keeps came running in to tell us about the body as soon as you left. She thought you had done it. I guess you did. Don't worry, though. I don't care one way or the other, and frankly, anything I can do to frustrate that Stanton woman is a task gladly performed."
She turned to the woman with her. "This is my sister-in-law, Margaret. Margaret: Mr. Reed�_"John Reed, I believe it is." The other woman nodded. John nodded back.
"Now, Mr. Reed," Mrs. Burke continued, "tell you what I propose. You're on my property, this is my plantation you wandered onto, and you're a runaway slave that killed a white man. I believe there isn't much worse you could have done, now, is there?" She smiled, a forced sweet smile. "But I'm gonna help you escape, if you do a little thing for me first. Fuck me. Plain and simple. Fuck me. Today you spanked me and I sucked on you and I got fingered and I done some fingering... but I never got fucked. And I did so want to. After that, you can go. I'll even show you where to go." Then she stopped. She hadn't ended with a question, but she obviously was waiting for an answer. Not again, John thought, there wasn't time. But what else could he do?
"All right," he said, "let's go." And he got to his feet and started to undress.
"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Reed," she said. "I think my little sister-in-law would like a taste, too. I'm sure that will be all right, won't it?" He nodded, and continued to undress. Handing the pistol and the leash to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Burke joined him.
"First, kiss me," she said moments later when they were both naked. She stood on her toes and tipped her head back to receive it. John leaned down to meet her lips with his and soon found the woman's arms powerfully locked behind his neck, her tongue boring thirstily into his mouth, and her compact little body writhing and twisting and pressing against him. In seconds, she was panting heavily to catch her breath, her body was in flames, and she was dragging him to the ground with her.
They rolled on the soft mossy turf and her hand moved out to catch his sex. He was still limp; she moaned in displeasure and bent quickly forward and drew the supple cock into her mouth. John lay there, waiting for his prick to bloom. Mrs. Burke, who was already burning for his cock, squirmed impatiently about as she sucked deeply on his member and expertly massaged his balls. In a matter of moments he was fully erect and she fell onto her back.
"Now fuck me. Hard," she huffed. "Just a plain and simple solid fuck... but hard," John squatted down before her. He spread her legs apart, then pushed them up to a right angle with her prostrate body, her buttocks elevated a few inches from the ground. In the darkness they looked like tapered ivory columns standing free, but growing in thickness until they almost met at the base. Almost. It was too dark to see the full richness of her cunt. But he could smell it. The enormous head of his swollen ebony cock brushed hesitantly against the warm slickness of her cunt's outer lips. Then slowly he pushed it forward, feeling it sink deeply into the trembling soft-wet flesh. A pause. Resistance. Then the flesh once again parted as the entrance to her vagina yawned open at the pressure from his prick. The tip pushed in, and he stopped to catch his breath. She wanted it hard, he remembered; and he savored the last flickering seconds of deprivation for both of them as he froze stock still. "Come on, dammit," she squealed, "come on." And he did.
She was taken by surprise, caught in mid-breath when, with a tremendous forward lunge, he buried three-fourths of his cock into the sweating tunnel of her vagina. It was all What would fit. Her only sound was an odd hissing, wheezing sound as the shock waves washed thunderously through her. He pulled back a few inches, then drove in deeper, letting his full weight collapse on her. Deeper, but not enough. He pulled back again and heard her sob. "Oh no... oh God no... you'll kill me... ohhhh... ohhhh... " and then "Ohhh!!" as the giant branch crammed in again, more deeply still. But not to the hilt. Again. And again. He was moving faster and exerting tremendous energy, tremendous power as he drove the cock viciously into the narrow tube of the tiny woman. She moaned now, a long, soft monotone that rose in sudden peaks as he slammed again and again into the oozing creamy cunt, sinking deeper and deeper with each thrust.
The pace jumped furiously as he snapped his hips back and forth, cramming his foot-long staff into her cunt with Gatling-gun rapidity, pushing to depths her body was not designed to accept. Her body was slippery with sweat and tears streamed down her cheeks as she choked and cried in agony�_"and wrapped her legs tightly about his waist, and urged him to move faster, deeper, harder. He let himself go. With all the ferocious power he could generate, he pummeled in and out of her cunt, his whole abdominal area battering and slamming into thighs and cunt and buttocks. She just held on, incapable of matching his insane speed and strength. "Ohhhh... " she moaned. And then: "Now... oh now... oh Christ to fuck oh goddammmm... Oh! Fuck!! Ahhhhhh... " And she held that growling wail for the full duration of the exploding orgasm that tore at her insides.
John hadn't come. So just as Mrs. Burke was trailing off�_"just as had happened earlier after John had spanked her�_"she felt her senses being again rekindled. John was rolling his hips in big, slow undulating movements, as if trying to stir the delicate sauce that bubbled inside her. She moved with him. And she felt her desire mounting again.
His cock felt like a mammoth lead pipe inside her, rock-hard and indestructible. She tensed and relaxed the sphincter muscles that encircled the tube of her cunt, and she felt him respond. The tempo mounted again. She was so full that she thought her belly would rip open. Her cunt felt like an endless burning pit that stretched from between her legs up to her head. And the massive black thing that rode up and down the pit, pressing with enormous power against the full inner circumference of the straining walls, moved faster now, plunged deeper, and sent her mind reeling in hallucinatory fits while searing pain and terrible pleasure ripped and gouged at her being. "Oh... my mouth... " she mumbled incoherently as her head rolled helplessly from side to side, "... my mouth... it's coming out my mouth... Oh, Jesus Christ help me, help me, help me, help me please it's coming in and up and it's going to choke me and God oh Christ I can feel it... / can feel it... it's coming out my mouth... " He was insane now, too. The madness of a rapist. His fingers dug into the soft white cheeks of her buttocks as he lifted her up and spread her open. And his cock seemed to be all of him, battering ferociously to get inside. And when he heard her cry that it was coming out her mouth, he believed her and he pushed harder to make it true. Faster, deeper. His body was lurching out of control now. His mind had tripped out in space with hers and only their bodies, their mindless animal bodies, were left crashing into and against each other, and the tumultuous sea of come that raged up inside them, only the ocean of come that pounded at the gates of their loins, offered respite. But nothing happened. They were trapped in the dryness of that split-second before orgasm�_"but the split-second held... and held... and held... "Oh, come... oh Christ oh come," she screamed. And he joined her pleas. And together they foamed and raged and stormed against each other, and they shrieked and cried for the release of orgasm. And then they came.
His boiling sperm gushed into her with the power of a sledge hammer and she was triggered into response. The blackness of night burst open and the sky flashed with a billion lights that assaulted their escaping brains and forced them back to the bubbling deluge of come that swirled and flooded all around them. And they screamed and twisted and rolled in the deliciousness of their own juices and cried out and begged for more while their arms and legs clutched to pull the other closer.
"You're next," Mrs. Burke smiled up at her sister-in-law when they were finished.
CHAPTER SIX
Mrs. Stanton had reconciled herself to John's escape very quickly. When the hastily organized search party failed to discover him after scouring the perimeter of the plantation for an hour, she called them off. No need to waste time and men. They wouldn't find him tonight, anyway. If he escaped�_"too bad. He'd probably be picked up as an obvious runaway sometime the next day. But if not, that wasn't her concern. He was in South Carolina. There was nowhere to hide.
The slave quarters buzzed with excitement. What would happen now? The little girl the white man had raped had died that afternoon, but that wouldn't matter to Mrs. Stanton. Indeed, no one even dared mention it for fear that they would be implicated. But the search party had been called off. Was she going to let it drop that easily?
At about ten o'clock that night Mrs. Stanton strode into the midst of the cluster of slave cabins. She was accompanied by a dozen brawny, heavily armed white men.
"Will everyone please gather 'round," she called out.
After a tense few moments a few blacks appeared at their doorways. Then a few more, still more, and soon the area was filled with black faces, the terror in their eyes reflected by the flickering torches the white men carried. The tension in the air was all drawn to the slim blonde woman in the center of the gathering, and the sense of power that feeling gave her ignited Mrs. Stanton's theatrical pretenses. She was wearing a tight-fitting white blouse, riding pants and boots, and had pulled her hair back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. She carried her bullwhip loosely at her side. For minutes on end, as the silence grew heavier in the air, she moved her gaze slowly from black face to black face. Finally, she stopped�_"when she reached John's wife.
"Mrs. Reed... " she started slowly, not really questioning but expecting some acknowledgement. There was none. "Mrs. Reed, where is your husband?" The black women averted her gaze. "Mammy," the white woman said, raising and tightening her tone, "I want to know where your man is."
"Don't know, mam," came the dark woman's quiet reply.
"Then where is your boy? And your girl?"
The black woman looked frightened. She had an arm across the shoulders of each of her two children and she instinctively pulled them closer to her. "Here, mam," she answered slowly, "right here."
"Bring them to me."
There was a long pause. No one moved.
"Bring them to me."
Very slowly, very hesitantly, the mother and her children moved out of the large circle that had formed and toward its center, where the small white woman magisterially stood, surrounded tightly by her guard. The black woman was young and attractive, and her buxom warmth was always carried with a natural pride; now, however, as she walked that short distance between her people and the plantation mistress, her shoulders sloped somewhat and she moved as someone twice or three times her age might move. The crushing sense of fear for the safety of her children, and of complete helplessness, weighed oppressively on her tired shoulders. She stopped a few feet from Mrs. Stanton. The white women looked down at the black children, then stooped to meet their gaze on their own level.
"Do you know where your daddy is?" she asked, almost kindly. The children shook their heads. Her words were slow and simple and clearly enunciated for their benefit. "Did you know that he has run away?" They didn't move or speak. "Of course you do... but do you know why?" Still the children were silent. "Ask your mother." Silence. She glared coldly at the boy, riveting her pale blue eyes, almost luminous in the torchlight, to his. "How old are you?" she asked through clenched teeth. He told her he was seven. "You are old enough to understand me. Ask your mother why your father has run away. Ask her." The boy looked up into his mother's round, dark face.
"Mama... " he started, then stopped.
"Your daddy run away because he had to," the boy's mother said simply.
"Tell him why," Mrs. Stanton shouted. There was a long pause. The children looked at their mother.
"Because he had to," she repeated softly, but firmly. And then, knowing it was suicidal, but beyond caring, she added, "Because evil men were going to hurt him. But he'll be back."
Mrs. Stanton flew into a rage at this defiance. She spun on her heels to face the nearest white man, the guard on her right.
"Strip her," she snapped at him. "Strip her. She'll tell her children why he ran away�_"and these other coons will see what happens to anyone who thinks he's white."
The guard stepped up to the slave woman and began unbuttoning the shapeless dress she wore. "No," Mrs. Stanton screamed, "tear it off�_"here, I'll do it." And savagely she tore into the black woman, ripping at the rough cloth and digging into bare flesh with her fingernails. She stepped back. In the eerie shadowy darkness the black woman stood, her cocoa flesh glimmering like satin in the torchlight; she stood erect, proudly and defiantly, and her brown-black eyes smouldered with hate and fixed unwaveringly on Mrs. Stanton's. The white woman turned away.
The torchlight did odd things to the images. Suddenly, in the magnificence of her nakedness, the slave woman's presence dominated the whole scene. The flames licked at the dense night air and cast a glow that accentuated the naturally sharp curves of her body. From the front of her narrow woman's shoulders, her chest began to swell almost immediately. Then the swelling spread into the two elongated orbs of her breasts, each one capped with a mother's large plum-purple nipple. The narrowness of her waist was striking, and it was set off by suddenly flaring hips that tapered down into long, shapely thighs and calves; and in the middle of the outline, her belly swelled slightly just below the indentation of her navel and rolled softly down into the triangle of glossy black pubic hair that guarded her sex.
Mrs. Stanton, now suddenly appearing small and pale and mousy, whirled abruptly to face the black woman once again. And as her body turned her arm flashed out and guided the heavy leather whip across the short space that separated the two women. The lash curled about the slave's body, wound tightly, and with pythonlike strength seemed to lock itself closed. With a powerful jerk the white woman yanked John's wife off her feet�_"first to her knees, then spelling awkwardly face-down in the dirt. She waited, winding the scourge carefully, as the black woman struggled back to her feet. Her children suddenly rushed to help her, but she urged them to step back. They did, and she turned to face Mrs. Stanton again.
The whip shot out and cracked against the woman's cheek. It split the flesh with razor efficiency. "I want you to tell your children," Mrs. Stanton said, in carefully measured cadence, "why your husband ran away. Tell them what he did�_"and what will happen to him when we catch him."
There was no pause to wait for a reply. There was no reply coming. The leather tongue flicked out again and smashed at the black woman's mouth with tremendous impact, knocking her again from her feet. Again, she stood and faced her tormentor. Blood flowed freely from the slash down her cheek; her mouth foamed with blood that quickly covered the twisted, swollen mass that her lips were becoming. The whip darted out and drilled explosively into the socket of her right eye. She staggered, stumbled, and threw her hands up to her face, but without a sound turned again to the raging white women. When she dropped her hands, it was impossible to recognize the woman's face. One side was completely smeared with blood. Her mouth could hardly be seen for the blood and what little was visible was nothing but swollen ashy pulp. Her eyelid had closed and was ballooning so quickly that her whole head appeared unbalanced; her eyeball may or may not have still been in her head.
Again the rawhide sizzled across space and this time slashed at the black woman's left nipple. For the first time a sound, a whimper, could be heard from her. Then again the whip. And the sound of leather against flesh as the lash dug into the tip of her right breast. She dropped, as though the strength were suddenly drawn from her legs, to her knees and curled forward, her arms folded protectively across her chest.
"Tell them now," the blonde woman screeched.
At first the only sound from the black woman was a choked sob. Then she lifted her bloody head and lisped through permanently ruined lips, "Your daddy did what he had to."
Mrs. Stanton went cold. A sudden, emotionless calm came over her. She turned and motioned to two of her guards. "Lie her down on her back," she told them matter-of-factly. When Mrs. Reed was stretched out on her back, she continued. "Now take her legs and lift them up and back over her head." They did, and the black woman was now jackknifed into such a position that the whole of her was centered on the large round curve of her thighs, buttocks and back. The cinnamon-colored smoothness of her big, round cheeks gleamed in the firelight and the curvature swept across, then dove into the deep blackness of the cavity that lay between. Mrs. Stanton turned to a third guard. "You," she ordered curtly, "fuck her." Then to another, "And you're next. And then you," she said, pointing to another, "then you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you. Then you two," she finally said to the two men who were holding the woman in her exposed position.
The first man stepped forward, unbuckled his pants and dropped them to his knees. His white cock hung limply down in front of him. He knelt before the black woman's upraised haunches and began to masturbate�_"he hadn't had time to get hard. Slowly, as a hundred eyes watched from all directions, the cock�_" almost silver-white in the artificial light�_"grew, swelled and lengthened in his hand. Then he was ready. He leaned forward and pressed it into the groove between the slave woman's legs. Then he stopped. He pressed harder, and he reached up to spread her legs wider apart, and he tried again. He couldn't get it in. The black woman had tensed the sphincter muscles at the entrance to her vagina so much that the man's cock was denied entry, try as he may, and did, for the next few minutes. "I'm sorry, Miz Stanton," he finally said, turning helplessly away. "Jes' won' go in."
"Get out of the way," she snapped. And she cocked the whip. "No black pussy says no to a white man." And as she threw her arm forward, she added, "Or woman." The leather hummed in the air for a split second, then with a sickening smack ripped into the soft flesh of the woman's cunt. For the first time, she screamed. "Lift that ass up higher," Mrs. Stanton said to the men who were holding John's wife down. They did. And again the leather cut blisteringly through the night air. It seemed to hang poised for a fraction of a second; then with a tremendous clap it drilled its sharp point deep into the brown grommet of the woman's asshole. The pain was sudden and excruciating beyond belief. And the only thing that interrupted the angry animal growl that burst from the woman's lungs was the sound of her vomiting uncontrollably after a few seconds.
Mrs. Stanton motioned to the man who stood off to the side, his pants still down about his knees, his prick still at rigid attention. "Go ahead," she said softly. And then she smiled. "I don't think she'll stop you now."
She was right. His prick slid easily into the open cunt, and slipped back and forth without difficulty. The blood was an excellent lubricant. He came quickly.
The next man was more deliberate. Very slowly he moved in and out of the tormented woman's cunt, often undulating his hips in large revolutions when implanted up to his root. For more than five minutes he worked his cock as thoroughly in and out of her vagina as possible, and despite her attempts to avoid sensation, the black woman was beginning to respond slightly when he climaxed.
The next man was rough and hard, slamming his prick deeply and rapidly from the very start. He came very quickly also, but his work was done. John's wife was involuntarily moving her hips in concert with the man's thrusting organ when he came.
She moaned softly with pleasure for the first time when the next man entered her. And by the time he finished, she had lost control.
The fifth man was careful. He took his time and seemed to delight in tormenting the excited woman, by moving rapidly in and out and grinding his belly harshly against the outside of her sex�_"and then pulling out completely to watch her anxious, twitching hips and gulping cunt and to listen to her mindless cooing and begging for his return. Spreading her lips wide with his fingers, he entered again, taking care that his aim was right so that with a single shocking stroke he would be buried to the hilt in her drooling sex. He slammed home. It triggered her orgasm. And she writhed and twisted shamelessly in the dirt, squirming and flexing and pushing ecstatically against the white man whose cock lay in her belly. And then he came, falling forward between her legs, his mouth catching and sucking greedily on a bloody, deformed nipple while his sperm juice shot up into her and merged with the cascading liquids in her cunt. And her children turned away.
She was just recovering from the orgasm, the final spasms were drifting away, when the sixth man entered her and started the process all over again. Slowly, the creamy substance inside her began to heat up again.
It continued to heat, almost reaching a boiling point again, with partner number seven.
The eighth man was just about to enter when a stirring at the perimeter of the crowd distracted him. He waited. And when he saw the crowd part and Mr. Stanton enter the circle, striding purposefully toward his wife, he got back to his feet, closed his pants and melted back into the small cluster of guards. He was quickly joined by the two men who had held John's wife in her jackknifed position.
"Diane, what the hell is going on here?" the plantation owner demanded of his wife. She was unruffled.
"You weren't due home until tomorrow, dear," she smiled. When he drew close she reached up, put her arms around his neck and kissed him briefly. "If I knew you were coming home tonight I'd have fixed something special."
"This looks pretty special to me," he said sarcastically, walking toward the prostrate naked slave.
"It is," Mrs. Stanton said seriously. "Y'know that John�_"the nigger blacksmith?" Mr. Stanton stopped and looked back at his wife.
"Yes," he said. "A good worker."
"Ha! A good worker. That's what they said about that buck up in Virginia few years back. That's what they're always saying before one of 'em cuts a white throat. Nigger John�_"your 'good worker'�_"killed Emil yesterday."
"Emil!"
"Yes, Emil. Murdered him. Put a pickaxe through his head."
"Where is he�_"the black boy?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Out there, I s'pose," she said, gesturing to the forest. "That there's his woman you're standing over."
"What did she do?"
"She's his woman. Those are his kids."
"Well, what did she do, I said."
"And I said," her voice was rising, "that she's his woman. That's all. If you can't catch the killer y'show the others what'll happen to their people if they get any ideas."
Mr. Stanton stepped closer to the half-conscious Mrs. Reed, He bent down, grabbed a handful of her dense black hair and pulled her head up into the light. There was no face. Just a lumpy mass of blood and discolored flesh. He let the head drop. It thudded heavily against the ground. "She's ruined, y'know. A good breeder. Ruined." He was angry at his wife's frivolous disregard for valuable property. "There are other ways to handle situations like this."
"Maybe," she mumbled.
He pushed his way back through the crowd. "I'm going to bed," he said as he passed his wife. "Had a tough time at the auction, and there'll be a dozen new hands in tomorrow or next day." He stopped and looked back, first at his wife, then at the woman on the ground. "She's ruined, no good any more. You might as well finish up with your fun now." He turned to go, looked back over his shoulder and said, "Better remind me to find a new smith tomorrow too." Then he disappeared into the crowd.
There was a long period of silence. No one quite knew what to expect next. Mrs. Stanton turned to the men who had been holding the black woman earlier. "Pick her up again," she said. Then, as they started to pull her legs back up over her head, the blonde woman told them to see if she was conscious. They assured her that she was. "Then turn her over on her stomach and double her knees up under her. I wanna see that nigger asshole lookin' up at me." They did as she said.
"All right." She motioned to the guard who had been interrupted by her husband. "Get in there and work out �_"through the back door."
It was a tight squeeze, but he made it. The tension was taking its toll, however, and in a matter of seconds the guard was pumping his juice into her rectum. John's wife was indeed conscious as the guards had assured Mrs. Stanton that she was; but her mind had strayed beyond the realm of immediate consciousness and no longer had any bearing on her actions. The pain and emotional stress had been too much. She was breathing, her heart was beating, and her body responded to stimulation, but there was no longer a controlled link between body and mind.
Guard number nine poked his stiff cock into the waiting anus and smiled happily as the soft brown buttocks started to roll responsively. He bored and reamed as expertly as he knew how, but could not quite bring the slave woman's body to its peak in time to join him.
The next man did. His dick was hardly in for thirty seconds when the woman's back and buttocks began to rear and heave and hump feverishly. He had to wrap his arms about her waist to avoid being thrown. And like two dogs they rode out the contractions, huffing and puffing and pumping in a wild fury.
Only the two guards who had been holding her in place had not yet joined in. Mrs. Stanton was careful to be fair to all parties. She ordered two of the guards who had finished to take over their posts. "Turn her back over," she told the relief, "the same way she was before." They turned Mrs. Reed onto her back, pulled her legs open and stretched them up and over her head. "She's all yours, boys," she smiled at the two as yet unfulfilled white men. They smiled back as they opened their pants.
The first guard took a long time. He pushed into the soft, musy sex and stirred the soupy mixture in her cunt for a few minutes. But he couldn't come. And he couldn't admit it. So he grew artificially more energetic, pumping and pushing and grinding as if the pressure were mounting. And the black woman's body reflexively responded. Faster and faster, harder and harder he pumped. Then, feigning orgasm, he threw himself forward suddenly and froze stock-still between her legs as though he was shooting his semen up into her.
Mrs. Reed had almost ceased to exist. But her body continued to function with, if anything, increased fervor. It trembled expectantly for the final guard's entry. He didn't last long. Unlike his immediate predecessor, the gummy liquids that swirled hotly in the black woman's cunt excited him. He was big and energetic, and for two minutes he drove his manhood into that burning pit with a relentless fury. And when finally he did come, the slave woman's body was quaking and throbbing on the threshold of its third orgasm.
The first guard began unbuckling his belt. "I guess I'll have to finish it off," he cackled.
"No, you won't," Mrs. Stanton said coolly. "I will." And she stepped forward before the writhing black woman's body and inserted the barrel of a shotgun into the tunnel that puffed up at her like a fish puffing for air. The mindless body didn't know the difference. It humped and rolled in ecstatic response to the steel tube pushed six inches into its cunt. Then it began to tremble and shake all over as the final, massive spasm grabbed hold. The body bucked and jumped and bounced furiously in place and then, in orgasm, began to disgorge its contents through the tunnel half-filled with the shotgun barrel. Mrs. Stanton pulled the trigger. And filled the rest of the tunnel.
The body continued to flop about for a few seconds after Mrs. Stanton walked away with the bloody shotgun in tow. And two small children watched the remains of their mother die.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In a little clearing at the edge of the Burke plantation, John and Mrs. Burke were just getting to their feet.
"Margaret," the small, dark woman said, turning to her sister-in-law, "he's all yours."
"That's all right," replied the other woman softly. "I think the gentleman has had enough. Why don't we just let him go now?" Her voice had a hard New England edge to it, an accent John had never heard before. She was somewhat younger than Mrs. Burke, about the same height and weight, but wore her auburn hair in a prim, schoolmarmish fashion. Her clothes were very conservative in style; she wore a long dress with full sleeves and a neck that buttoned carefully beneath her chin, walking shoes and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Her features were finely sculptured and strikingly attractive, though she wore no makeup. "It's getting late, anyway," she continued, "don't you think?"
"No," responded Mrs. Burke determinedly. "It's not late at all. Have you ever had a nigger?"
"Why... " Margaret flushed. "Why... no. But... "
"Then you should." Mrs. Burke was speaking softly but firmly. And she was pacing back and forth, her hands clasped behind her, like a female Napoleon. "Have you ever had... "
"Only my husband," the Northern lady interrupted.
"Well, don't be ridiculous, then. I insist, Margaret. Until you've experienced sex with one of these beasts you can't possibly hold any rational opinions on the slavery question�_"the subject you so fondly adore, I'm told. Is it true, by the way, that you've joined one of those abolitionist groups that keep pestering us folks so much?"
"Yes, it is true."
"Do you really believe the nigger should be free? To roam around like a wild beast, and do whatever he feels like?"
"Well, frankly," the young woman began, "I can't quite accept your description of a 'wild beast' as really accurate." John was wondering a bit too. He was thinking about the little group in Mrs. Stanton's study that afternoon and considering just who most resembled an animal in behavior.
"You 'can't quite accept it,' can you?" Mrs. Burke mimicked her Boston accent. "But still you're unwilling to take the test I'm offering." The young woman paused, obviously thinking of a reply to the challenge. Then she reached a hand to her throat and began unbuttoning her dress.
"I don't really see how this will prove anything," she mumbled protestingly, "but if you insist."
There were probably more than twenty tiny pearl buttons lining the seam down the front of Margaret's dress. It took almost a minute for her to undo all of them. John and Mrs. Burke silently watched. Finally the garment was open from neck to ankle, and she stepped neatly out of it, folded it carefully and placed it on the ground nearby. Still, none of her was exposed, her undergarments so thoroughly enclosed her body. Her petticoats came off first. Then the stockings. She slipped the elastic garters from her thighs, then slowly�_" John would have thought almost suggestively, had he not known better�_"peeled the thick opaque stockings from her legs. In the soft moonlight her legs glowed like pearl stems as the cotton sheaths of her stockings slipped off. They were long and slim, curving gently from a narrow ankle to the firm roundness of her thighs. She reached up then and slipped a white camisole from her upper body. Now only her corset and girdle remained, both garments sleekly wrapped about her.
"Mr. Reed, would you mind helping me with this?" she asked. John approached. She turned her back. "The laces down the back of the corset, please. And the ties, also. Would you be so kind?"
John's thick fingers fumbled briefly with the delicate fastenings and he stepped closer, the front of his naked form now brushing lightly against the vertical sweep of her back and buttocks, in order to better see what he was doing. The first clasp came undone. He moved to the next. He didn't pay attention at first to the movement of her buttocks against him, but when they pressed more firmly, and gently nudged their silk-encased fullness against his sex, he responded and pressed forward slightly. He felt her take a sudden deep breath, and her haunches swiveled and ground slightly as if in reply. His fingers moved more quickly. For some reason this childish teasing between them was having a definite effect. He felt a twitching in his loins as his cock grew steadily tense.
Her corset was soon undone, and as she slipped out of it John crouched down behind her, slid his fingers into the top edge of the girdle and started to roll it down over her hips. She tossed the upper garment into the pile with her other clothes and waited, immobile, for him to finish. Her buttocks bulged like living things from the skin-tight casing as it slid down to her thighs. They were pure white quivering globes, and the simple sight of them, their purity and their lush smoothness, sent a tremor of exhilaration through him unlike anything he'd experienced since the first time he had ever seen a woman naked. Gingerly, as a child might do, he reached his hand out and lightly stroked the satin flesh. A tiny hint of a shiver seemed to wrinkle the flesh of the buttocks when he touched them and suddenly he wanted to bury his face in the luxuriant flesh. But before he could do anything, she turned to face him.
John was still kneeling, and when she turned, Margaret's garden of pubic hair brushed but a whisper away from his lips. It gave off a florid fragrance, unlike the familiar pungency of a woman's sex; it must have been perfumed, and as the aroma swirled in his nostrils he found his head swimming, his mind not caring about anything else. This was absurd, he tried to tell himself, he had to get it over with�_"fast�_"and put some distance between himself and the Stanton plantation. He turned his head upward. His eyes moved, savoring every inch, over the gentle swell of the woman's youthful, firm belly, up across her delicate ribs; they paused, overwhelmed, at the magnificent spherical bulges of her breasts and their rosebud nipples; then further still, following the line of her neck, her chin, her gently smiling lips, her finely-boned nose, her shimmering eyes now without the covering glasses, and her hair unpinned and tumbling thickly about her fragile shoulders. His powerful arms moved instinctively and encircled her hips. He pushed his face into the fragrant, tangled mass of hair before her sex and he nibbled lovingly at the skin beneath, the skin that stretched across her mons. Her abdomen swelled against his forehead with the sharp intake of air that was her response to his caress, and her hands reached out and held his head tightly there as she moved her legs further apart.
His tongue found the narrow beginning of the groove that ran from front to back and he teased the exposed pink flesh with quick, darting licks. She moaned beneath her quickening breath and he felt her knees wobble as strength drained from them. She sagged against his enclosing arm and he lowered her to the ground.
"Mr. Reed," she cried softly as he started to slide his body over hers. "Wait. Before you show me how bestial you are," she smiled and winked at him as if sharing a private joke, "let me show you how civilized we Yankees are." She urged him onto his back. "Now you must be still," she said playfully. "I'll tell you when to start growling... or whatever you do."
She knelt between his massive, iron-laced legs, then leaned forward and took his half-erect cock in her tiny hands. She rubbed it and rolled it between her palms as though she were rolling dough, and she whispered ceaselessly to the growing member. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, my friend," she cooed. "My! Look how you grow when handled properly. I wonder how big you can get? Let's see if we can find out." She talked animatedly, as though giving lessons of some sort to a school child. John closed his eyes, and let his child learn. It was a good pupil.
The black rod grew rapidly in Margaret's grasp, and the purplish head swelled fully and slowly opened its slit eye to her. It was warm, and the warmth spread like liquid throughout John's legs and stomach, but it was not a passionate heat�_"not yet�_"just a comfortably warm and tight feeling in his loins that rocked his tensions to sleep.
She bent low and slipped the upright cock between her spongy, dangling tits. Using them expertly, she rolled and rubbed their yielding elasticity around and over the steely rigidity of his member. John cried out, as though a sudden pain had hit him.
"Are you all right?" she asked concernedly. "Yes," he moaned, "... ohhh... yes... yes." And with a bit more firmness she massaged the giant penis with her plump breasts and urged it to grow longer and fatter for her.
She bent lower still. Her lips were pursed, as though to exaggerate a kiss, and she placed them lightly atop his prick in this position. Then, long seconds later, only the very tip of her tongue bored through the tiny opening of her lips and danced lightly in the flaring opening and the head of his manhood. A tiny, delicious burn flashed up the pipe and John's hips ground and twisted in the grass beneath them.
While her tongue darted in and out and tickled the tip of his cock, Margaret's fingers went to work on his balls�_"squeezing, pinching, massaging them with the same perfect care that had marked her every move so far.
One had was now devoted to caressing his testicles. The other was tightly wrapped about his cock and was pumping slowly at first, then faster and faster, up and down and up and down. And her pursed lips nibbled and licked at the mushroom cap atop his penis, taking tiny bits of it inside as her hand increased the tempo of its masturbation. Shocks, powerful electrical shocks, surged through John's body now, and he twisted and writhed and bucked beneath her sucking and her rubbing and her manipulating of him. She was hurting him now, her hand had tightened about the stem of his prick with unbelievable strength and the friction she generated was immense�_"pumping, pumping, faster faster faster faster faster... And her mouth gulped and gobbled on his cock, taking huge, deep sucks and then tiny baby nips with her teeth, but the frenzy of her mouth action mounted with the rhythm of their other movements. His prick burned from the intensity of her sucking. He groaned and threw his arms about and thrashed his legs helplessly as the final wave surged in. Margaret's hand �_"the one that had been fondling his balls�_"dropped a notch lower. It had been away from John's balls for a moment or two�_"he had hardly noticed�_"removing one of the tie cords from her corset lying nearby. It was a narrow cord, knotted at one end. Her finger ground against the entrance to his asshole, pushed and poked, and finally broke through, pushing the knotted cord in with it. John wheezed sharply at the shock entry into his rectum, but the sucking and pounding on his prick continued relentlessly, growing faster and faster, and soon the only thought not screened out by his mind was of the imminent orgasm that seemed to be emerging somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach and racing insanely to the rigid locus of his existence. So he didn't notice the cord, knotted at its imbedded end, being pushed inch by inch up into his anus. The climax hit. "Ohhh, Christ!" he shouted suddenly. And she urged him on: "Yes, big man... come on, come on... blow it... " and she gobbled and gulped and pulled and pushed on his cock with all her strength. He was coming. There was no stopping it. His body arched backwards and began to shake with the spasms, only his shoulders and his feet supporting him, the rest bent in an agonized upward arch. His balls drew in, and at this sign�_"while the pinpoint of ecstasy was a flash second away�_"Margaret ripped her finger from his asshole, dragging the cord behind. The knot exploded through the entrance lips of his rectum just as his come popped through the head of his cock. And a long, screeching "Aieeeee... " that trailed off but never stopped gushed from his throat while what seemed like tons of his creamy come gushed into Margaret's ravenously sucking mouth. "I love... I love... I love... I love," she repeated in a muffled gurgle as she drained every precious drop from his spurting organ.
"My turn again," came Mrs. Burke's voice from out of nowhere. The two lovers, lying sated in each other's arms, stirred resentfully and looked up at her. "Come on, you two. Let's go."
"I thought you said... " John started.
"Yes... " Margaret began indignantly.
"Just one more," said Mrs. Burke. "I want to show this buck that you Yankees aren't the only ones who have something to offer."
They looked at each other. John spoke. "After this�_" now I mean it, there's no point in my not taking my chances with those dogs if this continues�_"after this I go, right?"
"Right," answered Mrs. Burke as she snuggled up close to him. Her fingers twiddled with his limp and slippery sex. "Oh dear," she said in exaggerated tones, "we must do something about this." She bent across his body and began placing pecking kisses all over his abdomen and thighs, working in concentric circles ever closer to the exhausted organ. It wasn't responding.
Margaret stood off to the side and watched John's face. He turned to her again. Their eyes met. They smiled.
And Mrs. Burke, her own excitement mounting with each second, took his sleeping cock in her mouth and attempted to revive it.
Margaret's fingers went to her nipples while John watched, and after a few seconds of manipulation they stood like bright red buttons, erect from the ivory centers of her breasts. John watched and found the excitement to be contagious.
Mrs. Burke grunted happily as his cock began to stir. She continued to work.
While one hand continued to flit from nipple to nipple, Margaret dropped the other hand to her cunt. First her fingers simply ran through the clump of hair in the foreground, but soon they slipped between her legs and started working on the heavy outer lips of her twat. John wanted her. He grew hot.
And Mrs. Burke squealed in glee. His cock again stood upright now, so she moved astride it and slowly lowered herself to a sitting position in his lap, his cock deeply sunk into her belly. She began to rock back and forth.
Margaret's eyes closed. Her mouth drooped open. Her fingers had found her clitoris, and they were adroitly rolling the little marble to and fro. Her other hand began groping and grabbing clumsily at her tits. John boiled with desire. She needed him to finish. And he wanted her. His cock, buried deep inside Mrs. Burke, cried for release with Margaret.
Mrs. Burke was humping energetically. She was going to climax soon. Back and forth she rocked; up and down she bounced. Faster and faster. She felt John respond. He pushed his hips up to meet her and rolled and twisted on his haunches, grinding his cock ruthlessly inside her tunnel of sex. She moaned softly in expectation. John sighed deeply, feeling his cock ready to split open. And his eyes never left Margaret.
The young New England lady was frantic now. She had masturbated herself to the verge of orgasm but neither could nor wanted to complete the act alone. Her fingers worked like caterpillars on her sex; she gasped and cried and trembled with desire for him. And John looked back, desperately wanting to satisfy her, but having to finish with Mrs. Burke first.
The little Southern lady was coming. It was here. Now. She started to shake all over as she lost control. She began bleating like an excited sheep when the seizure finally hit, and for endless desperate moments for John and Margaret she froze in a seething orgasmic turbulence, impaled on the full stretch of his cock, discharging her whole emotional self in a singular maelstrom of churning, twitching climax. Finally she collapsed.
In a second John was removed from her and was fairly flying across space, his rock-hard prick poised for its final thrusts, toward the sobbing young lady who was Mrs. Burke's sister-in-law and who was impacted between orgasm and collapse. Her arms and legs opened to accept him, wrapped about him as he entered, and then flapped helplessly about as he delivered the final strokes. His Herculean staff plunged its full length into her starving cunt and immediately she screamed an unearthly, inhuman scream and turbulently foundered on the edge of drowning. There was a long, deep moment of sudden immobility. And then, together, they came. Gushing and exploding, tearing with their fingers at each other's flesh, they sank together into another dimension.
A hard, cold object crashed into the base of John's skull. He waved a helpless arm about as if to ward off the blow, but his existence was centered in his cock and it was pulling him down, down, down into the churning tornado of her sex.
The object smashed down again, to the side of his head this time. Blinding colors and flashing lights burst before him and in the fleeting final seconds John looked up to see a white man staring down at him, surrounded by other white men, and a rifle butt crashing down for the third and final time.
He was dragged, naked, across the rocky meadow toward the plantation house. He was unconscious, so he didn't hear the two women sobbing weakly and babbling on about how he had caught them out for an evening stroll and raped them�_"like the wild animal that he was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A terrible, burning pain enveloped John's body. It seared his ankles and legs and torso; his shoulders, feeling as though his arms had been pulled from their sockets, ached from unendurable exhaustion; and his wrists were shooting with raw, grating pain. His head throbbed angrily.
He opened his eyes. He was suspended above a tight circle of people�_"white people�_"and was hanging from a chain wrapped about his wrists. A fire crackled directly below. He looked up at his wrists, streaming with blood, and at the chain that cut into his flesh: it stretched up from his arms and over the heavy branch of a tree. His eyes followed the links, one after another, over the branch then out across space and down... down into the hands of three men who held the opposite end. Their faces all tilted up at him and in the flickering light of the fire the creases that lined their leering expressions gave a death-mask appearance to their features. He stared down at them. They stared up at him�_" three grisly skulls, happy that he was conscious and aware of them.
A sudden shout, like a command, split the air, and as John turned instinctively toward the noise he glimpsed the motion of the three men who controlled his altitude as they quickly stepped forward, struggling to retain their grip on the chain. And he felt himself plummeting downward, straight down, into the roaring flames below. His mouth dropped open in terror and shock and a gurgling shriek cut the muggy night air. His scream was met by the squeals of delight that bubbled from the crowd of onlookers. And when the flames cut into his flesh and scorched the soles of his feet, his lungs seemed to burst with the sudden expulsion of air that screeched from them; and the sounds of glee that surfaced all around him sounded not unlike the sounds of orgasm.
The pain was beyond excruciation. Never could he even have imagined torture so intense. The fleeting seconds that his body spent dangling in the incinerating flames dragged on for hours in his mind. His flesh felt like it was swelling up in mammoth searing blisters and ripping and shredding and crumbling into the fire. A shout in the distance, way beyond the thundering flames that raged all about him. Then a slow, creaking sound. And inch by inch, the chain tearing into the bone at his wrist, he was pulled up... and up... and out of the furnace below.
The putrid sweet and rotten smell of his own burning flesh floated up to John's nostrils. He was afire. The sharp pricking feeling of the hair on his legs smoldering away mixed with and was overwhelmed by the deep-rooted glowing ache in the pit of his stomach. His head rolled back on his numb shoulders, his tongue drooped out in desperate search for moisture. The black body swayed, back and forth, back and forth, above the flames. Like a piece of meat roasting, it poured fluids down into the fire that crackled below and gleamed in the light, basting in its own sweat.
And he heard the distant voice shout again and he waited to be plunged again into the flames. But nothing happened. Then he realized what he had heard�_"first "one , then "two". And he waited, his body a helpless piece of bleeding, sweating, burning meat at the end of a chain, his mind a screaming madhouse wishing for death and life at the same time. He waited�_"waiting for "three."
"Three!"
And a wild roar went up from the crowd, drowning out his own hollow scream, and his body plunged again into the fiery mound below. The flames stung and slapped at him; they tore into his melting flesh and ripped at the marrow of his insides. He felt himself coming apart into a splintering mass of unbearable pain. Agony. Agony like he had never known. His eyes swelled and bulged in their sockets; his jaw was powerless and his mouth fell helplessly open; his legs kicked and thrashed like a spider dangling over a candle. Death was approaching. It would be kind.
"Pull him up." The voice cut through the fire's thunder. And the chain squeaked in the tree above as he was jerked to safety, a tiny step at a time, above the flames.
He knew his wrists wouldn't hold much longer. They had to tear. He would drop�_"soon, he knew it�_"into the flames. And his bloody hands would remain clamped to the chain.
His cock�_"his whole crotch�_"was on fire. Not flaming fire, but smoldering, and the bristly black hairs burned slowly and made faint crinkling sounds like damp paper in a campfire. And it smelled. Like death.
Sweat, maybe blood�_"both hot liquids were everywhere, streaking over his burning black skin, and he couldn't tell one from the other any longer�_"whatever it was, it trickled through his eyebrows, down the drooping eyelids, and swam thickly over his eyeballs. Smoke curled up and mingled with the liquid and made vision almost impossible. Only cloudy forms existed any longer in the circle of people surrounding him. Only hazy, shadowy, fading shapes. Except one. Mrs. Burke�_" laughing, screeching, shouting hysterically�_"jumped up and down and leaped crazily into the focus of his mind's eye while no other form could. He was going to die. He felt life slipping away. And that would be the last face he would see. The eyes were bright. The mouth hung open. She was watching him die. And she would come when he did.
A hand touched his thigh and turned him in another direction. His body swiveled at the end of the chain unresistingly. He looked down. Through the haze a white man looked up, smiling. Ecstatically. In his right hand he held a knife, and the silver blade gleamed red and gold and blue in the firelight. His left hand reached up and cupped John's balls in its fingers, seemed to weigh them like a handful of cherries, then moved still higher and gripped his cock�_"flaring in terrified erection.
The storm of flames below pounded in his ears, but the man's voice cut through them as neatly as his blade might have. "Mighty nice things y'have there, boy," he drawled. "Mighty nice... but y'shoulda learned to use 'em on yer own kind. White ladies don't cotton to nigger cocks."
The man's voice was clear as a bell. It sliced into his mind and almost triggered laughter. "They don't cotton to nigger cocks," John thought. Oh, God! "They don't cotton to nigger cocks." The irony was superb. And tears of desperation, tears of total emotional release, streamed down his dark face.
"Nosir," the man continued as his right hand reached up alongside his left. "Nosir."
The blade felt like ice pressing its hairline pressure against the base of his scrotum. The balls would go first. Flames jumped up and bit at the bottoms of his feet. Blood and tears and sweat streamed down his face and over his body. And the blade pressed harder against the wrinkled parchment flesh of the sack that held his balls. There was a rumble in John's stomach. He tensed and tried to stop it, but it wouldn't stop, and the white man stepped back and laughed while John shit and pissed into the fire. His body was acting on its own. And it was lost to terror and desperation. John cried. The audience laughed. And his bowels groaned and forced their contents out his rectum and into the murderous fire below. Please die... please die, John urged his body. Shame and fear and pain and humiliation rolled over him in waves. And shit coughed from his asshole; and piss spurted from his cock.
The knife returned. And the fingers. First they cradled the scrotum as before, then they stretched it down, pulling the flesh as far as it would go. The knife flashed up, poised and ready to slice the testicles off like grapes from a vine. For long, agonizing seconds the knife hung suspended. Then a sudden explosion, and the wind was sucked from John's lungs.
It was a shout. The same voice that had shouted before, commanding him to be dropped into the flames. Only now, it shouted, "Wait!"
There was a flurry of excitement in the bustle of people below. One voice was the most prominent, a female's�_"probably Mrs. Burke. Only occasional words reached his ears: "Too good for him... then what?... dead nigger... tomorrow... whole county can watch... " There was the sound of argument. More argument. Then a long pause...
"Cut him down," came the commanding voice once more. "That's it for tonight." A grumble of disappointment rippled through the sound of fading voices; then suddenly John felt his body falling free, then crashing in a helpless heap onto the ground below.
A few gobs of spit splashed in his face. A boot crashed into his ribs. Then he lost full consciousness, though all the way down to the deserted shed in which he was to be imprisoned, he was awake enough to hear the macabre plans for tomorrow's execution being excitedly discussed.
CHAPTER NINE
The door slammed tight. The sound of a bolt being thrown, then voices fading in the distance, then silence; and John dragged himself up from the splintery wood floor and to his feet. His knees buckled and he dropped back on all fours.
It was total blackness. So dark that his eyes could never get accustomed: humans are just not equipped to deal with a total absence of light. His hands felt detached from his arms, as though his wrists no longer existed. So he took his right hand in his left, fumbled with it, and grasped the wrist. It was without feeling. It was wet and soft, the tattered flesh felt terribly loose and very sticky, but it did not respond to his touch, as though it belonged to someone else. His right hand seemed to float above it. He tried the same exploration in reverse, right hand and left wrist. Same absence of feeling. And he grew suddenly terrified at the prospect of losing his hands... and he wept at the absurdity of his fear. For he would die first. Tomorrow.
Very slowly, for he had all night, and very gingerly, for he was still alive, he moved his hands everywhere in the darkness, touching everything. His chest and belly were damp and clammy�_"perspiration, not blood. He groped about his crotch. The hair was almost gone, only occasional short bristles scattered about, and on his pouch no hair at all remained. His cock was all right. His legs burned as though the fire was still there. They were hairless; but more than that they were extraordinarily smooth, and he knew that blisters were forming and that by morning he would hardly be able to walk. Not that it mattered. They'd carry him.
He felt his head. It was not damaged, though his hair was clogged with blood and scabs. Huge chunks of dried blood had already begun to form at the base of his skull and above his right ear, where the rifle butt had landed.
Then he lay back, and thought about his family. If nothing else, thank God for them. His wife's name was Ivy; his son was named after John's best friend, Roy, and they had called his daughter Nealee, after a legendary African woman who refused enslavement to the point of death.
John's mind slipped back in time and he thought about Ivy, remembering how they grew up together on the original Stanton plantation. Things weren't much better then, but at least there had been some hope. News filtered in to the slaves population constantly from a myriad of sources. They learned of the debates on slavery in Virginia, of Nat Turner, of the abolition of slavery in the British Empire. Occasionally, even, a copy of the Liberator had made its way into their hands. But times had changed. Not only had the next generation taken over the plantation just as he and Ivy were reaching adulthood, but all the news that seeped in was bad: Dred Scott and the death of John Brown, and now there was even talk of South Carolina declaring itself independent. But none of that had ever meant much to the two of them. They had each other, and now the children, and they had been content to wait for the inevitable freedom that they knew lay just around the corner. Until Mrs. Stanton had imposed herself on them; until the white blacksmith had raped the little black girl. Now John had to do what he could do. He only hoped Ivy would wait for him. He wondered how she was...
Dead. There was no sleep that night on the Stanton plantation, not for the slaves at least. Ivy's death had been the limit of their tolerance. Groups of men and women who had previously been at odds met in a clandestine location. The stroke would have to come sooner than expected.
There was a sound outside, the sound of shuffling footsteps. John listened. The bolt was being removed from the door. Time couldn't have passed that quickly; it couldn't be morning. It had to mean something else.
John crept to the corner furthest from the door that now began to-swing open. There were shadows. A torch. A face. A white man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. In the hazy torchlight his features appeared only vaguely, but it was obvious that this was the face of the man that had earlier wielded the knife.
"Y'all right, boy?" the man asked. John didn't answer. The man lowered the torch closer to the floor and found John awake and crouched in the corner. "C'mon boy. You're all right," he said. What did he mean? What did he want? Why couldn't they leave him alone, at least for this long? "Got a present for you, boy. Got a present you'll just love. Here." The man began unbuttoning his fly.
John turned his head away as the white man reached in and pulled the limp white tube from his trousers, but from the corner of his eye he could not help noticing the growing presence held like a sausage in the palm of the man's hand. "I'll get it ready for you, blackie," said the man, slowly gliding his fingers up and down the length of his cock. It began to grow, and as it thickened and lengthened and poked its head out into space, John's head turned to watch. In the torchglow it seemed to be almost a magical thing with a life and a sense all its own. And it seemed to beckon to him. He turned away again.
"'Bout ready, now," the man said, beginning to giggle nervously as he talked. "C'mon now, boy. Relax. Open up." John sat stonily, ignoring the man's words. "Lookee here," he continued, and the sudden flash of silver in the semi-darkness attracted John's attention. It was the knife that had threatened his manhood earlier while he hung over the fire. "Remember this little fella?" John's eyes fell to the man's hip: a .45 was firmly strapped in place. And there he stood�_"pistol on his hip, knife in one hand and torch in the other... and an anxious prick hovering out before him. The man shuffled closer to the captive slave. "Those other white folks don't care much how you look tomorrow, boy�_"long as you're alive, and have a little something left for them to work on. But they won't miss, say, an ear... " The knife waved dangerously close to the side of John's head. "... or even an eye, maybe... " It moved less than an inch from his face. "Course if you cooperate I'll let you rest easy till they come for you in the morning."
"All right... " John mumbled.
"What's that, son?"
"Alright," he growled, louder.
"All right," the man repeated dreamily. "All right." And he pushed the thick knob of his prick flush against John's face.
John reached up and gripped the stiff rod with his right hand. "Easy now, boy," the man said, waving the blade menacingly. "Just take it easy."
"Yassuh!" John hissed back, and he moved his head closer still to the rigid cock. He tried to remember what he most enjoyed when women had taken him in their mouths, deciding that if he was going to have to do it, he might as well do it right. He pushed his tongue out tentatively past his heavy lips and stroked it lightly against the cock's tip. "Yeahhhhh... " the man breathed heavily, and the muscles in his body began to relax. John's tongue swirled about the swollen top of the member; then he dropped his head and teasingly ran it down the underside, following the seam of flesh that ran down into the wrinkled flesh of the man's scrotum. There he paused for a few moments to deliver delicate licks to the pouch and the testicles it contained. When he returned his head to the front of the prick he noticed a glimmer of moisture oozing from the tiny aperture at the tip. He licked it clean.
The cock was fully stretched now, straining against the enclosing flesh. It was time to do more than tease. John took the staff in his hand and guided it to his pursed lips. He could feel the twitching muscle and the throbbing veins beneath his grasp. Placing it to his lips, he began to nibble at the velvety head, sucking, licking, nipping at the cushioned cap�_"but not taking in his mouth more than a fraction of an inch.
"Uhhhnn," the man began to gasp. "Come on boy... umphhh... come on... " And John replied by nibbling faster at the tip. The anxiety in the man's loins was building rapidly. John could sense it. He steeled himself for the full commitment he now must make. The tongue dabbed out, swirled about the prodding cock, then pulled back as the black man took a deep breath. He snapped his head forward suddenly, taking the full length of cock in his mouth with a single gulp. "Oh Chr... ist!" the white man squealed as his knees trembled, and he gripped the knife and torch he held more firmly. With the prick stuffing his mouth and puffing his cheeks, John remained in this position, gobbling and gulping hungrily on the member, and moving his head as little as the necessity of breathing would allow. Then slowly�_"extremely slowly�_"he moved his head back, 'sliding his mouth off the invading cock, dragging his teeth lightly over the thin flesh. And for short, but for the white man seemingly endless, moments, he again toyed with the waxy-tasting tip.
It was then that John realized how much he had responded to the treatment himself. His own cock pressed searchingly out against the darkness and he felt desire rising up in his guts. When his free hand�_"the other was playing with the white man's balls�_"went to his lap and started rubbing and playing with his own rigid organ, John's mind offered no resistance. It didn't even suggest any. He pushed his head forward again, sliding the white cock deeply into his drooling mouth, and he sucked on it more ravenously than ever. And, quietly, his hand jagged up and down, stretching and compressing, rubbing and massaging his own massive member.
It was not long before John was as hot as the man he was blowing. His head bobbed back and forth in time to his own masturbating, and the cock in his mouth swelled to the point of nearly bursting, just as the cock in his hand did. The man before him was in a state of near-collapse. Just as John hoped. But now John was too far gone to take advantage of it. He had to come first. Faster and faster he pumped his hand, and his loins responded by swelling more and more with the explosive potential of his climax; but just as his hand moved faster, so his head responded and automatically bobbed up and down with more vigor. The other man was also on the brink of orgasm. It was a race against time. John had to come first, in order to release himself from the paralysis of near-climax, and thus to free him for action against the white man. But everything he did to drive himself on was telegraphed through his mouth to the white man's quivering hot prick. For seemingly the billionth time in the young slave's life, time was the singular, the essential, matter. And, as always before, he seemed to be losing the race. His fingers clawed at his sex, tore at it, desperately trying to bring it to fulfillment. Faster and faster, harder even harder, he pumped on the swollen black rod. It was imminent. He could feel the volcanic fluids bubbling up the stem. But in his mouth he also felt the white man's cock breathing heavily, pulsating with the contractions that any second must force his come to explode into John's helplessly gobbling mouth. And then it would be over. He would have lost. Again. As usual.
He was coming. It was here. His mouth was stuffed full and the only sounds he could release were muffled gasps; and they succeeded in sending final shivers of excitement up the white man's spine.
Now! Now! His cock seemed to split open, spurting the white jelly everywhere. "Ohhhhhhh... fuck... fuck... ohh God... " John gulped and gasped�_"and his lips chomped frantically at the gleaming pearl cock imbedded in his throat. It spurted. Once. Then a pause. John's final drops were spilling out onto the cabin floor when the giant eruption blew inside his mouth. A sea of come gushed in and flooded his already swollen cheeks. "Ohhh, fuck, blackie... fuck... Eeeeahhh," the white man screamed as the giant spasm gripped his sex. "Aaahhghhh... "
Then the screams of pleasure turned to agony as John's huge fist drove straight up into the balls that flexed and unflexed as they disgorged the semen up the tube into the black man's mouth. Again. And again. John's knuckles smashed into the white man's soft flesh. Then he pulled loose from the spurting prick and rose up on his own wobbly legs. The man's head was falling forward as he doubled up in pain. He had dropped the knife and torch. John's hands flashed out and grabbed the man's long, unruly hair and forced the head down powerfully�_"and into his swiftly climbing knee. The man's nose smashed directly into his kneecap and John felt it crumble and spread across his face. Again and again he pulled the face down into the smashing knee, and only when he no longer could hold the man's crumbling body upright did he let go. He stood shakily over the prostrate body and stared down. The face was a mass of bloody pulp�_"and the cock, now a rapidly shrinking little protrusion between his legs, spit a few more drops of cream onto the opened trousers before falling as unconscious as the rest of the body.
John shook all over as he wept�_"for joy, for thanks, and in desperate hate for all things white. Then he pissed. And he swelled with an unexpected satisfaction as a few drops of urine splashed on the white man's body; before finishing he had directed the full stream into the mashed, pale face.
There was still time, if he had the strength to take advantage of it, to escape. Hurriedly he stripped the body of his victim and climbed into the strange clothes. Too tight. But they'd have to do. The shoes. The jacket. The torch that had fallen had started a small fire that he had put out, but still John worried about the noise and any attention it may have caused on the sleeping plantation. He had to move fast.
Then, just as he turned to search for the fallen knife �_"and just as he had stepped too far from the man's o45�_"the cabin door again swung open and the long barrel of a shotgun poked in. Moving as swiftly and silently as possible, he slipped behind the opening door and waited. The long metal barrel waved only a few feet away. If there was more than one person there he was finished, but the chance had to be taken. His left hand shot out and grabbed the length of steel, forcing it down; his right hand hooked around the doorway and gripped the jacket of the person who held the gun, dragging him into the shed and slamming him up against the wall.
"Mr. Reed!" a woman's frightened voice exclaimed. "Is that you?" The voice flashed in his skull and hung there: it was the voice of whoever had talked the lynch mob into waiting until tomorrow to finish him off. He pulled her to his face. It was Margaret, Mrs. Burke's sister-in-law from Massachusetts. "Mr. Reed?" her voice quaked. "Mr. Reed�_"it is you."
"What are you doing here?" he growled.
"Well," and she laughed nervously, "actually I came to help you escape. But," her eyes scanned the room, in deep shadows now that the door was open, "it doesn't look as though you need my help."
"No, I don't." He held the shotgun in one hand and walked across the cabin to retrieve the pistol that the white man had worn. "I'm leaving now. If you so much as whisper to anyone while I'm within a mile of this place I'll come back and kill you."
"Now, now," she chided. "That's not at all necessary. Believe me, I'm on your side. Here... " She held out her hand to him. He took what was in it. A roll of bills. "That's something to help you when you're free. But before you run off: where do you think you can go that they won't find you? In a couple of hours it will be dawn, and soon after that the whole country will be after you. How can you hope to escape?"
"I haven't got time to talk that kind of junk," John answered, stuffing the bills in his pocket and heading for the door. "Thanks for the money�_"but remember what I said about talking."
"Wait," she whispered demandingly. "Don't be silly. If you'll only listen, I can show you how to escape."
John turned and waited impatiently for an explanation.
"Right now," she stated, "there's someone waiting for you, at the spot where we found each other earlier. Trust me�_"and trust him�_"and we'll get you out of here." He had to believe her. There was really no choice. "There's only one problem, though," she continued. He listened warily. "Me. Someone is bound to see me going back to the house, and when they find out that you're gone... Well, to these people the only thing worse than an uppity nigger is a meddlesome woman."
John knew that she was right.
"So what do we do about that?"
"You'll have to rape me. I know that sounds crazy, but if I can convince them that I heard noises down here and came down to investigate... Well, when they find him," she gestured to the hulking comatose white man on the floor, "and then me�_"raped�_"they might believe that I had nothing to do with it." John appeared hesitant. It was obvious that he was worried about the time. "Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "Once you make the contact in the woods there's nothing to worry about." John had to believe her. "And anyway," she breathed, starting to remove her jacket, "We were so rudely interrupted before... " John started getting undressed.
"First, of course, I'll have to resist somewhat. So come on and try to get me, and I'll fight back." Her voice squeaked a bit excitedly as she finished. John reached for her, touched her shoulder, but she slipped away. "Have you ever raped anyone?" she teasingly asked�_"half-hoping with the most remote portions of her mind that he would say yes.
"No. Have you ever been raped?" he asked as he pursued her.
"No," she gasped, slipping away again and moving quickly across the cabin. John moved silently, stealthily �_"then he pounced. His right hand gripped her upper arm with the power of a vise. "Oh... no... " she squealed as she twisted and struggled to be free. "Unhhh... " Then she fell suddenly to the floor and John tumbled on top of her. Her body was soft and warm and inviting. Then she rolled over and jerked free, and started to scramble off on all fours. He caught her ankle. "Come here, pinky," he laughed. And she laughed too, but continued to resist. He sprawled forward and reached for her shoulders in order to pin her down, when her knee snapped up and glanced off his groin. Instinctively his hand whipped out and smashed against her face. Her head smacked against the floor. She cried out sharply�_"and then gurgled, "Good... good."
Margaret struggled to clamp her legs together, but John forced his knees between hers and pried them apart. She continued to struggle, but less and less convincingly as the point of entry drew near. She rolled from side to side and moaned and whispered softly, "No... please, no... I can't take it... it's too big... ohhhh, please... nnoooo... " John pushed her legs out and up, opening her cunt to its succulent fullness. She trembled and whimpered and continued to beg him to stop. But with a long, smooth forward lunge he implanted his rigidity deep inside her. "Ohhh... God!" She cried sharply, and her whole being shook violently while her cunt's mouth wrestled with the body of his prick.
He surged in and out of her with a terrible fury, and every time she cried "No" he answered "Yes," and the cadence of their words matched the motions of their bodies. Her vagina stretched apart for him and the furious black rod drilled deeper and deeper into the sweating, clutching tunnel. And the tunnel sucked at him and pulled him in deeper�_"though all the while she whimpered and sobbed and begged him to stop.
Then, ripping his angry cock from her, he roughly flipped the young woman onto her stomach. She sensed what was coming next. "Oh Christ no!" she screamed. "No, God... oh, Christ�_"I mean it, / really mean it this time�_"John, please... no... " She writhed and rolled and twisted to be free, but he was in command. His massive hands grabbed her hips at either side and lifted her whole lower body into the air. She wriggled madly, but was unable to get free�_"and her wild, twisting, squirming buttocks rolling in his hands and barely inches from his face only served to heighten John's excitement and drive him on. With almost inhuman strength he pulled her hunches into his lap and pulled the crack between her legs about his cock. It stalled. The cock probed, like a mole seeking a home in the darkness, pushed against all the flesh of her genital and anal areas, pushed and poked�_"then finally slipped the nub of its head into the tiny recession of her rectum. "Oh John�_"please�_"I've never had it that way!" She was frantic, really trying to work free this time. The spongy tip of his member was pressed tightly into the little indentation, and the frightened anus tightened and flexed its ribbed mouth rapidly, unintentionally kissing the purple crown just as he had had to kiss the white man's cock earlier. He pushed forward relentlessly, on the one hand not wanting to hurt her seriously, but on the other not wanting to spare her so much that he would drive it in suddenly. With fantastic controlled power the knob pushed past the doorway to her rectum, and with an almost audible plop the lips of the asshole slipped over the ridge of his circumcision. She was lost now. And she knew it. Her body was a helpless feminine hulk, racked with uncontrollable sobs, as the long, thick pipe pushed deeper and deeper up her colon. The semi-dry walls of her rectum squeezed his cock tighter than it had ever been squeezed, but inch by agonizing inch, he forced it further and further into her asshole. "No, God�_"it won't go any further," she was desperately pleading. "It will kill me�_"please, John... it's pushing too far... "
"You wanted to be raped," he said quietly.
"Oh, yes... but, not�_"oh Christ, John... noooo... " The black giant was almost fully buried inside her now. Once it had crammed its entire length in, the strokes would come easier. Then it was there. His balls were pressed tightly into the chasm that descended from her asshole and stretched down and into her cunt. He was buried to the root. Now the action started. Out... out, he pulled the cock; then in, slowly, in again; then out... then in... And finally she was responding. Her hips rolled, her buttocks quivered, her rectum squeezed and pulled hungrily at his penis. But still she cried, and still she begged him to stop. In the long monster bored; out the giant pulled; in and out. And faster and faster it pumped as the resisting anus gave away. But still she cried: "John stop�_"stop, please... please stop." So he did. Obediently he pulled out of her and lay back quietly on the floor.
Unbelievingly, the young woman just crouched there on all fours. He was gone. He had done as she pleaded. "You bastard," she screamed, suddenly whirling and crawling toward him. "You bastard!" John lay quietly, waiting. Clumsily, she groped for his cock, poking monstrously up in the air. When she found it she cried out sharply in mixed surprise and delight. Then, without waiting for him to do anything, she mounted the rearing monster and sat down on it�_"slowly sliding her anal channel down over the dark prick. Soon, it was once again buried deep insider her rectum and she was seated on his abdomen, riding it like a wild stallion. She rocked back and forth and rolled her hips from side to side, and ohhh'd and ahhhh'd with the bliss that descended on her like a gossamer curtain. John slipped his hand forward over his stomach and hooked his finger into the front of her cunt, catching the tiny pimple of her clitoris with his fingernail. She breathed a wheezy, fluttery breath at his touch and slowed her movement, content to squeeze and massage his cock with the excited walls of her rectum while he tenderly rolled her clitoris on the tip of his finger and sent electric shudders tripping through her.
Suddenly John felt drawn in also. His cock felt twice as long and as though it were being pulled deeper and deeper inside her. His stomach moaned, his legs twitched, and he felt himself mounting that inevitable ladder. "Ohhh, John... oh yes... work it in... ohhh... yes, John... ohhhh... ahhhhh... " she squirmed and twisted and her love juices gushed down and saturated the already matted hair above his sex. His hips bounced against the floor and pushed against the backs of her thighs as he rammed and crammed the fullness of his manhood up the tunnel of her ass.
Then they both lost control. Thrashing and tumbling about on the floor as he drove his cock home, she gulped it in deeply, and the pitch of their fervor rose rapidly by leaps and bounds, and they were lost to their animal instincts, desperately teetering on the brink of orgasm and seeking a deluge of experience of pain and love and fulfillment and denial. Then, together, they burst. His come was like burning jelly scorching up the trough of her asshole and sticking to its walls and losing itself in her bowels; her climax was a collapse�_"a total collapse of her physical and emotional being�_"as she shivered and quivered and quaked, a powerless tool of the spurting stake rammed up her rectum. And her come flowed and his gushed and together they moaned in the ecstasy of eternity. They came again. And again. And the world spun in space without them.
Some time later, John was prowling alone at the edge of the clearing where he had encountered the two women earlier. In his pocket was a wad of money. In one hand he held a pistol and tucked under the other arm was the shotgun Margaret had brought to the shed.
There was a rustle in the bushes. He crouched low, his finger finding the shotgun's trigger. Then, over a low crest of bushes, a face appeared. A black face.
"John Reed?" the face inquired.
"John Reed," he affirmed.
The face beamed. A black hand reached out of the foliage. "Let's go, brother."
The following days on the Stanton plantation were uneasy. There was the electricity of revolution in the air.
In the fields the overseers could sense it. It was in the songs the slaves were singing; in the quiet, huddled groupings they spontaneously drew into; it was in the willingness of the blacks to work�_"no muffled protests or broken tools or feigned sickness; it was evident that something was on the verge of happening, but there was nothing material for those in charge to grasp and so to deal with. They could only wait.
The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Stanton, sensed it also. He was wary; she was confident. Word of John's escape from the Burke plantation, and probably then from the whole county�_"perhaps even the state�_"had sifted down through all layers of local society. And word of his wife's gruesome death at Mrs. Stanton's hands had filtered up. There was something foreboding about the events, and about the easy quiet with which the slave population had accepted them. Only Mrs. Stanton was truly unruffled by matters. She was sure that whatever happened could be dealt with.
Almost a week had passed when Mr. Stanton bolted awake at five o'clock one morning, positive that he had heard sounds on the floor below them. Scraping sounds. And the sounds of shuffling feet. Mrs. Stanton grumbled sleepily that he was being silly, that no one could be in the house and that he should go back to sleep. She was right, but it took a fifteen-minute search of the house to prove it to her husband. And when finally they climbed back into the huge canopied bed they shared, dawn was spreading faintly across the sky. Mr. Stanton was still uneasy when they had returned to bed, and was unable to sleep.
"I'm sure there was somebody down there," he grumbled. "We probably scared them away, but they'll be back. They were probably just... "
"Oh, stop it," she replied, annoyed at being awakened and then kept awake. "Who's 'they' anyway?"
"I'm not sure... "
"For God's sake�_"you mean the slaves, don't you?"
"Well, I'm not... "
"... not sure," she mimicked. "What are you sure of? Of course you're afraid of the slaves. And you're probably right; there is a plot brewing. But don't worry, Daddy." She suddenly snuggled up close to his chest. "I'll take care of it." He laughed, somewhat nervously, and stroked her hair. It was sleek and silky to his sensitive morning hands and smelled sweet to his nuzzling face as he arched his head forward to kiss her.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he said quietly.
"Neither do I," she teased more than half seriously. "Neither do I." And her right hand, beneath the covers, stroked idly at the soft, smooth flesh inside his thighs. For long, silent moments they lay there, each lost in his own thoughts, her fingers semi-consciously toying with the area close to his sex, while he soothed his discomfort and let his fingers creep gently through her hair. It was not long before she was aroused.
"How long has it been?" she suddenly, but quietly, asked him.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. How long has it been since we last made love?" Her hand was now directly on his sex, lying limp and sleepy in his lap. She began trying to awaken it.
"Oh, I don't want to go into all that again, darling. It's just that the land takes so much out of me�_"I'm so tired." But his cock, acting independently of its master, was beginning to respond faintly to his wife's touch. It made him feel uncomfortable. "And we both have a long day ahead," he added weakly.
Without a word, Mrs. Stanton ducked her head beneath the sheets and took the semi-soft member in her mouth. Her lips and tongue worked expertly on the slowly growing penis while her fingers handled his balls and rubbed at the base of his prick. Mechanically, the sex responded; the prick grew hard and long and thick, the balls seemed to become tense. But the response was isolated. The rest of Mr. Stanton felt only as though he was being uncomfortably prevented from going back to sleep. Still, not wanting to offend his wife�_"though far from being able to satisfy her�_"he continued to brush his fingers through her hair, then casually slipped his hand down and started to fondle her breasts. Mrs. Stanton did not respond casually. Her nipples had already been excited to near-bursting erection from simply sucking on his cock and dreaming of its potential; when now his fingers grazed over their charged sensitivity it sent a shudder of agonizing sensation spreading from her tits down to her bowels�_"a sensation that stirred the smoldering volcano of her sex. With increased gusto she worked faster at guzzling and slurping at his cock.
It was rock-hard now, and poised in threatening erection, but somehow the prick seemed to have reached its peak. There was no hint of climax. But Mrs. Stanton was beside herself. She gulped and gobbled wildly all over and around and on his cock, but her hands no longer played with it. They were too busy kneading the soft and slippery flesh of her cunt, plunging and poking up and down the depths of her vagina, and rubbing harder and harder on the marble of her clitoris.
"Oh... come, please," she begged the upright penis as she sucked furiously on it. But it stood mute and unmoved at rigid attention, while she lost control over her own emotions. She was past the point of return now, helplessly lost to the demands of her own body. And all she could do was suck insanely on the indifferent member swelling her cheeks while begging it to respond. As she felt the tears stream down her face her breathing became difficult, and the final giant spasm rose up inside her. When it hit, she bolted upright in the bed, her empty mouth now drooling, her empty cunt now dripping, and she cried out an anguished, desperate cry for her husband to come with her.
"I'm coming... ohhh, ohhh... I'm, coming... Please do something, soon... ahhhhh... ahhhhHHHH... " And in a screaming, arm-and-leg-and tongue-flapping-epileptic-like seizure, she collapsed and slid from the bed to the floor, the insides of her white thighs gleaming with the oil that oozed from her cunt.
Mr. Stanton felt sorry for his wife, but he had some difficulty in stifling a yawn as he lay in bed waiting for her to finish. They'd been through it all so many times before. He smiled gently and patted her head when she returned to bed. Then he drifted off to sleep.
The sun splashed across his face suddenly, and Mr. Stanton heard someone calling his name. He snapped awake and squinted his eyes against the brightness to see who was there. When he saw, he shook his head woozily and pulled himself to a seated position.
Mrs. Stanton stood in a pose of defiance, hands firmly implanted on hips, at the foot of the bed. The morning sun washed over her body. She wore a black, tightly laced corset that covered her entire torso and exposed only her big round tits, swelling out the top, and a small cut-out section at the crotch. Her legs were encased in smoky black stockings held up by bold red garters, and her face was a mask of lipstick and dark makeup. She had just finished tucking something under a corner of the mattress.
"How do I look?" she asked.
"Well... I�_"I don't... "
"... You don't know�_"don't tell me. Do I look like one of those ladies you see in Charleston? That's what I want to know."
"Oh, Diane�_"don't be silly."
"All right, I won't. Lie back down."
"W�_"what?"
"I said lie back down," she repeated menacingly. Mr. Stanton smiled the kind of smile he usually reserved for children who tried to involve him in their games�_"a slightly impatient, patronizing smile. But he stiffly lay back on the bed and waited for her next move. She stepped beside him, bent low and placed a tiny kiss on his lips while her hand reached down and gripped the sheet that covered him. Then she peeled it back and left it bunched at the foot of the bed.
"Now just lie still," she said flatly. "I'll do everything, just lie still until I tell you to move."
"All right," he replied, not completely masking his annoyance, "but please hurry. I should be out in the fields already."
"Yes, dear," she said, bending low and kissing his feet, then quickly moving her mouth up his outstretched legs to his thighs. He sighed impatiently and closed his eyes, and he wondered silently what he would do. She was becoming increasingly ardent after his sex and he had long since lost interest in her. He had even given up trying�_"the excuse that he was tired usually worked�_" since his body simply failed to respond to her any more. She was nibbling on his cock again. It would, of course, grow erect�_"that couldn't be helped�_"but nothing more would happen and she would gobble herself into another orgasm without him. Perhaps then he'd be able to get to work. He wished she would hurry. And he wondered what the hell she thought that outlandish outfit she was wearing would do. He exhaled an exasperated sigh and tried to drift back off to sleep while she worked.
Mrs. Stanton held his rigid cock in her hand and looked at her husband's peaceful face. His eyes were closed. She resumed her nibbling and sucking on the head of his dick and only when she felt sure that he was half-asleep and totally unconcerned did she stop what she was doing and turn him gently over onto his stomach. He started to grumble, but she quickly dipped her head back between his legs and took his balls in her mouth. A new kick, he thought, and melted back to semi-consciousness.
She removed her mouth but continued to fiddle with his balls, reaching underneath from time to time to grip and work on his cock, now pressed between his belly and the mattress. Once or twice she bent forward to run her tongue down the groove between his buttocks and over the heavy spreading flesh of his scrotum below. But all of this was secondary, diversionary, since the center of her attention was focused on the heavy black dildo she had retrieved from beneath the mattress and was hastily strapping about her groin. When it was in place, she gripped the long tapering spear in one hand and tugged and twisted it to make sure it was secure. It was, and a mischievous grin spread across her face as she pressed her mouth to the crack between his buttocks, the chasm at the base of which lay the dark, forbidding brown circlet of his anus�_"her target's bullseye.
Mrs. Stanton's tongue swirled and danced in the cushiony warmth between her husband's buttocks, and bit by tiny bit she urged him up on his knees, the white globes spreading ever further apart and opening to full vulnerability her man's virgin asshole. She laid her tongue, dripping with saliva, atop the taut dark skin surrounding the pinpoint hole. And she drooled her spittle copiously all about. When finally she felt he was as lubricated as he would ever be, the little lady shifted his legs one final time, doubling them underneath him, spread his cheeks wide apart with his hands, and pressed the pointed head of the dildo dead-center against his anus. The brown pink eye glistened and seemed to wink up at her. She leaned forward, pressing the artificial cock a fraction of an inch past the resisting belt of skin around the asshole. Only then did Mr. Stanton stir and, stunned by the sudden realization of what was happening, attempt to resist.
But it was too late. Expecting resistance, Mrs. Stanton had reached down between his legs and gripped firmly the pouch containing his testicles which dangled so defenselessly in space. As he turned to push her away, the plantation mistress only smiled her makeup-caked face down at him and squeezed and sharply twisted his balls in her small but viselike grip. He gurgled a shriek of pain in response and fell back into place.
"Diane�_"darling... " he muttered in confusion, "w�_"what are you doing?"
"Quiet," she snapped. "Just put your face down in the pillow and shut up or I'll pull these off." She tugged threateningly on his balls. "Now boost up�_"give me lots of ass."
"Yes dear," he said meekly, scrunching his legs up tighter to his chest and pushing his smooth white buttocks up and apart as he talked. "Yes dear."
She pushed. The anus spread slightly, the tight lips only giving in after strained resistance, and the dildo passed inside.
"Oh... darling... darling Diane... please, I�_"I can't... it won't fit... uhhhhh... too big... " Mr. Stanton moaned. Her hand cracked down on one swollen buttock cheek and she ordered him to be still. He whimpered. And shut up.
The long rod was inside now and Mrs. Stanton was exultant. Her eyes glittered beneath the heavy black mascara and her hands flailed at her husband's rearing haunches. Plunging in and out, she lost her sensibility, and as the hard black shaft reamed at her husband's previously unviolated rectum a wild, almost insane kind of orgasmic series of paroxysms churned in her abdomen. She screamed and drilled the cock further and deeper up his rectum. And when the real and final orgasm burst inside her and drenched her sex in its hurricane fury she screamed and bounced like an obsessed horsewoman, too involved with herself to even notice the quaking of her husband's white jellied buttocks as he spit his come out his burning cock and screamed his own muffled sounds of horror, of pain, of rapture. He collapsed with the spear still imbedded deep inside, with the bed beneath him and the underside of his body soaking and bathed in the slippery stickiness of his semen. And his wife squatted imperiously behind him, proud tears of a conqueror streaming down her cheeks, streaking her mascara and muddying her makeup.
Mr. Stanton was sound asleep and snoring peacefully when Mrs. Stanton had dressed. She had washed the makeup from her face and tied her hair back severely. She was dressed in the boots and riding pants she had worn the night she killed John's wife. And she did not forget to carry a riding crop in her leather-gloved hand.
When she reached the door of the bedroom she turned once more to look at her sleeping husband. A half-smile had settled on his face. He was lying, uncovered, on his stomach and his buttocks and legs were splashed with blood. She had intentionally not cleaned him up, reasoning that he should have that task as a reminder of her victory.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and strode off down the long hall. She slapped the riding crop repeatedly in the palm of her hand and gloated privately on what she and her husband now knew about each other and how their lives would be forever changed by that knowledge.
It was noon by the time she reached the fields where the slaves were working.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Stantons had surmised that John had made it out of the county, and perhaps even completely out of South Carolina. But they had underestimated the young man and not considered the influence and capabilities of the underground railway. John had been passed from one person to another and within hours was out of the county; in a day he had been escorted out of the state; in less than a week he waved goodbye to the last of the relay escorts as he entered the city limits of Philadelphia.
Philadelphia. A myriad of tales and legends and myths surrounded the very name of the city. It was the southernmost major city where he need have no worry whatsoever of being returned to the South. It was big and he had heard that any man could work here if he had the ambition�_"and he would be paid, and paid well, for his services. It was here, he had been told, that a free church existed just for blacks and no one told them how to hold their services. And it was here that men like William Still and Frederick Douglass, Henry Garnet and Charles Remond, and woman like Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman�_"all black�_" lived or visited and worked for the abolition of slavery in the South. John determined to join them and to head back home very shortly to personally free his family. But he was in Philadelphia just over a day when word reached him of his wife's death. And all ambition fled.
It was not long before John's money had followed his ambition. On the plantation the slaves had occasionally gotten hold of alcohol, in various forms. But John had rarely touched any of it in his life, and never since he was married. In two days in Philadelphia following notification of his wife's murder he consumed more alcohol than all the slaves on the Stanton plantation ever had. He almost rolled from bar to bar, sleeping usually on the outskirts of Rittenhouse Square or on the Delaware side of Society Hill. Usually just in a deserted clump of bushes; sometimes in the gutter. And with the first rays of dawn he would struggle to his feet, always fearful that he would find Mr. or Mrs. Stanton standing over him, and he would wander off to a tavern on the other side of Market Street�_"his side.
It was only a couple of days before John ran completely out of money, but for a pocketful of change. Night had fallen when he pulled the last crumpled bill from his pocket and handed it to a Race Street bartender. He nursed the last drink as long as possible, then weaved out into the blackness. He walked south, crossed Market Street, then headed east to the river. It was on Market somewhere down near Second or Third Streets that he bumped into a fellow black who asked him for some money. John laughed at the absurdity of the proposition; then, remembering the change he had�_"still good for a few drinks�_"he offered the panhandler a drink. The man accepted and they wandered tavern that appeared. Everyone inside was black.
"Guess this is our place," John laughed. The other man was quiet and led John to the bar, where the two men ordered. John picked up his drink and started wandering around the large table-filled room. The first person he spotted who was sitting alone was an elderly man.
"Evenin', sir." John bowed clumsily. "Can I ask what an old fella like you is doin' here? This is a young folks' place�_"you should be down on the farm sayin"yassuh' and 'nosuh' like the rest of the old folks," and he burst into a drunken fit of laughter. The elderly man glared at him in disgust and turned away. John moved on. From person to person. And table to table. Soon he was addressing the entire room.
"You are all shits, that's what," he shouted. "All shits, I say. How many of you come from the South? Huh?" No one moved. A few people watched in weary amusement but most tried to ignore him. "You all are, I bet... you all are! And you're hiding in a little pisshole like this, afraid to go back and tell the man what you think."
"Why don't you go back?" someone shouted. There was a chorus of agreement.
"Fuck you!" John hissed, wheeling on the man nearest him who joined those urging him to leave. "Fuck you... What do you know?" He moved his face close to the other man's. "There are people dying down there right now�_"black people. What do you care? My wife was murdered only a couple of weeks ago. What do you care?" He grabbed the man's drink and smashed it on the floor. He was raging now. "You sit here and drink and go home and fuck and go to work and get paid�_" while your brothers and sisters are dying down there. What do you care? What do you care?
"Calm down, buddy," the bartender said coolly. And John wordlessly walked to the bar and motioned for another drink. The bartender poured it. While he drank John smoldered. The voices all around resumed their light chatter and ignored the disturbance he had caused. He ordered again. He was running out of change. Then suddenly he spun around and sailed his drink across the room, smashing the glass against the far wall.
"You are all fucking animals," he said slowly. "You... and you... and you... and even you." He pointed to an attractive girl sitting with a group of people. "You are scared little animals hiding in this cave�_"afraid of the white man. Just 'cause you got out you forget about everyone else. Well, you're no better�_"you're worse�_" than some bitch cracker herself."
A man nearby stood up and grabbed John's shoulder, about to ask him to leave. John threw him halfway across the room. "Get your fucking slimy chicken claws off me," he ranted. I'm going back to kill me some white folks. But you shits just hide until its over."
"Hey buddy," the bartender called to him. John swirled around, waiting for trouble. "You gonna finish this drink or you want me to throw it out?" John had finished his drink. He had finished it by throwing it across the room. But another full glass sat at his place at the bar.
"You throw it out," John slurred menacingly as he stumbled back to the bar, "and I'll break your head open." He tossed the drink down. Then someone called to him. It was the girl he had directed some of his comments to just moments ago.
"Calm down, fella," she smiled as she approached him. "You're all worked up. How 'bout a dance to take some of that hate out of you?" She drifted closer. She was performing for the audience, and John came very close to planting a fist in the middle of her pretty face�_" but then she seemed to drift away, though her voice was growing louder. "You don't understand, big man," she cooed. "You don't understand. When you've been here awhile you won't be so anxious to go back either. Now how about that dance?"
Her voice clanged in his skull and echoed over and over again. John started to reply to her but nothing worked, his voice wouldn't come out. And he blinked his eyes and tried to focus on her, since the volume of her voice told him she was very near; but she kept fading out of sight.
"How 'bout that dance?" the voice repeated and repeated and repeated. "How 'bout that dance?" John thought he would vomit: his stomach began to churn and searing hot and freezing cold flashes assaulted his head and body. "How 'bout another drink then?" the voice ventured, and then it began to laugh. And everyone began to laugh. At John. He tried to shout at them and tried to swing at them but they were everywhere and nowhere, spinning and floating around about his head.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER TWELVE
His head felt as though it was five times its normal size, and swelling rapidly. His eyes opened but didn't have the strength to remain open, and after a few tries they fell closed, exhausted, and remained that way. There was the smell of yesterday's cooking in the air and he knew his aching body was stretched out on a bed and there were faint sounds of someone moving nearby.
Then he gave up trying to know anything and let himself crash deeply back to sleep. Heavy, sunken, but restless and painful sleep.
It was hours later when John came to for a second time. His head still throbbed and his body still ached, but he was rested. And curious. The room was dark. Only a wispy dusting of moonlight floating in through the room's single window provided any light at all. But it was enough, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the greyness the room took on perspective.
He had been sleeping on a small couch-like piece of furniture. He was fully clothed; not even his shoes had been removed. From his propped-up position on the couch he noticed a small table and a few chairs directly ahead, and a tiny kitchen beyond that. His eyes skimmed the far wall. There was a small wooden dresser leaning against it, another table and a chair�_"and a bed with someone sleeping in it. John blinked, hoping to see more clearly. No help. A tension, a tension of fear and anticipation, took hold of him. The last time he had awakened in a strange room it was the cabin on Mrs. Burke's plantation, and the memory left a bad taste in his mouth. He leaned forward, hoping to make out the form on the nearby bed. But it was too dark and the covers were too heavily bunched up about the person's head. As quietly as possible John lifted his feet from the bed to the floor, sat, then stood up and inched closer. His body was tense, his fists were knotted, and he was poised for violence. His eyes strained against the shroud of darkness as he approached the bed.
It was a woman. A black woman. She stirred silently for a moment and John froze in his tracks while her head tossed, then buried itself back in the pillow, and one arm suddenly threw itself out across the bed. Then she was still again. And the moonlight glowed on her face.
Her heavy, thick and tangled black hair was sharply contrasted against the white pillow. Her face was peaceful. The flesh was nut-brown, but other colors seemed to be highlighted in the moonglow: shades of yellow, red and gold. Her features were a curious mixture of black African and white American, as most blacks after the first couple of generations in the country were. There was always a white man for a black slave woman; it was only a matter�_"as with everything else, John thought�_"of time. On this woman the mix had been good. Her face was small and finely boned, but still possessed the haughty, prideful strength of Africa: a high, round forehead; prominent cheekbones and nostrils; and heavy, soft and dusky lips.
John wondered who she was, where she'd been and what she'd done�_"and what she would do when she woke up. Her face was so tranquil and innocent, almost childlike, as she slept. He was suddenly aware of a burning thirst. The relaxation that he felt when he saw that the sleeping body was a woman, a defenseless woman, had permitted his senses to regain his attention. And his throat was dust-dry.
Moving quietly, he slipped across the room and into the kitchen to see if there was anything to drink. There was some beer. While he drank John tried to piece together the events that had led up to his blackout. He couldn't remember. There was a man he met somewhere, a man that had taken his money�_"or had he?�_"and there was a tavern and... a fight, there seemed to be a fight. Well, no matter, he thought, putting down the beer. Whatever had happened, he was here now, with a woman, and there was nothing wrong with that. He moved back into the room where she was sleeping.
She had a gun on him. She was propped up on one arm and her eyes burned at him through the darkness; the moonlight gleamed on the weapon's barrel.
"Stop right there," she said coldly. "Don't take another step."
"No ma'am," John laughed�_"she couldn't be serious �_"and did a little down-home shuffle.
"Do you remember anything?" she asked, a little less sure of herself.
"No." John smiled lecherously at the half-bared breast that bulged from under the covers, and he stepped closer. "No ma'am, but I wish I did."
She put the gun down and rolled over as if to go back to sleep.
"Sorry, fella," she started�_"and then John did begin to remember... to remember her in the bar that night�_""but there's nothing like what's on your mind to remember," she mumbled into the pillow. John sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I know," he lied, "but I do remember you."
She reached across for the gun but John grabbed her arm. "Now, now, little lady," he laughed, "no need for that. I remember you talkin' and laughin' at me in the tavern�_"but s'pose you tell me why." She struggled half-heartedly and very unsuccessfully for a few seconds, then dropped her arms down limply.
"Because you're a fool, that's why. Comin' in a place like that and sounding off about your plans to head South and fix the folks who killed your wife. How do you know who was listening?" John looked puzzled. "We haven't worked so hard for so long to have you come in and tell the world what you know."
"Well, ma'am�_"I... I truly don't know what you're talkin' about."
"I'm talking about the black army that's gonna march South any day now�_"and if you never heard of it before that's all right too. Just learn to keep your mouth shut when you've been drinking or lots worse things than knockout drops will get you for sure." He waited, impassive, for her to finish. "Well," she concluded, "are you with us?"
"No," he answered soberly. "And if you really have got a black army ready to march South then I know somebody's crazier than I am."
"Go to hell," she muttered, and turned her back to go to sleep.
"I'm going back," he continued, "but a whole army would be easier to pick off than a flock of pigeons. But that isn't what we should be talking about at a time like this now, anyway... is it?" He reached out a hand and slid it under the covers until he touched her warm, smooth, naked back.
"Get your hand out of there," she snapped angrily. "I brought you here only because I didn't want you to sleep in the street where the rest of them would have thrown you and because I thought maybe you had enough courage to join us. / did not," she said, emphasizing each word, "bring you here to sleep with me. Now get lost." She turned her back again. And John stood up and walked away. His clothes felt cold and clammy and his feet burned inside his boots. He rummaged around and found an extra blanket, then took it back to the couch where he had slept earlier.
While he got undressed he thought about the crazy idea of a slave army marching down to free the slaves. And the more he thought about it the less crazy it sounded. He peeled the last pieces of clothing from his body, lay back and pulled the blanket over himself. Maybe as a unit... an army... it would work. Individually, he admitted to himself, it would be suicide. And if they caught a few plantations off guard they could fill out the ranks with the slaves they freed and keep moving...
The more John thought about it the more realistic it sounded.
"Hey over there," he finally called out across the room. "Little lady�_"are you awake?"
"What now?" she asked foggily.
"I think you're right about the army. I think it's a good idea."
"Bravo," she said softly and sarcastically. "Are you with us then?"
"Guess so."
"Good. Now let me get some sleep�_"please."
"Sure, little lady," John said cheerily. "But it's kinda lonely and cold over here. Mind if I join you?" There was a long silence.
"Suit yourself, fella," she finally whispered, "but keep your hands to yourself. And please... please let me sleep."
"Yes'm," John laughed in mock obedience as he padded across the bare floor to her bed. He slid under the covers and let his eyes fall on the nape of her neck, just below the swelling bush of black hair that covered her head. She had again turned her back to him and John's eyes followed trail of her fragile vertebrae down her back until it disappeared under the covers. They were only inches apart and her woman smells, musky and sweet and sleepy, floated tantalizingly into his nostrils. And John wondered if she had meant it when she told him to keep his hands to himself. Probably. But... well, it was worth a try.
Sliding his hand very carefully beneath the sheets John reached tentatively out for her body. When he touched her flesh�_"her side�_"he froze, expecting her to react. She didn't move. He moved his hand over the side, across her ribcage, and brushed his fingers lightly against the underside of her breast. Her flesh was baby-smooth and soft and radiated warmth. Still she didn't move. He reached out and up and took a nipple in his fingertips. An almost imperceptible tremble was emitted by her body though her breast, and like a bolt of lightning it ripped through his hand and arm and shoulder and settled finally in his loins. Immediately his cock began to grow.
John's fingers lingered at her breast, teasingly brushing the nipple until it grew stiff and erect, and softly fondling the entire tit, admiring silently its perfection. Then slowly he peeled the covers back as far as her waist, and he nudged her body over onto its back. She moved where he directed, but her breathing was still slow and her eyes still closed as though asleep. Perhaps she was. Perhaps not. He savored the magnificence of her body. From the narrow frame provided by her small, bony shoulders, her breasts spread down across her chest. They were firm, but soft and loose enough so that they betrayed the full blossoming of her womanhood; and they were heavy and wide-set and capped with reddish-brown nipples, now mutually in erection. John leaned over and took one of the nipples lightly between his lips and let his tongue dab tantalizingly at the rigid tip. Then he slid his mouth down, taking all the brown softness that would fit into his mouth, and drew a deep, slow, sucking breath. And he thought he heard her moan a tiny moan, but when he looked up her eyes were closed and she was still.
He lifted the covers completely off. Her body was breathtaking. In the dim moonlight it looked like an idealistically created statue carved from a rich variety of woods�_"mahogany and ebony and walnut�_"all of them burnished to a high sheen. Her waist tapered in suddenly from the fullness of her breasts, then the curve veered but again with her hips and plunged steeply after that, down the long and narrow stretch of her legs. And in the middle, the dark triangle of her crotch lay open, and empty, and calling to him. Very gently, he forced her thighs apart. He moved lower in the bed, bent forward and placed the lips of his mouth against the partly exposed lips of her sex, and he kissed her there. And immediately, but apparently unconsciously, her legs opened wider.
John ran his tongue down the black satin inside of her thigh, then back up the other one, stopping where he had started. Her legs were wide open now, and with his fingertips he spread the outer lips of her cunt apart and placed a long and loving second kiss deep inside her moistening sex. He felt a sharp intake of air fill her lungs and her whole body twitched, but when he looked up her eyes were still closed and her head was still tossed carelessly back in sleep.
John reached down between his own legs. His prick was like a rock, a long cylindrical rock, and it ached and throbbed from abstinence and immediate desire. He knelt between her thighs and then lay forward, guiding his cock to the dark entrance to her vagina Then, just as the flesh of his sex touched hers, he looked down into her peaceful sleeping face only inches below his, and at the full, unguarded lips that pouted somewhat up at him. He kissed her. And her arms reached up and wrapped about his neck, and her searching tongue bored into his mouth and swirled hungrily about. And she cried out, at first sharply and then in a long, low moan, as he slid his penis into and down the burning wet tunnel of her cunt.
"Oh... God... yes, yes, yes... " she sighed into his mouth as they continued to kiss. John felt as though he would climax immediately, so shocking was the effect of her sudden and ravenous response. Her cunt was like a thing alive, pulling and squeezing and sucking on him as he swirled deeper and deeper inside her, losing control faster and faster and faster as he fell. As if in frantic indecision her hands flitted up and down his back and about his shoulders, first pulling him closer, then pushing him away. And her mouth gulped on the saliva they exchanged and greedily gorged itself on his tongue while her pleas and sighs and moans rolled out from deep inside her. He had reached bottom, the front of his cock was touching the end of her vaginal tunnel. He eased off. "Ohhhhh... no... nooooo... " she cried, and John felt her sex suddenly open still wider for him at the same time that he felt her wiry black legs curl up and around his waist and her ankles press hard down on his back, urging him to plunge deeper. He did. Deeper.
And still deeper into the foaming pit of her sex, into the raging volcano that churned all above his marauding cock into the slippery tube of flesh that gripped his staff and squeezed it and pulled it in still further. His balls lay tightly pressed into the valley formed below her cunt by her bulging buttocks, and the lips of her cunt puffed out and sucked voraciously at the root of his cock.
"Oh... Christ... ohhh... now," she suddenly burst out, tearing her mouth from his and rolling her head frenziedly from side to side, "... Yes... now... now... NOW... I'm commmmm... aaahhh... " John felt her clamped thighs loosen from about his waist and begin to slide back down, and he felt a tremor in her belly rumble up the length of her body, and�_"as though it had abruptly reached her lungs�_"her shouting stopped and the only sound was a trapped gasp hissing from her throat. And her body stopped all voluntary motion and gave itself up to the uncontrolled bucking of a beached fish.
Then John came too. Suddenly. Without warning. As though her frantically squeezing cunt walls had broken a valve inside his prick. It was at first a sharp burst of spit. And then the fury of it started. It dragged his in-sides with it. Huge great gobs of thick come syrup ripped up through his tube and forced the tiny hole at the tip to open wider, wider, as the tons and tons of angry, boiling come gushed wildly into her gluttonous gulping cunt. His whole face, his whole body, twisted in anguished contortions as he began to shout incoherent gabble and push deeper and impossibly deeper inside her twitching body.
A long time of quiet passed. John felt her fingers playfully toying with his long but kinky hair and brushing lightly but searchingly against his face as though she was blind and was trying to envision him. They hovered for long moments against his lips and he kissed them. Then she pulled his face close to hers and she stared with deep brown liquid eyes into his and she laughed and said: "I don't even know your name�_"fella."
"John," he answered. "John Reed. John Reed from South Carolina�_"little lady."
They both laughed. "I'm Sarah. Just plain Sarah. And I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself," she said with mock indignation in her voice.
"So you did." John shook his head. "I plumb forgot."
Sarah laughed and slapped him playfully on the rump as she skipped out of bed. "I'll be back. Don't go 'way," she said.
"I won't." And he watched admiringly as she crossed the room, exaggerating for him the natural swivel of her full hips.
But by the time she got back he was asleep. It was her turn.
She knelt carefully beside him and took the spent and rubbery penis in her hand. Then she bent and kissed the sticky wet head lovingly. He didn't move. She began to work in earnest�_"quietly and softly, but determinedly.
She cupped his heavy loose scrotum in one hand and manipulated his balls with her fingers, while her other hand skimmed up and down his limp but still impressive penis. It took longer than she had expected, but eventually the shaft started to swell somewhat and stretch out against its own casing of flesh, and the blushing smooth-skinned head ballooned open and rose atop the growing spear. Sarah looked at the cock and wanted to devour it on the spot, wanted to take the giant in her mouth and suck it dry. But she owed him her patience. And whether he was still asleep or, like her, only feigning it, she felt obliged to take her time, to build up slowly as he had.
She did take it in her mouth, though. But delicately. And she only sucked gently and only used her tongue sparingly, just enough to fatten the cock to its full massiveness. Then she rose up, squatted over the pointing member and slowly eased herself down on it. It passed through the stretched open outer lips, through the sweating inner lips, through the vestibule of her vagina, and then deep into the creamy tube itself. She sat impaled and waited, waited for him to respond. But John just lay there, apparently very much asleep. Sarah grinned openly. It was obvious that he was going to play the game out as long as possible; he was going to fake sleep until he could no longer control himself. She would wait.
Slowly, taking great care that her crotch didn't touch his abdomen, she began to roll her hips in big, wide circles, twisting his rigid cock with her. Then she switched to up-and-down movements, slipping and sliding the black pole up and down the chute in which it lay implanted. And her own mouth grew dry and her own breath grew halting as her desire mounted. And soon she sat flush against his belly, the cock poking far inside, as she ground hard against him. Perspiration glistened on her face and sparkled in the valley between her heaving tits and matted the thin trail of hair running from her navel to her mons. She gasped for air and let little moaning cries escape her lips. She was on fire.
"John... John," she whispered as though trying to awaken him. "John... come on... please... John... the joke is over... John, please... please... " Her teeth gritted and her eyes closed and her hands flew from her breasts to her cunt, where she alternately massaged her nipples and her clitoris, and she rocked faster and faster back and forth on the huge spear imbedded in her cunt and she begged him to come with her. "Please... oh, please," she shouted now and her arms waved wildly and she flung her legs out and up as she bounced her way to the precipice.
John was ready to come also. But he had forced his composure. Now finally he opened his eyes and looked directly up at her sadly pleading face.
"Oh John, thank you... thank you," she sobbed and she bounced up and down more energetically than ever. "Thank you, John... come on now... please."
"Now," he said as matter-of-factly as his throbbing cock would allow.
"What?"
"No. Suck it. Get off and suck it. Now."
Tears streamed down her beautiful face as Sarah sobbed hysterically. But she did as he said. With a monumental steeling of her self-control she pulled her trembling body off his ramrod cock and fell upon it with her ravenously slobbering mouth.
John came immediately. And when Sarah felt the first spurt of his white molten lead splash against her cheeks she gurgled a barely human cry and let everything go inside her.
"Ummmmmm... good... ohh... uunhh... good... " She slurped on the slimy juices spouting into her mouth and down her throat. "Ummm... ohhh... " she gurgled as her hips rolled and her buttocks quivered and her empty cunt farted its explosive orgasm out into empty space.
"Ohhh, dear God... yes," John shouted happily as the final drops of semen bubbled from his prick and were hungrily gobbled up by Sarah. His Sarah.
And when it was all over they lay quietly in each other's arms, looking at each other. A tiny trickle of white liquid clung to Sarah's chin. John wiped it off, then kissed her a long and passionate kiss.
"I love you. I love you very much," he said.
Sarah's eyes glistened brightly and she nuzzled warmly against his muscular chest. "I love you, too," she said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They slept late. Sunlight streamed in through the small window for hours and illuminated the naked bodies of John and Sarah as they slept together. It was almost noon when Sarah stirred and, seeing the glaring morning sun, sat abruptly up in bed. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, and looking down at John, remembered. Being careful not to disturb him, she slipped quietly out of bed.
John woke up almost an hour later. And for long silent moments he lay in bed watching his woman working in the kitchen. She was humming happily. And the warm smell of coffee was heavy in the air.
"Good morning," he said, startling her.
"Oh! Good morning," she smiled. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She carried two steaming cups across the room toward him and John's eyes floated with her every step, her every move. She wore a long beige skirt and a bright white ruffled blouse that was stiffly starched at the collar and cuffs. The collar reached up to her chin; the cuffs stretched down to her wrists, and the hem of the full skirt was down about her ankles. Her small brown head was perched atop her shoulders, tilted at a slight angle, and her huge brown eyes, looking momentarily frightened, darted up and down the length of John's outstretched body.
"Is�_"is everything all right?" she quietly asked.
"Yes," John blurted, her voice disturbing the hypnotic effect of her body in his mind. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was a million miles away."
"Well, come back, my friend," she smiled as she sat on the edge of the bed and handed him one of the cups. "We have a long day ahead of us and we're late getting started as it is."
"Why? What's to do?"
"Well... among other things, we have to get you enlisted in the army." Then John remembered. The army. The black army. The march south to free the slaves. And the excitement that the thought engendered was matched by apprehension�_"what had he gotten himself into? He sipped the coffee, then put it down and reached and touched her face.
"We have time," he offered. "Come on back to bed for awhile�_"while the coffee cools."
"No thank you, sir," she said pertly. "We have plenty of time for that later. But there's a meeting this afternoon and everyone involved locally has to be there. And that means us... or�_"" She was wondering whether he had changed his mind�_""at least me."
"And me," he said reassuringly.
"Then let's go."
"All right." And he began to wearily pull himself out of bed.
There was a knock on the door. He looked at Sarah, alarmed. She smiled and told him not to worry, that it was just the couple they were going to the meeting with. As she went to the door, John climbed back in bed and pulled the covers up.
His jaw dropped open when they entered. It was Margaret, the white woman who had helped him escape, and she was escorted by a tall, handsome, middle-aged white man.
"Good morning, John," she said calmly. '"'We heard about you on the way over today. Are you joining us?"
"Certainly he is," Sarah interjected.
"You mean�_"uh, you mean the army?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Yes. Yes, I'm joining up."
"Good," Margaret smiled. Her escort joined her. "I suppose you know the magnitude of the movement," she said, walking over and sitting beside John on the bed.
"Well�_"" he started.
"No. I guess you don't. Every major abolitionist organization in the country is in on it. Even most of the completely non-violent groups are beginning to see it our way."
"Hadn't we better get ready to go?" Sarah cut in.
"No, don't worry about time," Margaret's escort said. "The meeting has been postponed until this evening."
"Oh fine," Sarah said. "Well, would anyone care for coffee?" They all said they would. The man sat down across the room from John and Margaret while the young black girl retired briefly to the kitchen.
"How do you like it up here?" the man asked John.
"Fine, I guess," he answered. But he was a bit unsure, a bit unsteady with his words, since Margaret's hand had crept under the sheets and was casually toying with his cock. Then, clearing her throat at the same time to distract attention, she abruptly stood up to adjust her skirts, then sat back down on the bed with them spread around her. John's free hand was covered by her flowing petticoats, and he slid it forward the few inches required to reach the spot where she was sitting. As he suspected, she was wearing nothing underneath. So, while Margaret's hand slid unobtrusively up and down John's cock, his index finger moved through the passageway between her buttocks and up into her cunt. Their hands were buried beneath the bedsheets and Margaret's petticoats and skirt, and their conversation continued glibly.
"Margaret tells me you two have met before," the man said to John.
"Yes," John answered, trying to appear casual and to conceal the growing difficulty in his breathing. "Yes. Down South."
"You were escaping, as she tells it, and she gave you a hand."
"Yes, that's right." John gasped slightly as Margaret increased the tempo of her work. "A hand, yes... a hand." He ground his finger deeper inside her and twisted it about more vigorously. There was a long stretch of silence then as the conversation dropped off, and the slurping sound of John's finger seemed dangerously loud.
"Why don't you tell us about it?" Sarah asked, coming back into the room with coffee for the guests.
"Yes," Margaret eagerly chimed in, trying to stir up conversation to cover the noise they were making.
"Well," John said, "It's a long story�_"I, uh, well... it's too involved to get into now." Margaret glared at him and pumped her hand angrily up and down, causing John to gasp and then to have to cough to cover up. Sarah passed the coffee out then sat down calmly on Margaret's escort's lap.
"Oh do tell us," she urged him�_"as the man's hand wormed its way unnoticed underneath the folds of her skirt.
"Yes, do," the man added, unbuttoning his fly.
"If you're a little shy, I'll start," Margaret said. "It all started when I went down to visit my sister-in-law in South Carolina... "
She dragged the story out, talking about the journey south, the geography and anything that would seem innocent to the listeners. But the listeners, though they occasionally broke in with an "Oh really?" or a "Do tell!" weren't really listening. Under the cover of Sarah's skirt, the gentleman had removed his penis from his trousers and had slipped it into her cunt. Like Margaret, Sarah wore nothing underneath her modest, flowing skirt. And their periodic comments on Margaret's story were intended, as much as the story itself was, to cover the gentle slurping sounds of sex and the sudden spontaneous gasps and moans that slipped loose.
The charade continued as both couples, each unaware of the other, mounted slowly on their smooth ascent to the brink of orgasm. A dewy glow broke out on Sarah's high, dark forehead; and the still-not-introduced man with his penis in her cunt lost control of his breathing for a few moments while the young black woman in his lap massaged his cock expertly with the walls of her vagina. John too was near eruption. Margaret's hand squeezed and pumped excitedly up and down his rod with such intensity now that it felt as though she were trying to squeeze the juices out; and John's index finger had been joined by three others�_" only his thumb, which was beginning to burrow up into her rectum, was free�_"and like a quartet of garden snakes, they were squirming and squiggling around inside her flowing twat. Margaret's story had taken on the sounds of a chant.
"And... then... we went in... to... Charleston... and we saw... the docks... where the cotton... "
But no one was listening anyway. Including Margaret.
Sarah was literally riding her partner's cock, rocking rapidly but as unobtrusively as possible back and forth, and her climax was due. But Margaret was first. John's hand was plunging furiously up her cunt, to where she believed he would soon be touching her uterus. She stopped talking. Her eyes closed. Her body began to tremble. "Are... you... all right?" Sarah gasped, feeling the same symptoms rising up in her.
Margaret started to answer but the words wouldn't come. Instead, a high-pitched growl rolled out of her and the tremble turned to spastic shaking. "Y�_"yes... " she again tried to answer Sarah. "It's only that... I'm... coming." The last word was a scream and Margaret's body flew into a twisting, writhing mass as she rolled and flipped on the bed.
"Oh God," Sarah said quietly. And then Margaret tore the sheets from John, exposing his giant black cock quivering on the verge of climax. "Oh God!" Sarah repeated, screeching now. And when the come began to bubble from the top of the living ebony stem and Margaret threw her mouth upon it to catch the precious fluid, Sarah flipped. She ripped her skirt off and fell from the chair to the floor, her clutching clamping vagina pulling her mate's cock and thus his body along with her.
When John saw what they were doing, he sat abruptly upright and shouted, "Oh fuck!"
"Yes, yes!" the other three voices chimed in. And Sarah came. And her partner came. And a growing crescendo of shouts and moans and screams and groans announced the arrival of four simultaneous orgasms. And a sea�_"an ocean�_"of swirling come.
"Lovely, simply lovely," said Sarah's partner when it was all over and the four of them had rested a bit.
"Yes it was, dear, wasn't it?" said Margaret.
"Dear?" said John quizzically.
"Yes, John. Of course. Didn't I introduce you two? John, this is Warren, my husband. Warren�_"of course you know this is John... "
"Yes," Warren said.
"How do you do?" John greeted him, and the two men nodded at each other.
"At any rate," Sarah piped up, "it was indeed lovely." She climbed slowly to her feet and slipped off the few clothes that remained on her. Three pairs of eyes watched intently. Then Margaret began getting undressed and her husband followed.
"Tell Sarah the real story�_"the full story, that is�_"of your meeting with John," Warren said to his wife as he struggled out of his tight trousers. Margaret was hesitant, but she began slowly.
"Well, Sarah�_"we were forced to... "
"Wait," the dark girl interrupted. "Obviously you don't want to talk about it, so perhaps it's better if I don't hear. Instead, why don't we... uh... well, act it out, if that's possible."
John's eyes lit up.
"All right," Margaret said happily. "Is that all right with you, dear?" she asked her husband.
"Fine."
"Let's start backwards then," Margaret said. "In the cabin. Sarah, come over here and lie down on the bed." The black girl did as she was instructed.
"We won't go into all of it, but suffice to say we had to make it appear as though John had raped me in order that I wouldn't be suspected of helping him escape. I struggled a bit and then... well, John?" She turned to the tall black man, who was standing beside the bed. He moved alongside Sarah�_"who was on her back waiting. She started to struggle and resist as she imagined Margaret had, and, like Margaret, proved no match for John. He pinned her shoulders down and drove his knee between her tightly crossed legs, forcing the thighs apart. She half-giggled as she feigned resistance, rolling and twisting from side to side.
"Like this, Margaret?" she gasped.
"Yes," Margaret answered. And Sarah struggled harder to keep John at bay. The wrestling was exciting in itself�_"their hands and bodies slapped and fell against each other, and John's cock was growing rapidly. To cover up her giggling, Sarah began to shout.
"Get off me, you big black ape," she laughed, wriggling out of his grasp. Then suddenly she reached down between his legs and gripped his rod in her slender hand and shook and twisted it around in fake warning. "If you try to put this inside me I'll�_"I'll bite it off," she said. John pulled free and threw her back on the bed. Sarah was panting heavily now, partly from the exertion, but primarily from sexual excitement. His big hands spread out across her chest and shoulders and held her down while first his left leg, then his right, squeezed between hers. She wriggled furiously about, avoiding the prodding cock that pressed between her thighs and threatened entry into her cunt. But John was stronger, and more determined.
The dark velvet knob nudged against the outer cunt lips, which were gleaming wet but still resisting. The struggle continued. But the head of John's cock eased past the outer lips while they wrestled, pressed through the inner cunt and came to rest at the edge of her vagina. Then Sarah surrendered. She threw her legs out and up with a sigh of resignation; and resignation turned to bliss when John's ebony tool slithered its full twelve inches up and into her belly. "Oh dear God," she whispered slowly. And John glided the cock out of her, then gently coasted back in, then out and in, a little faster, out, in, still faster. "Oh! Dear! God!" Sarah grunted now with each stroke accompanied by a thumping of his crotch against her open sex. Her hands flew at his back and neck and shoulders, and groped for his head. She rocked with him in unison, like two dancers working together. And the pitch mounted. Faster and faster�_" and together�_"they jogged toward their climax. Then, remembering the purpose of this performance, John removed his prick and rolled Sarah, who howled in injury, onto her stomach. Her buttocks were gorgeous. Like copper globes kissed by the afternoon sun that streamed in the window, they squirmed eagerly and pushed up and open for him. He gazed at the knot of blackness buried deep inside and decided to wait before going for it; instead, he slipped his cock, gleaming wet from her cunt juices, back up her vagina from behind. She rose up to meet him, pushing herself up onto hands and knees, and wagged her brown rump like a sex-starved dog as his massive pole drove up the slippery tunnel. For a long time they froze there, locked hard to each other and rolling their hips in frenzied anticipation of orgasm.
Warren suddenly slid his snow-white body underneath Sarah's torso, moving his head directly beneath her sex�_"and thus, moving his sex directly beneath her head. For a while they didn't touch. He just gazed up delightedly at the sight of John's glistening black spear plunging in and out of the raw rose-colored flesh of Sarah's cunt, while she stared hypnotically down at the rearing white and pink cock that swayed hungrily just inches from her drooling mouth.
Sarah moved first. She dipped her head down the necessary few inches and darted the point of her tongue out against the top of Warren's prick. He moaned softly and ground his hips down into the mattress; then his tongue poked up through the denseness of her public hair and found her clitoris, erect and bulging, peeking out from within thick folds of soft flesh. The white man gobbled faster at the front of the black woman's cunt, and she nibbled more fully on the head of his cock, while John's prick rammed relentlessly into her vagina. The sounds of love�_"gulping and sucking, slurping and sighing�_"filled the air as the trip grew hotter and hotter as they approached the sun.
As if on cue then, John pulled out of Sarah's cunt with one stroke, and with another drilled his cock deeply into her rectum. She screamed a garbled scream as her head snapped forward, forcing Warren's cock deeply back in her throat. And Warren wormed his lapping tongue then up the full gaping opening of her cunt.
The fury became tumultuous. John's prick ripped riotously up and down the passionate asshole of the black girl who was demoniacally sucking the white man's cock�_"a white man whose mouth was gobbling barbarously at her runny wet and flaring cunt.
"I'm gonna come... I'm gonna come," John�_"who was the only one of the three fully able to speak�_" moaned softly while his hands rolled Sarah's brown soft buttocks around like balls of clay and his burning prick scorched in and out between their lushness and up the dark, forbidden tube of her rectum. The friction was unbearable. Sarah gagged and choked on the delicious stem of whiteness in her mouth as the tremors of the agony at her asshole blended with the tickling of the tongue in her cunt and sent warming shudders of tension all throughout her body. And Warren's cock had swelled in the juiciness of Sarah's mouth as far as it could swell; all that could happen now was that it might explode, and when that explosion seemed most imminent he gobbled at her cunt, gnawing on the soft lips and slurping at the liquids, with a gusto he had never felt before.
"I'm gonna come... " John continued to warn. "I'm gonna... now... now... I'm coming... oh, Christ... I'm... now!" The steaming whiteness gushed suddenly from his throbbing cock, sunk completely up her ass, and burned a liquid spreading fury all through her stomach and chest, a fury that triggered her gulping cunt to reply in kind. Then Warren's cock exploded suddenly and splashed its semen into Sarah's gobbling mouth. Come invaded her from both ends; it poured into her mouth and it gushed endlessly up her rectum, and it was as if the excess was spilling out of her cunt into Warren's slurping lips.
A unit of ferocious erotic power, the three bodies became one as their flesh pressed in from all directions. Black and white, and glistening with come and sweat, their orgasmic explosions merged into one, a giant climax that came... and came... and seemed as though it would not end.
Poor Margaret, John and Sarah and Warren thought �_"poor Margaret who only stood and watched.
"Poor me," Margaret said aloud. The recuperating trio nodded understandingly. But that didn't help Margaret any.
"John�_"do you mind?" she asked as she sat down on the floor next to his prostrate, exhausted body. He couldn't say no. And she was gentle. As he lay there, his chest heaving as his lungs and pores gasped for air, for nourishment, Margaret placed her head in his lap and took his limp and slippery prick delicately into her mouth. She didn't do anything to it for a long time, just let it lie inside her mouth like a small sleeping thing gradually regaining its strength. And as it did she sensed it with her cheeks and began to lazily apply her tongue all about it. Warren and Sarah watched.
It was as though the cock was given a new life inside her mouth; resolutely it swelled and fattened and stretched, forcing her mouth to open wider and pressing outward against her cheeks. Margaret was patient. And skillful. Her tongue slowly slid around the cylinder as it grew, and only very gently did she begin to suck on it When finally the prick was fully blossomed, she took her mouth away and held it lightly between her fingers. Little, flitting, dry kisses danced all along the cock. She took a long time pecking and licking at the underside. Then the head. A tiny tic appeared under the smooth purple flesh atop the penis and Margaret nuzzled the knob lovingly with her soft lips. It was ready now, and so was she.
John was lying on his back, his cock pointing directly at the ceiling. Margaret placed her hand on his chest, silently urging him to be still, and slid one leg across his body. Then carefully she eased the cock into her hole like an arm into a jacket sleeve. He lay there with his eyes closed, his cock imbedded in her cunt; and she sat atop him, easily rocking back and forth, taking her time and not wanting to rush either of them. And the heat generated from their points of contact spread through their bodies.
Sarah walked casually across the room toward them. "Mind if I join?" she asked Margaret. Margaret smiled blissfully and shook her head no. Sarah knelt, facing Margaret, and placed one knee at either side of John's head. Then she squatted back as though to rest on her heels, but stopped when she felt John's breath tingling the tiny black hairs that lined the lips of her cunt. She waited in that position, but not long, and John started slowly licking at her sex. Margaret still rocked enjoyably back and forth on the black cock that she held firmly in her belly, her eyes closed, head back.
"Margaret? Margaret, dear?" The voice was Sarah's. Margaret opened her eyes. Sarah was squatting a few feet in front of her, her cunt spread open for John's gobbling mouth. And now, as Margaret's eyes scanned upward, she saw why Sarah had called her name. The black girl was cupping a beautiful breast in each hand, lifting them as though in offering, with the full and hardened nipples bulging out toward Margaret. Sarah's eyes shone brightly. "Would you like...?" she asked the white woman. Margaret didn't answer. She just leaned forward over John's chest, being careful to keep his cock tightly trapped inside her, and took one of the dark nipples in her mouth. Sarah sighed deeply when the woman's tongue swirled over the sensitive tip while John's tongue bored up into her vagina; Margaret mumbled a sound of delight at the salty taste of the black girl's nipple and at the brimming fullness of John's cock inside her; and John just quietly gobbled on Sarah's twat while he drove his cock up the white girl's cunt. Wrapped in the arms of warm ecstasy, the three of them softly absorbed the pleasures of each other; they were all mounting that gradual incline to eventual climax, but it was all so sweet and gentle in their minds that they were all content to simply hover deliciously where they were. The heat was rising steadily, reaching, even passing, the breaking point; but with no sudden move from any of them, the breaking point was stalled �_"they needed, though they didn't necessarily want, something singular to happen to throw the final switch.
Warren had been watching, and masturbating, for the past few minutes. Now he stood up and walked toward the quivering mass of humanity piled atop one another on the threshold of orgasm. When she leaned forward to take Sarah's tit in her mouth, Margaret's back had necessarily dipped down and her buttocks flared up over the black cock that pumped into her cunt from below. In that position her anus was stretched open to the world and catching every breeze that passed. Warren paused when he reached the fermenting mountain of sex; he paused with his cock poised an inch or two from his wife's vulnerable and unsuspecting asshole. Only Sarah could see what was coming and the excitement of that expectancy, coupled with the gulping mouths at her tits and cunt, almost set her off. Her eyes blazed at the shining white prick that hovered before Margaret's anus�_"Margaret who was now writhing on the razor-edge of orgasm from the cock that seemed to be filling her whole belly.
Warren thrust it in and completely up her rectum with a single shove. Simultaneously, Sarah wrapped her arms about Margaret's head and pulled her tightly against her chest, stuffing the white woman's mouth cram full of a luscious brown tit. And, responding to the sudden lurch of activity atop him, John reared and bucked and drove his cock up insanely into the drooling cunt above.
Margaret could hardly breathe, her mouth was so packed with tit; John's hands had reached up and were fondling her own dangling nipples; and down below, Warren's white prick was boring into and reaming out her asshole, while just next door John's black cock was exploding up and down the barrel of her cunt. Her entire body�_"every nerve, every cell�_"was being dragged down and swallowed up in a monstrous whirlpool of sex, and she shook violently with the anticipatory tremors of orgasm. But Sarah was first; John's tongue had triggered the final shudder in her twat and with a sharp cry she let go, her woman juices streaming down over John's face. He followed with a sudden giant thrust up into Margaret's hole that preceded the first gulps of cream that spurted from his cock into the pit of her stomach. And Warren, feeling the pulsating, climaxing member exploding through the narrow membrane between her cunt and her rectum where he was imbedded, gurgled an animal cry and shot his hot sperm violently up the tube to her bowels. Three people, two men and a woman, were coming, were squirming and twisting, were hugging and fucking from every direction. And Margaret dangled on the margin, on the edge, and stared down... down... into the swirling bottomless pit below... the churning, seething, roiling cavity...
Then she exploded. Come everywhere. A screeching, gyrating, convulsive pile of bodies, climaxing again and again... coming... and coming... and coming... and coming... forever... and ever... and ever... and ever...
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Warren doffed his hat. Margaret curtsied. And they prepared to take their leave.
"It's been a truly lovely afternoon," Margaret commented, "hasn't it, Warren?"
"Indeed."
"Well," she added, "we have some time yet�_"Warren and I are just going to look in some of the shops on Pine Street�_"but don't be late for the meeting."
"We won't be," Sarah said.
"Good," Warren smiled. "It is rather important. The first expedition South is leaving in only a few days, you know."
"A few days? John said, surprised.
"Yes, a few days. But you can be ready by then."
"Yeah... I guess so."
"Anyway, we'll see you tonight," Margaret smiled as she and Warren sauntered off.
"Yes." Sarah waved. "We'll, uh, have to do it again, sometime."
Sarah closed fife door and turned to John, who was sitting on the edge of the bed. "I didn't realize how little time we had," she said softly.
"Neither did I," he said. Neither of them had bothered to dress yet. She walked slowly toward him, saying nothing, then just stood before him and they looked at each other for endless moments, their eyes telling each other all that was necessary. John stood and took Sarah close. Their bodies, warm and soft and sated from the afternoon of sex, hugged one another in search of comfort and security. They needed�_"desperately needed�_"love.
"John?" she purred quietly, pressing her belly and brown thighs closer to him. There was no need for further words.
They seemed to float together as they fell to the padded softness of the bed. And when John's hand touched her, and hers him, and when he entered her, it was a giant cloud of warmth that closed about them and held them there on into the night.
"Yes'm," the servant woman answered, scurrying into the bedroom where her mistress was dressing.
"It's about time. Have they got the whole group rounded up yet? Here, help me with this."
"Yes ma'am, I believe they have all of them and they're bringing them over to the stables like you told 'em to." She helped the white woman undo the buttons at the back of her dress.
"Good," Mrs. Stanton said with satisfaction as she stepped out of the dress she had been wearing all day. "Sally, get my riding clothes for me."
"Yes'm."
The dark woman rummaged in her mistress' huge closet for a few moments, looking for the clothes, while Mrs. Stanton continued to undress and speak.
"I told my husband there was nothing to worry about," she said, slipping out of her petticoat. "He was so worried�_"the little mouse. Sally, hurry up! I told him I could handle everything and he didn't believe me. Hmmmph. Well, now that we have the leaders there will be no revolt�_"and I'll show this whole county how you deal with upstart niggers. Won't I, Sally?"
"Yes'm."
"I suppose I should thank you for helping out... "
"Wasn't nothing, ma'am," the elderly servant answered, returning finally with the riding outfit. Mrs. Stanton was waiting for the clothes. She was naked, as she never wore anything beneath her work clothes, and the sight of her mistress baldly standing naked in the middle of the room startled and at the same time excited Sally.
"No ma'am, you been good to me and I can't see some crazy niggers stirring up trouble for nothin'."
"That's why I love you, Sally," Mrs. Stanton said, taking the clothes from the woman. The white woman had used the word carelessly, but when she said love Sally's eyes brightened visibly. Mrs. Stanton noticed�_" and hesitated about getting dressed as quickly as she might have. Deciding to have some fun first, she placed the clothes neatly on a nearby table and walked slowly and sensuously a few steps away.
"Do you think I'm getting fat?" she casually asked the woman, who had been her personal servant for as long as she could remember, and whom she had always quietly suspected of being a smolderingly latent lesbian.
"Oh no! Miz Stanton," Sally said earnestly, "you as pretty as ever."
"Why thank you, Sally." In a way, Mrs. Stanton hated Sally because she was so faithful. None of the other blacks�_"even Jeffers�_"had ever completely sold out as much as this elderly servant had. And that quality, that weakness, was what the white woman most despised in a person. In the same way, she ironically was attracted to those who failed to manifest such weak- nesses. Like John�_"and the slaves with whom she was soon to have to deal. But that, of course, did not alter her actions. It only made them more pleasurable. She smiled sweetly at Sally and, holding her hands above her head, turned slowly in a graceful pirouette so that the black woman could not avoid seeing every inch of her nudity.
"I don't know, Sally," she said with convincing concern in her voice as she turned. "I'm afraid I'm getting a little flabby in some spots lately. I've been doing some exercises to try to help out. Come here. I'll show you what I mean." She stood with her legs apart now and her arms extending out straight to each side. Sally approached and stopped a few feet away. "Don't be nervous, dear," the white woman smiled. "Here�_"feel how soft this is." She took the servant's hand and placed it underneath her left breast. "See?" Sally didn't answer, but just left her hand where Mrs. Stanton had placed it "Sally," she said, sounding slightly annoyed, "how long have we known each other?"
"I don't know, ma'am. Since you were a child, anyway."
"That's right. And now do you mean to say that you're afraid or embarrassed or something about touching my body?"
"Oh no, ma'am."
"Well then, please do as I said�_"feel how soft my flesh is there."
"Yes'm." And Sally's fingers sank into the luxuriant white flesh on the underside of Mrs. Stanton's left tit. Mrs. Stanton's eyes fell directly onto Sally's and for extended moments they stared wordlessly at one another. Sally's fingers gently kneaded the breast's velvet skin.
"Now the other one, Sally. And feel how it tenses when I do the exercise." Sally's hand moved to Mrs. Stanton's right breast while the white woman rotated her extended arm, thus tensing the pectoral muscle and flexing the whole tit as she did. It squirmed in Sally's hand and her fingers inadvertently slipped up and over the nipple. She started to pull away, but Mrs. Stanton stopped her. "That's all right, Sally�_"it feels good. If you wanted to touch it, it would make me very happy." Without a word the elderly brown fingers began stroking the large coral nipple. "Yes, Sally�_"that's it. Ummmm... it feels good." Mrs. Stanton closed her eyes and placed one of her hands on top of the one her servant was using to feel her nipple. Then, after a few seconds, she pushed Sally's hand away and turned her back on the woman. For a moment the slave woman looked dismayed. And unhappy, since the warm nipple had just begun to harden to her excited touch.
"I want you to see something else," Mrs. Stanton said over her shoulder. "Look at my behind. Is it or isn't it starting to sag a bit?" Sally's eyes coasted down the smooth curve of her mistress' back, then alighted on the marvelous white spheres of her buttocks�_"firm and tight, but obviously soft to touch.
"Oh no, ma'am," Sally said, with more emphasis than she had intended. Mrs. Stanton smiled in private satisfaction. "No ma'am," Sally continued, "you have... uh... the nicest behind�_"well... yes... the nicest, finest behind that I ever seen."
"You're stammering, Sally. This isn't embarrassing you, is it?"
"Oh no... "
"If it is, I'll stop and get dressed right now."
"No, Miz Stanton," there was more than a hint of anxiety in the servant woman's voice. "No... don't get dressed yet."
"Well... all right, Sally. Here now; reach down and feel those buttocks and see if you don't think they're getting too soft." Sally bent slightly at the waist and placed a hand lightly on the smooth, creamy flesh covering Mrs. Stanton's right cheek.
Her voice choked somewhat. "Feels fine, ma'am."
"Oh Sally�_"really feel it. All over."
Sally's hands roamed, hesitantly at first, then more boldly, over and around the shimmering white globes. Then, tentatively and half-expecting to be stopped, she slid her worming fingers down under the buttocks' swell and somewhat into the crevice that separated the two cheeks. Mrs. Stanton didn't move. But Sally's fingers stopped anyway.
"Well?" the white woman asked, and there was a fragment, hardly noticeable, of a tremor in her voice.
"Well what, ma'am?"
"Are they flabby or not?"
"Oh�_"no, ma'am. Like I said before... "
"Never mind," Mrs. Stanton said, turning to face her servant again. "There's one more place I'm concerned about�_"my thighs." Sally didn't need to be told. She knelt down before her mistress and placed her hand on the front of one of her knees. Then her hand slid up, feeling, pinching, squeezing the soft flesh as though actually in search of something.
Sally was wearing her very respectable, very confining maid's outfit, and deep down inside those crisply starched folds of material her cunt was beginning to water like it hadn't done in years. The touch of Mrs. Stanton's satin slick white thigh against her work-callused fingertips was sweeping Sally's mind with cloudy figures out of all her midnight sexual fantasies, and it trembled her insides with excitement. Mrs. Stanton's words came like a thunderclap: "I'm particularly concerned about the growing flabbiness on the insides of my thighs, Sally." The servant woman was momentarily paralyzed with the fear that she might lose control of herself if she explored any further. Then, steeling her self-control, she allowed her fingers to crawl inside those gleaming thighs and to work their way up to where she knew Mrs. Stanton wanted them.
"That's it. Right there is the spot I'm especially worried about," Mrs. Stanton said suddenly. Sally's fingers stopped their upward movement not more than two inches from the white woman's cunt lips. Her thighs were damp there and there was a strong feeling of warmth radiating from above. "What do you think, Sally?"
"I... I don't... " She was having trouble forming words with her suddenly thick and dust-dry tongue... don't think, Miz Stanton... you got, uh... anything to worry 'bout."
"I'm very happy to hear that, Sally." The older woman's hands had not moved from the position of their last advance. "Just one more question, dear," the white woman remarked casually. "When was the last time you had sex with anyone?" Sally was thunderstruck. Somehow, despite all that had gone on these last few minutes, she had not at all suspected that such frankness would be ventured into.
"I�_"I better go now, ma'am," Sally said, shifting her weight slightly as a token but not removing her hand. Her cunt was literally dripping now and her stomach ached with desire.
"If you insist, Sally."
She had riot expected this response from Mrs. Stanton, either; she had sensed that the young woman was enjoying and was being aroused by this activity as much as she was. Apparently not. But when she started to stand, Sally found that her legs were too heavy�_"she needed it so desperately!�_"and a single heavy tear escaped her eye and trickled down her cheek. Still, her fingers stroked at the downy flesh inside the uppermost portion of her mistress' thigh. Then she began to sob openly. She tried to talk, to explain things, but the words wouldn't come. Soon her whole body shook with her convulsive crying.
"I understand, Sally," Mrs. Stanton said slowly, her voice taking on an affected monarchical tone of absolute wisdom and sympathy. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?" The slave woman couldn't answer, but shook her head affirmatively. "Yes. I understand. Sally," Mrs. Stanton continued, "see that pussy right in front of your face?" Sally's eyes stared blurrily at the rich triangle of blonde hair that crowned the woman's sex that she so longed for. "Well, Sally�_"that pussy has been licked by almost every man on this plantation at one time or another. And more big cocks than you could imagine in a lifetime have wriggled around inside there." Sally's fingers trembled where they lay and her other hand started underneath her own skirt before she regained control.
"You want to play with yourself, don't you, Sally? All right, I don't mind. By the way�_"how do I smell to you? Good?" The black woman was reeling from the pungent aroma pouring from Mrs. Stanton's crotch, but she leaned forward a bit more at the woman's suggestion. So close now that the bush of golden hair rippled from her breath; so close was she that the odor of her mistress' sex almost overwhelmed her. There was no restraint this time when her hand burrowed under her skirt. The fingers tore at the cotton panties she wore and squirmed to the edge of her fat cunt lips. And the lips trembled. Her index finger bored in and forced its way up the vagina, then down, and it stroked up the length of the open lips and tingled the clitoris, then back to the starving hole in the middle. There was an embarrassing slurping sound�_"but Sally didn't care any more; in fact she found it exciting.
"Would you like to see my pussy, Sally?" Mrs. Stanton asked. Sally was acting like a child, and Mrs. Stanton like a mother.
"Yes'm�_"oh, please. Yes." The words were finally beginning to come.
Mrs. Stanton spread her legs apart a bit and placed her two index fingers at the front of her cunt. She pulled the lips slightly. Sally's mouth grew drier still. "More?" Mrs. Stanton inquired. Sally nodded, and bent lower. Mrs. Stanton arched her back, pushing her hips further forward, and reached underneath with her fingers to pull the lips open wider still. The older woman could see most of the red slit now, and the red was growing darker and more moist.
"More?"
"Yes, please."
Mrs. Stanton eased herself to a sitting position on the floor, facing Sally. Both women had their hands in their cunts, Sally playing excitedly with herself and Mrs. Stanton displaying herself. The younger woman doubled her knees up to her chin then and rocked back on her buttocks. She held that position for a few seconds, then continued back until she was lying on her back with her legs tucked up high and apart, exposing the full rawness of the crimson flesh of her cunt. Sally almost fainted. And the dryness in her mouth passed, and she began to drool.
"You may kiss me if you like, Sally."
The servant woman, her fingers now grinding furiously at the aged but slippery insides of her own twat leaned forward. She hesitated momentarily as if savoring the last second of deprivation. Then she pressed her full dry lips deep into the drenched and doughy chasm of her mistress' sex. The spongy cunt lips quivered and her mouth trembled in response.
"That's enough, Sally." Mrs. Stanton's voice came out of nowhere. Sally pulled back and almost screamed from the tension and the agony; she could come now, she was ready, but she wanted to wait for Mrs. Stanton if she could. "Good girl," the seemingly mysterious voice said. "Now, if you like, you may lick it."
Her tongue pushed out and into the brimming red hot pit and squished between the inner ridge of flesh. Then she bored in deeper�_"then dragged her tongue the full length of the gaping trough. She waited to hear a command to stop. There was none. So she opened her mouth wide at the deepest part of the drooling succulence, and slurped down... down... deeply into the oozing slit. Her lips pursed and gulped and swallowed, and her tongue swirled and dredged for all the contents of the pit. And the heady aroma and the delicious liquids and the wonderful slick smoothness pulled her in. Her brown face was smashed against the yielding sex and when she breathed she sucked sticky moisture up her nostrils while her gulping, gobbling mouth and tongue slurped furiously at the richness of the meal. She was eating, eating ravenously. Her body lurched. She almost came.
"That's enough," Mrs. Stanton said as she had before. And Sally stopped. "Did it taste good, dear?" OH CHRIST! Sally's head shrieked. How could she be so cruel? "Just one more thing now, Sally�_"my asshole, please." And the young woman boosted up a bit higher.
Sally's tongue was pressing against the brown ringlet of sphincter muscle that was Mrs. Stanton's anus almost before it was in view. Meanwhile her fingers were clawing at her own cunt. The lips were bleeding and one whole hand was packed inside. Nervous, anxious tensions gripped the woman as nothing ever had before, and she made weird humming and belching sounds while her lips sucked on the younger woman's asshole and her tongue bored up into her rectum. Mrs. Stanton was losing control finally. She was moaning softly and panting.
"Sally�_"Sally... my cunt... my cunt again." And the elderly servant woman pressed her mouth in harder and dragged her lips and tongue abrasively over the hard space between the white woman's asshole and cunt, then dove in deeply... deeply... slurping at the gushing scarlet hole while the rumble of orgasm�_"her first in years�_"welled up inside her stomach and pressed massively down on her cunt from the inside. Mrs. Stanton's legs were thrashing and her hips were rolling and the pasty soup that bubbled in her cunt threatened any second to overflow. Both women gasped desperately for air. Both women were tumbling headlong... now... now...
Obediently, the slave woman's teeth bared and she clamped them fast on a heavy piece of slippery raw meat inside the cunt she was gobbling at. "Harder�_" bite, Sally�_"bite it!" And she did. Her jaws snapped shut, partly in response to her mistress's command and partly in response to the explosion that had just burst inside her own cunt. The taste of blood rushed into her mouth and mingled with the tart sourness of Mrs. Stanton's cunt juice. And the younger woman howled in pain. And she came with a crashing suddenness.
"Don't just stand there, girl," Mrs. Stanton snapped at Sally while the younger woman was getting dressed. "What the hell do you think this is?"
"Sorry, ma'am," Sally said, hurrying forward to help. But there was a certain hesitancy in her stride. No matter how sharp Mrs. Stanton sounded, Sally knew that she was only acting. After all, they were lovers now. She had dreamed for years of a time like this when she�_"a slave�_"would command respect from the mistress of the plantation. She would play her role, of course; but they both knew things were different, Sally assured herself. She helped the young white woman on with her high skin-tight boots.
"That's better, girl. Now get my jacket." Sally picked a lightweight leather jacket up from where it lay on a nearby chair and brought it to where Mrs. Stanton was standing.
The servant woman held the jacket out and open for her lover-mistress to climb into. First the right sleeve. Then the left. And once the jacket was in place Sally smiled a deep and knowing smile at the younger woman and brushed her fingers gently and slowly over one of her breasts.
The riding crop smashed crisply against Sally's old brown face. Then it landed again. And again. And a fourth time with a sickening crunch as a cheekbone gave way.
"Don't you ever touch me," Mrs. Stanton hissed as she stalked haughtily toward the bedroom door. Sally's bloody, broken face stared unbelievingly after her. "You're lucky I didn't kill you," the young blonde said over her shoulder as she reached the exit. "Stupid old lady... " The door slammed tight behind her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The scene with the five slave leaders was hideous. By the time Mrs. Stanton arrived at the spot where they were being held, a large crowd of blacks and whites had gathered. Silence fell and an electric air of expectancy hung in the atmosphere when she pushed her way through the mob to where the guards were restraining the three men and two women. They were already bloody and battered from unsuccessful attempts to break loose.
"So these are the brave warriors," she commented sarcastically as she approached. "We shall see."
She walked into a shed next to the stable and returned a few minutes later with three bullwhips draped over her forearm. "Get them to their feet," she snapped at the guards, who pulled the five captives roughly from the ground. Then she turned to address them directly.
"You... and you," she motioned to the two women, "step out here." They didn't move. "I'm going to give you a break�_"come here." She sounded impatient but the words were oddly conciliatory. The two women looked quizzically at one another, then hesitantly stepped forward. "Here, take these," and she handed each of them a whip. They looked bewildered.
"Don't get any ridiculous ideas about those things," she said, pointing to the whips. "There are dozens of guns trained on you right now." She walked to the edge of the crowd and took two small black children by the hand, leading them back to where the two women were waiting. "You will do a very simple thing now, ladies�_" you will begin to beat your three accomplices with those whips." Her eyes darted from one to the other. "Of course, you may refuse. That's up to you. But for as long as you do refuse�_"or even hesitate�_"I will be disciplining these children in the same way." She stepped back from the little gathering and cracked her whip once over the children's heads. "And I might add... " She paused and smiled. "In a way I hope you refuse." The whip flashed out again and popped explosively an inch or so from one of the little faces.
The women's eyes blazed with fear and anger. Their knuckles tightened on the thick handles of the whips in their hands and fleeting thoughts of using them on her crossed their minds. She understood what they were thinking and why they were hesitating; so, as if to remind them, she lazily tossed the black leather scourge out, slapping it easily at one of the children's legs. He began to cry. She smiled at the two black women and raised her eyebrows as if to imply that she was sorry but that they were forcing her to do it. Her whip burned out again across space, catching the other child across the back and knocking her violently to the ground. "I'm waiting," she said solemnly. The women continued to hesitate.
"Do it�_"for God's sake. She'll kill them." It was one of the three black men she had ordered beaten. The other two joined his pleas.
At first the women were only mildly effective. But with practice their efficiency increased, and in a few minutes they were burning leather into the cringing bodies of the three men. Had their aim been experienced they might have been able to spare certain parts. But it wasn't, and the heavy leather tips of the weapons tore as frequently into the men's groins and into their faces as anywhere else. Soon all three of them were on the ground, rolling and writhing in pain, and pleading for mercy. But when the women stopped, Mrs. Stanton started�_"and with more zeal now than ever, excited as she had become from the sights and sounds of the beatings. The women resumed their task. The men were half-dead. And still the lash sizzled and burned into their bodies. Faces were pulp and blood; genitals were crushed and hemorrhaging. And the screams became unbearable. The whips tore in with a fury now, the women deciding it was an act of mercy to beat the men into unconsciousness. But instead, as Mrs. Stanton expected, they killed them.
The women were badly shaken, realizing what they had done. But they had little time to contemplate. Mrs. Stanton was at their side immediately with two other implements in hand�_"two dildos. She handed one to one of the women and began strapping the other to her own groin without bothering to remove her trousers. As instructed, the black women did the same.
"After this I promise to let you go," she told them in a voice that permitted everyone nearby to hear. "Just a simple little task... " The priapus she wore and the one she had given to the other woman were oddly smooth and soft looking as though made of rubber or... wax�_"that was what it was, wax. "Bend over," she said to the first girl. The slave did as she said. If this was true, that all she would do would be to have them fuck one another, there was certainly no need for resistance. She leaned forward and stationed her legs far apart.
"Go ahead," the white woman directed the second slave. The black woman stepped up to where her friend was spreading open for her and pushed the front of the imitation cock past the open edges of her cunt. For a moment or two she fumbled blindly, then found the proper hole, and pushed the dildo in, smoothly. The other girl's eyes closed and she exhaled deeply as the long rod slipped up inside her. Her partner tried imitating the movements of her male lovers and slid the tool in and out of the quickly responding vagina, picking up speed slowly but surely.
"Bend forward," Mrs. Stanton said to the girl wielding the dildo. She did, and soon she felt the other waxy staff pushing up her own vagina. She was in the middle now, fucking her friend, and being fucked by her mistress. The chain bucked and stumbled from time to time as the tension and excitement mounted higher and higher.
"Ohhh... good... good," the first girl moaned against her will. And her moaning set the second girl to driving her cock in faster and deeper while her own cunt clutched hungrily at the member that was grinding through her and poking up into her belly. Mrs. Stanton responded by laughing�_"laughing expectantly and hysterically.
"All right, girls," she finally panted, "move up to the next hole." And as she spoke she pulled the phallus out and pushed it against the anus of the girl in the middle, who did the same to the girl in front. There was a struggle; the first girl was an anal virgin. But with a sharp thrust the second girl buried the dildo deeply inside her rectum. And now the whirlwind started. Because now, inside the hot and squeezing assholes, the wax began to melt.
There was only a thin layer of wax covering the shafts the women were drilling furiously up into each other's assholes. Underneath lay a thick, barbed and splintered tube of iron.
The first girl screeched when the point of one of the thorns scraped up the barrel of her rectum; but the second girl mistook the scream for pleasure and greatly increased the tempo of her work. "Oh... god... Christ... please," the first girl babbled, and the second girl answered, "Yes�_"yes�_"yes."
Then she felt it too. The sharp, sudden pain of barbed iron in her rectum. She stumbled forward, trying to be free, and forced her own instrument of torture further up her friend's anus. Mrs. Stanton was in command now, driving the reaming, tearing implement up and down the woman's mutilated rectum, an action which in turn caused the same response to happen in front of her.
The power she commanded at that moment washed over the white woman like an ocean wave, and she began grinding and twisting and insanely ripping at the raw anal flesh of the two powerless women hooked to her desire. "Come... come," she screamed at them. And their eyes bulged, their jaws dropped open, and like headless chickens impaled on a stake the two black women shook and floundered all over the place while blood poured from their shredded rectums.
They fell down. She worked the spike in such a way that they were forced back up. They cried. She drilled in deeper and they howled.
Then suddenly, with a burst of raw, ruthless power, Mrs. Stanton tore her dildo from the middle woman's asshole�_"and the spiked instrument ripped the anus wide open, and a fountain of blood gushed out.
"Never again," she shouted�_"and a wild fit of laughter hit her�_""never... never... never again will you plot to revolt against me�_"me!" The drops of red liquid fell from the shining spear that dangled from her crotch.
And the two women helplessly lost consciousness while their bodies bucked and bumped senselessly in the dirt.
And Mr. Stanton watched meekly from the sidelines, his eyes gleaming, his mouth watering.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Night had fallen by the time Mrs. Stanton was finished with her gruesome tasks, and it was past midnight before a sense�_"however unreal�_"of calm finally settled on the plantation. The white help was asleep. There was absolute quiet in the slave quarters; apparently they too were asleep. Only in an upper room of the main house did a faint light flicker.
The Stanton's bedroom was alive. Mrs. Stanton had fallen asleep on the bed, but her husband had not yet calmed down. For a considerable time he rummaged around in her closet, finally emerging with an armful of woman's clothes. Then, excitedly, he dressed.
The clothes were too tight, particularly the undergarments, but it was these�_"brassiere, corset and girdle, stockings and garters�_"that were most important, so he forced them on. Then a dress; he had to find one large enough and preferably very demure. Only for fleeting seconds, and only with his most obscure subconsciousness, did Mr. Stanton wonder about his desire to dress in his wife's clothes. He had been wondering consciously about the desire for months, but her newfound (or newly disclosed) role of superior had made it easier for him to confront his own "differentness." And so now, as he fumbled with the rack of dresses hanging in his wife's closet, Mr. Stanton's primary concern was not with his desire to don her clothes, but rather it was that she not wake up before he was fully dressed.
After the dress there came the makeup. He applied too much, of course, through inexperience more than intent, but the final appearance, he assured himself as he gazed in the mirror, was not at all bad. He was becoming more and more convinced that he should have been a woman.
Finally now a hat. He didn't particularly care for women in hats, but it was necessary to cover the fact that his hair, despite his recent attempts to grow it, was not quite long enough to make his disguise believable. Now he was ready. He looked pleased with his image in the mirror. Only then, however, when he felt content with his appearance did his eyes relinquish their concentration of his own reflection; and only then, therefore, did they roam to that distraction reflected in the mirror's edge: Mrs. Stanton�_"hair pinned back and dressed in one of his heavy flannel robes�_"standing behind him with her arms crossed. She was not smiling. Neither did she look unhappy. Only severe. Very severe.
"Oh dear," he said.
"Oh dear is right," she scowled. "What the hell do you think you're doing dressed up like that at this time of night?" She was critical, he told himself anxiously�_" but was she pleased? Beneath it all, was she really pleased? He'd have to play it out and see. He stepped daintily away from her.
"I�_"I just wanted to look pretty... for you," he cooed, in as feminine a voice as possible.
"Shit you did," and her hand suddenly whipped out and cracked against his powdered cheek.
"W�_"why did you do that?" he blubbered.
"Because I felt like it, that's why. And because you shouldn't be wandering around getting all dressed up in the middle of the night while I'm trying to get some sleep. Remember," she almost shouted, her hands now firmly planted on her hips, "I've got a goddam plantation to run."
"Yes dear." He was close to tears. He thought she would be happy to see him trying to look nice for her. But of course she was right. As usual.
"Now take that dress off�_"now."
"But�_"" She didn't interrupt him, but the glowering expression in her eyes cut his objection short. Mr. Stanton stripped as quickly as he could manage out of his wife's dress. Now, feeling very much like a naughty child, he stood guiltily in front of her in only her bra, corset and girdle, with his legs encased in dark stockings. She wordlessly surveyed his body in this costume and he silently trembled in fearful anticipation of what she would do.
"Get me my belt," she snapped. Hurriedly, but feigning reluctance, he took a heavy leather strap down from inside her closet and handed it to her. "You know why I have to do this, I hope," she added. And he nodded weakly. "All right, bend over." Mr. Stanton leaned forward, pushing his girdle-enclosed ass out prominently.
The first blow was hard and crisp and sent a sharp, burning pain slicing into his cheeks. He stumbled forward a bit, then caught his balance and waited for the next lash. It cracked loudly into his rump and he let a little cry escape his lips, but he pushed his ass out a bit more also. Five more times the belt smacked into his behind, and five more times he whimpered and made sure he was presenting a good target for the next time. And in front, hidden by his bending figure, his cock was drawing up and pressing out against the tight pressure of the girdle. It would be embarrassing for her to see it so he doubled over further and tried to think it down, to think about things other than the agony and the ecstasy of the moment. A sixth blow hit him then and sent him stumbling off across the room.
"Get back here," she said threateningly, then turned and walked to a straight-back chair where she sat down. He walked over and stood alongside her and watched mortified as her eyes looked on the bulge of his hardened penis pressing out through the material of the girdle. She grabbed his arm and pulled him across her lap. He was careful not to place his full weight on her as he leaned across, since she was rather tiny, but he also made sure that his stomach was nicely flat against her thighs and his buttocks properly situated before he relaxed. Then he tensed slightly, waiting for the spanking.
It didn't come that quickly. When he felt her fingers grip the top edge of the girdle and start to roll it down over his hips, he realized that she wanted to slap his bare ass. And he almost came in her lap at just the thought. The girdle was very tight and only stretched over his buttocks with a major struggle. But stretch it did. And soon he felt the cool night air that was filtering into the room through an open window kissing the smooth, naked flesh of his behind and whispering into the channel between his buttocks.
As it had earlier, the first blow took him by surprise. Her palm slapped sharply down at the soft puff of white that was his right cheek. Then it cracked down on the left. Mr. Stanton moaned openly, apparently from the pain but actually from the hot bubbling come he felt moving in the pit of his stomach. After a few blows she stopped and he felt her cool fingers caressing him, stroking gently at the burning skin of his buttocks. For a fleeting second here, a moment there, she allowed a roving finger to slide into the opening between his cheeks and tease the quivering smooth pinkness of his anus. Then the spanking resumed, faster and more furious than ever. The blows rained down and Mr. Stanton began to sob softly to himself. One after another... after another... after another... they smashed at his delighted aching ass. Then suddenly the little lady stood up and pushed him from her lap onto the floor. She walked away.
He looked and felt absurd. The girdle had been pulled down in back over his ass but left only halfway down in front, hooked over his upraised cock. His powdered face was muddy from tears and streaked with mascara. One stocking had fallen down around his ankle and he tripped on it as he started to get up, sprawling awkwardly down on all fours. He looked up at his wife. She was halfway across the room, near the bed, loosening the belt of the robe she wore.
"Come over here," she said sternly. He crawled across the floor to her.
The robe fell open.
"Oh my God," he said, "Oh my dear God." She let the robe fall to the floor. She was naked, of course. And she wore a dildo, as he half-expected. But it was the most realistic priapus he had ever imagined might exist. It was a pink rubbery substance, at least ten inches long and two and a half inches thick, with a swollen head poking out of a loose, artificial foreskin. It was tied on with almost invisible cords. And hanging beneath it and between his wife's legs was a long, dangling pouch looking remarkably like a giant scrotum. She was so small and the apparatus so large that the erect cock stood up as high as her breasts and the imitation balls hung down practically to her knees. She smiled a withering, twisted smile and beckoned to him. He did as she directed.
"Up next to the bed."
He followed her words, but his eyes never left the huge rubber cock she was wearing. He was standing facing the bed now, his knees leaning forward, resting on the mattress. He looked ludicrous. His face was smeared with makeup and he still wore her hat. The brassiere and corset were as he had put them on originally, but the girdle was pulled down over his buttocks and still hung up on his cock in front. One stocking was down around his ankle and the other was beginning to sag. He looked again at the dildo and he knew what was next, but he wanted to know something else.
"Will you spank me again?" he asked his wife.
"Later. For now, though, just stand where you are and lean forward until your head touches the bed." He did. "Don't bend your knees." He didn't. "Good. Now just relax." She reached her hand around in front of him and lifted the girdle from where it was hooked on his prick. Then she slid it down his thighs, his calves, and finally down to his feet. He stepped out of one of the legs. The girdle remained twisted around one ankle. She stepped back to examine her prey.
His legs, long hairy stems of white�_"one of which was encased in a wrinkled dark stocking�_"rose up, side by side, until they each swelled at the top into a great white sphere of ass. There was a little diamond-shaped hole formed by the coming together of the two cheeks and the two thighs, a hole swimming with black curly hair. And from the point where that diamond-shaped hole started and where the top of his buttocks disappeared over the arched horizon of his ass, a long slit of separation curved up between the cheeks.
"Move your legs apart," she ordered. He did. "Further!" He did. And then there was silence, and he tensed and waited.
The dildo split the ass in two as though it was made of butter and drilled fully up into his rectum with a single stroke. Mr. Stanton's knees buckled and he started to fall forward onto the bed while a warbling screech belched from his throat. But Mrs. Stanton caught his falling body around the hips and pulled him back up�_"and back onto the sliding pink prick. She handled it with amazing dexterity, worming it around inside him, pulling out and boring back, and rolling her groin in big circles while the thing was completely submerged in him.
Mr. Stanton's own cock was rock-hard and pressed firmly against his belly. He wanted desperately to touch it, to pull on it and squeeze it; but that wasn't ladylike, and he struggled with the urge, forcing it from his mind. Meanwhile, his asshole burned white-hot from the friction of the plunging dildo, and he heard his wife begin at first to mumble, then to shout obscene nonsense at the top of her lungs�_""Asshole... motherfucking, cocksucking, cuntlicking... asshole... black asshole... fuck... cock... suck... "�_"and she insanely drove her prick, for it was hers, impossibly deep into his rectum. Then he too began to shout, to plead, to beg her to be more gentle.
She slammed it with total exertion of every muscle in her body, completely up his ass. Completely. And she came. She cried and shook and shouted and came. Mr. Stanton could feel the narrow straps attaching the priapus to her groin pressing hard against his buttocks. The cock had his whole body impaled on it. And then there was a gentle nudge; his balls hung down between his legs and they were being bumped absently by the swaying rubber scrotum that dangled from below his wife's dildo�_"and her cunt.
He came suddenly, with a howl. And his come streamed up over the corset and the bra he wore and splashed against his face. He slobbered furiously to catch every slippery drop.
Together, like lovers, they collapsed on the bed. At first they didn't sleep. It had all been too exciting�_"not unlike, in many ways, the first time they had fucked years ago. Only this time, with the roles reversed as their temperaments told them it should always have been, it was considerably more exhilarating.
She cradled his snuggling head between her chin and her shoulder, and gently wiped the tears from his face. He drifted off to sleep.
Then there were sounds outside. Sounds all over.
Mrs. Stanton sensed there was something wrong, but she ignored the feelings. Her mind knew that everything had been taken care of earlier; nothing could be wrong. And anyway, her darling little husband needed her comforting. He had had a long and trying day, and tomorrow might be even more difficult. Sally�_"who was his personal servant from now on�_"would have to show him how to order food for the help, see that the house slaves were doing their jobs, and on, and on, with all the countless duties of a plantation wife. She would have been happy to show him herself, but she would be busy in the fields from the first crack of dawn and... well... there simply wasn't time.
She closed her eyes and rolled off to peaceful blissful sleep. And she dreamed. She dreamed of power and prestige. And she dreamed that the rubber cock and the rubber balls that were tucked snugly beneath her pillow were hers�_"really hers�_"and that she used them night and day.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The plantation was in a state of siege. In the night the slaves had gathered up the arms they had been hoarding for months and had moved to take over the land.
By dawn it was theirs. All but the big house which the white workers had fallen back to and where Mr. and Mrs. Stanton were directing the defense. Black faces were everywhere, at every window, at every door. But the defense held, and the slaves fell back. It was only a matter of time before the white resistance inside the house would collapse and blacks would have it; for once, time seemed to be on their side, and they had learned to be patient.
A second assault late in the morning failed, and dissension began to grow among the slave leaders regarding the wisdom of continuing the battle as they had. Some argued that they must take the house and the people inside, saying that if they failed this early in the insurrection they could not possibly hope to retain enough morale to continue the battle from plantation to plantation. Others claimed that they were wasting time and lives in the senseless fight; they argued that the house should simply be burned to the ground and they should move on. The argument raged.
Soon the answer was provided, and neither side prevailed. Word of the revolt had spread from the moment the first shots rang out. And by noon, when a final slave assault was planned, the sound of an approaching army drove the slaves back into the woods. The surrounding plantations had rounded up all the support that was available, leaving only token guards over their own slaves, and bringing their women and children with them, had come to the aid of the Stantons.
Dozens of heavily armed whites rode into the open area in front of the house just in time to see the last slaves disappearing into the woods. A few men pursued them, then gave up for the time being, until the Stanton forces could be merged with theirs.
Mr. and Mrs. Stanton stepped out onto the porch to welcome and thank their neighbors.
"Thank God," Mr. Stanton said to Tom Wheatley as he and his men dismounted. "We couldn't have held off another attack."
"Of course we could have," Mrs. Stanton contradicted. "But it's a good thing you got here anyway. We've gotta bring these blacks back and make an example out of them before the whole county erupts." Tom and George Burke, who had just joined the group, agreed wholeheartedly with the lady.
"So what are we waiting for?" Burke asked everyone who was listening.
"Nothing," Mrs. Stanton said. "But you better get the women and children in the house and out of the way."
"Right."
There were a half-dozen wives of the plantation owners in the group, at least three times as many white female plantation workers, and a dozen or so children.
They all trooped into the house. On the way in they passed the men from the Stanton plantation who were on their way out to join the posse. Mr. Stanton was with them. He would have preferred to remain back and his wife would rather have joined the men, but they decided against such, public unorthodoxy.
Mrs. Stanton started into the house with the others, then turned to the men as they were about to ride off. "Wait," she called. "Leave some men here as guards in case the slaves circle back."
"Good idea," Wheatley shouted. He appointed five of his hands to hold back and defend the house in case of attack. Then the men disappeared in the woods in pursuit of the runaways.
Within ten minutes Mrs. Stanton had the five guards inside the house. Five minutes more and they were as naked as the women. And the children.
Five men and two dozen women. The orgy that ensued was unlike anything ever seen in the county before.
Mrs. Burke was the big hit at first. While everyone watched, she blew two of the guards simultaneously, dipping her head rapidly from cock to cock, and, like a maestro, maintaining the perfect tempo of their excitement. With a cry, suddenly, she pulled both pricks into her mouth at once, gobbling up the swarms of come that exploded from their mutually climaxing joints.
Mrs. Simmons was there too. She had one of the other ladies' sons off to the side, and she was teaching him the finer points of cunnilingus, while delightedly playing with his little penis.
Mrs. Wheatley had two children in tow also. Her own. A boy and a girl. She was delightedly showing them off to anyone not too preoccupied to watch a thirteen-year-old boy and his ten-year-old sister fucking and sucking each other with amazing energy and skill.
Fat Mrs. Wheatley's own thighs gleamed with the stream of goo brought on by simply watching her children perform�_"and fingering herself a bit.
One of the guards was buggering a white servant girl, who had obviously never had it from that end before. She was clamped onto his cock and in evident agony was jumping and falling and crawling around, all the while dragging the helpless young man around with her.
But Mrs. Stanton was the hostess. She decided that she wanted all five guards at once. She started by taking one in the ass, then lying down on top of him, both of them facing up, his cock sunk in her rectum. Guard number two entered her cunt then in the conventional manner. The third one knelt over her face, facing up, then leaned forward and nudged his cock into her mouth. There seemed to be no more room. Two pricks squirmed and shoved their way up into her belly, side by side, grinding at her cunt and rectum simultaneously. A third penis was crammed into her mouth and she was gulping on it as though she was starving to death. Finally number four joined in. Squeezing in between two of his predecessors, the fourth man sat down on Mrs. Stanton's chest and laid his cock between her tits. Slowly, carefully, he began rubbing his sex all over with the soft fullness of her breasts. Four of them now�_"buggering, fucking, being sucked, and masturbating between her tits. She forgot about the fifth one. She was on fire, as though every square inch of her body was being assaulted at once. Then number five joined in, moving from spot to spot, licking and sucking and kissing her wherever the other four men had their cocks buried.
"Ohhh... unghhh... you munfff... " She tried to talk, to tell them something, but the prick stuffed in her mouth crept deeper every time she opened it and the two men slamming into her crotch were picking up speed and weren't interested in her wishes any more.
The man at her tits was in a state of euphoria; her huge soft breasts were smothering his cock and his balls�_"he even boosted up for a few seconds to tickle his own asshole with one of her erect nipples�_"and his steel cock, imbedded in the pillows of her breasts, was rapidly catching up to the men above and below him in the imminency of its explosion.
Mrs. Stanton squirmed and twisted beneath the men like an eel, but they had her pinned and were stuffing her with more cock than seemed possible. Still she mumbled and tried to speak, but the words were incomprehensible.
"Umph... ynnfff... I... I... ufff... " and she was coming. Soon. The twisting and squirming stopped, and the trembling and quivering started. The men sensed it and they rode her frantically, faster and faster, from all sides plunging and pounding at her welcoming body. The cunt and ass men came first. Then the guard in her mouth. Last, except for number five, who was still scurrying around, was the man with his prick between her tits, whose come splattered up and all over her chin. They shouted. She grunted. And they came and came and came.
When they were finished she sucked the fifth guard off separately. Then she explained that all she had been trying to say earlier was that she'd like a sixth parson to climb on if they could. She was a good hostess.
Demanding her rights as a guest, Mrs. Burke began working on one of the guards to bring him back up while the other four...
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The black army had been successful in its forays into Virginia and North Carolina. They were in South Carolina now, not far from the Stanton plantation, when word reached them of the slave revolt. A decision had to be made.
They were five thousand strong, and growing stronger with each raid. But in the two states through which they had just passed, a militia had been gathered and was in hot pursuit. They decided to cut through the county, freeing the slaves from plantation to plantation and make their stand outside the Stanton place. There was nowhere to run. And if they stood and fought now �_"and won�_"the most important hurdle would be over.
The Wheatley place was first: seventy-five men for their ranks.
The Simmons plantation: almost fifty.
And so it went, on into the afternoon, from farm to farm, freeing the slaves who were only under token guard because of the Stanton revolt.
John was a soldier in the ranks, not particularly important beyond anyone else. But this was home. And he was awarded the honor of leading the march on the Stanton plantation.
It was late afternoon when the first of the columns passed the whitewashed front gate of the place he had once called home. He moved ahead at a slow trot, taking in a lifetime's memories as he entered the path leading to the main house. The place didn't look as big as it once had; it even looked a bit run down. Probably always had, he thought�_"I just didn't know better.
When they reached the central area in front of the house John directed the columns to fan out in all directions and take cover. A whole County of whites was around somewhere and there was no point in providing them with a target. When the men had settled in, John looked around. No one. He listened. Not a sound. Yes there was. From the house. But only five horses and a few carriages were tied up outside, so it was obvious that whoever was in the house had been left behind for one reason or another. He took a dozen men and quietly closed in.
When the door swung open and John and his men dashed in, not a face turned to look. Thirteen uniformed and heavily armed blacks walked into the midst of a few dozen Southern whites and nobody even looked. They were all too preoccupied.
One of the guards spotted them first and a weak attempt at resistance was made. And failed. Soon things quieted down and all eyes fell upon two people, John and Mrs. Stanton. She was neither surprised nor intimidated by him. She knew how to handle men.
"Welcome home," she said cheerfully, and started across the room to greet her runaway slave.
"Stay right there," he said, as stern as she had been cheerful. But she continued toward him and only stopped when she was so close that they could feel each other's breath.
"How do you do, sir," she smiled. Then she reached up and took his face in her hands. She pulled his head down toward hers. And John spat in her face. Then he slapped her, hard, and she spun around and reeled back away from him.
"You animal�_"you fucking animal," she hissed.
"That's me." He motioned with his rifle for everyone to step back along the walls. "Except you ladies," and he pointed at Mrs. Burke, Mrs. Simmons and Mrs. Wheatley. "Remember me?" They nodded. "Good. I'm not going to hurt you, so don't worry. Not unless you fail to do what I tell you, that is."
"Oh, well do whatever you say," Mrs. Wheatley piped up. The others nodded in agreement.
"All right." He turned to Mrs. Stanton. "Lie down."
"Fuck you, blackie," she replied. He smiled, and turned to the other three ladies.
"Ladies, the first thing I want you to do is to clean our hostess up a bit Wipe that come off her body�_"and then pluck the hairs from her cunt. But be careful; only one at a time�_"we don't want to hurt her."
"If you so much as touch me... " Mrs. Stanton growled at the ladies.
"You'll what?" Mrs. Wheatley asked, with surprising arrogance in her voice. "Certainly, Mr. Reed," she said, turning to John. "Well be happy to do as you wish." For years the other women had dreamed of the day when Diane Stanton would be knocked from her high horse, and this was it.
Mrs. Stanton backed away as the other ladies advanced, warning them of the dire consequences that would follow if they did what they were planning to do.
"Just be quiet and relax," Mrs. Simmons said calmly. "We have to do it�_"you know that. If you don't resist it won't hurt too much. You might even enjoy it." Mrs. Stanton was backed against a wall and the three advancing women approached from as many different angles. She was obviously frightened, frightened as she had never been of a man.
"Get away from me!" she screamed. "Get away!" She pulled tighter against the wall and began to crouch, her eyes gleaming like those of a cornered animal. Timing it as carefully as possible, the three women grabbed for her at once. The struggle was brief but furious. She was pinned on her back in a matter of seconds, two of the women holding her arms down and one at her feet.
"Mr. Reed," Mrs. Simmons, who was holding an arm, called out, "would you mind helping us out? We can't hold her down and pluck the hairs at the same time." She was so earnest. Almost as though she was on his side.
"Certainly," he smiled. "Just hold her there." Then he turned and motioned to one of the children, a little girl of about six, to join the group. He showed her what to do; she giggled with childish anticipation and began. The first hair came from the very point of Mrs. Stanton's mons. It came out with less difficulty than the child had expected, so she quickly went for another, immune apparently to the exhortations from the thrashing blonde woman on the floor. The hair was quite long, and silky-golden in texture and color. The child was careful but quick. One strand; another; another...
"Oh... owww!!" Mrs. Stanton yelped in pain as each hair was plucked. "Ooocchh... ahh... owwww... hey... oooo... " One after another. Soon it was obvious that there was too much work for one child, so John devised a plan: all children in the room were eligible, and the one who collected the most yellow hairs would win a dollar. They swarmed over the prostrate woman and had to be warned over and over again about picking more than one hair at a time. After a while Mrs. Stanton's shouts died down and the only sound that came from her was a whimper, punctuated by a tiny squeal here and there as one of the children became overly anxious.
A little boy was declared the winner. But they all had missed a spot and he was awarded the honor of finishing the job.
"Pull her legs back and up over her head," John ordered. The ladies complied. Mrs. Stanton's full cunt was thus exposed and spread open for all to see. Along each side of the crimson slash running between her legs were two rows of hair.
"Oh boy," the youngster said excitedly as he moved to pluck them also.
"Just a minute," John said. He motioned to a few of his men to take the positions held by Mrs. Wheatley, Mrs. Burke and Mrs. Simmons. Then he pulled his huge black cock out from inside his pants. "Remember this, ladies?"
"Oh yes... yes," Mrs. Wheatley said excitedly. "How could we forget?" John placed himself and the two other couples a matter of a few feet away from where Mrs. Stanton was lying, far enough away that she couldn't touch them, but close enough that she couldn't avoid seeing, hearing and smelling them. The three women went down on the black pricks with a fury, gobbling and sucking with such enthusiasm that they seemed to be contesting with one another. Then John motioned for the boy to begin.
The first hair plucked from Mrs. Stanton's sensitive cunt lips startled and pained her so much that, as well as screeching, she farted loudly. The whole room laughed. "You... you bastard... " she said to John.
She was humiliated and furious. "You moth... aieee... oww... oh Christ!" Another hair.
Then a strange thing happened. Mrs. Stanton's nipples grew hard and her breathing changed to shallow panting. Three men, within touching distance if she weren't being held down, were having their gleaming ebony cocks sucked and tended to by three naked white women. Occasionally the women would gaze over at her, their mouths stretched open, their cheeks bulging, and a crinkle of a smile would appear at the corners of their eyes. Then they would resume their wonderful task.
She was burning up and felt as though her stomach would burst. A dribble of saliva appeared at the corner of her mouth. And again and again she would cry out as another little hair was yanked from its home in the slippery flesh of her cunt's lips. But the main feeling her body was entertaining now was a deep throbbing pain in her belly�_"an aching pain, a pain of desperate hunger and desire deprived. It was as John knew it would be. The only way to win with Mrs. Stanton was to deprive her or humiliate her; she was so much a hedonist that no direct physical assault could hope to do more than excite her. He pulled Mrs. Wheatley's head down further on his prick until she gagged, and he watched Mrs. Stanton writhe around and cry out, wishing desperately that it was she who was gagging on such a beautiful prick.
The hair being relentlessly plucked from her twat only teased Mrs. Stanton's desire. And the hot tingling feeling that it left fanned the flames still further. Her cunt was in a state of extreme sensitivity from the hair removal, and even the gentlest wisp of a breeze would cause it to respond. The lubricant juices were oozing from the fat folds of flesh that made up the lips of her cunt, and she was puffing and panting and twisting her body into contorted shapes as the frigid agony of abstinence gripped her. "Oh please... please, someone ohhhhh... I need something." But even her own hands were being held, preventing her from touching her cunt at all. It swelled and puffed and began to gulp in mechanical expectation. But nothing happened.
All around the sounds and smells and sights of sex reeked densely in the air. Three hard cocks were standing rigid close by�_"so close�_"and three mouths were going insane as they gulped and sucked on the cocks that were going to explode any second. Any second. The pain in her stomach was excruciating? A hollow pain. A pain that said she had to climax but that there was nothing there. The pain of a dry retching and an intensely excited cunt.
With a deep moan John came. His white sperm shot suddenly into the pudgy white woman's mouth and she cried tears of joy while lapping up every drop. Then another man. Finally, the third. Three giant luscious pricks exploding, erupting, expelling their come juice all around her in wonderful joyous release.
And the little boy plucked another of the last few hairs from Mrs. Stanton's cunt. "Oh God... good fucking God... please�_"please help me... Helllpp meeee... " she screamed wildly. Her cunt was the center of the whole room's attention. It was a living thing, puffing and farting at thin air, groping independently for a non-existent cock. And her belly threatened to collapse under the strain and split open. "Please... oh shit... please... please please please please please... " She rolled from side to side crazily, on the verge of losing her mind.
John was kind. He had gone into the kitchen to find something to relieve these moments of anxiety for her and had found the perfect thing. She was hot. He chipped from a large block a long, thin sliver of ice and returned to where she was uncontrollably bucking herself into exploded blood vessels. With an unannounced flourish he slid the frigid spike completely into her raging cunt, and she came apart. Screeching and weeping and rolling in half-somersaults now that the black guards released her, she skyrocketed into a massive, but ugly, orgasm�_"to the gleeful delight of the onlookers. And she didn't stop until all of the ice had melted.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When the white posse returned, not having captured a single runaway slave, they didn't stand a chance. So absurd, in fact, was the situation�_"they were outnumbered by the blacks at least a hundred to one�_"that no resistance was even attempted. John spoke for the blacks and told the whites that they would be safe if they cooperated. He explained that he only wanted to work a few things out with the Stantons before leaving. The whites did not quarrel.
John only wanted two things from Mrs. Stanton. He didn't want to kill her any more. The rage that he had once felt after his wife's murder had turned into a glowing numbness and he felt that killing her would not help in any way. But she must be broken. And wherever she went in the future she must be identifiable as the woman she was.
Some of the runaway slaves from the plantation had filtered back now and others were passing the word. John's children appeared and he greeted them for a few long, wonderful moments, then returned them to the woman who had been caring for them in his absence. He would work things out with them later. Then Ella, his dead wife's young sister, arrived. She was the key. They spoke in huddled conversation briefly and she agreed to do as he instructed. When they parted John moved to push everyone back in a huge circle, in the middle of which he tossed naked Mrs. Stanton, her arms tied behind her back. Ella got undressed, and waited on the side.
"Get up on your knees, white lady," he snapped at Mrs. Stanton.
"Fuck yourself," she spat.
John had taken her bullwhip from the house and now he drilled it sharply into her left thigh. She climbed to her knees as he requested. "Good. Come on out here, Ella." The black girl stepped from the edge of the circle where she had been waiting and a gasp went up from the crowd. Her body was pure magnificence chiseled in ebony. And in the moonlight of the early evening and the glow of the torches slowly being lit, the wiry muscles of her legs and haunches rippled beneath the supple dark flesh as she slowly walked across the clearing to where Mrs. Stanton knelt.
"Do you recognize this girl?" John asked Mrs. Stanton.
"Of course not. She looks like every other nigger woman on this place."
"She's the sister of the woman you murdered some time ago�_"my wife." His voice was suddenly trembling and he strained to keep it under control.
"Oh." The black girl was now standing proudly before her disheveled, kneeling white form. John walked away and Ella spoke next.
"I want you to apologize for my sister's death. I want you to tell everyone here that you're sorry and then I want you to kiss my ass as a token of respect." Mrs. Stanton looked amused at first, then disbelieving, and finally incensed.
"You are crazy, nigger girl. I will never do that or anything like it for a smelly little black-skinned slut like you."
"As you wish," Ella said calmly. She walked toward John, who handed her the whip. "You know, little white lady, I've never used one of these before," she said softly as she returned to the spot where Mrs. Stanton knelt. "So if I aim for one place and hit another, please don't be too upset. I'll take your shiny white ass first, please. Bend forward." Mrs. Stanton was still adamant.
"I will not. Do you know who I am, nigger girl?"
"I know what you are," Ella said softly. And she sizzled the leather scourge out across space and it smashed into the white woman's buttocks with a sharp slap. "If you won't bend over, I guess I'll have to take my chances." The next lash missed its target and thumped into the softness of Mrs. Stanton's left side. She doubled forward in pain. "That's better." And this time the whip exploded with terrific force directly across her bulging ass. "Yes. That's better."
"Oh help me... Someone please help me," the blonde woman with the hairless cunt pleaded with the circle of surrounding faces. The black faces laughed; the white faces looked away. Except the white faces of a few women who smiled on the scene with satisfaction. As she looked for help Mrs. Stanton straightened back up. The whip smacked again, this time against a swelling white tit, and with a howl the white woman pitched over onto her side.
"Get up," Ella said softly but firmly. She pulled herself back to a kneeling position. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now and dripping from her chin to the jutting breasts below�_"one still white, the other growing rapidly red. "Are you ready to apologize?" There was a pause, and Ella raised the whip again. Mrs. Stanton quickly nodded. "Say it," Ella whispered tensely. "Say it, and say it loud."
"I'm�_"I'm sorry." The words were barely audible.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry."
"I said louder."
"I'm sorry�_"I'm sorry!" she said at the top of her lungs, a sob of pain and shame catching her throat in mid-sentence.
"For what? What are you sorry for?"
"For killing your sister." It was only a whisper and when she saw the black girl step closer, Mrs. Stanton suddenly shouted in fear, "For killing your sister�_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Just one more thing, little white lady." Ella stood inches away from her. She turned her back and leaned forward. "Pucker up."
This was too much, Mrs. Stanton told herself. She couldn't kiss a black slave's ass�_"and in front of the whole county! But she couldn't face the whip again either. She leaned forward and kissed one of the smooth brown buttocks lightly. "Now the other one," Ella instructed. She was humiliated beyond repair, but she pressed her lips to the other cheek and kissed it, more warmly than the first one. "Very good," Ella said. "Since you've been so good, I'll even let you do one more thing: lick it. Lick it good." The slave leaned further forward and reached back, pulling the cheeks of her ass apart. Mrs. Stanton's tongue stroked at the anus hesitantly, then suddenly began slurping all around and under the girl's asshole and her cunt. She was losing control again. It was becoming more and more difficult to restrict her impulses, and the musky sharp aroma of the girl's anus had pulled her in.
Ella skipped away, laughing. "Calm down, little Lady, calm down. Wow! Does my little black ass taste that good?" There was silence and something told Ella to pursue the careless question. "Well, does it?"
"Yes," Mrs. Stanton whimpered, bowing her head.
"How good?"
"Oh good�_"good. I want to eat it I want to suck it!" She was raving now. The shame had crushed her inhibitions. And Ella laughed. And everyone assembled laughed. And Mrs. Stanton wanted to die. Ella walked away and started dressing.
"See?" John asked, walking back into the circle. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"
She sobbed and shook her head in answer.
"Good. We're almost finished now. Your husband has a little job to do first, and then we'll ride off and leave you alone."
My husband? she wondered�_"what the hell is that little weasel going to do? He approached her slowly, apologizing all the way for what he had to do. In one hand he carried a glowing white-hot branding iron, the same one with the big letter "S" that they used on the animals�_"and the slaves.
"Bend over dear�_"please," he said meekly. "I have to do it. They said I did."
"You mouse," she sneered. "For once do something yourself." She remained kneeling. He walked behind her and suddenly thrust the iron out. She screamed and fell forward, her whole body bucking crazily, when he pressed the searing brand into the soft lushness of her buttocks. The pain was unbearable. It throbbed and spread throughout her body like no pain ever had before. Her legs flew open. And the iron sizzled into the flesh once more, into the soft insides of one of her thighs. And the top of the S kissed the edge of her cunt lips, and she wailed a horrible sound and pitched forward again and tried to roll away in the dust.
But he stopped her. She looked up at him imploringly. And she saw a look on her husband's face that she had never seen before: his eyes were black and sunken and were glowing like the branding iron itself; his mouth was twisted in a horribly cruel grin. "You know, you really deserve to die," he said. "These people are being very kind." And he jammed the iron down on her again, burning the brand into her stomach. Again�_"into a tit. He was out of control, screaming madly that his wife was a killer, a butcher, and that she should die. And like an insane Samurai brandishing the branding iron as his sword, he plunged the spear down into her flesh over and over and over again.
Finally John and some of the soldiers pulled him off. His mind had snapped. He was crying and screaming that she had promised to be a good mother to him and all she wanted to do was to fuck him with her big dildo like he was a little girl or something...
Mrs. Stanton was all right. That is, she would live without any trouble. But her body was covered with permanent scars burned into her flesh in the shape of an S, and her once-beautiful face had two brands pressed forever into it. She looked like one of the people in the circus that used to pass through in the spring. The pain had reached an inhuman peak above which it simply couldn't go. And in those fleeting seconds before she fainted she heard her husband ranting on about her wanting to do nothing but fuck him in the ass with her dildo; the faces of her neighbors as they swam about dizzily while she sank into unconsciousness told her she would never be able to face them again.
Then she was out. She would have to wait for consciousness to visit again before she could confront the rest of her problem. She would have to leave the area�_"the plantation was worthless without slaves anyway�_"and where would she go, what would she do, with a face and body scarred as it was?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
John mounted up. The black army moved out. It had a date in the morning with the Virginia-North Carolina militia, and they had to be ready. Everything hung on that battle.
They swung out the front gate and John pulled over to the side to wait for all the troops to pass before he joined them. He looked at the plantation in the cool grey moonlight and a thousand memories washed through his mind. He saw the slave cabins dimly off in the distance, cabins that were no longer occupied. And the blacksmith shop where he had worked for so many years and where a little black girl had been raped to death. Where he had killed a man. Where it all started.
Finally, he moved off at the rear of the last column. By the time he passed out of sight, the whites that had been left behind had gathered themselves together, taking the babbling Mr. Stanton with them, and had moved out themselves. Presumably for home.
He turned and looked back once more. Everyone was gone. The plantation was deserted. Except for Mrs. Stanton. Her unconscious white body glowed softly in the night, a mass of ugly scars left behind by everyone.
He rode off. Whatever happened tomorrow�_"whatever happened from now on�_"the Stanton plantation no longer effectively existed. And that, really, was all that mattered.
