Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“Get in the kitchen and get breakfast ready. And then help mistress with her hair and makeup.”

Kenyatta stood in the doorway to my little shack in his bathrobe with a toothbrush in his hand, glaring at me as if I’d failed him in some way.

Mistress? What mistress? What new ingredient had Kenyatta added to the mix? Had he brought a new woman into the house to assist in my torment and if so, was he fucking her too?

I blinked the morning sun from my eyes and stared back at him with my eyebrow raised, wondering what he was up to, then I remembered my role and lowered my head to stare at his foot, which was tapping the dirt floor impatiently as he waited for me to crawl out of bed.

Kenyatta threw some clothes at my feet as I rose from my bed, then crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for me to dress myself. Two simple dresses, one brown one gray, an apron, a pair of white stockings, and some plain brown flats. He had obviously picked them out of a thrift store somewhere because there were places where the dresses had been torn and mended. He had also purchased them very early in the experiment, before I’d lost all my weight. The clothes now hung loosely from my bony frame as I hurried to shrug my way into them while Kenyatta’s eyes crawled all over me. I could tell that he wanted me, but something was holding him back.

Who was this mistress?

I didn’t dare ask. I knew I’d be finding out soon.

Kenyatta smiled mischievously as he turned and walked back into the house.

I finished dressing and raced to follow him, now nearly as terrified and angry as I’d been at the auction the night before.

What woman had Kenyatta brought into the house?

I pulled open the screen door and shuffled nervously into the kitchen with my head down, but my eyes looking up and darting everywhere in search of this strange woman I was expected to serve. There was no one in the kitchen so I began pulling out the pots and pans to cook breakfast. I was taking the bacon and eggs from the refrigerator when someone smacked me hard on the ass. I jumped and one of the eggs tumbled from the carton and cracked open on the floor as I spun around.

There was a small slender black woman standing behind me dressed in a short silk robe that just barely covered her panties. Her arms were crossed over her tiny pear-shaped breasts and a sardonic grin scarred her otherwise beautiful face. Her nails were long and perfectly manicured, her toes were painted as well, her legs were slender and tone, and her skin was a flawless caramel, smooth and unblemished. With the exception of one side smashed flat from where she’d obviously slept on it, her hair still looked as if she’d just left a beauty parlor. Everything about her said “high maintenance” and I recognized her instantly even though I’d never actually met her before. She was Kenyatta’s ex-wife.

“That ass ain’t quite so big anymore is it? I’m sure Kenyatta must be terribly disappointed.”

She looked me up and down, scowling contemptuously.

“Clean that shit up. I want my eggs over medium and my bacon extra-crisp. Oh, and hurry up and make me some coffee. Two creams one sugar.”

I was still staring at her with my mouth hanging open in astonishment when she turned around and walked to the kitchen table. She sat down and crossed her legs, her robe fell open and she was almost naked beneath it. Her body was perfect, not an ounce of fat on it. Her breasts were small but round and perky with large dark nipples like Hershey’s kisses. She was wearing a thong and it was obvious that she’d recently had a Brazilian wax. Looking at her it was hard to understand what Kenyatta had ever seen in me. I was this woman’s exact opposite. She was hard and lean and brown; I was soft and fleshy and white, at least I was when Kenyatta had first met me, before he’d starved the pounds off of me. Every woman I knew would have killed for her body. She almost had a six-pack. But yet Kenyatta had left her for me, and now she was back and I was to be her slave as well as his.

She gestured impatiently for me to get to work, hands splayed out palms up in front of her and thrust in my direction. Then she rolled her eyes and shook her head. More so than ever I wanted to say to hell with this experiment. No man was worth this. I thought about taking off my apron and tossing it right in this bitch’s face then marching right upstairs and telling Kenyatta what a cruel twisted bastard I thought he was. But I knew he’d just pull a chapter out of that damn book and make me feel like I was the one being insensitive. Plus, it would mean that I’d never be his wife, though his ex-wife being in the house called that into question for me anyway. I’d have to wait for Kenyatta to explain it to me though I suspected he wouldn’t, preferring to leave me with my own fears and doubts.

Were they back together? Was he fucking her? And if they are back together then why would he continue the game? Was this just some twisted plan the two of them had all along to make me fall in love and then humiliate and embarrass me as some kind of punishment to all white people…or maybe just to punish white women who date black men? But he’d been dating me for months before the experiment began and he’d always treated me like a queen. If this was still just part of the experiment, how the hell had he gotten her to agree to it? Of all the women he could have had play this role, why her? Why not one of the dominatrices he knew from the scene?

I found myself immobilized by doubt. My head reeled from a hurricane of questions spiraling through my skull. My legs began to tremble and tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to collapse on the floor and cry. I wanted to attack this bitch and claw her perfect face to ribbons. I wanted to walk right out the door and never look back. I wanted to marry Kenyatta. I wanted him to love me and protect me forever.

“Are you going to clean that up?” She was tapping her foot and glaring at me like she was talking to an idiot, which I must have looked like standing there in the middle of the kitchen with my mouth hanging open and a broken egg oozing around my feet.

I finally broke my stare, wiped away the tears threatening to spill, closed my gaping mouth, and turned to grab a sponge from the sink. From the corner of my eye, I could see her smiling triumphantly as I knelt before her on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. I almost wished I was back in the basement crammed in that little box. I had a feeling that dealing with this bitch would be much worse.

The movie had just begun when I could feel Kenyatta’s hands slide down between my legs. He masturbated me to orgasm as we watched March of the Penguins in the back of the theater while a classroom of eight-year-olds sat up by the screen enraptured by the sound of Morgan Freeman’s voice. I collapsed into a fit of giggles as I came and hugged Kenyatta tight, smiling from ear to ear as I snuggled against his chest.

“Don’t fall in love now.”

It was like a splash of cold water in my face.

“What?”

“We’re just having fun. Don’t fall in love. I’m the wrong guy for that.”

“I-I’m not falling in love.”

But I was, and I was hurt and embarrassed that he had caught me at it. This was only our fifth or sixth date. Too early to be thinking about marriage and kids. Too early to start thinking that maybe he was the perfect man for me, the one I had been waiting for all my life. But I was thinking those things. Me—white-trash tough, jaded, street-smart. I had fallen for a man I barely knew in less than two weeks.

“Yes you are.”

He winked at me, then turned back to the screen as if he really gave a fuck about those damned penguins.