Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“Don’t move and don’t fucking turn around.”

She cracked it again. It was obvious she’d used it before. You didn’t crack a whip like that the first time you picked it up. I wondered how much she and Kenyatta had “played” when they were married. Maybe this is what she meant by Kenyatta being a sick freak. Maybe he had convinced her to partake in his sadistic lifestyle when they were still together and now she was experiencing some guilt over whatever she’d done. If she was, then her guilt was obviously due in part because she’d enjoyed it. I could hear her rapid breaths and it wasn’t just from the exertion of wielding the lash. She was getting off on it.

The whip cracked again and I let out a whelp. The pain was intense. I had been whipped many times by Kenyatta and he had obviously taken it easy on me. I hadn’t imagined there was anything gentle about the whippings, canings, and spankings I’d endured from Kenyatta, but I’d had little to compare it to. Now, I knew that he’d been holding back, because this bitch wasn’t, and the pain was so intense I was having difficulty remaining standing. I felt like I was going to pass out.

Angela was breathing heavier now, she was practically panting. I heard her grunt each time she cracked the whip across my back. She was putting everything she had into each stroke, exerting herself in her effort to destroy me, but there was still something peculiar in the rhythm of her breaths. I could almost imagine her masturbating with one hand as she striped my back with bleeding welts.

The tip of the lash wrapped around my body and cut into my belly. My knees buckled. I had to hold onto the refrigerator to keep from falling. The whip cracked again and this time she wrapped the whip completely around so the tip cut into my breasts. This time I did fall. I collapsed to my knees, bleeding and sweating, trembling in agony, waiting for the next blow in silent dread, but it never came. I could still hear Angela panting heavily behind me. Finally, I dared turn to look.

Angela’s robe was open and she was naked underneath. Her body was a work of art, hard, lean, shaved, glistening with a sheen of perspiration. But it wasn’t her physique that caused the sharp intake of breath. Just as I had imagined, she was furiously masturbating and she was staring right at me.

“Come here, bitch.”

I guessed bitch was my new name. I did as commanded and crawled over to her on my hands and knees. I was still in agony from the whipping and could not have walked if I wanted to. Angela was still fingering her swollen clit unselfconsciously. She sat down at the kitchen table, turned the chair so she was facing me and threw one of her legs up on the table, baring her sex to me. She beckoned me forward.

“I said come here. Get over here!”

I crawled closer and she took her finger out of her pussy and rubbed it against my lips.

“Open your mouth.”

I opened my mouth and she slid her finger, wet with her vaginal juices, between my lips. Obediently, I sucked her finger clean. I thought I could taste Kenyatta’s semen inside of her. I was probably imagining it, but I wouldn’t have put it past either of them. She had fucked him and she wanted me to know it.

“You like how I taste, bitch?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.

“Lick my pussy.”

I knew it was coming, but it was still shocking to hear, like a splash of cold water in my face. One minute she was beating the shit out of me, hating me for stealing her husband, and the next she was asking me to get her off. She placed her hands on either side of my face and guided me down between her thighs. She smelled like Kenyatta. Not like she’d had sex with him, but like she was him. They smelled exactly the same. When I sucked her engorged clitoris between my lips and flicked it with my tongue, it was easy to imagine that I was pleasuring Kenyatta. I imagined I was sucking his cock as I swirled my tongue around the little nub and heard Angela’s deep-throated moans. Her legs quivered and her long manicured nails snarled in my hair, pulling me deeper, grinding her sex into my face.

“Oh, shit! Oh. Shit! Lick this pussy, bitch! Damn, that feels good.”

I didn’t know what was happening, what this meant. I wasn’t sure if this was meant to be another humiliation or if Angela was really into chicks, if she was into me. I slid my tongue up inside her, straining to find her G-spot with the tip of my tongue. Angela pulled my face hard against her sex until she was practically smothering me. I went back to sucking and licking her clitoris, replacing my tongue with my fingers. I fucked her with two fingers as I flicked my tongue across her engorged nub. Angela’s legs shook as the first orgasm struck.

“Oh, my God! Oh, shit! Oh, fuck!”

I lifted her legs up onto my shoulders and licked even faster, then I did something Kenyatta had done to me many times, but that I’d never done to anyone before. I licked my way down past her vagina to her perineum. I licked the small flap of flesh there eliciting even louder moans from Angela then I went lower, easing my tongue into her rectum, flicking it in and out. Angela went wild. This time she screamed when she came.

When it was over, Angela sat staring at me. The expression on her face was no longer one of anger, but simple curiosity. I wondered how this fit into Kenyatta’s plan. I wondered if his book had described a scenario like this between the mistress of the house and the house slave. I wondered what Kenyatta would say when he found out. Had I broken some rule? I didn’t know.

Angela shook her head then reached out and rubbed a hand over my breasts. Then down between my thighs. She was still rubbing my tits when she began talking to me. She slid down from the chair onto the floor with me.

“Kenyatta and I didn’t break up because of you. Not just because of you anyway. We broke up because, after countless threesomes with dozens of different women, I realized that I preferred the women to him. I realized I wasn’t bisexual. I was a lesbian.”

I was shocked. Did Kenyatta know? What the fuck did this have to do with the oppression of black folks?

“I’m sure this sort of thing happened all the time back in the days of slavery. A lesbian had to be careful in those times. She couldn’t just go to the local dyke bar and pick up a chick, but here were these beautiful helpless slaves who had to do whatever she said. You think they didn’t take advantage? Gay men too.”

Of course it made sense, but I knew she was just rationalizing her own exploitation of the situation between Kenyatta and I and now the three of us. Shit had just gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.

“What do I say to Kenyatta?”

Angela shrugged.

“Tell him whatever you want. I don’t care what that nigga thinks.”

She laughed at the shocked expression on my face.

“Oh, does that word offend you? Nigga? You sayin’ you’ve never said it?”

I shook my head.

“Bullshit,” she said. “And if you haven’t said it, you’ve damn sure thought it. The difference is I’m allowed to say it. You ain’t. I don’t care what Kenyatta puts you through, you ain’t never gonna be down enough to use that word. You ain’t never gonna earn the right to use it. Because at any time you can just say fuck this and go back to your little privileged lily white world. Ain’t none of this shit real. You’re just pretending. See we didn’t choose this shit like you did. Nobody gave us a choice or a safe word we could use to escape anytime we wanted. This is real for us.”

The mean, hateful Angela was back. The taste of her pussy was still lying heavy on my tongue. She still had one of my breasts in her hands and she was already back to talking shit.