Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“What have you gone through to give you the right? You were never a slave. You were never oppressed,” I said before I could stop myself. Angela’s caressing hands became vises, clamping down and twisting my breasts until I squealed and pleaded with her.

“Ouch! Ouch! Stop!”

“I haven’t suffered? I haven’t suffered? Bitch, what the fuck you know about me?”

As always, I had said the wrong thing, but this wasn’t Kenyatta, always the master of his emotions, this was an unstable dyke with a bullwhip I had just pissed off.

“I don’t… I-I don’t know anything about you.”

“Damn right you don’t know shit about me. I’ve been struggling and suffering since the day I was born because of the color of my skin. Looked down upon by stuck-up white bitches like you, followed around department stores by security, passed over for promotions, passed over by all the good black men who would rather chase white pussy!”

I wanted to point out the obvious fact that she was clearly gay and ask her what difference it made since she wasn’t interested in men anymore anyway. I wanted to tell her that no man was promised to any woman. That it wasn’t like she had put her application in and been passed over in favor of the less qualified white applicant like some kind of reverse affirmative action. All men were up for grabs, regardless of race. Instead, I stayed quiet.

“Get the fuck back out in the yard. Get out of my sight, you stupid bitch!”

She stood up and began kicking me in my ribs and arms, before landing her heel square in my ass as I scrambled out the door to my little shack in the backyard. I wasn’t tired, physically, but mentally I felt like I’d just run a marathon wearing a fifty-pound backpack. I was so confused, so aggravated, angry, sad, excited, aroused, and lost, completely and utterly adrift. My entire world had been stripped away from me. The ground had dropped out from beneath my feet and left me floating in space with Kenyatta as my only anchor to earth, but he wasn’t here and the bitch who used to be his wife was. I knew Kenyatta would make it all better when he got home. He had to, because I didn’t know if I could take this shit much longer.

The night was cool, damp. The fog rolled in and swallowed the stars. The darkness was total. I had a panicked moment, imagining myself back in the box, in that dank, humid basement, but the chill breeze drafting through the cracks in the rickety shack I now called home, reminded me where I was. I pulled the scratchy wool blanket tight around me, shivering. Miserable. I wondered what time Kenyatta would be home, if he would come to the shack or spend the evening with Angela. Being his slave was one thing, but sitting in an old tool shed, shivering in the dark on my bed of straw while he fucked his ex-wife on sheets I helped him pick out, was too much.

The mating calls of cicadas chirped all around, a choir of amorous insects singing out in the darkness. Lights from the houses on either side of the yard cast a faint glow, creating ominous shadows that flickered across the lawn, the fence, and the walls of the shed. I watched them, expecting at any moment that one of the shadows would be Kenyatta coming to rescue me from this misery, take me in his arms, upstairs into his bed. But there was also the fear that a stranger might take advantage of my helplessness. A neighbor who’d seen me come out in the yard by myself. A burglar coming to rob the house. Some random pervert walking by.

My breath quickened and I looked around the shed for something to defend myself with should it come to that. I seized a branch that lay in the dirt by my bed of straw and cradled it against my breasts. I closed my eyes, trying to sleep. My body was exhausted. The welts on my back sang out in pain and I was still shivering. Eventually, the exhaustion won out and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The sunlight speared through my eyelids. My joints ached and the numerous welts, cuts, and bruises reminded me of their presence with renewed agony. I had slept straight through to morning and Kenyatta had not come to visit me. I squinted, shielding my eyes from the light. It was time to cook breakfast.

There was a hose in the backyard. That would have to suffice for a shower. I wondered if I could make it stretch over to the shed where I might at least be able to use the drafty old structure to shield my body from the view of curious neighbors. I had no change of clothes, so I would have to put the same filthy rags I’d worn the previous day back on.

I turned on the outside faucet and dragged the hose over to the shed and stripped down. The shirt stuck to my back and pulling it off ripped a few scabs reopening the wounds. Blood dripped down my back, and I dreaded the feel of the water on the freshly bleeding wounds as much as I welcomed the notion of being clean again. I held the hose above my head and let the water pour down over my naked body. I closed my eyes and forgot about everything but the cool water. Even the pain of my welts and cuts didn’t bother me. When I opened my eyes, Kenyatta was standing there, impeccably dressed as always, in a dark suit and a black turtleneck. It was a different suit than the one he’d worn to the slave auction, but the look and the effect were the same. I couldn’t help but think the choice was deliberate.

“You’re late. Breakfast should have been on the table an hour ago. Your mistress is upset with you and so am I. She thinks you should be punished. What do you think?”

I dropped the hose in the grass and stood there, naked and shivering, not knowing what to say. Kenyatta’s eyes roved my naked flesh and I looked down at his crotch to see if he liked what he saw. Apparently he did. There was a noticeable bulge in his pants. I walked over to him and took his hardening flesh in hand, stroking him through his pants.

“I am sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

I led him into the shed, hoping that bitch was watching. Let her make her own fucking breakfast. The shed door slammed behind us and Kenyatta’s hands were all over me, squeezing my breasts, rolling my swollen nipples between his fingers. He kissed the nape of my neck, down between my shoulder blades, to the small of my back. I felt his hot breath against the cleft of my buttocks and then his lips, gently kissing each cheek, his tongue flickering up the crack of my ass before sliding deep inside me. His hand reached up between my legs and his fingers found my clitoris, rubbing it as he fucked my anus with his tongue. I came so quickly, so suddenly, I barely had time to enjoy it. My legs weakened and I almost collapsed. Then Kenyatta was behind me, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. I felt that first passionate invasion. My handsome lover, my Master, thrusting his tumescent flesh inside me. I cried out as his length filled me, hard, throbbing. His breath heavy on the back of my neck.

“Cum inside me. I want to have your babies. I want to be yours forever.”

“Yes!” he replied as he sped up his rhythm, thrusting harder, deeper, faster. His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, rocking me back against him.

“Cum inside me! I want your seed inside me, Master! I want to carry your children!”

I didn’t know if I was making him angry, but I was telling the truth. I wanted his children inside me. I wanted to be the mother of his heirs. His thrusts became more urgent, more aggressive and it was difficult to tell if his increased passion was anger or rapture. He turned me around, laid me on my back, and slid himself inside me again. Face to face now, I repeated my declaration.

“I love you, Kenyatta. I want to be the mother of your children. Do you love me?”

He thrust harder, pounding me into the ground.

“Do you love me? Do you want to cum inside me, Master? Do you want me to carry your children?”