Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“Yes!”

I didn’t know which one he was replying to. I knew he loved me, but did he want me to raise his children? I’d heard him say once, that whenever he found himself falling too hard for a woman, he would imagine her raising his children and that usually sobered him up.

“A woman might be fun to kick it with, party with, have sex with, but that doesn’t mean you want her raising your kids. Just because she’s a good fuck doesn’t mean she’d be a good mom,” he’d once said.

I wondered if that’s how he thought about me, but asking him now would kill the mood and I wanted to feel him cum inside me. I needed it. It was ridiculous, but I felt like it would somehow validate his love for me. It would take something away from the evil bitch who was sleeping in my bed right now.

Kenyatta’s eyes bore into mine. His expression was intense, concentrated. I kissed him and he pressed his lips hard against mine, bruising them in his passion. His tongue darted into my mouth, and I sucked it the way I’d sucked his cock so often. When he pulled his lips away, I whispered to him.

“I love you.”

And I could see his eyes soften. Then his head whipped back, his body stiffened, and he let out a roar. I grabbed his hard buttocks and pulled him deeper, held him there as he orgasmed. Imagining his seed spilling inside me sparked my own climax and soon my cries of ecstasy joined his guttural moans. He collapsed on top of me and I held him there, keeping him inside me, not wanting him to leave, ever. I wanted to die there with him on top of me, inside of me. I would have been perfectly satisfied and content to expire in the arms of the man I loved. That would have meant an end to my trials. But it wasn’t to be.

Kenyatta stood, pulled up his pants, zipped them, and buckled his belt. He buttoned his suit jacket and smoothed the lapels.

“Your Mistress is awake. Make sure she has breakfast. Don’t be late again. When the sun rises, you rise.”

He turned and walked out of my little shack, leaving me desperately confused and frustrated. I rose to my feet and took a deep breath, preparing myself to confront that hateful bitch again. I smoothed out the wrinkles in my simple frock, slid my feet into a pair of slippers that had been left for me, and walked into the house. Angela was waiting.

“What the fuck took you so long? I want coffee and eggs, now! You want another whipping like yesterday? Does that turn your freaky ass on or something? Is that why Kenyatta likes your stank ass? Because both of you motherfuckers are perverts?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

She was sitting at the table again, wearing the same terry cloth robe, naked underneath, slightly open, revealing that flawless athletic physique. I tried not to stare at her and went about making her coffee and cooking her eggs.

“You’re cleaning this entire house today. I want you to scrub the floors, the walls, the baseboards, dust all the lamps, and the ceiling fans, every-fucking-thing. You hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turned on one of the burners, pulled out a large Teflon skillet, and cracked two eggs onto it.

“Sunny side up!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I was going to “yes, ma’am” this bitch to death. I refused to be broken. After finishing her eggs, I lifted them onto a plate with a spatula, careful not to break the yolks. I brought the plate and the coffee to Angela. Then turned to begin cleaning the kitchen.

“Uh uh. You stand right here until I’m done eating. And strip. I want to look at you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As commanded, I removed my dress and then my bra and underwear. I stood in front of the kitchen table with my arms at my sides, feeling self-conscious and slightly ridiculous.

“You are a sexy bitch, ain’t you? I’ll give that nigga credit. He does know how to pick ’em. You think you look as good as me, bitch?” Angela said, wiping her mouth with a napkin after swallowing another fork full of eggs, then rising and letting her robe slip to the floor.

“No, ma’am.”

“Look at me, bitch! You think I’m sexy?”

I let my eyes rove over her nude form, her muscular arms and shoulders, flat stomach with sculpted abs, small perky breasts, muscular thighs, tight little ass.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am, what?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think you’re sexy.”

“You want to lick this pussy again?” she said, running her fingers up her thighs and then between them, winding her hips like she was dancing to a slow reggae rhythm. She was one fine piece of ass. It did make me wonder again what Kenyatta saw in me when he could have been fucking Angela every night. Even if she was a closet lesbian. Then I wondered if he was fucking her every night. I wanted to ask her but feared her response.

“Say it! Say you want to lick this pussy.”

I had no choice. As long as I was part of this experiment, she was in control. Disobeying her would mean losing Kenyatta. I wondered if Kenyatta even knew the things Angela was making me do.

“I want to lick your pussy,” I said in a monotone voice, staring at a spot just over Angela’s shoulder, avoiding eye contact. She didn’t seem to care. A complicit, enthusiastic partner wasn’t what she was after. She wanted to humiliate and debase me. My eager consent would have ruined the thrill.

“Get on your knees, white bitch,” she said with a smile.

I knelt on the floor in front of Angela, and she walked over and placed one leg on the table, opening her thighs and giving me an unobstructed view of her neatly shaven vagina. She grabbed me by the back of the head and thrust my face into her sex. Wanting it to be over as soon as possible, I sucked and licked at her clitoris, aggressively, driving her toward orgasm at a hundred miles an hour.

“Slow down!” she said, but I could already feel the trembling in her legs, see her stomach tighten, hear her breath quicken and deepen, taste the juices flowing from her labia. She was close. I flicked my tongue across her clit rapidly, battering it like a speed bag until I felt her nails dig into my scalp and a moan catch in her throat, low and sultry before becoming a scream of purest ecstasy. As long as I could do this to her, I owned this bitch, more than she could ever own me.

She collapsed against the kitchen table, spilling her coffee and almost knocking her plate onto the floor. I quickly rose, snatched up a rag, and began cleaning up the mess. I could feel Angela’s eyes on me.

“You hate me don’t you?”

I didn’t reply. I finished wiping up her coffee and removed her plate, rinsing it off in the sink and placing it in the dishwasher. I could still feel Angela’s eyes drilling into me. I poured her another cup of coffee and handed it to her. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, and a scowl snarled her lips. Angela shook her head as she took the coffee from me. She took a sip then regarded me with the most curious expression. Clearly, I was some sort of enigma to her and her inability to pigeonhole me frustrated her.

“I’m not the one you should be hating,” she said. “You think Kenyatta doesn’t know about all of this? You think he didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he brought me in here? You are a stupid bitch. You’ll see. You’ll see.”

She closed her robe and walked out of the room.

I spent the rest of the day doing exactly as Angela had commanded. I scrubbed the floors, did the laundry, wiped down the walls, dusted all the appliances and light fixtures, cleaned the toilets and tubs, then made her lunch: ham and cheese on rye, and a spinach salad with sliced apples, cranberries, red onions, blue cheese, and balsamic vinaigrette. I served her in the dining room, so I would be far away from her while she ate. I wanted to avoid a repeat of this morning.