Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

Kenyatta nodded and the tears began to flow from my eyes in a torrent.

“No,” Angela gasped. “I thought you said you wouldn’t sell her?”

“I told you the experiment wouldn’t be real if I didn’t. This just confirms it.”

He had been planning it all along. He was going to sell me to someone else, a new Master. I felt my heart tear slowly. I became lightheaded and almost passed out.

“Please, Master! Please don’t sell me! Whip me! Whip me to death, but don’t sell me!”

“It’s already done. Mistress Delia is coming to collect you in the morning.”

I wailed and threw myself at his feet.

“No! No, Master! Pleeeeeease!”

“Like I said, it’s already done. It has to be done.”

He pulled his now flaccid cock out of Angela’s grasp and tucked it back in his pants then he reached down and picked up a book, the book that had started all of this, a book I had come to dread, 400 Years of Oppression. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

“No. No. No.” I was talking about the book as much as the idea of being sold to that huge leather dyke from the Society of “O.” At least it was a woman. The idea of Kenyatta selling me to another man would have been too much for me to take.

“Rebellious slaves were often separated from their families and sold away to other plantations. Often leaving a benevolent owner for a more stern and often crueler master. Some slaves came to love their masters and when they were sold away, were traumatized by both the loss of family and friends and the loss of their beloved masters and the plantations they had considered their home. The wives of slave-owners, who fathered children with slaves, were often the instigators who demanded the owner’s slave mistresses be sold away, leaving their children behind.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care about slaves who were sold away from their families, as long as I wasn’t sold, as long as I didn’t have to suffer the loss of my Master. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing I could say to change his mind except the safe word that I could never utter.

“Master?”

“Yes?”

“Would you make love to me one last time?”

Angela and I were both still on our knees. Kenyatta’s mouth opened to speak, appeared to change his mind, closed his mouth and nodded. Angela hugged me, then stood up. She kissed Kenyatta on the cheek as she walked out of the room.

“Use the bedroom. You two need to be alone. I’m gonna watch some TV.”

I cried in Kenyatta’s arms that night. We made love slowly, lovingly. I whispered my love to him as I gasped with pleasure, crushed into the mattress beneath his heavily muscled body. His voice was tight, hoarse, when he croaked out a reply.

“I love you too, Kitten.”

I couldn’t see his eyes in the dark bedroom, even with the moonlight streaming through the open blinds, but I suspected he was crying too.

Mistress Delia's breasts were larger than my head. That was my first thought when I saw her walking up to the front door with those titanic mammaries squeezed into a corset that pushed them up beneath her chin like two pale melons. She looked soft and doughy. Her arm fat flapped like wings as she walked and her thighs, easily the circumference of my entire waist, rubbed together from the crotch to just above the knee. Her ass made mine look positively petite. It was the size of a pumpkin—two pumpkins—pressed together and squeezed into a red latex skirt. Her belly stuck out almost as far as her breasts. Everything on her body jiggled when she walked. Next to her, I looked practically emaciated.

I couldn’t help wondering if this was how Kenyatta saw me. I knew he’d been intimate with the rotund dominatrix. I wasn’t sure who had topped who, but I knew they had played before. I didn’t know if he had ever actually fucked her, but, for Kenyatta, the whip could be just as intimate as his cock. If he found this huge woman attractive, and he found me attractive, what did that say about me? Did we look the same in his eyes? I knew the stereotype of black men dating fat white chicks. I hated to think we justified that particular prejudice. Her face made all of that irrelevant, however.

She had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen, a brilliant emerald green that looked almost reptilian and contrasted with her flaming red hair. Her lips were painted blood red and her smile revealed perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth with long canines that made her look vampiric. That fat bitch was hot. I had to admit it. Still, I didn’t want to be her slave. I had only one Master, Kenyatta, but I would do as he said. If he wanted this bitch to own me, then I was hers.

Kenyatta invited her in, took her hand, bowed, and kissed her knuckles.

“Mistress Delia, you are lovelier than ever.”

She did the same, doing a little curtsy and kissing his class ring.

“Hello, King. You are still the most fuckable male in the BDSM scene. And your taste in subs is impeccable as ever. I cannot believe you are really parting with this lovely specimen.”

Kenyatta leaned in and kissed Mistress Delia on the lips. I saw him slip his tongue into her mouth and her suck it like it was his cock. Jealousy surged within me. My breath caught in my throat until their lips parted. Kenyatta patted her on her more than ample buttocks then squeezed her titanic breasts and kissed her again.

“Don’t go getting me all horny, King. I might take it out on your little Kitten.”

She swatted me on my ass with one of her meaty paws and gave it a squeeze. I smiled passively. The co-opting of the nickname Kenyatta had given to me, by this stranger. She had no fucking right to call me that as far as I was concerned, but my outrage was useless. It sat in my gut like bad Mexican food, churning, indigestible.

“Don’t worry, Kitten. I won’t hurt you...too much,” Delia said with a wink.

I turned to Kenyatta, eyes brimming with tears, in one last, desperate attempt to save myself. I saw Angela sitting on the couch, rocking forward and back, biting her bottom lip and squeezing her hands between her knees, desperate to intervene but keeping silent. I couldn’t count on her for help. For all I knew, this had all been her doing.

Angela smiled at me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry” as Kenyatta placed an old suitcase on the front porch filled with my meager belongings. Kenyatta turned and brushed the hair from my face, blessing me, for what felt like the last time, with that radiant smile of his. I could see the sorrow in his eyes. The worry. He didn’t want me to go either. I could tell. So why the fuck was he sending me away? Was it just for the game, so I would experience what his ancestors experienced, or was he jealous of Angela? He couldn’t really think I would leave him for that hateful bitch. Even though she licked pussy like she was bred for the act, there was no forgetting the hell she had put me through. I didn’t trust her.

“You do what Mistress Delia tells you, okay? You are hers now,” Kenyatta said, sounding like he was sending a child off to college rather than giving the woman he claimed to love over to another.

There was a leash around my neck, the choke chain I’d worn the last time Kenyatta took me out, the night of the slave auction. Kenyatta placed the leash in Mistress Delia’s hands. I felt like my world was ending. The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. My chest tightened and my heart raced. I began to hyperventilate.

“No. No, Master! Pleeeease!” I whined, feeling wretched, all self-respect gone. I dropped to my knees and clutched his ankles, kissed his shoes. Kenyatta lifted me back to my feet and tried his best to calm me, holding me close, stroking my hair and whispering softly, but I was inconsolable.