Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

Suzanna turned and winked.

“Anytime.”

We spent the next few hours in the kitchen, preparing the evening’s meal. We made jalapeno cornbread, collard greens, and black-eyed peas in addition to the ribs and chili. A proper country meal.

The subs all ate together at a covered picnic area with big wooden tables and benches, while the doms ate inside in the main dining area. There were ten subs staying there and eight doms. The subs ranged in ages from twenty-two to fifty-seven. Five females and three males. I was surprised to learn that three of the subs were also paying to be there, for the privilege of being abused full-time by professionals. One woman in her mid-forties said she’d been coming here every other weekend for more than three years. She was a lean, athletic woman with close-cropped, sun-bleached blonde hair and a deep tan. She had stern, serious eyes, and it was easy to tell that she was someone of importance in her normal life.

“I’ve been to farms, dungeons, and chateaus in New York, Los Angeles, London, Paris, and even Tokyo. This is by far my favorite. Not to mention, it’s close to home.”

There was a man in his fifties who’d also been coming to the farm for years and it took me a moment to figure out that the two were a couple.

“Two subs? How does that work out?”

“It works fine. We take turns topping each other and then we come here whenever we can. We have a perfect relationship.”

He was into humiliation, not only being whipped and made to lick women’s feet, he also enjoyed being cuckolded, tied up and forced to watch another man fuck his wife.

“Wow.” It was all I could think to say. It all seemed so bizarre.

There were two college kids there who worked for the farm, working their way through grad school. Apparently, the fantasy business paid well. I wondered if Kenyatta was paying for me to be there. It now seemed likely and that made me feel better. It meant he was still part of my life, still in control.

After dinner, I helped Suzanna and the quiet Filipino girl, whose name was Patricia, clear all the dishes and wash them. Then we all went to our rooms. I took a shower before going to bed. I was so exhausted I fell asleep with the lights on and the other four girls chatting away like teenagers.

The morning brought a new surprise. Constance arrived with a tight leather outfit complete with leather shorts and a leather open-cup corset. Instead of high heels, this time she handed me a pair of black Doc Marten combat boots. I dressed quickly while Constance stood beside me, tapping her foot impatiently and smiling at some secret joke that I was obviously the butt of. Once I was dressed, she led me out to the wine fields where there was a gray donkey hooked up to an old-fashioned horse plow with two handles and a huge angled, chisel-shaped blade. It sat in the center of a two or three acre patch of land that looked hard and dry, as if it had never grown anything and never would.

“Mistress needs you to plow this field. You’re not working in the kitchen anymore. You’re a field nigger now. Make sure the lines are straight.”

With that, she turned and headed back to the house.

“Wait! I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out. Here.” She handed me a buggy whip. “Seymore can be a little stubborn sometimes. Just give him a crack every now and then to keep him moving. The rows should be nine to ten feet apart and twenty-four inches deep. Oh, and there will be a couple overseers coming by in a few hours to check on you. Have fun.”

I was left standing there with the buggy whip, staring at the donkey and plow with no clue what to do with either of them. I clomped over and took hold of the plow. I gave the mule a crack with the buggy whip and he began to move forward, the plow fell over and took me with it.

“Shit!” I exclaimed loudly as I climbed back to my feet and wiped dirt from my legs and arms. I struggled to lift the heavy plow back up, and this time, I held on tight, straining to keep it straight as the donkey moved forward. My arms shook as I struggled to steady the plow. My shoulders and back sang out in pain almost immediately from the exertion. Worse, I couldn’t keep the plow straight. It bounced and jerked, shaking my entire body, my breasts bounced and flopped like I was jogging without a bra and ripples ran up my ass and thighs. I could barely hold onto the plow. The lines in the soil meandered all over the place. The plow was just so heavy, it was all I could do to keep it from falling over again.

I finished the first row. It was a mess that resembled a parenthesis more than a straight line. I started the next row, determined to do better this time, but met with only slightly more success. I stumbled over the churned earth and rocks as I scrambled along behind the mule, fighting the plow, struggling to keep it in a straight line as it cut through the dirt. The plow jerked and jostled as the mule pulled, bumping and rattling over the rocks and hard packed earth, jarring my entire body, threatening to jolt from my grip.

After more than an hour behind the plow, I was finally getting the hang of it, managing to make rows that were relatively straight. That’s when the two young asshats from the dining room, who’d been salivating while I fondled Suzanna’s breasts, rode up on horses carrying cat o’ nine tails.

“What the fuck are you doing? This looks like shit!”

The guy who spoke was the whitest white boy she could have imagined, the personification of a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant yuppie, even in black leather. When he wasn’t playing dom, she imagined he wore polo shirts, cardigans, and argyle socks. He had neatly quaffed blond hair, blue eyes, a wide mouth with thin lips that looked like someone had sliced a hole in his face, a weak chin, narrow shoulders, and no discernible muscles. His body was thin where it should have been thick and thick where it should have been thin, skinny arms and legs, a paunch, and love handles that were starting to become hips.

He regarded me like I was something in his toy box. There was no recognition of my humanity at all in his eyes. His cruel expression and lustful eyes said clearly what he thought of me and likely all women. I was an object, something to be fucked and abused then put away until it was time to fuck again. As far as I was concerned, he fit only the loosest interpretation of the word “man.”

The guy riding along behind him was olive-skinned and athletically built with short, wavy black hair.

“You’re going to have to do this all over again,” he said in a clipped Middle-Eastern accent that brought out all of my own prejudices, automatically assuming he was a conservative Muslim who thought all women were beneath him. But what would a conservative Muslim be doing at an S&M fantasy plantation? I had no answer.

I looked back over the work I’d done and there was no denying it. The earth looked like it had been scarred rather than tilled. I looked over at a nearby patch of land where grapevines grew in neat, orderly rows, then back at the meandering rows I’d carved into the earth. It did indeed look like shit. I had left six uneven rows that were as close as five or six feet apart in spots and as wide as twelve feet in others, and I had exhausted myself doing it. Still, I wanted to tell these two assholes to fuck themselves, but that wasn’t my place. That would have been asking for a whipping. I bowed my head and averted my eyes.

I took a deep breath, cracked the whip, and picked up the ends of the plow. That’s when Seymore decided to show his stubborn streak. He sat down in the center of the field.

“Yah! Yah, Seymore! Come on, you stupid donkey! Don’t do this to me!”

The two douche bags climbed down off their horses. I rolled my eyes, anticipating the coming ridicule and abuse.