400 Days of Oppression

IX

Angela and I worked in the kitchen together, cooking all of Kenyatta’s favorites. I seasoned a brisket and slow-cooked it in the oven on 300 degrees, while Angela made wasabi mashed potatoes and broccoli with garlic and butter. Then I threw a bunch of crab legs in a pot to boil. We were both dressed provocatively in corsets, silk panties, garters, and fishnet stockings. We had decided to try to reach Kenyatta through his stomach and his libido.

When Kenyatta walked in, he took one look at us and shook his head. Not to be deterred I dropped to my knees and began unbuttoning his pants.

“Let your kitten relax you, Master.”

Angela dropped down beside me and we both pulled out his cock and began licking it up and down. It was working, I could see the steely-eyed resolve in Kenyatta’s eyes begin to melt.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud. I tried to ignore them and concentrate on sucking his cock, but tears had already begun to well in my eyes. Angela didn’t stop. She was jacking him off while still licking the head of his cock.

“What do you think would happen to a slave if the master came home and found her fucking his wife?” Kenyatta said and I began to shiver. I knew. I knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

“He would whip her,” Angela said, still stroking Kenyatta’s throbbing erection. “He would whip them both.”

“And then?” Kenyatta said, glaring down at us.

“He would kill her? You can’t kill her, Kenyatta!”

“Don’t be silly! Slaves were expensive. You don’t destroy an expensive piece of property unless you don’t have any other choice.”

“He would sell her,” I spoke up. “If a master caught his slave in a lesbian act with his wife, if he didn’t kill her, he would sell her away.”

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.