400 Days of Oppression

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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.

“Shhhhh. It’ll be okay, Kitten. I promise. Mistress Delia has a little vineyard and an orchard in Napa. It’s beautiful out there. You’ll love it. And there will be other slaves so you won’t feel so alone.”

I shook my head vehemently.

“I don’t feel alone! I have you! I don’t need anything else. I don’t want to be anyone else’s slave!”

The blow came suddenly and unexpectedly, catching me off guard and knocking me back against the wall. Kenyatta had slapped me. My face stung from the blow. I was shocked. Yes, I’d been paddled, whipped, spanked, flogged and even caned, but I couldn’t remember Kenyatta ever slapping me before, except once or twice during sex. He seized me by the throat and pulled me close so his furious eyes smoldered inches from my own.

“You are a slave. Don’t you get that? Do I need to remind you? You are property, a possession, like a pet. I can do with you whatever I wish. I can buy you, sell you, or give you away. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Tears spilled from my eyes.

“Now, I have given you to Mistress Delia and I expect you to behave. Understand?”

Again, I nodded, wiping away tears and fighting back the fit of hysterical weeping threatening to break free. Mistress Delia jerked my leash and I stumbled forward, tripping and falling against her. She dragged me down the steps to her waiting Escalade, popped the rear hatch, and threw me in the back with her dry cleaning and shopping bags.

I hugged my knees to my chest and wept as we pulled out of my Master’s driveway. The idea of spending the next few days (Weeks? Months? I didn’t know.) away from Kenyatta was terrifying to me. He had been my everything these last few months and now he was simply gone. It was almost inconceivable.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was bright, brilliant, the sky a pale azure with a smattering of wispy cirrus clouds. The city rushed by us in a colorful blur of the city’s eclectic denizens, stressed commuters hurrying to the subway or waiting for the bus, joggers sweating in designer workout gear, bicyclists weaving through downtown traffic or racing along the waterfront, shoppers lugging bags stuffed with designers labels, wide-eyed tourists ooohing and aaaahhhing and snapping pictures at all the sights the local residents took for granted, street performers entertaining crowds with frenetic enthusiasm, hippies, hipsters, homosexuals from the flamboyant to the conservative, black, Mexican, and Filipino thugs, and dozens of homeless on every street corner. People of every size, shape, and color filled every available nook of the city. I felt so disconnected from all of them. Their lives were worlds away from mine.

We wound our way through the narrow streets, through the lush verdance of Golden Gate Park, and finally the awe-inspiring beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge itself, overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The bridge had always filled me with awe and wonder. I remembered a description I’d read of the bridge back in high school: “A necklace of surpassing beauty around the lovely throat of San Francisco.” That description had always seemed somehow sinister to me. Even then, it brought images of strangulation. Rather than a necklace of jewels, I had always imagined a garrote, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to a city struggling to breathe. And now, even as I watched the tranquil flow of sail boats, motorboats, fishing boats, yachts, jet-skiers, and surfers over the dark waters, I felt that same garrote constricting around my own throat.

I struggled to breathe. My own turbulent emotions roiled in contrast with the calm waters below. The crisp clean air choked in my lungs as I watched the tourists who stood on the bridge taking and posing for pictures, joggers and bikers racing toward the Marin Headlands, lovers walking hand in hand, smiling, kissing, laughing, soaking in the sun. I felt lonelier than I could ever recall. Even when I was in the box for hours at a time, I always knew Kenyatta would be home soon to rescue me, feed me, fuck me. Now, I was going who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. For the first time in weeks, I thought about ending the game. I wondered if it had gone too far. I didn’t know if I had it in me to continue without seeing Kenyatta every day.

An hour after leaving Kenyatta’s house, I was driven to Mistress Delia’s home in Napa Valley. I had never seen anything like the vast twenty-two acre estate. It was like stepping into a Hollywood movie. An eleven-acre Cabernet Sauvignon vineyard sprawled out in back of a five-thousand square foot, six bedroom, two-story, custom built Craftsman home with a five-car garage, a 1,200 square foot guest house, and a 4,500 square foot, two-story barn in the back. A lavish rose garden filled the courtyard. It was truly magnificent.

There was a stable and a corral with three horses and two bare-chested men in tight blue jeans. One was white and the other Filipino. They both had athletic builds, not as muscular as Kenyatta, smaller, leaner, but nice...very nice.

I couldn’t stop staring at the two stable boys as Mistress Delia opened the hatch of the Escalade and let me out. They both wore thick leather collars around their necks and wrists, making it clear that they were subs, Mistress Delia’s property. I wondered how many more slaves she had.

“Come on. I’ll have Constance show you to your room. There will be some new clothes for you there.”

She led me to the front door, and a tall, slender, light-skinned black woman opened the door dressed similarly to the two boys in the yard. She was topless, wearing a long, flowing, white lace skirt and the same black, leather collar. Her breasts were medium-sized, like two large apples, barely more than a handful, but with large dark nipples. She had wide hips and a slight paunch that somehow made her look even sexier. Just another curve on her lithe, sensuous, body. Her hair was put up in two big Afro puffs on either side of her head. Her smile was wide and genuine with a perfect row of sparkling white teeth framed by soft, pillowy lips. She bowed to Mistress Delia who smiled and kissed her on the lips. Then the woman turned to me and smiled.

“Hi. I’m Constance. Follow me.”

She didn’t wait for me to introduce myself, before she turned and walked away, revealing a tight and muscular, but still remarkably voluptuous, posterior that jiggled high on her back, putting mine to shame. I guess she must have already known who I was and why I was there. I looked at Mistress Delia who nodded and gestured for me to follow Constance. I was led to a small, sparse room with two bunk beds, two dressers, and one closet. There was an adjoining bathroom, but little else in the way of privacy.

“How many people stay here?” I said.

Constance shrugged. “Depends on the weekend. I’m the only one who stays here permanently. Everyone else is a tourist.”

“Tourist” was BDSM slang for those who were less hardcore, who played every now and again, but didn’t live the lifestyle twenty-four-seven. Most of the people I knew, including me before the game began, would have fit the definition. I had always questioned the wisdom, and often the sanity, of people who didn’t have a clear line between reality and BDSM fantasy role-playing, but now I was one of them.

“Some weekends, we have a full house. The men’s quarters hold about five and they can squeeze five or six in here if we double up. Then there are those who come up just for the day. Every so often, we get someone who stays for a whole week or two, and occasionally a month or more. Those tend to be the really rich folks, Europeans on holiday, Japanese businessmen, and the occasional bored millionaire out for a bit of kink. We get a lot of couples here, too.”

“So, this isn’t just a vineyard then? She’s sort of turned it into a little bondage business? A getaway for submissives?”

Constance nodded.

“And doms. If they pay enough. But don’t worry. Everything that happens here is safe, sane, and consensual. Even though a client pays, that doesn’t guarantee him or her someone to play with. The subs still choose who they want to top them. Sometimes people come here and all they get to do is watch, but they keep coming back.”

I tried to imagine someone paying hundreds? Thousands? To live out their fantasy of dominating a willing slave, only to be rejected by every submissive in the house. I would have been pissed. But I had never been much for spectator sports. I always needed to be in the action. That was the best thing about being a submissive. The true power, ultimately lied in the hands of the bottom, “topping from below” as they say. The dom could not do anything the sub didn’t want or allow to be done to them. And, usually, a good dom did everything the sub wanted, fulfilled every desire. If they were compatible, their fantasies and desires matched. When they didn’t match, there was always a safe word to abort the play. I wondered if I would get a safe word, other than the one Kenyatta had given me.

I put away my simple rags and Constance handed me my new “uniform,” a pair of black latex chaps, a red leather G-string, black, leather, open-cup, under bust, corset that lifted my breasts up to my collarbones. She gave me one of the thick, black collars everyone else I’d seen seemed to be wearing, and a long diaphanous white skirt like the one Constance wore. I wondered if she was similarly attired beneath her skirt.

Constance stood by to help me into my new clothes, applying liberal amounts of talc to keep the latex from sticking to my skin. After squeezing, tucking, and stretching myself into it, I had to admit, I felt sexier than I had in months. My breasts were pushed up, ass pushed out, and waist cinched in. All I needed now was someone to admire it all. Again, my mind drifted to Kenyatta, wondering if he was thinking of me and what he would have thought of me in my new outfit. I felt a pang in the core of me, a twinge in my heart. I missed him so much it was painful to think of him, and so, I determined to put Kenyatta out of my mind for as long as I was a guest in Mistress Delia’s home.

Constance gave me a head to toe appraisal, looking me over with naked admiration, a mischievous smile on her face and a salacious gleam in her eyes.

“You look wonderful. Really, Natasha. You do. I’d fuck you myself if I had a dick.”

I blushed like a virgin schoolgirl and let out an embarrassing high-pitched giggle that left me feeling mortified by my own stupidity.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

Constance smiled, clapped her hands and rubbed them together then pointed toward the door.

“Time to go to work.”

I looked down at my outfit.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re working in the kitchen with me today. Don’t get used to it, though. Tomorrow you’re out in the field.”

It was an odd outfit for kitchen work, but no odder than Kenyatta insisting that I scrub the floors in the nude. For every bit of historical accuracy Kenyatta insisted on, there was a complimentary dose of his own perversion and fetishism. I had to believe that even his decision to sell me to Delia was another facet of his own fetish. The idea of me at Delia’s mercy was a turn-on for him somehow, an extension of his control. Like the slave I was supposed to be, I was his property to buy and sell. If he didn’t exercise that power, it was wasted, merely hypothetical. In order for it to be real, for this entire experiment to be more than another perverted sex game, Kenyatta had to sell me. I had to be another’s slave. I understood this intellectually, even though it was breaking my heart.

The kitchen was the size of those in the average restaurant, and equally well-equipped. Everything was stainless steel with Sub-Zero and Jenn-Air appliances. In the adjacent dining room, two young doms were drinking wine and talking loudly about the subs they wanted to fuck. Fucking was usually the last thing that went on in these types of places. You played, and if you couldn’t get off by whipping or being whipped, then you didn’t belong. I knew, because I wasn’t sure I belonged. Whippings and paddlings were nice, but I needed a stiff cock or a tongue to get me off.

Constance gave me a big thirty-six quart stainless steel soup pot to cook chili in. I filled it with shredded steak, black beans, and hatch chilies, stirring it with a huge wooden spoon while the two young doms leered at me and the two other girls Constance had brought in to cook with me. One, the head chef, was a tall, voluptuous, Swedish girl with wide hips, large full breasts, and a boisterous smile. She was dressed identically to me, as was the little Filipino girl with the hard, athletic body who was doing all the prep work.

The Swedish woman cooked like she was having the time of her life, that joyous smile seldom leaving her face. Her huge breasts wobbled in the open-cup corset. Her nipples were the size of gumdrops and I couldn’t stop staring at them. They were the most beautiful nipples I’d ever seen.

“You can touch them if you like,” she said, still smiling with her perfect white teeth.

“W-what?”

“My tits. You like them, yes?”

“They are beautiful.”

She turned to face me, thrusting her huge perky breasts toward me. I could see the two men seated in the dining room stir out of the corner of my eye. They were both young Wall Street types. The kind of reckless investors who’d brought the entire economy down risking everything to get rich. They were smug and confident and ogled every woman that passed them. I doubted any of the subs here had allowed either of them near them. Their inexperience radiated like an aura around them. They were the type that went too far and ignored safe words. The kind that would apologize after leaving permanent scars. The kind that secretly hated women. If it weren’t for the S&M scene, they would probably have been beating up prostitutes.

I purposely stood in front of the statuesque Swedish girl, blocking the two amateur dom’s view as I caressed her perfect breasts. They felt marvelous. The woman smiled and nodded as I squeezed her massive mammaries.

“Your nipples are great,” I said.

“You can suck them too,” she replied, nodding enthusiastically.

“Really? We won’t get in trouble?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I leaned down, still holding one of her huge mammaries in my hands, and sucked on the big pink nipple. I rolled it around with my tongue and flicked it, feeling it stiffen in my mouth. She moaned softly and held the back of my head, pushing my face into her big, soft, tits.

“Bite them,” she said, and I bit down on her nipple. She let out a moan and tilted her head back.

“Harder!”

I bit harder until I felt like I could taste blood.

“That’s good. That’s good!”

She let out a deep, husky moan. Her body tensed and shivered and she mashed my face harder against her breasts until I was practically suffocating. It took me a moment before I realized she’d been masturbating the entire time I’d been sucking her massive tits. Her hand was between her legs, rubbing her clit with quick, aggressive motions, as if she was punishing herself rather than pleasuring. She sighed, a long satisfied sound, then let go of the back of my head. Her body slumped, relaxed, and she smiled down at me, grateful.

“Thank you,” she said then turned and continued working on the slab of beef ribs she was seasoning.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied as I went back to making the chili.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Suzanna,” she replied, still smiling.

“My name is Natasha. I think you owe me one, Suzanna.”

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.

“Did you hear what we said? Get going and fix this abomination!”

The Muslim cracked the cat o’ nine tails he carried across my hamstrings. The tails wrapped around the front, leaving livid, red welts on my thighs. I gritted my teeth and tried again to get Seymore moving. The WASP walked toward me with a deeply affected look of anger on his face that was meant to intimidate, but only managed to make him look even more ridiculous, like a boy pretending to be a man. He wore a full leatherman outfit, chaps and all, over a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt. He pointed the cat at my face as he barked orders at me.

“I said, get to work and fix this shit! Do you want me to tell Mistress Delia what you’ve done to her land?”

I doubted she would care. If she gave a damn about this particular parcel of land, she certainly wouldn’t have placed it in my inexperienced hands. I didn’t reply and I didn’t look at the ridiculous boy/man. Instead, I tried to imagine an African slave on a Southern plantation, being faced with the same dilemma, a difficult and unfamiliar task and the threat of severe physical punishment if it wasn’t done perfectly. It was something millions of slaves had likely endured, and I would endure it too.

I tried again to get Seymore moving and again, he remained stubbornly seated. The WASP began whipping me relentlessly, striping my back, arms, ass, and thighs with the cat. He made so much commotion that Seymore finally stood and began to move forward. I grabbed the handles of the plow and guided him back over the same land we’d just plowed, but the two assholes weren’t done. The Muslim guy grabbed my arms and the WASP tried to rip off my corset.

“Get off of me! What are you doing?”

“We’re not done with you, bitch! You need to be punished. But I tell you what, you suck us both off, let us give you a nice bukakke shower, and we’ll let you go,” the WASP said, grinning at his Muslim buddy like the wild-eyed frat boy he’d probably been not long ago.

“You must be fucking high! Get the fuck off of me!”

“Hold her, Farrad! Hold her still!”

“She’s fighting, man. I don’t think she’s playing.”

“I don’t care. We paid our money, we’re fucking someone! No way anyone is going to cry rape at an S&M club. It would get laughed out of court. I’m fucking this cunt if she likes it or not! Now, hold her still!”

His hands were all over me, pawing at my breasts. I kicked at him, and he slapped me so hard I saw stars. That’s when I screamed.

“Heeeelllp! Raaaape! Raaaaape!”

This time, he punched me. His fist caught me behind the left ear and the world spun. I found myself staring up at the sky. Someone was tugging my shorts down and I looked up to see the WASP standing above me, unzipping his pants. I tried to scream again. The Muslim clamped a hand over my mouth and I bit it. I bit deep and jerked my head to the side, ripping a chunk out of his hand just below his pinky. He yelled and jumped backwards. I sat up quickly, still feeling woozy, and grabbed blindly for the WASP’s penis the instant it poked from his zipper. The man jumped backwards, but it was too late. My fingernails sunk into his cock. I dug them in deep, seizing his cock and twisting it. The WASP howled and struck me again, punching me in the top of my head. I leaned forward and jerked him toward me, dragging him by his penis.

“Fuck! Let go! Let go, you fucking bitch!” he shouted as I pulled him closer, tugging and wrenching on his cock, wringing it like a dishrag. I sank my teeth into his nutsack, biting down hard and feeling his testes rupture in my mouth like hardboiled eggs. His screams were horrific. He punched at my head and I could feel myself beginning to lose consciousness, but I refused. I bit down harder, biting through his scrotum. I could hear footsteps hurrying toward us as I ripped and tore at the WASP’s flaccid sex organs, tearing his testicles from his body and trying to pull his cock free from its moorings. Blood, urine, and semen rained down his thighs and dripped from my mouth as I chewed up his testicles and spit them down into the dirt.

“What’s going on?” I heard someone shout, followed by the unmistakable dull smack of knuckles striking flesh and a body thudding down in the dirt with a loud “Oof!”

I looked around for my savior. It was Constance along with the two male subs with the perfect bodies I’d seen in the stables the day I arrived.

“They tried to rape me!”

The Muslim guy, Farrad, was on his knees next to Constance, flanked by the two subs. He cradled his wounded hand. His eye was swelling shut, his lip was busted, and his jaw hung at an odd angle. They had kicked his ass before they even knew what he’d done. His face held a pitiful expression, like a cornered rat.

“I-I didn’t do anything!” he protested.

Constance whirled around to face the cowed and conquered Muslim guy and he cringed. Without a hint of hesitation, she kicked him in the chest, aiming her four-inch stiletto heel at his heart like she was trying to impale him on it. He pitched backward into the dirt and remained there, holding his chest and wincing. A trickle of blood leaked out from between his fingers.

The WASP was lying on his back, trembling. His eyes rolled back in his head, then swam back into focus briefly before rolling up again. He looked like he was going to die.

Good! I thought, and spit at his prone form. The two subs walked over and began kicking and stomping him in the face with their pointy-toed cowboy boots until blood leaked from his mouth and ears. Constance stared down at him with hard, unfeeling eyes, then she leaned over and gathered me up in her arms.

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to be hurting anyone else for a long time.”