400 Days of Oppression

VI

The night was cool, damp. The fog rolled in and swallowed the stars. The darkness was total. I had a panicked moment, imagining myself back in the box, in that dank, humid basement, but the chill breeze drafting through the cracks in the rickety shack I now called home, reminded me where I was. I pulled the scratchy wool blanket tight around me, shivering. Miserable. I wondered what time Kenyatta would be home, if he would come to the shack or spend the evening with Angela. Being his slave was one thing, but sitting in an old tool shed, shivering in the dark on my bed of straw while he fucked his ex-wife on sheets I helped him pick out, was too much.

The mating calls of cicadas chirped all around, a choir of amorous insects singing out in the darkness. Lights from the houses on either side of the yard cast a faint glow, creating ominous shadows that flickered across the lawn, the fence, and the walls of the shed. I watched them, expecting at any moment that one of the shadows would be Kenyatta coming to rescue me from this misery, take me in his arms, upstairs into his bed. But there was also the fear that a stranger might take advantage of my helplessness. A neighbor who’d seen me come out in the yard by myself. A burglar coming to rob the house. Some random pervert walking by.

My breath quickened and I looked around the shed for something to defend myself with should it come to that. I seized a branch that lay in the dirt by my bed of straw and cradled it against my breasts. I closed my eyes, trying to sleep. My body was exhausted. The welts on my back sang out in pain and I was still shivering. Eventually, the exhaustion won out and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The sunlight speared through my eyelids. My joints ached and the numerous welts, cuts, and bruises reminded me of their presence with renewed agony. I had slept straight through to morning and Kenyatta had not come to visit me. I squinted, shielding my eyes from the light. It was time to cook breakfast.

There was a hose in the backyard. That would have to suffice for a shower. I wondered if I could make it stretch over to the shed where I might at least be able to use the drafty old structure to shield my body from the view of curious neighbors. I had no change of clothes, so I would have to put the same filthy rags I’d worn the previous day back on.

I turned on the outside faucet and dragged the hose over to the shed and stripped down. The shirt stuck to my back and pulling it off ripped a few scabs reopening the wounds. Blood dripped down my back, and I dreaded the feel of the water on the freshly bleeding wounds as much as I welcomed the notion of being clean again. I held the hose above my head and let the water pour down over my naked body. I closed my eyes and forgot about everything but the cool water. Even the pain of my welts and cuts didn’t bother me. When I opened my eyes, Kenyatta was standing there, impeccably dressed as always, in a dark suit and a black turtleneck. It was a different suit than the one he’d worn to the slave auction, but the look and the effect were the same. I couldn’t help but think the choice was deliberate.

“You’re late. Breakfast should have been on the table an hour ago. Your mistress is upset with you and so am I. She thinks you should be punished. What do you think?”

I dropped the hose in the grass and stood there, naked and shivering, not knowing what to say. Kenyatta’s eyes roved my naked flesh and I looked down at his crotch to see if he liked what he saw. Apparently he did. There was a noticeable bulge in his pants. I walked over to him and took his hardening flesh in hand, stroking him through his pants.

“I am sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

I led him into the shed, hoping that bitch was watching. Let her make her own fucking breakfast. The shed door slammed behind us and Kenyatta’s hands were all over me, squeezing my breasts, rolling my swollen nipples between his fingers. He kissed the nape of my neck, down between my shoulder blades, to the small of my back. I felt his hot breath against the cleft of my buttocks and then his lips, gently kissing each cheek, his tongue flickering up the crack of my ass before sliding deep inside me. His hand reached up between my legs and his fingers found my clitoris, rubbing it as he fucked my anus with his tongue. I came so quickly, so suddenly, I barely had time to enjoy it. My legs weakened and I almost collapsed. Then Kenyatta was behind me, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. I felt that first passionate invasion. My handsome lover, my Master, thrusting his tumescent flesh inside me. I cried out as his length filled me, hard, throbbing. His breath heavy on the back of my neck.

“Cum inside me. I want to have your babies. I want to be yours forever.”

“Yes!” he replied as he sped up his rhythm, thrusting harder, deeper, faster. His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, rocking me back against him.

“Cum inside me! I want your seed inside me, Master! I want to carry your children!”

I didn’t know if I was making him angry, but I was telling the truth. I wanted his children inside me. I wanted to be the mother of his heirs. His thrusts became more urgent, more aggressive and it was difficult to tell if his increased passion was anger or rapture. He turned me around, laid me on my back, and slid himself inside me again. Face to face now, I repeated my declaration.

“I love you, Kenyatta. I want to be the mother of your children. Do you love me?”

He thrust harder, pounding me into the ground.

“Do you love me? Do you want to cum inside me, Master? Do you want me to carry your children?”

“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.

In the kitchen, I made my own salad and ate quickly, making sure I was done before Angela was, so I could clear her dishes. She glared at me as I whisked in and out of the room. Occasionally, she treated me to more of her insights into my relationship with Kenyatta.

“You must enjoy being used like a piece of trash. I’m telling you, Kenyatta’s going to wipe his ass with you and toss you aside. He ain’t never marrying you, girl. You’d be better off sticking with them white boys. You know niggas ain’t shit. The only reason a guy like Kenyatta is interested in you is because he can do whatever he wants to you and you’ll put up with it. He knows he can’t treat no sister like this.”

It took great effort to hold my tongue. Obviously, the fact that if he was using me then he was using her too, had not yet occurred to her. He had brought her into this house to help prepare her successor, to spend every day with the woman he was fucking, the woman he was fucking even while Angela was right there in the house. It had to hurt. I could see her pain every time she tried to convince me to leave, every time she tried to break me, even while she was punishing me or using me for sex. The fact that Kenyatta had chosen another woman, a white woman, was an open sore on Angela’s heart.

I was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, when Kenyatta came home. Immediately, I could tell that something was wrong. He smiled at me as he rushed past me, pulled a beer from the refrigerator, then took it with him to the bedroom. I wanted so bad to ask him what was troubling him. Normally, I would have, but I didn’t dare with Angela there.

There was a baked chicken in the oven and mashed potatoes and corn on the cob on the stove. I worried for a moment that it would go to waste. Regardless of my worries, I continued preparing the meal. I set the dining room table, folded the napkins and laid out the silverware and plates. I stopped short of lighting a candle. There was no way I was going to prepare a romantic dinner for my man and his ex-wife.

It felt weird to think of Kenyatta as “my man,” but I felt more connected to him since the experiment began than I had at any other time in our relationship. I wasn’t sure what that meant for our relationship. For weeks now, he had been my Master. It was already getting hard to remember when I wasn’t his property, when I wasn’t a slave. I wondered how successful we would be at resuming our normal roles when the time came. If the time came.

Kenyatta came back downstairs wearing a robe and black and white checkered pajama pants. He sat down at the table and stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with both Angela and I. He barely seemed to notice we were in the same room. Angela sat down at the table across from Kenyatta, but didn’t attempt to speak to him. She fidgeted nervously in her chair, rearranging the silverware and trying to catch Kenyatta’s eye. Whatever he was thinking, Angela didn’t know any more about it than I did, and it was clear that she couldn’t handle being in the dark.

He finished his meal, and I quickly cleared the table. When he looked at me, there was a sadness in his eyes that ratcheted up my anxiety to nerve-rattling levels. Was he about to tell me this was all a big mistake? That the experiment was over and he was going back to Angela? I wanted to ask him what he was thinking so badly it was killing me.

He turned to Angela with that baleful expression and told her to go upstairs.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“So you can fuck this slave in our house?”

“MY house and I’ll do whatever the hell I want in my house. You’re a guest here. Now go upstairs!”

Chastened, and clearly frightened of him, Angela left the room, casting one last hateful glance my way that promised retribution. I had never seen Kenyatta so forceful with her before, had never imagined that she would have stood for such a thing. I guess I believed the stereotype about black women not taking shit from anyone. Seeing Kenyatta dismiss her so bluntly was revelatory. I knew Angela would make me suffer for it, but I was far more worried about whatever was plaguing Kenyatta’s thoughts.

“Come here, Kitten.”

It felt like ages had passed since he’d called me kitten. Not since the night of the slave auction. My heart melted at the words, but somehow, hearing such endearing words come from his mouth deepened my fear. Why was he being so nice to me unless he were trying to soften a blow? I only hoped the blow would be physical.

“Yes, Master?”

Kenyatta smiled.

“Be my kitten tonight.”

I knew what he meant. I stripped quickly, tossing my clothes aside and dropping down on all fours. I purred as I rubbed my face against his pant leg and curled up at his feet. He patted his thigh and I climbed up into his lap, nuzzling my face in his neck as I continued to purr. I lightly clawed his back through his shirt. Kenyatta ran his hand from the top of my head to the small of my back, petting me as he held me in his lap. His eyes remained fixed on some distant thought, gazing across the room at the bare wall.

He held me like that for nearly an hour, before patting me on my head and sending me back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. I crawled in on my hands and knees, knowing how much it usually turned him on to see me crawl naked across the floor. His eyes followed me and I could see the lust in them, but it was almost obscured by the anxiety still clouding his expression. Something was definitely wrong with him. He was still watching me as I began washing the dishes. I was still unclothed, and usually watching me do chores naked would have been irresistible to him, but not tonight. When I turned back to look at him, after placing the last dish in the dishwasher, he had already left the room. Still confused and deeply concerned, I gathered my clothes and walked back out to my shack.