Freedom in the New World

He withdrew his penis and stood up above her on his knees. "Turn around, damn you!" He commanded her. "That ass of yours is not just for shitting from."

Thasra knew what Enoch meant, and this was not for the first time. When she arrived in the New World, her virginity from behind had remained intact. Indeed, she had never contemplated that anyone would choose to enter her from an orifice clearly not designed for the purpose. Surely this was as forbidden in the Holy Bible as the unnatural coupling of people of the same sex or between human and animal. But she knew now that what was forbidden was not therefore unpractised. Indeed, the very proscriptions against such acts seemed merely to make such acts the more attractive to people such as Enoch.

He pressed her face down onto the hard pillow by her shoulders, while guiding his erect penis, not without difficulty, not into the wider more appropriate hole, but in the smaller, tighter one. At first it was too tight to allow him even the smallest amount of access, but then Thasra felt drops of ale drip onto the small of her back. And she knew that he was using the ale to moisten his penis. He then thrust a moist finger, with his sharp, broken nails, deep into her anus.

"You're so damnably tight, my dear!" Enoch grunted. "After all these months, you'd have thought that you'd have loosened a little. What is it that you do to keep it so tight?"

But one finger wasn't enough. It was not the width of a fully erect penis, whose blunt soft end Thasra could feel pressing against her thigh as he thrust two fingers into her anus: a painful, unpleasant ache which pressed against the base of her stomach, chafed against the inside of her already tender vagina and made her feel very slightly sick. She had a sensation a little like having a shit, but one from which there would be no relief by the normal means. Despite herself, she gasped and shrieked from the unnatural pain. And then worse was to come, as Enoch's penis, inch by inch, pushed into her ass, guided by his hand and moistened by ale and spittle, while she gasped and yelped as it parted her bowels from inside. Bit by bit, it entered deeper, pressing forcefully against the tender nerves of her vagina whilst its end was lost in a realm of similarly lost sensation. When would this ordeal end?

Thankfully, not for as long as Thasra feared. As was so often the case when Enoch indulged his more perverse desires, he was unable to hold out for long before his penis exploded inside her in a moist, liquid mess of semen. As the horrible warm viscous fluid dribbled out of her ass and onto the inside of her buttocks and the back of her thighs, she could feel Enoch's penis shrivel like a shrivelled fruit. And then it could stay inside no longer and slid out of her to be hidden once again by the folds of his shirt.

This was, at last, the rest that Thasra had so waited for. Enoch slumped to one side, where the affects of his lustful exertions and those of the several flagons of ale he'd drunk that evening left him slumped, face toward the ceiling, and an arm around her shoulder, more to pinion her warm body to his than for any show of affection. The two lay there in the silence of the dark night, lit only by the last flickering glow of the candle and the moonlight coming through the half-closed shutters. Thasra, naked and ashamed, a black silhouette on white sheets with the emission of her shame still moist and cloying on her thighs, pubic hair and buttocks. Enoch, bare nobbly legs and scratchy scrawny neck protruded from either end of his large soiled shirt.

And then, when the candle finally extinguished itself, as so often happened, Enoch spoke to her, and also not to her, of his experiences in the War of Independence which had played such a defining part in his life. He spoke of the redcoats and the brave soldiers of the New Republic fighting for Democracy, Liberty and Self-Determination. He spoke of the bloody battles and his own courage in the face of British cannons, gunfire and bayonets. And he eulogised on the wisdom of President George Washington, Tom Paine, Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, and how they had carved a nation built on fair representation for taxation, freedom of people of all faiths (even the damnable Papists!) and countries of origin, a land where a man could stand free and proud. No longer were Americans the subjects of a distant King and a remote Parliament who took from its Colonies far more than they were prepared to give them back. At last, there was a nation in the world where every man was free and every man's opinion was respected.

Thasra knew enough to see that there were clear limits to that freedom and representation. She had no free voice and neither did any of the other slaves on that farm or on any other in the Union. Indeed, the only freedom she had known was on a far distant continent whose contours she now only knew from studying the map Enoch kept framed in his study. Often she had regarded the map, faded at the edges and with a margin full of fantastic beings, where the continent of her birth formed a triangle to the south with a dark, unlabelled interior which to her was where the only freedom that any African slave had ever known could be found. Instead, here she was in a continent of white devils and the few brown skinned ones (who were similarly cursed by the White Devil's desecration of their ancestral land), in another inverted triangle with just as much unlabelled space as there was in Africa. Perhaps there, in the midst of all that unlabelled space, there might be a similar liberty for slaves like her as she had once taken for granted.

Finally, as Thasra knew he would, Enoch slumbered off, a trail of saliva and snot down his cheek, and within minutes was snoring loudly and frequently. She gently disengaged his arm from around her shoulder, and turned round to face the wall where Enoch had mounted his musket and crossed swords. She could see their shadows as the full moon lit up the dark recesses of Enoch's bed chamber. All the while she felt the dull bruises inside her, from both ass and vagina, bruised by her master's ravages. If only she too could savour the freedom that Enoch relished so much.

But of course she could! She jumped up off the bed, and within two bounds she had a sword in her hand. She tenderly gauged its sharpness with her thumb as she did the knives in the kitchen. Clearly, all those redcoats that it had killed hadn't blunted it. She stood over Enoch, contemplating his shadowy length: the white shirt, the white skin, the White Devil.

Thasra knew enough from the times she had slaughtered swine in the kitchen that the best way to a kill was by decisiveness and speed. And that was exactly the message she heeded as she brought the full weight of the sword in one long elegant swoop down onto his bared neck. And then, with the rush of blood in her cheeks and encouraged by the gush of blood from his severed throat, she brought the sword down again and again, on his arms, on his chest, on his stomach, not giving him time to yell and undeterred by the blood that shot out from him as the blade slashed into his flesh.

She didn't know when he died. She didn't give herself time to find out, as she slashed at his blood-stained shirt, her naked body as covered in blood as her victim's. She only stopped when the exhaustion of her manic efforts had tired her enough that she needed the respite.

And then she stood back, blood dripping in streaks down her naked black skin. Now, she reasoned, with a smile breaking out on her ecstatic face, she too would know the taste of freedom in the New World.