Loving My Master Pt. 02

Phoebe had been of the Cunning Plantation for weeks now, slowly getting to know the place whilst the family was away. The large plantation house fronted with columns of white stone was by far more grand than the one she had known as a child. Unlike many, it was built entirely of stone in defense of the often heavy Caribbean storms.

The house itself was circled by a set of neatly laid gardens which in turn were closed by a high hedge wall, secluding the private house from the dreary fields with their black workers. The fields themselves patterned the surrounding land, worked endlessly by slaves for up to eighteen hours a day, with few or no days of rest.

Each task of the production was long and arduous, to say nothing of dangerous.

Phoebe had explored most of the estate but had kept far away from the mill and boiling houses for she already knew what she'd see there. In the mill, slaves constantly fed the sugar cane into grinding wheels. It was a tedious job that led to a wandering mind and hundreds lost their arms, the bones ground to dust when caught. The workers were oversaw by another slave with a sharpened machete and if they were lucky, he'd be nearby to take their arms off in a swift blow to save them from being drawn further into the crushing wheels.

Worse were the boiling houses where slaves refined the sugar in huge vats, ladling off the waste product until the substance was pure. The boiling heat of the process, made unbearable by the merciless sun beating down on the buildings was excruciating but the burning was nothing compared to getting the boiling sugar on your flesh. It stuck like glue, eating away at the flesh until it cooled, almost impossible to get off. It was not unheard of for slaves to fall into the vats completely and Phoebe could only hope that the end was quick when they did.

As a housemaid and ladies maid, she lived in the large house, in the servants quarters where she had a simple sleeping cell. But she spent the time she wasn't working in the slave town on the grounds, which was hidden by a stand of trees so that the family should never have to see it's ugliness. Ten windowless shacks housed the plantations one hundred odd slaves. The conditions were nowhere near as bad as some, where the workers were packed in like salt fish in a barrel.

It was from the tree line that she saw the family return, a small procession coming up the coast road. She'd been enjoying the shade with some of the other women, who were sharing the small time of freedom they had when the masters were away.

The sight of the family send her scuttling back to the big house at break neck speed. She knew by the time she had reached the servants entrance that she would never make it through the twisting back corridors to the yard before the family did. It filled her with a sick dread as she forced herself on, the leaden weight in her stomach seeming to hold her down as she began to flag. She almost burst into the yard, finding it hard to slow from the last burst of speed. As she skidded into line with the other maids she almost wept at the scene she'd maid. An unknown gentleman was handing down the steely mistress of the house from the carriage while the master and his son stood nearby. All turned at her entrance and although she kept her head low, she knew the fabled burning eyes of the Cunning family would be fixing her with the dread glare. She felt the young Richard's most of all, his touched almost deep enough to brand her soul. It was almost the same, an unknowing force that made her want both to thrust her chin out with dignity and cover her chest with one arm and grip the cloth or her dress to her thighs in misguided protection.

'As I was saying Sir John.' Richard Cunning continued in his interrupted conversation, biting each word off through a clenched jaw 'I have also taken on the Hobson land, have you been there? It makes a sizeable increase to the land we'll be farming.'

Despite her burning face and the breathlessness Phoebe felt, her mind mercilessly processed this information, increasing her horror.

Richard Cunning Senior was a self made man who had married money. While rich and getting richer, the British Sugar trade was a difficult market to navigate. She'd learnt enough at her old home that despite the constant need for growth in the market, without contacts back in Britain, a plantation owner was unlikely to get as good a deal as he'd like. The master was always trying to forge new alliances, or so the other house slaves said, courting rich and powerful plantation owners and lords with influence in the West India Company, even adopting a more genteel accent in their presence. That she had marred the process made her once again feel a sick weight sink in her stomach. She hadn't heard the end of this nor felt that last thrilling stare of Richard Cunning Jr.

Richard Henry Robin Cunning Jr placed a cigarillo between his lips and sparked a match off the barn wall. Once fragrant smoke wreathed his face, he tossed it to the ground and pinched out the flame with a pointed boot, his spurs raking the cobbled floor.

He'd left his father and Sir John talking business over whisky for the honour of his family, but mostly for his own amusement. While he waited, he stood by the heat of the forge and drank a sip or too of a spiced rum from a hip flask. It was a family brew, something they were perfecting to be shipped back to England, a taste of the Caribbean.

He took another swig and when he heard footsteps, set the silver hip flask on a milking stool.

The slave girl came in and had the decency to keep her eyes lowered when she bobbed a curtsy. It amused him that she held herself so rigid; there was nothing presumptuous in her bearing but he prided himself on being able to spot the passive aggressive tension in her frame. It happened in slaves who had more privileged positions, they almost forgot what they were sometimes.

'Where do you come from girl?' He said.

'The Jameson Plantation Sir, you know, the one on the east side of the island?' Phoebe replied.

'I know the Jameson place!' Richard said with a little more force than necessary. Even the girl's manners needed checking and his hand flexed instinctively for a crop that wasn't currently grasped below the armpit. He didn't make a habit of striking anyone, but his lean muscled height and a ready crop cowed even the most brutish slaves.

'So, you used to be Jameson's slave uh?' He continued 'That figures. I know that old meat sack for sure. Ol' Yellabelly that's what we call him, fears the lash you see. You ain't never been lashed girl, I can see that. It's in your bearings, like a horse hitched to the plow for the first time, It shrugs it's restraints. You stand there and bow, but you don't bow inside.'

He could see a sudden fear then in her eyes, as she tried to figure out whether his intentions were to actually lash her. To keep her off foot he continued talking.

'Most blackies come naturally to it, it's a submissiveness born and I suppose . . . bred.' he drawled, his boots clacking sharply as he prowled around her 'I'm surprised you don't have it instinctively, being born as a slave. Must be the white in you. What? You don't think I can see that?' He trailed a finger along the length of her arm.

'Coffee with cream.' he mused as he looked over her features, a mix of races. Her lips were still full, pink where they touched, running to brown. Her eyes were almond shaped, the lids heavy and the the iris' glittering in the light from the forge and while she bore all the baser features of her race, they were softened somehow.

Even in the plain black calico of a housemaid she was beautiful and she made fire course through his veins hotter than any rum could. Her frame was all from her mothers side though, with more shape than any white woman. Her breasts were hidden by her apron but he tried to imagine the colouring of her nipples. She was perhaps a little bottom heavy, her buttocks large and her hips wide but it was all far from displeasing and he was very aware that his cock was twitching in his trousers at the thought of his come running down her heavy thighs. He stepped in closer, reaching out arms to pull her to him but she flinched away.

'You can't!' She blurted, and it was everything he needed her to say. As she tugged away from him, turning to leave he wrapped his arms round her, hugging her to him. His lips mashed against her ear as he hissed through gritted teeth.

'I can't? Can I not? I think you'll find I can.'

He chuckled when she almost begged the words 'Please don't.' as his hands kneaded her breasts painfully.

'Don't what? What're you afraid off? You think I'm going to fuck you girl? Like your white father did to your mother? Huh? What's the matter? Have you never been fucked before? Did that fat Ol' Yellabelly not stick his prick in you? No? Well, maybe some other time. No, I'm not going to fuck you, I've got other ways to teach you your place.'

His grip hurt her and with each question his voice built in volume as he spun her back towards the furnace and let her stumble into the anvil. It caught her squarely in the gut so that her breath burst from her lungs and left her helpless. Even if she was not gasping for air, Phoebe would've been helpless with pain. Either way she was vulnerable and Richard was on her within seconds. His left hand grasped the cloth of her dress below the neck and held her firmly to the anvil. She was very aware of the heat from the forge lapping over her in waves, like the pain pulsing in her stomach as she sucked in ragged breaths. His right hand was gathering the folds of her dress and with that realisation she started to struggle again, fear coiling within her. Even without being is such a compromising position she wouldn't have been able to throw him off, every contact she made with him, wherever on his body was met with the feel of rippling muscle. When he tossed her dress and petticoats over her back, she felt sure that he would take her there and then, with her knees grinding in the gritty dirt. A vision of him floated through her mind, him mounting her like a stallion taking a mare, or worse, a dog rutting a bitch. She could feel his manhood pressing against her from behind and despite the heat from the coals she could feel him burning with perhaps desire or possibly anger, or more likely a mixture of the two.

Even though the situation wasn't to Phoebe's choosing and despite the fact that she was terrified of what he would do, she nonetheless felt herself readying from him, and when her thighs grew wet it was a betrayal of her very body.

She held her breath when his fingers parted her cheeks, and when his hand left suddenly she braced herself for the inevitable: Then came the pain, but no, worse than just pain, agony, burning agony. He wasn't taking what was left of her innocence, he was branding her.