Plantation Lullabies

He awoke, on the floor, and he could barely move his limbs. His ass had been permanently marked and he was sure it was something that indicated that he was the property of the Domina Emmanuelle. One of the women towered over him and kicked him in the side. He thought for a minute she was just abusing him but he soon realized that he was being directed to move. He crawled on his hands and knees to the corner of the room where there were two metal bowls on the floor like dog dishes. The food was covered with flies and the water was brown. He lapped at the water like a dog, dismissing the thoughts of what sort of bacteria and germs flourished in it. The food was rancid and greasy and he could only stomach a few mouthfuls before he started to vomit again.

There were three women in total and while he was still bringing up what little food he had been able to stomach, he felt a leash being applied to his throat and being pulled across the room. There was a pot of water being heated on the fire and full enema equipment prepared. Charles looked around and pleaded with his eyes. Boiling water would kill him, burn his intestines. Tears stained his cheeks but his body was too weak to fight. Someone removed his ball gag but he didn't have the strength to fight, he simply prepared himself for the pain that was to come.

The water was actually heated to 112 degrees, not hot enough to kill him but more than hot enough to inflict excruciating torture. Fingers probed his asshole without the benefit of lube and he felt the thick end of a medical speculum being inserted. They spread the apparatus so they could insert the nozzle deeply into his colon. He braced himself in defiance, determined not to show signs of weakness but the second the clamp was released and the scalding water flowed into his bowels, he screamed out like a wounded animal. Slapping his face, the women revived him just as he was to be administered a second enema of ice cold water. The second enema was more painful than the first and he soon lost consciousness again.

Restraints were placed on his ankles, wrists, and balls so that if he moved his arms or tried to run it would cause his testicles to be pulled painfully from his body. The women picked him up and placed him in a box smaller than a coffin and shut the lid, leaving him to expel the rest of the contents of his bowel in the tiny prison. He smelled his burnt flesh over the putrid filth that leaked from his anus. He closed his eyes and tried to leave his body, to go someplace where he was normal, where pain didn't motivate his perverse fantasies.

Someone opened the lid to the box. He braced himself for more torture but he felt the soothing touch of a hand helping him sit up. He tried to adjust his eyes only to see a white man. He had a plate of food and fed Charles with his dirty, bare hands. It was a humiliation the likes of which Charles had never contemplated before, to have be dependent upon the kindness of another man for his very survival. His mind flashed to an image of what Black men might have had to endure but he couldn't hold the thought too long. He was too exhausted to fathom the concept that his experience was choreographed but actual slaves didn't have a safe word, there was no reprieve at the end of a week, a month, a day, a decade, or a lifetime. The white man snapped him out of his daydream and said, "Dem 'ooman dun fuh smaa't. De buckruh dey whup baa." It was almost beyond his comprehension how this white man was speaking that gibberish.

"Speak English, I don't understand," Charles pleaded. What the hell was wrong with him? Charles tried to comprehend what could have happened to him in order for him to start communicating in the language of these vicious people. He remembered the cryptic message on the Internet and realized that he had been reading some variation of what these people were speaking. Was this man aiding him one of the men that chose to stay? Why would anyone want to stay in this hell? Questions raced through his mind.

The man pulled a pouch from around his neck and put some soothing salve on Charles' burns and put a container filled with fresh water in the coffin slamming the lid closed again. Charles licked what rice and turtle meat he could from his lips and tried his best to find some comfortable position in that tight, cramped space.

He was not to get much sleep as the women would take turns abusing him every couple of hours. The days ran together as his abuse rituals seemed to run together. One woman applied an electric cattle prod to his testicles and seemed amused at the sounds he made in response, at watching his body contort and tremble with pain. Another tied him to a tree and covered his body with honey as she let insects sting and bite him and left in him the oppressive sun like an ornament on a lynching Christmas tree. Once he was beaten on the bottoms of his feet until he passed out and they seemed to enjoy using his body as practice for their single tail whips, with which they were quite expert. He would be secured to a large boulder and made to hold his asscheeks apart while they aimed for the bull's eye. The pain was so intense he knew that losing consciousness was his only chance to survive the sharp, stinging blows.

The women led him to the stables one day and made him lie on a bale of hay. A horse was brought out of the stalls and he thought for sure he was going to have to serve as the receptacle for his sperm in either his mouth or asscunt. Instead they removed the bit from the horse's mouth and placed it directly into Charles' mouth and hooked him to a plow. They made him work the fields like an animal, whipping him every time he faltered. The salt from his sweat stung the cuts on his back and the sun burned his pale flesh to a searing, hot red. His body wasn't strong, he wasn't muscular and well-built like African men so he fell often, unable to move the earth as he was instructed to do. Every muscle in his body was sore, every organ in his body suffered from the effects of malnourishment and dehydration. His flesh was covered in bruises where he had been beaten, paddled, and whipped. His cock hadn't been hard in days, since he left the comfort of the big house.

Of course, he was raped every day. It was brutal and vicious and always with objects that could puncture his intestines and end his life, the handle of an axe, an empty bottle of wine, an oversized vegetable from the garden, whatever happened to be handy. He was always left bleeding from his rectum and his cock and balls endured more punishment than he'd thought possible. Metal sounds were shoved in his piss hole and heavy weights applied to his balls. It was as if the women were free to experiment on how much pain could inflict on his genitals short of castration. Many times, the Black bitches held the blade of a knife or a rusty razor to his nuts and threatened to make him a eunuch if he uttered a sound. In the back of his mind, he realized that under other circumstances he would have been getting pleasure from this treatment but at some point, he understood that this experience had nothing to do with sex. This was about the fear and horror of real enslavement. He remained silent, even in the face of his manhood being removed and decided to do whatever he had to do in order to live. That was his only goal-- to live to another day with the hopes that he would be able to go home. Charles had become a real slave.

Sleep was at a premium as he was never allowed to get more than an hour at a time. By the fourth, or fifth day, the women stopped locking him in his coffin and wouldn't put on his leg and wrist restraints. His friend would come nightly, giving him food and water to keep him alive; never uttering a word in English. Charles came to expect abuse as routine and the pain was transformed into something other than pleasurable, other than ache; he would leave his body in order to escape the sensations and a part of him died inside every day.

On day six, he was awakened with the sun and taken to a pond to bathe. The water was cold but it felt good. He was given lye soap and he washed his hair and body with the harsh smelling bar. It felt good to rid himself of the stink that oozed from his pores. Once finished, he was given a metal cup filled with oil to apply to his body. He did his best to rub it into every inch of his skin because he appreciated the luxury of the feel on his aching body. There was a pile of clothes for him to put on, pants, a shirt, and even shoes. He stood taller in his outfit, feeling superior to the handful of white men who were wearing their burlap frocks. Breakfast was plentiful. Fresh fruit, pancakes with syrup, eggs, bacon, toast, juice and coffee satisfied his appetite. He gorged himself so much he was afraid he would throw it all up.

By mid-morning, he was taken to the big house and led to the master bedroom. It was complete with all the Victorian drama of the period, a four-poster bed, a large fireplace, windows and a balcony that looked out over the property. He felt unworthy to sit on the furniture so he just stood, waiting for what he was sure was going to be an inspection or something by Mistress Emmanuelle.

"Have you enjoyed your stay thus far, Chuck," she said, breezing into the room with melodramatic flair?

Charles couldn't answer. He's hated every second of the experience since he stepped on the boat but he was terrified that if he didn't answer affirmatively he'd be subjected to harsh punishment more severe than anything he'd endured before. It was also the first time in days he'd heard his native tongue. His brain misfired and shut down. Emmanuelle took it in stride and continued on. "Take off your shirt, let me see your markings."

"Yes, Mistress." He unbuttoned his shirt and felt the first signs of arousal that he'd felt since leaving her office the day they were introduced. She circled his body; lightly brushing her fingers across the welts and bruises. Her touch was extremely gentle and Charles was falling victim to her manipulations. The only permanent mark that he'd received was the brand but the most painful torture he'd received was mental.

She unbuttoned his pants and inspected her mark. "Nice, it should heal really well. Remind me to get a picture of it before you leave." She stroked his cock, producing an erection but Charles was determined to deny her the satisfaction of knowing he was mentally aroused. What she had done to him was in fact criminal and he only hoped to make it one more day so that he could call the police and have her arrested. He wanted his dignity back, his humanity back.

Mistress Emmanuelle started to undress in front of Charles. His jaw dropped as he saw her sexy body revealed and once again he was victim to his weak resolution. She stripped down to a leather corset, black, silk stockings, and patent leather high heels. She bent over to retrieve something and he was graced with a perfect view of her ass this time. Within a second he flashed back to the brazen display of power when she pissed in the mouth of that boy. His true nature of a sub emerged and he longed to place his mouth there and worship her, to taste her musky asshole, smell its rich fragrance, and clean her completely.

She turned to face him and she was wearing a strapon the dimensions of which seemed to compare to the horse. It was pitch black and over a foot in length and it appeared to be as thick as a beer can.

"Suck it."

Her instructions were clear and concise and he was on his knees worshipping the dark phallus before he could rationalize if it was right or wrong. She pumped his mouth full of the silicone dick and his sluttish nature began to rise. He began trying to get the entire length in his mouth, spit drooled from the corners of his mouth and he was fully erect and throbbing. He hated himself for how quickly he betrayed his principles for his libido. She encouraged his behavior, taunting him, teasing him. "You dirty fucking whore. Look at you. I've reduced you to nothing and here you are, sucking this big black dick like a cheap tramp. Now you know why white men are truly inferior. Now you see the evidence. Your gross, pale body is pathetic, your cock is repulsive, you can't do any work, and you wouldn't survive a month if you had to be a real slave. And through it all, you're still here sucking my big, black dick like the little bitch you really are."

Charles hated that woman more than he hated anyone else in life at that very moment. If she wasn't so right, if her words weren't so true, it would have made his slutty actions that much less humiliating. She was right. He knew that if Blacks had enslaved whites, that whites would have never be able to endure the horrors that Blacks had done for centuries. The simple fact that he was still ruled by his sex drive, in the midst of complete psychological annihilation was evidence that he was demented and inferior. His revelations made him suck that much harder. He sucked that dick like he was paying homage to every Black man who had ever been whipped and emasculated, for every Black woman who had ever been raped and degraded. He was sucking that strapon to show his inferiority but not just sexually, he knew in his core that only someone pathetic and subhuman could find reason to be aroused by being degraded.

Before he knew what was happening, he heard himself begging to be used. "Rape me, beat me, use me. Do whatever you want to me. Fuck me please. Make me your bitch. Own me. PLEASE. Own me. Release me from my bondage of pretending to be the great, almighty white man. Torture me. Do anything you want." His pleas were becoming more urgent, more insistent. "Fuck me like the dirty, filthy, white pig I am. I bow to you; I worship you. I love you."

He was sobbing like a baby and terrified beyond measure. The room was spinning and he's freely given up the last bit of self-respect he'd tried to grasp onto. His boypussy was throbbing to be violated and used in ways that made his week-long ordeal seem like playtime in the park.

Mistress Emmanuelle grabbed his throat and began to choke him. He struggled but it was only the remnants of a fight of flight instinct. His mind and soul wanted her to choke him; he wanted her to control his life and his breath. Just as he felt himself passing out, he remembered her words of how she was going to make him pray for the sweet release of death. In that split second, in that epiphanal moment, he gained knowledge and understanding of what it was to be a true slave, not just a sexual submissive.

His unconsciousness, the literal state at least, didn't last very long. He awoke to find himself secured to the huge four-poster bed with his legs tied so that they were back over his head and his cock was aimed directly at his mouth. Emmanuelle climbed on the bed and straddled his body, giving him a perfect view of her pussy and ass from below. She placed the gigantic head of the strapon on his hole and began pushing it in. Not having a reason to be gentle, she stabbed and pumped the thick phallus deeply, causing the tender ring of muscle that protected his anus to give way to the marauding intruder.

"You fucking white bitch. I own you. I own your ass. I own you so completely I can do anything I want to you and you won't say a word. That's power. I've taken my true role as your superior. This is the way it's supposed to have been, with me controlling you. You stupid, worthless, pathetic, disgusting, nasty, insignificant worm. Does that hurt? Does it?"

Charles didn't have to answer, she knew it hurt him in a way he'd never felt with any pro Domme before. The physical pain was blinding but the psychological pain was debilitating. "Yes Mistress," was his only response as he felt her plunge deeper and deeper into his guts and pierce his very soul with her cruelty.

He awoke on day seven in a down filled bed and new clothes for him to wear and his personal belongings by the bed. Breakfast was prepared for him and if anyone had taken a snapshot of that scene they would have thought that he had just awoken from a week of rest and relaxation at a spa. Charles knew differently. He didn't know how he was going to go back to his normal life. He didn't know how he was going to go back to a society that existed off the fallacy that he was superior. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat there for a second trying to steady himself. Walking to the balcony, he saw an electric golf cart pulling up, dragging a white man behind, screaming and yelling about how he was going to sue anyone who touched him. It was a hard choice for him to pack his bags but he did and he wanted to thank Mistress Emmanuelle for the experience but thanks weren't appropriate. She'd destroyed his reality and his life would never be the same. He sat at the old-fashioned dressing table and wrote on the parchment stationary, "I will spread the word about the great works that you are doing here. Your humble slave, Charles."

Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK