400 Days of Oppression (18 page)

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.