by Sophie Sin
Sell? To who and how? Are the questions that first come to mind.
My thoughts are broken when the door to the hut slams inwards. It seems the answers to my questions have come knocking. I lose my bladder when I see who.
The Sale of Ms. Sarah Johnson
“Great chief, you must understand that a woman of her breeding probably has a hefty ransom attached. We are taking a big risk here.”
The three men that slouch to the side of where I am being held on my knees are Dutch and the enemy of all citizens of the British Commonwealth everywhere. Looking at their dirt smeared faces, toothless mouths and being exposed to the whiskey touched stench, I am currently quite certain that the hyena would have made a better option for my end to my life.
The furthermost of them is staring at me. I dare to meet his eyes with a chilling glare and he opens his mouth in what I can only assume is his attempt at a smile. I turn my head away quickly.
The facts are now clear: I am in the hands of Satan and he is ugly, stank and unkempt.
“You speak of risk, but my man has taken considerable risk in capturing her. It was not easy for him, on his account, setting the guides that were searching for her on the wrong path. There is that to consider here.”
That is the thick and deep voice of the chief. He sits upon a large throne made of interlocking pieces of wood, nails and feathers and is probably the largest and most powerful black man I have ever seen.
“But the price you suggest does not befit the risk we will take in extracting moneys from her family. You must go lower.”
I've had enough at this point. I squeak into the filthy rag that my captor threw over my mouth when I started screaming for help and try to get the chief's attention.
He glances to me once and I stop. That man scares me in a way that no man has. He is attractive, there is no doubt in that with those high strong cheekbones and big muscular frame, but there is a control in him, a reserve of something surreal, that I cannot easily define and that, as a woman, makes me quiver down the deepest parts of my soul.
“Garj, take off her gag for a moment.”
My nasty captor, whose hands still stink of hyena blood, removes the rag and allows me a few clean breathes.
“Your family is wealthy?” the big man asks, leaning forward to look down at me where I am being forced to my knees on the dirt floor of his large hut.
I throw my blond hair back.
“Not very. My father is a painter and my mother a poet.”
His smile is slow and strong.
“You dare lie to me?”
I gulp and answer that I do not.
“Yet you do,” is his reply.
His eyes meet the lead Dutchman's. The three of them are watching me like the animals they are. These ones will not hesitate to take what is not theirs when I am away from the black men here.
“I think she is worth more than you say. Your men were quick to come to my camp. They knew she was here and I would bet that they know her name as well.”
His back clonks against the throne as he reclines back against it. The big man wraps his fingers together. I wait to hear what my fate will be as he takes a few moments of consideration.
“We will hold on to her for a day and a little. It would be good to talk to the French and see if they might make a better offer.”
The leader of the purchasing party grits his teeth and nods curtly.
“When you are ready to deal then we will be waiting.”
They stride out and I am left alone with the chief in his large hut and the man who captured me. It is hot and I am sweating from more than the heat.
“I am going to give you a choice, young woman,” the chief says when the door has clonked closed. He waits for me to ask what.
“What is it?”
He stands. I never noted exactly how tall he was. This monster of a man is both tall and huge at the same time – a rare thing in my personal experience with the opposite sex. Truly, I have never seen a black man like this.
“My men and I have devised a method in these situations to extract the truth from female captives that is quite effective. I would know who you are and who your connections are.” The chief looks to me sternly. “Those fools would not have rushed here as they did if you were not very important.”
Two steps and he's looking down at me from what seems an infinite amount of height.
“You choice is this: You undergo our trial or we cut it out of you. I'm sure the dutch will still take you with a few scars. It might even bring your price down a little. They will be well pleased.”
Such a casual offer of violence... His expression never changes. The man is calm and collected and will do what he says.
“What is the trial?”
“Something that will hurt, but only in a way that a woman can appreciate.”
It is an easy decision.
“I will take the trail.”
The man nods his head in respect and turns his back.
“Prepare her. I will summon those I have chosen for this to my hut.”
Again, I'm dragged into the darkness by my hair. It will be the second and last time that happens this night.
The Trail Of The Captive
My vision spins and swirls. The world jerks in a halted stilted fashion as I sway in time to the large drums that the men are beating on at a tempo that seems near madness.
Dirt is kicked up by my feet as I twirl. My body is hot and tickled with ecstasy while I dance and dance and revel in the throes of the warm heat which filled me to the brim after I was given a sweet tasting and smelling 'sacred drink' – one that I suspect was really an aphrodisiac, but like none I have ever heard of its potency.
Around me the wooden walls of the chief's meeting hut rock with the weight of their feet stamping against the floor and the drums in their hands.
I gyrate my hips to that sound in a lewd mixture of dance and intuitive female eroticism. My body is completely naked from head to toe as I do this odd dance. The flesh of my large breasts wobbles in time to my trim belly and womanly hips shifting left-to-right. There is the faintest glisten of sweat on my brow, my blond hair is thrown back wildly and my eyes seem overly wide beyond what they would be normally.
A hand strays out to my rear as I draw closer to the right side of the semi-circle that fans out to either side of the chief and his throne. I slap it away with the chasteness of an upper class woman, but a moment after welcome it back with the harlotry of one so possessed with the fire in their inner body that it feels close to exploding.
I dance and I dance and I dance some more in time with the beating of my own heart and that of the drums that echo in my mind.
Any thought of modesty has left me and since they took from me my clothing I have progressively cared less and less about such invading thoughts as “Is this really okay?” and “Mother would definitely not agree with this.”
Those feelings have long gone.
Instead there are only the two sides to Satan's coin: Love and lust.
I love them because they love me.
I lust after them because they lust for me.
It is a simple equation, but one that I only understand now with this hot warmth bouncing all over my body.
My eyes are everywhere in the heated final moments of my dance. Their bodies are firm and muscular. Each is black and each has a manhood of such size that a woman like myself could go a lifetime with those of paler cast and never see quite as many as are aligned in this one room. All of this creates a puddling wetness between my knees that holds the must of lusty excitement and a little hesitant swell of anxiety in my stomach at the thought of what big black things can do to small white women.
In the end I cannot hold myself back from dancing closer to closer to them as their tempo reaches something far beyond just music.
The lack of modest of my suggestive gestures and wanting glances are enough to scar my self with lines of grievances that will take months to come to terms with
. However, in this moment I am randy; in this moment I want them, NEED THEM, and I will take nothing else but to have them, here, now, and quickly.
Out of the semi-circle a young black man of hardened body and wild eyes leaps out. His bare feet crunch into the earth as he strides towards me with arms extended and eyes hard on my body. He nearly reaches me, but is met by a bigger, stronger, more experienced man on the way and is tossed back to his place before anything can happen.
That man – the aggressive elder, an old wolf in human form – turns to me, cracking his knuckles in readiness as he stalks my dancing body, and promises me with his eyes alone that he would do the most sinful of acts on me if I only were to ask.
“HALT!”
The command rings throughout the meeting hut. The drums come to a sharp stop. Every one of the men stands stock still in waiting for the command that will surely follow to pounce.
I waver on for a time before coming to a halt myself.
“What?” I ask finally when no one moves to continue or take advantage of me as I hope so dearly they will.
“You are ready,” the chief pronounces from throne with a great wave of his hand.
I watch him closely. He sits so casually, so idly, that I would mistake him for being uninterested if his impressive manhood wasn't half way up his rock hard stomach at this point.
“Ready for what?” I voice as annoyance rises that the fun has ceased.
His answer is instead to act.
The chief bellows loud enough to shake the floor that his men should bring me forward.
I am grabbed by many hands slick with sweat and groping desire to be held on high. I reach up as I am bought forward to the waiting leader of this group and run my fingers along the stitched wood roof above me.
The tribesmen lay me down on his warm lap. His stomach is hard, but it is his chest that thrills me. It is like stone and the great billows of his lungs works in slow time behind it. If I needed to know that this one is not fearful, anxious or otherwise then this confirms it. If anything, as he is naked too, I can feel only his excitement in the steel between his legs.
He runs two fingers over my jaw. “Do you accept the trail?”
Such a silly question. I mean how could I not? This thing we do has proven to be good for me so far. Even if it was only because of the sacred drink they gave me, what do I care? It feels good and, in fact, it feels right as well.
“Yes.”
It is a single word but changes everything.
Suddenly, my plump rear is pulled back. The old wolf of a man with his black orbs full of promise digs his fingers into the flesh of it with an admiring grunt. I am well rounded and apple bottomed in shape and from what I have seen of their women during trips to and from this hut they are not of that variety.
He slaps his hips forward and I cry out loudly as something of great thickness and warmth enters me.
“Ahhhhh---!”
That thickness is inside of me. His manhood has entered me so deeply as to hit the very deepest point – territory that no upper class lover, well endowed or not, has ever been.
I cry out in small moans of agony and delight as he slowly works inch after inch of his manhood in and out of my wet and weakened womanhood. The very end of it delves through my wetness and crinkles through the folds of me to find new ways to please.
“Owwww!” I cry.
My eyes slip up to the ceiling and my knees come together. A trail of yellow flows down my thighs and puddles around my daintily pointed toes. It is not an unwelcome release of pressure in the state that I'm in. He has me too full for comfort.
The chief sits before me throughout this. His eyes crinkle in enjoyment as he watches me taking the thick shaft of his fellow tribesman into my body. I am certain that he knows that this is nothing like the white men that I have lain with. If he wanted to make me a convert to the more masculine powers of the black man then he has done a splendid job.
The old wolf's use of me is brutal and as painful as promised. The chief was right when he said that this trial was one of pain that only a woman would understand. Seven hard strikes and I am like mud at the bottom of the river: Slowly fading away in the pureness of that which rushes by me. The other men have to hold me up as I am used in this fashion. My back is arched, my rear strained and my legs barely able to hold me up. It is then that he...
“Haaaa!!!”
Warm, wet, wonderful juices squirt all over my lower back and spine. I hadn't realized that he'd pulled out until just this second. It layers my skin in gooey white mess that dribbles down my sides to the floor below.
If this was an indication of rest, the men surely didn't get the message. I am filled once more and by the young man who was so eager before this time. His strokes are fast and elicit grunts of a very unladylike fashion from my lips.
The chief leans forward and looks me firmly in the eyes. “Tell me your name,” he urges.
I close my mouth tightly. I will never speak to him of my private things. He wishes to draw this information out of me through this sex and his sacred drink and, although both are mischievously encouraging me to listen and respond, I am not that easy a woman to trick into such foolishness as that. I will not go to the Dutch and become more of a burden to my father and mother than I already am. He will not get what he wants from me.
“Talk,” he yells into my face.
My arms tense and I try to push away from his anger.
“Talk,” the man insists more quietly on composing himself.
Even in that sexy voice with how roughly it echoes in my mind, I will not bend. He can yell, scream, seduce, whatever and I will not speak of things that I may not.
The young one in my rear yanks himself from the folds of my beauty and layers me with youthful vigor with the seed of his loins.
Before I can beg mercy from this assault, another takes me. This one too is like a rabbit and clearly has never had a white woman before. His manhood swells up to near tearing proportions as he hammers away like a mad hammerer given a stack of one too many nails.
“Arghhhh...” I moan. The warmth that was present before has become sickly sweat in flavor. My mouth tastes toxic and my heart is beating much too fast. I'm not sure if it's the sex or something else, but I'm dripping liquids down my thighs like I have never done before. It's so intense that I find myself losing all clarity of mind and that is something that I must keep with me if I am to overcome this trial of fire that the chief and his men have put upon me.
Opening my eyes wide in recognition of their intent, I grab out at anything to steady myself and find the chief's huge manhood in my hands. I thrash on it wildly – not caring for gentleness but wanting to hold to this world through any means possible. His expression is somewhat pained but no hands reach to stop me in my efforts. This thing is large enough that even two of my small hands can't cover even half of it. I work my fingers up the sides of this beast of a tool until he finally starts shifting about with an uncomfortable need on his features.
“Haaaa!”
Another man layers me and another inserts himself inside.
“Suck.”
I'm pushed down on the chief's manhood by his own hand. It is sticky and hot and thick enough that I choke on tasting it. This man knows of the French ladies' ways it would seem and I am not uneducated either. I work my throat over his tip and down the shaft to about half way. It is a very long pole and one that pulses with masculine energy very often. My jaw aches to either side just taking it like this.
“Tell me your name,” he urges in a near whine.
I come up, shake my head and spit down on his manhood. The clear saliva slithers down the left side and over and under to his great full rounds. I can see in this man's eyes that he will not stop his questioning, but neither will I speak to him of what he doesn't need to know.
My small hands pump on him as the next man finishes himself on my rear, creating quite a puddle before pulling off.
The chief growls in annoyance
at my defiance of his requests and yells, “Enough of this! Turn her.”
I'm spun, positioned and unprepared for what happens next. The huge black man forces my waist down firmly and takes me in one movement. His powerful hips work in and out of my womanhood at such great pace that I worry that I will bleed with the intensity of it.
I scream and moan and cry out and yell and use expletives in mass.
More and more and more he ups the pace.
Harder and harder and harder do I try to hold my mind intact.
“No!” I cry as his fingers dig into my waist. “I can't take any more.”
There is no mercy in him, only a mission: One that might destroy me.
“Youuuuu---” he growls, “--- will tell me your nammeee!”
“Ahhhh!” I cry at long last.
The orgasm is quick and one that satisfies. I slide forward. My head is aching badly now. I am losing myself to this huge manhood that doesn't even have the decency to stop pumping away as I correct my body to a more suitable position. I know that soon I will not be able to keep up with the hardness of his strikes. Soon I will succumb to them.
Minutes later he lets his juices flow up into me in one warm puddle. I am drawn from him and placed on the floor. Man after man visits me in the hours that pass into morning. I do not speak my name. That is all I know as I fall into a long sleep at the end of it.
*****
“My chief, what shall we do?” the old wolf asks. “The woman is the first to resist us like this.”
The huge sweating hulk of the chief slaps down on his thrown. How many times did he take this gorgeous white woman? How many times did he ask her the most simple of questions and get no answer?
He runs his hands through his short cropped hair to clear the sweat and looks to his most trusted warrior. What he says is true. This woman resting on the floor is truly the first to resist and his respect is strong for her due to that.
“Take her to the seas and place her on a ship with a man from our tribe,” he orders. He turns his gaze to her and looks down on the unnamed woman for a long time before murmuring, “The Dutch do not deserve a woman of this quality.”