400 Days of Oppression

by Wrath James White

  “You look stunning tonight, Delia. Do you still switch? I’d love to play with you again sometime.”

  “That is so tempting. You don’t know how tempting, really, but I’m afraid me and my new sub are in a monogamous relationship. But maybe she’d be cool with it if you could take us both on?”

  “Now, that would be fun. Remember though, I’m not just about whipping and spanking. I fuck whoever I top. Does your new playmate like dick?”

  “Don’t let the hype fool you. Most lesbians like dick every now and again. It’s just what’s attached to it that turns us off. That’s why we opt for vibrating plastic instead. Besides, then we can pick the size that best suits us whereas with men you’re stuck with what you got and most men aren’t built like you, darlin’. I’ll definitely keep your offer in mind though. I’m sure we could work something out.”

  They talked about fucking each other as if I wasn’t even standing there, and my jealousy was raging. I wanted to claw the bitch’s eyes out, but Kenyatta had trained me too well. I stood there obediently with my head down, watching as Kenyatta made small talk with the huge lesbian while I waited to see whether I was losing him forever or just for the evening.

  “How big are those magnificent tits of yours anyway, Delia?” Kenyatta asked hefting them in both hands while still holding pen and paper.

  “I’m an F-cup if you must know,” Delia replied, sticking her massive breasts out proudly.

  “My God, woman, I didn’t even know they came that big.”

  “I was a G-cup before I lost weight.”

  “I could lose myself between those tits. Definitely call me.”

  Kenyatta casually checked off lifetime membership in the middle of his playful flirtation and handed the form back to Delia as if he’d done nothing more significant than sold her a box of Girl Scout cookies. I wanted to scream, but again I remained silent as the man I loved prepared to give me away to another.

  Mistress Delia, stomped back onto the stage in her size ten stiletto hip boots, carrying the contracts for the dozen or more slaves up for bid. I looked around me at the other slaves who were about to be auctioned. They ranged in age from retirees to kids just barely old enough to legally drink. Some of them were new to the scene, novice subs in search of their first master. Some of them were veterans who’d been topped by almost every dom in the scene at one time or another. Predictably, there were more gay males than females and more of the jaded old bottoms than fresh-faced newbies. They all appeared anxious and excited. A few of them even looked bored. I was perhaps the only depressed and terrified face in the crowd. I was the only one who didn’t want to be there.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” a young Filipino kid asked in a voice that was annoyingly bubbly, almost giddy. I turned my back on him and lowered my head to hide the sudden burst of tears. I moved closer to Kenyatta and leaned on him as I wept, hiding my tears in his chest.

  “Please, Master. Please don’t sell me. Please don’t give me away,” I whispered to him as I wept.

  Kenyatta removed a handkerchief from his suit jacket and dabbed it in the tears, wiping them from my eyes then he kissed me gently on each cheek.

  “No more of that. Don’t embarrass me tonight. Go out there and show them what a well-trained, disciplined slave you are.”

  I could tell that he was nervous. He didn’t know what I’d do. He was afraid I’d embarrass him, get out there and fall apart, maybe start screaming and crying, fighting all the way to the stage. Or maybe he was afraid I’d run off the stage and refuse to go with whoever purchased me. That was my right, but it would be his shame. The other jealous doms who were intimidated by his comparative youth, good looks, and statuesque physique would laugh at him behind his back and gossip non-stop for years. I sucked up my tears and calmed myself. I could never embarrass him like that. I looked over at him and let him see the resolve in my face. He smiled at me and my heart felt as if it was pumping razor blades. My bottom lip trembled and my knees shook. Tears welled up in my eyes and it took everything within me to keep them from spilling out as I looked at his handsome face and that beautiful smile and the thought crossed my mind that I might never see him again or not at least until the 400 days was up. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes to catch any tears before they could fall, then I turned toward the stage. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t make a scene. Kenyatta had trained me well and I wanted everyone to know what a great dom my master was. I was proud of him, and I wanted everyone else to be proud of him too. I wanted him to be proud of me.

  Mistress Delia was back on the stage. The DJ cranked the music up a few decibels so that Delia had to raise her voice slightly to be heard. The first slave sauntered out with his head held high, strutting proud as a peacock. He was young and blonde with a slight tummy and no muscle tone. He looked like an office executive who had just left his cubicle in time to slip the leather gear out of his trunk and dash up onto the stage. I could imagine what he looked like in a shirt and tie and probably a pair of glasses that he cleaned compulsively. I knew the type. I worked with them every day and most of them needed a good spanking. The office boy bent over to show his asshole which was miraculously distended. He slipped a large butt plug in that was roughly the circumference of a soda can and the bids came fast and furious. He went for six hundred dollars.

  Next a mountainous woman, almost as large as Mistress Delia, walked up onto the stage and began clipping clothes hangers all over her titanic breasts. The bidding was slow for her. She went to the first bidder for two hundred dollars.

  A man that everyone in the scene new simply as “Old George” walked up on stage, and I was moved into place to follow him. Old George was well known in the scene. At fifty-seven he was one of the oldest members of the Society of “O” and by far the most jaded. It was rumored that it took vise grips on his nipples and vigorous cutting and caning to get him off. Kenyatta once confessed that he was afraid that he had experienced so much so early in life that he was dulling his senses to pleasure and pain and would wind up just like Old George when he got older. The idea terrified him. It terrified me too. The crowd was apparently just as intimidated by the depths of Old George’s masochism because he stood up there for almost a full minute without a single bid. Finally a young dom who didn’t know any better placed a mercy bid and Old George left the stage in the company of his new master for the price of fifty dollars. Then it was my turn.

  Mistress Delia gestured for me to accompany her on the stage and my legs began to shake again. Every muscle locked and refused to move. The room began to rock and tilt as if I was back in my box and everything began to gray, starting to go black. The crack of a whip on my naked ass brought me back. I let out a yelp and hopped out onto the stage, turning to see Kenyatta returning the bullwhip to the amused leather dyke he’d borrowed it from.

  “This beautiful sub was trained by our very own Master King. She is young and beautiful and experienced in all aspects of pain and pleasure. She enjoys spanking, caning, whipping, bondage, humiliation, and light blood play. Wow. She is quite a connoisseur for one so young. The bidding will start for this beautiful young bottom at five hundred dollars.”

  The bids flew as I knew they would. I was fresh meat, and I was the first sub Kenyatta had ever placed up for bid in all the years he’d been a member. He left the stage as soon as the bidding started and walked out into the crowd. My heart pounded, afraid that he was going to leave the loft with me still on stage going to the highest bidder. Instead he took a seat in the back of the room on the enormous bed, squeezed in between the other subs and doms, some of whom were already fucking. I just stared at him. Our eyes locked across the distance, and Kenyatta smiled again as the bidding quickly went from five hundred to seven hundred to a thousand and finally to two thousand.

  “Two thousand going once. Two thousand going twice…”

  In a panic, I looked down at the grizzled old dom who’d bid two thousand dollars for the right to torture and humiliate me. He was nea
rly as old as Old George and probably just as jaded and debauched. His head was shaven and his scalp was wrinkled and scarred from too much time in the sun and too many barroom brawls in his youth. He wore a black t-shirt and black jeans, and his body was thin and wrinkled but still hard and athletic. His face was lean and angular. Hard lines cut deep into the skin around his eyes and mouth and sharp cheek bones jutted through even more prominently than Kenyatta’s, only on him, with his eyelids sunken deep beneath his brow, it made him look sinister and cadaverous rather than regal. His thin lips were surrounded by a goatee that was turning from gray to white. There was something cruel in his eyes that terrified me every bit as much as the thought of leaving Kenyatta. I looked back up at my master just as he raised his hand.

  “Three thousand dollars.”

  I almost fainted. I was so overjoyed that tears leaped into my eyes and I began to laugh out loud. I didn’t care that I was going back home to that little box in the basement. All I cared was that I was going home with my master. He hadn’t sold me.

  “Well, here’s a first. Master King is bidding on his own slave. Three thousand going once. Three thousand going twice. Sold! To King for three thousand dollars. You may claim your slave, Sir,” Mistress Delia pronounced with a flourish.

  Kenyatta walked back across the room and up onto the stage. Everyone cheered when I ran across the stage and dove into his arms. I wept uncontrollably as he wrapped my fur coat around me once again.

  “Come on, Kitten. Let’s go home.” He hooked his leash back onto my collar and led me from the stage as more applause rose from the audience. This was probably the most romantic thing any of these libertines had witnessed in years. I kissed my Master’s full lips and stroked his powerful jaw, then ducked my head against his chest as he wrapped his powerful arm around my shoulders and whisked me from the room. We walked quickly to the exit, pausing only for Kenyatta to pay for the merchandise he had purchased.

  “Well, that was quite a little show. Why would you pay for your own property? Don’t tell me you’re getting soft?” the middle-aged woman in the red bustier said with a sarcastic grin as Kenyatta withdrew three thousand dollars in Bondage Bucks from his pocket. Roughly the equivalent of three hundred dollars.

  “It’s for charity. Just having a little fun in support of a good cause.”

  He turned his back and we walked together down the steps and out into the parking lot with me holding tight to my master and thinking I never wanted to let him go.

  We drove home in silence. I held my master the entire ride, my head nestled against his strong chest, one of his massive arms draped around my shoulders pulling me close, feeling safe and protected now that I hadn’t been sold away. I had come so close to losing him that now I knew I loved him more than anything else in life. I knew now more than ever that I would do anything to keep him. He had taught me two lessons that night.

  We pulled into the garage and Kenyatta hopped out and dragged me out of the car by my leash. He led me into the kitchen and I started to turn toward the basement when he jerked my leash and led me away from the basement door and toward the back yard.

  Out in the yard there was a wooden shed. I couldn’t remember seeing it there before, but it looked old so it must have been there all along and I had merely overlooked it. Kenyatta pulled off my fur coat and ordered me to remove the hip boots. Finally he removed the collar too and then walked back toward the house leaving me standing naked in the yard. I became self-conscious of the neighbors and looked quickly around, noting that the six foot block walls that surrounded the yard had recently been raised another three courses and were now just shy of ten feet tall. No one would be able to see into the yard now.

  I turned to look at Kenyatta as he opened the patio door and stepped back into the house. He said nothing to me, did not even turn to look back at me. He closed the sliding glass door without so much as a word, leaving me standing there wondering what I was supposed to do.

  I wanted to ask him if he wanted me to follow him into the house or wait for him in the yard. He had always given me instructions and now without his orders I was lost and confused. For a moment I feared that he was abandoning me. Then I reassured myself that if he was kicking me out he would have stripped me down in the front yard and kicked me to the curb. This was something else.

  But what?

  The patio light went out followed by the kitchen light and a few moments later the light went on in Kenyatta’s bedroom. I still did not know what I was supposed to do. I could only hope that he would come back to tell me what to do. I didn’t even care if he came back with the bullwhip as long as he did something, as long as he came back to me.

  Was there a whipping post in the shed? Would Kenyatta come back down and take me into the shed for a good whipping with the bullwhip? But for what? I had done everything he asked me to do tonight. Was I supposed to follow him up to the bedroom?

  I didn’t know what to do. I stood there a while longer until the light went out in Kenyatta’s bedroom. I still thought he might be coming back down the stairs with the whip so I remained standing right where he had left me until another five minutes went by and he hadn’t returned. Then my own fear of someone, one of the neighbors, peeking over the wall and seeing me standing there naked, overcame me and I walked over to the shed and stepped inside.

  The shed had a dirt floor with a large pile of hay stacked in the corner, a wool army blanket draped across it. There was a fireplace with wood and a cast iron pot I assumed for cooking. A hole in the ground and a bucket of water in the back of the shed was to serve as my toilet. I looked around with my mouth hanging open. I couldn’t believe he had kicked me out of the house. I almost wanted to cry before I realized that this meant I was through with the box in the basement. The auction had symbolized my arrival in America and now I was at my master’s house. Now, officially his property, officially a slave.

  I had no idea what my duties were to be. I immediately realized just how little I knew about the life of a slave. Almost all of my knowledge had come from watching the mini-series of Roots on PBS. I didn’t know if he was going to put me out in a field somewhere and make me pick cotton or tobacco or if he’d let me work in the big house, cooking and cleaning and doing whatever else he required of me. That night I couldn’t sleep. I was too nervous and anxious, wondering what Kenyatta had planned for me next. The moon traveled from one end of the sky to the other before I finally awoke to the sound of my door being kicked open.

  “Get in the kitchen and get breakfast ready. And then help mistress with her hair and makeup.”

  Kenyatta stood in the doorway to my little shack in his bathrobe with a toothbrush in his hand, glaring at me as if I’d failed him in some way.

  Mistress? What mistress? What new ingredient had Kenyatta added to the mix? Had he brought a new woman into the house to assist in my torment and if so, was he fucking her too?

  I blinked the morning sun from my eyes and stared back at him with my eyebrow raised, wondering what he was up to, then I remembered my role and lowered my head to stare at his foot, which was tapping the dirt floor impatiently as he waited for me to crawl out of bed.

  Kenyatta threw some clothes at my feet as I rose from my bed, then crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for me to dress myself. Two simple dresses, one brown one gray, an apron, a pair of white stockings, and some plain brown flats. He had obviously picked them out of a thrift store somewhere because there were places where the dresses had been torn and mended. He had also purchased them very early in the experiment, before I’d lost all my weight. The clothes now hung loosely from my bony frame as I hurried to shrug my way into them while Kenyatta’s eyes crawled all over me. I could tell that he wanted me, but something was holding him back.

  Who was this mistress?

  I didn’t dare ask. I knew I’d be finding out soon.

  Kenyatta smiled mischievously as he turned and walked back into the house.

  I finished dressing and raced to fo
llow him, now nearly as terrified and angry as I’d been at the auction the night before.

  What woman had Kenyatta brought into the house?

  I pulled open the screen door and shuffled nervously into the kitchen with my head down, but my eyes looking up and darting everywhere in search of this strange woman I was expected to serve. There was no one in the kitchen so I began pulling out the pots and pans to cook breakfast. I was taking the bacon and eggs from the refrigerator when someone smacked me hard on the ass. I jumped and one of the eggs tumbled from the carton and cracked open on the floor as I spun around.

  There was a small slender black woman standing behind me dressed in a short silk robe that just barely covered her panties. Her arms were crossed over her tiny pear-shaped breasts and a sardonic grin scarred her otherwise beautiful face. Her nails were long and perfectly manicured, her toes were painted as well, her legs were slender and tone, and her skin was a flawless caramel, smooth and unblemished. With the exception of one side smashed flat from where she’d obviously slept on it, her hair still looked as if she’d just left a beauty parlor. Everything about her said “high maintenance” and I recognized her instantly even though I’d never actually met her before. She was Kenyatta’s ex-wife.

  “That ass ain’t quite so big anymore is it? I’m sure Kenyatta must be terribly disappointed.”

  She looked me up and down, scowling contemptuously.

  “Clean that shit up. I want my eggs over medium and my bacon extra-crisp. Oh, and hurry up and make me some coffee. Two creams one sugar.”

  I was still staring at her with my mouth hanging open in astonishment when she turned around and walked to the kitchen table. She sat down and crossed her legs, her robe fell open and she was almost naked beneath it. Her body was perfect, not an ounce of fat on it. Her breasts were small but round and perky with large dark nipples like Hershey’s kisses. She was wearing a thong and it was obvious that she’d recently had a Brazilian wax. Looking at her it was hard to understand what Kenyatta had ever seen in me. I was this woman’s exact opposite. She was hard and lean and brown; I was soft and fleshy and white, at least I was when Kenyatta had first met me, before he’d starved the pounds off of me. Every woman I knew would have killed for her body. She almost had a six-pack. But yet Kenyatta had left her for me, and now she was back and I was to be her slave as well as his.