400 Days of Oppression

by Wrath James White

  There was a baked chicken in the oven and mashed potatoes and corn on the cob on the stove. I worried for a moment that it would go to waste. Regardless of my worries, I continued preparing the meal. I set the dining room table, folded the napkins and laid out the silverware and plates. I stopped short of lighting a candle. There was no way I was going to prepare a romantic dinner for my man and his ex-wife.

  It felt weird to think of Kenyatta as “my man,” but I felt more connected to him since the experiment began than I had at any other time in our relationship. I wasn’t sure what that meant for our relationship. For weeks now, he had been my Master. It was already getting hard to remember when I wasn’t his property, when I wasn’t a slave. I wondered how successful we would be at resuming our normal roles when the time came. If the time came.

  Kenyatta came back downstairs wearing a robe and black and white checkered pajama pants. He sat down at the table and stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with both Angela and I. He barely seemed to notice we were in the same room. Angela sat down at the table across from Kenyatta, but didn’t attempt to speak to him. She fidgeted nervously in her chair, rearranging the silverware and trying to catch Kenyatta’s eye. Whatever he was thinking, Angela didn’t know any more about it than I did, and it was clear that she couldn’t handle being in the dark.

  He finished his meal, and I quickly cleared the table. When he looked at me, there was a sadness in his eyes that ratcheted up my anxiety to nerve-rattling levels. Was he about to tell me this was all a big mistake? That the experiment was over and he was going back to Angela? I wanted to ask him what he was thinking so badly it was killing me.

  He turned to Angela with that baleful expression and told her to go upstairs.

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “So you can fuck this slave in our house?”

  “MY house and I’ll do whatever the hell I want in my house. You’re a guest here. Now go upstairs!”

  Chastened, and clearly frightened of him, Angela left the room, casting one last hateful glance my way that promised retribution. I had never seen Kenyatta so forceful with her before, had never imagined that she would have stood for such a thing. I guess I believed the stereotype about black women not taking shit from anyone. Seeing Kenyatta dismiss her so bluntly was revelatory. I knew Angela would make me suffer for it, but I was far more worried about whatever was plaguing Kenyatta’s thoughts.

  “Come here, Kitten.”

  It felt like ages had passed since he’d called me kitten. Not since the night of the slave auction. My heart melted at the words, but somehow, hearing such endearing words come from his mouth deepened my fear. Why was he being so nice to me unless he were trying to soften a blow? I only hoped the blow would be physical.

  “Yes, Master?”

  Kenyatta smiled.

  “Be my kitten tonight.”

  I knew what he meant. I stripped quickly, tossing my clothes aside and dropping down on all fours. I purred as I rubbed my face against his pant leg and curled up at his feet. He patted his thigh and I climbed up into his lap, nuzzling my face in his neck as I continued to purr. I lightly clawed his back through his shirt. Kenyatta ran his hand from the top of my head to the small of my back, petting me as he held me in his lap. His eyes remained fixed on some distant thought, gazing across the room at the bare wall.

  He held me like that for nearly an hour, before patting me on my head and sending me back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. I crawled in on my hands and knees, knowing how much it usually turned him on to see me crawl naked across the floor. His eyes followed me and I could see the lust in them, but it was almost obscured by the anxiety still clouding his expression. Something was definitely wrong with him. He was still watching me as I began washing the dishes. I was still unclothed, and usually watching me do chores naked would have been irresistible to him, but not tonight. When I turned back to look at him, after placing the last dish in the dishwasher, he had already left the room. Still confused and deeply concerned, I gathered my clothes and walked back out to my shack.

  CHAPTER VII

  I was awakened by the morning sun beaming through the wooden slats of my shed. A sparkling white and yellow brilliance invaded my eyelids and my dreams, wrenching me from fantasies of domestic bliss back into my little backyard hell.

  I had barely slept and felt exhausted. The previous night’s anxiety weighed on me. I could not stop thinking about Kenyatta, wondering what awful news was troubling him that would soon be troubling me. After quickly hosing myself off, I threw on my old rags and rushed into the kitchen to get breakfast ready.

  Above me, I could hear Kenyatta and Angela arguing, but I couldn’t hear well enough to get what they were arguing about. I heard my name several times followed by exclamations like “Fuck that bitch!” and “Who cares where she goes!” That last one scared me most of all. Who cares where she goes? Where was I going? Was Kenyatta sending me away? Because of that bitch?

  The argument ended, and I heard the shower turn on. I also heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. I wiped an unexpected tear from my eyes and tried to stop the trembling in my lips as I flipped pancakes and fried bacon. Angela sat down at the table with a smug expression on her face. At first I assumed it meant she had won the argument, then I noticed the pain in the creases of her smile, the jealous gleam in her eye, and I knew that, whatever she had wanted Kenyatta to do to me, she hadn’t gotten her way. There was so much naked hate in her expression that I couldn’t stand to look at her and kept my eyes averted.

  Kenyatta came down next wearing a dark blue, pinstriped suit with a light blue shirt and a red tie. He looked like a politician. It almost made me laugh. Still, he looked damn good.

  He kissed me on the cheek and playfully swatted my ass before sitting down at the table across from Angela. She was livid. I got the clear impression that she wanted to murder me in front of him, right there in the kitchen. I handed her a cup of coffee and braced for her to throw it in my face. A warning glare from Kenyatta was the only thing that saved me from a horrible scalding. But Kenyatta was leaving in a few minutes and once Angela and I were alone, I knew I was fucked.

  Kenyatta kissed Angela on the cheek and said goodbye, then he did the same to me. He paused and brushed the hair from my eyes. I smiled and dropped my gaze to the floor. He placed a finger under my chin and lifted my head so I was looking him directly in the eyes. That familiar flutter returned in the pit of my stomach. He was so handsome.

  “Hang in there, Kitten. I’ll be home soon.”

  That same sadness was still in his eyes when they locked with mine. Whatever was bothering him had not yet been resolved. It was also clear that he was as worried about leaving me alone with Angela as I was.

  “Take good care of your Mistress today,” Kenyatta said. “She got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

  He kissed me on the forehead, then glared another warning at Angela before grabbing his briefcase and heading out the door. I stared at the closed door like it was the locked door of a tomb or a prison cell. The knots in my stomach twisted tighter when I heard Kenyatta’s car start and then pull out of the driveway.

  “Come with me.”

  Angela’s voice sent a cold chill through my bones. Whatever she wanted me to come see or do was bound to be painful and/or humiliating. Refusing her, however, was not an option. I followed her tight little ass up the stairs. When she passed the master bedroom, the guest bath, and the guest bedroom, I knew where she was taking me...the playroom. The dungeon.

  We built it a year ago, when our “play” began getting more serious. It contained a stockade, a whipping post, a crucifix, a dentist’s chair, and our prized possession: a birthing table complete with stirrups and leather restraints. There was nothing in that room I wanted to experience with Angela.

  “You have been a bad girl, Natasha. Or should I call you Kitten? Hmmm?”

  I refused to take the bait. I
kept my head lowered and my hands clasped in front of me in as submissive a posture as I could manage.

  There was a “toy chest” on the far side of the room, a table loaded with whips, flails, canes, and paddles of different sizes and description. Some were made of rubber, some wood, and some leather. Some were knotted and some had spikes. On a small stainless steel instrument tray by the birthing table, were metal dildos, forceps, clamps, catheters, and a stainless steel speculum.

  The speculum had been my idea, as had the birthing table. Since my very first OBGYN appointment at fourteen, I had fantasized about meeting a handsome gynecologist who would seduce me while my legs were in the stirrups and so Kenyatta had agreed to do some role-playing.

  “Relax, Miss. This won’t take long.”

  He had snapped the latex gloves as he put them on one at a time. Then he squirted lubricant in his hand and eased a finger up inside me. I gasped and clenched, locking down on his finger with my Kegel muscles.

  “Relaaaaax,” he repeated in that deep sultry voice of his. He began rubbing my clit with his thumb as he eased another finger inside me then another and finally another until he was practically fisting me. Then he eased his thumb inside me as well, while using his other hand to work my clit. I moaned, my legs trembled, as he punched up inside me over and over again. The first orgasm hit me and I thrashed in the restraints. But Kenyatta wasn’t done. He picked up the speculum, lubed it up, and eased it inside me.

  He fucked me with it. Thrusting it in and out of me. Then he picked up the metal dildo and used my own juices to lubricate it before easing it into my rectum, while still fucking me with the speculum.

  He squeezed the handle, opening me up wide. The cold metal felt uncomfortable and I was almost turned off until I felt Kenyatta’s lips and tongue on my clitoris, sucking and licking my body into another violent orgasm.

  “Oh God! Oh my fucking, God!”

  Kenyatta withdrew the speculum, but left the dildo in my ass as he stood and began to undress. He shrugged out of his lab coat, unbuckled his pants and let them drop to the floor.

  “Everything looks perfect down there to me. Let’s see how it feels, shall we?”

  I nodded my head enthusiastically, practically salivating as he withdrew his massive erection from his pants.

  “Yes! Fuck me, Doctor!”

  With my legs still strapped in the stirrups, my arms cuffed to the table, and the stainless steel dildo still in my ass like a butt-plug, Kenyatta rammed himself inside me and fucked me hard, gripping the sides of the table and almost lifting it off the floor as he pounded into me.

  The memory sent little shocks through my loins. The lab coat still sat on a hook beside the table. I wanted to hold it to my chest, hold it to my nose and inhale, hoping it would still smell like Kenyatta. Whatever Angela had planned, I knew it would not be nearly as pleasant. I tried to imagine what Angela would do if she had me strapped into those stirrups with scalpels and a speculum at her disposal. I shuddered at the thought.

  Luckily, Angela wasn’t very creative. I doubt she’d have known what half the instruments were used for or that she’d have had the stomach for it. Instead, she grabbed a knotted cat o’ nine tails. As painful as I knew the cat was, at least it was a familiar pain.

  “Strip off those clothes!”

  I let the dress fall to my feet. I felt Angela’s gaze all over me.

  “Get over there! Put your hands on that post!”

  The whipping post was a thick pillar, seven feet tall and the circumference of a telephone pole. It had two metal loops attached to either side of it, two near the top and two near the bottom, and there was a strip of leather attached to each one. I turned around and held on to the metal ringlets. Angela stepped forward and tied my wrists to the loops.

  “I am really beginning to get in to this shit,” she whispered in my ear. Her breath smelled like mouthwash and syrup.

  I knew she wanted me to beg, whimper, plead with her. It wasn’t going to happen. I could take whatever she could give and more. All the shit I’d gone through in my life. Being raped and molested when I was barely in my teens. Being broke, homeless, hungry. Being beaten up by boyfriends, cheated on, lied to, used, and stolen from. There was nothing this bitch could do to break me. Bring it the fuck on!

  Angela cracked the cat hard across my back with a loud whap! The slapping sound hit simultaneous with the braided leather cutting through my skin and the pain that seemed to slice through the muscle into the bone. The air whooshed out of my lungs. I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming.

  Again and again, Angela cracked the cat o’ nine tails with all her might, ripping deep grooves in my flesh and turning my back into a bloody mess, painting the walls with my blood. I knew I would keep these wounds for the rest of my life. I closed my eyes and imagined that Kenyatta held the cat instead of his spiteful ex-wife. In a way, he did. Angela was little more than his proxy. Whether she realized it or not, he was swinging the cat vicariously. She was just another tool for my education in the black experience, like the box in the basement or the shed in the backyard or the whipping post. Even when I was licking this bitch’s cunt, it was at Kenyatta’s behest.

  “I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered.

  The whip cracked again.

  “I love you, Kenyatta,” I said louder as the braided leather cut into me again. My legs went weak as the pain began to overcome me.

  “I love you, Kenyatta!” I yelled. This time, the cat did not land again.

  I heard the cat o’ nine tails drop to the floor and then Angela’s footsteps walking toward me. She stepped around in front of me. I saw her through a dizzying fog of pure pain. I was panting hard, exhausted. My body shivered with agony. I was on the verge of collapse. Angela grabbed me by the chin with her long, French-manicured nails. I was in so much pain I couldn’t lift my head without assistance.

  “I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered.

  “Shut-the-fuck-up.”

  “I love you, Kenyatta,” I whispered again.

  The blow came suddenly and unexpectedly. Her palm smacked across my cheek with a loud pop! like a gunshot. The room spun then came into crisp focus. Angela’s furious stare hovered inches from my face.

  “You are fucking crazy.”

  She pulled a leather hood over my head. It had a zipper up the back and a zipper where the eyeholes were. The opening for the mouth was a hard plastic circle. Angela picked up a small, flexible, clear dildo and held it up to the hood’s mouth opening, pressing it against my lips.

  “Open!”

  I opened my mouth and she eased the Jell-O-textured little dildo between my lips and partially into my throat. Just when I felt myself beginning to gag. It stopped. Luckily, it was only six-inches long, and having sucked Kenyatta’s cock for months, I was accustomed to at least another two inches.

  She walked across the room and picked up a strap-on dildo. This was a new addition, something she’d brought with her. The harness was made of black latex and leather and there was a nine-inch, pink, flexible dildo strapped into it, the father of the one that was currently filling my throat. Angela picked up a small vial of lube and slathered the dildo with it. She closed the mouth-slit, preventing me from spitting out the dildo, then she closed the two eye-slits, leaving me blind, anxious, and a little fearful.

  I felt Angela’s hands on my breasts, then her lips, sucking my nipples. She took her time, sucking each one hungrily, then she stepped behind me. I felt her hands on my thighs, slowly caressing them. She rubbed my ass, jiggled my corpulent buttocks, smacked each cheek hard then kissed them lovingly. I felt her tongue flick along the crack of my ass before she bit and sucked on my ass cheeks. Then her hands went back to my thighs, slowly parting my legs.

  Her body pressed against mine. Her breath was hot and moist on the back of my neck and her hands soft but brutal as they found my breasts again, squeezing them, tweaking the nipples. She whispered huskily in my ear, voice heavy with lust.

  “I
’m going to fuck the shit out of you.”

  Her lubed fingers slid between my legs, up inside me. They were cool and slippery from the lubricant. She parted my labia and pressed her hips against my ass as she eased the dildo into my pussy. I gasped as the stiff, jelly-like phallus filled me and Angela began thrusting aggressively. She moaned in my ear, as if it were her own flesh inside me rather than rubber.

  She untied me and I collapsed. Angela stormed out of the room and left me trembling on the floor. I could feel my sanity beginning to slip, but I thought of Kenyatta and I held on. I held on to the image of us as a family raising kids together. It was my lifeline in this sea of madness.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Kenyatta became increasingly affectionate toward me over the following weeks. When he saw the damage Angela had done to me, he threatened to kick her out of the house if it ever happened again. For her part, Angela never used the whip again, switching to paddles and canes and making sure to use them on my ass and thighs, which had regained much of their former weight now that I was eating table scraps instead of horse beans and yams. I would have never admitted it to her, but I was actually beginning to enjoy the spankings.

  I was vacuuming the living room while, in the next room, Angela was working out that flawless body of hers. I could hear her doing squats and lunges with a pair of Kenyatta’s huge dumbbells. Her workout routine would have put half the men I knew to shame. She could bench press a hundred pounds, squat two hundred pounds, and curl seventy-five pounds. There was a heavy bag in there as well and, after finishing her last set of lunges, she pulled on a pair of gloves and began throwing combinations, grunting with each blow. If it ever came down to it, as tiny as she was, I didn’t think I could take her. Each time her fists pounded the bag, I winced, imagining those same fists crashing into my body.

  I was almost finished cleaning the living room when Angela walked in wearing tight black yoga pants and a pink halter top that came to just beneath her breasts and accentuated her incredible abdominal muscles. She sat down on Kenyatta’s lounge chair, still breathing hard, wiping sweat from her brow with a towel. She had a paddle in her hands. I didn’t need to wait to be told. I dropped my dress and underwear, walked over to her and laid across her thighs.