© Copyright 2003
This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults. If you're not both of those, don't read it. Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die. You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe. The fictional characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.
If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.
This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact, but if you make money off of it, you're breaking the law and pissing me off.
She fidgeted nervously on the edge of my living room sofa. While I waited for her to tell me why she was here, I studied her.
High forehead topped by closely shorn wooly hair, a broad, flattened nose that complemented fine, almost delicate, ebony features and a strong, sensuous mouth surrounded by full lips that were, at the moment pressed tightly together, as she played with the zipper on her purse, still trying to figure out how to approach the subject of her visit.
Her breasts sat high and proud behind the fabric of the short, tight psuedo-peasant blouse, barely restrained by the unpadded bra that held them. Her hips were broad and flat, and inside the jeans her legs, though nicely curved, were slender and tapered gracefully to well manicured feet that were just the right size for her five four frame.
"How do you feel about Black People, Mr. Brenneman?" She had finally settled on an opening, if not exactly one that went right to the point.
"Which black people?"
She looked agitated. "You know what I mean! Are you biased against Black People?"
I looked at her evenly, thought for a moment, and said "Yes."
She sat back suddenly, as though I had slapped her, her eyes wide with surprise. The lack of malice in my smile helped allay the harshness of my response, however, and she at least had the sense to ask for an explanation.
"Well, at least you're honest about it! Would you care to elaborate?"
"Like my tribal ancestors, I am biased against anyone who is not like me - a member of my tribe, as it were - until I have good reason to believe that they can be trusted. It's a human survival trait, and we all have it, as evidenced by your need to ask me that question." I held up my hand to forestall her protest.
"You wouldn't have felt the need to ask that question of another black person. You have enough in common with other black people that you can be fairly certain of how they feel about each other. By the same token, people whom I perceive to be like me - members of my tribe, if you like - I presume to have enough in common with me that I can trust them to act a certain way in a given situation. Members of other tribes, that is, people not like me - and that includes people who dress radically differently from me, people who wear hairstyles that are outside the range that I consider normal, etc. - I presume to not have as much in common with me. For that reason, as a matter of self protection, I initially trust people unlike me less than people who are like me, as do you, as does everyone." I paused, studying her reaction, "If you meant to ask if I hate black people because they are black, the answer is no. You may not be a member of my tribe, and therefore subject to cautionary distrust, but it's also a survival trait to learn, over time and exposure, to trust those who can demonstrate that they mean you no harm. Does this answer the question you wanted answered?"
Finally, she smiled, showing brilliant white teeth. "Yes. Yes it does."
"Good!" I smiled back, "now, can we get to why you're here?"
She started fidgeting again, her opening gambit finished but no following moves planned.
"You're a student at Washington State?" I tried to get something going.
She just nodded.
"Did someone there tell you about me?"
Again she nodded. I feared for the integrity of the purse's zipper.
"So you know what I've done for whoever told you to come here?"
"Is that the reason you came here? You want me to do something like that for you?"
She stared out the window, played with the zipper some more, and finally said, "Sort of..."
I had helped her as much as I was willing to. Part of the reason I could get away with doing some of the things I did with these kids was that they either came looking for my services or they allowed me to trap them into a situation that would look to anyone else like they volunteered, even if they didn't. If I suggested anything to Aisha, I would be making it my idea, not hers.
Finally, she sat up straight and said softly, "I have an assignment for my Black History class..." she paused again, composing her thoughts, "I have to write a report on what it was really like for black slaves in America before the Civil War."
I just looked at her expectantly.
Finally, the dam burst and it tumbled out in torrent of embarrassment. "I want to experience the life of a black slave! I want to know what it felt like to have someone else in control of your life, to be nothing more than property. I want to BE a slave for a few days!"
I studied her face before replying. "Is this a personal desire, or do you just want to write a better paper?"
She looked off in the distance, struggling with herself before replying. "Both. I don't believe I can really understand what life was like for my ancestors unless I experience at least some part of it for myself, and unless I do understand what it was like, I can't reasonably expect to do this paper justice."
I eyed her speculatively. "Aisha. You're named after the wife of Mohammed. Are you Muslim?"
She fidgeted some more, "No sir, I was raised Baptist, but my moms liked that name."
"Do you believe in the teachings of your church?"
"Yes, sir." she looked me in the eye.
I leaned forward in my chair.
"Good, you'll need that faith if you go through with this. You understand that a slave with your looks would have, most likely, been a house slave - that she would have been required to serve her master in more ways than just cooking and cleaning?"
"If I undertake to give you this experience, I will make it as real as possible. Are you willing to live with that?"
"Aisha, look at me!" when she complied, I continued, "This will NOT be a game! For whatever period you set beforehand, you WILL be my slave. If you fail to please me, you will be harshly punished, as were slaves in those days. You will be called names that are no longer allowed outside KKK meetings. You will be property - handled like merchandise, talked about as if you weren't there, inspected like an animal, and sold on the auction block. I will be a hard master. If you are a virgin now, you will not be for long. I will force you to do horrible, painful, disgusting things, all AFTER you have completed your days assigned work, which will be hard, degrading labor. You think about what that means, and if you still want to do it, come back two days from now - Monday morning, early. I need to set some things up to make it realistic. How long do you want to be a slave?"
She hesitated, then haltingly replied, "I was thinking maybe a week?"
I went over my calendar in my head. "Five days - Monday through Friday. You have to be gone by Friday night." I didn't feel the need to tell her that I was expecting a weekend guest on Saturday.
She smiled, and some of the tension went out of her. "OK."
As I opened the door to let her out, I put my hand on her shoulder. "Aisha - I want you to think very hard about what this will mean. You will never be the same person again. This will be a life-changing experience, not just an incremental increase in your knowledge level. If you change your mind, don't come back. If you show up here Monday, you will be Netty, a runaway who's about to be caught, and nothing you say will change your fate, understood?"
She looked solemnly over her shoulder at me for a long moment, then nodded, turned, and walked down the steps to her car.
Monday - early morning
The yellow Corolla rolled through the mist to stop in my front yard, and Aisha climbed slowy out, wearing a simple, loose, peasant dress. It was cleaner, and in better repair than one might expect of a runaway slave, but it would do.
As she closed the car door and started walking toward the house, a pack of hounds came baying out of the woods, charging full speed toward the startled girl. Frightened, she started back toward the car, but seeing that the dogs were angling to cut her off from both the car and the house, she had no choice but to head for the woods. She was fast, and it took them a few minutes to catch up with her, but within fifteen minutes I heard the dogs sounding off as if they'd treed a possum. A few minutes later, a couple of the 'overseers' I'd hired from a Seattle theatrical agency, rode through the clearing, dragging the frightened young girl behind their horses, as she stumbled barefoot over rocks and sticks.
I came out on the porch in costume as they led her past the house. "You boys ain't huntin on my prop'ty are ya?"
.... There is more of this story ...