Slave
Copyright© 2026 by Robin
Chapter 1: Taken
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 1: Taken - Aneesha is taken from Africa to the Americas as a slave on the plantation.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa NonConsensual Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Historical Horror Vampires Interracial Black Female White Male White Female Anal Sex First
The voyage and her new name
It was during the darkest hours, those few hours before the dawn, that they stole up from the river. Silently encircling the village and stopping just outside the boma. The dogs, the villagers’ normal clarions, died noiselessly after eating the poisoned meat, thrown over the thorn bush barrier, designed to keep the Hyenas and marauding leopards away from the livestock of goats and the few cattle they kept.
The heat of the hot sun had leached out of the dung bricks that formed the bases of the huts, to be replaced by the chill of the night. They slept on rough cots, covered in skins or rush mats, spread on the hard-packed earth of their hut, oblivious of their impending fate.
The signal, a short yip, woke Aneesha. Her ears, attuned to the noises of the bush, recognised the sound as being different, not belonging. Her senses, alert to the sudden quiet, were already too late. The strung cowrie shell beads that hung over the doorway of their hut to deter flies drew apart, swept sideways by an arm, and the dark bulk of a man filled the doorway. His machete gleamed dully in the waning moonlight.
“Run, Aneesha, run.” Her mother hissed from the other side of the hut. It was all she needed to galvanise her into motion.
She felt, rather than saw, her mother race across the packed earth, her own weapon raised. She had the advantage of surprise over the intruder and was able to stab at him, slashing his arm. He cried out while stepping back, his voice loud in the silence of the night, alerting the rest of the villagers. His stepping back was all the space Aneesha needed. Like an eel, she slipped through the gap between the doorway and the stranger’s legs while the din of fighting rose behind her.
Aneesha heard her mother scream. It was the last time she would hear her mother and, as she wriggled through the opening of the boma, was the last time she would see her village again.
She paused on the outside of the enclosure, trying to decide which way to go. The bush, perhaps, with all the nighttime prowlers, many of which would eat her, or the river? The crocodiles were fearsome creatures, but the hippos were a worse prospect, especially at night when they would be out on the banks. Overall, she thought, the river was the safer of the two options. It was the wrong one, but she wasn’t to know that. Aneesha ran, her bare feet slapping on the well-worn path, towards the landing beach they called their own. Towards the dugouts she knew would be waiting. Perhaps, if she could launch one, she might get away.
Torchlight glowed on the beach, glittering between the tree trunks. She stopped her headlong dash just in time and crouched behind a thorn bush. Three men stood facing the village, each holding a blazing torch of twisted, pitch-covered grasses. She watched them and saw ten large canoes pulled up alongside the dugouts of her people. She couldn’t get to them, couldn’t get past the men. She hunkered down to wait to see what opportunity to escape she might have.
The smell of smoke came first, followed by a deep orange glow from behind her. The village was in flames, the rush and leaf roofs burned fiercely, sending sparks high into the air and lighting everything around as if the sun had made an early appearance.
Pretty soon, her people were being led to the canoes in single file, tied to each other with a heavy rope, looped around their necks. Aneesha looked to see if her mother was there, but no, she wasn’t part of the shambling snake. Only a few of the mothers had survived, just the younger ones. The snake was made up of her friends, children and teenagers, roped together and pushed along by the machete-wielding strangers.
They seemed taller than her people, with a blackness enhanced by sweat and oils. Tribal markings had left scars on their faces, and what words they spoke were completely incomprehensible to her. Three white men seemed to be running the raid. They directed the black hunters, yelling orders and pushing their captives with long sticks. Aneesha had never seen a white man before and wondered at the amount of clothing they had on.
The canoes began to fill with her people, who seemed to have given up hope; such was their shambling gait. Even the younger ones walked desultorily with their heads bowed, soundless, apart from the shuffling of feet on the sand of the beach.
Suddenly, a huge hand gripped her by the back of her neck and yanked her off her feet. The thorns of the bush grazed and cut her as she sailed into the air. Aneesha didn’t notice the pain of the scratches. She was knocked unconscious and knew no more.
She woke some time later to find herself in the bilges of a barque. Filthy water swilled around her ankles as the ship rolled. The smell of the hold was foetid and stank of rotten flesh and despair. In the dimness of the ship’s belly, she saw what was left of her villagers and probably fifty more strangers sitting on benches around the sides. They each stared lifelessly, hopelessly into the bilge water. And then, as if by an unseen signal, they howled and wailed and prayed to the gods to save them, but it was all to no avail. After a few hours, just after sunrise, they landed on different shores. The Ivory Coast, with its slave holding pens, marked the beginning of Aneesha’s travels to distant lands. She would probably never see Africa again, but it would never leave her heart. The year was 1580 AD.
“What’s happening?” She asked one of the women who tried to protect the youngest children by holding them together in an embrace while they cried, frightened, bewildered and torn from their mothers.
“Slavers!” It was a single word that struck terror into her heart. It was a single word that spoke volumes of horror and terrible tales. Tales that related to whipping, torture, rape, mass-murder and the disappearance of so many people, the slavers evinced as they scoured her native lands in their flesh trade.
They had been plundering the villages nearer the coast for several years, but this was the first time in living memory that they had travelled so far up the river. Stories of their brutality were rife and probably not that much embellished in the telling. Fear struck Aneesha like a hammer blow, quickly followed by the realisation that her mother and father would be dead now and left for the carrion eaters. The fear she felt was eventually overcome by a desperation and realisation of her plight. The reputation of the Slavers had been passed from one to another. They never left anyone behind. Aneesha’s heart broke at that point. Her spirit left her to be replaced by an acceptance of her fate, like a cold stone in place of her heart. Hope was all gone, and the vitality of life dimmed from her eyes.
She didn’t die. Fate had not finished with Aneesha. Hers was to be a long path. They left the Ivory Coast and began a journey of nightmare and blessed death for many of them.
The slaves didn’t fare well on the six-week journey to America. The food was almost inedible when it was sporadically passed down in a bucket on a rope through the hatch. There was never enough to eat and very little fresh water. Sea sickness accounted for several, as did dysentery and disease. The bodies were left to rot where they fell. In all, less than half made it, but life was cheap, and of course, there were plenty more to replace them in the bush.
One day, after possibly two weeks aboard, the latticed cargo hold doors were suddenly thrown back with a sickening thud. The ship was becalmed. No wind came to cool them or take away the stench of the dead and dying. Black faces appeared over the sides of the hatchway, talking in excited voices, laughing and jeering at the poor hapless cargo they had. Fingers pointed. A small, black boy was lowered on a rope, tied around his waist. He grinned around the edges of a knife clamped between his teeth and chittered like a small monkey while he descended.
The rope bonds around ankles and wrists were cut, freeing them from the benches and each other. Wringing hands pleaded for food, water and fresh air, but the only ones who left the hold were those selected by the grinning faces above. Another rope was lowered and tied around the waists of those chosen. These were hauled up by unseen hands until they vanished over the hatch wall, some six feet above their heads. Many would not return.
Aneesha was one of the last to be selected. A grinning face directed monkey boy, as she had now named him, until he stood in front of her, pointing and nodding. She looked up at him disinterestedly, her mind numb from the many hours spent with the bilge water sloshing around her ankles, lack of food and dehydration in the heat of the hold, and so many bodies crammed together.
The hemp rope was tied around her middle and went suddenly taught when she was yanked off her feet, breath forced out of her lungs as she ascended towards the sunlight of the hatch opening.
The fresh air and sunlight hit her hard in its harshness. It caused her to be unsighted and unsteady when she at last stood on the deck. She gradually focused on the face before her, noticing abstractly how his tribal markings swirled around his cheeks in ridges, as if something was under the skin. He seemed to be capering in his delight at his choice, making unintelligible noises as he danced in front of her.
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