Slave
Copyright© 2026 by Robin
Chapter 3: Plantation
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 3: Plantation - 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 next morning, while cocks still crowed, the door of the dockside prison was opened with a loud, creaking groan. The sun was still to appear over the horizon, but already, the orange glow told that it was only a few minutes away and was going to be hot. The air that rushed in from the open door was colder than inside the prison, but humid already.
They were ordered out. Their chains clanked as they were dragged across the floor. So began the long trek along dusty and pitted dirt roads, toward the distant mountain and their new home. It was the first time Victoria had seen a whip in use as it lashed across the naked backs of the slaves, driving them forward in little more than a shambling gait.
The white slavers rode on chestnut-coloured horses, larger by several hands than any horse she had seen before. Polished leather boots in leather stirrups, as they flashed by, were in her eyeline. The blacks, those who were wielding the whips, walked alongside, flanking the procession of desultory slaves as they trudged onwards, under the burnished glare of the sun.
Sweat soon caused the skin to be rasped off the ankles as the manacles chaffed. Victoria had never felt so miserable in her life and was just falling into a dream state, helped by the metronomic step of the person in front, when white heat burst into her mind from the lash of a whip across her bare back.
“Keep up.” The black face growled at her.
Someone nearer the front of the long line started to sing. It was a song of longing and loss. Victoria joined in with some of the choruses, but she didn’t get the comfort the singer was trying to give, of a common trouble, shared with brethren.
The road angled upwards to an incline, which made the going harder. The lash flicked out more often, but had little or no effect, other than to cause an outcry from the wretch whose turn it was to receive the blow.
Eventually, they crested the rise and looked down on a steeply sided valley covered with a low-level plant. Coffee bushes, as far as the eye could see, were planted in neat rows that flowed with the undulations of the hill sides, attended by many black people, hoeing and tending to the plants.
It was to be her new home and, for a major part of her life, her only source of solace and companionship.
They were driven through the plantation along another dusty road. Yellowing eyes paused from their tasks and watched them silently from under straw hats. The black faces long since lost their lustre, looking grey and weather-beaten. Eventually, the gaggle of new slaves reached a block-built hut. Paint and whitewashed render had peeled from the tinder-style blocks, leaving holes that looked like the ravages of a pox.
When the door was flung open, Victoria could see two rows of bunk beds along either side. A single stove with a pipe running up to the ceiling stood on bare flooring boards. Even from outside, the smell of must and decay assaulted her nose.
One by one, they were unshackled from the line and pushed into the open doorway. The men were herded off to one side to be taken to another hut a little further up the incline. When the women and children had been separated and pushed into the stifling heat of the hut. The Bossman closed the door with a sardonic welcome to Ranch Du Barrie.
It had taken most of the day to walk the fifteen miles from the docks. No water and searing heat had left some suffering from sunstroke and blistered skin. They collapsed on the nearest bunk and sank into sleep, a blessed relief.
Victoria found her place, as near to the door as she could get, but not enough to feel any comforting coolness. Sweat had coagulated on her brow and sore shoulders, but it was the sores from the manacles, now taken off, that troubled her the most. Her skin had been almost rubbed away on her ankle bone. It was painful, sore and likely to fester if not treated.
Lying on her back, looking up at the roof planks, Victoria fell asleep and dreamt of her village and her family in happier times.
It seemed that only a few minutes had passed when they were woken by a shouted command from a large black woman who stood in the doorway. The angle of the sun said it had been more than a few hours that she had slept. Victoria didn’t feel any better after the sleep.
A bundle of clothing was thrown into the middle of the room.
“Make yo’self-decent”. The fat black woman told them in pidgin French. “And haves yo’selves’ a wash too.” Victoria didn’t understand a word but followed the others in sorting out a garment to cover her nakedness. She found a simple, plain cotton dress that was only one or two sizes too big and then followed her roommates to a bibcock faucet, screwed to the rear end of the hut. A pump was operated by a young African boy. They scrubbed and dried in the late sun, then dressed under the scrutiny of the black woman who seemed to have her arms permanently crossed under her overly large bosom and a scowl that never left her face.
When they had all found something to wear and washed, she led them to the cookhouse. Long rows of wooden benches and tables awaited them, along with the smells of cooking, wafting on the evening breeze.
Water, blessed water, washed down a meal of rice and a thin pork stew. Although not a huge amount of food by any standard, for many, it was the first of any substance and proved too much for their stomachs to take.
It seemed as if the sun were snuffed out. One minute, shining strongly on the horizon of the mountain, the next, darkness, total and complete. Victoria shuffled down on her cot, remembered her mother and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Shouts and the clanking of a handbell woke her up. It was still dark, but it seemed it was time to go to work. She trudged behind the back of someone else as the new arrivals were brought to the coffee plantation. The bushes, in serried ranks, stretched for as far as the eye could see. A hoe was thrust into her hands, handed down from the back of a cart. She was dragged to the beginning of a row of plants and, through mime, was shown what to do. She worked on the back-breaking task. Hoeing the soil between the coffee bushes, ensuring that the topsoil was turned over and any weeds removed. Breakfast of a maize porridge was brought by a horse-drawn wagon a few hours into their labours.
After only enough time for the porridge to be consumed from the wooden bowls handed down from the cart and water shared from an earthenware flagon, it was time to go back to work.
The row of coffee bushes seemed endless, stretching into the distance in serried rows about two meters apart. The soil was quite red in colour, rocky and sun-baked, making the hoeing hard work. Hard work caused sweat to run in rivulets between her breasts and beads of sweat that soaked her hair.
The relentless sun beat down mercilessly while the humidity climbed to unbearable levels. Victoria, along with many of the new arrivals, began to flag. Still not recovered from the rigours of their travel and quite malnourished.
A young white man on horseback raised his riding crop as if to strike her, growling at her that she had better pick up the pace. Victoria glared at him. Not quite defiance, but in confusion. Did they really expect a human to work in these conditions?
Snidely, he laughed and trotted on, paying her no heed.
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