© Copyright 2003

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?"

Another nod.

"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?"

She nodded.

"If I undertake to give you this experience, I will make it as real as possible. Are you willing to live with that?"

Another nod.

"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?"

One of them pushed his hat back on his head and grinned up at me. "Jes' a lil coon huntin' Mr. Brenneman, sir. This hyere's that Franklin girl that run away the other day. Thought the hounds was gonna tear her to pieces afore we got there."

I squinted in her direction. There were a few tears in the dress, and she was somewhat dirtier than before, but otherwise she looked OK. "Don't look too much the worse for wear. You boys wa'nt out there long enough to take a turn with 'er. Fine lookin' negra like that, I'd a thought you'd still be workin' 'er over."

He looked sourly at his charge. "Yeah, me an' Clem here shore debated on that, but ol' Mr. Franklin, he's figgerin' to sell her, an' reckons she'll fetch a higher price if she's pure. Tol' us he'd have us flogged an' sold for horsemeat if'n we laid a finger on 'er. Ask me, bitch'd be worth more if'n she knowed whut she'uz doin'."

"You say the Franklins is sellin' her? When's the auction? I been needin' me a house slave." I eyed the bedraggled figure tethered behind the horses.

"He said soon's he gits done whuppin' her for runnin', he's agonna sell 'er to the highest bidder." He mopped his brow with a dirty looking rag, "Seems they's gittin' too old ta put up with a high blooded negress like her. Need one that's already broke to the plow, he says."

"Well, tell him not to start without me," I headed back toward the house, "and tell 'im to go easy with that bullwhip a' his. I ain't buyin' no damaged goods! Jes' let me git my ol' nag saddled up an' I'll be right along!"

About half an hour later, I rode into the clearing we had set up for the slave auction. The actors playing Mr. Franklin, the overseers, other buyers, and even a few 'bucks' were milling about the post in the center of the clearing where the girl stood chained, facing the post while my own two dogs paced around the edges of the clearing, ignoring the hounds tethered to a nearby tree.

'Mr. Franklin' raised his hands and shouted "Ok, Brenneman's here and we're burnin' daylight! Let's git this show on the road! This hyere's my Netty. Raised her myself from a pickaninny, and the ungrateful bitch done run away two days ago. I reckon it's my responsibility to punish her for that, but then I want to git shut of her, so I'm gonna have Clem here give her twenty of his best, an then we'll start the biddin'!"

'Clem', wearing an evil grin, stripped off his hat and coat and handed them to the other 'overseer'. He stepped up behind 'Netty' and, in a single jerk, ripped the back off her dress, leaving her back bare. The agency had assured me that he was expert with the bullwhip, so I crossed my fingers and hoped.

He snapped the whip experimentally, close enough to her ear that she could feel the displacement of the air that accompanied the sharp 'CRACK!' as the tip reached supersonic speed at the apex of its arc. Her involuntary cry and the jerk of her head away from the noise caused a ripple of laughter from the audience.

Apparently satisfied with the feel and balance of the whip, he took up position about six feet behind and a little to the left of where the poor girl stood trembling, the sheen of sweat on her ebony back glinting in the morning sunlight. I reminded myself to give the agent a bonus, this guy WAS good. He didn't crack the whip against her skin, which would have done her tremendous damage, but laid the last two feet of braided leather across the flesh of her back just as it was building up speed for the snap, leaving a vicious red welt and eliciting a blood-curdling scream from 'Netty'.

I was pleased to note that the whip had, while causing a great deal of pain, stopped short of stripping the skin off as it was capable of doing.

In my experience, most people can't conceive the level of pain that can be produced by an expert whip wielder until they experience it. I was sure Aisha had had no real concept of what it would feel like.

After the fifth lash, she passed out, hanging limply from the shackles on her wrists. After someone threw some water in her face to revive her, Doc Miller gave her a quick check, and nodded as he stepped back.

The sixth stroke finished the job of removing her dress, and 'Clem' started distributing his blows between shoulders and knees. Twice more she had to be revived. By the time it was over, Netty had red stripes up and down her back, buttocks and thighs, but none overlaid each other. There was a little blood trickling from some of them, but not much, and on the last lash, Clem let the frayed leather tip of the braid snap into the crevice between her buttocks, drawing a renewed shriek of pain and outrage from his victim as it expended most of its force on the tender ring of her anus.

"A'right, Clem!" Mr. Franklin stepped forward, "That's twenty. Drummond, get the salt and then le's get over to the block so's our customers can get a good look."

The other overseer approached Netty's sobbing form with a cloth sack. Holding it with his left hand he withdrew a handful of a coarse white substance from the bag and threw it onto Netty's wounded back. Wherever the skin had parted, the salt stuck, and as it dissolved into the wounds, she started screaming again, hugging the post as if trying to hide inside it. Drummond threw two more handfuls of the salt on her wounds before putting the bag aside and releasing Netty's shackles from the whipping post. He and Clem had to support most of the sobbing, moaning weight as they led her, leg shackles still around her ankles, over to the low box we were using for an auction block.

They lifted her onto the block, but she had trouble standing until Mr. Franklin threatened to have her taken back to the whipping post.

"You make me proud today girl!" he ordered, "So help me, if you don't fetch me a decent price I'll keep you and put you in the stables for the horses to breed!"

Somewhere she found the strength to stand and wipe the tears from her face. It wasn't until that moment that she realized she was standing on display in front of a group of strangers, stark naked. She raised one arm to cover her breasts while the other hand strove to hide her mound.

At the audience's protest, Franklin struck her hands sharply with the riding crop he carried, and ordered, "Drop those hands girl! I ain't gonna get nothin for you if they cain't see what they's buyin'."

Reluctantly, she complied.

En masse, the prospective 'buyers' surrounded the block and started poking and prodding at the helpless young girl. Someone made her open her mouth so he could inspect her teeth. They poked at and kneaded her breasts, pinching the nipples to see if they'd get hard. They made her spread her legs and hold her buttocks apart while fingers and walking sticks probed the openings for tightness.

Throughout this humiliating inspection they were making comments designed to drive the asking price as low as possible. Franklin, for his part, did his best to point out favorable factors and rebut the detractors.

"Hmph! Ain't got no tits to speak of!"

"Next to them mountains yore Elly has to lug around in a wheelbarrow, ain't nobody got tits, Bobby. Them thar's grade A number one suckling teats for man or pickaninny!"

"Them thar hips ain't gonna carry many pickaninnys. Shore as hell ain't no breedin' stock!"

"Look at that bone structure! That there basket'll carry more fruit than YOU can put in it, Willy! Look how nice an spread them hip bones is - hell she could carry a whole litter!"

"Feels a little loose up here, Franklin. You sure you ain't already been keepin' her in the stables?" That one got a laugh from the other buyers.

"You got my personal guarantee! Ain't nobody's nor nothin's dick been up any of them holes. I been savin' this one special, an' even that little needle you call a prick'll have trouble gittin up there, its that tight!"

"Skinny legs. Ain't got no muscle in them arms neither. Hell, Franklin, I hope she knows her way around a bed, cause this'n ain't gonna be good for much else."

"Only bed she knows her way around is the one she's been sleepin' in. You buy 'er, and you can train 'er the way you want 'er - don't havta put up with nobody else's idea about how she oughta suck yer little weenie! An don't let them arms or legs fool ya! She didn't stay on the run two days from bein' weak!"

Finally, the banter died down and Franklin called for quiet to start the bidding. As scripted, my high bid of eighty dollars beat out everyone else. I paid Franklin with a real check written for the agreed upon fee for him and his fellow actors.

As I put the shackles back on Netty's wrists and tied a rope around her neck to lead her home, Aisha burst out crying.

"Please, Mr. Brenneman!" she sobbed, "I had no idea it would be this bad! Please let's end this!"

I looked at her, shock and disdain showing in my face. "What's the matter with you girl! You act like you think a slave's got a say in whether she hasta be a slave or not! Ain't but two ways to get outa bein' a slave - die or be manumitted. You damn near got to do the first 'un by runnin' an' if you try it agin, you'll WISH you had died! To get manumitted, you gotta please your master sump'n pow'ful an' make 'im go all mushy inside so he'll set you free. So far, you ain't makin' a whole lotta progress on that'n!"

Aisha stared at me for a long moment as the message sank in, then started sobbing quietly as I mounted my horse and led Netty, naked, down the trail to my house.

After stabling and grooming the horse, while Netty stood sweating, naked in the sun, I led her to another whipping post I had installed at the back of the clearing where my house stood. Warily eyeing the iron handle sticking out of a red hot brazier, she asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Le's get somethin' straight right now, girl! I don't care what fool notions ol' Franklin put in yore empty little head. In my house, slaves speak when spoken to, an' they call me 'Master'! You got that!"

"Yowsa, Massa!" she tried to make it ironic, but in the context of the role play, it fell flat.

I started fastening her shackles to the post above her head. "Now, I ain't takin' no chances with you runnin' agin, so I'm gonna brand ya, an' ever'body'll know yore mine."

"Please, Mr., I mean Massa Brenneman!" she begged, really frightened, "I'll do anything! I won't run anymore, I promise! Please let me show you how much I want to please you!"

It was pretty close to the reaction I was looking for. I didn't really want to put any permanent marks on the girl.

I looked hard at her for a few seconds, then unfastened the shackles, pushing her to her knees in front of me. She was clumsy, and inexperienced, but this was apparently one of the things she'd psyched herself up for when preparing for this simulation.

It wasn't the best blowjob I ever had, but she tried. She gagged as I entered her throat, but on the third try managed to keep it under control.

"Breathe through your nose, girl, and relax," I told her, a bit more gently than I had yet spoken to her, "relax and let it happen, cause it's goin' to, like it or not!"

Soon, her nose was buried in my pubic hair, and I held her there for a few seconds, letting her throat accustom itself to my girth. I took a few slow in and out strokes until her hands stopped their involuntary little pushes against my thighs. When her hands slid around to the sides of my thighs, I grabbed her head with both hands, and started to pump, jacking off with her skull.

She knelt in the dirt and let me use her face for my pleasure. As I reached my peak, I stabbed my dick as far down her throat as it would go and released my load directly into her stomach. A few seconds later, her hands started pushing weakly at my thighs as she struggled to draw air. I withdrew slowly, savoring the tiny aftershocks caused by her spasming throat on the super-sensitive head of my cock.

I tucked myself back into my pants and said, "We'll have to work on that some, but at least you was tryin'. I'll hold off on brandin' ya for now, but so help me God, nigger, if you ever even LOOK like you might be thinkin' about runnin' I'll put that brand right in the middle of your forehead!" and I pushed my index finger against her forehead to emphasize my point, "an' then I'll heat that brand white hot and shove it so far up that little black cunt of yours that every little nappy headed bastard you drop for the rest of yore life'll have a big ol' 'B' right there too! You got that, girl?"

She nodded, wide-eyed, "Yes, M-Massa! I ain't gonna run none, Massa!"

I guess having to do some of what she'd anticipated had finally helped her slip into character, past the shock of her earlier treatment.

"All right, come with me."

I lead her into the house and showed her the little storage room under the attic stairs that I had cleaned out and furnished with a corn-husk mattress. There were a few rags of clothes on some shelves, but little else.

"This is where you'll sleep when you're not in my bed. Yonder's some clothes. Git sump'n on an' meet me in th' kitchen, through 'at 'ere door."

When I bought this place, there was an old cabin where my house now stood, and inside that cabin, along with a few other interesting items, was a wood-burning cookstove. I had kept most of what I found there in a shed out back, never really expecting to have a use for them, but reluctant to part with such antiques.

It had taken a little work, but over the weekend I had replaced my gas stove with the old wood burner. I decided against replacing the refrigerator, mainly because I didn't have a ready source of ice for the old icebox, but I tripped the breakers for all the other circuits in the house so that nothing else electrical could be used, including the electric water pump.

I had never removed the old hand pump behind the house, but it took a little work to replace the dried out leather seals with new ones, and get it primed and working again. My home was as close to antebellum technology as I could get it in two days. I even had candles and kerosene lamps for light.

When Netty padded into the kitchen, wearing a patched burlap shift, wincing a bit as her bruised feet fell on the hard wood of the floor, I showed her the stove, where to put the wood, how to control the draft, and where to find pots and pans. She looked stunned that I had gone this far with her project.

I took her outside and showed her how to prime the pump with water from the bucket hung under its spout, cautioning her to make sure there was always water in the bucket. I then showed her the smokehouse, where most of my meat hangs. This, I didn't have to simulate. There was ham, bacon, jerky and smoked salmon as well as some venison.

Then I showed her the wood pile and the stump I use for a chopping block, instructing her in the fine art of splitting wood. I showed her the size pieces I wanted used in the stove, and the size for the fireplace. I also made sure she picked up the smaller pieces and splinters and stored them in the kindling box.

"Now you best get a move on girl." I squinted in the direction of the sun "ain't got but a couple hours afore dinner, an' I'm lookin' for'ard to a hot meal. Pick me a mess a them turnip greens yonder in the truck patch an' cook 'em up with some fatback fer flavor, an' grill me one a them fresh meat steaks I got in th' icebox. They's some chit'lins in there fer yore supper, an' you c'n eat whatever's left a them greens when I'm done with 'em."

She started for the house, and I hollered, "Where you goin' girl?"

She turned, confused, "Why, to fix your dinner, Massa!"

"How you gonna do that 'thout no firewood?" I asked, disgustedly, "Ol' Franklin done got the better of me on this deal! He didn't let on a bit that you was dumb as a post!"

"You mean, I got to chop the firewood, too?" she asked in despair.

"Who you think's gonna do it? The dogs?" I shook my head at her, "Damn girl! Why you think I wasted all that time showin' this stuff to ya?"

I stalked off into my shop, while she struggled to pull the axe out of the stump.

I watched on the security monitor in my shop as she chopped away, getting better as time went on, but almost losing body parts a time or two. Finally, she had what she thought would be a sufficient stack of wood for the stove, and after several trips had filled the woodbox in the kitchen. I didn't have time to teach flint & steel firemaking, so I left a box of kitchen matches for her to use. After wasting a few and not having much luck, she finally remembered the kindling box, and after taking the wood out, placing the kindling, then rebuilding the fire with the wood she had tried to use before, she got a decent blaze going.

I had chosen steak and greens because grilling and boiling are the easiest ways to cook when you're not in good control of your heat source. After allowing the pot of turnip greens to boil over a couple of times, she finally got the hang of the draft controls and how to balance them against the amount of wood in the firebox. She had found some herbs in the garden and growing wild around the clearing, and had added some of them to flavor the food. Dinner was a little after dark and I scolded her for taking so long with it, but, despite her unfamiliarity with the stove, the steak was cooked just the way I like it - red in the middle, but not uncooked, and the fat around the outside almost crisp, but not burned. The turnip greens, however, were a pleasant surprise. The herbs she added offset their slightly bitter taste, and softened the influence of the salt pork.

I left some of the greens for her and fed the meat scraps to the dogs, retiring to the living room to read a book by the light of a kerosene lamp, while she contrived to make the chitterlings I had bought for the occasion edible.

A bit later I heard soft padding as she diffidently stepped into the light of my lamp. "What is it, Netty?"

"I want to wash up the supper dishes, Massa, but they ain't no water."

I looked sharply at her "Is the pump broke?"

Her hand flew to her mouth as she realized what was expected of her. "Oh, no, Massa! I'm sorry Massa! I'll fetch some, but the fire's almos' out in the stove an' there ain't no more wood in the box."

"Then I reckon you better git some more. I don't want my dishes washed in cold water." As an afterthought, I added, "Don't forget to leave some water in the primin' bucket!"

It took her a couple more hours to chop enough wood, boil water for washing, and figure out how to get the dishes washed, dried, and put away. She swept the kitchen without being told, then reported to me in my bedroom, where I was undressing for bed.

Netty knocked quietly on the doorframe and waited for my command before entering. I was just taking off my pants when she stepped into the room. She almost backed out when she saw my state of undress, but I waved her impatiently inside.

"Come on, girl, you gonna see more a me than this 'fore long, so they ain't no call to be shy now!"

"I - I'm sorry, Massa!" she stared at her hands, "I done got the dishes washed an' put away, and swept the kitchen."

"It's about time. I shore hope you git faster at them chores purty quick." I finished taking off my trousers, and since I wore no underwear, I sat on the edge of the bed naked. "Go clean yourself up, girl! You smell like a pig sty. Then come on back an' we'll try you out. I wanna see if I got my money's worth from ol' man Franklin."