Chapter 8

My second visit to the Owner's Club was much different from my first, mostly because I felt much more relaxed, much more confident in myself. I'd repaired my makeup in the car and it hadn't been so bad, just my lipstick had been terribly smeared from sucking Mr. Reiser's cock and then kissing him hard. I fixed it and brushed my hair. My only complaint was the semen trickling from my asshole as I walked into the plantation house, but I have to say I enjoyed the sensation of my rectum filled with my owner's seed. I think it gave him pleasure as well, to know that I was well-fucked and soiled beneath my gorgeous evening gown.

I kept my head up as we took the grand staircase to the second floor, unafraid to meet the gaze of other black women who in the company of their white masters. I was the most beautiful girl there, or so Mr. Reiser told me and I believed him. I felt confident for the first time in my life and enjoyed the feeling immensely. I didn't even flinch beneath the eyes of the white men who looked at me, some of them quite openly and others with a more subtle and polite regard, but all of them with obvious interest. I'd return their gaze, only for a second or two, and then drop my eyes as a negra should, but not my head or shoulders. Unless you've been a beautiful woman in the company of men, you can't know what a powerful thrill such a thing really is.

Mr. Reiser took me dancing first and I wasn't very good at it, but that hardly seemed to matter. The music was live, coming from a dozen black musicians, and they were playing classical music, like waltzes and old ballroom music arranged for strings. The tempo was slow and deliberate and romantic. The women there were older, most of them, and dressed nicely, many of them evidently as spoiled as I was. This was Southern society at its best so far as I was concerned, the wealthy white men who ran the city and half the state, enjoying their black mistresses. We deserved to be spoiled and I couldn't stop smiling as Mr. Reiser held me close, patiently teaching me how to dance while other couples swept around us gracefully.

"I wonder if this isn't the real reason for slavery." Mr. Connelly, who had recently been the state Solicitor General, drawled lazily. "This, right here. A bunch of rich old men who love young and pretty black girls."

Mr. Connelly smiled at the boy who was sitting very close and rubbing the old man's cock. The black buck was several years younger than me and certainly no girl, but no one was going to say anything. There were half a dozen men seated loosely in a comfortable drawing room, the Marigold Room as it was called, and they all had boys close by. I was the only slave who truly looked like a girl, but many of them were pretty and the room was dedicated to owners with a penchant for such toys. This was that part of the Owner's Club where the married men brought their male lovers and these owners shared a certain intimacy with each other, a secret that seemed wholly unlike the larger and more socially acceptable reason the club existed at all.

"It's a good enough reason for me." A man named Taylor laughed and he owned a bank. He sat on a loveseat with a very attractive young black man and they would whisper back and forth.

"If apartheid is going to exist beyond the twenty-first century, we've got to support our friends in Africa," a man started saying.

"Boo ... Who invited the lawyer? ... More brandy!" The other men waved at him and held up their glasses and cigars so that the waiters would come quickly with crystal decanters and long wooden matches.

"The Germans are making a fine mess of it, aren't they?" another man seemed to agree, and I had a difficult time following the discussion anyway. Politics bored me terribly.

"More champagne." Mr. Reiser told a waiter, and my glass was refilled as we sat together on a sofa near a large fireplace.

"They make a mess of everything," the first man agreed, nodding. "The world's policemen, eh?"

There was some laughter at that, but everyone was hard on Germany for whatever reason, and I suppose it's because they'd been the world's only real super power since the end of World War II. Even though they were our ally and biggest trading partner, there would have to be a certain amount of jealousy.

"First Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq, now the Sudan." An older man with a neat beard and long sideburns shook his head. "They took care of the Jews, but those Muslim bastards are a different breed altogether."

"You think they'd learn, eh?" General Steed, who was a large, swollen man with a scarred face, spoke up. "They can put a swastika on the moon, but they can't put one in Mecca."

"Ahhh ... It's good for business anyway, let them fight." Connelly shrugged and there was general agreement. "So long as they keep the oil flowing, that's all that counts."

"Got yourself a new negra, I see." A younger man, whom everyone called Nathan took a seat close to us and spoke with Mr. Reiser. "Very nice. They catch that runaway yet?"

"Not yet," he replied, and I looked up at my master as I sat beneath his arm arm. "I'm sure he'll turn up though."

"You've had a few runaways now," Connelly chuckled. "You must be one of those cruel owners I hear so much about."

"Heh!" Mr. Reiser laughed. "I must be."

Such comments made me very curious as I hadn't known my owner had any other slaves. Not recently, at least, but it wasn't a topic I could involve myself in. I had to sit quietly, sipping my champagne and looking beautiful. So far as these men were concerned, the other slaves and I were little more than furniture in that respect.

"You don't whip 'em enough," Taylor decided. "I strap this boy every day, rain or shine. Don't I, boy?"

"Yes sir." His companion smiled at us. "Master Taylor straps me good every morning come sunrise."

"This nigger was born for the strap." He smiled and pressed a hand against his slave's cock, squeezing him through the loose pants he wore. "Gets him hard just thinking about it."

"Gets you hard too, eh?" someone joked, and Taylor laughed.

"Goddamn right it does," he said. "In fact, if ya'll will excuse us for a short while, I believe I'll sodomize this nigger on the balcony. Some fresh air might do him some good."

"Fresh air is overrated." Connelly laughed. "Get on the floor, boy."

The old man was speaking to his own slave, who couldn't have been more than fourteen and so I thought the boy must have been slaveborn. He was an angelic half-breed, with light brown skin and kinky blonde hair, but he had dark eyes and African features. A small, broad nose and thick lips that the boy soon wrapped around his Master's hard, white cock while we watched. I watched anyway, but most of the others had the good grace to ignore it, or at least pretend to. It seemed obvious to me that all the men there were aroused, including my own Master who played his fingers lightly across the awkward tent spoiling my dress.

"What are you going to do when they catch that nigger of yours?" a distinguished looking gentleman with a long, sharp nose and soft blue eyes asked Mr. Reiser.

"After rehabilitation?" My Master shrugged. "Take him downstairs, sell him off. I don't have much use for a runaway."

"He was a pretty one, as I recall. Creole, wasn't he?" Connelly wondered. "Like my boy here."

"Creole, yeah," Mr. Reiser said. "His mother was whore down in Orleans, a white woman who liked the dark meat."

"French?" Nathan asked, and there were some chuckles.

"All the whores in Orleans are French, aren't they?" Mr. Reiser laughed. "She sold that boy for food stamps."

"Ought to be a law against that." Connelly grinned.

"There is," the long nosed man replied. "Against prostitution anyway."

"But not in Orleans!" General Steed laughed. "Thank God for that."

"Prostitution and gambling." Connelly shook his head. "That city is the very garden spot of Hell."

"Orleans? A man needs a place like that. I took my wife there for our anniversary." A man I didn't know entered the conversation, leading a boy my age by the hand. "I didn't see her for three days. We had a great time."

"Heh." The men laughed at that and most of them had their cocks out, letting their slaves jerk them off, or suckle them while they talked.

Mr. Reiser didn't stop me when I opened his trousers, shifting my body so I could bring my mouth to his cock. He stroked my hair and hardened quickly for the third time that evening. It would be a long while before I could make him cum probably, but I gathered that orgasm wasn't the point of this at all. It was slave owners relaxing and enjoying the luxury of being fondled and sucked off in public, in front of their peers as if it meant nothing at all to them. Such a thing existed beyond reason anywhere else in our culture, and most of them would have been shocked and outraged at such behavior in another place and time. But right then and there it was perfectly normal and engaged a wholly separate cultural identity for those men.

To us slaves, it meant very little. I'd suck and fuck my Master wherever and whenever he wanted me. The paradox of slavery is that it grants a level of freedom from responsibility no citizen could possibly hope to enjoy, or so I'd been taught in school and I believed it. Why wouldn't I? To accuse me of such a crime would be like blaming an automobile for speeding.

"Oh ho, gentlemen!" A man's loud voice interrupted the conversation, and the sex. "Does anyone want a piece of this negra cunt?"

I looked to see a large, forty-something man dragging a naked black girl behind him on a leash and collar, weeping as she crawled on her hands and knees. She was black, obviously, and had recently been whipped. Her back, ass, and thighs were criss-crossed with angry welts, red and white and raised upon her dark skin. She had semen leaking from her raw pussy and anus, and her once pretty face was sticky with cum, her thick black hair matted and soaked with it as well.

"Runaway?" General Steed asked.

"Just returned from rehabilitation," the master agreed. We could see the branding on her left breast when he had her kneel upright for closer inspection.

"Where did they catch her?" Mr. Reiser asked.

"In the back of a van, going through the border up in Louisville," he answered. "This negra and half a dozen more. Some abolitionist from New York or some such place was driving."

"They got him locked up?" Connelly wondered, and the man nodded.

"He'll be on the block."

"Black boy?" someone asked.

"Yeah. Northern nigger wanted to free his oppressed sisters." The man chuckled and jerked the leash hard, forcing his slave back onto her hands as she lost her balance. "Are you feeling oppressed, bitch?"

"N-No Master." She shook her head, answering in a weak and watery voice.

"I'm breeding the slut now, so if any of you fine gentlemen want a shot at her nigger eggs..." He shrugged. "Or any other part of her, be my guest."

"I'll take a run at the whore," the long nosed man agreed. Without much ceremony he pulled his cock free of his boy's sucking mouth and moved to mount the girl from behind.

"I have a dozen slaves, she's the first one that ever run off." The man stood there watching his slave get fucked hard. "Ungrateful bitch. Had her since she was just a baby too. It just goes to show, you can't trust a negra to be anything else but."

"It's a hard lesson," Mr. Reiser agreed, pushing my mouth back down on his cock and lowering his voice. "You've seen enough."

This brought on another round of discussion about slaves and runaways and how none of us could be trusted. I didn't listen too much as I tried to close my ears to the sound of the girl crying while she was fucked. The man doing it was large and trying to hurt her, I thought, slamming his prick inside her hard and then pulling nearly all of the way out so he could do it again. I concentrated on making my Master feel good, sucking his penis the best I knew how in the hope that it would prove beyond a doubt my loyalty to him. I wasn't like that bitch and she was getting what she deserved anyway. I just didn't want to have to listen to her complain about it.

"Ughhh ... There's another half-breed bastard for the army!" The man fucking the girl laughed and pulled his cock out a moment later, wiping it off on her ass and then in her hair as if it was a towel. "Next!"

Three of the men there fucked her, all of them cumming inside her pussy, and happily for me, Mr. Reiser hadn't wanted her. She would have stained his cock and I already felt jealous enough, silly as that sounds. I didn't want to share my Master with anyone and I felt very glad he had no other slaves besides myself and Mercy. That would have been bad enough, but I found the idea of him fucking a runaway negra like that one especially repulsive. I had my arms tight around him the whole time, nursing on my owner's cock without pause until the other master finally led his rehabilitated bitch away.

"That's enough for a little bit," he told me. I'd been sucking him a long while, over half an hour, I was sure, and he wasn't going to cum, but my jaw ached.

"Mmmm ... Yes sir." I licked my lips, feeling them swollen and my tongue was strangely weary, overworked and thick. Conversation went on around us, but I paid it no mind and neither did my Master.

"Drink more champagne," Mr. Reiser said, smiling and stroking my face with his fingertips.

I nodded, reaching for my glass and finding it didn't taste as good now that it had grown warm. I was thirsty, however, and I drank it anyway so that a waiter could refill my glass with cold champagne, and that was much better. I drank a lot of it, and quickly too, which made my Master chuckle. He warned me to slow down, with a kiss on the cheek and small hug as I snuggled closer in his arms.

"Where do you find a boy like that?" a man wondered, leaning towards us in his chair.

His name was Mr. Simpson and he was another lawyer. His slave was a young boy of about fourteen years, I thought, and dressed as a girl in a black skirt and white blouse. He was cute and doubtlessly very sweet, but not entirely passable, even at that tender age. He had a boyish face and the slave would never look like anything but a nigger in drag and his master knew it.

"I got lucky and..." Mr. Reiser said, pausing as a waiter lit his cigar. "Thank you. And one of my managers had her picture on his desk. I made a comment about how pretty she looked and the man told me she was his son."

"Is that right?" Simpson smiled and his eyes were all over me. "That's one in a million right there."

"You can't make one." My Master nodded sagely. "Sissy negras are born, that's a fact."

"Want to sell her?" the man asked, apparently serious, and I swallowed hard.