The white woman raved. “You filthy black scum... get up! Get up
before I kill you!” The sound of her whip, John's breathing, and her
voice were the only sounds—though almost a hundred people, black and
white, looked on. Most of the white faces mirrored disgust, though some
were clearly mesmerized with glee; without exception, the black faces
were twisted in anger. This was the Stanton plantation. Mr. Stanton was
away at a slave auction in Charleston, and Mrs. Stanton was exercising
her power, as she always did when he was away.
John struggled, with agonized hesitation, to his feet. Mrs. Stanton
waited, every muscle and nerve in her body tensed and trembling
slightly with anxiety as she watched him struggle with his balance. For
a moment he wavered, threatening to collapse again, and she shouted to
two men standing nearby. “Prop him up,” she commanded. “Now turn him
around to face me.”
For almost a full minute they stonily stood and glowered at each
other. Then her arm flashed out and the whip snaked out across the
short distance between them, exploding loudly in the pit of his
A low-pitched growl escaped his throat as John started to double
over. The two men bent him back and three more blows whistled across
his hips and thighs. Her aim was perfect. With the efficiency of a
surgeon she used the whip to slash away the tattered remains of his
trousers, the point of the rawhide biting painfully into the flesh that
surrounded his sex. But she spared that part. And as she paused, the
whip dangling at her side, her heavy bosom heaving, it became evident
to all who watched why she left him untouched there. John's magnificent
cock, its mahogany body with its cushiony pink crown bulging at the
tip, fully the length and thickness of the woman's forearm, hung almost
regally from his body, framed by the heavy, dangling scrotum beneath.
Her stare was frozen on him there.
Dropping the whip where she stood, Mrs. Stanton walked slowly across
the dusty ground that separated them. “Undress me,” she ordered. The
two men stepped toward her. “No. Him,” she directed. John did not move.
His whole world was swimming about his head dizzily; his body, racked
with aching, burning pain, threatened to topple from its own weight at
any moment. She hissed furiously, “I said you, darky. All you apes want
is a white woman. Here's your chance— maybe. Take off my clothes.” And
with lightning suddenness her tiny hand slashed out, slapping his face
and dragging her claw-like nails across his cheek.
A bolt of rage shot through him and John's giant black arms struggled
to be free, to attack and crush her insect body. But the two men had
little trouble restraining his greatly weakened efforts: his left arm
was twisted behind his back and he was too exhausted to turn away when,
at the last second, he glimpsed the glaring white knuckles of a doubled
fist streaking toward him. The bridge of his nose crumbled on impact
and the pounding, numbing pain that enveloped his whole head was
matched by the sense of drowning he felt as the warm blood that gashed
from his nostrils poured into his open, gasping mouth. His body sagged
and tears flooded his eyes. He struggled desperately to remain
conscious. Faintly, as though from a great distance, he heard a woman's
voice. “Wake him up,” it echoed in his splitting skull. “Wake him up.”
The shock of ice-cold water pouring over him snapped John back to
awareness of his surroundings.
“Once more is all I'll say it,” the mistress of the plantation now
said in a controlled and frigid tone. “Take off my clothes or I'll cut
off that big black cock and give it to your woman to remember you by.”
John knew she was serious. His wife's frightened eyes met his; she
stood with their children on the near edge of the crowd. Without a word
he reached out to unbutton Mrs. Stanton's white blouse.
A tremor of anticipation ripped through her when his powerful fingers
began to struggle with the tiny pearl buttons of her ruffled blouse.
Mrs. Stanton closed her eyes as he felt a moist trembling in the
deepest part of her sexual being. The rough flesh of his hard knuckles
brushed lightly against the gently cared-for softness of her gleaming
white and silky bosom. One by one, with long, deliberate pauses in
between, he undid the buttons of her blouse.
When finally he had finished, John's fingers lightly held the lapels
of the blouse open. Though scores of eyes stared at the two of them
from all directions, only his two eyes could see the bulging fullness
of the bra-encased breasts that the opening of her blouse had revealed.
A ripple of sound whispered through the crowd when, upon removing her
blouse, Mrs. Stanton's breasts —though still covered—had their
magnificent dimensions exposed. She turned her back then, for him to
open her brassiere. He unhooked the snaps, but before the casings fell
from her breasts she reached her hands up to cup and conceal them from
the assembled throng. Slowly, she turned to face John. And slowly, she
let the garment drop from her bosom.
Her long, blonde hair now fell about Mrs. Stanton's delicate ivory
shoulders. From where the hair stopped, her chest began to swell. And
John's eyes, though burning from the dust and sweat that had assaulted
them, were drawn to the soothing beauty of her heavily swollen, milky
tits. They were young, as she was, and proudly uplifted; and they
curved gently forward, each inviting breast capped with a coral-pink
nipple the size of her half-opened mouth. “Are they attractive to you,
John Reed?” she coyly purred. As she talked, John could see a rapid
engorgement of her nipples taking place. They were swelling to
erection, and he could feel a similar response in his own loins.
“Yes'm,” he answered her as he knew he was supposed to. And he hated
himself for it.
“Then you may kiss them, as you remove my skirt.”
Assuming that he was free to respond to her suggestion as he pleased,
John tried to ignore the cushiony globes as he leaned forward and
fumbled with the ties at the waist of her skirt. “You may kiss them,”
she repeated firmly. And he knew that his assumption was incorrect.