Blac Slaves on the Plantation

Hello, there. My name is Rhonda Winston. A six-foot-three, blonde-haired and blue-eyed Irishwoman living in New Orleans, Louisiana. I'm a police officer working for the New Orleans Police Department. The other day, I was on this bus and there were these passengers who were so damn unruly. A group of young black women were sitting next to me in the back of the bus, and they were really loud. I was heading home after a very long and tiresome day. The life of a policewoman isn't easy. Just today, I had to deal with a psychotic Hispanic chick who robbed a convenience store with a revolver, and shot at me when I tried to apprehend her. She's now in police custody. Alive, but not well. So, here I am on this bus at the end of a hectic day.

The young black women on the bus were getting really loud. Going on and on about their boyfriends, and who was sleeping with who, and the madness of everyday life. It was boring me real fast. So I asked them to please tone it down a bit. One of them, a large black chick whom I heard the others call Myra, stared at me with contempt. She was wearing a red T-shirt and blue jeans. When she heard my polite request, she called me a cracker and told me to shut up. I stared at her coldly. Who in hell did she think she was? No one talks to me this way. I don't care what color they are. For a brief moment, I considered smacking the shit out of her. Then I remembered that she had two of her equally large black girlfriends there. And the bus was loaded with loud black men and even louder black women who may or may not side with her in a dispute. I was outnumbered. I kept my mouth shut.

The last thing I wanted was to get in another scuffle with a minority. The captain of my police precinct, a large black woman named Jennifer Brown, isn't my biggest fan. Ever since she saw me to talking to her ex, corrections officer Ted Brown, she's out to get me. I don't know why but most black women I meet really don't like me. Can you fault me for not liking them in return? I dated a black college football player named Tyrone while I was a freshman at Louisiana Tech. We were both criminal justice majors and loved sports. I loved him. And I thought he loved me. He couldn't handle the fact that many of the young black women on campus hated seeing him with me. So he dumped me for a black chick. He had a problem with my skin color, not the other way around. So much for the unending saga of the racist white southerner, hey? Lots of black men and black women I've met are deeply racist. But they would never admit it. And most think of their brand of prejudice as justified. Yeah, I'm sure the Nazis thought their hatred of the Jews was justified. It still doesn't make them right. Prejudice is prejudice.

As I sat there on the bus, being pointed at and jeered by a sea of irate, laughing black women, I felt angry. And my cheeks reddened. This only seemed to provoke them. I just sat there and kept my mouth shut. That's what political correctness gets you. If I say anything, I'm the racist white woman. Never mind that I supported Illinois's Barack Obama over New York Senator and wannabe president Hillary Clinton from day one. Never mind that I traveled all the way to Massachusetts to support Deval Patrick when he ran for the Office of Governor. I supported the city of Brockton's would-be black gay mayor, Jass Stewart, not once but twice. I volunteer on weekends to mentor minority students at the local high school. I donate to the NAACP and the American Negro College Fund. I've shared my bed and my heart with several young black men I've loved. I cried foul when the state of Michigan did away with Affirmative Action. I supported professional basketball superstar Kobe Bryant when that country bumpkin accused him of sexual assault in 2003 and rejoiced when he retained his freedom and went on to win several NBA Championships. You'd think that after all I've done in the name of racial equality and diversity, personally and professionally, I'd get some slack from these angry young black women on the bus. Nope. My mind angrily wandered. And I found myself imagining some truly disturbing and fantastic things. What if reality was different in the good old US of A? Maybe then someone would teach these unruly young black women on the bus a lesson in prejudice, if not manners. They have it too good, if you ask me.

The year is 2014 A.D. The capital of the United States of America is not Washington D.C. It's actually Atlanta, Georgia. The Crown Jewel of the Old South. The United States rules the planet Earth via a paramilitary dictatorship rather than all this Democracy rubbish we heard other countries tried in ages past. Presently, I am breaking in a new black slave I recently purchased at the marketplace. Yes, you read right. In my world, slavery is perfectly legal. The way many men and women have wished things were, since the days of the Civil War.

If this world seems unfamiliar to you, then maybe a little history lesson is necessary. In the 1860s, the Civil War took place. North versus South. The Confederates versus the Union Army. In the regular timeline, the North won. Slavery was abolished. Abraham ' the sissy' Lincoln became President. What if things didn't go this way in another timeline? A team of scientists from the year 2008 ( in the regular timeline) built a time machine and traveled to the 1860s with twenty-first century technology and weaponry. With their knowledge of future events, these soldiers and scientists helped the South win the Civil War. The Army of the North was decimated. Southern values and viewpoints became mainstream American values and viewpoints. Slavery was never abolished. In fact, it continues all the way to the twenty-first century. I know this because my grandfather was one of the scientists who built the time machine. I'm glad he did. I once visited the alternate timeline where slavery was abolished and America became a land of liberals, a Godless wilderness of political correctness. It was a scary world. I'm glad it no longer exists.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've got a brand-new slave to break in. His name is Louis, and he's fresh from South Africa. This five-foot-eight, 150-pound black guy thinks he's tough. They all do, that's why it's so important that they get broken in nicely. You've got to break their will and show them who's boss otherwise it's going to be rebellion without end. I had him shackled in the back of my bright red SUV. I took him to my apartment for some fun times. Presently, he's on all fours. Face down and ass up. He's properly shackled so he can't escape, don't worry.

There is one thing guaranteed to break in a new slave. You can whip them, beat them or smack them around and that still won't take the fight out of them. They're tough, and they're used to hardship. Hell, some of them get off on the pain. However, one thing guaranteed to break them in is the removal of their last shred of human dignity. You've got to take it from them. So, I took my biggest strap-on dildo from my erotica drawer, greased it up and shoved it deep inside Louis ass. The black slave howled like a bitch. Holding firmly onto Louis hips, I thrust my dildo deep inside of him. This is how it's done, folks. Fuck them in the ass. Remove the rebellion from them. Show them who's the boss.

I love fucking black men in the ass with the biggest strap-on dildo I can find. It's my job and I do it happily. Louis was screaming louder than I'd ever heard a man scream in ages. He must really be new to this. Good. I flip him on his back so I can look into his beady little eyes while fucking him in the ass. Grabbing his face, I ask him if he likes getting fucked in the ass by a white woman with a strap-on. He spits in my face. Wrong answer. I deck him, and blood flows from his lip. Grinning madly, I slam the dildo even deeper inside of him. Louis earth-shattering scream was music to my ears. I fucked him good, slowly turning his once-tight asshole into a gaping void. A void which I spit in. I look into his eyes and see defeat there. Good. He's nicely broken.

A little while later, I order him to clean up my apartment. He does as he is told. Good slave. If he continues to be good, I'll even breed him with some of the slave women on the Plantation. If not, he'll have to be broken in again. And if that doesn't work, he'll get a vasectomy. Rebellious slaves of both sexes get a vasectomy or a hysterectomy when they cause too much trouble. Don't want them passing those rebellious genes to the next generation. I did enjoy the break-in period with Louis, though. That was weeks ago. I've got to return home. The place can't run itself. You see, I'm the lady in charge of the Winston Plantation located in New Orleans, Louisiana. Welcome to my humble abode. The place is a mess after the stormy season we've had in recent times but we're slowly rebuilding, by the grace of God. You know how it is after a storm. The big summer storm of 2014 was the worst we've had in the Old South in ages. I think it's going to take us ages to rebuild. The Winston family is one of survivors. I know we'll make it. The Winston Plantation sits atop a hill dominating four hundred acres of land. It's been in this family for generations. And I'll be damned if I let it fall into disrepair.

Right now, I'm sitting on my front porch with my trusty friend, Leonard O'Shea by my side. He's a six-foot-tall, red-haired and green-eyed Irishman in his early sixties who's been the armed guardsman at the Winston Plantation ever since I could remember. My parents trusted him with their lives and he never disappointed them. At his age, the man could still shoot a queen bee in a bug swarm of thousands at forty paces. Few men around these parts can make that same claim. We're watching the slaves as they go about their business. Black men and black women who toil away in the Winston Plantation's cotton fields. I sip on my tea and listen to some Rock 'N' Roll on my iPod as I spot one of my favorites among them.

Her name is Vanessa and she's quite something. Five feet ten inches tall, thick-bodied, with large breasts, wide hips and a huge round butt. Like all of them black women. She's a sassy Haitian one from Copiague, New York, whom I enjoyed breaking. Breaking in the servitors is one of my favorite things to do. A lot of them got an attitude problem. Once they are acquired and come to the Plantation where they will spend the rest of their lives, someone's got to show them who's boss. Seriously. Otherwise they'll just try to intimidate you. And that's not going to fly even if you put wings on it. Not on my watch. I am the lady of this house and breaking in rebellious slaves is my all-time favorite activity.

I have taken particular pleasure in breaking down rude and crude, aggressive and unruly black women like Vanessa. For some reason, the black women are far ruder, and more vicious and insidious than their male counterparts. That's okay because I'm a proper Southern lady who knows how to deal with a black bitch who gets out of line. The first thing I did when Vanessa started making problems for everyone was to make an example out of her. In front of all the black men and black women who labored in the Plantation's cotton fields, I had Vanessa tied to a wooden pole, butt-ass naked and properly whipped. Oh, yeah. And you know what? I had Johnson do it.

Johnson is a big and tall, strapping black man who's been with the Winston Plantation ever since he got off the boat in New Orleans docking bay. At forty years of age, he's still solid. He does house work as opposed to field work for us, and many of the other slaves hate him because of this distinction. They hate the fact that he's absolutely loyal to us. In fact, he's my personal disciplinarian among the slaves. Following my orders, Johnson cracked the whip and showed Vanessa the unruly black bitch a thing or two about how things were run at the Winston Plantation. Johnson really let her have it. Raising his arm high in the air, he brought the whip on her back. Vanessa howled, and slumped. Johnson's next whiplash struck her on those big buttocks of hers, and she quickly rose. Smiling, I urged Johnson to continue.

He whipped her everywhere, leaving nice blue whip marks on her shoulders, back and buttocks. This went on for a few minutes before I asked him to stop. I am a firm disciplinarian, not a sadist. Can't have Vanessa be damaged permanently because she won't be able to work. That would slow down productivity and in these lean times, the Winston Plantation needs every worker. So I asked two other slaves, a stocky black man named Smith and a tall, slim black woman named Judith, to carry Vanessa's bruised but already recovering body back to the slaves shack. I wanted them to take care of her because I wanted her back on her feet the next day, otherwise it would be their asses on the line. They said yes mistress and did as they were told. Smiling, I sipped my tea and asked Leonard what he thought of how I handled the unruly black woman. Leonard thought Vanessa was too unruly a slave woman to be a tamed. He thought we should sterilize her and sell her to the mine workers. Let them deal with her madness. I thought she could still be salvaged, with time and intense discipline. Leonard smiled kindly at me and said I was the toughest woman he ever met. I grinned. Damn right I am a tough woman. Lots of folks think all southern ladies are dainty dames who faint at the first sign of hardship. I'm not. My father, Ronald Winston, raised me to be a tough gal. That's why he left me the Winston Plantation to manage while he and my brother Lawrence journeyed up North. They were part of a coalition of southern gentlemen protesting the wasteful and liberal ways of the Northerners. We must stop them liberals in their tracks otherwise they will ruin everything.

Up north, nobody knows their place. You've got escaped slaves from the South living as free people. And the authorities do nothing but coddle them. They give them jobs and housing as opposed to sending them back to their rightful places. Down South, we know how to remind those with lofty ideals of their place. Spare the whip, spoil the worker, that's my daddy's motto. It works for him and it works for me. I decide to pay Vanessa little visit the next day. She's up on her feet, cleaning the floors of the shed when I spot her. Man, these slave women sure got nice behinds. I like me a woman with a nice behind. I sidle up to Vanessa, and say hello. Vanessa's eyes widen when she sees me. She looks scared, but there's a bit of anger and defiance left in her eyes too. Good.

I like them feisty slave women. They're fun to tame. I order Vanessa to get on her hands and knees. She hesitates. So I smack the shit out of her. Vanessa yelps. I stare at her. She stares back at me defiantly. Still standing. So I hit her again. Then she has the temerity of trying to hit me back. I catch her hand, and twist my right leg around her left foot. We tumble to the ground, and start wrestling. Vanessa is enraged, and wants to get me. She's a tough one. However, I was a wrestler in high school and college. I've wrestled against men. A gal like Vanessa, no matter how feisty, was no match for me. In no time, I pin her. She curses me in some dialect I don't understand. I lean over and tell her what's going to happen to her. When she hears me, she starts struggling again.

Laughing, I pluck my strap-on dildo from my purse, strap it on and shove Vanessa on all fours. She screams, and tries to flee. I grab her hair and hold her head down. Like it or not, this black bitch is going to get broken in. It's time for me to tame her, show her who's boss once and for all. I pry her big black butt cheeks wide open, and press the dildo against her butt hole. With a swift thrust, I push it inside. Vanessa shrieked. Oh, how I love that sound. Gripping her hips, I slam the dildo into her asshole. If there is one thing I love more than fucking black men in the ass with my strap-on, it's fucking black women with it. I can't get enough of it. Especially wild ones like Vanessa. She thrashed wildly and bucked like a bronco as I sodomized her. In spite of her best efforts, she couldn't get away from me. Her ass belonged to me. Like it or not, she was getting fucked in the ass. After a while, she simply lay there and took it. Yes! At last the black bitch gave up!

I fucked Vanessa until I frigging came, so turned on was I. Then I pulled the dildo out of her, and told her to get back to work. With eyes downcast, she said yes mistress. I grabbed her face and looked into her eyes. At last, I saw defeat there. Good. Good. I gave her big black booty a solid smack, watching it jiggle. Then I walked away. I felt so great, I just had to tell Leonard. He would love to hear about how I broke in the most unruly slave woman the Winston Plantation had ever seen. This is one for the history books, don't you agree? This is how we do it in the South. That's the way it is and that's the way it's going to stay. If you don't like it, tough.

I am snapped out of my dark reverie by a warm and friendly masculine voice. I look up, and gasp. For I behold a vision of beauty. A tall, good-looking young black man smiles at me. He tells me that the last stop is coming up, and the bus driver asked him to check to see if I was okay. I look at him for a few moments, then ask him what year it is. The young man looks at me with concern, then answers my questions. The year is 2009. Barack Obama is President of the United States. Congress is still full of morons. The planet is still in the crapper, economically and ecologically. But hey, at least George W. Bush is gone! I rise to my feet, and look around. Outside, I see men and women moving about, doing their thing in the city of New Orleans. Men and women. Blacks and whites. Straights and gays. The world wasn't changed by renegade time-travelers. It was all a dream. I look at the friendly young black man and thank him for waking me up. I almost missed my spot. I was having a strangely vivid dream. Smiling, I exit the bus and head for my apartment building. After today's events, both real and imagined, I need a drink.