It didn't take long for them to chain me up to the other girls in the coffle and soon we were off. The paths got smoother as we got closer to the city and I had gotten used to walking more-or-less barefoot. I say "more-or-less" because unlike the other girls I was wearing my beautiful barefoot sandals, with their green beads and string. They weren't the type of thing they sell at Harrods but the other girls stared at them longingly. I enjoyed their envy and loved my sandals so!
My main problem with walking was not my feet but my bottom. I could feel where that black bastard had whipped me with every step and I sobbed gently from the pain of it as I limped along. Some of the girls looked at me with sympathy; a few of them smirked. I knew that some of the girls were jealous of my wealth, white skin, elegant manor, and beautiful sandals. Perhaps they suspected I would soon be rescued or at the very least sold to a rich and powerful master.
Silly, ignorant slave girls! I was better than them all.
From the chatter of the slave mongers I gathered that many of the black girls were to be sold to plantations of the sort that evil bastard Crawley ran, "good old fashioned" establishments where colored slaves toiled in the fields while their white masters sipped mint juleps on the front porch of their Greek Revival mansions.
Crawley! Oh, how I hated him. I hated all of them, but him the most of all. Insinuating that I was somehow black like the others. I had tanned a bit, of course – that was to be expected – but I was nothing like the dirty negroes I was chained up with.
I was glad for the fairer skinned girls like that idiot missionary woman Suzanne who had let herself get stripped naked and chained up like a slave girl. "She'll learn soon enough," I thought. But for now, at least, I had a white face to keep me company.
I polished my little pearl as we walked along, using the waves of pleasure to distract myself from the pain of my throbbing bottom. The other girls diddled themselves as they walked too, although they did it because they were randy little slave sluts, bitches in heat in constant need of a good mounting. I wasn't like them, of course: I was a lady of breeding. I rubbed myself until I was gasping and panting, but that was as much for show as anything. After all, I was not a slave!
I'd had psychology and I knew that the constant marching and forced masturbation and hard labor and repeating of slave phrases was designed to break me and mold my mind. If you KNOW you're being conditioned, and maintain a level of intellectual distance, you're largely immune to such conditioning, powerful though it may be.
They made us recite even as we marched. As we walked along the path I flicked my little bean, chanting the phrases all slave girls had to learn.
MY MOUTH HUNGERS FOR YOUR SEED, MASTER.
PLEASURE ME, MASTER. I AM HOT FOR YOUR TOUCH.
HOW MAY I PLEASE YOU, MASTER?
WORK ME HARD, MASTER. MAKE ME EARN MY KEEP.
It was all rubbish, of course, and I didn't believe a word of it. The bit about me hungering for my master's seed was particularly loathsome, whether I was repeating it in English, French, Arabic, Chinese, Hausa, Amharic, Swahili, or one of the half dozen other forms of babble we were trained in. It was easiest to repeat in English, of course, but after a great deal of repetition – and, I'm ashamed to say, quite a few strokes of the switch – even my Japanese was quite good. I now knew how to beg to suck a penis in a dozen languages.
The absurdity of it was I positively despised sucking penises, and I hated sucking black penises most of all. I'm not a racist, mind you. I have no problems with blacks or Pakistanis or other coloreds that know their place.
I actually have an old black gentleman that's worked in my family's stable ever since I was a baby. I don't know his name, but he always takes off his hat and smiles and bows his head when I walk in and in return I always wish him a pleasant morning, just as mother taught me to do when I was a little girl.
My colored stable boy does a good job cleaning my saddles and polishing my boots and shoveling up the horse poop, and I have no problem with him whatsoever. Randolph says I shouldn't refer to him as "my boy" since he is an old man, but that is politically correct silliness. "Boy" is not a derogatory or racist, it merely describes his relationship to me as the Mistress of the house.
But there is a world of difference between nodding pleasantly at a colored person who is showing a white woman the proper deference and respect and kneeling in the dirt and taking a disgusting black penis in your mouth. I mean a big, smelly black penis with the veins throbbing and the bulbous purple balloon head twitching around in your mouth and going everywhere as it searches for the perfect place to gush it's disgusting hot porridge. And the filthy black man grinning down at you, laughing at you as you try to ignore the taste of those first few drops of his foul scum, telling you that you're "a good little cocksucker" and promising "a big white load to wash out your pretty white mouth with."
Ugh, disgusting!
The worst is when the dirty colored monkey finally squirts, and you know you can't swallow until you have his permission, so you keep sucking as his disgusting cream coats your mouth and teeth and tongue until you'd drink your own pee just to get rid of the filthy taste. Sometimes when the slave wrangler squirted I'd look up and see the face of that crinkled up old man in my stables, laughing at me as he pumped his huge load of noxious white goop into my mouth.
I sometimes wondered if my old servant had fantasized about making me kneel down and degrade myself that way in front of him. Probably. I quickly learned every one of those dirty coloreds wanted a pretty white girl to kneel down in front of him and suck his cock. I would fire him when I got back to England. Blacks simply can't be trusted, no matter how servile they pretend to be.
Sometimes the loads were enormous, but it didn't matter, because as a slave girl I was expected to get swallow drop. This was especially difficult when they pulled out and exploded their salty, stringy loads onto my lips and across my face, laughing as I recoiled in disgust. I'd try to lick as much off my face as I could, but sometimes when my hands were chained behind me it would dry on and I'd be able to feel their dried scum on my face or hair for the rest of the day. But that was better than missing a drop, for it any fell into the dirt I had to immediately retrieve it with my mouth, furrowing out a little trough with my tongue and forming a disgusting mud pie to make sure that none of the precious jizz was wasted. Such was the life of a slave girl.
Crawley, that pig of an upstart with too much money and no breeding, loved watching me suck off the coloreds, since he knew how humiliating it was for me. It was the reason I hated Crawley the most of all of them. Lord Humphrey was a dirty pervert, telling me to suck him off like his dick was one of the candy sticks he used to give me when I was a little girl – but Crawly was a pig. Ordering me to wrap my "big plump lips" around his disgusting penis, implying that I was colored, saying he was going to make me into a negro on his plantation, then laughing as the black men made me suck down their disgusting loads, sneering I should get used to "pleasuring my own kind."
My own kind? Bastard!
When we weren't repeating nonsense about sucking penises I amused myself by imagining Crawly as MY slave, kneeling naked in front of me, begging for mercy as he spied the enormous but regrettably dull gelding knife in my hand, with Lord Humphrey and the rest of the bastards from the hotel kneeling behind him, waiting their turn with the knife. Crawley would cry and lick my feet, begging for mercy. He could cry all he wanted but it would do him no good. His nuts were MINE, and his ball sack, when tanned and treated, would make a lovely leather band for my new Apple Watch. I would enjoy the memory of him begging for his manhood every time I checked my messages.
I gasped as I felt yet another orgasm crash over me, drunk with my own sense of power at the image of my kneeling, naked slaves.
Whoosh!
I cried out as the switch cut across my already tortured bottom. "Step lively slut!" the slave wrangler barked. "We not slow down for you to rub your stinky, wet gash!"
A few of the girls around me laughed, but after shooting them a disdainful look to show them my utter contempt for them I quickened my pace, both with my feet and my fingers, trying to coax myself into another orgasm.
It was strategic, of course, a clever way to distract myself from the pain in my bottom. I wasn't like the other sluts, juicing and diddling themselves while the men watched them. They were randy slave meat, destined for the collar. After all, despite my temporarily reduced circumstances I was still a proper British lady.
There were other distractions as well. The men and supplies were carried by camels and donkeys or pulled by carts hauled by the colored girls, who were harnessed to the carts in much the same way that the donkeys were. Like the other white girls I was careful not to step directly in the animal's droppings. This did not please our masters, as it slowed the coffle's pace as we awkwardly stepped around the large "road apples" as they were called. A lesson needed to be learned.
At one of the stops I was ordered to my knees, and with my hands behind my back ordered to clear a group of road apples with my nose. I was placed in competition with six of the other white girls, and I'm proud to say that I managed to avoid the switch by quickly amassing the biggest pile. My strategy was to cherry pick the larger, dried clumps, as they rolled easier. Unfortunately they had more flies and maggots, and the horrible insects swarmed me when I rolled their home off the main road.
I had gotten used to the flies crawling over me in the coffle. The African flies were large, hungry, and insistent, and crawled all over me licking up my sweat and savoring the rank odors between my legs and between my bottom cheeks, snacking on whatever I had not been able to wipe away with leaves. I had been disgusted at first, and wept bitterly as I felt them feast on my stink. I brushed them away when my hands weren't tied, being careful not to let my ministrations break the pace of the coffle for fear of the lash. But when my hands were tied, I got used to them, and eased my suffering by reasoning that they were cleaning me, as my master's wished.
I was quite proud of amassing the biggest pile of road apples, and felt little sympathy for the lazy, stupid girls who were switched, or had their noses pushed directly into the fresh shit as a lesson to them. I laughed along with the men at the girl's misfortune, enjoying a moment of comradely with my master's.
The lesson learned, the walking resumed, as I once again began to repeat the mantras.
"I am a slave apple, dropped from between my slave mother's legs into the dirt, like a donkey drops his shit."
"I a slave apple, dropped from between my slave mother's legs into the dirt, like a donkey drops his shit."
With the foul stench of the road apples burning in my nostrils and the flies swarming me, I absorbed the truth of the statement.
I was a slave apple.
I was a slave apple.
My mind fought back. "No. This is temporary. This is all temporary." It was a comforting phrase I repeated to myself when I wasn't busy repeating bosh about how I was a slave apple and how I loved to suck penises and juice myself at the thought of my master's touch.
I was not a slave. This was temporary. Randolph was probably already on his way, money in hand.
Where was he? We couldn't be THAT hard to find, and we were walking, and he had a bloody jeep. I know he had talked about buying me at port, but that would mean I'd have to be marched through town, stark naked, right past our bloody hotel! My face burned crimson with shame as I imagined all the young swans and old hens out on the balcony, tittering and focusing their opera glasses for a better look at me as I slowly trotted past them like a show dog at Westminster.
I was better than all of them, and I always let them know it. Now, naked except for my coffle chain and slave beads, breasts and bottom bouncing, their vengeance would be cruel and cold.
"My, her bottom is certainly well striped! Look at those welts."
