Diary Of A Plantation Slave Ch 03

Author's Note: All characters are over the age of 18. Character names and events are purely fictional and in no way endorse racism, bigotry, rape or the dehumanization of another human. Heavy use of racial language and slurs. Please look at the tags, there is mention of scat and nonconsensual toilet play. If any of these themes offend or disgust you in any way, feel free to skip reading. Everyone else, enjoy!

Friday, August 23rd, 1811

"Right there, nigra, get your tongue up in there nice and good." I crouch under Mistress as she pulls the leash around my neck tight to push me deeper into her bottom. I'm yanked toward her bushy red mound and forced to lap her pink pussy lips clean from her mornin' piss.

She's got one leg up on the rockin' chair, grippin' that leash like it's gold while her other leg is over my shoulder, her red-painted nails scratchin' my scalp softly.

I numb myself to the sensation. It feels and tastes better lickin' from Mistress's soft plump rolls instead of Master that it be all I can think of to numb the disgust of it all while her softness on my mouth. My neck strains against the leash with every gulp of her golden essence.

Just when I think she's done, a little stream of pee sprays my face. I keep my lips on her bud till every last drop is down my throat.

"Oh, have Mercy!" She comes off her high with a lilting laugh and pats me loose, pleased the new leash she bought for me is comin' in handy. "You outdone yourself today, nigra. I reckon I won't need cloth anymore to wipe!"

I guess she ain't get the memo since I've been cleanin' her behind these past few weeks with no rag in sight. She straightens up and stands to wiggle her panties up and over her big bottom.

"Fetch some water for yourself and then get the tableware ready like last time. I got some girls from The Chatham County Women's Society comin' for our Book Club, and I'll be busy all day hostin'."

"So you won't need me for the rest of the day?" I ask, tryin' to hide the hope in my voice.

"Don't be foolish, nigra. I'm gon' need somebody to keep these ladies fed and I'll definitely need my bottom licked good by the time I finish whatever Khadijah makes. Besides, if this brunch goes well, you'll be the main event!"

*************************

I'm too tapped out to even try to figure what Mistress meant by what she said this mornin', but I chug down a big jug of water to get hydrated and keep my head from spinnin'.

Over the past couple weeks, I've been back and forth between "servin'" Master and Mistress. It be so bad I get Mistress in the mornin', Master in the afternoon, then Mistress at night again 'cause she says she needs someone to lick her bottom good when she gets her midnight cravings.

Of all the white devils I could've ended up with. Lord, I got to be in a special kind of Negro Hell to be put with folks who enjoy usin' slaves like they own personal porta potty.

I don't wanna be pissed on and crapped on no more. I'm tired. But as each day passes I think this is the way things are now. All I wanna do is get back to where things were again, back to normal.

But I don't even know what that normal is. Cookin' maize and moppin' floors and doin' a bad job of it? Or the normal back when I was on the plantation with Momma and Daddy? I can't go back to that either.

Now that I think 'bout it, with the Cryers occupyin' my time 24/7, I barely get to see the other slaves to lift me out of my misery. I ain't seen Darla, Johanna, Khadijah or Broderick. And I definitely ain't seen Albee in a minute.

Albee...that angel smile I can look at all day. It pains me that he might know what I've been doin all this time. I think 'bout what he and Broderick said, 'bout havin' to be the ones to claim their freedom for themselves.

I ain't never had to free myself or stand up to nobody. Freedom was somethin' in my mind that was etched into a sheet of paper ministered by a white man. But the thought of claimin' it for myself don't sound so ridiculous now.

The doorbell rings. Speak of the devils.

"Priscilla, Kelcy!" Mistress perks up when she opens the door to her society sisters. She gives 'em a big Southern hug and peck on the cheek. "Come on in, ladies! You're just in time for brunch!"

Miss Priscilla Deremonte, Miss Kelcy Capone, and eight or nine other ladies soon follow all with dainty white gloves and a copy of a book slung under their arm. The book reads "The Domestication of the Negro: Ten House Rules Every White Housewife Should Follow for a Happy Home".

They all got that swooped up Hannah Van Buren bun with springy pin curls in the front, dotted frock dresses and heels to match. On the back of the book is another white woman with the same fancy white gloves and dress. They look like a whole white congregation 'round the table, a devilish, pin-curl wearin' bunch. Mistress looks at me when they all seated and I take my cue to get their coats.

This gon' be a long day.

*************************

After goin' 'round the table and servin' the ladies lemonade and Khadijah's hashbrown and bean casserole twice, I watch as they sit back in their chairs stuffed and exhausted. Bellies extended, buttons loose from their dresses and legs wide and splayed, they hardly resemble the prim and proper ladies of Georgia's high society.

By now a third of 'em talkin' 'bout how "fascinatin'" the women's book is, another third catchin' up on town gossip, and another 'bout how they gon' take the leftovers from Khadijah's casserole with them and hope they don't break the toilets at their homes.

Miss Priscilla Deremonte, the matronly and big-boned President of the Book Club, pipes up.

"Ladies, this was another fab-u-lous discussion. Major props to Doris for puttin' this all together!"

Miss Priscilla says this with plump rosy cheeks as she licks the casserole crumbs from her fat fingers. I swear, this woman ain't utter a word without Khadijah's food in her mouth.

The ladies erupt into cheer and give a huge applause to Mistress.

Mistress just smiles small like she's humble. "Thank you, ladies. And thank you Priscilla, for leading this amazing discussion. I did have one more thing I wanted to bring up at the table, if that's okay with ya'll."

"The floor is yours," Miss Priscilla says, clearly distracted with her food.

Miss Kelcy, another plump woman with a big appetite, looks between me and Mistress all confused 'cause I'm still standin' close. "Doris, is your slave here gon' fetch us some more of that casserole?"

Mistress keeps that white woman grin on her face, "Yes, that casserole comin' in a minute there, Kelcy. But my nigra here for more than that. You see, ladies, I wanted to invite ya'll in here for a good chat and a ...reawakening if you will. " Her eyes twinkle as she says this.

"We all know how exhaustin' bein' the beacons of our Society can be in addition to doin' our domestic duties and managin' the unruliness of our livestock and nigras. This book here is a good guide for that, layin' down the law in our households. But I wanted to offer you all the proposal that, instead of bein' at odds with the domestic nigras of our homes, we ought to approach handlin nigras a different way,"

She taps the book in her hand, "and by that I mean...havin' them serve us the way we ought to be served, completely."

The ladies who were chattin' amongst each other now lean forward and look curious. Some nod in uncertain agreement and some share intrigued glances.

"Like cookin' and cleanin'?"

"No, not like cookin' and cleanin'." Mistress tugs at my overalls till I take a step closer to her. I swallow my nerves.

"I'm talkin' 'bout servin' us through submission. Puttin' them in they proper place as our niggers. You see, my nigra here is my toilet."

Silence. You can hear a pin drop and see the ghost on their faces as Mistress says that all casual-like. I'm as shocked as the rest of the choir. What is she up to?

"C-come again?" Miss Kelcy says like she ain't hear right the first time.

"This nigra here is my personal toilet. Whenever I need to go to the ladies room, 9/10 times, I go in her mouth, and she swallows it right on up. Don't matter if it's the #1 or #2. And she does her part to lick me clean right after I'm done, don't you nigra?" she cocks a smile at me as I stare back dumbfounded.

"You ladies may think I'm crazy, but I strongly believe we'd have a lot less stress in the home if we all had at least one nigra toilet to satisfy all of our needs. "

The ladies are in full commotion. This ain't like no Book Club discussion they ever had. Miss Priscilla clears her throat to tell the ladies to quiet down and is the first to speak up.

"Umm... Doris...excuse me when I say this but, why choose this? I mean, what benefits could there possibly be to havin' a nigra of all things puttin' their... mouth on your ...lady parts? Ain't that a big...uncouth for us to be usin' these nigras like the men do?" More echoes of agreement in the crowd.

Mistress continues. "I'm glad you asked, Priscilla. The better question is, why not? You see, ladies, in our roles we often forget we need to be satisfied too. Not just in the household, but we have needs as women that need to be met. Our husbands won't do it--hell, some of them couldn't even if they tried.

"But with a nigra - you can mold them into whatever you like. If you's tired and your husband ain't around and you need a good nigra to lick you right, you can do that. If you's got to use a bathroom and you don't want to use a filthy public one or the one in your home, you can make the nigra your toilet too.

"You can train them to do what you like, how you like, and all they'll have to say in response is 'yes Mistress', cause it's their place to make sure the Lady of the house is happy. A happy wife makes a happy home."

There's more hushed voices than any now but, the ladies are noddin' they heads like it makes sense to them. Sayin' that havin' a built in nigra to unleash their pent up desires on is their natural God-given right.

I can't believe my ears. Mistress not only wants my complete submission, she wants other wives to make their slaves their personal toilets too!

Then I hear it. "Can...can you show us?"

Mistress beams. You can't mistake the mischief that gleams in her eye as she says. "Of course, Miss Kelcy. And at the perfect time too, this bean casserole is waitin' to get up outta me!"

Mistress turns to me and I know I'm to lay on the floor in the middle of these ladies. A gasp breaks from the crowd as all eyes are on me.

I get in position on my back, sweat beadin' down my chin. She grab a stool with a gapin' hole in the seat and sets it over me so I'm lookin' up at her through the hole, her smirkin' down at me as she removes her panties.

Her lingerie falls to the floor and her pink plump ass and red wild pubic hair are visible for all to see.

"Open wide, nigra. And not a drop on this floor."

For some reason I'm less embarrassed and more nervous by the fact I'm made to do this in front of this whole choir of white women. Almost like I got to give my best performance. I shudder with a

gulp as I warm up to lap at Mistress's soft pussy.

It start slow and sensual. I'm rekindled with her pussy like it's a lost lover, gettin' the lips nice and wet and makin' her little nub swell. Then her pussy begins to puffen and her asshole stretches out. It grow from a small wrinkled thing to a crater-sized hole of bean-filled shit that's beggin for a way out, for a way in me.

Mistress grunts and with one long push, she forces the sausage-sized dump down my throat. I latch my lips to her hole and relax my jaw as it slides straight down, makin' sure not a single thing leaks out.

It feels soft and doughy in my throat, and the smell hits me like an aftershock. Her large bottom reeks of the bean casserole fix and hashbrown goodness from moments ago. Lord Mistress is too good at bein' evil, she makes Khadijah fix the worst thing to upset her stomach and mine.

I let out an involuntary shiver as the first log pinches off in my throat and gurgles it's way to my stomach. Then her shitter convulses in my mouth and the second, then third, then fourth log invite their way. Mistress pats one hand on her belly and sighs out loud as she empties out her bowels. She look like she in relief the pressure built up from two toilet bowls worth of waste now gurglin' in my stomach.

She spreads her legs and when she do, I take my cue to swallow down the last of her waste and open wide again to let the waterworks come.

Her urine and womanly juices wash out whatever remains of her waste in my mouth, and she fixes me on her pussy again to give it a good lickin'. I lap up the syrupy goodness in her pink walls and that's when her orgasm comes. I finish off with Mistress's clear juices on my face, washin' the last of her urine down with my solid meal.

"That," Mistress pants, slidin' off the chair and off me, "is a prime example of how my nigra treats me."

I can't see their faces, but the room is full of heavy breathing. From the corner of my eye I see one ladies' legs crossed with her hand between them. I'm too scared by how quiet their reaction is, what they thinkin' right now.

She slips her panties back on. In the distance, a stomach rumbles and it certainly ain't Mistress's.

"Come on ladies, I know more than one of you's got a mean belly to empty." Mistress's eyes land on a woman I can only hear breathin' heavy. "Priscilla? Would you like to do the honors?"

I peer up and Miss Priscilla looks like a deer in headlights, her eyes still fixated on how Mistress emptied a day's load of waste inside her nigra in two minutes flat. She goes to stand up and the sea of ladies parts to let her through as she walks across the room.

She looks between Mistress then me as she's twiddlin' her dress like she's full of fear, but there's a hint of somethin' else in her eyes. A hint of nervousness... hesitation...excitement.

"Go 'head, now." Mistress helps Miss Priscilla lower her panties to her ankles till her big naked bottom on full display.

Miss Priscilla got a thick vine of brown hair on her big ol' pussy but good lord her ass is even bigger. Each cheek is twice the size of Mistress's, a terror of bulbous flesh with a dark tan patch stained between each thigh, no doubt from a lifetime of chafin' together. Her one asscheek alone looks like it could swallow me whole.

Mistress secures the collar 'round my neck and gives Miss Priscilla the leash handle. "In case you want to give her some ...guidance. She's all yours."

Miss Priscilla looks down at me through the seathole and smiles somethin' undetectable in her eyes. She lowers herself on the seat and as soon as she lays down, her asshole stretches outward, pink and hairy and puckered at me. It don't smell like flowers or honey but like 80 degrees of hot sticky fat and the remnants of smoked beans sizzlin'.

Her asshole clenches and when a small wet toot escapes right into my face, my brain goes fuzzy with the smell. Then the avalanche hits me.

It's like someone switched a hose on as a river of shit floods my mouth, and I do everythin' I can to stay afloat and swallow it down. She cries out as she expels the liquid soup from her body, yankin' on my leash to go in deeper in her ass, lick harder.

Lord have mercy. I don't know no woman who shits like a barrel of mud, but Miss Priscilla is full of surprises. The sturdy woman tugs and yanks on my leash in between gasps til I'm fully submerged in the crevice of her ass, her two monstrous cheeks shroudin' me in sticky darkness with no way to escape the liquid beast. My world fades to black.

I musta been gulpin' for several minutes before it stops and she releases me. I'm spent and exhausted, but my head still between her ass and her asshole keeps pulsin' hot slivers of shit every few moments my way, that I'm forced to keep it down.

She cries out one last time, pushin' with all her might and it's then I'm lodged out of her ass, back on the floor with her ass juices all over me.

I catch my breath but give her several more licks with the flat of my tongue before she's squeaky clean, not a speck of shit or come between those thick hairs. She gasps as she rides out the final wave of what must be her third orgasm and catches her breath.

The quiet room suddenly erupts as the women stand to vie for Mistress's attention, fightin' and stumblin' their way to the front of the room to take Miss Priscilla's spot.

"Who's next?"

*************************

There ain't enough soap and water in the world to scrub the taste of Mistress, Miss Priscilla, and the four other Southern Christian debutantes that had their way with me outta my mouth. Not enough salve or lard to rub around my neck to soothe the marks on my skin. I scrub and rub but I can still hear, taste, and smell 'em on me, and I feel like I've hit a new low, lower than I ever was before.

I'm not just Master's bitch, I'm Mistress's, the Chatham County Women Society's, heck even the postman on the corner if I breathe too hard. I want to cry in my cot but it's dark now, and I don't want the other girls to see me head to sleep early and miss the evenin' chores.

So I head to the only other place I can be alone and at ease: the barn.

The blades of grass are harsh and cold on my bare legs, but I trek on. When I see the sturdy barn with the fence open wide and one of the horses munchin' on a lazy straw of hay, I collapse to my knees and rock my head in my hands as I sob into the empty darkness.

Lord, why me? Why couldn't Momma and I get our freedom we deserve? Why'd we have to be separated and forced to this sick fate? I wail and wail till my throat hoarse. The mare in the distance ain't got a clue in the world, as she lookin' at me crazy but that's where I am right now. No better than an animal.

It's just me and the mare and my thoughts swimmin'. Just two months ago, I was on the edge of freedom. I coulda been livin' free and happy on a plantation with Momma, taken care of by Daddy. And all it took was a white woman's envy for it to all turn to dust. The irony of it all, that Daddy wanted me to liberate myself to get my freedom, but couldn't even give it to me himself.

I sift the hay and grass through my fingers and look up at the only Man in my life who can help me make sense of it all. But the Lord don't let me sit on my prayers too long. I'm startled by the din of voices near the stables, that at first sound muffled but grow louder and animated by the second.

I wipe my tears on my sleeve and stand up, followin' the noise. My eyes grow wide as I match the voices to a sea of black folks in a thick hidden corner of the stables. Several slaves are standin' together in what looks like some sort of meetin'. I recognize Khadijah, Darla, Johanna, Broderick and Albee, among others. They all talk at once, and I stay hidden in the shadows to make out their words.

"...This the third time this week they doin' this." the voice that belongs to Madden, one of the field slaves, pipes up. He tip his straw hat. "Pullin' our men out of work at random hours of the day. How we 'supposed to get our work done when we short staffed most of the time now?"

"It ain't just you all they doin' it to. Twice this week now, they pulled in the young'uns to serve 'em while they host their supper parties, and it means we's left to do twice the house work." Khadijah complains.

"And it's different this time." Johanna says. "We not stupid. We know they not pullin' our men and women out of lineup just to fold some chairs and napkins. I hear what they be doin' at these parties."

The room gets quiet and an eerie silence falls on the implication in her words. "It's bad enough when they got to take one of us, but around their white peers? They gettin' too bold with it now. "