A Slave Amongst Equals

Mrs. Alice Hetherington-Smythe watched her husband from across the dining table. The food was delicious but tonight Henry was not in a good mood.

He had little conversation beyond complaints, of which he had many. 'Nothing changes much', she thought to herself as he continued with his theories on everything that was wrong with his world.

It was still several weeks before the crop was due to be brought in and the plantation workforce was spending too much time chasing birds and eating. Mostly eating.

Sometimes a branch would be waved to scare the birds away but if no-one waved a whip at the slaves they did nothing. They should have been weeding and clearing new land but even with the overseer and his whip to encourage them, it was hard work to make any profit, as he told her repeatedly.

Henry forked a tender piece of roast beef into his mouth, dribbling gravy onto his already stained waistcoat in the process. Even in this sultry climate, he insisted on maintaining his stupid and irrelevant standards - as if anyone cared. He always dressed up in a suit for dinner - no matter if it was soiled with sweat and food, no matter that there were no guests to notice. Likewise, she was obliged to wear a heavy hooped evening gown, although luckily she was allowed to have bare shoulders and to show her ample cleavage.

Her mother had described her as a 'buxom wench' and she had been correct in that description. Alice had grown up somewhat overdeveloped compared to the size of her frame and in comparison to the people who she had grown up with. As every square inch of exposed skin was valuable in the battle to lose body heat, she wore as little as she could besides the dress. Even so she was constantly irritated by the perspiration that collected underneath those massive orbs. Sometimes she envied the ladies who were blessed with flat chests.

The place was hot and humid. The frequent rain drenched everything and the sun scorched the skin off your back. It was necessary to carry an umbrella outside in all weathers. It really was too hot for words.

The girl house-slave served the pudding, which was spotted dick; sponge with currants smothered with custard. It wasn't quite like how cook back home used to make it, but there were precious few cooks in the Caribbean islands who were a patch on the lady who had been left behind in Yorkshire. It was likely that this girl Eve had never tasted a decent spotted dick in her life.

What Alice wouldn't give now for some Yorkshire weather? Endless cold misty rain had been the bane of her childhood with clouds hanging heavily in the hills. There had been snow every wintertime, bitter cold that brought tears to the eyes and sniffles to the nose - but there was something very comforting about standing in front of a roaring coal fire whilst the wind raged outside. All of that would be so welcome right now.

Alice looked at Henry and shuddered. He was old before his time, with a pot-belly and a receding chin to match his hair-line. She had been young and impressionable when she had been pushed into the marriage and in all honesty, she had been attracted by his wealth and position as a son of a mine owner. What did the family do before coal? It didn't take a genius to work out that an ancestor somewhere had been a smith, a lowly hammerer of hot metal in a forge. And then at some point, the name had been misspelled with a pretentious 'y', probably in an attempt to sound classy.

She had soon come to realise that all of the benefits of the coal mine went to his elder brother. Henry would have to make his own way in the world; his father had given his second son a wedding present sufficient to purchase the house that she now lived in, but then he had to borrow to expand the plantation and procure the slaves to run it. Despite what he had heard and the advertisements in the national papers, this was not a machine for printing money. Henry's disappointment was clear to see.

He reached for the decanter of port, so Alice rose, excused herself and went upstairs. Eve followed her to unlace her dress, hardly saying a word as her nimble fingers did their work. When the garment was hung safely the girl left, so Alice stood at the window just in her thin cotton camisole feeling the draught of the cool evening air over her. After the hot, sweaty day it was a relief and something of a ritual that she always looked forward to.

When she had first arrived she had made the mistake of keeping everything in the heavy shipping trunks that had been used for the long Atlantic voyage. After a few weeks, many of the clothes had become rotten and had to be thrown out, now she knew better and the replacements that they had to purchase were on rails in wardrobes. What a disgusting climate.

The camisole was low-cut, even more than the dress of course so that it didn't show. But it still held the breeze from her, so she soon unbuttoned and removed it to feel the balmy wind across the whole of her body. It was bliss.

In the distance, she saw one of the male field-slaves carrying a heavy sack on his back. The Negro wore only a loincloth and his well-muscled body shone in the setting sun. She put her hands on her hips, secure in the knowledge that she was concealed from his view. Still, it was an exciting thought that this powerful but subservient being with his bulging thighs and biceps was being spied upon by the naked wife of his owner.

There was a slight risk of him seeing her pale-skinned breasts but if he peeked at her she might have him thrashed as a punishment. That was an exciting thought and she idly wondered that if it were possible, for it to be arranged so that she could handle the whip herself. She had a fleeting vision of being powerful, of everyone being frightened of her presence. Perhaps she should be more authoritative and demanding of the field-slaves.

Henry joined her later in bed. He had been consuming both port and rum liberally, so wearing her thin nightgown she turned her back on both him and the fumes. The novelty value of his tiny pink willy waving from underneath his protruding stomach had long since worn off.

Alice buried her head under the pillows, pushed the covers off her legs to have some ventilation and thought of the last week's social evening held amongst the community of plantation owners and traders.

During the long hours whilst the gentlemen were engaged in card games, the ladies had retired to the withdrawing room and chattered - mostly about sex. They all seemed to find it highly entertaining but their ribald comments were not reflected in Henry's efforts to impregnate her.

All in all, her experiences of making sweet, passionate love had been less than breathtaking. She had long ago come to the conclusion that they were making it all up.

* * * *

The next day there was a fuss. One of the field-slaves had run away and Henry was incandescent with rage. He sent out a gang of men with dogs to hunt the man down and settled down with the inevitable bottle of rum. He ranted to anyone who would listen about how he had been betrayed by someone who he had treated too well, but Alice gave him little attention as he became even drunker than normal.

She became bored with the endless tale of woe and left him to it. There was a path up the mountain through the lush forestry and she knew that there were fantastic views of the island from the top, so she walked off away from the house and up the steep hillside.

Soon she was alone in the world, with the bird song and insect noises. Perhaps the place wasn't so bad after all, she thought to herself. If she could spend all of her time exploring the hills and looking at the views it could be a wonderful lifestyle.

Her blouse became damp with perspiration but at least she wasn't wearing the ridiculous dress that she was expected to put on for dinner. She had light boots on to protect her feet and a skirt loose enough that she could climb over any rocks that she encountered, so when the path began to peter out and she heard water nearby, she diverted towards it.

A stream was cascading down the slope through the greenery and she began to follow it. It was the easiest route up, after all. The whole island was a myriad of watercourses that made their way to the sea so she was used to following them, plus it was easy to become lost otherwise. After a while, the route through the undergrowth became steeper and she had to step into the water to proceed. To save her boots, she removed them together with her stockings and paddled barefoot, the current foaming around her legs. It was lovely and cold on her feet, but eventually, she came to a high cliff and could go no further. The stream now flowed from a pool that was fed by a waterfall from on high.

It was all perfectly secluded, so Alice set down her boots on the grassy bank, hitched up her skirt to above her waist and sat down on a rock that was just below the surface. With her legs wide apart, she could enjoy the feel of the water swirling against her body. The pool was deeper than she had first assumed and the bottom was barely visible.

Emboldened, she stood, removed her blouse and skirt which she automatically folded and neatly placed behind a tree together with her boots and stockings. Now nude, Alice sat for a while on another boulder where the deliciously refreshing water was deeper and supported her heavy breasts. She was able to bathe away the sweat and the troubles of the day and eventually totally submerged herself below the surface.

As she swam about under the surface she practised diving down to retrieve pebbles from the deeper areas. In her mind, she was back in her childhood, on holiday in Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast.

Alice had learned to swim in the bracing cold sea with breaking waves unencumbered by those voluminous swimming costumes that the adults wore. She had only been forced to have them when she became older; knitted woollen garments that had been designed to conceal the female form but sagged out of shape and precluded any bathing in deep water. Truly, this freedom from clothing was like being reborn.

She twisted and turned in the depths, before surfacing and scrambling out of the pool. Standing under the waterfall itself, she allowed the invigorating torrent to beat down on her body.

When she was chilled to the core, Alice sat down to dry in the sun as it filtered through the branches high above. She used her fingers to roughly comb her wet hair and lay down to look at the sky. A bird was flying high above, soaring on the air currents. Soon her eyes closed and contentedly, she dozed.

* * * *

Alice woke with a start; there was a rustling in the undergrowth. Her clothes were several yards away and she held her hands over her breasts instinctively to shield them. They were too large to be completely hidden but she could protect her nipples from view.

She remained sitting motionless but after a period of listening there were no further noises, so she surmised that it was probably an animal or bird in the bushes. The moment had been spoiled so she waded back across to the pile of clothes and dressed. Her body was wet once more and her clothes clung to her, making the process quite difficult. Stupidly she had sat down on the opposite side to where she had left her clothing; she would remember next time to avoid that mistake.

Her hair was still a wet straggly mess but all she could do was to run her fingers through it again and leave the sun to do its best in due course. Reluctantly she made her way back down the mountain.

* * * *

The naked man sat motionless amongst the bushes, his black skin merging with the shadows. He had made a noise and disclosed his presence; a childish mistake. Now he would be silent as a ghost, keeping his eyelids almost shut so that not even the whites of his eyes would betray him

The plantation owner had called him 'Tom', but that was not his real name which was Ndulue. He knew that the owner would hire men with dogs to follow his scent and the main thing for a dog to latch onto was a man's loincloth. So the first thing he had done when he had run away was to discard the filthy rag, that symbol of the white man's rules and superstitions. He had pretended to adopt those false ways but in reality followed the true faiths, handed down from his ancestors.

His religion was much older and logical than the nonsense taught by the white men. There were some similar and familiar-sounding stories - tales of snakes, voices from the skies. Many parts made sense and were fine. But the worship of the weapon of torture and killing of their own God was not logical. They held up miniature brass crosses as if it gave them protection although it hadn't even worked on God himself. Did these people even understand it themselves? They insisted that their slaves dressed as their God on the cross yet avoided such clothing themselves.

They lived without morals and that was the reason that he had fled. The rules that were ingrained in him and his ancestors determined how others should be treated and in a decent society even a slave was entitled to be treated with a certain level of respect.

Now without clothing as a warrior should be, he had walked along the stream bed, knowing that the water would disperse his scent and protect him from the hounds. He had been taking a drink and resting when the woman had approached. His ears had been all that he had required to forewarn him of this person who walked without a care in the world. Within a second he had slipped out of sight but managed to sit under a bough where he could hide and watch.

He recognised her as the wife of the hated plantation owner, so he continued to sit quietly while she undressed. He had been fascinated by her fair skin, her innocent blue eyes, her wide hips that would one day deliver a baby and the mighty breasts that would nourish it. The hair between her legs was as fair as that on her head and he leaned forwards in wonderment. In his life, he had never considered that a white woman would have blonde hair on her body. It was obvious now that he could see it, but he just had never thought of it. She climbed into the pool, swinging her breasts that were tipped with large pink nipples that had never been suckled nor burned by the heat of the sun. She had swum easily, an activity that did not come naturally to the women of his nation.

He watched her legs kicking at the water like a frog, unconcerned that someone might view her womanly parts. Indeed, her legs had parted frequently so that he had observed the details that he had struggled to imagine on any white woman. He had seen plenty of his countrywomen unclothed, his people had seen no need to conceal their bodies. But these white folk were ruled by their beliefs and were always covered. Logic told him that their women were built as any other and therefore must have the same appearance once in the natural state, but it was just so difficult to envisage when he had never seen one unclothed.

It was unnatural to always wear heavy garments like they did, sweat running down their faces; how was a man to judge a woman without seeing whether she had a flat stomach that was not already carrying someone else's baby, whether she had tiny breasts that could not adequately feed a youngster or narrow hips that would kill both mother and baby during the birth? These things were essential, just as much as tasting her cooking or hearing her laugh at his jokes. It would be an unpleasant life together if they could not laugh or if her meals had the taste of donkey dung.

This was not entirely one-sided. A woman also needed to assess a man's strength, whether he could kill animals for food, protect her from marauding enemies and did he have sufficient virility of the organs that would give her the babies that she would desire.

He was satisfied with the size of his own penis, it was at least the match of any of the other young men. Likewise, his testicles were large and hung heavily with enough semen to fertilise as many ladies as might live in an entire village. He had heard some of the women in the cabins giggling behind their hands, clearly making reference to the joy that his parts would give to a lady. How he would stretch them wide open and bruise the lips of their vaginas with his pounding. How they would squeal with ecstasy and joy as he did so. Yes he had observed them, but had pretended not to.

Amongst them he had seen the woman whom he would make his wife, the gorgeous and long-legged Omolade.

Omolade the beautiful, whom he had caressed during the dark hours and with whom he exchanged stories of the old country so that they may not be forgotten. He took care that she would not have a baby, for he knew what became of children born into slavery. Sometimes Omolade had fondled him with her warm and gentle hands whilst he had applied his tongue to her sensitive areas. Other times they took pleasure in a period of penetration before she enjoyed his release over her belly or her breasts. Thus both shared their affection without pregnancy.

This discipline was necessary because children of slaves would be forced to work in the fields alongside their parents until seven years, then would be deemed grown sufficiently to labour with the sugar cane as adults or sold in the market. They might work the sugar boilers or the press, the machine that could snag an arm and drag a person into its machinery in the blink of an eye. The only escape from that death would be the swift application of a sharpened machete kept ready so that the trapped limb could be immediately separated from its owner. He could not bring a child into this world.

Not having babies was regarded as one of the few ways in which slavery could be resisted. Children were a resource, a means of profit. The slave owners put men and women together unclothed to encourage the production of babies, but the people were not stupid nor were they cattle to mate as soon as they saw each other.

The woman stood, rising from the water and waking him from his day-dream. Water streamed down over her breasts and dripped from her nipples as she climbed out of the pool on her hands and knees, a tuft of fair hair nestling in the shadows. As she moved her knees from one rock to another her legs opened wide giving Ndulue a clear view.

Her pussy appeared like the bud of a flower in spring with the first crinkly petals erupting into bloom.

She stood up underneath the falling water so that it splashed in a wide circle around, then raised her arms so that her fine breasts lifted. He imagined his palms brushing lightly over them to tickle the nipples into life. Her firm belly showed no sign of a pregnancy, either current or previous. Her ass was wide and now she had turned to face him, he could see that her triangle of golden hair was plentiful. This was truly a fertile woman, ripe for a man.

Her hair was not only copious, it was unkempt with locks that were not well controlled. The women of the cabins had neat, short tight curls. They used sharp blades to trim the hair of their heads and carve decorative patterns, and sometimes they did the same to their pubic hair - especially for wedding or betrothal preparations.

That thought brought Ndulue's mind back to the plantation and the terrible events that had led to his flight. Henry Hetherington-Smythe had become angry at the lack of reproduction amongst the workforce. He had used ropes to tie Omolade over a barrel, then had dropped his pants and raped her so that she would be impregnated with his own seed if she would not accept it from anybody else.

His fat body with his shrivelled butt had humped the defenceless girl in the presence of the other slaves as if they were animals of no regard. Afterwards, he had hitched up his trousers again, buckled his belt and walked out whilst he was still panting.