As I opened the crate filled with age-yellowed documents, I had no idea that what was inside would change everything.
I had arrived in Washington, D.C. three months earlier. Before that, I had been considered something of a prodigy: Master's in History at age 21, Doctorate at 23. In the next five years I had worked as a researcher, until I was offered my own project by the American Historical Group. Despite the impressive-sounding title, the AHG was a small, private organization, endowed by a few wealthy dilettantes who wanted to be thought of as historians, though not especially willing to spend their money on it. Still, I grabbed the opportunity to head my own project, especially when I discovered its subject would be The History of American Slavery.
I confess, my fascination with the slave period, as much as I would tell people of its importance to American history and significance to American life, was secretly rooted in my lust for black women. The idea of the slavemasters, with harems of gorgeous African women at their command, always excited and tantalized me. Yet at the same time, as a professional historian, I knew that it was a lie. From reading the journals of slave women, I knew the physical and psychological abuse they were subjected to. From the writings of slave owners, I knew they looked on slave women as little more than cattle. As I further knew that the memory and knowledge of that treatment was retained by African-American women to the present day, I guiltily avoided any serious relationship with any black woman, despite my powerful attraction to them, fearing I would be misunderstood or resented. Never did I think that a black woman could feel an attraction to me. Result: severe frustration.
The frustration only increased when I got to Washington. First, I met my 2 co-workers. My partner, Dr. Alicia Woods, was another prodigy, a 28-year-old whose articles I had read in several respected historical journals. The journals said nothing about her flawless cinnamon-colored skin, delicately beautiful face, and deep brown eyes. Only 5'3", she had a body of death and perfect, perfect legs. Also a warm, friendly manner that might have had me unable to keep my mind off her if it hadn't been for the presence of our graduate student assistant, Nona Charles. With skin the color of dark chocolate, 23-year-old Nona was an exotic beauty: full lips, high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and a long mane of tangled black hair, all atop a 6-foot supermodel's body, most of it, it seemed to me, endless legs. Her enthusiasm and eagerness to serve set off a whole new set of fantasies.
The situation didn't get any easier when I got home. The Group had found me a second-floor apartment in a 3-story brownstone. On the first floor lived the landlady and her teenaged daughter. Lynn Baylor was in her late 30's, a classic beauty. Great bone structure, as they say, with a full, finely-modeled mouth, deeply-set flashing eyes, and lithe yet luscious body. Her 18-year-old daughter Tysa, a high school senior, was lighter-skinned, soft green eyes in an angelic oval face. She had a long, graceful, dancer's body, excepting only the full round 36C breasts. But the most dizzying tenant was Lynn's 30-year-old sister Jan, who had the third-floor apartment. Wide eyes, wide smile, her 38D-24-37 body was always in evidence, thanks to her usual uniform of belly shirt and skin-tight jeans, or halter and spandex shorts. I rarely saw he in anything else, and the effect on my libido was just what you'd expect.
So that was my state on the day that the last effects of Jebediah Harrington arrived. Jebediah Harrington was a slave owner, born 1770, died 1853. Some of his belongings had recently been found in the Tennessee house he once lived in, including some primary documents: his financial ledger and 3 journals written by slave women. The Group had bought these from his heirs and sent them to me for study. The local historical society had also sent along some general research, which included some peculiarities. For one thing, though Harrington's land holdings were relatively small, he had accumulated a great amount of wealth and influence. He had more slaves than was necessary for the upkeep of his estate, slaves whom he seemed to treat unusually well: no whip, no chains, not even an overseer. None had ever attempted to escape. He gave many their freedom in his lifetime, and all the rest were freed at his death. I opened the first slave journal wondering just what kind of man he was.
Slave journals, though not unrelievingly grim, are often harsh reading, recording occasionally the joys, but mostly the pains, of existence in servitude. But I was completely unprepared for what met my eyes when I opened the first journal, written in 1804:
"Such happiness with Master Jeb. I know I shall never get enough of his lovemaking. Last night his caresses drove me to spend I know not how many times, and this morning was bliss as well. If only I could be in his arms every hour of the day, I would be the happiest woman on Earth."
I blinked in amazement, then read on. The entire volume was a record of her joyous sexual relationship with her master. I had never read anything like it before. She seemed wildly in love with Harrington, overjoyed to be his slave.
Astounded, I picked up the second journal, dated 1822. In a different hand was written:
"I so love to fuck Master Jeb. Even now, just the thought of him inside me makes my woman's parts wet and eager. No woman has ever been so happy as I am when I am fucking Master."
And that was only the beginning. Again it was an extended account of riotous and wonderful sex between master and slave. Scarcely believing what I was reading, I turned to the third journal, dated 1832:
"Though he is past 60 and I am but 20, I fear Master Jeb has worn me out. His lovemaking of last night has left me so sore I could not rejoin him in his bed this morning. I only hope that I am healed by tonight. To go for more than a day without his touch seems a torment."
Who was this man, I thought. How did he make these women willing slaves? I eagerly turned to the ledger, but it was nothing more than the usual record of financial transactions. But as I went through it, I found something. Stuck between the pages were a few yellowing sheets of stationery:
"The Secret Of My Life
June 1853
I, Jebediah Harrington, feel the end of my life approaching. I have lived these many years in the glow of great happiness. I feel the need to write down the great secret of that happiness. If it was undeserved, I leave it to posterity to judge.
Fifty-eight years ago, I engaged myself in the scientific study of how various substances occurring in nature affected the human body. In the course of my experimentations, I concocted a mixture which I believed would, if consumed only once, fight off diseases and increase bodily strength and stamina. Not wanting to create an unknown risk in any other person, I swallowed the mixture myself. Its effect was immediate, increasing my body's strength and endurance to many times the human norm. But that was not the only effect. To my great amazement, I found it also increased the strength of my mind. I discovered that with little effort I could see within the minds of anyone I chose, read their thoughts, memories, passions as clearly as one might read words on a page. Beyond that, I discovered that with little more effort I could rearrange the thoughts and passions as easily as moving chess pieces across a board. I could release hidden passions, turn enemies into friends, create desires where there were none.
Once I discovered this remarkable ability, I selfishly kept it to myself. In the years since, I have used it to my advantage, accumulating wealth and power, basking in the flesh of my beautiful African women. But now, as I reach the end, I wonder if I could have been a benefactor to the world instead. I write down the ingredients and instructions for creating my original mixture. If posterity finds them, may they have some beneficial use.
J. Harrington"
That was all, except the list of ingredients and the formula for combining them. They were all simple herbs and plants, all of which could still be easily purchased at any natural healing or organic foods store.
I read it over and over. Could it be possible? The late 1700's and early 1800's was the time of The Talented Amateur, average but educated men who dabbled in the sciences and occasionally made discoveries of genuine value. Could Harrington have made one? Or was it just the senile ravings of an old man on his deathbed?
I remembered a nearby shop that I knew would have most, probably all, of the ingredients. One phrase, I admit, decided me: "…basking in the flesh of my beautiful African women."
*************
Late that afternoon I sat nervously in my empty office, waiting. It had been five minutes since I'd drunk the formula. I'd been expecting a dramatic Jekyll-and-Hyde type transformation, but I didn't feel any different. I got up to leave, feeling profoundly foolish, grateful at least that I hadn't poisoned myself, when I heard someone enter the outer office. I went out to look, and there was Harlan Travers, one of the trustees of the American Historical Group. Rich, pretentious, and stingy, he was someone we never wanted to see.
"Dr. Green, how are you," he said with well-concealed dislike, "Do you have time to talk budgets?"
"I suppose," I said, knowing what was coming: his usual spiel about our not over-spending. I felt as if I could hear it before he spoke. Then, suddenly, I realized I could! I was inside his mind, aware of what he was thinking before he said it. I could see the smallness, the meanness, the petty greed, just as clearly as Harrington had said. Could the rest be true as well? I decided to try something.
"You know, Mr. Travers," I said, "I think our budget is much too small. We need at least a 50% increase."
Not even hesitating, he answered, "You're right. Strange I've never realized it before, but you definitely need more money. I'll bring it up with the other trustees."
It had been that easy. I'd merely gone inside his mind and changed it for him. I left the office almost in a daze. What couldn't I do now? What couldn't I have?
I took a cab home. As it pulled up in front of my building, I was on the point of entering the driver's mind and having him tell me to forget about the fare, when I stopped myself. It was one thing to separate a millionaire skinflint like Travers from dollars he was never going to spend, but what right did I have to steal money from a hardworking cabbie? It would make me nothing more than a petty thief. I paid my fare.
*********
I passed a restless night. It began to gnaw at me. If using mind control to get out of paying cabfare was theft, what would using my new powers to get sex make me if not a rapist? I walked out of my apartment door that morning trying to steel myself from the temptation I knew would come.
As I headed down the stairs, I could see that the door to the first floor apartment was, as usual, open. I'd gotten into the habit of sticking my head in and wishing Lynn "good morning" as I headed out. I knew she would be there, drinking her morning coffee. Unable to resist the temptation to know what was in her mind, I told myself: "Reading her thoughts isn't the same as changing them," and effortlessly tuned into her mind. Where I got my first shock of the day.
My beautiful landlady's mind was alive with erotic thoughts and sexual fantasies, all of them centered on … me! As I searched her memory, I found that she had been thinking of me, wishing that she could seduce me or that I would seduce her, almost since the day I had moved in. Only the racial taboo and her own inhibitions thwarted her. Even now, I knew she had heard my apartment door closing and was aware I was heading downstairs. She was cursing herself internally for not having the nerve to invite me in as I walked by. Removing inhibitions is far from mental manipulation, I thought. She won't be doing anything she doesn't already want to do. As I nudged open her door (which I now realized had been so often left open as a subtle invitation to me) to give my morning greeting, I likewise slightly nudged open the door in her mind that had kept her from acting.
"Neil! Where are you going in such a hurry?" She was standing by the breakfast table, not bothering to close her robe, giving me a perfect view of her form-fitting blue silk nightgown, complete with breathtakingly deep cleavage. "Have time for some coffee?" "Maybe just one cup," I said, and took a seat.
As we sat and talked, I had no need to read her mind. Her rapt attention and seductive smiles told me all I needed to know. But I didn't want it to go too far just yet. If I took her to bed right there, I was afraid she might get suspicious over the suddenness of it all. Besides, there was her daughter to consider and … her daughter! I realized she was still in the apartment, too. With little effort I focused on her mind and …
