Vanessas Outing

The car quit; it just quit. No warning, no evil noises under the hood. No, nothing so civilized as that, it just quit! Vanessa stormed and whacked the steering wheel, only hurting her hand.

"Shit, shit, shit!" she said to the close, warm southern darkness, "BMW's are not supposed to just quit! I mean come one!"

But then another thought flashed through her head: "Maybe nobody ever told BMW's that."

There was a giggle in that but she realized that this was not a time for giggles. Here she was on the way home; she decided to take this damn 'short cut' on the back roads and her flashy German car just quit.

She sat and thought for a moment. Then she remembered that she'd just past a bar a little bit back. It looked like the kind of bar that would be called a 'road house.' She also remembered that as she passed the bar she was really tempted to stop for a drink.

She'd had a fairly long day but the business that brought her out this way was settled satisfactorily, and it would be a short day tomorrow. (That had caused her to smile and say to herself:

"It shows that heaven smiles on women lawyers!")

At least she hoped that was the case.

She struggled to bring herself back to her situation, and that caused her to focus once more on the 'road house'.

"Do I really want to go in there?" she asked herself. "You might not have any kind of choice, babe," came the answer from the sensible part of her mind immediately.

"A road house," she mused, "That sounds so interesting."

The twinge about having a drink there came back in force. She knew she needed to be careful about those thoughts. She didn't want to lose herself in them, and begin to act out.

Frequently Vanessa had assaults of what she privately called her 'dirty thoughts'. It always involved her in the same kind of situation.

She leaned back in the seat for a moment and let the tension flow out of her. She let her thoughts go there. In that area her 'dirty thoughts' she was always 'nessa' the 'nigger' slut. (She would allow herself even to use offensive language like that, when in her 'subservient' moods.)

The scenario changed usually subtly but there was a sameness that carried her thoughts along. The fantasies were usually ones where she, respected lawyer, got to give in to her slut side. She wallowed in those thoughts, when she allowed herself. She was used. She had a mouth for cock sucking, a throat to have pricks rammed down into it, an asshole for raping, and a pussy that was simply available.

They were powerful thoughts and at times overwhelming but she tried to only give in to them, when she was alone and could play with herself, while engaging them.

She shook herself out of this, when she discovered her hands had run up under her skirt and were already rubbing the silky nylon material that covered her pussy hair.

"No,no," she said out loud now, for emphasis, "Enough of that crap. We're in kind of trouble here, and the only sensible thing to do is to go to that road house back there."

("Oh, yes," she thought suddenly, "It was that word, that phrase, 'road house', that produced the sexy, dark picture and lead her thoughts into her 'dirty' area.")

She shook her head but then there was one last defiant thought:

"Maybe I'll go in there and dance in just my panties and thigh highs!" she giggled out loud at that.

She was being bad but she liked to toy with these kinds of thoughts, and she dearly loved the word 'panties'. It would set her off more surely than a word like 'road house', even though that as certainly appealing.

It made her think of panties, of feeling them as she pulled them on or pushed them down over her hips and ass. It made her think of the softness of them, of the sweet soft clingingness of them. It made her think of pulling them off and holding them to her nose to sniff the wetness of them. For she knew that her panties were wet now!)

"Shit!" she exploded then. "Get your fucking mind on business, girl," she chided herself, and pushed 'nessa' away so that she could deal with this.

She slapped the steering wheel again, exploding into "Fucking BMW!" one last time as she got out and began walking back to the bar. (She consciously refused to use the other word for the place. She just wasn't going there mentally at all.)

She approached the place with a bit of trepidation, and no little amount of anxiety. She reminded herself that this was, after all, the rural south. The place had mostly pickup trucks and could well be dangerous.

She bucked herself up then by reminding herself that she was a lawyer and could take care of herself. (And 'nessa' was safely stored for a hot meeting later at her house.)

She pushed her shoulders back and entered the bar.

Immediately a loud voice rang out: "Nigger alert!"

Instantly the bar tender, a huge man with a beard, produced a baseball bat from under the bar and banged it down on the surface of the bar, getting everyone's attention.

"None of that trashy shit in here! Stow it or get out!"

No one said a word for a moment or two, and then the level of conversation went back to what it had been.

Vanessa walked to the bar, realizing that all eyes were on her.

"Let them look!" she said to herself, as much to give herself courage as any other reason.

She knew that she looked good. Her skirt was just above her knees, and was fashionably tight. She had left her suit jacket in the car due to the warmth of the evening, and had simply forgotten to put it on. Her blouse was nylon with a small ruffle in front. If you looked really hard, you could see her soft lace bra beneath the nylon camisole that she wore.

As Vanessa approached the bar tender, she was kind of sorry that she hadn't remembered to put her suit coat back on. But what was done was done.

"Excuse me," she said to the big man behind the bar. "My car just stopped up the road a little way,and I couldn't get any signal on my cell phone. Can you maybe help me?"

"Sorry for your trouble, missy," he said to her, then he thought a moment.

Vanessa was immediately aware of him calling her 'missy'. She actually struggled then to decide if she like it or not. The word almost seemed like a caress given to a servant. But then she stopped and wouldn't let her mind go there.

"Well, Jimmy Tate is in the back room; he's the local mechanic and you might talk to him about it."

"How do I get there?" she wanted to know.

"Just follow me," he said with a smile.

As they walked he asked her about what brought her to this part of the country.

She mentioned that she was a lawyer from the city and was there to settle the Dabny estate.

"Lady lawyer, huh?" he said with a smile.

Vanessa caught herself shivering. But said to herself severely:

"No, I just won't go there."

She was determined to keep 'nessa' at bay, no matter how much her alter ego wished to come out and play.

The bartender led her to a door at the rear of the bar and opened the door for her. She thanked him and walked into the back room.

"Tate," the bartender called out; "Woman here to see you. Lady lawyer."

There were a few calls of "Woo, Woo, Woo!"

And at least one voice in the group said, almost ominously: "Black lady lawyer."

Followed by another from a different part of the room: "Good looking black lady lawyer."

But the bartender ignored them.

Another voice began: "N . . .!"

But the bartender cut that one off, and said: "Hold your fucking tongue!"

Turning to Vanessa he said: "Sorry, ma'am, the boys can get rowdy."

"That's fine," Vanessa said, though far from feeling fine just now.

Then the bartender closed the door, and Vanessa looked around.

There was no sound in the room now. Every eye was on her.

It was immediately clear to Vanessa that she was in deep,deep trouble. Of course, there was no sign of anyone acting out of line in the room. But she looked on, and scanned the room. There were about 15 guys in the room. No women at all, except her. Everyone in the room was white except for her.

She could simply feel her alter ego, her 'nessa', coming to the surface. Here she was in the absolute southern boondocks, in a bar, in the back room, amid a group of southern men, probably red necks to the man, and she was excited!

She tried her techniques, she tried to push 'nessa' back into place and be the lawyer, be the one in charge, be the one with the brains and the answers. But she looked around and knew it wasn't going to work.

In this room, for these guys, she'd just be 'nessa'---by her own description and in her own words, the 'nigger slut.'

Vanessa was aware that only one thing was going to save her from a really long night in this back room, and that was the possibility, maybe slim, maybe not, that no one would pick up on who she really was. Maybe they'd just see a lady lawyer and simply leave it at that.

But, of course, there was the voice inside that was hoping and pleading that someone would indeed find her out and then it was 'party time for nessa.'

One of the voices piped up then and asked Jimmy in particular but the room in general: "Hey, Jimmy, what'd you do now that they're sending this lady lawyer out here to see you?"

There were shouts at that, while the one named Jimmy tried to quiet them down.

When Vanessa saw who it was that she had to speak to, she walked forward. Again the comments in the room ceased, while eyes were on her. She tried especially to halt the swing of her hips, and ass but she knew that was futile. She bought her clothes with the idea in mind that they would show off her hips and ass, and she was enough of a general flirt to love seeing a visible panty line in the mirror.

By then she stood at the table where 'Jimmy' was drinking with two other friends.

Vanessa gathered her courage, and said quietly but distinctly-----she was trying to keep this calm and under control; it was her only hope, defense against becoming 'nessa' right here and now:

"Uh, Mr. Tate," she began.

There were hoots then and calls of "Mr. Tate!" throughout the room.

'Jimmy" raised his voice and shouted: "Shut the fuck up, and let her talk."

Vanessa was positive that he almost said: "And let the bitch talk!"

Just the stray thought had her flowing again into the crotch of her panties.

"Now," Jimmy said, and the room was quiet, "You wanted to talk to me?

"Us, yes, sir," she began.

There was an undercurrent then; they certainly noticed that use of 'sir,' though for her part it was still innocent, she knew immediately that it opened the door a crack for 'nessa' to creep through.

"My,uh, car stopped up the road, and the gentleman behind the bar . . ."

Interruptions now: "That's no 'gentleman' that's Huck."

"Hey guys," Jimmy said again with some exasperation, "Shut the fuck up and let us talk here. Missy here needs some help."

The word 'Missy" again intruded into Vanessa's mind, and caused the same kind of disruption that its use by the bartender had.

She was slipping, and she knew it. The heat in the room, male heat, male heat facing a defenseless female, it was all creeping up on her, and she was going to give in, she just knew it. This was her life time fantasy as clear as it possibly could be, this was it:

Her, nessa, alone with a room full of red necks that she had to appease; it all reminded her of the stories that she'd read on the internet. They were stories that told about strong, lovely black women who allowed themselves to be reduced to almost a slave mentality by white men. They were stories where such bright and 'with it' black women were constantly calling the white men things like 'Massa' and the like. They might be absurd but to Vanessa, but in her 'nessa' state, they were food and drink, and they always led her to sexual abandon.

Those were her dominant thoughts, when he'd used the word 'Missy' again. That was the reason why she said what she said next; why she said it before she knew, and let it slip out before she could catch herself:

She said to Jimmy Tate: "Thank you, Massa!"

And every single thing in the room stopped! The noise stopped; the glee of good natured ribbing stopped.

Vanessa was mortified, realizing what she's just done. She realized that she couldn't really take it back; nor could she tell them why she'd said it. She hoped it would be ignored.

"What did you just say?" Jimmy Tate asked.

"I . . .uh . . .I . . ." was all that Vanessa could muster.

She was lost now; she knew it. She'd be as honest as possible but she was every man's in the room for the taking.

"I said, girl, what did you just say?" Jimmy Tate now said in a demanding voice.

He'd now called her 'girl' and Vanessa right then recognized herself no better than the black bitch in the 'Neal' stories that she loved so much, from which the word 'Massa' had sprung.

"I'm so sorry, that just slipped out," she tried to bluff.

"I asked you, bitch, what you just said! Now tell me!"

An order, a direct order, and Vanessa knew that she didn't have a choice here; nor did she want one.

"I said: 'thank you, Massa!'"

"Well, fuck me!" Jimmy Tate said, "A real live polite black woman! Is that what you are, girl?"

The continued use of terms like 'girl,' and 'missy' had the effect of corralling Vanessa and hemming her in. She was in familiar territory now but it was not her lawyer territory.

"Yes, sir," she said back to him, "I am."

"Are what?" Jimmy Tate wanted to know.

He was pushing her toward this and both of them realized it.

"I am a real live polite black woman!" she said, and then she sighed a great sigh, and continued: "I'm a genuinely polite nigger."

There was whooping in the room again. The atmosphere had changed. Vanessa knew that; Jimmy knew that; they all knew that.

Jimmy said to her: "Well, good; you just sit your black self down here and we'll talk about your little problem."

Then turning to one of the other guys at the table, he said: "Timmy, go get us a bottle; the counselor here, our "genuinely polite 'nigger' will pay. Won't you?"

"Yes," Vanessa said.

But Jimmy Tate held up his hand, and everything stopped for a moment. He stared at Vanessa and said:

"Say it, girl! Say it!"

She did: "Yes, Massa!"

They whooped and cheered again.

Timmy was back soon with a bottle of bourbon. He put it on the table with clean shot glasses.

Jimmy Tate looked at Vanessa and said: "You just say that, when I tell you too, girl; understand?"

This time she slid into it as though it were natural: "Yes, Massa, I understand."

"Now, before we consider your little automobile problem, I insist that you have a drink with us from this bottle that you've so kindly provided. And since there are three of us here, and we've already been drinking, you just have to catch up. Is that clear?"

Vanessa knew that she should walk out of this back room right then. But she wasn't sure that they'd let her, after what had gone on, nor, more importantly was she sure that she wanted to.

So, instead she just said: "Yes, Massa," again. And the men loved it.

Jimmy Tate put three shot glasses in front of Vanessa. He filled them and pushed the toward her. At the best of times, Vanessa was only a social drinker, not a heavy drinker. But she was deeply into 'nessa' by this time and smiling, took the shot glasses one after another and downed them.

They cheered. She smiled.

"Now here's one to get you up to where we are," Jimmy said, pouring another, which Vanessa downed.

The liquor was having an impact immediately. She'd been planning on dinner somewhere on the way home, and had an empty stomach.

The situation and the room were rosy for her almost immediately. In addition, the liquor served to turn her on even more than she already was.

She waited for Jimmy, since he seemed to have the initiative.

"So, what's your name, girl?" he wanted to know.

"My name's Vanessa," she said, then added, "But I prefer 'nessa'."

"Ah," he said, "Nessa, is it?" After saying it, he nodded to her.

"Yes, Massa," she replied.

"And you're a lawyer?" he asked politely, nodding again to her.

"Yes, Massa," she said, and was surprised that it began to sound normal, just as in those 'Neal' stories that she loved to read.

"And what else are you?" he wanted to know.

"I'm just 'nessa'," she said simply.

"Yes, just nessa," he mimicked.

"Does nessa like to dance?" he asked then.

It surprised her, and pleased her because she really did like to dance and only rarely had the opportunity to do so.

He turned then, and said to the room: "Hey, someone put some music on, our nessa likes to dance!"

A voice called out: "What else does the black bitch like to do?"

But Jimmy Tate tried to calm them down: "All in good time," he said, "All in good time."

They were content with that for a while.

Jimmy led nessa out to the dance floor in the middle of the room. Everyone turned their chairs and watched.

She danced well, she had good moves on the dance floor; they were moves that continued to show off her nice sized tits and her spectacular ass. Jimmy danced well also. There were appreciative comments all around them as they danced.

"Tell me about your car, nessa," he said, as they danced.

"It's a BMW," she said in a kind of whiney voice, "and it just stopped."

"Well, that's fortunate for us, isn't it?" he stared at her as he said it.

She took his clue: "Yes, Massa, it certainly is."

"I love it, when you say that," he said smiling.

Nessa grinned back at him and just danced.

Then they played a faster number. They had been in a body to body waltz, when the music speeded up. He said to her, just before they started the new dance.

"Now I want you to aim that rich, black ass of yours to every corner of the room and just shake it for all the guys!"

"Yes, Massa," she said, knowing the retort.

And she did. As nessa danced with Jimmy Tate to the fast dance, she moved around and, leaning over from the waist, shook her magnificent ass at the men around the room. It brought on cheering and clapping,and calls and statements about her 'ass' from all parts of the room.

Nessa was certainly having a great time.

Jimmy made a kind of gesture and then he was joined on the dance floor by two other guys. Nessa danced with all three of them. She raised her arms to the air and swayed and jumped to the music. Jimmy kept his eyes locked her hers in front of her. One of the other two ran a hand down nessa' side on his side and the other did the same on the other side.

The men were all gathering around at that point. Nessa boogied and just enjoyed putting herself into the dance. When the music ended, someone showed up to congratulate nessa on how well she danced.

She gave a broad smile and a 'thank you.' Then she was handed another shot of bourbon. She raised her hand to the crowd and then downed the shot, as they applauded.

Then the music started again. Nessa was ready to dance again. It was certainly no longer Vanessa, the lawyer. Now it was nessa and she was just in the process of being whatever these guys wanted her to be. A part of her was basically ashamed of using the word 'Massa' so often but her mind had wandered to those stories that she loved to read, and that were such an influence on her, and she was ready to use that kind of language if it is what they wanted.

They danced again. It was nessa, Jimmy and the other two. While she'd been drinking her latest drink, which really put her into nothing short of a cooperative mood, they'd been talking, and agreeing. They surrounded her and swirled into the dance; they were playing almost all fast numbers now.

Nessa knew that something was about to happen. She sensed it. A part of her was fearful of taking this to another level, and a part of her was downright eager to do so.