The Possession

A word of warning!

This story contains disturbing imagery. It touches on the horrors of slavery, the established facts of

miscegenation

and

contains interracial sex

. Words are used that are frowned on in current society. If these elements or others like

BDSM

or

incest,

assault your senses, MOVE ON! This tale is not for you.

To those two or three Gentle Readers who are left, this tale started as a ghost story. It took on a life of its own and became a tale of incest and miscegenation. However, at its roots, it is a generational love story.

There is one archaic term that needs explaining: steppins. In the old south, a woman's undergarments were sometimes referred to as steppins. This was because she stepped into them.

As always, your comments and votes are welcome.

***

"Mrs. Deschanel, I understand your frustration at the condition of this old house. However, my real estate agency just recently acquired responsibility for it when we bought out your cousin's agency."

"Mr. Adams," exasperation with an edge of contempt dripped from her voice. It was bad enough she had to lower herself to come into this decrepit part of town. However, to have this...this Negro...handling her business was off putting. "This "old house" as you call it is a 150 year old antebellum mansion. It was my cousin's job to maintain it."

Claude Adams swallowed his anger along with a part of his pride as he accepted the verbal abuse from the tall skinny White woman. He knew the old house well. He was born and raised in this Mississippi Delta town, as were his ancestors before him.

It was a symbol of long ago days. Once it sat amidst thousands of acres of cotton with first slaves then sharecroppers tending the fields. Now it sat on twenty acres of prime real estate. His job was to convince the old biddy to sell it. Only her family's money and influence kept it from being condemned. He felt her flinch away when he touched her elbow to help her up the rickety wooden steps.

"At least it hasn't been vandalized." Annabelle Deschanel literally and figuratively looked down her nose as she glanced around at the encroaching subdivision.

The interior of the old mansion was in a decrepit condition. The air was fetid, rife with the odor of mold and rotting wood. The old brocaded wallpaper was peeling and hung in long strips stained with green and black mold. The ominous softness of the plank floor suggested that the wood had dry rot.

The foyer, which was large enough to house a family, faced a large winding staircase. From a landing part of the way up the stairs, the stairs ascended to the right and left to the upper level bedroom area.

To the right of the foyer was a reception area with a ballroom further on. To the left was an ornate door, which when opened revealed a short hall leading to the kitchens.

"As you can see, Mrs. Deschanel, the place needs a lot of work. There is dry rot in the woodwork and the roof leaks. The land is more valuable than the cost of rehabbing the house."

Annabelle stood with her fingers intertwined and her hands resting over her abdomen. Her pursed lips suggested she had tasted something sour. Her wide set pale blue eyes set in an oval face scanned the old wreck. She was the last living member of this branch of the family. On her dying bed, her mother charged her with preserving this old mansion as a way to shield the family from a long ago scandal.

As a 50 year old spinster, she never considered herself a pretty woman. She thought her legs, though well shaped, were too long for her body. Her elegantly shaped head set on a long neck. She was 5' 10", 130 pounds of spinster. The only body feature of any note was her breasts and behind. They were, in her mind, embarrassingly large.

She had never lived in the house, only visited her maternal grandmother with her mother. She dreaded those visits. During the night, the house creaked and groaned. Sometimes it sounded like voices whispering. Many times, she screamed for her mother, believing she saw wisps of smoke hovering over her. Her mother would take her to her bed, casting fearful glances behind her.

She remembered the tale told by her grandmother of the secret shame of the house. The shame that precluded a sale. The tale was that her great grandfather, the builder of the manse and a supporter of the Confederacy caught his wife in bed with a slave.

One evening, after fighting a battle nearby, he unexpectedly came home. It was only later that the nervousness of the slave who took his horse was significant. Exhausted, he entered the house, hoping for the love and succor of his wife.

She did not greet him in the foyer as she normally did. Thinking she was in her apartments making herself pretty for him, he trudged upstairs. His mood was foul. The war was not going well. A staunch backer of the war, he stood to lose everything if the South lost.

He heard muffled voices. At first, he smiled, thinking she was with her female attendant dressing. Her lilac fragrance filled the hall. He smiled. She was preparing her body to receive him.

His commitment to The Cause even before the war kept him away from the plantation for long weeks. However, his plantation thrived under the eyes of his young but industrious wife. Still, they needed children to cement their legacy, else the estate would pass to his sister. A lustful sneer crossed his face. Though tired, he would as he always did on these brief visits, take her tonight.

As he entered the hall leading to her bedroom, the muffled voices resolved in to groans punctuated by yips of pain. Imaging the worse, perhaps the Yankees had occupied his house and even now were visiting indignities on his beautiful blond blue eyed petite wife, he drew his saber, prepared to kill or be killed defending his wife's honor.

The sight he beheld as he burst into her bedroom caused his blood to run cold. Bitter bile rose in his throat. Thunderstruck, he stood frozen in the bedroom door. For several moments, he watched his petite alabaster skinned wife on her knees with the huge black cock of a large Mandingo slave plowing the coral lips of her pussy. To add to the outrage, the slave had a small whip of plaited leather he used to whip his wife's small ass as he plowed her doggy style. The cross-hatched pattern of healed scars said they had indulged in this miscegeny for some time.

"Fuck your bitch, Josiah! Fuck me hard!"

"Kathy, who de master? Who's cock you like better than your husband?"

"You know it's your cock! My husband can't hold a candle to the fucking you give me!"

Howling in outrage, Anderson Grey ran the slave through with his saber. He fell atop his wife, gurgling his last breaths. Katherine screamed. She pushed the slave off her then fell on him, embracing him as he breathed his last.

She looked up at her husband with contempt. "He was more man then you ever were, "she snarled baring her teeth. "He gave me the children you never could. You may have possessed my body, but he knew my soul."

Humiliated, he ran his wife through also. The lovers expired on the floor, embracing each other. He ordered a trusted slave to help him rip the boards from his wife's bedroom walls. He stuffed their bodies into the space and replaced the boards. Then he ordered that wing of the mansion sealed forever.

He killed the slave who helped him conceal the bodies. Before he dispatched him, he forced him to disclose that the Mandingo sired three children with his wife. He beat the slave horribly, trying to force him to disclose where these half breed bastards were. He hoped to conceal his shame by murdering the children. The slave died without disclosing where the children were.

Anderson Grey never returned to the war. For what remained of his life, he lived in seclusion. He never overcame his shame at being the cuckold for a slave.

No, the house, Annabelle thought, could never be sold. For somewhere in these walls were the bones of the lovers. Her great grandfather died without disclosing where he buried the slave and his miscegenous bitch. The family could not, she could not, endure the scandal.

"Mr. Adams, let's continue the inspection upstairs."

"Mrs. Deschanel, we must move carefully. The stairs might not support our weight."

"Yes, yes, you have said that! Now do as I say!"

Claude choked back a curse and followed the thin angular woman up the stairs. That she was racist, there was no doubt. He did not like her either. She represented a history that was repugnant. However, business was business.

As they climbed the stairs, there was a subtle change in the air. The lower level was dank and musty. As they left the landing and climbed to the old bedroom level, the air took on a fresher smell. It seemed to shimmer.

Annabelle Deschanel swayed as a chill suffused her body. It caused the blond hair on her neck and arms to stand up. She became aware of her nipples. They seemed to be more sensitive.

At the top of the stairs, Claude grasped the older woman's elbow as she swayed. This time she did not protest. He felt a light-headedness as though he were at a great height. The groans of the rotten wood floor took on the tenor of muted whispers. Even with the deterioration, this section, showed a woman's hand with it's muted pastels.

Annabelle Deschanel's hand came to her full breasts. She felt strange. She could not explain the quivering in her abdomen. Even her vagina, untouched in decades, experienced odd sensations. Her face felt warm. To both of them, it seemed they were in slow motion.

For his part, Claude Adams, experienced waves of heat wash over him. Furtively, he stole glances at Annabelle. She appeared different. Her body less spindly, more lush. With each wave, the stirring in his crotch increased.

"Mrs. Deschanel, perhaps we should leave. Those sounds could be the last groans of this house before it collapses."

"No, no, we must complete the inspection," she said as she reached out and grasped Claude's arm. Her hand lingered on his muscular arm, savoring his maleness. A small shock coursed through her slim body. It seemed to be centered in her quivering pussy. She quickly withdrew her hand.

Claude shivered as he also felt the shock. He brought his hand to his brow and wiped across his eyes, as though clearing a mist. A subtle change in the musty odor occurred. There was an elusive underlying lilac aroma.

"Okay, let's...hurry," he stammered, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. "This wing was once the bedroom and dressing room of the wife of the owner."

"Yes, I know," she said quietly, "when I was a child I played up here." She did not add that even then the wing smelled different from the rest of the house. Her nostrils flared as an underlying scent of maleness assaulted her nostrils. She knew it was not Claude. She recalled smelling it before when she was a child.

Again, Claude grasped her elbow and guided her down the narrow hall. His nostrils flared to the aroma of lilacs. As a child, he had broken into this house. It was on a double dare which no one his age could resist. Back then, the strong odor of lilacs and muted ghostly laughter chased him screaming from the house.

The groans of the old house took on a different tenor. They sounded like a gentle wind wafting through the eaves. Unaware that they did it, they clasped hands, their fingers intertwined. Their heads turned looking at each other. Annabelle gave an almost imperceptible nod. Claude reached out, grasped the ornate knob to the filigreed door, twisted and pushed open the door.

At the entrance to the bedroom, they both paused. The old oaken bedstead stood in the corner. It was stripped of any bedding years ago. All that remained was the oak slats that once held the feather mattress.

A warm odorous mist enveloped them. The mist smelled of lilacs. The elusive whispers became distinct voices. They heard laughter. Fear gripped them. They wanted to turn and leave this room. However, they were rooted to the spot. The mist thickened and the voices become more distinct.

"Josiah, they have come. Our children have come. These are the ones who can free us," the soft contralto of the female voice whispered.

"Yes, Miss! And dey be flesh of our flesh." The male voice was a deep vibrant baritone.

"Yes, my love, it is they who can release us from the curse."

Their violent death in an act of love trapped the ghosts on earth. The only way they could translate to a higher level was to have blood relatives complete that act of love. Although Annabelle Deschanel knew she was a descendant of the murderous plantation owner, Claude did not know he was a descendant of the Mandingo slave and Katherine Grey.

The pervasive mist resolved into two shimmering shapes. One was small. Almost child like in size. The other was tall and massive. As they resolved into wraith like shapes, the room changed. Gone was the water stained peeling brocade wallpaper, gone was the sagging plank floor.

The old four poster bed sitting against the far wall looked fresh and new. A flowered hand sewn coverlet covered it. A matching skirt ringed the edge of the bed. A similar fringe circled the top of the canopy. Against one wall was a small fireplace.

Terror gripped the hearts of Claude and Annabelle as they now clearly saw the two ghosts.

The female was barely five feet tall with alabaster skin and delicate pink high boned cheeks. Her dark eyes were round and set far apart. Her Cupid's bow lips were a natural coral color. She wore a sheer diaphanous white gown. The sheerness revealed the coral tips of small pert breasts. With her well formed legs, she looked for all the world like a porcelain doll.

The Black man was massive, well above Claude's 6' 2", 200 pounds. Beneath his worn bib overalls, thick muscles born of hard physical labor rippled. Thick legs, like ebony tree trunks supported the massive upper body. His large head appeared to sit squarely on his broad shoulders. His thick arms ended in enormous gnarled hands. The crotch of the overalls bulged with the evidence of a massive cock.

The wraiths floated forward. "Come my love! I will be your White bitch one more time." The female entered Annabelle.

"I'm coming, my love!" The slave entered Claude's body.

Annabelle and Claude shivered as the personas of the wraiths entered their bodies. They felt themselves losing control of their bodies as the spirits possessed them. The antipathy they felt for each other transformed into an unfettered attraction. They faced each other and embraced.

"At last. My love, I can hold you again."

Claude's hand, controlled by the ghost of the slave, slapped Annabelle's ass sharply.

"Say it, Miss Kathy! Say it like you used to say it!"

Deep within their bodies, Claude and Annabelle were spectators, aware of their possession but unable to regain control of their bodies.

"Fuck me, my big Black Nigger, fuck your white bitch."

Claude's body, possessed by the powerful Mandingo, ripped Annabelle's dress from her body. She stood in the transformed bedroom clad only in her plain white cotton panties and bra. Her breasts were large and pendulous, swinging freely. Her pussy flooded when Claude ripped her panties and bra from her. From her spectator's perch in her own body, she was unable to scream.

Naked, Annabelle's possessed body sank to her knees and unbuckled Claude's pants. She pulled them down slowly, revealing his nakedness. Her hand took Claude's huge cock in her hand, stroking it slowly.

"May I, my Black master?"

"Suck it," the beep baritone, unlike Claude's tenor, said.

Annabelle's angular body leaned forward. Slowly her thin lips enveloped Claude's huge blue black cock. She strained to get in fully in her mouth. She gripped it at the base with both of her small hands, as her lips travelled up and down its length.

As Claude reached out to grip her head, the room shimmered and the gnarled hands of Josiah gripped the long corn silk hair of Katherine Grey.

"For these 150 years, I have missed you sucking me, Kathy."

Kathy pulled back. Her saliva drooled from the corners of her mouth. A thin strand extended from her tongue to the tip of his cock. She looked up into the eyes of her lover. His naked body scarred with the marks of the whip.

"Punish me! Punish me as my husband punished you! Let me share your pain."

Josiah scooped Katherine's slim body into his massive arms. He carried her to the elegant four poster and dropped her on the flowered coverlet. She landed on her back, her legs akimbo, revealing the wet matted hair of her pubic thatch.

He reached into the nightstand adjacent to the bed and retrieved the toy he plaited especially for Katherine. It was a small whip braided from black leather.

Katherine rolled on her abdomen. Her body quivering with anticipation. Through the window next to the bed she could see the expanse of her husband's plantation. With her surprising innate business sense and his knowledge of the land, they made it the most prosperous in the state. She looked, lovingly into the eyes of her lover. They had been good together in more ways than one.

"Let me feel your pain."

Josiah lay the whip on her whip scarred well shaped ass. He lightly pulled it across the mounds of her scarred peach, watching the tip dip into the crevice between her ass cheeks then rise on the other side. With a flick of his wrist he brought it up then down sharply on her ass. A red welt appeared.

"Awww fuck," Katherine Grey moaned her fingers and toes digging into the muslin sheets. "Is that the best you can do, you big black motherfucker? Is that your best?"

Smiling, Josiah raised the whip above his head. It whistled through the air then cracked as it slammed into Katherine's ass. A red welt that stretched from her left hip across the mounds of her petite ass appeared. Small red drops of blood accented the peaches and cream color of her behind.

"What do you want from me," Josiah rumbled.

Writhing on the sheet, her ass burning with pain, she ground her pussy into the bed. Her juices left a wet smear on the coverlet.

"I WANT YOU! I want your pain. I want your nigger cock! I want your babies."

Josiah smiled down at his woman. His nose twitched as the scent of her arousal assaulted his nostrils. Their affair matured over the years. The first time was after a particular brutal whipping her husband gave him. It was from an imagined slight to his wife. It had more to do with the poor course of the war than any transgression.

Consumed with guilt, Katherine Grey walked to the slave quarters carrying a balm for his wounds. When she asked for his whereabouts, the stunned slaves pointed silently at the barn. She found him there, lying on his belly in the hay, moaning in pain.

She knelt next to him, flaring her full skirts out and sitting in the hay next to him. She cooed soothingly as she applied the balm. At first, he cowered. It meant death to touch a White woman. Then as the balm eased the pain of the lash, he relaxed.

Katherine small hands massaged the ointment into the thick hard muscles of his back. She marveled at its broad expanse. Slowly, her hands moved down his back. She found herself massaging the thick muscles of his ass. Dimly she was aware there were no whip marks there. Under her satin dress with it's whalebone hoops to make it flare, under the crinolines that cover her pantaloon like undergarments, a fire was kindled.

She slipped her tiny hands under his hips and turned him on his back. She was startled to see the immense bulge in his coveralls. Shocked at her forwardness, she quickly stood. She looked down at this man mountain cowering in fear. She knelt again, meaning only to comfort him. She leaned forward and her thin lips brushed his thick ones.