Uprooted: If The Rabbit Had The Gun...: A Tale in Three Movements

By A. Sue Pahgenius

Prepare to go way out of the box. Drawing from the old folk admonishment that

aEUR~It ain't no fun when the rabbit's got the gun', Uprooted: If the Rabbit Had the Gun presents three power-punched tales that will move all who read them in unexpected ways. Each movement, Smack Dab in the Middle, Did We All Fall Down or Did Some of Us Get Pushed?, and In My Final Hours, presents an independent story of challenges common to the human condition from the twisted perspectives of both

the privileged and powerful Black race and members of the oppressed, white, lower

class. Woven together, the movements in Uprooted: If the Rabbit Had the Gun fill

the reader with vivid, powerful, and sometimes troubling imagery that takes the

reader to an alternate reality which eerily mirrors real life in American society, only in reverse. Uprooted: If the Rabbit Had the Gun is a definite must-read for those who crave a fresh perspective on the ever-present problem of racial oppression in contemporary American society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781645318026

Book preview

cover.jpg

uprooted:

if the rabbit had the gun…

a tale in three movements

by

A. Sue Pahgenius

Copyright © 2020 A. Sue Pahgenius

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64531-801-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64531-802-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

because God helped me to get your attention…

this is dedicated…

to God Almighty where my help comes from.

to the two I spit, once my daughter and son.

to that baby I love more than I can say.

to those like her who might love and long for me someday.

to those who’ve ever been asked, "Why does your life matter?’

to those whose hopes were unjustly splattered.

to those who had life but never got to live it.

to those who had love but never got to give it.

to all those people who suffered in silence.

to all those people who were lost through violence.

to everyone who can’t make anyone understand.

to everyone who strives to be the better wo or the man.

to all those people who meant me no good.

to all those people who knew I never would.

to those who gave me misery, pain, injury, and hurt.

to that beautiful day I realized my true worth.

to those who, like me, have learned still how to rise,

to persevere and overcome while looking incredibly flyy.

so…

to make sure you understand why I truly do mean this’

I wrote a crazy book and called myself A. Sue Pahgenius…

if the rabbit had the gun…

What would you do if you were in my shoes?

Would you look at things differently?

Would you make the same moves?

Do you think that your thoughts would remain unchanged

in that parallel world where the game ain’t the same?

They say it ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun and

he turns it on the one who’s got him on the run.

I guess that could be true

if the one being chased is you

going from predator to prey in

unexpected but effective smooth moves.

You might think you’ve got control

and that things will go your way,

but when the rabbit’s got the gun, it’s a brand new day.

You never stopped to consider what for the rabbit is true.

That is, until the rabbit’s got the gun and

he aims it straight at you.

When white is Black and Black is white

and your mightiest might still just ain’t right

will the things you thought were just plain wrong

still seem that way when the rabbit is strong?

Would there be a limit to the things that you would do when the one being caught in the crosshairs is you?

Do you have the ability to think of someone else or are you too wrapped up thinking of yourself?

Can you conceive of the damage you do

when you mistreat someone because they’re not like you?

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Are you so far on top that you really can’t see?

Naw, it ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun, that is,…

unless you’re the rabbit…

Walking behind her mother but remaining in the center of their small group, the little girl again looked around in fascinated wonder. Coming to town was always one of Carolyn’s favorite things to do (next to watching the slaves work around the house, particularly in the kitchen) because there was always so much going on: pretty Black ladies in their fine going-to-town dresses shopping and speaking to neighbors and friends; important men (like her daddy, Mr. Othello T. Whiteman, the town’s largest land owner and the most handsome Black man for miles [according to her mother]) conducting business deals that were way too complicated for a six-year-old to understand (no matter how exceptional she might be); new things for sale that she mustn’t touch; and other things going on that proper little girls shouldn’t meddle with.

Yes, Carolyn did love almost everything about going to town. She really liked it when her daddy’s friends would greet her and her mother, saying, Mornin’, Mrs. Whiteman, mornin’, Miss Carolyn, when they walked down the street. Every time someone would give a greeting, Carolyn would square her shoulders, hold her head a little higher, and try her best to duplicate her mother’s dazzling smile and dignified stroll. It was during these times that Carolyn nearly forgot the two white people who followed behind her and her mother everywhere white slaves were allowed to go; nearly forgot that the white slave woman who followed behind her and her own proud Black mother was named Tonya and took care of her every day; nearly forgot that the little white slave girl who followed behind but slightly beside Carolyn herself was named Lizzie and was supposed to be her friend even though Carolyn knew that Lizzie and her mother, Tonya, were owned by Carolyn’s father.

The pride-inspired forgetfulness of the existence and presence of Tonya and Lizzie was always quickly converted to extreme gratefulness every time Carolyn’s mother began to lead them toward the auction blocks. This was the one place in town where Carolyn was uncomfortable going, and she was always glad to know that Tonya and Lizzie were standing behind her and her mother, as if their presence behind them established an impenetrable line of defense. The auction blocks always filled Carolyn with mixed emotions that she scarcely understood. She was always happy to be Othello Whiteman’s daughter. Everyone knew her daddy, knew she was the apple of her daddy’s eye, and she always felt protected by her daddy’s name alone. But when she and her mother (and Tonya and Lizzie, of course) came to town and met her daddy at the auction blocks, Carolyn felt small and scared and all-around uncomfortable.

There were always a bunch of white slaves up for sale (even kids Carolyn’s age) at the twenty or so different auction blocks in town. Her daddy had once said something about the meat market while talking to a friend, but Carolyn had been disciplined sharply when she had been caught repeating the phrase to Lizzie. Very often, Carolyn saw that the white slaves up for sale in the rear auction blocks didn’t have clothes on. Carolyn had heard her mother complaining to her sister, Carmen (Carolyn’s only aunt—her mother had only one sister and her father had two brothers, one with white slaves of his own and the other who had been killed by Black abolitionists sympathetic to the growing free the slaves movement [at least that’s what Carolyn overheard]), about how she knew her husband enjoyed looking at naked white female slaves way more than he would admit. Her Aunt Carmen would then usually say something about how all Black men seemed to have that affliction, but Carolyn never got to hear what came after that in the conversation, no matter how often the two women started down that road.

As they approached the beginning of the long row of wooden platforms and fenced-in areas where the chained-up slaves were kept, Carolyn could hear the familiar gibberish of the auctioneers who talked that superfast language that only slave buyers could understand. The closer they came to what had become a recognized and respected business district, the more clearly the signs that Carolyn knew to look for became visible. First there was the thinning presence of women. When all the Black ladies in the nice dresses began to disappear, Carolyn knew that her mother was in search of her father, and her mother was going to the one place where she knew he would be. Dropping back snugly into the safe space behind her mother but ahead of Tonya and Lizzie, Carolyn tried to keep her eyes on the back of her mother, but it was very hard. The Black men began to appear wearing the dirty, dusty, rough-looking clothes of slave overseers, plantation hands, and farm help. Carolyn didn’t really like these men because with these men came lots of yelling, dirty words, spitting, and violence. These men liked to fight, liked to cuss, and liked to hurt the slaves. Carolyn didn’t like these men at all, and luckily for her, her daddy made sure that these men gave both her and her mother the utmost respect.

Carolyn looked around with only her eyes. She knew that she mustn’t be caught looking around with too much interest while walking near the slave auction blocks because, as both her mother and father had often explained to her, there were things going on around there that weren’t for proper ladies (especially not small ones) to see. At the same time, however, Carolyn also knew that the things that she had seen during her very infrequent visits to the slave auction blocks were absolutely fascinating to her, a natural fascination that was exponentially increased simply by her knowing that she wasn’t supposed to look. Carolyn had been caught turning her head and gawking with wide eyes at the activities that routinely occurred on the slave auction blocks only once. The very first time Carolyn had accompanied her mother to fetch her father to address some crisis (some man had come to the house and said some things that made her mommy angry enough to go find her daddy), Carolyn had let her wonder, surprise, amazement, and fear show on her face. She didn’t realize how caught up she had become until she felt her head being forcefully turned by a firm clamp on her chin. Carolyn had looked up into her daddy’s face to see him sad and stern. He only had to admonish her once, and Carolyn made sure to remember what her daddy had said to her from that point on. Look away from this, Carolyn. Always look away from this…

Keeping her head just as her mother, Ophelia, kept hers, Carolyn always remembered the stiff exchange between her parents immediately after her father’s admonishment. The few comments they made to each other had gone over Carolyn’s young understanding, but what had been clear to her were the two basic facts that her daddy was none too pleased with her mommy for bringing her to the slave auction blocks, and her mommy was none too pleased with her daddy for whatever it was that he had done to require her to come and find him. Carolyn also understood that she must never again make her daddy and mommy angry at each other again, so she would never again let herself get carried away with the slave auction blocks, no matter what she saw, no matter how scared or excited she might be inside.

So when Carolyn saw the Black slave handler take the white man out of a cage and force him to his knees by the chains he was wearing, she kept her head straightforward. When the Black slave handler began to talk to another Black man about the white slave man as the group of four females passed, Carolyn saw that the white slave had tried to say something. Carolyn did not betray the fact that she heard the Black slave handler scream, Shut up, you fucking slave! at the white man in chains. Nor did Carolyn let it show that she had, with only her peripheral vision, seen the Black slave handler kick the white slave in the face hard enough to knock him completely over, spitting on him twice once he hit the ground. Carolyn kept her face forward, resisting her overwhelming urge to look back at the two Black slave handlers after hearing the one who had kicked the white slave laugh rather nastily and say, When I want you to think you’re important enough to have a name, I will get it from whoever I sell you to.

The auction was in full swing, and knowing what was to come next always made Carolyn grab at her mother’s dress for fortification. Her mother led the group directly down the middle of the auction block row heading in the direction of the last few platforms. As they passed, more white slaves were being sold, traded, and punished while Black plantation owners and businessmen socialized, patronized, and told good-natured lies to one another. Moving through this first part of this critical area of town, Carolyn was always so very grateful that she was her mother’s Pretty Little-Chocolate -Drop-Baby, with cocoa skin and in no danger of being sold away from her mother and father like the crying little white kids she was seeing once more. Carolyn always admired her mother for the determined and unaffected way that she moved through the auction blocks, even if she did, at the same time, resent her mother for bringing her here yet again. Carolyn was excited and afraid and anxious, all at the same time and all for the same reason: if her mother brought her to the slave auction blocks to find her father, something was wrong. Feeling her mother’s hand moving her to a position directly behind her, Carolyn instantly knew two things. First, her mother had spotted her father and they would be leaving soon. Second, Carolyn knew that naked slaves were being sold again on the last few blocks.

The white slave bodies in the holding cages became less and less clothed the deeper into the auction blocks the group of four females traveled. The cages became smaller and smaller, holding fewer and fewer numbers of nearly and completely naked white bodies. The white slaves inside them began to be separated by gender, and the amount of clothes they wore dwindled to nonexistent by the final four cages. Carolyn was curious to see the naked, dirty bodies, but she knew that they were nasty and looking at them was just as nasty because her mommy had told her so. Even so, it was still hard to not to look at the naked white slaves for sale, especially when they were washed by the Black slave handlers throwing bucket after bucket of water on them. Carolyn had found the faces they made from the water splashes funny, not realizing at her young age that the slaves were gasping for breath and trying not to drown.

Walking behind her mother, Carolyn could not see the white woman half wearing a dirty rag dress and a heavy chain collar connected to matching iron handcuffs. The woman had dirt and debris in her blonde hair, a large bruise across her cheek, and an angry, still-defiant look over her entire face. Carolyn could hear the well-dressed Black men yelling out many things to the auctioneer, and once her mother stopped walking, Carolyn peeked around her skirt in time to see the auctioneer calm the crowd of important and expectant Black men and then snatch away the dress of rags. The blonde slave woman was now standing on the platform completely naked except for the chains which bound her. There was a momentary silence among the crowd of Black men as they took in the fullness of the sight before them. The Black auctioneer beamed with pride as he manipulated the naked white slave woman around the stage for all to evaluate. She was a thick white woman with sizeable breasts, wide hips, and blonde pubic hair that matched the hair on her head. As if he could hear what the crowd of important Black men were thinking, the auctioneer led the naked woman to a separate area of the platform, secured her chained her hands above her head, and looked the dirty and bruised white slave in her face as he squeezed her breast to antagonize the throng of slave-purchasing Black men.

At the auctioneer’s whistle, three Black men mounted the platform carrying two large buckets of water. He nodded, and Carolyn saw the first Black man walked behind the chained white woman and slowly poured the entire bucket of water over her head. Masterfully pretending to hide her face in her mother’s skirt folds while really using the material to camouflage her wandering eyes, Carolyn and the entire crown watched as the water ran down the naked white woman, rinsing away the first layer of dirt from her hair and body. The Black man then took the second bucket of water and threw it roughly into the front of the naked white woman, the splash in her face and the force of the water making her sway helplessly back and forth like a naked rag doll being flailed in the wind.

The Black men made noises of approval before the auctioneer began to talk about the naked slave woman, extolling her good features with smacks and squeezes to various parts of the woman’s face and behind. When a voice from the crowd of men shouted an inquiry about the quality of the slave, the auctioneer allowed the Black man (for a small fee, of course) to come up on to the platform and check the white slave woman for himself. Carolyn’s mother gently pressed her face into her skirts just in time to stop Carolyn from seeing the Black man climb on to the platform, give a coin to the auctioneer, and then begin to enthusiastically inspect the marketed female. The man walked around her, looking intently up and down her entire body as he circled. The man grabbed the helpless female roughly by the hair and jerked her head back. When he forcibly opened her mouth to look at her teeth, the still dirty blonde glared at the man and attempted to spit in his face. Even though she missed her mark, the embarrassed Black man still punished her, slapping and grabbing her face with enough force to make her entire body writhe in pain.

The Black man’s actions caused the slave trader to rush back to the platform and call for assistance with removing the man from where he stood. As he was forced from the platform, the Black man loudly complained about the disrespect he had been shown at the hands of the white female slave and demand the return of his paid examination fee. As the first man was scurried away by the slave trader’s assistants, a second Black man spoke up. His voice emitting clearly through the crowd, the second Black man firmly said, That’s no way to inspect a slave like her. Everyone step aside and let a real man show you how to handle a slave like her.

As the second Black man spoke and moved through the crowd, an awkward silence began to spread among the assembled Black men. As bad as things had just been for the chained white female slave, it was an unspoken consensus among those present that things for her were definitely about to get much worse. The second Black man causally forced a coin into the hand of the slave trader without giving him a second glance. Oblivious to the look of concern on the slave trader’s face, the second Black man walked purposefully up to the chained, dirty, naked white female; looked her directly into her eyes; and smiled. Though she unsuccessfully tried to turn away, the importantly dressed Black man forced her face toward his and promptly began to rub his hands slowly together, savoring his position and deciding where to start first. He slowly rolled up his sleeves, took a bucket of water from one of the two remaining Black helpers on the platform, and poured it slowly over the naked woman. The man then ran his fingers through the woman’s tangled blonde head of hair, forced her head back and her mouth open, and inspected her teeth. Satisfied that she would clean up well, the Black man mentioned something about samples, threw the auctioneer another coin, and then poured yet another bucket of water over the woman. The Black man was obviously rather important in town. He might not have been as powerful as Othello Whiteman, but he was important enough for the auctioneer to allow him to do all of what came next.

The Black man began to massage the woman’s breasts, first with one hand, then with both, moving slowly as he deliberately played with her erect nipples. He began to smile slowly and backed away from her, allowing himself to become fully drunk from the sight of her condition. The Black man, who was taking his time enjoyably with his potential purchase, walked slowly around the naked white woman still dripping with water and still chained with her hands above her. Not caring at all about the watching crowd, the Black man walked up to the back of the woman and smacked her firmly on her naked behind, grabbing, squeezing, and holding on to her buttock as he moved to face her. The woman continued to look away, both angry and vacant, inspiring the Black man to display a slow, vicious smile. He grabbed the woman by both buttocks and swung her close to him. Look at me, he quietly commanded her, yet the woman continued to stare away. The Black man simultaneously grabbed the chained woman by both the hair on her head and the hair on her vagina and again quietly commanded the woman, I said look at your new master… Despite his sadistic sexual torture, the woman remained defiant and made no sound.

The auctioneer began to get nervous. The Black man on his platform was Duke Hall, one of the ten owners of the town shipping port. Without Duke Hall’s support, no merchandise would or could be bought or sold in Flipside, South Carolina, because Duke controlled the docks and his brother-in-law owned two of the three general stores in town. The auctioneer knew (like everyone else in town) that Duke Hall had a strong dependency on acquiring white slave women because of the strange sexual tastes he held and shared with his friends. There was no telling what Duke Hall would do to a slave woman, and since they weren’t really considered human, he didn’t really care who knew or saw. If Duke Hall fucked and killed that white slave woman on his stage, the auctioneer knew that no one would care, no one would do anything, and he might not even pay for the merchandise he destroyed if his attitude wasn’t right at the time of his offense.

There was something about this slave that Duke Hall liked—this much was clear; and whatever it was, he liked it, and her, a lot. He was determined to make her submit to him, right there on that platform. The mere thought of it made his dick swell within his suit.

Oh, he said while maintaining his firm grasp on both her head of hair and her patch pubic hair, so you think you don’t have to submit? He spun her around by the chains holding her hands above her head. We’ll see about that, Duke said with an evil smile.

With that, he took off his suit jacket and began once more to molest the chained white woman. He turned her back to the crowd of Black men and began to spank her viciously. He started slowly with a semifirm blow from his hand. He struck her again, grabbed her ass and squeezed it, then bit her on her butt cheek until she whimpered loudly in pain. Obtaining a reaction from her only served to charge him more, so Duke whipped the woman around, continued squeezing the butt cheek he had not bitten, grabbed her breast with his other hand and stuck it in his mouth. Alternating between sucking, kissing, and biting her breasts roughly and brutally, Duke continued to demand that the woman call him Master before he would stop.

The auctioneer was afraid. He and the rest of the crowd of Black men could see where this was going, and the crowd wanted Duke to finish. Duke was doing what nearly all the Black slave owners did in private or wanted to do in their hearts, and there was an unspoken agreement in the air that this high-minded white slave woman deserved what was happening to her for trying to spit on a Black man. Then, too, even if she didn’t deserve it (which she did), the spectacle was a good lesson for the other slaves and made for good entertainment. The problem was that the auctioneer was afraid that Duke would ravage the slave woman without paying for the merchandise. The auctioneer had a family to feed, and he was counting on this slave to bring a nice price. The auctioneer knew he had to do something, and quickly, if he were to stop the ensuing frenzy into which Duke Hall was whipping himself. Left unchecked, Duke would damage the slave female to the point that no one would buy her and she would have to be shot.

Mr. Hall, if you please… The auctioneer spoke as gently as he could, and his voice stopped the Black man midmotion.

Duke Hall turned to face the man who had interrupted him. It was too late for anything other than obtaining his own satisfaction right then and there. His eyes were glazed over with lust and anger and contempt and desire for the chained, naked, bruised, and now quietly crying white slave woman, and he would not be denied. There was something about this one; she was special. This slave was everything that Duke Hall preferred and everything he preferred to destroy. Moving slowly and deliberately, the Black man reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a sizeable wallet, and pulled out a crisp bill. Paying paper money for a single slave was nearly unheard of unless, of course, that slave fulfilled a specific and particularly important purpose. The crowd of men stopped jeering and grew quite at the appearance of Duke’s wallet. They watched him take out a five-dollar bill and knew they were in for a helluva show.

This auction block, Duke spoke slowly, his voice thick with lust and anticipation, is now closed. Here is the purchase price for the slave and for the closing of this block. Now, everybody get the hell away. It’s time for me to condition my purchase.

The auctioneer gladly took the money from his hands and slowly began to back away. He told the crowd that his block was done for the day and directed everyone to go to the next block if they were still interested in buying house, breeding, and/or comfort slaves that day. The auctioneer slowly began to pull a thin and poorly erected curtain around the wooden platform, but everyone could still plainly see what was occurring. The chained and naked white slave woman was still suspended by her hands. Duke Hall slowly began removing his clothes and talking to her, making no effort to conceal his true sinister nature. You refuse to look at me now, but that’s okay. You’re gonna learn to look at nothing and no one but me. She gave no response as he continued to remove and neatly hang his clothing on the auction block podium.

Undaunted by her unspoken defiance, the menacing Black man continued on. Still silent, huh?… Well, that’s okay, too, ’cause you’re gonna sing my name on command by the time I get through with you. Still no response—only silent, rebellious tears. I would ask you your name, but your name is unimportant. The only name important to you is mine, do you understand? From this moment on, my name and my happiness are the only things of importance to you for the rest of your life. I am your everything. I have as much power over you as does our dear Lord. Fully naked now except for his readorned shoes, the imposing Black man stood directly in front of his new purchase. Grabbing her hair and roughly forcing her face up toward his, Duke Hall looked down and whispered into the naked white slave woman’s face, You are nothing because you are white. You were chosen for slavery by our good Lord because you are white. You are inferior and lower than the beasts of the field. I own you completely and have dominion over everything you do, including whether or not you continue to breathe. In point of fact…from this moment on…I…am…your…dear…Lord. So…hear me, and hear me well, Ofay bitch of mine, for the rest of your life as well as in your next, when it comes to you, my only name…is…Master.

Unable to see the Black man ravaging the white slave woman he had just purchased, Carolyn could hear nothing at first but chains rattling in the day like wind chimes. Irritated by the symbolic obstruction the makeshift curtain had posed, some of the Black men stepped inside the curtain for a firsthand view. Carolyn’s mother turned her head and closed her eyes in disgust as Duke allowed his friends to join in, deeming herself too much of a lady to watch as the men began to douse the chained woman with water before placing their mouths and hands all over the chained white woman. The frenzy of men slapping, sucking, licking, and biting the chained woman all over her body was akin to a bait ball attack. The slave woman’s screams for help were drowned out by the whoops and cheers of the men, and Carolyn’s mother turned to see Duke with his face between the woman’s legs and one man on each of the woman’s breasts. She was screaming and begging and crying, which only seemed to excite Duke more. He somehow produced a key and uncuffed the woman from the hook which had suspended her. As she fell to her knees, Duke took a handful of her hair, held her head steady, and shoved his fully erect penis down her throat. The woman tried to resist, but her hands were still chained, and the men who were with him held her firmly in place. Duke began to alternate between smacking the woman roughly across the face with his erect penis and shoving it brutally down her throat. The more she gagged on his dick and the louder the sound resonating from her face with each penile pimp-smack, the wider and more sinister the smile Duke uncontrollably displayed.

The woman’s body was covered in bite marks and bruises, but still the men weren’t through. Duke stepped back and watched the men. The woman was still on her knees and elbows, and while one man held her, a second man smacked her sorely on her ass and then stuck his entire face between the cheeks of her behind. The man began to lick the woman all over her behind and was only stopped by Duke only when he began trying to penetrate the slave woman with his tongue. Duke knocked the man away, saying, Oh no, I always go first, and flipped the woman onto her still-wet behind. He took her face gingerly into his hands and questioned, Now, tell me, love, what’s my name? The woman looked angry and hurt and even afraid, but still she said not one word and, instead, worked to control her sobbing.

Duke looked the woman in her face and smiled. I thought that might be your answer, he said. Slamming the woman brutally to her back, Duke had her still-chained hands held above her head. She lay on the ground before him, naked, dirty, bleeding, and bruised—the defiance in her eyes still present and still blazing, yet quickly giving over to fear. He stared her directly in her eyes so that she could see the depth of his demented spirit. He slowly spread her legs and lowered himself just outside of reach for properly mounting her. He could see her trying to steel herself for what was to come, but he knew that there was nothing that she could do to comprehend what he was capable of. Her strength was maddening. He could take no more. Duke slid one hand around her throat and lovingly whispered to her, I’m going to enjoy breaking you…

He penetrated her then, ramming his penis into her as if it were the deadliest weapon on earth. The sound of her first small scream of pain made him crave more, so he allowed himself to loosen his self-control. He fucked his slave hard, deep, and rough—his sole purposes to inflict pain and dominance. Who am I? he questioned her through her tears. The sight of her tears excited Duke, and he knew that he had better finish this before he climaxed. Whispering in her ear, he said to the woman, Either say my name, or they are next. The woman began to cry audibly. He was winning their battle of dominance, and everyone knew it, so he decided to go in for the kill. Duke began to drill the suffering white slave woman relentlessly, punishing her for transgressions which she had not yet committed. His penis repeatedly dug inside her, and he whispered assurances to her that this brutal rape was only an introduction to what he had planned for her.

Suddenly, Duke felt the woman become especially slippery, extra warm. She began crying loudly, and he knew instinctively why. He was doing damage to her, and she had begun to bleed. Duke allowed the presence of blood to fuel his underlying lust, and he pulled himself up from off of her body so that he could see her suffer as he injured her. He moved his hands around her throat and felt himself losing control. She was breaking, but he needed to break her all the way down and right now. He began to fuck her as hard as he could, whispering cruel, venomous threats as he did so. Say my name, and you will live better than most slaves. Continue to resist, and I will not only let them finish, but I will leave you to every man here who wants you. In fact, I will keep you naked, fuck you every day all day, and sell your pussy until you have no pussy. Then, when you are of no use to me, I will kill you and feed you to my swine.

Talking about doing such hideous things to her was more than he could stand. Duke began choking the woman and fucking her for all he was worth. He was caught up in the frenzy, overcome with the power, lost in the momentum of his own hips forcing his throbbing penis deeper and deeper into his purchase. He was about to climax, but he wasn’t so caught up that he would contaminate his seed by wasting it inside a slave. He was choking her, fucking her, and slamming her head on the platform floor. As he felt himself about to climax, he took one hand from around her throat and grabbed her by the back of her head. With the other hand he grabbed his hot, wet penis and quickly jerked it from inside her. Looking at her bruised face and battered body, Duke felt himself about to explode. Rocking quickly back on his shins and knees to his feet, he forced the white woman’s head toward his erupting penis, watching with unmatched intensity as his semen covered her face. He screamed with both carnal satisfaction and the pride of a barbaric champion, doing all he could to cover the objectified woman with the shame of his semen. Now, Duke questioned between panted breaths, what the fuck is my name, bitch? Whimpering, defeated, dehumanized, and destroyed, the naked, sperm-and-bruise-covered woman cowered at his feet and simply whispered, Master…

*****

Carolyn was glad when her mother began walking again because she was tired of hearing the cheering and screaming. She wanted her daddy and was surprised and happy when she felt herself being lifted off the ground and into Othello’s arms. And just how are my ladies? Othello Whiteman was a very tall, muscular, and clean-cut Black man with a commanding presence. His smile was infectiously bright, his skin was decidedly the color of dark brown sugar, and his voice was as smooth and his demeanor. Othello was a Black man who had few memories of his mother (she had died while delivering his second younger brother) and who had had to step into manhood much sooner than a boy-child should. His father had a knack for farming and crop planting and had managed to build a natural land empire. Sensing the coming boom in the free labor born of the slave trade, Othello’s father had bartered his way to considerable wealth. He took his five acres and grew what people called the best fruit and vegetables in the area. He took the money from his crops and bought slaves. White slaves turned out to be his father’s goldmine, for he had quickly purchased so many slaves that he was able to trade them for additional acres of land. In a few short years, Othello’s father had quietly and unassumingly acquired 33 percent of the land in town and was responsible for nearly one fourth of the food, cotton, and tobacco supplies in town and in two additional states. His neighbors and friends liked him, his wife and child loved him, and his slaves appreciated him for Othello Whiteman was a good and fair man.

Unfortunately, it was his good nature which was often problematic, particularly when it came to the women in his life. Othello has met Ophelia during his next-to-last year of school (what would now be thought of as tenth grade), but their romance was cut short due to the natural death of his father while farming. Othello had to quit school to care for his brothers and all the family land, slaves, and properties, so there was no time for school. Othello was quite intelligent, and it didn’t take him long to improve upon his father’s accomplishments, increasing the family land holdings, consolidating the family’s assets and expanding the family’s slave numbers. It was during his work to organize the wealth his father left to him and his brothers when Othello again ran into Ophelia in town. She had grown into a very attractive woman, and it wasn’t long before Othello and Ophelia were one of the handsomest couples in town. They married, Ophelia quit her job as the single school marm, and the two settled into a prominent and happy life.

Their happiness was quickly complicated by the appearance of Tonya, the only young white slave that Othello had let into the house and the only white slave with whom he had availed himself. Othello was not prone to running through those nasty white slaves like Duke and some of the other men around town who owned slaves, but there was something about Tonya. There periodically was, and there had been since the day she came into their lives. Othello seemed drawn to Tonya, almost in the same way as he had been drawn to Ophelia. Tonya had come to them from the preacher shortly after they were married. Tonya had had to escape from her former owners after the owner’s brother had raped and killed her mother and lynched and burnt her father when he had tried to defend her.

Only a few years her junior, Tonya had proven to be irritatingly quite like Ophelia, and it had seemed so in all the small ways that counted. Tonya was quiet, smart, even dignified for a slave, and she had been really good company for Ophelia for a good little while. That was, until Ophelia had made the mistake of allowing Tonya to dress like a real lady just for one day. Ophelia had thought Othello would not return from his trip until the following day, but he had returned early to surprise her. As soon as it was clear to Othello that Ophelia had seen the way that he had looked at Tonya, he had known that things between the two of them would never be the same.

And they never were. Because he had made her Ophelia’s primary slave, Othello began spending more time with Tonya, allowing Tonya special privileges, and even moving her from the fields into the house. Once Ophelia had Carolyn, an infection prevented the return of marital sex for nine long months and, potentially, robbed Ophelia of her ability to ever bear more children for Othello. The doctors had said it was not impossible for Ophelia to conceive and carry a baby to term, but it would take intervention from God Almighty to make it happen. It was during those nine months that Othello began to relieve himself with Tonya, and once it began, Othello had become far too comfortable (albeit unintentionally) with taking Tonya periodically. He might not have done so frequently, but the ability to indulge his undiscovered, baser sexual appetites was the Pandora’s box which Othello could not help but to give himself over to every so often during Ophelia’s recovery. (Ophelia’s mouth, in Othello’s mind, was no place for his hot, swollen, demanding penis, for example, but his big, Black member seemed to fit quite nicely in Tonya’s mouth, Tonya’s ass, or anywhere else in Tonya that he chose to put it.) Upon learning of his dalliances, Ophelia gave Othello the ultimatum (either sell the slave or I take Carolyn and leave), but it was too late. Tonya was already pregnant with Lizzie, and Ophelia knew that she would never be rid of either of them. To be fair, Othello did move heaven and earth to make it up to Ophelia, buying her and Carolyn everything under the sun, taking her and Carolyn on vacations and romantic excursions. But no matter his efforts, Tonya and Lizzie remained a very sore spot between the two. Whereas Ophelia had, at first, loved the idea of having her own personal slave to attend to her and Carolyn, she was now trapped, forever to be shadowed and tended to by her husband’s concubine and their bastard Ofay slave child.

Because her love for Othello was stronger than her resentment of Tonya, Ophelia agreed to tolerate Tonya and her child (who just had to be a little girl, too, wouldn’t you know it), but only so long as Tonya knew and remained in her place. Othello was careful to be no kinder to Tonya than he was to his other white slaves, but extra wonderful to Ophelia, particularly in front of Tonya. Othello made sure that his slave child, Lizzie, had no other responsibility than to help her mother and play with Carolyn. Tonya clearly understood that the day either one of the little girls, be it Carolyn or Lizzie, learned that Othello was the father of them both would be the last day that Tonya would be allowed to remain there in the home. Lizzie would be permitted to stay, but Tonya would be sold. Both Othello and Tonya knew that Ophelia must not ever suspect that they were ever sexually involved again, for Ophelia would take Carolyn and leave the moment she ever found out such a thing was true, and quite possibly, she would hurt or kill Tonya before she left.

This agreement had worked beautifully at first, but then, the bigger Tonya’s belly grew, the worse Ophelia became. She had ordered Tonya’s long blonde hair to be cut, and when she still was quite comely, Ophelia demanded that Tonya keep her head wrapped at all times or be shaven bald. Once Lizzie was born, all hell had broken loose for one unbelievable yet completely understandable reason: Lizzie, Othello’s slave child, looked exactly like her older sister Carolyn, the daughter he shared with his wife. Ophelia’s dreams of keeping her husband’s indiscretion a secret were crushed by a beautiful little girl who looked like a caramel-colored version of Ophelia’s own chocolate baby doll. Carolyn was nearly two years older than Lizzie, but when the two girls were side by side, they were often mistaken for twins. It was because of this undeniable link to her husband and child that Ophelia took complete and immediate control of the slave and her offspring, insisting that Tonya and Lizzie remain close to her at all times and walk behind her and Carolyn at all times. Othello had robbed Ophelia of her public dignity, so Ophelia responded by taking control of his only vice. The marriage of Othello and Ophelia, one of the most prominent Black couples in all of FlipSide, had survived by the skin of its teeth, each passing day of the past two years sorely needed for healing. Still, the tension had remained and was now threatening to again rear its ugly head.

Carolyn and I are fine, Ophelia responded brightly but calmly while kissing her husband lightly on the cheek.

That’s good, Othello responded with effort, but I meant all my ladies…

Dropping her head as low as she could, Tonya tried to hide her smile. She could feel Ophelia stiffen at his remark, but Tonya knew that Ophelia would never make a scene in public. Othello Whiteman was an important