“Well, you’d better figure it out. Here.” She handed me a buggy whip. “Seymore can be a little stubborn sometimes. Just give him a crack every now and then to keep him moving. The rows should be nine to ten feet apart and twenty-four inches deep. Oh, and there will be a couple overseers coming by in a few hours to check on you. Have fun.”
I was left standing there with the buggy whip, staring at the donkey and plow with no clue what to do with either of them. I clomped over and took hold of the plow. I gave the mule a crack with the buggy whip and he began to move forward, the plow fell over and took me with it.
“Shit!” I exclaimed loudly as I climbed back to my feet and wiped dirt from my legs and arms. I struggled to lift the heavy plow back up, and this time, I held on tight, straining to keep it straight as the donkey moved forward. My arms shook as I struggled to steady the plow. My shoulders and back sang out in pain almost immediately from the exertion. Worse, I couldn’t keep the plow straight. It bounced and jerked, shaking my entire body, my breasts bounced and flopped like I was jogging without a bra and ripples ran up my ass and thighs. I could barely hold onto the plow. The lines in the soil meandered all over the place. The plow was just so heavy, it was all I could do to keep it from falling over again.
I finished the first row. It was a mess that resembled a parenthesis more than a straight line. I started the next row, determined to do better this time, but met with only slightly more success. I stumbled over the churned earth and rocks as I scrambled along behind the mule, fighting the plow, struggling to keep it in a straight line as it cut through the dirt. The plow jerked and jostled as the mule pulled, bumping and rattling over the rocks and hard packed earth, jarring my entire body, threatening to jolt from my grip.
After more than an hour behind the plow, I was finally getting the hang of it, managing to make rows that were relatively straight. That’s when the two young asshats from the dining room, who’d been salivating while I fondled Suzanna’s breasts, rode up on horses carrying cat o’ nine tails.
“What the fuck are you doing? This looks like shit!”
The guy who spoke was the whitest white boy she could have imagined, the personification of a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant yuppie, even in black leather. When he wasn’t playing dom, she imagined he wore polo shirts, cardigans, and argyle socks. He had neatly quaffed blond hair, blue eyes, a wide mouth with thin lips that looked like someone had sliced a hole in his face, a weak chin, narrow shoulders, and no discernible muscles. His body was thin where it should have been thick and thick where it should have been thin, skinny arms and legs, a paunch, and love handles that were starting to become hips.
He regarded me like I was something in his toy box. There was no recognition of my humanity at all in his eyes. His cruel expression and lustful eyes said clearly what he thought of me and likely all women. I was an object, something to be fucked and abused then put away until it was time to fuck again. As far as I was concerned, he fit only the loosest interpretation of the word “man.”
The guy riding along behind him was olive-skinned and athletically built with short, wavy black hair.
“You’re going to have to do this all over again,” he said in a clipped Middle-Eastern accent that brought out all of my own prejudices, automatically assuming he was a conservative Muslim who thought all women were beneath him. But what would a conservative Muslim be doing at an S&M fantasy plantation? I had no answer.
I looked back over the work I’d done and there was no denying it. The earth looked like it had been scarred rather than tilled. I looked over at a nearby patch of land where grapevines grew in neat, orderly rows, then back at the meandering rows I’d carved into the earth. It did indeed look like shit. I had left six uneven rows that were as close as five or six feet apart in spots and as wide as twelve feet in others, and I had exhausted myself doing it. Still, I wanted to tell these two assholes to fuck themselves, but that wasn’t my place. That would have been asking for a whipping. I bowed my head and averted my eyes.
I took a deep breath, cracked the whip, and picked up the ends of the plow. That’s when Seymore decided to show his stubborn streak. He sat down in the center of the field.
“Yah! Yah, Seymore! Come on, you stupid donkey! Don’t do this to me!”
The two douche bags climbed down off their horses. I rolled my eyes, anticipating the coming ridicule and abuse.
“Did you hear what we said? Get going and fix this abomination!”
The Muslim cracked the cat o’ nine tails he carried across my hamstrings. The tails wrapped around the front, leaving livid, red welts on my thighs. I gritted my teeth and tried again to get Seymore moving. The WASP walked toward me with a deeply affected look of anger on his face that was meant to intimidate, but only managed to make him look even more ridiculous, like a boy pretending to be a man. He wore a full leatherman outfit, chaps and all, over a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt. He pointed the cat at my face as he barked orders at me.
“I said, get to work and fix this shit! Do you want me to tell Mistress Delia what you’ve done to her land?”
I doubted she would care. If she gave a damn about this particular parcel of land, she certainly wouldn’t have placed it in my inexperienced hands. I didn’t reply and I didn’t look at the ridiculous boy/man. Instead, I tried to imagine an African slave on a Southern plantation, being faced with the same dilemma, a difficult and unfamiliar task and the threat of severe physical punishment if it wasn’t done perfectly. It was something millions of slaves had likely endured, and I would endure it too.
I tried again to get Seymore moving and again, he remained stubbornly seated. The WASP began whipping me relentlessly, striping my back, arms, ass, and thighs with the cat. He made so much commotion that Seymore finally stood and began to move forward. I grabbed the handles of the plow and guided him back over the same land we’d just plowed, but the two assholes weren’t done. The Muslim guy grabbed my arms and the WASP tried to rip off my corset.
“Get off of me! What are you doing?”
“We’re not done with you, bitch! You need to be punished. But I tell you what, you suck us both off, let us give you a nice bukakke shower, and we’ll let you go,” the WASP said, grinning at his Muslim buddy like the wild-eyed frat boy he’d probably been not long ago.
“You must be fucking high! Get the fuck off of me!”
“Hold her, Farrad! Hold her still!”
“She’s fighting, man. I don’t think she’s playing.”
“I don’t care. We paid our money, we’re fucking someone! No way anyone is going to cry rape at an S&M club. It would get laughed out of court. I’m fucking this cunt if she likes it or not! Now, hold her still!”
His hands were all over me, pawing at my breasts. I kicked at him, and he slapped me so hard I saw stars. That’s when I screamed.
“Heeeelllp! Raaaape! Raaaaape!”
This time, he punched me. His fist caught me behind the left ear and the world spun. I found myself staring up at the sky. Someone was tugging my shorts down and I looked up to see the WASP standing above me, unzipping his pants. I tried to scream again. The Muslim clamped a hand over my mouth and I bit it. I bit deep and jerked my head to the side, ripping a chunk out of his hand just below his pinky. He yelled and jumped backwards. I sat up quickly, still feeling woozy, and grabbed blindly for the WASP’s penis the instant it poked from his zipper. The man jumped backwards, but it was too late. My fingernails sunk into his cock. I dug them in deep, seizing his cock and twisting it. The WASP howled and struck me again, punching me in the top of my head. I leaned forward and jerked him toward me, dragging him by his penis.
“Fuck! Let go! Let go, you fucking bitch!” he shouted as I pulled him closer, tugging and wrenching on his cock, wringing it like a dishrag. I sank my teeth into his nutsack, biting down hard and feeling his testes rupture in my mouth like hardboiled eggs. His screams were horrific. He punched at my head and I could feel myself beginning to lose consciousness, but I refused. I bit down harder, biting through his scrotum. I could hear footsteps hurrying toward us as I ripped and tore at the WASP’s flaccid sex organs, tearing his testicles from his body and trying to pull his cock free from its moorings. Blood, urine, and semen rained down his thighs and dripped from my mouth as I chewed up his testicles and spit them down into the dirt.