Message-ID: <22240asstr$947553000@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <20000110162001.74523.qmail@hotmail.com> From: "Joanna De Brito" Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed Subject: {ASSM} {Joanna} The Ignominy Run (MF, caution) [3/3] Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2000 20:10:00 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, kelly Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only The Ignominy Run by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) January 2000 Copyright 2000 Joanna de Brito All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain intact. Part Three "Why do we have to leave Greystone Park?" I asked. My nightdress was still bunched about my waist, and the chambermaid was lying in some discomfort between my legs. "I do so love Derbyshire," I added nervously, hoping this would keep him calm. He returned to the bed and sat down upon it. He reached clumsily for my wrists and loosened the ropes that had bound them. In a flat monotone he began the task of captivating me with stories of adventure and opportunity in the West Indies. "There are fields and fields of sugar and they're just waiting to be harvested," he told me. "It will make us extremely rich. And you will be a lady. You won't need to lift a finger. There are hundreds, thousands of slaves that are being taken there from the Dark Continent. We would be in a position to work them. They would farm the fields for us, keep house for us." "But we have servants already," I protested. "You have a farm. What is there in the Indies that we don't already have here in Derbyshire? I don't understand, William. What about my family, my friends? When shall I see any of them again? It all seems, so final." "You will make new friends," he promised. But there was a coldness that had crept into his voice. He stared at the nakedness revealed by my raised nightgown. I recognized the tone. He was beginning to tire of our conversation. "Consider," he continued. "We have been married just five weeks. Five weeks ago you were inconsolable at the prospect of leaving Kent. But already Derbyshire is your home. As for family, this is the eighteenth century: the world is shrinking. I can't imagine that it will take any longer for your family to journey to the West Indies upon a modern clipper, than to take the stage to Greystone Park from Kent. Why shouldn't they visit if they have a mind?" I dared not protest further. William indicated with the flat of his hand that he had taken the conversation as far as he intended. He buttoned his coat and rose from the bed. I was resigned: he was my husband, the man I had so recently promised to obey. I was his wife, bound to him for as long as he might live. He didn't look back, or say good night. He passed through the door, closed it, and he was gone. Since he was determined to live in the West Indies, then that must be my unfortunate lot also. I sat up and loosened the frog-tied chambermaid. "Don't worry," he had said. "You will make new friends." ****** I awoke with a start. I was sweating profusely and my cap was untied and disheveled. Quickly unlashing the ropes from around my chest and my belly I looked across at William. He was retching into a pan. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot; his face was drawn. I stared at him without pity or emotion. Why, what says the scripture? "How are the mighty fallen." He hadn't shaved for several days: this gave him a savage look; his mop of hair was greasy, uncombed and unkempt; his skin had a reddish hue and was badly blistered. His stench was unbearable and he couldn't empty his bedpan. Civilized? How could anyone call _that_ civilized? His veneer had rubbed off. "Please, Sarah," he begged, his voice strained and hoarse. "Get me, I need water, please, something to drink." "Nonsense," I contradicted airily. "A man in your condition? You need a drink. You may have a small glass of port." I poured him a glass from his crystal decanter. "A little wine is good for the stomach. Isn't that what you say? And when I'm dressed I will bring you some porridge." "No, please, Sarah, not porridge!" I handed him the port. He was angry, but he hadn't the energy. He was shaking so much that he had to hold the glass in both hands. I stepped behind the curtain and began to dress. I had picked out my best silk gown, the one that I had worn that first awful evening. Yes, it had to be this one. And stockings. It was my right to be wearing stockings. I wouldn't be requiring my bathing dress this morning. From now on it was redundant. "You were asleep when I came to bed last night," I called cheerily from behind the curtain. William was too busy being ill to answer. I finished fastening my gown. "Lord Edward sends his regards. And so does Lady Caroline. In fact, nearly everyone asks about you. I said they should pop in, that you would appreciate a visit, but, you know, of course, they are worried that it might be contagious. Everyone is very worried." I stepped out from behind the curtain and picked up the mirror. I glanced at myself in it. My hair needed brushing. I must make myself attractive. When I had finished, I took the empty glass from William. I smiled. Even now he couldn't resist a drink. "Please," he begged, he could hardly lift his arm. "Water!" His voice was hardly above a whisper. I winced. "You will need to speak louder than that," I said reproachfully. "Was it you said? Another port?" He began to cough. "Well," I sighed, speaking over his noise. "If you refuse to tell me." I paused. "We will speak later. I must get onto deck. I must bathe. I don't want to keep everybody waiting." I pulled myself across the State Room to the canvas curtain that led onto the corridor. I turned. "Really, William," I scolded. "You really ought to think of others and bathe yourself. You stink. You really do." There was no one about in the corridor. Damn. Where was Mr. Smithson? I pulled myself along to Major Brindley's State Room. Through his open curtain, I could see him sitting upon his bunk writing his diary. He smiled when I appeared in his doorframe. I smiled back. "How's that husband of yours?" he asked. "Oh. Much the same." "I'm sorry." I nodded, and then got to the point of my call. "May I trouble you to help me up the steps?" I asked, "Of course," he replied. "Just a moment." I waited for him to finish his paragraph. His State Room was very similar to ours. Neater, I thought looking round. But that would be his military training. "Where's Mrs. Brindley?" I asked. "In the hold," he sighed, putting down his diary and getting up. "With the slaves?" He nodded, lifting me in his arms. I felt very safe in his arms. "She is a gentle creature. They may be slaves, but many of them are ill, and she likes to be humane." "Oh." I reflected that I hadn't really got to know Mrs. Brindley at all, despite us all spending so much time together. She was very different from Lady Caroline; more reserved, thoughtful, careful with her opinion. She was also very brave to keep going down to the hold. Another man had died down there during the night. The smell there was putrid and the misery nauseating. The Major was brave too, in allowing her to go. He carried me up the steps and out onto the deck. The sun was shining and the sky was a wonderful blue: such a contrast. "The Captain says it won't be long before we strike land," he commented as he fetched my chair. "Can you imagine that? No more sea. I'm sure it will be most strange to be feeling mother earth under our feet." "Oh, is that what he said? I didn't know," I murmured, concealing my shock. It shouldn't have been a surprise: not at all. We had to reach our destination some time. But it was a surprise. The news filled me with such conflicting emotions, the overriding one, I suppose, being despair, because I knew that land meant certain death to my Negro, this man with which I had found such affinity. I thanked the Major and he returned below to his diary. Turning into the sunshine, I saw why Mr. Smithson had been unavailable to help carry me up the steps. He was supervising the filling of the cask. I looked anxiously beyond him to my Negro. He was slumped upon the deck, his mouth wide open. Dear God, was he alive? Was he well? What a strong beast he had been. For anyone to have endured the journey on the open deck was evidence of strength. Yet how frail this lion now was. My heart bled for him. "We're ready mam," Mr. Smithson informed me, staring up into the rigging and gesturing to a boy in the crow's nest that it was time to come down. The boy didn't need asking twice. Immediately, he jumped from his perch, swung along the ropes between the sails with the agility of a monkey, and then shimmied down the mizzenmast to the deck. "Thank you," I curtsied, watching the boy rush below deck and waiting for Mr. Smithson to follow. But he hung back. He had something on his mind. It seemed he wanted to tell me something. "Yes?" I quizzed. My manner was perhaps a little unkind, impatient. I was anxious to get to my Negro, to see whether he was ill. He needed my help. Oh dear, was he suffering? "We are close to shore, mam. It may not be safe," Mr. Smithson began. "The brigands, you see. They scurry out from secret coves and catch the unwary. They're fiercesome monsters, mam." Then, biting his tongue, his gaze darted wistfully at my body covered in its silks and satin. I laughed inside, remembering the first time we had met. So this explained his sudden concern about pirates. I wasn't angry. I understood. I know what it's like to feel sexual need. Dear Mr. Smithson. "I wish to bathe, Mr. Smithson," I said firmly but more gently. "Now you wouldn't be expecting me to act in any way improperly, would you? Not with my husband laid up in his berth?" He stood his ground obstinately. "If you please, mam." Damn the man. Why wouldn't he take a hint? "Mr. Smithson," I complained, more irritably. "I am not bathing with you on this deck." Suddenly his words tumbled out one after the other. He'd been bottling this up for some time. I saw that wildness again; that rawness of character that I'd seen on the wharf. He was truly fired up. "It isn't right, mam," he protested vehemently. I had to just stand, and be there and listen. "I've been carrying you up and down them steps, just as I was asked. Every day, just as the Captain said. Maybe sometimes I can be too friendly, but that's just my nature. But, mam, a man is a man, and the sea is a lonesome place. If you want me to act proper, then it's only right that you act proper too. After all, a man is a man. If you show me your tits hanging out, like you did, and push them in my face, what's a man to think? When your dress is wet, and I can see, see everything, mam. Then what's a man to think? He gets ideas, that's what happens. I know I'm out of line, mam, but when these things happen it makes a man feel affectionate, it makes him think that the lady might have feelings too, that she might be interested..." Merciful heavens. I remembered that morning and how I had unintentionally revealed myself to him. And all this time he had been thinking, been watching, been building the incident in his mind... Goodness! "Mr. Smithson!" I had to ensure that there were no more misunderstandings between us. I had to be clear. I spoke plainly, but sharply. "If I have done anything to mislead you, Mr. Smithson, then I apologize. That was never my intention. Remember, Mr. Smithson: I am a married woman. Does that mean nothing to you?" "I've been thinking plenty about that, mam. And there's plenty to go round, plenty enough for everyone, if the lady wants it." I blushed as I realized his meaning. "Mr. Smithson. You are out of order! If you say another word then you force me to tell my husband, and the Captain too." He mumbled an obligatory apology, but it didn't strike me as very sincere. "Now, I wish to bathe. Will you please return below decks!" He repeated his apology, mumbling the words again and again. He still didn't seem very keen to go, but I stood my ground. He may have been able to confuse me once with his improper attention, but no longer. I was a stronger person now. He turned away, and keeping his face lowered, he retreated to the hatch. My heart jumped to see him go. At last! I turned to my Negro, full of nervous excitement. How was he? Was he well? Relief! He'd been sleeping. He stretched his arms, his legs, and sat himself on his little stool. I pulled a piece of bread that I had saved for him from under my gown; I brushed off the grubs. I had a piece of cheese too, and a little pork. He was hungry, famished. Dear god: why? why did they do this? If he was cargo, then why starve him. It made no sense not to care for one's investment. Then I remembered the hangman's noose. Of course. I talked to him while he ate. I told him about Mrs. Brindley down in the hold and how kind she was. I told him about William and his specter. I even told him how I played with myself down in the dark privacy of the lower decks. I had no secrets from this man. Not now. So how far should I go today? I didn't know for certain but I was determined to be absolutely shameless. There wasn't much time left. If the crew sighted land today, then my Negro would be dead tomorrow. A thought so difficult to accept. I bit back a tear, wrapped my arms around his chest and kissed his bearded cheek. It was impossible to imagine the main mast without him or think that the little stool might ever be empty. But no time for that now. I had so much to do. As had become my custom, I helped him off with his loincloth. "We've got to keep you presentable," I said, stepping away, two yards, maybe three, at last I made it to the cask. I thoroughly washed his simple garment and then washed him too: his broad chest, under his arms, between his legs. "That's better," I said, wiping his legs and his feet. "You must have felt awful." He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. Dear God, I nearly cried. You see, a little kindness, a little affection, and they respond just like the next man. He's not a beast, not really. He's so gentle. Dear God, I think I'm... yes, you see, look, tears, I'm so happy, streaming down my face. What must he think? How stupid, foolish, I am. I'm crying, and laughing, we're kissing, and cuddling. So happy... A final gift? What else did I have to give? I stepped back, my task completed, and opening my parasol, I faced him, nervously, awkwardly. "What you see," I told him, wiping my eyes and turning awkwardly in a painful pirouette. "Is a lady. A lady with all the trappings of a lady. And I can't have you, can I, I can't truly ever be yours all the time that I remain like this." I lowered my parasol, folded it, and then proffered it to him. He looked at it blankly for several moments before reaching out and grabbing it with one giant paw. He examined it carefully, then looked up at me, puzzled. "Of course," I said, untying the satin laces of my high crowned bonnet and pulling it from my head. "This lady understands that to cease to be a lady, she must rid herself of the clothing she is wearing. For there isn't one stitch, one garment that doesn't label her as being different from you." As I spoke I shook my hair and let it fall loose. There was a breeze on my face and it toyed playfully with my tresses. My Negro, of course, still didn't understand anything I was saying or doing. How could he? I threw my bonnet to the floor. "Now watch me closely," I said, beginning to unpin the lace- trimmed stomacher decorating the bodice of my gown. "Watch me very, very closely, because I want that black dick of yours to rise and salute me, you wonderfully sexy man." I had nowhere to place the pins that held the stomacher to my gown. I had collected four or five in my hand when I smiled: why was I keeping them? Of what use were pins to savages? I tossed them unconcernedly over my shoulder. "There," I said with a smile. "Gone." I had no idea where they went or how they fell. It didn't matter. I was rid of them. Quickly, and with shaking fingers I unpinned the rest of the stomacher and detached it from my gown. My heart was pumping so hard. He had folded his arms and was sitting patiently against the mast surveying me as though I was, dear God, as though I was part of his chattels. If only! Dear Jesus. A sudden spasm wrenched at my gut as though someone had taken hold of my intestines and had twisted them in his grip. It was sublime. I couldn't breathe. I was on fire. "There," I said, dropping the stomacher onto the deck next to my bonnet, my voice throaty and hoarse. "Gone." His cock began to stir: not much, not yet. But it had begun. I watched it closely; loosening with my small nervous fingers the delicate green ribbon that was tied into the neatest of bows at my waist. It was all that fastened my gown. The ribbon ran through a series of eyelets down the front of my bodice. I pulled the ties loose and disentangled myself from the dress. "Don't look away," I begged, pulling it over my head. "I would be so upset. I need you. Oh I need you so much. Please keep looking." His cock was growing. The difference was clear. "Oh dear," I whimpered. "I don't know that I can bear this. I'm not sure that I can wait." Underneath my gown I was wearing a full petticoat. It was richly embroidered and trimmed at the front: lots of pearl rosettes. No fastenings: just yards more material to get over my head. At home I had had a maid to help me, but we couldn't afford that now. "You would love to help me," I muttered as I pulled at the masses of fabric, tugging it over my shoulders. "I know you would. And I would love so much for you to do it too." At last I got my head free. I dropped the petticoat. There was such a large pile of cloth down near my feet. I looked at him again. He was staring at me proudly; his foreskin had now retracted from his throbbing penis. "Oh!" I teased, noticing how far and how quickly it had grown. "So what was it that you liked so much? Does it turn you on to watch a girl removing her petticoat? Or is it that you have a thing about stays? Or is it silk stockings?" I tried to hurry, my small nimble fingers worked at my stays, but they're awkward, both to put on and to take off. Mine unfastened at the back in a similar way to the fastening of my gown: a series of criss-crossed laces, pulling and controlling the size of my waist. "I'm so wet," I said. "If only you knew what you're doing to me." My voice was so thick with need. My breasts were aching and sore. My hands behind my back still fumbled with my corset. There was no doubting his penis now. It was beautifully erect. "Oh God," I muttered, loosening the corset and finally shrugging it off. It was such relief to be free of its constraint. I advanced toward him; letting go of my stays and hearing them clatter to the deck. I sat down upon his lap, astride him, facing him, and then placed my hands on his shoulders, pulling his head towards me. His cock was right there, so close, in front of me, between us. I could feel its tip tickling my belly, hot, wet, and so black. Staring into his soft brown eyes, I wanted so much for him to hold me, to show me how much he loved me, to kiss me again. He was hot, aroused, my nigger. I saw his need in every movement, in every glance, and yet still he was gentle with it, compassionate. He never once looked at me in that hard, demanding, selfish way that was William's want. I kissed him sensuously on the cheek. I wondered: do Negroes kiss each other? His tight, wiry beard tickled my lips and prickled my face. He responded, pressing his broad black hips onto my cheek and caressing it lightly, pressing his upper body against my loose chemise. I knew in that instant that I had to fuck him. The demands of my body were overwhelming. There was so much pent up desire within me, so much compassion, and so much fear and yearning, all of it searching for release. I had to do it, and it had to be now. The second pivotal moment in my life was yawning before me. An abyss had opened up and I was being prodded to enter. Until now I had done nothing immoral, nothing of which I should be ashamed. As William had so frequently explained, the black race is a lower creation. What I had been doing all these days was no different to undressing or bathing in front of a cat or a dog, in front of a bull or a stallion. But, for the same reason, it was obvious that to have sex with a Negro was an unnatural perversion and a mortal sin. Why was I even considering it? Why even now was my hand irresistibly moving forward? Might it be that this man was doomed to hang on the yardarm, and thus, my secret would go with him to his grave? Or might it be part of my revenge on William? Even now, I wonder about that. How can I tell? How can I know? I reached down and touched his cock. Dear God, how he liked that! I let the tips of my fingers run along its length. Gently I fondled him, felt the weight of his balls in my hand, measured its thickness and its heat in my caress. I remembered the Negress and what she had done with her mouth. Is that what savages do? Is that what he would expect of me? The tension within me was electric; I could hardly bear it. Certainly, I couldn't wait any longer. "I'm going to fuck you," I told him passionately, my stockinged legs clasping his torso and my arms caressing his neck. It was so exciting being dirty, knowing that he couldn't understand. "Fuck you," I said. "I'm going to fuck you, to stick your huge dick in my miserable hole and make it sing like a canary." Urgently, hardly able to feel my fingers, I pulled my chemise up to my waist. Underneath, I was wearing a pair of plain white drawers: crotchless. I'm sure you know, they're designed that way to facilitate calls of nature. Well, this was my call of nature, a call to fuck, to screw. I lifted myself up, pushed apart the material of my drawers, and then guided myself onto his turgid member, slowly, so slowly, my legs spread, savoring every moment, deliberately impaling myself upon that wicked pole, letting it slide inside, deep, even deeper. "That's nice," I hissed, finally full of him to the very hilt. "Very nice." His eyes were locked onto mine, so proud, honest, and brimming with desire. My arms still round his neck, I pulled him closer, willed him to kiss me, for our lips to touch. "This is how it should be," I thought. "Sex. Not forced, but given freely, generously and with open heart." I could feel his cock growing inside me, becoming harder, broader, stretching my tight love canal and making me purr, but still I didn't move, prolonging the moment, maintaining the agony of my lust. Our mouths were nearly touching. I probed with my tongue, along his cracked lips, delicately prizing them apart. Yes, dear Sir. You are hungry, I feel it, sense it. I know you can't tell, but you want me, desire and lust for me, just as I sweat for you. I smell it on your sweat, hear it in your breath, see it in your eyes and feel it in your cock. We are animals, you and I, beasts, fucking as beasts fuck, in the open, by daylight, just because we can. Behind me there was a noise. The sound of a footstep hard upon the deck: immediately followed by a voice, familiar and full of disgust and abhorrence. "Mrs. Gaskell! How... how... with a Negro!" I swiveled round, panicking, pulling myself free of that obscene erection, my arm swinging protectively to maintain my balance. I saw Mr. Smithson standing in front of the hatch; his breeches were unfastened. "You have the nerve, mam," he rebuked, with such incredible venom that it brought fire to my cheeks. "You moralize about being married, and then, and then you go straight to fornicating with that fuckin' Negro. You is a hypocrite, mam, a daughter of Satan." The revulsion was clear to see, it was written on every line of his young irate face. He was a man of the world. He knew about things. He was capable of forgiving much, but not this. He couldn't accept that he had been refused in favor of a black man. "Not a Negro, with a Negro. How could you?" He shook my conscience. I stepped towards him, allowing my chemise to drop back down. "Mr. Smithson," I begged. "Shut up, you whore, you slut, you adulteress!" The words cut through me, each separate insult scoring its own horrific wound. Somehow I managed to bite into my forefinger; I had drawn a drop of red blood. The worst of it was that I knew that every word was true. My Negro was in verbal darkness, but he understood that something was wrong. He stood, fought and kicked at the chains, shaking them and making the most atrocious noise. "No." I turned, desperate, begging him. "Please. If anyone hears... if they come up..." "That's right," Mr. Smithson interrupted, sliding around me cagily, full of cunning and sly celebration. "We mustn't let anyone hear, must we? We mustn't let anyone know, for if they discovered that you were making it with a nigger, if they knew what you were really like, mam, well, what do you think would happen, my lady?" "I don't know." I was so scared. There was evil in his expression, evil, and malice and hate. He was so close. I wanted to back away, to hide, to think, but where could I go? "Then shall I tell you," he triumphed, stepping behind me and whispering softly in my ear. "Let me describe to you your future, mam. They'll hang you, that's what will happen. They'll hang you both as a lesson to all good, godly men and women as to what happens when folks go contrary to nature. And if I had my way, they'd do it to you naked, show you as the slut you are. What about that, mam? What do you say?" He laughed nervily, coldly, and it gave me the shivers. "You'll both do a very fetching dance on the yardarm, I'll be sure, with your eyes a poppin' and your tongues all purple and sticking out. Mark my words, mam, before the day's out, you'll both be corpses and carrion for the fishes. Both of you." I reached out instinctively, trying to grab his arm, to help him reason, but he pulled back. The disgust was still evident on his face; his exultation and delight too in what he perceived to be my downfall. And I was frightened, so scared and fearful: how could I not be? Something inside me kept telling me not to believe him, that the Captain wouldn't be so cruel, couldn't be; not to a woman, to a passenger, that this was now the eighteenth century, but I was by no means convinced. It is a brutal law that is administered at sea: brutal, and it is so very often at odds with justice. I must win Mr. Smithson's confidence. "You must understand," I said more softly. "I am a weak woman... If I had known that you felt about me this way..." It wasn't working. I saw it in his eyes; read it in his body. Instead, he laughed. It was a hard, cynical laugh that made me shudder. "I know," he sneered. "Don't tell me, let me guess. If you'd known then you would have sucked up to me rather than trying to fuck him. Is that it?" I nodded, looking up with sad doleful eyes, pulling the scooped neckline of my loose chemise even lower upon my breasts, hoping that wiles would soften him. They couldn't. He met my warm appeal with a front of ice coldness. "But you told me to leave you, to go below deck," he said, staring at my bosoms so lewdly that he reduced me to a whore. "Don't you remember, mam? I told you how I felt and you turned me away." "So what would you expect of me?" I lied, pleading desperately with him. "Put yourself in my place. Imagine yourself as a woman, a woman with needs. Who would you trust? Him?" I pointed at the Negro, standing anxiously by his stool. "A man that doesn't speak English and who will be dead within a couple of days. Or you: someone I already know is loose with his tongue." I held up my hand to quash his interruption. "You told me about William and Lady Caroline: remember? How do I know that you wouldn't speak about me to William?" He scowled. "That's different." "Oh. How?" He swung angrily away from me. Now I had truly offended him and surely, I was done for. He pushed his cock back into his breeches and refastened them. He was fuming, upset. "Take off the rest of your clothes, Mrs. Gaskell." I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "Pardon." His voice was icy cold, frigid, but so full of menace. "Take them off. You heard me. If you can fuck with a crass Negro, then you can bloody well fuck with me. Get out of those clothes, mam, before I get the Captain. Do I make myself clear?" "You're blackmailing me," I said frostily. I was so scared. He smiled wickedly. "If that's the way you see it, then maybe you're right." And he deliberately rattled the keys hanging from his belt. "Who knows," he said. "If you do it real nice I might let your Negro loose for a bit and let the two of you do it proper, kind of a last wish before he gets hanged. I'd enjoy that." I scowled with false bravado, tried to regain my authority. "Don't be impertinent, Mr. Smithson!" "Get 'em off, Mrs. Gaskell." Behind me my Negro was shaking his chains and making an enormous noise. "Please, please," I silently begged. "It isn't helping. Please be quiet." The noise continued. "But why?" I asked. "Why should I do anything you say? What's... What's in it for me?" He considered, and then answered with a sly chuckle. "Maybe I won't tell the Captain." "Maybe? You think I'm going to placate your wishes on the strength of a 'maybe'?" He grinned. Again it was that awful artful grin that gloated in humiliation. "Yes, Mrs. Gaskell. I guess I do. That's because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about, now does it?" I lowered my head. He repeated himself, shouting the final words. "The alternative doesn't bear thinking about, now does it?" "No," I replied hastily. I was so scared that anyone should hear. Surely they must all be wondering below decks at the time I was taking. Surely, it couldn't be long before either Mrs. Brindley or Lady Caroline came to check on me. "Good," he said, calming down. "That's better. Now let's see you remove the rest of those nice things that you're wearing." I didn't know what to do. How could I do it? But then how could I refuse? There were two paths before me. One offered me no hope; the other offered practically no hope. Which should I choose? The seconds ticked. He was waiting. Decision tome. I slipped off my little silk shoes with their high wooden heels, and kicked them away with the side of my foot. I would like to say that I had a plan, but in truth I was simply acting the coward. Only through appeasement was there hope. Hope: my Negro had taught me to hope. It was a different game that I was playing now, a very different game: survival. In a way I was pleased to see that my Negro's dick had blown soft again. I would have been revolted, sickened, if he'd still been hard. I bent down to attend to my stockings. These had small embroidered motifs, clocks, and were gartered at the knee. I fumbled with them, trying to buy time, trying to think. Mr. Smithson liked my stockings. He remarked on them in his usual coarse, uncouth manner as I unsteadily pulled them off. "Come on, mam," Mr. Smithson demanded. "Let's see your titties. The chemise. Let's have the chemise." There was no avoiding him now. It was a plain garment, made of cambric muslin, white, the hem fell at my knees and the sleeves to my elbow. There was trimming on the sleeves and around the neckline. Time: no more time. "Come on, mam, off with it. Your titties. Let's be admiring your titties. Let's see them as they should be seen." Out of luck, out of time. I swallowed hard, and pulled the chemise, pulled it up, across my chest and over my head. Mr. Smithson stared hard at my exposed breasts, reveling in my discomfort. I held my hands across my tits, but he would have none of it. He made me stand there in front of my Negro. He made me touch my breasts and pinch my nipples. He made my nipples stand to his command. He forced me to endure the indignity. I was so humiliated I didn't know where to turn. If only my Negro wasn't watching, then I could have taken it well, all the affronts he threw at me. If it weren't for that, I could have suffered every bit of it quite tamely. He unfastened his breeches again and fished out his cock. Even as he did it, I knew what would be the state of it, and I wasn't mistaken. It was hideously erect. He began to stroke it, slowly, rhythmically. I watched the foreskin rise and fall over the bare shiny knob. "Get them down," he grimaced, gesturing crudely at my groin. I flushed red, almost panicking; there was no doubting his meaning. What hope? Better to get it done: do it quickly, do it now. Awkwardly, loathly, I pulled down my drawers and kicked them away. He was triumphal. "Very nice," he smirked, staring gleefully at my dark fuzz. "And now, mam, I'm going to fuck you," he snickered. "So let me hear you say it. I want to hear the words out of your own beautiful lips. Tell me, mam, what am I going to do?" I thought of my chambermaid. Like her, what choice did I have? If the master commanded... "You're going to fuck me," I mumbled. He grinned. "Very well done." But first you can rinse off all that Negro dirt. If you think I'm going to touch you or stick my cock in the same hole as filth then, mam, you've really lost it." I turned to my Negro. Hope. Please give me hope. "Come on! Hurry!" Mr. Smithson shouted. "What are you waiting for? Judgement Day?" "I don't know... How...?" He pointed to the cask. "Wash off the muck," Mr. Smithson abused. "Come on slut. What's wrong? Is it hurting? Can't you walk? Hurry! You couldn't move fast enough when you wanted to fuck him, could you? Faster!" I stumbled to the cask, half-walking, half-falling, trying to cover my breasts, my mound, my butt. He seemed to delight in my physical weakness, in the fact that I found it so difficult to walk. He picked up my drawers from the deck. Dear Jesus, how could he? He was putting them to his face, smelling my aroma, the juices that had seeped into the cotton during my grappling with the Negro. "They stink!" he roared. "They stink of nigger stench. You better wash yourself good. If I smell him on you when you come out, then it'll be the end, mam, I promise." I clambered into the cask, feeling such humiliation, such degradation and fear. The water was icy and I gasped at the cold. My nipples were as hard as bullets; my breasts had large goose bumps. I rubbed the soap into my skin, trying to rub warmth into it, trying to get clean. And as I did so I kept thinking about how scared I was, and how my Negro would hang, and maybe me too. I kept thinking about how Mr. Smithson was looking at my nudity, treasuring his lewd thoughts and anticipating his victory. I continued rubbing myself with the soap. I wasn't concentrating upon what I was doing. I was more concerned with, well, I'm not sure, until I realized that my hand was continuously soaping between my legs. Mr. Smithson was watching me, his cock in his hand. "That's right," he cried, squeezing the stem. "That's where to do it. Get rid of the dirt." He was looking at my hand up my pussy, soaping between my legs, and he was again fiercely stroking his cock. His climax was looming. This was it. I sensed it. And this was also my chance. Hope. Please, please, dear God, let me be right. "If you were to bathe with me," I pleaded with dissolute earnestness, thrusting my fingers up my cunt and rubbing up there, wantonly continuing to soap. "I would like that, really, please, you could help cleanse me of my sins." A lascivious smile flew to his face. He liked the idea. It had touched a nerve. As I continued rubbing away at my crotch with exaggerated pleasure, he tugged at his sweaty coat, pulling it off. "I'm sure you would like it too," I added, teasing the nubs of my nipples suggestively with my free hand. "You would like me to rub my breasts against you, against your chest. We might even do it, that, in the water. I've never done it in water. William is not so very adventurous. Could you show me?" He'd taken off his breeches. I watched him unbutton his shirt and then I leaned over the lip of the tub to help him remove it. The smell was offensive. I ran my fingers suggestively across his shoulders and chest. Behind him was my Negro. I glanced him over Mr. Smithson's shoulder. I'd expected him to be puzzled, confused, but he wasn't that at all. He's not daft. He understood very well what I was trying to do. Mr. Smithson climbed into the cask. There was hardly room for us both. As he climbed in, the water level rose and it flowed over the top, down the side and splashed across the wooden deck. The water was soaking my drawers and my chemise, my gown too, staining and spoiling. "Thank you," I said, placing my arms round Mr. Smithson's neck, blotting out from my mind the stench and my ruined clothes. "You have no idea, I need this so much. I'm a woman. Women have such strong needs." He was pawing my breasts; kneading them and making them hurt. His fingers squeezed my nipples, making me cry from the pain. Have to escape. To evade those marauding insensitive fingers I pulled myself up onto the side of the cask, with my ass resting on its lip, water dripping everywhere. I opened my legs wide, a dangerous game, but anything to stop him hurting me. "Please," I begged. "I need you to... please, oh, don't make me say it." I cupped the back of his head with my left hand while supporting myself with the other. Gently but firmly I pulled his head towards my treasure, into the gap between my open legs. "William does this for me," I lied. "It is such magic. Please, I know you want to help me. Please will you do this for me first." As his head sank between my legs, I dared look at my Negro for only the second time. He was sitting on his stool, as he so often does, and he was watching me. I smiled at him and he returned it. He's smart. I've no idea how he understood why I was fucking the white man, but he did, I'm convinced that he did. "That's it," I sighed, feeling heavenly bliss stirring between my legs as Mr. Smithson's tongue wrapped itself round my clit. I managed to find his hard cock with my feet, and gently began to stroke it with my toes. "That is most definitely it," I added, as my first orgasm broke over me with shuddering force. I pulled my legs closed, pushing him slightly forward so that his mouth was no longer inside me: I mustn't test his bite. My legs were wrapped around his neck, gently but definitely constricting him. Carefully, I pushed myself off of the lip of the cask and lowered myself into the water, my feet dropping onto its bottom. The water rose to my waist, almost up to my breasts. It splashed over the top of the cask, washing down its side and over the deck. That water was so cold, so frightfully cold. I tightened my grasp on Mr. Smithson's neck, pushing his forehead into my gaping cunt. I know how much he lusted for this pussy, how he yearned for it and desired it. I mustn't deny him now. My Negro was watching me and I knew I wanted him to see, to watch as I brought myself to yet another glorious climax. Dear God, these feelings are so exquisite, so good, just wonderful. Mr. Smithson was pulling back and forth, shaking and kicking, splashing and flailing. I was riding a wild beast intent on bucking and hurling me off. My body rose and fell at the violence of his grappling. Dear God, this was so intense as to be unreal. I placed my hands into the tumult, cradling the back of his neck and pushing him even further into me, pushing him on, helping him to find that wonderful paradise promised by our Lord to the children of God. My orgasm wracked my body. He tried to bite me - dear Mr. Smithson - he tried to scratch me - merciful heavens - he clawed and scuffled but none of these things spoiled it at all. He must have fought me for seven or eight minutes, and in that time I came at least twice more. By the end, the bubbles had subsided, everything was quiet, and I was quite accustomed to the coldness of the water. I let go of Mr. Smithson's head and climbed carefully out of the tub. There was a lot of water covering the deck and I didn't want to slip. I looked back inside the wooden cask. Mr. Smithson was floating, silently, awkwardly, his head face down in the water. I quickly pulled on my chemise. It was wet and my body, I knew, was lewdly outlined beneath it. It didn't matter, for the civilized world was no longer my own. I stumbled across to the other heap of clothes and looked through them for Mr. Smithson's bunch of keys. It didn't take a minute to find them and not much longer for my slave to be unfastened. There wasn't much time. Down below they must be getting suspicious. If they found me now, then they would hang me from the yardarm like the slave I had become. No doubts now, no uncertainty. The Captain would place the noose round my neck himself and the blindfold round my eyes. All of them would watch, the passengers and the crew, vultures assembled for the death; fascinated, curious, gawking morbidly as the rope bit deep into my neck and the life ebbed from my body. "It's no more than she deserved." Who was it that spoke? The final words I would hear, the very last words. Yet, I had one job that I must do. One final task before my life became a mere memory. I rushed to the galley and pushed the door open. It was empty. Nobody here. Everyone was below deck as had been ordered. Food. I needed food. I grabbed some meat, bread and pickled cabbage. I opened the medicine cabinet and searched through it: cloves, no; elderflower, no; spider's webs, no. Here, this is what I'm after; this will have to suffice. Not perfect, but in my absence this will have to do. I pulled out a tall bottle of white powder: good. It would suffice. >From here, to the cabin. On my return I saw my Negro wandering aimlessly about the deck. But free. I pointed to the small long boat, and gestured what I wanted him to do. Would he understand? The boat. And water. We must have water. In my State Room I found William asleep. What could I use? I looked round desperately. Time was short. His port! That would do. I opened the decanter and tipped in some of the powder from the tall glass bottle, then shook the decanter violently so that it was completely dissolved. Mrs. Brindley called out from her State Room. She'd heard me descend the stairs. Had I finished? Not yet. Panic. Please, could she give me a moment more? I rushed back up the steps onto the main deck. The cask was still there, carrying its grisly cargo. Death. How death follows me around. My sister died of a strange fever, not sudden like poor Mr. Smithson. Her skin grew red and full of blisters; she had hallucinations and cramps, feelings of numbness and suffocation. Someone claimed that it was the damp conditions in which our grain had been kept. They knew, they said. The bread, they said. "Then why had I not died?" I protested. Why not me? Why her? Why not me? They said we should look for brown pegs that push forth from the husk in place of normal grains. I cried for weeks after Mary died. I didn't eat; I didn't walk. I remained melancholy in my room. So sad that we should not have parted as friends... You must eat, mother said. You must walk. Why won't you walk? Sarah. Stop this game. You're not the cripple. She made excuses, many excuses, because how do you explain... Mary was the cripple. But mother always said that Mary hadn't died in vain, that some good was bound to come of it some day. Little did she know how right she would be. It wasn't the bread: it was porridge, you see; it was the rye. Mary was the only one of us who was partial to porridge. I would make it for her every morning. Dear God, why did you have to use me as your servant to snuff out her life? Why me? Watching her suffer? Watching her die? Every day, until the man had come and taken her away. But now it is time to say goodbye. I kiss William on the cheek. Goodbye William. Goodbye. He stirs but he doesn't wake, his fever is well advanced. The man who stands in the corner with the black cowl and the sickle waits for him. And if not him: then the port. And if not the port: then Whitescar. Back to the boat. My Negro carries me down into the little boat. He cradles me in his arms and I feel his camaraderie and protection. Even in his weakness I know his strength. We push away. I suppose we must die together on the open sea. The sea administers its own harsh, brutal law, and we are to be weighed in its balance. If that is to be our Nemesis, then it will be a fitting end, a just end. Maybe they will find us, two slaves lying in each other's arms, drifting helplessly upon the current. Perhaps by that time there will be nothing left of us but a gray powdery dust, neither black nor white, blown together by the wind, mixed, inseparable. I kiss his cheek; I am happy. We are each of us finally and forever free. The End The Ignominy Run by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) January 2000 -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+