400 Days of Oppression (19 page)

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.

“What’s going on?” I heard someone shout, followed by the unmistakable dull smack of knuckles striking flesh and a body thudding down in the dirt with a loud “Oof!”

I looked around for my savior. It was Constance along with the two male subs with the perfect bodies I’d seen in the stables the day I arrived.

“They tried to rape me!”

The Muslim guy, Farrad, was on his knees next to Constance, flanked by the two subs. He cradled his wounded hand. His eye was swelling shut, his lip was busted, and his jaw hung at an odd angle. They had kicked his ass before they even knew what he’d done. His face held a pitiful expression, like a cornered rat.

“I-I didn’t do anything!” he protested.

Constance whirled around to face the cowed and conquered Muslim guy and he cringed. Without a hint of hesitation, she kicked him in the chest, aiming her four-inch stiletto heel at his heart like she was trying to impale him on it. He pitched backward into the dirt and remained there, holding his chest and wincing. A trickle of blood leaked out from between his fingers.

The WASP was lying on his back, trembling. His eyes rolled back in his head, then swam back into focus briefly before rolling up again. He looked like he was going to die.

Good! I thought, and spit at his prone form. The two subs walked over and began kicking and stomping him in the face with their pointy-toed cowboy boots until blood leaked from his mouth and ears. Constance stared down at him with hard, unfeeling eyes, then she leaned over and gathered me up in her arms.

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to be hurting anyone else for a long time.”

C
HAPTER
XI

Mistress Delia drove me to the hospital in her Escalade. My head and jaw hurt from where that asshole had punched me and the coppery, meaty taste of his blood and flesh lay thick on my tongue.

“Don’t worry about anything. I told the police what happened. Both of those assholes are being charged with attempted rape. Sorry, I didn’t get there sooner. Nothing like this has happened at the farm before,” Mistress Delia said. She was dressed conservatively in jeans and a sweatshirt that hid all her sensuality and made her look like just another fat chick. I felt bad for her and curiously protective of her, even in my own damaged state. I didn’t want people thinking my Mistress was anything less than the beautiful woman I knew her to be.

“They want you to have a rape kit performed.”

“But-but, I wasn’t raped.”

“You said, you blacked out for a second and when you woke up, one of them was holding you down and the other one had his penis out. You may have been out longer than you realize. Something may have happened. The police have your clothes to test for semen.”

I looked down at myself and only then realized that I was wearing different clothing. I had on a simple, white sundress. It was only then that I realized how much time had passed since Kenyatta and I began this game. It had been autumn when he took me to the slave auction and now spring was in full bloom. I had barely noticed the passing of the seasons, trapped in my own private hell.

“They are going to ask you about the winery, what you were doing out there alone. Plowing a field dressed in a leather corset. They’re going to try to turn this into some kinky sex thing. What are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll tell them I was helping you out with some farming. I was dressed like that because I was on private property and I can dress any way I damn well please and how I dress shouldn’t have shit to do with why these two assholes tried to rape me!”

Mistress nodded.

We pulled up to the hospital’s Emergency Room entrance and a police officer opened my door. They had followed us to the hospital. Apparently Mistress Delia had insisted on driving me herself and wouldn’t let them put me in an ambulance. I could only assume she’d wanted to ensure I wouldn’t say anything to jeopardize her business while I was out of her sight. I preferred to believe she’d done it out of concern for me.

As I stepped from Mistress’s big SUV into a waiting wheelchair, she whispered to me.

“Uh, do you want me to call Kenyatta?”

It was an odd question. Of course I wanted Kenyatta to know I was in the hospital. I wanted him to come and hold me in his powerful arms, let me cry on his strong shoulders. I wanted him to punish those two assholes. The beating Constance and her goons had given them wasn’t enough. I wanted to see them humbled. I wanted my man to show them what a real man was. But something about the way she asked it made me pause. Would Kenyatta be angry at me for what happened? Would the experiment be over and what would that mean? Would he still marry me or not? I had no idea, no answers.

“Uh, um. Maybe we should wait a while.”

Mistress nodded as an ER nurse led me away with the police officer at my side.

I felt numb, physically and emotionally as the nurse swabbed my mouth, vagina, and anus for DNA samples and inspected each orifice for bruising. My cuts and bruises were treated then photographed by a victim’s advocate from the police department. Eventually I was led to my room to recover.

Before I was allowed to rest, I was interviewed by a police detective from the SFPD sex crimes unit along with the victim’s advocate, a plump and pleasant Latino woman in her late twenties.

“Are you feeling okay to talk?” the woman said.

I nodded.

“My name is Eileen Gonzalez and this is Detective Watkins from Sex Crimes. We have a few questions for you and then we’ll leave you alone and let you get some rest. You’ve been through a lot today. Would you tell us what happened?”

“I was helping Misstre—Miss Delia plow the field for her new grape vines when two of her other guests rode up on horseback and started teasing me and asking me to have sex with them.”

I saw the detective exchange a look with Eileen that was thick with judgment. He knew what kind of place Mistress Delia ran and had already decided that I’d been asking to be raped. It was all my fault. He probably thought the two assholes I’d bitten were the real victims.

“What kind of things did they say?” Detective Watkins said. The detective was a middle-aged, fireplug-shaped black man with thick muscular arms and shoulders, a big belly, and a growing bald spot in the center of his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. His face had no wrinkles, but the lines around his mouth and those in his forehead were etched deep from years of worry.

“They said that I fucked up the field, that it looked like shit and I should give them both blowjobs to make up for the shitty job I’d done working the plow. It was my first time working a plow and I didn’t make the rows straight. I tried, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay,” Eileen said. “Then what happened?”

“I told them to go fuck themselves and then they attacked me. They started groping my breasts and then they tried to rip my clothes off. When I fought back, they punched me. The white guy knocked me down with a punch. I think I went out for a little bit.”

“Went out? You mean you were knocked unconscious?” the detective said.

“Yes.”

“When did he expose himself to you?”

“What? Oh, I was waking up after he knocked me out and he was standing above me, pulling his cock out of his pants.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I screamed rape, but that Arab bastard put his hand over my mouth. So I bit him. I bit his hand.”

“What happened then?”

“Then I looked back at the white guy and he had his cock completely out of his pants and was coming at me with it, so I grabbed it and tried to rip it off. Then he started punching me again, so I bit him. I tried to bite his nuts off.”

“You did,” the detective answered without looking up from his notepad where he was scribbling down my account of the assault.

“What?”

“The guy’s nuts, you bit them completely off. You almost tore his dick off. He’s gonna need reconstructive surgery. I doubt he’ll ever work right down there again.”

“Fuck that piece of shit. I hope he has to piss out his asshole,” I hissed, my years of education slipping away and my white trash origins reemerging.

Eileen, the victim’s advocate, nodded. Not in agreement but in understanding. I wasn’t sure whether she was patronizing me or not.

“Why were you wearing this to plow a field?” the detective said, holding up an oversized Ziploc bag with the leather corset and short shorts I’d been wearing.

I smirked and shook my head.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask. You know what kind of place it is. People go there to live out their sexual fantasies.”

The detective nodded then locked eyes with me.

“And wasn’t that just what these two guys were doing? Weren’t they just playing out their fantasies?”

I scowled and shook my head.   

“No. There are rules. Everything has to be consensual. That policy is strictly enforced. We all sign a contract. You can’t just grab whoever you want and rape them just because they’re wearing a sexy outfit. That’s bullshit!”

The detective nodded again.

“And what exactly was your fantasy?”

I opened my mouth to speak then reconsidered. The truth wasn’t likely to help my case. It was more likely to further alienate the detective from me, convince him that I was a lunatic.

“It’s personal.”

The advocate sighed.

“We are only asking because, if you pursue charges against these two, and I think you should, they’re going to ask you all of this.”

“My fantasy wasn’t to be raped in the dirt by two yuppies, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Eileen blushed.

“I—no—that’s not what I meant.”

“What she means is that something like wanting to be part of a gang bang or even certain types of rough sex, might help them make the case that they were led on.”

“Led on? Like I wanted to be beaten up?”

“Where did you get the welts on your back? Some of those scars look pretty old.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that because I like to get whipped, I might like to get punched too? Maybe I was asking for it? Fuck you, detective! Get the fuck out of here!”

“We have to ask.”