Mistress of Slaves Gets Ravished by Her Possession

Charlotte permitted her black servant to fasten her into a rigid corset, which accentuated her naturally slim waist, making it even tighter, and emphasised her rounded posterior and pert bosom. With each additional layer of clothing, her alluring curves were concealed until they vanished completely beneath the richly embroidered brocade. This was as she disliked and as her elderly husband, whom her parents had wed her to for his position and wealth, had insisted upon.

“Pass me the wine goblet,” she commanded with indifference.

The black woman, dressed in a coarse woolen cloth that made her skin prickle, nodded quickly. She walked briskly over and handed the drink to her white mistress. She didn’t dare look at her, if she was caught staring at her owner she would feel the whip on her bare skin. She knows very well how it hurts.

Charlotte paid her no mind; to her, the black servants were scarcely more than furnishings or rugs. She gave more attention to the vibrant floral decorations, allowing them to distract her from her gloomy thoughts about the impending feast.

Yet she remained obedient. Raised with the belief that social etiquette dictated a strict hierarchy, she was accustomed to her place.

At the pinnacle was her virtuous husband. Just below him was the priest, whom she saw every Sunday at Mass and occasionally at their opulent country estate, despite his lack of noble lineage. Charlotte’s husband, being pious, could not disregard the priest’s presence due to his humble origins. A step lower were her husband’s parents, then his male friends, and at the very bottom was she herself.

Of course, servants were not considered in the social hierarchy, let alone slaves.

And Charlotte found this perfectly acceptable. The thought of it being otherwise never crossed her mind, not even for a moment. So, as she made her way through the grand hall to the dining table where the guests were already seated, adorned in a fluffy grey wig and with carefully applied scented powder on her face, her husband didn’t even bother to glance in her direction.

The slaves were busy bringing out the feast: roasted piglets, heaps of potatoes, boiled vegetables, freshly baked bread, and an abundance of fresh fruit, all accompanied by an array of sweet courses and carafes of imported European wine.

While the field slaves were typically robust, the domestic ones were leaner. Perhaps it was merely her imagination, but as she idly glanced at some of them, it seemed they were eyeing the sumptuous spread with a touch of longing.

She couldn’t help but smile at the absurd thought. Did slaves even eat? Perhaps they had no need for food at all.

Bored, she observed the wig-clad gentry devouring their meal, their fingers slick with grease and wine dripping down the men’s chins. Charlotte had never been much of an eater herself, and the more her husband tried to fatten her up, the more she recoiled from food.

“You’re thin and ugly,” he used to say. Each time she gazed into the mirror afterwards, she felt despairing; her youthful beauty seemed diminished, and as her husband remarked, her only appeal was her pale skin, barely touched by the sun.

She waited impatiently for her husband to finish the first course; she wasn’t allowed to leave the table until then. When he finally dipped his hands into the rose petal basin, she clumsily pushed back her chair and hurried towards the boudoir.

That’s when it happened. In that dreadful moment of distracted inattention that she could never erase from her mind, she collided with a young slave in the doorway.

It wasn’t one of the home ones. This one was muscular, his skin as black as coal and shining with sweat, and Charlotte hadn’t even realised he was out of place in the house. As she hurried to the loo, she banged into the door, which flew open from the other side, and her body crashed straight into his sweaty bare chest. Charlotte nearly toppled over, but the impact didn’t budge him an inch.

As she painfully scrambled to her feet, the young slave quickly dropped to his knees in front of her, covered his head with his hands, and started to apologise in a thick, broken English.

“Mistress, forgive. Bobo no want.”

As he crouched there, Charlotte noticed the fresh, bloody welts from the whip on his back.

Shaken, she stepped around him to continue to the bathroom, but something was off. She was trembling. Perhaps she’d caught something from him—some disease passed from slaves to humans. She could feel where her body had touched his, as if she’d never felt it before. That spot felt oddly warm, and she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

She felt a strange itch, but one that she didn’t want to scratch, but rather rub gently. And she felt it even where the black flesh hadn’t touched her at all. In her womb.

The thought, the sudden enlightenment, hit her hard.

In the bathroom, in front of the frosted mirror, she fell to her knees and began to pray. She had never experienced that feeling before, yet she knew for certain that it was the devilish greed for shamelessness that the young priest had passionately warned against every Sunday.

“Oh, God, forgive me,” she whispered, the powder on her cheek wet with tears.

But the lewd lust that gripped her insides in unchaste places did not leave her.

She prayed on. Her legs grew wooden, her knees pressed, but her lips continued to move in silence, the words in her thoughts begging for the words she had read in the holy book she kept carefully by her bed.

In the morning she woke on the cold bathroom floor. The shame hadn’t left her, and even the pain of her stiff body didn’t drown her out. While she tried to repeat in her mind all the names of the saints that she could recall in her wretched state, her mind wandered in forbidden, wicked thoughts.

Her fingertips gently circled her chest, where she felt the impact of the black, masculine chest the most. A moan escaped her lips as his fingers continued to roam over her body against her will. She stopped whispering holy words, what she was doing was unholy, lewd and evil.

God damn her for that. Her husband will damn her for this.

She couldn’t stop it, it wasn’t in her power to stop.

Her embrace, always narrow and rough and dry, was now vulgarly wet, snaky and oozy, disgustingly damp, stretched out as if hell itself were opening its throat. Instead of the ragged pain she was used to when she was on the bed with her husband, she felt forbidden lust surging through her body to taint it endlessly. For Satan to mark it forever, to recognise it at the unholy gates when she was banished from the kingdom of God.

Charlotte’s body twitched on the floor in a shudder of unchristian delight. Her sobs grew louder, until at last came the relieving convulsion that heralded her death. No angel would come for her; her soul was to pay the penalty of what she had done to her ungodly body forever.

But the relief of death did not come. Her breathing returned to normal, the spasm that had turned to pain faded, and she staggered to her feet. She rinsed her face and picked up the wig she’d tossed into the corner. It was dusty, as if it had been there forever.

She went to her husband for some well-deserved humiliation. She wanted to hear his reproaches, she was ready to take the blows of his anger. She wanted to be hurt. She desperately hoped the bruises on her body would cover her shame.

Then, as she fell asleep beside him, the endless shame lulled her into a merciful slumber.

The next day, the lust returned. It was even stronger.

She knew what she had to do. She ran to her husband’s library and grabbed a letter opener from his mahogany desk. She put the blade to her throat, swallowed, closed her eyes and forced herself to stab herself.

But her hand did not move. The blade barely cut her skin.

She tried it on her wrist. The cold steel felt cold against her hot skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to make that last, longed-for movement to open her veins and wash away the shame and sin with her blood.

She looked up and noticed her husband’s riding shorts in the corner of the room. Her vision blurred and she took a hesitant step toward the piece of male clothing. She hadn’t even noticed that she’d discarded her own overalls on the way, leaving only the corset. She slipped on a pair of shorts, she had never worn such tight clothing on her ass and legs.

She wasn’t thinking.

She couldn’t stop now. She ran to the stables, meeting servants and a few slaves along the way who marveled at how little she was dressed. She heard the word doctor, they probably assumed she was nauseous.

She kept running.

Her mare was in place. She gave her a quick pat on the neck before placing the man’s saddle on her back. Then she swung herself onto her horse and galloped through the open gate toward the fields. She ran at a jet, her hair flowing loose behind her, feeling the wind and the sunlight on her arms and almost bared chest, it was the first time as a grown woman that she hadn’t had her bodice pulled up to her neck while riding. And it was even stranger to sit straddling a man’s saddle.

When she started meeting slaves on the plantation, she slowed down and let the horse go into a trot.

She was looking for him. Among all the black men who were exactly the same, she knew for certain she would meet the one who had caused her to sell her soul to hell.

At last she saw him.

“Run after me, slave,” she told him, then stabbed the horse in the groin as the black man, wearing breeches that barely reached his knees, ran after her.

She headed for the woods.

The feeling came back. An insistent, sticky itching that grew stronger with each horse stride as her crotch bumped into the saddle cone. Only now did she realise that with each heave her full, firm breasts popped out of the corset. Her nipples stiffened under the onslaught of the wind, and that only heightened the wanton desire in her womb.

Just beyond the first trees, she jumped off her horse and waited for the slave to catch up. Panting, but with fully coordinated movements, he stopped a short distance from her and bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on the ground. He waited to see what his mistress would command.

To his surprise, she walked up to him and kissed him.

He endured it. Hands along her body, palms clenched into fists. He was silent.

She kissed him again.

This time he pushed her away. His dark eyes looked right at her, hitting her. Never before had a slave returned her gaze, so she could be wrong, but she saw the anger in his eyes.

She couldn’t stand the look and she flinched. Then she noticed that his crotch was puffed to bursting, at first she didn’t realise what she was looking at. She’d never seen a bulge that big in his pants before.

She tried to touch the bulge, but he pushed her away. The black man, the slave, the poor thing that she could do with as she pleased, so he dared to push her away and she almost fell.

“Bobo no have problem,” he yelled at her angrily, waving his arms like a madman. Then he turned and walked away, and after a few steps he started running and almost lost sight of her among the trees.

“Stop!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare disobey your mistress! Come back and kiss me.”

He paused. He hung his head for a moment, then slowly turned away. They stood there, looking at each other, silent. Charlotte didn’t know if he would start running again and then she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

He moved.

He moved toward her. He walked slowly and deliberately, only very sluggishly closing the distance between them until he finally reached her. That was the moment she noticed the change in his eyes. She thought she saw defiance, but she couldn’t be sure, she had never seen defiance in a black face before.

Then he lunged at her.

First, he ripped off her husband’s riding shorts. Then, with one jerk, he ripped open the corset, and it fell to the floor. Before she could realise her complete nakedness, he pinned her to the ground.

“White slut shut up,” he growled menacingly as he lay on top of her. “Bobo have white mistress now.”

His large calloused hands squeezed her white breasts painfully, the pain was excruciating as he squeezed her nipples with all his strength, tears welled up in her eyes. Even more agony came when he spread her legs apart with his knees and rammed his huge, black, throbbing log right into her womb.

The worst part was the fear. The sheer terror of the big black man lying on top of her, her writhing helplessly beneath him.

“Bobo hurt when white bitch no obey,” the slave growled at her through big white teeth.

She felt the tears flowing, they brought her some grace as she saw the monster above her in a blur. But she could hear him. In mangled English, he was screaming the most vile words she had ever heard in her face. Contempt and lust marred his face, saliva dripping from his fat lips onto hers like that of a rabid animal.

She wanted to pray that God would forgive her, she wanted to beg for this all to end, for this to be a bad dream, she realized with an urgent pang that her body wasn’t shaking with disgust or even fear or pain. There was an agony of pleasure running through her body.

“White slut keep mouth shut, or Bobo silence mistress.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, stifling a scream that she herself had no idea if it was a moan of desire or an agonizing sob of pain. The spasms peaked, and along with her, the big black man with the giant cock in her womb began to tremble.

The rest of his humanity had evaporated, leaving only the black, savage, sweaty beast that had planted the inferior seed of a non-human in her. He grunted and rolled away.

When the giant weight he’d pushed beneath her disappeared, Charlotte turned, her knees drawn to her chin and hugging her legs, rocking like a wretched child, eyes closed, uncontrollable sobs shaking her body.

“Bobo happy,” he said muffled over her naked body. “Bobo kill when white woman touch again.”

The black slave turned and walked over to a horse grazing nearby. In one skilled movement he swung himself up into the saddle, gently urged the horse on, and trotted away.

I Own You Now—Don’t Forget It. Time to Obey and Donate!