Gone With The Whip

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Shades of Miz Scarlett in this early fake Marcus. Keeping with the original's mastery of historic erotic fiction, Gone With The Whip places us in the Antebellum South, where slaves exist to serve their masters and, during the war, take revenge for generations of suffering.

 
Published : Friday, February 08, 2013
Reading/s : 50
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EAN13 : 9781626571921
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Gone With The Whip

Marcus van Heller

This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.

http://www.olympiapress.com

I

The late afternoon sun blazed fiercely overhead in the South Carolina sky. Its brightness glistened in the beads of sweat on the young man's wrinkled brow, and it shimmered in the trickles of blood that streamed down his massive black shoulders. The whip cracked, his body tensed, and the leather scourge tore—again and again—into his gleaming flesh.

John Reed was a big man. Though he had recently begun to lose some weight, his 200 plus pounds were settled sturdily on his six-foot frame. His kinky black hair was longer than that of most of the male slaves; it wreathed his heavily-featured face in a symbol of black defiance—one of the few such gestures available to a man who was imprisoned by the very social system within which he was born. John Reed, it had been discovered earlier that day, had stolen a hammer from the blacksmith shop in which he worked so that he might try to repair the roof of his cabin. Now, he must pay for that hammer.

John's shirt was off, and his trousers were tattered rags clinging to his body and thighs. The lash whistled in the still, muggy afternoon air and smashed into the small of his back. Involuntarily, he dropped to his knees.

“Get up, nigger bastard!” screamed the petite white woman behind him. She raised the whip again, her eyes glassy with exhilaration, a filmy dew of perspiration covering her finely-boned face, and she hurled the leather toward her kneeling victim. The tip of the lash drilled at the back of John's neck, sending a current of white heat raging through his skull, and knocking him face down into the dust. He lay there, barely conscious, gasping for breath through dirt-clogged nostrils and mouth.

The white woman raved. “You filthy black scum... get up! Get up before I kill you!” The sound of her whip, John's breathing, and her voice were the only sounds—though almost a hundred people, black and white, looked on. Most of the white faces mirrored disgust, though some were clearly mesmerized with glee; without exception, the black faces were twisted in anger. This was the Stanton plantation. Mr. Stanton was away at a slave auction in Charleston, and Mrs. Stanton was exercising her power, as she always did when he was away.

John struggled, with agonized hesitation, to his feet. Mrs. Stanton waited, every muscle and nerve in her body tensed and trembling slightly with anxiety as she watched him struggle with his balance. For a moment he wavered, threatening to collapse again, and she shouted to two men standing nearby. “Prop him up,” she commanded. “Now turn him around to face me.”

For almost a full minute they stonily stood and glowered at each other. Then her arm flashed out and the whip snaked out across the short distance between them, exploding loudly in the pit of his abdomen.

A low-pitched growl escaped his throat as John started to double over. The two men bent him back and three more blows whistled across his hips and thighs. Her aim was perfect. With the efficiency of a surgeon she used the whip to slash away the tattered remains of his trousers, the point of the rawhide biting painfully into the flesh that surrounded his sex. But she spared that part. And as she paused, the whip dangling at her side, her heavy bosom heaving, it became evident to all who watched why she left him untouched there. John's magnificent cock, its mahogany body with its cushiony pink crown bulging at the tip, fully the length and thickness of the woman's forearm, hung almost regally from his body, framed by the heavy, dangling scrotum beneath. Her stare was frozen on him there.

Dropping the whip where she stood, Mrs. Stanton walked slowly across the dusty ground that separated them. “Undress me,” she ordered. The two men stepped toward her. “No. Him,” she directed. John did not move. His whole world was swimming about his head dizzily; his body, racked with aching, burning pain, threatened to topple from its own weight at any moment. She hissed furiously, “I said you, darky. All you apes want is a white woman. Here's your chance— maybe. Take off my clothes.” And with lightning suddenness her tiny hand slashed out, slapping his face and dragging her claw-like nails across his cheek.

A bolt of rage shot through him and John's giant black arms struggled to be free, to attack and crush her insect body. But the two men had little trouble restraining his greatly weakened efforts: his left arm was twisted behind his back and he was too exhausted to turn away when, at the last second, he glimpsed the glaring white knuckles of a doubled fist streaking toward him. The bridge of his nose crumbled on impact and the pounding, numbing pain that enveloped his whole head was matched by the sense of drowning he felt as the warm blood that gashed from his nostrils poured into his open, gasping mouth. His body sagged and tears flooded his eyes. He struggled desperately to remain conscious. Faintly, as though from a great distance, he heard a woman's voice. “Wake him up,” it echoed in his splitting skull. “Wake him up.” The shock of ice-cold water pouring over him snapped John back to awareness of his surroundings.

“Once more is all I'll say it,” the mistress of the plantation now said in a controlled and frigid tone. “Take off my clothes or I'll cut off that big black cock and give it to your woman to remember you by.” John knew she was serious. His wife's frightened eyes met his; she stood with their children on the near edge of the crowd. Without a word he reached out to unbutton Mrs. Stanton's white blouse.

A tremor of anticipation ripped through her when his powerful fingers began to struggle with the tiny pearl buttons of her ruffled blouse. Mrs. Stanton closed her eyes as he felt a moist trembling in the deepest part of her sexual being. The rough flesh of his hard knuckles brushed lightly against the gently cared-for softness of her gleaming white and silky bosom. One by one, with long, deliberate pauses in between, he undid the buttons of her blouse.

When finally he had finished, John's fingers lightly held the lapels of the blouse open. Though scores of eyes stared at the two of them from all directions, only his two eyes could see the bulging fullness of the bra-encased breasts that the opening of her blouse had revealed. A ripple of sound whispered through the crowd when, upon removing her blouse, Mrs. Stanton's breasts —though still covered—had their magnificent dimensions exposed. She turned her back then, for him to open her brassiere. He unhooked the snaps, but before the casings fell from her breasts she reached her hands up to cup and conceal them from the assembled throng. Slowly, she turned to face John. And slowly, she let the garment drop from her bosom.

Her long, blonde hair now fell about Mrs. Stanton's delicate ivory shoulders. From where the hair stopped, her chest began to swell. And John's eyes, though burning from the dust and sweat that had assaulted them, were drawn to the soothing beauty of her heavily swollen, milky tits. They were young, as she was, and proudly uplifted; and they curved gently forward, each inviting breast capped with a coral-pink nipple the size of her half-opened mouth. “Are they attractive to you, John Reed?” she coyly purred. As she talked, John could see a rapid engorgement of her nipples taking place. They were swelling to erection, and he could feel a similar response in his own loins.

“Yes'm,” he answered her as he knew he was supposed to. And he hated himself for it.

“Then you may kiss them, as you remove my skirt.”

Assuming that he was free to respond to her suggestion as he pleased, John tried to ignore the cushiony globes as he leaned forward and fumbled with the ties at the waist of her skirt. “You may kiss them,” she repeated firmly. And he knew that his assumption was incorrect.

His lips at first softly brushed against the firm buttons of pink. But when she inhaled sharply at his touch and pressed her tits harder against his face, John knew she wanted more. He parted his lips and gingerly drew the quivering tip of one of her nipples into his mouth. His hands, meanwhile, continued to work at undoing the skirt she wore. He nibbled gently with his lips, then his teeth, at the throbbing pinpoint of her senses, and between his legs he felt a stirring in his balls and a distinct swelling and hardening of his cock.

Soon the fasteners gave and Mrs. Stanton's skirt was loose enough at the waist to slip down over her hips. As she felt it give, as she felt her slave's hands sliding the linen garment over the silken smoothness of the underclothing that enclosed her buttocks, the young woman clasped John's head firmly in her hands and pulled his face urgently to her. His mouth opened wider and swallowed a third of her breast. His tongue swirled quickly about the firmness of her nipple, dusting lightly at the erect little hairs that grew at the edge of the corolla; her fingers worked their way feverishly into the hot black mane of curly hair atop his head, and she moaned softly.

John's hands followed the path of the skirt down the curving smoothness of her hips and thighs and calves. He removed his slurping mouth from her tit in order to bend further forward and assist her in stepping out of the garment as it bunched at the ankles. She wore no stockings. No corset. Only a pair of long white underpants. His fingers hooked into the snugness of the panties at her waist, and very slowly he began to roll them down over her abdomen, hips, and buttocks. The creamy whiteness of her flesh contrasted sharply with the rugged blackness of his own as his fingers moved deliberately down the gently swelling fullness of her abdomen, revealing more and more of her, inch by inch.

Her pubic hair was blonde. Her cunt gave off a mildly pungent odor of perspiration and of “womanness.” Before the pants were below her knees she had pulled his head tightly in to the swarm of hair at her crotch and had whispered urgently for his tongue. He found the edge of the tangy groove at the front of her cunt and bored into the thickly moistened tangle of gleaming blonde hair with his gobbling tongue, slipping it in and out of the greasy tunnel of her sex. He tore violently at her panties, freeing her legs which she now spread wide for him.

Just as his head moved instinctively under her now wide-open cunt, Mrs. Stanton's frantic shouting reached John's ears and shocked him back to a realization of the situation. His eyes scanned the crowd, which was pressing in from all sides; his wife had turned her head away but his children's eyes were intently watching his gulping mouth and Mrs. Stanton's dripping cunt.

“Eat me, nigger,” she was shouting almost insanely. “Eat my white pussy with your big fat lips!” There was no escape. John reached up and spread open the slippery folds of scarlet flesh above his head, revealing the tiny pimple of her clitoris at one end of the chasm of her sex, and the dark velvety mystery of her anus at the other end. His only defense was a devastating offense.

Pushing his tongue out as far as it would extend, the slave rammed it into the most forward point of his owner's cunt, then literally burrowed the whole length of the channel to the edge of her asshole—digging and gouging at her sex every tiny fraction of an inch. He repeated this journey twice more before he felt her hand on his cock and heard her voice urging him to take it and masturbate while he ate her. John was seated on the ground beneath her wide-open legs. While his tongue slurped and bored its way into her, while his lips sucked and gobbled, he was forced now to take his own cock in his hands and jerk off.

He felt his children's eyes on him; he felt the eyes of the whole plantation. He knew that life could never be the same for him or his family, bad as the past had been. Shame and disgust and fury raged inside him, but John knew there was nothing for him to do but submit. If he didn't, he and his entire family might die.

Even in his huge hands John's cock appeared massive. It was rigid and upright now, the pulsating veins quivering beneath the sheet of blackness. His fingers slipped rapidly up and down the length of the shaft and all the pain and anxiety and fury that he felt was directed into a single emotion, an emotion rooted in his huge, flaming prick.

Mrs. Stanton squatted lower now, reached behind her and pulled her buttocks apart. His hand still pumping furiously up and down, bringing his climax closer and closer, John now gazed up into the tiny opening of the brown eye that was Mrs. Stanton's rectum.

“Suck it, blackie,” she wildly exhorted him. “And pull that meat faster.” His one hand pounded away and almost without his knowing it, the other hand began to play with his balls. John was aware of the debauchery of the moment—but he had lost control. Her soft, ivory cheeks flared open above him; the squinting eye of her asshole stared down at him, demanding his attention. Tilting his head further back, John drove his tongue deeply in the blackness of that secret recess, and as he bored and reamed away at it, he felt Mrs. Stanton's knees buckle as she almost collapsed in the ecstasy of the experience.

She was literally riding his face now, tearing at the lips of her cunt while his tongue ground mercilessly into her anus. His hands worked mercilessly at his sex. And he was ready to come. The churning waters were pounding at the gate. Any second now... any second now... His fingers worked frantically to bring him over the top... Any second...

Suddenly then she was gone. And he was being dragged roughly to his feet, his aching, throbbing cock waving, unfulfilled, in the warm South Carolina sun. Mrs. Stanton stood before him. “I just needed something a little bigger in there, boy.” She turned around and bent over, again pulling her buttocks open wide. Ravenously, he reached out for her. But then she stood up again and faced him. “But don't you come now,” she warned. “I'm serious. If you come”—she paused and motioned one of her armed bodyguards in the direction of his wife and children—“if you so much as dribble in me, black boy, your whole family is dead.” She then resumed her position. “Come on in, boy,” she laughed.

Stunned, and afraid of whatever he might do, John stood immobile. But the two men at his side pushed him up to the bent-over woman before him, whereupon she reached back, gripped his still rock-hard cock, and guided it to the target of her asshole. It seemed impossible that it would fit. His cock was at least three inches thick, and the dark rim of her anus' lips surrounded an opening barely the size of a pinhole. He lifted his eyes for a moment. There was a shotgun loosely trained on the ground where his family stood. They were dead if he refused; and they were dead if he came. He had no alternative but to attempt the impossible.

Very tentatively John moved the velvet knob of his cock into the valley formed by the white woman's parted cheeks, and he pushed firmly but gently at the grommet of brown that sat like a bulls-eyes in the midst of the lush softness of her flesh. His tongue had lubricated the hole well, and it gradually began to open before him. But then it stopped, stretched tight, with only half the head of his spear having penetrated. Her voice was strained, but she called back to him, “Come on... push... uhhh... get in...” And he did. With agonizing slowness the head of his prick squeezed into the tiny aperture—and already the churning preliminary feelings of imminent orgasm had gripped his balls. “Ahhh... God... ohhh... deeper...” she moaned, her hips now rolling in big, round motions as her hands pulled at her cheeks to open wider. A fraction of an inch at a time.

And more and more demanding was that feeling in his loins growing. “Ohh... fuck me, fuck me,” she pleaded almost deliriously. And John realized there was only one way! His hands pressed heavily on the silky-soft cheeks of her buttocks, pushing them open more than she had been able to; then, with a single powerful lurch of his hips, he buried six inches of his throbbing brown club into the depths of her anal channel. She screamed and fell forward onto her hands and knees; he followed, and with a second thrust dropped the remaining half of his member into her wildly bucking haunches. She had lost complete control and was thrashing before him like a fish out of water. But she was impaled on a twelve-inch black spike and could go nowhere. She moaned and screamed as the veil of orgasm began to envelop her. The fury of her actions was taking its toll on John as well. His cock was inflamed. It was only a matter of time; seconds—minutes if he was lucky—before it would burst inside this woman's guts, spewing his juices everywhere. And killing his family.

She was trapped in a serial orgasm that ripped through her, mounted, seemed to peak, then mounted more. And more. And more. The muscles that surrounded John's sunken shaft twitched and squeezed at him. Now, somehow, she had reached down between her legs and had gripped the pouch that held his balls— she pinched and pressed and massaged and manipulated it expertly. And the boiling juices were in control now. He had lost it. His eyes crammed shut as he desperately tried to restrain himself. Her hips bucked and rolled; her anus gripped and squeezed his cock; her fingers worked gnawingly at his balls; she moaned and cried and whimpered, her whole emotional being fragmented by the ceaseless ecstasy that roared through her. He was coming. Now, he must stop. He must stop! Mentally he forced himself to repress the explosion. But it was useless. He felt the fluids surging up his pipe.

Mrs. Stanton pulled herself free. She was finished. “All right, big black buck,” she screamed hysterically, “come on, let it go... let everyone see it!” John's entire body was shaking with the independent spasms and contractions that took hold. His huge cock exploded, come—white, foaming, burning, sticky semen—spurting everywhere as he fell to his side and rolled in the dust, tears of joy and anger and euphoria and shame and pain streaming down his rawboned cheeks, every muscle in his body insanely flexing and unflexing as a sea of come passed through the burning phallic eye at the tip of his cock and covered him with its buttery-thick substance.

Mrs. Stanton walked away, laughing, and left him there. The rest of the whites followed.

Mrs. Reed helped her husband back to the cabin he shared with her and their children.

 

Late that night with the children in bed—rolled up in burlap blankets in their corner of the one-room cabin —-John and his wife, unable to sleep, talked.

“There is no alternative,” he whispered.

“But John...” she started to plead, then fell quickly silent. A sound outside. Footsteps. Then a rummaging sound in the community woodpile.

“Just that dog,” John said. A smile of relief spread across his wife's warm face, and she snuggled closer to him, burying her head securely in the muscular angle formed by his neck and shoulder and chest. “Go on,” he murmured.

“No. I suppose you're right. It's just the children— everyone's children—that I worry about.”

“So do I,” he said firmly. “That's why it has to be done. If we do it here, it can spread across the South. Then maybe our children can be free.”

“It's just that... well, everywhere else that someone has tried, it's failed. The system is too tight for successful revolt.”

“Maybe...” he answered distantly, and she knew she had lost him, that his mind was contemplating things other than her warnings.

“Let's go to sleep,” she said softly.

Then gently they made love.

They kissed, softly, and his fingers found her soft, mother's breasts and toyed with their large, firm nipples. His hand moved smoothly over the plump mound of her belly, pushed through the wiry tangle of her public hair, and slid easily into the dark, wet cavern of her sex. She groaned.

John moved his body between his wife's invitingly spread legs, reaching down and bending her long, sleek limbs up and out, doubling her knees back to her chest. Only shadowed moonlight provided even a hint of visibility, but it was enough for John's eyes to follow the curves of his wife's dusky, cinnamon flesh from the point where her large breasts swelled, over the disk of her abdomen, through the darkness of the hair spreading outward from her mons, and into the deliciously moist and mysterious folds of her cunt. It opened wide for him, seemed to beckon, and with a long, slow stroke he slipped the entirety of his rigid cock into the hot creaminess that waited. The walls of her cunt trembled. Very slowly at first, then with gradually increasing rapidity, he drew his spear out, then drove it back in— then out, then in... out... in...

“Oh, John... Oh, John,” his wife moaned as her cunt flexed and squeezed and sucked on his member. The slow revolutions of her hips now changed to shorter, quicker thrusts as she sought to swallow him whole.

Deeper and deeper and deeper, faster and faster and faster he worked, pumping his steel-hard manhood into her yawning, gulping cunt. Pile-driving now, slamming his hips against the brown cushions of her upraised buttocks, cramming the fullness of his massive cock furiously into her omnivorous vagina. They were approaching eruption together. Then suddenly he slowed, then stopped—she gasped and cried out and writhed beneath him—and with a huge forward motion he buried his cock as deeply as it had ever been into the tunnel of her sex. And with a high-pitched whine she came, her cunt gulping and sucking madly on him as the raging heat of orgasm exploded in his loins and his juices swirled up to meet hers and they rolled over in each other's arms, dizzily swimming in the inhuman joys and agonies that enveloped them, their fluids spurting in untamed climax... again... and again... and again...

II

On his way to work the next day, as he leisurely strode across the small meadow between the slave quarters and the blacksmith shop, John spotted a gang of field hands trooping off to work under the burning morning sun. He thought about their lot for the next few minutes.

He wasn't sure who his parents were, but he had at one time been told that he was born of fourth-generation American slaves. And, somewhat wryly, he was proud of that. Very early in his life John had learned to read and to speak English with definite competence. It had been no small aid in his getting the job in the blacksmith shop. It was a good job. On the one hand he didn't have to work under inhuman conditions and at the direction of frequently inhuman overseers, as the field slaves did; on the other, however, he never envied the plight of the house slave who, for all his good food and light work, had to “yassah" and “nawsuh” every minute of his life and who invariably lost his soul a lot faster than anyone else.

The slave trade had been outlawed for years—for as long as John could remember. But me pirate ships still delivered slaves by the thousands to Southern ports each year. He watched the column of field hands disappear over a small hill and he wondered how many of them were so fresh from their native soil—where, he had heard, they often worked farms not unlike this one —that they could not even speak English.

John was a skilled worker. He had always been proud of that fact and had felt lucky, and a bit superior to most of the others. Until yesterday. For some time now, word of a slave revolt had rippled quietly through the black community. John had, in fact, been specifically approached on more than one occasion. But he was not willing to risk his life or that of his family in a venture that seemed doomed to failure. Until yesterday. The plans had continued to develop, however; arms had been cached and only the lack of unity among the slaves and an opportune moment stood in the way of attempted freedom. Since yesterday, John was sure, the first of these problems no longer effectively existed. It was now only a matter of time.

“Hey, nig-nog, wake up!” The harsh, rasping voice suddenly pulled John's wandering mind back to earth. Emil, the white smithy that he worked with, approached and wrapped a falsely friendly arm about his shoulders. John shrugged him off and nodded. Despite his own size he was dwarfed by the hugeness of this man. “What's the matter?” Emil laughed. “That skin and muscle still hurt? Hey! How 'bout that big, fat muscle between your legs, boy? How's that feel today?” The white man doubled over in laughter at his own question. John ducked his head and stepped inside the shop.

The day was unbearable. Not only did the morning sun develop into a blistering heat as the afternoon wore on, but none of the passing whites could resist comment on the previous day's entertainment Egged on by Emil they asked John how he liked it with a white woman— was she as good as that dark meat he was used to?—and they wondered aloud at the legitimacy of the legend of black sexual insatiability. John worked on through the verbal assaults, refusing to even acknowledge them except on those few occasions when the white prankster became insistent. Then, obediently, John would go into his foot-shuffling act of mock embarrassment and the delighted interrogator would invariably wander off laughing—after seriously warning him not to let yesterday give him any bright ideas about white women. “Oh, nawsuh,” he would assure them, and then quickly get back to work.

Finally, it was almost over. In the distance John could see the field hands coming in from their work and almost instinctively he slowed his own efforts and began putting his tools away. The sun was setting, but the summer furnace heat hung densely in the air. He mopped his dripping brow and watched the parade of blacks pass the shop. Emil had been going at him nonstop all day and was still at it.

“Pretty soon you'll be able to get home and wrapped up in your big black mama's arms, huh? Lay that long black pipe in there, huh?” Then the giant blacksmith had an idea. Striding quickly into the passing group of slaves, he reached out and gripped the arm of a thin, spindly-legged black girl, perhaps twelve years old, and dragged her back to the shop where John stood watching in the doorway. “Gonna show you how we whites do it,” he announced, smiling as he passed. Helpless anger glowed in John's deep brown eyes as he watched.

Emil leaned back against a heavy post that supported the ceiling. “Take off your clothes,” he told the child.

“Oh, wait a...” John started to protest.

“Shut up!” the huge white man snarled. John knew better than to say more. The girl looked imploringly at him, but he averted his gaze.

She undressed quickly. The white man stared at her tiny fragile structure, then ordered her to turn around slowly so that he might examine her more closely. She pirouetted haltingly for him, her dark eyes reflecting the fear that gripped her thoughts.

The fire used in the men's work roared only a few feet away, and the light it cast picked up a shimmering rainbow of colors on the child's slowly turning jet-black body. Her legs were toothpick thin, though gracefully formed; her waist was no larger in circumference than the blacksmith's biceps; her breasts, only recently beginning to form, poked sharply out in space, each one tipped by a deep purple pebble of a nipple; and her child's face vividly displayed her fear and apprehension of the unknown acts she sensed she would soon have to perform.

Emil sat down heavily on the dirt floor. He beckoned to the girl. She came forward. “Open my pants,” he ordered. She hesitated then bent forward and fumbled with his belt, then the buttons of his fly. Emil boosted his hips off the floor. “Take them off,” he told her, and he watched with evident satisfaction as she wrestled with his heavy trousers, then his enormous leather boots. In her childish lack of inhibition, the girl bent and bowed and squatted in every direction as she struggled with his clothes, giving the delighted blacksmith unhindered views of her emerging femininity beneath the fuzzy pubic hair at the front of her sex and under the hard little black bulges that were her buttocks in the rear. The sight she displayed affected him physically, and the huge slumbering penis that now lay exposed in his lap began to stir.

“Good,” he said when she had finished. “Now come in here.” He directed her between his outstretched, parted legs. “Kneel down.” She was not much larger in any respect than one of his bared hairy legs, and when the black child knelt before his rapidly growing organ her size seemed to diminish even more, her soft and unmarked dark flesh surrounded by his massive paleness. Silently he gestured, and she knew what he wanted her to do—she had watched other adults make love in the public atmosphere that marked the slave quarters. She leaned forward, wrapped both of her tiny hands around the giant cock rearing up in front of her and paused for a moment, looking down on the slit-like aperture atop it from which a trickle of clear liquid was beginning to ooze. Then, opening wide her soft and heavy lips, she bowed her head and took his eager cock into her mouth.

His eyes lit up. His mouth opened and the big white man inhaled deeply. John tried to look away but he couldn't. A mixture of disgust and anger, and raw excitement forced his attention back. Emil grinned brutishly up at him, then reached forward to take the child's small head in his hands and force it further down the length of his prick. She gagged and choked at first, but soon caught on and was then expertly sucking and gobbling on his fat-knobbed member.

The big man closed his eyes and moaned loudly. The girl was no responding to his responses and was experimenting herself. She slurped furiously up and down, then pulled her mouth free...

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