Chapter 2
I knew there would be no ride back to the main house that day. I groaned at
the thought of miles of walking in my riding boots, not knowing how well Rusty
could make such a distance hobbling on three legs. I had not been paying enough
attention to know exactly where I was, so I decided the safest course was to go
west to the river and walk north till we reached familiar territory.
We set off, moving slow to accommodate Rusty's injury, hoping for a trail to
make the going easier. In less than half an hour we came upon a faint track.
Signs of recent passage by horses and a wheeled conveyance were clear on the
otherwise faint trail. We followed the track and a few minutes later I heard
the faint sound of voices ahead through the dense forest. The little bit of
concern I had been feeling dissolved into confidence, for I was a girl with a
resolute belief in my superior place in the world, born of my position in
daddy's order of things.
Fleeting glimpses of some sort of structure grew more frequent as fewer trees
blocked my view. Soon I could see a large cabin with glass windows, tall log
walls and a steeply peaked roof. Small outbuildings came into view, and a short
distance from the cabin stood a barn with the door ajar. Trees grew close about
the cabin. I strode happily toward this haven of assistance, taking it for
granted that whoever might be there would subject themselves to my wishes.
Reaching the last line of trees along the side of the cabin, something about
the sounds coming from within halted me in my tracks. "Whack," I heard the
unmistakable sound of leather striking flesh, followed by a loud masculine
groan. I was not a stranger to the sound of a whipping; it was common on our
plantation. As a female, however, I often heard, but was never allowed to
witness the punishment of slaves. Long as I could remember, the sounds always
held a fascination for me. The screams and moans excited me and made me damp
between the legs.
And then I hear another sound that didn't fit, a distinctly feminine cry
mingled with the male sounds of torture. The female cry was not the teary kind,
but the kind that came faintly from the slave quarters on warm summer nights.
Overcoming my surprise, but deciding on caution, I stepped softly toward an
open side window just 20 feet away. I crouched down to keep from being seen
from inside, and when I was just a few feet from the window a voice that would
shatter my comfortable world froze me in place. "That's more like it girl, whip
his ass hard. Look at the way his black cock loves the whip. Keep sucking my
cunt. I don't want my big black stud coming before I do." The voice was husky
with passion yet unmistakably that of my mother.
