The driver opened the door and he understood he was to get out. He boarded the boat and extended his hand to the captain of the boat nervously, trying to gauge what his appropriate response was supposed to be. “I’ll take your cell phone, your wallet, watch, and your keys, along with any other items that might be personal.” Charles looked around like he was being punked but he went along with it in the spirit of cooperation. The captain opened a door of sorts in the floor and he again understood that he was to climb down the ladder. Just as he made his descent, he felt something crack down on his skull and he crashed to the floor in excruciating pain. The door slammed shut and he was lying on a wooden floor covered in a thick slime with a stench that made him want to vomit. There were no lights, he could barely see five inches in front of his face and the heat was unbearable in the small quarters, as he could feel the purr of the engine running nearby combined with the stifling temperatures.
Immediately, he was filled with rage. This wasn’t what he signed up for. He yelled, “Let me out of here,” but the engine roared and he could tell there were heading out to sea beyond where people could hear his pleas. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the pain in his head throbbed.
Waves lapped at the boat as he regained full consciousness and they were anchored somewhere. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that hole but he was hungry and needed to use the bathroom. He hollered up through the floor. “I know what you’re doing. This is supposed to be like a slave ship. You can’t keep me here against my will. This is kidnapping. Let me out. I’ll sue your ass.” Yelling took entirely too much energy from him and the smell caused him to wretch as he felt himself dry heaving in nausea. He felt his head and he could feel a lump and dried blood. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day or how far they had traveled.
His ignorance of what Africans endured during the Trans-Atlantic slave trade could fill volumes. His plight was minimal compared to those who survived the Long March only to be piled on top of each other, shackled in the hulls of ships for months, unable to move, kidnapped and stolen from their homes and families involuntarily. Charles was there of his own volition. It was his choice, his vacation. Being inflicted with pain was his sick and perverted preference and he was paying the price, sorely.
He was in that hole so long, he was beginning to think that they were going to just leave him there to die and throw him overboard, food for sharks. The door opened and the light from the sun temporarily blinded him. He steadied himself and climbed on deck. He collapsed and tried to fill his lungs with the fresh sea air. A bucket of water was thrown on him and he could smell bleach and maybe some sort of insecticide or maybe a disinfected in it. He’d soiled himself at some point and his skin was started to sting and burn from lying in his own waste for so long. “Where are we? Where’s Mistress Emmanuelle?”
“Dewees.”
“What? What the hell is that? Bitch, tell me where I am! Take me back to the airport right away.” His normally subservient demeanor in the presence of Black women was thrown overboard as he demanded answers and demanded them immediately.
The captain seemed unfazed by his little tirade and instructed him to take off his dirty clothes and put on what amounted to little more than a rough burlap sack sort of covering and nothing else. She placed a ball gag in his mouth and leg irons on him. The steel cut into his flesh but he was unable to complain because he couldn’t speak. Once on land, he was tethered to a golf cart in which yet another lovely Black woman was responsible for his transport. “Keep up,” was all she said.
The island where they landed was like an oasis in the desert. The land was lush and the beach was pristine. There were no gas-powered vehicles and a huge hotel flanked the shores. It was the Island of Dewees and it was part of the Gullah Sea Islands that existed mostly in a time warp of traditional African culture and antebellum aesthetics. It was like something out of a Margaret Mitchell novel. The Black population of the island spoke fluent Gullah, a Creole language Charles had never even heard of before. They passed by the Black residents who waved at the driver and greeted her like she was a beloved neighbor, ignoring the half naked white man who scrambled behind secured with a rope. The white people they passed turned their heads in disgust and turned up their noses at Charles as if they knew what fate lay before him but they were accessories to his predicament with their disdain. He struggled to keep from being dragged like James Byrd knowing there would be no TV cameras there to report him being lynched to death. His shoes were left somewhere on the boat so he was forced to run bare-footed on the rough terrain. The majority of the journey was on a paved road but the heat from the asphalt made it unbearable.
They pulled onto a dirt road lined with trees that looked hundreds of years old. He could see a big house in the distance and his body ached with exhaustion and relief that his uncomfortable ordeal was over. He was literally dying of thirst and his body was dehydrated. Little did he know that the worst was ahead of him. He was starving and felt as if he would pass out. He passed fields with workers, white men attired in the same sack clothing, who didn’t even look up, they appeared to be drones or robots, lifeless almost, working . . . like slaves.
He was led inside and into the parlor where Mistress Emmanuelle stood to greet him. “Chuck, what a pleasure to meet you, do come in.” She extended her hand pulled out a chair. Charles stood, staring her down.
To say that Emmanuelle was breathtaking was an understatement. She was one of the most gorgeous women he had ever seen in his life. Her severe black suit hugged her curves. She sat behind an enormous, antique oak desk with all the modern technological advances that money could buy and pulled out a file. She quoted every asset he had, the names and addresses of the Board of Directors from his job, and produced a copy of his credit report and slid it towards him. His gaze was fixed and intense and he didn’t make a move. He wanted to end this game and go home. The money he lost would be an expensive lesson learned but he wanted to call it all off. Never again, he swore to himself, would he let his delusions of submission rule his actions. Never again.
“You’ll excuse me won’t you, Chuck?” She leaned into the intercom and said, “Send in Chambers.” The expansive French doors opened and a white man entered, avoiding looking at Charles. He assumed a prone position on the floor and Mistress Emmanuelle stepped out from behind the desk. Lifting her skirt and turning her back to Charles, she obscenely squatted over the man’s face and lowered her bare pussy to his mouth. Charles stared at her full backside, unable to take his eyes from the scene before him as he watched the Black woman unleash a torrent of piss in the man’s mouth. The man swallowed, trying to drink as much of her hot urine as he could. When she finished pissing, she turned to face Charles and maintaining the most intense eye contact, she again lowered herself until she was sitting directly on the man’s face. He lapped at the droplets of piss that lingered on her sumptuous cunt lips and drove his tongue deep inside her. Grabbing a fistful of hair, Emmanuelle held his head between her thighs like a vice, essentially fucking herself on his mouth. She put her asshole directly over his nose and mouth and slowly began to grind her butt ever so detectably. Charles swallowed hard as he could see a crimson color start to cover the sub’s body, evidence that he was indeed being suffocated. His body was beginning to thrash around on the floor but he held steadfast in his coveted position as cushion for the lovely brown bottom that was riding his face.