interracial

Taken By The Tribe

When I was growing up I always felt that life should be an adventure, that there was always something more to living, something more to see, a wider world. Well, turns out I was right, but I couldn’t possibly have guessed how things would turn out. Sometimes life can sneak up on and surprise you, and it sure did with me!

My name is Hannah, or at least it used to be. I moved out to Kansas with my pa when I was a little girl. I don’t remember my ma, sadly, though I have a locket with her picture in it and pa always said she was a high-spirited, adventurous kind of woman. I like that. And I like to think that she might be happy at the way I’ve ended up.

My pa started a farm and I helped him as well as I could. I really wanted to go to school, but pa didn’t believe in anything like that, especially not for a girl, so I spent all my time on the farm. It wasn’t a bad life, much better than our lives would have been in the city, so my pa said, but still, I was bored. All the talk was farm talk or Indian talk and I soon got bored of all that. I knew that I wanted more from life and that when I got the chance, I was going to take it.

Sadly, my poor pa passed away suddenly with a fever when I was just fourteen and so I had to go and live with my uncle. He was a farmer too, and a big whisky drinker, but he was civil to me, though he liked to pretend to be all tough. Still, he wasn’t a kind man, and there was no warmth or companionship on my uncle’s farm. I had to do all the cooking and cleaning and some days he barely said two words to me. He wasn’t being disrespectful, it was just his way.

It was awfully lonely on that farm. I was getting to be the age when a girl is supposed to think about marrying, but I couldn’t ever see how that was going to happen, because I never saw anybody except my uncle from one day to the next. Well, not counting Billy.

Billy was a sweet boy, a little older than me, who used to help out around the farm sometimes. My uncle treated him pretty rough and paid him next to nothing, but I kind of took a shine to Billy. I wasn’t in love with him or anything, and even if I had been, he was totally unsuitable as a husband, but still, I did used to watch him from my bedroom window. Some days, Billy took his shirt off when he worked. At first I thought it was disgusting and immodest, but even so, I couldn’t stop looking at him. The sight of his young, fit body, glistening with sweat in the afternoon heat used to have a strange effect me. And, though I blush to recall it, there was more than one time while watching him that I hitched up my dress and slid my fingers between my legs and touched myself, making myself a little wet. I used to pray for forgiveness afterwards, and swear I would never do it again, but sure enough, the next time I heard Billy scratching and digging in the yard, I couldn’t help wandering to the window.

One day, I heard my uncle’s footsteps on the landing outside my room just as I was settling down to watch Billy. I hastily rearranged my underclothes and jumped down from the window.

“Hannah, I got to go into town.”

“Oh can I come!”

“No, I got to take care of business.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. Even though whenever we headed into town, my uncle never left my side, it was still a wonderful break from the monotony of farm life. There were so many people, so many shops, so much noise and color.

“I won’t be gone more than an hour. Besides, you got Billy here.”

“Yes uncle.” I brightened up a little at the thought of Billy.

“Right. Well, just don’t do anything foolish, okay.”

“I won’t uncle,” I sighed.

I could see the reluctance in his expression. He didn’t want to leave me. But really, I remember thinking, what on earth did he think would happen?

I watched his cart trot out of the front gate, and then I settled down to watch Billy in the yard. His shirt was off as it was a baking hot day and I bit my lip as I slid the tip of my finger across my pussy. The sight of Billy bent over, working, his muscles bulging was making me feel all tingly, and as I find my sweet spot I gave a little moan. At that moment, Billy looked up.

I ducked down, trembling with shame. What if he had seen me? How would I explain what I was doing? Oh what if he came into the room?

After a few seconds, I risked a peak out of the window. But Billy wasn’t looking up at my room, he was staring out, beyond the farm, towards the low hills in the distance, shielding his eyes as though straining to see something in particular. It was then that I heard a faint noise. It was barely audible, but insistent, a sort of distant hollering or whooping. There was a rumble of thunder, too, like the kind of sound you get used to hearing in the late summer heat when hurricane season is on the way. But this was no hurricane.

All at once I put the two noises together in my mind and I realized that what I was listening to had nothing to do with the skies. It was the thunder of horse hooves. And that hollering could only mean one thing. Indians!

Just then, Billy seemed to recognize it too because he dropped his spade and ran. He ran clean across the yard to where his horse Sally was tied. I watched him unwind the reins in a blind panic, hitch himself up onto Sally’s back and kick hard at her flanks, spurring her out of the farm, through the same gate where my uncle had passed and away.

He had left me all alone! The hooves were rattling hard now and the hollering was louder than ever, but I was rooted to the spot. Where could I go? What had my pa always said to do if the Sioux attacked? I couldn’t remember and cursed myself that I had not paid more attention whenever the subject of the Sioux came up. I had never even seen a Sioux, except in newspapers and books and I was sure my pa was exaggerating. I was just about ready to start hollering and crying for help, when I remembered. My pa always said that if the Sioux came and there were no men folk about, I should hide under my bed.

I scrambled on my knees across the wooden floor and into the cramped space beneath my bed and lay as still as I possibly could, listening.

I heard horses galloping around outside, and the shouting and hollering was so loud that it made me tremble. I hoped and prayed that they would just ride around and then leave. I didn’t even know how many of them were out there. What if it was a whole tribe? What if they decided to burn the farm house with me inside?

I waited and waited, and just when I thought they might have left, I heard the unmistakable creaking of the front door to our farmhouse. I tensed up, desperate not to make a sound and give myself away. I heard them creeping through the building, and I knew exactly where they were because of the precise sounds of the floorboards and the doors, which I knew so well. They spent time in the kitchen, then they explored the dining room, and the cellar, and then, to my horror, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

The footsteps drew closer and closer. I heard them head to the room next door, where my uncle slept, but they didn’t spend long in there. I dared not even breathe for fear. I prayed and prayed that they wouldn’t open my bedroom door, but my prayers were not answered because soon I heard the handle turn and the door opened.

I froze, remaining as still as I could as I listened to them walking around. I couldn’t tell how many of them were in my bedroom, but I heard someone opening my wardrobe and someone pulling at the drawers of my bedside table. Their voices were low, and I couldn’t catch any of the words they used, but it seemed that they hadn’t found anything and were leaving. I heard footsteps on the stairs. They hadn’t found me.

Suddenly, a face appeared at the opening between the bed and the floor and I screamed. A hand soon followed, and another and I was being grabbed at the wrist and the ankle. I felt myself being dragged across the floor and I struggled, trying to grab onto anything I could, but it was no use. They were too strong and soon they had pulled me free of my hiding place.

Out in the open I tried to scramble away, but that didn’t work either. There were four of them in my room, surrounding me. As I tried to scrabble to safety on my hands and knees, I felt my ankles being held down. I yelped and tried to scream, but a sweaty, dirty hand was soon pressed against my mouth and as I tried to yell I could feel another of them pulling my wrists behind me. Rope was being fastened about my legs and arms and I felt my shoulders ache as they pulled my arms behind me, and hitched up my legs at the same time. I was completely stuck, trussed up like a hog. A thick leather strap was forced between my teeth and tied tight behind my head.

I wriggled and squirmed, but I couldn’t move. I was totally helpless. As I struggled, two of them picked me up and I felt the disorientating sensation of the room shifting and the walls sliding as I was lifted through the air, out of my room and down the stairs.

Outside, they carried me to a team of waiting horses and I was thrown across the horse’s back. Again I tried to struggle free but it was no good. They lashed me to the saddle and then I felt one of the braves climb up onto the horse. A second later, we were riding, away from my farm, away from safety. I screamed and screamed into my leather gag but I made no sound and my efforts were anyway drowned out by the whooping and hollering all around me.

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The Plantation Owner’s Wife (Interracial Historical Erotica)

She knew it was wrong.  She knew there would be dire consequences if they were caught.  But she couldn’t help herself.

Abigail is the wife of a wealthy plantation owner with a dark, irresistible past.

Excerpt from The Plantation Owner’s Wife:

The Kentucky bluegrass waves in the field behind my house, and I pause amidst the responsibilities of the day to admire the figure in the field beyond the blaze of sheer July green.

His name is David, and he’s new. My husband, William, bought him last week, leading him in like some prize stallion, but ruining the moment with his own impotence as a man. David towers over William, and his dark eyes ran over me quickly, intelligently, his mouth set in a firm tight line that betrayed nothing except the raw energy inside him. I remember I became very hot and uncomfortable in my corset, but strangely felt glad that I’d worn the white and blue gown with lace eyelet trim. My eyes, a blue as the pure Kentucky sky, met eyes as dark as the Kentucky earth. The sun was clear and hot and I made my excuses quickly, fumbling to remember my role as housekeeper and wife of the estate owner. William’s eyes were shrewd as always, and even if I didn’t know what I was feeling then, he did, and quickly directed David to his living space—far away from me.

At the time, I didn’t even know his name—I learned it accidentally, while one of the younger maids gossiped with her mother about how one of the new slaves, David, had already received a whipping from our foreman, Johnathon, less than one week into living here. Her mother, Constance, eyed her daughter’s rosy cheeks and bright eyes, then gave her a smart smack on the cheek.

“Dun’ go gettin’ yo’selfn’ trouble now. David’s a good man, but heesa man jus’ like any otha.”

The girl’s eyes dimmed and she nodded solemnly before going back to her dusting. I stepped away from the door to the dining room silently, unable to shake Constance’s firm tone from my mind. A man just like any other. I thought about the sharp, blundering pitches William made at me at night, in the dark beneath the covers of our bed. The uncomfortable heat, William’s determined, annoying grunts, the dryness between my legs, the inevitable soreness and strange weariness the next day. Somehow, I didn’t think that was what Constance was talking about. For the first time, I thought about Constance as a woman with another man, making the girl she was so matter-of-factly protecting. A man just like any other.

“Ma’am?”

I shake myself out of my reverie; David isn’t even in the distance anymore, and I’m just leaning on the verandah rail like a lovesick girl, thinking about my thoughts. Constance’s daughter, Minnie, drops a small curtsey before proceeding.

“Was jus’ wantin’ to see’f yous still wanted that chick’n made fo’ when Master William gets back.”

“Yes, please get started on that,” I glanced up at the sky. “He’ll be home in a couple hours.”

Minnie bobs another curtsey and goes back into the house. I watch the indistinguishable figures moving around in the far fields for a few moments more before I turn as well and follow Minnie, moving through the beautifully varnished wooden floors and carefully wallpapered walls until I’ve reached my husband’s study, off the side of the main entrance into the foyer.

It’s not really his study—I’m the one who keeps track of all the expenditures, incomes, and taxes, and balances and budgets each month accordingly. He only ever comes in here for meetings with local plantation owners, or to draw up an official contract that he secretly shows me for approval before signing. It’s the end of August now, and I sit heavily into the handsome wooden chair, my breasts straining uncomfortably against the tight lacing of the corset. I draw a breath slowly, and exhale through my nose. It’s still uncomfortable, but bearable. I smooth my skirts beneath me, reach up to pat my hair, split neatly into two loops and pinned to the sides of my head by Constance this morning.

“This,” she’d said, holding a lock of my hair up so I could see it in the mirror. “This is a good, strong, brown.” Then she let the soft, natural ringlets fall from her hand, the color of a brand-new leather riding saddle.

I work quietly, tucked away from the late afternoon heat. The numbers on the paper in front of me calm and distract me from the vast landscape of wandering thoughts I nearly lost myself in looking out at the fields. I don’t know what to think about the battering butterfly wings that make me forget everything that separates me from David, and I’m both grateful and resentful that our run-ins are infrequent enough as to merit my own renditions and imaginings of them before I can meet his frank, yet aloof, gaze in person. Darn it all.

For the fourth month in a row now, we’ve gone over budget. I’m not sure how, but it must be William’s spending. I check the numbers again, and again, but I can’t figure out why they’re not adding up. I just know they’re not. Disgruntled, I give a jump of surprise when there’s a sharp rap at the front door. Constance bustles into the front hall and I hear the door open, and her sharp intake of breath a second before she scolds whoever is on the front step. From the sound of it, it’s a field hand, probably newer and just tired or lost or thinking that coming into my home is in any way appropriate. I lean curiously toward the huge bay window, but the lovely plants that I supervised the planting of block my view. Frustrated, I rise and pace a lap around the study, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever is standing at the front door and giving poor Constance so much trouble.

It’s him.

I don’t know how or why, but it’s like he knows my husband is gone and that he won’t be back for some time still. Something rises inside me, and with a practiced authority I step out of my study.

“It’s okay, Constance, I sent for him.”

“You?” Her tone is utterly incredulous. “But, Ma’am, s’not right.”

I raise my eyebrows at her, and she withdraws, muttering to herself.

We look at each other, and our gazes are like new lovers tentatively examining one another’s bodies. There was another man, before William, though of course he doesn’t know that. He’ll never know the man, either. Daddy was the foreman and I was the prize hen, caught being mauled in the barn one evening by a cinnamon-colored slave named Abraham. Abraham is dead now, and I can feel the scars across my own back prickle at the thought of him. My father and mother, forced to suffer their shame in secrecy, nearly killed me as well.

It’s like David is reading the story in my eyes as he closes the distance between us in two strides, stopping just short of touching me and looking intently into my face. He lifts a hand and touches the tip of the scar that plays peek-a-boo with the collar of my dress every day.

Daddy, Daddy it was my fault! Daddy, please, no! No!

Shut your mouth, Abigail, you disgusting, loose girl.

I never wanted this life, but my parents ensured I had it. William was in debt, but the son of a local plantation owner. I paid for my disgrace with Abraham, and I paid for my refusal to marry William. Dearly. On our wedding night, when he discovered my scars, I tasted bile in my mouth as I recounted the story my mother had lashed into me.

There was a rebellion on the planation I grew up on, and some slaves used me to make a point when I strayed too far from the house.

That night, I suffered gladly.

I blink and David’s eyes are soft, though a curious expression curls his mouth into a faint grimace. His own story flashes across his eyes, briefly, much less detailed than mine, but infinitely more painful.

So much death, so many siblings and half siblings. His mother is—was—a prize hen, just like me. Unlike me though, she didn’t seek an escape, she sought the escape. The remains of David’s family are now scattered across the South, dead and alive. Foolish woman, running away with five grown children and two little ones. Pain stabs my rib like a punch as David’s eyes flash, and I feel his guilt for living now. I’m sorry.

I don’t know how long we’ve been standing in the foyer, but suddenly I feel the wrongness of this moment, the danger it poses to both of us, but especially him. I open my mouth to send him out, but he places a hand firmly over my mouth and shakes his head. Turning me, he pushes me towards the office, with the big windows blocked by plants. My mind flapping like bedsheets in the wind, I let myself be propelled forward, paralyzed with panic and desire for this man who I can never be with.

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