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Message-ID: <37996asstr$1030158605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 23 Aug 2002 20:17:07 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Freedom in the New World (Bradley Stoke) (MF)(Caution)
Date: Fri, 23 Aug 2002 23:10:05 -0400
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Title: Freedom in the New World
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF n/c caut
Short Summary: Freedom and slavery in the land of liberty, justice and
the American Way.


Story: Freedom in the New World (4,996 words)

The American people may have just gained freedom and liberty, but there
are many denied both these privileges and many more. A cautionary tale  
about Enoch, a retired soldier in the War of Independence, and his slave.

Warning: This story contains violence and profanity and therefore
should not be read by minors or the easily impressionable.

For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           


Freedom in the New World
========================

 "'S blood!" swore Enoch Evans, as he pushed his hard prick into 
Thasra's vagina.  "You ain't getting any less tight, are you girl?" 

Thasra, or Molly as she'd been rechristened by her master, was not at 
all flattered by this observation. Any slackness in her down there was 
only ever caused by him. And it wouldn't be something she'd have 
ever chosen to have if she'd not been so frightened of the bull-whip he 
was so fond of applying whenever she showed any reluctance to 
accept his gropes or other violations of her body. She looked up at her 
master above her, with his coarse rough stubbled face and long grey 
hair falling over his shoulders. 

He pushed harder against the resistance from her dry unlubricated 
vagina, each thrust hurting her but no more than it did on the countless 
other occasions he had taken advantage of his status as her slave-
master. As so often happened, a dribble of saliva detached itself from 
his slack rotten-toothed mouth and plopped messily on her small black 
breasts. He continued to wear his baggy cotton shirt which came to 
just below his waist. His other clothes, including his tall black hat, lay 
in a pile where he'd left them just before summoning his favourite 
slave to his quarters. She lay on her back, her head on the pillow she 
had spent so long fluffing up earlier in the day in the cause of her 
duties.

On the wall was a not especially life-like portrait of her master as a 
younger man in the military uniform he'd worn so proudly in the fight 
against the British yoke when he fought on the side of what had been 
formerly known as the Thirteen Colonies. He was proud of his valiant 
contribution to the liberation of the American people and for the 
values of the Declaration of Independence: the self-evident truths of 
which he would remind his slaves every day. This was when he would 
gather them together for morning prayers not long after he woke up 
and several hours after most of his slaves had themselves been awoken 
and coerced into service. 

His demeanour on these occasions, standing in front of the flag with 
its stars representing every one of the free states of the Union, could 
not have been more different to that he was taking now, as his hard 
white penis pushed backwards and forwards between Thasra's legs, 
supporting his weight by two arms pinioned on either side of her, the 
dribble occasionally seeping through his stubble and onto her. He 
insisted that his slaves cover themselves during these prayer meetings, 
intent that he was that his servants and slaves should all serve the Lord 
Jesus Christ as well as he. Though Thasra could recall no passage in 
the large Holy Bible from which he habitually declaimed that said that 
her body was to be the plaything of her corporeal master as her soul 
was of her spiritual one.

"You should all consider yourselves lucky to live in the land of 
Freedom and Democracy," he would sometimes tell his slaves, 
regarding them in their well-worn ragged clothes; their hands and feet 
rough from labour in the house and in his extensive farm, and all 
struggling to comprehend a language which wasn't their own and of 
which they had differing levels of fluency. Thasra was in the awkward 
position of sharing with the other slaves no other language than that of 
her white devil masters with which to communicate. But she 
understood enough to realise that the freedom and liberty of which 
Enoch was so proud did not extend to those who so recently had been 
free in another continent where white men were rare and it was never 
as cold in the dead of the American winter. Life had not been easy for 
her in her African village, but it had never been as hard as here. True, 
there were more material goods here, but she remembered fondly the 
few cattle her family grazed and the wild animals whose flesh 
supplemented their meagre diet.

Enoch removed his erect penis from inside Thasra and proffered it 
towards her face. She regarded it with some distaste, but it was the 
only penis which she'd ever known with such intimacy. She took it in 
her thick dark lips, tasting again of its strong odour and its curious 
warmth. She moistened it with her tongue and saliva: Enoch's 
buttocks thrusting with a mechanical vigour while his face became 
ugly with passion. He groped at a breast with one of his hard hairy 
rough hands, with their broken nails. He gripped one of her long thin 
nipples between forefinger and thumb, trying to harden it such that it 
might seem that she too was enjoying their sexual adventure. Thasra 
preferred this, however, to his fucking. She was not too happy that 
she, like Sunidla, known by her Christian Name of Catherine, might 
become pregnant and bear a child who was neither fully black nor 
white, and would be a source of shame to her rather than of pride.

She raised her eyes to look into Enoch's face above, and grimaced at 
his uneven teeth with its many gaps. The white devils always had such 
poor teeth, unlike the good strong ones of her people and of the other 
Africans whom she'd met since she and her people had been forced 
into slavery. Her eyes wandered to the wall where Enoch kept two 
crossed swords and a musket. The former were mementoes of his 
service in the War of Independence. The latter was used when he went 
hunting for deer or boar on his estate. She was now so accustomed to 
such firearms that it was sometimes difficult for her to remember what 
a shock it had been for her and her tribe when they were first 
confronted by them. 

Her people were themselves only one generation of freedom away 
from the tyranny of another tribe, against whose enslavement they had 
rebelled and run away to found their own village many miles across 
the forest from where her parents had been born. She had been born a 
free woman, as her mother would proudly tell her as they gathered 
fruits in the forest. But not free for long, as their one-time masters 
reappeared, but this time armed with the rewards of their trade with 
the British slavers. Thasra remembered the terrifying sound of gunfire: 
a sound the like neither she nor anyone else in her village had ever 
heard before. And then the confusion and the horror, as the bolder men 
and some of the just unlucky in her village were killed or wounded by 
these terrible, terrible weapons.

And then, along with all the women of the village, in full sight of their 
husbands and fathers, she was raped by the savage Hurati warriors, on 
the sad day which ended the freedom of the Thuralili people and, of 
course, her own. As Enoch restored his penis to her crotch and brutally 
thrust it back in, she contemplated bitterly the day when her virginity 
was torn away from her in blood, sweat and tears, leaving her 
collapsed on the ground, moaning and wailing, with the ache and 
agony of a pain that emanated from somewhere inside her violated 
crotch. To the side of her was her mother in similar agony, no doubt 
exacerbated by seeing the same happen to her daughter so soon before 
the sacred ceremony in which she would have otherwise had her 
maidenhead broken. 

And then, with blood dripping from between her legs and also from 
her forehead where a Hurati had hit her with a musket butt, she was 
tied up in cords, like the men had already been, harnessed by rope 
around the neck and to the ankles, and then led away in a caravan of 
misery on a trail of many days and many miles to the coastal port 
where she was to find her worth in British shillings. Every day, she 
and what was left of her village, marched along with the cattle which 
the Hurati had taken for themselves through forests and grasslands, 
past herds of zebra and antelope, skirting past prides of lions, under 
the hot unremitting sun, the soles of her feet torn on rough stone and 
pricked by sharp grasses. And every evening she and the other women 
were again to endure the predations of their hated masters: a pattern of 
violation she now knew was not to end on their arrival at the coast. 

The Hurati fucked her with the same lack of concern and love that 
Enoch was now expressing to her, however often he reminded her that 
she was his favourite slave-mistress. As many different penises 
penetrated her as there were men in the slaving party, and although 
each penis was different, the fucking always seemed the same. Brutal, 
uncaring, but thankfully brief.

And then she was at the coast. She'd never even suspected that so 
much water could exist in the world. All the water she'd ever seen 
before had been in the river near her village, but here was an expanse 
of water where there just did not seem to be another shore. But she 
was soon to know this water well enough, when, along with what was 
left of her tribe she was sold to a British slaver moored to the shore. 
And as the Hurati departed with more muskets, trinkets and valuables, 
she was to spend what came to seem like an eternity, shackled 
lengthwise in the hold of the boat, along with the rest of the human 
cargo, unhealthily close to other captors, most of whom were from 
tribes other than her own, who spoke in tongues she couldn't 
understand at all, less well than even that of the brutal Hurati.

When Enoch lectured his slaves on the hated British, Thasra could 
only agree with him. In her experience, the British were the most 
hateful people in the world. She couldn't understand however what 
was so bad though about the British yoke that Enoch found cause to 
complain. Taxes on tea. Restrictions of the freedom of movement and 
the right to bear arms. The rule of a tyrannical King from as far from 
the United States as they were from Africa. All this seemed abstract 
compared to the very real injuries she and the other slaves endured on 
the ship, as they were shackled together, with rats running freely 
around and on top of her, as the ship lurched and swayed over the 
ocean waves as it carried her towards what she was now persuaded to 
believe was the land of free men and free speech. Every horror she 
could imagine was magnified, as other people on the ship died in the 
hold, including her parents, and she felt continuously ill and wretched 
and miserable. She was constantly sea-sick. She caught a fever, which 
thankfully waned before she might be diagnosed as too sick to carry to 
the ship's destination and she would be cast into the sea alive like so 
many other slaves. The only blessing of the dreadful death rate of the 
journey was that gradually the hold became less crowded, although it 
became no less fetid and smelt no less disgusting. The only thing that 
prevented her being continually sick was the emptiness of her stomach 
as a result of the poverty of the rations that the British white devils 
allowed their captives.

As she regarded Enoch as he thrust back and forth into her, snarling 
and grunting all the while, Thasra was reminded of the first time she 
saw him, at the slave market, where she and all the other slaves 
brought on shore by the Thanks Be To God. He was just one of many 
men who were eyeing her up as she stood, topless and vulnerable, on a 
small platform which raised her feet above the ground and put her own 
eyes on the same level as her potential masters. They were all men and 
most were dressed rather better than the majority of sailors whom 
she'd seen on the boat, but few as well as the ship's captain or the 
slave trader who was soon introduced to her, very briefly, and in a 
language she still barely understood, as the one she could consider her 
master.

Enoch examined her, as did all the other men flocking around, by 
pulling open her mouth and looking at her teeth, rather as her father 
would when examining his cattle. He admired her small naked breasts 
and her slim, almost emaciated waist. And later, after the bidding had 
finished, she found that it was to be he, rather than the fat man with 
the ugly scar down his cheek or the well dressed gentleman with a 
demure wife, who was to be her master for what she knew would 
probably be the rest of her days. At this stage, she was so depressed 
and miserable that all she cared about was to end the uncertainty that 
had plagued her for so many months. Not that she would have had 
more choice were she less demoralised. Her main thoughts, when she 
had time to reflect, were still on her dead mother and father, whose 
bodies she saw dragged up onto the deck where she knew they were to 
be thrown to the sharks at sea.

"I' the name of the Lord!" swore Enoch, after releasing a thick viscous 
glob of semen into Thasra's vagina (where she knew she would soon 
be spending many hours with cold water to wash out what might 
otherwise cause her pregnancy). "This lovemaking is damnably thirsty 
work!" 

He pulled himself off her, and lowered his hairy, spindly legs over the 
side of the bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fists. "I need ale. 
And good strong ale at that. Where is that damned whore, Lizzy?" He 
lifted himself off the bed and pulled a cord which rattled a bell nailed 
to the wooden walls of his chamber. Within a minute, Lizzy arrived, a 
tall proud black woman in a flimsy sack cloth, her full breasts loose 
and free in the capacious robe, her legs bare to the top of the coarse 
cloth which reached barely below her buttocks. She carried a flagon of 
ale and a wooden beaker on a tray which she placed on the table, next 
to Enoch's Holy Bible. She dared not smile, but her eyes sparkled 
warmly at Thasra, as she lay naked and ravished on the ruffled linen 
sheet. Thasra knew her not as Lizzy but as Thazilandrali, who had 
once been a chieftain's daughter in her own tribe before she too had 
been dragged away by other Africans as spoils of war after her father 
and his wives had been slaughtered. Now she was no more a 
chieftain's daughter than was Thasra, the people of her village now 
scattered over the many farms and plantations of Connecticut and 
Maine. 

"Simon Peter Wept!" swore Enoch, after gulping down a few swigs of 
his warm ale. "You're a pretty woman, Lizzy. Let's see your proud 
breasts!"

Lizzy's knowledge of English was not even as great as Thasra's, but 
she understood his intent as he placed his large hairy hands onto her 
bosom. With the pride that came with her breeding, she made no 
expression, but pulled her dress up over her arms, so that there were 
now two naked women in Enoch's chamber. 

"Those are damned fine breasts!" Enoch declared, admiring their full 
roundness and the large nipples which crowned both of them. She was 
otherwise a slender woman, but one who on a better diet would 
probably not have been thin at all. Her buttocks protruded behind her 
and her crotch was hidden in the darkness between her full round 
thighs. Enoch took a breast in his hands and slobbered over them as a 
suckling baby would, while Lizzy stared ahead of her with an 
expression of disdain. 

Much as Thasra liked Lizzy, despite the lack of real conversation they 
could have in the lack of shared language, she was rather hoping that 
Enoch would now transfer all his attention to the older woman so that 
she could be excused and run off to scrub out her master's sperm from 
inside her. She knew, however, that this might instead be a prelude to 
a night in which he would practise his lust on the two of them 
together: an ordeal that Thasra found both humiliating and 
uncomfortable. Particularly when he exercised his perverse 
imagination and bade the girls kiss and touch each other as a man 
would his wife. This was so unnatural and distasteful to Thasra, 
though she had come to learn that some girls actually quite enjoyed 
such games. Not for her. She had always believed in the natural order, 
one which she knew was the only one explicitly countenanced by the 
God by which Enoch swore.

Her fears were further heightened when Enoch bade Lizzy to take his 
penis in her hand and to stroke it back and forth to restore life to its 
limpness. This reminded Thasra of the first time in which Enoch had 
exercised his prerogative as her master to do with her what he wished. 
On that day, not many days after she had first arrived at his farm after 
the journey by wagon over the plains and forests of this strange, 
unfamiliar land, she was commanded to enter his chamber. She had 
worn the coarse cloth outfit which still chafed against her skin, and 
under which, for the first time in her life, she was hiding her breasts 
from the healthy life-giving sunshine and breezes. Her English 
vocabulary was very rudimentary. Certainly not sufficient to articulate 
her concerns and wishes. This did not worry Enoch who spoke to her 
continually, using such words as 'damned', 'God' and 'Jesus Christ' 
of whose meaning she had no inkling and at that stage interpreted 
rather fancifully and quite incorrectly. However, his meaning was very 
clear when he removed her robe, and himself his britches, so that his 
shirt reached to his bare thighs and his penis rode high inside them. He 
raised his shirt and Thasra was bade, as Lizzy was this evening, to 
grasp it in her hand. Although she was now no stranger to the sight of 
an erect penis and knew too well the pain and shame of penetration, 
this was the first time she'd ever had to experience the feel of it in the 
palm of her hand. It was both hard and soft, and strangely warm. And 
there was a curious throbbing along the veins of its length. And that 
introduction to her master's wishes was but the beginning of a night of 
sex which was only different from that she'd experienced before by its 
interminableness, and the reward of a soft mattress on which to sleep 
when her master was sated.

And this night was to be the start of many more, but not every night. 
Other slave-women in the farm were also commanded to entertain him 
for the night, and although he told her that she was his 'favourite 
whore', she spent only marginally more nights with him than did the 
others. She wondered why he didn't find himself a wife to care and to 
be cared by, as she had discovered was the way it should be according 
to the Holy Scriptures. Perhaps he preferred the younger, much darker 
flesh of his not so willing servants. Perhaps no white woman would 
have him. For herself, she would have preferred a much younger, more 
handsome lover; but for her master she could see that there were 
White Devil women, much as ugly and uncouth as himself, who 
would certainly make a fine match for him. 

However, Thasra's hopes for Lizzy replacing her in her master's white 
sheets and under his coarse woollen blanket were not to be fulfilled. 
Enoch bade Lizzy go, which she did, picking up her ragged dress as 
she left, her full round buttocks and her proud gait outlined in the 
candle-light as she went through the door. He then drank the whole of 
his beaker of ale, and poured another helping from the flagon. A trail 
of ale dribbled down his chin, which he brushed off with the back of 
his hand, and then belched loudly and with a slight whiff of the 
cabbage and beef stew he'd been eating earlier that evening.

"And now, my dear. Back to business, the Lord be Praised!" 
exclaimed Enoch, crawling back onto the mattress and over to where 
Thasra lay. He grinned at her lasciviously, a set of broken and filthy 
teeth between his thin lips and underneath a long, pinched nose. His 
dark grey eyes shone with his intent. He pulled up his shirt to reveal a 
twitching lively penis. "Open your legs, my lovely!"

Thasra did as she was bidden, her knees parted on either side of his 
long shirt, as his prick once again plunged into her. She lay back, her 
hands stiff on either side of her as he thrust back and forth, back and 
forth, his own semen lubricating his movements, while she thought 
about other things, anything, to take her mind off her violation. Enoch 
was clearly not impressed by her impassivity.

"I' Faith! You can't be feeling me at all. There's no damnable reaction 
from you at all, dear. The whores at Elias's Tavern have more life than 
you! Still, I can correct that."

He withdrew his penis and stood up above her on his knees. "Turn 
around, damn you!" He commanded her. "That ass of yours is not just 
for shitting from."

Thasra knew what Enoch meant, and this was not for the first time. 
When she arrived in the New World, her virginity from behind had 
remained intact. Indeed, she had never contemplated that anyone 
would choose to enter her from an orifice clearly not designed for the 
purpose. Surely this was as forbidden in the Holy Bible as the 
unnatural coupling of people of the same sex or between human and 
animal. But she knew now that what was forbidden was not therefore 
unpractised. Indeed, the very proscriptions against such acts seemed 
merely to make such acts the more attractive to people such as Enoch.

He pressed her face down onto the hard pillow by her shoulders, while 
guiding his erect penis, not without difficulty, not into the wider more 
appropriate hole, but in the smaller, tighter one. At first it was too tight 
to allow him even the smallest amount of access, but then Thasra felt 
drops of ale drip onto the small of her back. And she knew that he was 
using the ale to moisten his penis. He then thrust a moist finger, with 
his sharp, broken nails, deep into her anus. 

"You're so damnably tight, my dear!" Enoch grunted. "After all these 
months, you'd have thought that you'd have loosened a little. What is 
it that you do to keep it so tight?"

But one finger wasn't enough. It was not the width of a fully erect 
penis, whose blunt soft end Thasra could feel pressing against her 
thigh as he thrust two fingers into her anus: a painful, unpleasant ache 
which pressed against the base of her stomach, chafed against the 
inside of her already tender vagina and made her feel very slightly 
sick. She had a sensation a little like having a shit, but one from which 
there would be no relief by the normal means. Despite herself, she 
gasped and shrieked from the unnatural pain. And then worse was to 
come, as Enoch's penis, inch by inch, pushed into her ass, guided by 
his hand and moistened by ale and spittle, while she gasped and yelped 
as it parted her bowels from inside. Bit by bit, it entered deeper, 
pressing forcefully against the tender nerves of her vagina whilst its 
end was lost in a realm of similarly lost sensation. When would this 
ordeal end?

Thankfully, not for as long as Thasra feared. As was so often the case 
when Enoch indulged his more perverse desires, he was unable to hold 
out for long before his penis exploded inside her in a moist, liquid 
mess of semen. As the horrible warm viscous fluid dribbled out of her 
ass and onto the inside of her buttocks and the back of her thighs, she 
could feel Enoch's penis shrivel like a shrivelled fruit. And then it 
could stay inside no longer and slid out of her to be hidden once again 
by the folds of his shirt.

This was, at last, the rest that Thasra had so waited for. Enoch 
slumped to one side, where the affects of his lustful exertions and 
those of the several flagons of ale he'd drunk that evening left him 
slumped, face toward the ceiling, and an arm around her shoulder, 
more to pinion her warm body to his than for any show of affection. 
The two lay there in the silence of the dark night, lit only by the last 
flickering glow of the candle and the moonlight coming through the 
half-closed shutters. Thasra, naked and ashamed, a black silhouette on 
white sheets with the emission of her shame still moist and cloying on 
her thighs, pubic hair and buttocks. Enoch, bare nobbly legs and 
scratchy scrawny neck protruded from either end of his large soiled 
shirt.

And then, when the candle finally extinguished itself, as so often 
happened, Enoch spoke to her, and also not to her, of his experiences 
in the War of Independence which had played such a defining part in 
his life. He spoke of the redcoats and the brave soldiers of the New 
Republic fighting for Democracy, Liberty and Self-Determination. He 
spoke of the bloody battles and his own courage in the face of British 
cannons, gunfire and bayonets. And he eulogised on the wisdom of 
President George Washington, Tom Paine, Thomas Jefferson and 
Benjamin Franklin, and how they had carved a nation built on fair 
representation for taxation, freedom of people of all faiths (even the 
damnable Papists!) and countries of origin, a land where a man could 
stand free and proud. No longer were Americans the subjects of a 
distant King and a remote Parliament who took from its Colonies far 
more than they were prepared to give them back. At last, there was a 
nation in the world where every man was free and every man's 
opinion was respected.

Thasra knew enough to see that there were clear limits to that freedom 
and representation. She had no free voice and neither did any of the 
other slaves on that farm or on any other in the Union. Indeed, the only 
freedom she had known was on a far distant continent whose contours 
she now only knew from studying the map Enoch kept framed in his 
study. Often she had regarded the map, faded at the edges and with a 
margin full of fantastic beings, where the continent of her birth formed 
a triangle to the south with a dark, unlabelled interior which to her was 
where the only freedom that any African slave had ever known could 
be found. Instead, here she was in a continent of white devils and the 
few brown skinned ones (who were similarly cursed by the White 
Devil's desecration of their ancestral land), in another inverted triangle 
with just as much unlabelled space as there was in Africa. Perhaps 
there, in the midst of all that unlabelled space, there might be a similar 
liberty for slaves like her as she had once taken for granted.

Finally, as Thasra knew he would, Enoch slumbered off, a trail of 
saliva and snot down his cheek, and within minutes was snoring 
loudly and frequently. She gently disengaged his arm from around her 
shoulder, and turned round to face the wall where Enoch had mounted 
his musket and crossed swords. She could see their shadows as the full 
moon lit up the dark recesses of Enoch's bed chamber. All the while 
she felt the dull bruises inside her, from both ass and vagina, bruised 
by her master's ravages. If only she too could savour the freedom that 
Enoch relished so much.

But of course she could! She jumped up off the bed, and within two 
bounds she had a sword in her hand. She tenderly gauged its sharpness 
with her thumb as she did the knives in the kitchen. Clearly, all those 
redcoats that it had killed hadn't blunted it. She stood over Enoch, 
contemplating his shadowy length: the white shirt, the white skin, the 
White Devil. 

Thasra knew enough from the times she had slaughtered swine in the 
kitchen that the best way to a kill was by decisiveness and speed. And 
that was exactly the message she heeded as she brought the full weight 
of the sword in one long elegant swoop down onto his bared neck. 
And then, with the rush of blood in her cheeks and encouraged by the 
gush of blood from his severed throat, she brought the sword down 
again and again, on his arms, on his chest, on his stomach, not giving 
him time to yell and undeterred by the blood that shot out from him as 
the blade slashed into his flesh. 

She didn't know when he died. She didn't give herself time to find 
out, as she slashed at his blood-stained shirt, her naked body as 
covered in blood as her victim's. She only stopped when the 
exhaustion of her manic efforts had tired her enough that she needed 
the respite.

And then she stood back, blood dripping in streaks down her naked 
black skin. Now, she reasoned, with a smile breaking out on her 
ecstatic face, she too would know the taste of freedom in the New 
World. 




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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