
  

    


                    REVOLUTIONARY INSPIRATION

                               by

                            Joe Doe 

 
JUST IN TIME FOR THE HOLIDAYS: A RECENTLY DISCOVERED BATCH 
OF HISTORICAL APPLESAUCE.  A STATELY SOUTHERN PLANTATION, 
A TIME OF DECISION, AND A LEGEND ALL COME TOGETHER TO FORM 
THIS "HISTORICAL" TALE.  

                           

Martha looked nervously out her bedroom window towards the town.  
Sally, her slave wench, had warned her that the British had 
already burned her neighbor's plantation.

Martha squinted as she examined the horizon.  "I wonder why there's 
no smoke?" she thought.

It didn't matter; the British would be here soon, and she had more 
pressing matters.

She turned her attention to the dress that Sally had laid out for 
her on the bed.  It wasn't a dress, really -- just an old cotton 
rag similar to what the other slave girls wore.

Martha winced as she considered the phrase "the other slave girls." 
In a few minutes, that's all she would be...just another slave 
wench.

It was a brilliant idea.  Who would ever suspect that the 
fair-skinned fancy girl was really the wife of the plantation 
owner?  The British would never bother to arrest a slave wench.

As a slave, Martha could hide in plain sight.  It was a clever 
plan, particularly since British patrols were picking up fleeing 
rebels by the dozen.

But, as she stared at the dress, Martha's resolve waned.  The 
coarse rag was scratchy and dirty.  Her slave wench had insisted 
on a dress that stank of the sweat of the cotton fields....  
Indeed, until the British arrived, Martha would be sent into 
the fields to work with the other slaves.

It wasn't enough for Martha to look like a slave.  Martha would 
have to smell like a slave, as well.

But it was the shortness of the dress that bothered her the most.  
As a refined southern lady, Martha was used to floor length gowns.  
She hadn't worn a dress that displayed her ankles since she was a 
child!

But the dress on the bed showed not only her bare feet, but also 
her bare legs.  Indeed, the scandalous garment left most of her 
thighs bare.

She had never worn a garment like this before and had blanched 
when the grinning slave wench happily laid it out on the bed.

Martha she didn't WANT to wear the dress, but she had to admit it 
did make sense.  If she was going to look like a fancy girl, then 
she should dress like one.

A lady wouldn't wear a dress like that.  But, after she put on the 
dress, she wouldn't be a lady, would she?  She'd be a hot, frisky 
bitch, good for planting tobacco and serving the lusts of the men 
who ran the plantation.

She was suddenly glad that her two overseers were out of town.  
Ordinarily she didn't like being alone on the plantation with 
just the other slaves, but the fewer people who saw her parading 
around in this stinking castoff the better.

She once again caught herself.  "The other slaves," she whispered 
to herself.  "Why do I keep thinking that?"

She swallowed as she began unbuttoning her fancy dress.  The 
psychology of what she was doing was powerful...and dangerous.  
But she didn't have time to worry about such niceties when her 
neighbor's plantation was on fire.

She looked out the window again.  There was still no smoke.  How 
strange! 

She paused when she got to her petticoats.  She had tried to 
persuade her slave wench to let her keep her underwear, but 
the laughing servant had been adamant.  "No nigger girl wears 
fancy drawers like dat, Mrs. J!" Sally had chortled.  "You 
wanna look like a nigger, you gotta go nigger naked, with jus' 
dat sack to covers you.  Won't be so hot out in the fields 
dat way, neither, but you'll still work up a good stink," she 
chuckled.

Martha was just pulling the sack over her head when the slave 
girl entered the room.  Martha was startled at first because 
the normally humble girl hadn't knocked first, as was her custom.  
But, when she saw what was in Sally's hands, she understood.

It was a long leather riding switch.  As if the humiliating slave 
rag wasn't bad enough, Martha was about to get her first slave 
whipping!

As much as she feared the whip, Martha had to admit that the ploy 
made sense.  A few fresh stripes across the back of her milky white 
thighs would certainly help "sell" the British on the idea that 
she was nothing but a lowly slave.

"O' course dat's one reason why you cain't wear no drawers," Sally 
had chuckled.  "Slave wenches don't get to wear no fancy pants.  
An' you'll need to be whupped on your bare rump, jus' like a real 
slave, so you learns your lesson."

What lesson Martha was supposed to learn escaped her, but, from the 
gleam in the slave girl's eye, it was obvious that she was eager to 
teach it.

Martha's bottom cheeks tensed as she watched the slave girl tap the 
switch against her palm.  "Are you sure we can't do it...over my 
dress?" Martha asked.

"No way, no how," the grinning slave replied.  "If'n we does it on 
the bare, Petie cain lay on the stripes nice and pretty...all in a 
row.  Thataway, if one of them British officers lifts up your ol' 
dress to see that cute little bottom of yours, he'll see that we 
knows you jus' a fancy girl."

"Petie?" Martha squeeked.  "I-I thought YOU were going to whip me." 

"Don' be silly!" Sally chortled.  "Petie's gonna do you out in the 
barn, tied down over the trestle.  We want those stripes to look 
right, don' we?  Petie'll get 'em lined up all nice and tight."

"B-but Petie's a-a ssslave," Martha stammered.  "If HE whips 
me...he'll see me...NAKED!"

"When you straddles dat whuppin' bench your legs'll be spread," the 
slave admitted, thoughtfully.  "But he won't see much...leas' not 
'til he begins the whuppin'.  Once you starts humping the horse, 
I 'magines it'll be quite a show."

"But I tol' him not to look TOO hard," the slave laughed.  "An' I 
tol' the other bucks that they shouldn't be looking in through the 
cracks in the barn wall like they do when me or one of the other 
pretty slave girls gets whupped."

Martha swallowed.  The barn was festooned with peep holes.  And the 
thought of the muscular Petie whipping her bottom sent shivers down 
her spine.

"You let your hair down...that's good," Sally observed cooly.  
"You still too clean and perfumed to be a wench, but a few 
hours in the field'll take care o' dat.  We'll leave you 
barefoot, to get some dirt on your pretty white feet.  An' 
who knows?  After a few hours in the tobacco fields you jus' 
might look blacker'n I do."

Martha shot her servant an angry glance.  It was true that the 
slave girl's skin was fair, fair enough that she might even pass 
for white.  But it was understood that it was a subject that was 
never to be discussed.

"Plus, I 'magines you'll work up quite a sweat on the bench," Sally 
continued.  "When I took my licks, Petie really kept my bottom 
dancin'.  O' course, after a while all that rubbing 'tween my 
legs kinda kept my mind off'n other things."

Martha could feel her heart pounding in her chest.  Despite her 
intense feelings of humiliation -- or perhaps because of them -- 
the juices were literally running down her thighs.  Her slave 
wench couldn't see them, though, since Martha's thighs were 
pressed tightly together.

But, when Petie strapped her down over the bench, her secret would 
be revealed for everyone to see.

As if reading her mind, the slave girl said, "Don' worry 'bout 
juicing yourself, Miss Martha; dat's jus' natural.  Rubbing 'gainst 
the leather'll make your whuppin' easier....  And it'll make it 
easier when the assessor comes."

"The assessor?" Martha said.  "What is HE coming for?"

"We needs some papers on you, case the British ask for 'em.  Don' 
worry none...the auction house is sendin' one of the new slaves, 
a big Mandingo, name Bruiser, to put you through your paces.  He 
won't know who you are.  To him you'll be jus' 'nother wench.  He 
knows how to write, and he'll be able to fill out your papers after 
he sizes you up."

Martha looked at the girl in stunned disbelief.  The slave 
assessments were required for tax purposes, but Martha had 
never even considered the possibility that SHE would be 
subjugated to such a humiliation.

Since her soft-hearted husband always found excuses to avoid the 
assessment, Martha had been forced to supervise the procedure.  
It had been rather amusing, in a bizarre sort of way -- watching 
the handsome black bucks run naked across the yard while the 
assessor ranked their worth.

But it was Sally's assessment that had been the most amusing.  
The assessor had forced the young slave girl to kneel naked 
on the table while he slowly "juiced her," all the while 
scolding her for being a "hot, randy little bitch."

It was an open secret in the family that the slave girl Sally was 
Martha's half-sister.  Her father had sired her with a slave wench, 
and Martha had inherited her when her father died.

It was bad enough to have a young half-sister that looked like a 
tawny version of herself.  But it was Sally's uppity attitude that 
really made Martha's blood boil.  Sally never missed an opportunity 
to make sly remarks about their "special relationship."  Those 
remarks always amused her husband, so Martha was forced to fume 
silently as long as he was there to protect her.

But, when her husband left on business, the whip came out!

Martha had enjoyed watching the assessor put the little bitch in 
her place.  The look of shame and humiliation in Sally's eyes as 
she exploded into orgasm under Martha's amused gaze was simply 
priceless.

Sister indeed!  Sally was truly nothing but a "hot, randy little 
bitch."

Martha swallowed.  Now Sally was holding the whip.  And it would 
be Sally watching as the assessor ordered Martha onto the table.

She shuddered as she imagined the black man's fingers manipulating 
her hot steaminess.  Not content with a single orgasm, Martha had 
ordered the assessor to manipulate Sally until she collapsed into 
near exhaustion.

From the cruel gleam in her slave girl's eye, she knew that Sally 
would be no easier on her.

Martha looked at the letter on the desk.  She had been writing 
to her husband, Tom, who even now was trapped at the Second 
Continental Congress in Philadelphia.  Poor Tom had been chosen 
to write some sort of justification for the colonies' separation.

He had been at a loss for words, and Martha had tried to help him.  
The suggested text she had written at the bottom of the letter took 
on new relevance as she watched her young slave mistress sitting on 
her bed and impatiently tapping the switch against her tan palm.

WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED 
EQUAL, THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN 
INALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE 
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS....

Her literary inspiration was cut short by an evil swish, followed 
by a red hot sting on her backside.  "Hurry up, nappy head," Sally 
said, cruelly.  "Petie don't like to be kep' waitin'!"

The young white woman quickly put down the letter and scampered 
barefoot past her slave, out of the bedroom, and down the stairs 
to the main entrance hallway.

As a chief house slave, Sally had on substantially more clothing -- 
even shoes.  She smiled as she watched Martha delicately walk 
across the cold marble steps in her dainty bare feet.

"Feels a bit diff'rent when you a slave, don' it?" Sally chuckled, 
as Martha leaned against one of the columns for support.

Martha was horrified to see that all of the plantation slaves 
had already staked out prime "peep positions" around the barn.  
Although they quickly scattered when they saw Sally and Martha 
walking towards them, Martha realized that any illusions she 
had about privacy were foolish.

She resolved to take her whipping like a lady.  She wouldn't twist 
and wiggle her bottom, or beg for mercy, or spread her legs, or 
hump the bench like some trollop in heat.  And she certainly 
wouldn't conclude her whipping by kissing the switch and 
pleasuring Petie orally like the other slave girls did.

She assumed that the large, smiling black man standing next to the 
whipping bench holding a sheaf of papers was the assessor.  For a 
moment, she was puzzled.  News of the British attack had just 
arrived; how did Sally get him here so quickly, when he had 
farther to come than the British?

Martha's ruminations were cut short by Sally, clearing her throat.  
The frowning servant was holding out her hand.  "Now, don' be 
stallin', Toby," Sally said.  "Jus' cuz you looks white makes no 
never mind.  You still has to git whupped nigger naked."

Martha grasped the hem of her sack dress and slowly drew it over 
her head.  When she saw the way that Petie and the assessor were 
looking at her, she realized that her hesitation was only making 
the show more enjoyable.

She quickly scampered into position over the whipping bench.  
She winced as Sally pulled first the wrist-straps and then the 
ankle-straps appropriately tight.  She used this humiliating 
"strap down" procedure as an excuse to pull Martha's shapely 
bottom to the very end of the whipping bench, and to spread 
her legs as wide as possible.

Martha's fingers twisted helplessly as she vainly tried to reach 
the buckle.  Only the waist strap had been left loose, no doubt 
so that she could wiggle her fanny as the stripes were laid on.

Sally knelt down and put the tip of the switch in front of Martha's 
delicate mouth.  "Now, I wants you to kiss the switch and thank me 
fo' arrangin' all this fo' you, jus' like a good little nigger 
girl, Toby."

With the slave assessor watching, what else could Martha do?  If 
her secret were revealed, the British might treat her far worse, 
or even use her as bargaining chip against Tom.

"Thank you for arranging m-my...whupping, Miss Sally," Martha said 
with as much humility as she could muster.  "I know I've been a 
naughty wench, and I deserve it."

Sally smiled down as she watched her mistress kiss the tip of the 
whip that would soon, in turn, be kissing her tender bottom.

Sally leaned in close and whispered in Martha's ear.  "Ever'body 
knows I's prettier'n you, sister, an' dat bed upstairs was mighty 
comf'table.  Maybe someday I be the one warmin' Mr. Tom's bed."

"Over my dead body, Sally Hemings!" Martha Jefferson hissed back.



Edited by C. Lakewood

