My husband’s college roommate Austin is from Texas, old oil money diversified into tech, and lives in the billionaire’s club. We decidedly do not, but since he considers my husband to be his best friend and a true brother, he showers us with expensive gifts and places that we could never afford. His wedding gift was our house, to cite one example, and we both drive cars he bought for us as birthday gifts.
“Brother’s share everything, bro,” he says whenever my husband objects. “Wonderful things aren’t wonderful unless you share them.”
As I write this, my husband Wally and I are actually at his private island. I’ve been spending the last couple of weeks sunbathing nude, and working on my all-around tan, which is fine, because the island offers almost total privacy. I say “almost” because Austin regularly goes up on the roof to scope me with his binoculars. He crawls around and tries to stay hidden, but whenever I spot him I tried to give him a bit of a show, and oil myself up. After all he’s given us, it’s the least I can do, plus I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, and it really turns me on. I admit it -- I enjoy having men look at me, and being an object of desire, and I find sex with Wally to be rather ho-hum.
A couple of days ago at dinner Austin announced that he wanted to take the "scenic" route home, and stop at Sugar Fun Island.
Sugar Fun Island actually came up at dinner about a year ago, when Austin was pretty drunk and bragging to my husband Wally about all his exploits. Apparently, the island is “themed” and to 1830’s South Carolina, and Austin runs a sugarcane & rice planation worked almost entirely by black slaves.
I say “almost” because a very drunk Austin told a remarkable story about a Hispanic girl named Maria who had jilted him rather badly in college. He said that he tracked her down and she was now a surgeon. To make a long story short, he lured her to Sugar Fun Island, and after a “racial assessment” she was declared black and put on the auction block.
“What’s a racial assessment?” I asked rather naively. “You mean like a DNA test?”
“They didn’t have DNA tests in 1850, dummy,” Austin said, in a voice that suggested I was the stupidest girl in the world. “Six of the major plantation owners, myself included, assess the girl’s racial makeup the old-fashioned way. She kneels naked on the table in the assessor’s office, and we give her a good going over, checking the smoothness of her skin, the kinkiness of her hair, the fullness of her lips, and so forth. There’s an old negress named Kaboo, and she works her fingers between the girl’s legs, to see if she’s a proper lady, or a frisky Nigra wench. She’s quite the devil with her fingers, and poor Maria responded. She was dark, yes, but it was the friskiness that doomed her. After all, what proper white lady would come on a negro woman’s hands, with half a dozen cigar smoking gentleman watching? Naturally each of us reached between her legs, and verified the evidence, before declaring her negro.”
“Very fair of you,” Wally said, nodding. "It's sound very thorough, like you wanted to make sure it was done right."
"Exactly," Austin said. "All nice and legal, according to the laws of Sugar Fun Island."
“My goodness, what happened to her?” I asked.
“We shaved off the curls between her legs, and branded a “N” there, to make it clear that she was n***** pussy,” Austin said casually. Then the blacksmith fixed the rivets to her wrist and ankle shackles. After we finished our breakfast, we marched her n***** naked into the town square, where she was sold during the Saturday afternoon auction.”
“So, you bought her?” Walter said.
“Damn right. Now I own her stuck up, prick teasing ass. I have quite a few bed wenches, so she works in the fields most of the time, but every now and then I give her a treat and rotate her in for a good fucking, before sending her out bowlegged back into the fields, to earn me some money,” he said, laughing. "She's pretty grateful to be in a real bed, even if it's only for a few hours, as it sure beats sleeping on straw."
“Are you ever going to free her?” I asked.
“I might sell her,” Austin allowed, “but the island has strict rules forbidding slave exports. So, she’s a permanent resident.”
“I wouldn’t mind living there,” Wally said. “I’ve always loved the Antebellum South, and I grew up on a farm.”
“Well, I could really use your help. I don’t visit often enough to keep a handle on the business end, and the manager I’m using is more interested in fucking the wenches than making sure I have a decent crop.”
“What could I do?” I asked.
Austin looked at me thoughtfully. “Well, they didn’t have Women’s Studies professors in 1830,” he admitted. “But I’m sure you find a lot of interesting material, seeing how various women lived during that time.”
“I’d certainly like to talk to the female slaves, and get their view,” I said.
“I doubt they’d talk to you, being a white woman,” he said. “Although with that curly dark hair of yours, and olive skin you could almost…” his voice trailed off, and he smiled. “I’m sure we’d find something appropriate for a girl of your talents, Nina.”
The topic changed to the island in general. Austin explained that there were a few modern amenities for emergencies, but there are no cellphones or computers and certainly no cars. “It’s the simple life, sipping my mint julip on the colonnade as I watch my darkies toiling in the rice paddies. I have mostly female labor, as it’s more fun to watch a bunch of naked wenches working from my porch. I do keep a few male slaves around as overseers, and for breeding, when I decide to put a wench to stud.”
I will admit that the thought of working naked in Austin’s field, or being naked on the auction block, did arouse my exhibitionist fantasies, and Wally and I did it like bunnies, until he got exhausted and fell asleep.
I didn’t really think much of Sugar Fun Island until I discovered that we were scheduled to go to Austin's plantation.My concern is that I’m of Sicilian descent, and after spending a week working on my overall tan, I’m quite dark. I brought this up to Austin, but he was quite dismissive. “A learned, and highly opinionated Social Justice Warrior, secretly a negro slave? The thought never occurred to me, my dear. I'm sure your intellect would shine through. Even if such an accusation were made, and you were assessed, my dear, there would be nothing to it. A few minutes on the table, with a couple of light taps of the riding crop to make sure you were properly positioned for the examination. If you behave yourself, and act like the proper lady you purport yourself to be, it will be over in no time. Plus, I will be there to watch over you, and even... lend a hand, if need be.”
He looked me up-and-down and licked his lips, and I realized that at the very least I might end up naked on a table, with Austin “assessing” my charms. I had actually gotten excited listing to Austin describe the assessment, although I’m thinking that undergoing the ordeal would be quite different. But would I be able to control myself? I'm sure I would. After all, I'm a college professor, not a negro bed wench.
I tried to discuss it with Wally, but he said that my questing of Austin was ‘insulting” and “paranoid.” He also pointed out that the assessments occur during the Saturday morning breakfast, and we’ll be arriving on a Tuesday, so I have nothing to worry about.
“You claim you’re Italian, not black, right? Unless you've been hiding the truth from me, what are you afraid of? Austin is trying to share something special with us. Maybe you should think of all he’s done for us, and try to start sharing with him, too.”
Abner, am I being selfish, and worrying about nothing? I'm enclosing a picture to get your opinion. Italian, but not negro, right? As we’re on his island, and will be flying on his jet to Sugar Fun Island, it’s not exactly like I can book alternate transportation. What’s my best strategy here?
