"Well, it's just a thought," I said, grinning. "You never know what might happen down there."
Jennifer rolled her eyes, her laughter subsiding into a playful smirk. "Your family's not that crazy, is it?"
The warmth of the room was suddenly pierced by the cold reality of the situation as we watched the news. The newscaster's serious tone announced the latest update on the controversial "Scent Law" that had been passed in a few Southern states, including my parents' home state of Alabama. The law allowed trained hounds to serve alongside officers, with the dogs being empowered with the ability to make arrests based solely on the scent of a suspect. The idea was to combat the rising rate of escaped slaves and illegal migrants crossing state lines, but it had sparked nationwide debate, particularly in liberal circles like ours.
Jennifer always took an active part in those discussions, as she was quite the little feminist. She denounced slavery in no uncertain terms. I always enjoyed listening to her sharp arguments, because afterwards when we got home, she’d be incredibly horny and we’d do it like bunnies. I will never figure out women, but if the sex was hot, I really didn’t care to.
Jennifer and I had just graduated from law school that summer, but we had plenty of money, courtesy of her absurdly rich father. After passing the bar with a near perfect score, my brainiac girlfriend was clerking for a federal judge, and I had gotten a better paying, if ho-hum, corporate job.
Thanksgiving rolled around, and despite the oddity of the new law, we decided to visit my family. The holiday was full of love and laughter, with stories shared around the dinner table and the clinking of glasses echoing through the house. My family is super Trumpy, but Jennifer rolled with it, and avoided debates where she’d be outnumbered 10 to one. My parents and cousins loved her, with several of my male cousins and even my father openly remarking on how Jennifer was “hot enough to be a slave girl.” Compliments that she received included comments that she was “Prime”, “block ready”, and “Too pretty to sell, to clever to keep.” She took them in the spirit of fun, blushing and biting her lip as everyone laughed. I could tell the attention was turning her on, and she was so noisy in bed that my Pa joked that I should “devoice her” at breakfast, as Jennifer turned beat red and everyone laughed.
“You two ayn’t getting up to no funny business, right?” Ma challenged. “This here’s a Christian house.”
“No, Ma’am,” Jennifer said earnestly. We were just…exercising.” Everyone laughed, except Ma.
Jennifer’s first introduction to Alabama slavery was at a stoplight on the way back to the farm after picking up some fixin’s for Thanksgiving dinner. "What the fuck is that?"
Jennifer's voice was a mix of shock and disbelief as we sat at the stoplight on the outskirts of my hometown. I glanced over, following her gaze to the dusty box truck pulled up alongside us. My heart skipped a beat as I saw what had caught her eye.
The six girls packed into the truck's open bed were indeed naked, their skin a spectrum of whites and browns, shimmering with a sheen of sweat under the unforgiving Southern sun. They were chained together, their wrists and ankles secured by thick metal cuffs attached to a chain that rattled as the truck rumbled on the uneven asphalt. Their expressions were a blend of defeat and resignation, their eyes cast downward, avoiding the lecherous stares of passersby’s. Each girl wore a collar that matched their cuffs, the stark contrast against their bare necks a grim reminder of their status.
Jennifer's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief. "They're... they're naked," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "Why are they like that?"
I couldn't help the smirk that tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Welcome to rural Alabama, Baby," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "Some folks around here like to keep things old school."
Jennifer's shock quickly morphed into a scowl as she processed what she was seeing. She was a city girl through and through, her feminist ideals as much a part of her as her designer wardrobe and Ivy League pedigree. The sight of these modern-day slaves was a stark contrast to the world of law, academia and social progress she was used to. "This is disgusting," she hissed, her hand tightening around the door handle as if she were considering jumping out of the car to confront the driver.
But before she could say anything more, one of the girls in the truck stirred. She was a stunning brunette, her skin a deep tan that spoke of long days under the open sky. As she stood to adjust her cramped legs, the sunlight hit her from behind, casting her silhouette against the metal siding. That's when I noticed it: the black cursive A, branded into the soft flesh of her left butt cheek. It was a clear, deliberate mark, the kind that left no doubt about its meaning or intent.
Jennifer's jaw dropped like a lead weight. "Is that what I think it is?" she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.
The slave brand was stark and unmistakable, a symbol of ownership and degradation. I couldn't help but laugh at her California liberal outrage. "That's right, baby," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "Down here, some folks like to keep things traditional. No big deal, really. They're just marking their property."
Jennifer's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, and her eyes narrowed. "Property? No big deal? How can you be so... so casual about it?" she snapped.
"It's just the way things are around here," I shrugged, my voice even. "You can't change centuries of tradition, especially not in the South. "
Jennifer's eyes remained glued to the branded girl, a mix of horror and fascination swirling in their depths. “They actually branded her! Like an animal.”
"Under Alabama law, that’s what she is,” I explained. "Branding is quick and effective. It's no different than tagging livestock to keep track of them. Cows, horses, pigs, they all get branded to show ownership and to prevent theft. It's the same principle here. I hope you ayn’t going to do some big slave speech at Thanksgiving dinner, Jennifer. I want you to fit in."
Jennifer nodded. “I won’t. I want your family to like me. No matter how weird it is down here.”
Jennifer looked back at the girls. "But why are they all... bare down there?" she asked.
"It's all part of keeping 'em clean," I explained. "When you got a bunch of hot, sweaty girls who can't help but play with themselves, it's easier to keep 'em tidy if their pussies are shaved. Besides, when you take 'em to market, folks wanna see what they're buying. It's like that little window on the back of the bacon package, ya know?" I chuckled.
"So, they don’t have any say?” she murmured, clearly identifying with the girls. “That's so wrong."
"It's just the way things are round ‘here, Jennifer," I said, purposely keeping my voice smooth and nonchalant. "Most folks ‘round here prefer their slave pussy bare. I guess it makes 'em look cleaner, more... appealing," I said, secretly enjoying my Yankee girlfriend’s discomfort.
I watched as Jennifer’s mind raced ahead, her hand protectively covering the target of the razor. "So, if I were one of those girls..." she began, her voice trailing off as she tried to imagine herself in their place.
She turned to me, too scared to complete the sentence. I was happy to oblige. "Well, then you'd be shaved too, darlin'. It's all part of the deal. Gotta let the buyers see the bacon!" I teased. I saw the blush deepen on her cheeks and knew I’d made my point. The idea of my sophisticated LA girl, stripped bare and sitting in the back of a pickup truck, would be in her pretty head forever.
I watched as Jennifer squirmed in her seat, her cheeks flushed. The light changed, and she leaned over to me, her voice a fierce whisper. "Follow that truck," she ordered. "I want to see where they're taking them."
I complied, the engine of my truck purring as we pulled away from the stoplight. The truck ahead of us kicked up clouds of dust as it lurched down the road, and the metal chain that connected the girls clanked rhythmically with every bump. The sight of them was like a magnet, and I couldn't blame Jennifer for her curiosity. The truck turned onto a dirt path, the wheels leaving deep grooves in the earth as it disappeared into the dense foliage.
"Where are they going?" she asked, her voice quivering.
"To the livestock market," I replied, keeping my eyes on the truck ahead. "They have auctions on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays."
Jennifer's gaze was glued to the truck, her hand unconsciously straying between her legs to cover her own sex, as if to shield it from the fate she could see playing out in her mind's eye. The thought of her soft, pink pussy being displayed and sold like bacon was inconceivable to her, but the visceral response was undeniable. She was torn between her outrage at the situation and a strange, burgeoning fascination that seemed to be stirring deep in her loins.
"I want to go see it," she said, her voice firm and resolute. "Now."
I sighed, knowing that tone all too well. When Jennifer had her mind set on something, it was like trying to argue with a tornado. But we had plans—important plans. "Maybe later," I suggested, trying to sound reasonable. "We have to get home for Thanksgiving dinner, or Ma will be mad."
Her eyes never left the truck, but she nodded, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. "Do they have...uh...SIN numbers?" she asked, her voice trailing off as she reached up to touch the smooth skin just inside her lower lip.
"SIN numbers?" I chuckled, shaking my head at her legal terminology. "You mean their IDs, right? Yeah, they've got 'em."
Jennifer's eyes remained glued to the truck. "Can you get your...uh...SIN number at the slave market?" she asked, her voice tentative.
"Yeah, baby," I said, keeping my eyes on the road. "They'll tattoo it right on you, along with your new name and ownership information. You can get registered, and / or sold. They've got a whole setup for it."
Jennifer's hand slid away from her mouth, and she swallowed hard, her eyes never leaving the truck. "And a... a grading?" she asked, her voice a little shakier now. "What's that?"
"Oh, it's simple enough," I said with a shrug. "They'll check your health, your obedience, and... other attributes. It's like a quality assurance check before you're bought. They have a check off sheet, like when you bring your car into Carmax."
Jennifer's eyes narrowed as she fought the analogy. "Other attributes?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly. She licked her lips, her teeth clicking as if she were trying to hold back a flood of emotions.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "They'll check how tight your pussy is, how well you can suck cock, that kind of thing."
Jennifer's breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. "That's... that's so degrading," she murmured, but the way her hand slipped down to her own thigh suggested she was as excited as she was angry.
"But, for your grading," she began tentatively, "would I have to... undress, like those girls?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper, and I couldn't resist the urge to tease her further. "Yup," I said cheerfully. "Every stitch off, buck naked, right down to your birthday suit. And everyone watching."
Her blush deepened, and she shot me a glare that could melt steel. "You're not serious," she murmured, but there was a note of something else in her voice, something that made me smile.
"Why not?" I said, my eyes still on the road. "It's all in good fun, isn't it? Besides, think of it as a chance to show off that killer body of yours. I'm sure my family would appreciate it."
Jennifer's jaw dropped, and she stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. "They could just... watch?" she stuttered. "While... while I'm... naked?" Her hand had slipped between her legs, under her skirt, and I could see the faint movement of her fingers as she began to play with herself. The idea of being so exposed, so vulnerable, was clearly turning her on, despite her protests.
"Sure, baby," I said with a grin. "It's all part of the experience. You've got to give the potential buyers a good show, after all."
Jennifer's eyes grew even wider, and she swallowed hard. "A show?" she squeaked.
"Yeah, baby," I said with a chuckle. "They want to know what they're getting. You gotta strut your stuff, let 'em see what you're made of. It's a business transaction. They're inspecting you like they would a prize horse. Legs spread, nice and wide. You gotta be thorough."
"Are you serious?" she said.
"As a heart attack," I said, keeping my tone deliberately casual. "They got to see every inch of you, all your little nooks and crannies. You know, to make sure the pussy is worth the price tag. I’m sure my little brothers would enjoy seeing you get the once over by the graders. “
Jennifer's eyes snapped up to meet mine, a mix of anger and something else, something that made my blood race a little faster. "Billy Bob & Cletus? You’re shitting me, right?" she said, but her voice had lost some of its earlier conviction.
"Why not?" I shrugged. "They're 19 and all legal, and you know they've been eyeing you since we got here."
Jennifer's eyes narrowed, and she turned to glare at me. "They're just... twerps," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. They act like teenagers, and play video games and look at porn all day!”
"They're not twerps, baby," I corrected her, my voice low and stern. "They're skilled farm hands. And once your butt naked on the grading table, you don’t get no say no how,” giving her my Alabama country twang. “You gotta play by the rules. No backtalk, no arguing, no putting on airs. Just a good, obedient little slave girl, ready to show off your hot little pussy, and eager to please.”
Jennifer's eyes flashed with a mix of anger and something else—something darker, something that had my cock twitching in anticipation. "I'm not like those girls in the truck," she spat, her voice full of contempt. "My family has money. I'm a lawyer. I don't belong in some... some barn being poked and prodded like cattle."
"But baby," I said, keeping my tone light, "you're in rural Alabama now. Money and degrees don’t mean shit when you’re butt naked in the slave market.”
"I'm a lawyer," she protested, her voice trembling with indignation. "I'm an officer of the court. I aced the California bar—the hardest one in the nation. Surely they'd take that into consideration and treat me with some dignity."
Her words hung in the air, a desperate assertion of her value and her rights in a place where those things meant less than the dust beneath our wheel. The sun beat down on us, casting long shadows across the yard as the sounds of the animals in the barn filled the silence. I knew she was trying to convince herself more than me. "You think your law degree is going to save you from the block?" I taunted gently, my smile never wavering.
Jennifer's eyes flashed with indignation, and she opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips. She knew I was baiting her, pushing her buttons, but I also knew she was loving the dirty thrill of it. Of all the places for this kind of revelation to happen, it was the last place she'd ever expected—but maybe that was the point. The stark contrast between her high-flying life at her father’s Beverly Hills mansion. and this backwoods town was too hot to ignore.
We turned into the gravel driveway of my parents' home, a sprawling farm house surrounded by towering oaks and fields of crops that stretched out like a golden sea. My whole family was there, and I was looking forward to dinner. The sun had started its descent, casting long shadows over the property, and the air was thick with the scent of turkey and fresh-cut hay. Normally, the sight of the house would have filled me with warmth, but today, with Jennifer, it was tinged with a new kind of excitement.
As we walked quietly up the gravel driveway to my family's house, I could tell that the image of the naked, branded girls in the truck was burned into her mind. “Those girls in the truck… naked… The men around here talk about slavery so casually,” she said, “like they’re discussing a new tractor or a prize-winning hog—it was like slaves are nothing more than commodities to be bought and sold. It’s so… interesting” she said. I squeezed her butt as I opened the door to my parents’ house, and she laughed.
I led her into the house, the warm embrace of family and the mouthwatering smells of Thanksgiving dinner enveloping us. The conversation was indeed jovial, everyone talking over one another as they recounted the events of the day, the latest town gossip, and the success of the harvest. My twerpy brothers, Cletus and Billy Bob, were indeed playing video games at the dinner table, but Ma's sharp glare was enough to make them drop their phones and pretend to listen.
Dinner was a jovial affair, filled with stories of past Thanksgiving mishaps and tales of the farm's history. Jennifer’s questions about the land and their family traditions seemed to breathe new life into the old stories, making everyone laugh harder and speak with more animation. I watched her work the table, laboring to integrate herself into a world so foreign to her, yet so familiar to me.
Jennifer looked surprised to learn the turkey had grown up a few yards from where she was sitting, but trying to fit in, said nothing. When Aunt Betty asked her if she voted for “God and President Trump”, Jennifer made a joke of it, saying that under California law her ballot was top secret.
Jennifer was trying to look country, and had dressed in a denim skirt and a white shirt that revealed just a hint of her belly button, and had pulled her carefully coiffed shoulder length hair back into a ponytail. The effect worked, as the skirt was short enough that the males at the table, even my Pa, were so mesmerized by her legs and figure that they didn’t realize her outfit cost more than our dinner.
Normally a light eater, Jennifer followed the family’s lead and hand a second helping of mashed potatoes, with the gravy slathered on. The way she moved around my family, asking questions about the recipes and traditions, made me feel a swell of pride. She was trying so hard to fit in, to be a part of this world that was so different from the world of privilege and wealth she had grown up in back in Beverly Hills.
"Ma," I said, "you outdid yourself with the gravy. This is the best I've ever tasted."
Ma beamed at the compliment, her cheeks reddening slightly. "Thank you, son," she said, her Southern drawl thick as molasses. "It's just a family recipe. Your grandma’s grandma’s grandma deserved the credit. "
“And don’t forget our secret ingredient,” Billy Bob said.
“Yeah, auctioneers do the whippin’s, but we get the drippin’s,” Cletus said.
“That’s true,” Pa agreed, “the boys do deserve some of the credit. What do you think of the gravy, Jen?”
"It really is something special," Jennifer said, her eyes meeting Ma's. "What's the secret ingredient?" The question hung in the air, and the room waited with bated breath for the answer.
Ma chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'll tell you this much—it's got a lot of sweat and some old-fashioned Arkansas country clever, courtesy of them two boys. I'd think with all those fancy-pants restaurants you've eaten in all over the world, you'd be able to tell. Go ahead, take a guess!"
Jennifer’s brow furrowed as she took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, it's definitely richer than any gravy I've had before. Like a Louisiana roux or a Parisian espagnole, but with a depth of flavor that's... almost meaty. Is there some special seasoning, or broth?"
The table erupted into laughter; a sound so genuine it seemed to shake the very walls of the farmhouse. Aunt Larry, the burliest member of the family, actually snorted beer out of his nose, sending a fine mist of foam across the table. Even Ma couldn't hold it in, her eyes watering as she wiped her own chuckles away with the back of her hand.
Jennifer looked around the table, her confusion growing. She glanced at me, her eyes questioning. I couldn't help but laugh too, shaking my head.
"You really haven’t figured it out, have you?” I said. “Whippin’s & Drippin’s? Cletus & Billy Bob helping out? You’ve been wolfing down a gallon of thick, rich, old fashioned Arkansas Slave Girl Gravy.”
Cletus explained. “Billy Bob & I built this little gizmo, a real jim-dandy, really. It's got a little vibrator that we tape right on their little slave girl’s button. Then we strap ‘em down, or hang ‘em up, and sit the gizmo buzzin' and hummin' till they just about go crazy. We attach ‘em to a little drip pan, that catches all their slave honey, and gives it that extra rich meaty flavor y’all like so much.”
“We won a plaque for it at 4-H last month,” Billy Bob said proudly. “We can show it to ‘ya, if you want.”
Jennifer stared at them, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. “You strap them down? How long does it take to get enough… drippings?”
Cletus laughed. “Who cares? You just set-it-and-forget-it!” he said cheerfully. “That’s the part that’s really slick. We stick a vibrator right up inside ‘em, nice and deep. The vibrator's got this sensor, that sees when their little hoo-haas start to contract, and they're about to pop their cork. Then the program dials it back. You don’t ever want to let ‘em finish. You just keep juicin’ em!”
Pa, laughing, joined the fun. “The boys even built a phone app, so you can see how much juice ‘ya got, and how many times they ALMOST made it.” Pa held his hand out, vibrating his fingers as he explained. “You should see ‘em, eyes bulging, screaming into their gags, juice pouring into the drip pan. It’s like they’re riding a razor blade.”
The room erupted in laughter, but it was the kind that had an edge to it, the kind that made you feel like you were the butt of the joke. Everyone could see that my city girlfriend was shocked to discover “the secret ingredient” that she had been lapping up like a hungry dog all through the meal. Steadying herself, she rose and got a glass of water from the sink. I saw the flash of something in Cletus and Billy Bob's eyes, a hunger as they watched Jennifer’s bare legs that made me want to grab Jennifer and run. She didn’t seem to notice, and leaned against the wall for support as her ability to adapt to my family’s southern charm was tested.
I realized now that that gravy tease had been Ma’s warning shot across the bow, a reminder that my pretty girlfriend wasn't in L.A. anymore. But the look on her face suggested that Jennifer didn’t yet understand my mother’s game. Far from making her comfortable, Ma’s “joke” emphasized the alien nature of this world to Jennifer, leaving her more confused and on edge.
Jennifer's eyes darted around the table, her blush deepening as she took in the raucous laughter of my relatives. Suddenly, she looked so out of place among the floral curtains and homemade quilts, her designer Ralph Lauren skirt and polished nails a stark contrast to the well-worn jeans and plaid shirts that surrounded her. "On the way into town I saw a slave girl with a brand on her bottom,” she said tentatively. “I didn’t think civilized people did that sort of thing.”
“Well la-dee-dah,” Cousin Betty parried back, not missing Jennifer’s condescending tone.
Pa waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, it's just a way of keeping track, darlin'. Like putting a tag in a cow’s ear. Nothing personal," he said with a wink, passing the gravy boat to Cletus.
Jennifer was unconvinced. "But, but doesn’t it hurt?”
"Oh, honey," Aunt Betty said, shaking her head at Jennifer’s naiveté, "you're so innocent. Of course, it's gonna hurt. That's the whole point of it.”
Pa nodded. “Darn right. You gotta teach those little sluts respect for their betters. Ayn’t no point in makin’ a fuss about brandin’s. Slave girls are livestock, and that’s just the way the cows ate the cabbage."
Ma looked at Jennifer earnestly as she passed her a plate to rinse in the sink. “It’s not mean, Jennifer, it’s for their own good. The learnin’ is in the burnin’. That’s in The Good Book.”
It wasn’t in the Bible, and Jennifer knew it. To Ma, anything she thought shouldn’t be questioned must have come out of The Bible.
Jennifer’s brow furrowed in confusion as Ma handed her another plate to be rinsed. I notice the boys, Uncle Larry, and Pa staring at her bottom as she turned. I stared too, because she was as sexy as hell. “Let me understand this,” she said, in the tone I recognized from when she was evaluating a legal argument. “I know you don’t have slave girls on the farm. But if you did, you would brand them, for their own good?”
“Sure would,” Pa said, munching on his beans. “That’s the way it’s done, sweetie.”
“If it ayn’t broke, don’t fix it,” Uncle Larry agreed, to my mom’s “Amen.”
“Real slave girls want the brand,” Cletus said, his mouth filled with masticated food. “Their pussies drip for it.”
“True enough,” Pa said. “I’ve seen ‘em Jill off on the branding stick. The little sluts love it.”
"Don't worry, Jen," Billy Bob said. "Ma don't let us have no slave girls around here. She says they stink worse than the pigs, and their pussies drip like leaky faucets."
“Darn right," she said sternly. "But for you, honey," she added, her eyes twinkling as she handed the serving dish she put under the precious gravy boat to Jennifer, "I might make an exception, if you were willing to sleep in the barn. You're Grade A, Prime, after all."
Mom released the dish before Jennifer had tightened her grip. Jennifer's eyes widened in horror, and she fumbled with the plate, her finger’s slipping. It clattered to the floor, a dark river of gravy running down the front of her expensive designer skirt. Jennifer stared down at the mess, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"Ma," she said, standing helplessly as the gravy ran down her skirt, "I'm sorry."
The accident had clearly been Ma’s fault, which was unusual, as my Ma never dropped things in her kitchen. More surprisingly, she latched onto Jennifer’s politeness as an excuse for a tirade. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined Thanksgiving. My floor!”
Jennifer looked down. Her Ralph Lauren skirt was soaked with gravy, but she hadn’t ruined Thanksgiving, which had been and was perfectly lovely. Nonetheless, Ma rose and came at her in a way that made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for apologies.
Most of the gravy was on Jennifer’s skirt, with just a few drops on the floor. The floor was old and beaten up and original to the ancient farmhouse. Jennifer looked at the floor, and then at me, confused as to how she could ruin a floor that looked like the deck of a Civil War shipwreck. But Ma’s next move shocked her more.
"Let's get you out of this messy skirt before you drip all over everything." Before I could even process what was happening, Ma unsnapped the top button of Jennifer's skirt.
Jennifer looked up at me, her eyes wide with shock, but didn’t move. I rose to try and stop Ma from undressing her, but Jennifer waved me away, a look of fiery determination on her face. "Don't interfere," she said sharply. "Your mother and I can handle this."
I sat back, surprised but also eager to see how this would unfold. Ma had a glint in her eye that was half challenge, half amusement, as she moved Jennifer directly under the kitchen light and told her to put her hands on her head and not move an inch until she could wipe the gravy off her legs.
Cletus and Billy Bob gave out a wolf whistle as Jennifer’s pink bikini panties with the little white bow on top came into view.
“Aren’t you precious, in your fancy city girl knickers!” Aunt Betty teased, as everyone around the table laughed.
Ma ran a tub to soak Jennifer’s skirt. The sound of water filling the sink was the only sound in the room as everyone else held their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Your girlfriend sure does have nice legs,” Billy Bob said.
“Do they wrap around you, real tight?” Cletus said.
“Boys, be nice,” Pa said, laughing in a way that made it clear he was enjoying Jennifer’s legs too.
Cletus leaned in, his eyes glued to the darkened spot on the crotch of Jennifer's panties. "Looks like you've got some gravy down there that didn’t come from Ma’s gravy boat, little girl," he said with a leer, earning a snicker from Billy Bob.
The whole room focused on the gusset of Jennifer’s panties. “Ma, Jennifer’s juicing her underpants!” Billy Bob called out loud enough for the whole county to hear.
“Yeah, she’s squirting her snapper!” Cletus said, joining in. “Just like a slave girl.”
Uncle Larry leaned over sticking his nose a few inches away from her soaked crotch. “Sure does smell that way. Smells like fresh baked bread!” he added.
“Boys, be nice,” Pa said. “Jennifer’s a city girl, so of course she might juice a little with all this talk of slave markets and butt brandings. It’s only natural.”
“For some girls,” Aunt Betty said, unconvinced.
“Let me get a towel you can wrap around your waist,” I said, rising.
Jennifer’s voice was sharp. “Sit down, Mason. I’m fine.” Whatever game Ma was playing, Jennifer wanted to play to. I sat down in my chair.
Pa leaned in, taking a sniff of Jennifer’s wet spot. “Is it true what they say about city girls?" he asked, Son? They say they're as sweet as a peach but as tart as a lemon."
I looked to Jennifer, unsure of what I should say.
“Since y’all like jabberin’ about slave gravy so much, go ahead,” Jennifer said, sassing me with her LA parody of my accent. “Answer your Pa, boy.”
I knew she was humiliated, but I also could tell that she was getting off on it, and in an odd way, was using this to integrate herself into the family. I took a sip of my sweet tea, savoring the moment. "Jennifer’s got a taste all her own. Hot, fresh, delicious San Francisco sourdough, fresh from Boudin’s at Fisherman’s Warf. But I reckon it's also got a pinch of California sea salt. Just a hint of the ocean, but it makes everything better."
“Now ‘ya got my interest,” Ma said. “Best of Arkansas, with a California twist. If we used her drippings, you think I might finally win that blue ribbon at the fair?"
Jennifer gave me a “Well, tell them!” look.
"Wouldn't even be a competition, Ma," I said, with a Southern drawl as thick as molasses. "Her pussy juice is like liquid gold. We could bottle that shit up like Paul Newman and sell it to the yuppies in Beverly Hills."
Uncle Larry leaned in, his belly jiggling with laughter. "Hell, if it's as good as you say, we might just have to set Jennifer up in the barn, keep her juicin' round the clock," he said, nudging Billy Bob with his elbow.
Ma's eyes lit up at the idea. "Why, that's not a bad thought," she said, her spoon hovering over her plate. "A whole line of 'Jen's Sweet California Gravy'. It’ll be like printin’ money."
The room erupted in laughter again, the kind that had teeth behind it. Jennifer stood there, nervously chewing her lip, hands on her head. She wasn’t smiling, but it seemed like the stain in her pink panties was spreading.
Ma walked over to Jennifer with a wet cloth in her hand, her expression a mix of disgust and amusement. "Hold still, now," she said, crouching down next to her. “Let’s not make a bigger mess.”
Jennifer's breathing grew ragged as the wet cloth approached her crotch. "Ma," she gasped, "please,” she said, trying to flutily squirm out of her grip. But her protests only seemed to fuel Ma's determination.
Ma chuckled, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Don't worry, darlin'," she said, her Southern drawl thick as molasses. "I'm not gonna touch your stinky bits. I leave the juicin’ to the boys. Besides, I wouldn’t touch that dirty bird’s nest unless I had my coarse bristle brush,” she joked.
The room erupted in laughter again, and Billy Bob jumped up from the table. "I'll go get it," he said eagerly, his eyes never leaving the dark stain on Jennifer's panties. "Can't have you doin' all the dirty work, Ma."
Ma slapped him playfully on the back of the head with the wet cloth, making him yelp. "You sit your skinny butt down, Billy Bob," she said, her voice like a whip crack. "This is between me and the future Mrs. Huckleberry."
Jennifer looked at me, surprised at the reference to marriage. She didn’t know the ring was in my pocket, but Ma did.
Pa picked up the plate Jennifer had dropped, inspecting it for any damage. "Looks like it's still in one piece," he said. "But you need to be more careful, Ma. That's a family heirloom."
Ma snorted, her hand moving up to swat at him playfully. "This old thing?" she said, her eyes lighting up with mirth. "It's just a reminder of our roots, that's all."
Pa's laugh was deep and warm, the kind that made you want to lean in and listen to his stories. He held up the plate proudly. The family logo, a simple H with a half-circle underneath, was stamped into the side, the same logo that adorned everything from the stationery to the fence that surrounded the property. It was a symbol of pride, of our long Southern heritage.
“It’s lovely,” Jennifer said.
Ma's eyes softened as she slowly massaged Jennifer’s bare legs with the wash cloth in slow, lingering gestures. "Why thank you, sweetheart," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness. "I know you’re used to expensive stuff. A compliment for my dishes means a lot coming from someone like you."
Jennifer's cheeks were still flushed, but she managed a weak smile. "I love the way you put your family logo on everything.”
Ma's tone softened, the tension in the room dissipating like mist in the sun. "Why, thank you, Jen," she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know, we take pride in our family crest. It's been passed down through generations, a symbol of our family."
"I can see why," Jennifer replied, her voice a little shaky but earnest. "It's really beautiful. The way you all wear it, like a badge of honor, on your shirts and hats. It's...it's kind of sexy, actually."
“Not as sexy as your legs,” Billy Bob said, laughing until Pa shot him a look.
Ma's eyes sparkled with amusement, and she ran her hands over Jennifer’s bare legs. "Why, thank you, sweetheart," she said. "We're just simple folk, but we take pride in what we do. Maybe we should get you a polo shirt."
"I don't know if I'd be much good at wearing your logo," she said, her voice still a little shaky, but the smile on her face genuine. "I've got a tendency to spill things. I guess that’s one advantage those girls on the truck have. They don’t have to worry about running their logo shirts.”
“Sure don’t,” Ma agreed, wiping the gravy off the floor with one hand while grasping Jennifer’s bare thigh for balance. "They've got their own brand of pride to wear, right there on their bee-hinds."
“It reminded me of the brands you put on the goats and cows,” Jennifer said. “The same ones you have on your shirts and hats. Do you brand the animals here, or at the stockyards?”
Pa chuckled, pulling out a small, metal branding head from his pocket. It was the size of a silver dollar, the H and half-moon etched into the metal, blackened by years of use. He passed it around the table, each family member taking a turn to hold the small piece of our heritage. "It's not just for livestock," he said with a wink. "It's for any property that needs a bit of identification."
Jennifer took her hands off her head and took the branding head from Pa, her hands shaking as she felt the weight of it. She held it up, the metal glinting in the light, and her eyes went wide with a mix of horror and fascination. "Could you use this on… slave girls?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Pa nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. "Sure could!" he said, his voice thick with pride. "See the flatness of the head? You’d press that right into the meaty part of the girl’s butt, dead center.”
“Turn around, Jen,” Ma said gently. “Let me do the back of your legs, sweetie.”
Truth be told, there was no gravy on the back of Jennifer’s legs, but she turned anyway, revealing her perfect bottom cheeks. Her bikini panties were snug, and her cheeks sagged out of the sides, revealing her perfect white skin.
“Spread your legs a little, honey,” Ma said gently, as if she were talking to a child. Ma looked back at the table and gave us all a little wink as Jennifer revealed the rear view of her wet crotch, the shameful proof of her excitement.
Jennifer was oblivious to the leers and smiles behind her, and studied the branding head as if it held the secret of the universe. Her eyes narrowed, examining every curve, running her fingers along the smoothness of the face, admiring the curve of the half circle at the base. She flipped it over, letting the cool metal catch the light, and then squinted, as if trying to understand it’s secret power. She needed both hands to hold it, as her fingers were trembling, electrified.
“How hot would it have to be?” Jennifer asked.
“It depends on what you’re branding,” Pa said, warming to the topic. “Leather purse, about 300 degrees. Hard wood, about 750.”
“What about… slave girls?” Jennifer asked nervously, as she continued studying the branding head in her hand like it was a magical portal to another world.
“About 500 degrees is good,” Pa said casually. “Too cold, and it won't take. Too hot, and you'll burn 'em right up. A good, dark orange," he said, her voice a purr, "that's where the magic happens.”
There were smirks and chuckles as Jennifer’s bottom cheeks clenched as sentence was pronounced.
“500 degrees!” she said, astonished. “Seriously?” she asked, looking over her shoulder with worry and concern at a room of simple country folks tickled by her city girl nervousness.
“Serious as a heart attack. I worked at the livestock yard over the summer once. Branded more cute slave butts than Colonel Sanders has chickens. Got ear plugs from all the squealing. Got pretty handy with the iron, though. That head’s the perfect size for that cute little caboose.”
Jennifer tried to turn to confront Pa, but Ma pushed her back, giving her bottom a spank that was a bit harder than playful to signal that, in her view, Jennifer’s smooth, perfect legs still needed Mama’s wash cloth, and her future daughter-in-law would present her argument against the branding head’s size with her cute little caboose sagging out of her pink panties in front of the entire family.
“That is not permissible,” Jennifer said, absurdly lapsing into lawyer speak to hide her nervousness. “That branding head is way too big for my bottom!”
No one said anything. They didn’t have to. They just stared at her, amused by her city mouse foolishness.
There was a pause, as Jennifer had another troubling thought.
“Wait a second,” she said. “When Ma said that she’d make an exception for me, because I was Prime, and let me sleep out in the barn... If I were a slave girl here, you’d actually butt brand me, with this disc?” she said holding up the branding disc.
“Yup! That’s the one I’d use,” Pa said. “The same one yer’ holding in yer pretty manicured hands.”
“That’s the way of things on the farm, Jen,” Uncle Larry explained. “No need makin’ a fuss about it.”
“Yeah,” Cletus agreed. “All the livestock gets branded. And slave girls are livestock. So SSSSSSSSS!”
There were smiles around the table as Jennifer’s perfect bottom cheeks clenched again at the sound.
“Pass over that branding head, little girl,” Pa said, snapping his fingers at her impatiently. Jennifer handed it to Ma, who quickly passed it down the table to Pa. Jennifer looked at me as it passed through my hand, a little pissed that I was part of the other team. But heck, she’s the one who had started the game.
“What are you doing?” Jennifer said, her worry evident in her tone. “Give it back to me. I want to see it.”
Mom scolded her with another slap that made her bottom jiggle. “Don’t you talk to Pa that way,” she said. “Show some respect.”
Turning to Billy Bob, Pa said, "Pass me that magic marker in your pocket, would ya?"
As the magic marker was passed down the table Pa turned his sharp attention back to Jennifer. “I shouldn’t have let you play with this. It’s a tool, not a toy. Girl like you shouldn’t even be touching this, at least not with yer’ fingers.” The part of Jennifer that the branding head was meant to touch once again clenched.
Jennifer watched with confusion as Pa used the red marker to color the face of the branding head, turning it from a branding iron into an ink stamp. The smell of ink was sharp and biting, a stark contrast to the comforting aromas of Thanksgiving dinner that still lingered in the air.
Pa stood up. "Pull up yer panties into the butt crack, so I can get at your ass cheek," he said in his Pa voice, like he was directing her on some normal farm chore. “After I show you how this doo-hickey works, maybe you’ll treat it with some respect, and realize it’s the right size for your caboose.”
Jennifer nodded, but to my surprise, pulled her panties DOWN, exposing one of her butt cheeks fully. She smiled at my mom, pleased to have surprised her by raising the bet.
Ma, never one to shrink from a challenge, raised Jennifer’s bet and called. With a single strong motion, she grabbed the hem of Jennifer’s panties, yanking them down to her ankles. Jennifer tried to pull them up, but Mom swatted her bottom, hard.
Ma’s voice was quiet, but her authority was unmistakable. “Now, spread yer’ legs, and bend over. Keep them knees straight, and put yer’ hands on the floor.”
Jennifer hesitated, but a nod from Mom convinced her that her only choice was to obey. Spreading her legs to shoulder width, she bent over, exposing her wet, blonde pussy to a roomful of eager eyes.
Ma responded with a hard spank, swinging her hand down like a paddle. “I didn’t tell ya’ to touch your toes,” she snapped. “Hands on the floor.”
Jennifer had spent hours in yoga class, but the position was still a stretch. We all watched as her bottom cheeks opened up fully and her bottom lifted higher into the air.
Uncle Larry’s voice labeled the amazing tableau. “Well, folks, that’s what they call a yellow, split tailed, wet mouthed, California beaver.”
Cletus got out his phone to take a picture, triggering my Aunt Betty to take the phone out of his hands.
“She’s winkin’ her asshole at us!” Billy Bob said.
“She’s just nervous,” Ma said.
Pa’s voice was stern. “She should be. With the disrespect she showed this branding head, I have half a mind to heat this up.” There were smiles around the table as Jennifer winked her asshole more at the threat.
Pa held up the stamp, covered with ink, and told Jennifer to hold still, so it wouldn't smear. Grabbing her other butt cheek to steady her, Pa carefully pressed the colored inkstamp dead center onto Jennifer’s perfectly rounded bottom.
"One Alabama," Pa said, his voice a drawl that stretched out the word into a lazy Southern melody. The room was so still, you could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
"Two Alabama," he continued, rolling her other butt cheek in his beefy hand even as he held the marker steady against her skin.
"Three Alabama!” Pa pulled the “brand” away, and the room erupted in applause. There, stamped onto the smooth, pale skin of Jennifer’s right butt cheek, was the Huckleberry crest. It was a perfect H, with a half-circle underneath, dead center. It looked like it had always been there, like it was part of her, like it belonged there.
Maybe it did.
Jennifer looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide with shock and excitement. It was a bizarre mix of pride and something else, something darker, something that clearly stirred her.
Aunt Betty handed her a hand mirror out of her purse. "Look at that," Ma said, her voice filled with the same pride a mother has when her child brings home a good report card. "Ain't that just the prettiest thing you've ever seen?"
Jennifer took the mirror, her hand shaking as she angled it to see her new brand. The H with the half-moon was indeed a perfect imprint, the red ink stark against her pale skin. Her eyes widened with shock, but there was also something else there, something that looked suspiciously like admiration. "It's...it's beautiful," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Not too big?” Pa teased.
“No Sir,” she said, admiring it. “It’s just the right size.”
Ma beamed, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Why, thank you, sweetheart," she said, patting her on the shoulder. "Now, you go on upstairs and let that dry on your tush. Don't you go puttin' no pants on now, or it'll just smear all over your clothes."
Jennifer's face was a picture of disapointment as she looked from Ma to me, then back again. "But...what about dessert?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Ma's smiled. "You'll have your dessert, sweetheart," she said, her eyes glinting. "But chores come first, and brand tendin’s a chore,” she said, pulling up Jennifer’s panties to her knees. She nodded towards the stairs, her expression firm but not unkind. "You go on upstairs and lay on your tummy, let that brand dry out nice and proper. I’ll be up to check on ya’ later."
Jennifer looked at me, her eyes full of uncertainty. But I just nodded, a hint of a smile playing on my lips. She took a deep breath and turned, her legs unsteady waddled up the stairs, her underpants around her knees.
Ma's eyes followed her, a knowing look on her face. "Remember, darlin'," she called after her, "no pants, no noise. We don't want that brand to smear now, do we? And don’t drip on the stairs!"
Jennifer squeezed her thighs together as everyone in my family stared at her retreating ass as she marched up the stairs to bed. I would enjoy the pumpkin pie, but I knew the hot pie that would be waiting for me in my childhood bedroom would be even better.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!
