The master's revenge

CHAPTER FOUR

Annabelle Cornfield always took a long time with her toilet each morning. She had to inspect herself and wash herself thoroughly before she could dress and make herself seen by the outside world.

No nook nor cranny went unexamined. No toenail unchecked. It was not uncommon for the woman to spend two hours in the john before she appeared downstairs demanding her breakfast from the slaves.

She had her own private bathroom – so no one cared how long she stayed in there. She had her own private bedroom, for that matter. It had been a very long time since she and Bernard had slept in the same room for a whole night.

After Annabelle asked her husband for her own room, he occasionally visited her there at night for a fuck – maybe twice a week or something like that.

But Annabelle, whose pussy was very precious, or so she thought, didn't care for the process of relieving his manly urges. She began to reject him – even though he only came into her room every once in a while.

She thought he was a sex maniac. It never occurred to her that it was HER libido that was out of sync with the rest of the world. She put out for Bernard about once a month as of late, and she thought that that should be enough to keep any man happy.

No, it never occurred to Annabelle that there was anything wrong with her. According to Annabelle she had never been wrong in her entire life.

According to Annabelle she was perfect in every way. Her Daddycakes had told her that when she was just a little girl – and she believed it to this very day.

Now Annabelle had sexual urges, for sure, but she did not relate them to her husband, his cock and balls, or his needs. Her urges were her own – and she had discovered that her horniness was best appeased by her own hand.

Annabelle washed her hands three times after jerking herself off when she masturbated. She could not stand the thought of having that dreadful cunty smell on her fingers.

Annabelle was a cleanliness freak – what Sigmund Freud would have called an anal compulsive. She became nervous if she saw a cigar ash in an ashtray – and would immediately order one of the slaves to empty and wash out the tray so she would not have to look at the filth.

Annabelle douched herself three times a day – as many times as she brushed her teeth. She wouldn't admit, not even to herself, that she douched frequently because she thought it felt good.

Annabelle told herself that her obsession with personal hygiene was just a little bit of precious womanly vanity. What man would not want to have a wife who smelled sweet and fresh all the time.

It never occurred to Annabelle that there was no point in keeping her cunt clean if she didn't allow her man to fuck her very frequently – and she never let him put his head down there between her legs.

The thought of her husband's tongue on that dirty spot between her legs made her shudder. She couldn't understand why the man would want to do something like that.

Annabelle was convinced that her husband – along with all of the other members of his gender she had met in her life – were crude, uncivilized and disgusting.

They were animals rather than people with only one thing on their minds. It never occurred to Annabelle when she was diddling herself that she was being slightly hypocritical when it came to her opinions of men.

On this particular morning Annabelle took a long shower and spent much time soaping herself up between her legs. She could feel the tingling down there and she knew that she was going to have to touch herself until she had an orgasm.

Masturbation was like taking a healthy shit as far as Annabelle was concerned. She had something poisonous lodged inside her system – and it had to be set free!

She cursed her own horniness and sometimes denied her own pleasure to herself. Seconds after an orgasm was through she could tell herself that it hadn't really felt very good at all.

The only reason she did it was to get rid of the sinful pressure in her loins, much as she might have taken a tonic for one of her many migraine headaches.

Still, no one wondered why Bernard Cornfield had married Annabelle in the first place. The truth of the matter was that she was one of the most beautiful women in the entire Georgia county.

She was a tall, statuesque woman, standing five feet seven inches tall. She was very light in her coloring, and had a perfect hourglass figure.

Annabelle's hair was very long and light blonde in hue. She had the sort of hair that would bleach to a near-white color after not much time in the golden sunshine at all.

But this never happened. Annabelle would not have been caught dead in the sun with a parasol or a broad-brimmed lid. Her skin was very fair and she was convinced that too much sunshine would ruin her milky complexion forever.

The women of the nineteenth century American South were not interested in tanning themselves. Who wanted dark skin? Why, that would make one more like a nigger, wouldn't it?

Annabelle's spun-gold hair fell in thick waves over her shoulders, spilling gracefully low down her back. Her hair came down almost all the way to the top of the crack of her ass.

Her golden tresses were parted in the middle – revealing a straight line of pink scalp down the center of her head's crown. Her hair fell onto her forehead in the front on downy bangs that came almost all the way down to her neatly plucked eyebrows.

Annabelle's eyelashes and eyebrows were just as light as the hair on her head – as was the short and curly hair that grew above and to the sides of her precious pussy.

It was not a surprise to anyone that Bernard and Annabelle had no children. Everyone who knew Annabelle could tell she was a cold fish, and none of Bernard's friends – at least not his male friends – ever thought twice about his decision to get a little something on the side from his nigger girls now and again.

Annabelle's women friends sometimes tried to talk to Annabelle about her icy ways. They warned her that she would lose her husband if she didn't give him what he wants.

Lie back and enjoy it, they told her. It's not that bad. Sometimes it can be a lot of fun, they added. But Annabelle would hear none of it.

She told her friends that they had all been brainwashed into enjoying sex by their animalistic hubbies. Eventually the woman gave up on Annabelle. She was a lost cause. Her knees had been glued together when she just a little girl – and it would take more than a friendly word of advice to pry those shapely gams open.

Annabelle's eyes were almond-shaped and hauntingly beautiful. Her eyes were the color of a summer sky – a sky totally devoid of cotton clouds.

As Annabelle stepped out of the shower that morning she was unaware of the fact that Bernard was down in the torture chamber with Tammy Taylor.

It never occurred to her that her husband fooled with the dark meat poontang on the plantation. She thought white men were as disgusted by the black animals that worked for them as she was.

Then again, Annabelle had heard that there were men who got so horny that they fucked the farm animals, but she didn't think Bernard was that sort. He wouldn't fuck a cow or a mare or a sheep or a goat or anything like that.

Those people, the people that did that disgusting act with animals, should be put in the nut house with the nymphomaniac prostitutes from Atlanta.

Annabelle had a tiny nose. It was a mere button, and it turned up a little at its tip. Her mouth was not large, but her lips were full and sensuous.

Looks can be deceiving. A stranger would have thought – upon seeing Annabelle Cornfield for the first time – that she was oozing lust and hot to trot.

Her lips were puffy and pouting, the upper lip forced to protrude in a very cute way by her slight overbite. Her cheeks were rosy at the cheekbones.

She kept her lips slightly puckered and parted at all times. She licked them frequently to keep them moist. She wore a cherry-red lipstick on her lips. She thought her lips were shaped like a heart when she had them puckered – though no one else had ever seemed to notice this.

Yes, Annabelle Cornfield was walking through life looking as if she needed to be kissed very badly. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Her teeth were very white. Her breasts were large and finely shaped. She had a slim waist and round hips. Her legs were very long and she looked great in the flowing dresses she wore when the Cornfield's threw one of their wild parties. Ever since the white woman had been a little girl she had taken to womanly vanities like a fish takes to water. She loved putting on her make-up – mostly because it gave her an opportunity to spend a long time examining her own face in the looking glass.

Ever since she was little she had been obsessed with her manicure and pedicure. She always kept her fingernails very long – and filed carefully so that each nail was precisely the same length.

Annabelle filed her nails so that they had a common curve to their tips. She always kept her nails painted a deep red color – the color of blood as it oozes from a recently opened wound.

She correctly assumed that this crimson hue went very well with her perfect peaches and cream complexion.

Naturally enough, she always painted her toenails so that they matched. Her nipples were very pink and they were erect as she stepped out of her bath.

She toweled herself off slowly. She could feel the hot blood of her, feminine sexual arousal pumping downward in her body. Washing and rinsing her private parts had gotten her libido worked up. She cursed herself for being human with human urges – and she cursed herself for feeling what every other woman on earth feels. She decided to jerk herself off quickly so she wouldn't have to spend much time thinking about how sinfully wicked she was being in the privacy of her bath.

Annabelle sat on her toilet with her knees apart. She could tell that her inner and outer cunt lips were both swelling rapidly with the blood of her womanly horniness. She could tell that it wouldn't be very long at all before all of the mucous membranes between her parted thighs were thoroughly engorged with that hot blood.

She could feel the little glands deep inside her cunt starting to secrete her natural lubrication. She could tell her cunt was getting moist.

She knew that it wouldn't be moist for long. Soon, she knew, she would be soaking wet down there between her milky white thighs. She could feel her clitoris growing.

The center of her warped womanly desire was filling with blood and approaching engorgement along with the rest of her pussy's tissues.

She could feel her nipples getting harder and larger. She could hear her breaths getting shorter and closer together. She could feel the pace of her heartbeat quicken.

She arched her fingers so that her long red fingernails would not get in the way and began to stroke her nipples with the fleshy parts of her fingertips.

She shivered and moaned a little. There were two sets of walls between her private bath and the rest of the house – so she did not have to worry about anyone hearing her moans and groans of physical pleasure. She tried to get outside of herself – so that she would not have to feel guilt and disgust over her own enjoyment.

Annabelle would have denied that she even had a pussy if she had been asked the question point blank. She rubbed her nipples as lightly as she could at first but her stroke became firmer as she proceeded.

Annabelle got each of her nipples in between her thumbs and forefingers and pinched them lightly. She could feel little liquid fingers of feminine enjoyment rolling gracefully up and down the entire length of her backbone.

Annabelle could feel the little golden hairs at the nape of her white neck standing on end. She lightly tugged her nipples. She could feel them getting larger and harder against her sensitized fingertips. Annabelle pulled her nipples until the skin all around those pink feminine erections was stretched taut – and both of her breasts looked a good deal pointier than usual.

Annabelle could feel her pink clitoris pushing out from under the fleshy sheath that usually all but covered it. She could feel her clit becoming as erect as her nipples.

Her love button was pushing her clitoral foreskin up and out of the way. She knew that it would not be long before her clit felt as if it were going to come popping right out of her pussy. She could feel her natural lubrication starting to pool thickly and hotly at the base of her pink poontang slash, in between her curled back inner cunt lips, right at the mouth of her seldom-used fuck hole. She could feel the pressure growing in her femininely sloped loins. She could feel a heat on the insides of her thighs – and she could tell the skin their was flushing a bright red with her horniness. She tried to make her mind go blank. Each rational – rational for her, that is, thought stifled her pleasure rather than enhanced it.

She was a woman without dreams.

She had no fantasy.

She could tell that it would not be long before her natural lubrication began to spill out of her pussy down into the crack of her ass, just like sweet nectar dripping from a split in the fuzzy skin of a ripe peach.

She could feel the pink tissues between her parted thighs starting to crawl around as if they had all developed minds of their own.

She released her pinching and pulling grip on her nipples and opened her hands so that she could squeeze her own tits. She placed her hands over her breasts so that the nipples were throbbing precisely against the centers of her stretched and slightly cupped palms. She pressed the fleshy part of her fingertips into her tits hard enough to make that tit flesh pucker a bit.

She threw back her head.

Her eyes closed.

Her mouth fell open.

Her tongue flicked outward.

Annabelle began to move her tits in slow sensuous circles. Her head pushed back further and further toward the wall. It so happened that right behind the beautiful but icy cold woman's head was a ventilation pipe that ran up and down the entire height of the house – all the way from the top floor to the basement.

Annabelle thought she could hear something – voices of something – coming from that ventilation pipe – but she couldn't be sure. She was not curious enough to stop and press her ear against the pipe. Her mind was on other things.

Annabelle pushed her tits upward and then downward. She pulled her tits apart and then pressed them together snugly. She pressed her tits together so snugly – as a matter of fact – that they were flattened on their insides and the cleavage between them became extraordinarily long and deep. This self-caress to her tits was only making the ache between her legs that much worse. She released her grip on her tits and ran the tips of her fingers down the flat plain of her belly. She traced the tip of her right forefinger nail all around her dimpled and concave bellybutton. She then – feeling experimentative – dipped that fingernail right into her bellybutton, and she discovered that this felt a hell of a lot better than she thought it was going to.

She stroked her lower belly – and then her abdomen. She tugged lightly at her blonde pubies with her fingers. Her pubic hair grew neatly on her mound.

Annabelle's hair grew in a perfect inverted triangle – a triangle that looked like an arrow indicating the location of her clitoral foreskin.

Anyone who looked at that trim blonde hair would have thought that she surely cropped it to keep it that way, or that she shaves her inner thighs or something. The beautiful blonde person was the only one in the world who knew that that was the way her golden pubic hair grew naturally.

She had an urge to start touching her pussy right then and there – but she stifled this urge. Instead she began to stroke the insides of her thighs – which were parted by this time to a perfect ninety-degree angle.

She placed the tips of her long red fingernails on the insides of her thighs close to her bent knees. She drew her nails – both hands at the same time – toward her crotch.

She scratched herself lightly.

She didn't stop until the tips of her nails were less than an inch away from the sides of her vulva. She then repeated the caress. She lifted her feet from the floor and placed her toes on the front of the toilet. She leaned back, her head now closer to that ventilation pipe. Again she thought she heard something coming from that pipe, a scream or something, but she paid no attention. Either it was her imagination or maybe a little steam or something. Who would be screaming in her house?

She stroked her inner thighs until she could feel her cunt juices dripping over the inch-long patch of mucous membrane in between her pink asterisk of an asshole and the base of her thoroughly engorged cunt.

She couldn't take it anymore. She had teased herself long enough. She opened her legs even further. She scratched the cheeks of her ass. She opened her ass cheeks with her left hand and ran the tip of her right forefinger up and down the crack of her ass. She found that her asshole was very hypersensitive and erogenous, but even in her aroused state of mind she could not bring herself to touch that dirty spot for very long.

She could tell that the crack of her ass was all wet and slippery with the juices that had dribbled from her quim. She ran the tip of her finger up and down the outermost parts of her vulva. She caressed her fat, swollen outer cunt lips all the way from the base to the top of her pussy. She came very close to her clit without making direct contact with it.

She touched at the sides of her clit and just above the love button, at the clitoral foreskin, but she did not touch the little man in the boat itself.

She wanted to save the focal point of her womanly desire for last. She was going to explore each nook and crannie of her cunt before touching the magic and fiery bulb at the very top of her oozing cooze.

She worked her finger in between her inner and outer cunt lips. She then rubbed ever-so-gingerly at the curled back outer edges of her inner labia.

She worked her finger in between her inner cunt lips and touched the little hole where she made pee-pee. If asked she would have denied ever having to shit or piss. She was a lady of the top drawer variety. If she did shit she wanted everyone to believe that her turds came out smelling like powder puffs.

The back of her head was pressed hard against the wall behind her toilet by this time and her facial features were beginning to contort because of the intensity of the sexual sensations she was giving herself. She could no longer hear the sounds coming from the ventilation pipe, because her own exclamations of pleasure were drowning those sounds out. Her cried of feminine joy were becoming increasingly loud and high in pitch. They were becoming shrill. Indeed, the muscles in the woman's neck were tensed. They were squeezing at her voice box and affecting the product of her vocal cords.

She knew she didn't have to move her finger very far to touch her clit. She only had to pull upward about an inch. She was touching herself directly below her little man in the boat. But the beautiful blonde woman took a deep breath to replenish her willpower and pushed her finger downward instead. She rubbed in between the inner lips, deeper and deeper. She hooked her finger under the base of her pubic bone and penetrated herself with the middle finger on her right hand. She violated her own cunt in this fashion very slowly and carefully – making sure she didn't scratch herself with her long nail.

She bent her wrist.

She pushed in up to the third knuckle.

She touched her own cervix. She caressed the mouth of her womb. She could feel her clit ready to come popping right out of her quim. Her back teeth were clenched and her eyes were closed tightly. Her mouth was open a little, the lips puckered and sensuous. She was breathing as if she were purposefully trying to hyperventilate herself. Her heartbeat was racing. She could feel a little perspiration on her inner thighs.

Her toes curled under tightly. Her pink toes were gripping desperately at the balls of her dainty feet.

She worked her finger in and out of her cunt slowly – and then faster. And then faster still. She worked three fingers up inside herself and she whipped that honey pot into a froth!

Annabelle finger-fucked herself in this manner until she was on the edge of orgasm. She then placed her left forefinger at the very top of her slit, at the base of her inverted triangle of golden blonde pubic hair as she pulled her right fingers – which were all wet and sticky – out of her cunt. She placed her fingernail on her clitoral foreskin and tugged that fleshy sheath upward, completely away from the fiery bulb that was the focal point of her feminine craving.

She rendered her love button completely naked and vulnerable to her own caress. She then touched her clit as lightly as she possibly could with the fleshy tip of her free forefinger. She pulled her finger away almost immediately.

She knew that she didn't have to touch that fiery bulb. She knew that all sensations spawned by the direct caress to her clit would be amplified a thousand times by her aroused nervous-system.

She sought – and she found – the most subtle clitoral caress. In spite of this, she could feel a lightning bolt of pleasure shooting up her spine toward the base of her skull.

She could feel the shot of pleasure stopping at the base of her skull and then retreating. She dabbed at her clit with her finger, feeling a stronger bolt of pleasure each time – but she always pulled her finger away from the magic spot before her orgasmic convulsions had an opportunity to begin.

She waited until all of her muscles were tensed. She waited until she was breathing so hard that she was hardly breathing at all. She waited until she was shuddering violently and she feared she would hurt herself – pull a muscle of something.

Then Annabelle put her finger on her clit and left it there, she kept her finger still and alternated the pressure from light to firm – and then back to light again.

She was hovering on the edge.

She was teetering on the cliff.

She was ready to tumble into the bottomless abyss of bliss.

She began to roll her love button in several slow circles – and then a quick figure eight. That did it. She tipped herself over the edge and she fell into the bottomless pit. She let out a shrill cry as she could feel the explosions of sexual wonder starting up at the top of her thoroughly engorged snatch.

She could feel the pleasure in her clit spreading until it filled her vulva – and then her entire lower torso. Her tongue flopped in and out of her mouth.