Bianca perhaps, but not Melissa

I closed the leather cover of the book with shaking hands. All of time and attention, worries and struggles Bianca had with her hair ... and the freedom afforded the house **** Angelica to wear hers natural and 'wild'... and yet also how hair-care time and talk between black mothers and grandmothers and their daughters and granddaughters can be so nurturing, soothing, and smoothing things over in such sensuous ways at times ... and so contentious, even tortuous, at others ...

Across so much time, in such a different place, Bianca's diary hit home with me, spoke to me, in such in such intimate ways. And not only about black hair care ...

Bianca's vivid description of her self-pleasuring also had struck chords that resonated with me in other, all-too-personal ways. The drawing of the scowling **** with the bulging muscles that accompanied the journal entry was just as disturbing in a very primal way. Even with the book closed, I could feel my core heating up and juices were leaking onto my briefs. Already, from just the first few pages of reading I was beginning to identify with this Bianca, and the internal conflict she seemed to be struggling with was one I too had experienced.

My relationships were exclusively with the black Mr. Holland's of the world. Well dressed and neatly groomed men who were financially secure, educated and cautious both in life and in the bed. Like in Bianca's masturbatory session where she boldly climbed onto Mr. Thornton's lap in the coach, if I wanted something a little wild, I was always the one to take charge. The modern-day equivalent to the muscular **** of Bianca's imagination would be the star linebacker on the college football team, or the inner-city 'gangsta' with his gold chains, **** and guns. Neither of these types appealed to me at all in my real life, but I am ashamed to admit that in my fantasies they were reoccurring actors.

Nor had I forgotten the sketch I saw earlier of this same young woman kneeling naked in what must be a moment of deep submission. Could it be that Bianca's mixed blood was discovered while she was alone in South Carolina? In an undergraduate Black Studies class years ago, I remember reading about the 'one drop' policy used in the southern states. If Bianca's true heritage is discovered, that could explain how she ended up in that dire predicament.

It is a truly horrific fate. To spend most of your life as a free woman only to be enslaved and demeaned like that ... stripped and sold perhaps even to the very same men she met at Havenhall. I don't remember learning about Fancy girls in my black studies course, but I've read enough about modern-day sex trafficking and how women of color in particular are preyed upon that it does not surprise me.

Once again, I turned to the internet and before long I was reading a long dissertation about the Fancy Trade, written by a professor in South Carolina probably not far from where Bianca penned her own firsthand experiences. The methodical, scholarly wording of the paper, complete with footnotes and references, did little to mask the licentious nature of the subject matter.

Light-skinned slaves in the south were bred, bought and sold for the specific purpose of sexual servitude. These Fancy Maids (or girls) were apparently valuable; according to the paper these prized young women sold for three or four times as much as their darker-skinned peers and there were whole networks of dealers who specialized in this particularly heinous sex-trade. Once again, I felt my panties getting wet and the smell of sex filled my small kitchen.

As much as I despised my nature, I feared that I'd be using my dildo later tonight as I pictured myself on my knees in front of a throng of bidding white men. I was now even more curious than ever about how (if at all) I was related to the fearless writer of this diary. I knew from the letter that accompanied the old journal that I was the closest living relative to whoever owned this leatherbound book last. Was it safe to assume that that person was related to Bianca?

It was no use even trying anymore. It took less than a minute before I was on my back on top of the covers with a large dildo sliding into my very ready sex. My treacherous imagination flitted from Bianca's bold fantasy of riding Mr. Thornton to her description of the same gentleman leading the unnamed fancy maid to his room and even the scene with the muscular black **** **** Bianca on the front lawn, but mostly I focused on the picture of Bianca naked and on her knees in front of a crowd of bidding men.

I came three times that night before I finally dragged myself to the shower to clean the sweat and juices off my body. While in the shower a rinsed off the large dildo fashioned to look as realistic as possible. I realized, perhaps for the first time, that even though my lovers had always been black, this sex toy, like all the others I had bought before, was definitely the penis of a white man ...

My sleep that night was troubled, and when my alarm went off the next morning, I decided that there was nothing so important at work that I could not call in sick.