Neither, Melissa is ready to talk

"What do you want Mr. Manton?" The words come out as a throaty whimper, "tell me what I need to do to get you to leave me and my family alone."

"Well, now Miss Gordon," Manton's tone shifted back from the southern, racist misogynistic tone he had been using to something much more genteel. "That sounds a lot more agreeable than all that nonsense you were spouting before." He paused, almost as if he was trying to decide for himself what it was that he was after. "I sure would like to offer you a fair price for that little book of yours, but I admit I'd like a lot more than just an impersonal financial transfer."

"I don't understand, Mr. Manton." I was tiered from the dream-filled night I had before, I never sleep well in strange beds, and last night had been particularly hard. Then, to wake in the morning and find that sketch of me and my daughter ... at this point I just want to give the bastard the Diary for whatever price he wants, but now he wants something else? "I thought you wanted to buy the diary?"

"Oh, I do Miss Gordon," Mr. Manton chuckled almost gleefully over the phone, "but that book of yours has waited almost 200 years to come to light, it doesn't seem all that bad to wait a few more days so we can make the final transaction in a place fitting for such a momentous moment."

"Stop playing games, Mr. Manton." Once again, my patience was running low. "You have my number, call me when you are ready to make a fair offer on the book. Better yet, send me an email."

To my surprise, Manton politely agreed to wait until all the arrangements were ready and then give me a few days' notice along with an official offer. It seemed so businesslike after our earlier encounter ... I knew the racist pig was up to something, but secretly I was relieved that I'd be able to finish reading Bianca's story before I had to surrender it to Manton.

Also, by then I'd have a chance to talk to Aniyah and maybe a lawyer or even a security firm and see if there was some way out of this mess that Manton seems to have me in. I should be heading home soon to my house, but check-out wasn't until 11:00 and that gave me a couple hours to read more of the journal.

Dear Diary, (still early morning May 23rd)

I thought surely, after Mr. Thornton so thoroughly mounted me that the young gentleman would send me away. Apparently, I underestimated just how easy it is for a Southern white man to use a negro woman as an object for his pleasure. Now that I have time to think the matter over, I wonder if perhaps Mr. Thornton was expressing the anger and hurt that he has felt these past two days. First the young lawyer learnt that I was the daughter of a formerly enslaved fancy maid, and then when I came to him, that I was not the sheltered innocent he believed me to be. I had heard from my mother's many callers that in the South in particular, the virtue of a young woman was the most important attribute in perspective brides. If that is the case, I must have been a supreme disappointment to the young lawyer.

Alternatively, it is possible that Mr. Thornton knew even better than me what I wanted from a man. That under my veneer of sophisticated deportment, expensive dresses and the best education that money could buy I was little more than a whore - just like my mother. I'm loath to admit this, but when I was on my hands and knees and Mr. Thornton had a handful of my carefully straightened hair in his fist, I experienced the most intense orgasm I can remember. Perhaps I am the whore that he took me for.

“Clean up this mess.” Mr. Thornton pointed down at his long, curved phallus that was gleaming with my juices. I was still on my hands and knees, and Mr. Thornton had moved from behind so that now he stood just inches from my nose.

“What?” I was still recovering at that time, and perhaps not as sharp as I might have been, but I had no idea what the man wanted from me.

“Use your mouth and clean me off.” Even with that much clearer command I still hesitated. Because of my mother, I knew in a theoretical sense about oral sex, but it was not something that I engaged in with my lovers. I probably would have eventually used my mouth on a man; perhaps when I was in my flow and wanted to please my lover. However, that penis would be clean and dry, not slathered with the juices fresh out of my vagina.

_“I'm waiting, Bianca.” Mr. Thornton placed his hand on the back of my head and pressed his still half-erect manhood against my nose ..._As I said, this was the first time I have used my mouth to pleasure a man, and it was most certainly I served a man like this, from my knees. With Mr. Thornton standing over me and me licking and sucking on his member, I felt like I might indeed be a fancy girl sent to his room for his sexual pleasure. I imagine that my mother must have done this regularly, in fact she probably still does to keep her patrons happy. It did not take long for Mr. Thornton's manhood to become fully erect once again and when he placed his hand on my head it was clear that seeing me like this was as exciting for him as it was humiliating for me.

“Damn that's good.” I remember feeling a moment of pride when Mr. Thornton grunted in satisfaction, but before I could pretend that this was in any way something that I wanted, he made clear his true beliefs. “Your complexion might be almost light enough to pass as a white, girl, but the way your fat negroid lips wrap around my penis is all the evidence a court would need to see that you are, in your blood, a fancy girl bred to please her master.”

I wanted to scream in protest. I swear it! But instead, I let him use my mouth in that most demeaning manner. As he pushed deeper and deeper into my mouth, he called me his 'nigga whore' and 'colored bitch' again and again making it clear to me what he thought about my claim to Havenhall and my place here in Charleston.

-------

I slammed the book down much harder than I should have as I looked around the Charlston hotel room in confusion. It is almost like when I am reading Bianca's words that I become her. I thought back to the first blowjob I ever gave. It was to Jordan, my ex, I hated every minute of it, but when he pulled out of my mouth and rammed his black cock into me, I came harder than I ever had before.

As a 'library prude' who never dated boys, my initial encounters with my ex had pushed me well out of my comfort zone. He didn't even ask for permission when he took me by my hair and pushed my head down to his junk. For some reason having him hold my head as he pumped in and out of my mouth made my pussy pulse like it was on fire ...

I can only imagine how much more shamefully erotic it would have been if he had called me his 'nigga whore' as he **** me to suck him.