Melissa wakes up the next morning

That night, I slept fitfully, dreaming of my ancestor Bianca. I was with Manton, at his beautiful antebellum mansion at Havenhall, discussing the consulting services my business might offer him. He seemed more amused than interested, and his eyes roamed freely over my bare shoulders and deep decolletage of the period dress as I explained my professional expertise. I heard a cry, then another. Concerned, I rose, and walked out the front door, following the sound.

To my horror, I saw it was my ancestor Bianca, hanging by her ankles from the large Magnolia tree. She was naked, and behind her, the overseer was swinging the paddle against her bottom. I recognized the paddle as "Old Hickory", and I could already see the "H" shaped blisters forming on Bianca's round bottom.

"Stop!" I could hear the clear diction and refined accent of a hanging woman. "Stop, please I won't fight you any more."

The man swinging the paddle laughed. "Good, but beg more like a nigger!"

WHOP!

WHOP!

"Please don't paddle me no more, Massah!" Gone was the refined tone of a well-educated lady, now my foremother sounded much more like one of the other slaves. "Please! I'll be a good wench, Massah!"

The paddling continued as Bianca struggled to shed her education and sound like an illiterate **** girl. They were literally beating the self-esteem and pride she took in being able to think and talk and act like a lady, one paddle stroke at a time.

In my dream, I saw more and more people arrive to watch the spectacle. White men as well as slaves, were gathered around, watching. The white masters were obviously amused, while the slaves were silent and grim. A few of the men were even laughing as they rubbed the bulges in their pants, promising "that nigger wench a good time when we finish tanning her behind, ha-ha!"

I was shocked and disgusted, but felt a familiar tingling beneath my legs. Whose side was I on?

I felt a surge of electricity as Manton put his hands on my bare shoulders and whispered in my ear. "You're next," he said quietly.

A plantation bell began to ring. Started, I looked around for the source, only to realize that it was my cell phone. Why was Aniya calling at this early? "What time is it?" I asked groggily.

"Almost 2PM, sleepy head," she replied. "How did your dinner with the white supremacists go?"

"Fine... I mean, he's not a white supremacist, not exactly..." Why was I defending him. "The meal was wonderful, and he gave me $10,000."

"For what?" she asked.

"He's fascinated by the diary. He wants to buy it, and it was sort of a... down payment?"

"You're going to sell our family history to that racist cracker?!"

"No, it's not like that. He had a historian with him. I can't remember. My head is buzzing! I can't believe I slept that long."

"Maybe he put something in your drink," Aniya said accusingly. "I've done a little research, Mom. Manton's a real bastard."

"What do you mean?" I said, wondering why my self-righteous daughter had to talk so loudly.

"He's the founder and CEO of a Plantation Prison Farms, Inc. Apparently Havenhall and a bunch of the other **** plantations down there have been turned into for profit prisons. I'll give you one guess as to what color 95% of the inmates are."

"You don't know that." I said, again surprised that I was defending Manton. "He's a very successful and respected businessman."

"Respected, my black ass," my daughter said sharply. "Feared is more like it. I can't get much information on him. There's been some investigations, and I've made a few calls, but people just hang up on me. I think I need to come down there, and meet this Manton, and find out who exactly you want to sell our heritage too?"

"NO!" I remember the line he gave me about the Spelman student working as his maid and I knew I didn't want Aniya anywhere near Manton. "I don't know that it's safe down here," I said.

"If he's so innocent, why isn't it safe? Make up your mind, Mom. Besides, I don't need your permission to go anywhere. I'm an adult, remember?"

It was then I noticed the paper on the floor by the door. I picked it up and looked at it. To my horror, it was a near identical sketch of my ancestor Bianca kneeling in front of the men who were going to buy her.

Except the drawing made it clear that it was me kneeling naked in front of the men, not her. And I was not alone. My lovely daughter was on the block too, bent over naked, her legs spread wide, looking nervously over her shoulder as the laughing men eyed her most intimate parts.

The drawing made my blood run cold.

"Aniya, I do NOT want you to come down here, young lady. That is my final word!"

I stared at the drawing. It was skillfully done, clearly imitating the style of the drawings I had sold to Manton. I had to wonder again at what kind of man could get a picture like this drawn in less than twelve hours, and it made me wish my daughter hadn't posted so many revealing photographs of herself on Instagram. The artist even drew the little "S" shaped birthmark high on her right butt cheek.

The paper was different than the almost 200-year-old paper of the diary and I could see a few other stylistic differences between this man's (and yes, I'm sure it was a man) work and the sketches Bianca drew. For example, for the most part, the sketches drawn by my distant ancestor were less graphic and had a classic artistic quality that made them seem... Well, I wouldn't say tasteful, given their awful, morally despicable subject matter, but truthful in a deeper, almost socially unspeakable way. Yet, this artist was clearly used to drawing pictures like these. More than merely graphic, this picture was so salaciously, meticulously pornographic that... that I blushed when I saw the trickle of glistening moisture between Aniya's labia and how...intimately, intricately correct the drawing was.

"Whatever Mom." I had almost forgotten Aniya was still on the phone. "When are you coming back? I want to see this journal for myself." I gave her some vague answer about checking out some of the sites while I'm down here, but my mind was on the way my daughter is pictured laying in the sand with her legs spread open. By the time she hung up I was imagining the next step of the sale as those men poke and prodded at her while the auctioneer held her in place with his whip across the back of her neck.

I stripped off my nightgown and slowly lowered myself to the floor in front of the full length mirror in the closet door. I positioned myself in the humiliating pose the artist had put Aniya in.

Closing my eyes I imagined the scene. "How much am I bid for this frisky young breeding sow?" The crude words in my mind were of course in Manton's distinctive southern drawl. "Look at those child-bearing hips. This African doe will pop out twenty or more pups before she's worn out and imagine the fun you'll have seeding this tight black snatch of hers."

After the eroticism of last night's dream, I couldn't help but finger myself as I stared back into the mirror. The fact that it was my daughter being humiliated like this didn't even matter, and sooner than I could believe a powerful orgasm washed over me.

I lay on the hotel floor in a daze, deeply ashamed and at the same time blissfully satisfied. This had to stop. Should I call Manton and confront him about the drawing? Or did I need to do more research on my own?