It's bad.

Dear Diary, (May 21st, sometime around noon)

My situation is as bad as I feared; no, it is even worse. I thought, rather I hoped, that when Mr. Manton realized that we were related by blood he would treat me with a certain level of compunction. This hope germinated when I was allowed to change in privacy into this thin muslin dress. It slowly grew even more when night fell, and I was not summoned to his bed. As I lay in the dark on the rough straw tick feeling the weight of the iron chain locked around my ankle, I worked through a dozen possible scenarios for my future. Some of these were worse than others.

The best of course, was that my cousin would contact my mother and offer to let her buy back my freedom. I do not know how much a healthy female negro **** sells for, but I was confident my mother could raise three or four times that amount. It would be a reasonable solution and limit the gossip about my late fath- about the former master of Havenhall. (I have resolved to NEVER to refer to Mr, Heyward as my father again.)

Other scenarios ranged from being whipped raw as an example to other slaves about the consequences of fleeing to the North, sold in one of those auctions that specialize in young, light-skinned, female slaves and perhaps the worst of all, summoned by my new master to his bed where I would be used. Even in my own dire straits, I spare a moment of sympathy for Angelica who I suspect spent a long night satisfying her new owner. Unlike Mr. Manton, I very much doubt that surly brute, Kyleson spared his new **** like Manton had spared me.

In the morning, instead of being summoned to Mr. Manton, he came to me. I cannot begin to fathom why, but I am sure it was not for my benefit. I rose to my feet when he entered the room. The further I was from my bed in the presence of Manton the safer I felt. Immediately though, I knew I was in trouble when he ordered me to lower my dress.

“Come girl, let me see what I've come into possession of.” As I slipped my arms from the worn dress Mr. Manton flipped through my diary reading the last entry with particular interest. “I like your sketches, uh,” he paused as if struck by an unexpected thought, “well, we can't very well call you Bianca,” he tapped his fingers on the cover to the book a few times before he nodded to himself.

“Dolly. That's a much better name than Bianca.” He looked up to see me clutching the dress to my chest, “Hands behind your back, Dolly.”

It's not like my breasts have never been seen by a man, or even that I was ashamed of them, but to expose myself like that to a man at his command was humiliating. I guess that was the point.

Ever so slowly my hands moved behind my back. I hated standing there like that, I hated him for making me, but most of all I hated myself for obeying. Manton still hadn't touched me, but I felt soiled as his eyes flicked back and forth between my naked body and the drawings on the pages.

“Draw yourself standing like this.” Manton licked his lips in anticipation, “I like seeing your fat tits sticking out.” Manton pointed at the empty page, “make it good.”

He circled me like a dog investigating a pile of steaming manure, his desire for my young lithesome figure in some kind of internal conflict with the distaste he seemed to feel for the African blood flowing through my veins. He got so close to me that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my shoulder and smell his expensive cologne.

Once again, he left without touching me, but my skin was crawling, and I wanted a bath more than ever before in my life. He paused at the door and smiled at how quickly I had pulled the dress back on.

My shame:

This entry and the accompanying sketch were completed long after Manton left, but his odious presence lingered in the tiny room like the stench of a rotting potato in a pantry. This was the hardest one yet to draw. Not because of the erotic subject matter but because of who was going to see it. I realize that I am fueling Manton's perversity by drawing these titillating sketches, but I don't dare refuse. This journal and the words and drawings that I put in it are the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.