Melissa needs answers

I closed the leather cover of the book carefully with shaking hands. Even with the journal pushed safely away, Bianca's dream was impossible to unread. 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, college educated and cautious both in life and in the bed. Like in Bianca's dream where Mr. Thornton's kisses had been tender and caring my lovers were gentle and attentive. Sometimes though, I feel the need for something wild, for a man to take charge, to use me for his pleasure with no regard for my dignity. The way Mr. Kyleson had swept Bianca from the safety of her world into a place where she had now power was both terrifying and arousing.

Bianca's description of being stripped, and then displayed for those men to see and admire, the bidding and even more so the auctioneer's jocular banter could easily be pulled from my own perverse erotic fantasies. It is a horrific fate. To spend most of your life as a free woman only enslaved and demeaned like that ... to be humiliated and sold, perhaps even to the very same men she met at Havenhall ... I wanted to retire to my bedroom and the pleasure of my vibrator, but I refused to let my base desires rule my life.

Instead, I turned on my laptop and googled, 'Havenhall Plantation' and 'Heyward plantation'. Neither of those yielded any relevant hits; my search for Holland, Scharz and Jacobs was more successful. I found a law firm by that name based in Savanah, whose logo matched the watermark on the paper. The Holland family according to their web page, had been practicing law in Georgia for almost ninety years now. The company webpage was as elegant and professional as it was discrete and uninformative. I got the impression that much of their work was done on retainer and that they did not engage in anything as tawdry as auto accidents or divorce. It didn't feel like the kind of law firm that a small history museum would hire ... unless one of the lawyers was on the board of the museum? maybe?

One search led to another and before long I was reading a long dissertation about how in the antebellum south, light-skinned mulattos were bred and trained for a discrete but very active sex trade. The methodical, scholarly wording of the paper complete with footnotes and references did little to mask the licentious nature of the subject matter. The coincidence that it was written by a professor in the University of South Carolina only miles away from where Bianca had penned her journal almost 200 years before made it particularly poignant.

Of course, this depravity was seldom even acknowledged at the time, or even the next hundred years as it would tarnish the myth of the gentile southern gentleman. In my Black Studies course just over a dozen years ago the subject matter was hinted at with the DNA confirmation that Sally Hemings descendants were indeed related to Jefferson, but the scope of this practice was never addressed. These Fancy Maids (or girls) were purchased 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 trade. I was of course revolted and angered by the paper, but even so, I could feel my panties getting wet and the smell of sex filled my small kitchen.

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 vibrating dildo sliding into my very ready sex. My mind started with imagining that house ****, Angelica, on her knees in front of first the elderly Mr. Hayward and then the much younger, rougher, and more demanding Mr. Kyleson. Mostly though, I focused on Bianca's dream where she was paraded naked in front of all those men including her estranged father...

I came three times that night before my vibrator finally ran out of batteries. I've never done that before, and I was a total wreck when I dragged myself to the shower to clean the sweat and juices off my body. Even exhausted from my masturbation marathon, I still could not sleep. My mind hopped from fancy maids to **** auctions, to **** breeding by muscular black studs and then back to the horror of recognizing your own father in the middle of this nightmare.

When I did finally fall asleep, I got no rest 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.