Melissa wakes to a troubling discovery.

I didn't even read Bianca's next entry in the journal. The last sketch where Thornton has his hand around her throat and is telling her that she is 'his nigga' had me squirming shamelessly. As I've noted before, for the most part my lovers have been picked carefully to be caring and considerate lovers. Any sign of a man being too assertive in the bed was a sure indicator to me that it was time to move on and look for a better match.

It is, I'm sure, a reaction to the disaster that was my first marriage to Jordan. Jordan liked to use his size and strength to hold me down, he liked the way I would sometimes try to push him away when I wasn't in the mood. For him sex was the solution to all our other problems, and I have to admit, even when it started with me telling him to stop, by the time we were done all I could do was cling to him and urge him on. Of course, the thirty or so minutes of hot sex never solved the underlying problems in our relationship. Still, reading Bianca's description of how Thornton wanted to use her like a personal fuck-toy was more than I could take.

The vibrator got used so much that the low battery light was on by the time I finally pushed it off the bed. It wasn't just Bianca and Thornton that I imagined as I worked myself again and again to the moment of release. If a proper gentleman like Thornton fucked my great-great-whatever grandmother like a piece of prized meat, it was not hard to imagine what Mr. Kyleson would do if he ever caught her alone in the barns, or a trio of ebony-skinned field slaves who would pass her about eager to try her almost-white pussy.

Inevitably my mind wandered to what Miles Manton would do if he somehow got Bianca in his clutches, and I'm ashamed to say, from there it was a disturbingly small step to jump from the Antebellum Manton abusing Bianca to the modern-day version paddling my raised ass until I begged him to make me like his 'nigga ****'. As I lay there on the hotel bed, I imagined what it would be like to give in to that bastard and let him defile me just like I knew he must have tamed that Spellman coed no older than my own Aniya. It was this final orgasm that made me push the vibrator away in disgust. I lay there covered in sweat exhausted, ashamed and sore from the relentless **** on my body and everything I thought I believed in.

The morning (afternoon really) when I woke was not much better. The room reeked of sex, and the linens were covered with multiple splotches that were only now starting to dry and turn crispy. I was on the way to the shower when I say the white envelope that someone had slipped under my door. As little as ten years ago, it would be the room charges but now-a-days that is all just done on the card, and, besides, no hotel would use that kind of expensive stationary - well no hotel that I would pay for.

The pencil drawing inside was clearly intended to emulate the style and subject matter of the sketches Bianca made in her diary. It was like the artist was watching my dreams last night and bringing to life my most shameful fears and perverse fantasies. The woman kneeling on display with her hands above her head is copied almost exactly from the sketch I gave Manton. Almost exactly, because the face on that woman is unmistakably mine. Worse yet is that I am not alone on display. Splayed out before me in a crudely obscene manner is a dark-skinned teen who looks shockingly like Aniya. The closer I look at the picture the tighter my knuckles become - how in the Hell does Manton know that I even have a daughter, not to mention what she looks like.

The answer of course is as close as my phone. I try to be careful with what I post, but I'm proud of my daughter and I'm sure that with a little digging it would not be hard to find out her name. Aniya on the other hand is all over social media with her rants against the racist culture she is confronting and pictures of her from everywhere she goes. It doesn't take long to find a picture of her stretched out on the beach in an untied bikini staring back at the photographer.

I've tried to warn her about posting pictures like these, but once again she takes more after her father that way than her prudish mom. I've stopped trying to explain the dangers but knowing that some creep was using this photo or one like it to draw my daughter as a negro **** for sale made me want to scream in frustration.

How dare that bastard bring Aniya into this! With a sinking feeling of dread, I remember Charles smirking about the BLM student who is now working in his house as a maid. It's not just me that caricature of Colonel Sanders wants in his sick web of seventeenth-century **** and master fantasies, it's my daughter too!