Chapter Six - Third Revision

Chapter Six

Aunt Jemima groaned like a happy brown heifer in a pasture of tasty green grass on a balmy Kentucky afternoon. She was a heaving mass that moved independently and all by itself, a massive jellyfish basking in shallow waters and pulled in random directions by an indifferent tide. She felt her body start to tighten in that specific, magical way.

“Are you ‘bout ready Miss Nancy?”

Jemima smacked the back of Carlene’s skull and snapped, “I told you not to use that name, bitch!”
Carlene’s head hurt, but she knew this was the time to keep her big mouth shut. Living in the house as one of Jemima’s “friends”, Carlene sometimes got bored, especially if she hadn’t had her juice. A few weeks back, she’d gone poking around in some of the back rooms. Everyone knew they were off-limits. Girls had gone missing for going where they knew they didn’t belong. Even a few of the pretty ones.

Jemima wasn’t happy when she found out. There were cameras all over the place and Carlene knew better. She’d been arrogant most of her life and that made her get sloppy. Maybe in a small space in the back of her mind, she’d wanted to get caught.

Jemima was totally paranoid, though with good reason. “Total paranoia”, she often said, “is total awareness.” Most times she talked like a ghetto rat from the hood, but sometimes she sounded like a school teacher giving a TED talk. And that was one of the scariest things about Nancy Green, you never knew which Nancy Green you were talking to.

Nancy had made lots of enemies over the years. It wasn’t so much the Feds and the local Popo. Hell, most of them were in her pocket. The real threats came from her competitors, folks like Sara Ray Lee and that tranny bitch Mrs. Butterworth, all prim and proper she acted like some kind of smarty small dick schoolmarm whose shit smelled like lavender. She hadn’t been such a big know-it-all fifteen years ago when she was sucking prong for a thin dime and a sack of flour down at Hodgson’s Mill. Then there was that self-righteous long-haired Quaker mofo, Bill Penn, wearing that dumbass hat like he was somebody. Penn was Pepsi’s bitch and the fact that he wasn’t even his own man-made her despise him more than any of them. Always smiling like he knew some kind of big ass secret. Boy, would she love to knock that smug grin off his pasty red-cheeked English face and stick it on his ass, real close up and personal like. She sometimes fantasized about snipping off each of his short gnarled fingers with her cigar cutter, slowly and one at a time so she could watch his face as he saw each one coming. All except the middle ones. She would leave them as his momentos, a few little somethings to remember her by. Thinking about it now she laughed, enjoying a sweet pleasant stir of arousal just below her belly. Indeed, thinking about the Quaker man screaming because of her loving ministrations often made her so wet she had to go change her panties. Fortunately, that was not a problem at the moment.

Jemima had made the decision to keep Carlene, though not out of a sense of mercy. That wasn’t her style. If anyone thought she was going soft it would cause problems. Besides, she’d paid good money for the little trash bag. And, the girl could lick pussy like nobody’s business. It was her God-given talent, and parting with such a gifted asset would be a real crime. Still, anyone perceiving her keeping Carlene as a weakness could cost her. Normally she’d just withhold the juice and let everyone watch while Carlene squirmed and writhed in pain until she was dead or killed herself. Instead, But Jemima was addicted to Carlene’s ass almost as much as Carlene was to the juice. Jemima decided to hurt Carlene in a new way. Something public. So she hosted a sacrifice in her honor and forced Carlene to keep a smile glued to her face the whole time. Jemima gave over an innocent girl, one she knew Carlene had a special affection for, to the big cats, telling Carlene it was her fault for “sneakin’ around where she didn’t belong”. Jemima made Carlene watch while Jemima laughed and watched the tears fall over Carlene’s smile like cold rain on a broken stove.

“Please no Mamie”, cried the girl. “I been done, whatcha wanna do this for? She didn’t do anything.” Mamie was a nickname normally used only behind Jemima’s back, though Jemima she took no offense to it. When it was over, Jemima promised Carlene that they’d do it again “real soon”. She belly laughed. Giant swaths of blood decorated her white terry cloth apron from where the tigers had torn into the poor girl’s chest, the materiel a canvas for a cool peppermint rainbow of hemoglobin pop art. Jemima thought the random red stripes made her look pretty. There was nothing like watching the big cats tear apart a terrified young thing. Plus, she was preserving her investments by drilling fear into the other hos. Bonus, it was “almost as much fun as giving’ a full whuppin”. Almost because a good long drubbing with “Baby”, her bullwhip, was much more intimate. Jemima was nothing if not sentimental. “Intimacy”, she’d once said, “is the foundation for loyalty.”

The tightening subsided along with Jemima’s temper as she thought about the Culling. She breathed deep and tried to relax. “Do your job, baby,” she told the girl. “You know what Auntie likes. Be a good girl and pay for yourself. Gluten ain’t free. And Auntie’s a busy girl. I ain’t got no time to replace your fine cracker ass and it ain’t gonna lick itself.” She laughed at her own joke, sending waves of glee along the surface of her suety porcine thighs.
Carlene knew what Mamie liked. She’d been doing it for just over three years, and she just kept getting better at it. It was a bit like sucking cock with just a few feminine variations. And much better benefits, even if she was a slave. Hell, she was off the street, had her own room in a magnificent mansion, and most of her time was her own. The food was amazing. There were four five-star restaurants here. She and the other girls got to enjoy each other whenever they liked. There were men too if she wanted. Some were part of the scenery and some were guests like her. Jemima liked to call them guests because she said they were free to leave at any time. The juice stayed at home though.

The Manor had every luxury anyone could want or think of. Two beautiful beaches. Tennis or golf, if you liked that kind of thing. Four open bars with free drinks. Weed, crack, ice, and smack, too if you were dumb enough or crazy enough to be into that shit. Of course, nothing beat the juice. Why would anyone settle for less? There were first-run movies in two full-sized theatres. And where was she going to go anyway? Back to Oak Cliff and the shoe store? Life wasn’t so bad here, except for when Auntie was in town. And then there was the juice. After a day without it, the pain would start, like sharp knives cutting through your gut. After a couple of days, she’d be looking for a loaded gun because withdrawal was no way to die. So yeah, she wasn’t exactly making plans for a trip to Europe.

Carlene’s face was haggard from all the gluten and three years of taking the shots. She was still pretty though, and that was another reason Jemima kept her around. Pretty made Jemima feel wanted. And important, like a man. With pale Irish skin on a thin but taut 5’ 6-inch frame, Carlene had strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and dimples in just the right spots, making her “little girl pretty” and grown woman sexy, all at the same time. A light smattering of barely visible freckles accented the dimples, giving her a sensual glow. Her lips were full and pouty, her perfectly shaped tongue a dainty, competent tool. Her skin was clear and pale like soured milk, her nipples perfectly placed like tender pink flowers. Jemima stroked the side of Carlene’s hips with her fingertips and took in a deep involuntary breath. Carlene used her perfect tongue to tug gently at Jemima’s privates, teasing her with an occasional fast wide lick, like a skilled toad catching a nearby fly, then letting it go for a moment before capturing it again. Jemima grunted from deep in her chest and Carlene felt the muscles under Jemima’s oleaginous brown hide begin to stiffen again. Jemima gasped and pulled Carlene’s head closer to her inflamed sticky waffles, clutching the back of her head with her other hand and pulling off her trademark bandana. She wore the thing as one of her affectations, like the apron that embraced her girth and the iron skillet she carried around like a disciplinary breakfast machete. She normally hated taking the kerchief off her head. Superstitious, she felt that letting go of any of the symbols she carried would make her weak, turning her back into Nancy Green again. Sort of like the Hulk but worse because it was happening to her and not someone else. Sometimes though, on special occasions, and Jemima classified Carlene’s magical tongue as one of those special occasions, Jemima would remove that red and white checkered kerchief and let down a beautiful mane of thick black hair. Her soft wiry curls smelled of lavender and maple syrup. She permitted them to tickle the back of her neck and her fat naked shoulders. It felt so damn good.

The soaking wet bandana lay next to Jemima’s head on a clean-smelling pillow. Carlene felt the behemoth’s breathing start to change, becoming quick and deeper. Jemima’s wide-open pores soaked the fluffy vanilla scented high thread count Egyptian pillows with a tidal wave of sweat that spread over the mattress like a spilled can of sugary soda pop casually engulfing the two women and making their skin both sticky and moist at the same time. Jemima arched her back so that Carlene’s tongue could explore her clinically and lovingly. She felt the feeling creep on her and inside her at the same time.
“That’s it, my little white monkey,” she breathed, flopping a thick brown thigh over Carlene’s pale freckled shoulder. “Go into them woods for to drill me some crows!”

Carlene moved her tongue faster, feeling a bit queasy from the gluten, but pretty sure she could hold It all down. She stroked the outside of Jemima’s swollen lips, what Jemima sometimes jokingly called her flapjacks, with thin pale, delicate fingers. Jemima thrust her sticky maple-flavored mound up at an angle she enjoyed most, muttering, “Go deep in them woods baby. Go deep as you can, an’ Ima set you free. One day. My pussy gonna set you free.” Jemima raised her hips, her muscles tightening and embracing the magical feeling that was growing in intensity, spreading into her belly, up through the back of her hips, and into her dancing spine. Carlene was ready for Jemima’s frantic, heavy pushes but wasn’t fast enough to snag that one deep breath she needed before the long dive down to the bottom of the Estrogen Sea. Jemima began to cry out, twitching uncontrollably while Carlene’s head was fixed in a frightening sexual padlock. Jemima’s soft steel thighs were two frightening mahogany handles of a morbidly obese nutcracker that was trying to crack open the struggling walnut shell that was Carlene’s skull. The slave girl could no longer hear the outside world, only the muffled screams of Aunt Jemima making it through. “I’m a set you free! Ya hear me baby? I’m a set you free!” At that point Carlene, her lungs fatigued, her breath barely gone and her stomach a rolling boil of the things the gluten had put inside of her, heaved a warm steady flow of tapioca-like life into Jemima’s spasming womb. They climbed up into her and staked their claims, giving Jemima an adrenaline rush she’d never had before. Jemima arched her back higher and pointed her rippling abdomen straight towards heaven, her buttocks clenched and her mouth open in a wide silent and joyful scream. She shut her eyes tight and allowed her body to quiver as the swarm’s custardy invasion ran down her tightly twitching groin, warming her and taking her home.

Jemima collapsed into a blissful oxytocin coma. Her bloodstream screamed quietly with new feel-good hormones, lulling her to a new-found happy place. Her trance made her unaware of the outside world, while tiny new things attached themselves to her secret unseen places and began to thrive.

Two hundred miles away, the Muffin Man sat at the table in his kitchen, holding a large oversized chrome spoon and a glowing beaker filled with what looked to be multi-colored fluorescent pearls. He felt much of his tension drain away, if only for a moment. He sighed, relieved, and smiled to himself. His large head was a puffed-out Jack in The Box clown in a big floppy chef’s hat. He was pudgy, with thick eyebrows, heavily lidded dead blue eyes, and exaggerated rosy cheeks. Reddish-brown hair that matched his wide hurdy-gurdy mustache pushed out from under his toque blanche. Deep down inside him, in between his heart and pericardium, throughout his infested liver and his tired but relentless kidneys, a celebration was taking place in a warm and colorful chemical soup. He whistled a merry melody and returned to work.