It had been a punishing voyage from Ngumba—days of heavy seas, the vessel groaning and shuddering as she pitched and rolled through wave after wave. But now she lay moored in Philadelphia, finally at rest. The cargo—hardwood logs and sacks of cocoa—had already been offloaded into waiting trucks, and the hold was nearly filled with manufactured goods bound for African markets.

A captain’s duties rarely pause, yet even I needed shore leave now and then. Besides, I had a personal commission from King Adebowale. A package of great importance for him on our next call at Ngumba.

If I saw it through, the reward would be enough to finally trade salt spray for rose petals—early retirement in our cottage with my Virginia, whose figure had softened over the years but whose cooking and companionship remained fine comforts to this weary mariner.

Watching for a break in the swing of the cargo slings overhead, I descended the gangway, crossed the railway lines, and exited through the pedestrian gate at the harbour fence. The dockside road buzzed with trucks and shouted orders. I slipped into a side street I knew well, and after a ten-minute walk, I pushed through the door of a rundown bar with no sign above the entrance.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. Behind the counter stood Clayton, massive, black and quiet-spoken.

“Morning, Cap,” he said, his deep voice soft as velvet. “Good to see you. The crossing all right?”

“Morning, Clayton, it was pretty rough,” I replied.

He nodded once, then jerked his chin toward a back corner. My eyes followed. A woman’s hat peeked above the booth seat, the only pale face in the dim bar other than mine. Every other man turned his gaze toward me, watchful, waiting.

“She’s here,” Clayton murmured. “Sitting alone. Week after week, just like clockwork, waiting for her dose of black cock.”

“Well done,” I said. “If she bites, your reward’s assured. I’ll take my usual.”

I took a long sip from the glass he slid across, straightened my collar and crossed the floor to the booth. My target sat with careful poise, unaware of the storm that was about to strike.

._.

._.

MOIRA EDELMAN

._.

I looked across the breakfast table at Omer, my sweet husband. The past few days had been nothing short of wretched for him. The stock market crash had sent tremors through his bank, and I had never seen him so despondent, so utterly defeated.

“Moira, my love, I have to go now,” he said softly.

He rose, walked around the table, and kissed my forehead before disappearing into the hallway. A moment later, the front door slammed behind him, its echo lingering in the silence.

I reached for the little brass bell before me and gave it a delicate rattle.

A rustle stirred behind me.

“Madam, I am here.”

“Thank you for breakfast, Destiny. Please clear the table. I’ll be going out shortly and won’t be back until the afternoon.”

“Yes, madam.”

I stood, and the chair behind me was smoothly drawn back. I turned to look at Destiny. Her familiar, plump face—dark as polished mahogany—brought a quiet comfort that momentarily eased my concern for Omer.

“Please lay out my day clothes in the dressing room. I’ll take a bath before I leave.”

With that, I swept from the room and ascended the staircase.

._.

Two hours later, freshly bathed and suitably clothed, I walked out onto the street and hailed a passing cab.

My double life was turning over, and I was changing from a respectable Jewish banker’s wife to a slutty whore, to be taken by any negro who desired my body.

I gave the cabbie the address of a fashionable coffee house, then, after alighting there, hailed another cab to deliver me to a low-life bar near the harbour, where my black master awaited me.

Waiting for my master always wound me up with nerves. I sat nursing a bourbon, letting the ice clink softly against the glass, and wondered who I’d be serving today. The drink was not enough on its own. My shaking hand delved into my purse and lifted a packet of my favourite Chesterfields and a silver lighter. I lifted a stick to my lips and noticed another four inside the packet. Enough for the day. Nervously, I flicked the lighter top. On the third strike, a steady flame did the job, and I inhaled deeply, relaxing that instant.

The voice that broke my concentration wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t deep or familiar. It was foreign, carefully enunciated and strangely clipped.

“Good morning, madam.”

I looked up and thought the man standing beside my booth was a stranger to this place, to this world. White hair, full beard, skin like tanned hide. A white man. I had never seen one set foot in this bar before—not even one in this neighbourhood. But there was no mistaking it; he belonged here.

As he slid into the booth across from me, two men rose from a nearby table and passed us with silent nods in his direction. Not challenging; just quiet deference.

“Mrs Edelman,” he said, “you will come with me. Your master demands it.”

A chill wrapped around my spine.

My voice hardened. “And who are you?”

“I am the captain; that’s all you need to know.”

I stared at him for a moment, weighing the risk. Something didn’t sit right.

“I don’t know you,” I said, rising. “I’m going home.”

I turned toward the bar.

“Clayton, order me a cab.”

“Madam, either you walk with me, or you get a knife in your pretty back without me.”

I felt as if my blood had frozen. I was panicking, trying to rationalise the threat, and looking for an exit path.

Suddenly, I felt a warm rush between my legs. I had wet myself in fear and realised there was no choice. I had to go with him.

“Very well, I shall come, but only because my master has ordered it.”

Perhaps he could smell my fear, or maybe my urine.

He played the gentleman, allowing me to walk ahead, and I suspected he had a clear view of the dark stain spreading across the back of my skirt. Humiliation was just one more thread in the dread tightening around me.

Outside, he offered his arm with a quiet command. I slipped mine under him, and he caught my hand in an iron grip—insurance, I thought, against any sudden bid for freedom. I felt like prey, tracked, cornered, and resigned.

We walked downhill toward the dock road, weaving between laden wagons and crossing the rails. The scent of coal and sea air clung to everything. Up ahead, a grey hull with white upperworks of a ship shimmered in the sunlight, portholes flashing like eyes. Machinery clattered; stevedores shouted over the grinding chorus of industry.

We climbed the gangway and entered the accommodation. I followed wordlessly wherever the captain led, my resistance melting under the force of his silent authority.

Finally, down a quiet side corridor, he opened a door and gestured for me to enter. I turned back to him, my voice hoarse.

“Captain, why am I here?”

“Because your master wants you here,” he said. “Now make yourself comfortable. I have work to do.”

He closed the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.

The noise snapped me from the trance that had gripped me since he first threatened my life at the bar. I stood frozen, a prisoner in a velvet cage.

It was a beautiful room. A small sofa sat beneath a pair of portholes, sunlight spilling across its worn cushions. In front of it was a wide bed dressed in neat, crisp white linen. Opposite the bed, a dressing table was adorned with a mirror and a plush stool.

I wandered toward the far side of the room, where an open door revealed a private bathroom: clean, tiled, and modern, with a deep tub, gleaming fixtures, and neatly folded fluffy white towels.

It was too lovely. A gilded cell built for compliance.

Once my curiosity was satisfied, I returned to the sofa, sank into its cushions, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Time passed—minutes, perhaps hours—before the sharp click of the door lock jolted me awake. I sat up, tense, my heart knocking against my ribs. I held my breath.

Then the door creaked open.

When I saw who stepped inside, relief surged through my head so quickly that my vision blurred.

“Master,” I whispered, rising to my feet. “I’m so grateful to see you here.”

I stood up, stepped forward, and then knelt in front of him, rubbing my hand over the rough material in front of his pubic area. Beneath the cloth, I felt his shaft harden swiftly.

“Take my cock out, white whore.”

My hands felt for his top fly button, then slipped it through its hole. Four buttons released in turn before I pushed my hand inside to find the slit in his underpants. At last, I touched his wiry hair and wriggled my fingers about to grasp his long shaft before I pulled it out to stand black, erect and proud in front of his body.

“Suck me, you slut.”

Oh, my goodness, what would the ladies in my temple think if they saw me like this? What would they think of words like ‘slut’, ‘whore’, and ‘cock’ that were unknown to me before my fall from grace? Indeed, what would my sweet husband think of his wife on her knees before her black master?

I knew I was simply a whore who craved the taste of her master’s seed.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice deep and authoritative.

“Look at what you are, kneeling before me, ready to serve.”

“You’re going to take all of me,” he murmured as he wrapped a fist around my hair, his calloused skin digging into my scalp.

His grip was firm, leaving no room for protest, only submission. I felt my mouth water at the sight of his erection, as dark as the night, its purple veins pulsing with power.

“And you’re going to swallow like the eager little white slut you are,” he added, the words cutting through the silence, leaving no doubt in my mind about the task at hand.

With a tremble, I leaned in, my heart racing in anticipation, and took his member into my mouth, feeling the heat and hardness of his flesh against my lips. His fingers tightened in my hair as I descended, inch by inch, down his shaft until I was buried to the hilt, nose pressed against the warm, velvety skin of his abdomen.

My eyes watered, my throat strained around his girth, but I had learnt to endure. This was my fate, submission played out in a strange ship. I had a role to play, and as I began to bob my head, taking him deeper still, I realised I needed this as much as he did.

The sound of my gagging was music to his ears, his dark chuckle echoing off the walls as he watched me struggle to accommodate his size. Each time I took him in, it was a silent battle, his power against my fragility.

He pulled back slightly, allowing me a gasp of air before plunging back into my mouth, the salty taste of precum coating my tongue.

“You are a good whore,” he praised, the words sending a strange thrill through my body.

His other hand rested on the back of my neck, a silent command to not stop, to never dare pull away. I obeyed, eager to please, my eyes locked onto his, searching for every sign of approval, any hint of my master’s satisfaction with his slut.

The only sounds were the squelch of wet flesh and the rhythmic thud of his hips meeting my face. I could feel him growing closer to his peak, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breathing coming in ragged pants.

He stared down at me, and a look of pure, animalistic lust twisted his face into a mask of pleasure. I felt his hands tighten, and his grip on my hair became painful as he quickened his pace. I knew what was coming; I had known it many times before. The pressure built in the back of my throat, his cock swelling as he approached climax. The walls seemed to close around me as he used me, a toy for his needs.

“Swallow it,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort, and I braced myself, knowing the taste of his release was imminent.

With a roar, he came, his hot seed flooding my mouth. I gagged, trying to keep up with the torrent, my eyes watering and nose running. But I had my instructions, and I followed them to the letter, swallowing every drop of his essence like the obedient slut I was.

He held me there, his cock still pulsing, until he was drained and then released me with a satisfied sigh. I collapsed back onto my haunches, panting, my eyes still locked onto his, the taste of him lingering on my tongue. He leaned down, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb.

“Good girl,” he whispered. The tenderness of the words was a stark contrast to the brutality of the act. “You’re a perfect slut.”

“Get up,” he ordered, his tone commanding, even though his body had just moments ago been trembling with pleasure. I rose unsteadily to my feet, my knees weak from the exertion, my throat sore but alive with the sensation of his cock in it still lingering.

He stepped back, pulling and shaking his clothes until his half-erect shaft slipped back into his underwear, allowing him to button his fly again.

He addressed me formally, “You have learnt well, my slut. It is time for me to exit your life. The Captain is your new master; obey him as you have obeyed me.”

Then he turned and walked out, locking the door behind him and leaving me confined in my gilded cage.

I sat on the sofa, trying to untangle the meaning behind my master’s words. Why was I being passed around like a dessert at a feast—each man helping himself to a slice before handing me along?

Outside, the dockside clanged and groaned; inside, muffled thuds reverberated through the hull, echoes of unseen work.

I don’t know how long I stayed lost in that spiral of thought, but the sudden metallic click of the door lock snapped me back. There was a pause—then a gentle knock.

A knock? In a prison cell? Caught off guard, I hesitated before murmuring, “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and a man entered, pushing a small trolley.

“Memsahib,” he said politely. “Your dinner, with the captain’s compliments.”

I stared, momentarily stunned. The man was short and had very dark skin, but his hair was straight, not curly. His nose was narrow, not flat. And that word—memsahib—what did it mean? It didn’t sound like an insult; if anything, his manner was deeply courteous.

He bowed slightly, then slipped back out. The lock clicked again. I was still a prisoner.

I turned to the trolley. Under one tureen, I found a plate of spiced meat and rice, unlike anything I had eaten before. An upturned plate revealed a steaming bowl of soup. A pot of strong tea sat beside a milk pitcher and a jug of fruit juice. There were even biscuits—thick, sweet, and crumbly.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and hunger overrode hesitation. The food was surprisingly good—rich, fragrant, and unfamiliar. By the end, my belly was full, and my body was fatigued. I collapsed onto the bed, the sheets cool against my skin.

I did not recall falling asleep. One moment, I was awake, and the next—adrift. But I did recall strange vibrations, shivering through the bed like a giant breathing beneath the earth. There was a hum, mechanical and far away, as if some machine had stirred to life.

In my dreams, I saw him—my master. His presence was not comforting, and I could not see his face clearly, but I knew it was him. He half-turned as if he sensed me watching, and though his gaze never landed on me, I felt insecure beneath it.

And dreaming, I waited.