Read Online 400 Days of Oppression by Wrath James White - Free Book Online Page B

from the center rather than the ends, the slightest shift in position sent the box tilting and reeling. Between the heat and the claustrophobia, it was too much. I could feel the gorge rising in my stomach, the bile scalding the back of my throat. Many days, as I lay interred in my coffin breathing my own funk and swaying back and forth, I was overcome with nausea and regurgitated, leaving me no choice but to lie in my own vomit for hours until Kenyatta returned. The liquefied chunks of squash and horse beans would slowly curdle in the heat, filling the boiling air with its repugnant stench until I vomited again and again, the nausea magnified by the smell of my own waste. I didn’t want to go through that again. I tried to suck the scalding bile rising in my throat back down into my stomach and lie steady to quiet the swaying of the box. It worked for a while at least.
    The thirst came almost immediately. From the moment the box is closed, the need for a cool drink becomes an insistent preoccupation. At first it is merely the need for some refreshment against the oppressive heat and the stench of my own sweat and funk and breath trapped in this confined space. Then, as more and more of my fluids escaped through my sweat glands, the need for liquids turned into a raging, maddening thirst. I began to count the seconds, minutes, hours until Kenyatta returned. He was all I could think about. My life revolved around him now. Without him food, water, air, sunlight, freedom did not exist. I distracted myself from my thirst, imagining the feel of his granite chest and arms as he pulled me tight against him. I imagined the feel of his cock inside me and his lips upon mine. I clenched and unclenched my Kegel muscles trying to bring myself to orgasm without using my hands and making the box sway as I fantasized about Kenyatta fucking me again. I came, a small quiet orgasm that still caused the box to tilt and sway as I imagined Kenyatta holding me in his arms face to face, lifting me off the floor while still inside of me, sliding me up and down on his cock with my full weight supported on his arms. Then I laid there quietly with the heat and the thirst rushing back in to remind me where I was.
    Hours went by. I estimated that it had been about five hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-five seconds since my master left. I was hungry and thirsty and hot and I needed to pee. That was yet another constant torment. It seems I always had to pee. I don’t know where my body found the moisture with all the fluids I was constantly perspiring. But every day I went through the discomfort of holding my urine for hours waiting for my master to return so that I could use the toilet and most days I failed and relieved myself in the box. The smell of urine, added to all the other bodily odors boiling in the cramped wooden box, increased the feeling of claustrophobia and my own misery until I felt like I was going to lose my mind. The air soon became so repugnant with odors that it was impossible to breathe yet I had no choice. I sat there fighting nausea and counting down the remaining hours until my master’s return.
    Two hours later, I threw up. The smells and the seasickness were finally too much and I vomited up my breakfast and nearly choked on it. I rolled over in the casket as I continued to regurgitate and the swaying of the box caused it all to drip down until I was covered from head to toe in my own vomit. That’s when my master finally returned. I was ashamed when he opened the box and I saw that look of disgust on his beautiful face. I hid my face in my hands and sobbed uncontrollably. I thought about saying the safe word for the first time, but I knew I wouldn’t. It had only been two weeks and I would have felt like a failure. Besides, there was no way I could have brought myself to say that word.
    Kenyatta hauled me out of the box and washed me off. I didn’t look at him the entire time, not wanting to see the disgust on his face