The southern plantation owner, whose skin was as white as milk, sat in his over-stuffed easy chair in the corner of the large, plush livingroom inside his mansion.

His name was Bernard Cornfield and he was one of the richest – and meanest – men in the whole south. He turned lazily and found himself looking at his Negro butler, Jones.

Jones had his faded palm beneath a tray upon which was Bernard Cornfield's afternoon mint julep. A sprig of mint stuck up greenly from the top of the long, thin glass.

The glass was three-quarters filled with crushed ice – just the way Bernard liked it. He thanked Jones kindly and the butler turned to leave.

"Oh, Jones?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Ain't there one of them nigger girls I bought last week left to be whipped?"

"Yes, Master. The one named Tammy Taylor. She is the youngest and the smallest."

"Ah, yes. I was saving her for last purposefully," Bernard said with a sigh.

"You want me to fetch her for you, Master?" Jones asked, his thick lips parted.

"That would be good, Jones, but in ten minutes, after my drink," Bernard said.

"You want me to bring her straight here to you?" Jones asked politely.

"No, Jones. Bring her down to the torture room, to save time," Bernard said.

"Yes, Master," Jones said. The Negro turned and left the livingroom. Bernard sipped his drink and felt the ache growing in his balls.

If his wife – Annabelle – ever found out that he was messing with the nigger poontang there would be hell to pay. Only the slaves knew – and they were under strict orders never to mention Bernard's sexual activities to the lady of the house.

Annabelle – luckily for Bernard – was always off riding her horses or shopping in the nearest Georgia town, which happened to be called Stocking Post.