He could see that the diminutive slave had very little pubic hair. Most of the nigger wenches had shaggy kinky hair all over their mounds, along the sides of their pussies, in between the cheeks of their ass, and even sometimes sprawling out unattractively onto the insides of their thighs.

But Tammy had none of this.

She simply had two curls of black hair which grew above and to the sides of her clitoral foreskin, at the very face of her sloping mound.

Less than a third of the little girl's mound was covered with hair – and the hair that did exist, Bernard Cornfield could tell – was downy soft.

Judging from the little girl's mound, the white master correctly assumed that she was completely bald along the outermost edges of her vulva. He correctly assumed that she was equally hairless in the cleavage between her delicious round and brown ass cheeks.

"Now I want you to get upon that table and stretch out," he said.

It was clear from the tone in the man's deep baritone voice that he was not then – nor would he ever be – in the mood to take no for an answer.

He was not making a request.

He was giving a command.

"On my belly or my back, Master?" Tammy inquired.

"On your belly. First the whip," he said with a laugh.

"Please have mercy on me, Master."

"You are a little fool. Mercy! Ha! I don't even know the meaning of the word," the man said. He laughed an intrinsically sadistic laugh, throwing back his head.

Tammy trembled worse than before.