Plantation Voodoo

By Hannah Hush

I stood at the airport holding a sign that discretely said only “Film crew.” Ever since Louisiana had initiated the tax credit for film production in-state, all kinds of feature movies had been made here. I had decided that there wasn’t a good reason why pornographic production shouldn’t share in the tax credit frenzy and I had written to a well known company with pictures of my authentic plantation home and a script for “Plucked Magnolias.” Now I would get money for renting out my house, see my fantasies on screen and get my name in the tiny credits to boot.

When the Louisiana legislature made the decision to start a tax credit they had assumed that people in the state would be hired to work in the film industry and Louisiana would gradually accumulate a population with film savvy which would attract film investment after the tax credit was over. That didn’t happen, of course. Instead of training local people and buying up local materials, the film production companies always spent their money buying plane tickets and extra baggage space to bring their own workers and equipment from California to Louisiana just long enough for the film to be made and then sent everything home again with a pocketed tax credit. Consequently I was soon surrounded by young men with a truly obscene amount of luggage and worst of all imported women with fake southern drawls and fake breasts. At least they were filming on location.

Doing a quick head count, I realized that everyone was present and waiting for me to lead the way back to my house. I made the ‘follow me’ hand motion and began walking toward the short-term parking lot.

I had brought an SUV to hold the crew with a little trailer behind, which I opened to hold the luggage. I shook my head when the luggage threatened to spill out; so much crap for just one little movie. I opened the car door and watched the crew cram themselves inside. The hot women with the fake breasts were already complaining about the cramped quarters. I laughed a little inside. They were willing to give men access to the most intimate crevices of their bodies for a fee but they had to bitch because they were forced to sit on a guy’s lap for free. I remembered when Hurricane Katrina rolled through and I saw families of eight escape the hurricane by cramming themselves into compact cars and sitting in traffic for a full day.

I had been driving for around an hour when one of the hot blondes piped up with a whiny little “Are we there yet?” I decided to ignore the obvious immaturity of the question in favor of educating the poor dear. Besides, everyone else was listening intently for my answer, probably also wondering how long the trip would be but too polite to say anything.

“In the late 1700s and the whole of the 1800s, Louisiana was primarily an agricultural area. We grew cotton of course, but also rice, sugar cane, etc. But Louisiana was a colony and the main method of transportation for goods and commodities was to go down the Mississippi River and into the Gulf and then over the ocean to the destination of choice. Therefore it was not so much important for the plantations to be located in a major metropolitan area as it was for the plantations to be located near a body of water with Gulf access. Later, as more and more of the bayous were drained for development, most of the swamp routes that used to connect to the Mississippi River no longer do so. Therefore my home, being an authentic plantation, is located away from any appreciable population, in the middle of a bayou which no longer connects to anything. Sit tight, honey, it’ll be another ten minutes before we get to the next stop.”

Ten minutes later I had parked the car and everyone was piling out to stretch their cramped legs. The blonde looked around as I opened the trailer and sure enough I later heard a whiny “Where’s the house?”

“Roughly in the middle of that swamp,” I said, pointing South. “We’ll be taking a boat from here. There isn’t enough firm, dry ground to drive on.”

We managed to pile all the equipment and people into my motorboat and we started into the swamp. Of course there was immediately a large cloud of mosquitoes surrounding the boat. I inwardly sighed. Naturally city slickers wouldn’t bring their own bug spray to a swamp. I imagined my pornographic masterpiece with bug-bitten talent and decided it would be best for everyone if I handed out some of my own bug supply. I particularly enjoyed watching the spray glisten on the blonde’s chest before drying; whiny woman, but a wonderful body.

I had just started to relax at the boat wheel when I heard a particularly high pitched scream. I fixed the blonde with a stare and after a pregnant pause I asked her what was wrong.

“I saw a crocodile slip into the water over there. There are crocodiles in this water!” The blonde pointed.

“No honey, those are alligators, you can tell by the shape of the jaw. Crocodiles are very rare, but there are about a million alligators living in Southern Louisiana.”

I went back to steering, enjoying watching the blonde tremble out of the corner of my eye.

“You aren’t going to chop us all up in little pieces and dump us in the bayou, are you?” Derrick asked.

I tried to resist running my eyes down his body. He was amazing and I’d made sure he was hired to star in the film of my fantasies. I smiled at him, “No honey, I feel certain that you’d be missed.”

“You see, Sheila, everything is alright,” Derrick said as he comforted the trembling blonde.

I smiled. It was so sweet of him to care for Ms. Whiny. It was so very Derrick.

When we arrived at the house and I started helping to unload the boat, I predictably, heard another high pitched whine.

“Why is the house so tiny? They said real plantation. I expected grand! I was going to be just like Scarlet from Gone With The Wind.”

“Back in the days when the house was built most people lived in shacks and fell prey to epidemics. Plus Louisiana taxed a person’s riches based on the number of rooms in their house. Property taxes in Louisiana have always been the state’s primary source of income. The house was grand enough in her day.”

“My house in LA was bigger,” the blonde huffed.

I smiled, while deciding that I would somehow make myself scarce when she found out there was no air conditioning both because it hadn’t been invented when the house was built and it would be too expensive to transport workers and equipment across the swamp to install it now, but also because it’s too expensive to wire a home in the middle of a swamp with electricity. The home therefore had no electricity and still had real authenticity.

I stepped over the Voodoo brick dust line which protected me from people who meant me harm and headed into the house. The women in my family had been Vaudun priestesses since we absorbed the religion from our slaves in the early 1800s.

I gave everyone a tour, making sure to point out the old authentic touches like the real shoe fly above the dining room table. I also showed them the rooms they would share for the duration of the three day filming, considering it would take too much time for them to go back to civilization’s hotels each night. I took great care to instruct the blonde in opening her window for the night to let in the cool air and how to spread her mosquito net around her canopy bed as well as showing her where the candles were in case she should need to use the outhouse in the middle of the night.

After the tour they began setting up for filming almost immediately to take full advantage of their scant two days of rental time. I slunk away to fix dinner. Without electricity I would have to fix the gumbo with the old fashioned pot-over-a-fire routine. The pot also had to be big enough to feed the dozen people I had there since we certainly wouldn’t have any catered delivery out here. Plus gumbo is best when it simmers for a few hours after cooking.

I had finished cooking the small amount of meat in the boiling water and was ready to add the rue when I began to hear the blonde’s moans drifting to me from elsewhere in the house. I stirred the rue off the bottom and sides of the pot as I imagined Derrick touching her. I wished I could be there to watch and my arms ached with the speed and difficulty of stirring the thick mixture. Originally gumbo had been a method devised to feed a large number of people in a poor family with only a little meat by stretching the amount of meat out with a large thick amount of rue, and because rue was flour-based it was both cheap and highly prone to burn if you didn’t stir it frequently and rapidly.

I opened the oeil de bouc doors on my outdoor Cajun oven. I was going to bake bread for everyone since everyone knows that the oven is life and beggars who aren’t given bread can hex a bread maker until she can’t make another loaf successfully.

Later, I had everyone sat down to dinner and I had served the bread and gumbo with some sweet tea and lemon. Of course I had to explain to the blonde that you were supposed to mix the rice with the gumbo in equal parts and she had complained that the food was too spicy. The poor dear was going to starve to death in two days.

I couldn’t help but watch Derrick out of the corner of my eyes. The physical activity without air conditioning must have made him extremely thirsty because he was drinking an incredible amount of my tea. I watched him swallow, his sexy muscular neck moving, and felt a sharp stab of over-protectiveness like a mother hen. A man with assets like that should be more careful about who he trusts, I thought. A local man would never have downed a dark-colored liquid offered to him by a Vaudun priestess. One of the religious beliefs is that ingesting a woman’s menstrual blood causes a man to be forever in thrall to the woman. It was like a kind of emasculation that only peeing into a red ant’s nest from afar could cure. Consequently a local man would only have accepted a clear liquid like water from me. You could hear the belief in some of the old folk songs of the period, like the one with the refrain “Can’t drink coffee, can’t drink tea. I fear my pretty baby’s gonna Voodoo me.” Luckily for him I wanted him to want me voluntarily rather than because of a spell-induced thrall. Still, even if he wasn’t worried or knowledgeable about Voodoo, you would think that city slickers would fear more mainstream things like date-rape drugs.

After dinner, Derrick pulled me aside and asked if I didn’t have any exercise equipment. I shook my head sadly. We always got all our exercise through useful work. I could sympathize with his needing to maintain that wonderful body, but we didn’t have those kinds of modern conveniences and it was too dark to even safely go for a jog around the house.

Everyone settled in for the night except me. I labored under the moon to haul water out of the bayou, boil it over an open flame and dump it into a claw-footed iron tub. After a couple hours of back-breaking work, I bathed. Putting my clothes back on, I crept into the house and up to Derrick’s room. He was awake and he watched my candle draw close to the bed. When I was standing next to his bed he looked up and said, “I’m sorry, honey, I’m afraid I’ve had sex all day in the heat and it’s really too stifling to continue with that shit.”

I smiled down at him, “It’s OK, I didn’t come to seduce you, I came to offer you a bath. I figure the man in these shows does almost all the work and you need a bath the most. Besides, it’s traditional to take a bath before bed since afterward as you let the water evaporate off you it will cool you down and help you sleep. Be really quiet though, I don’t want to draw a bath for everyone.”

After I led him to the bath, I warned him not to swallow any of the water. He gave me a strange look as if wondering why anyone would swallow bath water anyway. Clearly he didn’t know anything about Voodoo. Drinking a woman’s bath water is less potent than drinking her menstrual blood, but it still deprives you of some of your free will. I shook my head, and left so he could change and bathe in privacy.

We went through the same basic routine the next day. On the third day I drove everyone back to the airport at the crack of dawn. The blonde wasn’t the only one who looked happy to leave. When I arrived back I found a confused Derrick wandering around the house.

“Where did everyone go?”

“Back to the airport.”

“But we were supposed to shoot for three days. I was clearly told that I’d been booked for three days. My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”

“Sounds like an administrative error. Don’t worry honey, I’m sure we can find some way of passing the time. For instance, why don’t you let me give you a tour of the house,” I said, wrapping my arm around him confidentially.

Derrick made a confused face. “Didn’t you give us a tour of the house on the day we arrived?”

I smiled at him. “I only gave you a tour of the politically correct parts of the house. Would you like to see the rest?”

“What part of a house could possibly be politically incorrect?”

“You’ll see.”

I led him up the stairs and into the master bedroom I’d had him staying in. I moved a bookcase to the side to reveal a small door. Inside the door was a tiny crawlspace with planks nailed into the wall to climb up into the hidden part of the attic.

I started to climb up the stairs and heard Derrick below me ask, “Why is there a hidden doorway in this house?”

“Slaves’ quarters have always been hidden away, honey. Also, they’re usually found in the attic since that is the hottest and least desirable part of the house.”

When we were inside the plantation house’s slaves’ quarters, I lifted Derrick’s hand and rested it on one of the carrying beams in the center of the room. “These are the carrying beams in the load-bearing walls for the house. They’re original because they’re made out of cedar which is naturally resistant to rot. Can you not feel the injustice of the centuries soaked into the wood and crying out for vengeance against my family?”

Derrick gave me a knowing look and grabbed a handful of my hair. “I see. This little ‘administrative error’ was so that we would have time alone together in which I am supposed to top you. Oh and look, you’ve laid out ropes for me. You even have a TENS box with a 9-volt battery for me to use on you.”

Derrick grabbed the rope and started tying me to the carrying beams as he said, “You know, whore, the problem with your little plan here is that this ‘administrative error’ leaves you all alone with me. You’re all alone, tied up, in the middle of rural nowhere, surrounded by alligator-infested water.”

Derrick grabbed the antique brass shears off the table and began to cut off my clothes. As the first layer came off he said, “Oh look, your underclothes are period-suitable too. How annoyingly modest is that?”

When I was naked, Derrick went behind me and ran his hand along my back and down to my ass. “Oh look, I found a bit of cellulite. So much for the ‘we get our exercise through hard work’ theory. Don’t worry, I’ll just see if I can smack your ass back into shape.

Derrick started to spank me and it was pleasant for the first couple of smacks, but as he continued the pain started. I didn’t like pain at all, I was just into submission, and I grimaced in discomfort. However, Derrick was behind me and he couldn’t see my expressions, so he continued. I endured a little while longer and he finally came back around to the front to talk to me. “I like the way your pale skin gets all red so quickly. That’s one thing I’ll say for all this period clothing crap, it keeps the sun off your creamy white skin. You’re so ethereal I can even see your little blue veins going from the center of your chest and curling around your breasts. I’m not sure if that’s ugly or just really gothic. Would you like me to see if I can smack your breasts until they’re so red I can’t see your veins anymore?”

I was silent for a moment because I wasn’t sure what to say. Getting smacked some more and enduring more pain didn’t sound like fun.

“Speak up whore. Do you want me to continue playing with you or are you finished playing for the day? You can drive me back to the airport now, slut. What’ll it be?”

Something inside me panicked. I wasn’t ready for this to end yet. “You can do whatever you want to me, sir,” I said.

“That’s my good little slut,” Derrick said, as he began to slap my breasts.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to better endure the pain.

“Look at me while I hurt you, slut.”

I opened my eyes and made eye contact with him while he hurt me. I looked into his eyes and saw the expression of power and pleasure in them while he hit me. This was what I had really wanted. I’d always wondered why I was so drawn to these kinds of bedroom games when I don’t really like pain. It was all about being able to give him the only real gift I had: my submission. It was about letting go of the mammalian constant search for my own pleasure in favor of being used for someone else’s pleasure. It was about washing my awareness away in the tide of someone else’s willpower. It was about that warm feeling of being owned by someone. I felt myself grow wet while I stared into his eyes. It was as if my body wanted to ease his passage to make it easier for him to use me. My pussy got all hot and swollen as my arousal increased. My cervix started to contract against itself. I simultaneously felt so desperately empty, and yet so patient for him to be ready to take me.

“Would you like me to choke you now, slut?”

For a moment I hesitated. There was nothing I hated more than the desperation of not being able to breathe, but I stared into the power and pleasure in his eyes and said the only words I had left in my vocabulary, “Yes, Sir.”

He put his hands around my neck and slowly tightened. I went through a second of the predictable panic before I stared into his eyes again and let go; accepting his control over whether I died or continued living.

I started to feel so sleepy and I struggled to continue looking at him. He was still completely clothed but it didn’t seem to make any different to how badly I wanted to look at him. I lost the battle and my eyes fluttered shut.

He released my neck and commanded me to take a deep breath while it was still his pleasure to let me breathe. I gasped and took in large lungfuls of air while reveling in my returned ability to stare back at him.

He reached his hands between my legs and smiled at me. “You’re burning up down here; so wet and swollen and needy. I think you’re ready to have something inside you. Am I right? Are you ready to have something inside you?”

Was this the moment he would want to take me? This wave of desperate longing filled me and I started begging him in a long rapid stream of unconsciousness. I didn’t even know for sure if I was begging with real words, given that I wasn’t using the thinking rational part of my brain anymore. That part of me was long gone and unavailable for my use.

“Shut up, whore. I didn’t say you could beg me. If I want to hear your pathetic groveling, I’ll ask,” He said as he repeatedly slapped me across the face.

There was no pain as he backhanded me. Letting him face-slap me was the ultimate expression of submission and there was only pleasure whenever his hand made contact. I vaguely wondered how he would ever manage to discipline me considering my new-found ability to transcend the unpleasantness of pain, but I realized it didn’t matter anymore, as I had absolutely no remaining desire to do anything other than what he told me he wanted. I felt the heat rise in my face as my head rotated back and forth with his slaps.

“There, I think you’ve learned your lesson. You do only what I tell you to do, nothing more nor less,” he said as he stopped slapping me. “Now, I think you might be ready for the something hard I promised you. Just tell me you’re sorry for begging and I’ll put something inside you.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

He touched my breasts with two fingers and then trailed them slowly down my tummy and finally between my pussy lips. He plunged both fingers inside me at once and despite my wetness I felt a twinge of pain as he pushed himself past my pussy muscles and into my deep pleasure. I saw the little smile flitter across his face as he saw my momentary pain and seeing his reaction to me made my body relax and open for him to invade me. He started fucking me with his two fingers so hard and fast that it felt like the rest of his hand was punching me between my legs. I felt dizzy with the intimate pleasure of letting him touch me in a place I so rarely let anyone touch.

“I see that expression on your face. You’re such a whore you don’t even need me to rub your clit, do you? If I keep finger fucking you, you’ll come, won’t you?”

I saw his mouth moving, but I didn’t understand the noises. My whole body convulsed and I tightened my muscles around his fingers as hard as I could while my world narrowed down to just his touch.

“Oh, that was an unmistakable orgasm; violent and forbidden. Your orgasms belong to me today, bitch. You should have asked me before coming. I try to do something nice for you and you steal from me what is mine.”

Derrick slowly removed his fingers and the stickier more viscous moisture from the deepest part of my body followed his fingers out. He pulled his fingers farther and farther away from my body and watched the sticky strand of moisture stretch as it got thinner and gravity tried to pull it to the ground. Another strand of my wetness was sliding out of me and slowly stretching toward the floor.

My face burned as he said “Oh my, I think this makes you positively the dirtiest little whore I’ve ever been with. It’s like some sort of obscene pizza slice.” Derrick tried to separate his two fingers and more strands of moisture appeared spanning the space between them. He raised his hands to my mouth and ordered me to clean my disgusting secretions off him. It was pretty disgusting, but I obeyed.

The next thing I knew he was untying me from the carrying beams. When each of my limbs were still tied but no longer connected to the beams, he picked me up and flipped me around upside down. He ordered me to put out my hands and hold myself up like a handstand. As soon as I was supporting my own weight he pulled my legs apart and began tying them to the steel loops at the tops of the beams. When I was fastened by my feet, he pulled my hands apart and I dangled while he tied my hands to the steel loops at the bottom of the beams. Then he got out my TENS kit and started fastening electric pads to the major muscle groups on my legs, abs, and arms. He turned on the electricity and my whole body started to twitch and jiggle in my bonds.

He watched me twitch for a little while and then got on his knees so that his crotch was even with my mouth. He started undoing his pants and a thrill of excitement went through me as I hoped that he had in mind what I thought he had in mind.

“You took pleasure from my fingers without my permission and now it’s time for me to take pleasure from your mouth. You suck me exactly the way I want to be sucked or I’ll turn up the electric juice and watch you shudder and dance. I want you to swallow everything I give you. Don’t you dare spill any of my cum.” He slapped my face, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Inwardly, I smiled. I didn’t think he had any idea of what he had just asked for. In my religion we believe that monogamy is a highly unnatural state for men who are necessarily wandering creatures, prone to sleeping with anyone they can get their hands on, and we believe it is the Vaudun Priestess who is to ameliorate this condition. We believe that a man’s seed is a tiny piece of his soul and the priestess is supposed to trap his essence inside the proper woman so that he can no longer wander. We do this by swallowing their seed, while simultaneously invoking the Laos (spirits), thus trapping his soul inside ourselves so he ceases to wander. It’s a kind of spiritual enslavement. Maybe it was the greed from the beams seeping into my soul, but I didn’t want this feeling to ever end. I wanted to trap him inside me forever. Besides, he asked for it.

“Open your mouth. Leave your mouth open. Stick your tongue out as far as you can. Leave your tongue out.” He grabbed my tongue and clasped both hands around my jaw, holding me exactly how he wanted me, while he shoved himself in and out of the back of my throat. Each time he triggered my gag reflex for a moment but didn’t stay long enough for me to throw up on him but just long enough to make me nauseous and uncomfortable. Drool started to fall out of my mouth and make its way down to the ground. I thought it was really disgusting and I tried to keep it in my mouth but I was having trouble swallowing without having control of my tongue. He kept fucking me, pausing just long enough to occasionally allow me to breathe, but otherwise oblivious to my discomfort. Letting him use my mouth like that was truly terrifying, but also oddly satisfying. I prayed to the Laos as he used my mouth and I felt him draw closer and closer to his orgasm. Just before he was about to cum he reached up and started rubbing his thumb across my clit. I convulsed in orgasm just as he shot he seed down my throat.

This was horribly unexpected. The woman is not to have an orgasm while she is trying to trap the man, because the woman is supposed to be the more powerful of the pair and if her will is so weak the Laos punish her by doing the opposite of what she asked for. I looked up at him with glazed doe eyes and realized that I would do anything that Derrick, the holder of my soul, asked.

THE END

[Editor’s note: I conflated the Voodoo and Hoodoo religions, but hopefully my research has allowed me to be accurate in that the views expressed should all be held by one or the other religion. If my research is faulty and I fucked up your religion, I apologize. I’m not a Vaudun priestess for real, so I’m essentially typing out my ass here.]