“Who yo pa” he grunted. “Who yo pa?”

Normally I wouldn’t respond to his ‘ludicrous’ query. I took it as a battle of wills and would deliberately keep my head down and my mouth shut till he got tired of asking. Today, however, something was different.His determination to break me was palpable. He’d been asking the same damn thing for the last quarter of an hour and my innards were beginning to wear thin from holding out. I was partially blind from the rivers of sweat in my eyes too, and my thighs were cramping.

“Who yo pa,” he asked again. I felt his member forcefully tearing for my throat as his mango like balls slapped noisily against my cushiony milky moons. Surely my rump would be flaming scarlet by now, and to sit down for any length of time would be a real challenge tomorrow. My lungs also felt like they were on fire. Thank God Robert won’t return from the cattle market for another week.

I had to answer the darkie on my case or die stubborn.

“You, Antoine! You’re me pa!”

The words flew out of my mouth like tobacco spit.

“Agin? I kent hear yo,” he roared.

“Antoine is me pa!”

“Good gal,” he replied, slapping my rump with his calloused palm and ramming me again and again like I’d seen our new stallion Arab do one of the old mares some weeks ago. I imagined he had a smirk on his coal bin face.

It was only afterward when I lay recovering in the warm waters of the porcelain bathtub that I made the connection. At my moment of capitulation, I had sounded exactly like Antoine usually did when my husband rode him to submission in the evening quiet of the western corn fields.

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