The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (50 page)

May 20, 1831—

Talking to Ophelia in the midst of fucking her dog-style tonight, I asked her to describe to me how it felt, as a woman, to be fucked. I am an excellent lover, but I realize that the most skilled man is a bumbling novice compared to a reasonably lusty woman. And Ophelia is more than just lusty. But she could not give a satisfactory answer to my query. So I decided to perform an experiment. I stopped and brought out the wooden phallus I used on Ophelia and, with cotton cords, had her strap it on. Ophelia tongued me, then sucked me, inserting her greased finger into my anus. When she was able to fit two fingers into me without my feeling discomfited, I judged I had been opened sufficiently. She greased the wooden prick and I went on all fours and she inserted the device into me.

It was a most peculiar experience. I would not say pleasurable, exactly, but there was a certain fascination in being on all fours like a woman, feeling Ophelia's hands grip my waist, thrusting as though she were a man, and feeling the wooden prick slide in and out of me, as though I were a woman. Yet when I reached behind me, there was Ophelia's plump buttock, and she leaned over and began pulling on my stiff prick while she fucked me, so that I came on the bed sheets.

Ophelia said she enjoyed fucking me like this. But she could not say why. That night I dreamed I was a little white boy and was being sodomised by a plump man in a monk's brown habit. Most disturbing and I awoke in a foul mood.

May 27, 1831—

Last night, I dreamed I was a white whore. I dreamt that I fucked men so well that they paid gold and came back for more. This dream was no doubt inspired by what Ophelia did to me earlier in the evening. We repeated the experiment of the previous week. This time, though, Ophelia spanked me with her hand a few times while she fucked me. It excited me tremendously. I also let her fuck me with the wooden phallus while I lay on my back, my legs over her shoulders. The intent and vicious expression on her face as she fucked me was what most aroused me. The sensation itself remains not so pleasurable. Afterwards, I put on the phallus myself and used it to fuck Ophelia in the cunt while my own prick went in her arse. She was in pure ecstasy, to judge from her moans and screams.

[Entries until August deal almost exclusively with sex with Ophelia - A.A.]

August 1, 1831—

For my birthday, Ophelia gave me a cotton shirt that she had sewed herself. I was more moved by this unexpected gesture than I thought possible. And yet a little reflection showed me that there was a certain logic to it. Ophelia is not unintelligent, and she must realize that my disciplining her some two years or more ago probably saved her from death or worse. She must also realize that she could not have lived so comfortable a life with anyone else, for she eats the same food I eat at my table. I keep her well-clothed, buy her little trinkets every so often, plus give her coins so regularly that she probably earns as much or more than a skilled boiler. More than all this, we are intimates. No one knows me as well as she. It is not only our sexual acts, but I often use her to sound my various ideas. She is a good listener, which few women are. In fact, I have always had an affection for Ophelia (though, I confess, it has been dominated by my passion for her). But I never knew she liked me also. I shall treasure the shirt.

August 7, 1831—

Tonight I let Ophelia tie my wrists with silk cords to the bedposts. I lay face up and she kissed me all over, paying especial attention to my inner thighs... teased me by putting her pussy at my mouth just out of tongue's reach... Afterwards, she went astride my erection and rode me, holding on to my chest muscles until I came, helpless, beneath her.

August 14, 1831—

Tonight I let Ophelia tie me face down on the bed, hands and feet bound with the silk cords I have so often bound her with, and I let her spank me with the short-handled leather strap that I have so often spanked her with. While she did this, she kissed the back of my neck. She then stroked my prick with her oil-filled hand, while continuing to hit me sharply on my buttocks with the strap. The combination of pleasure and pain overwhelmed my mind and my senses. I do not know why I did not try this years ago. She then strapped on the wooden prick and came astride me... When I went to sleep, I dreamt I was a black women fucking with black men. Most disgusting.

December 25, 1831—

A special Christmas present for Ophelia, one which I am sure she enjoyed even more than the silver locket, mother-of-pearl hairbrush and silk gown I gave her. I let her put on an iron collar and chain me to the special table. My hands were bound behind my back and my legs braced apart with a hobble bar. I was entirely at her mercy, and she took full advantage of it.

First, she spanked me, as though I were a naughty boy, for a good half-an-hour. At times she would pause to tickle my testicles, or bite my backside sharply. When my bottom was all tingling, she took the short strap and punished me some more. The pain seemed to rise in waves through my head, like strong rum. But when she took my own leather belt and began dealing hefty blows to my already smarting backside, my head cleared as though I had inhaled ammonia. The pain was sharp, continuous, arousing.

Ophelia then played with my anus for a long time, first fucking me with her greased fingers, then the strap handle, then a candle. When my anus was well opened, she strapped on the phallus and pushed it into me slowly. When the device was buried inside me, she moved with only slight thrusts, reaching around in front to play with my prick. As soon as she felt me erect, she increased the tempo, moving harder and faster until my body rocked with her violent thrusts. By the time she stopped, tears were streaming out my eyes and I felt as weary as though I had run a mile.

She then unclamped me and I bowed at her pretty feet and kissed them and worked my way up and kissed her sweet cunt for a long time while she held my head with firm hands. Afterwards, she came on top and rode me, holding down my wrists until she and I came simultaneously.

[The diary's entries are now more sporadic. Most are still on sexual acts, but there are also regular entries about Abolition, such as the following – A.A.]

November 30, 1832—

Perhaps the white men in these colonies represent the most degenerate of the race. For I cannot believe that those of the Mother Countries are so irrational, so venal and vicious, as the islands' leading citizens. It is quite clear to me that emancipation of the Negro is inevitable. It may take another five, perhaps even ten years. But it shall happen. But instead of preparing for it, what do these planters do?

In Jamaica, they harass missionaries for encouraging the slaves to revolt. In Barbados, they burnt down a Methodist chapel. In Demerara, a Congregationist has died in prison after being held on such a charge. But Smith, like other missionaries, was found not guilty.

My own experience is that missionaries teach the Christian message of forgiveness. I myself have encouraged the conversion of all my slaves, and they are no more prone to revolt – indeed, I would argue that my slaves are much LESS prone – than any other planter's. This is also because I have for many years paid my skilled workers, either in coin or land lease, even though as a master I am perfectly entitled to their labour for free. Lately, I have even begun to pay the field workers when they do a particularly good job. Every planter, if he had sense, would be doing the same, both to ensure the slaves continue to work after they are freed, and to prepare them for freedom. But sense is clearly in short supply in these islands.

October 23, 1833—

Abolition is now definite. The Emancipation Act has been passed in Parliament. On August 1 next year, all slaves shall be freed. I shall be 46 years old, on the downward slope to a half-century. The government has allocated £20,000 to compensate planters for the loss of our property. There is also to be a four-year Apprenticeship period, so the plantations shall not be suddenly bereft of free labour and so the Negroes may gradually become accustomed to the responsibilities of freedom. But my main thoughts are of Ophelia.

Despite our closeness, she has always been my slave, my chattel, to do with as I please. I have never treated her as such, but the fact has always been there, unspoken. And now, faced with the thought of her freedom, I find that I cannot bear the thought of being without her. And that, I suppose, is Love.

Now that this revelation has, as it were, slapped me in the face, it is so obvious. We go to bed together and wake up together. We eat our meals together. We converse about matters mundane and important. She is beautiful and she is obedient. She admires, respects and likes me. Our lovemaking possesses a passion, a creativity and an intensity not enjoyed by many, perhaps not most, couples. Ah, none so blind as those, &c!

My first impulse was to ask her to marry me. Yet, on further thought, I hesitated. For, if I ask her now, and she says, yes, how will I know that she agreed of her own free will? No, I shall wait until August 1, and ask for her hand as a free man asking a free woman. That is best.

[The remaining entries are all unedited and continuous – A.A.]

July 31, 1834—

Ophelia and I had a special dinner tonight, just the two of us. I prepared all the dishes myself. Afterwards, we drank wine and talked. Then we went upstairs and made love. It lasted only about 15 minutes, perhaps 10 spent with me kissing her, and only in the missionary position. I saw that she was surprised. She asked no questions, however, but she did go downstairs and bring up two glasses of brandy. We toasted the freedom that would be hers at midnight. Before we extinguished the lamp, I told her that I loved her, and I saw the brightness in her grey eyes as the flame faded. I write this entry by the window, hearing her regular breathing behind me. The wedding rings on my writing table gleam in the moonlight. I shall hide them under my pillow and present them to her when she awakens.

August 1, 1834—

Ophelia is gone. I awakened late in the evening, sick to my stomach, my head pounding. I did not reach the outhouse, but had to squat in the bushes. My stool was black and bloody. Someone had poisoned our wine and taken her body, I thought. But all the slaves have gone. So I know it was only the brandy that was poisoned, and only one glass.

August 25, 1834—

I have searched everywhere for her. She is not in the island. A sailor at the docks told me someone like her left on a ship bound for England, but stopping at several of the islands. I must go to them all. If only I can find her, I know she will come back to me. I should have proposed before. She did not know I loved her, that I wanted to make her my wife, so she listened to the poisoned tongues of the other slaves.

February 25, 1835—

I did not find her. All my savings are gone, spent looking for Ophelia all over the West Indies. The estate is in total disrepair. I am desolate. There is only one thing left to do. My pistol lies loaded beside my chair. As soon as I hide this diary, I shall return upstairs and put a bullet through my heart.

February 27, 1835—

As I feared, I have failed to kill myself. I awoke this morning from a dreamless death. The ineffectual bullet, stained with my blood, lay on my lap. I remember dying many times before. I remember living six times before. I remember all the pain of those past lives, that are my one life. But, most of all, I still remember that Ophelia is gone.

August 1, 1835—

One year since Ophelia left. Today I am forty-seven. For the first time in my life, I look my age. I have many white hairs now. No word, no letter. Is she alive? Is she living or married to some wealthy white man? These questions plague my every day, but no answer comes. I do nothing but think of her. The estate has collapsed, but I care not. I tend the vegetable garden and raise some livestock and hunt small game when I need to. Not that I care to live but, if bullets do not kill me, starvation will only torture me. At least there are still barrels of rum in the cellar.

Mimber, Beneba, Hyacinth are all married. Mimber even has children. Three days ago, I paid a Negro woman, about 20 years old, plain but strong-bodied, to fuck me. It was a failure. My member stayed stubbornly flaccid. After she left, I drank poison and cut my throat. I recovered this morning, with only a thin scar on my neck and a bloodsoaked floor to show what had occurred.

Unless ye be born again, ye cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven, says the Bible. But I have been born again, and I have entered Hell's kingdom. So much pain have I endured, in several lifetimes. But that pain is the past. This pain is now, and I cannot bear it and I cannot escape it. Who would have thought death could be a blessing? It may even be that this gift has been given to me, not by God, but by Satan himself. For what have I been but a primitive, a murderer, a slaver, a harlot, a coquette, and a madwoman? Only in this life have I been a good man, and this life lies in ruins.

August 1, 1838—

Today I turn 50. I have buried the only wealth I have left: the rings I bought for Ophelia. Went for a last walk in the town, saw Beneba. She is expecting her first child; I gave her all the coins I had. Today the Shadowman will come. Is he demon or immortal? Is he real or just a construct of my mind? I do not know, I do not care. I know that I shall not fight him. I do not want to be born again.

This is the last entry. I remember spending the rest of the day sitting in the bedroom drinking rum. In the evening, I went out to the woods. The Shadowman was waiting, as I had known he would be. The silver spike was in his hand. I turned my back to him and waited. I did not even feel the blow.

One hundred and two years later, I returned to that spot. I dug. Five feet down, I found my own yellowed bones. The rings were cupped in the palm of the right hand. The diary, which I had buried in the cellar, rested on the skeleton's hollow breast, wrapped in a familiar brown material that had kept the pages looking like new.