/lit/ - Literature

Earlier today there was a posting about Amanda Lindhout's new book. And a lot of /lit/s were turned on by the idea of a naive idealistic white feminist going to the heart of black Somalia, only to be enslaved and made a submissive Muslim sex slave by the very blacks she wanted to help.

Amazingly these kinds of stories were already found to be hot in 1899 by the Victorians!

Its amazing how many of my modern rape fantasies have such historical precedents. I've fantasized about this exact scenario, and I was amazed to discover that someone had already written it back in 1899. The writing has a real 19th Century Victorian feel to it which just adds to the humiliation of the Yankee Quaker women.

2 Do-Gooding Quaker women go South to run stations along the Underground railroad. They are captured by a lynch mob and publicly stripped in front of angry racists, who make lewd comments about the Abolitionist's pubic hair and private parts. And they get a very public whipping. And Dolly ends up becoming the sex slave of the southern plantation owner.

The book relates the misadventures of Quakers Dolly Morton and her companion Miss Dove who venture into the American South to help with an Underground Railroad.[4] They are captured by a lynch mob, flogged and made to ride the rail, and Dolly Morton is forced to be the mistress of a plantation owner.

>I thought that we merely would be tied in a sitting posture on the fence
with our clothes down. But I was soon undeceived! We were each
seized by two men who held our arms while a third man raised our
petticoats and pulled our drawers entirely off our legs. Then our skirts
were held high above our waists so that the whole lower parts of our
persons, both behind and before, were exposed to the lustful eyes of the
horrid men. Since they had already seen our bottoms, they all crowded
in front of us, gloating over the secret "spots" of our respective bodies,
while we, crimson with shame greater than ever, struggled and wept
and entreated the wretches to cover our nakedness. But they only
laughed, and two or three of them put their hands on the "spots." The
touch of their fingers making us start and shrink with a horrible feeling
of disgust.

>You have seen my "spot" and know what it is like; there is nothing
remarkable about it. But Miss Dean's "spot" was somewhat
remarkable. I had never seen it before, and I could not help looking at
it with astonishment. It was covered with a thick forest of glossy, darkbrown
hair which extended some distance up her belly and descended
between her thighs in curly locks nearly two inches long. The fissure
was completely hidden and not a trace of the lips could be seen.
One man, after a prolonged stare, exclaimed: "By Gosh! I've never seen
such a fleece between a woman's legs in my life! Darn me if she
wouldn't have to be sheared before a man could get into her."
The men roared with laughter at the remark, while Miss Dean groaned
and writhed in the bitterness of her shame.