Race Traitor: BWWM Romance Novel for Adults

by Jamila Jasper

  Sitting there in the schoolhouse, which Burke had worked so hard to restore, Janie came to a painful realization. This had been a mistake. This wasn’t where she wanted to be. She just wasn’t cut out for this life. To try to force herself into it would make the children of Rickshaw suffer.

  Janie walked to her desk and pulled out some stationary and a pen. She began to write some letters.

  ***

  Burke woke to the cool press of lips against his ear. Janie climbed into bed next to him. She was warm and soft. She threw one leg over his thighs and Her body melted against his. Her breasts made a perfect handful, much larger now, the tips as dark as the night that surrounded them. How had Janie made it all the way here in the dark? He swore sometimes the woman was a cat.

  Feline-like, she purred as he took the peaks of her breasts in his mouth and laved at them with his tongue. Janie’s breasts had filled out, gotten bigger and rounder and more erotic. Her areolas were dark and sensitive. It filled some primal part of Burke with pleasure to see them so full and bounteous against her thin figure. Even the rest of her had gotten plumper; he squeezed the juicy fullness of her buttocks to make sure.

  She thrust her hands under his shirt, feeling the brush of his chest hair. It took a moment for Burke to realize that Janie was completely naked. His hands swept over her to make sure; ending their journey in the slick wetness gathering between her thighs. Burke thrust a finger into her. Tight as ever. He sent another to join the first, then another, and worked three in so fast she gasped. Wetness dripped from Burke’s wrist. Janie fell forward on his chest as he worked her, bouncing her ass on his fingers. Tonight she couldn’t be filled enough.

  Burke rolled her over. Janie had never looked more beautiful than now. He had his cock out. She knelt almost in obedience to it, taking it in her wet, sweet mouth and sucking it from the base to the head in long, torturous strokes. Burke held her head between his hands and fucked into her mouth, picking up the pace until she gagged and drooled all over him. Janie took every inch of him into her mouth as she did with her pussy. She tongued him, bubbles of saliva coating his dick and dripping from her full, luscious lips. The wicked movement of her tongue and the blinding, aching heat of her throat were enough to send cum shooting from his balls, emptying into her mouth and down her throat. She drank every drop.

  “Good girl,” Burke breathed. “Fuck, Janie.”

  He pulled her up to sit on his face. Burke liked feeling the weight of her on top him. He liked tongue-fucking her pussy and holding her still as she bucked and rode him, unable to handle the desire rocketing through her body. His tongue could press and lick her clitoris. He could taste the juices running out of her. The taste of pleasure. The taste of Janie. It wasn’t enough; he needed more. Again he placed her in front of him, tonguing the chocolate starfish of her asshole, sweeping a long hot tongue-stroke again down her pussy, and finally pulling her over him to settle himself between her thighs.

  He had risen and hardened the moment her lips touched his. Every inch of his member was at full attention. He came into her with one stroke, shattering any sense of self control. She rode on top him, gasping at the hugeness of his cock, which she always felt keenly in that position. Burke speared her fully. He filled her whole body, every sensation, every movement she made concentrated to his presence inside her. She rode him, bucking and rolling her hips up and over the tip of his dick, the most sensitive part. Burke grabbed her and pressed her upper body against his, using his hips to pump into her with rhythmic, steady thrusts. Cream and pussy juice leaked all over his thighs, white and slick against the brown of Janie’s skin. He could hear her panting on top of him, and feel the weight of her two breasts pushing against his chest. He would love to see Janie one day in one of these skimpy, flimsy doll-outfits. The erotic kinds they did in dirty magazines. Her figure would fill one out so beautifully.

  “Burke, I’m gonna cum,” Janie gasped.

  “Make a mess, sugar,” He said into her throat. She came in long, shuddering cries that shook the house. But Burke wasn’t done with her yet. Pulling out of her, he turned her over and slapped her ass as she got into his favorite position. Ass in the air, presenting her pussy to him for the plundering. He liked shallow-fucking her like this, feeling her wriggle and tilt her hips to accept more of his cock. Then thrusting deep into her, holding her there, as she moaned and cried out at the largeness of him.

  He did just that. Janie’s ass rippled and bounced. Full, soft, fuckable. He moistened a finger in her mouth and slowly slid it through the tight ring of her asshole. She gasped in pleasure, and to Burke’s enjoyment, actually took both palms and spread her cheeks for him. He fucked her like this, one finger teasing her sensitive asshole, his dick, larger and fuller, plowing deep into the steaming tightness of her cunt.

  Orgasm built in the both of them. Janie shook and trembled, Burke threw back his head. With a final, deep thrust he shot his load inside her. It spilled from her when he pulled out his cock.

  They collapsed in bed together. Janie’s head came to rest on his chest. He drew her in and kissed her hair. The furious heat of their union died to a peaceful ease.

  “What’s the occasion?” He murmured.

  “Aw, nothin’,” said Janie. Burke swore he detected a catch in her voice. “I just miss you.”

  “I’m right here,” he said.

  “I know.” She buried her nose in his chest.

  Burke took a breath. “Listen, Janie,” he said. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

  “About what?” she whispered.

  “I heard about a white man in Oklahoma,” said Burke carefully, “That went down to get married in Mexico. His wife was black- part Indian, too.”

  Janie went very still. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Made me think- about some things.”

  She could only hear the sound of her breath, whistling quietly between them. Surely Burke didn’t mean...surely he wasn’t implying…

  “Let’s go to sleep,” Burke said abruptly.

  Janie sagged in relief. She didn’t want their last night to be weighed down with dreams of what could never be.

  Burke held her close. One hand trailed down to her wetness again, feeling the aftermath of their lovemaking. Janie’s sensitive flesh tingled, but he did no more with her. She could sense his eyes were open, staring up vacantly at the ceiling. Thinking.

  For a moment the temptation to reveal all seized her. But Burke’s silence soon faded into soft snores. She had missed her chance.

  In the end, she slept. But her dreams were soundless and empty.

  ***

  Janie caught a train that morning, after dropping off her letters. The dawn came crisp and cold. Janie felt nothing but the rough handle of her suitcase, and the gnawing, horrible emptiness that would only gape wider as the day went on. Her throat closed up any time someone tried to speak to her. She stared out the window as Rickshaw shrank to a tiny pinprick in the distance. Though she hoped to never see it again, the weight of what she left behind dragged at her heart like an anchor through sand. She pressed her shoulders into her seat and fell into a hot and fitful sleep.

  She woke an hour later. The Colored Car was filling up. Mindoo’s card burned in the pocket of her travel coat. She knotted her brow. Come hell or high water, she would follow her dream.

  *

  Evelyn Bricassart fussed and preened at her reflection. She was a woman obsessed with mirrors- at her home in Maryland her collection numbered in the hundreds. Evelyn loved mirrors because they showed her her favorite thing in the world: herself.

  Tonight had to be perfect. She’d dismissed all the servants but Bird, a young mulatto woman who giggled but didn’t talk. Likely Bird was one of James Croup’s bastards. Evelyn didn’t care much to find out.

  Tonight she wore a gown of blue satin that brought out her eyes and set off her hair in a brilliant sheet of gold down her back. She could wear her hair down tonight, like a young woman or a wanton, without fear. A proper lady
would wear the dress with a slip underneath, to preserve modesty, but tonight Evelyn did not. At her throat she wore her engagement pearls, the ones that had belonged to Francis’s mother. In her ears she wore nothing. On her feet she also wore nothing. She fancied herself as a Turkish temptress, an Odalisque, her nudity peeking sensuously through the gossamer fabric.

  Francis was not home. As usual he’d gone to some Klan meeting, this one in Jackson. Evelyn was rather glad. Lately the man had been overly aggravating. He watched her like a hawk. Maybe someone had tipped him off as to the purpose of her frequent outings. Evelyn was no fool; she grew less bold with her romantic liaisons, played the simpering adoring woman just like Francis wanted. She was careful. Still, he watched her.

  Rarely did he leave her alone now, sticking to her side like a burr. The man had actually suggested she come with him to Jackson. Of all places. Jackson! Only a furious, teary temper tantrum convinced him to leave her behind. It had been worth it to see the simple fool backtrack all over his accusations. They’d parted on good terms, with Francis promising to fetch her something nice from Jackson, and Evelyn promising nothing.

  Now she could enjoy a full week without his meddling, a week with an enormous mansion, a deep feather bed, and a virile lover at her disposal. Evelyn smiled at her reflection. She had to hand it to herself.

  Bird poked her head through the door and waved at Evelyn. A visitor.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Evelyn breathed. “Let him in.”

  To her surprise, it was Burke Giraud.

  The big man stood in the doorway, dressed in his peasant overalls as usual. He could have benefitted from a woman’s touch, Evelyn thought. How fine he would look in some real clothes!

  “Hello, Burke,” Evelyn said. She remembered their last interaction. He’d been violent with her. But Evelyn was willing to let bygones be, if he was. Her feelings for Burke, which had never been more than lust and possessiveness anyway, had cooled with time and distance. Still, if there was a chance with him, Evelyn would consider taking it.

  “Hello,” he said. His voice was clipped. Cold. Angry.

  “Can I help you?” She thrust out her chest invitingly.

  “Where’s Francis?”

  “Oh, bother,” she snapped. “He’s not home.”

  Burke’s eyes travelled up her body, boring through the lightweight gown. His lip curled, not in pleasure, but in disgust. Evelyn flushed.

  “Expectin’ someone?” he shot.

  “No,” she replied coolly.

  Burke twisted the hat to shreds in his hands. He seemed to be reining in his temper. “I did some askin’ around. It seems Francis had an altercation with the teacher the other day. Seems he got violent with her. Carried away, some would say.”

  Evelyn found her body responding to his fury. Men were much better lovers when they were angry.

  “The negro woman?” Evelyn laughed. “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t care for his reasons,” said Burke. “She’s gone. She left. Tell me where Francis is.”

  “She probably goaded him,” Evelyn said viciously. “The slut probably tempted him into it, then tried to change her mind. I don’t blame Francis in the least. I hope he taught her a lesson.”

  “Watch your tongue, Evelyn,” Burke growled.

  The woman tossed her head. Her hair rippled. Her nipples thrusted out. She wished Burke Giraud were a normal man who could be controlled by these things. But he wasn’t. That was precisely why she found him so tempting.

  “Well, looks like your slut isn’t here, and neither is Francis. So I suggest you leave.”

  “You deserve to be exposed,” Burke said. “I should tell Francis. What kind of woman you are.”

  “But you won’t,” Evelyn flared. “Because you know the consequences if you do. And you wouldn’t be telling Francis because you respect him, or because you care about his reputation. You’d be telling him to get revenge on me. Which isn’t good enough, is it? You don’t fight dirty, Burke Giraud. You’re a man of honor. You’d like to take me down without getting your hands dirty. Without sinking to my level. But you know that’s not possible.”

  The truth of it was in his eyes. “Where is Francis, Evelyn?”

  “Jackson,” she said, waving him away.

  “Thank you,” Burke said. Polite as always, polite to a fault. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat. Instead he slammed the door on Evelyn’s sneer, and left.

  *

  Her lover came shortly afterwards, through the back door of the Croup house. Sweat glistened on his peanut-colored skin. She tasted it when he kissed her. Even at night, Rickshaw boiled with heat.

  Bird put out a small dinner, which they took upstairs and ate off each other’s bodies. Then they made love- or fucked, however you wanted to call it- in Francis’s bed, the same bed that had belonged to James Croup.

  “We have to stop,” Evelyn told him, for the millionth time. She didn’t really mean that any more. She just liked to hear him say that he didn’t want to.

  To her surprise, this time he agreed.

  “You’re right,” her lover said. “I meant to tell you the same thing. We should call it off. It’s getting too dangerous.”

  She shot to her elbows. He withdrew his thick cock from her pussy, leaving a trail of wetness over her thighs.

  “What do you mean?” She said. “You seriously think-”

  He blinked at her. It was a look of disgust, as if seeing her for the first time. Not a disgust tapered with desire or lust, like she was used to. It was the true, blinding hatred one feels for something that has outlived its use; something ugly and irritating. She might have been a dead animal on the road, a wart on his foot. Useless, stinking, hateful.

  “Be reasonable, Evelyn,” said the man. He spoke in soft, silky tones. Trying to soothe her. “You can’t possibly expect-”

  She slapped him. He barely flinched, but got up and began putting on his clothes. She sprang up, naked, and slapped him again. He caught her wrist. In the same silky tones, he said, “Be careful, Evelyn. You’re not as strong or as clever as you think.”

  A violent fury took hold of her. “Leave and I’ll tell them you raped me,” she choked. “A big nigger hurting a white woman. You’d never run far enough. They’ll hang you from the closest tree.”

  “Then maybe I should just kill you,” he said, starting towards her.

  A furious banging on the door jolted them from their wrath.

  “Open this door, Evelyn Bricassart!” roared Francis. His fists sounded like thunder and fury.

  Evelyn paled. The man froze, halfway into his breeches.

  “I- Francis-”

  “Whore!” Francis bellowed. “Open this door!”

  Evelyn’s eyes darted around the room. An escape, a weapon, anything. Then the frantic knocking died, and they heard something much worse: the rattling of keys.

  The door opened. Time froze. They stood there, Evelyn half-naked, the blue gown torn to ribbons from their passion. Francis purple with rage, his fists balled into death-weights. And the tall, finely formed black man Evelyn had brought into the house, stood with knees bent like a lion ready to pounce.

  “I’ll kill you,” Francis said, and started towards Evelyn.

  “Francis, please!” she shrieked. “He forced me-”

  Francis seemed not to hear her; he stretched out his arms, fingers curled around an imaginary throat. She screamed and fled to the only escape hatch: the wide window overlooking the fountain. If she had gotten there, the jump may have killed her.

  But Francis was quicker. He had his hands around her throat. Squeezing. She choked and sputtered. In the doorway Bird the serving maid tweeted helplessly. And Evelyn’s lover- ex-lover- was out the door and running, running for his life.

  *

  The facts trickled slowly to the black people of Rickshaw, but the lie traveled like lightning among the white people. The lie was that Evelyn Bricassart was dead, violated and strangled by a black man
. The truth, which few could have ever guessed, was that this black man was none other than Emmett Freeman.

  Torches burned. A mob assembled. Who was harboring Emmett Freeman? Who had known? And if Emmett Freeman could not be found, who would pay for his crimes?

  They came to Burke’s cabin first. The party was led by Francis and his thugs. The first thing Burke noticed was that his cousin had deep purple scratches across his cheek.

  Burke answered the door with the rifle in his hands.

  “Are you hidin’ this man?” Francis wheezed, thrusting a photograph under Burke’s chin.