This is the tale of Amara, currently a ghost, haunting a maritime museum full of salvage from the shipwreck of the "Tarberry". This was a ship involved in the 18th century triangle trade. She would sail off from, say, Philadelphia with whisky and tobacco to Southampton, England, where she would be loaded with clothes and other manufactured items, and from there, she sailed to West Africa, where she would take on people, freshly captured in war or some other barbarities, and take those captives off to Virginia or the Carolinas to be auctioned off. It was a lucrative trade, this triangular route, and the sailors were adept at handling the ships with billowed sail for months on end.

Amara was a West African mom with somewhat sizable boobs (displayed topless in the typical West African fashion of the day) and a curvy butt (hidden inside a long flowing dress). She had a love of dancing and her nappy, braided hair was cropped short. Amara was not really skinny at first, she was somewhat plump. Such was her condition when she was captured by a band of warriors while caring for her kids outside her Igbo hut.

According to our seance, Amara recounted as follows, although it was translated from her native Asusu Igbo language.

"The bad men had grabbed me roughly by the wrists and ankles and tied me to a pole. I kicked and screamed, trying to get attention. Unfortunately, my children and husband were too far off to hear me. I must have peed, as I felt wetness dripping down my behind; my skirt was still on at this point. My captors loosened my hair and they started carrying me, like people might carry dead animals they intend to cook and eat, one man on each end of the pole. I bounced and shook and my wrists and ankles became so raw from the rubbing that they bled. This trek took most of the day, then they would set me down in the dirt, then they would pick me up again, and then at night, I would be tied with my ankle to a rope around a tent pole. I would eat and do my business in the tent. My captors used knives to cut my clothes off, so that I stood, dark and imposing and quite naked in the chilly tent. I peed on one of the warriors, who then got angry and threw a punch into my side, causing my ribs to hurt and my boobs to jiggle and shocking pain to radiate. I didn't want to create any more trouble. I was left alone the rest of the night.

It took a few days to get to the place of the Tarberry. This was what the sailors called a wharf, with a long pavilion next to the vast waters and several massive boats, all with poles sticking out of them and canvas sails on the poles.

The sailors, now, they were a drunken lot. They slurred their words and stumbled around, they were rude, they got into fights. They also lined us up against posts and looked over us head to toe. They stuck their filthy hands into our mouths, opened them wide, and they looked at my breasts and behind and legs and vagina. A few even stuck their fingers in my dark smelly liquid twat, causing me to wrinkle my nose. One of them spoke in his gibberish, and I could see his bulge in his trousers as he felt all over me.

Then they put me in manacles and chains, and I was buckled by my ankles and wrists again and forced to walk the gangway to the big boat, the Tarberry. I was shoved down the hold so hard that my feet were a mess of pain and my knees buckled. I felt warmth down my legs: my bladder had let go again. I was laid down cheek to jowl on a shelf in the darkness where we couldn't move, or at least not without difficulty. We rolled in the dark, as the boat moved through the water; the ship moved back and forth and up and down quite vigorously. I felt nauseous and I spewed up my belly's contents. I was loosened from my shackles every now and then, to pee and eat slop and poop, but otherwise it was an interminable lying in the darkness."

We now switch to a sailor, one Richard Johnson of Bath, England, and his scouser friend Tom Burnham, having been out of Liverpool for five years.

"After being at sea so long without female company, our rods were bulging like stout hearts of oak, so we decided to go down the hold and poke around among the niggers. There were some comely squaws among those savages, but it was a smelly hold and the savages likewise reeked like a barn. We fetched up buckets of seawater to hose the poor niggers down and then asked them their names.... The second one was named Amara... Tom took her aside and pushed her to the deck and told crewmen to hold her down and forced himself upon her, which he did so vigorously, like a horse." So did Dick Johnson, who was quite satisfied with the experience.

Amara recalled, "the two pale men forced their bulging schlongs into me without a second thought. Their white cum splattered on my belly and my thighs and in my vagina and all over. My vagina hurt. My arse hurt. My back was rubbed raw. My shoulders ached."

All sides agree on what happened next. Tom and Dick took Amara down into the crew's quarters, along with a couple of other women, including a rather skinny one. The skinny woman had a cunt full of white goop and could barely sit up straight; she couldn't talk, just moan. She was basically a skeleton and keeled over and died in the night. The other woman besides Amara was fondled and cuddled a lot, tied up, and ravished regularly, till she was practically mindless and moaning. Hot cinders were rubbed over her knees, her feet, her ankles. Then Tom got into a fit of rage and shot her in the head with a pistol, and her body was heaved overboard.

That leaves Amara. She was tied to a piece of the ship's wooden framework, and Dick, Tom, and others vented their frustration on her. She became their punching bag and fucktoy, and she soon sprouted bruises all over. She didn't scream anymore, her head just lolled around and she moaned. She peed where she was and shat where she was, and sailors scrubbed the deck under her. She was allowed very little food for three days, and she had to drink water out of a bucket.

Then Dick cut off her right foot. He was curious about the inside of a leg. This happened one morning as the shift was done and Dick got bored. Amara screamed. This caused several sailors to come see what the commotion was. As Richard Johnson writes,

"The sailors collectively decided that Amara was expendable. She was one of four hundred niggers aboard, and a few here and a few there wouldn't be missed. Many of them would be dead before ever reaching old Charleston anyway, because of ship fever and the like." So they decided to haul Amara up on deck, as the ship rolled on the waves.

"The burns hurt all over. The sores, they were festering. My forehead throbbed. I couldn't reach the itchy areas because my arms were tied back, I couldn't walk because my foot was gone, the ship was rolling on the waves, and salt water was getting onto me and making me hurt even more."

What followed next was a gangbang, with many of the sailors aboard the Tarberry having their way with Amara to see who could cum the quickest. At the end of it all, a few hours later, Amara was semiconscious and in a daze, moaning weakly with pain and discomfort all over.

"As I lay drowsy and dizzy, the sailors took me by the wrists once more and hoisted me up to a low crossbeam, and then I felt my hands being tied in place and then my ankles."

The sailors were crucifying Amara. They ran a sword into Amara's soft belly, slicing it open and spilling her guts all over the deck. Amara screamed, a response which was met with cupped hands over her mouth. Blood flowed messily all over the place.

"My belly was sliced open, and I was suddenly gutted like a fish in front of a drunken sailor crowd. I screamed myself hoarse and then came a hand that cupped itself over my mouth. I squirmed. I felt red hot pain, like fire, in my belly. And then I felt my throat get tight, and my vision faded away. Next thing I know, I was a ghost and hovering over my dead body, all choked out and gutted."

Amara's corpse was left there for the seabirds to peck at, at least for a few hours. That night, a massive tempest rose, and wind and waves tossed the "Tarberry" around like a cork. A massive wave threw a plank aside and the ship took on water. All 400 slaves and 45 crew (including the captain) drowned, their lungs filling with water, and all involved reaching the cold embrace of Davy Jones.