The Archaic period was followed by the Woodland period c. The Gates At Citiplace. Mary Ellen pulled two polished black leather belts out of her purse. Mary Ellen positioned my piss bag so it hung off the edge of the chair. During the 20th century, certain sects affiliated with the Black nationalist Moorish Science philosophy theorized an association with the Mound Builders. He was pushing back each time my uncle drove forward. The snuff part consisted of Afro-American corporal shoving his long thick black cock in their throat.
I was encouraged by a casual question that Robbie asked Mary Ellen. My mind immediately began to recall the faces, names, and relationships of the extended Donaldson family. I took a deep breath and told myself that the pain was pleasure and the upcoming exhibition of my status was my own personal heroin. Hundreds or even thousands of workers had to dig up tons of earth with the hand tools available, the dirt had to be moved long distances, and finally workers had to create the shape the builder had planned. Getaways from Baton Rouge The distance from Baton Rouge to New Orleans is about 80 miles, so take that hour and a half drive to hear iconic jazz in the French Quarter or wander Magazine Street for antiques. Lafcadio Hearn suggested that the mounds were built by people from the Lost Continent of Atlantis. It hurt so bad I put my Coach handbag in my mouth and bit down on it.
Lemoine scurried to his car when confronted with the images sent to Landry, and did not want to talk about how Landry and his fiance got his phone number. Dewey warned even if a profile is set to private, things can still get shared — especially if it's in a public forum.
When you put it out there and they can consume it, it can be passed on. LaPorte takes these allegations very seriously, and we are conducting an extensive review to confirm that the allegations do not relate to his employment in any respect. We are in the process of reassignments to other LaPorte professionals to minimize any disruption for our clients.
We will provide updates to our clients and employees as more information is known. Accountant arrested as WBRZ files report about scheme to meet women. Lemoine shared his phone number, and Landry searched the number in Facebook and found him. Experts of the law called the situation concerning, and a lesson for anyone on social media. Marvel Studios releases new trailer for Avengers Marvel Studios releases new trailer for Avengers: Capital area prepares for St.
He married her because he thought she was such a hot piece of ass. I felt her attaching a narrow leather strap to the back of the belt, hooking it through an eyelet on the top of my anal dildo, then the same with the dildo in my pussy. She completed her circuit by attaching the end of the strap to the front of the belt then tightening it to where I was in acute pain from the force of the strap running down my ass crack and surfacing right at my navel.
My clit was uncomfortably trapped under the leather strap. There was no way those dildos were coming out until someone detached that strap. I took deep breaths trying to control the pain. I felt a sharp pain as Denise guided the narrow tube into my urethra.
I hoped that Denise knew what she was doing. If you feed in too much tube, you can puncture the bladder and the patient dies of infection. I clinched my teeth and prayed as the tubing wound its way to my bladder and stopped. Next I felt a plastic pouch being connected to the catheter and then fastened to my waist belt. I felt my labia being stretched out. When I looked down I saw that Denise had my labia fully parted. I saw that Mary Ellen was holding a Purple Heart in one hand.
I watched in terror as she forced the pin on the back of the medal through my labia. That hurt like all hell. Mary Ellen screwed the back on the other side of the lip while once again I chewed on my purse to keep from screaming. My cunt was on fire. It was right after I arrived for my second tour.
He liked to perform his own interrogations. General Diem used a soldering gun to slowly burn her pussy lips off. Took those suckers right down to the surface without a drop of blood. She screeched like a banshee. Smelled like somebody had burnt the Thanksgiving Turkey to a crisp.
Waste of time though, we already knew what she told us. General Diem shot the screaming bitch in her pussy hole. Rammed the barrel of an AR in as far as he could shove it and unloaded a full clip General Diem was a creative bastard.
I stood there while several automatic flashes fired. When I bent over to look, there were four medals pinned to each side of my labia major. There were drops of blood on my thighs. The plastic bag was hanging there waiting for me to fill it.
Mary Ellen squeezed up through the sunroof beside me. She placed a wide leather collar around my neck and buckled it. I could barely bend my head. I wanted to die from the pain and humiliation. There was a catch bag hanging below the hem of my skirt. I felt a wave of sexual pleasure as I stepped out of the limo. Given my circumstances, that was the last thing I should be sensing. There are all kinds of people in this world and I was one of those rare statistical anomalies that are turned on by pain and humiliation.
I was so far at the outer edge of the bell shaped curve I could get rained on. Somewhere in my brain there was a miss-wired synapse. It turned pain into pleasure and humiliation and degradation into joy.
Most people would consider me a sick human being in need of multiple sessions on an analyst's couch and a Prozac prescription. But they were wrong. I was getting what I needed and the fact that the super sized dildo in my cunt was starting to squish around on all the lube my Bartholin glands were secreting said it all. I was in serious pain, on the verge of being degraded and humiliated on a scale few would ever experience; and my irrational self loved it.
Even thought my rational mind said I should scream for help and attempt to run away. Mary Ellen was leading me on a short leash into Trace's wake. I was wearing a ridiculously short dress with a piss bag hanging below the hem for all to see. All in this case would be the fifty or so of the extended Donaldson family and close friends that were invited. My halting wide-legged walk would tip them off that I was wearing dildos in my cunt and ass. In spite of the discomfort from having eight of my dead husband's service medals pinned to my labia, I was emotionally transforming negatives to positives.
The step down and out of the limo caused the foreign objects in my body cavities to ache and the medals scraped painfully against my vagina. I took a deep breath and told myself that the pain was pleasure and the upcoming exhibition of my status was my own personal heroin.
Sergeant Amesbury stood at attention holding the limo door. He was looking at me with a nasty smirk on his face. Why not, his jism was deep inside my asshole. Even though I grabbed a swallow of Robbie's whisky before I stepped out, there was still the taste of the Sergeant's shit lurking in the back of my throat.
I ignored the Sergeant's remark as I walked straddled legged toward the entrance to the funeral home. The dildo in my cunt was causing me to walk slowly with my legs spread apart. Mary Ellen jerked the leash a few times to speed me up. My mind immediately began to recall the faces, names, and relationships of the extended Donaldson family. Learning to identify the Donaldsons had been my introduction to their bizarre world.
It had been anything but pleasant. After Trace and I got engaged, he invited me home to meet his family. For a girl who grew up in a three-decker in Winthrop, Massachusetts, the very idea of staying at the Donaldson's estate in Weston, MA was a thrill.
Weston was known as the wealthiest town in the Commonwealth. There was to be a family dinner Friday night and an engagement party at the Weston Country Club Saturday night. Trace met me at the airport. My plane was very late and I got in after midnight. When we got to the Donaldsons, everyone had gone to bed. The estate was huge and surrounded by a stonewall that must have been twelve foot high. I was a little surprised that the family hadn't objected to our sleeping together.
That should have tipped me off I wasn't meeting people with traditional family values. Trace took me to his room and made me slowly strip for him. Someone had given us a new camcorder for an anniversary present and he made a DVD of me dancing around the room to the tune of Boogie Nights while I slipped a dildo he bought me in and out of my cunt and ass.
He'd also bought a huge black one that had a suction cup on one end. He managed to stick that to the center of a straight char so he could take close-ups of me raising and lowering myself on that column of chocolate-colored latex. We hadn't been together in weeks so I was both horny and enthusiastic as I did squats to drive it deep in my pussy. Trace kept recording while I sucked his cock and took a full load of his jism on my tongue before I swallowed it.
After that he put a pair of clamps on my nipples and made me jerk myself off while he kept filming. Trace encouraged me to talk dirty as I fingered my clit telling him what a pig whore I was and how much I loved it when he fucked my ass and pissed in my mouth. It was normal loving couple talk. After he strapped a penis gag in my mouth to keep me quiet, he pulled the clamps off.
I don't mean he released the tension first. He just yanked them off practically taking the end of my nipples with them. The agonizing pain in my breasts created such an incredible rush my climax felt like a bunker buster bomb had gone off inside my cunt.
I let loose a long muffled scream into the gag as my clit hammered out a tune to my brain using a kettledrum for an instrument.
A good five minutes later it all ended with Little Rozz covered in sweat and dripping girl lube down her thighs. I lay there thinking its good to be a whore as Trace licked my thighs. Swallowing pussy oil was one of his things. It was nearly two in the morning when we finished.
I was a happy and satisfied bride-to-be. I curled up in Trace's arms and fell asleep. You always assume that people are not into BDSM until you find out different. I'd certainly assumed that Trace's parents were straight arrows. Trace and I had pretty much played only with each other since we met; not that we had been together that much.
There'd been one exception. Bill Gooding was a tall good-looking career officer, graduate of West Point, and supposedly destined for a general's star when his time came. Doris was a Southern bell, cheerleader at Old Miss where she majored in communications. She was blonde, skinny, and certainly looked the part of a future general's life. You could picture her hosting teas at the officer's clubs for the other wives.
Surprise, they turned out to be in the lifestyle and after dinner at the Officer's Club, Doris and I had the shit whipped out of us in the basement of Major Gooding's off base housing. I hadn't guessed that the Goodings were anything but vanilla until we got to their place. Trace and Bill took Doris and I down to the basement, made us strip naked, and perform cunnilingus on each other while they drank another beer. Then they shackled us to a pair of St.
To make things interesting, they agreed that Bill was going to work on me while Trace entertained Doris. Variety is the spice of life. Bill was into hot wax; that was something new to Trace and me. He grabbed my nipples with hemostats and stretched them out until you could practically see through my flesh.
I screamed for him to stop before he ripped them off. Trace was imitating Bill and Doris was emitting loud ear splitting shrieks with a Southern accent. Her involuntary vocalizing confirmed my husband-to-be was a talented sadist second to none.
My Bartholin glands were going full out. Bill was one of those sadists whose whole face lighted up and cock hardened when his victim opens wide and bellows in pain. I was screaming and begging him to stop the awful things he was doing to my boobs. Bill lighted a tall beeswax taper and allowed it to slowly drip on my over stretched nipples. You could almost hear it sizzle when it landed on my paper-thin tissue. I was surprised it didn't burn through and drop to the floor.
My pain centers flashed agony in bright red letters and my mouth opened to let out a long plaintive scream. In a matter of seconds, I was pleading with Bill as I watched him slowly tilt the candle toward my other nipple. He was a merciless bastard who worked with an agonizing slowness. I would have sworn it took a full minute for him to turn his wrist. I watched the clear bee poop slowly trickle toward the wick until gravity took over and a half dozen drops touched down.
It takes a few seconds for the pain of a burn to gather its energy and signal to your nerve endings that something very serious has happened.
I took in deep breaths thinking I could control the pain. On my exhale, the nerve endings sounded the alarm. My exhale ended in a chortled scream. My next inhale was dedicated to collecting enough breath to power my vocal chords through the full throated scream that my brain had decided was appropriate for a woman who had just suffered a serious burn on her breast tissue. Bill worked on my tits until I thought I was going out of my mind. He applied more hemostats to my labia and clitoris.
Trace was following Bill's example and dripping large splats of searing hot wax on Doris' breasts and pussy. Any well-trained nurse will tell you that a person's armpits are one of the very most sensitive parts of the body especially to a burn. The wax landed right in the center of my armpit.
I screamed as loud as humanly possible. To reward my performance, Bill took his time doing my other armpit. It was days before I could raise my arms above my shoulders. After the guys tired of the wax torture, Bill unlocked a nearby cabinet and showed Trace his extensive collection of whips, canes, floggers, etc.
Most of the whippings I'd received had been from the type of product you buy in an Adult Products store, overpriced and cheaply made.
Bill's collection was on a different level entirely. I heard Bill answer Australia and Turkey when Trace asked about the country of origin of some of the whips. They began with ridding crops that were actually used by jockey's who won one of the Triple Crown races. Military men have a sense of history. I got hot as a firecracker when Bill snapped the crop across my nipples causing a tidal wave of fiery pain to engulf the end of my breasts.
I was pumping out girl lube by the time he landed the business end of the crop on my labia and clit.
My pleasure centers climbed up to the top rung of the pain ladder and stayed there as the guys kept switching implements of torture. For a pain slut, there's nothing better than being whipped into a state of semi-consciousness. Your brain is controlled by your need to feel pain and each time the whip lands, that need is fed. I submerged my mind and body into the experience.
There was a point where Bill landed the barbed tip of a bull whip on my vagina that sent me into such a paroxysm of muscular contraction, it felt like I was about to break my own back. Doris was hysterical by this time screaming for Trace to stop but not shouting the safe word that would make him halt. You can always tell a true pain slut.
We never shout the safe word. We just keep screaming and cumming hoping the agony never stops. After I'd had almost every known type of whip used on my most tender and sensitive parts, our two warriors made us kneel down with our mouth open while they emptied their bladders of all the beer piss they'd been accumulating all evening.
It was a dessert of degradation after a full meal of suffering. Doris and I were so thirsty we practically fought to see who got to swallow the most mellow yellow. Our guys must have pre-planned it and avoided the urinal because they just kept filling our maws, pausing so we could swallow then continuing the flow.
For the finale, the two dommes took their pleasure. The guys fucked us in both our holes. They kept switching between Doris and me calling us whores and sluts. Each of us was double penetrated and had to perform ass to mouth or ATM as Bill called it.
It was the first time I'd ever sucked a cock that one second before had been up another girl's ass. Neither Doris nor myself had been cleaned out so I got to taste Doris's shit and she mine. It's definitely hardcore when a guy pulls his shit-covered dick out of a nasty asshole, grabs you by the hair and shoves it down your throat. You can't ignore the smell and taste of the gritty brown feces that covers his cockhead as it coats the lining of your throat.
Bill took some kind of diet supplement that he swore increased the volume and taste of his semen. I knelt there while Doris jacked him off onto my tongue. Since I was company, I got to take the host's load.
I felt a large gob hit the back of my throat and another flood onto my tongue. I waited patiently mouth open and tongue extended until he finished before I gulped it down. Doris used her long tongue to lick the insides of my mouth to savor her man's leftovers. All I can say it was the most jism I'd ever taken in a single orgasm. And the taste was odd, almost medicinal. It definitely went way beyond the normal two tablespoons I'd experienced since I started giving blowjobs in the ninth grade.
The four of us slept in the Gooding's king sized bed. The next morning I was so sore it took me half an hour to get out of bed. I could barely walk. Fortunately a nurse even one in training has access to painkillers. You can always steal them from a cancer patient. Regardless of that experience, I expected that everybody at the Donaldson's would be on best behavior. I was in for a surprise. I met the immediate family at breakfast.
Afterwards, my future mother-in-law took me shopping for most of the day. She spent a fortune on me, dresses, shoes, lingerie, etc. I lost count of how much she spent. She bought me an incredible Bill Blass evening gown for Saturday's engagement party.
The dress cost about twenty times more than the most expensive dress I'd ever purchased on my own. We had a formal dinner at nine. It was in the mansion's cherry paneled dining room that looked like it was copied from a French chateau. I was on cloud nine, dazzled by the wealth and prestige of Trace's family.
Say the word basement to me and I picture a dirty concrete floor, fuse box, hot water heater, furnace, and junk like in the home where I grew up. Dark and scary with spider webs, the kind of place you only go when you have to. Of course, some couples convert their basements to play space. Andrews God forbid you whip your naked wife on one like Jesus Christ was crucified. Thus equipped you're ready to momentarily spice up what has become a very boring sex life. If you have kids, you have to conceal this shit somehow.
If a nosy neighbor asks why are those big hooks screwed into the overhead floor joists, you just reply, "Don't know, they were there when we bought the place. But there are basements and then there is the Donaldson's. I had no idea why we were leaving the comfortable well-appointed library but I was the prospective daughter-in-law on my best behavior.
I didn't ask any questions as the seven of us stood up, drinks in hand and followed the General down a hallway. He came to a heavy wooden door, pulled one of those laser inscribed keys out of his pocket and worked the tumbler. I recall wondering who locked their basement door. Normally, no one wants to go there.
He reached in to flip on the light then stood back and let everyone enter and descend the stairs. The Donaldson's basement, at least the part I was in, was damn nice, completely finished and paneled. There was a U shape of leather couches facing a fireplace. Over the fireplace was the largest flat panel television screen, I'd ever seen. I asked and was told that it was sixty-inch diagonal.
Surround sound speakers were mounted in each corner. Mary Ellen got busy igniting the gas fireplace while the General refreshed everyone's drink. I suppose one criticism you could make of the family was that they drank too much. The family drink was Jameson's Reserve with a single cube of ice. Being an eager to please daughter-in-law, I'd switched from my usual vodka martini and gone to brown whisky.
Well I am part Irish. The room was large and didn't look that old. I'd guess its dimensions as twenty feet wide and thirty feet deep. How nice and cozy I recall thinking as my future sister-in-law turned the gas up and flames warmed the room. Trace had gone over to a wall cabinet of electronics and opened the glass door. He took a DVD case out of his coat pocket and dropped it into the player.
Trace came back to the couch and sat down beside me. He put one hand on my bare knee and I remember thinking not in front of your folks, I want them to think I'm a lady. Events were about to prove I was an idiot. Since there had been so much wedding talk, I guessed that we might watch a video of Robbie and Denise's wedding or pictures of Trace as a kid, boring family history that you burden a perspective new family member with.
As soon as it flickered to life, he pressed the Play button on the DVD remote. It took a few seconds but there I was skirt pulled up to my waist, shaking my thong covered ass to Boogie Nights and licking the tip of the dildo that Trace gave me the night before. I had that good on my face that girls get when something nice first enters our pussy and we know there's more to come.
I scanned the room to gage the family's reaction to "Rozz, The Dildo Fucking Slut" but everyone was staring at the screen. I wanted to crawl under a rock. My future in-laws that I was trying so hard to impress would think I was absolute trailer trash. Later, I wondered what Lois meant by that remark.
Decade ago, had the General taken Lois to meet his parents and shown them a 16MM home movie of Lois sucking his cock and taking it up her ass? Possibly, military families are strong on tradition. I wanted to ask, "Gone through what" but stayed quiet. On screen I had shed my blouse and bra and was holding my boobs up sucking and licking my own nipples. I danced forward and Trace's head came into view as he leaned forward to suck and pinch my nipples.
After the nipple work, I danced back, turned my head profile to the camera and placed the pussy-glistening dildo in my mouth. I pushed on the base and drove that latex lover into my throat creating a bulge in my larynx that Trace's close-up captured for digital posterity.
Now I'm a cock swallower par excellence," added Denise, his wife. The way he said it implied Denise was just okay in the deep throat department. And the way Robbie glanced at me said that I was going to have an opportunity to provide my own comparison to the working girls of Korea. I was trying not to look stunned.
Still, being asked to do a mental about face on the sexual practices of your future in-laws was straining my ability to process new and contradictory information. Lois, my future mother-in-law had impressed me as the model for a military wife. She dressed and acted the perfect lady. We had even gone for high tea at the Four Seasons hotel in downtown Boston that afternoon when we took a break from shopping. High tea can you believe it. I didn't even know there was such a thing anymore.
She was the epitome of a general's wife, impeccably coiffured, dressed in an expensive St. John's knit suit, a woman who knew her place in life and was very comfortable in it. Mary Ellen, the youngest, was their high-energy daughter, pretty, petite, and smart. Robbie was the solid older brother, dedicated to the service of his country. Robbie had the General's military bearing and you could predict there was a general's star in his future.
Denise had gone out of her way to welcome me to the family and see that I was comfortable. Like any mother she talked about her growing family detailing the accomplishments and failings of each child. Denise was very attractive in a cool blonde way.
She had a great body that she attributed to her devotion to power yoga. The General struck me as a model of moral rectitude. No nonsense, it's black or white type, devoted to his country, a man who considered leading men into battle mankind's highest calling.
To sum it up, the Donaldson's appeared to be a family that belonged on the cover of Saturday Evening Post with an American flag as a backdrop. We watched in silence as on screen I danced my way down to my birthday suit. I'm a decent dancer and I was horny for Trace when I got off the plane. Up on the big screen, I sat down on the edge of the bed with my legs spread. One moist hand was working my clit while the other was dildo fucking what was obviously a very wet snatch. Then with the dildo still in my cunt I turned over, butt to the camera and stuck a finger up my ass.
Lois looking embarrassed opened the top drawer of an end table and brought out a plastic bottle of Astro-Glide. She stood, hiked her knit skirt up, revealing she was wearing stay up hose and no panty. She quickly sat down throwing one leg over the couch arm, squeezed some lube on her fingers and applied it to her vagina. The fact that her two sons were in the room said everything there was to say about Donaldson familial relations. How many sons have seen their Mom oil up their snatch?
I reminded myself it was a good thing he was bragging on his bride-to-be. I created a large wet spot when I fucked, the kind that made it hard to find a dry part of the bed to sleep on after a good long screwing. She stuck out her tongue like a hooker does to get the John to pull over to the curb. I resisted the urge to move Trace's hand from my knee to my crotch.
My libido was starting to take over. I'd never actually watched myself on video. In my freshman year, I'd allowed this guy I was dating to take some nude shots of me but they were more glamour shots meaning I wasn't stuffing dildo's in my cunt.
I was getting turned on watching myself perform on camera. My body looked great. As soon as Trace and I got engaged, I enrolled in an off base fitness club that offered what they called the 'Buff Brides Seminar'.
Diet and exercise were the order of the day. As part of the eighteen-week course, I got thee one-hour sessions each week with a personal trainer. The club assigned Slava as my personal trainer. Slava was a recent immigrant from the Ukraine with an H1-B work permit. He was training for the next Olympics. After an hour of close contact working on Nautilus machines and free weights, I found his body irresistible. I suggested that I visit Slava's apartment for some work on my pelvic thrusts.
The man was a fucking machine. It was vanilla sex but great vanilla sex. I rationalized that since I hadn't said my wedding vowels yet, fidelity was not a requirement. After I walked down the aisle I planned to be faithful.
Well, that was the plan. Anyway, I burned up more calories and fat cells riding Slava's cock outside the club than exercising with him inside. Movement caught my eye taking it away from the screen. I'd been so intent on watching the video that I missed Denise hauling Robbie's cock out of his pants.
When I looked over, they both were watching the screen as she stroked his meat and he unbuttoned her blouse. Robbie freed a tit from her bra and a large boob became visible. Denise had told me she had just taken her youngest off the tit a week ago. Her nipples had that big sloppy look women get when an infant is using them for a binky several hours a day. He captured the big spongy nipple between his teeth and stretched it outward.
Denise kept a smile on her face but I could tell he was hurting her. When he stopped, there were teeth marks on her areola. I allowed my mind to fantasize that it was my knocker that he'd bit and I felt a reaction in my cunt.
First week I was there, the upperclassmen take the female plebes into the restroom and use them for a urinal. You have to thank them after you drain their bladders," said Mary Ellen.
I decided that West Point must be more fun than I had envisioned. That provoked an immediate reaction from Lois and Mary Ellen. They unzipped his trousers then lowered them. They extracted his semi-hard cock from his boxers. I had the opportunity to see what a general officer's cock looked like, pretty much the same as everybody else's. I pushed out of my mind that there was a genuine case of multiple incest happening a few feet away. Mary Ellen, the dutiful daughter had slipped her dress and bra off and was kneeling on the floor in front of her dad, sharing dick-sucking duties with her mother who was leaning over in her husband's lap.
Occasionally the two stopped for some very intense tongue kisses. I surmised that mother and daughter were close, very close. Trace, Robbie and their dad were watching the homemade porn on the big screen. Trace had some talent for camera work.
He'd done an excellent job of capturing my tongue covered with his spunk. There was a narrow stripe of jism running from my cheek, across my nose and into my eye. The camera showed me using a finger to push the face splatter into my mouth for the big swallow.
That was followed by Trace's filling my mouth with piss and me swallowing several large mouthfuls. I glanced at Trace who had a "what are waiting for" look on his face. I stood up, reached back to unzip my dress, grabbed the hem of my skirt and pulled it over my head. The bra and panty were off in a split second. I placed my hands on the General's naked thighs as I knelt down.
Lois and Mary Ellen had gotten him hard and from my vantage point had been performing a credible job of head. However, maybe he was just proving a point. I filled my mouth with cock and went to work while behind me I heard the noise of furnishing being moved. Later, when I got a chance for a quick peek, I saw that two whipping stocks had been infolded out of the wall. Lois and Mary Ellen were down on all fours their heads and wrists threaded through the holes in the stocks.
Robbie was busy selecting a cane and Trace was working a hand into his mother's cunt. For all her verbal protests, Lois's body language said she loved to have her ass whipped. She was shifting her butt from side to side as Trace fingers stroked between her labia. He licked one finger and put a digit inside his Mom's anus. There were contemporaneous mound-building cultures throughout what is now the eastern United States , stretching as far south as Crystal River in western Florida.
During this time period, in parts of present-day Mississippi, Arkansas, and Louisiana, the Hopewellian Marksville culture degenerated and was succeeded by the Baytown culture. Population and cultural and political complexity increased, especially by the end of the Coles Creek period. Although many of the classic traits of chiefdom societies were not yet manifested, by CE the formation of simple elite polities had begun. The Coles Creek culture is considered ancestral to the Plaquemine culture.
Around — CE, the Mississippian culture developed and spread through the eastern United States, primarily along the river valleys. It had several regional variants including the Middle Mississippian culture of Cahokia, the South Appalachian Mississippian variant at Moundville and Etowah , the Plaquemine Mississippian variant in south Louisiana and Mississippi,  and the Caddoan Mississippian culture of northwestern Louisiana, eastern Texas, and southwestern Arkansas.
Fort Ancient is the name for a Native American culture that flourished from CE among a people who predominantly inhabited land along the Ohio River in areas of modern-day southern Ohio, northern Kentucky and western West Virginia. Scholars once thought this was an expansion of the Mississippian cultures, but they now believe the Fort Ancient culture was developed from the Hopewell culture.
Sites inhabited by Plaquemine peopless continued to be used as vacant ceremonial centers without large village areas much as their Coles Creek ancestors had done; although their layout began to show influences from Middle Mississippian peoples to the north.
The Winterville and Holly Bluff Lake George sites in western Mississippi are good examples that exemplify this change of layout but continuation of site usage. This resulted in the adaption of new pottery techniques , as well as new ceremonial objects and possibly new social patterns during the Plaquemine period.
Eventually the last enclave of purely Plaquemine culture was the Natchez Bluffs area, while the Yazoo Basin and adjacent areas of Louisiana became a hybrid Plaquemine-Mississippian culture. In the Natchez Bluffs area, the Taensa and Natchez people had held out against Mississippian influence and continued to use the same sites as their ancestors, and the Plaquemine culture is considered directly ancestral to these historic period groups encountered by Europeans.
Troyville culture and Baytown culture. Through the mid-nineteenth century, European Americans did not recognize that ancestors of the Native Americans had built the prehistoric mounds of the eastern U. They believed that the massive earthworks and large ceremonial complexes were built by a different people. A New York Times article from described a mound in Wisconsin in which a giant human skeleton measuring over nine feet in length was found.
Two thigh bones were measured with the height of their owners estimated at 14 feet. It calls up the indefinite past. When Columbus first sought this continent — when Christ suffered on the cross — when Moses led Israel through the Red-Sea — nay, even, when Adam first came from the hand of his Maker — then as now, Niagara was roaring here. The eyes of that species of extinct giants, whose bones fill the mounds of America, have gazed on Niagara, as ours do now.
Co[n]temporary with the whole race of men, and older than the first man, Niagara is strong, and fresh to-day as ten thousand years ago. The Mammoth and Mastodon — now so long dead, that fragments of their monstrous bones, alone testify, that they ever lived, have gazed on Niagara. In that long — long time, never still for a single moment.
Never dried, never froze, never slept, never rested. The antiquarian author William Pidgeon created fraudulent surveys of mound groups that did not exist possibly tainting this opinion which was replaced by others.
A major factor in increasing public knowledge of the origins of the mounds was the report by Cyrus Thomas of the Bureau of American Ethnology. He concluded that the prehistoric earthworks of the eastern United States were the work of early cultures of Native Americans.
A small number of people had earlier made similar conclusions: Thomas Jefferson , for example, excavated a mound and from the artifacts and burial practices, noted similarities between mound-builder funeral practices and those of Native Americans in his time. In addition, Theodore Lewis in had refuted Pidgeon's fraudulent claims of pre-Native American moundbuilders.
Other people believed that Greeks , Africans , Chinese or assorted Europeans built the mounds. During the 19th century a common belief was that the Jews , particularly the Lost Ten Tribes , were the ancestors of Native Americans and the Mound Builders.
While the Nephites, Lamanites, and Mulekites were all of Jewish origin coming from Israel around BCE, the Jaradites were a non-Abrahamic people separate in all aspects, except in a belief in Jehovah, from the Nephites. The Book of Mormon depicts these settlers building magnificent cities, which were destroyed by warfare about CE Some Mormon scholars [ who?
This occurred after the Book of Mormon was published. During the 20th century, certain sects affiliated with the Black nationalist Moorish Science philosophy theorized an association with the Mound Builders. These black groups claim that the American Indians were too primitive to have developed the sophisticated societies and the technology believed necessary to build the mounds.
He believed that God built the mound and placed it as a symbol of the story of the Garden of Eden. Some people attributed the mounds to mythical cultures: Lafcadio Hearn suggested that the mounds were built by people from the Lost Continent of Atlantis. The mound builder explanations were often honest misinterpretations of real data from valid sources. Both scholars and laymen accepted some of these explanations. One belief was that American Indians were too unsophisticated to have constructed such complex earthworks and artifacts.
The associated stone, metal, and clay artifacts were thought to be too complex for the Indians to have made. In the American Southeast, and Midwest, numerous Indian cultures were sedentary and used agriculture. Numerous Indian towns had built surrounding stockades for defense. Capable of this type of construction, they and ancestors could have built mounds, but people who believed that the Indians did not build the earthworks did not analyze it in this manner.
They thought the Native American nomadic cultures would not organize to build such monuments, for failure to devote the time and effort to construct such time-consuming projects.
When most British colonists first arrived in America, they never witnessed the American Indians building mounds, and they found that few Indians knew of their history when asked. Yet earlier Europeans, especially the Spanish, had written numerous non-English-language accounts about the Indians' construction of mounds. Garcilaso de la Vega reported how the Indians built the mounds and placed temples on top of them. A few French expeditions reported staying with Indian societies who built mounds.
People also claimed that the Indians were not the Mound Builders because the mounds and related artifacts were older than Indian cultures. Caleb Atwater 's misunderstanding of stratigraphy caused him to believe that the Mound Builders were a much older civilization than the Indians.
In his book, Antiquities Discovered in the Western States , Atwater claimed that Indian remains were always found right beneath the surface of the earth. Since the artifacts associated with the Mound Builders were found fairly deep in the ground, Atwater argued that they must be from a different group of people.
The discovery of metal artifacts further convinced people that the Mound Builders were not Native Americans. The Indians encountered by the Europeans and Americans were not thought to engage in metallurgy.
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