MISTLETOE FARM A cautionary tale
Chapter one: The Shopping Trip
"A small house, sir, a small house, but I think you will find it in good order," said Aaron Hardwick, turning the key in the lock. Six months ago the door would hardly have opened, and then only with the squealing of rusty iron. Now it swung smoothly back, admitting the master workman and his employer. Hardwick stepped aside and with a look of pride ushered the young gentleman within. Simon Simmons took off his hat, his pale, cornsilk hair swirling out from beneath it. Simon stepped into his new house and took a deep breath, noting the smells of varnish and fresh paint mixed with old applewood. He nodded with approval as his gaze swept the entry way.
"It looks remarkable, sir," the twenty-five year old owner of the house said to Hardwick. "Lead the way please, show me all the renovations."
With a nod, Hardwick stepped inside and closed the door. They stood in a bright, clean entryway, with a simple staircase going up to the second floor on their right and doors ahead and on either side. "Shall we begin with the drawing room, sir?" he asked, and led the way to the left.
Eighteen months ago, Simmons was not sure he wanted the house. A younger son, his parents had died in an unfortunate carriage accident two years earlier, in 1838. His older brother had inherited most of the family land, near Charlottesville, Virginia. It was only proper, as the holdings would be kept intact for future generations. Simmons had been willed this house, not a plantation by any means but more of a large cottage, on one hundred acres a little west of Roanoke, in the Blue Ridge foothills. A modest endowment came with the property, enough to keep it up and to keep Simmons comfortable. It took about a year to settle the estate, and during that time Simmons made his first trip to Mistletoe Farm to inspect his inheritance. He was appalled.
For years the family had rented the property out to tenants who scratched a hard living from the pockets of tillable soil that lay among the trees and rock outcroppings of these foothills. Then the property stood empty for years more, without adequate care and upkeep. When Simon Simmons first saw it, he was inclined to burn it down. The roof was structurally sound, although in need of shingles. But broken windows admitted birds and bats, plaster hung down in curls from the ceiling or lay in piles on the floor. Sapling trees sprouted in the outbuildings. The fields were choked with weeds. Yet, as he wandered through the house and land, a feeling of connection and ownership grew upon him. The land and house and its outbuildings were his, and a place to call his own. Here he could give up his position as a clerk in Charlottesville and live as a gentleman. Simmons calculated the cost of repair and considered his resources and made the decision to repair the house and have the fields put in order, as much as was possible. His generous brother, Hammond, helped financially, perhaps glad to increase the independence of his brother. Aaron Hardwick, a contractor, came well recommended, so arrangements were made and the plan put in place.
Now as Simmons was led through the house, he congratulated himself on his decision. Every room was in perfect condition, although each retained a feel of age and history. Fresh paint or wallpaper covered new plaster and polished wood floors gleamed, punctuated here and there with new rugs. Each room was fully furnished, some with items from the Simmons family place, some with new purchases from Roanoke. Upstairs, four bedrooms surrounded a central landing, each with a spectacular view of the hills and forests of the surrounding countryside.
Pleased with his employer's approval, Hardwick led the way outside. A nearby well house included a wash room with a large tinned tub, suitable for clothes or people as the need arose. Outdoor privies and other structures such as smokehouses, a kitchen, and woodsheds were arranged around the main house. A barn stood near small fields newly cleared and ploughed, not large enough for crops but certainly adequate for vegetable gardens. A grove of fruit trees lay beyond the fields, and there were enclosed pens for livestock, when those should be acquired. Two horses roamed one enclosure, their presence explained by the large wooden wagon housed in the barn.
Three more structures remained to be inspected: the slave quarters. Simmons had given specific instructions that these should be made sound and comfortable. Unpainted, their wooden walls were nevertheless tight against wind, rain, and the snow that would come in the winter some six months hence. A small verandah ran along the front of each cabin. Inside were simple beds, furniture, and a fireplace in each for cooking and warmth. Rough wooden dressers held simple clothes, pine cabinets contained cooking instruments and eating utensils. The clean smell of new wood and varnish floated in the air. Simmons nodded his approval, and gave further thought to his plans.
Returning to the cottage, Simmons wrote a cheque for the funds due to Hardwick, shook his hand and congratulated him, and offered him a drink of whiskey. Hardwick politely declined on the grounds that the sun was setting and he had some miles to ride yet to reach his home. Simmons saw him off, then took his own horse, which he had ridden to this appointment, to the barn, where he curried and fed him and then put him up for the night with the two cart horses, securing the barn door against predators. In the gathering twilight, Simmons walked back to the house where he lit some lanterns and helped himself to a simple dinner from the provisions he had caused to be delivered to the house. Enjoying the whiskey himself, he sat on the cottage's spacious verandah for a long time, listening to the gathering night sounds of insects and owls, and the cough of the deer that moved stealthily through the surrounding woods. Tired from the day's events eventually, he secured the doors and withdrew upstairs for the night, to sleep for the first time in his new home.
The first chorus of birds awoke him the next morning. He reflected that once he had acquired some livestock, it would likely be roosters that performed that task in the future. Arising, he ate a simple breakfast, visited the nearby outdoor privy and then bathed quickly in the cold well water of the wash room tub. Dressing in the sturdy clothes of a Virginia gentleman farmer, he pocketed a large wallet, hitched up his two horse team to the wagon, and set off down the winding path that led to the main road toward Roanoke.
The journey took the two hours he expected it would. He crossed small creeks, some so small they simply ran across the road rather than under a bridge. Birds sang in the strengthening sun. The road was good but, like all country roads, pitted, with branches here and there that required clearing. Arriving in the small but bustling town, he purchased supplies from several merchants: Salt pork, lard, oil, crackers, dried wheat and corn in heavy sacks, dried beans, molasses, flour, cornmeal, salt, sugar, cloth, seeds for planting, plus a musket and a shotgun with powder and ammunition. At another merchant's he arranged for the delivery of two milk cows, a sow with a brood of young, several hens and a rooster. He purchased more whiskey, and then went into a tavern for his midday meal of corn cakes, boiled beef and vegetables, and beer. Refreshed, he stepped out into the street and up into his wagon. Down one street he went and up another, and pulled up in front of his final destination. A sign over the door proclaimed the nature of the business: BULSTRODE'S MARKET, FINE NEGROES BOUGHT AND SOLD. Simmons sat for a moment on the seat of the wagon, his heart beating a little faster, his breath coming perhaps a little harder. He had been thinking about this business for months. Taking a final deep breath, he stepped down into the street, secured his horses to a rail, and walked into the building.
The place had an indefinable smell--was it uncleanness? perhaps despair? A man built like a brick building, and just as red, sat in a large entryway, writing at a high desk. He looked up quickly, a keen appraising glance in his bright eyes behind bushy brows. With surprising speed and grace for one so large, he skipped out from behind the desk and approached Simmons with his hand extended.
"Good afternoon to you, sir!" he cried. "My name is Bulstrode." No other name was offered. Simmons took his hand, noting the strength in it, the surety of command and control, and introduced himself. "And what may I show you today, sir?" inquired the slave merchant.
"I am newly come into some property a little west of here," said Simmons, "and I need servants." Bulstrode nodded, his eyes piercing Simmons with a calculating, appraising look. "I am thinking I would like three male servants and three female servants, sir," continued Simmons. "If you have.... couples here already, or people already connected in some way, I should be happy to consider them. But six servants, sir, three male and three female."
Bulstrode looked at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. He snapped his fingers, thick as small branches. "I have it sir! For four of them at least, we do have one pair, a man and a woman newly mated...I can't say 'married,' can I?!" he said with a wink, "and then one brother and sister, still youths. But a third couple.... I shall have to think, sir, let me think. But while I am thinking, let me show you the property I have, and you shall decide if they meet your needs!"
Bulstrode led the way down a narrow hallway and pushed open the barred wooden door of a room. A soft murmur of voices ceased abruptly as they entered. It was a large chamber with benches lining the walls. Sitting, standing, or stretched on the floor were dark skinned people of every description: One or two family groups, many single people, old and young, male and female. Some looked terrified, some unhappy, some carefully neutral. It was, obviously, not a joyous circumstance for any of them. They all wore simple, sometimes ragged, but clean homespun clothing. Perhaps forty dark faces looked sharply at the two white men who entered, then quickly away, but as Simmons entered the room he was aware of continued furtive surveillance under heavy, curled lashes.
Bulstrode stepped quickly to the end of one bench and stopped in front of a young man and woman who sat together on a bench, hands tightly clasped between them. "Stand up!" he ordered them, then turned to Simmons. "Two likely Negroes, each about twenty, perhaps twenty-one years old. Accustomed to skilled farm labor, although not field hands. Just acquired from an estate sale to the east of here. Would you care to examine them?"
"Examine...." at that interesting word, Simmons's heart skipped a beat. His eyes wandered over the two who stood before him, heads bowed. Their fingers were still intertwined, furtively. Simmons thoughts raced back to earlier......examinations.
Raised with slaves ever present in his parents' home, his earliest childhood friend was Brutus. Nearly his own age, very dark, with a hard, slim body, he and Brutus shared every waking moment from his earliest memories. As they entered puberty, they shared their bodies as well, equally, with clumsy, giggling first gropings and then breathless strokings and suckings. At thirteen, on a visit to his cousin James's plantation, Simon Simmons was taken by his cousin to the loft of a distant barn where James had arranged for four slave girls between nine and sixteen years of age to meet them. Commanding the girls to disrobe, and to disrobe them, James and Simon "examined" each girl in detail, and as their curiosity and passion grew they gave way to every form of fondling and intercourse they had ever heard of in song or dirty joke, being sucked, fucking, and buggering until their bodies were grey with the hay dust plastered to their skin by the sweat of their and the girls' bodies.
From then on, there was no looking back for Simon. Reuniting with Brutus upon his return, Simon led the way to the slave cabins, where Brutus slipped in and issued his master's orders to the girls within. Again and again in hay barns or clearings in the woods the "examinations" were restaged and replayed, the white boy firmly in charge and his black slave boy eagerly following suit, sharing the fruits of his master's power, tasting these moments of equality founded upon their shared male passions.
As Simon passed through his teenage years and entered his twenties, he played the part of the Southern gallant at balls and social gatherings, but his interest in the white women of his set was strictly for show. He lived for those moments with brown and black bodies, shared with Brutus each time. In the course of time, Brutus took his own mate, but shared her with Simon whenever the white man came calling at their cabin. When Simon came into his inheritance and prepared to leave home, he shared one last romp with Brutus, which ended with just the two, the white man and his black friend and slave alone at dawn, arms entwined around each other. As he planned for his move to Mistletoe Farm, Simon thought and planned for the kind of domestic arrangements he wanted in that new home.
Simmons's attention shifted back to the two slaves in front of him. "Yes," he said slowly, "these might do. Let me see her first."
Bulstrode nodded curtly and took the woman by the arm, leading her away. Her hand kept its grasp with the man's for an instant, then let loose. The man did not raise his head, but Simon could see from the corner of his eye how the slave's gaze followed the woman intently, and how the man's fists clenched silently. Thinking, planning, Simon followed Bulstrode and the female slave. The merchant went through a door into a small room equipped with a rude cot covered with a tick mattress, a wooden table on which lay a number of cloth rags, and a chair. The floor was a little sticky.
"Knock on the door when you are done with your examination, sir, and take your time," he said, then with an air of professional detachment withdrew, shutting the door behind him.
She was a full-figured woman, not fat but with the ample curves of Africa much in evidence. She remained standing, head and eyes cast down. "What is your name?" asked Simmons.
"Aphrodite, massa. They calls me 'Dite, though," she replied softly, her voice full and reedy.
Simon stepped closer and raising his right hand, hooked two fingers under the top button of the simple sack dress the woman wore. "Remove this," he said. Dite paused a moment, seeming to assess the situation, then sighed very softly and undid the top three buttons. The dress was so loose, already nearly off one shoulder, that it slid to the floor. Simon likewise lifted his finger to the kerchief she wore around her head. "And this," he said. Reaching up, she pulled the covering off, revealing a bush of springy black hair about two inches long standing out from her head. Simon willed his breathing to remain measured as he took in her appearance. Her face was round, the nose broad but not overly large, with full, thick lips. Dite's skin was a deep chocolate brown, and flawless despite a life of work on the farm. Simon turned her shoulder slightly so he could see her back--good, no scars from the lash. She had full, pear- shaped breasts, firm but pendulant. Below them the smooth, dark skin of her belly followed a curve down to her groin area, where a dense triangle of black bushy hair separated her two strong thighs.
A familiar passion began to flood over Simon, welling up in him, taking control even as it bade him to take control. His eyes sank down, down into dark chocolate flesh, and he was lost. Simon reached out and lifted Dite's chin. Up came her face, her eyes flickering, now taking in the white man who was appraising her, now looking away. Simon's fingers brushed over her lips and then her cheek. The woman's dark eyes flickered again, this time with perhaps more interest. Now both of Simon's hands came out and rested on her neck, then her shoulders, cupping the strong muscles of the shoulders and upper arms, squeezing them, sliding down the silken sable skin of the arms. Her head fell again, but now her eyes look directly ahead at Simon's torso and her lips were parted. Looking intently at her face to see what might be read there, Simon's hands shifted quickly, gently to her breasts. He cupped them, feeling their weight and firmness. Now Dite sighed, and her glance flickered up to the white man's face, then down, but she spoke not a word. Simon's thumbs flicked the nipples, now hard purple-black cones. Then his hands run down over her belly and stopped, lingering in the dense thatch of her pubic hair.
Dite's glance shifted downward now to where Simon's trousers were visibly tenting out in front of him. His own breathing was becoming harder, and he realized he must do something if he were to carry out his plan for the afternoon. "Go to the bed and get on your hands and knees," he ordered. The woman did so. Simon walked up close and cupped each large, round buttock in his hands, marveling once again as he had so often at the ample spread of the African female buttocks. Between them winked the brown starfish hole of her anus, and the dark valley of her vagina below, now visibly moist. Was it his imagination or was the woman's own breath coming faster now? No time to speculate. Simon quickly undid his trousers and dropped them, then likewise his undergarments. His erect cock sprang out, dusky red and purple, the flared cockhead leaking precum. He pressed the head to the vagina opening and Dite gasped, looking half around. He held it there but a moment, then pushed in. The black slave woman gasped again, then moaned, and one hand came back to rest against Simon's thigh as if to control his penetration, but it was not a serious refusal, nor did it have any real effect. He was fully sheathed inside of her now and, grasping her hips with both hands, began pumping his hips back and forth as he stood behind her between her spread legs, the firm flesh of his lower belly smacking against the ample dark brown bottom in front of him. Was she--yes, there was no mistaking it, Dite was pushing back, shoving her broad, brown pillows back against his belly and dick. He increased his speed to a frenzy of short strokes. It did not take long. Some distant part of his brain was careful not to cry out, which might bring Bulstrode in. His orgasm gathered in his thighs and loins and then slammed out of him, his semen pouring into the slave woman's body before him. Twice and thrice he slammed forward into her, squeezing out his sperm into her. He held himself tight against her for a moment, then the crisis passed. He pulled out, trailing a thread of white semen. Walking to the table he grabbed one of the rags and cleaned himself.
"Dress yourself," he said in a hoarse whisper to the woman still crouched on the bed. Wordlessly, she stood up and put on her dress and kerchief again. Simon likewise had pulled his clothing back up. He paused for a moment, considering her as she stood still with her eyes down, then walked to the door and knocked loudly. In a moment Bulstrode opened the door. "The man, now," said Simmons.
Bulstrode nodded and led the woman away. Did her head half turn in Simon's direction as she was taken back to her place? Certainly she did not look at her mate, who studied her closely as Bulstrode took him by the arm and led him into the room.
"Take your time," Bulstrode said again, pushing the black slave forward, as he withdrew and shut the door behind him.
Simon's orgasm had steadied his nerves, but he was still riding a strong wave of sexual mastery. Walking up to the slave, he tugged at the simple, rough shirt he wore and said, "Remove this."
"Yassuh," whispered the man, and in one motion shrugged the shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Simon studied his face. The man's hair was about an inch long, worn in a shock of tangled wool standing out from his head. His neck was strong and corded, the head wide and oval on top of it, like the head of a dick. The man was as dark as Aphrodite had been, a rich deep chocolate color. His lips were likewise full, the lower one a little lighter as it curled out from his firm, wide mouth. Dark eyes looked out and downward as he awaited the white man's commands. Simon's gaze traveled down to two square chest muscles, thick as slabs of beef, with copper penny nipples set along the lower edges. A well developed line of muscles rippled on his abdomen.
"What are you called?" asked Simon, as he stepped behind the man.
"Pompey, massa, suh." Standing behind him now, Simon admired the deep ridge of the spine, a valley between two strong rolls of back muscles, a trough descending down into the firm, high butt so typical of African men. Simon tugged on the back of the man's rough trousers. "Remove these," he said. "Yassuh," replied the black, and down went his trousers. Simon walked up close now and grabbed both of the rounded, firm, high buttocks, one in each hand, kneading them. The slave gasped slightly, and began breathing ever so slightly more heavily.
"I am looking for a couple that can breed. Have you and Aphrodite had children?" he asked.
"Naw, suh, but we only been together three month, massa. We can do it, I know we can. Massa," he said, his voice becoming urgent, "Massa, please, take both of us. Doan split us up, massa," he said.
Simon walked around to the front. The man's dark skin shone lightly, muscles moving under sable skin with every breath. For such a muscular frame, with thick thigh muscles running down to knotted calves, the black man had a surprisingly ordinary penis. Not small, but not the huge size so many Africans sported. It stood at half mast now above two unusually large, dark purple black ballsacks, the whole in a nest of short, tightly curled pubic hair. Standing in front of the slave, Simon reached down and weighed the testicles, feeling their warmth and the wet potential within. He grasped the penis. It stiffened, engorged with blood, and grew some in length but more than that it increased in width. Simon began sliding his hand up and down the shaft, a dark purple, nearly black, darker than the man's skin color elsewhere. The slave's feet shifted a little farther apart, and his breathing really was becoming heavier now.
"You'll see, massa, I has lots of spunk, Dite and me, we be good breeders," said Pompey, now breathing harder as Simon's hand slid up and down the dark pole. It was so wide that Simon's fingers did not touch as they encircled the hot meat. It glistened with a steady stream of clear precum that pulsed out of the thick tip of the penis at every upward stroke. For long moments the two men stood, Pompey's hands working, opening and closing, hanging by his side, now thrusting his pelvis forward in rhythm with the white man's pumping hand.
"Aaaah! I is coming, massa, look out!" breathed the slave, and then with a huff and a grunt he thrust his pelvis forward and held it. A tremendous flow of semen came out of the shaft that Simon still pumped, now more slowly. The white man was thankful it did not shoot out far or his clothing would be covered, but he was amazed at the sheer amount that welled up out of the ponderous ballsacks of the black slave in front of him. Still it kept flowing as Pompey pushed, squeezed, and held his breath, and then the black man slumped, and began gulping for air. It was over. A sizable pool of white semen lay on the floor between them, and Simon's hand was coated with the stuff. "Dress yourself," Simon ordered as he wiped his hand on one of the rags from the table.
"Yassuh," breathed Pompey, and as he did so he whispered again, "Please massa, both of us..... we be good breeders, massa, you is gonna see." Simon was lost in the power and lust of the moment. This man, so much stronger than he, was so totally in his control. And he knew that he had just given the black man pleasure, as Simon had given Brutus pleasure throughout his youth. He said not a word, but took Pompey by the arm and walked him to the door. A loud knock brought Bulstrode quickly. Simon followed the merchant and slave into the large room as Pompey was led back to the bench, the black man followed by curious eyes and by more than one knowing smirk as he returned to Dite's side. Not looking at him, perhaps knowing, she smiled a bit and reached over to hold his hand in hers.
"Now, sir, another couple, very likely and especially in another year or two," Bulstrode said, leading his customer up the line a bit. "Stand up" he ordered to the two slaves he stood before. "About fourteen, sir, brother and sister, newly purchased from the Richmond area. Perhaps dangerous to breed as they are from the same litter, but you decide, sir, you decide," said Bulstrode.
Simmons beheld a boy and a girl of about the same age--they may have been twins. They were about four and a half feet tall, with slim, taut musculature evident beneath their baggy clothing. Their rich caramel color betrayed a white or Arab ancestor in the past, someone who took advantage of a woman in the slave ships or the castles along the African coasts. The boy's hair was very short, a dusting of dense, tight black hair hugging his scalp. The girl's hair was black but a deeper cap of curls framing her face. They looked remarkable similar: oval faces, the girl with a boyish quality and the boy with a girl's fine bone structure and long, curling eyelashes. They had button noses, not overly large, and full, outcurling rosebud lips of a more reddish hue than the deep caramel skin.
"What is your name?" he asked the girl. "Rose" she replied, her eyes cast down. "And yours?" he asked the boy. The lad paused for a second and said, "Thorn." Then added, entreatingly, "I ain't lyin', massa, it really is." Rose glanced at her brother sideways and giggled. "Hush up, wench!" commanded Bulstrode. The girl froze and looked down, fear in her eyes.
"I will see them both at the same time," said Simmons, calculatingly. "Very well, sir," said Bulstrode, and led the way, one slave child in each hand, back into the room. Bulstrode left Simmons there with a nod, and closed the door.
The white man walked slowly around the two and came to stop behind the girl. "Have the two of you been sold in a market such as this before?" he asked. They each whispered "No, massa." A tension seemed to be growing in the air. They knew something was coming, but not what, nor whether it would be pleasant or unpleasant. Simmons nodded. Standing behind Rose, he tugged at her dress. "Take this off," he said.
The girl turned halfway around and looked up at him in surprise. "All the way, massa?" she asked. Simmons nodded curtly. She gulped, took a deep breath, and appeared to consider for a moment. Then, no options occurring to her, she slowly unfastened her buttons, waited another second, and let the simple sack garment fall to the floor. She shivered and stood naked before a white man for the first time. Her brother, who had been regarding her in mixed curiosity and concern, now gasped, and his eyes flickered from his sister to the white man standing behind her. Thorn's lips parted as he caught his breath to see what would come next.
Simmons stepped up close to the girl, his trousers tenting out again now, his penis pushing through the cloth against Rose's back. Her body was slim but muscled, her hips already wide and her buttocks already plump. Simmons reached his arms around to her front, hands placed on her belly. It was slim, firm, and muscled, the deep caramel skin dappled with light, honey, and chocolate, as the belly curved from her chest to her groin where a tiny patch of wild curls could be seen. Looking down over the girl now, pulling her into himself, Simmons let his hands ride up her belly, to cover her breasts. These were small, the size of oranges, but pert and firm, with nipples unusually large for the tight mounds on which they sat. Rose gasped and looked down at the white hands that slid over her flesh, but did not attempt to escape. Her breathing came now more quickly, through parted lips.
A few feet away, Thorn didn't know which way to look. His gaze shifted rapidly from intense examination of his naked sister, to the floor, to quick hooded glances at the white man....who was looking intensely at him all this time.
"Thorn," he said, "come nearer." The boy did, hesitatingly. "Closer." The boy came gradually to within a foot of his sister, his head turned to the side now, looking down. "I am looking for a servant who will breed children. Not a field hand. Do you understand me?" Thorn nodded rapidly and whispered "Yassuh" between his parted rosebud lips-- every slave understood the blessing that came with not being a field hand. "Are you able to breed yet, Thorn?"
The boy blushed a deep red underneath his caramel skin. "I has tried, massa----well, a few times. Mebbe I is, I dunno- ---" his voice trailed off. "But I is sure I can, massa, I sure is sure!" His reedy adolescent voiced cracked once.
"Take off your clothes, boy," said the white man. Thorn glanced at him searchingly. "Here, massa?" "Yes." Slowly, but with a sense of inevitability, Thorn slid off his rough shirt and then unfastened the single button holding his patched trousers up. Both garments fell to the floor and he stood naked, a foot away from his naked sister who was being fondled by the white man who might become their master.
Simon's breath came uncontrollably faster as he examined the shallow, circular pads of muscle on the boy's chest, the puffy nipples that, like his sister's, were a little large, the tight but only faintly rippled roll of the abdomen as it curved down to the small patch of black curls in the groin. A slim penis above pendulous testicles was at half mast, rising in spite of itself at the close presence of his sister's female body. Had these two played these games before, Simmons wondered. The boy's lips were still parted, his heart could be seen pulsing the caramel skin of his chest.
"Show me," said Simmons.
"Uh--what, massa?"
"Whether you can be a breeder. Can you make the white stuff that makes babies?" Thorn blushed again and nodded quickly. "Make it," ordered the white man, as his fingers massaged the slave girl's breasts, tweaking the large nipples.
Thorn tentatively grasped his penis with his hand. It sprang to life, no longer at half mast, reacting to the slightest stimulation. Still slim but now longer, it curved away from his body and up. Slowly, then more rapidly, the boy's fist pumped up and down as it encircled his own penis, now darkening with the inrush of blood, and he began breathing more heavily. Perceptibly, the dangling ballsacks began pulling up tighter. The slave boy's head, turned to the side, now swung to the front, to look down at his own organ, leaking precum, but also to look a foot away at his sister's naked body, at the white man's hands that now slid down over her belly to bury fingers in the patch of black curls below. Thorn could not tear his eyes away from this, and Simmons could not tear his eyes away from the site of the slave boy masturbating. Faster went the fist, it became a blur, and then with a strangled cry the boy threw back his head, thrust his hips forward, and slowed his pumping fist as his penis shot out one and then two dollops of semen that arced in the air to land on his sister's abdomen. Nothing even similar to the copious flow from Pompey, but it showed that his fourteen year old genitals were fully functional. The boy's fist slowed and then stopped, then fell from the organ, which remained arched upward and out, oozing fluid for a moment. The boy's breathing was ragged, the penis still quivering. Then it, too, began to fall.
Simmons reached down to smear the white fluid on the girl's caramel brown belly, meditatively. Then, stepping back, he ordered both the boy and the girl to clothe themselves again. They did so, exchanging quick, questioning glances with each other but avoiding any looks at the white man. When they were clothed, Simmons stepped to the door and knocked. Bulstrode opened, nodded, and beckoned the two fourteen year olds to follow him back to their benches. Simmons took a deep breath and then brought up the rear.
Thorn and Rose deposited on the bench, Bulstrode turned to Simmons. "I'm afraid we have no other such couples, previously connected sir," he said. "But of course," and here he gestured expansively to the whole room, "you might make your own couple."
Simmons nodded. "Very well.... show me unattached youths of about eighteen. A male first, if you please." Very good, sir. Bulstrode walked to the end of the line and proceeded down its full length, ordering first this and then that young man to stand. Making the whole circuit, he had about a dozen youths standing quietly, eyes downcast. He looked at Simmons, who nodded, and began to make the circuit himself. He examined each young man, some large and strong enough to seem to be in their twenties, some so slight they might have been younger than Thorn. A few he lifted the heads of with his fingers under their chins to study their faces. He made the whole round, stopped, then walked decisively to one in the middle.
"This one," he said. "I will examine him now." Bulstrode nodded agreement and led the slave into the examination room. Once again, Simmons followed, and Bulstrode closed the door behind him as he entered.
Simmons walked up to the youth, who stood with head bowed. He was certainly no older than eighteen, if quite that. He was very dark, nearly a purple black. Simmons lifted up his chin to look into his face, as he had done in line. The youth's eyes shifted away so as not to stare at the white man. He had a rectangular face with full, heavy lips. His nose was broad but not flared. Unusually long eyelashes curled over eyes that were shining bright with irises of an inky black. It was a face both male and handsome and girlish and beautiful. Simmons ran the tip of is index finger along the lips, which parted slightly. Then Simmons reached for the buttons on the collar of the shirt, and unfastening them himself, he likewise lifted the shirt off of the boy, who raised his arms to help. Simmons himself tugged on the simple knot in the length of rope holding the youth's pants up, which gave way, causing the rough trousers to fall. He stood there naked before the white man.
Simmons walked slowly around him. His shape and posture was the beautiful S curve of the African body, shoulders held back, a padded, muscular chest with purple black nipples, a muscular, curved sheath of a torso ending in a groin that flowed back into prominent buttocks pushed up high. Passing behind the boy, Simmons noted the rounded but muscular countours of his bottom. Coming back around to the front, Simmons gasped at the sight: his penis really was long, perhaps not unusually so for an African but certainly beyond anything possessed by a European. Not as thick as Pompey's, it was nevertheless a formidable organ, with heavy nuts below it, and a tight tuft of densely matted public hair just above it. Not completely flaccid, the pendulous organ hung nearly halfway down his muscular thigh. Simon Simmons was completely lost in the flesh and blood fantasy standing before him.
"What is you name, and how did you work for your previous master?" asked Simmons.
"I is Toby, massa. I worked on the carts and wagons, with the horses, massa. I--I wasn't in the fields," he added, hopefullly. But it was unlikely that, as dark as he was, he would have been used in the house. Yet his skin was flawless, reflecting no killing work in tobacco or grain fields.
"Did you ever sire a child?"
"Mebbe," he said, ducking his head and looking at the floor. "It's hard to tell, sometimes, massa."
Simmons nodded. With his own experience among the slaves of his parents' plantation, he could but agree. "Can you breed, do you think?" he asked.
Toby looked up brightly at him, then quickly lowered his gaze again. "Oh! yes, massa, I's sure. I can sure give a girl a baby, massa!"
Simmons walked up to him and said, "Let's see." Then he pulled up the rude chair by the table to sit in it before the slave. His white hand reached out to grasp the huge penis before him. Toby gasped and half-staggered, then regained his footing. Simon held the ponderous organ in both hands, then began sliding them up and down the shaft. Immediately the purple black organ thickened. It was already so dark, as dark as Toby's skin, that it could not have darkened any more. The skin, stretched by the growing erection, took on a satin quality. The organ grew to its full length, and now it really might have reached to the boy's knee, but Simmons held it straight up as his hands slid up and down, more quickly now. Precum glistened as it oozed from the tip and slid down the shaft, but the rod was so long it never made it completely down the mighty rod. Toby held very still, only a rapid breathing betraying the grow storm in his loins. Faster and tighter flew the white man's hands around the fleshy pole.
Suddenly, he uttered "Massa!" shuddered mightily and his knees nearly buckled. A rope of semen shot straight up and landed a few inches to the side on the floor. Then followed a continuous ooze of semen as Simmons's hands slowed, kneading and massaging the engorged rod. The semen had so far to flow from the black man's balls that it took a while to milk all of it out. Toby stood, his eyes wide in astonishment, staring intently at the white hands wrapped around his most private part. When it appeared that no more white spunk could be coaxed out, Simmons stood and cleaned his hands on a rag. "Dress yourself," he commanded, and Toby obeyed.
"Toby," he said, "if you are to be a breeder you will need a mate. Shall we find you one out there? Just you and me?"
Toby's eyes grew large again, a smile broke out on his full lips, and he dared to look searchingly into the white man's face. "A---a gal, for me, massa?"
Simmons nodded. "A man needs a wench, doesn't he?" Toby actually giggled, and nodded his head in delight. This strange white man was offering to buy a woman to service him. Toby's delight was also not lessened by the fact that the same white man had just, undeniably, given him a great deal of pleasure. "Yassuh, please suh, I promise, Ise a good breeder," said the slave.
"Very well," said Simmons, "we will go back in there and you will pick out a likely wench." Toby was nearly quivering with his unexpected good luck. Simmons strode to the door and knocked.
"One more servant, please," he said to Bulstrode when the man appeared. "An unattached wench, about the same age as this boy," he said. Bulstrode thought a moment, nodded, and once more made the round of those sitting in the room as Toby and Simmons waited, watching. Again, about a dozen young women were told to stand, and Bulstrode gestured to them and bowed to Simmons when he was done.
Simmons and Toby walked the line again. Toby was so excited he might have chosen every one, but Simon bade him look at each one first. It took two rounds but finally Toby turned to the white man and whispered something. Simon nodded and whispered back. Then he turned to Bulstrode and pointed back to one figure. "Her," he said. Bulstrode nodded again and led the young woman to the room. As he was leaving he made as if to lead Toby back to the bench, but Simmons stopped them, saying, "The buck will remain here." Bulstrode nodded and closed the door.
Toby stood directly in front of the young woman, about six feet away, and looked at her intently. Simon walked around the two, slowly. "What is your name, gal?" he asked, "and how old are you?"
"I is Venus, massa. I is seventeen," she replied in a soft but full voice, resonant with the reedy timbres of Africa.
"What work did you do for your former master?"
"I cooks, massa, and sews, and works in a garden."
Simon nodded. He reached out and tugged at the kerchief around her head. "Remove this" he ordered. She pulled it off, revealing a short cap of thick, kinky, utterly black curls. Her skin was dark, not as dark as Toby's but the chocolate shade of Aphrodite's and Pompey's. She had a heart-shaped face, lips full and moist but not too large, pushing out of a fleshy mouth beneath a broad nose. Her eyes looked downward, or shot furtive glances at Toby, from beneath long, curled lashes. She did not look at the white man.
"And remove this," Simon ordered, tugging at the frayed sleeve of her rough gown. The woman paused, sighed, looked again at Toby, then tugged slowly, slowly at the cord holding the dress together, as if to delay the inevitable. It gave way suddenly, her hand reluctantly let loose of the cord, and the dress dropped to the ground.
Venus's chocolate dark skin had a light sheen of oil on it. Her body was muscular but on a small frame. Her breasts were firm and very large, oblong like papayas. Too taut to sway, they bobbed as she moved. They were assertive, fleshy arguments presenting themselves to anyone who might want to engage with them. Beneath these magnificent bosoms, her torso narrowed to a small waist, lightly muscled with a prominent navel displaying a lighter colored button of flesh just inside. Then her hips swelled out in prominent, rounded buttocks leading down into firm, muscular thighs and calves. Her body was made of the flowing curves of Africa, exaggerated just a bit but not too much so. A small, dense triangle of pubic hair covered her groin.
Simon resumed his slow circling of the two. The girl's dark body was a spell conjuring up his memories of many like her over the last few years, enchanting him into a siren world of dark, warm flesh. Then he reached over and gently hefted one of the girl's breasts. Venus gasped and then sighed, but it was clear she knew there was nothing she could do. Toby, watching with parted lips and increasingly heavy breath, gave a nearly inaudible moan.
"Toby, come feel of her bosoms," said the white man. "Will she do, do you think?" Toby started, seeming to come out of a trance, and took two steps forward. He grasped both breasts reverently as the white man relinquished them to him, and cupping them from below, gently weighed them.
"Yes, massa," he croaked, licking his lips. Simon could see that despite Toby's recent orgasm, his enormous organ had begun to strain against the front of the slave's trousers. The three held that pose for a few seconds, then Simon broke the spell.
"Very well. Venus, dress yourself." Toby stepped back, reluctantly, and the slave girl complied quickly. Going to the door, Simon knocked, which brought Bulstrode.
"I shall take the six Negroes I have examined, sir," he said.
Pleased with such a sale, Bulstrode grinned hugely and nodded, pumping Simon's hand in his iron grip. The slave dealer issued quick orders to the six to gather their few belongings together. Aphrodite and Pompey, Rose and Thorn, Venus and Toby stirred, bewilderment, fear, and hope in their faces and in the looks they exchanged with one another. Bulstrode led Simon Simmons down the hallway to his private office, where papers were drawn up and money exchanged. The deal was concluded with another handshake.
"Now, sir, you have a wagon, do you? Yes, very good, if you will prepare it for departure I will bring your servants out to you."
Stepping out into the late afternoon sun, Simon took a deep breath, shaking his head of the fog of passion and engrossment in which he had wandered ever since entering this place. He unhitched his horses and prepared them for departure. Out of the building, clutching pathetically small cloth parcels containing all their worldly possessions, stepped Simon's own new possessions, blinking in the sunlight. Simmons ordered them into the back of the wagon among the new provisions, except for Toby, whom he ordered to sit by him on the driver's bench, where there was just room for one. Fully loaded, the horses strained and pulled and the wagon began to move forward.
West into the setting sun they went, toward Mistletoe Farm, the wagon steady but creaking and sometimes swaying with its burden. The heat of the day was coming off the rough roads and as they moved the last insects and birds of the daytime world grew silent, to be replaced by the night travelers. Rustling in the undergrowth to either side of the path betrayed the movement of deer as the soon-to-be-rising moon called them out of their naps. And in the wagon itself, the wary and appraising glances of the enslaved Africans among themselves, the stares at the white man's back, the whispered negotiations and explanations among themselves, echoed the natural world's slow turn into night and the strategies of night's creatures.
to be continued..... comments welcome: lokiaga@prodigy.net