MISTLETOE FARM A cautionary tale
Chapter three: Rose and Thorn
Sunlight poured through the glass window into the African hut. The soft, deep, reedy voices of the natives could be heard outside as they went about their daily routines in the barn and kitchen. Simon Simmons swung his legs out of the four-poster bed and put his feet on the hard earthen floor of the hut, at the edge of the lion skin. Dark hands and limbs surrounded him, sliding over him, coaxing him back to the bed where he had rolled and lain with African flesh the whole night through. Then the grandfather clock downstairs chimed, and the hands dissolved, moving back into another world. Simon sat on the edge of his bed with his feet on the wood floor, alone, with a feeling of loss so strong it brought tears to his eyes.
Looking around, he oriented himself as well as he could to his bedroom in Mistletoe Farm, but it still seemed a little unreal, a little misty. Struggling to his feet, he staggered down the stairs and wandered into a strange room. But no, this was his dining room, and there was the son of the Chief preparing--but no, it was Toby. Wasn't it?
"Mornin' massa!" said the slim black youth, grinning broadly. "I spent the night through with Venus. We sure do get along," he said. Simon nodded and looked at him hard. Venus..... wasn't she the girl from the hut by the stream, with the ripe breasts? Silently, Simon walked up close to Toby, who set down the basket of bread he was holding and stood still, eyes downcast. Simon enfolded the black slave in his arms, burying his face in the short, thick skullcap of crisp hair, smelling the clean scent, nuzzling ears and nose and lips, seeing only dark skin and bright eyes. Outside, the cry of an elephant could be heard in the distance. "Massa," sighed Toby, and tentatively clasped his master around the hips. They stood still for a long moment, and then Simon seemed to awake with a start, and looked at the purple black eighteen year old as if for the first time that morning. He gently pushed away.
"Yes, Toby. You must save yourself for Venus, and perhaps, for here, later," said Simon, rubbing his eyes. Toby looked at him in concern.
"You feels well, massa? You alright?"
"Yes, Toby, I am," he replied. "Thank you for the breakfast." He sat down and bade Toby to do the same. As with their other meals, Simon kept staring at the slave, who by now knew simply to continue eating and not question his master's scrutiny. When they were finished, Simon went outside to the privy. Emerging, he walked toward the wash house, in the door of which were Toby and Pompey, talking. Pompey cast a quick glance at the approaching white man and whispered something, then both slaves nodded toward Simon. Toby left quickly to return to the main house, while Pompey remained by the door.
"Mornin' massa," he said, "we all got started on our work already. It's a fine mornin' massa."
Simon nodded thoughtfully, looking his slave up and down. He slowly reached out a hand and laid the palm and fingers flat against Pompey's shirt front, over the thick slab of chest muscle. He held it there for a few minutes, concentrating, feeling the heat of the flesh, then removed it and looked once more at the twenty year old's face. Neither spoke, until Pompey broke the silence.
"You alright this mornin', massa?"
"Yes, Pompey, I----I had trouble waking up."
The black man nodded reflectively. "Massa, why you reckon they call this place Mistletoe Farm?"
"I don't know, Pompey," Simon said. "No doubt there is mistletoe in the trees."
"Sure, that's right, they likely is," said Pompey. "Mistletoe, that's the herb you put up high and you sit under and hope somebody come kiss you, ain't it?"
"Yes, Pompey, it is. A pleasant practice."
"Yassuh. I done heard tell of this gal, she don' wanna do nothin' but sit under the mistletoe all day. Jes' dreamin' of somebody comin' to kiss her. Seems like she sort of got lost in her thoughts sittin' there. You think that could be true, massa?" And here Pompey raised up his eyes from their customary deferential look downward to gaze intently at the white man.
"A curious tale, Pompey," said Simon, his eyes now running over the black slave's broad shoulders and muscular chest. "Curious tale--no, I doubt that it is true." Simon shook himself. "Well, I must bathe. I will be out to supervise the work a little later." And with a nod he stepped into the wash house. Pompey remained on the stoop looking thoughtfully at the door for a moment, then went off to do his work.
Simmons emerged a few minutes later, blinking in the sunlight, now fully awake. Returning to the house he dressed for the day, then began strolling around the farm. He was pleasantly surprised that his servants had begun work for the day without instructions, each taking on their appointed tasks and more. The hen house had been quickly organised, the livestock were fed, watered, and seemed clean and content. The last of the plots for a late harvest of vegetables had been sown, and Toby and Venus could be seen moving through the orchard, assessing the progress of the fruit crops, picking what was ripe. With all morning bathing complete, Aphrodite and Rose were hard at work in the wash house scrubbing clothing and linens. Gradually their handiwork began to appear on lines or flung over fragrant bushes to dry in the morning sun. In the barn, Pompey and Thorn were hard at work organizing supplies, making them accessible yet as secure as possible from the ravages of weather and vermin. Simon was surprised, but pleased, to see that the slaves had devised their own systems of organization without being directed, both here and throughout the farm. They were making the work their own.
Seeing his master, Thorn turned and grinned broadly. "Mornin' massa! We gonna get us some cats to keep the rats out!" Simon smiled and nodded in return.
"Do that, Thorn," he said. "Perhaps we can have some from neighboring farms."
With work proceeding apace outside, Simon withdrew to work indoors. He had not really inspected his new house thoroughly, from root cellar to the hot, peaked-ceiling attic, since moving in but a couple of days ago. He now inspected everything thoroughly, and brought his own records and correspondence up to date. He could do nearly all his business through the weekly delivery of supplies from Roanoke, which would also carry mail back and forth for him. Indeed, he preferred it this way, to remain at Mistletoe Farm in his own kingdom and go into town as little as possible. As he worked he heard Toby enter and leave the house from time to time as the youth performed his duties as house servant, but since there was little to do inside yet, Simon was alone for most of the day.
In the late afternoon he rose from his work and walked out to survey the work being done outside. It seemed as if the farm were growing more orderly with every hour; the people were not only performing their chores with good will and energy, but with care and responsibility as well. One might have thought that Mistletoe Farm were, in some sense, theirs from the improvements large and small they were making to its lands and buildings. Nodding with satisfaction, calling out encouragement, Simmons strolled through his property.
Walking through the vegetable plots, now prepared, sown, and waiting for rain and sun to bring up late summer crops, Simmons reached the line of trees on the far edge of the fields. Curious, he stepped through them and found, as he had surmised, a well worn path running parallel to the trees. Turning to his right, he strolled but a few yards along before he heard soft voices and the sound of feet, and in another moment he saw Thorn carrying a burlap sack, in the company of a large, muscular black man whom he did not know.
Both slaves ducked their heads in quick bows upon seeing Simmons. Thorn stepped a little ahead. "Massa," he said, "this here is Titus, he from the White Springs farm down yonder," and he pointed down the path in the direction the two had come from. Titus bowed again, saying "Massa."
Simon nodded in acknowledgement. He gazed for a moment at the dark brown face, trying to place it--and he wondered whether he was the slave who was sitting and speaking with Pompey late the previous night. Simon decided it was not worth pursuing, and then turned to Thorn. "And what have you in the sack, Thorn?" he asked.
A wide grin split the deep caramel face. "Kittens, massa, three of 'em! Titus, he gave 'em to me, they has got more than they needs at White Springs!" He held up the sack, which was undulating a little.
Titus chuckled. "It's true, massa, y'all is welcome to them, we got lots of cats."
"Thank you, and thank your master for me," said Simon. "And you Titus, have I seen you on this path before? I think many of the servants of the neighboring farms take this route, do they not?" Titus nodded, mumbling a "yassuh." "So where are you headed to now, Titus?" asked the white man.
"I is taking a ham to Ol' Mist'ess Woodruff over at Owlcroft Farm, massa, from my massa Hampton. Mist'ess Woodruff, she shore is poorly these days." Titus hefted his own burlap sack with the unmistakable heavy lump of a smoked ham inside it.
Simon nodded. "I see, I see. Perhaps one day I shall meet more of my neighbors. Well, have a pleasant journey, Titus. Thorn, perhaps you should feed these kittens and introduce them to a new home in the barn."
Half an hour later, Simon emerged from the wash house having cleaned off the day's grime, and was passing Rose and Thorn's cottage when he heard the low but unmistakable sound of an "Ow!" from inside. He stepped onto the small porch and then opened the door without knocking. Sitting at the table was Thorn, his shirt sleeves rolled up, applying a small amount of some substance to his left hand. The fourteen year old started at the unexpected sight of his master.
"Thorn, did you cry out?" asked Simon, entering and shutting the door behind him. "What is the matter?"
"They kittens done scratched me comin' outta the bag, massa," he said. "'Dite, she give me some salve to put on it, it stings a mite," he said, holding up his left hand which sported three short scratches. They did not look serious. Simon walked around behind the boy's chair to examine his hand, then released it and patted the boy's shoulders.
"I think you'll live, Thorn," he said, idly running his hands along the boy's thin but muscular shoulders and the rounded curve of the biceps. "Yassuh," murmured Thorn in reply, then sat very still and quiet as his master's hands continued to glide, and then to knead, his shoulders. Simon's fingers slid down into the open collar of the boy's shirt, sliding over the smooth, hairless, deep caramel skin. Looking down at the very short covering of tight, black kinky hairs on the boy's scalp, Simon continued rubbing and kneading in a rhythm that seemed to take him away from that time and place.
The physical attention was beginning to have an effect on Thorn as his slim, long penis began to push out against the front of his trousers. It reminded him of an earlier promise. "Massa," he said in a low voice, "is I gonna be a breeder? You want me to breed, massa? Maybe that Venus gal?" he asked, full of hope.
By way of answer, Simon tugged on the boy's shirt, pulling it up over his head and arms, the young slave willingly complying. Pressing himself against the back of the chair, leaning forward over the seated boy, Simon rubbed the large nipples on the thin, muscular pads of the boy's chest. The slave moaned very softly, more of a whisper. "Stand up," ordered Simon.
The boy did so, and turned to face his master. Staring intently at the thin, muscular tube of the boy's torso, a deep, rich caramel color, Simon ordered the boy to turn around slowly, first this way and that. Like a puppeteer, he pulled the invisible strings of ownership to make this flesh move at his will. And then the white man, almost absentmindedly, began removing his own clothes. Thorn looked in confusion at this spectacle, then away, then back again, risking glances at his master's face to learn what it meant. Simon's shirt fell, then his trousers. "Remove those," Simon said to Thorn, nodding at the boy's own pants. Wordlessly the boy slave nodded and did so, dropping his undergarment as well, at the same time that Simon did likewise. Open-mouthed, the fourteen year old stared at the naked white man whose penis was quickly rising, fully engorged and turning redder with every passing instant. Thorn's own slim, boyish penis sprang instantly erect, curving up and away from his body above dangling balls.
In two steps Simon was on him, catching the boy up in an embrace. Thorn gasped and exclaimed "O!" He had dallied with other boys of his home plantation, and had heard of masters taking their pleasure with slaves, but this was his first physical contact with a white man. Both man and boy were lost in the experience of different skins and hair, standing tightly together, grinding their bodies into one another and hands sliding up and down and around backs and buttocks. Thorn's mouth, at chest level, licked and sucked his master's white skin and pink nipples. Their penises slapped and slid together, lubricating each other with precum.
Now breaking the embrace, Simon swept the boy's thin, naked body up in one swoop and carried him to the larger of the two beds in the room, laying him in the middle. Covering the boy's body with his own, his head over the slave's groin, Simon took the slim but iron hard penis into his mouth even as the boy, in wonder, accepted the red and purple white man's rod that was pressed down upon his own mouth. Man and boy, white and black, master and slave sucked and fondled, hips gently moving up and down to slide cocks into willing mouths.
A creak of the floorboards startled the two on the bed, and they both looked up, craning their heads around each other's bodies. There was Rose, having entered the cabin unobserved, her hand on a basket of freshly gathered field greens which she put on the table. She was staring with open-mouthed wonder at her brother and master engaged in passionate fellatio. Simon leapt from the bed, while Thorn covered his genitals ineffectually with his hands.
In two steps Simon was upon Rose, holding her in a passionate embrace by the shoulders, kissing her full lips. She gasped, still wide-eyed, her fingers splayed in the air, not knowing what to do. She was certainly not a virgin, the young girls of her home plantation having engaged in sexual play from an early age, but this kind of passion from a white master was new to her. "Strip," Simon said, taking a step back, and she willingly if warily complied in an instant, still unsure of what was to come. Her curved, muscular fourteen year old body was revealed, dark caramel skin stretched tight and oiled over small, full breasts and rounded buttocks and belly. Thorn gasped upon seeing his sister naked, although Simon had a good idea it was not for the first time.
Taking the slave girl's hand, Simon led her to the bed and moved her into place next to her brother, who quickly scooted over, his eyes all over his sister even as he continued to cover his own nakedness. Simon lowered himself on top of the girl, his slick, leaking penis now sliding up and down her rounded belly, his hands cupping the orange sized breasts, lips and teeth tasting of shoulders and nipples and arms. In an instant, Rose was responding in like fashion, her hands clutching at her white master's back and buttocks, heedless of her naked brother lying beside her.
Simon reached down to spread the girl's legs apart and then placed the slimy head of his rigid dick at the entrance to her vagina, moving it up and down for lubrication. He gave a gentle push and she cried out. More stimulation of her clitoris with his cockhead followed, and another attempt, which seemed to bring the girl pain as well. Her fourteen year old body was not ready yet, too caught up in passion to relax sufficiently. It was the reverse situation from yesterday's experience with Venus, in which Simon had to penetrate the older girl to make room for Toby's massive penis. That strategy suggested a similar plan for today. Sitting back on his haunches and moving to the end of the bed, Simon turned to Thorn.
"Thorn, you wish to be a breeder? Then show me your work now, with your sister."
"My--my sister, massa?"
"Yes, now," the white man ordered. Thorn looked to his sister, who smiled a little and nodded, caught up as she was in the passion of the moment. It confirmed what Simon had guessed, that the two had played their own little games before this. "Yassuh" breathed the slave boy, then turned over onto his sister. Eager, she reached down to grasp his rigid, curving rod and placed it in the entrance to her vagina. Lubricated by their white master's precum, Thorn's cock now easily slid into Rose's relaxing vagina. She cried out, but now in passion rather than discomfort.
With the eagerness of a fourteen year old, Thorn began pumping his penis in and out. The boy's and girl's straining feet touched Simon's knees as he sat directly behind Thorn to watch, enjoying the sight of the boy's rounded muscular bottom rising and falling, the muscles working in rounds as they clenched and pushed in rhythm. Rose pulled her brother's thin torso down onto her small breasts and rounded girl's belly and then wrapped her legs around him to anchor the iron rod that he now plied in and out, in and out. Thorn began an animal sound, a kind of keening noise, that grew stronger and wilder until the boy threw his head up from his sister's shoulder and bellowed, clenching, his pelvis slamming forward into the girl as his orgasm flooded her vagina with semen. Shuddering and then pumping, it took several seconds for the boy to drain himself into his sister's vagina. Finished, he slumped forward. But he was not to rest there, for Simon swatted his upturned bottom with a loud smack.
"Move over," he commanded the slave boy. With a gasp, Thorn pulled his still rigid cock out of his sister. Her vagina winked open now, a smear of the black boy's white semen clearly visible. Assuming a position again with his cockhead at Rose's vagina, Simon pushed tentatively, then glided in all the way on a road of the black boy's sperm.
Rose gasped and arched her back, pushing her small rounded breasts up into the muscled chest of the white man above and inside of her. Instinctively her hands reached up to grasp Simmons around his back, then around the small of his back, pulling him down into her. Her deep caramel body writhed and she began whispering "O! Massa, O! Massa" rhythmically. Simon's hands now squeezed her breasts, now grasped her slim but muscular shoulders, his mouth tasted her puffy nipples and then again her sweaty neck and then again her full, out- turning lips. Not fast but powerfully, the white man's hips began pistoning in and out of the black slave girl while she thrashed and moaned on the bed.
Alongside them, Thorn risked first one hand and then two on his master's bottom, squatting by the two heaving buttocks, kneading and pushing the firm white hills of the man's butt as he pounded his sister's cunt. A thin line of semen still hung from the tip of the slave boy's long, dark chocolate penis. Suddenly Rose cried out frantically and began shuddering, digging her nails into the small of Simon's back: her ecstasy was upon her. Simon's speed doubled, pistoning in and out with the speed of a fan, and then he too cried out and slammed forward, grinding his pelvis against the slave girl as he shot his own semen into her vagina to mix with her brother's. White man and black girl remained clutching, writhing, gasping for another moment as the slave boy squeezed his master's tight bottom. Then the master slumped down, exhausted, draining the last of his sperm into the moaning girl beneath him.
In a sense, Simon didn't really awake from his doze of repletion for the rest of the day. From then until the next morning, there was never a moment when he was not clutching dark caramel flesh to his own tanned white body. When Thorn rose to use the chamber pot, Simon held Rose between his legs, leaning her back against his chest, fondling her breasts as she held the pot for her brother. When Rose left the bed to prepare a simple meal for the three, Simon rolled on top of Thorn and explored his mouth with his own, tongue sliding over thick, rolled lips, gliding along teeth, dancing with the black boy's tongue. Reliving childhood memories of his friend and slave Brutus, Simon sucked the black boy's stiff young penis until it shot out another load of semen into his mouth, at the same time that Rose struggled to suck and swallow from his own man's cock. When at last he slept it was with a face buried in dark, tight curls and hands on a firm brown buttock, while at his back the half erect penis of a slave boy lay against his bottom. Outside, Simon Simmons's farm echoed to the cry of giraffe, lion, and peacock. There was a faint drumming in the distance. His dreams were of a world and a continent far away.