Once
Upon a Time in the South
A
Tawdry Tale of Incest and Miscegenation
By
Bardot
Copyright
2018
Twenty-year old Meshach Leone lay sprawled naked in the shallow waters at the edge of a wooded spring, a half-mile from a farm where he’d grown up. Leone was not the name he’d inherited from his father. Rather, it was the name imposed upon him by his master, Edward Leone. It was the name imposed upon all the Leone Farm’s black slaves, except those few that had been purchased as adults.
The young man was the very essence of health and vigor. Tall and muscular, alone among his contemporaries he had the thick shadow of a full beard and a hairy breast. These traits, along with his chiseled musculature, gave him the illusion of full manhood.
His pathway to adulthood had been rocky. He’d been orphaned in his mid-teens. The youngster had spent the past two decades wending his way thru the complex racial culture that he’d been born to, a culture designed to ensure his status as chattel, a footstool, and little else.
Meshach had one major asset. Nathan Leone, the eldest son of the Leone family, was a close friend and ally. Blacks and whites alike noted their unusual interracial bond curiously.
Today was Sunday. Master Edward, his wife Fiona, his sons Nathan and Henry, and his daughters Josephine and BethAnn were off attending a revival meeting eight miles distant. They’d been gone since early yesterday morn. They weren’t expected back until very late.
“Dey do this ‘bout ever’ six months,” Meshach noted to himself. “When Nate and Hank git back they’ll be full o’ de’ Holy Ghose ‘n I’ll have to lissen to scripchure fo’ ‘bout a week. Den ever’thang’ll git back to de way it was.”
Meshach spoke and thought in the language of the slave culture that nurtured him.
Mr. Sullivan, the Irish overseer, was in charge during the master’s absence. This morning Sullivan was sleeping off a liquor binge from the night before. Meshach didn’t reckon the man would be up until around noon. As a slave, Meshach couldn’t read or tell time. The angle of the sun told him that he had about four hours until noon.
His plan was to get back to the farm around eleven a.m. and start doing busy work such that Sullivan might inadvertently find him toiling when he finally awakened from his torpor. Sullivan might be so pleased with his diligence that he might allow Meshach an afternoon swim at the spring. Or so Meshach hoped.
Meshach was not alone this particular morning. Nineteen-year old Cora lay naked at his left side. Her gelatinous tits lolled against his well-defined biceps. Eighteen-year old Lizzie lay naked at his right. A third girl, twenty-two year old Zelma, twerked violently astride his penis. Her pussy juices bubbled frothily along the length of his shaft. Right now Zelma was in the throes of a tremulous orgasm. From below, Meshach watched her gasps of sexual passion and her heaving, floppy breasts with bemusement. She clawed her fingers, gripping his breast as if in an ague. She grinded her sensitive clitoris into his kinky pubic hair, mumbling epithets that surely would have seared eardrums at the Leone church revival meeting.
The other two girls looked on anxiously. Lizzie was next on tap. She’d already taken two turns, as had Cora. Zelma was just now completing her second mount atop Meshach’s towering penis. Meshach had yet to grace any of their vaginae with his semen.
Springwater lapped lazily against Zelma’s calves and ankles as she skittered down from her explosive orgasm. She was reluctant to release Meshach’s raging dick from its perch inside her vagina. She could feel him pulsing with virility even now. Maybe with just a little more effort she could squeeze jism from his nuts and have just that much more to lord over these other two youngsters when the female braggadocio commenced.
“Come on, Zelma, git up. It ain’t your turn no more,” wheedled Lizzie.
“I’m…. not…finished,” retorted Zelma breathlessly.
“Yes you is! You done had mo’ time up dere ‘den bof’-a us put together. It’s MY turn,” Lizzie huffed.
“Well….you just…hold your…horses for….a minute. I’ll be done….here…shortly.”
“NO, ZELMA!!! You just tryna make him jizz out so I cain’t gits my turn!! I know what you’se doin’!!”
“Yeah, Zelma,” Cora broke in. Cora was Lizzie’s putative stepsister. “You done had yo’ chance to bust his nuts ‘n you ain’t did it. Let somebody else git a chance’t”.
Zelma was older and more experienced than both these girls. She had a long, familiar sexual history with Meshach. She reckoned it was this familiarity that allowed him to restrain his steaming ejaculate this glorious Sunday morning. DANG!!! If she’d just had two more minutes she was sure she could’a got him.
Somewhat unwillingly, Zelma arched her ass off of Meshach’s cock. That massive appendage wobbled a bit before coming back to full attention, sixty degrees angled vìs a vìs his chiseled abdomen. Zelma rolled to her left and took up Lizzie’s position at Meshach’s right side.
Lizzie stood and stepped across his body. She was eager to mount him for her third go. Meshach drew his knees up in declination, though. He stood and ordered Lizzie to her knees.
“Doggie style!! YES!!!!!!” She was not unpleased.
Lizzie knelt, rested her head on her forearms and hoisted with her ass aloft. Meshach loomed behind her. She closed her eyes in anticipation.
Presently, she felt his cock sniffing wistfully at her sphincter. She roiled her ass enticingly so that Meshach’s penis, awash in the pussy juices of three women, could get a good whiff. His cock leapt frantically at the taste of her southern aroma.
Meshach pressed forward a little. She opened a little to receive him. Meshach pressed forward again, widening her ass little by little until Lizzie’s sphincter closed tightly about his pudenda with a small pop.
Moreso than her contemporaries, Lizzie liked having a good dick in her ass. When the girls got to gabbing, usually the dick that quivered the pussy got the best reviews. Lizzie’s pussy was hot enough; she liked getting righteously fucked. But she liked it, too, when a good dick cruised up her poop chute. Lizzie never declined either option, one might note, whenever a stiff dick presented.
Lizzie liked THIS manchild—Meshach. She knew that both Cora and Zelma liked Meshach, too. He was a mighty fine catch. She was the youngest of the trio, so she had that going for her. She needed to have something to differentiate her from the pack. She thought that maybe her anal capacities might pique Meshach’s fancy.
Now, as he probed deeper and deeper into her rectum, she could feel his breath quicken in a manner that their earlier couplings had not. Her ass was drier than her pussy, more muscular, and infinitely less well traveled. Right now she knew that Meshach was feeling the agony of her sandpaper rectum scraping up and down the length of his shaft. She also knew that this acute dichotomy would encourage him cum quickly. His jism would lubricate her anal chasm, which would surely lead to another erection. From there Lizzie figured she could dictate the follow-up.
Maybe Cora and Zelma would get bored and leave. It was worth a try anyway. Both women had expressed their indifference to poop chute fucking.
There! He was coming!! She could feel his jism pouring forth in voluminous waves, bathing her crack in lubricant and seed.
She accepted the first few spurts of jism, then locked her sphincter tight about the base of his massive cock, thus blocking the remainder of his issue. She could get the rest of this load on the second go.
Lizzie sneaked a peek over at her competition. Meshach’s groans and his animated thrusting advised these onlookers of his current incapacity. Both girls had that “Dammit. She did it” look on their faces. Lizzie smiled inwardly.
Neither girl could see Lizzie’s internal anal finagling, though. By blocking his seminal flow and holding him imprisoned in her ass during his climactic phase, Lizzie succeeded in dampening his ardor. Meshach skittered from orgasm back down to plateau—with a half load of semen still on tap.
Technically, it was Cora’s turn now. Lizzie calculated that Meshach was sure to veto that transition. His hot jism lubricated and accentuated the pleasure of Lizzie’s rectum for him. He’d reckon he’d have another go at her. And then…. maybe another? All Cora and Zelma could do was pout.
At least, that’s how Lizzie figured it.
These same four friends fucked in this manner at every opportunity and had been doing so for more than a year. The three women were ostensibly good friends—co-workers, as it were. Lizzie and Cora were ‘sisters’, that is, they lived under the same roof with the same parents, but weren’t really blood related. Lizzie was adopted.
These little one-on-three sessions supplanted the surreptitious individual barn loft trysts that left each woman suspicious and unsated.
However, as with most plural sexual relationships, these sessions more and more became about competition. Whose pussy was better? Who could make Meshach moan the longest? Who got to go first? Who got to go last? The winner would get the guy. The two losers would reject the winner as a slattern and a whore. Their friendship with her would cease. The ultimate winner was sure to become the target of the losers’ gossip.
Did the winner care? Probably not.
Meanwhile, Meshach would be awash in pussy. Until, of course, he chose a wife. Then things would change.
At the age of twenty, Meshach was already deep into the breeding age for a slave. He would produce the economic assets (read: babies) that Master Edward would leverage into net worth. Meshach would bear and raise the children. Master Edward would benefit from their labor (and their sex when they came of age, if the children were female). Edward would determine their ultimate fates.
In fact, Meshach already had a child, a male named Blue, with a yaller girl over at the Jenkins farm. Blue was already two years old. Meshach rarely saw his son. Master Jenkins owned the child. Blue’s conception had been accidental. Meshach didn’t really know Blue’s mother; there’d been no formal courtship. Jenkins had brought her over to the Leone farm one day and hadn’t looked after her properly. She’d seen Meshach, flirted, and one thing led to another. Young Blue had only seen his biological father once and that only in passing.
Neither Master Jenkins nor Master Leone discouraged their slaves from such promiscuity. Slave pregnancies added to the bottom line. The fathers were largely inconsequential. Broken, single parent slave families only accentuated the total control these white masters had invested in their human property.
None of these ‘peculiar cultural institutions’ were on the minds of this morning’s sexual contestants. As we (you the reader and we, the authors) were pontificating about the social mores of the day, Meshach moved on from Lizzie, much to her chagrin. Presently, he was mounted over Cora in the missionary position. Her ankles rested on his shoulders. Her wide ass spread and ebbed like a pair of beach balls as Meshach thrust violently into her. She growled, cursing incomprehensibly as his massive dick plumbed her depths. Too, Zelma sucked his balls from behind. Her nose was pressed against his sphincter. Intermittently, she tongued his ass.
Now Zelma hoisted her ass in the air as a signal for Lizzie to join the fray. Lizzie declined. She’d licked Zelma’s ass one or two times before and found the experience to be underwhelming.
Lizzie was a little piqued at this turn of events. She could see that her calculated attempt at cornering the market on Meshach’s dick had failed this day.
Now she was back in line, awaiting her turn.
Aisleen Stenstrom and her two older sisters, Isabel and June, stood before a crowd of about five hundred parishioners on the shoreline of a large lake. All three girls wore white frocks with red sashes. The simple dresses buttoned up to the neck and trailed down to their ankles. These three girls represented the essence of Caucasian purity in those prudish Louisiana backwoods communities.
Pastor Goins, the lead Christian minister at this revival, had invited them up to his ramshackle stage to lead the crowd in a rousing rendition of “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know”.
For several hours prior to this hymnal, Goins regaled the crowd with a bombastic, fire-and-brimstone sermon redolent of sin, redemption and hellfire, coincident with a few inaccurately cited scriptures to bolster his scattershot arguments. When he faltered or flagged due to the tropical heat, he summoned his band (consisting of a bass drum, a trumpet and a tambourine) to break in and continue the delirium.
Scores of white Christians got the Holy Ghost that day, romping about in an orgy of religious fervor. Aisleen and both of her sisters were among this group of devotees. They rocked up and down on their toes while hugging themselves spastically, speaking in tongues, mumbling incoherently, and flailing about in the throes of the spirit.
Pastor Goins never failed to point out these faithful acolytes. “These would be the first of the saints to go marching in,” he intoned solemnly.
Having pressed his crowd to the very brink of frenzy, now he turned the crowd’s attention to the Stenstrom girls and their hymn. The girls sang joyfully as the last gleanings of the spirit drifted overhead.
At last Pastor Goins would make a call for redemption, in which repentant sinners stepped up to the stage and accepted Jesus into their hearts. After this, the baptism—performed right here in this holy, sanctified lake, a lake consecrated for these chosen vessels of God, right here, right now.
A huge line of sinners stepped forward to receive this blessing. The revival meeting, never too organized, devolved chaotically as Pastor Goins’ assistants took confession and then directed repentant ones to Goins for absolution. Only Goins performed the baptisms. Despite his numerous assistants, he reserved this privilege unto himself.
At the conclusion of the hymn, eighteen-year old Aisleen Stenstrom excused herself. She had to go to the bathroom, she said. Her sisters and parents were so overtaken with the spirit that they barely noticed her absence. They jostled to line up for the formal (and final) benedictions, wholly convinced that they’d reserved seats for themselves at the bridegroom’s table in heaven.
Aisleen wandered away from the crowd with a beatific look on her face.
“Aisleen!! Child, you’re looking beautiful!! May the Lord bless and watch over you!!”
“Thank you, Brother Mullins!!! And may the Lord be with YOU and yours!!”
“Aisleen!! That was an inspiring rendition of a classic hymn!! Oh, and it so reminded me of your sainted grandmother!!! I know you miss her so!!”
“Certainly, Sister Binzer, I do miss her. And thank YOU for the kind words. The Lord be with you!!”
Every few steps Aisleen would stop to conduct inane non-conversations such as these. In that day and age, everyone knew everyone else by first and last name. The content of their conversations mattered less than the polite commitment to home and hearth.
Of course, there were no port-a-potties in which the young girl might relieve herself. Indoor toilets didn’t exist. She had to find a secluded spot on the shore of the lake in order to “make water”, as the euphemism went.
This was more difficult than one might imagine. Five hundred other people had the same biological imperative. It was tough to find a secluded spot that hadn’t already been sullied or wasn’t presently occupied. It didn’t occur to any of these simple folk that they were evacuating their waste into the same lake consecrated for their impending baptisms.
Aisleen tiptoed into the woods, making a show of peeking into little gullies, streams and tributaries. She knew there were eyes at her back. She wandered further and further into the woods. She would step behind a large tree trunk, then peek back to see if anyone was watching. Ultimately, she’d always decide to go just a wee bit deeper into the woods.
As more and more trees obstructed her egress from the revival camp, her movements became less furtive. A few steps more and she abandoned stealth altogether. She fled east for another hundred yards, then headed north. She didn’t have much time.
In another three hundred yards she arrived at her destination—a little used hunting cabin.
Nathan Leone stepped from this cabin to greet her.
“Come on,” she mumbled urgently, taking him by the hand. “We ain’t got much time.”
With one last clandestine look back over her shoulder, she snatched Nathan inside. She kissed him fervently while fumbling at his belt. Nathan returned her kisses with comparable ardor. He hiked her white frock up around her hips. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. Her chestnut brown thatch of silky pubic hair bristled alluringly before him.
Nathan’s fat purple cock bloomed forth. Aisleen beheld it gratefully. It had been so long…. SO long!!
She arched up on her toes and guided his dick into her pussy. Both of these fine, young Christians climaxed immediately, groaning forth their passion with strident, heated moans as Nathan’s dick probed deeper into her slippery twat. Aisleen held her dress up daintily so Nathan’s ejaculate wouldn’t stain. She pressed her cunt into him, suckling for his jism.
They held each other for a few minutes like this as the first orgasmic wave passed.
“Oh! That was so good!!” she crooned.
Nathan said nothing. His knees were weak from these many months absent from his beloved. To have his dick inside her, finally this day, was the answer to his prayer.
Pressed for time (after all, how long does it take to pee in the woods?), Aisleen eased up off of his softening cock. She knelt before him. Instantly, her nostrils were assaulted with the piquant aroma of Nathan’s sexual history. The scent of each of the fragrant clefts he’d plumbed sweltered forth in a pungent mélange of exotica.
“This dick stinks of nigger pussy,” she surmised.
“So what?” she consoled herself. “What decent white man’s dick DOESN’T stink of nigger pussy? At least I got me a man.”
She took his semi-flaccid cock into her mouth, semen and all. Her boldness delighted him. He’d been wondering how he was going to inveigle her into a second go. Turns out that she’d wanted it more than he.
She sucked him hard in no time. Now she stood and scooped her dress up around her breasts.
“Put it back in, Nate. Hurry!!” she pleaded.
She turned to offer her ass to him from behind. Nathan could see her furry patch bulge from between the crack in her ass. He stepped up and introduced his re-energized cock into her steaming cleft. Their genitalia merged perfectly, sharp, as a sword into a scabbard. Young Nathan eased inside her, then began to hump her with enthusiasm. She matched him thrust for thrust, expertly milking him for his seed. They assailed each other.
Aisleen was the first to come. Her sweat poured in torrents, such was the fury of her passion. She bucked and swayed. She shook her hair about with reckless abandon in the grip of her sexual extremis.
Nate splattered his semen into her seconds later. With that he, too, went quite mad from the electric impulses sparking from his nuts and the blinding lights careening across his dome.
Aisleen clenched at his cock. It had been four months since she’d felt the sticky hot essence of a man oozing languidly from her pussy. It’d be six more months before she could sneak away like this—for ten minutes of bliss.
“I don’t think I can take another six months,” she offered silently. “Not six more….”
They held each other tightly, treasuring their limited time together. Aisleen scrunched her white dress up around her bosom with her elbows.
“It’s better to get it sweaty than to get it all gunked up with cum,” she thought.
As she came back to herself, she could feel his thick jism crawling down her thighs. That wouldn’t do. She had to get back. Someone would smell it.
“Nate, hand me that rag over there.”
There was a skuzzy piece of cloth lying in a corner. There was no telling whose cum had been scrubbed off with the thing, or whose blood had been sopped up, or whose ass had been wiped.
The fornicating couple didn’t wish to disengage their genitals, so they scooched over to the rag in tandem. Nate knelt and handed the rag to her. Aisleen lifted her legs, by turns, and wiped away his syrupy cum. She didn’t wipe her pussy with it. The rag was too nasty.
She turned her head about to kiss him. As their kiss lengthened, Nate’s penis wavered. In twisting her body around to kiss him, Aisleen ratcheted up the torque in her pussy. She’d spiraled his cock up like a rat-tail inside her. It was a little painful. Unintentionally, she squeezed him loose from her vibrant pink tunnel.
Aisleen let her dress drape to the ground. She turned to face him. She went to kiss him again, but instantly realized that his dick was still dripping with cum. If she kissed him, he would certainly soil her dress. They were out of time. She knelt to pull up his pants, then buckled them. Now she embraced him, slipping him more and more of her tongue.
Amazingly, Nate’s nature began to rise yet again.
“Oh no you don’t!! I gotta get back!!!” she chastened happily.
Nathan started to object. Then he remembered that he’d used the “I gotta go pee” excuse to get away, too. Certainly some member of his family was out looking for him by now.
“It don’t
take this long for him to pee.”
He kissed her quickly.
“Hey, Ice? Go out this other door and come out from behind the house, like you’d been back there all along,” he suggested.
She saw the wisdom in this suggestion. Anybody outside eyeing the little cabin would see nothing wrong with a woman making her way from behind a cabin. Whereas, any onlooker might wonder what she’d been doing inside someone else’s cabin.
She started to leave by that portal, but then ran back to kiss her boyfriend one last time. She loved him.
Aisleen picked her way back to the revival encampment. The baptismal line had shortened significantly, though all the parishioners were still present, milling about, socializing. It didn’t appear that she’d been missed; her sisters awaited her patiently. Neither of them noticed the sweaty aroma wafting from her armpits or the dick smell percolating beneath her frock. Aisleen accosted them with the exasperation of a girl who’d had the devil’s own time finding a private place to pee.
When her time came, Aisleen stepped into the lake and accepted her baptism.
As she emerged from the sacred waters, her breasts and her darkened mound of chocolate pubic hair protruded forth in stark contrast to her clingy, waterlogged white raiment.
She was not the only female proselyte with this issue.
Pastor Goins looked on approvingly.
The Leone family didn’t arrive home from the revival until well past sundown on Sunday. Their bi-annual religious bacchanalia offered a unique opportunity to refresh friendships with distant neighbors, to gossip, to trade, to flirt. Only the annual Harvest Dance approached it for sociability.
Morty, one of the Leone black slaves, reined the carriage horses in. He stepped down from the carriage to assist the whites. He helped the women first—Missus Fiona, then Josephine, then BethAnn. Morty covered his hand with a towel to keep from having skin-to-skin contact with the white women. This courtesy was unnecessary with the men. Nathan Leone, 21, jumped down without any assistance, as did his 18-year-old brother Hank. Master Edward Leone’s patrician bearing required that he step down last. He took Morty’s proffered elbow for support.
Morty gathered the family baggage from the back of the carriage. An older slave called Uncle Pete then unhitched the carriage and walked the horses off into the barn, grumbling as he went. “Uncle” was his real first name.
The Leone’s were tired and gritty from their trip. The girls trundled off into their bedroom, untying boots and bustiers as they went. Mother Fiona did the same, though first she ordered up a hot washtub and a chamber pot from Zelma, her young house servant. Nate and Hank climbed excitedly into their loft bedroom.
Both sets of Leone siblings had tales to tell, tales that it were smarter the Leone parents weren’t privy.
Josephine, the 22-year-old, slammed her door shut. She turned to her younger sister.
“Did you do it to him?” she whispered conspiratorially.
“YES!!!!!” BethAnn blurted. “How about you?”
“YES!!!!” Josephine shrieked. “OMYGAWD YES!!!!”
With that the two young Leone girls began to regale each other with the details of their sexual exploits over the past weekend.
Josephine noted how she’d sneaked into the barn as her boyfriend Robert McNulty was accepting tithes and offerings. The young man was seated behind one of those dual-hinged barn doors with the top half open and the bottom half closed. Apparently (according to Josephine), she’d scooched in under the closed portion and serviced her man while he continued to process monies up top. She howled with laughter when describing young Robert’s inability to maintain puritan composure as his cum shrieked into her throat. She bragged about her agility when she’d bent over double, grabbed her ankles and fucked him, unseen, while scores of their neighbors stepped up to the window with their money. Her comments about his herculean efforts to hold level conversations as his dick heaved and lunged inside her were outrageously funny.
“…. And Brother Sanders says, he says: ‘What’s ailing you, boy? It ‘pears you got some sort of a tic!!’ And Bobby’s eyes was rollin’ in his head!! And so he goes: ‘Brother…. Sanders…..I…ain’t been….muhself…..lately. I……THANK you….for…your…….concern.’ Oh, Beth!!! I like to died laughin’ right there!!!”
“You BAD thing!!!” chided BethAnn.
“Chile, that ain’t the worst!! Oh no!! SISTER GREEN come up!!!!”
“NOOO!!!!!!”
“YES!!! She’s standing there in the window, you know, and I couldn’t see her because I was down low, doubled up, but she couldn’t see me neither. So she’s a-standin’ there and not saying anything. But she’s sniffing her nose, you know, that way she does.”
“OMYGAWD!!!!”
“YES!! She’s a-sniffing her nose and she goes, she goes: ‘What’s that smell?’ Bobby like to fainted!! Bethy, she was a-smellin’ my cooch!!! It was two feet under her nose and fulla Bobby’s dick!!!”
“OMYGAWD!!!!”
“YES!!! And I ain’t know it was her until she said something. And Bobby, he just a-tremblin’, all ready to bust his nuts, but he’s gotta hold back because Sister Green ain’t no fool. If she’d a-snatched that door open she’d a-seen whar the smell was comin’ from!!! And Bobby’s blinkin’ and stammerin’ and sweatin’. I give him a little double-tap, you know, to remind him what a good pussy feels like and also for him to keep his mouth shut. And I looked up at him and smiled. Oh, Beth!! It was SO funny!!!”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, nuthin’. She took another couple of whiffs. Then she give him her tithes and she left. Soon’s she turned away, Bobby shot into me. Oh, Beth!! I kept that jizz up in me the whole weekend!! It’s tricklin’ down my legs yet!!”
That was a hard story to top. BethAnn gave it her best effort. She started off by reminding her sister of her boyfriend Daniel’s peccadilloes: He wasn’t lickin’ any pussy. He wasn’t gittin’ any shit on his dick. He wasn’t taking any risks on gittin’ caught. He wasn’t bustin’ nut anywhere but in a pussy.
“How do you stand him?” Josephine inquired drolly.
“He’s a good boy,” Beth countered. “He loves his momma. He goes to church. You git one like that and you got him for life.”
“Yes. But my original question still stands.”
“Oh hush!!”
“OK. So what happened?”
“I waited till I see him go off into the woods to pee. Then I followed him out there and we did it behind a tree.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.” BethAnn was a bit embarrassed that her big story didn’t amount to her sister’s tale.
“How long did it take?”
“Oh, it didn’t take long.”
“HOW LONG DID IT TAKE.”
“A minute.”
“HOW long?”
“Less than a minute.”
“I knew it.”
“Oh, Joey!! He cain’t seem to keep it hard once’t he gits it up in there!!!”
“And then you went off and scratched your itch, right?”
“Yeah.” BethAnn admitted with some embarrassment.
“Beth, you don’t wanna spend the rest of your life doin’ that! I know he’s a nice boy and all, but think about it!!! If you marry him he’ll move you over to his place. You won’t have Meshach or Duck around to scratch your itch on the sly. Them two know how to keep they mouths shut and the dick is good. You might git some blue-gum, blabbermouth nigger for a itch-scratcher. And then who knows what could happen? No, ma’am. You gots to consider somebody else.”
BethAnn pondered this advice for a few moments. Josephine was right, but maybe for the wrong reasons. She decided to pivot.
“Speaking of Meshach, I was thinkin’ about givin’ him a shout all the way home, Jo, you know, on the sly. You reckon he’s up?” said BethAnn.
“He’s up. He’s probably off in the barn with Lizzie or Cora or god knows which nigger bitch.”
“I need a scratchin’.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna git it tonight, that’s for sure. I’ll pull him aside in the mornin’ and have him sneak in here late tomorrah night. ‘N he can do us both, like we did that other time.”
“You ain’t afraid of daddy catching him up in here?”
“Not if you can keep your moanin’ and groanin’ to yourself, I’m not. And if daddy busts in on us we can always say he sneaked in and forced us.”
Beth ignored this time-honored truism.
“I need a scratchin’, Jo. I’m not kidding. This one minute thing ain’t workin’.”
“I know, I know. Just hold your horses a bit. OK?”
Up in the small bedroom loft a similar conversation ensued. Neither the female nor the male Leone siblings could broach personal subjects on the long carriage trip home—not with their parents aboard, anyway. The long conversation home had consisted of praise for the fine spiritual services they’d participated in and appreciation for the pastor’s application of arcane points of Scripture. Mostly it consisted of gossip:
“Didn’t Brother Mullins look good? He’s slimmed down some. And did you see Sister Browner’s new store bought dress? There’s tell she had it brought all the way from Nashville! And that mullethead Johnny Bank claims he saw a congressman once’t, and shook his hand. He’s about the biggest liar out there. And did you see the funny look on Sister Green’s face when she come up? I wonder what that was all about?”
Now alone in their bedroom loft, the Leone brothers got down to brass tacks.
Hank said: “You did it to her, didn’t you.”
“I told you I was going to,” Nate replied.
“At the cabin?”
“Yep.”
“You wasn’t afraid someone might not come up and catch’d you in there?”
“No one goes up there. It’s too far out.”
“Lotta people skulking around in the woods out there. I seen Jenkins sneak off with Sally Bartlett. He knows about the cabin.”
“Yeh, Jenkins knows about the cabin. But he just wants to git blowed. He can do that behind any bush. Hell, he coulda got Sally to blowed him right there in the camp and nobody would a-knowed.”
Hank pondered his next statement.
“I seen BethAnn sneak off with that durn Danny Mullins, too.”
“Hmmmph. She better not marry him. He’s gon’ be fat, like his Pa.”
Hank thought that his older brother might have a more visceral reaction to this news. The Mullins boy had plugged their sister!! Nate’s non-reply indicated that Beth’s little soiree was out of the Leone brothers’ purview.
“I’m gon’ whip Danny Mullins’ ass soon’s I git the chance,” Hank muttered.
“You HAD the chance to whip his ass that time over t’ the Harvest Dance. And you ain’t did it.”
“He had his three brothers with him!!”
“So? And you had me. I kept wishin’ you’d take a poke at him. He’s got a lotta mouth to be such a momma’s boy.”
“You think Beth will marry him?”
“If she does, she’d better learn how to cook!”
Both boys laughed at this witticism/insult.
Their conversation began to flag. It was late. They were tired.
Finally Hank asked, “You think you’ll marry the Stenstrom girl?”
“Her name is Aisleen.”
“You think you’ll marry AISLEEN.”
“I might. I just might.”
Master Edward stood by and supervised Morty as he struggled to haul the Leone luggage into the big house. Edward offered no help. Morty made four trips back and forth between the carriage drop-off and the Leone anteroom. As with most women, the Leone girls had over-packed for a weekend trip.
Now, as the small black man was taking his leave, Master Edward stopped him.
“Er, Morty? You reckon Lize is awake?”
Lize was Morty’s wife. Morty immediately recognized where this conversation was headed.
“Suh, I don’t rightly know. I’se been gon’ these past few days wif y’all.”
“Well, uh, Morty? Why don’t you let me go down there and see if she’s still up? Then I’ll come back and git you. And then you’ll know.”
“Suh, you ain’t gots to do dat fuh me!! I ‘uz gwine down dere anyway. N’ it don’t matter to me if she’s up or not. I’se jist gon’ crawl in de bed n’ go scraight t’ sleep. I’se right tired, I is.”
“O pshaw, Uncle!! Let me do this one thing for you. Don’t I always treat you right? Didn’t I give you my peach yesterday? Didn’t I give you some of my leftovers at dinner? No, I think this is best. You wait here. Keep a watch out. I’ll go check on her.”
Morty quelled his anxiety. This was an unwinnable argument.
Edward Leone was a large man, well-over six feet tall and approaching three hundred pounds. He carried his weight well. He had broad shoulders and a flat abdomen. His fists were like meat hammers. His biceps bulged awkwardly for a man of his age. His face was florid—ruddy. He had a gnarled, pugilistic nose and a low forehead. One might take him for an alcoholic upon first meeting, yet the man rarely drank. He was an intimidating man in both word and deed. His condescending tone with Morty may as well had said, “Nigger, wait here like I told you. I’ll be back.” for all intents and purposes. The effect was the same. Edward moved and behaved like a man who was used to having his orders obeyed.
His wife, Fiona, was his exact opposite. She was shy—mousy, even. She was petite. She had severe lips. Crows feet graced the corners of her eyes. At a modest 5’6”, she looked like a child standing next to her husband. And though she was in her early fifties, her hair retained its youthful hazeline blonde. Her husband was prematurely grey.
Let not this mousy mien fool the unwary, however. There was steel in Fiona Leone. Fires smoldered in her deep blue eyes. She was the backbone of this family.
And she knew it.
She knew of Josephine’s escapades with her boyfriend Robert this past Saturday. She knew of BethAnn’s soiree with Danny Mullins. She knew that her son Nate had arranged to meet the Stenstrom girl out in the woods somewhere. Most startlingly, she also knew that the young slaves Meshach and Duck spent certain late nights in the bedroom next to her own, with her daughters, only to abscond before the coming of the sun.
Too, she knew that this night her husband would be coming in late. And she knew it well before Morty heard the actual order.
Master Edward’s silhouette loomed largely in Morty’s unlocked doorway. A single candle lit the decrepit little slave shack. Lize, then in her late thirties, was awake in her bed. Edward knew this before he’d played his earlier charade with her husband.
Seeing his huge form limned against the darkness, Lize quailed. The dim candlelight revealed the man’s lascivious intent. He stood in her doorway, saying nothing. A master at intimidation, he allowed a pregnant pause to metastasize into an uncomfortable interlude at her expense.
Dutifully, Lize swung her feet over the edge of her bed. Wearing nothing but a scraggly cotton nightshirt, she stood to face him. She knew why he was there.
She silently reached up to pull her nightshirt over her shoulders. The garment slipped to the floor. Now the woman stood naked before her owner. She did her best to hold his gaze.
Lize was typical of southern Negro slaves of her age and disposition. Once a fresh-faced, bubbly girl with a bright smile, skinny legs and a short, curly Afro, now she wore her hair in kinky plaits covered by a dilapidated handkerchief. She had the broad nose and thick lips typical of her race. She’d had one child, Chauncey, thirteen years back. Today this child was an invalid due to a savage attack by the man at her door.
Naked, now, before that same man, she drew a deep breath of resignation. The stretch marks from her pregnancy were still evident. Her nipples were no longer upturned and perky; they sagged, pointing to the floor. She had bandy legs and ashy feet. She’d led a hard life. Only her husband could look at her and recall the sensual beauty of her youth, her bright eyes, her winsome smile.
This man before her was not her husband.
Massuh Edward squinted. He reached up and tousled his hair with an air of “let’s git this over with”, as if Lize had initiated this illicit rendezvous and he was only there out of consideration for her needs. Edward stepped into the room. He unbuckled his belt, expecting Lize to know the next step.
She did.
She stepped to him, tugged his pants open and released his penis from its restraints. She took another deep breath, then knelt and took his fat penis into her mouth.
As the deep odor of his genitals arose into her nostrils, Lize visualized the dizzying panorama of her life. She cooked for this man—and his wife. She served his breakfast—and his wife’s. She washed shit stains out of his underwear with her hands. She cleaned his home. She fed his ducks. She killed, gutted, plucked and fried his chickens. She tended his garden. She cut his hair. She shaved him. She suckled his children.
And, on occasions such as this, she sucked his dick.
Lize sucked Edward’s thickened cock competently but dispassionately. These visits were neither rare nor unusual.
He hadn’t bothered to close the door. Any of her neighbors could have seen her bobbing up and down on his knob in passing. She didn’t let that worry her. Many of her neighbors in the slave quarters accepted these same carnal late night visits from ‘de massuh’.
Master Edward closed his eyes as he drifted into bliss. Lize’ oral ministrations were heavenly. Edward imagined she was one of the many unobtainable white women in his universe. Sister Green. Missus Goins. Brenda Harkness. Yes! Brenda Harkness.
“Suck it,
you bitch. Yeah. Suck it like THAT.”
He thrust his rotund cock into Sister Harkness’ mouth. He imagined that her husband, that simpering sop, was standing there, watching.
“Unghh!! SUCK IT.
SUCK IT!!!”
Lize retained her dispassionate pace. Reflexively, though, her nature began to rise. She felt her vulva moisten.
Now Master Edward began to hump her throat vulgarly in his agony for release. Lize adjusted to match his thrusts.
“Brenda. BRENDA!!
Lick!! Oh SUCK!!”
Lize knew he was close. He must be thinking about that Harkness woman again, she surmised. (Brenda Harkness was the alluring redhead from over in Franklin Parish. She was Boney Harkness’ wife. She had a passel of children, including her latest son—Buck.)
Edward’s hot jism broiled forth into Lize’s mouth. She swallowed it all without bothering to taste.
Now the massuh stood over her, disheveled and breathless. Lize rested her hands on her thighs as she nursed the last remnants of jizz from his receding penis. She gazed up at him with expectant, luminous eyes.
When Edward came to himself he shoved the black woman away brusquely. He pulled his penis back into his pants and buckled them. Then he strode from the little cabin, again without closing the door.
Lize stood and donned her scraggly nightshirt. In a moment, her husband would be home. When he got there, she was going to fuck him. She was going to fuck him silly.
Tomorrow morning, she was going to get up early and fix de massuh’s breakfast.
“SHADRACH MESHACH ABEDNEGGER!!!” Nate shouted.
This was Nathan Leone’s pet name for his black slave Meshach. Somehow he’d come across the names of three Jews from an Old Testament Sunday school story. Yes, Meshach was named after one of the men. Nate came away with the inference that Meshach was the middle name of a single person with a Jewish first, middle and last name. Nate bastardized “Abednego” into “Abednegger”. He didn’t mean any harm by it. Racial slurs were the common parlance of Southern whites of the day.
Over time Nate really came to believe that Meshach’s first name was Shadrach.
Meshach never corrected him. He didn’t know any better. Meshach couldn’t read. The biblical story was gibberish to him, exceptin’ as to how it was related to him by a white person. He was unaware of his namesake in that sacred tome.
“NATHAN THOMAS LEONE!!!” Meshach offered by way of friendly reply.
He was only a year younger than the young white master. They’d grown up together. Meshach considered the white man to be one of his closest friends. They worked, fished and hunted together. Nathan even allowed Meshach to shoot a rifle once or twice, a sin unfathomable in that region.
“Shaddy, we’re almost done for the day.” Nathan offered. “What say you and me sneak out and do a little fishin’? You can keep what you catch.”
It was true. They’d put in a long hot day in the fields. Soon the workday would wrap up. The slaves would be counted and marched back to their quarters.
“Mistuh Sullivan ain’t gon’ let me out like dat. You know dat, Marse Nate. If I miss de count, I’ll git in trouble,” Meshach replied.
“You just leave ole Sully up to me. You BELONG to me. He only WORKS for me!!”
Nate galloped over to where Sullivan and Edward Leone were supervising a group of older black men. He spoke with the Irishman for a moment or two. Sullivan handed Nathan something, then the young man came galloping back.
“Here. Put this on.”
It was a neck collar and a leash. Meshach snapped the collar into place dutifully. Nathan took the leash and cantered away, leading Meshach along like a dog. Blacks weren’t allowed to ride horses.
The two young men gamboled down the path to the spring. When the forest brush covered their egress, Nate jumped down and, using a key, unsnapped Meshach’s collar. He handed the horse to the young black man, who then guided the animal down to the spring.
After tying off the horse, the two men meandered over to a bait mound they’d constructed previously and dug up some earthworms. They picked up their poles and hooks (again, left behind deliberately at this spring. Those were simpler days) and wandered over to the mossy bank that afforded the best fishing.
A huge water snake slithered into the water at their feet. It had a live, struggling bullfrog in its mouth. Neither man seemed startled or frightened at this development. They’d witnessed such predation all the time in these wilds. Now the snake swam off across the spring, holding its prey high above the waterline.
“Poor frog.”
The two young men set their floats, baited their hooks and tossed their poles into the water. Almost immediately, Meshach’s line took a hit. He watched his float stir tremulously. When the fish came back for the rest of the earthworm, Meshach snatched his pole up in a high arc. A nice, fat speck squirmed at the other end of the line.
“HA!! Dass one!!” he cried exultantly.
He pulled the fish in, recovered his hook and attached the fish to the trotline. This fish, by itself, would make a fine dinner. He hoped to garner a few more for trading purposes.
The young men sat silently in the glade. It had been a fortnight, now, since the big revival meeting. Meshach’s prior estimation of Nathan’s heightened religious fervor proved incorrect. Nate returned from the meeting neither more penitent nor more evangelistic than before.
Meshach noted a certain pensiveness in his white friend, however. He chose not to probe it. Nathan would offer up his thoughts in due time.
Due time soon arrived.
“Shaddy, I got troubles. WE got troubles,” Nathan began.
“What’s that?” Meshach countered.
“Well, my Pa’s been at me, you know.”
“About whut?”
“You know it’s always ‘bout the same ole thing. He reckons Joey and Beth are about to run off and git married. Joey’s been seein’ McNulty for goin’ on three years now. His Pa’s got that nice farm over in Tensas Parish. Beth has been seein’ the Mullins boy. Neither of ‘em’s gittin’ any younger.”
Meshach sensed that the marital status of the two Leone daughters wasn’t the real reason for this conversation. He held his peace, waiting for Nathan to continue.
“Well, Pa feels he needs to ‘groom’ me to take over THIS place.”
“The whole farm?”
“Yep. I’m the oldest boy ‘n all.”
“Well, dass great!!! Ain’t it great, d’ough? We can have some SWIMMIN’ times!! Ain’t dat sump’n!!? AIN’T IT?!? We can go huntin’ and fishin’!! An’ we won’t have to worry about axin’ Sully for permission!! In fact, we kin FIRE Sully ‘n de niggers’ll all be happy!! ‘N we kin git rid of dat leash!! ‘N We kin…”
Nate interrupted Meshach’s joyous stream of consciousness plans.
“SHADDY!! That ain’t whut I’m talkin’ about.”
Meshach was chastened.
“Hey? Well, whut ARE you talkin’ about?”
Nathan took a deep breath.
“Well, Pa says I’m a white man. And he says you’re a BLACK man.”
“Yeah? And?”
“Well, Pa says…Pa says it don’t look right for me and you to be doin’ all those…things.”
“All whut things?”
“The things you was just sayin’, the huntin’ and the fishin’ and all.”
“Well, we’se fishing today and it ain’t come to no harm, I reckon. I’ll give your Pa my fish for his dinner, too, an’ it wouldn’t be de fust time I done dat, neither. Whut’s wrong wit’ fishin’?”
Nate struggled to express himself.
“Shaddy, it ain’t just the fishin’ and the huntin’. It’s the….it’s the….’sociation. It’s the ‘sociation.”
“’Sociation? Whut’s dat?”
“’Sociation is, like, when a white man is friends wit’ a black man.”
“He don’t want us to be friends no mo’?”
“Well, he says that ‘sociation is OK for a chile. But he says that a growed man has got to take control. He says that when I take over this farm, I gots to see you as you is.”
“As I is? Whut’s dat?”
“Well, Shaddy, you’se a slave. You’se property. You’se MY property. And he says it won’t do for a white man to ‘sociate wit’ his property.”
“Hmmmmph. Why not?”
“Oh, Shaddy, I dunno. It’s a old white man rule from way back. They handed it down from father to son, I guess. And this is the way my Pa is handin’ it down to me.”
Meshach quieted.
“And you brung me out here to tell me this?”
“No!!! Well….yes. We’se pards, Shadrack Meshach Abednegger. I….I….wanted to look you in the eye and tell you like a man.”
Meshach lowered his eyes to the ground.
“So...we cain’t go fishin’ no mo’?”
“Well...we kin. But we gots to sneak off and do it, you know? Kinda like when we used to git the nigger girls to come wit’. We whisper it, you know?”
“Your Pa don’t like me?”
“That ain’t it, Shaddy, that ain’t it at all. You know that ain’t it. He likes you jist fine. You just bein’ thickheaded, is all. This is how white folks does things. You know, when he first come up to me and tole me this, I laughed and told him I was free to ‘sociate wif whatever I want. But he tole me NO!! He said this is what a white man does. And I’m white. I cain’t git out of it, don’t cha see?”
“So...you wants me to leave?”
“Oh, no. You kin stay. I got sump’n else I wanna tell you.”
“Is it bad?”
“Well, that depends on your p’spective.”
“P’spective? What’s dat?”
“It depends on how you look at it.”
“Oh.”
Nathan’s pole jumped. He snatched it up and found another fat speck on his hook. This pool was full of them. He pulled the fish in and gigged it on the trotline.
“Where was I? Oh, I was tellin’ you ‘bout the other thing.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the other thing is, I like the Stenstrom girl.”
“Miss Aisleen? I knows dat. You been courtin’ her since’d she ‘uz fifteen.”
“I’m thinkin’ about axin’ her to marry me.”
“WHAT!?!?!”
“Don’t tell nobody. This is just between me and you. I knowed you can keep a secret or I wouldn’t a-told you. I ain’t even told Hank. I’m thinkin’ I kin marry her next year sometime.”
“Well, ain’t that fine!!?! I always liked Miss Aisleen. She’s a fine girl. I’m happy for you!!!”
“Now remember, you don’t tell nobody, hey?”
“OK.”
Meshach sat for a few more moments to digest this momentous change in his lifestyle and status. Nate was getting married. From now on, he had to sneak around to hang out with Nate. He surmised that their friendly jocularity around the farm would have to change, too.
“Umm, Nate? Do dis mean I have to start callin’ you ‘massuh’ ‘round de place? I cain’t call you ‘Nate’ no mo’?”
Nathan took a deep breath.
“Yeah, Shaddy. That’s what it means.”
Meshach brooded sullenly in his little slave cabin. His hut differed little from the other slave domiciles on the farm. It consisted of a single room with clapboard flooring and glassless window openings. In the corner was a small, brick fireplace. His bed was a ramshackle affair filled with cornhusks. There was a dilapidated table with one leg shorter than the other three. There was a single wooden chair. He had a pot and a pan and a wooden spoon. He had two pairs of cotton pantaloons and three similar shirts. He had a tin canteen that he’d found in the woods. His prize possession was a pair of brown leather boots left to him by his dad. As one might imagine, these boots were well worn.
Meshach lived alone. He’d been orphaned at the age of fourteen. His mother died when he was three. His father Charles had been sold “down de river” for some trivial offense. So, technically, he wasn’t an orphan per se. In point of fact, though, he was. He would never see Charles again. The only reason that he hadn’t been sold along with his father was due to his friendship with Nathan. That, of course, and the fact that he was a fairly impressive specimen of manhood by that early age. The young slave was a valuable piece of property.
Meshach fended for himself.
Occasionally one of the slave marms would bring him a pan of greasy gleanings—pig leftovers, chicken backs and such. Sometimes one of the young women seeking his fancy would cobble together a fruit pie stolen from the makings of a Leone family dessert.
Once Lize had even stolen a piece of fried chicken from the Leone pantry for him. She’d been whipped for that offense. Fiona Leone counted every single piece. If Master Edward had known the piece of chicken had been for Meshach, he too would have been whipped. Lize accepted her punishment stoically without giving Meshach away.
This day Meshach pondered his change in status. Clearly, he was being demoted. But why?
He wondered if Master Edward suspected him of his late night assignations with the Leone daughters? The very day after the family’s return from the revival, Josephine Leone had given him surreptitious orders to sneak into the big house after dark. He had done so, using extreme caution, as always.
Once there, he had fucked Miss Josephine from behind, as per her preference, while Miss BethAnn looked on. Miss Josephine bit down on a stick to quell her strident groans of delight as Meshach lavishly roiled and thrusted inside her fragrant pussy. She clasped her bed sheets. She pounded her fists on the bed in the agony of her necessarily silent passion. Beads of perspiration popped up around her hairline, only to trickle down her cheeks in crawly, crystalline rivulets.
When she finally climaxed, the entire room exploded in a panoramic cacophony of vibrantly colored fireworks. Miss Josephine stretched and preened like a gymnast as her orgasm crazed about her. She gasped. She flailed. She consumed his straining cock with her bottom, drawing it inside as deeply as she might. When she finally collapsed, sated, her whole world caved in like a sand castle before the tide. She was asleep in seconds.
Meshach withdrew his steaming cock from the stupefied girl. He wasn’t allowed to cum inside either of the sister’s white pussies. This was a strict rule that both women re-emphasized at the outset of each of these clandestine interracial engagements. It was not to be broached under ANY circumstance.
Miss Beth now turned her ass up to him. He pushed forward with his already lubricated dick and pried her sphincter open. BethAnn suppressed an animalistic groan. Meshach probed forward until her ass cheeks bubbled up and consumed him. Then he began to fuck the youngest Leone daughter with short, powerful thrusts. Her head snapped back in concert with each thrust. Her auburn curls flailed. She, too, grasped her bed clothing spastically as her orgasm mounted.
BethAnn wanted more from this late night soiree. She wanted fuck time. She wanted to prolong the sexual act for as long as Meshach’s dick could endure.
When she felt her climax imminent, she arched her ass off his dick and aimed her pussy down upon it. As she inhaled his dick into its proper edifice, BethAnn came, like her sister, with a terribly anguished silent shriek. Their parents were snoozing (presumably) just on the other side of the intervening wall. BethAnn quivered up her surrender to the dick roiling her loins. She jostled about, juking uncontrollably until she farted loudly.
As she cavorted downward from this orgasm in fits and jags, she popped Meshach’s still erect cock back into her ass. No accidental nigger money shots up HER babymaker, no sireee!! She wasn’t quite that gone. She’d seen how white girls who bore black babies were treated in these Louisiana backwoods.
Meshach and BethAnn repeated this process three times before Meshach was obligated by nature to spew his jism up BethAnn’s infertile poop chute. They repeated the process twice more before Meshach graced her ass with yet another hot, spicy load of his milky seed.
Too, as they fucked through this final iteration, BethAnn made sure to reach down to wipe his semen from her taint. She couldn’t take the risk that some of it might seep into her pussy. Josephine slept like a baby through this entire performance.
BethAnn, though, felt righteously sated. Vindicated, even. She’d had six shattering orgasms. Danny Mullins never did it like this. He probably never would.
Grateful to her sexual benefactor, she’d ended the session by nursing a third blast of cum from Meshach’s throbbing black missile, this time using her lips.
Back in the quietude of his little slave hovel, Meshach reflected over that tantric session. Did Master Edward know? Had he heard them? Had Missus Fiona smelled their secretions in the bedclothes? Did anyone suspect?
No, they couldn’t possibly suspect. If they suspected, the punishment would be a lot worse than just “you cain’t ‘sociate with Master Nate anymore”. Even the suspicion of impropriety would be enough to get Meshach sold. Or killed.
Not even Nathan knew of Meshach’s long-running trysts with the Leone sisters, largely at their behest. This was a secret the three of them would take to their graves.
That solemn secret couldn’t be the reason for Nathan’s “little talk”.
Meshach was flummoxed. What is this “this is what white people do” shit? He’d been around white folks his entire life. While they had some interesting peccadilloes, this particular “white people” tradition eluded his grasp.
“Friends is friends,” he thought. “You jist don’t throw yo’ frien’ ovuh like dat.”
He MUST’VE done something to offend Master Edward.
But what?
Lizzie Leone stood naked before Master Hank and Master Nate in the cool darkness of the brothers’ shared loft. She’d been summoned earlier in the day with a leer and a quick glance toward the big house. By now she knew what both those subtly delivered inflections meant.
Lizzie lived with her friend/competitor Cora and Cora’s parents. They presented themselves as sisters. She’d been living on the Leone farm for almost ten years now since being purchased as a child from an estate nearly two hundred miles distant. The master of that estate and his missus died. Their slaves were parceled off to the highest bidders. Lizzie’s biological parents had been sold separately.
In her ten years at the Leone farm Lizzie had lived with three different slave families. The first two families had fathers that required Lizzie to service their sexual needs—which she did. The third family, headed by Seth Simmons and Andra Leone, did not require such services from the girl. She came to their small shack as a friend of Cora, their only child. They didn’t really have room for her. She trundled up uncomfortably into the same bed as Cora. And the little slave family got by.
After receiving the veiled invitation/order from the Leone boys, Lizzie conveyed it to Cora. Cora sneered.
“Hmmmmmph. I just bet you they’ll be callin’ me up, too. Remember de last time we had to go up dere? You ‘member what dey did? Well, I just bet you I ain’t gon’ take de call TODAY. Where’d you see dem? In de kitchen? Over by de kennel? I’m headed de udder way. Git out my way, girl. I got places to BE!!”
True to her word, whenever she saw either of the young masters in the offing, Cora artfully dodged them. She didn’t get the call.
Now it was one o’clock in the morning. Lizzie was about two hours late for their scheduled tryst. Her stepfather Seth had stayed up late puttering around with some garden tool in the dark. She hadn’t been able to sneak away without alerting him.
Hank lit a candle in order to better gauge this amazing little black filly. At eighteen, Lizzie was in the peak of robust health. Her hair was not tied up in nappy, short little plaits. Instead, she had six huge, lustrous cornrows tied off into a bun that quivered at the base of her neckline. She was very dark. Her teeth were straight and white. Her eyes were chocolate brown. Her lips were full without being grossly so. Her breasts resembled luscious, hanging fruits bursting with the earthy ripeness of youth; her nipples were upturned, perky and richly black.
And her neck!! Perfection personified. Graceful. Lengthy. Silky. Patrician. None of these adjectives adequately captured the essence of her bearing.
Her torso tapered down into a characteristic V, oozing subtly into her hips, which then expanded outward into the sensually rounded apple-shape consistent with her race. Her abdomen and biceps rippled with corded muscle. Her legs were long and lithe.
She had neither fat nor excess anywhere on her body, save for four ugly, striped, black keloids on her shoulder blades, embarrassing evidence of a long ancient whipping. Even her feet were petite and graceful, not clunky, gnarled or club-like. She didn’t appear to be suffering from overwork, though maybe her genes were over-compensating for the lot dealt her by life.
Her vagina was outlined with thick black clusters of pubic hair that trailed away in a wistful line up to her navel, giving her pussy the general shape of a Gaelic shield. Her armpits bore pubic hairs of a similar grade. Silky black hairs graced her forearms and calves. In those days shaving the hairs borne of puberty was a thing yet unknown.
Even in view of these physical perfections Lizzie left one thing wanting. She’d worked all through the day before. She hadn’t bathed before coming to the loft—and she smelled like it. Whether this oversight was deliberate or not, it should be noted that a single weekly bath was the norm for both whites and blacks in those days. Neither of the white boys had bathed, either.
Still, the Leone boys regarded her in awe, funky underarms and all. Both boys had a lengthy history of clandestine sexual relations with the girl. She never initiated these sessions, but she certainly didn’t shy away from them. Lizzie liked having sex. She enjoyed the feel of a thick, stiff dick riding in and out of her ass. Both Leone boys were well-endowed.
So Cora’s reluctance to attend didn’t matter to her.
“More dick for me,” was her casual thought.
Standing naked here between the two Leone boys, one seated before her and the other aft, Lizzie blazed her stunning assets forth. Hank raised and lowered his candle up and down the line of her body, limning her magnificence in the darkness of the little room. Each time he saw this woman naked she seemed to resonate with new superlatives.
Lizzie didn’t wait for the two white boys to get the action started. She lifted her left leg up and placed it on the bed beside Hank Leone. She stepped up to him, offering him a closer glimpse of her hairy pussy. The strident odor of her unwashed sex whispered forth, assailing him with its decadent succulence.
Hank’s head snapped back.
“I hope she don’t expect me to LICK that thing!!”
Lizzie roiled her stomach muscles like a dancer. Her pubic mound heaved invitingly before him. Her vaginal cleft quivered sensually, redolent of sweat and urine, interspersed with the creamy aroma of hot pussy. Lizzie’s nipples were already erect.
Hank hurriedly shoved his nightshorts to the floor. His cock sprang to attention without being touched. Nathan did the same behind her. His cock, too, was spectacularly erect. Their special dick fragrance added spice to the bold sexual perfume emanating from between the black girl’s thighs.
Hank reached out and placed both hands on her hips. He tried to guide her torso down onto his preening cock.
Lizzie brushed his hands aside. She stepped up onto his bed to tower over him. From this wise she began a steamy, erotic dance—gyrating her arms slowly and swiveling her pussy seductively before his very nose. This close proximity amplified the odor of her sex and weaved a magical, heady recipe in the boy’s increasingly befuddled brain.
“Wow,” exclaimed his brother from the other bed.
Lizzie continued her dance. She ran her right hand up the length of her left arm to let it linger Oh!! so sensually off the tip of her middle finger. She reiterated this move along her right arm with her left hand. Now she dipped her middle finger into her pussy and drew it up to her tongue. She tasted it. A beatific look of ecstasy engulfed her, as if her sweaty pussy tasted like bolts of thrice refined electricity dipped in concentrated cane sugar. She finished with a full body shiver that queefed a burst of her scent directly up the boy’s nostrils.
Hank was entranced.
Nate bounced across the distance between the boys’ twin beds in order to watch. He could see that his younger brother was tense, ready to burst.
Lizzie performed the arm gyration move again while rotating her piquant pussy just in front of Hank’s nose. This time she tapped her middle finger lightly under each of his nostrils so that he might inhale her aroma as a junkie might snort cocaine.
In short order she achieved her objective. Hank’s bewildered mind no longer smelled the scent of sweat and urine oozing languidly from her labia. More exactly, he no longer objected to these aromatic diversions. Now his most sentient desire was to bathe his tongue and nostrils in the source of these pheromonal delicacies.
Leaving caution to the wind, Hank smashed his nose into her cleft.
Instantly, the smell, the sight, the taste of her sex came together in a crashing flash of lambent, phosphorescent light. Hank jacked his dick once. He jacked it twice. A huge streamlet of jism surged forth, seven feet into the air. A second stream of his baby gravy hit Lizzie squarely in the twat; she was still spiraling her hips in the air before his nostrils. His third cum surge spiraled upwards to her in the twat, too, as did the fourth.
“AAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Nathan Leone keeled with laughter.
Lizzie cradled Hank’s chin in her hands gently as the boy continued to spurt. She looked into his eyes adoringly, even though his eyes were squinched tightly shut in a grimace of orgasmic ecstasy. He could see her kind gaze from behind star-crossed eyes.
Lizzie wiped some of his jizz from her taint with her middle finger. She tapped the boy’s jizz under each of his nostrils. She smeared the remainder of his issue on his cheeks like a mother primping a child for church.
Hank was so far gone that he would have snorted jism out of her ass.
Now Lizzie turned to older brother Nate. He lay back on his brother’s bed expecting a similar dance. However, Lizzie hadn’t come here to be splashed with cum. She’d come here for dick.
Lizzie now performed her dance over Nate, spiraling her ass lower and lower by degrees. She drew opulent forms in the air with her hands. Grotesque forms. Phallic forms. Exotic vaginal forms.
Nathan, too, began to quail under her spell.
She drew his eyes away with her hands like a savvy magician. At the same time she weaved her bottom ever closer to his spiring dick.
After some moments of this exotic, enticing dance, Lizzie’s sphincter brushed Nathan’s cockhead ever so slightly. Her ass cheeks wobbled. This broke her magical spell. Nate grabbed his cock by its base, steadying it for penetration. Lizzie spiraled down onto it gratefully. She hadn’t washed. Her ass smelled like ass.
Nate noticed this new scent immediately. He wasn’t really pleased with it. Yet inasmuch as the tightest muscle in her body was now oiling his dick, he didn’t object.
Hilted, the black girl draped her arms over his shoulders to establish a fucking rhythm. The scent from her underarms matched the odor from her pubic mound. Ordinarily, Nate might have banned the girl as “too stinky”. But her copulation dance overarched his reason. Like his brother before him, he was mesmerized by the erotic, mind-altering odors emanating from this exotic, alluring black woman.
Lizzie ass-fucked Nathan from the dominant female mount. She closed her eyes and scrunched up tightly against him, grinding her labia into his pubic mound. Nate cupped her breasts. Lizzie gently grasped one of his hands and lingered it down to her clit. She took his finger and showed him how to roil that sensitive organ. When he went too fast she slowed him. When he pressed too hard she eased him. When he went too slow she sped him up.
Her clitoris bloomed forth like a small marble.
When she felt her orgasm about to snap tight about her she leapt up and offered her clit to the white boy’s lips. He took it willingly and with some measure of expertise. Lizzie erupted in a quaking orgasm, grinding her teeth together due to the necessity for silence.
Noting his enduring erection, Lizzie eased back down upon his cock. Clitoral orgasms are quick; anal orgasms are hard to come by. She was already halfway there.
Lizzie continued to fuck Nathan with her ass. She wanted to cum. She wanted to feel him cum inside her. Straddling him from her crouch, she grabbed him by the cheeks and ears. She gazed into his eyes to silently telegraph the depths of her arousal.
“YES. I like having YO’ dick in MY ass, white
boy. YES. I wants you to cum inside me.
YES. I wants to feel YO’ JUICE
drip fr’m ‘tween my ass cheeks. YES,
YOU, NATHAN THOMAS LEONE!!
IS…YOU...WIT’…ME?!?”
She grinded her ass onto his cock with the religious fervor of a sexual zealot.
“COME in
me. COME in me. COME, COME, COME IN ME!! DO IT!!
DO IT NOW!!”
She whispered this last imperative aloud to affirm her earlier silent telecast.
Nathan could restrain himself no longer. He released his seed into the black girl. His pulsing cum provoked the first tremblings of an audible scream from her, but Nate reminded her of her place by clamping his hand over her mouth. His shrieking cum spiral provided the impetus for yet another crashing orgasm by the enchantress. She bucked and humped against him in an explosion of quivering passion. Nate strained mightily to empty himself into her reeking hole.
Now they held each other in the cool twilight of the evening as their orgasms subsided. Suddenly, the aroma had been once been an exotic sexual perfume transformed into…. something else.
“Ooooooooh, Nathan! You stank!” she expostulated.
“ME?!?!? That’s YOU!!!” Nate retorted indignantly.
“You crazy, boy. I don’t EVER smell like THAT. I gots to git AWAY from you.”
She eased up off of his cock. As his dick popped free the room became immeasurably funkier.
“OH. GAWD. I can’t breathe. THAT’S YOU!! Where’s my clothes!!” she said.
“Here! Right here! Take ‘em. And git your stinkin’ ass outta my room. Jeez!!!”
Lizzie snatched up her simple cotton raiment and dressed. She popped open the trap door in the floor and descended silently.
Before sneaking home, she slid over to the water pump to carefully slosh through several handfuls of water. She rubbed these handfuls of water on her underarms and crotch. The water mitigated the stench some, but certainly didn’t obliterate it.
“Dang. That IS me,” she thought.
It had been six weeks, now, since the big revival meeting, and the little Bapticostal church in town had already endured the first wave of newly converted penitents along with the renewed religious euphoria of the many recovering backsliders. In the first week after the revival, the church rafters bulged with parishioners. Morale was high. The church burst forth in glorious song, perhaps the best performance that Rev. Fletcher officiated.
In the second week attendance tapered off a bit, but the singing was just as sublime.
In the third week attendance tapered off a bit more.
Now six weeks out, attendance was back to normal. The resplendently exuberant singing of the prior weeks had become more restrained, more European.
The Leones, the Stenstroms, the Mullins, the Greens, the Harkness’ and the Jenkins’ were church regulars. These families hadn’t missed a single Sunday since the revival; some of them even brought their slaves along and put them up in the balcony. The McNulty’s had missed not just one Sunday, but two. Both Griselda Green and Fiona Leone kept mental note of this Sabbath deficiency before the Lord. Sister Fiona made a point of asking the Reverend if the McNulty’s had mailed in their tithes.
The Leone girls prepared meticulously for these Sunday services. These were their only chances to interact with their beloveds between now and the next revival meeting. Nathan Leone, too, looked forward to his weekly glimpse of his girlfriend Aisleen.
As might be expected, these interactions were closely chaperoned. Fantastic stories of scorching sexual escapades in the church basement were told, but few of these fine young Christians would admit to having soiled the sanctity of the House of God in such a scurrilous manner.
This particular Sunday the Leones cobbled up to the little church dressed in their finest Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes. Morty tied off their horse carriage and took his place up under a shade tree for the duration of the services, as did the other black drivers.
The Leone’s piously entered the church with bowed heads. Most of the other families named were already seated in their pews. The Leone’s had their own pew; most of the regulars owned one. It was a coveted status symbol.
Josephine peeked out to see if her beloved, Robert McNulty, sat in his pew. He was. Robert gladly acknowledged her glance with a judicious nod.
BethAnn sought the eye of Daniel Mullins. He, too, acknowledged her surreptitious glance with a nod and the faintest whisper of a smile.
Nathan sought and found the Stenstrom pew. Aisleen didn’t acknowledge his glance. She appeared to be praying fervently. She hadn’t noticed him. Her father Samuel, however, noticed Nathan’s exploratory glance. He responded with a stentorian scowl.
“I wonder what HIS problem is?” thought Nathan.
The Leone’s found their pew and took their seats.
After some minutes of low grade tittering, Rev. Fletcher stepped to the pulpit. The background noise ceased. He bade the congregation rise and led them in a rousing rendition of Hymn 43 from the communal songbook. He then opened services with a fiery, crackerjack prayer that served notice of his impending sermon. Nate sneaked a peek over at the Stenstrom pew. Samuel Stenstrom was still glaring directly at him. Nate bowed his head reverently.
“I wonder
what HIS problem is?”
All throughout the service Aisleen’s father intercepted Nate’s surreptitious peeks over to his beloved. Aisleen seemed absorbed in her prayers. She hadn’t taken the time to cast a single glimpse over at the Leone pew. This was unusual. Aisleen was just not that pious, thought Nathan, certainly not pious enough to allow a mere church service to interfere with their subtle flirtation. This troubled him. What was wrong? He couldn’t wait to corral her after church. If she had problems, Nate wanted her to know he cared. If she didn’t have problems, then why couldn’t she take the time to give him his customary glance of acknowledgement? Prayer is prayer, but what SHE was doing was ridiculous! As the service wore on, dark imaginings clouded Nate’s mind.
Rev. Fletcher rambled on and on. He invoked the apostles. He invoked the patriarchs. He painted soaring imagery of the glory of the heavens. He intoned stark warnings of the fires of hell. He prodded. He provoked. He did everything in his power to marshal his flock for coming great battle against the Devil and his minions, inasmuch as all the signs indicated Armageddon to be certainly imminent.
Few of his young parishioners were listening.
As with most church meetings, this meeting was rife with demur smiles, sidelong glances, disingenuously undue eye blinking, surreptitious hand gestures, yawning and rampant daydreaming. Rev. Fletcher’s meticulously handcrafted sermon fell upon largely deaf ears. His parishioners had heard much of this before.
When these interminable services were finally over and the last ‘Amen’ intonation drifted away, the leading families rose and roused themselves. The background titter so evident in the pre-service anticipatory meanderings now became a rising crescendo. There were handshakes all around. There were gladdened smiles as well as outright guffaws. There was news and there was gossip. It was time to socialize.
“LEONE!” came a deep voiced growl from amongst the titter. “A WORD, PLEASE.”
It was Samuel Stenstrom. He directed his query to Edward Leone, not his eldest son.
“Well, Howdy Sam!! I….” Master Edward replied.
Stenstrom interrupted him.
“This ain’t no social call, Leone. We got business, you and me.”
Stenstrom waded off between the crowd without waiting to see if Edward Leone followed. Curious and somewhat put off by Stenstrom’s tone, Edward Leone did follow him down to the church basement, where the two men sought and found an empty room.
Sam Stenstrom turned to face Edward Leone. He cut to the chase.
“Aisleen is with child. What are YOU going to do about it?”
“WHAT?!?”
“YOU HEARD ME!!”
“What? When? How? I…..”
“QUIT YOUR BABBLIN’, ED!!! It’s that boy of your’n!! SHE TOLD ME!!”
“MY boy?!? NATHAN? Why, I….I….Are you SURE? I mean….”
“I SAID QUIT YOUR BABBLIN’, ED!!! I’M SURE!! WE’RE SURE.”
Shaken to the core, Edward Leone grabbed a chair and took a seat. This was a scandal unfathomable!! A Leone has fathered a child out of wedlock!!! How could it have happened? Who knew of it? He hadn’t even known that Nathan LIKED the girl all that much. When did he have the time to do….THIS??!??
“Who else knows?” Edward Leone asked meekly.
“Just me. And Aisleen. And now YOU.”
“Your wife doesn’t know?”
“No. She does not.”
“Does Nathan know?”
“Not unless Aisleen is upstairs telling him right now.”
Now Edward Leone’s righteous wrath boiled up in him. The Leone name had been sullied. But maybe there was still a chance to manage this thing.
“Wait here,” he ordered.
Edward Leone bolted from the room. He charged up the stairs to find his son. Looking hither and yon, he soon spotted Nathan over in the foyer laughing with Hank, Arnie Harkness and Joey Jenkins.
He burst into the group, grabbing Nathan by the collar.
“COME WITH ME,” he ordered.
He dragged the boy down to the basement. Finding Sam Stenstrom where he left him, Edward Leone snatched his boy up to face the man.
“TELL HIM” he demanded of Stenstrom.
Sam Stenstrom looked upon Nathan with the same “I could KILL you with my bare hands” look that he’d telegraphed during the church service. He didn’t mince words.
“My daughter is PREGNANT. YOU are the father.”
Nathan went suddenly faint.
“WHAT?!?!?”
Edward Leone stepped in, hauled back and slapped the living shit out of his son. Nathan crumpled to the floor.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!!” Edward wailed.
Twice thunderstruck, Nathan was in a tizzy. It couldn’t be true!! It couldn’t!!!
Ignoring his father, Nathan anguished: “Mr. Stenstrom!! Mr. Stenstrom!! I….I…I never….”
Stenstrom cut him off.
“You DID, son. You did. What I wanna know is, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT.”
From his fallen position, Nathan looked up at his father for support. Before he could cobble an answer together, Edward Leone again stepped in.
“I’LL TELL YOU WHAT HE’S GOING TO DO. HE’S GON’ MARRY HER. AND THE SOONER THE BETTER.”
This announcement took some of the bite out of Sam Stenstrom’s anger. From his perspective, this was the best-case scenario. He’d thought he might have to fight for that concession, but Leone had come up with the proper idea on his own.
Now that the argument over the outcome had been resolved, damage control had to be considered. The list of people who knew of Aisleen’s condition was now up to four. Both patriarchs thought it best to let that number stand pat.
Stenstrom piped up: “Well, gentlemen. We seem to be in agreement. If you’ll wait here for a moment, I’ll go git the prospective bride. And then we can start makin’ plans.”
The Leone/Stenstrom wedding was set for two-weeks out. Aisleen was already six weeks along. The four conspirators didn’t want to take the risk that she might be showing a baby bump while walking down the aisle.
The wedding announcement was made the very day the shocked father-to-be was apprised of the pregnancy. The story was spun as a long planned surprise, describing the two-week latency as “part of the surprise”. Rev. Fletcher agreed to officiate.
Wedding proceedings would be held at the Stenstrom farm. Everyone was invited. Edward Leone was picking up the tab, a curious twist from tradition noted by more than a few wags about town. At the conclusion of the festivities, the newly minted Aisleen Stenstrom Leone would pack her bags and move with her husband to the Leone farm. All these things were negotiated in the single hour after the conclusion of church services on that fateful Sunday.
Secretly, both Nathan and Aisleen were thrilled at these developments. This was the outcome Aisleen sought from the beginning of her flirtation with the scion of the Leone family. Nate, too, had been strongly considering this eventuality. That it had been thrust upon him so suddenly only required an adjustment, not a monumental flip-flop, in his thinking.
The actual nuptials went off without a hitch. Nathan looked fine in his mammy-made brown suit and his store-bought togs. Aisleen was radiant in her white, taffeta-enhanced, hand-made gown. Almost sixty people were in attendance, plus another hundred or so cheering black slaves. The food was delicious and abundant. Edward Leone even hired a fiddler to provide musical entertainment.
The McNulty’s and the Mullins’ attended. The Leone girls got another chance to carouse and cavort with their significant others, though both couples were scrutinized like hawks. The Stenstroms invited some of their neighbors, including a family of Methodists by the name of Franz. They had two daughters, Catherine and Marlene, and a son, Bradley. Marlene, a long-time friend of the bride, was a natural member of Aisleen’s bridal party. She ended up walking alongside Hank.
Meshach attended the wedding as part of the Leone entourage. He stood off to the side with the other slaves and cheered as the newly married couple made their way through the crowd, thanking family and friends. In the muddled confusion of the celebratory dance no one was paying much attention to the crowd of Negro attendees. Meshach took this opportunity to sneak off with Hildy, one of the Stenstrom’s house servants. He fucked the yaller gal senseless, then returned to the party as if nothing amiss had occurred.
Only Lizzie noted his absence.
The final act in this great, panoramic screenplay was the ritual “jumping of the broom”. Samuel Stenstrom made a great show of piling Aisleen’s luggage onto the Nathan Leone’s new carriage. Everyone laughed and cheered as the man pretended to be lifting two-ton boulders into the dainty vehicle. He huffed and puffed and sweated as if Aisleen’s country wardrobe and her girlie baubles amounted to a queen’s ransom. No one, not even Nathan, offered to help him. Indeed, Samuel would not have accepted if they had. This was HIS burden. He was offloading responsibility onto young Nathan. Henceforth, Nathan Leone would bear the brunt of Aisleen’s weight. This was her father’s way of accentuating that truism publicly.
Nathan and Aisleen trundled home in their own carriage. Morty drove the rest of the Leone family home in Edward’s carriage. The Leone slaves walked behind, supervised by Mr. Sullivan on horseback.
It had been decided that Nathan and Aisleen Leone would sleep in the loft—at least for the time being. Soon enough her unacknowledged pregnancy would preclude climbing the precarious loft ladder. Hank would sleep in the anteroom. Josephine had suggested that Aisleen sleep in her room alongside she and BethAnn, but Nathan quickly vetoed that idea.
Knowing that the loft was, at best, a temporary fix, Master Edward began making plans to add a room onto the house. He and some of his slaves could build such an addition quite easily given the abundance of timber in the neighborhood and a dearth of zoning ordinances. Edward decided to make this project Job One.
On the first evening of her betrothal, Aisleen pulled herself up into Nathan’s loft bedroom enthusiastically. She was going to get fucked!! She was going to get PROPER fucked!!! She didn’t want to take a tour of her new home. She didn’t want to wash the travel dust from her face. Aisleen wanted to fuck!!!!
And there was no one to say she shouldn’t, neither.
Nathan pulled himself topside closely after his new wife. Edward, Fiona, Josephine, BethAnn and Hank stood at the base of the loft ladder smiling broadly upwards. In about five minutes they knew that darkened little bedroom was going to explode. Nathan smirked down at them knowingly, then clamped the trap door shut in their faces.
Edward chuckled, “Well, nah, let’s git along to bed and leave them be. Come on, nah. We got another little family in the house. They business is they business. The three of you’se need to git some of your own business. Go on, nah.”
He was proud that the four conspirators had pulled off this charade seamlessly. Even Fiona only half-suspected the real reason for this hastily arranged marriage. And Fiona knew EVERYTHING.
Locking the trap door securely against intruders, Nathan turned to his wife Aisleen. To his surprise, she was already butt naked. As always, Nathan was taken aback but pleased by her boldness.
“When did she have time to get out of all those clothes?” he wondered.
Aisleen advanced on him, one leg in front of the other, like a stalking panther. She’d released her great mound of foamy chestnut-brown hair from its bridal constraints. It cascaded downward over her shoulders and her back. Her lush, golden brunette pubic triangle stood out in bold relief to her alabaster skin. Her breasts were a shade north of demitasse, a shade south of pendulous. She had a slim waist and a supple bottom. Like all the girls in the region, she had tufts of pubic hair peeking reticently from her armpits. Nathan could even detect the faint aroma of the store-bought perfume that she’d worn at their wedding ceremony earlier. It was intoxicating. SHE was intoxicating.
He struggled to get out of his clothes. In his haste he missed the top button on his shirt once, twice, thrice. On the fourth attempt he yanked his shirt so viciously that the button popped.
Meanwhile, Aisleen had unbuttoned his pants and lowered his drawers to his ankles. She had his dick in her mouth.
“How did she DO that so fast?” he wondered breathlessly. “And why won’t this shirt come off?”
Aisleen popped his dick out of her mouth for a second.
“Take the coat off first, dear. Then try for the shirt.”
“Oh. Yeah,” he mumbled by way of thanks.
She took his dick back into her mouth.
Now Nathan found himself in a quandary. In his haste to extricate himself from the shirt, he’d gotten one of the shirtsleeves off under the coat sleeve. The coat sleeve was still in place. He was literally tied up in his clothing like a strait jacket. Through this consternation his wife bobbed contentedly up and down on his throbbing cock as if nothing unusual was happening. The more he struggled, the more his clothing tightened about his torso. It was infuriating!
Finally, with a monumental surge of anger, he bolted free of both garments, ripping them savagely in the process.
Aisleen continued to suck his penis as if she’d expected nothing less.
Now Nathan needed to get out of his store-bought shoes and the suit pants locked around his ankles without disturbing the hot, moist orifice nursing at his dick. Awkwardly, he stepped behind to clench his left heel with the big toe of his right shoe. He arched his heel out of his left shoe and withdrew his foot. Now he tried the same move in reverse. He arched his right foot out of his right shoe. All well and good.
When he tried to kick the shoes out of the way, he found his ankles bound by his pants. Nathan fell over sideways and ended up falling heavily to the floor, flat on his back.
Downstairs, his mother commented to her husband, “He’s clumsy. Just like you.”
Aisleen helped him to extricate himself from his pants. She crawled over to him on the floor and took his dick up again. Oh, it tasted SO good!! And now it was all hers!!
She tasted Lizzie’s vaginal remnants in the folds of Nathan’s foreskin. And Zelma’s. And Cora’s. And a host of other black girls she’d yet to meet.
There was white girl pussy on this dick, too. Joe Jenkins’ sister Molly. Cassie Sessions. Gretel Green. There were even faint traces of Josephine and BethAnn on this dick. Though Nathan had never fucked either of his sisters, Meshach certainly had. And Meshach had fucked Lizzie and Zelma and Cora, too. Their pussies retained bits and pieces, scents and tastes of the Leone daughters. Aisleen tasted both of her sisters-in-law on the dick currently encumbering her throat.
Nathan was ready to ejaculate. Aisleen could sense it.
“Not. Just. Yet.” she said aloud with a smile.
She stood and offered him her pussy to lick.
Nathan was in an awkward position on the clapboard flooring of the loft. He pushed her away and stood. Now he gave her another little push. She fell backwards onto Hank’s bed. Nathan glared at her lasciviously. Taking the hint, Aisleen opened her legs widely to him. She roiled her pussy up to him for inspection. Nate knelt between his wife’s legs and started to suck her pussy. WELL.
“He’s good at this!!” she mused thru shimmering, smoldering synapses.
She allowed him to lick her until she reached the verge of climax. Then she turned him over and started nursing at his dick again.
“Up the
hill. Down the hill. Up the hill. Down the hill.”
This was her strategy. She’d practiced it for hours while masturbating, planning for this first night alone with her husband.
“None of this ‘bust a nut and then roll over and fall asleep’ stuff for ME,” she thought happily.
When she felt his orgasm approach a second time, she turned him over and offered her pussy to his lips again.
The problem with this strategy is that she hadn’t discussed it with Nathan beforehand. Nate was ACHING to pour his seed into her—ANYWHERE into her. He’d inseminate her navel. He’d inseminate the crook of her elbow. He’d inseminate her ear hole, if she’d let him.
Why did she keep swapping out just as he was ready to come? They’d been up there for an HOUR, for gawd’s sake!!! (Actually, it hadn’t been that long)
The folks listening downstairs were concerned, too. Didn’t these two know how to fuck? They should. One of them was with child already. There should have been at least three loudly audible climactic howls in the past twenty minutes.
“Maybe she’s not a screamer?” Fiona mused.
“That’s MY boy. She’ll scream. You watch,” her husband corrected.
Nate and Aisleen were swimming through the fifth iteration of the “Up the hill, down the hill” strategy when Nate finally had enough. As Aisleen opened her legs for Nate the go south for the umpteenth time, he scooched up and plunged his cock into her pussy. With three savage thrusts, he unleashed a tumultuous load of semen into his wife and upon his unborn child. Aisleen wasn’t expecting it. She would have stopped him if she could have. But what’s done was done. Fiona and Edward heard the long awaited unfettered howl of the newly conjoined.
Aisleen looked at Nathan with a hint of disappointment. She still hadn’t come.
Nate didn’t care. He pulled his penis from her snatch and pressed it between her lips. She sucked the last vestiges of his semen from his urethra while he grunted in ecstasy. She sucked and continued to suck. Soon his cock transitioned from erect to semi-erect to semi-flaccid. It skipped the flaccid stage, opting for semi-erect and finally back to erect.
“Now let’s do it MY way,” Nate growled.
He mounted her and began to fuck like the very dickens. The room quaked with the force of his exertions. Aisleen crowed loudly.
“OHHHH!!! OHHHHHHHHH!!!!! FUCK ME, DADDY!! FUCK ME!!!”
In no time she surged into sunshine, screeching her passion for the world to hear, unashamed to be so voluble in her newly found oneness.
“I’m a
married woman now, goddamit!!!!”
She cooled a bit before coming again, this time more desperately passionate than before.
“AAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHH!! NATE!!! OH, IT HURTS!! IT HURTS SO GOOD!!!!! HIT IT NATE!! HIT IT HARDER!! HARDER!!!!!!”
She bucked and flailed in a frenzy of agonized sexual ecstasy. There was no need to suppress her groans.
“I’M MARRIED!!!!” she kept reminding herself.
Listening downstairs, Josephine and BethAnn rolled about in paroxysms of laughter as they masturbated in tandem. Edward cast a satisfied, “I told you so” glance at Fiona. Hank, too, masturbated quietly under his blankets in the front room.
Aisleen quieted from this second orgasm. Nathan was still thrusting violently inside her. He was like some fiend of torture, an incubus of the night, arching and plunging into the vagina that had, up until now, been so close yet so far away.
Aisleen endured his assault until her pussy recovered enough to dish some punishment of its own. She clenched his dick with strong pussy walls each time he withdrew, pulling his uncircumcised foreskin up and over his pudenda. Nathan began to draw breath in wan gasps. Each time she sucked at his dick with her pussy like this, Nathan felt the thunder.
“OMYGAWD!! OMYGAWD!!! OH!! ICE!!!!! OH!! DO IT!! DO IT LIKE THAT!!”
She cried, “HOLD ON, DADDY! HOLD ON!! I’M…I’M….I’M ALMOST THERE! DON’T…CUM…UNTIL…I’M…..OH!!! DON’T!!! SHEEE-ITTTT!!!! NOW!! CUM NOW, DADDY!!! DO IT NOW!! CUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUM!!!!!!! FUCK!!!! OH, FUCK!!! FFFFFUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!”
Nathan obliged her with a thunderous explosion of jism. Aisleen came, too, for a third time, digging huge jagged lines into his shoulder blades with her sharp fingernails. Both of them shrieked in tandem at the blistering power of this final release.
There would be no further releases this night. The newly minted couple was wickedly spent. The coming of the sun would find them locked in this same embrace, with Nathan mounted atop his bride, his penis simmering inside her chocolate furry pinkness, still dribbling semen, and her ankles draped akimbo across the backs of his thighs.
This was as close to death as either of them would ever come.
Downstairs, Fiona Leone said to her husband: “You were right. I guess she IS a screamer. And such LANGUAGE!! Oh, EDWARD!!! My goodness!!!”
“That’s my boy!” smiled Edward Leone proudly.
Fiona turned her body to her husband.
“Ed? I…ummmm….I…ummmm...well. I was wondering if, well, we might do something tonight? I think I’d like a bit of special treatment, sir, if you don’t mind. Those two have got my dander up.”
Abigail Patricia Leone arrived right on schedule, seven and a half months after her parents’ wedding. Her birth was cause for raucous celebration around the Leone farm. Edward Leone feted all of his neighbors. The Stenstroms arrived and were accommodated lavishly. Mr. Sullivan was given the week off, as were the Leone slaves.
This last incredible act of largesse sealed the general opinion of Edward Leone. He’d certainly gone insane. Either that or he was secretly wealthy. No other explanation would serve.
Naturally, there was talk that the child had been conceived out of wedlock. Seven and a half months?!? Come on!!
None dared broach THAT subject before the child’s paternal grandfather. He held a towering dungeon over any that suggested his granddaughter had been anything other than righteously conceived. He bade the entire Leone family shun those few that had the temerity to suggest that young Abby didn’t look pre-mature, given that she weighed in at eight pounds plus. She most certainly WAS pre-mature, he said. How could she NOT be pre-mature? Her parents were only married this past Spring!!!
The circular reasoning behind this logic eluded Master Leone, but he stuck to it doggedly.
In the midst of the “tempest in a teapot” fury over Abigail’s legitimacy, another thunderbolt struck. Josephine announced that she had accepted Robert McNulty’s marriage proposal. This glad news pushed the issue of Abby’s birth into the background. Unlike Nathan’s rushed nuptials, Josephine’s wedding was meticulously planned and set for eight months out. Edward Leone agreed to pick up the tab for this, too, a fact that made Robert McNulty Sr. eternally grateful.
Secretly, Ed Leone suspected that his eldest daughter was destined to be a virginal old maid. She was a good-looking girl with excellent wifey skills and a ready laugh, but she had one fatal flaw—she’d inherited Ed’s bulbous nose. Even at a young age one could tell that her schnozz was going to be a deal breaker for many. Her nose was largely the reason she preferred doggy-style sex (unbeknownst to her father). That she had latched onto Bob McNulty Jr. had been a godsend. Master Edward never really believed the boy would commit, though.
As for being virginal, well….
Josephine Leone didn’t allow her impending marriage to interfere with her sex life. Lately she’d come to favor Duck Watkins over Meshach. Duck had a comparable dick; his harem wasn’t quite as extensive.
After her dad finished building the little addition to the big house, Aisleen and Nathan moved into it (about five months into Aisleen’s pregnancy). Hank moved back into the loft. This freed up BethAnn and Josephine to continue taking late night visits from the self-same black men they wouldn’t deign to speak with during daylight hours. Just in time, too. Both girls were about to bust from the constraints of abstinence.
Three months into Josephine’s engagement came another thunderous announcement. BethAnn, too, was getting married. And it wasn’t the Mullins boy! Oh no!! It was Franklin Jefferson, Pastor Goins’ young traveling assistant.
This was a HUGE shock.
First off, it meant that BethAnn would be going off on the traveling evangelical circuit instead of moving onto another established farm in the area. Also, it meant: “When did THESE two have the time to get ANYTHING going? Why just the other week, it seemed, Beth and Danny were making googly eyes at one a another in church!” That marriage had been pre-ordained in the minds of many.
And yet here was Beth, proudly sporting a ring far in excess of any Mullins’ budget. Or any of the McNulty’s budget, for that matter.
It turns out that Beth had established a pen pal friendship with young Jefferson that simply blossomed into something else altogether. Yes, they’d flirted in those letters, but…..dang!! She, too, had been astounded by his proposal.
It was Josephine who broke the logjam.
“YOU DON’T WANT TO BE MARRIED TO MR. MINUTEMAN. I FORBID IT.”
Josephine had never really liked Danny.
The decision was complicated by the absence of proximity. Beth had never fucked Franklin. They’d never kissed. She’d never held his hand. She was afraid of trading a bird in the hand for a bird in the bush. At least she knew Danny’s shortcomings.
“He’s GOTTA be better than OLD HALFAMINUTE”, Josephine smirked. “And Bethy, you and me can git married together!! Do it, honey!! Tell him yes!!!”
Of course, each girl would serve as the other’s Maid of Honor. It would be PERFECT, Josephine promised.
BethAnn thought it over. She took the proposal letter and showed it to her mother. They laughed a bit. They cried. Fiona Leone told Beth to do what her heart told her to do.
BethAnn sat down and composed a letter of acceptance.
So the Leone’s started making plans for not one wedding, but two. Most girls want their wedding day to be wholly focused on themselves. Beth and Josephine exulted in being able to be married on the same day. More than sisters, they were the closest of friends.
Josephine’s extravagant dress was already in the process of being completed by a professional seamstress, that black girl down in New Orleans, the one with the harelip. Josephine insisted on having this same girl fashion BethAnn’s dress. Josephine imposed upon her father to take the two sisters back down to New Orleans to deliver the order. Josephine was sure the harelip could complete the job in the time allotted.
Young Abigail was radiantly beautiful as all these amended wedding preparations played out. She was a delightful child, gurgling, chattering, smiling at anything that crossed her field of vision. She was bald-headed. A single wisp of silken auburn hair graced her crown.
The whole farm doted over the child, none moreso than her two aunties, who insisted on getting Abby’s opinion for every wedding engagement decision made. It was Abby who selected the color of the bridesmaid’s dresses. It was Abby who selected the wedding cake.
Of course the child was too young to talk. She couldn’t make such decisions on her own. Josephine and Beth merely posed the relevant questions. Whichever question caused the child to smile widest was the direction the two prospective brides chose.
With a month to go before the joyous occasion, BethAnn turned to her sister. She was blunt.
“Joey, I gotta scratch my itch. Just one more time. I cain’t wait until the wedding.”
“Beth!! I was thinking the same thing!!! I’m so wound up!!”
“Git Duck. I like that thing he did the last time.”
“OK. But NO MORE after this. We cain’t risk havin’ any nigger smell on us before the big day. Especially you. You don’t know how sensitive Franklin’s nose is. Wouldn’t it be bad if he got you alone finally and said you smelled of nigger dick? Oh Beth!! I’d DIE if that happened!!”
“It’ll be OK. Daddy bought me some of that perfume from down t’ Nawleans.”
“You gon’ put it up your cooch?”
“If I have to! You gon’ smell my cooch ‘n check it for me?”
Josephine laughed.
“If I have to!!! You gonna sniff mine?”
“I guess so. When you gon’ have him up? I’m tellin’ you, the sooner, the better.”
“I’ll try to git him tonight.”
Wearing his precious brown leather workboots in the river muck as a guard against snakebite, Meshach and three other slaves strained against a cypress stump. The men were clearing the lower twenty acres to make room for a new crop—tobacco. Master Edward was of the opinion that the farm needed to diversify its product line. Corn was good; tobacco was profitable.
Three teams of slaves had already slashed and burned much of the acreage; a huge, smoldering black scar on the landscape bore witness to their efforts. A large pile of roughage lay in the middle of the field, burning openly. Billows of white smoke drifted skyward, obscuring the sun and leaving a sweltering, ashen haze in its wake.
Edward Leone, Nathan Leone and Sullivan the Overseer supervised the workers from horseback. They were stern taskmasters. Edward Leone had a timeline for clearing this field that brooked no consideration for its human toll.
They’d already felled sixty-two trees along the waterline since Monday week. Balaam the mule either dragged the trunks to the center of the field to be burned or, if the wood was deemed usable, to the far edge of the field to be dried and processed later.
The cypress stumps were something else altogether. They couldn’t be burned out—both the trunks and the underlying land were too moist. They had to be chopped out by the roots.
Many of the tree roots harbored swamp life. It wasn’t unusual to come across water moccasins or coral snakes under these stumps. These venomous creatures posed no danger to the white men on horseback. The black men hoiking around in the mud, however, were in deathly fear of these snakes—and for good reason. A single bite from either of the named species was almost certainly lethal. There was no antivenin to be had. The victims of such bites just had to hope and pray that their own healthy constitutions would tide them thru the bite’s deleterious effects.
And yet when the black men jumped back en masse at the discovery of one of these creatures, out came Master Edward’s whip.
“GIT BACK IN THERE, YOU BLACK BASTARDS!!! GIT TO IT!!! GIT THAT STUMP OUT OF THERE!!!”
Crack!!!!
It was Sullivan who cracked the whip at the behest of his employer, though Meshach noted that more and more of these orders came directly from his friend Nathan Leone.
Meshach was parched. So was his good friend Duck Watkins. They’ve been at it without a break since six that morning.
“MASSUH NATHAN, SUH!! PERMISSION TO USE THE BATHROOM, SUH!!!” Meshach yelled out, as Master Edward demanded of all his slaves during the workday.
Nathan responded in the pure language of the masters, as his father had taught him.
“YOU FINISH THIS STUMP HERE, NIGGER. IF YOU CAIN’T WAIT, YOU PEE YOUR PANTS. We ain’t got time to hold up production and wait on you to pee. You should-a thought about that before we left home!”
Meshach swallowed hard and re-doubled his efforts. He didn’t hold this stern language against Nathan. It’s how all white people talked when they were around other white people, he figured. It was something peculiar to the genre.
When the little team finally succeeded at hoiking the stump from the mud, Meshach moved off to empty his bladder.
“WHAR YOU GOING, THAR, SHADDY? WHO TOLD YOU TO GO ANYWHAR?”
Crack!!
“YOU GIT BACK IN THAR UNTIL I TELL YOU TO GO PEE!!!”
Crack!!!
Nathan glanced over at his father, who nodded approvingly. Edward Leone reined his horse about and galloped away.
Nathan had this crew under control.
Just before sundown the exhausted slave work crews came stumbling back to the farm, escorted by the overseer, Mr. Sullivan. Edward and Nathan Leone had long since fled the field. In fact, the two men were just now finishing up dinner at the family’s backyard table. Nathan rocked his daughter Abby on his knee. The child gurgled happily along. Aisleen and her sister-in-laws chatted quietly. A host of slave girls, including Zelma and Lizzie, attended to the needs of the white diners.
Meshach and Duck trudged up to the line of black men waiting at the water pump. Each man was encrusted in mud, sweat and bug bites. If it were possible to be more exhausted and hungry, neither man was willing to admit it.
When their turn at the pump came, both men doused their heads in the cold water, scooping handfuls of it up to rinse their armpits and extremities. This accounted for a mid-week bath. Meshach washed cakes of mud from his boots. Duck didn’t have boots at all, only a pair of open-toe sandals. The two men looked at each other wearily. Tomorrow was another day…of this.
Entirely soaked now, Meshach and Duck slogged off for home. Maybe there was some food waiting for them at home, maybe not. If not, certainly one of the dinner attendants would have the foresight to steal something from the Leone table and sneak it down to them. Meantime, the thing was to get out of these wet clothes.
As the two men sauntered up to barn, Duck glanced up at the feasting white family whose wealth derived from his labor. Josephine Leone caught his eye with a furtive hand gesture. Meshach didn’t see it, nor was he expecting it.
But Fiona Leone certainly saw it. Knowing little about the new cock-of-the-walk, Fiona assumed the signal was intended for and received by Meshach.
Duck groaned, though, at being thus selected. He was TIRED, with a capital T. Maybe he could pretend he hadn’t seen it. Yeh, that’s it. “I missed the signal.”
But Duck knew that would probably just mean a different form of trouble. WOMAN trouble. WHITE woman trouble. DANG!!
Well, maybe he could scarf something down now and get a few hours sleep before his command performance later that night at the behest of the Leone daughters. The two black men trudged onward.
Arriving, now, at the slave quarters Meshach and Duck parted ways.
“See you in de mornin’, man.”
Meshach lay down on his bed intending to get just a bit of shuteye before Lizzie or Cora brought him something to eat. Man, he was tired! There was still another ninety minutes of daylight left. The Leones were already done eating. It might take the black girls about a half hour to clean up after the Leone’s. Then Meshach would have his pick of their leftovers.
He closed his eyes and dozed off. Seconds later, it seemed, he was roughly rousted awake. Now it was pitch black outside. Who the FUCK…?
Fiona Leone was standing over him in the darkness of his cabin. Jeez, what time was it? He rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“I saw that little signal. I know what you’ve been doing with my daughters.”
This brought Meshach fully awake. He leapt to his feet, looking beyond Missus Fiona for the armed white male compatriots that he KNEW waited outside his door. He was shocked to see no one there. She’d come alone. Still…WHAT the FUCK???!?
“Missus Fiona!! I don’t know WHUT you talkin’ about!! I DON’T!!!”
“Save it, Shaddy. I ain’t no fool.”
Now genuinely afraid, Meshach resorted to the mewling slave lingo that typified much of slave parlance when addressing whites. It was the language of mollification.
“No ma’am!! No ma’am!!! It wasn’t me, ma’am!!! I was just gittin’ a bit of sleep ma’am!!! I don’t know what you’se sayin’, ma’am!!!!”
“HUSH!! Just hush!! I tole you, I ain’t no fool. You been puttin’ your nigger dick in my daughters. I know all about it.”
“NO MA’AM!! I NEVER!!!!!”
“I SAID SHUSH!!! If you say another word I’LL SCREAM!!!
This threat brought Meshach up short. Fiona’s scream would be the worst that could happen.
She continued: “Now. I saw the signal. I don’t want you to go up there tonight and I’ve got my reasons! I’ve held my peace this long. I can hold it a bit longer. But I don’t want you to go up there TONITE. Or ANY time between now and the wedding. YOU HEAR ME??”
Meshach was confused. He certainly knew of the signal she’d mentioned. But he really hadn’t seen any signal. He wasn’t planning a late night visit to the Leone girls. Her accusations were so much gibberish on that account. But the threat to reveal his assignations with the Leone daughters was real. This might be his last night on earth.
Fiona continued: “If you sneak up there tonight, I’ll be waiting when you come out the door. And it won’t just be me a-standin’ there. DO YOU HEAR ME?”
“YES’M!! YES’M!!!”
Fiona paused dramatically for effect. She flashed her eyes at the frightened young man. If he could have peed himself, he would have.
Satisfied that her message had been delivered, Fiona turned to leave. She stepped to the door but then paused, seeming to think better of it. She turned and stepped back to Meshach.
She pushed his pantaloons down and pulled out his cock. It flopped heavily against her palm and wrist. Meshach could not have been more astounded, considering the conversation that had just taken place. She examined his cock dispassionately, making a few mental notes about its dimensions and scent. She stroked it a bit.
Then she dropped it flat.
“Hmmmmph” was her parting word.
Meshach was frightened well past the point of panic. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that his friend Duck had intercepted and responded to the “signal”. AND!! If Missus Fiona knew about the “signal” then she also must know about the late night visits. She KNEW!!! She wasn’t lying!! She wasn’t bluffing!
But if she knew, how long had she known? Why hadn’t she said anything before now?
All these questions raced through Meshach’s mind in the frantic moments after Missus Fiona’s unexpected visit. Surely, now, the whole thing was bound to come out. The very next late night visit to the Leone daughter’s room Meshach expected to see the towering figure of Edward Leone, Overseer Sullivan and some of their armed confederates.
DUCK!!!! He HAD to warn Duck not to go up to the big house!!!
Meshach burst from his cabin and raced over the Duck’s home. Without bothering to knock, he bolted inside. The cabin was empty
.
DUCK WAS ALREADY GONE!!!
It was true. As Missus Fiona was putting the Fear of Gawd into Meshach, Duck was putting the Joy of Dick into Beth and Josephine. He’d arrived just moments after Fiona Leone surreptitiously slipped from her bedroom on her mission of intimidation. Neither of these late night prowlers suspected the existence of the other. Fiona was so sure that Meshach was her target that when she found him at home she was convinced that she’d succeeded in nipping that night’s tryst in the bud. It never occurred to her that another black man might be abed with her daughters.
She was wrong.
As Fiona sneaked down to the slave quarters, Duck Watkins had BethAnn Leone stretched out on her bed, legs widely askew, impaled upon monster cock. She came quickly and gratefully under his avaricious assault. Duck was not done. He fucked her savagely throughout her orgasmic recovery phase. He fucked her into and over another plateau phase. As she thrashed wildly thru her second quaking climax, in another part of the farm BethAnn’s mother was fondling Meshach’s dick with casually feigned disdain.
In the other bed, Josephine looked upon her sister’s flailing subjugation with bated breath, masturbating furiously. And as Missus Fiona wended her way home from Meshach’s cabin, Josephine too was silently crying out her passion under the fierce thrusting of Meshach’s partner in crime. She chose the missionary position in deference to her sister’s demonstrated fecundity. Joey usually liked getting fucked from behind.
In the midst of Josephine’s screeching orgasm, the unexpected sound of an errant porch footstep brought the copulating couple up short. They stopped fucking immediately to listen for the next footfall. It didn’t come. What DID come was the sound of the great outdoors. Someone had silently opened the front door and closed it. With the right sort of ears, the great outdoors pours a concert of nighttime sounds into edifices where no sound ought be. Whippoorwills, crickets, bats. All these sounds flooded the home, then suddenly quieted.
Someone had entered and hurriedly tried to mask their entry by closing the door shut.
Duck and Josephine, conjoined at the genitalia, clinged to each other in fright. Who could it be?
Duck had more cause to be frightened than she. He was on the verge of climax. Normally he could easily restrain himself, but the fear of the intruder accentuated his angst. If Miss Josephine moved, even by just the slightest degree, the friction would cause him to pour his jism into her foamy snatch.
There!! Another errant footfall!! Someone was in the front room. Josephine twitched.
In that same instant, Duck’s jism flooded her pussy—in direct contravention of the Non-Cuminpussy edict.
Josephine was aghast!! How could it happen at a time like this!!! Someone was in the anteroom!!! And now she was sloppy wet with hot nigger seed!!!!
This realization splashed ice water on her ardor. She pushed him aside with real horror in her eyes.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!!!” she mouthed in real anguish.
Duck was genuinely sorry.
“I…I….I’se sorry, Missus Joey!!” he managed to whisper.
She slapped him across the face. Hard. She slapped him again.
“Beth!! BETH!! You gotta go see who it is!!” Josephine whispered fiercely.
“ME?!? WHY ME?”
“LOOK AT ME!!!!” Josephine fairly shrieked. She opened her legs wide.
In the dim light, BethAnn could see that Joey’s poochipap fairly dripped with milky semen. It poured from her snatch in a gushing flood of golden ooze. Beth looked over at her sister in horror.
Thinking quickly, Beth offered Josephine the damp wash cloth that she’d just used to wipe out her own pussy. Josephine took the rag gratefully. She did her best to eject Duck’s ejaculate. Beth ordered Duck to scoot up under the bed.
Beth rose and put her ear to the bedroom door. She detected no sound.
“Maybe it was Hank!!! Joey!! Maybe it was Hank sneaked off to the nigger quarters!!”
Josephine brightened.
“Yes!! That’s probably who it was!! An’ he’s just come home now.”
“You think is was Hank? You don’t think it was Pa?”
“Whether it was Hank or whether it was Pa. As long as it wasn’t Ma.”
“Why would Ma be out this time of night?”
This question posed a new realm of unpalatable possibilities.
“Beth!! Look out there!!!”
BethAnn steeled herself. Someone had to check.
Beth took a deep breath and peeked out. She looked both ways. The little cabin appeared empty.
“Joey!! It’s empty!!”
“You sure?”
“Come look for yourself!!”
Josephine popped up bravely. She poked her head out further the door to get a better look. No one was there.
Fiona, now laying next to her sleeping husband in bed, heard her daughter’s door crack open. DAMN THAT NIGGER MESHACH!!! HAD SHE NOT JUST TOLD HIM TO STAY PUT?!?!?
She bounced up from bed and poked her head out of her own door.
“Josephine!!”
Joey snapped her head about.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP AT THIS HOUR!!” Fiona snapped.
“MOM!! I….I…heard a sound. I was just checking….”
Fiona was relieved. Meshach could not have gotten into Joey’s bedroom so quickly without making any noise on the clapboard flooring.
“Child, that was me. I’d forgot to do something and I got up and done it. I went out and come back. You ain’t heard me leave? WHY are you awake anyway?”
“Oh Ma!! You know I ain’t been able to sleep since Bobby pinned me. I hear everything.”
“Well, go on back and lay down. Everything’s OK.”
It was an hour before Josephine felt comfortable enough to shuttle Duck from her bedroom.
Meshach waited in Duck’s hovel until his friend returned from his rendezvous with the Leone daughters.
“DUCK!!! OH, DUCK!! SHE KNOWS!!! SHE KNOWS!!!!”
“’SHACH!! What’chu doin’ here? Who is ‘she’? Knows WHUT?””
“THE MISSUS!! MISSUS LEONE!!!”
“WHUT!!!??”
“She come to my place. She knows de signal. She SEEN it. She thought I was goin’ up to dere tonight. She told me NOT to go up there tonight or, she said, she ‘uz gon’ TELL. SHE SAID SHE KNOWED I’SE BEEN GOIN’ UP DERE FOR SOME TIME!!!”
“OH LAWDY!!! I ‘uz up there when she come down to see you!!! We heard her when she come back to de house!!! She said she ‘uz just out on some errund. NOW I SEE WHAT ‘UZ REALLY HAPP’NIN!!!! WHUT WE GON’ DO, ‘SHACH!! WHAT WE GON’ DO!!!”
“HUSH!!! I reckon it’s me she thinks ‘uz gwine go up there. I reckon she must don’t know ‘bout you. You ain’t de one dass in trouble. It’s ME.”
“’SHACH, you know dey gwine axe the gulls ‘n de gulls gwine tell’m about me. I ain’t gwine git outta ‘dis dat easy. WHAT WE GON’ DO!!!”
“Duck. We might has to run.”
“Run?!? RUN WHERE? De onliest where I knows of is around here. We might could try to git over to de river and head north. But I don’t know how to float no boat. ‘N neither do you!!!”
“DUCK!! Calm down!! Lemme think!!!
Duck had some more news for his friend.
“’Shach, ummmm, sump’n else happened.”
“What’s dat?”
“Ummmm….I jizzed up in Joey. By accident.”
“YOU FOOL!!! YOU FOOL!!! I TOLE YOU NOT TO GIT JAMMED UP WIT’ DEM HO’S!!! AIN’T NARY ONE O’ DEM GULLS WOULD SPIT ON YOU IF’N YOU ‘UZ ON FIRE. What’d she say? Did she call her Pa? ‘Cause I just reckon that’s what she would do. Call her Pa n’ say you raped her. YOU STUPID!!! Boy, YOU’SE a IG’NANT nigga.”
“I couldn’t he’p it, ‘Shach. I was right dere ‘n den her Ma come in an’ she moved ‘n I couldn’t he’p myse’f.”
“We ‘gon has to run, Duck. That’s all it is. We done talked about ‘dis. We gon’ has to run.”
Back in Josephine’s bedroom, both Leone daughters awaited the coming of the dawn. Josephine had to bathe at the break of dawn—not one minute later. She had to wash her pussy out with lye soap. She had to get it all the way up there, too.
The dilemma they faced was coming up with a REASON for this mid-week bath. She’d just bathed on Saturday. Today was Wednesday. Why would she need a full bath so soon after? Why wouldn’t a wipe down do?
Both daughters dreaded the questions and the sidelong glances that would redound from such an unplanned bath. The girls lay awake in their bunks, cogitating.
“JOEY!! I GOT IT!!!” Beth whispered excitedly.
“Got what,” Josephine responded with a desultory sigh.
Josephine was past worry. She was sure that she was already pregnant.
“We’ll get up early. I’ll go git some molasses and make like I accidentally fell and poured it on you.”
“’Lasses don’t pour, Bethy. Leastways not that fast it don’t. But that ain’t no slouch of a idea!! Let’s don’t use ‘lasses. Let’s use EGGS!!!”
“OH! JOEY!! That’s better!!! Eggs!!!”
“Yes, EGGS. The morning eggs. ‘N I’ll put on my flimsy dress and you ‘kin git her all wet. And then I’ll have a reason to bathe.”
“Oh, its great!! And here I was worrying how we ‘uz gon’ play it off!!”
“Bethy?”
“Yeah?”
“If you mash up all the eggs, what’ll we eat for breakfast?”
“Would you rather eat? Or would you rather answer questions about nigger taint? Start thinking like a white woman, girl!”
The first sliver of sunlight found BethAnn gathering eggs in the henhouse. Normally, this was Fiona’s job, after which she would waken her grown children. Hank, now 19, was her most difficult charge. He was known to sneak nigger girls up into his loft; recently he’d been seen sniffing around with Zelma, the house servant.
BethAnn and Josephine had not slept. They wanted to be sure to awaken before their mother so that the egg “accident” only had two witnesses. Their plan went off as they’d discussed. By the time Fiona dressed and stepped out of the house, Zelma and Josephine had already lit fagots under the bath basin. Joey hung out her soiled dress as proof of Bethy’s malfeasance.
Still early, Master Nate was marshalling his slave crews over by the barn. The black men struggled forth from their homes in their daily litany of hopelessness. They washed under the pump, as they had the prior evening. Sullivan offered them up communal wooden buckets full of hot slop—pig fat, grits, old biscuits, chicken necks and backs, a few vegetables. The slaves used ladles to scoop up mouthfuls of this nutritionless garbage. For most, it was all they would eat until the evening.
The big house sat between the barn and the Leone backyard. One could see both the barn and the backyard from the water pump, however. Edward Leone stood over the water pump as the black men performed their morning ablutions. He always did this. Of late, his son Nathan had assisted him in this guard duty.
Duck and Meshach eyed the white men warily. If they knew anything they certainly would betray this knowledge in their bearing. White men could never hide their passion for exclusivity their women, especially where black men were concerned. When the Leone masters paid no attention to the two black men they were flummoxed. Did the white men know? Did they have some monstrous reprisal awaiting the two blacks once they got to the fields? What might it be?
The early morning chill showed the lines of black men hugging themselves and stamping the ground for warmth. Soon enough the Louisiana sun would blaze forth and the ragged clothing that failed to warm them now would become burdensome fur overcoats.
The water pump wash line trickled empty. The last of the slaves wolfed down his slop. Shortly, Sullivan would organize the lines and the march to the fields would commence.
At this moment Meshach remembered his canteen. He’d washed, but he’d forgotten to garner a supply of water for the day. Not waiting for Sullivan to snap out the marching orders, Meshach raced over to the pump, a sixty-yard romp.
Upon arriving, he grabbed the pump handle. He was just getting ready to refill his canteen when a stentorian voice rang forth.
“NIGGER!!!! STAND WHERE YOU ARE!!!!”
It was Edward Leone. Standing behind him was his daughter Josephine, naked, as she stepped from a bed sheet and raced for the washtub. If Edward hadn’t shouted, Meshach never would have seen her. Even so, he’d only seen her backside.
“NIGGER!!! DON’T MOVE!!!!”
The other slaves heard these commands, but had no view of their source. The big house blocked their view. Nathan was among those standing at the barn. He wondered after his father’s gruff tone. Something was definitely wrong.
Meshach was confused at being thus singled out. He froze, as ordered. Yet, his instinct told him to run.
(“It’s time,
Shaddy. This is the best chance
you’ll get, Shaddy!! Down to the
other side of the spring, Shaddy.
RUN!!!”)
Edward Leone rumbled up the grassy slope towards the water pump, rifle in hand.
(“You can
outrun that bullet, Shaddy!! DODGE LEFT AND RIGHT!! RUN!!!!”)
Meshach quelled his rising hysteria. He hadn’t done anything. Why should he run?
“NIGGER!!! GIT DOWN!!! GIT DOWN ON THE GROUND!!!!”
Edward Leone pointed his rifle at Meshach. Meshach raised his hands in surrender. He knelt and lay facedown on the ground.
Now Leone stood over him.
“THIS HERE NIGGER HAS JUST VIOLATED A NAKED WHITE WOMAN!!!!”
Nathan ran up. His eyes widened. He’d personally had watched Meshach leave the pack, running with his canteen in hand. His intent was evident, which is why neither he nor Sullivan intervened.
“Daddy!! What happened?!?”
“THIS NIGGER RAN OVER HERE TO CATCH A PEEK OF YOUR SISTER IN HER BATH!!!”
Nate looked down at Meshach incredulously. How could he have known Joey was naked back there? Meshach looked up from the ground helplessly. In his rage, Edward Leone kicked Meshach directly in the face, breaking his nose, busting his lip, shattering a tooth and opening a huge gash in his cheek. Meshach screamed. Edward Leone kicked him in the face again, breaking the orbital of his eye and rendering him unconscious.
A stabbing pain in his face brought Meshach instantly awake. He was tied off between two whipping posts. His arms and legs were extended at forty-five degree angles to his body. He hung there naked, with his flaccid, uncircumcised penis dangling straight down. His whole body was aloft, hanging there in the shape of an X, raw meat primed for the execution of the white man’s justice.
Meshach screamed in fright and, yes, rage. Blood from his facial injuries slickened his torso. Those same injuries ballooned grotesquely, rendering his face unrecognizable.
All of the slaves from this morning’s incident were uncomfortably milling about. It was early evening. Meshach had been hanging aloft between the whipping posts all day while the other slaves worked. Horseflies and other stinging insects gorged themselves on his blood. True to his prediction, neither of the Leone daughters had given him a second thought as they went about their daily chores. Only Aisleen Leone cast admiring glances at the young black man’s naked virility.
Edward Leone stepped up to address the crowd. He wielded a shiny blackish brown bullwhip in his rough-hewn hands. He circled Meshach, observing the damage he’d wrought earlier. Master Leone cleared his throat, paused dramatically and then got straight to the point.
“Whut we have HEAH is a BAD NIGGER. It ain’t no shawtage of ‘em. I have pleaded. I have begged. I have allowed this NIGGER heah to befriend and ‘sociate with my firstborn son. I have bent over backwards to help this nigger. BUT I HAVE NOT SUCCEEDED. This NIGGER has SPIT upon my gracious forbearance of his racial…in-fear-ority. AND NOW THIS NIGGER MUST BE SHOWN THAT THE WHITE MAN IS NOT TO BE MOCKED. I want you people, my GOOD niggers, to watch and see what happens to BAD NIGGERS like this’n. Nathan?”
Nathan Leone stepped forward. His father handed him the bullwhip and stepped back.
Nathan started into his punitive diatribe. He’d spent all day practicing.
“SHADRACH!! MESHACH!! A-BAD-NIGGER!!!! YOU!!! HAVE VIOLATED MY SISTER, A WHITE WOMAN OF THE LEONE TRIBE!!!!!
SHADRACH!!! MESHACH!!!! A-BAD-NIGGER!!!! YOU!!!! MUST!!!! PAY!!!!!!!!
With that Nathan Leone began to whip his erstwhile friend. He paused dramatically between each blow to marshal his righteous indignation at Meshach’s godawful sin. Each blow sliced Meshach’s back open with the precision of a fresh straight razor. The black man’s shrieks of agony did little to mitigate the blows. Five, ten, eighteen lashes. Meshach endured all this. As the beating continued, Shaddy drifted in and out of consciousness. The later blows fell upon already open wounds. His back was a mish-mashed crisscross of jagged white meat.
And thru all this, Shaddy’s fear hardened into…hatred.
After thirty lashes, Nathan Leone stepped back. He handed the bullwhip to his father, who then administered a gratuitous lash for himself. Meshach hung there limply like a beaten side of beef. His head hung limply on his chest. Blood dripped from each of his extremities.
Lizzie, Cora and other members of Meshach’s harem agonized over each blow. Tens of women in the crowd stood and cried unabashedly for the boy. When the punishment was over a crowd of blacks rushed to take him down. Edward Leone barked them back.
“LET HIM STAY UP THERE OVERNIGHT!!” the massuh thundered. “If he’s alive in the morning, you can have him then. Not one of you rushed to help my daughter when this nigger was eyeballin’ her with his lustful nigger glare. What has Josephine done that you sympathize with this useless nigger over my daughter’s righteous womanly virtue? Let him hang!!”
As the night subsumed this dreadful day on the Leone Farm, only Duck, Lizzie, Cora, Lize, Morty, Zelma, Andra and Seth remained steadfast for Meshach’s vigil. One by one the slave cadre drifted away. A beating such as this happened once or twice a year here. Edward looked forward to these incidents. He viewed them as cautionary tales. Indeed, he used such draconian measures artfully as a means of keeping his slaves in their place. Black fears at his arbitrary abuse of power kept the whites in charge. Otherwise, one day the blacks might know that they outnumbered the whites on this farm. And then?
Too, this day Edward had asked his son to administer punishment for the first time. It was yet another part of Nathan’s training. To Edward’s mind, Nathan had performed admirably. If he would beat his own friend like this, how much more so would he beat these other slaves with which he had little attachment?
All in all, according to Edward’s reasoning, this had been a banner day.
Meshach might beg to differ. Beating aside, the entirety of his body weight was being supported by his shoulders and wrists. The tight roping burned the skin on his wrists and ankles raw; in the former case the rope cut almost down to his arteries. The cuts from his beating ultimately cost him over a liter of blood.
Meshach was dying. Only his rage at being thus mistreated animated his spirit.
By and by Meshach’s supporters dwindled until only Lizzie remained. Meshach gave her no notice. He was focused on the cold, hard core of his hatred. And yet, in his spirit, he knew she was there, alone, sitting cross-legged before him on the grass.
She slept in fits and spurts. Each time she awakened she scoured her man for signs of life. Meshach’s head hung limply. He blood continued its steady drip from the tip of his hanging penis. It was the most horrible night of Lizzie’s young life, a life that included any number of savage, childhood rapes at the hands of her various white owners.
Around five a.m. Duck returned. Then Lize and Morty. Then Cora and Andra.
At the very first sign on light, Duck ran to the whipping posts and released Shaddy’s restraints. He lowered his friend to the ground. Morty bolstered his body, becoming covered in his blood. Duck hoisted Shaddy’s body over his shoulders and took him home.
Lizzie and Cora made up his bed with such bedding as they could muster. Duck laid him down face first. Lize and Andra supervised Lizzie and Cora in tending to his wounds. They washed him clean with bucketfuls of fresh water. They bandaged him where they thought it beneficial. They offered cold water up to his lips. Only this drew any reaction from Shaddy. Still unconscious, Shaddy suckled like a newborn baby at any water presented. In this wise they knew he was still alive. The shattered nerve endings in his back seemed immune to further pain.
It took six months for Meshach to recover fully from this debilitating beating. He missed the Leone daughter’s wedding and the raucous celebration afterward. He never got the chance to meet Bethy’s beau, Franklin Jefferson. He missed Abby’s first toddling steps. Fortunately, too, he missed the final clearing of the lower twenty acres.
Lizzie missed these things, too. She spent every free waking moment at Meshach’s side. She tended every scar, made note of every health progression/digression.
It took two weeks for Meshach to awaken from his original coma. When he finally came to he was ravenous. It was Lizzie who noted his precipitous weight loss during his incapacitation and wisely parceled out the healthy foods necessary for his recovery. She collected fresh berries. She stole fresh peaches and fed them to him in bits. She collected small portions of meat from the chicken necks and backs allowed to the slaves, added celery, peas, carrots and onions from slave gardens, and made him hot chicken soup. She brought him fresh fish. Lizzie was there each time he opened his eyes as well as when he closed them. Cora came and went. Zelma peeked in occasionally. Lizzie was the only constant.
Lizzie had been slated as a server at the Leone daughters wedding. She reported for duty, stole as many luscious victuals as she could and reported these back to her man. There were so many slaves coming and going that day she was hardly missed. Lize was in charge of the kitchen. When Lizzie went missing, Lize did her work and Lizzie’s work as well. She knew where to find Lizzie if she were needed.
On the night before her wedding, BethAnn’s itch consumed her. Truly, that night was the longest of her life She went to sleep at sundown, slept all night and awakened thoroughly refreshed at ten p.m. BethAnn sank back in her bed. TEN P.M.?? The morning would NEVER get here!!!
She was right. The two hours between ten and midnight seemed an age. The three hours between midnight and three a.m. seemed an eon of ages.
She remembered that she’d last scratched her itch with that damned nigger Duck on the night before that other nigger had gotten whipped. In her hubris, she didn’t even remember Meshach’s name. Shaddy’s life was as inconsequential as a fart in the wind.
BethAnn struggled to suppress the interminable heat waves wafting up from her groin. It was too late to call Duck up to her room. Yet there were still three hours to dawn!!! She was in HELL!!!! Sun up was an eon away!!
Beth fingered herself. She hunched on a pillow, dragging it O! so slowly back and forth between her thighs. She replaced one finger with two, then three, then finally her entire fist. Nothing seemed to sate the sentient desire burning in her loins.
Compelled by lust, Bethy made up her mind. Josephine was asleep. Beth was going to take care of this thing without her older sister’s help.
Fifteen minutes later she stood tremulously over Duck’s sleeping form in the solitude of his darkened slave shack. She went to touch him once, twice, thrice. Each time her better judgment got the better of her.
Not surprisingly, her sexual animus vetoed her reticence.
Duck awakened with a start. The ghostly figure standing above him in the dark was very real. It was that damned cracker BethAnn Leone. Duck looked past her to ensure that she was alone.
“What are you doing here, Miss Beth?” He did not bother to use his subservient voice.
“Duck!!” she mewled. “I need…..I need…YOU know what I need. I won’t get thru today without it!!”
She sounded like a junkie begging for a hit. Duck sensed the reason for her visit.
“I know what you need,” said Duck, mindful of his friend Shaddy.
He stood to face the woman. Unsure of how to proceed, BethAnn raised her hands and tentatively touched his breast, seeking to establish some sort of human connection before getting down to the business at hand. Duck raised himself up as if to decline her disingenuous play to his humanity. She gazed up at him in the darkness for an inkling, some clue as to how to move forward. She’d always depended upon Josephine to bring her nigger lovers. Now she was in the nigger’s den. A fire raged between her legs. Only the man standing before her could quench its sizzle. BethAnn didn’t have the key to get his motor started.
Duck didn’t move to embrace BethAnn. He stood before her as a steely, black incubus. Only the whites of his eyes showed the depths of his rage.
BethAnn remained oblivious to the pain she’d caused him by way of his friend. Neither Duck nor Meshach were really a human beings to her. Even now, Duck was only a means of satisfying her own primitive needs. She still didn’t SEE him. Duck knew this. When she got what she wanted from this late night assignation, she would leave Duck’s world and not look back—that is, until the heat in her groin compelled her to seek the solace of another thick, virile cock.
In all their prior engagements it had been Duck who’d willingly serviced the two Leone girls. It was he that sneaked into their bedroom, risking the wrath of the Massuh. He licked their unwashed pussies. He catered to their preferred fuck positions. He withheld his own ejaculate, keeping himself erect, making their pleasure the pre-eminent goal of his exertions.
Today, this was going to change.
BethAnn sensed a certain distance in him. He didn’t seem to be as subservient as she recalled. When Duck made no move to approach her, Beth realized that three hours till dawn is a lot less time than she’d originally estimated. She had to get this thing started, finished and then be back before the farm awakened.
She smiled up at him sweetly, seeking to change the dynamic. BethAnn lingered her fingers down to gauge the tension in the object of her desire. To her consternation, his dick was a thick tube of flaccid. She’d believed that mere proximity to a white girl was enough to engender burgeoning erections from even the most retiring nigger dicks.
This simply wouldn’t do, she thought. This nigger didn’t realize her time constraints.
Throwing reticence to the winds, she knelt before him. She pulled out his cock and sniffed it from end to end, luxuriating in its odor. This huge, lumbering beast piqued her lust. This was the smell leftover in her bed sheets, the odor that gave her succor and warmth during the long Southern nights. Many evenings would find her drawing this odor to her nose and, finding it, pressing the sheet with the strongest residual scent between her legs to mix congenially with her own vaginal aroma.
She took his penis into her mouth. He tasted like, well, he tasted like nigger. The heat in her loins flared gratefully.
Duck’s cock bloomed in her mouth, expanding obscenely into her esophagus. Beth choked on it. She hadn’t believed it could harden so quickly.
She withdrew from it to gaze upon her work. Duck’s cock raged before her like a wild thing, straight and strong, uncircumcised, black, with thick, varicose-like veins circumlocuting his shaft, pumping blood into his tissues.
“It’s magnificent,” was BethAnn’s only thought. “If only….”
This last thought was supplanted by Duck’s dick. Duck rammed it harshly back into her mouth.
Now Duck began to fuck BethAnn’s mouth as if it were a pussy. Holding her head in place, he’d withdraw fully only to plunge its entire length down her throat as far as it would go. Did he care if she gagged? He did not. BethAnn quickly learned to draw breath during his withdrawal phase. Upon insertion there was no oxygen to be had.
She blew him like this for a bit over a minute. Just as BethAnn felt she was getting a rhythm going, Duck blasted his cum into her throat. When she attempted to rear back from this unanticipated familiarity, he held her head in place, forcing her to swallow his seed.
He’d cum!!! He’d cum in her mouth!!! He’d cum already and her pussy was still an unquenched, steaming mound of broiling simmer!!! This wasn’t supposed to happen!! Now she had to wait until he got it up again!
Suddenly her three-hour window became decidedly smaller.
Beth was still kneeling before him nursing at his penis. Duck released her head to allow her to suckle properly. Beth could smell his jism mixed with her saliva in the thick folds of his foreskin. She knew that somehow she had to re-animate his pleasure pole. She hadn’t come down here just to enjoy the taste of a half-cup of jism. Her itch still consumed her.
Far sooner than she might have anticipated, Duck’s cock gave a little surge in her mouth. Beth was pleased. Only a few minutes before he’d cycled down from fully erect to clumsily flaccid in her mouth. And now he was cycling up again!! Maybe this time he’d be more considerate.
It wasn’t long before Beth was happily bobbing up and down on Duck’s erect dick. Soon she’d turn around and let him have a go at her vaginal heat. Hopefully, he could quench the biological imperative that compelled her. And then she could sneak home before Josephine awakened. That Josephine!! She was always…..
OOOOPS!!!!!
While BethAnn was lost in her musings, Duck had unleashed another sticky load of hot jism into her throat. As before, he held her head tightly, forcing her to swallow. Pressed for oxygen, she quickly gulped as much of his ejaculate as she might.
“DUCK!!! AGAIN ALREADY? WHAT’S AILIN’ YOU?” she gargled thru gulps of jism.
Duck betrayed no emotion. He folded his arms and looked down at her with neither shame nor embarrassment at these two quick summations. His cock was still semi-erect before her. It drifted the length of her face, from her crown to her chin, and even a bit further.
Beth was frustrated. He was doing this on purpose. Still, her need waxed high.
“Look, you’ve still got some hard left,” she said. “I’m gon’ put it up my cooch and make it all-the-way hard, OK? When it gits hard, I want you to put it in my ass. OK? Don’t come in my pussy. I’m gittin’ married today. OK?”
Duck didn’t respond.
Beth stood. She arched her left leg up to rest against one of the clapboard walls of the darkened little shack while balancing herself on one leg. Now she reached down between her legs to draw Duck’s semi-erect penis up to her clenching labia.
There was no question but that Beth’s lust drew from an overheated internal engine. Her pussy lips were feverishly hot. At the introduction of Duck’s dick they became hotter, preening for deeper insertion. Using her index finger and her middle finger, Beth stuffed his floppy dick inside her creamy pussy. His cock was lengthy, even though semi-erect.
Once inside, she gobbled at it greedily with her succulent pussy walls. She needed him to get hard. She couldn’t understand why he was being so selfish. He knew why she was there. Any other time his dick was reliable, sturdy and longwinded. Today he’d busted two nuts in less than five minutes. Why, it was enough…
“THERE!! That’s what I’m talking about!! He’s getting hard again!! I can FEEL it!!!” she giggled happily.
“Oh!! That’s
it! THAT’S IT!!! Oh, Duck!!!
Keep it right there for ten more seconds, just like that!! Then you can come in my ass!! Ten more seconds!! Just…”
Duck yanked her body away from its wall support. Gripping her by the hips, he began to fuck walk her around the little cabin. Each powerful thrust drove them forward like a two-person conga line.
Each time Duck thrust into her, Bethy’s engine purred. Shattering electric impulses sparked up from her pussy to explode in her musculature. Oh, it had been so long!!! She’d wanted this for SO long!!!
“Just TEN
more seconds and I’m there. Hold out,
Ducky!! Hold …. Oh!! SHIT!!!
Hit it hard…ONE TIME, UNGGH!!!!”
Beth’s orgasm blasted her into a world of eruptively gelatinous light and sound. She lingered manically in a carnal universe of pleasure, adrift from her mortal coil. She was a sexual spirit unbound from reality. The black piston roiling in her ass was…was…was….RECEDING?!?!?
Duck had cum yet a third time while Beth was blissfully enjoying her carnal universe.
“DUCK!!! OH NO!!!!”
She struggled to dismount him. Already she could feel a thick trickle of jism crawling from her behind.
“DUCK!!! STOP!!!! PULL OUT!!!”
But she found no apologetic look from Duck on this day. Oh no!! Instead of releasing her, Duck held her tighter, pressing his cock up into her pussy ever more insistently. She struggled, but he was stronger. And when she felt his erection building a fourth time, reality came flooding home.
She was being raped.
What could she do? How could she explain being here in his cabin at this time of day? SHE WAS WHITE!! That’s how she could explain it!! She was a white woman being raped by a nigger!!! And not just ANY ni-…..OH!! That felt good. And the nigger had….OH!!! That felt BETTER!!
BethAnn’s ever-present itch crowded in on her reason again. Even the slimy feel of his jism dripping from her twat tweaked her incessant sexual motor with sparks of nitro glycerin.
“Oh, gawd
help me!! I….I…..I like...., I….love….”
Duck fucked Bethy thru three more cyclic orgasms, each stronger than the one prior. He blasted his semen inside her pussy each time. After his first breach of the Non-Cuminpussy Rule, Beth reluctantly acquiesced to this undue familiarity. By the time he launched his final spiraling stream of schplunk into her, she was begging for his cum, pleading for it, roiling in it.
He fucked her doggy-style, from behind, standing up for the duration. When at last he could dredge not a single extra drop from his frosty nuts, the conjoined couple collapsed onto his little bed, exhausted. Beth’s motor was sated. They’d been at it for an hour. Now in the cool darkness of the early morn, a steamy mist rose wistfully from their cooling genitalia.
Beth whispered: “How long you been wantin’ to do that, Duck?”
“Do what?” he replied.
“You know, cum inside me like that. You weren’t supposed to, you know.”
“I dunno, Miss Beth.”
“If I get big, they’ll come for you.”
“I know. Will you tell them?”
She paused to consider.
“No. I probably won’t.”
They lay together in silence like this for more minutes than Bethy preferred to count.
“Duck?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I…I…I want you to do it to me like this again.”
“When? Youse gittin’ married, Miss Beth!! Youse movin’ away!!”
“I know.”
BethAnn pushed her bedroom door open as quietly as she could. She slipped inside. It was still dark out.
“You smell like nigger.” Josephine said, sitting alone in the darkness.
Beth started. She’d hoped her sister would still be asleep.
“I know, Joey. I had to do it,” BethAnn sighed. It was a confession.
Josephine shook her head.
“That pussy o’ your’n is gon’ git you into MORE trouble. You couldn’t wait one more day? This time tonight you’ll be married. ‘N you can git all the dick you want!! White man dick. The best kind!”
BethAnn stood there in the early darkness, saying nothing. There really wasn’t anything to say.
“Come here. Let me look at you.”
Beth stepped dutifully to her sister’s bed.
“Jeez, I can smell his cum in your ass”
It was incomprehensible to Josephine that Beth might have allowed a nigger to cum in her pussy. Not on her wedding day.
“Yeah.”
“Well fortunately for you, bof’-a us has baths scheduled for this morning before the company arrives. You gon’ git that nigger stink off-a you or my name ain’t Josephine McNulty!!
Beth chuckled. “Why are you awake?”
“I heard something. I got up and noticed you wasn’t about. I peeked out the door and seen you-know-who sneakin’ down the loft ladder.”
“Zelma?”
“Yep. She been up there doin’ it to Hank again.”
“How long’s that been goin’ on, now?”
“Oh, on and off for about a year now, I reckon. They been at it more since that other nigger got whipped for oglin’ me. Here, c’mere. Take this rag. Wipe that jizz out your ass. It’s stinkin’ to high heaven. Wipe your titties and your armpits, too. I cain’t take it.”
“Can you go git Zelma to start a fire under the washtub? Since she’s awake and all…”
“She already knows to do that today. We’se gittin’ married, remember?”
Both girls glanced wistfully at their wedding dresses hanging in opposing corners of the little room. The dresses arrived from New Orleans a week back. Each had been a perfect fit. The harelip did good work.
Franklin Jefferson and his entourage were scheduled to arrive at nine o’clock this morning. The McNulty’s, Stenstroms, Greens’, Harkness’ and various other guests would be here by ten. At ten thirty they all would sit down to a huge breakfast. The tables were already set out in the back yard. The Leone’s had spent the past several days decorating the home and the yard for the occasion. Even now the blacks were puttering about in the yard making final preparations. Any minute now Fiona Leone would be calling for them.
BethAnn didn’t bother to sit down. She was afraid that Duck’s scent would percolate into her sheets from her bottom. Since she was getting married she didn’t need to use the aromas in her sheets as masturbatory aids anymore.
She ran her mind back over her last day as a single woman. Less than an hour ago she’d been impaled on the biggest, juiciest sausage in seven counties. Ten hours from now she would be married to a man whom she’d never kissed, a man whose sausage dimensions were as unknown as his capacity for longwindedness. She had no way of knowing if that man’s penis was up to the rigors of her fevered motor. The only thing she was sure of is that, married or no, Duck was going to fuck walk her again. Soon. That much was certain.
And so the wedding day went forward. The Leone girls bathed and primped, powdered and perfumed. Fiona Leone would allow neither girl any exertion that might give rise to sweat. Eight-year-old slave girls were employed with fans to follow BethAnn and Josephine wherever they went. Both Leone girls were implored to walk slowly so as to avoid over-exertion.
Lize made their hair up after the latest fashion and garnished it with baby’s breath. Fiona peeked over Lize’ shoulders, offering interminable suggestions as she worked. Each strand of hair had to be absolutely perfect.
Finally, Fiona sprang her closely held surprise. She’d ordered colored lipstick such as the women wore in Paris. This was a luxury unknown in that region of America. It singled out the Leone’s as a family of rare and discriminating tastes. BethAnn and Josephine spent an hour applying and mis-applying the greasy substance before Fiona stepped in and straightened them away.
The Leone wedding held one faux pas that might have eliminated it from the ranks of European haute couture. Both Leone wedding dresses were Victorian classics from the period, covered to the ankles and wrists. Josephine’s dress was rather risqué in that while her neck and shoulders were daintily covered, her armpits were exposed. And so when she waved to friends or tossed the wedding bouquet, her bushy mass of underarm hair glared forth. While this wasn’t unusual in nineteenth century Louisiana, in Paris the oversight would have raised eyebrows.
The Stenstroms came and reunited with their daughter Aisleen. There were smiles and tears all around even though Aisleen saw her family every Sunday in church. The Stenstroms brought their Methodist neighbor Marlene Franz, much to Aisleen’s delight. Her discerning eye told her that Marlene had “hit it off” with her brother-in-law Hank at her wedding last year. This was her opportunity to play matchmaker.
Edward Leone only knew his prospective son-in-law, Franklin Jefferson, in passing. The two men had never held a frank conversation. Master Leone’s first in-depth conversation with the young man came over breakfast on the wedding day. Edward found Franklin to be serious-minded with a witty, sardonic sense of humor. When asked what he found most compelling about BethAnn Rene Leone, Franklin quipped “I am enamored of her flawless handwriting. Her diction is unparalleled.”
Fiona Leone, ever practical, wanted to know if young Franklin was prepared to counter BethAnn’s infernal southern racing motor. She didn’t think present company was the best group to broach the subject, however. She hoped that Franklin, surely a virgin himself, might trust her enough to broach the subject on his own, in private. She had a few suggestions prepared just in case he did.
Both Franklin and Robert McNulty Jr. were already dressed in their wedding best at breakfast. Their mothers hovered over them during the meal so that nothing inadvertently spilled. The Leone girls would not get dressed until the minutes prior to the actual vows.
Pastor Goins arrived in the early afternoon. He counseled both couples privately, blessed them, and then set about preparing for the ceremony.
At three p.m. exactly the services started. By three-thirty there were two less Leone’s in the world; there was one more McNulty and one more Jefferson, if one were keeping count.
The families partied and danced until just before sundown, when Edward Leone made a huge show of offloading Josephine’s luggage into Robert McNulty’s carriage and a similar show of offloading BethAnn’s baggage onto Franklin Jefferson’s carriage.
Freed now, of the burden of raising these two “old-maids” (the average woman married at fifteen in those days.), Leone let out a whoop and a second whoop. Then he passed out drunk in the grass.
In truth, the marriage of his daughters grieved him. He was a complex man.
Aisleen had been right about the spark between Hank Leone and Marlene Franz. During the ceremony they sat together, chatting excitedly. They continued this mutually exclusive behavior during the bridal party. No one noticed anything amiss when Hank got up and ambled off into the big house alone. Nor did anyone note Marlene’s sudden absence shortly thereafter.
When she returned to the party twenty minutes later one thing had changed. Marlene’s breath smelled of semen.
Lizzie listened to the Leone marital celebrations thru the afternoon heat. The Leone’s were really partying it up over there. There was music and food, song and dance. Lizzie was supposed to be working, but she’d sneaked away to tend to Meshach.
She sat by Meshach’s bed sopping sweat from his bedraggled dome. His broken eye was still obscenely closed and bloated. His busted lip had healed, as had the jagged scar across his cheek. His nose was still tender. The scars on his back were still a problem. It would be another few months before they healed enough for him to move about without wincing. Unknown to her, he had a rotator cuff tear that wouldn’t heal for almost a year.
The young man slept now. Lizzie had smouched a piece of cake, some buttered corn, a fried chicken breast and some fruit salad from the wedding feast. When Meshach awakened she would feed him these delicacies.
She rubbed his chest gently. Meshach was lying on his side to mitigate bedsores. When he awakened she would move him to his other side.
“Come on, Shaddy. You’ll be alright,” she coo’d.
She noticed a small bulge in his groin. Meshach was getting a reflexive erection. Lizzie smiled to herself. “This is a good sign.”
Curious now, she pulled his pantaloons down to let his dick pop free.
“I wonder how he can do this and still be asleep?” she wondered.
Then she had another thought: “Hmmmmm!! I might as well.”
She took his penis into her mouth and sucked until he achieved full erection. Shaddy was still unconscious. She didn’t want him to expend too much precious energy, so she suckled him gently, almost absentmindedly. This dick hadn’t broached a good pussy in months. It was due.
When he came in her mouth she lapped up his issue like an attending nurse. She was amazed at his volume of ejaculate. His eruption spurted like so much hot lava from a simmering volcano. It filled her mouth like a spigot fills a water balloon. She couldn’t gulp it fast enough; it spilled from the corners of her lips. Ten minutes passed before his penis crested, waned and finally subsided. She nursed him until he was drained.
Satisfied now, Lizzie eased his cock back into his pants. Meshach was still asleep.
“That ought to hold him.” she mused.
Lizzie resumed her vigil at his bedside.
With the marriage and exit of the two Leone daughters, Aisleen Leone became the primary female Leone voice on the farm, that is, after Fiona. Aisleen and Nate moved from their little addition into Josephine and BethAnn’s room, bringing little Abby with them. Hank remained in the attic loft.
Fiona now took Aisleen under her wing. She taught her daughter-in-law all the ins and outs of the Leone farm. She strived to give Aisleen a sense of belonging. It MEANT something to be a Leone. This was their place in the world. As Edward had taken Nate under his tutelage, Aisleen became Fiona’s project.
Too, Fiona openly wondered after her youngest son. How would Hank be spun off into the world? Would he stay at home and become Nate’s lieutenant? Or would he be forced to fend for himself?
Edward had an answer for that.
The Leone’s owned twenty acres of riverside forestland over in Catahoula Parish. It was undeveloped, save for a small, dilapidated cabin.
Edward now proposed to take Hank over to this cabin and help him build his own farm. The land was richly fertile. With a little assistance and some elbow grease (primarily from blacks), Hank could have his own farm.
Fiona praised this idea as comprehensively excellent. The Leone farm was running smoothly. Nate and Aisleen could run it easily; they were, after all, the primary heirs. Fiona suggested that she and Edward move to this new farm with Hank and a handful of slaves. From there they could get the youngest Leone child on his feet.
This idea may as well have come from Edward. He was about to suggest it. When his wife superceded him he lauded her idea as original.
Hank was a little skeptical. He was nineteen, almost twenty now. He lived a life of luxury on his own farm. Inasmuch as Edward was grooming Nate, Hank was free to go his way alone. His mother cooked his meals. He had any number of black girls at his disposal. Why move to some place where he had to actually work?
Of course, he didn’t articulate these objections. That would have been counter-productive.
When the idea was proposed to him he enthusiastically accepted.
Zelma Leone was, in the vernacular of the day, a quadroon. Her grandfather was white; her father was black. In fact, Zelma’s grandfather was Edward Leone himself. Edward’s father Thaddeus, the founder of the farm, introduced young Edward Leone to the joys of slave poontang as a teen. Edward subsequently impregnated a thirty-nine year old black woman named Rudine. Rudine bore him a daughter, Angelia.
Edward Leone never acknowledged Angelia as his daughter. This, too, wasn’t unusual. By far the vast majority of bi-racial children in the South had white fathers. It was common for these men to deny paternity. This was part and parcel of the “poontang” tradition in the American South. The children of such liaisons were only acknowledged with a wink and a smirk.
Some of these fathers appointed their bi-racial progeny easier lives as house servants. Some even quietly provided for them in their wills. Edward Leone planned neither of these things. His denial of paternity was his final word on the matter.
Edward had Rudine sold after Zelma’s birth. Rudine was nearing middle age; she was something of an embarrassment to the young man. Angelia was raised by Lize’s mother Savannah. Angelia and Lize were contemporaries.
When Angelia came of age, she bore a child by Larry Markham, a field hand from a neighboring farm. Zelma Leone was the outcome of that illicit tryst. She took her last name from her owner, not her father.
As usual, the event was only noted on Edward’s inventory ledger. Angelia, now grown, moved from Savannah’s place into her own cabin. Subsequently she bore another child with Larry. This child’s name was Phoebe. Phoebe was five years younger than Zelma.
When Zelma was nine, Angelia inadvertently stepped on a venomous serpent and was killed. This came as a shock. Edward’s complex set of moral values now compelled him to offer to purchase Larry so the man could raise his daughters. Larry’s owner refused to sell. Like Meshach and several other Negro orphans, Zelma and Phoebe now fell under Lize’ broad maternal wings. She mothered over the sisters until they could fend for themselves, though they continued to live in Angelia’s cabin on slave row.
Zelma and Phoebe served as house slaves for the Leone’s. In the morning when the field hands trudged off to the fields, both girls made her way up to the big house. They served at the pleasure of Fiona Leone, who made their days fairly crackle.
Lize was one of the very few that knew Edward Leone was Zelma’s grandfather. This meant that Edward’s other children—Nathan, Josephine, BethAnn and Hank—were Zelma’s legitimate aunts and uncles though she was older than most of them. None of Edward’s children knew of their blood relationship to Zelma. To them, it was a rumor spread by niggers. Any of their slaves caught mentioning it were whipped.
Indeed, even Zelma didn’t know of her relationship to the white Leone’s. Lize didn’t tell her. By the time Lize learned of Zelma’s surreptitious incestuous liaisons with the Leone boys it was too late. Lize merely expressed her stern disapproval of said liaisons. Zelma, who was just as hot-blooded as BethAnn, simply stopped telling Lize about the late nights spent with the Leone boys, her real life uncles, though both were younger than she. Zelma continued to mention her sexual relationships with Meshach and Duck; Lize didn’t seem to mind those assignations as much.
At the age of thirteen Zelma was forced into the southern poontang tradition. Often the scions of white families were initiated into the poontang tradition by mating with one of the family’s slave girls. In Zelma’s case Master Edward unleashed one of his older associates upon her. She’d been expecting it; indeed, Lize had warned her about it, even described it in detail.
When her time came Zelma was more curious than afraid. A forty-five year old white man took her virginity. She didn’t remember his name. He stank of chewing tobacco and sweat. His whiskers rubbed her raw; his teeth were brown. He was fat. There was nothing romantic or memorable about the experience. Zelma’s only recollection of the event was that it seemed excessively clumsy. Far from being her choice, this was something that Master Edward bade her do. She’d performed dutifully, as if he’d ordered her to feed the hogs. She’d seen Lize do the same. Afterward, the man gave Master Edward a small sack of coins and left.
Zelma’s second sexual experience happened the very next week. She remembered that experience because her partner was Nathan Leone, eighteen months her junior.
In an unusual breach of the poontang tradition, Zelma had been the aggressor. And though this experience had been even clumsier than her first encounter, Zelma decided that the sex wasn’t half bad. It certainly wasn’t as bad as Lize had suggested. Penile penetration took some of the edge off of the tension that rumbled up from her groin daily.
In this wise Zelma had a leg up on Josephine and BethAnn—she wasn’t bound by the patent religious hypocrisies of the whites. When she wanted to fuck, she fucked. If she got caught the consequences were few. Even a pre-marital pregnancy by one of the black female slaves was counted as an asset to the farm. As long as she was reasonably discreet she could hold trysts with blacks and whites alike.
Joey and Beth had to maintain the illusion of chastity. Although the three girls began their sexual careers at about the same time, the Leone sisters had to jump thru far more hoops in order to dissemble their passions. They couldn’t be caught alone in ANY room with an unrelated man, especially a black man. If they accidentally saw a naked male they had to pretend to be disgusted; it helped if they fainted away, whereas Zelma could keep looking and even take measurements.
“That’s a big ‘un, a REAL big ‘un. I reckon I’ll give him a try.”
And she would, too. She had her own place. The Leone boys had their own room. The wooded spring was always a viable option. Nate and Hank even built a tree house in the woods that served as a clandestine rendezvous point.
When Meshach turned eighteen Zelma began to notice him as a viable option. She was two years older than he. Two years is an eon between a sixteen-year-old woman and a fourteen-year-old boy. The gap closes a bit when the woman is eighteen. By the time the woman is twenty the gap is almost fully shut.
Zelma started the flirtation innocently enough. She laughed at one of his jokes. Next, she caught his eye as he was returning from the field and gave him the faintest hint of a smile. On another occasion she glanced at him coyly over her shoulder. When he acknowledged her glance she responded with the slightest little ass shiver. A girl could do no more.
When Meshach didn’t bite on any of these patented come-ons, she resorted at last to the brute force method. She complimented his swimming ability and lamented her ineptitude at same. If he didn’t pick up on THAT, he certainly WASN’T The One.
Fortunately, Meshach wasn’t dumb. He’d picked up on her first hint. This last attempt amounted to amateurish overkill.
Unfortunately for Zelma, Meshach’s dance card was full that week. He had the Leone sisters on tap. He had Cora. And he had a couple of grown women lined up. Zelma didn’t realize the full extent of Meshach’s harem.
Of course, the “Teach me how to swim” tease was a feint. Zelma knew how to swim. That flirty request was a bold invitation to have him meet her at the spring. It was an obvious booty call.
Meshach mentally scanned his sexual schedule. His Sunday morning was booked. His Sunday afternoon was booked, too. He asked Zelma to meet him at the spring on Saturday evening, knowing this to be a risky play because the Leone boys were known to frequent the spring on Saturdays. Plus, any evening tryst at the spring was fraught with danger inasmuch as venomous snakes were abundant. As one might imagine, Zelma was deathly afraid of snakes.
Zelma asked why they couldn’t schedule for Sunday morning. Meshach mumbled through a non-answer that implied he already had plans. Meshach offered the following week’s Sunday morning. Zelma said she’d think about it.
That night when Meshach sneaked back to his cabin after a ménage a trois with Josephine and BethAnn, Zelma awaited him in the dark.
“I’ve been here for hours,” she mentioned languidly. “Where was you?”
Meshach was taken aback by her unexpected presence in his hut.
“I was down t’ the spring waitin’ on YOU. You ain’t show up,” he lied.
“You’se a lie. You been up there wit’ them white gals,” she said matter-of-factly.
Meshach’s eyes got big. This was supposed to be the most secret of secrets. It wasn’t even to be suspected.
“NO I WASN’T. I ‘uz down at the spring, like I told you.”
Zelma sauntered over to him casually and freed his penis from his pantaloons. Without bending to examine, she inhaled its aroma.
“This don’t smell like pond. It smells like white girl. I washes dey clothes. I know what dey smells like.”
“I TOLD YOU I WASN’T UP DERE WIT’ ‘EM.”
Zelma smirked. She put his dick back in his pants, cocked her head sideways and folded her arms sassily.
They were at a standoff.
Meshach shoved her aside. “Gon’, girl. Git outta here.”
Zelma stood her ground. Meshach pretended to ignore her; he started shuffling around as if preparing for bed. Zelma tapped her foot expectantly. Meshach continued to putter nervously about. A rising tide of real anguish consumed him. No one was supposed to know!! NO ONE!!! If she told anyone…ANYONE…then….
Finally acknowledging defeat, he face-palmed. This was unbelievable!!
“Is you gwine tell?”
“Nope. You ain’t the only one doin’ it to ‘em.”
“‘Den why is you here?”
“I want you to teach me how to swim.”
“Tonite?!?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you said you’se afraid of snakes?”
Zelma stepped to him and pulled his dick back out.
“I ain’t afraid of THIS one.”
Thus Zelma added herself to Meshach’s rotation.
As the eldest of that generation of slave girls on the Leone farm Zelma exercised an unspoken hegemony over the other black girls. With age comes responsibility. Fiona Leone held Zelma responsible for a whole array of small tasks that precluded her from sneaking away. She would have liked to spend more time with Meshach during his recovery. Instead, that durn Lizzie encroached.
Zelma could easily have loud-talked Lizzie in front of Fiona Leone.
“Lizzie? Has anyone seen Lizzie? She ‘uz ‘POSED to be peelin’ onions!!”
Lize mean-mugged her into silence. Lize wasn’t giving Lizzie preferential treatment in the Shaddy competition. She just knew that Lizzie could be missed while Zelma could not. If Lize was on anyone’s side, she sided with Meshach. Someone needed to tend to the boy. Lizzie was best suited for the job.
This advantage frustrated Zelma. She’d shared Shaddy for going on four years now. She’d crowded out the older women from his rotation. Josephine and BethAnn were largely gone. Only Cora and Lizzie remained. Zelma wasn’t getting any younger. She sought exclusivity.
When was the last time she’d gone mano-à-womano with Shaddy sans her competition? Two? Three years back? Who came up with this “shared Sunday mornings” idea?
Oh, that’s right. She’d been the one who’d suggested it. At the time it seemed a good way to size up her competition. She had no way of foreseeing that a situation might arise where she couldn’t compete directly. Lizzie, as Meshach’s caretaker, was clearly in the catbird’s seat.
It just wasn’t fair.
Since Nathan’s marriage, Zelma had been spending more and more time in the attic loft with Hank. Once Aisleen joined the farm, she identified the black girls she believed were likely candidates for her husband’s lust. Zelma was so identified. So were Lizzie and Cora and Phoebe. Aisleen cozied up to each girl in turn and surreptitiously sniffed her. In every instance Aisleen decided that, yes, she could smell this pussy on Nathan’s dick (though she was wrong, at least, in Phoebe’s case). She’d given each girl pointed warnings about being caught with her husband. Not being content with just these stern warnings, Aisleen watched Nathan like a hawk.
When Zelma’s needs waxed high she knew she could turn to just about any man on the farm. She was a beautiful girl. She wasn’t high yaller as most bi-racial offspring tended to be. Rather, since her father was black and her mother bi-racial, Zelma was of a cinnamon hue, with soft, curly black hair, thick eyebrows and sensual lips more Mediterranean than African. She was shorter than both Lizzie and Cora though older than both. She had full breasts, an ample behind and short, muscular legs. In fact, Zelma was a little bow-legged, though not excessively so, a trait that caused incessant teasing by Lizzie, Cora and Phoebe. They pointed out that Zelma tended to waddle like a midget when hurrying along. Zelma was self-conscious about it. She didn’t find it funny when her friends mimicked her awkward stride.
This “defect” became of benefit when Zelma was in bed. She could lock her ankles around a man’s buttocks like a bowtie and fuck stridently from the inferior missionary position, holding her man in place as she serviced his dick from below.
On the night before the Leone sisters’ wedding, she’d been surprised to find both Nathan and Hank waiting for her in their loft bedroom. Apparently, Nate had succeeded in slipping away from his wife’s oversight. When Nathan asked her to “Do that dance that you people do”, she had no way of knowing Lizzie’s foreplay mechanisms. She tried to spontaneously make something up; it was clear that neither Leone scion recognized her tepid attempt.
Eschewing this charade, Zelma knelt and blew each of the young white men with such skill and dexterity that they soon forgot about dancing. Zelma gave Lizzie credit for her anal skills; she felt that her own oral skills were unparalleled. This night Hank and Nathan would have agreed. Zelma sucked dick like a champ. The Leone’s climaxed explosively, literally leaping into the air under the impetus of their lust, and hopping about like church penitents.
Hank collapsed onto his bed with his legs askew. Zelma waited until his breathing calmed before launching into another oral assault on his limp penis. This time she arched her ass up into the air and offered it up for Nathan’s purview as she sucked his brother’s dick. Nathan was spent, but he stood to the task. He rubbed his flaccid cock between the voluptuous folds of her protruding labia. Its heat and fragrance soon re-invigorated him. Once erect, he pushed forward into her slippery canal, eliciting a groan of relief from the black girl.
Nathan fucked Zelma from behind while she blew Hank. After five minutes the brothers exchanged places. Each of the Leone’s took turns inseminating the girl until huge blobs of jism plopped from her vagina like so much cake batter. Zelma came time and again. Each time she felt that her shattered sexual nerve impulses were spent she felt another hard dick making its way up her palpitating pussy.
If she’d had a shred of awareness about her, she might have heard the great outdoors permeating the big house as BethAnn came and went. Zelma had no such awareness. She was only aware of the great tube-like protrusions plumbing her throat and ass.
When the session concluded, both Zelma and Nathan had to sneak from the loft and scamper home. It was Zelma who left a trail of slimy jism leaking from her heels as it trickled sloppily down her thighs and calves. Lizzie, awake in Meshach’s cabin even at this hour, noticed Zelma as she passed.
Nathan cracked open the door to his little adjunct room with utmost care. His wife and daughter were sleeping therein. He tiptoed up to the bed, still using caution, and gingerly climbed in.
Aisleen was fully awake. She felt him snuggle up against her back. And as he pulled their covers about him she noticed the distinct fragrance of nigger pussy.
Aisleen pursed her lips in rage.
So the day came when Hank was to take charge of his own farm. Edward Leone packed up a caravan full of tools, lumber and various other supplies. Duck was one of eight slaves selected for the initial effort. Per Edward’s plan, they would level a three-acre plot for the homestead, using the resulting timber as planking for a barn. They would expand this initial plot in chunks; it was important to get a good crop in the ground early in the season. While working, they would hunt and fish for their meals; they had sufficient corn meal, salt and cooking oil for their needs. The intrepid pioneers brought along one horse, two mules and a pregnant sow. They even brought blankets so the slaves could sleep comfortably on the ground.
By now Hank had lost his lethargy for the endeavor. His mind was afire with possibilities. He was to be king of his own castle!!! No more living in Nathan’s shadow.
Maybe he could get the Franz girl to buy in to the idea.
Nathan Leone, too, was a part of Hank’s entourage. The plan was for Nathan to spend a week supervising the hardest part of the work while Mr. Sullivan kept watch over the Leone farm. Then Nathan would return home while Sullivan transitioned to Hank’s farm. Edward Leone would be with Hank the whole time. In this manner both Leone boys were party to Edward Leone’s succession planning.
Meshach was up and around by now. He had a wicked set of angry stripes on his back that he would carry for the rest of his life. Lizzie’s nursing kept these sores clean from infection. The scars healed into a series of ugly black keloids.
Too, Meshach’s left eye was still a bit puffy, still partially closed. His orbital bone healed more slowly than his back. His rotator cuff injury healed slower than that, preventing him from doing any heavy lifting.
Otherwise, the young man was in good shape. He’d gained back his early weight loss.
Two other outward signs remained of his trauma. First, his long recovery and his inability to exercise left his musculature a bit less chiseled. He wasn’t as imposing a specimen as he had been.
Second, his previously ready smile was now gone. In its place was a dolesome thousand-yard stare that gave no hint at the rage smoldering in his soul.
Meshach’s slave nature had been transformed. If he spoke three times a day, that was a congressional filibuster. He spoke to Lizzie, when he did talk, and to Lize when she demanded it.
Nathan Leone, who seemed so eager to apply the beating that sent Meshach into this introspective solitude, remained wary of his erstwhile slave. Once Meshach was up and about Nathan would come across Meshach on occasion. Meshach didn’t smile, nor did he scowl. He gave no inkling of insubordination, but he didn’t avoid Nathan’s gaze, either. He looked every man in the eye. He didn’t shift nervously from foot to foot, as was common among slaves. He didn’t smile or curry favor. His movements were slow and deliberate. The best way to describe him was “unencumbered with due servility”.
Nathan Leone avoided Meshach Leone whenever possible.
Master Hank Leone’s caravan trundled off to begin work on the Hank Leone Farm twenty miles distant. He had his father, his brother and the aforementioned slaves in tow. Fiona, Aisleen and Mr. Sullivan remained behind. Fiona planned to travel to the new farm with Sullivan by Monday week.
On the evening after their departure, Meshach sat down with Lizzie in his cabin. He was blunt.
“I don’ want you gwine up to de’ big house no mo’.”
Lizzie started. She was unaware that Meshach knew of her visits to the loft.
“No…mo’?” she hesitated.
“NO mo’. If deys wants you, let ‘em come down heah.”
“’N you won’t do nuthin’ to ‘em?”
“I’m-a do sump’n.”
“What?”
“You lemme worry ‘bout dat. Don’ axe no questions. ‘N don’ say nuttin’ to ‘em. If dey axe you to do sump’n, do it, ‘n git it over wit’. Don’t gi’n ‘em no cause to git upset wit’ you. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m-a tell Duck that youse my woman now. ‘N he’ll leave you ‘lone.”
She hadn’t been expecting this.
“Yo’ woman?”
“Yep.” he said matter-of-factly.
She dived across the room and gave him a soul-crushing hug, peppering his face with kisses. Yet even this explosion of affection didn’t bring a smile to Shaddy’s face. He remained taciturn.
“When you come up wit’ dat?” she smiled.
“I ‘uz woke de whole time. I knowed it was you tendin’ me.”
“What about Cora? What about Zelma?”
“I reckon dey gwine has to find some ‘un else.”
“You ain’t gon’ do it to ‘em no mo’?”
“Not is I can he’p it.”
“Just me?”
“Well….I got some things I gotta do. It don’ got nuttin’ to do wit’ you ‘n I don’ want you to git mad if you find out. I ain’t gwine tell you. You do what I axed you to do, ‘n I’ll do what I gotta do.”
“What if de boys axed me to come up to de loft?”
“What I say, woman!! I said NO!!! If dey come to YO’ house ‘n make you do it, thass one thang. If you go up to dey house ‘n do it on yo’ own, it’s another.”
Lizzie was so happy she was more than ready to accept his terms.
“When can I go tell de other niggers?”
“You ain’t gotta tell ‘em nuttin’. It ain’t dere business. We’ll go tell Lize. ‘N let de rest of ‘em find out by de wayside.”
Lizzie remained tightly embraced to her betrothed. She’d won!!! She’d actually won!!! The long nights spent by this man’s side actually meant something to him. There and then she made herself a promise: “I’m gon’ stand by him no matter what. It don’t mean nuttin’ if dey kills me. Dis is my place.”
Her prayer of gratitude was broken by his rising nature. She felt his dick creep up from his pubic mound, driving a wedge between her stomach and his. She reached down to caress it tenderly before looking up to gauge his intentions. Meshach’s thousand-yard stare remained imprinted on his face.
She embraced him tightly again, luxuriating in the pulse of the throbbing muscle sandwiched between them. Lizzie rippled her stomach muscles sensuously to signal her readiness to mate.
When Shaddy didn’t make a move in response to her unspoken invitation, Lizzie took it upon herself to move things along. She knelt to suck his dick. He’d called her “his woman!!!” This was the best tasting dick she’d ever sucked.
Lizzie palmed and squeezed each of his butt cheeks to encourage him to fuck her mouth more expressively. He might have become the strong silent type during his recuperation, but she needed him to fuck with enthusiasm. Taciturn lovers are terrible.
Meshach merely caressed her temples and ears tenderly as she blew him. He held her luminescent gaze. The sexual joy that used to beam from his eyes was now clouded by his realization of circumstance. He was no longer a boy. He was a slave without an ally in Louisiana. Getting his dick sucked was no longer the primary aim of his day.
Yet, he’d chosen this woman. She’d been faithful and good to him. Even now she was doing her best to give herself unto him, to please him.
Meshach bade her rise to her feet. Now he knelt and scooped her entire body up over his shoulders such that his head was between her thighs and her heels rested on his lower back. As he suspected, she wasn’t wearing any drawers.
Lizzie was astonished. Meshach was known for slangin’ dick, not lickin’ clit.
Meshach scooched her forward so that his nose pressed her clit. Perched atop his shoulders, Lizzie looked down at him incredulously. In all her days she’d never been mounted over a man from this position. Shaddy knew this. He gave her the faintest of smiles, which she appreciated even more than this sexual gratuity.
Now Meshach began to lick her pussy. He wasn’t real good at it, but Lizzie appreciated his effort. She knew he was doing this entirely for her. She did her best to guide him to the proper spots. Each time his tongue lapped against her clit she moaned her encouragement. Meshach quickly zeroed in on this target with his full attention.
The odor of her pussy aroused him, weaving its aphrodisiacal spell on his brain. He watched from close quarters as she puckered her pinkness to spray this intoxicating aroma into his nostrils. His dick, still swinging loose from his pantaloons, strived upward to merge with her scent, longing to luxuriate in it, to taste it, to marinate in it. It leapt and arched like a windblown storm lever.
The newly committed couple swayed tumultuously. Lizzie hung onto Meshach’s head for balance as he licked and sucked her fragrant hairy pussy.
When she was ready to come she jumped down from her perch and wrapped her vagina around his dick until he was fully immersed. Then she blazed her cum into his urethra and locked him tight inside her until her trembling muscles tensed, like a coiled spring, and burst anew.
“Shaddy?” she whispered breathlessly. “Lick me some mo’. Lick my coochie real soft. I…like…I like when you do dat. ‘N you ain’t did it ever befo’ today.”
She lay back on his bed expectantly, raising her legs open to him. Meshach knelt before her and serviced her needs as patiently she had cleansed his wounds. When she asked for head he gave it. When she asked for dick he gave that. Having been celibate for the entirety of his rehab (except for a few times at the big house with the Leone boys), Lizzie’s sexual appetite was voracious.
They fucked and sucked for two solid hours before Lizzie realized that Meshach had yet to spill his seed.
“Shaddy? Honey? What you waitin’ for?”
“Nuttin’. I’se waitin’ on you. You ready?” he asked breathlessly.
“Yes. I BEEN ready. Wha’s wrong?”
Without waiting for further cues, Meshach seized up like a man pole-axed. He slammed his dick into her thin frame with scant regard for her vaginal capacity. His cum roared forth in such volume as to make his previous quantities seem inconsequential. Lizzie was drenched, awash in jism. It ran down the crack of her ass and up her back to the shoulder blades. Her hairy mound was matted and damp with penis honey and sweat.
Gamely, Lizzie drained his load. She seemed to be floating in a sticky ocean of hot tapioca.
To make things worse, a minute later she felt Meshach coming again, bucking and thrashing like a rodeo stallion. Lizzie drained this second load, twice amazed at the volume of his output. Her ass was creamy slick with his seed. His bedding was soaked to the core.
Two minutes later Meshach came yet again. By this time his little bed was so slippery with jizz that Lizzie’s ass could gain no traction. As Meshach humped her, she slipped from the bed and fell to the floor like a fat kid on an ice rink. They both landed with a splat. Meshach lengthy cock still lunged inside her.
She gripped him by the ass to keep him from slipping out of the cum puddle sizzling between her legs. Shaking the sweat from his eyes, Meshach slowly recovered from this triple orgasm. When he regained his eyesight, both lovers settled into a good belly laugh. It was Meshach’s first real laugh in months. It was good to see, Lizzie marveled.
“Don’t get used to this smile,” Meshach warned with a wry grin.
Lizzie was keen to be the one to let Zelma know that Shaddy was off the market, despite his advice demanding discretion. Lizzie just couldn’t help wanting to see Zelma’s face when the news broke. Though Zelma was her friend, both she and Zelma were women—with all of the positive and negative implications attributed to the species.
Lizzie practiced how she was going to deliver the news. Should she be contrite? Should she be exuberant? Should she pretend that she didn’t know Zelma was vying for the same prize? Lizzie mulled her options. The bottom line was going to be this: “He’s mine, get it? Got it? Good.”
Lizzie wanted to quell the look of triumph written on her face. That she would fail was a foregone conclusion. Every person she encountered could see the swagger in her step, the impish catbird smile written all over her face.
She reported for work in the morning at dawn, as usual. Fiona was up. Lize was already pressing clothes. Phoebe was plucking weeds from the Leone vegetable garden. Aisleen, too, was up and around.
Zelma was nowhere to be found.
This was unusual. Even more unusual was the fact that Fiona wasn’t raising holy hell about the girl’s absence. Fiona simply went about her business as if nothing were amiss.
Lize’ sad eyes told a different story.
“Where’s Zelma?” Lizzie whispered.
“She’s home, chile.”
“What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
“No.”
“Well, what?”
Lize just shook her head.
Lizzie took up her duties with a sense of foreboding. There was something fake about this morning. Something wasn’t right. Something had happened and no one was talking about it. Lizzie had been here long enough to note the feel and undercurrent of the place. These women were doing their best to pantomime the illusion of normalcy.
At mid-morning Lizzie took advantage of a lull and ran back to the slave quarters. She burst into Zelma’s cabin to find the girl morosely squatting over a chamber pot.
“Zelma? ZELMA!! What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Lizzie!! I’m gon’ have a baby!!!”
“A BABY?!?!??? Who….”
“LIZZIE!!!! OH, LIZZIE!!! I DON’T KNOW!!!!!!
This thunderous news surely took the crackerjack out of Lizzie’s announcement. Immediately Lizzie began to wonder if the child belonged to Meshach. No, that couldn’t be true. Zelma would be at least four months along, maybe five, and she would be showing a baby bump by now. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief at coming to this conclusion by logical deduction.
“Was it Duck?” she asked.
“Lizzie!! Ain’t you heard me? I DON’T KNOW!!! It COULD be DUCK. It COULD be someone else!!!”
“Shaddy?”
Lizzie felt compelled to ask this question, even though she knew the answer.
“No, it cain’t be Shaddy. Shaddy’s hurt!! Lizzie, I DON’T KNOW!! I DON’T KNOW!!!!”
This, then, must be the news heard ‘round the campfire. Zelma had been caught catting around. Surely Fiona Leone knew by now. Obviously Lize knew. Even Aisleen must know. Lizzie noted her petulant attitude that morning.
“Zelma!! It wasn’t….it wasn’t MASSUH, was it?”
Zelma sighed. “No. It wasn’t Massuh.”
“None o’ de massuhs?”
“It wasn’t Massuh Ed, Lizzie”
This excused one Leone but implicated the other two.
“Is you done told Missus Fiona?”
“I told Lize. Lize must’a told her, else she’d a been down heah by now.”
“You reckon she knows who the daddy might be?”
“I reckon she s’spects.”
“Who else you done told?”
“I ain’t told no one but Lize. ‘N you.”
Lizzie decided to withhold her news about Meshach’s conquest. She scurried back to the big house and resumed her duties.
The news of Zelma’s pregnancy fairly flew about the little farm. Lizzie was one of the last to know. Only the group of Leone denizens currently working over at Hank’s new farm were unaware of the news.
Of course, speculation was rampant about the father. Most of the slaves suspected one of the Leone boys and perhaps Massuh Ed himself. If the child produced turned out to be unexpectedly light-skinned, this suspicion would be borne out. Zelma was a house servant after all.
So, if the child had Caucasian traits, the Leone women would be either (a) up in arms or (b) blithely unconcerned—any white man could have been the father, not necessarily one of theirs. This latter option was most likely. White women were just as complicit in the poontang tradition as their men.
If Zelma’s child was darker than Zelma, its features more Negroid, then it were up to the slaves to speculate as to paternity. The Leone’s only counted the child as another asset on their balance sheet. They didn’t mind if the father was from a neighboring farm. The man would not be sought, unless Zelma identified him. Then Edward Leone might offer to purchase him. Most often he did not.
In either case, Zelma’s child would be counted as a Negro slave. One drop of black blood was enough to earn this designation. From the moment he/she was conceived Zelma’s child was destined to a lifetime of servitude
“How did this happen??” Zelma wailed.
She had dutifully rubbed her pussy out with the appropriate leaves and roots before each of her sexual forays. This method had never failed before; Zelma didn’t believe it COULD fail, even though she knew of numerous instances where it apparently had. She’d reckoned those failures were due to inadequate coverage, an oversight of which she believed herself incapable.
Fiona Leone had been thru this slave patter dozens of times over the course of her life:
“One of the
niggers is pregnant and she ain’t married.
That’s what those people do.”
Fiona Leone counted Zelma’s pregnancy as a very minor issue. Zelma had better be happy that she had this day off. Tomorrow she’d better be back at work.
Franklin Jefferson lost his virginity three days after his marriage to BethAnn Leone. As with most men, he thought the event a pivotal moment in his life. His wife’s opinion of the event was more succinct.
“Even Danny’s Minuteman dick was better than this!!” she huffed indignantly.
BethAnn’s honeymoon dates conflicted with a scheduled Pastor Goins revival meeting in Missouri. Franklin was a key member of the traveling troupe, a driver. Immediately after the wedding, the newly married couple trundled up in one of Goins’ traveling wagons and made the trip north. No arrangement was made for the consummation of nuptials, a fact that BethAnn noted with some consternation.
As they traveled, Franklin regaled his new bride with stories of life on the road—doing the Lord’s will, salvation for the many, good deeds aplenty and, most importantly, income from the needy.
BethAnn was enraptured at first. She listened with real interest as the little caravan slowly made the slog up backwoods dirt roads. Franklin’s stories were captivating. As they rumbled along, though, her southern motor began to marinate. She was a married woman now. There was no need for her to be scratching her own itch. That job now rightly belonged to her husband. Yet, all he seemed to do was talk, a fitting talent for a man whose ambition was to be a southern preacherman.
Just now, though, Franklin was a driver, a junior pastor. There was no one to take his place at the head of a team of horses. If Franklin’s wagon stopped somewhere to take a moment of marital solace, the whole troupe had to stop and wait.
Franklin explained this apologetically to his new bride. Why, there was nothing he’d rather be doing than consummating, he assured her. Just let them get to Missouri and he’d show her a thing or three about consummating!
On the second night out the little troupe was trying to make up time by traveling at night. BethAnn saw an opportunity. Franklin was driving the team; only two members of the group were in the back of the wagon and both of them were asleep. BethAnn squeezed up in between Franklin’s legs, facing his dick, intent on getting a good look at the goods and, possibly, maybe a taste of same.
Franklin was aghast. What was this despicable sin she was proposing? Did she intend to take his penis into her mouth?!? Who’d taught her such a thing? Had she done this before?
Franklin offered up fervent prayers for his wife’s sinful soul. Not loudly, lest anyone hear his entreaties and surmise the nature of BethAnn’s sin.
He brushed her aside with a curt reproach. In his best preacher’s voice he told Beth that their consummation would be along godly lines, thank you, using the sexual instruments that Gawd provided, and using them in the manner that GAWD had purposed. He told her in no uncertain terms that HIS wife’s mouth was NO place for a penis.
BethAnn was properly chastened. She wondered whether this edict confined her sexual motor to missionary position sex? No clit licking? No ass fucking? No pearl polishing? No ass to pussy to ass? None of convenient little mediums she used to quell the incessant burn in her crotch, as necessitated by her rampant libido?
This troubled BethAnn. Maybe she should have questioned this man a little more closely before agreeing to a life-long bond. Dang it!! That darn Josephine had been the one to encourage her to drop a bird in the hand for this untested mosquito in the bush!! Danny wouldn’t eat pussy, but at least he didn’t mind getting blown!
Beth’s mind lingered back to her epic session with Duck on the night before her wedding. Now THAT was fucking. Just the thought of Duck’s tremendous dick powering in and out of her slippery poochipap from behind, lifting her from the floor repeatedly, and finally bursting forth with his hot, sloppy jism made her pussy simmer with tremble. Duck rocked a monster cock. She’d been married for several days and had yet to even see Franklin’s version of same. It seemed as if he didn’t really want her to see it, at least not up close.
She looked over at her husband. It was late. He drove their team of horses with a relentless purpose. Was he thinking about ramming his dick up her pussy right now? Why, it would be great if he was!! She couldn’t surmise his lust, however. He kept it hidden behind a great wall of piety.
BethAnn drew a deep breath. Her vaginal ache mounted. She closed her eyes and dreamed of Duck Watkins.
“Shaddy. Wake up.”
Fiona Leone stood over the sleeping form of the young black man. It was 2 a.m. Meshach was alone in his hovel, but for the Leone matriarch.
“Shaddy. Wake up,” she said again.
There was neither fear, authority, nor anger in her voice. Meshach came to with a start.
“Missus Fiona.” he said in the dull monotone that had replaced his subservient slave mewlings. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood to face her.
“Shaddy, I come down here to apologize for my husband.”
Meshach was shocked. “APOLOGIZE??”
“Yes. Apologize.”
Meshach suppressed the urge to kill her on the spot.
“Missus Fiona. I’se OK now.”
“I know, Shaddy. I would have come down here before, but I couldn’t risk it.”
“You
couldn’t RISK IT?!?”
“Ed might have found out I was down here. And then you’d have gotten whipped again.”
“But you ain’t a-feared to come down here now. In de middle of de night?”
“Ed’s gone over t’ the other farm.”
“Hmmmmmph.” Meshach offered contemptuously.
“Here. Let me see your back.” Fiona asked.
Meshach didn’t turn away. Instead, he drew himself up to his full height. He neither wanted nor sought her attentions. Fiona ignored his obvious anger and stepped behind him. The ugly black stripes of his recent whipping glimmered faintly in the limited light. Fiona fingered the smooth, black ridges of the keloid-scarred remnants of that horrific event.
“It’s worse than I thought. Lizzie has done a good job, though.”
Meshach snorted at the mention of Lizzie’s name.
“You like her, don’t you?”
Meshach didn’t reply. His white eyes gleamed redly in the moonlight.
“Of course you like her. She’s a beautiful girl.”
Again, Meshach didn’t reply.
“Did you know she’s been fucking my sons?”
Fiona made this bold pivot as she stepped around to face him. An ebon monolith, Meshach started ever so slightly. Fiona sensed that her dart had hit home.
“She has, you know. Both she and Cora.”
Meshach regained his composure. She would see no more chinks in his armor.
“Has she told you that Zelma is with child?”
The news of Zelma’s pregnancy was old news by now. Meshach, again, didn’t respond. Fiona plodded on with her interrogation.
“Is the child your child?
Meshach held his tongue.
“Is it POSSIBLE that the child could be your child?”
Meshach’s glare didn’t waver. Fiona considered that perhaps Meshach didn’t intend to answer any of her questions. She was in no position to force answers from him.
“I know that you’ve been putting your nigger dick into both my daughters.”
Meshach didn’t bother to substantiate this allegation. He’d been to the edge of the abyss already. If she knew something she certainly could have said something before now. Fiona circled him like a fencer moving in for the kill.
“Do you know why I’ve held my tongue on the matter?”
Meshach did long to know the answer to THAT question. But, again, he didn’t reply.
“Both of them are married now. I’ve known about your little night trips to their room since Day One. I could have said something long before now. Do you want to know why I haven’t?”
Against his will, Meshach’s eyes lingered away from the woman. He was curious to know why she’d refrained from interfering.
Fiona Leone stood before the young man with her arms crossed. She allowed her last question to linger between them. She knew he was curious. Like her husband, she allowed a pregnant pause to stretch into something more ominous. She held his gaze. When he attempted to look away she riveted him back to attention with the sharp snap in her steely blue eyes.
Now, as in her earlier visit to Meshach’s cabin, she leaned forward to pull his penis from its constraints. This time, Meshach was less astounded. He knew that she was here, at this time of night, with some purpose in mind. Anybody would know that much.
Caressing his massive dick in her hand, Fiona now sought to lock his gaze again. This time it was her turn to be taciturn. She squeezed his dick several times until it hardened in her grip. Meshach was young. Any penile friction could serve as erectile material.
More importantly, now Shaddy knew the answer to her question.
She pushed him slightly. He knew he was being asked to submit. Meshach took two steps backward and lay down on his bed. He was not afraid.
Fiona stepped to him. She took both his ankles in hand and forced his legs open. She pushed his legs upwards such that his knees sprawled up to his shoulders as his hardened dick swung free, lumbering comically between them. She had him cocked open like a bitch.
Meshach was a little confused. Did she want to fuck or what? It’s not like he had a pussy for her to slam her dick into. Why did she have his legs open like this?
Again, Fiona allowed a pause to linger beyond its normal constraints. She was on her knees in his bed, between his legs, holding his ankles aloft and askew as his dick bounced off his stomach and back to full mast.
Fiona sought and caught Meshach’s eyes again. She released one of his ankles and trailed her hand down to her own crotch. She gripped her dress and eased the material up, by degrees until her pussy came into view. To Meshach’s shock, her pussy was hairless, like a little girl’s pussy. But her labia were fully blooded and bold, puffy, belying her age. She had no belly flap pouring over into her pubic mound as many matrons did. Her childbearing years were long behind her.
Fiona allowed Meshach to drink in the sight of her pussy. She gauged his reaction by watching his dick. It didn’t bounce off his stomach so much anymore. It preened, massively erect, steaming like a tomcat. She could smell its desire for insertion.
Yet Meshach’s face showed a certain indifference. His dick and his brain were on different wavelengths.
“Should I leave now?” she asked.
Meshach didn’t reply. But his dick leapt tellingly.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’” she said.
Now Meshach could smell the scent from her southern cleft quivering forth. Though Fiona pretended to take charge of this encounter, her pussy was as expressive as his dick. It told the story of a fifty-ish matron whose man was away. Her pussy was recently shaved, perhaps this very night; not even the nubs of fledgling pubic hairs were evident. Her clit bulged proudly from the northern vortex of her slit. Her pussy lips glowed ruby red. She’d planned this.
Fiona knew that Meshach could sense her desire. Yet she hesitated, as a child hesitates before wading into very cold water. Should she dive in? Or should she gingerly tiptoe?
Meshach reached down and, using his thumb, pointed his erect cock up to her at a ninety-degree angle. This move broke her hesitation; it signaled his assent. Fiona eased forward and slid her pussy gratefully down upon his thick, black cock. As she widened to receive his full thickness, Fiona came. Meshach could feel the quickened, concentric vaginal tightenings indicative of female orgasm. Fiona closed her eyes, accepting this climax as her due, but controlling it within the bounds of her being. She didn’t lash about or hump Meshach crazily the way a younger woman might. Rather, she tensed and shivered like a stone titan. She bit down on her lip and allowed the orgasmic waves to lavish about her body like so much languid heat lightning.
Meshach watched her come. He wondered when she would finish.
Fiona was far from finished. When her initial climax relented, the farm matriarch realized that she still had a stiff dick steaming in her abdomen. Meshach tried to stretch his legs from their akimbo position, but Fiona would have none of it. She held his legs open wide, knees up. Only now, with her first orgasm behind her, did she begin to fuck the young man in earnest.
Fiona could feel Meshach’s nappy pubic hairs scraping against her bald pussy. She felt his ball sac flopping against her taint as she lunged up and down on his erect cock. She felt his cock widening her pussy as he thrust upwards to receive her. Each time she hilted him, she felt his cock so deeply embedded in her torso that she thought she might choke. She felt full.
Fiona held Meshach’s legs open and fucked him as if she were the one packing dick. She arched her hips and cascaded around him with each thrust. The dichotomy between his black dick and her milky white pussy drove her to insane pinnacles of desire. She held her raiment aloft so that she could watch his dick bursting inside her pussy, sliding roughly between the pink ridges, only to crash against her engorged clitoris with a thud and a shiver as she hilted.
Fiona began to sweat.
They fucked like this for five agonizing minutes before Fiona came again with a groan and a slippery rush. Eight minutes later her pussy seized up again as she crashed her sexual passion into her slave. And yet again, ten minutes on, Fiona’s southern motor performed with the single-minded precision of a much younger woman. It was easy enough to see from whence BethAnn and Josephine inherited their sexual credentials.
With this last orgasm, Fiona finally burst free from her puritan reticence. She flailed about under the strength of her climactic abandon. Her groans could clearly be heard throughout the slave neighborhood via the glassless windows of Meshach’s little hut.
Some wondered about the timbre of her voice. Was that Missus Fiona? NO! It couldn’t be!! Who was it? Curious eyes began to peek out, eager to sneak a glimpse at the lustful source of those passionate growlings.
Fiona was sated. Meshach, less so. His dick still preened proudly between the white woman’s legs. Her labial grip waned. Fiona’s pussy was spent. She eased her cunt up off of Meshach, stepped from the bed, straightened her dress, and made as if to leave.
Meshach stood. His dick, still raging for succor, protruded up between them.
Was he? Was he offering it….to her lips?
Yes. He was.
Meshach put his hands on Fiona’s shoulders to indicate his intent. Fiona was aghast; she’d come here to fuck, not to suck.
Meshach pressed her. She needed to be on her knees before him. Boldly, almost haughtily, Fiona attempted to brush his hand from her shoulder. When her brush off attempt bounced off the iron fence of his will, Fiona looked up at him in sudden fear. Fire showed in his eyes. He glanced down at his rigid cock, then back up into the Missus’ eyes.
Fiona wanted to call out in fright. This nigger was holding her against her will!!! Who would come to her aid? Sullivan? The man was sleeping off his latest drunken episode. Would the other slaves come to assist her? If they did, how would she explain being in this hut at this time of night? She might have to assert her white woman’s rights. Her husband would want to know what she was doing down there. And his white man’s rights trumped her own.
All these variables occurred to Fiona in the instant Meshach laid his hand upon her shoulder. Just the act of touching her in this manner could lead to another vicious whipping, and more probably, death. Yet the black man seemed unafraid of these outcomes. It was clear that the farm matriarch would not be skipping out on her clandestine actions this night.
Fiona buckled silently. She’d fucked many Negroes in her day, always from a position of white dominance. She couldn’t remember all their names; she only remembered the scorching burn they left in her cleft, and the soothing balm they poured upon her scorching libido. All of those dicks went unsucked. Her puritan values connected marital fidelity with her mouth, not her pussy. Edward Leone had been the only man to relieve his passion in her esophagus. She certainly was no adulteress in that regard.
Her pussy? Well, that was another story.
Fiona voiced her reticence to the Negro.
“I don’t suck dick, Shaddy. I’m sorry if I’ve misled you.”
Meshach continued to press her shoulders until the woman was kneeling before him. Fiona didn’t know what to do.
Now the odor of their sex wafted up to her nostrils. She smelled her own bald cleft and the deep, pink trenches of both her daughters oozing from the thick, black folds of Meshach’s foreskin. She smelled the piquant aroma of Lizzie and Zelma and Cora and any number of other black coochies resonating from his cock, just inches from her nose.
“Shaddy!! I don’t….I CAN’T suck your cock!! I CAN’T!! I’m a married woman!” she whispered up to him.
Meshach inched forward until his cock palpitated against her thin lips. Fiona drew back. “I’m no adulteress!!” Meshach gripped her head and drew her forward.
“You gon’ suck some dick up in here tonight, Missus Fiona.”
Fiona drew her hands up against his thighs as if to push away. Again, she found steel. Her body tensed as Meshach’s cock trembled ever closer to her lips. Shaddy coaxed her head forward.
“It’ll be alright. No one gon’ know.”
His cock loomed hugely before her. She’d felt his massive heft inside her pussy, but now, staring her in the face like this, it seemed incongruously monstrous. There was no way she could get it all down. She wasn’t even sure if she could open her mouth wide enough to accommodate its girth. She could see the disproportionate bulge afforded by his shaggy foreskin, cloaking his resurgent cockhead. His cock was like a fist—thick at the tip; tapering back along his shaft, finally expanding into a colossal pair of balls lumbering at its base.
Fiona closed her eyes. She flicked out her tongue as an exploratory gesture. The tip of her tongue caressed Shaddy’s urethra for just a glimpse of a second before she withdrew. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Shaddy pressed his cock, again, up against her lips.
Fiona’s will began to wilt. With a measure of resignation, she ventured her tongue forth yet again. This time her tongue slipped between Shaddy’s thick, cloaking foreskin and his pudenda. The sensation of female insertion was strange to both of them. While Shaddy’s pud was hard and smooth, his foreskin clenched about her tongue like a firm blanket.
Emboldened now, Fiona sought to reach the helm of Shaddy’s pud beneath its covering of fragrant, pliable foreskin. She extended her tongue deeper and deeper still, but his pud seemed to recede back and still further back; it was huge.
Just when she could extend her tongue no further she felt the smooth ridge of his helm. By then his cockhead was so deep in her throat and her mouth was open so widely that she was unable to draw breath.
The sensation of her tongue enrapt in Shaddy’s foreskin while lolling about his pudenda was new. She could taste the sticky remnants of her own pussy percolating here. She felt the smooth roundness of his cockhead and the slender undergroove leading up to his urethra. The dominant smell of her pussy juices in this thick, cylindrical mass was arousing. Too, she could taste the scent of Shaddy’s ejaculate roiling deep in his urethra. Involuntarily, Fiona’s pelvis began to quiver alive into a characteristic sexual tremor.
Shaddy plunged his dick back and forth in short bursts. He knew she would have trouble engulfing him. She was a small woman with severely thin lips and just the faintest wisp of a middle-aged mustache. Just getting the tip of his cock in her mouth was a stretch. He watched her dainty lips recede into her mouth as he pushed forward, only to slob on his pud salaciously as he withdrew. She left bubbles of her saliva effervescing about his cock during each such interlude.
Gradually, Fiona eased into a sucking rhythm. She knew how to suck a good dick. She just envisioned herself, as the matriarch of the farm, as being above such menial pleasuring. Several of the black slave elders had tasted Fiona’s pussy; each time she’d carefully shaved for the event. None of those slaves could say that Fiona had taken their dicks into her throat. She wouldn’t permit it.
As for threatening them into silence, well, that was unnecessary. Edward would never believe his wife had willingly fucked a nigger. Anyone bold enough to float such a rumor risked death at his hands. Fiona knew she was safe in that regard.
Plus, she was careful enough to wait until her husband was away before making such forays into the slave quarters for prey. Each time Edward traveled for an extended period, out came Fiona’s straight razor.
Knowing her own affinity for black dick, Fiona easily surmised that her daughters would proceed down that path. Louisiana black snake was plentiful enough. The risks were minimal, save the risk of pregnancy. Most of the slaves so chosen were so servile that they didn’t make demands of the white women. They just did as they were told.
Shaddy, however, was different. He’d already been through the fire. There wasn’t much more that Master Edward could do to him. This last whipping seemed to have denuded him of fear.
Kneeling, now, before the young black slave, Fiona bobbed up and down on his surging cock. This was adultery, she knew, but the quicker he came the faster she could get out of there.
“The quicker he came??!?? OH!! CUM!!! Oh, no!!” He was going to cum in her mouth!!! This thought shocked Fiona awake from her cocksucking reverie. Should she swallow his issue? Why, that would tantamount to having his baby!!! Should she accept his jism on her cheeks? Her breasts? Up her pussy? Up her ass? Fiona was in a quandary. A decision had to be made, and soon.
She could feel his cum roiling in his balls. He was suppressing, seeking to prolong her nurture. She gripped both his balls tenderly. They were pulsing, hot. Soon his ejaculate would spout forth and millions of little niglet babies would sluice down her throat.
“Shaddy, let me up,” she mumbled around the obstruction of his penis. “You gotta….I can’t…”
Meshach held her in place. Dutifully, she continued to suck.
“Oh! He’s gonna cum!! He’s gonna cum!!! What will I do!!??!?” Fiona noted silently, with his dick preening in her gullet.
Meshach continued to hump her throat. The scent of his black penis and Fiona’s bubbly saliva filled the room. Fiona’s bald pussy queefed its odiferous contribution to this bold sexual miasma.
“Shaddy! SHADDY!!! Don’t cum in my mouth!! You can cum in my pussy!! SHADDY!!!!” she choked out.
Meshach ignored her pleas. He was nowhere near climax. He would cum when he was ready to come.
Just for the sake of argument, Meshach allowed her to stand from her crouching position. He wanted to see her next move. Would she take the opportunity to flee? He didn’t think she would. He could smell the heat bubbling up from between her legs.
Fiona sidled over to Meshach’s bed and lay down on it perpendicularly. She raised and opened her legs to him unbidden. Meshach stepped to her. He took his rampant cock in hand and centered it at the opening to her vagina. He squeezed his shaft as it inhaled the glorious scent of her aching pussy, even a hairless, middle-aged pussy like this one. Her pussy lips smoldered in anticipation of insertion. Meshach elected to toy with her clitoris. He used his bulbous cockhead to flick and bob her bulging clit. The size disparity between the two organs was notable, though Fiona’s clit packed far more nerve endings.
“Shaddy? Put it in. I want you to put it in. And … you can cum inside me, if you want.”
Meshach smirked. He ignored her entreaties and continued to toy with her clit. Fiona became more and more insistent as her desire mounted. She arched her hips up to him, straining to grip his pud with her pussy lips. Her need was real. Meshach teased her, pulling his dick back just as she thought she’d seized and centered it.
“Shaddy!!” she whispered breathlessly. “What are you doing? Do you want to cum or don’t you?”
Her pleas were disingenuous. It was she that needed to cum, not he.
“Oh Shaddy!! Put it in!! Put it in!! Hurry!!!”
The sticky juices from her hoary pussy gleamed as moonlight streamed into the little cabin. Meshach pointed his dick up to her face and cocked his head to the side.
Frustrated to the point of rebellion, Fiona scrambled to her knees and opened her mouth obediently. Only now did Meshach re-insert his dick. Fiona sucked him subserviently until she thought he was again on the verge of climax. Then she hopped back into his bed and opened her pussy up to him. Meshach went back to toying with her clit.
This play just wasn’t enough. Yes, she was capable of having an orgasm with clit play. But here she had a huge dick before her. And she had a steaming chasm that ached for fulfillment, despite her earlier spastic efforts.
“Shaddy, I have to leave in a little while. Will you please finish?”
Meshach pointed his dick up to her mouth, gripping it by its base. They’d been fucking for almost ninety minutes and the black man had still not busted his nuts.
Fiona accepted his cock into her mouth for a third time. This time, though, she decided to burnish her own fire. Drawing arousal from the aroma of his cock in her mouth, Fiona masturbated her clit with a fury. She wasn’t going to depend upon this young nigger to get her rocks off. As soon as she came she was going to leave him here, stiff dick and all. She had to be getting back.
Lost in her erotic musings, Fiona ramped up her orgasm by assaulting her clit with her fingers. She rubbed herself vertically, in line with her slit. She rubbed herself horizontally, perpendicular to it. She alternated these moves with an occasional circumlocution. He stiff fingers trembled in an ague of devotion to her small penis. Soon enough, her pussy was spitting fire.
“Here….it…..comes…,” she said to herself as her orgasm began to collapse around her.
In that instant, Meshach spilled his jizz into her mouth. Fiona tried to pull back, but Shaddy held her head firmly in place. She had to swallow his cum or else she couldn’t breathe. And so much cum!!! It poured from the young man like a fire hose, in great shrieking bursts of slimy golden pearly batter. Struggling for air, Fiona gulped his seed down, drawing breath as she was able.
This unanticipated interlude cooled her sexual ardor some. She was now officially an adulteress. This self-designation did nothing to enhance her libido; in fact it dashed ice-cold water upon it. Forty seconds ago she was on the verge of climax; now she just had a pulsing dick in her esophagus and a belly full of another man’s cum. And a black man’s cum, at that.
Meshach forced her to drain all the jism from his nuts. She looked up at him angrily. When he pulled his dick from her throat, she was going to have a thing or two to say to him. Even as his seminal output waned she continued to suck at his cock. She was anger-blowing him.
Sated now, Shaddy released her head from his grip. She might have taken this opportunity to release his dick from her throat, but she continued to suck as if one more surge of jism remained unaccounted.
Meshach allowed her to continue to suck as his orgasmic wave crashed, marinated and passed. It felt good; in fact it felt a little painful. He could feel his ball sac straining to supply semen to her vacuum-like grip, even as the hot, erectile blood that animated his dick flowed back into his body. He wanted to push her away, but Fiona was so angry at his callous intrusion upon her matronly purity that she sucked and chewed at him with a vengeance. She nibbled at him. She used her molars to gnaw at his pud, grinding his shaggy foreskin into the sensitive nerve endings beneath his cockhead.
Predictably, Shaddy’s cock began to regain tumescence. He realized this before she did. She seemed lost at the shock of losing her marital “virginity”. This nigger had cum in her mouth and she’d swallowed his seed. What was next? It seemed to her that every one of her church friends, yea, even her family and the very niggers in the fields would see her guilt before God. She was an adulteress!! Even as she continued to suck at Meshach’s dick she was planning her penance.
Lost in her reverie, Fiona was again shocked to find that the flaccid dick in her mouth had re-awakened. She released it from her throat and watched it waggle before her like an angry monitor lizard. She looked up at Shaddy in horror.
Meshach lifted the woman from her knees and laid her onto his bed. She struggled a little, but he grasped her ankles the way she’d done earlier and pushed her knees up to her shoulders, exposing her shaven pussy to entry. Fiona kicked and bucked energetically now. She didn’t have time to get fucked like this. The sun would be up soon.
Meshach controlled her struggles easily, gripping her wrists and locking them to her ankles. Now he surged forward until his re-aroused penis bounced off her vulva. He could feel the sticky entrance to her vagina steaming beneath the voluptuous folds of her labia. Fiona’s struggles only enhanced his desire for entry.
The meaty feel of Shaddy’s cock re-animated Fiona’s clit. She might not have wanted to fuck, but her pussy had other ideas. As she struggled and roiled her hips, occasionally Meshach’s dick would swirl into the whirlpool of her deeper pinkness. Three, four, five times this occurred. She found that she could clasp him with her prehensile pussy lips and twirl his dick in cone-shaped circlets. Her lust began to overrule her reason.
After some moments of this faux fighting, Fiona slowly wilted. Instead of letting his cock slip from her pussy grip, she twirled him deeper and deeper still until he slipped inside her and the two adulterers were again conjoined at their genitalia. Fiona’s cunt was smoking hot; for a woman her age, her sexual abilities were still quite capacious. Though slight of frame, she inhaled Meshach’s twelve-inch dick until she could feel his kinky pubic hairs grinding against her shaven mound of lust.
Meshach began to fuck the older woman savagely. He slammed his dick into her pussy with wanton relish, finishing each thrust with a punishing grind into her pubis. He alternated between short, staccato strokes and longer, deeper thrusts. Each time he entered her, the sound of their pubic mounds crashing together reverberated across the slave compound. Fiona yammered her delight at being so attended. Though her husband had a commendable dick, she hadn’t been proper fucked—by a huge, meaty, young cock—in years.
Shaddy fucked The Missus with wild, bestial abandon. This was Master Ed’s woman. This was the woman who’d tanned his hide for sneaking peaches when he was a child not a decade past. This was the primary mistress of the farm. He was giving her something to remember him by.
Fiona came repeatedly. Each time her orgasm consumed her, Shaddy withdrew and offered his dick up to her lips. She sucked him greedily as her pelvis twirled and rotated in the extremis of her passion. Shaddy came in her throat time and again. She sucked his jism down now, heedless of the circumstance. Adultery or not, her only desire was to have him ensconced in the piquant pink chasm between her legs. Her whole body was awash in the vibrant colors of multiple orgasm; she trembled her fervor forth in sibilant gasps and pelvic undulations.
“Put it back in, Shaddy. Put….it…..in…”
She was his sexual junkie.
In the fifth iteration of Shaddy’s orgasmic cycle the cocks crowed, heralding the rising of the sun. Fiona had sucked his nuts dry on the four prior iterations, swallowing his seed and basking in the aroma of their sex. For this final go, he intended to leave her pussy sodden with his jizz.
Fiona was a heaving, sweating mound of licentious whoredom. She’d started this session in full charge of the direction of their encounter. Now, nearing its end, she was a slave to her slave. He dominated her. She existed in a world ruled by Meshach’s dick. Any whim his dick dictated was her body’s solemn command.
She knew, now, that she would suck seed from his dick whenever he asked. She knew, too, that her pussy was open to him at all hours of the night. She’d already crossed the bounds of her moral constraint against adultery. She felt cheated that she hadn’t taken the time to explore this young Negro sooner. Her daughters had him to themselves. And he was so young!! She’d been there when Meshach was born, for heaven’s sake!!! She remembered him as a little nappy-headed niglet running around the farm buck-naked!! And now his dick was pulsing in her abdomen, nurturing yet an eighth gargantuan orgasm from her scorched, bald-naked pussy.
She could feel her climax building as Meshach plunged and heaved inside her. Fiona wondered if, after she came, he would make her suck his jism again. Just the thought of his throbbing, preening jism brought her to the verge. It didn’t taste bad. The aroma of his huge cock juxtaposed against her lips, just under her nose, was deeply arousing.
“Yes, please, let me suck it,” she whispered, “Just one more time.”
This time, though, Meshach timed his orgasm to match Fiona’s. When at last she blossomed into the fullness of her sexual frenzy, Meshach blasted his semen into her cooch, causing her to thrash about in a paroxysm of sexual agony. She suckled at his dick with her trembling, shaven pussy.
When the last spurt of semen gurgled forth, the two clandestine lovers collapsed into each other’s arms, breathing heavily. Fiona’s pussy ached. Only a thick, slimy coating of jism cooled the fire of her ardor.
Meshach nearly passed out from his exertions. When he came to, he was on his back and Fiona was licking jizz from his floppy pole.
“I thought you say you ain’t suck no dick,” he mentioned.
“I do now, I guess.” she replied breathlessly.
Three nights after taking her marriage vows, BethAnn Rene Jefferson lay cramped in the back of a covered, horse-drawn wagon. Her ankle length dress was hitched up around her hips. She was masturbating. She closed her eyes and imagined that Duck was standing over her with a massive erection, reeking of nigger stink. He was in a sweat to bathe his dick in her saucy pinkness, but she demurely held him at bay. His dick was her toy. And she would fuck him when she was damn good and ready.
Using her fingers for purchase, she rubbed and gyrated her clit with ever-increasing zeal. Her hips roiled with obscene sexual animus. When she inserted her fingers up into her pussy she arched her pelvis a full foot off the ground in the agony of her desire for a thicker, longer, more cylindrical protrusion. She recalled Duck’s dick fondly. If only Franklin could match Duck’s virility, she could be happy.
She hadn’t come yet. She was priming the pump for when her husband finally crawled into the back of their wagon to finally consummate their marriage. When he did, she was going to fuck his lights out. She was really going to put it to him. Their three travel days only enhanced her ache to be one with her new husband.
Until that moment, however, her mental picture of Duck would serve. She could still feel his power as he fuck-walked her around in his cabin. He’d ignored her orders to withhold his semen from her pussy, and she was thankful for that. She didn’t really like men that she could boss around, nigger or otherwise. He’d stood up to her and that was a good thing. She felt that she’d bravely endured his nigger impertinence and come away the better for it. She’d crossed a barrier that few white women had crossed, what with accepting his jism and all. She was confident that no nigger pickaninnies would result. In fact, she thought, maybe one day in the future she was going to suck his jism into her pussy again—she hadn’t been caught so far. And it did feel good.
BethAnn masturbated herself up to plateau and held steady there. When she felt ready to drift over into the orgasmic abyss she slowed her clitoral ministrations. When she felt as if she were rolling back down the crescent of arousal she sped up. She wanted to be wet and ready when young Franklin made his first assault on her pussy, that night, as he’d promised. She hoped to so impress her man with her sexuality that the two would bond spiritually and there would be no need for him to seek out the charms of other women, particularly nigger women. All the men she knew took relief in the slave quarters—even her father. She wanted Franklin to be the exception to that rule.
She’d been playing with herself for almost an hour now, long enough to soak her deep auburn pubic mound with pussy juice. This worried her some. Her pubic hairs were sticky damp, matted and in disarray. It couldn’t be helped. She didn’t think Franklin was going downtown anyway, so he wouldn’t be seeing her tootie in all its glory.
Ah, but Duck was there. She envisioned the young black man even now.
“Come here
and lick my pussy, nigger,” she whispered to Duck’s apparition through the red
shroud of her arousal. “Stick your
tongue in and lick it clean. Lick all
your cum out of it so a white man can have a go. And make sure you’re gone before the white man gets here. You know, you really…”
She heard a noise.
“Beth, honey, I’m sorry I’m….what are you doing?”
It was Franklin. Clambering into their wagon, he’d intruded upon her private sojourn. At the first hint of his footfall BethAnn leapt upright and covered her exposed pussy with her dress. Dammit!! He WOULD show up NOW.
“Franklin!! Oh, I…I…just had an itch on my leg and I was scratching it. I didn’t mean for you to see that!!! I couldn’t get at it properly. We’ve been traveling and all. I think one of these infernal mosquitoes has bit me!!”
“Ain’t that always the way? I hate when they bite me down t’ the middle of my back, where I cain’t reach. You’d think the Lawd would’a spared us this plague. I cain’t think of a single thing a mosquito is good for, can you?”
“No, dear, not a thing!!!”
Beth was grateful that her swift reaction had shielded her masturbatory ministrations from her husband’s view. At least, it didn’t seem as if he’d seen her hand buzzing ferociously at her twat. Certainly, his reaction would have been different. She wondered if he could discern the scent of queef in the air. Her fingers, too, were redolent of the scent of her pussy. Now she sat on her hands to keep their scent from giving her away.
“What’s that smell?” asked Franklin.
“What smell?” she countered. “I don’t smell anything.”
Franklin moved his head quizzically about as he sniffed out the source of the strange odor. BethAnn cringed, hoping that he wouldn’t center on her crotch.
A more experienced man would have known the luxuriant odor of wet pussy as soon as he entered the little wagon. A more experienced man would have taken the scent of hot pussy as a cue to move aggressively forward—after all, a masturbating woman is a needful woman.
Franklin Jefferson was not that man.
Indeed, Franklin Jefferson had no clue what a woman’s pussy smelled like in the first place. He had no sisters. His interactions with women were few and far between, despite being in a position of religious authority.
Secretly, he’d been dreading this first sexual encounter with his wife. He didn’t know how to approach her for her sex, though he knew enough to surmise that it was expected.
Franklin wasn’t immune to the lures of sexuality. He was a healthy young man; he woke up with a stiff dick each morning. Like most young men, unbidden erections plagued him throughout the day. He’d rubbed himself to orgasm on numerous occasions without actually jacking his dick (a thing he considered sinful). When his friends were guffawing about the slave women they’d conquered and offering up intimate details of those occasions, Franklin often excused himself. Franklin’s piety was real.
Now he stood before his new wife, uncertain of his next move. So he seized upon the ethereal odor to stall for time.
BethAnn soon realized this. He couldn’t possibly know what her pussy smelled like. He’d never been close enough to one for the aroma to form an impression. She watched him founder around clumsily for a minute or so with amusement. It was time for him to put up like a man.
BethAnn decided to help him out a bit. She stood and drew cloaking sheets over the two ends of the open wagon. People might be able to hear them fucking, but they wouldn’t be able to see. She knew that Franklin would interpret this move for privacy as her indication for him to begin. The people in the little encampment, too, had been expecting this privacy move with wan smiles and knowing glances. Pastor Franklin was going to get him some pussy!! FINALLY!!! Even Pastor Goins noted the significance of the closure of Franklin’s wagon with a snide smile.
Franklin’s heart leapt into his throat. It was time, he knew. Still, he hesitated. He gave his wife a wry smile.
BethAnn reckoned she was going to have to take things into her own hands. She turned to him, locking his eyes with her lambent gaze. She reached up to unclasp her bodice, button by button, never losing his gaze. When she reached the last button, she reached up and gently peeled her dress from her shoulders. Her breasts popped free, dangling like fruit before him. Slowly, she eased her dress to the floor.
Franklin inhaled her nakedness. Her breasts were perfectly shaped, with pink nipples and multiple dimpled areolae. She was neither muscular nor plump; her skin tone was pleasingly feminine. She bore freckles that would one day become moles. Her auburn pubic patch was an angry array of tangled fur. It’s aroma emanated up to him. Now he knew the source of the strange scent that regaled him upon entry. BethAnn looked at him boldly as if to say, “Yes, that was me you smelled.” She was proud of her southern racing motor. “MY pussy, my darling. None other.”
They regarded each other like this as Franklin’s dick hardened. Beth could see his manhood forming up into a deep, pelvic bulge. She was happy that the sight of her pussy aroused him so.
A trickle of sweat formed on Franklin’s upper lip. Tepidly, BethAnn reached up to kiss him. She tasted his lips and offered her tongue up to him. Franklin accepted her tongue reluctantly. Who’d taught her how to kiss like this? It was pleasing, but it seemed…somehow…somewhat…sinful.
Pressed against him now, naked, BethAnn could feel his dick surging beneath his clothing. She rotated her bare cunt against his clothing sensually, eliciting his first marital groan. Who’d taught her how to grind like this?
BethAnn titillated him like this for some minutes. Her husband accepted her sexual aggressions with trepidation. Though he enjoyed these, each escalation on the road to the actual act worried him by degrees. She knew an awful lot. Who’d taught her these things?
After another five minutes, Beth succeeded in stripping her husband of his clothing. He didn’t help much in the process; indeed he actively sought to prevent his wife from kneeling to regard his erect penis as she pulled his drawers to his ankles. BethAnn deliberately brushed his dick with her cheek, taking the time to inhale its size and aroma. He was no Duck, but his erect penis poked out a good eight inches from his hairy balls. It resonated with a deep, workmanlike musk; Beth wished she could suck it.
Instead, BethAnn lay back on their little bed and dutifully spread her legs open to him. Her cunt blossomed tenderly open before his eyes, like a pink morning glory before the sunrise.
It was his move now.
With the first open pussy of his life glimmering before him, Franklin stumbled forward clumsily. He pointed his dick at her clit and tentatively pushed forward. Nothing happened. Next he directed his cock at one of her labia. Again, no hole. He was getting frustrated. Where was it? A virgin, he began to fear that he would spill his seed before he entered her, as most inexperienced young men do. Just the feel of her vulva against his pudenda was enough stimulation to foster his ejaculate. He could feel his semen surging up from his balls.
BethAnn opted to help him out. She adjusted her hips so that Franklin’s cock was positioned at her opening, then reached down and guided his cock into her sticky hole. She sucked him inside her with a single vacuum-like surge, gloriously relieved to have accomplished their first penetration.
Now she began to hump him rapaciously. She arched up to receive him, clenching him tightly with her muscular pussy. She scraped at his dick with her firm pussy walls. Beth knew he was going to cum quickly, having been exposed to virginal men in the past. She wanted to elicit his first ejaculation and then work him into a frenzy for a longer, more satisfying, second go.
Oh! How she’d looked forward to this moment!! She kissed him lavishly, probing his tonsils with her tongue. She sucked a hickey onto his neck, all the while slamming her pussy up into his preening dick with quivering, feminine pelvic jerks.
“Fuck ME, FRANKIE!!! OH! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!!! OH it feels SO good!!”
She gripped his hips in her mania to make him thrust harder and faster, pulling him into her. She felt his dick plunging into the deeper pudding cushion at the very back of her pussy.
“FUCK ME, DADDY!!! FUCK ME!!!!! HARDER!! OH!! FASTER!!!”
Her passion for their first sexual encounter was the dream of most new grooms.
Not so much for Pastor Franklin Jefferson, however.
“BETH!!!” he cried out with undisguised umbrage. “BETH!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!!”
BethAnn ignored him. She continued to fuck him amorously, unaware that Franklin’s dick had become flaccid inside her. He hadn’t cum. He was just no longer aroused.
“BETH!! WHO TAUGHT YOU THIS!!!! YOU…YOU…YOU’RE THE WHORE FROM BABYLON!!!! I CAN’T DO THIS!!!!”
Franklin leapt up from between his wife’s legs. His softened dick flopped wildly from side to side. BethAnn’s pussy fairly glowed with unsatiated lust. She needed to have him back inside her.
“Franklin!!?! What’s wrong?” she huffed breathlessly.
“YOU!!! YOU’RE WHAT’S WRONG!!! WHO TAUGHT YOU ALL THIS!! I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING A GOOD CHRISTIAN GIRL!!! NO CHRISTIAN WOMAN DOES AS YOU HAVE DONE HERE TONIGHT!!!”
His words reverberated beyond their little wagon. Outside eyes and ears perked up at this sudden outburst.
BethAnn was stung and bewildered. She was behaving as she believed any new wife would behave. All men wanted a “whore in the bedroom and a lady in the anteroom”. Leastways, that’s all she’d ever heard on the subject. Her mother, knowing of BethAnn’s sexual capacities, had simply advised her to “be herself” on her wedding night. Beth had heard Aisleen’s scatological cries of passion on HER wedding night and no one had complained. What was wrong with such verbalizations of her love?
Franklin loomed over her now. He was yanking his pants back on. His dick hung limply. BethAnn’s aggressive sexual performance had killed his desire. He breathed deeply as he glared at her, as if he’d just survived a fight—and then only barely.
“You….you’re…..you gots a….demon!!
Shattered, BethAnn drew herself up into the fetal position and broke down in tears. What started as a whimper soon became a caterwauling bawl. Beth was truly in anguish over Franklin’s reaction to her sexual performance. This was the worst that could happen. No, the second worst that could happen. The worst would be if he’d accused her of being a nigger fucker. But he hadn’t done that. This reaction went to the core of her white woman’s morality. And she still didn’t understand what she’d done wrong.
“FRANKLIN!! What’s wrong!!! I don’t understand what’s wrong!! Am I doing it wrong? Why are you unhappy with me!!!”
“I’m a MAN OF GOD, CHILD!!!” he thundered. “Those words you used!!! That…that thing you did with your…your hips!!! That thing with your tongue!!! NO CHRISTIAN WOMAN DOES THAT!!!! WHO SHOWED YOU HOW TO DO THESE THINGS!!! BETH!!! I know we haven’t talked about this before, but ARE YOU PURE? I DON’T BELIEVE THIS IS THE FIRST TIME YOU’VE DONE THIS!!!!” he bellowed in righteous indignation.
“I’m PURE, FRANKLIN!!! As GOD is my witness, I’m pure!!! I…I…just thought…I just thought you’d like me better if I did it like that!!!!”
“NO, CHILD!!! NO!!! A THOUSAND TIMES, NO!!!! The wife of a man of God is simple and clean!!! She bears no worldly lusts!! What lust she bears is thrust upon her by her HUSBAND!!! You have behaved, here tonight, as a woman who has already had a man’s lust thrust upon her!!! I ASK YOU AGAIN!!! ARE YOU PURE!!!!??”
“Oh! FRANKLIN!!! YES!!! I AM!! YES!! I…I…. just wanted….”
“NO!!! YOU CANNOT BE!!! I have prayed for this moment!!! In NONE of my prayers has my woman cleaved in this fashion!!!
“Franklin!!! FRANKLIN!!! IT’S NOT TRUE!!! YOU’RE THE FIRST, THE ONLY!!!”
She reached out to him for succor in her anguish. Franklin raised his arms to fend her off. He was sure that she’d been previously violated. Where there is smoke there is fire. Beth kept trying to waggle into his embrace, to comfort his fears, to regain his confidence. Franklin would have none of it. He pushed her away brusquely and leapt from the wagon. A small crowd was gathered outside the little wagon, absorbing every word therein. They parted like the Red Sea as the obviously agitated junior pastor stomped off to Pastor Goins’ tent for counsel.
Back at the Leone farm, Meshach was rounding into his new job as a house nigger. His shoulder injury precluded him from performing strenuous manual labor. Rather than have him linger about uselessly, Missus Fiona dressed him up in dowdy blue clothing and used him as a butler and for other, less demanding house chores.
Meshach’s brooding demeanor made him largely unfit for public consumption, especially among white folk. Fortunately, the farm didn’t get many visitors. Meshach didn’t get much of a chance to scowl forth his disdain for the masters.
As the matron of the farm, Fiona endured Meshachs’s doleful glares for a single reason: it gave her more opportunities to get him alone in the big house. She parceled out work assignments so that no one witnessed Meshach enter or leave the big house. Then she’d follow him, after a prudent period of time, using one pretext or another, always making sure that no one else had reason to enter.
The two of them used sidelong glances and discreet gestures to signal these assignations. When finally alone they fucked urgently and expressively, always fully clothed save for their undergarments, often face-to-face from the standing position, sometimes from behind, and always finished their opulent sessions with fellatio.
Fiona’s pubic hairs were growing in; she needed them to be in place when her husband returned. She had a white woman’s ass, meaning not much of it poked out behind. Her trunk was junkless. When fucking her up the ass, Meshach noted the ease with which his cock cruised into her rectum. A black woman’s junkful trunk provides a more significant buffer between a man’s balls and her doodihole, hence the evolutionary necessity for excessive length.
Fiona didn’t much like getting fucked up the ass.
Fiona made sure to suck Shaddy’s semen down during each of their clandestine encounters. If she was going to be an adulteress, she might as well be good at it. She blew him even when they didn’t have time to fuck. She licked his nuts at the most inconvenient moments, pulling his cock out for a risky quickie licky even when people were in the next room. He wouldn’t cum, but it was Fiona’s way of letting him know she was thinking about him. Meshach’s dick was sturdy and longwinded; her husband was away. On most non-quickie occasions, he made sure to plumb all her orifices before jetting his seed into her throat.
Afterwards, especially during daytime trysts, Fiona would emerge first from the big house (or wherever the two chose as a meeting place) and issued orders that drew workers away from the area. Meshach would wait thirty minutes and then casually stroll out, leaving the impression that his business inside had been customarily non-descript.
Some nights Fiona would sneak Meshach into her bedroom as her daughters had done. Nate and Aisleen were sleeping in the next bedroom and might have heard Fiona’s sexual escapades if she were indiscreet.
Fiona was not indiscreet.
BethAnn and Franklin Jefferson sat before Pastor Goins in his tent. Beth, prim and proper in an all-encompassing Victorian dress; Franklin, stretched out angrily in a chair, jaw in palm, disgustedly looking away. Pastor Goins insisted on having all the details of their recent marital spat, ALL the details, from start to finish.
Beth: “And then he…he tried to put it in, but he ‘uz havin’ some trouble, so I he’ped him some….”
Franklin: “SHE PUT HER HAND ON IT!!!”
Pastor Goins: “Shhhhhh. Go on, Beth.”
Beth: “And then, well, he got it in. And it felt good….so...I just…..I just….started…you know. I just started to…do it...to him.”
Pastor Goins: “Do it? Do what, child?”
Beth: “You know. IT. We started to do it.”
Pastor Goins: “You mean you allowed your husband to ‘KNOW’ you.”
Beth: “Yes. That.”
Franklin: “TELL HIM WHAT YOU SAID.”
Beth: “Well, Pastor, I said a few things that I probably hadn’t ought to said.”
Pastor Goins: “Such as?”
Beth: “Well, Pastor, I said some things I’ve heard the niggers say down in their camp. I probably shouldn’t have said them, but the niggers sound so happy, and you could see them smiling so wide when they come out that I thought that was what I was…well…I thought that Franklin might like me to talk at him like that.”
Pastor Goins: “Tell me what the niggers said, child.”
Beth demurred.
Franklin: “Pastor, she said “FUCK”, forgive me for sayin’. And she said it more’n once’t, too.”
Pastor Goins (looking concerned): “That’s ALL she said?”
Now both BethAnn and Franklin looked down at the ground in shame. Neither wanted to repeat Beth’s sexual chatter before their pastor.
Pastor Goins comforted them. “It’s alright. I’ve heard it before. Tell me exactly what was said.”
BethAnn was humiliated.
Franklin: “She said: ‘Fuck me, Franklin!!’. She said it out loud, too.”
Pastor Goins grimaced. “Isn’t that what you were doing?”
BethAnn: “Yessir.”
Pastor Goins: “Well, you’re legally married. You’re allowed. What’s wrong with it? It’s a little indelicate, and I’m surprised that someone from my flock would choose that terminology, but you two are young and your first lovemaking is bound to cause some rocky moments.”
Franklin: “PASTOR!! I….I….no….I don’t know any good girls that would use such a term!!! She certainly never give me any indication that she was capable of such language, such behavior!!! I….I…..would have strongly re-considered the marriage had I knowed!!!!”
BethAnn broke down in tears at this assertion. She was inconsolable.
Pastor Goins: “Shush boy!! SHUSH!!! Now look what you’ve done.”
Franklin: “PASTOR!!! I QUESTION THIS WOMAN’S CHASTITY.”
Pastor Goins: “I SAID SHUSH!!!! YOU’VE GONE TOO FAR.”
BethAnn was wailing again.
Pastor Goins: “Gon’ back to your wagon, Franklin. GO ON!! I’ll talk to BethAnn on my own. I’ll make this right. And when she comes home you’ll forget all this mess and try her again, you hear me? TONIGHT. And you’ll move on and be a good, God-fearing Christian couple, you hear me? GON’ now, boy. GON’!!”
Franklin stood up with a scowl, dusted himself off and bolted from the tent.
Now Pastor Goins regarded BethAnn coolly. She sobbed and whimpered like a child before him. He made no move to soothe her tears. He let her anguish dissipate naturally, without intervention. On several occasions, Beth tried to explain herself, but her pastor looked on dispassionately, withholding his advice and support. This puzzled Beth. He’d seemed to be her ally while her husband was present. Now he seemed distant, almost mechanical. There was no empathy in his eyes; his lips were pursed distastefully. The silence between them ballooned into a discomfort zone for the girl.
He allowed her to cry herself out before getting to the point.
“You been fuckin’ a nigger, ain’t you. Mebbe more’n one.”
BethAnn was shocked.
“NO!!! Who….where’d you get that from!!!”
“A white woman don’t act the way you acted. You been fuckin’ a nigger. I know it. And you know it.”
“PASTOR!! I NEVER!!!”
“It don’t make no sense to deny it. I seen this plenty times before. It’s always the same. You fuck the nigger ‘n you begin to act like the nigger. Probably some nigger with a donkey dick, too. It’s what makes a white woman use words like ‘fuck’ when she gits in bed wit’ a white man. And then you wonder why your husband is shocked. Tell the truth now.”
BethAnn dissolved into another crying jag. This time her wretched sobs made her choke. Goins endured her entreaties for solace. Again, he made no move to console her.
“PASTOR GOINS!!” she wailed. “I never been with a man!! Only Franklin!! And only that one time!!!!”
“You’re lying.” he said calmly.
“I’m NOT!!! PASTOR!!!!”
“You’re lying,” he said again. “When you git done lying, that’s when we can start in to fixin’ this so’s you can be married to a white man and git this behind you.”
There. A glimmer of light. Maybe the pastor had a plan for her. Maybe this could be fixed.
“Pastor!! Oh, PASTOR GOINS!! WHY DON’T YOU BELIEVE ME!!!!”
“It’s because you’re lying,” he said matter-of-factly.
“PASTOR!! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I’M LYING?”
“I was at your wedding. I knowed you was a nigger lover that day. I could smell it on you.”
BethAnn slumped over in tears again. How could this have happened? HOW? All her baths, all her perfumes, all her preparations. And she’d still been found out. Still she persisted.
“It’s not true!! It’s NOT TRUE!!!!”
“It IS true, Beth.”
“NO, PASTOR!! NO!!!”
“Do you want my help or not? If not, I’ll send you back to Franklin right now.”
“NO!! Pastor!! I never!!!!”
“Gon’, then. Go.”
BethAnn was at the nadir of her existence. She was lying about her trysts with blacks, that much was not in dispute. But she HAD to lie. Every white girl she knew had enough sense to tell that lie and stick with it. Suppose she admitted her sin to her pastor? And suppose he were to leak that admission? She’d be ruined. Her family would be ruined. Her husband would divorce her. She’d have no future in Louisiana. None.
All these outcomes raced about her mind as she beat her fists into the floor of Goins’ tent, furiously anguished that her sexual motor had betrayed her deepest secrets on her wedding night. She was trapped, trapped like an animal in a cage. Franklin would never believe her. Already the small group of camp devotees who’d heard the ruckus were gossiping among themselves. The only light available was Pastor Goins. Only he could staunch the hemorrhaging in her young marriage and maybe save her reputation at the same time. She just had to confess, a thing unfathomable.
“PASTOR!! I….I…..”
“Say it, child.”
“I….I…..”
“It’s OK. Just tell me everything. Just say it.”
“I….I……once. Just the once!!!”
“You’re lying.”
“PASTOR!!!!”
“You’re still lying to me, Beth.”
“PASTOR!! I cain’t say it!! I cain’t! I just cain’t!!!!”
“You have to say it, Beth. Say it. Just tell me. I promise you, everything will be OK.”
Beth’s will melted away. She was a puddle of hot butter. Her tears soaked the fabric of her dress. He knew everything!!! How did he know? If he knew, who else knew? What could be gained by lying further? Beth was in an ethical, spiritual quagmire. She was in Hell.
“OH PASTOR!! I NEVER MEANT TO DO IT!!! IT JUST COME OVER ME, TIME AND AGAIN!!! I COULDN’T HELP IT!!! OH LORD JESUS!!! SAVE ME FROM MY SIN!!!!”
She crumpled to her knees in penance, continuing to cry out her anguish.
Pastor Goins nodded approvingly.
“Good, Beth. Good. Some day you’ll look back on this day as the start of you new life as a white woman. Do you believe me when I say that?”
“Yes, Pastor,” she whimpered.
“Some day you’ll thank me for showing you the way back to redemption. Do you believe me when I say that?”
“Yes, Pastor.” Beth’s confidence was growing. She began to feel relief and trust in this man.
“It won’t be easy, Beth. It never is. But if you follow the cleansing path I set for you, all of your prior sins will be forgotten and forgiven. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Pastor. Yes.”
“OK. Are you ready to get started?”
“Yes, Pastor. I am.”
Goins stood from his seat and walked over to her. Her offered his hand to help her stand, then he seated her on a divan. He sat next to her and embraced her as a child. Beth felt security and love in his embrace. In tandem they rocked back and forth, as if Beth were a toddler. Beth hugged him tightly, as a father figure, serene in her trust. Goins kissed her lightly on the forehead; he rubbed his cheek against hers. A deep warmth encompassed her body.
“Do you want to be a white woman again?”
“Yes, Pastor. More than anything!!”
“Are you willing to undergo the cleansing necessary to become a white woman again?”
“Oh yes!! Yes, Pastor!!”
“Beth, I’m going to begin the cleansing now. Some of it may seem strange to you. If you’ll trust me, this is the best, the only way to accomplish your mission. Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Pastor. I trust you.”
“Good. You should know that I’ve cured many women in your position. A great many of them have gone on to become matrons in the church, consecrated of God, beloved wives and mothers. Is that your desire today?”
“Oh, very much, Pastor!!!”
“Good. If you’re ready, we shall begin.”
Goins released her embrace and stood before her. He tugged at his pants and dropped them to his ankles. His erect penis sprang forth angrily from a bristling thatch of rusty brown pubic hair.
Beth looked up at him in horror. He immediately moved to calm her fears.
“Beth, this is how you are cleansed. A consecrated white man must purge your nigger stink, must take it into himself and cleanse it thru the holy vessel you see before you now. I don’t like doing this. But this is the only way. Do you trust me?”
Beth was still in shock.
“Yes…I….I…guess so….Pastor.”
“Good. I want you to take my penis into your mouth. I want you to suck it. Suck it like you sucked the nigger’s penis. OK?”
Beth looked about. They were entirely alone. Anyone, however, might lift the flap and enter Goins’ tent at any time.
“What if someone comes in and finds us?” she confided.
“Don’t worry about that. This is a fairly common ritual. They’ve seen it before.”
Beth trembled forward until the thick crown of his circumcised penis lumbered beneath her nostrils. His cock was large, though not so large as the Negroes she’d blown. It was thick, fat even, with multiple veins crisscrossing the shaft. It stank of a familiar odor—nigger pussy. She wondered how this nigger-pussy encrusted dick was going to serve as her cleansing vessel?
BethAnn closed her eyes and, in the same instant, closed her lips about his dick. She wickered her tongue tentatively from its underside up to the very entrance to his urethra before laving it, left and right, in the warmth of her saliva.
Having lubricated the tip of his dick, she now ventured further down his shaft, inhaling his cock as she went. Her mouth widened unnaturally to receive him. Goins roiled his hips, by degrees, to plunge as far down her throat as he might. Beth’s windpipe closed after she’d gulped seven inches of his cock; he had to withdraw to allow her to breathe.
“Good, Beth. That’s good,” he mumbled.
Convinced, now, of the spiritual uprightness of her actions, Beth threw herself into this cleansing, ritualistic blowjob. She could feel her whiteness returning, slowly but surely, as she slobbed the pastor’s muscular dick. She was grateful that he’d given her this opportunity for redemption. Many lesser ministers might not have done so.
“Suck it like it was a nigger dick, Beth. Suck it,” he groaned.
Beth re-doubled her ministrations. She would clean Duck’s nigger dick from her tonsils and gums, and Meshach’s, too, and even that one time with Jerome down at the creek when they were youngsters. She plunged Goins’ dick deep into her cheeks, scrubbing the flats of her teeth with it, all the while licking him with her hot, probing tongue. Goins’ eyes rolled back in his head.
Beth sped up. She chickenheaded him, certain that his holy semen would sterilize the remnants of nigger cum already in her mouth. This holy vessel of God would redeem her soul from the blackness of her interracial sin, using the hot, consecrated jism bubbling up from his dangling balls. Goins’ head flailed on his shoulders. His body stiffened. He drove his cock into her mouth in a flurry of violent thrusts coincident with her slippery assault on his fat meat grinder.
Too, BethAnn’s southern motor began to churn. Her pussy juices percolated forth to drip over her ass cheeks and finally soiled the fabric of her ankle-length dress. Still fully clothed, already she bore a puddle behind that looked as if she’d peed herself, yet smelled quite differently from that pungent effluent.
It didn’t take long for Goins to screech sizzling jets of jism into the girl’s throat. Beth gargled his cum in her mouth, drenching every exposed surface, before swallowing it all. She felt vindicated, now, purged of her pre-marital interracial sin.
Goins watched her closely. Many easily convinced acolytes, awash in their own sins, had used his seed as a cleansing balm just as BethAnn had done. He was pleased at her acquiescence.
“Pastor?” she queried up to him, still kneeling.
“Yes?
“Franklin thinks this is dirty, this, what we just did. He don’t want me doin’ this to him.”
“He’s right, child. This ain’t what white women do on the regular. This is a cleansing ritual. Every now and again, when you need to be cleansed, you come to me. And you ain’t got to be telling people that you’ve been cleansed, neither, not even Franklin. It ain’t nobody’s business but your’n. You don’t want ‘em askin’ what youse been cleansed of. One day I’ll anoint Franklin with the power of the cleansing ritual. And then you can go to him for this cleansing. He’ll let you, believe me.”
“But I like doing this, Pastor.”
“Like I said, you come to me when you feel you need this cleansing. OK? And, anyway, we ain’t done here by a long shot. You got two other parts that need a good scouring, I’m sure. You gimme a minute and I’ll be ready, OK? I can see you becoming a beautiful white woman already. Look at you!!!”
A trickle of semen dribbled down the side of BethAnn’s mouth. She was serenely happy.
Lizzie Leone waited impatiently in Meshach’s cabin. It was just past midnight. Meshach was gone. Lizzie had a very good idea what he was doing.
She burned with the anger of a black woman that’s been lied to. The nyukka was off fucking. Where else would he be at this time of night? He’d promised himself to she and she alone!
Was he with Zelma? She crept over to Zelma’s cabin and breathlessly listened for the telltale sounds of human copulation. Only Zelma and Phoebe’s snoring greeted her ears. Cora was home in bed, she knew. She sneaked up to each of his old haunts in turn. In two of them she’d heard the sibilant groans of sexual intercourse. Peeking inside, she was chagrined to find that neither cabin contained her quarry. The denizens of the other cabins were asleep.
Where was he?
She lay down in Meshach’s bed, crossed her legs and interlocked her fingers behind her head. She was going to wait for him to show up. He was going to tell her where he’d been AND what he’d been doing.
She began to formulate a plan to test his explanation, too. If he’d been out fucking, she’d be able to smell it on his dick, maybe even on his lips and cheeks if he’d been eating pussy. Plus, he probably wouldn’t be able to get it up immediately. That would be the most telling indicator. She’d go and suck his dick. If it didn’t leap hard immediately, that nigger was going to have some trouble on his hands. Hmmmmph!
Now the daunting sounds of the Louisiana night assailed her. Crickets, bats and the occasional whippoorwill crooned their nocturnal mating songs. Off in the distance one might hear a wildcat yowl as it pounced, or the secretive shufflings of opossums and raccoons meandering through the slave quarters seeking leftover foodstuffs.
Too, the strident sexual groans of the black slave community provided a unique backdrop to the patter of the surrounding natural world. Only now, late in the evening, did this downtrodden people take time to indulge their passions, freed from the oversight and interference of the whites. They made love in the same room where their children and parents slept fitfully. If someone awakened to find a couple lewdly conjoined in a sexual embrace, oh well.
Lizzie heard all this thru the filter of a woman born to this life. She gave this nightly chorale little note; her ears preened to discern the even footsteps of a man who had no reason to be up and about at this time of night.
An hour passed. And then another. Where was he? Lizzie suppressed the urge to get up to look for him again. No, he wasn’t in the barn. She’d even ventured out into the woods to check a tree house built by the Leone boys. No one there.
Where was he? The big house? BethAnn and Josephine were gone. Why would he be there? Nate and Aisleen were up there. Hank’s loft was empty. And…..NO!!!!! IT COULDN’T BE!!!! MISSUS FIONA??!?? IMPOSSIBLE!!!
Lizzie swung her legs over the side of Meshach’s bed. An instant later she was racing up the sward to the barn from which she hoped to spy on the big house. Anyone exiting the big house could be easily seen from the upper loft on the barn, unless that person left through the rear of the home and circled up through the woods. She didn’t think Meshach would do that. It might set the dogs to barking.
Nestling into a corner of the barn loft, Lizzie peeked out thru a crack in the clapboard siding from which she could see the front of the big house. She waited.
The time dragged on. Over in the far corner of the barn loft a young black couple fucked luxuriantly. Lizzie couldn’t see who it was, but she surmised that it was Caleb and Martha, only recently an item. The barn loft was a common rendezvous spot for such trysts. The two lovers had gone radio silent when she’d first climbed up, but seeing that she was alone and had other business, they’d picked up right where they’d left off, heedless of her presence. For all they knew Lizzie was there to meet her own lover.
Lizzie ignored them. It was easy enough to find people playing hide the sausage around the farm. Many’s the night she’d been caught in this same barn with a lengthy sausage pulsing in her own behind.
“You go
‘head on, Martha.”
Lizzie kept her eyes peeled on the big house.
Soon enough, a furtive figure emerged. It was Meshach. Lizzie couldn’t see his face, but she knew his gait. He kept to the shadows until he reached open ground, then he raced across the gap between the house and the barn. Lizzie knew his path before he took it; she slipped down from the loft the second he emerged from the big house. When he reached the barn she tracked him from inside as he skirted its perimeter and headed for home. As he hit the grassy hillock between the barn and the slave quarters, Lizzie was clinging to the shadows in his wake, tracking him as a panther tracks a deer.
Meshach was walking now. He made no move to dissemble, had no reason to be afraid. Only his egress from the big house had been fraught with danger. He was sure no one had seen him.
He was wrong.
“Shaddy” came a deep whisper from ten feet behind. Meshach whirled on the balls of his feet, quick as a cat, ready to fight. Seeing Lizzie’s form limned against the darkness, he dropped his aggressive stance.
“What ‘chu doin’ out here?” he whispered.
“I came lookin’ for you,” she said.
“I was….I was….,” he stammered.
“You was in the big house. I know.”
Meshach didn’t reply. She walked over to him slowly and took his arm. Together, they walked in silence back to his cabin. Once inside, Lizzie closed the door behind them. She stepped to Meshach and looked him deeply in the eyes, still without talking. She could see both shame and exasperation in his eyes. Too, she could discern a small inkling of triumph. She knew that Meshach wasn’t going to explain himself on the matter.
She knelt before him, pulling his flaccid penis from his cotton pantaloons. It was still soaked in jism, stinking wet from its recent sojourn in the fervent grip of cracker pussy. She drew his cock up to her nose. Her heart sank to know that, not ten minutes before, her private dick had been elsewhere. She rested her cheek against it affectionately and felt his sticky jism leave a heavy slime trail that dried quickly in the cool night air. She could see small swirlets of wispy smoke rising from his overheated cock as crispy night air enveloped it. She wanted to suck him; indeed that had been the purpose of her original visit. Yet she didn’t want that woman’s taste in her mouth.
Lizzie put Meshach’s dick back in his pants and stood to face him.
“I gotta do some things, Lizzie.” he said. “It don’t got nuttin’ to do wit’ you and me.”
“I know,” she said.
Lizzie teared up. She turned and left him alone in his cabin.
The work of building Hank Leone’s new farm proceeded apace. The little team of pioneers had already cleared ten acres of prime timberland and processed enough wood to build a barn. The slaves were parceled out to do the strenuous work of planting the first tobacco crop. Hank’s white neighbors were enlisted to help build the barn, ostensibly the most important building on the property. The Stenstroms and the Franz’ were among these.
They cleared high ground for the endeavor and leveled a foundation consistent with the common architecture of the time. They dug pile-ons at the corners while the sides of the barn were pre-fabricated around the perimeter of the foundation. Dado joints were manually cut as roof supports.
When the time came to hoist the sides up and into place everyone, including the slaves, was enlisted for muscle. They lifted and held one barn side into place, then an adjacent side. They squared and connected these. Then the other adjacent side was lifted and foisted through the same procedure. Finally, the opposite side was hoisted and joined. In this manner the building was squared and secured.
Edward Leone made an occasion of the event, setting out tables of food and drink for all concerned excepting, of course, the slaves.
The following day they hoisted the roof supports into place with a series of pulleys, a mule and some elbow grease. Then they climbed up and extended planking to cover the spans between the roof supports. Then they tarred and papered these spans and covered these with shingles as bulwarks against the elements.
In all it took just two days labor to raise Hank’s barn, though the prep work took several months. Young Hank was hugely proud at the progress being made. He made sure to be at the center of where the work was hardest. This was his farm, after all. He didn’t want to give the impression of being a slacker.
There was, as yet, no big house built. The white workers slept in tents. The slaves slept on the ground. Raw timber from the farm had been floated up the river to a mill where Edward paid to have the wood planked and squared. The processed wood was then sent back to the farm by mule wagon and stacked at the site of the new homestead. This process had been ongoing. In the meantime, the foundation for Hank’s home was laid and leveled. Not surprisingly, Hank’s farm layout was nearly identical to that of the original Leone farm some twenty miles distant.
Marlene Franz was at Hank’s side as his home was designed. It was she who’d suggested a root cellar for the home, something Hank’s native home lacked. She’d also suggested storage options for the home, closets, and inlaid shelving for the load-bearing walls.
All parties concerned noted her influence; she and Hank quickly became an item, with Hank turning to her for counsel at critical moments, instead of his father. Edward Leone, who’d funded this entire endeavor, observed her hegemony wryly. The young girl was behaving as if her name were already Leone.
Marlene was not in camp every weekend, however, and on most occasions the little troupe plowed ahead on the direction provided by Master Edward. He prioritized the tobacco crop even to the point of purchasing the services of black slaves from local landowners. He believed that the farm should be self-supporting within a year, two at the most, and only a cash crop like tobacco was capable of managing that goal.
Edward was pleased when Hank challenged him on this plan. Hank wanted to plant corn, believing that his farm animals and slaves would need locally grown sustenance. He argued that the profits from tobacco sales would be eaten up by food costs. Edward overruled him, but secretly was proud that his youngest son was beginning to think like a businessman farmer.
He told Hank that the sow would soon produce a litter of piglets that would grow and serve as food for the slaves. He added that the hunting in this region was rich; they could expect to add squirrels, coons and the occasional deer to their diet. As a final concession, he set aside a half-acre for a vegetable garden replete with collards, onions and tomatoes. Also, he brought along seeds for a peach orchard, though acknowledging this to be a longer-term project.
“What about a still?” Hank grumbled.
“Now you’re thinkin’ like a white man, son!! Now you’re thinking like a white man!!” his father laughed heartily.
Though distilling spirits was patently illegal, most of the farms in the area had the equipment and capacity to make their own liquor. Moonshine served a host of needs around a farm. It was used for sterilization of wounds. It was used as a form of barter; it was used as for gifts. On occasion, Edward even allowed the slaves to partake. It was another method of keeping them under control.
Edward suggested a hunting trip with Hank, just the two of them, in which he proposed to show the boy the richness of game in the surrounding woods. They brought along rifles for the endeavor, along with sturdy boots, paring knives and various hunting paraphernalia.
They didn’t get far before they came across a hidden gully, which they might have missed if Edward hadn’t insisted on investigating. Clambering down between ponderously heavy oaken tree trunks, Hank was surprised to find an operating still. There was a huge fermenting pot and coils of copper leading to a cooling vessel, all set up and ready to go, except for the necessary fire.
“Here’s your still, boy,” Edward said proudly.
“Why way out here? Why not closer to the farm?” asked Hank.
“Makin’ ‘shine is illegal, son.”
“”What? EVERYBODY we know has a still.”
“You notice that none of ‘em talk a whole lot about it. It’s illegal. If the law finds out they could take you to jail.”
“But I seen Sheriff Hankins drinkin’ shine many’s the time over t’ the Harvest Dance.”
“’Tain’t illegal to drink, son. It’s illegal to MAKE.”
“Well, why don’t he arrest the person that made it for him?”
“He probably made it hisself, that’s why.”
“Well, why don’t somebody come and arrest HIM?”
“That ain’t the way it works, boy.”
Edward explained the ins and outs of making shine. He cautioned the boy against allowing the vat to get too hot. It might explode. Tending to the fire was of paramount importance. When the time came for them to make ‘shine, they’d duck out from the farm for a few days and come to this spot. He cautioned the boy against giving directions to the spot. First of all, someone could come and steal their working materials.
“Copper tubing is expensive.”
Secondly, making ‘shine took time, and time was a commodity they didn’t have much of. The niggers might run off. Any number of things could go wrong while they were away. In fact, it was time they were getting back now. There was a lot of work still to be done to get Hank’s farm on its feet. And they already had several jugs of ‘shine inventoried, brought over from the home farm.
On the way home, Edward queried his son.
“What’s this going on with you and the Franz girl?”
“Oh daddy, she’s just a friend.”
“She looks like she wants to be more’n a friend to me. She runs things when she’s here.”
“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“You remember. She was one of Aisleen’s bridesmaids.”
“Oh. That’s right. I remember now. And she come to Joey and BethAnn’s wedding, too, ain’t she?”
“Yep.”
“You sure you ain’t got nothin’ going on with her?”
“She sucked my dick that one time.”
“Just the once?”
“Yessir.”
Spartan living conditions at the Hank Leone farm allowed for few amenities. Both blacks and whites alike toiled incessantly from dawn to dusk. When the workday ended there was little time for tomfoolery. The whites went down to the river to wash the daily grime away. The blacks did the same—downstream, of course. No soap was available, nor was provision made for fresh clothing. Each day was a fused miasma of sweat, insects, grime and funk, broken only by the dead tiredness of the lengthy nights.
They were at it six days a week. On the Sabbath, the Leone’s trundled off to church. Fiona, Aisleen and Nathan, Josephine and Robert met them there, bringing fresh church clothing that Edward and Henry donned before services. The blacks were free to attend church or stay in camp, as they chose. Edward hired a stand-in overseer to watch over them in his absence.
As the saying goes, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. This austere schedule left little room for the sexual shenanigans that provided lubricant for the edgy racial relations of the culture. Edward missed his wife as well as his harem of outside poontang providers. Hank had Marlene available occasionally, but she was chaperoned closely during her visits. The young pair had scant opportunity to sate themselves.
All of the onsite black slaves were male. Sans any female company, the blacks were snippy and surly with one another. Fights broke out between friends. Edward Leone was forever intervening in these dust ups. He tended to resolve such incursions by whipping both combatants, though not so viciously that they couldn’t continue to work.
After four months the testosterone tension on the new farm threatened to scuttle the entire enterprise. Edward spent more time mitigating fights than planning infrastructure.
Something had to give.
Edward knew the solution to his problem. Prudently, he asked his son what might be done to calm the black slaves, whose testiness slowed progress in the best of scenarios and, at worst, verged on insurrection.
“You reckon we ought to let ‘em git drunk?” Hank offered.
“That’s one way, I reckon. But what’ll that git you in the mornin’? It ain’t but eight of ‘em. Half of ‘em won’t wanna wake up. The other half won’t be worth a damn,” replied Edward.
“Well, what then?”
“Think, man!!! What is it that keeps these niggers in their place at home?”
“Your whip?”
“Henry, I cain’t whip ‘em all the time. Whippin’s just for fear. Eventually, fear runs out. No, ‘taint whippin’s that keeps ‘em dumb, fat and happy. THINK.”
Hank was at a loss. He hadn’t really studied the incentives behind power. His father had schooled Nathan in those arts, not he.
“Henry, can you name which one of those niggers you can whup in a fist fight?”
“I can whip all of ‘em, daddy. They won’t fight me back.”
“If they fought you back, which one could you whup? Ever’ single one of them does twice the work you do. They’re faster, stronger. The only thing that keeps ‘em from whippin’ you is…what? My whip. And, after that, my pistol. And it’s eight of them. And only two of us. What keeps ‘em from sneakin’ up on us in the night and cuttin’ our throats?”
“I never thought of it that way, daddy. I thought it was because that’s how niggers are.”
“Well, that IS how they are, Henry. They ain’t like us. If it ‘twas you and me being forced to work for niggers and live in raggedy huts and eat like dogs, we’d-a killt them long ago. That’s what a white man does. But niggers is different.
“The thing is, niggers learn fast. REAL fast. And they watch us close. So one day a nigger is going to figure out that it ain’t in his interest to do all the hard work while we git all the benefits. That’s why it ain’t in our interest to teach niggers how to read or think. They know what we tell ‘em and nothin’ else. When they git outta line, we whip ‘em back into line. If necessary, we kills ‘em. That’s what keeps the natural order.
“And why is it we can git nigger poontang and they cain’t git none from any of our women?” he continued. “That’s just our way of lettin’ ‘em know who’s in charge. A woman’s nature is to mate with the strongest man. It ain’t no doubt but that niggers is strong. But being strong ain’t the same as being powerful. And white men is powerful. And that’s why a white woman won’t ever give up her…her…well, her pussy to a nigger. Niggers ain’t powerful. I don’t know any white women that’s give up her…her pussy…to a nigger. They just won’t do it. It ain’t natural, ‘specially since they has white men available.”
“So you’re sayin’ I gots to be powerful?” interjected Hank.
“Yes, son. That’s what I’m sayin’. And part of bein’ powerful is being smart. You gotta know what keeps your adversary in line, how to manipulate him when you need to.”
“So how do we keep our niggers in line?”
“Well, you see these niggers is gittin’ mighty surly, mighty cantankerous. What’s the thing that causes a grown man to be so sour all the time?”
“Bein’ married to a naggy woman?”
Edward guffawed.
“Well, that’s one thing. I hadn’t thought-a that one!! That’s good! No, son, it’s PUSSY. POONTANG. We gots to git these niggers some womens. And soon.”
“Where we gon’ git nigger women from?”
“I reckon ole Mullins has got a few we can use. And Stenstrom has got one or two.”
“You gon’ bring ‘em out here and have ‘em do it right on the ground where the niggers sleep?”
“Have some imagination, boy. We won’t bring ‘em out here. We’ll travel over there and make like you and me need puttin’ up. We’ll bring the niggers along and have ‘em sleep in the barn. All these niggers know each other. They’ll figure out how to git what they need from the nigger women over there. You get me?”
“Well what about us? I’m feelin’ kinda surly myself.”
“Stenstrom will know that without being told, boy. He’ll slip us a nigger woman or two for our own needs.”
“You, too, Pa? What about Ma?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a man now. And don’t you worry about me. I been with nigger women before. Your Ma knows.”
Edward sent Hank over to the Stenstrom farm as an emissary. They were having some nigger problems over at the new farm, he advised. Could Master Stenstrom make some of his nigra girls available, on the quiet, like, for a night or two, so as to calm them a bit and make them less ornery? Master Edward would be ever so grateful. And, too, Master Edward wondered, if Master Stenstrom could set aside a spot for a tent and, maybe, a room in the big house for one of the Leone men? Didn’t matter which. And, if Master Stenstrom understood their need, maybe he just might make a way for the two Leone’s to have some company themselves, in the common way, so to speak?
Sam Stenstrom understood this missive perfectly. It was the old poontang game come home to roost. Sam chuckled to himself as young Leone importuned him for pimp services in the sugary sweet language of the South. Of course the Leone’s could avail themselves of his stock. He had three prime fillies at the ready, unmarried, and a few others whose husbands were quiescent. Better still, he had a brand new filly, straight off the boat, unbroken, unbranded, unable to speak English, that might serve Master Edward’s needs personally.
“That sounds good,” Hank observed with a cap wave reminiscent of a French pirate.
The following afternoon a small caravan on men arrived at the Stenstrom farm. Led by Edward and Hank Leone on horseback. Eight black slaves shuffled behind, on foot, wearing rags unfit for an animal. They were dusky black, crispy even, and their mien told the story of men worked well beyond their capacities. They had no idea what Edward had in mind for them; most assumed they were simply moving to another work site.
Upon arrival, however, the Stenstrom crew met the little troupe joyously. Isabel and June Stenstrom greeted Edward and Hank with cold lemonade and buttered biscuits. Both men were then treated to a hot bath before the requisite southern dinner celebration.
The blacks were greeted by Stenstrom’s slaves, who gave them buckets of soapy water with which to bathe and, afterward, feted them lavishly with foods stolen from the master’s table cobbled into vegetables grown in their own meager gardens. The Leone slaves were given all they could eat. Further, they were introduced to their company for the evening—five demur looking slave girls who wore long, hand-me-down dresses and tied their hair up in mis-matched handkerchiefs. It was only now that the Leone slaves realized the purpose of the visit—and rejoiced.
The blacks were shown around the farm and introduced to their peers. Most of them knew each other already. Old friendships were renewed with shouts of laughter and huge hugs all around. When the whites weren’t looking, the Leone blacks were apprised of the their assignations for the evening. Eight on five? It looked like three of the men were either going to double up or be ass out. Subconsciously, the thirteen sexual combatants began to pair off mentally, casting sidelong glances among themselves.
Hildy Stenstrom, Meshach’s wedding day one-night stand, looked for him among the crew and was disappointed at his absence. She’d heard tell of his beating. Once selected as part of the pool of women made available to the Leone’s, she’d hoped to hook up with him again. She recognized his friend Duck, though, and sought his eyes. They chose each other for that night’s festivities.
Passing thru the barn, Duck noted a black woman weighed down with chains in one of the horse stalls. She was clearly not one of the slaves; her eyes bespoke an alien mien. This woman did not belong here. For one thing, she was naked, unembarrassed to be so, and chained at the ankles and wrists, both of which bore the deep cuts of her imprisonment. Her skin resonated a deep, royal, cocoa brown. Her features were distinctly African; she had a broad nose, full lips and fierce eyes. Her black hair was closely cropped, as was her pubic mound. But for her vaginal triangle and her full breasts, one might have thought her a man. She had rippling, youthful muscles in every relevant quadrant. When she moved, only her breasts jiggled, and then only just. Duck estimated her to be in her late teens, perhaps even her early twenties.
She unleashed a flurry of sibilant, clicking commands in Duck’s direction imploring, no, demanding his assistance. Duck didn’t understand a word of it, but he surmised her intent by the rage in her eyes and the vibrant tension in her body language. She was not used to being confined. In her bearing was the pride of queens, hugely indignant at being thus restrained at the hands of the whites.
“Who is this?” Duck asked.
Jamie, Duck’s guide, responded, “She ain’t got no name yet. Massuh just bought her the other day. She straight outta Af’ica, she is.”
Duck regarded her compassionately. She was in for a world of hurt. Newly patriated Africans in America could look forward to daily beatings, starvation, animal-like living conditions and often rape in an effort to break their spirit and make them amenable to slavery. This girl looked full of spirit. She had some rough days ahead.
Duck bowed his head and walked past. The girl spewed a stream of unintelligible invective in his wake.
After the introductions, the Leone slaves were enlisted to pitch Edward Leone’s tent. Sam Stenstrom set aside a guest bedroom for the Leone’s knowing full well that only one of them would sleep in the room. Sam’s wife Minnie, no stranger to the poontang tradition, was concerned about the caliber of her company’s probable company. Why should she supply her good bed sheets to a nigger woman for poontang’s sake? Sam shushed her. He promised to replace the bed sheets after the Leone’s left.
Hank Leone supervised the pitching of his tent, then flitted off to dinner with the Stenstroms, a repast comparable to dinners at home. Minnie Stenstrom laid out a real spread for her guests. After the blessing, they tucked into dinner with relish.
Sam Stenstrom asked after the progress of the new farm. He listened attentively as Hank described the progress made and the obstacles overcome. Hank bragged about the vision of the endeavor. Tobacco wasn’t a normal Louisiana crop; he reckoned the anticipated profits were worth the effort alone, inasmuch as the market was so big and transportation costs were minimized.
Sam asked after the cost of seed. It must have been considerable. Edward broke in and confirmed this conception. Expensive wasn’t the word for it! It was positively crippling! But thru thrift and hard work the Leone’s had come up with the down payment.
In fact, the seed costs had been reasonable. Edward wanted to discount Stenstrom as a possible competitor in the tobacco market by forewarning him of fake startup costs.
The conversation prattled along. The Stenstroms were eager for every little detail about their daughter Aisleen and young Abby. Edward regaled them with stories of their precocious grandchild, the same stories they heard each Sunday after church. One of these weekends Aisleen and Abby would visit the new farm and, from there, spend some time with the Stenstroms. This promise drew wide smiles from the grandparents. The two families had become much closer after Aisleen’s wedding to Nathan.
After dinner, Edward and Sam took a walk around the farm. Sam wanted Edward to see his latest acquisition, the black African girl chained in the barn.
Standing before her now, Edward whistled in admiration.
“She’s a beauty!! What’s her name?”
“We’re gonna call her Hannah,” replied Stenstrom.
“Wooooh!! She ain’t got a ounce-a fat on her! ‘N lookit that pussy!!! Pokes out like a li’l pooch mound, don’t she?”
Unlike her earlier enthusiasm upon seeing black faces, the black girl’s reaction to the two white men was impassive, almost desultory. Her eyes didn’t shine in recognition. She didn’t strain mightily against her restraints. She seemed almost cowed.
“And this one’s for me?” asked Edward.
“She is if’n you want her. Even I ain’t broke her in yet.”
“What’s with the chains? It don’t look like she needs ‘em.”
“Well, Ed, she’s new. You know how it is with new niggers. They gits scared. They may run. Like I say, I ain’t broke her in proper.”
“You lemme git a chance’t at her. I’ll break her in. And Sam? Git those chains off her. She’s bleedin’ And bring me some ‘shine so I can clean her up. You’ve scuffed her up so much that she’s sure to muss up your wife’s bed sheets. If she’s anywhere near as good as she looks, I might just give you a premium over her price.”
Stenstrom laughed. “Not without I gits my chance to break her in, you ain’t!!”
So came the night. The Leone blacks climbed into the upper loft of the Stenstrom barn and found a wooden bench, twenty feet long and two feet wide, lanced along the eastern wall. This night the bench was covered in various blankets. There was also a decrepit couch in the far corner. This, too, was covered in blankets. Some might have accounted this as five-star accommodations for black slaves in Louisiana, a place where a bare wooden bench would normally be accounted as “good enough for a nigger”.
This night the bench had been covered by the five chosen comfort women: Hildy, Scythia, Sarah, Miss Penelope and Miss Kate. The latter two women were already married. Other than Hildy, all the women were in their mid to late twenties.
Paired against these women were eight rugged black men: Duck, Jerome, Homer, Howie, Leon, Scoop, Terry and Wayne. These latter three men were already in their thirties. Homer, Scoop and Wayne were married.
The Leone blacks stood about in the darkness for a few minutes, trying to get their bearings. The moon was full. The loft wasn’t entirely dark. As in any barn this loft contained castoff tools, wagon wheels and other various knick-knacks strewn about making quick movements perilous. As their eyes became adjusted, the visitors noted the lay of the land. Obviously the blanket-covered areas were for them. As is human nature, each man drifted to an area and, by sitting, claimed it as his own for the night.
The barn smelled like any other barn. There were horses and cows downstairs. The acrid smell of their feces bloomed about the room. Gradually the men began to converse in low tones among themselves.
“What happened to de’ Af’ican girl? She ain’t dere?”
“You ain’t see? Ole massuh come and he wash her up and took her up to the big house.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yup. She must be de one for Massuh Ed.”
“She ain’t look like sump’n Massuh Ed kin han’le. She look wile to me.”
“Dass prol’ly why he want her.”
Duck reserved comment. He’d seen something in the girl, something more than just ‘wild’. He’d seen ‘free’ in her eyes, an exotic luxury that neither he nor any of his compatriots had ever tasted. They’d grown up with a super-imposed language and a super-imposed religion and a culture that made them see themselves as inferior, destined by virtue of their race to a lifetime of servitude. The chained black girl had none of these burdens. Not yet, anyway. Duck envied her even as he felt sickened by her immediate future prospects. Soon the white man’s cultural super-imposition would begin.
A ghost appeared at the head of the stairs. Conversation stopped short. It was Hildy. Slowly, four more apparitions climbed up the ladder behind her.
The women were fully dressed, covered from neck to ankle to wrist. They wore slippers or sandals; otherwise their feet were bare. Their eyes gleamed dully in the reflected moonlight. Two of the women didn’t really want to be here. The other three pretended they wanted to be elsewhere but, in fact, were looking forward to the evening’s festivities.
Now these latter three—Hildy, Scythia and Sarah—stepped forward into the room. The Leone blacks eyed each other. Which of them would be first to break the ice? None of the thirteen people in the room had participated in an orgy before. None of them knew how to get started.
What was certain was that no orgy could commence with this much clothing obstructing the sexual organs. Scythia, a cinnamon-hued beauty with big eyes and a husky mien, recognized this truism first. She began to unbutton her bodice. She looked to Hildy and Sarah for support. Those two followed her lead. Once their bodices were loose, all three girls extricated their arms from their puritan dresses, allowing the garments to fall to the floor. Soon, the women stepped naked from the soft pile of fabric at their feet. They wore no undergarments.
Sarah was a large girl, chocolate black, with sensual lips, an uncharacteristically narrow nose, small ears, large teeth and an oval shaped face. Her thick, black hair was braided into four large square patches, interlocked and pulled back. Her breasts were somewhat small for a woman her size, but her pussy looked huge. The hairy mass between her legs poured across the natural boundaries of a vaginal triangle; it spread upwards towards her navel and downwards across her thighs. Her labia bulged forth like a leather pouch. Standing naked before these men, she covered her left breast with her hand and allowed her misshapen pubic mound to draw their attention. She knew it stood out from the crowd.
Scythia’s pussy, too, stood out, but for a different reason. It was covered with wispy, fine hairs, so fine that they barely covered her vulva. It was evident that she’d recently shaved; these pubic hairs were the resurrected growth from that event. Her clitoris bulged from the tip of her cleft like a little knob. It was already erect. Scythia was ready to fuck. None of the men had seen a pussy as bereft of hair as Scythia’s on a grown woman. She immediately flew to the top of their “I wanna be first” list.
The third girl, Hildy, was half-white. One wouldn’t know it from her coarse language. She spoke in the argot of the full-bred southern Negro slave, and interspersed her conversations with rancid epithets so often that one might have thought her a worker in the mines. She was high-yaller, with a thick mop of curly, reddish-black hair gracing her crown, underarms and vagina. Her breasts were larger than Sarah’s but not so large as Scythia’s. Her nipples were brownish-pink, not black. She was taller than Scythia, but not as tall as Sarah. She had freckles on her cheeks and down the line of her neck. Like Scythia, her clitoris was already erect, but couldn’t be seen thru her mass of curly pubic hair. She could feel it trembling even now. She referred to it as “my dick” and often demanded that it be sucked before allowing penetration. Hildy was more than willing to reciprocate. Those who sucked her clit properly could feel the pulsing shaft of her erect clit rising deep from the northern roof of her vagina, if they probed that far in. It truly emulated a man’s cock.
The two married women, Penelope and Kate, now stepped forward and doffed their clothing. They were eager to get this encounter over with. They faced angry husbands back in the slave quarters. Kate fully expected her husband to come looking for her. If Master Stenstrom wasn’t around, Kate could expect a beating for her participation in these sexual shenanigans.
Duck piped up. “Well, fellas, I dunno about you, but I gots sump’n to do.”
He offered his hand to Hildy. She eagerly accepted his invitation. This broke the ice. Jerome latched onto Scythia. Terry grabbed Sarah. The other five men began to haggle over Penelope and Kate. They raised such a ruckus that Duck felt compelled to intervene.
“HUSH DAT NOISE!!! HUSH!!!”
Though Duck wasn’t the oldest his voice was respected. He was one of the strongest men there.
“Howie, you come over here with us. Scoop, youse a big boy. Go over there wit’ Terry and…what’s your name, ma’am? Sarah? You go wit’ Terry and Sarah. Wayne, you go over wit’ Jerome and his nice young lady. Leon and Homer, you stay wit’ dese two women…what’s your names? Kate? Penny? er, Penelope? Y’all stay with Kate and Penelope. When y’all git done you call fo’ dese lumpheads. I don’t reckon it’ll take you too long to git done.”
All the men laughed at this snide dig except Leon and Homer. Both men had a reputation around the Leone farm as being quick on the trigger. Homer was even ridiculed because his dick didn’t measure up to the other blacks. Some women smirked that his dick didn’t even measure up to the whites.
And so they commenced.
Hildy immediately took charge of her little group. She pushed Howie down on the couch and straddled his face with her pussy. Though her pussy was covered with a bushy shock of curly pubes, Howie could see the valley created by her cleft and her arching clit pulsing upwards to his lips.
“You see it, honey?” she said from above. “Well, you know what to do wit’ dat mothuhfuckuh. Suck it. Suck it good.”
With that she began to wipe his face with her pussy until her clit found his lips and he closed upon it. She positioned Duck behind the couch and, as she humped Howie’s mouth, she sucked Duck’s dick in stride with Howie’s devotions to her clit. Soon, she was moaning with delight.
All the extant parties soon settled into convenient positions around the room. They eschewed foreplay; there was little kissing or fondling. Rather, hard dicks lumbered out and were soon enveloped in soaking pussies or disappeared into hungry throats.
Scythia mounted Jerome and slid her pussy down upon his steely cock. She looked up to Wayne and pointed towards her ass. Wayne was a little confused. He’d never done double-penetration before. Scythia pointed to his hard dick and then dictated the direction that it should go. She reached back and tapped her sphincter. Only then did the light of recognition blink in Wayne’s eyes. He scrambled up behind her to plunge his dick into her ass. Jerome had never done DP before either. The surge of Wayne’s cock into Scythia’s ass caused him some consternation, inasmuch as another man’s cock was so close to his own. Scythia slipped her tongue into his mouth to soothe his fears. She lost herself, now, in the power of the two dicks plumbing her southern holes.
Terry mounted Sarah from behind and fucked her up the ass while she blew Scoop. When he came, they switched positions, only Scoop chose to fuck her up her pussy, doggystyle, while she lapped jism and her own fecal material from Terry’s cock.
Penelope and Kate blew Homer and Leon, respectively. Both men came within minutes, then swapped out. Penelope blew Leon, while Kate blew Homer. Both men regained tumescence with the change out.
As Hildy collapsed in a clitoral orgasm brought on by Howie’s expert cunnilingual fellatio, Duck released his semen into her mouth. Howie scrambled up from beneath the shuddering girl and immediately began fucking her from behind. Duck had wanted some pussy, but now that Howie beat him to it, he allowed Hildy to continue to languidly suck his cock as Howie rammed her from behind. Soon his penis rose from the dead. He looked over and noted that Penelope’s pussy remained unsullied. He left Howie mounted over Hildy and went over introduce his cock to the married woman.
Following Duck’s lead, Wayne noted Kate’s pussy waggling in the air as she blew Homer. He soon filled that orifice, leaving Scythia mounted alone over Jerome. Scoop noted Scythia’s open sphincter and shortly replaced Wayne in that kingdom of shit.
Hildy allowed Howie to fuck her until she knew he was ready to come. Then she scooched down and accepted his jism in her mouth. She wanted to get her pussy sucked again and she doubted that any of these niggers would do it if her pussy were soiled with another man’s jism.
With his balls drained, she released Howie from service and called Terry over.
“Lick my pussy FIRST” she demanded. Terry willingly complied.
They went at it like this for the better part of an hour. Each man had the opportunity to bathe his penis in the fragrant juices of each of the women present, save for Hildy, who continued to demand that her pussy be licked prior to entry. Hildy swallowed jism from all eight men; only three of them pleased her enough to receive a coital invitation. None of them left her with a batch of semen. She preferred to take semen into her throat, and swallowed without tasting.
Penelope and Kate politely asked that each man cum in their mouths or their asses, out of respect for their husbands. Only Leon defied this request. Once inside Penelope’s well-groomed pussy he found he couldn’t hold back. Noting his inability to restrain properly, Penelope pursed her lips at him disdainfully. The nigger had only been up in her for fifteen seconds! And now she was all sloppy wet with his boner broth. If she’d known he had problems with dick control she never would have let him up in there.
“How old is
this nigger? Twelve?”
The strident sounds of group lovemaking drifted out into the night. The blacks in the slave quarters heard it and used it as spice for their own gristle. One could easily hear the wet slapping sounds of huge dicks plumbing the depths of tight pussies, or the moans of women as their orgasms rose up to consume them, or the groans of men struggling to move from ass to pussy to mouth without cumming, measuring their manhood by their capacity for restraint.
“That’s Scythia right there. Anybody could tell when she busts a nut,” mentioned one seasoned observer from the quarters.
“And that one was Sarah. She sounds like a man.”
Kate’s husband listened for the telltale sounds of her sexual extremis. She made a cooing, bird-like sound that was easily distinguishable both in pitch and tenor. It evolved into a raptor’s shriek as she convulsed into orgasm. Kate was wise enough to mute her passion this night. She was already in for a rough time when she returned home.
After much swapping about, the late evening found Duck stretched out on his side behind Sarah, who lay on her side before him. His dick was firmly ensconced in her hairy pussy. He fucked her diffidently, as if trying to conserve just enough energy to keep from falling asleep. She held her legs open wide. Every now and again she fingered her clit and her tits idly. The big girl had screwed her way through six orgasms. She wasn’t sure if she could accomplish another, so Duck’s drowsy manner of fucking neither bothered nor aroused her. She liked the feel of his pulsing cock in her sweet pinkness. She just wanted him to be hard inside her. She, too, felt she could fall asleep like this and awaken, refreshed, with a stiff dick still inside her, raging for yet another go.
Terry was mounted over Hildy on the floor. She’d appropriated a blanket for their missionary position coupling. She held her ankles aloft, arching up to receive him from her shoulder blades. Terry supported his torso with his arms extended to the ground. He supported his lower body from the balls of his feet. Both of them were looking down the cut of their bodies at their conjoined genitalia, watching Terry’s dick churn slowly in Hildy’s heaving, golden red vagina. This sight aroused Hildy as much as a good pussy sucking. She swam in and out of a lurid, orgasmic haze, ever ready to explode from the insensate tension gripping her turgid loins.
Scoop fucked Kate from behind as she sucked Howie’s dick. The three of them were largely spent. Scoop’s dick was hard, but he didn’t fuck her with long, in-and-out strokes. Rather, he held himself tightly inside her, and scraped her pubic mound raw under the pressure of his own agonizingly slow kinky pelvic circumlocutions. Kate wanted to shriek out in passion, but too many people knew the timbre of her sexual birdcalls. She was in for a serious ass whipping when she got home.
Jerome lay back on the lengthy bench with his back pressed against the wall. Scythia and Penelope took turns blowing him. By now Penelope had abandoned her marital reticence and embraced the spirit of the event. She was going to get beaten when she got home anyway; she might as well enjoy herself now.
Each girl mouthed Jerome’s shaft from his balls to his pudenda, laving it with their tongues. Once atop his erect cock, they took turns fully engulfing his pud into their mouths. One could easily discern the odor of his semen on their cheeks, hair and lips.
Occasionally, Leon would rise from his orgasmic slumber to mount Scythia from behind. She barely took note of his presence. By now she knew he would come quickly and then fade. He’d done this three times already. Penelope had already banned Leon from her southern cleft. She didn’t trust him.
Wayne, too, took turns behind both Scythia and Penelope. Obediently, he left his semen percolating in Penelope’s ass instead of her pussy, a consideration for which she was grateful, and made a point of saying so in front of Leon, when he was awake.
A sixth girl, Tamara, was mounted atop Homer, fucking him extravagantly. Tamara wasn’t selected as part of the original five, but she’d sneaked into the barn and joined the orgy of her own volition. Tamara was a plain looking girl. Her assets couldn’t be described in the same sentence with the other women present. But she was eager to fuck, and she was good at it. The original thirteen accepted her presence without comment.
All fourteen of these slaves were engaged in some form of coital denouement when blood-curdling screams erupted from the big house and the whole farm exploded into chaos.
As the Leone blacks were gorging their passions in the Stenstrom barn, Hank Leone too was scrubbing his cock in the smooth, pink embrace of a hot vagina. Marlene Franz lay next to him in his bedroll. She’d sneaked over to the Stenstrom farm upon hearing of the Leone visit and hung about down in the slave quarters until she could get word to Hank of her presence. Tamara Stenstrom, a slave girl, delivered Marlene’s surreptitious message, whereupon Hank dismissed the black girl set aside for him by Sam Stenstrom and received the white girl, intent upon finally broaching her maidenhead.
She came to him in an urgent rush, fighting to undress him, as did he. Neither of them made any pretense about the reason for her visit. They were going to fuck as often as their youthful ardor permitted, then Hank was going to escort his white girlfriend home in the darkness, return to the Stenstrom farm and call the black girl back in order to give the illusion that she’d been in his tent all night. He didn’t want to offend his hosts.
Marlene gasped as Hank’s sturdy dick sprang free before her. She’d spent many a night dreaming of this moment, ever since she’d blown him at his sisters’ wedding and come away entranced by the odor of his sex on her tongue. That day had been a watershed event in her life. They seemed to have to longest unconsummated flirtation in history, by her account. Her fireapple crimson pussy had never even sniffed the crown of his cock.
She was determined to change that drought this night. She hurriedly took his dick into her mouth and laved it with her saliva. Hank was so excited that he almost blew his load right there. Marlene wisely clamped her fist around the base of his cock to shut off his ejaculate. She had other things in mind.
She finished undressing with her other hand, the task made easier by her absence of undergarments. When she was fully naked, Hank beheld her as if enthralled. Her titties were saucily demitasse, covered in freckles, and adorned with small, pink nipples. Her bush was extraordinary, perfectly triangular, and a deep shade of crimson-orange. Her vaginal slit carved a pinkish valley between the right and left sides of this curly mound. She roiled her hips sensually, knowing that he would appreciate her forwardness even as she felt confident in the ability of her pussy to evoke his most prurient desires.
Standing before him, she took his preening dick now and presented it to her clitoris, as if introducing a long lost child to a grateful, long-suffering parent.
“Do you smell that? Do you smell that?” she whispered in his ear, as if conversing with his penis. “That’s for you. That’s yours. For now, and for as long as you want it. Oh, I’ve wanted you so!! And now….OH!!! Taste me! Taste it!!! O! MY PUSSY!”
She rubbed his cockhead obscenely between the folds of her labia, lubing it in preparation for insertion. On the occasion where his pud centered against the entrance to her vagina, she hiked her hips up so as to come up under his shaft, and exuded her rapturous ardor against the hypersensitive nerves contained therein.
Both of them were on the verge of a monstrous release. Hank’s pre-cum burgeoned from the tip of his dick. Marlene’s labia trembled spastically, grasping for his lever. Hank reached down to frantically put an end to this teasing. He needed to be inside her. Centered properly, now, he drove forward in a frenzy of agonized lust, and lifted her off the ground with the power of his initial thrust. She gave a little leap and locked her ankles around his lower back. Shrieking pellets of jism assailed her, even as she collapsed in a thunderous orgasm. Each spurt served as a bolt of savage fire, animating her climactic ablutions. In that instant, this first encounter, they both knew that they would never part. Their lifelong bond had been established.
“Oh, HANK!! My pussy!! Oh, my pussy!! Can you feel it Hank!! I’ve waited so long!! SO LONG!!!”
Hank could only respond with her name.
“Marly. MARLY!! OH!!! I….LOVE!!!”
He was still pumping jism into her piquant snatch. The odor of their effort blossomed upward to grace their nostrils. This was the memorable aroma of their first fuck. Neither of them would ever forget this smell. They both knew that none of their future encounters would top this one. One stroke and done.
They were still standing, embracing each other with the fervor of long-delayed passion. Dollops of jism dripped from Marlene’s behind on long, stringy rivulets, like hot molasses poured from a spoon, only to coagulate into a steamy puddle at Hank’s feet.
Hank was adrift in his orgasmic oasis. His dick fit perfectly in her tangerine pussy. She’d cum in the same instant as he. He could feel her pussy contracting in conjunction with his latent, feeble after-spurts, even now.
This was The One.
Tenderly, without extricating his dick from its place of honor, he laid her down on the ground, atop his bedroll. She smiled up at him with bright eyes and reddened cheeks. She was a bit embarrassed to have been so forward in this first encounter, but she wasn’t above laughing at herself. It’s just that….
“No, no. That was good. You should do that every time. I liked it.” he replied with a genuine smile.
Marlene was happy that he’d appreciated her zeal. She didn’t attend his church, so they didn’t see each other every Sunday. In his absence, she’d concocted fabulous fantasies of this first lascivious merger of their genitalia. None of her fantasies came up to the real thing. She could feel his semen trickling out over her ass cheeks, making them sticky and hot. She looked down the length of her torso. Hank followed her gaze. His dick still cleaved tempestuously between the red, furry carpet at the northern juncture of her thighs. They both giggled.
Try as he might, Hank couldn’t get it up again. Marlene’s pussy had drained him in one go. He remembered being able to fuck Lizzie and Zelma back to back. His dick always rose then re-rose to the occasion. Here he was, wrapped in the pussy of his choice, and Mr. Happy didn’t want to perform.
Marlene sensed his quandary. She rolled him over onto his back and arched her pussy off his cock, which flumped heavily onto his stomach. Now she kissed him tenderly on his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his nipples, and further and further south until she arrived at Mr. Happy, lumpishly attached to Hank’s lower abdomen with sticky jism. She kissed his cock tenderly, as a lover, without much sexual passion, but with enough feeling as to waken the beast from its slumber. Hank’s cock stirred.
Marlene continued kissing him like this until she judged it prudent to employ her tongue, at which point Mr. Happy stirred again, this time with vigor.
She kept up her oral ministrations, kissing and occasionally sucking, until Hank’s penis was able to stand on its own, proudly arching upwards to the sky. She was amazed as the spidery veins encircling his shaft filled with blood, abetting its rush skyward, and darkening its coloration to an angry purple. Too, his erection accentuated the odor of their recent sex. She smelled her pussy fragrance pulsing vibrantly from his spiring cock, appreciating the aphrodisiacal effect it weaved before her nostrils. She had a good-sized clit between her legs, a bobblehead, but it was nothing compared to this.
Her ruminations before her lover’s hefty cock didn’t outweigh her pragmatism. She’d sneaked out of bed to be here. There was no telling who might discover her absence and raise an alarm. She couldn’t let the Stenstrom’s discover her presence. She had to be back before the Franz’ sent out a posse. Any number of variables could ruin the remembrance of this first coupling.
Now Marlene lay back on his bedroll and raised and opened her legs.
“Come here,” she whispered. “Let’s do it again.”
Hank didn’t have to be told twice. He rolled atop her. She gracefully gripped his cock and guided it into her pussy, still lubricated with his seed. They began to fuck slowly, excited to be inside each other again like this. They kissed as they fucked. Marlene boldly inserted her tongue as far down Hank’s throat as it would go, heedless of the jism that encrusted her mouth. Hank sucked her tongue as if it were a dick. She was The One. The jism on her lips was HIS jism. He reciprocated, shoving his own tongue down her throat, as back and forth they went. This kissing game absorbed their attention and allowed their genitals time to burn in and get acquainted. Without such dalliance, they were doomed to one-thrust-and-done sex, being so young and in love.
Gradually, Marlene encouraged Hank to pick up the pace. Soon, the slap-crashing sound of smashing genitalia reverberated around the little tent. The two young lovers made no attempt to conceal it. Marlene whispered obscene sexual snippets into Hank’s ear, advising him of her lust for his dick, and offering lurid suggestions of what she’d like him to do with it. Hank took her advice. He pulled his piquant dick from her pussy and roughly shoved it down her throat, as she’d asked. He turned her over and fucked her up the ass, doggystyle, again per her instructions. He rolled her over atop him and let her roil and plunge down upon his dick as he watched her shiver and quake thru multiple orgasms. The little tent stank with the aroma of their sex.
Hank found that he could cum inside Marlene, slow down a bit, and then recover his erection, awash in the hot moisture of his own seed. This was good news to him. He’d been afraid that she might think him inept after their first coupling left him drained. But he was performing well. His girl was flush with his semen. It dribbled in a bubbly ooze from each of her orifices.
Nearing midnight, Hank lay on his side behind Marlene. His semi-erect dick luxuriated in her ass. They’d cum so many times that this last insertion was merely for show. Neither of them thought themselves capable of another orgasm, so they weren’t really trying. They were just cruising along on the last vestiges of an orgasmic wave, wanting to ride it into the shore of some exotic beach and, so arriving, collapse into the sand, letting the warm ocean waves curdle around their inanimate bodies. Both of them smelled like fuck. And they were never again so much in love.
A blood-curdling scream from the big house brought them about. Without knowing its source or cause, one thing was evident. Marlene had to get out of there. NOW.
It’s convenient, now, to return to a point earlier in that same evening.
Edward Leone and Sam Stenstrom escorted ‘Hannah’ Stenstrom from her horse stall in the barn out into the yard. She was still naked. They clothed her, washed and sterilized her wounds with grain alcohol. The girl was effusive in her gratefulness. Her natural negroid servility shown through even though the language barrier prevented her from communicating her gratitude.
Sam Stenstrom spoke to her patronizingly, pointing to various objects and giving the English term for each. ‘Hannah’ did her best to parrot Stenstrom’s words, except when he pointed to her and said ‘Hannah’. She corrected him by saying ‘Shubra’. Stenstrom reiterated ‘Hannah’; the girl insisted on ‘Shubra’. Stenstrom tried again. When the girl replied with ‘Shubra’ a third time, he struck her, and in that instant he might have taken warning in the flash of sentient hatred that gleamed in her darkly volcanic eyes.
But, confident in his white man’s privilege, he missed that hint of her true self. He congratulated himself when she choked out the word ‘Hannah’ and resumed her servile posturing before the two men. All these niggers were alike. One just had to show them who was boss.
Stenstrom walked her around the farm, pointing out Negro serving girls and scruffy field hands. ‘Hannah’ saw a people bereft of life or hope, beaten down and subjugated by her two escorts, and she knew that these men hoped to add her to their number. She looked on impassively, save for glimpses of recognition in the features of some of the black slaves. There, a Fulani woman. And there, a Wolof male. But these people were not African. They showed no hint of pride in their heritage. They were only shadowy replicas of their white masters, and poor replicas at that. She could not count on them for help. Nor would she help them if they asked. These were not her people. She was on her own.
The sun was setting. ‘Hannah’ noted five women dressed in long garments milling about at the entrance to the barn. Three of the women were of pure African descent. One of these three was abnormally large; she looked to be Watusi. Two of the women had clearly been polluted by the whites, as noted by their milky caramel features.
‘Hannah’ spat reflexively.
The two white men chattered among themselves, guffawing over this and that. ‘Hannah’ didn’t understand a word of it. She did have an idea of why she’d been freed, however. Men of all races were the same in that regard. She hoped to use their innate maleness to her advantage.
Occasionally, the white men would end a long stream of their silly chatter with the word ‘Hannah’. She knew they were referring to her. She did her best to acknowledge their attention, even deigning to dredge up a smile from time to time.
She noted an older white woman standing off to the side. This woman looked at her disdainfully, as if sizing her up for a meal and noting the absence of white meat or gristle. This was Minnie Stenstrom, fretting over the presence of such a dark woman in her home. Of course, ‘Hannah’ didn’t know this. She just knew that the woman’s gaze reeked of contempt. She didn’t know why.
As the sun drew its last gasps in the Western sky, the five black women disappeared into the barn. The black serving girls melted away, too, as did the shoddily clad black field hands. Sundown meant bedtime in the days before electric light fixtures.
Sam Stenstrom laughed over some incomprehensible witticism and clapped Edward Leone on the back. They’d shared some profane joke, outside the realm of Minnie’s hearing, and now, apparently, Edward was going to make that joke become reality. He took ‘Hannah’ by the wrist and led her into the house.
‘Hannah’ marveled at the interior of the home. The walls were straight and even. The floor was not made of packed earth; rather, it was made of wooden planks and covered with carpets. The windows were covered with a fragile, colorless material that was neither wood nor metal. There were cloth-bound chairs. There were pictures of people on the walls, pictures too accurate to have been drawn by hand. There were rows of books on shelves, though she didn’t think of them as such. She observed them as differently sized rectangular boxes. If one were opened before her, she might have been amazed at how the white pages within were bound to one edge of the box. The words on the pages meant nothing to her.
However morally degenerate these white people might be, they certainly were industrious at the manufacture of wondrous things.
Edward Leone closed the door to the guestroom behind him and turned to her. She looked about the room. It contained a large fluffy bed, a sitting chair, a desk and a huge, wooden rectangular box, seven feet high, with lengthy doors and southern drawers, which served as a portable storage closet. ‘Hannah’ didn’t give these latter amenities much thought. She was focused on the bed. Her earlier assessment of this man’s intent had been correct. She turned to face him impassively.
Edward pointed to the wrap she’d been given as a cover and flicked his index finger authoritatively. Obediently, ‘Hannah’ stepped naked from the wrap. It was important that she show neither fear nor reticence, she thought. In fact, it might be good if she could dredge up some enthusiasm.
Edward drank in her nakedness lasciviously. His penis began to harden. He found her bold stance before him to be provocative. Ed whistled coolly while stroking his lips with his fingers. How to do this. How to do this…..
‘Hannah’ flicked her index finger at his clothing authoritatively. This brought a huge smile to the man. They were communicating on the same level.
He began unbuttoning his shirt. He unbuckled his belt and took off his boots, making sure to detach his leather-bound Bowie knives. Soon, he stood before the girl in his long underwear, having tossed his regular clothing carelessly into a corner. The girl seemed unimpressed. Even the bulge in his crotch, which he proudly displayed, didn’t catch her eye. She flicked her index finger at him again.
Edward chuckled. “This one is a firecracker, she is.”
He stripped his long underwear. His cock lumbered free, attached to his steely gray thatch of pubic hair. Only his socks remained in place. ‘Hannah’ flicked her index finger again. Edward dutifully removed them to stand fully naked before her.
Now the black girl looked him up and down dispassionately. She squinched her eyes a bit when her gaze came to rest on his cock. It was semi-hard, quavering at a forty-five degree down angle. Edward knew his cock was comparable with the best of them. He proudly brooked her gaze.
‘Hannah’ stepped up to him slowly. She dipped her index finger under his cock and drew it up for inspection. Edward, pleased at her temerity, smiled down at her. A big cock was all that a white man needed to communicate with these niggers, he smirked. A big cock, certainly, and maybe a stout whip.
The girl examined his cock left and right as if it were nothing more than an alien object of interest. She caressed his balls and feigned amazement when this caused his shaft to lengthen and thicken. She toyed with his penis until it stood up, straight and proud, at a sixty-degree angle from its base. Now she lingered her deeply luminous eyes up to his. She drew her index finger up to her nose and sniffed it luxuriously. The sweaty odor of his cock dallied sumptuously between them, as a feast to be beheld but not consumed.
“So this what the white man’s kofe looks like,” she mused. “He looks like one of our boys.”
This observation was not a size reference. Rather, it was an acknowledgement of Edward’s uncircumcised state. Shubra’s people used circumcision as a rite of passage into adulthood; the ceremonial ritual was performed on teenaged boys…and girls. The man before her was clearly no teenager. Yet, among her people, he would have been accounted as such. He obviously had been too frightened to endure the circumcision ritual.
Shubra’s clitoris had been ‘circumcised’ in that same bloody ritual several years back. She’d barely survived the ceremony. Since then she’d worked tirelessly to prove herself worthy of the tribal honor bestowed upon her. Her muscular stature was the result of her efforts. As the daughter of a chief, she was accounted as an elite warrior.
Shubra was an assassin.
The prospect of freedom blazed before her. This white man, Edward Leone, was to be the means of her egress. She would leave these white people behind, find others of her kind among these…these…these...she didn’t know what to call these pseudo blacks. These slaves. They weren’t her people. But there were a lot of them. Certainly there had to be SOME of them imbued with the warrior spirit. If not, at least one of them must know the way home. She would find that someone and, if she had to, choke the information she needed from his or her lifeless corpse.
First, though, she had to dispatch this white man. Easy enough. She knew what she had to do.
Standing naked before this huge white man, she assessed him quickly. Could she choke him out? Probably. But not before his cries and the sound of his struggles alerted his compatriots. Could she snap his neck cleanly? Probably not. He was too big, too strong. If she didn’t accomplish it cleanly, his struggles would bring unwanted aid. What about his Bowie knives? Could she get to them and use them before he discerned her intent? Again, she bore the risk of him calling out for help. Was there something in the room she could use to crack his skull? A quick glance about the room yielded no obvious cudgels.
“I will have to sedate him,” she decided. She had the best weapon of sedation between her legs, she knew.
Slowly, her impassive demeanor metastasized into the faintest of ‘come hither’ smiles. She forced her eyes to twinkle. His erect cock suddenly became the most fascinating and alluring object in the room.
Edward picked up on this change in her body language. “A good dick will do that to a nigger” was his self-serving explanation. Shubra knew he would think that. She was counting on it.
Edward pulled the bedspread back to reveal Minnie Stenstrom’s prized white sheeting (with the engraved flower patterns) beneath. He patted the bed by way of ordering ‘Hannah’ to hop in. ‘Hannah’ did so enthusiastically. She pulled the bedspread up about her and peeked out demurely, like a virginal bride. Her smile invited the big man to join her.
Rather than hop into bed with the girl, Edward grasped his cock and sidled up to the head of the bed, pointing his cock at the girl’s face. At this, Shubra was genuinely perplexed. What was he doing? She was willing to allow him to mount her. She was no virgin. He couldn’t mount her from this position, this far north of her obo. What did this white man want?
Edward made his intentions known. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her face towards his cock. Shubra was aghast. What was this thing he wanted? Did he want her to place her mouth on the same organ he peed with? The same organ he used to spill his baby juice? Did he intend to pee and/or ejaculate in her mouth?
Shubra’s feigned look of fascination became a very real look of revulsion. This act was a thing unknown among her people; not only unknown, it was a thing wholly unconsidered. She came from a people who only used their left hands to wipe their behinds—and then refused to eat with that hand, ever, even though it were washed clean. Surely she had misread this white man’s intent!!
But she had not misread him. He pulled her head closer and closer to his erect cock.
She fought her natural tendency to jerk back from this unclean thing, this perversion, this unholy aberration. A kòfẹ in her mouth? Who would consider such a thing except a flailing, moral degenerate? And yet, right here, right now, this white man’s kòfẹ preened erect before her very nose!!
Shubra thought back on her ocean passage to the Land of the Whites. For many moons she’d lain in the hot underbelly of a wooden ship, marinating in her own sweat, her own feces, her own urine and that of others. The ship stank of human suffering and effluent. She’d watched innumerable Yoruba women get raped, and had only escaped that fate thru the power of her own savagely maniacal resistance. She’d endured that passage and the subsequent overland trip from a South Carolina port to this Louisiana farm. She’d been chained naked for weeks on end, like an animal in a pigsty, and eaten slop unfit for said pigs. Certainly she’d endured indignities far worse than having a man’s kòfẹ in her mouth. And now, here, with freedom in her grasp, she was going to fall prey to her cultural morals and destroy maybe her only chance at escape?
Shubra closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and opened her mouth to accept his kòfẹ. It tasted of salt, musk, sweat, old urine and a strangely feminine derivative, an odor she often smelled from her own obo, especially when it was wet or sweaty. She quelled the instinct to gag.
Edward sensed her reticence. A man’s penis well knows when it is welcome and when it is not. It is a vastly more sensitive organ than a man’s moral conscience. Edward pressed himself deeper into her mouth. Her distasteful wince bothered him not in the least. The sight of her thick lips wrapped about his cylindrical pole reminded him of female labia, except insofar as ‘Hannah’s lips always gripped his cock in the same manner during insertion and withdrawal. Real labia follow a hard cock into the vagina during insertion and plume outward, flower-like, during withdrawal.
‘Hannah’ opened her legs and queefed her scent into the room. It was a hint to the white man. There was a perfectly useful orifice just south of her navel, open for his enjoyment. Would he not prefer to go there?
Edward ignored her. He began to fuck her mouth with vehemence. So she was skittish about sucking dick?
“Well, here
you go, Missy May. Dick, dick, dick,
dick, dick! All day, every day,
DICK!! Suck it. Suck it GOOD, NIGGER.”
Shubra soon realized that this perversion might serve her intentions. Clearly this white man enjoyed this. Look at him. His eyes were rolling back in his head already. He humped her mouth as if it were her obo; she could sense that his daomiara was upon him. When it came, she would have only a few seconds while his bliss blinded his reason. She began to suck at his kòfẹ as a child gulping unwanted vegetables.
“Swallow it without tasting,” she advised herself.
She found herself, ten minutes later, still furiously bobbing up and down on his kòfẹ. His pẹlu remained unspilled. He groaned vociferously and quaked as if ready to ejaculate at any second, yet he never would accommodate.
Shubra was flummoxed. She knew how to pleasure a man with her obo. She knew all the signs of a man’s sexual extremis. This man had marched thru each of the signs without completion. She wondered if the boyish state of his kòfẹ rendered him incapable of daomiara?
Something else occurred to her now. Her obo was getting wet. She’d been desert dry at the start of this encounter, dry as a box of rocks. This man’s stinking kòfẹ, which so nauseated her ten minutes before, had inexplicably triggered the release of her natural vaginal lubricants. If this kept up, in a minute or two her feigned moans of pleasure would become real. She needed him to climax. She’d mount him and take the initiative, if necessary. She hadn’t been moist like this in many moons, certainly since well before her abduction.
Edward’s sensitive penis perceived this change in attitude. One minute it was plumbing an unwilling, reticent orifice. The next minute that orifice was a solid “Hmmm!! Maybe this isn’t so bad after all!!” This was the moment he’d been waiting for.
He picked ‘Hannah’ up and casually tossed her over in the bed. Grabbing her by the ankles, he jerked her legs apart and, using his knees for support, sidled up between them. It was unnecessary to use his hand guide his cock into her slit; his dick sniffed out her heat source and penetrated it easily on the first attempt. Shubra groaned gutturally in a language that both of them understood. Despite her disdain for her captors and her missing clitoris, Shubra enjoyed the insensate pleasure of a good, manly dick.
Edward pressed forward once, then again. When their pubic mounds finally merged he came, deluging her pussy with his cum. He was fifty-four years old. Each time he sullied a brand new pussy like this, it was like the first time—mind numbingly erotic, deeply sensual, life affirming—and quick. He lived for these moments. Each streamlet of jism he squeezed into this girl was a streamlet that didn’t go to waste in his hand.
Shubra had other ideas about the ten seconds between when he first breached her obo and when he suddenly achieved daomiara and collapsed atop her like a leaden pancake.
“Yes, this is how the young boys do it,” she observed silently.
All business now, she counted the seconds between his daomiara and his recovery. He was breathing heavily atop her body such that she bore his full weight. She could feel his dick still pumping gurglets of jism into her obo. His eyes were closed tightly and he shook from the electric shocks jagging about his body.
“I’d like to
feel that daomiara too, Mr. Whiteboy, if you had the stamina of a real
man. But you do not. Catch your breath now and we will try this
again.”
She needed to be astride him when he fell prey to daomiara the next time. She needed to be able to move quickly and with deadly precision. And she didn’t have many chances at this. He was an old man. She didn’t think he could become aroused more than twice in the same session without falling asleep. There! Even now, a little snore escaped his nostrils. He was already falling asleep atop her.
She gave him a little nudge to waken him, and to get him to roll over. If he fell asleep atop her, she soon wouldn’t be able to breathe. Edward knew what the gentle push from below meant; his wife employed it often. He rolled over onto his back, extricating his penis from her hairy snatch in the process. Shubra stretched her arm across his chest and snuggled against him affectionately. At all costs, she wanted him to believe she was compliant. She drew her knees up to caress his flaccid kòfẹ. Her post-coital display of endearment lulled Edward into a groggy sense of security. He might just try to buy this young nigger girl from Stenstrom after all.
She let him fall fully asleep. Shubra needed his trust; more, she needed his hubris. She needed him to be fully confident in his sway over her. He needed to believe her incapable of betrayal.
As her father was spurting his seed into a calculating African girl on the Stenstrom farm, BethAnn Jefferson prepped for her nightly ritual with Franklin. Their little revival troupe had moved on now. They were deep in Mississippi doing the Lord’s work, saving souls and promulgating the gospel. Often they slept in wagons; in this town there were enough parishioners to offer lodging to the entire troupe. BethAnn and Franklin were staying with the Conklins, an older married couple whose children were grown and on their own.
BethAnn hadn’t been home since her marriage, but within a month their circuit would bring Pastor Goins’ team back to BethAnn’s parish where she planned a joyous reunion with her family and friends.
She and Franklin had, almost miraculously, gotten past Franklin’s crippling accusations about her chastity. Pastor Goins did yeoman’s work in convincing the boy that his wife was merely acting out things she’d seen and heard on her farm. Surely, he couldn’t believe that a white woman of BethAnn’s breeding had come up with that language and behavior on her own!!! She was a Leone!! Bedrock Christians from a family of bedrock Christians!! Pastor Goins even convinced Franklin that he might have been at fault for Beth’s behavior. Wasn’t he ashamed? Franklin considered the Pastor’s admonishments prayerfully and decided that, indeed, he’d been the one at fault. He asked his wife’s forgiveness for his indecent outburst.
Pastor Goins then convinced BethAnn that she needed another oral cleansing, and possibly an anal, and he scheduled it for that coming Friday afternoon at four. He said he sensed, during his conversation with her husband, that the first several cleansings she’d received “might not have took”. BethAnn was happy to comply.
The Conklins were pleased to have the Jefferson’s as guests. They stayed up well past sundown peppering these anointed missionaries with questions. Had they heard about the apostasy over in Millard County? Shocking, wasn’t it? Was it true that some in the faith were advocating abolition? Had they read Rev. Pike’s latest tract entitled “Does the Negro have a Soul”? And “If Jesus had Free Will, would he have chosen to avoid crucifixion?”
The two couples debated these fine points of scripture until Franklin announced he thought it’d be best if they picked up the conversation at breakfast. He and his wife were exhausted from travel.
BethAnn followed him to the guest bedroom, adorned in her full-length nightgown. They knelt and said prayers, then climbed into bed together. Franklin waited ten minutes (for the prayers to subside) before surreptitiously reaching for his wife. BethAnn lay on her back like a corpse, totally still, with her arms draped across her bosom, as per his instructions. Franklin reached down and inched her nightgown up until her bloomers were exposed. He brushed his hands across the bushy padding of her pubic mound, patting it as if it were a kitten. This comprised the entirety of their foreplay.
Now he swung himself atop her, peeling her bloomers back from her upper thigh with his index finger and thumb, until her vagina was partially exposed. He fumbled momentarily with his own underwear until his erect penis slipped out, then he nudged her legs apart and inserted himself. He humped her for a minute, maybe a minute and a half, before seizing up. He finished by pounding her with three or four ardent thrusts to deliver his semen, grimacing with the effort. Now sated, he always completed their copulation with a satisfied sigh, a smug Sunday-school smile and a kiss on her cheek. Then he rolled over and fell deeply asleep. BethAnn was left with cold, soggy bloomers and a steaming, unsatiated vagina.
She waited until he started snoring loudly before she reached down to scratch her own itch. She crested and climaxed silently, grimacing, as had he. Then she, too, melted into the oblivion of sleep.
This was their nightly ritual. In the morning Franklin always woke up chipper, with a leering grin for his wife, redolent of the memory of their wild orgy from the night before.
Shubra endured Edward’s drowsy snoozing for an hour. He was dreaming.
Cuddled next
to the black girl, Edward dreamed a fantastic kingdom of jungle exotica, in
which his younger self was king of a black African empire and romped about with
a bevy of black beauties such as Hannah.
All of the girls were his slaves to command, and so dedicated that they
lay their lithe, black bodies prone on the ground to protect his royal feet
from the soil as he strode about. In
this dream he was adorned in riotously colored silks and gold, as a king, and
thousands of black men compliantly hid their faces in fear as Royal Edward
passed. The black girls serviced his
every need, sucking his erect penis in public view, and offering up their naked
behinds to him in the hope that he might deign to service them, again in
public, much to the glory of the assembled multitude of African niggers.
Shubra surmised the content of his dreams. As he snored, his penis would rise to full staff and then recede, unabetted, as a smile wistfully drifted across his grizzled face. She considered the value of this uniquely male phenomenon and wondered how she might use it to her advantage.
Edward awakened abruptly to find ‘Hannah’ nursing at his erect penis. This comforted him. It validated his dream. Even here in America the black African girls worshipped his manhood. Earlier, she’d seemed repulsed by the prospect of sucking dick. Now she’d taken to the job like a champ, unbidden. It was HIS power that had converted her, just as he would convert the many thousands of her compatriots during his sojourn as the King of Africa.
More confident than ever of his control over the girl, Edward drifted back into sleepy bliss. He ejaculated in ‘Hannah’s’ mouth, imagining it to be the rear-mount pussy of an unnamed black girl in his African kingdom, as his subjects cheered and danced about in an orgy of adoration for their virile white king.
In the next instant, a fountain of blood arched from his neck as Shubra cut his throat from ear to ear, slicing through his carotid artery, his esophagus and his trachea, and nearly decapitating him in the process. He attempted to scream out, but his Bowie knife was as sharp as his opponent was quick. With the life ebbing from his body, Shubra spat his semen into his face and, using the same knife, sliced his dick off at the base. Then she brusquely shoved his detached penis into his mouth, which already bubbled grotesquely with his blood. She allowed his arching crimson claret to splatter against her face as he died. The last thing Master Edward Leone saw in this life was her tight-lipped smirk of disdain. She spat at him again to rid herself of his residual jism. As a final expression of her contempt, she leapt up on Minnie Stenstrom’s guest bed and deftly walk-pissed a stream of pungent urine from Edward’s navel to his nostrils.
Shubra waited until Edward stopped gasping for breath. When his sphincter finally relaxed, he soiled himself. She knew he was dead. The room stank with the release of his waste. She knew the smell of death sewage well. Ignoring this, Shubra covered herself with the wrap she’d been given earlier.
Now the young African warrior surreptitiously approached the bedroom door. She peeked out to see if any of the Stenstroms were about. The house was dark. Hurriedly, she skittered from the room and fumbled at the front door. She was unfamiliar with the locking mechanisms, even the simple bolt used here. She toyed with it for what seemed an age until a simple shove to the left unlocked the door and freed her from bondage. She burst out into the darkness, intent upon returning to the barn and stealing one of the horses she’d seen there. However, an old black man standing guard alone in the darkness blocked her exit. Spotting her, the man raised his arms as if to raise an alarm. Inexplicably, he stopped. He peered at her in the darkness, and in his gaze was recognition.
It was this move that saved him. Shubra retained Edward’s Bowie knives; she’d already begun the silent rush that would have made short work of the man. Yet she, too, noted in him a glimpse of recognition that caused her to abort her assault.
The man was a descendent of the Yoruba. He’d seen her brought in and expected to see Master Edward behind her as an escort. Edward’s absence, as well as the liquid glint of blood on Shubra’s face, enabled the man to easily size up the gravity of the situation.
He turned his back on the girl wordlessly and wobbled off to the Negro outhouse, where he would stay until the chaos broke loose. She might escape. She might not. But he hadn’t seen a damned thing.
Shubra raced to the barn and grabbed the horse of her choice. She ripped the saddle from astride the animal, neither knowing of nor caring its purpose. Yoruba warriors rode bareback, as did all real warriors. She untethered the beast, then walked it out of the barn as silently as she might. She left in her wake the strident moans of the fornicating black couples in the barn loft. Too, she passed Hank Leone’s tent and noted the sensual coupling sounds emanating therein.
When she was far enough from the farm to go unheard, she guided the horse into the woods, mounted, and disappeared.
Edward Leone’s funeral was a resplendent affair, combining outrage at the manner of his death with the solemn southern Christian rituals typical at the loss of a community pillar.
Of course, the outrage came first.
Upon discovering Edward’s body, Samuel Stenstrom quickly rounded up all the slaves on his farm and interrogated them mercilessly. Several of them were interrogated with such enthusiasm that they admitted to complicity in ‘Hannah’s’ murderous scheme. Two of these were hanged on the spot, a fate preceded by vicious flagellation. All of the slaves in the neighborhood were beaten after one fashion or another as a way of wheedling details about ‘Hannah’s’ escape.
The old black man who stood guard duty that night steadfastly claimed he’d been in the outhouse and had seen nothing. Surprisingly, his story passed muster. A trustee, he was known to take long bathroom breaks.
Shubra didn’t get far. Stenstrom and his co-horts noted the missing horse and set the dogs on her trail that very night. They caught up to her early the next morning. She killed two of the dogs with her knife and grievously wounded four others before the slave catchers galloped up to the scene. As the white men lamented the loss of their dogs, Shubra stepped from behind a tree and whipped Edward’s Bowie knife into the chest of one of her pursuers, killing him instantly. The other men then mowed her down with shotgun blasts as she challenged them to stand and fight using a vocal stream of Yoruba profanity. The poor girl had neither knowledge nor fear of firearms. She’d expected her pursuers to honorably accept her challenge at hand-to-hand combat.
They brought her body back to Stenstrom’s farm, where Stenstrom forced all the blacks to stand witness as the remaining dogs set upon her, gouging huge clumps from her flesh. The dogs dismembered her. The hanged corpses of her ‘confederates’ were treated after a similar fashion.
Thus was the outrage of the white man sated.
Hank Leone, too, looked on in a daze. The first screams from the Stenstrom home only motivated him to get his girlfriend home ahead of the fray. The two of them dressed hurriedly and, instead of running to determine the source of the problem, both rushed off in a sprint towards the Franz farm. Hank waited until Marlene sneaked back into her home safely, then wheeled on a dead sprint back to the Stenstrom farm. He arrived just as Samuel Stenstrom was putting together a search posse and assembling the dogs. Only then did the young man find out about his father’s death.
The Leone tribe congregated at their original farm to memorialize their patriarch. Fiona, Nathan and Aisleen, Hank, Josephine and Robert McNulty, and BethAnn and Franklin Jefferson now formed the core of the clan, with Nathan as the new young patriarch and his mother as the power behind the throne.
Scores of their neighbors attended, too. The Stenstroms, of course. The Mullins, the Greens, the Jenkins’, even the Franz’. Rev. Fletcher attended, but Pastor Goins oversaw the services.
The circumstances of Edward’s death were the talk of the town. The Southern poontang tradition held that black women, ALL black women, were subject to the whims of their white masters, and knew it in their genetic racial programming, as proscribed by God. It was inconceivable that a single black woman, of her own volition, would or could behave contrary to this law of nature. She MUST have had help.
Various insurrection theories were postulated, discussed ad nauseum, and dismissed as soon as the next conspiracy theory came forth. At the core of each of these theories was the assumption that docility is the essential nature of Negroes. Given this truism, some even concluded that ‘Hannah’ was innocent of Edward’s murder; it must have been some white intruder, maybe an enemy of the Stenstroms, who infiltrated the home and murdered their guest. ‘Hannah’ had simply done what niggers do—she’d run off after the fact. WHY hadn’t the slave catchers taken her alive? Then the truth about Edward’s murder would have been forthcoming.
Only a savvy few bothered to note that this theory didn’t explain how ‘Hannah’ had come to be in possession of both of Edward Leone’s Bowie knives, nor did it explain how a half naked Negress knew enough to steal and guide a horse without saddle and stirrups.
The clan took out its rage on the slaves. Each time they lathered themselves up into a dither over Edward’s death they boiled over into the slave quarters and whipped slaves at random. This occurred on the Stenstrom farm, especially, but also on each of the surrounding farms. The death of a white man at the hands of a black slave was always an occasion for such atrocities. The blacks were used to it. The fact that they never defended themselves, en masse, from these predations was further proof of their innate docility.
Edward’s death did little to obviate the Southern poontang tradition. If anything, his death greatly enhanced the prosecution of that particular indignity. Black women were raped repeatedly in the days following Edward’s death, often in front of their families, more often by gangs of white men as a display of power, but also as a show of support for Edward Leone.
All of the younger black women on the Stenstrom farm were raped in the aftermath of Edward’s death, including all six of the women used as sedatives for the Leone slaves. Lizzie, Cora and even the very pregnant Zelma were all raped in the days leading up to Edward’s memorial service.
The blacks were cowed by this naked, grinning display of power. The whites were exhilarated by it.
Fiona Leone was shocked at the news of her husband’s death. As the details came in, she calculated that she’d been blithely mounted atop young Meshach’s towering dick while her husband was choking out his life in Minnie Stenstrom’s fancy sheets. In fact, her session with Meshach had been particularly lengthy that evening. They’d probed new material, new techniques, new positions. When Sam Stenstrom arrived unexpectedly late the next morning with the county sheriff and Rev. Fletcher, thick globs of Meshach’s cum still trickled slowly down her thighs. She’d fainted when told the reason for their visit.
Thinking back on that horrible day, Fiona was ashamed now. She loved her husband. She was embarrassed to admit that she’d been servicing her own secret needs as he’d choked out his life in bed with another woman. And yet his death did little to change her moral perspective. Even in middle age, Fiona enjoyed sex. It was one of the little things that made farm life bearable. She certainly had no intention of changing her sexual habits just because her husband was no longer around. If anything, his absence widened her pool of applicants. She planned to observe a proper mourning period and then slowly resume her late night trysts when all the hubbub died down.
Her daughters shared this perspective. Of the three, only Josephine was entirely happy with her husband’s performance. Even so, she’d taken a black lover from among the McNulty slaves. His dick was larger than Robert’s dick; he’d been chosen on that basis. Joey didn’t fuck him often, but when she did she made up for the periods in between. She rationalized these extra-marital liaisons by saying that she missed the danger, the excitement of crossing that most taboo racial boundary. It didn’t make her an adulteress. It made her adventurous.
Josephine confided her extra-marital coontang relationship to BethAnn as soon as the two sisters were alone.
“His name is Bucky,” Josephine opened.
“How big?” BethAnn asked, getting right to the point.
Josephine spread her hands about fourteen inches apart. She was exaggerating a bit.
“Wow! That’s bigger that both of our niggers!!” BethAnn giggled.
“Yep! When he gits it all the way up in there I’m like to die!!!”
“You sucked him?”
“No, silly!!! I mean when he gits it all the way up my pussy!! Don’t be gross.”
“I see you ain’t answer my question. Did you suck him?”
“OH! Well, ummm, yeh. Once’t or twice, I did. He made me.”
“How’d you find out about him?” BethAnn asked.
“Bobby’s sister Linda told me. She said he knew how to keep his trap shut, too.”
“Does Linda know you did it to him?”
“No. I don’t think so anyway. She done it to him, I know that much. But I ain’t tellin’ her MY business. She might tell Bobby.” Josephine answered.
“Lordy!!! What did Bobby say when he found out about the nigger woman what kill’t Pa?”
“Was he mad? You bet he was!! You know Bobby don’t like niggers much no how. He went right out and started whuppin’ niggers left and right. And our niggers ain’t had nuttin’ to do with daddy’s death!! He whupped our niggers and now he’s out whuppin’ Ma’s niggers. He says you gotta show ‘em who’s boss or next thing you know all of ‘em will be at our throats!!”
“Did he whip Bucky?” BethAnn queried.
“He give Bucky a few lashes, yeh, I reckon.”
“You reckon he’ll whip Shaddy?”
“The nigger that eyeballed me? I see that Ma’s got him all duded up in frilly clothes now, like a house nigger. He ain’t a field hand no more?” Joey asked.
“Ma says he’s got a shoulder injury. Cain’t lift a fly.”
“Bobby’ll whip those fancy clothes off’n him, I reckon. Bobby don’t cotton to uppity niggers.”
“I don’t think Ma will let him whip Shaddy. He still ain’t recovered from that whippin’ Pa give him. She’s only got him all duded up because he cain’t do nothin’ else around here and she don’t want him to go to waste.”
“Well, bollix all this nigger talk. Tell me about Franklin!! Was I right or was I right? He’s better’n old Mullins, ain’t he?” Josephine asked excitedly
BethAnn shot her a glance that Josephine interpreted correctly.
“Uh-oh. He AIN’T better’n old Mullins?”
“No, Josephine. HE AIN’T.”
“Awwwwwwwwwwwww shit. What’s wrong with him? Is he small? Is he quick? What’s wrong with him?”
“HE’S DULL IS WHAT HE IS. He won’t let me do nothing. He just wants me to lay there. He thinks I’m a sinner if I make the least li’l little bit of noise or if I hump him back.”
“You ain’t answer my questions.”
“I DID. He ain’t small, and he ain’t as quick as Danny. But he acts like doin’ it is dirty, even for married folk.”
“He don’t like doin’ it?”
“He likes doin’ it often enough. But it’s HIM that gits to do it. I don’t git to do it. Ain’t I said that?”
“How do you not git to do it if he’s right there?”
“AIN’T YOU LISTENING TO ME!!! He wants me to play dead!!! I gots to wait for him to bust his nuts and go to sleep!! And only then can I scratch my itch!!! So he ain’t much different than Danny!!! At least Danny let me hump him!!”
“Hmmmppph. Who woulda thought that? Most of these ministers is as randy as they come!! What you gon’ do?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The first time we was together Franklin run me up in front of the pastor. Said I wasn’t pure ‘cause I said a coupl’a things when we was doin’ it.”
“What’d you say, Bethy?”
“I said what I usually say to the niggers when they come up here. I said, ‘Fuck me’, you know, that way I do when I’m about to quake. And Franklin’s dick got soft!!! Soft as a rag!! And he said it weren’t fittin’ for a white woman to talk like that and then he run off to tattle to the pastor!!”
“Oh Beth!! That’s bad!! What did Pastor say?”
“That’s the thing, Joey!! He sent Franklin off, told him to stop accusin’ me. Then, after Franklin left, he looked me in the eye and told me he knew I’d been doin’ it to niggers!!”
“NOOOOOO!!!!!”
“But wait!! He said he knew a way where I could git clean.”
“Wait!! You ain’t admit to him that you been doin’ it to niggers, did you?”
“I had to, Joey!!”
“BETH!!! YOU DIDN’T!!! NOW HE’LL BE LOOKIN’ AT ME!!!!”
“Joey, I ain’t told him!! He already knew!!”
“BETH!! He ain’t knew NOTHIN’!! He just accused you of it to see if you’d flinch!! And you flinched!! I told you: NEVER ADMIT TO DOIN’ IT WITH NIGGERS!! NEVER!! NEVER!!! NEVER!!!!”
“Joey, hold on!! Calm down!! Pastor Goins says its plenty of white girls been doin’ it with niggers. It ain’t just us!!”
“STUPID!! STUPID!! STUPID!!! I shouldn’t-a never showed you how to scratch your itch with niggers!!! I TOLD you to NEVER admit to NOTHING!!! NOW I GOT TO FACE THAT MAN!! LIKE AS NOT HE’S ALREADY GOT ME DOWN FOR COUNSEL!! AND IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!!!!”
Josephine was distraught. She was sure that news of her sister’s indiscretions were already floating around in the public domain, courtesy of the biggest gossip source known to man—the church. The backwash from BethAnn’s scandal was sure to wash over and inundate Josephine’s life, besmirching the entire Leone family in the process. She was so mad, she barely listened to BethAnn’s entreaties. How could her sister be so stupid?
“JOSEPHINE ANNETTE LEONE! SHUT UP AND LISTEN!!” BethAnn stormed. “Pastor ain’t told no one. He told me not to tell no one neither, and now I see why!!! He told me you wouldn’t understand!! I’m sorry I said anything to you!!!”
This last statement brought Josephine up short. She and BethAnn shared secrets going back to childhood. They were more than sisters; they were best friends. Maybe Beth had a way out of this. Maybe she should hear her sister out.
“Beth. MAKE me understand. How can this be cleaned up? HOW?”
Beth was reluctant to explain.
“Come on, Beth. I’m sorry for yelling at you. Tell me.”
“OK. But this is just between me and you. No one else. OK?”
“OK.”
“Pastor Goins cleansed me. He done it hisself. He made me a white woman again. And he done it outta the goodness of his heart.”
“He ‘made you a white woman again’? What’s that mean?”
“Well, you know. If you do it to niggers, you git to be a little bit like a nigger. White women don’t say ‘fuck me’ when they’re doin’ it. Only niggers do that.”
“Hmmmmmph. I say ‘fuck me’ to Bobby all the time. He likes me to say it,” Josephine commented.
“That just means that Bobby is part nigger.”
“Oh, pshaw. I guess that means every white man in the state is part nigger. All of ‘em done did it with nigger women. Including Bobby. And Franklin, too.”
“Joey? Franklin ain’t did it with nobody. But me.”
“That’s a lie. If he told you that, he’s lying.”
“No, Joey. It’s true. He ain’t never done it with anybody before me.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yep.”
“Wow! He must be the only one. I never would-a expected that from him. OK. So what’s this cleansing that Pastor Goins showed you?”
“It’s a sacred ritual. Not just anyone has the anointing. Pastor has it. And he uses it to clean up white women that’s been with niggers. I’m clean now. And he can clean you up, too, if you ask him.”
“You’re clean? Just because you cain’t say ‘fuck me’ to your husband? Is that what made you ‘unclean’?”
“You’re laughing. But this is serious. Do you want to git to heaven and git turned away because you got nigger jizz up in you?”
“That’s silly, Beth. All you gotta do it wash it out. Or poop it out.”
“Joey, no. You’re always going to miss some of it.”
“Beth, you only git the nigger taint if you let ‘em shoot it up in your cooch. Me and you ain’t done that. We been real careful not to do that.”
“What about if they shoot in your mouth?” posed Beth.
“Did you let one of ‘em shoot in your mouth? I know I ain’t done it. You been doin’ somethin’ I ain’t know about?”
Beth ignored the question.
“Pastor says you can git nigger taint simply by lettin’ ‘em put it up in your cooch. Or your mouth. They ain’t gotta shoot,” Beth observed.
“Oh, Pastor don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. He’s right about one thing. It’s a lot of good, Christian white women that’s humped niggers. It ain’t just you and me. I’ll bet you Sister Green has fucked a nigger or three in her time.”
“That’s what Pastor says, too. And he says the way those women git to heaven is they go thru the cleansing ritual.”
“And he put you thru the ‘cleansing ritual’?”
“Yes. I’m clean.”
“And just what is the ‘cleansing ritual’?”
“Well, you have to have a consecrated, anointed vessel of God extract the nigger taint…the same way it went in.”
“WHAT?!? And how’s that?”
“Pastor sucked out my nigger taint. With his...with his dick.”
“WHAT?!?!??”
“That’s what I said, too, at first. But he said it was the only way.”
“YOU LET HIM PUT HIS DICK UP IN YOU?”
“It was the only way, Joey. You make it seem like it’s dirty. He ain’t wanna do it. He said it takes a consecrated Man of God to clean up nigger taint and make a woman white again. He done it for my good.”
“WELL, IF THAT DON’T BEAT ALL. That’s the craziest shit I ever heard!! I thought I’d heard all the lines men use to git some pussy. That’s a new one on me!!”
“Joey, believe me, it ain’t like that. Pastor ain’t wanna do it. It wasn’t lustful or anything like that. I could look at him and tell he wasn’t just trying to git some pussy. You know how men git that look in their eyes when they dicks git hard. Pastor ain’t like that. When he does it, it’s like going to the doctor. Or a midwife.”
“Does YOUR HUSBAND know that his boss is doing it to you?”
“No.”
“Well, if it’s such a medical miracle, why cain’t you tell him?”
“You know how men are. He wouldn’t understand. You don’t tell your husband when your doctor has to tend to you…down there.”
“MY DOCTOR DON’T USE HIS DICK TO TEND TO ME.”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand that Pastor Goins is smokin’ your motor, Bethy. Tell me, how many times has he ‘cleaned’ you?”
“Ummmm…usually on Fridays.”
“Why would he have to clean you on Fridays? Why cain’t the first cleaning serve? You been doin’ it to niggers in between?”
“No, I ain’t been doin’ it to niggers! We don’t see too many of ‘em on the revival circuit. You know that.”
“Well?”
“He cleaned me the first time. After that I went back and told him I needed some touch ups.”
“TOUCH UPS??!?”
“Yes. Touch ups. I felt like he mighta…missed some spots.”
“OH MY GAWD!!!”
“Oh Joey!! It’s because Franklin won’t let me be myself!! He makes me just lay there!! Pastor Goins don’t mind if I talk dirty or hump him back or suck his dick!!! He says the cleansing ritual absolves me of all that. And when we finish, I feel so righteous, so pure! I can pray and be fully white again!”
“Chile, I don’t know about you. You ‘bout the gullible-est, mulletheadedest girl I ever see. So what do you want me to do now? Go and let Pastor do it to me? That ain’t gon’ happen. Bobby would kill him.”
“Won’t he kill Bucky if he finds out about you and him?”
“Well, Bucky’s a nigger. And I can always say he forced me. I couldn’t say that about Pastor.
“You should let him clean you, just the once. You’ll know how I feel.”
Josephine smirked.
“I got a better idea. Let’s me and you go and git us some nigger dick while we’re home. And then Pastor will have a reason to clean us both!”
BethAnn laughed. “You’re SO bad!!!”
Abigail Leone was a toddler at her grandfather’s funeral services. At twenty months, she was too young to understand the solemnity of the occasion. She only knew it as another instance where her home was flooded with people, like her church. She made it her business to toddle up to each visitor in turn and regale him or her with gurgling laughter and, very often, her snot.
Abby’s precociousness lent a veneer of happiness to an otherwise somber event. People were still irate at the young African girl responsible for Edward’s death. Too, there was an undercurrent of anger at Sam Stenstrom, who’d arranged for Edward’s tryst without breaking the girl first. Everyone knew that niggers had to be broken. You just didn’t unleash a nigger, straight out of the wild, onto a white man. It just wasn’t done.
Sam endured all the gossip sheepishly. The gossip mavens were right. He had known better. He’d just let his pride get the better of him. He was showing out for Edward. Doggoned if it would happen again, he reckoned.
Pastor Goins gave a rousing “Going Home” sermon, in which Edward was lionized as the very best possible Christian, certain to be seated now at the side of the Lamb in Heaven. Edward’s virtues were extolled lavishly and amplified beyond reality, as was customary.
The Pastor didn’t mention the circumstances of Edward’s death. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone already had an opinion of the poontang tradition. Talking about it publicly was taboo; this was part and parcel of the tradition. Anyway, what Edward was doing when he died wasn’t the issue. The issue was the legacy he’d left behind. The man certainly had a successful farm on his resume and was in the process of building another. He’d left a doting wife and family. He’d been a pillar in their community and a generous member of the church. THESE were the things that counted towards his heavenly hope.
After Edward’s church services, his body was laid to rest in the church cemetery, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Finally, a huge repast was offered and the entire town invited. Pillars of the community were measured by the turnout at such repasts. Edward’s turnout was better than notable. Many people arrived simply to get more news of his circumstances. They had slaves of their own who needed to be reminded of the sanctity of white life.
After the repast, the Leone clan returned to their farm to plot their next moves. It was decided that Sullivan would replace Edward as the overseer at Hank’s farm. Also, four more slaves were dispatched to help out. Two of these were women, one being Martha, the same woman Lizzie caught fucking in the barn with Caleb. Fiona considered dispatching her lover Caleb, but reasoned that he might try to interfere with Martha’s primary contribution to the endeavor—fresh pussy. Hank had already told her of the purpose of the mission to the Stenstrom farm. Fiona sought to alleviate further tension at the new farm by supplying female company to the men there.
Martha was shocked at being selected. It meant she’d be away from Caleb. She expected Caleb to ask for her hand any day now. This separation might jeopardize that possibility. Both she and Caleb knew what was expected of her at the new farm.
Bobby McNulty volunteered to travel with Hank’s group back to Hank’s new farm. There would be three white men in charge of the original eight male slaves, the two new male slaves and the two women sent. He ordered his wife Josephine to stay at the Leone Farm until things settled down at Hank’s place. When he returned, the two of them would travel back to the McNulty Farm. Josephine frowned a bit at this news but, in truth, she was happy to be home for the duration of her husband’s absence. She had plans.
Pastor Goins accepted Fiona’s invitation to stay on for a few days at the Leone Farm. He set up his tents out in the yard because the house couldn’t accommodate everyone. And anyway, he felt a calling to minister to the Leone family in this, their time of need. He felt especially called to minister to Josephine.
Since Nate, Aisleen and Abby now slept in Beth and Josephine’s old room, the two Leone daughters pulled rank and claimed Hank’s attic loft for their sleeping arrangements. Pastor Goins took the add-on bedroom originally built for Nate and Aisleen. Franklin slept in his covered wagon alone. Hank and Robert bunked down in Goins’ tent.
Robert wasn’t happy about sleeping away from his wife; she soothed him by saying she had some catching up to do with her sister, mainly girly gossip, and if he didn’t want to hear them chattering all day he’d put up with a night or two away from the comfort of her pussy. She promised him a rousing session before he left for his working visit to Hank’s farm.
The clan stayed up late that night making plans and telling stories about Edward. They spoke of their love and appreciation for the man. They spoke of his mighty deeds. They spoke, again, of their sorrow at his untimely departure.
Finally, Fiona stood and bade everyone goodnight. Stolidly, she lit a candle, stepped into her bedroom and latched the door. Her room was the only room with a latch. She knelt piously and began her prayers. This night her supplications were especially fervent; the rising crescendo of her voice breached the walls of the home and pricked the ears of her children, still conversing in the anteroom. They quieted themselves, respectful of her reverence.
When she completed her prayers, she lay back on her bed to ruminate. She was alone now. Her husband would never climb into bed beside her again, reeking of nigger pussy and tobacco. She inhaled deeply, imagining that she could still smell Edward’s essence in the folds of their bed. Then it occurred to her: that might be Meshach she smelled.
Fiona reached into a drawer of her nightstand, and withdrew her straight razor from a non-descript packet in the far rear of the drawer. With a resolute sigh, she pulled her bloomers down over her ankles and hiked her legs open. Carefully then, by the light of a candle, Fiona Leone reached down to shave the blondish stubble that had been accumulating on her labia since her husband left to supervise construction at their son’s farm.
Nathan and Aisleen retired to their bedroom shortly after Fiona’s exit. Aisleen cradled Abby, who’d stayed up as late as her little legs would carry her. She toddled between each of her older relatives, basking in their attention and showering them with her giggles, kisses and affection. As the night wore long, though, she found she couldn’t keep up with her aunts and uncles. When the adult conversations drifted away from her, Abby sought to retain her center position, resorting to tears when the attention she sought was not forthcoming. Aisleen picked her up and rocked her to sleep
Now Aisleen lay the child down in her crib beside their bed. She turned to her husband.
“This has been some week, huh?”
“I guess”, he responded quietly.
“Did you like Pastor’s sermon today? I thought it was wonderful.”
“I guess,” he responded again as he began to undress for bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nate, there is something wrong. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Nathan Thomas. You know I’m not going to let you go to sleep until you tell me. You may as well start.”
“My father’s been killed, Aisleen. What do you want me to say?”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“No.”
By now both of them stood naked in the flickering candlelight of their bedroom. Nathan’s penis was partially erect. They’d been married for over two years and had long established a normal schedule for marital relations, funerals notwithstanding.
Aisleen shook her hair free and then pinned it back up. She lay back on their bedspread and opened her legs perfunctorily. Nathan mounted her. He took his dick and rubbed it up and down between her labia until he became fully erect. He continued this foreplay until Aisleen’s vaginal juices lubricated her pussy lips sufficiently for entry. Nathan probed forward, always happy to find her vagina slippery enough for a full insertion on the first try.
“So what’s wrong?” she whispered in his ear.
“Can we finish up here before we have to talk about it?” he whispered back, acknowledging the difficulty of holding a conversation while fucking.
“No. I want you to talk to me about it now.” she said.
“Aisleen!! Come on!!”
“Either you tell me what’s wrong or you can pull out right now.”
That wasn’t going to happen. And she knew it. Once her husband had a good, stiff cock up in her, he wasn’t going anywhere until that cock was limp again. She often used her pussy to wheedle small concessions from him. She could feel his pulsing cock sliding in and out of her cunt. More, she could hear the sticky, schlushing sound a wet pussy makes when a young, hard dick is driving the stick.
“OK,” he said resignedly. “I don’t like how Bobby takes it on hisself to treat our niggers.”
He continued to fuck her as she considered his blunt assessment.
“What did he do?” Aisleen asked.
“Well, you seen him. He come up and started bossin’ ‘em around and slappin’ ‘em around. He treated ‘em like they was HIS niggers.”
“Why do you care about how a white man treats a nigger? Bobby’s just mad because a nigger killt your Pa.”
“That ain’t the point. That ain’t the point at ALL. This is MY farm. And he’s my brother-in-law, but this is MY farm. He ain’t come and axe me nothin’ about it. He just started in whalin’ on ‘em. He slapped Shaddy upside the head and Shaddy wasn’t doin’ nothin’ to him. Shaddy give him a look that would-a froze a monkey. I thought Shaddy was gon’ hit him back!!”
“Hit him BACK? Bobby woulda killt him!”
“That ain’t the point neither! SHADDY IS MY NIGGER. Bobby ain’t got no right to be hittin’ MY niggers.”
“Did you say sump’n to him?”
“I started to. I wanted to say sump’n to him so bad.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“Well, you know. What with all the ruckus, ever’body was raggin’ on the niggers. Somebody was sure to call me a nigger lover if I’d-a stepped in.”
“Oh. You don’t want that.”
“You’re darn….oooooh….right I don’t want that.”
Nathan began to pick up the pace. Aisleen arched her pussy up to match his rhythm. The sticky sound of their sex reverberated around the little room. Aisleen offered him a titty to suck. She pulled his head down to it.
“You’re going to have to set him straight at some point,” she said, stifling a moan.
Nathan released her nipple long enough to say: “I know.”
“You can’t have him….oh jeez!… bossin’ you around in your own house.”
“He ain’t bossed ME around. He just stepped on my niggers some.”
Nathan pulled out of Aisleen’s pussy and slapped her on the hip. It was their unspoken lingo for ‘doggystyle’. Aisleen rolled over dutifully and lofted her ass up into the air for him. Nathan pressed his pussy-slickened dick against her sphincter and probed forward into her rectum. She groaned deeply as she expanded to receive him. The smell of her unwashed ass, mixed with the ethereal smell of her fragrant cunt, now assaulted him. They fucked like this in silence for a few minutes.
“You gonna talk to…unnhhh…him before he leaves for Hank’s place?”
“That’s what’s…ahhhhhh!…botherin’ me. You think I...mmmmph!…should?”
“Fuck. Oh!! ….ummmm…fuck me!…Yes...SHIT!..I…think…OOH!!…you should.”
Now driving for orgasm, they shelved the conversation. Nathan began to pound his wife’s ass with powerful, thwacking shots that could be heard throughout the entire house. In the next bedroom, Fiona was just finishing her meticulous ablutions with her straight razor. She smiled at the sound of their lovemaking. Not even his father’s death had cooled her son’s ardor.
Nathan preferred to bust his nuts in Aisleen’s pussy. They’d been speaking of having another child. He thought about swapping out, but decided against it. This night her ass served him better. He withheld his seed, though, waiting for her to match his orgasmic level. When finally the pain of clenching his jism became too great, it surged past his restraint and rocketed into her ass with the force of a Texas hailstorm. Nathan’s body shook frantically as bolt after bolt of semen spilled from his cock.
Aisleen wasn’t quite there yet. She could feel her husband skittering down from his orgasm. She didn’t think he could get it up again soon enough to take her edge off in time.
She waited for Nathan’s surging cock to ebb a bit. She could feel it softening in her ass. When the sharp edge of his erection receded sufficiently, she scrambled out from under him, stretching his penis like a rubber band until it popped out of her ass and, in the recoil, bounced off his own body. She flipped him onto his back, then clambered up his torso so that her pussy was mounted directly over his mouth. Nathan offered up his tongue. Aisleen began to fuck his mouth with the same intensity he’d used to blast her ass.
Nathan could tell his wife was ready to cum. Her breath was flustered as she humped his face with the all-encompassing passion of a fiend. Every muscle in her body was tense in expectation of release. Furious sexual epithets growled forth from deep in her throat. Beadlets of sweat dripped from her nipples as Nathan sucked her bushy chocolate pussy.
Aisleen’s orgasm raged about her in a palpable field of hot magma. Nathan peeked out and noticed Abby standing in her crib. The child was quietly watching her parents’ strident copulation with childishly innocent curiosity. Her head was cocked to the side. Apparently, she’d been watching them for some time. The little girl pointed to her mother’s rakish tremulations as Aisleen humped her father’s face. The child gurgled happily.
Nathan started to jump up, but his wife’s thighs clamped tightly about his head as she poured her cum into his mouth. Her body stiffened into the characteristic orgasmic rigor. Aisleen stretched her legs out fully, pointing her toes as if firing bolts of thunder from a weapon. She luxuriated in the passion of yet another perfectly executed fuck. Nathan’s hot jism bubbled forth from her ass.
“Glrbbberk,” babbled Abby.
Every mother in the world knows the sound her child makes, even thru the white-hot riot of a crashing orgasm. Aisleen leapt up, shielding her tits and her bush from her daughter’s view.
“ABBY!!!!” she cried.
Abigail smiled widely and reached up to her mother, begging to he picked up.
“NATHAN!! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SHE WAS AWAKE!!!”
“I didn’t know she was awake until just a second ago.”
Aisleen scrambled to find covering.
“OH MY GOD!!! WHAT DID SHE SEE?!??”
“She’s a baby. She ain’t got no clue what she was seein’,” Nathan commented.
Unembarrassed, he still lay naked on the bed. His penis lounged lethargically on his left thigh. He reckoned that if her parents didn’t make a big deal out of it, the child wouldn’t even remember the event. He’d seen his parents fucking when he was very young and they didn’t even bother to stop humping, even after they knew he was standing there.
Aisleen begged to differ, but she didn’t bother to share her thoughts with her husband. Her child has seen its mother consumed in the sex act. And if that weren’t bad enough, Abby had seen her mother mounted over her father’s face, obscenely driving her hips into his mouth while uttering guttural lewdisms into the room, phrases that the child would undoubtedly repeat at the most inopportune moment.
She swept the child up in her arms and kissed her copiously, as if she’d just saved her from an untimely fate tied to a set of railroad tracks.
Abby continued to coo enthusiastically. She loved her parents.
Upstairs in the loft the Leone sisters continued their conversation about Pastor Goins.
Beth: “So? Are you gonna do it?”
Josephine: “Don’t be silly. I’m not letting that old man put his peenie up in me.”
Beth: “I thought you were gonna wait until Bobby left and then…?”
Josephine: “Bethy, whether Bobby is here or whether he ain’t, I don’t want to do it to the pastor. Suppose somebody finds out. Suppose’n somebody catches us. I don’t need Bobby asking questions about who I been with.”
Beth: “But you ain’t afraid of gitting caught doin’ it to Duck. Or Bucky. Or whoever.”
Josephine: “It ain’t the same thing, Beth. It ain’t the same thing at all. We BEEN over this. I’m more’n liable to go and git Duck to fuck me than I am to ask Pastor.”
Beth: “Hmmmmph.”
Josephine: “’Hmmmph?’ What’s THAT s’posed to mean?”
Beth: “You’re the one that got me to do it to niggers. I was perfectly happy scratching my own itch. And now I want you to try something and you won’t do it.”
Josephine (exasperated): “I ain’t forced you to do it to niggers!!! I just told you I was gon’ have a nigger up to our room and I axed you not to tell nobody!!”
Beth: “And you asked me if I wanted some. Tell the whole truth about it.”
Josephine: “Why not? You’re just gonna sit there and watch me fuck and not want some dick? Why would I do that to you? It’s perfectly good dick. It’s just black dick, is all.”
Beth: “And now you got the nigger taint.”
Josephine. “Whatever! Bobby ain’t complaining. He ain’t axing me to lie still like no dead person, neither.”
Beth (flustered): “That’s not fair, Joey!!! You know that ain’t fair!!”
Josephine: “I’m tellin’ you that FRANKLIN Jefferson and PASTOR Goins are both fulla beans. You shoulda fucked that Franklin before you married him. And you woulda knowed his dick warn’t suitable.”
Beth: “YOU WERE THE ONE THAT TOLD ME TO MARRY HIM!!!!”
Josephine: “You’re grown. I ain’t forced you to make that decision. If it was me I’d-a fucked him the night before the ceremony and made a snap decision the next morning.”
Beth: “I CAIN’T GO THE REST OF MY LIFE LAYING UP LIKE A DEAD PERSON!!”
Josephine: “I agree with you. You need to find some outside dick.”
Beth: “But I’m clean now!! If I do that I’ll always be running back to Pastor to git cleaned!!”
Josephine (again exasperated at Beth’s cupidity): “Oh, Beth! You ain’t any more clean now than you was back then. Pastor just wanted some pussy and you happened to be handy.”
Beth: “So you’re sayin’ I ain’t any more’n a whore.”
Josephine: “I ain’t said that at all and you know it. I think you’re looking at it the wrong way. Your husband loves you, right? And you wanna be a good wife, right? But your cooch tells you it needs more’n your husband can give you, right? I have the perfect solution. Git Pastor to teach the ‘cleansing ritual’ to your husband. That’d work, right?”
Beth: “I already asked Pastor about that. He said he’d show Franklin how to do it by and by.”
Josephine: “How long is ‘by and by’?”
Beth: “Dunno. It could be next week. It could be next year. Could be ten years gone.”
Josephine: “OK. But the fact is that SOMEDAY your husband will be able to clean you, right? You git you a nigger man and fuck him every chance you git. By and by your husband will clean you up and you can git into heaven as a white woman. Won’t that work?”
Beth: “I reckon. Suppose’n I die before Franklin gits the anointing?”
Josephine: “In that case, keep going to Pastor on Fridays.”
Beth: “You ain’t concerned about marchin’ into Glory with the white women?”
Josephine: “Nope. I already am a white woman.”
Beth: “But what about the nigger taint?”
Josephine: “Beth, there ain’t no proof but that Gawd ain’t a nigger hisself.”
Beth: “JOEY!!!”
Josephine: “It’s true. The Bible don’t say nothin’ about white folks and niggers. It’s only us that makes distinctions.”
Beth: “JOEY!! WHO TOLD YOU THAT!!”
Josephine: “Bobby.”
Beth: “So you’re willin’ to go to Hell right ‘longside Bobby?”
Josephine: “Bobby ain’t goin’ to Hell. Pastor’s more likely to go to Hell than Bobby is.”
Beth: “JOEY!!! You can’t mean that!!”
Josephine: “I DO mean it. Do you want me to prove it to you?”
Beth: “How do you plan to do that?”
Josephine: “You say that Pastor is a consecrated Man of Gawd, hey? You reckon he only ‘cleans’ you out of concern for your eternal soul, right?”
Beth: “That’s right.”
Josephine: “So, if I go to him and OFFER him some pussy, he’s gonna say no, right?”
Beth: “I guarantee you he’ll say no. Leastways, he’s gonna say no if he reckons youse a white woman.”
Josephine: “And I’m guaranteeing you he’s gonna say yes.”
Beth: “So, if he says yes, your gon’ give him some?”
Josephine: “I ain’t say THAT. I said he’d say ‘yes’”
Beth: “But how am I gon’ know that he said yes unless you give him some?”
Josephine: “You REALLY want me to do it to him, don’t you.”
Beth: “I want you to be a white woman again.”
Josephine: “Oh, jeez. Not that again. If I do it to him all I’m guaranteeing is that he’s smokin’ your cooch for his own benefit, not yours. You’re just as white as you ever been.”
Beth: “So are you gon’ give him some or ain’t you?”
Josephine (exasperated): “Tell you what. After Bobby leaves I’ll go to Pastor and axe him for counsel. I’ll let on that I got troubles that I couldn’t talk about ‘round Bobby, but I won’t say what the troubles is. I’ll let him draw his own ‘clusions. He ain’t no fool. He’ll pick up what I’m hintin’ at. I guarantee you he’ll drag out this canard ‘bout a dick cleansing and me being a nigger fucker. Then I’ll git up and come straight to you and tell you. Will that be good enough?”
Beth: “But you ain’t gon’ do it to him?”
Josephine: “Not unless I git there and he says sump’n that gits my motor going. I cain’t see that happenin’, him bein’ old and all. But if it does and I do fuck him, you’ll be the first to know.”
Beth: “OK”.
Josephine: “Hey Beth? Let’s git up early and sneak down to the spring for a swim!!”
Beth: “By ourselves, OK? No niggers.”
Josephine: “OK.”
Beth: “Cross your heart?”
Josephine: “I said OK!!”
Beth: “OK, then.”
Cora and Lizzie showed up in Pastor Goins’ tent late that night, unbidden. Its occupants, Robert McNulty and Hank Leone, were nearly asleep when the two black girls arrived. As the women stepped demurely into the tent, Robert swore and jumped up, knife in hand. Like most of the white men in the area he was wary of black women in the wake of Edward Leone’s murder. That incident brought a heightened sense of awareness that southern white society sponged off a subjugated people who might at any time rise up to cast off their chains using an orgy of violence. Robert didn’t intend to have his head removed from his torso by one of these ungrateful black fiends.
Hank calmed the man. He knew both these women, indeed, had known them most of his life. They hadn’t been asked, but they were certainly here for a reason. Hank sat up to support himself on his elbows from his supine position and invited them in. Robert looked at him crazily.
“I ain’t about to let these niggers carve me up in my sleep, Henry. I aim to keep my head and my dick in place.” Robert cautioned brusquely.
“They ain’t here to cut you up, Bobby.” Hank replied with some annoyance. He turned to the women and politely asked: “Cora? What can we do for you?”
Lizzie answered:
“Marse Hank, thank you, suh. We come on Shaddy’s behalf. Please don’ tell him we ‘uz here.”
“On Shaddy’s behalf, you say?” Hank asked.
“Yassuh. Marse Robert, there, done took and went upside Shaddy’s head and Shaddy ain’t did nuttin’ wrong. He ‘uz mindin’ his own business. Marse Hank, you know Shaddy ain’t been hisself since Marse Edward give him that whuppin’ that time. He cain’t work like he used to. He’s done gone real ornery, sometimes.”
“I’ve noticed it, yes.” said Hank.
“Well, suh, we ‘uz hopin’ we could take some of the fire out’n Marse Robert and maybe yourself, too, and maybe give Shaddy some room t’ breathe. He ain’t a bad nigger, you know dat, Marse Hank, suh. And we ‘uz thinkin’ maybe we could do a little sump’n fo’ you and would make it a li’l easier on Shaddy. You know, suh?”
Hank took the hint immediately. Lizzie was figuratively offering her pussy to the two white men in return for a dispensation for Meshach. But she didn’t want Meshach to know about it, that much was clear. What she hadn’t said was the extent of Meshach’s fury over the incident. He was sullen, morose, certainly more taciturn that usual. Lizzie feared that he intended to raise his fists to Robert McNulty and, in doing so, bring more (and worse) retribution upon the Leone slaves than was due.
Hank looked at Robert with a smirk.
“Whaddaya think, Bobby?” he asked.
Robert replied sullenly, “They’re your niggers. Search ‘em for weapons.”
Hank looked back to the two women. By way of response they lifted their ankle length dresses to display their naked ebon bodies, resplendent in the moonlight.
Hank glanced at Bobby, then back to the two women without comment. Cora and Lizzie understood. Hank was accepting their offer. They doffed their dresses to stand nude before the two white men.
Robert commented, “Naked or no, I’m keepin’ my knife in my hand. You bitches understand me?”
Hank grinned at Robert. “Your wife is right upstairs. Like as not, she can hear us. Suppose’n she comes down and catches us? It ain’t me she’s gon’ bust upside the head!!”
Robert retorted with a lascivious grin, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, son. I’ll take this one!!”
He reached for Lizzie, but Hank cut him off.
“No, son. This ‘un is mine. You can git her after I finish.”
He pushed Robert away and took Lizzie by the hand. Lizzie accepted Hank’s hand and stepped to him. Robert grabbed Cora and dragged her along to his simple bedroll on the ground.
Both men lay back down on their bedrolls and struggled free of their clothing. The two black girls watched them impassively. Once Hank kicked free of his pants, Lizzie could see that he was already erect. He remembered her mesmerizing dance from prior encounters and hoped she would show it off for his brother-in-law tonight.
Lizzie had other ideas. She’d defied Meshach’s wishes by being here. But she felt she needed to do something to mitigate any chance of a confrontation between Robert and her man. Meshach was consumed with hatred for the man. She was convinced that he would try to kill Robert and let the chips fall where they might on their very next encounter. Less than two hours before she’s seen the will to kill flash in Shaddy’s eyes at the mention of Robert’s name. It had frightened her. So she’d come up with the idea to fuck Robert senseless. Perhaps he wouldn’t single out Shaddy for further abuse. It was a chance she felt she had to take. Shaddy was willing to die before enduring another beating such as the one he’d taken at Edward Leone’s behest.
Lizzie had informed Cora of her plan and enlisted her support. Various white male visitors had already raped both women in the wake of Edward’s murder, Robert McNulty being one of those assailants. Curiously, he didn’t remember either girl. They were just two more niggers to him—farm animals, unworthy of note.
The two white men lay on the ground before Cora and Lizzie, erect penises in hand. The black girls straddled them, then knelt until their pussies kissed the crowns of the men’s surging cocks.
Lizzie was wet, though not sexually wet. She’d released a small amount of pee and rubbed it into her pussy lips just prior to this visit. Cora hadn’t thought to make this concession. Her pussy was still relatively dry.
Cora’s lack of preparation cost her. McNulty surged into her unprepared snatch with a sudden lunge as she attempted to slowly ease her bottom down upon him. Cora cried out in real anguish. This sudden thrust drew Robert’s foreskin back so far that his most sensitive penile nerves were exposed to the dry friction of her outer labia. When he encountered the natural moisture of her deeper pussy, the sudden change in vaginal texture almost caused him to cum. His pre-cum gurgled forth against his will.
Hank felt the warmth of Lizzie’s pee and mistook it for natural pussy lotion. He eased into the girl, inch by inch, until he felt the warm clasp of her labia gripping the base of his cock like a slippery glove. He withdrew fully and then repeated the maneuver, using his cockhead as a cudgel to pry her more fully open. He could feel the pink ridges of her inner pussy gliding along his shaft like warm gelatin until he hilted himself, at which time Lizzie’s cervix kissed and suckled his urethra, begging for his seed. Hank reached sexual plateau within seconds, as he always did under Lizzie’s ministrations.
Robert withdrew from his initial lunge, dragging Cora’s inner moisture forth with his cockhead, using it to lubricate her outer pussy lips. He surged forward and again experienced the delicious dichotomy of her partially lubed outer pussy followed by the insensate joy of the slippery heat core within.
Cora groaned, too. She had a magnificently deep chasm between her legs. Robert couldn’t hope to probe her cervix. Only Meshach and Duck (and a few adequately shaped farm vegetables) had visited that neighborhood. Robert’s dick was serviceable, but not nearly as long as Cora’s black lovers. She hadn’t complained much when he’d raped her earlier that week. In fact, if he’d been a little more longwinded, she might have been able to climax during that violent assault. It hadn’t taken long for Lizzie to convince Cora to join this clandestine mission on Shaddy’s behalf.
Cora settled in and began to fuck her erstwhile assailant. She pressed him to bulge deeper and deeper into her cavernous babymaker, dragging her blooming clitoris against his pubic mound for friction on each full insertion. Robert had to struggle to restrain his ejaculate. Each time she drew him up into the empty space between the tip of his cock and the back of her vagina, Robert fought the urge to fill that void with his seed. This effort engulfed his senses in a psychedelic world of purplish orange mythical beasts, a heady, fantastical world that only exists between insertion and completion, where all things are possible right up until that world explodes into bliss and sunshine thunder, and after which the sexual siren slowly ebbs, and the sticky juices mingle and drip, and the sweat dissipates into the night air, and the real world of dirt-hard work and worry and war and hatred washes back in—much like sewage into a pristine swimming pool.
With each plunge into Cora’s cunt, Robert hoped to forestall this latter outcome for just a few seconds more.
Hank, too, was quickly adrift in the golden miasma of Lizzie’s vaginal embrace. No inkling of Marlene’s crimson southern jungle crossed his mind this night. Rather, the statuesque black girl with the graceful lines and the creamy mound of curly black pubes dominated his attention. Her sizzling pussy electrified his preening cock. As she fucked him from above, her inscrutable gaze locked his eyes in place. He couldn’t tell if her gaze was inspired by ethereal love or otherworldly hatred. He just knew that her pussy transported him. She held her torso immobile. Only her hips roiled and plunged up and down along the scimitar arc of his steely cock, while the sticky, thwacking sound of their surging genitalia accentuated their lust with explosively billowing, cloud-like sexual imagery.
Hank was fighting the urge to cum. He imagined himself to be his father, using this vision to dampen his ardor and prolong the session. He imagined ‘Hannah’ riding his father to be much like this, blinding him with passion, bending his will with the seduction of her hot, African pussy until he was unable to defend himself against her sudden, savage assault. This thought brought him about with a start. His eyes popped open in shock. Lizzie was still gazing down at him dispassionately as she arched and strove on his dick.
Lizzie was not without her own ruminations during their sexual session. She, too, imagined herself to be Hannah the African Warrior, on a mission to save her man using the debilitating seduction of her hot, African pussy. This white man beneath her was the Evil Edward, and she was going to fuck him into submission and leave his mangled body in tatters on the ground, awash in his own blood. She imagined herself squatting over Hank’s face as he slept off the effects of this drunken sexual bacchanalia. She imagined herself plopping semen from her pussy into his nostrils, into his eyes and all over his face, as Hannah had done. She imagined herself launching his detached and shriveled penis from her pussy directly into his mouth as if it were a turd.
So much for the inspiration behind her inscrutable gaze.
Lizzie reached over to tap Cora on the shoulder. Cora was driving for a second orgasm atop Robert while he was still agonizing over the prospect of launching his first. Taking Lizzie’s hint, the two girls stood and swapped places. Lizzie mounted Robert, gripped his cock with her labia and eased her pussy down upon it, inch by inch. Cora opted to use Hank’s cock to toy with her resurgent clit, sliding it up and down against his pee-hole and then further down into the vertical crease in his pudenda where she tickled the hypersensitive nerves just south of that quivering helmet.
Hank barely noticed that a new vagina had taken charge. He just knew that his shaft was exposed momentarily. He preferred it to be blanketed in the warmth of a sticky-hot cunt. He endured a few moments of Cora’s foreplay then centered himself and shoved his cock into her pussy with a thrust that was as annoyed as it was insistent. Cora soothed his pique by leaning forward and offering him a black-nippled titty to suck.
Unlike Hank, Robert was aware of a different pussy astride his dick. Lizzie’s pussy was nowhere near as deep as Cora’s pussy. It was tighter, more muscular, more fit. Too, her curly pubic hairs were softer than Cora’s bushy mass. It lacked the unshaven, peasey little naps around the perimeter of her vaginal triangle so typical of black women. Lizzie’s hairy pussy was more Asian, almost Mediterranean in grade and texture, though Lizzie was darker than Cora.
And she smelled good!! What was that perfume she was wearing? Robert recognized the scent but couldn’t place its source. What was it…..what was it….?
Before he could recognize the aroma, he became aware that Lizzie was tormenting him with quick, short, arrow-like thrusts that only paid homage to his pud and the first three inches of his cock. She was inch-fucking him. It felt good insofar as she was paying attention to the most sensitive portion of his dick. But she was only massaging his foreskin back and forth over his G-spot. She wasn’t giving him a good, solid foreskin stretch designed to milk a screaming burst of ejaculate from his loins.
Robert kept trying to time his thrusts to probe deeper into Lizzie’s snatch. She anticipated these attempts and merely eased back from his urgency. She continued to torture him with innumerable small jerks and quivers of her muscular ass, teasing him with her wetness. She was fucking him with her labia, not her full pussy, drawing ecstasy from the feel of his smooth pudenda gliding back and forth against her pulsing clitoris. Her herky-jerky motions titillated Robert. He imagined her to be in the throes of an extended orgasm. If she would only let him deeper inside, he could join her in the lush, wildly exotic opiate of interracial orgasm.
Indeed, Lizzie was on the verge of an explosive release. She’d fucked Hank on numerous prior occasions. She was well acquainted with the heft and the feel of his crescent shaped pole. Robert’s cock was reverse crescent, that is, it pointed downward when erect. Each time Lizzie inch fucked him just so, her clit eased up the slope of his pudenda and then dropped from the crest of his helmet onto his shaft with a palpable thud. Upon her quick withdrawal, her clit clambered up this same ridge, eliciting sparks of fire that growled forth from her nether regions in a low frequency hum.
With each successive surge, Lizzie’s “Hannah-ness” melted a little, as did her altruistic rationale for being here. She was losing herself in the joy of sex. Much like the other Leone women, her will was wilting before the heat emanating from her loins. Her lust rose up to consume her. In her heart of hearts, this pussy was Shaddy’s pussy. But in her pussy’s heart, this pussy belonged to dick.
Lizzie could ‘see’ the searing heat of her orgasm approaching. It manifested itself in opulent reds, yellows and pinks—a boiling mass of atomic mushroom clouds rolling in from the sea. Like a child on that unnamed beach, she was helpless to evade its power yet fascinated at its approach. She watched this amorphous mass of living fire accumulate ominously behind her eyes. In an agony of anticipation, she re-doubled her efforts atop Robert’s rigid pole.
As this coronal surge of lust washed ashore, she slammed her cunt down upon him with such force that he jerked upright in a spastic tremor. Robert immediately sizzled his jism into her pussy with a mammoth surge that shriveled his nut sac like a washrag in a wringer. Both of them shrieked aloud under the primal fury of this thunderous release. It was a detonation, a collapse, a tornado of searing passion. Hank and Cora paused in their own sexual ablutions to marvel at the conjoined couple beside them. Lizzie and Robert were furiously long-stroking each other now, in a frantic attempt to extract every last drop of orgasmic ejecta from the other. It was an amazing sight.
Josephine Leone overheard their strident sexual cries up in the attic loft. She paused from her chattering conversation with BethAnn to discern the source of the sounds.
“That sounds like some nigger girl is gittin’ some dick, don’t it? Good dick, too! But that other voice don’t sound like no nigger. Who is it, Bethy?” Joey queried rhetorically. She listened for a moment before dropping the issue. Sexual cries in the night were common enough in this neighborhood.
Meshach overheard them, too, from the shuddering despair of his slave hovel. He recognized the timbre of Lizzie’s preternatural screams. His eyes narrowed in rage.
Lizzie could feel Robert’s awkwardly curved penis pressing vaginal nerve endings that had rarely experienced this level of stimulation. The reverse curvature of his cock forced the hump of his shaft against the upper wall of her pussy as his pud drove into the deep well of cushy pudding at the very back of her pussy. Meshach’s cock plumbed these nerve-endings too, but not so forcefully as Robert’s misshapen cock. Like most men, Meshach’s cock angled upward.
Every time Robert surged forward inside Lizzie’s pussy, the hump of his shaft pressed her open while his pud gouged a pudding trough deep in her cunt that he immediately filled with spurts of semen. It seemed to Lizzie that this white man was plowing new furrows into her well-fertilized vagina. Her orgasm stormed on and on interminably as her pussy filled with seed. Robert rolled atop her, scooped her legs up and continued to deliver bolts of scrotum tapioca from the dominant missionary position. He appeared to be blessed with an endless supply.
Taking Robert’s lead, Hank rolled atop Cora and began to fuck for completion. Both of them were fired by the wanton display of sexuality of the couple beside them. Neither of them had ever seen a couple fuck so prodigiously, nor had they seen any couple prolong an orgasm for so long and so powerfully. Lizzie was slack-jawed; her eyelids were still fluttering uncontrollably while her eyeballs rolled back into her head. She’d drifted into a state of sexual catatonia.
Robert was sweating profusely. Like the black girl beneath him, only the whites of his eyes showed, zombie-like. Clearly, he was on the verge of an exhaustive collapse. Yet both sets of hips, one black and the other white, still churned mechanically. Robert’s balls expanded partially upon withdrawal and emptied again as he probed forward. Lingering remnants of semen tinkled forth from his penis in ever decreasing amounts. Each spurt, no matter how small, added impetus to their earlier mammoth explosion, like pumping oxygen onto a burning ember and causing it to glow white-hot for a few seconds before returning to its ashen state.
Hank now picked up where his brother-in-law left off. He quickened his pace inside Cora’s pussy until the black girl began to moan and curse in the argot of southern slaves.
“You FUCK me you white muhfuckah. Fuck me wid’ dat big purple dick! Git it all the way up in dere. ALL de way. Yeah, dass it. FUCK. FUCK YAYUH! Do it. Do it to me!!” she whispered into his ear. “Oh you MUHfuckah. OH YOU MOTHAHFUCKAH!! Come on, daddy! FUCK IT!! FUCK IT GOOD!!!”
They crashed into each other. Cora’s scatological pillow talk became louder and louder.
“YOU MOTHAHFUCKAH!! FUCK DIS PUSSY!! GO DEEPER!! DEEPER!! OH!! FASTER, HENRY!! FASTER!!! OH YOU MAKE MY PUSSY FEEL SO GOOD!! SO GOOOOOD!!! FUHHHHHHHCK!!!!”
Her fuck talk seemed a bit too familiar to Hank, too personal, considering she was his slave. He’d fucked Cora before and she hadn’t been quite this expressive. Maybe witnessing Lizzie’s orgasm had triggered something in Cora. He didn’t know. He did know that Cora had called him by his Christian name and left off the respectful title of ‘Master’. In his mind he noted a check mark. This was something to be corrected.
Just now, though, he was a child standing on that nameless beach, alone, as an atomic mushroom cloud roiled in from the sea. It was immense, covering the entire field of his vision. He could feel his dick swell and thicken as the cloud approached, and the lightning reverberated and the thunder rolled. In that instant Hank became his dick, sloshing in and out of a hot, wet, black pussy while that pussy’s owner mouthed increasingly graphic obscenities about its disposition and needs.
Cora was shrieking now, using great whoops and frantic epithets. She was awash in her orgasm, crazing under its power. She was a little ahead of Hank, who was stretching his cock to reach the very back of her vaginal canyon. She bucked and thrashed with such fervor that he almost flew out of her pussy on the backstroke. Cora gripped him by his buttocks to hold him in place. She arched up to offer the deepness of her pussy to him. When (and if) he hit it, she was going to cum again. And then again—or so she hoped.
Hank strained to reach bottom. Like a drowning man grasping for a life-saving paddle, Hank grinded his pubic mound into Cora’s pussy lips in a futile effort to fill her lengthy pussy with dick. He gasped with the effort. Try as he might, he was only able to reach her snuggle pudding with his hyperextended pud. Her cervical barrier remained frustratingly out of reach.
Cora’s ongoing filthy commentary about his penile efforts seemed a faraway voice in the wilderness now. In his mind’s eye he could see her cervix only millimeters away. He lunged for it, longed to rub against it, smashing her pussy lips with the effort. Yet pussybottom remained an elusive pipe dream. He could feel Cora’s budding clitoris pulsing like a little rock against his pubic mound. His constant grinding pressure against it was driving her wild. She cursed him in a fervent torrent of invective, praising his prior efforts while simultaneously demanding that he probe just a wee bit further. She begged him for it, pleaded with him to drive his dick home at the far, deep reaches of her pussy.
“Come on, baby! Gimme just one mo’ muf-fuckin’ inch!! Pump it!”
After some moments of this tantalizing verbal teasing, Hank was ready to burst. He reared back, withdrew fully from her cunt and plowed forward with a colossal surge. The tip of his urethra graced the sticky inner lips of her cervix ever so briefly. But in that instant Hank came, launching a concentrated stream of semen directly into her uterus.
Cora could not have hoped for better. The force and aim of his seminal emission struck her like a thunderbolt. She collapsed under the force of a second shuddering orgasm even as her first orgasm still raged. This double whammy so energized the black girl that she flipped Hank over without dismounting and fucked the rest of his cum savagely from his nuts while atop him. It sprayed from her ass like fanlets of female urine, such was the impetus of her driving lust.
Now it was Lizzie and Robert’s turn to sit up and take notice. Cora’s livid sexual commentary poured from her lips in an astounding stream-of-consciousness array of descriptive verbiage, all centered around the pleasure rocking her body at this moment and the purple dick pouring cum into her pussy. Lizzie knew that Cora liked being fucked, but she’d never heard the girl tying action to description in quite this manner. They’d only come here to fuck these white boys weak at the knees. The two girls weren’t supposed to be enjoying the fuck this much.
“HANK!! OH!! HENRY!!! FUHHHHHCK ME!!! GIMME ALL DAT FUHHCKING CUM!! DO IT TO ME, HANK!! DO IT TO ME!!!! OHHHHHHHHHH!! OH, OH, OH, OH, OH, OHHHHHHHH SHITTTTTTTTT!!!! GIMME DAT FUHHCKIN’ DICK, YOU WHITE MUHFUCKAH!! GIVE IT TO ME!!! NOWWW!!!! OH YEA-YUH!!”
Again, ears perked up around the farm. Yet another black girl was getting the shit fucked out of her. This voice was different from the first. It was a relatively small farm. If the first voice was obviously Lizzie, the second voice had to be Cora. If you saw one you saw the other.
Up in the loft, Josephine and BethAnn heard Cora calling out Hank’s name and smiled. Their younger brother was really putting the wood to some nigger girl, they surmised, probably two of them.
But wait. If this was Hank, where was Robert? Weren’t those two supposed to be bunking down in Pastor Goins’ tent together? The Leone sisters began to listen more attentively to the passionate cries from their yard.
In fact, the whole farm seemed to be tuned in. Nate Leone heard it in the big house and was intrigued. Despite the fact that he’d just recently drained his nuts into his wife, the strident moanings from his yard pricked his interest. His penis surged. There was pussy to be had, OUTSIDE pussy, and he was a young man. This was HIS farm now. Aisleen was still awake. So was Abby.
Nate: “I gotta pee. I’m fixin’ to go outside.”
Aisleen: “In the dark? What about snakes? Why ain’t you just use the piss pot right here on the floor?”
Nate: “It’s almost full. Besides, it stinks. I’ll take it with me and dump it.”
Aisleen: “Well take and dump out Abby’s diapers, too. Here.”
She handed him a bundle of Abby’s shitty, soaking cloth diapers.
Aisleen: “And rinse them out, if you git the chance’t.”
Nate had no intention of either peeing or rinsing diapers. But he was happy that his wife had given him a chore that could buy him some time. He intended to find the source of the muddled sexual chatter that both of them had heard. Maybe he could horn in on the action.
In the tiny addition bedroom, Pastor Goins was fighting a spiritual battle. He, too, had heard the unmistakable sexual cries emanating from his tent out in the yard. His first reaction was the same as Nate’s—go and find the source. Maybe join the fray.
But he was a respected Pastor. How might the members of his flock, some of whom were almost certainly involved in the ruckus, view his intrusion? It was one thing to have a nigger girl up to his room from time to time, or to convince some sniveling congregant to get up off some pussy, using his position of spiritual authority to settle the moral conundrum posed. It was quite another thing to go barging into a wild poontang orgy and add his penis to the attendance list. People certainly would talk.
With a full erection, the Pastor got down on his knees and began to pray. He prayed that this cup might be taken from him. He prayed that the sins in his flesh would not overcome his reason this night. He asked forgiveness for his lustful nature and further requested the strength to restrain himself in the face of temptation.
When he finished his prayers, his dick still raged upward from his nuts. It begged the question: “WHEN, Pastor? O, WHEN will I get MY relief?”
The pastor strained his ears. He could still hear Cora’s rancid sexual pleadings off in the distance.
The pastor took out his dick and began to masturbate.
.
Nathan Leone sidled up to Pastor Goins’ tent cautiously in the dark. Inside, Cora’s mouth was running a mile a
minute.
“AWW, FUHHHCKKKK! SHIT!! FUCK ME!!! YESYESYESYESYES!!!!”
He heard a little splatter and realized that something had squirted from someone’s pussy and landed against the inner tent fabric with a forceful thropppp! He had a good idea of what that ‘something’ was. The whole tent and its surroundings stank of poochipap, ass, sweat and cum.
Nate peeked in. Immediately, a stripe of effluent rocketed from Cora’s pussy and whipped across his face, leaving hot badoosy dripping from his forehead to his cheek. Nate reeled backwards. He reached up to wipe the jizz from his face, but realized too late that his hands were still full of Abby’s soaking diapers. Nate ended up with a faceful of baby shit and jism. Flummoxed, Nate dropped the diapers and the pisspot, then used his shirt to wipe away the damage to his eye and cheek.
Still he was undeterred. His dick was hard again. The allure of pussy was in the air. He peeked back into the tent. This time he was deft enough to dodge the pungent stripes squirting from Cora’s behind. He nodded to Bobby and Lizzie, both of whom accepted his sudden presence casually. Hastily he dropped his pants to expose his steaming cock. It stood out proudly from his body, nine inches of punishing muscle and tissue, neither needing nor asking assistance.
Nate knelt between Cora’s legs. She was still humping and cursing Hank like a sailor. Both sets of thighs, one white and the other black, were splayed wide open, greasy with cum. Nate timed it just right. And when Cora arched her ass upward, quivering her pussy aloft ever so hesitatingly, Nate drove his dick up her ass.
Cora yowled like a tomcat. If the whole farm wasn’t awake before, it certainly was now. The black girl was now impaled on two dicks, the second much stiffer than the first. Her pussy was still spraying jizz outward in great, fan-like torrents. She baptized Nathan’s balls in his brother’s cum the instant he entered her, lubricating his cock for its journey up her rectum.
Hank was spent. He’d emptied himself into the black girl. His dick was receding inside her pussy, but he could feel Nathan’s resurgent cock cruising in and out of Cora’s ass like a piston. Nathan was fucking Cora with an unspoken, savage urgency.
Not wanting to be outdone by his brother, Hank struggled to regain some wood. He closed his eyes and began to will himself erect.
Nate was smashing his cock into Cora now, sending jelly-like tremors up and down the length of her frame. After her initial shock, she began to chatter at him with the same scatological fervor as before, using his Christian name to encourage him to plow deeper into her rectum. Nathan’s violent, doggy-style thrusting shook the girl such that her pussy clenched up and expelled Hank’s flaccid member. It flopped out of her pussy along with huge dollops of cum, which flooded out over his penis, balls and ass cheeks in a slippery golden ooze.
Nathan re-doubled his efforts inside Cora’s ass, leaving Hank’s spent body to support the weight of two people while Cora cursed and snorted into his ear. Predictably, Hank soon tired of serving as their cushy mattress. He pushed Cora off of his body. She rolled over so that now Nathan lay on his back beneath her and fucked her anally from the reverse cowgirl position. Her pussy, sopping wet, was splayed open to the world.
Robert, who had never seen or done double-penetration, now stepped forth. Lizzie had sizzled his cock dry of semen, but he thought that he might regain his hard-on if he could at least get it up into Cora’s smoking pussy. Besides, watching Nate and Hank DP Cora had given him that little tingle that is always the prelude to another powerful erection.
He nuzzled up between Cora’s legs as he’d seen Nathan do, knelt and pushed his flaccid penis into her cunt with his index finger. Nothing happened. Lizzie had milked him dry. Robert was determined, though. He inserted his index finger into her pussy along the length of his dick. Using his fingertip, he pressed the crown of his cock like a button so that the sensitive underside of his dick delved more deeply into the hot, quivering flesh of her vaginal tunnel. Her pussy tickled him like thousands of miniature, soft canary tongues whistling a carnal tune of love. Soon, his dick began to come alive under the siren song of her sticky velvet embrace.
Too, his finger widened the swath his dick made in Cora’s pussy. Robert noticed that she took a few deep breaths as these two protuberances opened her twat. The bitch actually shut up for a moment. Robert inserted his middle finger, too, even as his cock hardened to fill the latent space in her cunt.
This three-pronged assault, together with Nathan’s lustful pounding in her ass, brought Cora again to the brink of a another tumultuous explosion. She began to chatter, and (in the memorable words of Pap Finn) “the cussin’ she done then laid over anything she’d done previous”. The Leone boys were sure that her ravings would bring the sheriff down upon them.
Hank stepped up and shoved his flaccid cock into her mouth to shut her up. Now all three of her primary orifices were filled with dick. Lizzie looked on in wonder. These three white boys were really putting the wood to her stepsister, though she could see that two of them were having a hard time getting it up. Lizzie took a measure of satisfaction in THAT much, at least.
She watched them fuck for a while. She saw Nathan’s nuts seize up twice as he delivered semen into Cora’s ass. She saw Robert’s reverse scimitar dick harden and plunge straight thru the course of Nathan’s orgasms. Hank, too, regained his ardor while Cora serviced him with her thick lips, mumbling profanities through the encumbrance of his cock.
Now Lizzie noticed a change in the dynamic. As the sticky thwacking of slapping genitalia reverberated into the night, another presence became evident. The five of them were not alone. She peered through the partially closed tent flap and noticed a movement that was there and then was not. She was certain she’d seen something move in the darkness.
Lizzie pretended she hadn’t seen anything. Sometimes it’s best to leave things be. She turned her head to watch Cora’s sexual demolition by the three white boys, but kept her eye peeled for a recurrence of the furtive movement she’d seen.
There it was again!
Someone was standing outside the tent, peeping in, not wanting his or her presence to be known.
Lizzie leisurely changed position on the ground. She knew she was being watched, so she feigned as if she were just stretching her legs, awaiting her turn at the next free dick. In reality, she was pulling her legs under her like coiled springs, ready to pounce.
When she noticed the motion outside the tent a third time, she sprang up and whipped the tent flap open. Franklin Jefferson was standing there, in the darkness, masturbating furiously. Lizzie’s sudden emergence from the tent didn’t deter him in the least; he was on the cusp of his spasm. In fact, as the black girl burst from the tent, Franklin unleashed a wicked long stripe of jism that splattered against her left eye and downward, across her cheek. A second whippet of jism lashed her naked tits. The third cradled itself directly in her curly pubic hairs. Only then did Franklin realize that he’d been discovered. Still cuddling his cock, he turned away from Lizzie in embarrassment.
Lizzie: “Marse Jeffahsin, what you doin’ out here in de dark?”
Franklin: “I...I…just was walking by…on my way to the pot, you understand…and I heard this noise…so I turned aside to investigate…and I seem to have stumbled upon a private affair…that wasn’t my concern…but I peeked in…and you seem to have caught my indiscretion…just as I was committing it…Curiosity, you know, just curiosity….”
Lizzie: “Hmmmmmph. You sho’ do gots a cureyus way of showin’ yo’ cur-yocity!”
She made a show of wiping his jism away from her cheeks and tits, flicking the accumulations away with her fingertips.
Ignoring her ironic gestures, Franklin peered past her into the tent. His in-laws hadn’t missed a beat. They were still fucking Cora in triplicate. Each of their purplish-white dicks emerged and disappeared into each of her black holes with rhythmic zeal. There were all the requisite grunts, groans of sticky flatulence and positional discomfort that accrue from any such long-running fuck session.
“What are they doing in there?” Franklin asked disingenuously.
“They’s doing de poontang, suh. You know what they’s doin’. You ain’t no chile,” Lizzie chided.
“Well, I can see THAT much,” he offered. “Why haven’t you joined in?”
“’Parently my cooch ain’t much on de menu tonight, suh. I gi’ven ‘um a li’l bit already. I reckon dey likes Cora’s coochie de best.”
Franklin looked around suspiciously. For the first time he seemed to notice that the statuesque black girl standing before him was butt naked, unashamedly so. He looked her up and down now, appreciating her fine lines and her perky breasts.
In truth, Franklin’s only experience with a black girl had been clumsy fumblings with a slave girl on his ancestral farm back when he was a precocious thirteen year old. The girl was sixteen, and he’d caught her peeing out behind the white folk’s outhouse. She didn’t stop peeing when he ambled up, either. She let him watch her finish, and when she stood she didn’t try to hide her cooch from his view. She just put her hands on her hips, kind of impertinently, to see what he would do. Mesmerized, the boy approached her slowly and reached out to touch her furry mound, still dripping with golden dew. When she didn’t back away, he’d touched it. She’d sprayed a small stream of urine into his hand. Though it was hot, he didn’t yank his hand back. Instead, he let her piss drip from his fingertips for a few moments before leaning in to caress her vulva. That she’d allowed him this familiarity was astonishing enough to the youngster. When she’d reached into his pants to unleash his erect penis he’d almost fainted. She gripped it and jerked it three or four times until the youngster ejaculated spectacularly, arcing his jism stream high into the air. His semen landed on her lips. The black girl, whose name was Anita, smiled at him seductively and licked his semen down. Then she’d turned and walked away without a look back. Later, when he’d tried to re-kindle their dalliance, she’d acted as if nothing amiss had occurred. She rebuffed his efforts. Franklin had been confused and disheartened at her rejection. He’d re-doubled his commitment to the church in the wake of that incident. Neither his pastor nor his wife ever got wind of it.
Standing, now, before another naked black girl (Anita had not been fully naked), Franklin recalled that former experience. Lizzie didn’t hide her nakedness from him; indeed, she behaved as if she were fully clothed and the grunting tangle of human fornicators behind her were engaging in perfectly normal behavior. Franklin may as well have stumbled into a quilting bee, so far as she was concerned.
Timidly, Franklin released his semi-flaccid penis from its hiding place behind his palms. He matched the black girl’s naked bold dispassionate stance as best he could.
“Why, Marse Jeffasin!! You gon’ let yo’ pee-pee out, too? I don’ think Cora gots room for it. I think she full up at de moment.”
Franklin summoned his courage.
“Well….you don’t….you don’t look like you’re doing anything.”
“Nawsuh. I ain’t doin’ much. Jist lookin’ on, like you. ‘Ceptin’, of course, I ain’t peekin’ in ‘n jackin’ my pee-pee, like you done.”
Franklin was chagrined. He didn’t know how to proceed from this point. His church training advised him to “flee from fornication”. His wife was asleep just upstairs. But his dick sniffed out the heady aroma billowing from between Lizzie’s legs. This was no white woman, constrained by social convention to a lifetime of sexual denial and racial propriety. This was a living, breathing fleshpot of sex, the natural, unrepentant recipient of a Christian white man’s lust, as demonstrated by his three in-laws rutting away just inside the tent’s open flap. Lizzie broke his reverie.
“Does you wonts some poontang, Marse Jeffasin? I gots plenty.”
“I….I…why, I...,” Franklin stammered. And in that instant his will melted away. “Why….yes…ma’am. I’d be obliged.”
Lizzie offered him her hand, intending to lead him into the tent. Franklin demurred. He thought that having sex alongside his in-laws might be somewhat unseemly, given his status in the church. Hank blew that notion to smithereens.
“Frankie boy!!” Hank chuckled from inside the tent, with his dick plunging in and out of Cora’s throat. “Come on in!! Join the fun!!”
Franklin stepped into the tent reluctantly. It was too late to say he hadn’t been there. Plus, his libido had been tweaked. The squishy sound of Cora’s palpitating vagina being penetrated again and again rang in his ears. Her deep, chocolate moans of gratification lured him like a dog in heat. Nate’s dick was still ensconced in her rectum; Robert was wearing her pussy out with manic, jackhammer thrusts. Hank’s dick had recovered and was fully hard inside her throat. The big black girl was being fucked senseless.
Franklin viewed this scene of abject debauchery with wonder. He’d heard that such assignations occurred but had never believed it, thinking such stories to be whiteboy braggadocio. Here it was before his very eyes. The pungent aroma of their sex assaulted his senses and drove hot blood back into his recently drained dick. Though the stories he’d heard about the poontang tradition repulsed him, he found the fact of the tradition to be more palatable.
Lost in his fascination for the tangle of intertwined human genitalia before him, Franklin barely noticed when Lizzie knelt demurely between his thighs. Only the feel of her hot breath on his exposed penis brought him back from his imagined intercourse with the other black girl.
Lizzie gazed up at him expectantly. She was so dark that only the whites of her eyes and her lovely white teeth showed in the gloom of the tent. His dick hung at a downward angle. As more and more erectile blood flowed into it, it began its slow ascent into an appropriately firm crescent.
She gripped his shaft and began to massage his foreskin up and over his bulbous pudenda, back and forth, as men do when they masturbate. Her hands were more petite than a man’s hands, though, and softer. When she stretched his loose skin as far as it would go she gave a little squeeze, which caused more blood to rush into his erectile tissues. In seconds, Franklin was fully hard.
She jerked him like this one or two times more until his cock stretched for the ceiling. She could tell that he was inexperienced; the simplicity of her touch had brought him to the verge of ejaculation. His cock bounced up and down as a cock does when preparing to erupt.
Lizzie decided to test the limits of his sexual stamina. She leaned forward and, using the very tip of her tongue, she tickled the hypersensitive nerves under Franklin’s cockhead. Franklin groaned. No white woman would do this, he knew. But he also knew that black women had talents far beyond those of Christian women. His seed began to percolate in his nuts.
She continued to flick feathery, almost imperceptible licks at the underside of his cock, faster and still faster, without surrendering the wet hot enclosure of her mouth.
Franklin was torn. This was sin, he knew. Dark and awful sin. Here he was, a Man of God—saved, sealed and consecrated—on the verge of spilling his God-given, white man’s essence into the maw of a nigger girl. The three other white men in the tent didn’t seem to have any moral qualms against it. But they were lay people. Franklin was a minister, called to serve, exemplary, a man of faith and principle.
Lizzie sensed his moral angst even as she sensed his arousal. His dick pulsed and throbbed before her. She knew that any sudden warmth would elicit an eruption.
She teased him with her fluttering tongue a few more minutes as he fought with his personal moral demons. During this period of Franklin’s indecision, Hank stepped up behind Lizzie, maneuvered her behind into the doggie position and fucked her up the ass with long, lavish strokes. Her muscular ass cheeks wobbled under his assault.
Lizzie didn’t allow this to interfere with her deft oral attention to Franklin’s dick. She continued to service the young deacon with tantalizing flicks of her tongue. When Cora resumed her obscene sexual chatter, however, Hank pulled his dick out of Lizzie’s ass and roughly shoved it back into Cora’s mouth.
Franklin preened up on his toes. His ejaculate was imminent, Lizzie knew. Quickly, she rolled backwards onto her spine, pulling Franklin down onto her body. She grasped his penis with her hand and pointed it into her vagina, arching her back to receive him more quickly. As her pussy closed about his shaft, Franklin screeched his jism into her. By the time he hilted himself the best portion of his ejaculate had been delivered. It bubbled out of Lizzie’s cunt to form a little jizz pond in her ass crack, inasmuch as she was rolled up on her shoulder blades. Her feet touched the ground beside her ears.
Lizzie wasn’t really happy with this quick summation. She knew that Franklin, as a minister, had unusual powers over the other men. He was a valuable ally to have on Meshach’s behalf—or otherwise, in any case. She didn’t want to be just another nigger girl to him. She wanted him to know her name. She needed him to remember it.
She could feel residual spurts of Franklin’s semen pulsing deep within her pussy. Each throb of his cock delivered another dollop of “white man’s essence”. She didn’t want him to cum so hard that he didn’t have the energy for another go. Lizzie pushed him from atop her body.
At first Franklin was confused. He was reluctant to pull out without completing the full measure of his orgasm. He was going to have to pray and ask forgiveness anyway. Why leave any of his sin on the table, unfulfilled?
But Lizzie was insistent.
“Get up,” she’d ordered.
Drunkenly, Franklin rose to stand over the sprawled black girl. His penis bobbed wildly up and down, seeking the embrace of a warm, wet edifice. It was coated in jizz; droplets of semen flecked here and there in its crazed, floppy jags.
Lizzie clambered up to her hands and knees before him. Her jizz pond washed down over her thighs in a crawly flood. Now Franklin was getting the picture. She took his dick into her mouth and took a deep drag on it, nursing a re-energized burst of semen from the young man. She swallowed his issue. Franklin followed this tremor with yet another bolt of semen that was surprising in both force and volume. Lizzie swallowed this, too.
Franklin decided then and there that this “getting his dick sucked” thing was good and necessary; he was sorry he’d eschewed it in the past. Of course, he wouldn’t ask his wife BethAnn to do it. She was a white woman. But this girl before him (what was her name? Elizabeth?) obviously had a talent for it. Even now, so soon after a huge orgasm, she was sucking him into position for yet another go. He could feel the indicative tinglings of a third erection dancing about in his loins.
Hank again noticed Lizzie’s naked ass gaping open before him. She was blowing his brother-in-law, the deacon, who seemed enrapt in the spell of her sexual charms. Franklin had an iridescent glow. Lizzie’s attraction proved irresistible. Hank pulled his cock from Cora’s lips and scooched up behind Lizzie. Using his thumb and middle finger, he spread her ass cheeks to expose her sphincter, then pointed his saliva-christened, purplehard dick into her rectum. It slid inside easily and soon disappeared into the dark stench of her most southern hole. Lizzie felt herself expand to accept him. She rose to her feet to give him a better angle of insertion.
Cora, irrepressible as always, began to describe her sexual animus in vibrant scatological terms again. Robert pulled his dick from Cora’s pussy and scrambled up to shove it into her mouth. Her chatter was attracting far too much attention.
The four white men double-teamed the two black girls in this manner for another ten minutes or so. It was Franklin who broke their regimen. When Lizzie felt him ready to bust another nut, she pushed Hank out of her ass, lay back on her shoulder blades and offered up her pussy to the deacon. He mounted her and this time managed two full insertions before climaxing. As in their prior iteration, Lizzie scrambled out from under him before he emptied himself and suckled his final spurts into her throat. Hank re-mounted her as soon as she resumed her oral worship at Franklin’s cock, plunging his seasoned purple cock back into her black ass.
The trio fucked like this twice more. Lizzie sucked Franklin’s cock until he was ready to cum then used her pussy as the recipient of his jism, clutching at his penis spastically so that he would remember the heady familiarity of her cunt in his very bones. Each time Franklin eased into her smoking hot snatch he was able to hump her for longer periods, as per Lizzie’s plan. He was able to get deeper and still deeper into her pussy before delivering his load. This newly found fecundity pleased him.
On Franklin’s sixth orgasm of the evening she allowed him to cum in her mouth. She swallowed all of his semen down, moaning as if the mere act of sucking cock made her cum. And not just sucking any cock, but HIS cock. She made the deacon feel that his cock, alone among the four men in the tent, had the capacity to stimulate the budding clitoris in her throat. Franklin came away from the experience convinced that she would suck his dick again. She MUST. And soon.
Hank came inside Lizzie’s ass twice during her sessions with Franklin. Lizzie noticed, but only barely. Her focus was on the deacon. She’d had long-running exposure to Hank’s dick, and knew it well. Franklin, however, was new dick. By the time both men were drained, Lizzie was a naked, sloppy mess.
Cora, too, was as limp as a rag. She was barely able to walk. Her seemingly limitless capacity for descriptive sexual chatter had long since evaporated in the face of the virile pounding she’d received. She was covered in sticky jism and sweat. Her pussy and her ass were scorched dry, glowing hot. Her nipples were prickly, sensitive to the slightest touch. She didn’t care if she saw another dick for….a week.
The two black girls dressed and stumbled from the pastor’s tent in a drunken stupor. They were so addled that they failed to note the time or the environs. Normally, blacks and whites alike sneaked back home from these trysts while clinging to the shadows and racing between the open spaces of the farm. Lizzie and Cora made a beeline home, heedless of being seen. They were drunk with the heady narcotic of sex. Semen gushed down their legs, lubricating their thighs. They clinged to each other for support. The aroma of their multiple couplings wafted ethereally in their wake, leaving an invisible trail that a blind man could track in the dark. Even the dogs over in the kennel smelled their trail and began to mewl and to hump each other anxiously.
Aisleen, Josephine and BethAnn stood on the porch of the big house. Silently, they watched the two black girls pass. Lizzie and Cora were so woozy that they didn’t notice any of the three white women in the darkness, though they wandered within twenty feet of them.
Aisleen had come looking for her husband, accurately suspecting (after his lengthy absence) that he was indulging in the fruit of another woman. Josephine and BethAnn had tiptoed downstairs seeking the source of the sexual moans that inundated the farm. All three women had congregated just outside Pastor Goins’ tent in disgust. After discerning the grunts and groans of their beloved husbands inside (unbeknownst to the rutting couples therein), all three women fumed and raged.
Aisleen had to be restrained from barging into the tent to yank Nathan Leone home. BethAnn was stunned to hear her husband, Franklin, encouraging Lizzie to “Suck HARDER!!” And Josephine was crestfallen to learn that Robert’s reverse crescent dick was cleaving the depths of Cora’s lengthy pussy. Her source? Cora’s own loud, bawdy rantings.
Now all three women watched Cora and Lizzie stumble past with varying degrees of antipathy. And both of these black whores pretended not to see them!!!
Aisleen was of a mind to give these niggers a piece of her mind, but again Josephine restrained her. It wasn’t the nigger girls’ fault. It was their husbands’ fault. After all, hadn’t they all grown up abiding by the poontang tradition? Did their mothers blame their slaves for their fathers’ philandering? No. Their mothers got up the next morning and worked cheek by jowl with the very same nigger girls that had fucked their fathers the night before. The niggers couldn’t be blamed.
It was the fathers that had to pay.
“I’m gon’ git me some coontang. You watch me,” announced Josephine.
“JOEY!!!” whispered Aisleen in horror.
“Me too,” said BethAnn. “I ain’t puttin’ up with this shit.”
“BETH!! NO!!”
“Ice, it’s the only way. You cain’t tell me you ain’t had a nigger dick up in you a time or two afore you married Nathan. It don’t stand to reason,” replied Josephine.
Aisleen was chagrined and a little bit flustered to be discussing this subject so openly with her in-laws. Only her own two sisters, Isabel and June, knew the details of her youthful interracial dalliances.
“That’s all it was, just a time or two.” she lyingly harrumphed. “Anyways I’m married now. And I ain’t done it since.”
“Harrumph yourself, my girly. If you don’t you’ll be wastin’ your best years, like Ma, waitin’ for your husband to come sneakin’ back in from the nigger quarters late. And when he gets to you, he’ll be all limp and stinky, jist like our three melonheads is right now.”
“Mama ain’t went out lookin’ after no coontang, I bet you that much.” Aisleen retorted.
“I bet you she wishes she had,” snapped Josephine.
This comment quieted Aisleen. She loved her husband. Today she was furious with him. Her in-laws had come right out and admitted they were going to hop some nigger dick by way of retaliation. That thought hadn’t occurred to her. Until now.
After eyeing the tent for a few more minutes to see which miscreant would be the first to creep out, Josephine shook her head resolutely. This was their life. She turned and wandered inside. BethAnn followed. Aisleen lingered for a bit, then she too returned to her own bed and her sleeping child.
Leaning against each other for support, Cora and Lizzie stumbled past the barn and onto the grassy sward that led to the slave quarters. The night was dark, though clear and starry. Their intent was to get back to their own hut, sneak inside and fall fast asleep, exhausted and reeking of jism. In the morning they would wash up down at the spring.
Undoubtedly Cora’s parents would know of their prolonged absence. But that couldn’t be helped. Both girls were grown women. Cora’s mother Andra had already served her time as a poontang cumbucket, so she understood and accepted Cora’s absence. Such was the life of comely young black women in the American South.
The two girls walked mechanically, occasionally tripping to the ground and kneeling there as if struggling to catch breath, whereupon the standing girl would lean in to help the fallen girl to her feet. Then they both would trudge onward.
Neither girl was in pain or shock. They’d just been fucked beyond the limits of their capacities. Their pussies felt like mush; their legs barely supported them.
They stank.
But perhaps Meshach might be safe until his primary persecutors left the farm. This high-minded altruism justified their willing devolution into the beds of their oppressors.
Unfortunately, Meshach didn’t see it that way.
He stepped silently from behind a tree to corral both girls in the crooks of his elbows and led them off to his shanty. After their initial shock at his sudden appearance they followed him without comment. Only once did Lizzie try to explain her rationale for being out this late and sneaking home redolent of white man dick.
“Shaddup,” ordered Meshach with a distinct lack of empathy.
Once the three of them were inside Meshach’s hovel, he released Lizzie and bade her sit. The whites of his eyes gleamed with the depths of his fury. His face was a mask of rage. Lizzie cowered before him.
Meshach turned to Cora and ripped off her garment in a single, sudden burst of passion. Instantly the small cabin filled with the fragrance of fuck. Its overpowering stench oozed from every crack in the clapboard shingling, from every orifice in her body. Even Meshach was temporarily taken aback by the musky odor exuding from the girl.
Meshach dropped the remnants of Cora’s dress to the ground. He stepped out of his own pantaloons. Both girls could see that he was magnificently erect, perhaps painfully so.
Looking Lizzie directly in the eyes, Meshach pulled Cora to him, dipped a bit, then straightened. When he again stood erect, his dick was locked inside Cora’s pussy. Her labia straddled his pole like a bow-legged cowboy. Unlike the straining white boys whose dicks had most recently plumbed that hole, Meshach’s dick mashed tightly against her cervix. Cora trembled. There wasn’t much else she could do. She hadn’t serviced a dick this thick or insistent in months.
Lizzie teared up. Meshach didn’t know why she’d gone to fuck the white boys. And he wouldn’t let her tell him. Here he was, fucking her sister right in front of her eyes.
Lizzie felt heartbroken.
Meshach didn’t allow Lizzie’s broken spirit to brook his gaze, either. When she tried to look away he demanded that she lock her gaze back to his.
Meshach gripped Cora’s lower back, just above her rounded ass, and fucked her like a floppy doll, standing up. She lolled about, unable to offer resistance, friction or animus to his strident thrustings. At no time did Meshachs’ eyes lose Lizzie’s pleading gaze. He ignored Cora totally. Huge teardrops slipped down Lizzie’s cheeks, coagulated at her chin and dripped balefully downward onto her clothing, drop by drop.
All too soon, Meshach’s passion rose up to engulf him. When he felt himself ready to slip into the orgasmic abyss, he pulled his penis from Cora’s snatch and squirted his jism directly into Lizzie’s face. When she raised her hands to wipe it away, he forbade it.
“Let it drip,” he said.
This episode did little to dampen Meshach’s ardor. His erection didn’t buckle one iota under the strength of this initial climax. Still fully hard, he turned Cora around, bent her over and began to fuck her up the ass. Her head snapped back and forth as he assailed her bottom. Nathan Leone’s residual jism wickered forth from her ass and sopped about, accentuating the squishy hoo-ha generated by Meshach’s violent anal forays.
This impromptu session took twice as long as the first, but again, when he was ready to cum, he turned and splattered his jism into Lizzie’s face.
“Let it drip,” he said again.
Lizzie was schnuffling now, unable to restrain her grief, gagging in her attempt to suppress a plaintive wail. How could things have gone so wrong?
After this second go, Meshach’s erection flagged a bit. He flipped Cora around and pushed her to her knees. She opened her mouth perfunctorily and an instant later was choking on dick. Meshach fired an endless series of rocket-like thrusts down her throat. These re-ignited his lust and almost caused Cora to faint from oxygen deprivation.
Yet a third time his ejaculate burgeoned forth. He turned to Lizzie and, heedless of her tears, launched a gargantuan rumble of semen into her face, covering every patch of dark skin that had been missed by his two prior eruptions.
Meshach sneered at her contemptuously.
Quite deliberately, he now stepped back into his own pantaloons. He handed Cora the tattered remnants of her dress. It was unwearable. He stepped back from both girls.
“Go,” he said.
Only then did Lizzie offer up a dolorous yelp of lament.
“Oh Shaddy!! I didn’t mean to do it, Daddy!! I ain’t wanna do it!! I thought I uz he’pin’ you out, Daddy!!!”
“Go,” he replied.
“Daddy!! Don’ do me like dis!! DON’ DO IT!! Oh, Shaddy!!! Lemme ‘splain!! I….I ‘uz tryin’ to keep ‘em off you, Daddy!!! I…I…..”
“GO.” He replied yet again.
Cora interrupted. “Come on, Lizzie. Le’s go.”
“NO!!” she wailed. “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!!! SHADDY!!! OH, LORDY!! DON’ DO DIS TO ME!! AIN’T I ALWAYS BEEN DERE FUH YOU!! AIN’T I STOOD BY YOU WHEN YOU ‘UZ DOWN!!! SHADDY!!! OH GAWD!!!!”
Though he didn’t show it, something in Lizzie’s impassioned pleadings touched the young black man. She HAD stood by him. She was there every minute of every day during his fight for life. It just didn’t make sense that she would turn on him now. His anger slowly metastasized into bewilderment and even a bit of shame.
He stood before Lizzie and watched her prostrate herself in the agony of her bereavement. He’d never seen anyone, black or white, so distraught, so tormented, even to the point of death.
“Go’n, Cora,” he finally said. Cora gathered herself and scurried out, still half naked.
He confronted the crying girl silently for a few more agonizing minutes as she tried to explain herself.
Finally relenting, he reached under his bed and pulled out a forbidden peach.
“You hungry?” he asked.
Nathan Leone cracked open the door to his bedroom and slipped inside, closing the door behind him quietly. Abby was asleep; he knew this because the child gurgled and chattered incessantly every waking moment. Had she been awake she would have commented on his entrance with her childish patter.
Still, the darkened little room seemed unnaturally still. He sensed an uneasy presence. What was it? Nathan paused to get a better feel for the vibe. What was it?
Then it occurred to him. The vibe wasn’t an added presence. It was a missing presence. Aisleen wasn’t gently snoring. She was awake.
“Took you long enough,” she said from the darkness of their bed.
“Oh. Yeah,” he replied. “I run across a snake at the pump. Had to go up to the barn to git a hoe to kill it.”
“And I suppose the snake waited around for you to git back to the pump?”
“No. That’s the thing. When I come back he was gone. He had one of them triangle heads, so I went looking for him. Cain’t afford to have one of them around my daughter, you know.”
“Did you find him?”
“No. I looked ever’whar, too.”
This was a plausible lie, with the added benefit of having an indefinite period of time attached. Aisleen couldn’t counter it without revealing that she’d been out in the yard looking for him. Nathan doffed his boots and slid into the bed beside his wife.
“Nathan?” she said.
“Yes, dear.”
“Now that Abby’s asleep again, I think I’d like to pick up where we left off,” she offered cagily.
This was a brilliant chess move. Neither Nathan nor any of the Leone men were known for turning down pussy. It just wasn’t done. He’d been gone long enough to recover his hard-on, maybe a couple of hard-ons. Certainly an honest man could get it up at his wife’s request.
Nathan quailed at her offer. He was spent. He barely had enough energy to walk home. He certainly didn’t have enough energy to engage Aisleen again. Moreover, his dick smelled like Cora’s ass. It reeked with the unmistakable aroma of shit and jizz. He’d taken the precaution to wash it off at the pump, but that only allowed him to mask the stench in his clothing. If he whipped it out, or if he allowed Aisleen to whip it out, she was gonna know he’d been elsewhere. He couldn’t take that risk.
He opted to offer up the legendary Leone machismo by way of sacrifice.
“Honey, I’m REALLY tired. Cain’t we do it in the morning?”
“I really, REALLY want to do it right now. I’ve been waiting up for you for an hour.”
She reached down to caress his flaccid weasel and tugged at his bloomers enticingly. Just as she’d known, the acrid smell of a dick awash in the juices of another woman flooded the space under their shared blanket. Nathan smelled it, too.
“Ice. Ice. Not tonight. Please.” he said.
“Cain’t get it up?” she chided.
“Yeh. That’s it. I can’t get it up,” he replied with a measure of annoyance.
“I heard that about you Leone boys.” she continued. “Do you want me to suck it?”
This was a bridge too far.
“NAW, I DON’T WANT YOU TO SUCK IT. I WANT TO GIT SOME SLEEP, NAH!! YOU LEA’ ME ‘LONE AND I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT THE LEONE BOYS CAN DO IN THE MORNIN’.”
Accepting defeat, Aisleen tuggled at his bloomers again absently. So this is what Joey meant when she said their men came home all limp and stinky.
Aisleen thought to herself “I want to smell like this sometimes.”
She was mildly aroused. Her ass puckered involuntarily. She took another whiff of the odor simmering beneath their blanket, knowing it to be merely a shadow of the real, unwashed aroma a fuck session with the blacks would engender. She drew her hand up to her nose to get a better sniff.
“Ewwwwwww,” she said to herself. “That stinks so good.”
Coincident with Nathan Leone’s abortive late night, post-coital encounter with his wife, Franklin Jefferson knelt in his wagon to pray. He was troubled by his earlier adulterous escapade even has he planned to set aside time for another tryst with the black girl that had so beguiled him.
He prayed for forgiveness of his human frailty. He apologized for enjoying himself so thoroughly this past hour. Never before in his entire life had he behaved as he had in the Pastor’s tent. He didn’t know what to make of himself. Was he a creature of God, a spiritual man whose name had been written in the Book of Life from the beginning of Creation? Or was he a man of the flesh, destined to spend eternity in the Lake of Fire?
Lizzie’s hot blowjob and her curly-haired, muscular black pussy had been a revelation. She was only the second woman he had ever fucked. Yet the difference between the two pussies on his resume was prodigious. Franklin enjoyed fucking his wife, BethAnn. Her pussy was sturdy. Workmanlike. She obeyed his directives and fucked as a white woman ought to fuck, that is, for her husband’s pleasure, not her own, even as the scriptures decreed.
But this black girl!!! This Elizabeth fucked for the sheer joy of fucking. When he was inside her pussy his whole world convulsed into a burning hot white nugget of fire, and his penis erupted again and again, over and over until he was physically incapacitated, willing to die rather than pull out and miss, maybe, the jizz explosion of a lifetime. Indeed, after his last orgasm he’d fainted dead away, falling to the ground face first. When he’d awakened the source of his pleasure was gone. Only Hank and Robert remained in the tent; both of them were snoring loudly.
Plus, she’d sucked his penis!!! She’d actually let him inseminate her mouth!!! This experience alone fired his loins, crowding in on the spiritual armor that he’d worked all his life to cultivate. Even now his limp cock stirred at the remembrance.
Kneeling in prayer before his God now, Franklin accepted responsibility for his past sins and asked forgiveness, again, for his future sins. He certainly had no intention of leaving this farm without inveigling another set of blowjobs from the lovely Elizabeth. In fact, if it were up to him, he thought he might consider leaving the traveling ministry altogether, settling down in this neighborhood so that BethAnn could be nearer to her home. At least, that’s the excuse he’d postulated when considering the matter. That he would be close to Elizabeth was simply a convenient fringe benefit of the proposed arrangement.
Now the sound of a furtive step brought him about. Maybe it was the lovely Elizabeth, come to douse the latent fires of his burgeoning lust? Franklin peered out into the darkness. A small voice chimed out.
“Franklin? Frankie? You awake?”
It was his wife.
“Beth? Beth!! What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
Beth replied as Josephine had coached her.
“I…I…couldn’t sleep. I…I…thought you might like some company, it being so dark and all. We ain’t, well, we ain’t been together all week, what with the funeral preparations and such. More’n that, I think. I wanted to….BE…with you.”
This was the closest she could come to saying “FUCK ME, Franklin” without being accused of being a nigger fucker. It was a white woman’s foray. Josephine had primed her with the appropriate mannerisms and verbiage she should use to get her husband to tacitly admit his culpability in the poontang tradition. Beth climbed up into their darkened traveling wagon without being invited.
“Beth….I….I…was just sayin’ my prayers. I…I woke up and something come over me and told me to pray. And the next thing I knew, you were standing there.”
“You been in here prayin’ all this time?” she asked innocently.
“Why, yes I…I…I been havin’ some things on my mind…on my heart.”
“Some ‘things’?” she asked. “Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Some things. This and that.”
He was stalling for time. He hadn’t expected her.
“Tell me what ‘things’. I want to know,” she asked.
“Well….I was….I…..what would you say to leaving the travel circuit and settling down around here?”
No fool, Beth immediately picked up on his inference. The nigger girl had fucked him out. He was already making plans to be closer to her. Next thing you know, he’d be offering to buy her from Nathan. But Beth couldn’t let on that she suspected anything.
“What about your ministry? What about Pastor Goins? Have you talked to him about it?”
“No, I ain’t talked to Pastor. I’m talkin’ to YOU. It’s just something that’s been going thru my mind, your Pa being dead and all. Don’t you think your Ma would like you to be a little closer to home?”
Beth wasn’t about to fall for THAT trap.
“I think my Ma was happy to get rid of me!!” she laughed. “She don’t need me around here. She gots a buncha nigger girls to help her out. ‘Sides, she likes braggin’ to her friends that her daughter is the wife of a minister. How you talkin’.”
“Well, what about grandchildren?” he continued. “When we have kids, surely she’ll want to have them around?”
“Where you come up with this idea, Franklin? And why you wait until now to spring it on me? Has somethin’ happened that I don’t know about?”
Franklin scrambled to backtrack.
“No, no. Nothing like that at all. I’ve just been considering new ideas, you know. I thought I’d run them past you.”
“It’s mighty late, Frankie. You been up all this time just thinkin’? Did you hear all that ruckus, here, awhile back? You must have. I heard it up in the attic. Sounded like a nigger girl was, ummmm, doin’ it. You musta heard it, if you been awake the whole time.”
Franklin picked up her inference.
“Is that what that was? You let your niggers caterwaul like that? I thought they was fightin’ or something. She was using the roughest kind of language! It amazes me that a body could get any sleep, what with all the noise they made.”
“So you DID hear them?”
“I heard some cussin’ and goin’ on. I didn’t know they were doing what you said they were doing.”
“Frankie, they was right over there, a hundred feet away.”
“In Pastor’s tent?!?”
“Yes.”
“A nigger girl?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Pastor?”
“Oh, he’s in his room. Probably asleep.”
“So who was she doin’ it with? Not another nigger!! I hope not, anyways. Pastor will lose his religion if he finds out.”
“I ain’t hear no one but the girl. But I don’t think any of our niggers would use Pastor’s tent for such goings on. They usually use our barn when they want to do….that.”
BethAnn shifted her position in the wagon and opened her legs so that her husband might see that she went commando. She’d fingered herself prior to this encounter. Her hands smelled of pussy. Now positioned with her legs askew before him, she queefed her scent into the wagon to signify her readiness to mate, just as Josephine had advised.
Franklin smelled her sex. He knew why she was there. A sickly, queasy feeling overcame him. There was no way, absolutely NO way that he could get it up so soon again after splurging the last vestiges of his semen into Lizzie’s throat. Six orgasms in one night? That was his usual output for a month with his wife. She was here to get her marital due. If he were foolish enough to pull his penis from his pantaloons, she would easily discern that he, too, had been in Pastor’s tent. He suspected that she already suspected him. Why else would she be out here, in the dark, at three in the morning?
Off in the distance he clearly heard muted cries of anguish coming from the slave quarters:
(“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!!! SHADDY!!!
OH, LORDY!!”)
Rather than address his wife’s obvious offer, Franklin chose to pivot and turn his attention to these agonized wails.
“Did you hear that? Apparently someone else is ‘doin’ it’” he observed.
BethAnn cocked her ears up to listen. The cries trailed away in the distance.
“That ain’t sound like she was havin’ much of a good time. Sounded like she was cryin’ to me,” BethAnn replied.
“If your niggers stay up all night ‘doin’ it’, it don’t seem to me that they get much of a chance to do useful work during the day, is all,” Franklin commented dryly.
“Some girls like ‘doin’ it’, Franklin.”
“Are we going to have THAT discussion again, Beth? These women are niggers. They don’t know enough to come in outta the rain, Beth. If you want to model your white Christian behavior after their nasty late night claptrappery, I’m sure it’s plenty of nigger bucks that’ll take you up on it. I won’t be one of them, though. I’m white.”
This was Franklin’s standard rebuke. It reflected the general racial opinion of the day.
Beth wasn’t having it this night.
“I don’t think it was any nigger bucks in Pastor’s tent tonight, Franklin. Hank and Bobby was in there. And it seemed to me like I heard two or three others in there, too, just a-moanin’ and a-groanin’ like a nigger buck.”
She was circling in for the kill. Franklin sensed it. She knew!! OMILORD, she knew!! This is what comes from defying one’s conscience and goin’ against the Word of the Lord and intermingling with nigger girls and sharin’ your seed with they pussies and lettin’ ‘em suck your dick!! This disaster and the knowledge that his indiscretion would soon become common knowledge assailed him.
Franklin looked directly into his wife’s eyes. She definitely knew. There was no hiding it.
“What are you saying, Bethy? Are you accusing me of being in that tent? How dare you!!!”
“I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’, Frankie. I just came out here to be with you. I was a little flustered from hearin’ ‘em do it, as you might imagine. It’s got me kinda…well…kinda like I need to be….with you. You know what I mean?”
She lay back and hiked her skirt up to expose her pussy. This was a blatant invitation, not a subtle hint, again, as Josephine had suggested.
Franklin stood upon the precipice of decision. There was no way his dick would rise to this occasion. Its failure to rise would be prima facie evidence of his guilt. The aroma gracing his penis would be further evidence of his culpability.
He knew what he had to do. He had no other choice.
Franklin Jefferson, deacon of the Evangelical Traveling Ministry of the True God in the Spirit, stepped up between his wife’s open thighs, knelt, probed his nose forward to nuzzle her clit and began to lick her pussy—for the first time ever.
Just as Josephine had predicted.
Heedless of any lurking snakes, barefoot Josephine McNulty crept down the grassy sward towards the slave quarters. Her pussy-besotted husband was still asleep in the pastor’s tent; she’d checked on him just after sending BethAnn back to her wagon home with instructions on how to deal with Franklin. Now she flitted off to the quarters with plans of her own.
She danced from tree to tree, clinging to the shadows, peering out to see if any of the niggers were up and about. They were notorious for scurrying back and forth from hut to hut and between the barn and back during their clandestine assignations. She expected to come upon any one of them hiding behind a tree during her own furtive meanderings. So she strained her eyes, looking for any movements in the murky gloom.
As she closed upon the clump of slave hovels, she recognized a sloshy, regular thumping sound accompanied by some simpering mewls. Some woman was getting fucked shitless and she didn’t sound too happy about it. When Joey drew closer the sounds became clearer. She could discern voices.
(“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!!! SHADDY!!!
OH, LORDY!!”)
Obviously, Meshach was wearing some nigger girl out. He must not be as incapacitated as she’d been led to believe. The girl sounded as if he was raping her, though Joey couldn’t make out who the voice belonged to.
Well, what did she care? “Niggers will be niggers”, she opined.
She crouched low as some half naked woman burst from Meshach’s hut and scampered off. She couldn’t see who it was. Joey held to her secluded hideaway for five more minutes, waiting to see if someone else might emerge.
Satisfied that her mission still went undetected, Josephine now made a beeline for Duck’s hut. He might have some nigger girl in there with him. This would mean that both of her regular options were unavailable. There were other niggers she could fuck, but Shaddy and Duck were the most discreet and reliable. Josephine intended to make good on her promise to get some coontang.
On her way past, she peeked into Meshach’s hut and saw Lizzie mounted over his dick. Lizzie’s ass quivered a foot in the air. In fact, she was crouched over him, bent at the knees, standing on her feet. She twirled her way down upon his statuesque pole using a motion that best resembled the spiral striping on a peppermint stick. Lizzie sniffled; she appeared to be crying. Joey couldn’t be sure why. Lizzie twirled her way up and then twirled her way down Shaddy’s cock with an agonizing deliberateness. She swirled her ass with the confidence and sensuality of a woman who knew how to pleasure a man. She certainly was not getting raped. Shaddy’s cock gleamed creamily in the flickering moonlight.
Josephine’s pussy slickened at the sight. This was the same girl, she was sure, that fucked both of her brothers, her brother-in-law and her husband not an hour earlier. This bitch got around.
“I’m gon’ git me some nigger dick,” Joey observed silently. “But I gotta be quiet about it. It’s too many of these niggers up and about at this hour. You’d think they’d have to sleep sometimes. Mebbe we don’t work ‘em hard enough.”
She peeked in on Lizzie and Meshach again.
“Damn. I coulda had that dick up inside me right about now. I sure could use it. Lookit that thing!!”
Indeed, Shaddy’s penis steamed as if bursting under the power of an internal pressure cooker. It was so hard that one wondered if its skin might split open and several other equally sized penises might emerge, each seeking the comfort of a different orifice. She could see that Lizzie’s pussy was unnaturally agape; her labia strained in her efforts to engulf him. Each of his penile withdrawals drew billowy wraiths of her inner pink pudding abnormally outwards to drag along his quivering ebon shaft, causing it to shine with wetness. The tension in their coupling was as taut as an acrobat’s high wire. Each of the two lovers seemed on the verge of a preternatural collapse.
“WOW!” was the only comment Josephine could summon.
Josephine’s lust was upon her now. There was another hard dick somewhere in this neighborhood. She intended to mount and ride it standing, just as she’d seen Lizzie do. She left Lizzie and Meshach to their own devices and scurried off to find Duck.
As might be expected at this late hour, Duck was asleep in his hovel. He’d been up at the barn earlier with Zelma. Zelma was very deep into her pregnancy by now. Her belly was very large. He’d fucked her once from behind, somewhat casually, because he found her bulging stomach (and thus missionary sex) to be unpalatable. She hadn’t cum.
After Duck poured his sticky load into Zelma’s snatch, she’d claimed a sudden queasiness and aborted the rendezvous short of multiple orgasm. Duck shrugged his shoulders. Women!!
Since that encounter, Duck had been at home in bed. He’d masturbated once just to take the edge off his abortive dalliance with Zelma. He’d slept thru Cora’s foul-mouthed narrative redounding from her sexual trysts with the Leone boys. He knew he was scheduled to be back at Hank’s farm soon. Sleeping in his own bed was better than sleeping on the ground.
A stealthy touch brought him instantly awake. Using a great oath, he snatched away the slim hand covering his lips, twisted it behind the stranger’s back and slammed the intruder to the ground.
Just as quickly, he leapt up. This person’s hair was long and silky, indicating a white woman.
“DUCK!!!” Josephine hissed.
This final clue indicated that she knew him and was, in fact, there for a purpose. He waited for her to stand and face him.
“DUCK!!!!” she hissed again. She shushed him, pressing a single index finger to her lips.
“Miss Josephine!!!” he whispered, astounded at her presence. “What ‘chu doin’ way out here? I ain’t mean to slam you down, Miss Josephine. Honest Injun!! I thought you wuz a nigger!! Don’t nobody come down here ‘ceptin’ niggers this time o’ night.”
“Well I ain’t no nigger, as you can see,” she replied huffily, straightening her raiment. “I come because….because…..well…BECAUSE. And I ain’t got much time. And I don’t need a whole lotta lip about it. Can you…can we…?”
Duck picked up on her intentions immediately. Miss Beth had told her sister about being fuck-walked around Duck’s cabin that night. Miss Josephine was here for a dose of same.
“You wonts to ‘do it’, Miss Josephine? Same as me and Miss Bethy done that time?” he asked cautiously.
“What time was that?” Josephine was legitimately curious.
“That time when Miss Bethy was gittin’ married” he replied.
“Oh. That. Yes, I suppose. Something similar to that.”
Beth had prudently not told Josephine of her breach of the Non-Cuminpussy Rule. Duck mistakenly assumed that Josephine was aware of it. He dropped his shorts perfunctorily. Ten full inches of limp dick hung in a scythian curve between his muscular thighs.
Josephine unbuttoned her skirt and let it drop to the floor of the cabin. Her chestnut bush stood out at the juncture of her milky white thighs.
“Let’s git to it” she said.
At dawn only Fiona, Aisleen, Abby and Pastor Goins were up and at ‘em. Both Franklin and BethAnn Jefferson were overdosed on sexual dopamine. So were both the McNulty’s, though neither McNulty had touched the other. The Leone boys were tapped out. Meshach and Duck straggled in late, unwashed and disheveled. Cora and Lizzie were down at the spring washing themselves, ushered there by Cora’s mother Andra, who almost swooned when confronted with the aromas belching forth from her daughters.
Josephine McNulty interrupted the ablutions of the black girls midstream, arriving at the glade with a somber look. She brusquely ordered them home. She wanted to be alone. Andra, Cora and Lizzie picked up their garments and scampered off, leaving Josephine alone at the spring.
The white girl waded naked into the water, leaving a milky trail in her wake. She was full to the brim with Duck’s jism, horrified that he’d ignored her orders so thoroughly, and even more horrified that she might have become impregnated by a nigger. What had she been thinking? What would Robert say if he found out? It’s a good thing that her husband was still sleeping off the effects of last night’s sexual rampage.
Josephine took a handful of greasy, homemade lye soap and applied it liberally to her poochipap and her armpits, using her fingers to slosh the soap up into her vagina, expelling as much semen as she might. She used her middle finger and her ring finger in tandem to scour the inner walls of her pussy. She probed deeply in her fervent desire to rid herself of Duck’s jism.
Predictably, at some point during this process her probing fingers ceased to be cleansing vessels and metastasized into masturbatory objects. Josephine noted the changeover. Now she looked about to ensure her solitude in the glade. Once satisfied that no onlookers snooped, she began to fuck her fingers lavishly, shuddering with the effort. In her sexual imaginings, it was not Robert’s reverse crescent dick that her fingers represented. She imagined her fingers to be Duck’s massively thick nigger dick fucking her from behind, standing up, as if romping in a two-person conga line.
When the brilliant, electric sunshine of her masturbatory soiree waned, the fact of her exposure to nigger semen screeched back to the forefront of her mind. She knew that this memory would plague her until her next menstrual cycle. When was it? Three weeks out? Could she endure the agony of uncertainty for that long? Can nigger semen stand up to lye soap? Had she already been infected with a budding niglet in the three hours since her first exposure?
Then another thought crossed her mind.
Perhaps there was something to BethAnn’s obsession with being cleansed of nigger taint by an appropriately white consecrated vessel. Josephine had never allowed any black man to snap semen into her cooch before, so this had never been a worry.
Now the worry was very real.
Dang!! It had felt good at the time. Duck’s pulsing, fountainous dick pumped splooge after splooge into her willing snatch. She’d cum concurrently with each of his jizz eruptions—and a couple of times in between, too. The reality of her situation came flooding home soon after the opiate of her orgasms wore off. She could very well be pregnant. She wondered if this was the impetus behind Bethy’s mania for Pastor Goins’ cleansing ritual. Had Duck cum inside her sister, too?
“I’m gonna go and talk to Pastor. That’s all there is to it.”
Aisleen Leone went about her morning duties with a heavy heart. Her mind was elsewhere. She prepared Abby’s breakfast, then she served up a plate for the Pastor, asking how he’d slept and if his accommodations were suitable. When the Pastor responded graciously, she smiled without hearing his reply. She’d slept next to a husband awash in nigger pussy, a man who didn’t have the common decency to soap up his dick before sliding into bed beside his wife. Nathan didn’t respect her, that much was obvious.
It’s not like she didn’t give him any pussy. She did. In fact, since the day they got married, she was all over him, believing that her sexual fecundity would drain his appetite for other women and leave their marital bed pure, undefiled.
Aisleen was fully aware of the poontang tradition. Her father practiced it ad nauseum. Yet she’d hoped that, when her turn came, her husband would eschew the foul practice and cleave unto her alone. This wasn’t the first time that her husband had sneaked out to lave his dick in the vagina of another.
His dick? Goddammit, that was HER dick!!! Her marital vows proved it!! He had no right to be spreading her joy juice around!!! Aisleen worked herself into a fit of pique thinking about the inequity of it.
And where was her husband Nathan, that filthy reprobate, now? He was in their room, still in bed, sleeping off the effects of another woman’s pussy!! Worse, HER pussy’s aroma creamed his dick, too, co-mingled with the saucy juices of a nigger girl!!!
As she pondered the details of her husband’s infamous infidelity, she became more and more enraged. She wondered how he would feel if her pussy smelled of nigger dick every time he went down on her? That would teach him a lesson, wouldn’t it?
She thought back to Josephine’s puerile threat from the night before. “COONTANG,” she’d said, a thing no responsible married white woman would consider.
Oh sure, Aisleen remembered dallying about with nigger boys in her youth. She’d fucked one or two of them. Maybe three. She’d even sucked one of them off, just for practice. Her sisters had been there egging her on. She sheepishly admitted that those encounters had been fun.
“Married white women didn’t do that,” she said resolutely. “Suppose’n Abby grew up and found out about it? What would Abby think?” She had to think about Abby, just as Mother Fiona undoubtedly suppressed her own sexual instincts for the sake of Josephine and BethAnn, just as her own mother—Minnie Stenstrom—suppressed hers.
Still, Aisleen had a fiery temperament. She couldn’t help but feel a measure of satisfaction at envisioning the look of consternation on Nathan’s face as he caught a whiff of her pussy after her first coontang session. She could just see his head snapping back from between her thighs as he went in for a lick.
“That would be SO sweet!!” she thought. “See how HE likes sleeping with the smell of somebody else’s dick in HIS bed.”
She would deny it was nigger dick, of course. Nothing on this earth could make her confess to that particular racial crime. But Nathan would know. And she would know that Nathan knew.
Now she harkened back to the two nigger girls in Pastor’s tent last night. They sounded so free, so joyful. So animalistic. They didn’t have the same constraints as white women. They were free to express their passions with blacks and whites alike. Aisleen almost felt envious of them, excepting of course, their life as slaves.
“I tell you what,” she groused. “I seen a buncha nigger dicks around this very farm that I’d like to have up in me. Nathan gots a big ‘un, but some of these boys is packin’ horse dick. I’d like to try one just to see if I could fit it all the way in!!”
If black girls could scream and holler like those two last night with white boys, she wondered how a white woman would fare under the assault of multiple black boys? She imagined herself dealing with the heft of three black dicks. Meshach. And maybe Jerome. And maybe Meshach’s friend Duck. All three of them were well hung.
That Meshach was kinda good looking, too, at least for a nigger, anyway. He wasn’t clubbish or cumbersome. He had rippling muscles. His torso delved into his crotch with a perfect triangular V-shape. His back was scarred and mangled, but you couldn’t see that from the front. Mother Fiona gussied him up in an effeminate blueboy outfit that made him look ridiculous. Aisleen much preferred him in his work boots, trousers and an open shirt by which one could see his chiseled abdomen.
“I wouldn’t mind fucking the SHIT out of that one,” she mused.
She wondered if Meshach were one of Josephine and BethAnn’s coontang candidates.
“Pastor, we need to talk,” Josephine opened.
“Yes, child. I think we do.” Pastor Goins replied. He was an expert at throwing his parishioners off balance with his unanticipatedly prescient comebacks.
Indeed, Josephine was surprised at this counter. Normal pastors tended to be taken aback by aggressive openings such as Josephine’s opening tender. Josephine steadied herself.
“I have a problem. I understand you can help me with it.”
“Ahhhhh. You’ve been talking to your sister.”
“Why, no. I…”
“Josephine, Josephine. If, indeed, you have been talking to your sister, you should know the futility of lying. You have been talking to your sister. Say so. Now.”
“Well, Pastor, I have been talking to my sister. But not about this….”
“Josephine. If you want my help, you MUST restrict yourself to telling the truth. The WHOLE truth. I cannot help you otherwise.”
“I AM telling the truth, Pastor, I….”
“You’re not telling me the WHOLE truth, Josephine. You are telling me bits and parts.”
“Up to now, I haven’t told you anything, Pastor.”
“That, too, is a lie, Josephine. You have told me a great deal simply by your manner. We are alone here. You’ve maneuvered us into being alone. I’ve noticed you lurking about me all day, when you might have come right out and said what’s on your mind before the other members of your family. That tells me that your issue is of a personal nature. Like your sister’s issue…which she undoubtedly shared with you.”
“Well, I….”
“That’s it, Sister McNulty. You’ve chosen an indirect route, yet still we will certainly arrive at the truth of the matter sooner or later. Don’t you see how much easier it is to use the direct route?”
“I guess….”
“Certainly, ‘you guess’. No, child, you should KNOW. You’re a grown woman now. I’ve enjoyed watching you grow up. Now I want you to put on your grown up hat and tell me everything. Leave nothing out. And then I can help you.”
Josephine had thought herself the Pastor’s equal. Clearly, she was not. This was, she was sure, the same tactic he’d used to inveigle BethAnn’s story from her. He was good. There was no doubt about that.
“I…I…think me and Bethy have….the same problem.”
“I knew it.”
“How did you know? WHEN did you know?”
“That’s unimportant. Did she tell you what the fix is?”
“N-n-no.”
“Ahhhhhh. Good. Go home and pray. Prayer solves everything. Thanks for your time.”
“I should pray?”
“Yes, child.”
“But…that’s not what…”
“That’s not what BethAnn told you? So you lied to me. Again. I can’t help liars. BethAnn promised me she wouldn’t talk about the fix. So she lied, too. I can’t help either of you.”
“Pastor, NO!! If you stop applying the fix, Beth will know I was here talking to you about it!!”
“I may be many things, child, but I am not a liar. You and your sister are liars. I am not. Go home and pray.”
“Pastor, my husband f-, ummm, had sex with a nigger girl last night. I caught him. Then I got mad and I went out and I fu-, ummmm, had sex with a nigger.”
Goins sighed audibly.
“I knew it.” he said.
“You knew it? How did you know it?”
“Again, that’s not important. Go and pray.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Bethy told me that you had….”
“And you told me that you hadn’t been talking to Bethy. Which lie is it, Josephine?”
“Pastor, I…”
“I tell you what, Sister McNulty. Let’s go and get your husband in here and finish this discussion. He’s a part of this, too.”
“NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”
“No?”
Now Josephine started crying.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I CAN’T!!!!!!!”
“Honesty is the best policy, Sister McNulty.”
“PASTOR!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! ANYTHING BUT THAT!!!!!!”
“So you would lie to Brother McNulty, too, I see.”
“PASTOR!!!!”
“Will you go and get him? Or shall I.”
“PASTOR!!!! THAT’S NOT WHY I AM HERE!!!!” she bawled.
“Then why ARE you here, child?”
“I….I….want….I want to be cleansed,” she sniffled.
“I knew it,” he said.
Much to Franklin Jefferson’s chagrin, Elizabeth rebuffed each and every effort he made at kindling an ongoing sexual relationship. Worse, the black girl acted as if she didn’t even know him. Every surreptitious reference he made to their dazzling night of lovemaking was received with a quizzical, blank stare from the girl. She didn’t know him; she certainly didn’t recall blowing him.
“It musta been some other gal,” Lizzie asserted, hopeful of avoiding another wank shower from Meshach.
Lizzie’s behavior puzzled the deacon. Weren’t these people supposed to be compliant? He could very well order her to assume the position, he being white and all.
Franklin didn’t have much time. He had to make some decisions about remaining in the traveling ministry. If Elizabeth agreed to play ball, he’d stay. In that case he still had to get Fiona Leone’s buy-in to the idea of his planned move back to the Leone farm. And that would open up his plan to scrutiny by everyone in the family.
BethAnn Jefferson wasn’t terribly anxious to move back home. Sure, she’d lured her husband into licking her pussy that night. Twice.
“That was nice!!” she recalled fondly.
Yet the idea that her husband only wanted to move back home to be near some nigger pussy galled her. What was wrong with HER pussy? Did she need Lizzie around to get Franklin to expand his sexual horizons? Apparently so. Reason and common sense hadn’t worked up til now.
Beth wondered how long she could continue to hold his devolution into the poontang tradition over Franklin’s head. She certainly couldn’t count on any male allies if she chose to expose him. Even Pastor Goins would be inclined to overlook the young man’s indiscretions on that account. Her only weapon was Franklin’s own Christian conscience and his fear of exposure. He had a reputation for being above that sort of thing.
Of course, her two brothers and her brother-in-law could expose him. But, like Pastor Goins, she imagined they would be more prone to laughing the whole matter off.
“Frankie got some poonie! Frankie got some poonie!!! YOU SHOULDA SEEN HIM GO!!!”
What a mess.
It seemed that her only way of getting Franklin to allow their marital sex life to blossom was to allow him access to Lizzie.
She wondered if all the white women she knew faced that same daunting proposition.
BethAnn cogitated over her dilemma for three days as the menfolk packed supplies and finalized plans for the trip back to Hank’s farm. She helped out around the house while her mother approved or vetoed logistics, as the case might be. Fiona made sure that all concerned parties knew where the buck stopped.
Pastor Goins ministered to the family during those busy days in the aftermath of Edward’s funeral. He led the prayers at every meal. He weighed in on some of the decision making, always careful to limit his input to spiritual matters, always encouraging his parishioners to rely upon God as their final arbiter. His small troupe of evangelists were self-sufficient, deliberately so. They didn’t want to be accused of sponging. They knew that Sister Fiona would compensate them with her tithes at the appropriate time.
Beth noticed that both Robert and Franklin were particularly solicitous of Lizzie and Cora in their capacities as serving girls. Their compliments were downright avuncular as these slaves refilled their water glasses or prepared and cleaned up their plates. Cora, in particular, was demur and respectful—as slaves ought be. She offered up none of the profane scatology that filled the night air so recently.
Nate and Hank barely noticed the two girls. After all, they’d grown up with them. They were used to getting poontang on demand. In contrast, Robert and Franklin were unacquainted with the sexual mores of the Leone farm. Their first experience with the two black girls was possibly their most exciting sexual encounter….ever.
BethAnn soon tired of her husband’s salacious advances upon Lizzie. Josephine cornered her up in the loft late one afternoon.
Josephine: “What wrong, Bethy?”
BethAnn: “Are you blind? Both of our husbands is fallin’ over theyselves tryin’ to git MORE pussy from Lizzie and Cora!! I ain’t the one to stand for it!!”
Josephine: “I thought you said Franklin licked you clean the other night?”
BethAnn: “And he’s licked me clean ever’ night since!! But it ain’t ME he’s lickin’!! It’s LIZZIE, I can TELL. I ain’t had to force him to lick me last night. He AXED me to let him lick me.”
Josephine: “He AXED you?”
BethAnn: “D-D-D-D-DID….I….S-S-S-STUTTER? He AXED me. And then, when he got around to puttin’ it in, he went real fast and real hard, and he axed me to arch up on my shoulder blades and roll my pussy up high so’s my feet was next to my ears. Didn’t nobody teach him that but Lizzie. And did I tell you he cussed a bit? He said “O fuck. O FUCK!!” And he ain’t want ME talkin’ like that. I thought he was gon’ come right out and say her name!!!”
Josephine: (Laughing) “Well at least you ain’t no corpse no more!!!”
BethAnn: “That ain’t the point, Joey!! You know that ain’t the point! He ain’t doin’ it to me no more!! He’s doin’ it to Lizzie!!! You see how he looks at her when she serves his plate, don’t you?”
Josephine: “Robert ain’t much better. His dick gits hard whenever she leans over to refill his cup. I seen it. He’s tryna look down her dress to see her titties.”
BethAnn: “How can they act this way, right out in public where everybody, even Pastor, can see ‘em? I wanted to go upside Frankie’s head so many times today!! That’s why I come upstairs early. I cain’t take it, I tell you! I WON’T take it!!”
Josephine: “What you gon’ do? Have Ma sell Lizzie and Cora down the river? They ain’t done nothing but what our men told ‘em to do. And then you’d still have Zelma, after she drops that pickaninny. They’ll just shift over to her and Martha. And then Ma will have to buy and train new serving girls. And what’s to say our husbands won’t go after them, too?”
BethAnn: (flustered) “I don’t know what to do, Joey!! Franklin’s talking about moving back here and settling down. I…I…kinda like the travelin’ ministry, Joey. I just ain’t like the ‘corpse’ part. I want Franklin to do it to ME. I don’t want him mixin’ me up with no nigger girl.”
Josephine: “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll get over it. They all do. Eventually.”
BethAnn: “Hmmmmph. Robert, too?”
Josephine: “Chile, I ain’t worried about Robert. He can call me by Lizzie’s name whilst his dick was up my cooch and I wouldn’t be worried. He cares as much about Lizzie as you and me care about Duck.”
BethAnn: (slyly) “You reckon Robert suspects you did it to Duck the other night?”
Josephine: (ignoring the implication) “Bethy. There’s something I gotta tell you about that. You’re gon’ be mad at me.”
BethAnn: “What is it? What happened?”
Josephine took a minute to compose herself.
BethAnn: “Come on, Joey. Just tell me.”
Josephine: “Bethy…I…I…I got the nigger taint. The other night. With Duck.”
BethAnn: (horrified) “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
Josephine: “Yeah. Me and Duck. We was doin’ it from behind, standin’ up, you know, kinda walkin’ around the room. Hoppin’. And he was up in my pussy, you know, and it felt so good I kinda lost myself. And before I knew it, he had jizzed me up. And not just the once’t, but mebbe a couple of times. Mebbe more.”
BethAnn: (keenly aware of the circumstances of Joey’s story) “NO!!! JOEY!!! NO!!!”
Josephine: “Bethy, I ain’t know what to do!!! It was like one minute we was doin’ it good and the next minute I was washin’ out my pussy with lye soap. And I wasn’t sure that was gonna work. So I done something else…something that maybe you’ll…appreciate.”
BethAnn was inconsolable. Her sister had the nigger taint!!! This news was so thunderous that everything Josephine said afterward rang upon deaf ears. Joey could be pregnant with a niglet!! The Leone name would be ruined!!! As Josephine continued to explain, Beth was considering possible alternatives, of which abortion sprang to the fore. Then something Josephine said clicked in her brain.
BethAnn: “‘Something else’? What’s ‘something else’? What else did you do?”
Josephine: “I…I…Pastor Goins….he give me the cleansing.”
BethAnn: “WHAT!!!!?!?!????????”
She dived across the room and grabbed Josephine in a rocking bearhug of an embrace.
BethAnn: “Oh, THANK you, LORD!! THANK YOU!! THANK YOU!!! LORDY!!! MY SISTER IS WHITE AGAIN!!! GIRL!!! You went from having the nigger taint to being a white woman again in the space of two minutes!!! You had me worried there, honey!! But the LORD is good!!!! Tell me, what did Pastor do? Did he do your throat and everything? Did he do your booncum? Did he do your hands?”
Bethy was talking so fast that Josephine couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
BethAnn: “It was good, too, wasn’t it? At first I was skeered to enjoy it, but he just went on and on and finally I relaxed and it felt kinda good, didn’t it? He got a thick one, don’t he? It ain’t real long but it’s real thick. Tell me, did he let you talk? Did he ask you to call him a nigger? Did he make you say ‘FUCK ME!!’? Couldn’t you just feel his cum scrapin’ away all the nigger taint!!! It don’t take but one session for you to get whited up again. ‘Course, you can go back for touch ups, like me. But you don’t have to. Oh, I’m SO thankful that you finally saw the light!! The Lord is good ALL the time!!!”
Josephine: “Beth. BETH!! Calm down. CALM DOWN!! Pastor cleaned out my pussy. He ain’t do none of them other places.”
BethAnn (once again concerned): “Just your pussy? He ain’t cleaned out your booncum? He ain’t cleaned out your throat? Joey, you gotta go back!!! You ain’t fully a white woman again until he cleans everywhere a nigger’s dick has been. I know for a fact that both Shaddy and Duck been up in your booncum. And what about that other nigger, Juanny? The one that come thru church that time? He said he was from Cuba, but he was a nigger, and you and I both know it. I don’t care how light and bright he was. Joey, you gotta get Pastor to go up your poop chute. And the sooner the better!! Pastor is leaving soon. You gotta get him to do it tonight!!!”
Josephine: “I know, I know.”
BethAnn: “We ain’t scheduled to be back in these parts for four months, Joey.”
Josephine: “Don’t you think I know that? I know that, Bethy!!”
BethAnn: “How you gonna do it, Joey?
Josephine: “I dunno. I’m gon’ have to git up late and go down to his room, I guess.”
BethAnn: “Good, good. You want me to come with you?”
Josephine: “If you want, I guess. I thought you was gon’ in with Frankie?”
BethAnn: “Oh, Franklin can lick my pussy any ole time. I think I need a touch up. Plus, I wanna make sure Pastor gits you all the way clean. I know where you been.”
Zelma delivered her daughter two weeks after Hank Leone, Bobby McNulty and the Irish overseer Sullivan left to complete the work on Hank’s farm. She named the child Sandra Jean.
From the outset it was clear that the child’s father was white. Her fine reddish baby hairs were unnaturally straight. Her nose was aquiline. Her lips were a tad fuller than Caucasian lips, yet not so full as to be characteristically Negroid. Also, Sandra was high yaller. This, in itself, was no indicator of her final shade. A great many black children are born high yaller. Sandra’s earlobes and her fingernails were high yaller, too. This was the primary indicator of her complexion. She was not destined to get any darker.
Acting in her capacity as the farm midwife, Lize delivered the child. When she noted that Sandra was half-white, she pursed her lips silently, washed the child in warm, soapy water and handed her to her mother.
“Here,” she said without displaying any emotion.
Nathan Leone peeked in on the birth. He had his own suspicions about the paternity of Zelma’s child. Sandra Jean was a poontang child. No white man would claim paternity. Yet Nathan knew in his heart that this was his second daughter, with an outside chance of belonging to Hank. Nathan didn’t want to consider the latter possibility.
Neither did he want to consider the possibility that he was related to Zelma. He’d heard the rumors about Edward Leone’s paternity of Zelma’s mother. If true, then Zelma was his niece, despite being a few years his elder. This further complicated the story of Sandra’s birth. She was both his child and his great-niece.
What a mess.
Did Aisleen suspect her husband of fathering Sandra? After all, they were married when Sandra was conceived. Aisleen certainly was capable of counting back nine months and noting that she’d been legally married for several months at the time.
Nathan pondered all these possibilities as he sat silently by Zelma’s bedside. Zelma was sleeping off her ordeal. Sweat beaded her brow in the Louisiana heat. Her sister Phoebe, now nineteen, sat in another ramshackle chair on the other side of Zelma’s bed, holding Sandra. Using a dry cloth, she wiped sweat from Zelma’s brow. Alone among all the families on the Leone Farm, Phoebe knew the real name of Sandra’s father. She and Zelma were close.
Phoebe and Nathan sat in the hot little hut without speaking as the infant Sandra whimpered and mewled.
Sandra’s birth added another $800 to the Leone Farm’s bottom line. If she survived into adulthood (which was never certain in those days), her value would increase proportionately. Born a slave, she would never be a threat like Shubra. She would never know freedom. Her whole life would be dictated by the wants and needs of her owners. She would become a competent servant, a nursemaid for white children and a cum receptacle (willing or no) for white males. She would be an asset to the Leone family for decades. All they had to do was feed her scraps from their table and keep her from freezing on those rare cold nights in Louisiana.
Nathan calculated all this in his head, as any white landowner would. His father had taught him the value of bottom line decision-making. Yet, this was his child. He longed to look in Sandra’s face to see traces of his genetic lineage. Her eyes were uncharacteristically hazel; Nathan’s eyes were blue. This was the ‘nigger’ in her.
“She has my nose, my chin,” he said to himself. “Just like Abby.”
Phoebe gazed at Nathan silently, giving no hint of her real thoughts. He was her owner. Only three years separated them, yet if he demanded that she put down the baby and come over to suck his cock, she would be obligated to do so. She was sure that thought would occur to him presently.
She was wrong. While it was true that Nathan harbored prurient thoughts towards Zelma’s younger sister, those thoughts were not at the forefront of his mind at this moment. On this day, his curious sense of morality consumed him. Here, his niece held his daughter while his older niece slept. He could never publicly acknowledge either fact.
This latter fact filled the young slave owner with an inordinate sense of guilt. This, too, could never be acknowledged. Indeed, it was unusual for any white slave owner to think in such weak moral terms. Nathan knew this. Still, he could not deny the twinges of conscience that prickled him.
Nathan began to rough out a plan for Sandra’s future.
Later that night, much later, Lize sat by Zelma’s bed holding the infant Sandra. Periodically, she mopped Zelma’s brow with a cool, damp cloth. Sandra’s birth had been difficult for the young woman. She drifted in and out of lucidity The only thing Lize could do was tend to her fever and hope that Zelma would fight her way back to the world of the living.
In her delirium, Zelma sleep-walked thru a dream-like state, mentioning names randomly, often calling out for her mother, sometimes wincing in pain. Lize noted all this silently. Zelma had not named Sandra’s father. Lize was hopeful that Zelma would inadvertently name the man who’d impregnated her.
Through the wee hours of the morning, Lize sat up with the recuperating girl and nursed little Sandra as she could. Of course, she was unable to offer her own breast to the child. But she stood over Zelma and occasionally allowed Sandra to latch onto her real mother’s teats, always careful to hold onto the child in the event that Zelma might roll suddenly and drop the child to the floor.
Fortunately, in the fourth hour past midnight, Zelma’s fever broke. She looked up at Lize and in her gaze there was recognition.
“Lize,” she said weakly. “Lize?”
“Yes, chile. I’m here.” replied Lize.
“Where?”
Lize stood to bundle Sandra off to her mother. The child had been sleeping in a basket at her feet. Zelma slowly broke into a wan grin.
“My….chile. My…..baby. Is it? Is it…?”
“It’s a girl,” said Lize.
Zelma kissed the baby tenderly. Sandra did not wake up. Zelma clutched Sandra to her breast that the child might hear her heartbeat and, in this, the fullness of her love.
“Thank you, Lize,” Zelma whispered.
Lize nodded gravely.
“How….how long?” asked Zelma
“You’ve been sleep ‘bout thutty hours, gal. Little mo’ ‘n a day.”
“Who….who come up?”
“Phoebe been here de whole time. Andra and Seth come up. An’ Lizzie and Cora. And Shaddy. Belle. Caleb. Patty. Chauncey been here. Miss Fiona was here. And Marse Nathan. Buncha others.”
“Nate come?”
“Yes. He did.”
Zelma grimaced purposefully.
“Is dat de man?” Lize asked hopefully.
Zelma ignored her question.
“Jerome come? Homer? Duck?”
“Chile, you know they’s all over to Marse Hank’s farm. Been gone a few weeks now. Martha’s over dere wid ‘em. Thass why she ain’t come. Miss BethAnn done left wid her husband. Pastor gone, too. Only Miss Josephine is left.”
“Oh thass right. Mama, I forgot. Seem like I been outta my head for longer’n dat. This chile done took de longest time gittin’ here. What’d Miss Fiona say?”
“Oh you know how she is. She come in an’ sniffed her nose. You ‘uz murmurin’ ‘n goin’ on. She put her han’ on yo’ haid to see how hot you was. ‘Den she got to frettin’ ‘bout how yo’ work wasn’t gittin’ done and how soon it was afore you could git back. Said she reckoned you got pregn’nt just to git you a vacation and danged if she was goin’ to be de one to stand by if you did it again. Said she’d whup your hide.”
Zelma smiled. She knew that Miss Fiona wasn’t going to whup her for having a child. Newborn black children always enriched the farm.
Now she looked at Sandra lovingly. The child had inquisitive eyes. She moved with the hesitating, jerky movements of every newborn.
Zelma reached up to cup her left breast and offered it to the little girl.
In the aftermath of Lizzie’s short breakup/makeup with Meshach, her relationship with Cora began to falter. Try as she might, Lizzie couldn’t rid herself of the image of Cora flopping about while Meshach whaled on her pussy, withdrawing only to splatter Lizzie’s face with cum. To Lizzie’s mind, Cora seemed just a bit TOO accommodating. A real sister would have put up more resistance. A real sister certainly would not have allowed Meshach to humiliate a loved one in such a manner, not just once but thrice! The image of Cora standing off to the side while Meshach pumped splooge into Lizzie’s face percolated in Lizzie’s mind. She didn’t blame Meshach for the degrading episode. She blamed Cora.
And maybe Cora was paying Lizzie back for winning the Meshach sweepstakes. Clearly, both she and Zelma had treated Lizzie coolly since she’d claimed her prize. They viewed her nursemaid tactics during Shaddy’s duress to be underhanded. Lizzie hadn’t bragged about the win, but there had been a certain swagger in her step, a certain hen-of-the-walk arrogance that women display when they triumph in these petty feminine competitions.
In any case, Lizzie didn’t like the gleam in Cora’s eyes as Shaddy fucked her that night. Cora should have struggled more. She should have fought back. You just don’t fuck a girl’s boyfriend like that, not when his girlfriend is standing right there looking on.
Cora didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. Ok, so her sister’s boyfriend had raped her. What could she do about it? Not a DAMN thing. Shaddy was bigger and stronger than she was. Plus, hadn’t she used up all her energy while doing Lizzie a favor on Shaddy’s behalf? She’d fucked those white boys blind!!! Sheeeeeee-it. What did the bitch expect?
“Some o’ dese ho’s cain’t be pleased,” she snorted contemptuously.
So when Lizzie gave Cora the stank look the next day, Cora knew the reason why. Cora also knew that Lizzie expected a mea culpa, some sort of an explanation for her behavior that night.
“Damned if she’ll get it from ME,” thought Cora. “I ain’t forced her man to give up some dick. I tell you what: If he offers me some dick one mo’ again, I’m gon’ take it! And de next time after that, too!”
She didn’t actually say this aloud. But her attitude pretty much trumpeted it without saying so. Lizzie read Cora’s statement of triumph in Cora’s bearing. She was not pleased, to say the least.
By the time Zelma gave birth, the sisters were in full-out cold war. When forced to interact they spoke in terse, mono-syllabic terms, lacing each comment with haughty sniffs, sidelong glances and undue contempt.
Andra tried to mediate their dispute unsuccessfully, as did Lize. It seemed that at any moment the two young women would come to blows.
Missus Fiona noticed the icy nature of their interactions.
“Not another nigger-bitch fight!!” she observed with some irritation.
She correctly concluded that the girls were fighting over Meshach. Their cold war threatened the peace and tranquility of the entire farm. Everyone was talking about it.
Fiona worried that the attention focused on Meshach would impinge upon her own plans. Officially, she was still mourning the death of her husband Edward. At the end of that mourning period (some weeks away), she intended to pick up where she left off with Meshach. And this nigger-bitch fight threatened to focus undue attention on the boy. All of his movements about the farm would be closely scrutinized in the hope that he might trigger an eruption between the two sisters.
“They’ll be out watching him and catch us in the act, maybe” she reckoned. “I cain’t have that.”
At first this prospect cooled her lust for the young slave. Yet, as the days since their last sexual encounter widened, she remembered his thrusting cock fondly, perhaps too fondly. Her bald pussy wettened heatedly when she thought of him. It had been weeks since they’d last embraced. She needed to have him up her ass. She needed to feel the shrill thrill of his shrieking jism in her throat.
“These two young bitches had better not fuck that up.” she observed dryly.
Meshach was not blind to the situation, either. Each time he appeared in public Lizzie latched onto him like a horsefly. She seemed intent on publicly reiterating her connubial claim to the young man. To Shaddy’s enigmatic nature, her attentions were almost annoying. He’d committed to her. That was that. He didn’t see any reason to blare it out to the world.
Too, whenever Lizzie wasn’t about, Cora took every opportunity to be in Meshach’s face. It was as if her rape (and Lizzie’s debasement) had re-opened the door to his recruitment. She actively campaigned for Shaddy to re-consider his commitment to Lizzie.
Each time Lizzie caught Cora flirting with Shaddy she sailed in and an argument ensued. The two girls became increasingly testy with each other. Once, Shaddy had to step between them to keep them apart.
Fiona Leone was in the neighborhood during the aforementioned dust up. Annoyed, she put both girls to work cleaning the white people’s outhouse. They had to dip buckets into the accumulated filth of the Leone cesspool and carry those buckets out to the woods to dump into a hole specially dug for the foul effluent. Usually such a job would have been accorded to a male slave. Fiona felt that this assignment would adequately display her pique at the escalating difficulties between the two sisters without getting too deep into the rationale for their rancor. She couldn’t show any overt concern for Meshach’s affairs without casting light upon her own long-running tryst with the young man.
Zelma, too, was involved. Despite being laid up, she knew of the Lizzie and Cora’s feud both before and after Sandra’s birth. Predictably, she took Cora’s side. The sting of Lizzie’s win still lingered, though Zelma had long since turned her amorous attentions to Jerome. Cora visited Zelma during her recuperation and regaled her with stories of Lizzie’s malfeasance.
“Heffah!!” she bitched.
Zelma laughed and then confided details of Lizzie’s earlier visit. Every errant word Lizzie spoke about Cora sped directly to Cora’s ears. This merely exacerbated an already bad situation.
Sandra Jean was a month old when the cold war burst into hot flames. As usual in such dramatic flare-ups, it started with a misunderstanding.
Lizzie awoke late one night to find Cora’s bed empty. Andra and Seth were curled up in their own small bed. Lizzie surmised that Cora had sneaked over to Meshach’s cabin in full defiance of Lizzie’s earlier caveat, which was: “You bet’ not let ME catched you wit’ him, not nary nuther time. You do ‘n I’m breakin’ my foot off in dat ass.”
This line in the sand further complicated an already byzantine set of circumstances.
Number one, Cora had, in fact, sneaked over to fuck Meshach recently after slipping valerian root into Lizzie’s food to make her sleep deeply. Meshach had obliged her. He was committed to Lizzie, but dang! Pussy was pussy!!
Number two, Josephine McNulty was still at home while her husband helped out over at Hank’s farm. Duck was over there, too. Though she’d been “cleansed” by Pastor Goins, Josephine regularly found time to scratch her itch using Meshach’s dick, re-imposing the Non-Cuminpussy Rule to allay her fear of pregnancy.
Number three, on the night in question Cora was off in the woods with Nathan Leone, fucking him wildly, as he’d ordered earlier that day.
So when Lizzie sneaked over to Meshach’s cabin that night and heard the familiar slapping sounds of urgently plunging genitalia, she incorrectly assumed it was her sister striving atop Lizzie’s man. This night she was wrong. It was Josephine McNulty’s hairy pussy that suckled and purred in its lavish journey up and down the length of Shaddy’s cock in the dim light of his hovel.
Lizzie’s fury knew no bounds. She didn’t wait to confirm Cora’s malfeasance. She knew “the ho was in dere wit’ her man”. Who else could it be?
Lizzie went home and crawled into Cora’s bed to await her return. In her mind she girded her courage to formulate an attack plan. Each passing moment honed the fires of her rage. By the time Cora slipped back into the little cabin, Lizzie was a frothing madwoman.
“BITCH!! WHO DE FUCK DOES YOU THANK YOU IS!!!!! AIN’T I TOLE YOU TO LEAVE MY MAN ALONE????!!?”
Cora was taken aback by this unprovoked pre-dawn attack. Seth and Andra sprang awake in their bed. Cora was embarrassed to be caught sneaking home at this hour again awash in semen. That Lizzie had awakened their parents was a betrayal in itself. Cora’s lips tightened. Her eyes narrowed in rage.
“I AIN’T TOUCHED YO’ MAN, BITCH!! AN’ WHO TOLE YOU AS YOU COULDA TOLD ME ANYTHANG?? I DOES WHAT I WANTS, HO!!!” Cora shouted.
Lizzie retorted: “SUCK MY POOCHIPAP, BITCH!!! YOUSE A LIE!!! I TOLE YOU!! I TOLE YOU NOT TO FUCK WIT’ ME, YOU STANKIN’ HO!! NOW I GOTS TO….”
Lizzie left this final threat dangling. Instead, she launched herself through the air at Cora and grabbed her by the throat and hair. The two women tussled about, knocking over what little furniture Seth and Andra owned, finally tumbling out into the yard shrieking and cursing. Candles sprang up in various windows. One by one their neighbors came trickling out of their hovels to see what the hubbub was all about.
At the first sound of trouble, Josephine McNulty snatched Shaddy’s dribbling cock out of her ass and grabbed up her clothes. She couldn’t be caught down in the quarters under any circumstances, especially at this time of morning. Dammit!! She KNEW she’d overstayed her welcome. By the time Lizzie and Cora’s fight spilled out into the yard Josephine was disappearing behind the barn, still half-dressed. Several of the blacks saw her, but who was going tell? No one. Besides, here was an early morning catfight. Who cared about Miss Josephine?
Andra and Seth tried unsuccessfully to intervene. On at least three occasions they separated the girls and held them apart while the sisters cursed and fumed. Each time, one girl or the other would escape their grasp and the fight would resume, much to the joy of the assembled crowd.
One time Morty stepped in. He came away with a severely blackened eye, a ripped tunic, and the jagged scars of Lizzie’s fingernails down his left cheek. He bore those scars the rest of his life.
Finally, it was Shaddy who rushed up and put an end to the fight. He cold-cocked Cora and laid her out unconscious. Delighted with his interference (and mistaking it for partisanship), Lizzie hiked her night shift up and squatted over Cora to pee in her face. Shaddy slapped her upside the back of her head so hard that she flew face-first into the ground. Piss tinkled down her leg.
“CUT IT OUT, NAH!!!” he barked. “T’AIN’T NO CALL FOR Y’ALL TO BE ACKIN’ LIKE DIS!!! LEARN SOME RESPECK!!”
He snatched Lizzie up.
“Come wit’ me,” he ordered.
He hustled the girl off, dragging her by her arm. They left Cora on the ground to be tended to by her parents. When they arrived at Shaddy’s shack he whirled her about roughly to face him.
“WHAT WAS DAT ALL ABOUT!!” he demanded.
Lizzie folded her arms and pouted. She refused to answer.
“I SAY, WHAT WAS DAT ALL ABOUT!! AIN’T YOU HEARD ME, WOMAN?!!??”
Lizzie looked at him, eyes blazing with passion.
“I KNOW you done it to her tonight. I heard you!!” she hissed.
“DONE IT TO…??? GIRL!!! HOW YOU TALK!! I AIN’T BEEN WIT’ CORA!!”
“YES YOU IS!! I COME UP TO DE HOUSE AN’ I HEARD YOU DOIN’ IT TO HER!!” she retorted. “I don’t wanna git married no mo’. Thass IT. I’m done!”
Now the true picture became clear to Meshach.
“You…you think I…..OH! I see you. COME WIT’ ME NOW.”
He hustled her into his cabin by the arm. Once inside, he forced her to her knees and pulled out his dick.
“SMELL ‘DAT. You smell it? Whass it smell like?” he said.
Reluctantly, Lizzie took a whiff.
“IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! I KNOW YOU DID IT TO HER!!!” she exclaimed.
“SMELL IT AGIN!! SMELL IT REAL GOOD. NOW. WHA’S IT SMELL LIKE?”
Lizzie took another big whiff. It had a familiar odor. She looked up at him quizzically.
“Thass not…thass not Cora,” she said. “Thass a…thass a white girl. A crackuh.”
“DASS RIGHT. Now is you gittin’ de picture?”
“But….but….I heard you.”
“YOU AIN’T HEARD SHIT, GAL!! AN’ YOU AIN’T GON’ SAY SHIT, NEITHER!! YOU JUST BEAT UP YO’ SISTAH OVAH A CRACKUH!! An’ you made me hit her, too! Ain’t you ‘shamed?”
The full irony of the misunderstanding came flooding home to Lizzie now.
“Cora. Oh! CORA!!!!”
She rushed out of the cabin. Meshach wisely neglected to tell Lizzie that he’d fucked Cora (at Cora’s behest) just two nights before. He ambled off in the direction Lizzie had taken. He found her where he expected to find her—on the ground cradling Cora’s bleeding head in her arms, crying over her, wiping the blood away with her tears.
Cora was a little dazed at this turn of events. She was just now coming around from her sojourn in the grip of Morpheus. Only minutes ago Lizzie was trying to kill her. Now her sister was trying to cuddle and cajole her. Cora wasn’t sure what to think. She wasn’t sure that Lizzie’s concern was real. She tried to push Lizzie away. Lizzie was insistent. She cradled Cora up in a bear hug and wailed out her sorrow.
Finally, the two girls embraced one another and had a good cry.
Seth pulled Meshach aside.
“I think it’s time, boy.” he said.
“Yassuh. Youse right.” Meshach replied.
Meshach and Lizzie’s wedding was set for the following weekend, on a Sunday. Unlike the white folks, there wasn’t a whole lot of planning necessary, only that the event not be scheduled on a workday.
Andra and Lize began accumulating provisions for the repast. Lizzie and Cora, newly re-patriated as sisterly best friends, began cobbling together fabric for a fine wedding dress. Of course, the dress had to be of spotlessly white cotton and of a grade unavailable to most slaves, that is, if Cora had any say in the matter.
She did.
Cora implored Master Nate to use his resources to supply the necessary material. Normally white masters paid little attention to such supplications from their slaves. Both Cora and Lizzie had huge balances on their pussy credit accounts, so they had that going for them. Additionally, Meshach had been Nathan’s erstwhile friend and confidant. The engaged couple weren’t just his slaves. They were his contemporaries. Nathan surreptitiously agreed to supply the fabric for the dress, but only with the proviso that he not be identified as the donor. He couldn’t have too many niggers coming up and playing the “You owe me” card.
Nathan delivered the fabric late one night and received a blowjob from Cora for his diligence. She immediately started carving out pieces of the material to fit her vision for Lizzie’s wedding dress. The two girls spent a week on the project, of course, outside of their regular servant duties.
Once completed, Lizzie exulted over her new dress. It was a simple white full-length tunic, but it had a lacey collar, poofy shoulder amenities and long sleeves. The bodice lifted Lizzie’s ample breasts while simultaneously tapering into her waistline, giving her demure covering while accentuating her curves. No other black girl within fifty miles had such a fine dress. Lizzie had Cora’s seamstress skills to thank for it.
Meshach’s wedding announcement convinced Fiona Leone that her bereavement period ought to come to an end. She’d been piously wearing black for over a month now, attended church religiously and behaved in the manner expected of white widows of substance. She’d been celibate the whole time, though with some difficulty. She knew that her daughter Josephine regularly partook of Shaddy’s fruits while Robert McNulty helped out over at Hank’s farm. She knew, too, that both her daughters had fucked Pastor Goins during his visit, though she still was unsure why. Fiona also sensed a certain distance between her daughter-in-law Aisleen and her son Nathan. Nate seemed happy enough. Aisleen? Not so much. She spent a good many mornings tending to their child Abby and glaring across the table at her husband, usually on the days after he came in late.
On the Wednesday before his wedding, Fiona signaled for Meshach to meet her in the big house. Meshach was not surprised.
Her request initiated a typical set of artful dodges and feints the two of them had perfected over time. In the midst of a hot Louisiana workday, Meshach paused in his work as if he’d suddenly remembered that he’d forgotten something. He strode resolutely up to the big house and went inside without dissembling his intent. No one was about. Nate was off in the fields working a slave crew. Aisleen and Josephine were down at the spring splashing around with Abby.
Meshach slipped into Fiona’s bedroom. He sat down to wait. Outside he knew that Fiona was giving orders to the slave girls that would keep them away from the big house for at least an hour. Then she would suddenly remember something that she’d left in the big house. She would pretend to send Lize or Phoebe up to get it, then she’d change her mind and say she’d get it herself inasmuch as both of them were incompetent and would probably take too much time to perform such a simpleton task.
“I’ll be right back,” she would say. “Don’t let me catch you sittin’ on your hands when I get back here, neither.”
Meshach heard Fiona’s wooden heels on the porch step. He took that as his queue. He stepped out of his foofy blueboy trousers to let his dick dangle free. Momentarily, Fiona stepped into the bedroom, looking back to make sure she hadn’t been followed. She closed the door behind her and locked it.
Shaddy’s hanging dick neither fazed nor surprised her. They’d long since eschewed convention in these clandestine meetings. It saved time. Without speaking, she knelt before him and sucked his dick hard. Now she bunched her skirt up around her waist and poked her naked ass out to him. Her pussy was clean-shaven. Even her taint and ass cheeks were bereft of pubic hair.
“I need you to put it up my ass, Shaddy. Hurry, now. I ain’t had none in awhile and I want to git as much as I can in the l’il bitta time we got,” she said with due urgency.
Shaddy spat in his palm and used the spittle to lubricate his pudenda. He eased up behind the older woman. She arched up on her toes to accommodate him, holding her skirt aloft. Shaddy wobbled his cock between her ass cheeks seeking the deeper stench of her rectum. When his sensitive urethra sniffed out her muscular sphincter he probed forward. Fiona’s ass was dry. He could see that it would be a struggle to gain entry.
Shaddy looked down at Fiona’s ass and hoiked out a long sluice of saliva. This landed in the crack of her ass and dripped down to encircle the crown of his black cock in a little puddle of froth. He withdrew a little bit to allow the puddle to coagulate in her sphincter, then pressed forward again. Fiona’s asshole popped open to receive him. She sighed with relief. Finally!!
Shaddy began to hump her slowly. Her ass was really dry. She had no residual semen to lubricate the burn. He had to spit on his shaft several times before hilting himself. When he finally felt her protruding clit poking at his balls, he knew he’d touched bottom.
Fiona held her breath and endured his ride up her poop chute. It was a bit painful. She knew the end result would be worth the discomfort. Lately, her fantasies about this moment had engulfed her thinking. She felt she had been celibate for long enough; she needed to be fucked silly to regain her feminine equilibrium. If that meant she had to tolerate a little agony, so be it. Shaddy started to pick up the pace.
“So….you’re getting….married.” she said with a wince.
“Yes’m,” Meshach replied.
“To Lizzie? She’s…a beautiful…girl…oh!”
“Yes’m.”
“Go…a little…faster.”
“Yes’m.”
“That’s…it. Good. Does she…does she let you do…it…to her…like this?”
“Yes’m.”
“A…little…harder now. Hurry. Does...she…like it…like I do? Mmmmmm!”
“Yes’m.”
“I’m…almost….You know….OOOOH!…you…we don’t have to stop…doing…it…just because…you’re….Ungh!!…married.”
Meshach watched Fiona’s ass bounce and quiver. It was a hot afternoon. Beads of her sweat accumulated in the crack of her ass and began to trickle.
“I know,” he said.
“Harder…Shaddy! I’m…almost…almost….THERE!!! OH!! SHIT!! FUCK!! FUCK ME RIGHT THERE!!!
She erupted with a flourish and a bang only two minutes into their anal session. Shaddy fired machine gun thrusts in conjunction with Fiona’s strident orgasmic palpitations. He fucked her thru her peak and into her declination, but slowed before all of her energy evaporated into amorphous fuck vapor. The Missus was going to get proper fucked this day.
“Come on, Miss Fiona. Git on top.”
He knew she liked the Amazon position where she fucked him from the dominant missionary position while holding his legs aloft. This had been her very first foray in their sexual relationship.
His thoughtfulness pleased her. Few men appreciated the Amazon position. Gratefully she stood to mount him. Now that her ass was sated, her pussy needed some attention. His penis was still rock hard.
As Fiona positioned herself atop him, Meshach used his thumb to point his dick straight up, giving her a target. She centered his crown between her puffy bald pussy lips and eased it inside her, expanding wide to accommodate his girth. Both of them gazed down the length of their torsos to watch Shaddy’s black lever disappear into Fiona’s hairless white pussy. Her labia glowed pink, then crimson, then purple as she strained to engulf him.
Once hilted, she held his ankles aloft, roiling her pelvis up and down upon his extended cock. They hadn’t done this in over a month. She could feel his dick plumbing the furthest reaches of her pussy, luxuriating in the sticky heat that she’d withheld during her bereavement, unlocking the passion in her very core. She fucked him with lascivious intent, arching up so high that she thought he might pop out, then lunging down so far that she felt his thickness in her breast. It had been SO long!!!! Fiona closed her eyes and fucked the little black boy that she’d whipped for stealing peaches just a decade ago.
In her mind’s eye he became that little boy again, with a huge penis, peasey naps, ashen knees and a gap-toothed smile. She felt his shaggy foreskin scrubbing her pussy like a washrag as she surged downward upon it until finally she stretched to its limit and his smooth, unshrouded cockhead was exposed to the very back of her pussy, kissing the muscular entrance to her womb. Then she withdrew and pulled his excess foreskin into a twisted knot about his cockhead. Skillfully, she manipulated this knot with her labia, keeping him centered in her vaginal heat until she plunged back down with a fury, scrubbing her pussy with his fragrant foreskin again, again and yet again.
They reached plateau in this manner and held steady there. The two fucked themselves into a lathery sweat. By degrees Fiona humped him faster and faster still, cresting violently each time she absorbed his entire cock into the source of her lust. Her clit ballooned into a pulsing little knob, suckling friction along the length of his shaft.
It was Shaddy who broke first.
“I’se…ready….Miss….Fiona.”
“GO AHEAD! GO AHEAD! Do it!! DO IT NOW!!” she cried out, even as his jism rocketed into her.
She felt the burning phosphorous of his sex burgeon forth in screeching jets of hot lava. She was so close. SO close!!!
“Don’t stop! Just one more hit, Shaddy!! HIT it, boy!! HIT IT!!”
On his fourth seminal pulse, Miss Fiona unleashed her own cum, drenching his cock in fuckjuice. This sticky mixture of orgasmic effluent flailed in a sticky mist from Miss Fiona’s ass as they continued to ruthlessly assault each other. She drew breath in the short, spastic manner of a woman having a difficult birth. Any grown up in the house could have discerned the pounding these two mismatched lovers used to deliver cum into each other.
Shaddy slipped his cock past Fiona’s cervical barrier and shot his jism directly into her womb. Fiona held his pud tightly with her cervical muscle as he spilled his seed into her. This young black man was the only man she’d ever had who’d breached that barrier. Her cervix expanded to clench the most sensitive nerves in his cockhead, causing him to spurt over and over in a seemingly unending stream of hot, sticky semen. She quaked uncontrollably as she milked him of his essence.
“I…I
bet….Lizzie…ain’t…took…him….this deep.
GAWD!! HE’S UP THERE, AIN’T
HE?!!”
She grinded her pubic mound into his, up and down, left and right as jism continued to pour from Shaddy’s peehole. His cum sloshed about like buttermilk in her womb. She cradled his head in a vice grip, crying out her frothy mania in a prolonged silent scream. This was SO good. For a dick this explosively dazzling, her month of celibate penance was worth the wait. Shattering jagged imagery crazed about her head, boiling up in hot waves from her abdomen.
“GAWD!!! What a magnificent cock!!! And….I OWN HIM!!”
Shaddy leaped up with the white matron still impaled on his cock. He stood erect, releasing her from his grasp. She clapped her calves around his buttocks for support. Amazingly, he was able to hold her in place atop him with the sheer leverage of his pulsing dick. Both of them spread their arms wide to achieve balance. Shaddy glared his power into Fiona’s eyes.
“I owns dis pussy right here,” he growled.
It was true. Fiona would do anything to feel one more pulse of his jism. Just one more spurt. Shaddy reared back, balanced himself again, and fired yet another shot into her uterus. A thick streamlet of residual jism squirted from his preening cock.
“OH GAWD!!!!” cried Fiona, her body wracking with another orgasmic convulsion.
“Oh gawd oh gawd!! How many is that?” she wondered.
Shaddy laid her down such that her shoulder blades were on the floor and her hips and legs were aloft. He stood over her while his dick dribbled dollops of semen into her. He held her knees splayed wide in the crooks of his elbows. Each time a splutter of jism trickled forth, Shaddy’s cock and balls seized up like a pump. Each time his cock relaxed, Fiona’s hairless pussy lips purpled up and took a long, sensual drag on his cock, an experienced woman fellating a monster cock with her prehensile pussy.
They held this position for several recuperative minutes as Shaddy’s scrotioca trickled out of her cunt, over her butt cheeks and down the line of her back, soaking her dress in the process. Fiona didn’t care. She was 52 years old. She’d just enjoyed a ten-minute orgasm—ten solid minutes of blazing light, driving lust and suckle-warmth. Her barren womb was filled with cum, her twat was scorched white hot and slick with semen. Meshach’s softening dick felt like a fat spongey loofah inside her, absorbing all of their combined juices into its thickly viscuous honeycomb tissues.
And this was Meshach’s first orgasm, too!! She wasn’t sure he was done. They’d never had a sexual encounter where he hadn’t insisted on blasting his jism into her throat. Her initial reticence had become her keen expectation.
Fiona wobbled her ass a bit from her position beneath him. She felt his semen still sloshing about in her womb.
“How much more jizz can he have?” she wondered. “I think I got it all in one go!!”
She was wrong.
Shaddy’s cock receded sufficiently so that Fiona’s cervix ejected his cockhead from its unnatural entry point, along with a voluminous pool of jism. He retained enough tumescence to fill her vaginal canal with meat, though. He held steady there inside her as the wicked array of orgasmic light dissipated from his brain and his spastic muscular convulsions eased.
“Shaddy! O! I think this was this was the best one yet!!” she whispered breathlessly.
“Shhhhhhhhh,” he countered.
Fiona obediently quieted. A woman her age didn’t often get the chance to fuck this deeply, nigger-dick notwithstanding.
Shaddy thought about Edward Leone. He remembered the beating he’d endured at Edward’s behest. This was Edward’s wife surrendering to the power of his dick. This was Nathan’s mother. His cock surged a bit under the influence of his hatred for the two men. Fiona felt the surge, too.
“OMYGAWD!!! Already?” she thought.
She was still attached to him by her genitalia. Her shoulder blades rested on the floor. Her ankles were locked around his lower back. Her full-length dress was bunched up between her tits and her chin. Jism flowed from her ass crack down her back. That portion of her dress resting against the floor was soaked with cum. The imprint of her wettened dress left a dark stain on the clapboard flooring, full evidence of her sexual enterprise that hot afternoon. Fiona was woozy. And Meshach’s dick was hardening for yet another go.
Fiona’s lips formed up into a wan smile.
“This is so good.”
Meshach firmed up without much friction from Fiona’s pussy. Indeed, there was little friction to be had. She was slippery with his seed. A metal steam engine piston might have chugged away in her pussy and not overheated, such was the copious lubrication she’d provided.
No, it was the mental image of the Leone masters and the sight of Fiona’s baldly palpitating labia filled with Louisiana black snake that re-energized Shaddy’s cock on this day. From his standing position above her, he could see her gaping twat straining to encircle his black sex python. Her pussy lips were thick and puffy—pinkish white. Though she’d shaved carefully, there were hundreds of minuscule pink bumps that hid honey blonde pubic hairs ready to emerge into silky stubblefuzz at a moment’s notice. Her clit was an angry red knob quivering at the apex of her slit.
Plus, she smelled like a woman. The odor of her southern cleft, redolent of his semen, wafted up to his nostrils, acting as an aphrodisiacal balm for his burnt sexual impulses. Her ass, too, added its peculiar aroma to their coupling. His semen, mixed with her fecal material, produced a complex, bittersweet odor that was as tantalizing as it was abhorrent. Shaddy’s cock thickened proportionately with his reaction to her billowing sexual aromas.
Shaddy took a long, luscious sniff. The whole room stank of their lovemaking. Yet it wasn’t quite enough to make him fully hard. Holding her ankles in place around his hips, he slowly withdrew his cock from her pussy. It popped out in a semi-erect state and dangled between them. Shaddy gripped his dick with his left hand and turned it up to his face. He bent towards it, closer and closer, until his enshrouded black cockhead was just inches from his nose.
“Is he going to suck his own cock?’ Fiona wondered.
Indeed, his length was such that Shaddy actually could have taken the first two or three inches of his cock into his own mouth. In fact, he had done so once, as a youth, just to see if he could.
This day he closed his eyes and sniffed his dick’s aroma much as a cigar aficionado might do with a fine stogie, much as a music enthusiast might do upon experiencing a perfectly crafted concerto. Fiona looked on with amazement. Without being touched, his cock lengthened, hardening into the perfect arc of a male erection, solely under the bewitching power of its musky sexual odor.
Shaddy beheld his work proudly. Moments ago, he was a drained vessel. Now he was a leaping stallion, ready to bathe again in the deepest recesses of the woman on the ground before him.
Shaddy smiled at Fiona knowingly. She took his queue. Dutifully, she clambered up and took his dick into her mouth. Her dress dropped from its perch atop her tits to cover her nakedness. She couldn’t get his whole cock down her throat. But she could smell the scent that drove its resurgence. She smelled her own pussy. She smelled her ass. She even smelled her womb. All of these smells were laced with the piquant sauce of his jism, the sweat from his bulbous black balls and the faint taste of countless other pussies, including those of both her daughters. Fiona closed her eyes as she blew him. She felt the faintest twinge of electricity surging thru her burnt out twat.
“I can’t let him cum before he fucks me again. I gotta have this in me one more time,” she plotted.
Fiona knew that Shaddy’s dick was scraped raw from its recent cruises. She sucked him slowly, deeply and wetly with her thin lips, tickling him with her tongue just enough to keep him erect. His was a tenuous erection, she thought. He might lose it if she attacked it too hard before he reached plateau. Of course, once he reached that milestone, all bets were off. She could beat his dick with a rake and it wouldn’t recede before spilling his jizz. She just had to get him there.
Meshach wasn’t worried about erupting too soon. He’d poured a gargantuan load of semen into this woman. If anything, he wouldn’t be able to bust another nut like that for hours, maybe. Certainly someone would come looking for either she or he before that time.
He just wanted to be blown. Something about watching his dick plunging in and out of Fiona’s throat aroused him. Maybe it was because she was the farm matron and this intimacy flew in the face of her authority. She might be severe in her application of discipline throughout the farm, yet Meshach knew that he could always cut her off by glancing downward at his privates and raising an eyebrow. One such glance and Fiona would begin launching orders designed to rid the big house of occupants. She was his to command.
He liked to watch her face squinch up as he came in her mouth. Often, he would make her let his ejaculate accumulate until her cheeks ballooned. He liked to see it puddling in her mouth before she swallowed it. Fiona readily complied.
On this afternoon she sucked him to plateau before he made her turn to offer up her ass for another anal foray. This second go was easier; her ass was already well lubricated. He fucked her confidently until she climaxed. Then he bade her kneel to suck his cock again—fecal matter, jizz and all.
Now she demanded a second go at her pussy. This time she lay back and swung her legs aloft. He mounted her and fucked her savagely as she roiled through her fourth and fifth orgasms. He almost came, too, during both these wildly manic episodes. He didn’t think he could bust a third nut in the time allotted, so at the last moment he scrambled up her torso and plunged his dick into her mouth, filling her throat with spunk.
Fiona held his cum in her mouth without swallowing until he finished spurting, a phenomenal feat that required her to hold her breath for at least ninety seconds. When he withdrew she opened her mouth to show off the sticky white cum puddle bubbling up to inundate her tongue and teeth. She waited for his nod of approval before swallowing it down.
All business now, Fiona looked about her room. Her bed was wrecked. Her dress was awash in semen. Her entire body oozed with the aroma of fuck. She stripped her dress off and donned another similar dress without bathing. It didn’t matter. No slave who smelled semen on her person was stupid enough to make an issue out of it. None of the white people who smelled it would believe it possible.
She ordered Meshach to clean up the room as she stuffed her soiled dress under her mattress. She ordered him to take his time about it. She snatched up a fresh garment and dressed. Then she unlocked her door, peeked out to verify that no one was about, and then wandered out into the yard as if she’d never been gone.
Meshach made the bed and pulled on his foofy blueboy pants. He waited a prudent period. Then he, too, exited the big house casually, as if he’d only been in there for a minute or two on an errand.
An hour later, Meshach was tending to his light duties around the farm. Some of the other slaves had begun to look upon him contemptuously because most of his duties could be performed by women. He stood guard at the gate, polished silver, fed the horses and cows and dogs. He looked ridiculous in his blueboy outfit; his muscular body made the outfit seem effeminate and unseemly.
Indeed, Meshach could have easily gone back to work in the fields. His shoulder injury had largely healed. While it was true he couldn’t yet deadlift a calf, he certainly could swing an axe or a pick.
Most of the blacks realized that Shaddy was being kept around the big house for a more clandestine purpose, and they reckoned they knew what that purpose was. Wisely, they kept from discussing it aloud. The blacks were far more observant than they were given credit.
It was the whites that were deceived by Shaddy and Fiona’s little game. Fiona was the mistress of the farm. It was unthinkable that she spent days at a time encrusted with nigger jizz. White men did poontang. White women simply did not do coontang. No, such a thing flew in the face of southern morality; indeed, it invalidated the very core tenets of southern culture. The syrupy geniality of southern hospitality was largely based upon respect for the chastity of white women. These sexually pure women were responsible for the heavenly prospects of their families. If white women were openly fornicating with blacks, how would anyone in the family ever earn a place in heaven?
This was the unspoken conundrum of the poontang tradition.
Aisleen Stenstrom Leone took off her shoes in the yard and stepped gingerly up onto the porch. Abby was asleep in her arms; she didn’t wish to waken the child. She crept into the house carefully with this purpose in mind.
Once inside, though, a peculiar aroma accosted her sensitive nostrils. She knew the odor intimately. Yet, that odor at this time of day didn’t make sense. She hadn’t made love to her husband the night before. The odor didn’t come from the loft bedroom or the anteroom or the little kitchen.
She followed her nose around the house like a bloodhound seeking to determine its source. When she pushed Fiona’s bedroom door open, still holding her child, a tsunami of sexual funk poured forth like a river breaching a dam, so pungent that Aisleen staggered and almost fell.
There was no mistaking it. Someone had been fucking in Fiona’s room. Aisleen was aghast! She wondered if her mother-in-law knew that some couple had used her room, perhaps her very bed, to satisfy their libidinous wanton lusts!!
Now another thought occurred. Aisleen knew exactly who the culprit was. Only one person could have been guilty of such a heinous crime: Nathan Leone. He was the only white man currently on the farm. His mother and sister were the only two white women (other than herself). Obviously, Nathan had sneaked home while she was away and fucked some nigger bitch in his mother’s bed. Aisleen stepped into the room and drew another long sniff. Yep. Nigger pussy. It was as obvious as day.
True to the blinders imposed by the poontang tradition, Aisleen never considered the possibility that two blacks might have had sex in Fiona’s room. Nor had she considered Fiona as a culprit. Both scenarios were too fantastical to even ponder for an instant.
No, this was a white man’s work. And the only possible suspect was her degenerate husband, unable to cool his lust for the reeking southern maws of black nigger bitches.
Aisleen’s anger blazed against her husband. She felt that she’d made her feelings about the poontang tradition crystal clear. After the episode in Pastor’s tent, she’d coddled up to the subject using tact. Tact not being her strong suit, a week later she’d confronted Nathan about his participation that night. There’d been a huge argument that ended with his agreement to curtail his late night visits to the slave quarters.
Aisleen could see now that Nathan defined “late night” rather narrowly. He’d fucked this latest bitch in his mother’s bed during the daytime. The sheer audacity of him, using semantics to get around her original point (that being his interracial adultery) by specifying a TIME period for such.
Well, she wasn’t the one to let him get away with it. She thought back to Josephine’s threat about getting some ‘coontang’. Then she recalled her lingering fantasies about some of the black men around the farm. Duck and Jerome were gone. But that black Meshach was still here. She’d seen him over by the dog kennel on her way in, making the dogs hop and beg for biscuits. He’d never paid her the least bit of attention. Aisleen wondered if he might be the one to cool the fire of her anger against her philandering husband? She peeked out the window. Shaddy was still out there—dressed in that dreadful blueboy outfit.
She peered in the other direction. Fiona and Josephine were just hopping into a carriage driven by Morty. Apparently, they were going out to the worksite where Nathan drove his slaves. Aisleen did a quick calculation. They would be gone at least an hour—twenty minutes out and back, plus whatever time they spent onsite. There were three hours left until sundown. Aisleen only needed ten minutes to convince Meshach of her intent and twenty minutes to conclude her business with him before anyone showed up at the house. Plus, she could use Fiona’s room with impunity. It already reeked with the telltale aroma of her husband’s infidelity. Abby was asleep. All of the servants would race back down to the nigger quarters or the spring as soon as the whites were gone. What better time than this?
“Fortune favors the bold,” she mused.
Aisleen waited for Morty’s carriage to trundle off into the distance before making her move. She carefully laid Abby down in her crib. Then she loosened her bustier and the sash to her skirt. She cracked the front door open, peeking left and right to ensure that no one was about. Meshach was just now walking away from the dog kennel.
“Shaddy!! Oh, Shaddy!!!” she called out sweetly. His head swung about at the mention of his nickname. “Can you come over here and help me move this dresser? I’ve dropped a nickel behind it and I can’t get it to budge!”
This was not an uncommon request. Meshach turned to walk back up to the big house. Aisleen closed the front door and flew into Fiona’s bedroom. When Meshach arrived at the front door Aisleen was nowhere in sight. He stepped into the house.
“Miss Aisleen? Is you in here?”
“I’m in here!” she called out from Fiona’s bedroom. “Come on in!!!”
Shaddy was immediately suspicious. He’d just been in that bedroom. He could smell the residual aroma of his sojourn there lilting about the front room. Miss Aisleen had never paid any attention to him before. Had she found something in the bedroom that implicated him? Shaddy stepped warily up to Fiona’s bedroom door. Cautiously he pushed the door open.
Aisleen stood there, ass naked. Her hands were cupped in front of her vagina. Even so, her chestnut bush burgeoned forth noisily from between her fingers. Her full breasts hung tempestuously. Her hips were wide, as appropriate for a woman that’s recently given birth, yet her waist had returned to its girlish slender contours. In her gaze there was no lasciviousness, only an inquisitive curiosity. How would Meshach react to her nakedness?
Meshach turned and ran. This was obviously a set-up.
Shaddy bolted from the house and tore off past the barn, fully expecting to hear Aisleen’s shrieks of white woman indignation in his wake.
None came.
On his way down the sward to the slave quarters, Shaddy drew up. He wasn’t being chased. No screams followed his egress from the big house. He sensed no tension in the air. All the white folks were gone. And them titties DID look alluring.
Shaddy stopped. His heart was racing. Had he accidentally intruded upon Miss Aisleen’s nakedness? Or was this a fresh booty call? It occurred to him that she’d specifically called him. She’d deliberately invited him into Fiona’s room. She knew she was naked when she did it. This had all the hallmarks of a coontang booty call, yet….
Why was she in there? She MUST have smelled the trenchant aroma of his fuck session with Miss Fiona, not yet an hour old. Fuck vapor fairly dripped from the rafters. Was he in line to be exposed? Punished?
And yet, them titties DID look alluring.
Five minutes later, Meshach was back at Fiona’s door. He pushed it open. Aisleen was still standing there, naked, hands clasped before her vagina. She’d accurately gambled that he’d be back.
“Come in,” she said.
Shaddy stepped in and closed the door behind him. Aisleen got right to the point.
“I…I want you to fuck me,” she said.
“Miss Aisleen…I…I…”
“No one need know. I understand you are discreet.”
“Miss Aisleen…I…I…what…about Marse Nathan?”
“He’s the last person I want to know about this. If you keep your mouth shut, so can I.”
“Miss Aisleen…I…I…”
“You said that before. Take off your clothes while you think about it. I’m sure you know we won’t have much time.”
Shaddy didn’t have to be asked twice. He stepped out of his trousers.
“Take off that ridiculous blue coat, too.”
Shaddy stripped off his coat and his white shirt, too. He was now as naked as he’d been an hour gone.
“Miss Aisleen, is you sho’ you won’t tell Marse Nate ‘bout dis? I don’ wants no trouble.”
Shaddy’s unwashed nakedness instantly multiplied the sexual odor in the room by a factor of ten. Aisleen noticed it, but didn’t associate it with the odor she’d smelled earlier. In her mind, that smell was due to her husband’s degenerate malfeasance. Shaddy’s smell was regular nigger funk.
“I won’t tell him, Shaddy. And if you tell him, I’ll deny it. It’s you that will get into trouble, not me. Fair enough?”
“Lawsy, I ain’t gon’ tell him, Miss Aisleen!!! ‘N I don’t wanna git caught up in here, neither!!” he said, using the faux subservient tone designed to de-fang the whites.
“Don’t you worry about it. Everyone is gone. Abby is asleep,” she said.
Then she pivoted.
“That’s a nice cock you have there. Do you mind if I touch it? We don’t have much time.”
Shaddy gripped his hanging penis by its shaft and obediently offered it up to her for inspection. Aisleen stepped to him. She clasped his dick in both her palms, massaging it sensually. Shaddy’s cock began to harden. Aisleen drew her right palm up to her nose and took a whiff.
“Whew!! You’ve been fucking!! Recently, too. Lizzie?”
“No, ma’am. My dick allwus smells like dat.”
“No it doesn’t. There’s fresh pussy on this dick. I can smell it.”
Shaddy began to quail. Maybe this WAS a set up.
“No ma’am. I been wuhkin’ all day. I ain’t had time to gits no pussy.”
“Shaddy, I ain’t no fool.”
She bent to sniff his foreskin.
“Who was it, Shaddy? Lizzie? You know you ain’t s’posed to be doin’ it to her in the week afore you gits married. Or was it someone else?
“It’s just sweaty is all, Miss Aisleen. It’s pow’rful hot outside. Sometimes it gits to smellin’ like a tooncey, I reckon. But I ain’t been doin’ it to nobody, Miss Aisleen. Honest Injun.” he lied.
“But you won’t mind doin’ it to me?” she queried.
“No, ma’am. I’ll do it to you, sho’. Lookit, ma’am, it’s gittin’ hard jist from seein’ yo’ coochie out. I ain’t never seen yo cooch befo’, Miss Aisleen. It’s mighty purty.”
“Will you lick it for me, Shaddy?”
“I…I…well…I reckon. If you wants.”
Meshach wasn’t really known for licking split. He made this concession under the influence of a hard dick and the prospect of fresh pussy. Miss Aisleen’s pubic scalp only hung from Master Nathan’s belt, as far as Meshach knew. Her cooch would be a fine addition to his slew.
“Ok, good,” she said.
Rather than lay back on Fiona’s bed with her legs splayed open as was customary, Aisleen reached up and pressed Shaddy’s shoulders, indicating that he kneel before her. When Shaddy was sitting on his haunches, she pushed him backwards a little so that he was sitting on his naked ass with his legs straight out, supporting his upper body by stretching his arms out behind him.
Aisleen straddled his shoulders with her thighs while he was in this sitting position. Her chocolate furry pussy preened right before his nose. She balanced herself by gripping his head and planting her feet on the ground behind him. Shaddy looked up at her quizzically.
“Go ahead, Shaddy. We ain’t got much time,” she said.
Shaddy ventured out his tongue to probe between her forest of curly brown pubic hair. Her clitoris sprang upward like a miniature penis. The two organs met partway between the bushy mass of her southern furry forest. Meshach tasted yet again the heated essence of another man’s wife.
Aisleen was wet. Meshach could already taste the heat waves emanating from her pink poochie. She was younger than Fiona. Her pussy tasted sweet and fresh. Indeed, her pubic mound bulged like a luscious peach along the southern line of her torso. Fiona’s bald pussy flaps often resembled a flattened tire that only bloomed and glowed with an injection of semen.
Shaddy’s cock steamed fully erect from between his legs. His balls cozied up between his thighs and the floor. Aisleen’s scent began to creep into Fiona’s room.
Meshach pressed forward into her slit with his tongue. He lapped at the underside of Aisleen’s clitoris, drawing a guttural moan from Nathan’s wife. He used his tongue to clean out a valley surrounding her clitoris. He licked her pubic hairs away from her clit on either side of that sensitive organ.
When her clit stood proudly alone in the midst of that dampened pubic valley, he took it between his thick lips and began to suck it tenderly, as a young girl’s first experience with the art of French kiss. He wasn’t rough or clumsy. He kissed her clit slowly, flicking out his tongue with ever increasing feathery licks that belied his inexperience with the genre. Aisleen would not have guessed that she was one of the few women that could claim to have been serviced by Meshach in this manner.
Meshach’s clitoral kisses became increasingly more insistent, just as newly intertwined teenaged tongues probe deeper and deeper. Aisleen’s clit bulged forth seeking to probe further into his mouth. What she found was his flickering tongue and a glorious universe of carnality, replete with shocks and jags and fuckwarmth that spread from her vagina like vapor and invested the totality of her being. She closed her eyes and trembled with such vigor as to have shaken loose from her soul.
Shaddy’s tongue flickered out faster and faster still. Only the very tip of his tongue wickered about her small girly penis like a hummingbird, first tickling one set of glowing hot clitoral nerve endings, then another.
Aisleen clinged to his head for support. She certainly would have fallen over backwards with her appendages quivering in the air, like a dying wasp, had she not. She came once, again, and yet a third time under the impetus of Shaddy’s oral ministrations.
After each orgasm Shaddy tried to lift and mount her over his straining cock. Aisleen demurred. She balanced herself on her feet, grabbed the back of his head and humped his mouth with an unseemly, obscene abandon. Her husband Nathan liked to fuck immediately after she’d trembled through single oral orgasm. She preferred to have several orgasms before mounting his cock. Having now decided to broach the risky path of coontang, she figured she would enforce her own sexual fantasies rather than endure his.
Meshach’s arms finally tired of supporting his body while Aisleen squatted aloft on his face. He lay back. Aisleen’s pussy followed Meshach’s head to the floor. Stretched out prone above him, she continued to hump his face wildly, occasionally pausing to allow him to breathe. When she came a fourth time she shrieked aloud. Her legs quivered manically. Her feet pounded the floor like a drum. Aisleen stretched her whole body to it’s physical limit; her backbone curved into an unnatural arc. She firmed up both of her labia and shoved them into Meshach’s mouth. Shaddy endured this for a full minute beneath her before coming up gasping for air.
“PUT IT IN, SHADDY!!” she cried. “PUT IT IN NOW!!! HURRY!!! OH! FUCKKKKKK!!!!!!!”
Shaddy gripped her hips and pushed her body from his face down the length of his torso. Her pussy met his cock halfway down, merged with it, and continued downward until her labia kissed his ball sac. Shaddy hit her with five mammoth thrusts. Then he, too, erupted with a volcano of jism. It took her a minute before she realized what he had done.
“Did you cum already???!?” she cried. The timbre in her voice differed markedly from her demands thirty seconds prior.
“I…ummmmmm,” he mumbled incoherently.
“Did you cum?? YOU DID!!! YOU CAME INSIDE ME!!! I THOUGHT YOU KNEW ENOUGH NOT TO DO THAT!!!!!”
She leapt up off his cock. Flexing her pelvic muscles, jism squirted from her vagina in a fine spray.
“SHADDY!!! YOU DIDN’T!!! OH NO!!!!”
She genuinely thought he would know that the Non-Cuminpussy Rule applied across ALL white women, not just BethAnn and Josephine. She also thought that, as a seasoned cocksman, he would have more stamina that this, certainly enough stamina to allow her time to extricate her pussy from his penile grip when she realized his moment was imminent. Five seconds? Who cums in five seconds, except teenagers and maybe Bethy’s ex-boyfriend?
Frantically, Aisleen searched around for something to wipe out her pussy. She grabbed first one thing and then another. Nothing seemed suitable. Finally she stumbled upon a hunk of cloth stashed up under Fiona’s mattress. It was the dress that Mother Fiona had worn earlier that morning. No. This wouldn’t do.
She started to move on but something struck her. The dress had a crunchy texture, as if some sticky substance had soaked it and then dried. She drew the dress up to her nostrils. It had a familiar smell, too. This dress smelled like...it smelled like...DICK GRAVY!!! MAN-JUICE!!! HOWLING SKEET!!
Now something else occurred to her. With her other hand she wiped a swatch of jism from her own pussy. Tentatively, she compared the two smells. They were identical!!!
She turned to Meshach in horror.
“Did you? DID YOU?? OMIGOD!!! It was you that was in here earlier!!! You…and…and…MOTHER LEONE!!!! OHHH! MYYYYYY!!! GAWDDDD!!!!
Meshach snatched up his blueboy outfit, hastily dressed and bolted the room.
Aisleen sat down on Fiona’s bed, still naked. Her mind was in a haze. Everything she knew about life—men, women, niggers, the moon, the stars, and even God in Heaven—suddenly came crashing down around her.
Lizzie and Meshach were married that Sunday, as planned. Lizzie was radiant in her white dress with the fluffy shoulders and the lacey bodice. Meshach wore his blueboy outfit, it being the only non-raggedy piece of clothing he owned.
The Leone family attended. Fiona, Nathan, Josephine, Aisleen and Abby stood off to the side, looking on approvingly. Shaddy had watched them nervously all week. There was no sign that anything was amiss. He’d been expecting a lynching party at any moment after his last encounter with Aisleen Leone.
Nor was there any sign of a falling out between Miss Aisleen and Miss Fiona. Both of the women smiled graciously and tolerantly throughout the services.
The slaves welcomed the Master and his family into the quarters enthusiastically. No one could remember the last time all of the Leone’s showed up in the slave quarters for such an event. Usually Missus Fiona would attend weddings, births and funerals. Occasionally her daughters would pop by. Nathan almost never attended these shindigs. It amounted to fraternization with his underlings.
Bishop Johnny Jones of the ZION A.M.E. church presided over the festivities. He brought along his four year old son and namesake, Johnny, who was called Johnny Boy.
After Lizzie and Shaddy recited their vows, a ratty old broom was solemnly brought out and placed upon the ground. The newly married couple tiptoed up to the broom. Joyously, the crowd chanted ONE! TWO!! THREE!!! And then Lizzie and Shaddy jumped the broom in tandem, signifying the beginning of their life bonded forever in Christian wedlock. A celebratory cheer went up. There was much backslapping and handshakes. Then Lize and Andra called everyone to the meal.
The Leone’s discreetly departed before the repast. They might attend nigger weddings and such. But they certainly didn’t eat with niggers.
After the party Meshach carried his wife (and her things) from Seth’s home to his. Five minutes later the crowd was treated to the sound of Lizzie’s soulful sexual groans. These continued deep into the night. The crowd laughed and continued to dance and sing well past midnight.
At sun up on Monday, both Lizzie and Meshach reported to Fiona Leone and received their marching orders for the day.
On Wednesday of that same week, Fiona Leone sidled up to Shaddy and lingered her glance down to his crotch then back up to his eyes. Shortly thereafter, she began ordering people away from the big house.
Within a year of Meshach’s marriage, Hank’s new farm was complete. He had his own ‘big house’, modeled loosely after his childhood home except for the addition of a root cellar. He had his own barn. His mother supplied capital for the purchase of a small core of new slaves to work the new farm. Half of Hank’s original slave work crew stayed on with him, including Duck and Howie. Jerome, Homer, Scoop and Wayne returned to the original farm; the latter three had families there.
Martha, too, returned to the original farm. Her budding engagement with Caleb was shattered. He felt that she had been intimate with too many of his friends during her sojourn at Hank’s farm. Martha was only partially dismayed at this turn of events. She’d been forced to fuck each of the black workers at the new farm. This broadening of experience led her conclude that Caleb was a bit undersized. She reckoned his sexual performance to be a bit underwhelming, especially by way of comparison.
Mr. Sullivan agreed to be Hank’s overseer; Fiona Leone hired Mr. Thomas Delaney to replace Mr. Sullivan. The overseer position on each farm was critical. This man kept the niggers in line. By forcing the overseer to be the ‘bad cop’, the Leone’s created a ‘good cop’ conduit by which their slaves might approach them for compassion and, in this manner, elevate the Leone’s to a position of relative safety should a rebellion occur. Overseers knew they were the first line of defense in case the niggers ever rose up. Their job was to keep that heinous idea from ever occurring.
About this time, too, Meshach was ordered back to the fields. Mr. Delaney noted the muscular, rangy lines of Shaddy’s frame and immediately determined that he was far more valuable in the field than in his foofy blueboy outfit. Shaddy’s rotator cuff injury had healed on its own. Fiona Leone knew better than to dispute Delaney’s assessment. What was she going to say? “He has a dick that I find useful from time to time. So he MUST stay!”? Fiona held her peace.
Eight more months passed before Hank and Marlene’s wedding. Like the two prior Leone weddings, this one was resplendent for that day and age. Hank chose to have his wedding at the new farm. This forced his mother and brother to travel to the event. Both his sisters and their husbands attended.
Josephine brought her newborn son Wilson McNulty.
Aisleen Leone handled the preparations for the event, assisted by her mother-in-law. They decorated Hank’s big house and his barn in store-bought taffeta. They placed the tables, even rented china and silver to give the outdoor celebration a touch of class. They outlined a torchlight limned dance floor in the grass, bounded by fence rafters. They slaughtered and slow roasted a steer. Virtually no expense was spared.
In the lead up to the wedding, Marlene and Aisleen found time to sit down and catch up.
Aisleen: “I KNEW you’d get him!! I KNEW it!!!”
Marlene: (giggling) “I knew it, too!!”
Aisleen: “When did he ask you? How did he ask? That’s a beautiful ring!!”
Marlene: “Thank you!! Ain’t it, though? I like it.”
Aisleen: “Well? Give!! What happened? How’d it happen?”
Marlene: “Well, I done it to him in the tent that time he spent the night over to your house, you know, like I told you. I was so hurt when that African nigger girl killt his Pa. You’d think those folks would have some respect for God’s people. Then I didn’t see him for a good little while because, you know, we go to a different church. But one day I got a letter!! And it was from him!!! And he axed me to meet him over to the lake one Sunday!! Of course, I couldn’t do that. Pa would never let me go off in a carriage like that, by myself, with only a nigger to drive me. So I sent him a letter and says, I says: “No, you come see me one night real late and I’ll sneak out then”, you know. I told him to come up on a Thursday night and he done it. He come ridin’ up on a horse like a soldier, like he’d been ridin’ fast and hard. I done it to him again that night (I’ll tell you about that one later!!!), but we couldn’t do it too long because, you know, I had to git back.
“So we done it like that, once’t a month or so, and me thinkin’ I’m gonna get caught out there every time. But I never did. ‘Til finally one Sunday he come riding up to my church…
Aisleen: “So THAT’s where he was. Ever’body was askin’ about him missing our church service…”
Marlene: “…yes, and so he come up to our church and he shakes my daddy’s hand and asks if he can sit in our pew, you know, as a visitor! My Pa grumbles and says ‘yes’. By now, of course, he reckons Hank has got the hots for me. And he does! So after church that day he pulls Hank aside and gives him a see-gar and the two of them took a walk. My Pa come back lookin’ fearsome serious and Hank’s right next to him, with a big smile on his face. And when he come up, my Pa kinda looked at me and give his head a little nod towards Hank, you know, and says Hank’s got somethin’ to say. AND HANK FUMBLED ABOUT IN HIS JACKET A LITTLE AND COME OUT WITH A RING!!! THIS RING!!! And EVERYBODY saw it!!! HONEY? I LIKE TO DIED!!! I jumped up and hugged him and said “YES!!!!” I couldn’t kiss him, you know, because my Pa could tell it warn’t the first time we’d kissed. So I just hugged his head off and give out a whoop! And that’s how we got here today!!!”
Aisleen: “You ain’t done it to him since?”
Marlene: “Pish. Girl, how you talk? When did I git the chance’t to do it to him? They been watchin’ me like a hawk. I cain’t even sneak out my room at night. They put a watchnigger out there, with a dog. I reckon after I got engaged my Pa reckoned that was the time I might be a-wantin’ to sneak off and git me some. But honey? It was too late for that!!”
Aisleen (laughing): “You must be backed up somethin’ fierce!!”
Marlene (quieting): “Honey, backed up ain’t the word for it!!! I’m ‘bout to BUST. If I don’t git some dick up in me soon I’ll just die, I reckon. I’ll just DIE!!!”
Aisleen: “Marley, whatever happened to that nigger we done it with that time? What’s his name? Russell?”
Marlene: “Pa sold him for a mule and some plate glass.”
Aisleen: “Dang!! I was gon’ suggest that we make up a story and ride over to your place to git something you ‘forgot’. Then, whilst we was there, we might could git Russell to give up some coontang, sort of like, you know, a last fling afore you gits married!!”
Marlene: “I know! That would be nice!!! Are you still doing that? Coontang, I mean? It was OK when we was little girls. But you’re married now. And I’m about to be married. I thought that was time to put the nigger dick down?”
Aisleen: “I thought so, too, Marley. I did. And that’s what I did, too. But then Nate started comin’ in late smellin’ like nigger pussy and rollin’ over and fallin’ asleep. It just makes a body mad.”
Marlene: “Ice!! You ain’t been….tell me you ain’t been….”
Aisleen (sighing): “I ain’t wanted to, Marley, and that’s the God’s honest truth. I tried my best. But I found out somethin’ that shook me to the core. No need to go into details. Just take my advice, trust me, a lotta married white women is doing coontang. And they ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about it. I could tell you some stories!!!”
Marlene: “Tell me, Ice. Do tell!!”
Aisleen: “Never you mind ‘bout THAT. You’ll find out soon enough without hearin’ it from me. And when you do, you’ll know it, and then we’ll talk about it. I don’t want to git you all upset and depressed before your wedding day. Just put it out your mind for now.
Marlene (suspiciously): “You got a nigger over to the Leone place?”
Aisleen: “Well, yeah, I got one I can go to from time to time. Mostly he just sucks my pussy out. I don’t trust him to put his dick up in me. I let him do it the once’t and he busted his nuts all over the place.”
Marlene: “Well that’s good. Lord help us if you get preggy with a pickaninny. You cain’t seem to git these niggers to understand that. Why don’t you just let him ride it up your bum?”
Aisleen: “I do. But you know like I know that it ain’t the same. It just ain’t. He gots a big ‘un, too. The whole time he’s up my pooper I’m wishing I could get him up my cooch, you know, just for a little bit. But then I start thinkin’ about all these yaller babies that the nigger girls hoik out. Nathan would kill me if I had a yaller baby.”
Marlene: “That true, too. That boy do gots a temper.”
Aisleen: “Anyway, I don’t go to my nigger too often. Usually just when Nate ain’t around. Sometimes I git him to give me a quickie when I know Nate is down to the quarters.”
Marlene: “Honey, you playing a dangerous game. What happens if Nate comes up whilst you’re away?”
Aisleen: “Ain’t I said I don’t do it often? Jist once’t in awhile. Do you think I’m stupid? Besides, my nigger ain’t been too long married. An’ he gots other white women he’s servicin’.”
Marlene: “Other white women? On the Leone place? Ain’t you and Mother Leone the onliest ones there? You cain’t mean….”
Aisleen: “Ain’t Josephine and BethAnn there, sometimes, too? I ain’t giving out any names. But I will say that lots of white women is doin’ coontang.”
Marlene: “Ice, is your nigger here for the wedding? Did you bring him?”
Aisleen: “No, we left him home. Why? You wanna give him a try?”
Marlene: “Well, I thought maybe you could git him to suck my pussy out. I’ve waited this long to git some dick, I reckon I can wait a few more days. But I wouldn’t mind gittin’ my pussy sucked.”
Aisleen: “That’s all you want? Why you ain’t ask me? I’ve licked your pussy before. What, you ain’t liked it?”
Marlene: “Oh chile!! How long ago was that? Goin’ on ten years I reckon. Both of us was just gittin’ the first hairs on our pussies. And our titties was just comin’ in, too. I ain’t thought about that since it happened. I licked your’n, too, if I recollect proper.”
Aisleen: “It ain’t been ten years. It’s been eight. And neither of us knowed what we was doin’ at the time. We just knowed it felt good. If my nigger licks your pussy, he’ll have your eyes rollin’ back in your head. You’ll be buckin’ around like a summer colt. He does this, kind of, suck-lick thing when he wants to take you over the top. You’ll be wishin’ you could shoot hot jizz into his mouth. The only thing that comes out is these little sparks. But your girly jizz kinda rolls up into your little girly dick and don’t go nowhere, ‘ceptin’ back into your body, maybe. Anyway, it feels really good.”
This comment caused an awkward pause. The two lifelong friends looked at each other with an embarrassing intimacy, the way girls do when the next step is obvious but neither wants to make the first move.
Finally Marlene, with the greater sexual imperative, broke the standoff. She stood resolutely and shed her bloomers to expose her aromatic crimson triangle.
“Dang!! Your carpet has filled in nicely since the last time I saw it!!!” said Aisleen.
Aisleen reached over to brush her thumb against Marlene’s clit admiringly. That sensitive pink organ sprang to attention. Marlene closed her eyes and lolled her head submissively. In this manner she indicated her willingness to mate.
Aisleen used her middle finger to caress Marlene’s vaginal opening. Her friend was already wet; her sexual juices were flowing. Aisleen drew her finger up to her nostrils to take a tentative whiff.
“Mmmmmmm!!” she noted. “Nothing like the smell of fresh pussy!!”
Aisleen took her index finger and slid it as far up Marlene’s cooch as it would go. She withdrew her finger and drew it slowly across her top lip. This pussy was unsullied with jism. Its overpowering aroma reeked of desire laced with the faint essence of hours-old pee.
“I told you so,” said Marlene matter-of-factly.
“Lay back,” ordered Aisleen.
Marlene lay back on the bed and opened her legs. She still had her boots on. She hiked her dress up around her waist. Aisleen doffed her bloomers to expose her own chestnut brown vagina.
“Ice, lock the door,” Marlene whispered. “We don’t need no visitors.”
Aisleen kicked off her boots, then tiptoed to the door and locked it. She strode back to her friend. Marlene opened her legs just a bit wider. Neither woman was a practicing lesbian, so this encounter was a little awkward. There would be no kissing or foreplay. Marlene just needed to get her twat licked.
In her mind Aisleen was asking, “So how does Shaddy do this? Where does he start? How can I repeat what he does?” Up to this point, Aisleen had always been the recipient of such service, not the donor.
Aisleen held her body aloft and gazed down at Marlene’s pussy. Her bushy red jungle was frosty, even crisp. She’d trimmed it neatly such that none of her pubic hair trailed up to her navel, overlapped her thighs or trickled down into her asshole. Yet it was thick and foamy, like a vaginal afro. One might never suspect that a sticky hot cleft lay at the bottom of it. Even her clit was masked by a thick cushion of fur.
Using both hands, Aisleen pushed Marlene’s pubic hair aside to find the primary beneficiary of a good pussy licking—Marlene’s oversized clitoris. There it was, bobbing in anticipation at the northern juncture of her labia. It looked like a fat, miniature football pulsing in a pink cloak of wetness. Aisleen lowered her face to it. When she drew close enough for Marlene to feel her measured breathing, Marlene’s clit preened upwards. She had an erection.
Aisleen dipped and took Marlene’s clitoris in her lips. Marlene moaned audibly. Like any celibate adult or inexperienced teenager, she was already ready to cum. Any sexual attention was good sexual attention.
Aisleen flicked her tongue out the way Shaddy did and graced Marlene’s clit with a series of soft, feathery licks. Marlene’s hips exploded upwards.
“Oh Gawd!!!!” she shrieked.
Aisleen drew back. Both women started laughing.
“Dang!! Has it been that long?” Aisleen chuckled.
“YES!! IT HAS!!! DON’T STOP!!!!” responded Marlene.
Aisleen foraged forward again with her tongue. She clasped her lips about Marlene’s clit and flickered her tongue out in the same manner as before. Again, Marlene arched her hips and slammed her entire pussy into Aisleen’s face.
“AAAUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”
Aisleen laughed again.
“That’s two nuts you’ve busted in two seconds. I guess we’re done here,” she said.
“NO IT’S NOT!! Go back in, Ice!! I’m almost there!! Maybe if you start a little lower and come up to the to the top it won’t be so sensitive!!”
“OK,” said Aisleen. “Hold on. Here goes….”
This time Aisleen probed her tongue down to the entrance of Marlene’s cunt. She poked her tongue out as far as it would go and allowed Marlene to roil her hips such that Aisleen’s tongue eased in and out of her twat like a dick. This worked for a little while. Aisleen’s nose was pressed against Marlene’s clit, however. Each time Marlene’s clit eased up inside one of Aisleen’s nostrils, Marlene bucked and shivered like a rodeo stallion. The two were never quite able to establish a workable licking/sucking rhythm. They were not practicing lesbians.
Five minutes into this frustrating cunnilingual incompetence, Aisleen gave up. She hitched her dress up around her waist the pressed her furry cunt against Marlene’s equally hairy pussy. She aimed her pussy opening at Marlene’s clit and allowed her friend to grind as hard as she might.
Marlene came almost immediately in a shower of sparkling, tinkling lights. She bucked and leapt and growled curse words under her breath as she struggled to plunge her clit deeper into Aisleen’s pussy.
Now Aisleen aimed her own clit into Marlene’s twat so that she might gain friction from her friend’s orgasmic trembling labia. Aisleen, too, climaxed quickly from this mini-insertion.
The two women giggled a bit as they skittered down from these quick summations.
“I usually take a bigger dick than this, Marley,” said Aisleen with mock seriousness.
“Your dick ain’t quite the cucumber I was expectin’, neither,” replied Marlene. “But it felt good!!!”
They rested atop each other, regaining strength. When Aisleen felt the first poke of Marlene’s resurgent mini-dick she began a slow grind by which their two wettened clits pressed and roiled against each other. Soon, they were both fully erect.
Aisleen might not know how to lick pussy, but she did know how to fuck. She aimed her clit against Marley’s clit expertly, grinding against her most sensitive nerve endings with the animus of a full-grown man. She drove her clit between Marley’s labia and sucked Marley’s clit into her own. She even drove her clit against Marley’s asshole, peeking inside for a sniff.
The two friends came repeatedly. When deeper penetration was necessary they used their fingers. Once or twice they used their toes.
On the final go, Aisleen took Marley’s clit into her lips softly and licked it hard and fast. Marlene rocketed into another dimension, devoid of space and time, and skittered back and forth like a comet, showering sparks of lambent light in her wake.
“Whew!!!” Marlene said. “I think I’d be better off marrying YOU!!!”
“I ain’t packin’ cucumber. Remember?” replied her friend.
“Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“You just marry my brother-in-law. We’ll see each other often enough.”
Hank and Marlene’s wedding turned out to be the event of the social season in that Louisiana backwood. Everyone who was anyone attended. Pastor Goins performed the nuptials. Lizzie, Phoebe, Zelma and Cora acted as serving girls. Lize coordinated the wedding dinner.
Marlene acted as the gracious host. She showed everyone around the new farm, noting its efficiencies and taking pains to point out her contributions to the design. They were going to sell tobacco. The first crop was already in the ground.
Meshach did not attend. Fiona dressed up another slave in Shaddy’s blueboy outfit and had him loudly announce each guest upon arrival.
Josephine and BethAnn and Aisleen all attended. Abby was a precocious four-year old now, busy-bodying into everyone’s business except her own. She had an unusually large vocabulary and infinite curiosity about anything and everything. She once asked her grandmother: “Grammy, what’s that smell coming from out of your bottom? You didn’t smell like this yesterday when I sat in your lap. You know sometimes, Mommy smells like that, too!!”
Her cousin Wilson McNulty, Josephine’s boy, was a nine-month-old toddler. He was a tow-headed little boy, still bald, still toothless, with a ready smile and reams of drool for anyone bold enough to pick him up.
During the reception the Leone sisters sat off to the side and told story after story about their youngsters. They wondered aloud when BethAnn Jefferson was going to join the Mommy Club; they speculated as to when the newly married Marlene Leone would jump into the fray.
“You ain’t got to worry ME,” observed BethAnn. “Me and Frankie is doin’ the Lord’s work. The Lord will let us know when it’s time.”
Yet secretly she fretted over her inability to conceive. She fucked her husband almost nightly now and still received Pastor Goins’ cleansings on Fridays. Beth began to suspect that her cleansing sessions scourged her husband’s semen, too.
Of late a dreadful thought even occurred. Could Franklin have nigger blood? It only stood to reason. Pastor’s cleansing sessions only worked on nigger jizz. She had enough of Franklin’s jizz up her cooch to float a boat. Often, she was awash in her husband’s jism when Friday’s came along, and yet she never got pregnant. Pastor MUST be negating Franklin’s offerings in some manner or fashion, she surmised.
What could she do? She wanted to get to heaven with the other white women. So she couldn’t do without the cleansings. But she desperately wanted a child, too. Look at young Abby, over there. Such a BEAUTIFUL child. Strawberry auburn hair. Greenish eyes with hazeline inflections. The white frock Aisleen dressed her up in was adorable!!
Young Wilson was another thing altogether. He, too, was a lovely child. BethAnn loved to pick him up and cuddle. He wasn’t particular; he would go to anyone who reached for him. He didn’t cry much. His big, brown eyes always seemed to be studying the imprint of the face of his coddler. If you held him, he would struggle to his feet on your thighs, balancing himself precariously. Once he achieved balance (only if you held both his hands) he would grin widely, drool, and stare into your eyes with a childish wonder, never allowing his gaze to wander. He was adorable.
And yet BethAnn couldn’t help but wonder. The McNulty’s and the Leone’s were hairy people. Both she and her sister Josephine entered full bush puberty by the age of nine; her brothers reached that pinnacle by age eleven. Abby was born bald but had a full head of hair by eighteen months; her forearms and calves were already laced with silky auburn hairs. This child Wilson was still bald. Too, he didn’t look like a Leone. Or a McNulty, for that matter. He had Josephine’s nose but little else that might identify him as kin.
Robert McNulty was infinitely proud of his son.
“Don’t he look jist like me? Don’t he?” he always asked.
Visitors, eager to affirm Robert’s comparison, would look at both father and son closely, agreeing heartily.
“He shore does!!!” they would say. “You spit that one out!!!!”
They always went away troubled, though.
“That child don’t look nothin’ like Bobby,” was the general consensus. “Other than his nose, he don’t look much like Ed Leone, neither.”
Few people gave it much further thought. Most reckoned that little Wilson would grow into his McNulty heritage with time. “You cain’t tell how a baby is goin’ to look when he’s growed up no how,” they said.
BethAnn noticed Wilson’s curious otherness without comment. If there had been anything to know about it, Josephine would have told her way before now. She noticed that Josephine was the main one hyping the “Don’t he look just like his daddy?” mantra. Just once BethAnn wanted to say, “No. He don’t. Is there something you ain’t telling me?”
But she never did. The inference was too lurid to consider. So she waited for Josephine to broach the subject.
Sitting, now, with the little boy in her lap, she bounced him affectionately. He gurgled his joy. Josephine looked on proudly. Wilson was her first child, hopefully, of many. She reached over and swatted a fly away from her son.
BethAnn had been on the road for most of her sister’s pregnancy and for the majority of young Wilson’s life so far. Of course, she’d been there for the birth. And she’d spent a couple of rushed weekends with the McNulty’s as her evangelical troupe dashed about the state. She hadn’t spent much significant quality time with her sister since their father’s funeral. She hoped to spend an evening gossiping after Hank’s wedding. They were due in Shreveport two days hence; there were many souls that needed saving in that den of iniquity.
Beth refused to give up any time with young Wilson.
“This is MY nephew. I don’t git to see him often. You can hold him for a tee-ninechee minute, then you’ve got to give him back,” she said.
Then she’d hover over whomever it was that took the little boy, making sure that he was returned.
Abby romped like a tomboy in the background, chasing butterflies and dragonflies but never catching either. Inevitably, after failing, she would fall to the ground shrieking in laughter. Then it was on to the next available insect. She was big enough, now, so that she didn’t require coddling or rocking. Aisleen’s efforts to get her to behave like a proper young lady failed miserably. The minute Aisleen turned her head, Abby was off on another romp. Her white frock had survived the wedding; before the reception was ten minutes old her dress was smudged green with grass stains, as were her knees and elbows.
“Auntie Bethy, yuckameeee!!” she screeched, seeking Beth’s attention by doing various tumbles, leaps and rolls.
“That’s good, Abby!” Beth called out patronizingly.
She wasn’t really paying attention. There were scores of other people there willing to placate Nathan’s only daughter with attention.
BethAnn continued to gaze beatifically into Wilson’s eyes. Whom did he resemble in their family? He looked like someone she knew, someone intimately familiar. But whom?
Now there came a ringing sound, spoons tapping against china, calling for silence. Even Abby paused and took notice. Pastor Goins stepped from Hank’s big house.
“Ladies and gentlemen!! I want to introduce to you: Mr. and Mrs. Henry David Leone!! May the Lord Bless and Keep Them!!!”
Hank and Marlene stepped from the home, all smiles and waves. The crowd clapped and cheered. Hand in hand the new couple stood at the head of the receiving line and re-introduced themselves to their neighbors and friends, no longer two separate families, but a new family bonded together in love, a single entity now and forever.
The crowd lined up to meet them. Only the blood relatives held back. Such receiving line familiarities were unnecessary for blood kin. Marlene was now a Leone, like Aisleen, and would be treated with all the privileges and dignities that name allowed.
Beth watched her brother and his new wife graciously accept gifts and kudos from all their friends. Pastor Goins had done his work. Now he drifted into the background and allowed the new couple to bask in the limelight. Beth watched the Pastor linger over to the Franz tables, working those Methodists like a snake oil pitchman. They all laughed over each of the pastor’s witticisms, that is, they all laughed except Daddy Franz, who rarely ever laughed, and certainly never laughed about his religion vis a vis that of his neighbors.
BethAnn monitored the Pastor’s movements half-heartedly. She’d seen him perform at a thousand such venues as this. He delivered his sermon, whether it be for a marriage or a funeral. Then he went about the mission of setting a proper Christian example. He quoted scripture, told jokes or made political observations as the occasion called. He was an expert at getting in and getting out, that is, he made statements that served as food for thought or controversy, and left before either outcome encumbered his egress.
Today was Saturday. BethAnn had missed her regular Friday cleansing. In fact, she often missed Friday cleansings if the traveling troupe was on the road or just getting settled in. Sometimes the pastor would call her in for a Saturday night cleansing. Sometimes not.
“Here he comes now,” she noted silently. “He’s going to tell me whether he has time for me tonight or what.”
Pastor Goins came up and saluted Fiona Leone first, as was proper. Then he sought out Nathan Leone, shook his hand and passed a few jokes. He snatched Abby up and flung her up into the air as a long, lost uncle might. He caught her on the way down. She giggled wildly and demanded that he hoist her aloft again and again.
Now the Pastor took Josephine’s hand and bowed his head grandly, like a debutante meeting a maiden for a summer dance. He did the same for Aisleen. He stepped to BethAnn and offered his hand as if the two were strangers. BethAnn offered up her hand politely.
“And who is this?” the Pastor exclaimed, looking down at Wilson. “None other than young Robert McNulty!! What a fine lad!!!”
He swept young Wilson out of BethAnn’s arms and lifted him up to the sky. Wilson smiled widely in his toddling toothless manner.
BethAnn looked up at the boy’s smile. She looked at Pastor Goins’ smile. Something clicked. The two smiles were almost identical!!
The light of recognition flashed suddenly in her eyes. She turned abruptly to gauge the look on Josephine’s face. Josephine looked down and away to the left. BethAnn turned to confront her mother Fiona. Fiona looked down and away, also to the left.
And then BethAnn knew.
Another year passed before the Leone tribe experienced another major upheaval. (Wilson’s paternity never became an issue. BethAnn confronted her mother and sister about it, then dutifully kept her mouth shut. This was one dirty little family secret that would never see the light of day.)
It happened in this way: Lize went to bed one night and dreamed of fish. Astonishingly, Fiona had the same dream on the same night. Lize mentioned her dream to The Missus the next day. Fiona, who wasn’t sure that she’d had the Fish Dream, now recalled her dream in stunning detail. The implication was clear—someone on the farm was pregnant.
The Fish Dream was one of the few superstitions shared by blacks and whites alike. It was also one of the few superstitions that proved deadly accurate, largely because someone, somewhere was always bound to get pregnant. The Fish Dream pretty much narrowed that ‘someone/somewhere’ combo down to the confines of family. That the black matron and the white matron had concurrent dreams pretty much assured multiple pregnancies.
When the news came it was stunning.
First, Andra pulled Lize aside and whispered that she suspected that her daughter Cora was great with child. The Curse hadn’t visited her in almost four months; she was already developing a small pouch. When confronted about it, Cora burst into tears and ran off. This verified the diagnosis. Both Andra and Lize interrogated Cora after her return. Cora wasn’t sure who the father was; there were several candidates. Andra slapped Cora upside her head with a broom.
This covered Lize’ end of The Fish Dream.
Next, Aisleen popped up late. She didn’t wait to announce it. She had been actively seeking a second child with Nathan for a couple of years. Aisleen was certain her second child would be a boy.
Unlike Cora’s whispered news, Aisleen’s pregnancy was greeted with much fanfare. She was feted, even celebrated by black and white alike. A male heir was on the way!! Josephine, BethAnn, Hank and Marlene made plans to visit home when the news broke.
Before making her announcement, Aisleen took time to calculate her last visit from The Curse and to note her most recent sexual partners. She and Meshach were more or less on a monthly schedule, usually hooking up when Nathan went into town for supplies. She’d never allowed Meshach entry to her vagina after that first encounter. He could cum in her ass as he pleased, but her pussy was off limits. Besides, she enjoyed his voluminous anal eruptions. They seemed to help her stay regular.
Still, Aisleen couldn’t help but wonder that some of his issue might not have crept up into the wrong cavity. She doubted it, but the possibility existed. As with most coontang participants, she wouldn’t know for sure until the child struggled free from her cooch.
Besides, the possibility that child might be bi-racial was remote, Aisleen thought. Only one other black man (other than Meshach) had fucked her—Jerome—and that was months back. She’d allowed him to cum in her snatch. Rather, she was in the throes of a six-minute orgasmic detonation at the time and couldn’t prevent it. She’d had three visits from The Curse since then which made her certain that Jerome couldn’t have been guilty of fathering this child.
By Aisleen’s reckoning, Nathan Leone was the only possible father (which was certainly convenient because he was her husband). It was this confidence that drove her to break the news so early.
Next came some thrilling news from Hank’s farm. Marlene, too, was pregnant. She reckoned that she was about three months along. This would make her child a month or two older than Aisleen’s child if both children carried to term.
Marlene’s news was thunderous. The Leone’s could not have been happier, Fiona most of all. She had two new grandchildren on the way! The news had a noticeable effect on her interactions about the farm. She actually laughed nowadays!! Errors by her serving girls were often met with a smile and a soft reprimand, not a caning.
Fiona spent her days priming her granddaughter Abby for the event. She would sit with the little girl and ask her the typical questions: “Do you want a brother or a sister?” and “When your new brother gets here, you’ll have to love him and protect him and treat him with care. Can you do that?”
Still a child herself, Abby had never experienced the birth of a sibling. She could not have known the full implications of raising a new set of babies or the responsibilities that redounded from being the eldest in that generation. When prodded about it, she parroted Fiona’s news that she would get a new sibling and a new cousin, but she really didn’t grasp its impact, which was this: she would have to share attention. No longer would she be the focal point of everyone’s lives, Wilson notwithstanding.
As if the addition of two new Leones and a new Leone ‘niglet’ weren’t enough, two months later Lizzie announced her pregnancy. This made four new additions. All of the children, even the blacks, would be Leones—the whites by blood, the blacks by ownership.
Lizzie and Cora buddied up for the nine-month long haul. Their children would be ‘cousins’. Cora’s child would be born first. She’d decided that, if the child were a boy, she’d name him Matthew. If a girl, she’d name the child Matilda, or ‘Tilly’ for short.
Lizzie didn’t have much choice in the naming of her first child. Meshach had already told her that the name would be some variant of his father’s name: Charles, if a boy. Charlotte, if a girl.
Cora confided to Lizzie that Jerome was the father of her child.
“Does he know?” Lizzie asked.
“No. I ain’t told him.”
“Why not?”
“’Cuz I ain’t sho’ he de one.”
“Who else could it be, Cora?”
“You knows dat as well as I does, Lizzie.”
It was true. Lizzie did know. Nathan Leone stood a good chance of being the father of Cora’s child. He also stood an outside chance of being the father of Lizzie’s child. Master Nathan got around. Only a dark complexioned child would disqualify Nathan as the male sperm donor. Neither girl would know the real father of her child until the child was actually born.
Whether the slave child was light-skinned or dark-skinned, his or her parents would raise the newborn as their own. No DNA distinctions were made.
If Aisleen’s or Marlene’s child was a shade too dark, however, there would be hell to pay. Neither Nathan nor Hank would acknowledge the child much less raise it. Often such children were smothered by the midwife (she being most often a slave) and declared stillborn. The child’s body was presented to the mother then discreetly disposed of. The white father never actually saw the child. Such was the lot of coontang babies in the South.
One unintended benefit of the white women’s pregnancies was that they no longer had to observe the Non-Cuminpussy Rule, at least not for the duration of their terms. Both Aisleen and Marlene discovered that their pregnancies enhanced their respective libidos well in excess of the normal burn. By contrast, their husbands seemed to think that having sex with a pregnant woman was tantamount to having public sex, that is, having sexual relations while a child was present. Both Hank and Nathan studiously avoided having sex with their wives after their pregnancy announcements and all the more so as the pregnancies proceeded. Aisleen and Marlene took advantage of the impending births by allowing their Negro lovers free reign in their pussies—the blacks could cum at will. Many nights the orgasms they received from these liaisons were the only things providing balm for the pain of bearing the white man’s children.
Lize was the only competent midwife on the farm. She provided childbearing services to every farm within five miles for a small fee (which Fiona appropriated). Lize took Zelma in as an apprentice. Working in tandem, these two would oversee the delivery of all four children. (It had been decided that Aisleen and Marlene would fare better if they bore the final weeks of their pregnancies together, especially insofar as this was Marlene’s first child.)
In April, Cora bore the first child of the new clutch. It was a girl and, like her mother, displayed a mocha cocoa hue. She was not Nathan Leone’s child. Cora named the child Matilda Francine Leone. From the first day she referred to the child as ‘Tilly’. She whispered something to Lize, who then sent for Jerome. Up to that minute Jerome had no clue he was an impending father. His tryst with Cora had been one of many. It was the only time he and Cora had been together. He barely remembered the encounter.
Marlene was next up. Her child, whom she named Jacob Henry Leone, was about a month early. He only weighed about four pounds, but he had a head full of wispy red hair and, once he opened them, the bluest of blue eyes.
Lize took Jacob under her special care. Marlene’s milk failed initially, so Lize gave Jacob to Zelma, who was still nursing Sandra at the time. Zelma put Sandra on one teat and Jacob on the other until Marlene was able to successfully nurse her son. By that time little Jacob would cry for Zelma’s tits if he noticed her anywhere about. Marlene had to banish Zelma from her presence until Jacob got the swing and scent of her pink nipples.
Three weeks after Jacob’s birth, Bennett Thomas Leone was born to Aisleen and Nathan Leone. Like his cousin Jacob, he was a redhead, though his curls were not as deeply crimson. He was a full-term child. At eight pounds he already weighed more than his older cousin.
Aisleen nursed Bennett from the day of his birth. Her tits had been acclimated by his older sister Abby, who bounced about like a pinball demanding to hold and succor the newborn child. Aisleen wisely advised her daughter to wait until young Bennett was older before adding him to her doll collection.
Two new Leone boys!!! Their fathers were monstrously proud.
Hank bragged, “I got it right on the first go. You had to take two shots at it!!!”
Nathan just smirked. His daughter Abby was the light of his life. He wouldn’t have traded her for all the gold in China.
BethAnn and Franklin Jefferson traveled home apart from their evangelical troupe to meet the new arrivals. Josephine McNulty met them there with son Wilson McNulty in tow. (Bobby McNulty was down in New Orleans buying slaves that weekend). Both Leone sisters gushed over their newborn nephews.
“Three weeks apart? They may as well had been twins!! Look at ‘em! ‘Cept for the hair color you cain’t tell ‘em apart!!”
It was true. Jacob and Bennett were full-blooded Leone’s. They were almost identical.
Young Wilson McNulty looked on with interest. He was walking now and could even say a few words. Only the Leone women knew his true lineage. Bobby McNulty was clueless, though Pastor Goins was fully aware. Hank and Nathan Leone accepted Wilson as the eldest male scion from the next generation. It didn’t matter much. A McNulty could never inherit the Leone fortune over the backs his younger Leone male cousins.
BethAnn Jefferson was now the only Leone without a natural born heir. She engineered a private sit down with her mother and sister to discuss her options.
BethAnn: “Mama, I’m the last one.”
Fiona: “Child, not this again. Your time is gonna come.”
BethAnn: “Mama, I don’t know what’s wrong!! I’ve been tryin’ my best!!”
Fiona: “Maybe you need to come in off the road. You and Frankie take a nice break and stay home for a bit.”
BethAnn: “Mama, I don’t think it’s me. I think it’s him!!”
Josephine: “Mmmmmhmmmm. It IS something wrong with him. I knew it!”
Fiona: “Shut up, Josey. It ain’t your place. (turning to Beth) What makes you think that, child?”
BethAnn: “We been married plenty long enough for me to be with child. And I been with Wilson’s daddy, too, and….”
Josephine: “SHUT up, Beth. You cain’t let that go. You’re the one badgered me to give him some. I ain’t wanna do it, IF you’ll remember proper.”
Fiona: “SHUT UP, THE BOTH OF YOU. I’ve said we ain’t gonna talk about that and we AIN’T. Wilson is Bobby’s child and I don’t want to hear ANYTHING different. Especially out of you two hotsy heffahs. BethAnn Rene, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
BethAnn: “Ashamed about what, Mama? Givin’ Pastor some? I ain’t the onliest one givin’ him some. And I ain’t talkin’ about Joey here, neither. He gits a little piece just about everywhere we goes, Mama.”
(Prudently, neither Beth nor Josephine had informed their mother of the pastor’s cleansing sessions. That would have begged the question: “cleansed of what?”. Neither sister wanted to answer that question before their mother. The sisters were unaware that Fiona already knew of their interracial peccadilloes. The two sisters certainly were unaware of Fiona’s affinity for coontang, though an intimate talk with Aisleen might make them a bit wiser, if they believed her.)
Fiona: “Well, I don’t understand it. This is supposed to be a Man of God and he’s rackin’ up more outside chilluns than a li’l bit. Did you see the way he looks at li’l Wilson? The boy might as well be a stranger. You’d think he’d at least show a glimmer of recognition of his kin, the least li’l bit of favoritism, without lettin’ on to Bobby. He might could slip the child a bit of store bought candy ever’ once’t in awhile. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
Josephine: “Mama, I tole you he’s doin’ what I axed him to do. I cain’t afford for Bobby to even git the faintest whisper that Wilson ain’t his’n. He’d kill me. Then he’d go and kill the pastor. Jist leave well enough alone, Mama.”
Fiona: “I just think that…”
Josephine: “Mama, hush!! We ain’t here to talk about me. We’re here to figure out what to do about Beth!”
Fiona pursed her lips and glared. She looked away disgustedly.
Josephine (to BethAnn): “You let Pastor shoot his jizz up in you every time?”
BethAnn: “Yes. I have to. It’s the only way to…”
Fiona: “The only way to what, girl? Have a baby by somebody other than your husband?”
Josephine glared at her sister. She’d almost let the cat out of the bag.
BethAnn (straightening): “The onliest way he likes it, Mama.”
Fiona: “Well, what kind of muddleheaded reasoning is that? Do you let every Tom, Dick and Harry leave his mustard in your cooch just because that’s what they like? I still don’t understand how the two of you got caught up in the cut with Pastor! BOTH of my daughters!! Layin’ up with the preacher!!! I lay I never….”
Josephine: “Mama, I told you to hush!!! What’s done is done!! You gotta drag ever’ last bit of drama out of every situation, Mama!! You’ll git us ALL messed up with our husbands, Mama, just because you don’t know when to be quiet!! (now turning to Beth) Bethy, you ain’t flushed Pastor’s jizz out with lye soap or nothin’? ‘Cuz we might don’t know if Frankie can make a baby, but Pastor certainly can. And has.”
BethAnn: “No, I ain’t washed out my cooch with lye soap. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m tryin’ to have a baby here!! Ever’body knows that you cain’t git a baby if you wash with lye soap the next day!!”
Josephine: “So you hold it up in you with a clench? Sometimes you gotta let it percolate and git ripe, you know.”
Fiona: “Oh, don’t be nasty, chile!!! You ain’t got to say it like that. I had four young ‘uns and I ain’t did nothin’ like you mentioned just now. It just happened kinda natural, like.”
BethAnn: “Well, it ain’t happenin’ natural with me. All my brothers and sisters is havin’ babies and I’m left out in the cold. It ain’t fair, Mama!!! It just ain’t fair!!!”
Fiona: “Calm yourself, child. Fussin’ and worryin’ about it ain’t likely to make it happen. Are you comfortable with your husband? I seem to remember early on that you and him was havin’ some problems gittin’ broken in.”
BethAnn: “Oh, Mama, that was years ago. After Pa’s funeral things got better. We’re doin’ it pretty regular now.”
Fiona: “Well, if you’re doin’ it pretty regular AND you got a standing date with the Pastor, I cain’t figure out what’s wrong. You look healthy enough to me. Have you tried different positions? Me and your Pa used to….”
Josephine: “MAMA!!!”
Fiona: “I’m just tellin’ you what I know.”
Josephine: “Well, you ain’t got to tell us about all that, please. We’ll tell YOU. But you ain’t gotta tell US about you and Pa. OK?
All three women laughed at this truism. No child wants to know the details of his or her parent’s sex life. It cuts to the heart of a parent’s infallible moral purity and/or the perception thereof.
BethAnn (sobering): “Franklin likes to put his tongue up in me. I think he’d rather put his tongue up there than his dick.”
Josephine (sarcastically): “Hmmmmph.”
Fiona (ignoring Josephine): “Does he ALWAYS put his tongue up in you, every time?”
BethAnn: “Yes, I reckon. He don’t care if I’ve washed first. He don’t care if I’ve pookied five minutes before. And he’ll stay down there, I don’t care if it’s been a hour. And then he wants to put his dick in my mouth for the next hour. By the time he gits around to actually making a baby I reckon all his baby-making material is tapped out.”
Fiona: “Well there’s your problem right there!! All the strong baby-makin’ material ends up in your stomach!!! That ain’t no way to have a baby!!! By the time he gits around to soakin’ your cooch, all you’re gittin’ is the leftovers and the duds!!!”
BethAnn: “MAMA!!!”
Fiona: “Don’t you ‘MAMA’ me, my girlie!! I know what I’m about. The next time, when he gits finished tonguing you, you pull him right up and take his first shot up your pooncey, full on. And take the second one like that, too. Hell, you can swallow the leftovers and the duds later on. ‘Twon’t do you no harm.”
BethAnn: “MAMA!! PLEASE!!!”
Josephine: “She’s right, Bethy. You should listen to her. But it still don’t ‘splain one thing.”
BethAnn: “What’s that?”
Josephine: “Pastor likes to git sucked ‘bout as much as any man I’ve met. But he don’t make no ‘stinctions ‘tween a throat and a coochie. He’ll go for whichever one is closest to his dick at the time he wants to put it in. If you’re so regular with the pastor, you must have taken his first shot up your pussy…”
Fiona: “Josey!!”
Josephine: “…up your cooch at some point, full on. He ain’t firin’ out duds and leftovers. You know what I mean?”
Fiona: “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that.”
BethAnn (quietly): “Pastor allus wants me to suck him first. Always.”
Josephine: “Always? Hmmmph. When he was doin’ it to me, he allus wanted to put it in doggystyle first. Always.”
BethAnn: “Maybe I can suck a dick better’n you, Joey.”
Josephine: “Hmmmmph. And maybe my pussy is better’n your’n, girly.”
BethAnn: “It ain’t, you know.”
Josephine: “It IS, you know.”
BethAnn: “AIN’T!!”
Josephine: “IS!!!”
Fiona: “SHUT IT UP, the both of you! I ain’t got time for this foolishness. Bethy, the next time to git to ‘knowin’ your husband, I want you to take his first fruits up your cooch, you hear me? Don’t wait for the stragglers and the tail-enders, the third and fourth timers. And you git his first fruits ever’ time out, you hear me? Up the cooch, Bethy. Ain’t no child ever come wigglin’ out of a woman’s belly by way of her mouth. All children come out the cooch!! The cooch is the thing, chile. You remember that.”
BethAnn: “Yes’m.”
Fiona poked out her lips and gave her best “Are we done here?” look.
BethAnn: “Mama? What if it’s me, Mama? What if I can’t have children?”
Her eyes teared up.
Fiona: “It ain’t you, child. You’re a Leone. Act like it.”
BethAnn: “Yes’m.”
Charles Nelson Leone was born on the third Saturday in August of 1824 to Elizabeth and Meshach Leone. His first name descended from his long lost paternal grandfather. His middle name was awarded by his mother, she having become enamored of it as a youngster upon being told the heroic story of a British naval officer named Nelson. Charlie’s last name redounded, of course, from his owners.
Like his cousin Tilly, Charles was a dark chocolate little boy with large, inquisitive eyes and chubby cheeks. He had a full head of soft ebon curls largely due to his mother’s genetics. He had large hands and feet for a newborn, courtesy of his father.
Lizzie doted over the boy. She and Cora often took turns nursing Charlie and Tilly in tandem, one on each teat. Even more often these new mothers would sit out under the large shade tree behind the big house and nurse their children alongside Zelma and Miss Aisleen while Abby bounced from mother to mother, asking embarrassing questions about the proceedings. Most of the nipples Abby saw were black. Only her mother’s nipples were pink. Abby stared down her shirt at her own flat, pink nipples and wondered why her breasts weren’t as pronounced as those of her elders. Aisleen patted Abby on the head and told her that her time would come. This didn’t stop young Abby from tugging at her own nipples in a vain attempt to hasten puberty. She wanted a real set of grown up tits.
Life on the Leone farm settled into a matronly phase what with all the sudden new additions. Nathan still worked the field hands ragged, but Fiona allowed all the new mothers leeway to bond with their children. A woman nursing a child had much more free time than those whose breasts were unencumbered.
During this time, too, little Abby (now almost six) took little Sandra under her wing. The two little girls became inseparable. Aisleen found Sandra’s youthful exuberance to be a welcome respite from Abby’s incessant questioning. Abby and Sandra ranged the farm like a crew of tomboy auditors, examining ant mounds and horse stalls, catching toads and harassing dogs, farting loudly and laughing raucously afterward.
Evenings, when Master Nate returned from the fields, Abby would mount his back and ride him as if he were a horse. She insisted that Sandra join her atop her steed, and Sandra did. Sandra was barely three years old. The racial realities of her position had yet to be imprinted. Master Nate felt derelict in his duty for letting a black girl ride him like this. It was altogether too familiar. In truth, Abby’s will superceded all others. And so Master Nathan sublimated his white man’s authority and played with his daughter’s half-white half-sister.
The farm’s long time secret interracial sexual incursions proceeded with unabated relish. Fiona still found time to sneak Meshach (now a field hand) into her bedroom, usually on lazy Saturday afternoons, where she fucked him until the dazzling lightstreams of her orgasms left her blinded and winded. She guzzled his semen like a drunkard. She humped him with a fervor that belied her age. Lizzie knew not to approach her husband for sex after his Saturday afternoon disappearances. He was almost guaranteed to be useless in bed.
Josephine would travel home occasionally, too, bringing young Wilson in tow. During her stay Shaddy was almost sure to disappear for an hour or three late at night and come home to Lizzie all limp and stinky. Lizzie stifled her jealousy. She was always awake when he returned just before dawn. She would take his penis out and sniff it at close quarters. It always smelled of cunt. She’d sigh and put his cock back in his trousers, then roll over and fall asleep. When she awakened the incident would be forgotten. He’d warned her that he had to “do some things”. Apparently, he was following up on that promise.
Shaddy and Aisleen also had their little thing going, though her duties to her newborn son Bennett made their trysts somewhat irregular. Aisleen liked getting fucked up the ass. She liked getting shaken to the very core. Meshach’s mighty staff plumbed further into her rectum than any prior intruder, so Aisleen reserved that orifice for her coontang forays, reasoning that she wasn’t committing adultery in doing so. She reserved her pussy for her husband. After all, the cooch was the thing, right?
Still, Nathan spent more and more time down in the slave quarters. Some nights he took a horse and visited neighboring slave quarters, sometimes paying a fee to do so. He rarely visited his wife’s cooch more than once a week. He never visited when she was pregnant, preferring to be blown.
Meshach fucked Aisleen silly during her pregnancy making extensive use of both her southern holes. Bennett’s birth had been relatively easy for her because her cervix was battle-tested—elastic.
Aisleen appreciated Meshach’s diligence and came to rely upon him for sexual servicing more and more. This didn’t mean she wasn’t careful. After Bennett’s birth she went straight back to their anal routine. Nature then forced her to bend the Non-Cuminpussy Rule just a bit. Her pussy needed more attention than it was getting. She trained herself to cum quickly when Shaddy’s dick was up her cooch. After coming, she would ease her pussy off his still erect cock and slip it back into her ass so that he might spill his seed into that infertile tunnel, thus saving her the worry of an unwanted interracial pregnancy.
Nathan visited Meshach’s cabin at least once a week and fucked Lizzie in Meshach’s bed (except, of course, during her pregnancy). He’d simply appear in Meshach’s doorway some evening and order Shaddy to be elsewhere. Unlike Aisleen, Nathan made no provisions to prevent Lizzie’s pregnancy. He fucked her mouth, he fucked her tits, he fucked her ass. When he was ready to cum, he came. If he happened to be in Lizzie’s curly pussy at the time, oh well.
Meshach took these intrusions stoically. He began to time Nathan’s visits. After all, he needed to find something productive to do while his owner was fucking his wife. Meshach had a pretty good idea of what that thing might be.
Shaddy timed Nathan out at close to an hour for each conjugal visit with Lizzie. Using this as a baseline, he approached Missus Fiona with a proposition. Whenever she heard a single knock, a pause, and then two quick taps on her bedroom window, that was her queue to surreptitiously leave her bedroom and slip out to the tiny addition bedroom attached to the big house. They didn’t have much time. The little addition was a safe room inasmuch as Nathan would be returning home from the other side of the house. There was no danger in either of them being seen entering or exiting the room.
Fiona readily agreed. Their Saturday afternoon rendezvous’ were few and far between. This new schedule was a welcome salve for her middle-aged lust.
Additionally, Shaddy now gave Lizzie instructions to keep Nathan occupied for the full hour. “Never allow him to leave early,” Meshach ordered.
At first Lizzie didn’t understand. Was her husband asking her to extend the timetable of these rapes? Once she got married, Lizzie no longer felt the need to weave her intoxicating sexual dance for anyone but her husband. She fucked Nathan with none of the primal animus she’d employed prior to getting married. She fucked him because he held the power of life and death over she and her family. She hoped against hope that he would cum prematurely and so curtail the assault. To that end she lay perfectly still while Nathan humped her, only moving as he specifically instructed. And now Shaddy was asking her to extend?
Taciturn as ever, Shaddy said, “Just do like I said. I’ll hook you up after he leaves.”
Lizzie knew what this meant: a bigger dick was coming. Too, it meant that she could use whatever means necessary to occupy Master Nate while Meshach completed whatever task he set for himself. She didn’t have to be fucking Nathan the entire time.
She chose the time honored method women use to cause men to linger in bed:
“(Breathlessly)
I almost came that time!! Whew!!”
Predictably, this simple subterfuge worked. Nathan made sure to gather his strength for another try each time Lizzie employed this timeless dodge. Meshach and Fiona never once had to worry about tweaking Master Nate’s suspicions as long as Lizzie was on the case.
Master Nathan also continued his surreptitious relationships with Zelma and Cora. He added Martha to his stable, too. Of late, Zelma had been his favorite. She had her own cabin where she lived with her sister Phoebe and her daughter Sandra. Nathan didn’t even bother asking Phoebe to leave when he visited Zelma in the night. Often, Phoebe and Sandra would sit on the side of Phoebe’s bed and watch as Nathan humped Zelma. After he left there would be no explanations or conversation. Zelma simply picked up her child and nursed her. Then she, Phoebe and Sandra would fall asleep.
In this manner the existing clandestine relationships on the Leone farm continued along historical lines. New relationships among the slaves blossomed and foundered. Interracial relationships required a level of discretion that intra-racial relationship did not.
One new slave relationship had the potential to upset the entire apple cart.
Phoebe was nineteen now and, except for her frequent masturbatory devolutions, was still technically a virgin. This hadn’t escaped the notice of the white master of the farm. He was just too consumed with Zelma to pay Phoebe much mind.
Phoebe was a bit taller than her older sister. She possessed a similar body type, displaying voluptuous curves and pendulous breasts. Her hair was long and curly; she parted it down the middle and wore it in a tousled heap down to her shoulder blades. Her forearms and calves were graced with silky strands of hair. A line of silken pubic hair ran up from her panty line to her navel. Her nipples were brown, not black. Her skin was golden cinnamon. Her eyes were large. She had a dimple in her chin and sensuous lips. Her ass was wide. It jiggled when she walked.
Many men lusted after the young woman. Zelma protected her maniacally. While Zelma had a long and fruitful sexual history dating back to her early teens, Phoebe had none. Every attempt to entice Phoebe into bed was met with an ominous growl from her elder sibling. Zelma shadowed Phoebe like a hawk.
After Caleb broke up with Martha he began to notice Phoebe. It started innocently enough. Caleb came in from the field one evening and Phoebe happened to be at the water pump. She offered him some water. Caleb was parched. He thought the water Phoebe offered to be the coldest and most delicious he’d ever tasted. He thanked her profusely. She smiled and tucked her head into her shoulder the way women do. And that was that. Phoebe began to dominate his thoughts.
Caleb and Zelma were the same age. They’d grown up together on the farm. They’d had a couple of fumbling sexual encounters in their early teens (mostly initiated by Zelma), yet found that they were better suited as friends than lovers.
One time Zelma got into a fist fight with Hoke, a male slave from a neighboring farm. Caleb stepped in and whipped Hoke’s ass (with a generous assist from Zelma, who scarred the boy with her nails, downed him with a vicious kick to the groin and finished him off by pissing in his face while he was on the ground). This solidified Zelma and Caleb’s friendship. It was Zelma who’d hooked Caleb up with Martha.
It didn’t take Zelma long to notice the understated tone and sidelong glances between Caleb and Phoebe. At first she was stunned. Caleb was like a brother! This thing was a monstrous incestuous betrayal.
Not one to hold her tongue, Zelma accosted the young man one day.
Zelma: “What IN THE FUCK is you doin’ eyeballin’ my baby sister?”
Caleb: “What?! I ain’t eyeballin’ Phoebe!!”
Zelma: “Youse a lie. I seen you doin’ it. I seen her eyeballin’ you back. She likes you. How long is dis been goin’ on?”
Caleb (smiling): “She likes me?”
Zelma: “Nigga, how you talk. Youse a fool if you don’t think so. I knows bof’ a youse. You ain’t foolin’ nobody.”
Caleb: “But…but…”
Zelma: “Nigga, is you done did it to my sister? Tell me RIGHT now.”
Caleb: “Did it? NO!! I….”
Zelma scrutinized him closely. He wasn’t lying.
Zelma: “You sho’? ‘Cause if you did, I’m whippin’ dat ass.”
Caleb: “I ain’t touched her!! She gimme some water the other week. Other’n that, nothin’!!”
Zelma glared at him. He didn’t shrink from her. It was obvious he was telling the truth.
Zelma (chuckling): “Well, OK. N’ don’ lemme catched you alone wit’ her, neither.”
Caleb: “Say, Zelly? Ummmm, what if I does likes her? You know I ain’t gwine harm her or nuttin’. I think she’s a fine gal, is all.”
Zelma: “A fine g-..? OF COSE SHE FINE!! She related to me, ain’t she?”
Caleb: “I ain’t mean it like dat, Zelly.
Zelma: “I hooked you up wid a fine gal: Martha. ‘N look what you did.”
Caleb: “Oh pshaw. Duck and Homer and ever’body else been up in her pussy, ‘n I gots to lissen to ‘em tellin’ me about it? Dat ain’t gon’ happen.”
Zelma: “Duck and Jerome been up in MY pussy, too, ‘n you ain’t say nuttin’ ‘bout DAT. If I remember correct, YOU tried to git up in my pussy one time, too, when we was young ‘uns, ‘n only got a little ways in before you washed out.”
Caleb: “Oh hush. Dat’s been ten years gon’ by.”
Zelma: “Well, hmmmmph. You cain’t say nuttin’ ‘bout Martha without lookin’ at yo’ own self. Me and you is pards. Is I’m a ho, too? ‘Cause dass whut you sayin’ ‘bout Martha.”
Caleb: “Ain’t we been through this already? I ain’t gittin’ back wit’ Martha. Period. I’m done wit’ her.”
Zelma: “An’ now you wants me to hook you up wit’ my sister. She ain’t done it wit’ nobody yet, you know. NOBODY.”
Caleb (sulking): “I know.”
Zelma: “Well why you wanna do it to her? She don’t know what she doin’. If you need to do it to somebody, why you ain’t just axe me? I’ll give you some. Not a whole lot, but jist enough to tide you over. You know dat.”
Caleb (still sulking): “I know.”
Zelma: “Well?”
Caleb: “It ain’t de same, Zelly. You and me is pards. Is we start doin’ it, we won’t be pards no mo’.”
Zelma: “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout gittin’ married to yo’ dumbass. Dass de bess way to not be pards. I’m talkin’ bout breakin’ you off a piece o’ pussy ‘cause you need it an’ I got more’n I need. Martha says you got a li’l bitta stayin’ power now.”
Caleb: “And whut? You gon’ go on Martha’s word now? If you givin’ out free pussy I’ll take it. But dat ain’t whut I axed you.”
Zelma: “I ain’t givin’ out free pussy ‘cause it ain’t no such thing. I’m tryna help you, is all. One day I’m-a need sump’n from YOU.”
Caleb (pivoting): “You said Phoebe likes me. Do she?”
Zelma: “What you want me to do, axe her? I knows what I knows.”
Later that night, just after Nathan buttoned up his trousers and left, Zelma sat up and swung her legs over the side of her bed. She was sweaty, musky and naked. Semen oozed from her snatch and her tits like sticky white molasses. She brushed dangling curls away from her eyes.
Phoebe sat across from Zelma holding Sandra in her arms. She rocked the child gently. Both of them were watching Zelma dispassionately. Their curiosity over Zelma’s sexual patterns, if ever it existed, had long since dissipated. The three of them lived in a one-room shack. Most of the black children in that era grew up watching their parents have sex. There just wasn’t enough living space to accommodate privacy.
Even Zelma’s nakedness was no cause for alarm. She was often naked. Phoebe, too. On this night Zelma made no move to don her clothing. Instead, she reached for a damp cloth to wipe Nathan’s semen away from her tits. Sandra might want to nurse.
Something was troubling Zelma. She struggled for words to describe it. At the age of nineteen, Phoebe was still a virgin, six years past the time when most girls lost that maidenhead. Zelma had viewed Phoebe’s chastity with pride up until recently, when it occurred to her that Phoebe had been curiously incurious about Zelma’s sexual proclivities. She’d watched Zelma have sex hundreds of times without comment.
Zelma wondered if her sister might not be a “woman’s woman”. It was Zelma’s recent conversation with Caleb that drove this line of thought. Phoebe was a beautiful girl, attracting the attention of many. Her demure glances at Caleb were the first heterosexual responses that Zelma had noticed. Usually, Phoebe took the lascivious glares of lustful males with the same level of indifference that she displayed after Zelma’s sexual trysts. She just seemed to be totally oblivious.
Zelma had certainly experienced lesbian sex with both Lizzie and Cora. But she was no “woman’s woman”. A hot tongue was simply no replacement for a hard, thrusting cock.
Now sitting across from Phoebe on her bed, Zelma figured it was time for them to have “The Talk”. Zelma opened with a rhetorical query designed to get Phoebe’s attention.
Zelma: “Phoebe, is it sump’n you wanted to axe me?”
Phoebe: “No. Do it look like I want to axe sump’n?”
Zelma: “No. You allus look de same. But I knows you. You gots sump’n on yo’ mind.”
Phoebe: “No.”
Zelma: “Here, lemme hold Sandra. She look like she hungry.”
Phoebe handed Sandra to her mother. Zelma offered Sandra a teat. The child latched on happily. In a few minutes she was asleep.
Zelma: “What’s all this goin’ on ‘twixt you and Caleb?”
Phoebe was shocked. Had the gossip started already?
Phoebe: “Who told you that!! I ain’t got nuttin’ goin’ on wit’ Caleb!!”
Zelma: “Girl, hush. Anybody can see the two of you sniffin’ ‘round each other, moonin’ and goin’ on. I ain’t stupid.”
Phoebe: “I ain’t moonin’ ‘round nobody. I ain’t stud’in’ ‘bout no Caleb, neither.”
Zelma: “Oh, stop. I seen you eyeballin’ him my damn self. When he comes around you git all sweetsy.”
Phoebe: “You don’ know what you talkin’ about.”
Zelma (sighing): “OK. We’ll git back to Caleb later. I have another question. When de mens comes up in here and you sees me doin’ it to ‘em, how come you don’t say nuttin’?”
Phoebe (embarrassed): “I don’ know.”
Zelma: “Yes you do. Tell me.”
Phoebe: “I don’ know, I say! I figure it’s yo’ business. It ain’t up to me to say.”
Zelma: “But when you see me doin’ it to ‘em, how come you don’t axe how it feel or nuttin’? Don’t seein’ it make yo’ stomach feel sticky? Don’t it make yo’ coochie wet?”
Phoebe: “Well, yeah, sometimes.”
Zelma: “Well how come you ain’t axe me about it? Don’t sometimes you feel like you wanna try it yo’self?”
Phoebe: “Well….sometimes. But you tole me you’d whup me if I did.”
Zelma: “That was when you was a chile!! Youse grown now!! I ain’t tellin’ you to go out an’ having some ruttin’ crackuh come sneakin’ up to yo’ bed at night, but one day you gots to know what it feels like to have a man up b’twixt yo’ legs.”
Phoebe: “OK.”
Zelma: “OKAY?!?? What’s DAT mean? I’m jist tryna figure out where you at wit’ Caleb. Don’ let me come up in here and find you and him doin’ it in my house. You go off to the barn an’ do it, late, like reg’lar folks.”
Phoebe: “I ain’t fix’n to do it wit’ no Caleb!”
Zelma: “Why not? You likes him well enough, I can see.”
Phoebe: “Likin’ him and letting him put his thang up in me is two diff’rent thangs.”
Zelma: “How you know? You might like havin’ his ‘thang’ up in you.”
Phoebe: “Martha says his ‘thang’ ain’t all that.”
Zelma: “You been talkin’ to Martha?”
Phoebe: “I is. An’ she said his ‘thang’ ain’t even as big as Marse Nate’s ‘thang’.
Zelma: “Lawd have mercy!!! How you know YO’ thang can han’le ANYTHANG? Far as I know, you ain’t had NO ‘thang’ up in YO’ ‘thang’.”
Phoebe: “So?”
Zelma: “So you ain’t got nuttin’ to compare it wit’, is whut I’m sayin’. Besides, Martha’s ‘thang’ got plenty mo’ experience’n YO’ ‘thang’, and can prolly take Marse Nate an’ a coupl’a other niggers besides!”
Phoebe: “Well, Caleb ain’t axed me for none o’ my ‘thang’. ‘N I wouldn’t know whut to do if he did.”
Zelma: “Ain’t you been watching me close? Do whut I do.”
Phoebe: “If I do whut you do, one day Marse Nate’ll be up in here wantin’ to be puttin’ his ‘thang’ up in me. ‘N I don’t want that.”
Zelma became pensive. Phoebe had spoken true. It was also true that one day Nate would insist upon despoiling Phoebe, regardless of Zelma’s presence or consent. Phoebe was his property. Nothing could be done about it when that time came.
Considering that day, Zelma experienced a little thrill of rage.
“If dat
fucker comes up in here rapin’ my baby sister, I’ll kill him,” she thought. “Just like Hannah done wit’ his Pa.”
Zelma was aware that she was closely related to the white Leone’s in some manner, although she wasn’t privy to the specifics. This unacknowledged relationship complicated Zelma’s thinking about Master Nate. As a slave, Zelma was Nathan’s poontang cumbucket. She accepted that role. But as Phoebe’s big sister and primary guardian, Zelma felt the passion of a parent for a child. She would die to protect her.
Zelma (returning from her pensive soiree): “You lemme worry about Marse Nate, OK? Now I got one mo’ question. If Caleb DO axe you for some’a yo’ ‘thang’, is you gwine gi’ven him some?”
Phoebe (blushing): “I might. I mean, I would if you won’t whup me for it.”
Zelma: “Hmmmmph. An’ you ain’t skeered?”
Phoebe: “No. I seen you doin’ it often enough. It don’t hurt, I reckon.”
Zelma: “If it don’t hurt a little, you ain’t doin’ it right.”
The following Saturday afternoon found Zelma leading Phoebe down the rocky, overgrown path to the backwoods spring almost a half-mile west of the farm. The two sisters had spent countless hours splashing about in this spring as children. As adults neither woman found much time to sneak off for a swim.
Back at the farm Lize was tending to Abby, Sandra and Bennett that afternoon. Lize enlisted Lizzie to nurse Bennett alongside Charlie. Fiona and Aisleen were off attending a church seminar that explained where Cain got his wife and what she was doing before Cain showed up. Overseer Thomas Delaney was in charge of the farm. That savvy man took a count of his charges early that morning then disappeared into Cora’s cavernous pussy for the day.
Zelma and Phoebe talked as they picked their way down the trail.
Zelma: “I don’t want you to be nervous about dis. Dere ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about.”
Phoebe: “I coulda come by myself. You ain’t had to be here.”
Zelma: “Nah, don’ git your fur stirred up. We talked about dis. I wanna make sho’ you don’ has no troubles. Once I see that you got a han’le on it, I’ll leave you ‘lone.”
Phoebe: “Yeah, but…”
Zelma: “Dere ain’t no ‘Yeah buts’ about it. I’m gon’ watch for a li’l while an’ den I’m gon’ on back to de house. You’ve watched me often enough.”
Phoebe: “I ain’t watched you on yo’ first time!!”
Zelma: “It don’ make no diffunce whether it’s de fust time or de thousand hundredth time. It’s always de same thing. Nah, I’ve worked dis out wid him and dis is de way its gon’ be. You hear me?”
Phoebe: “Yes’m.”
Presently the trail widened into a luxuriant tropical paradise with crystalline waters whose glassy reflection was only marred by the odd dragonfly and, occasionally, a leaping largemouth bass. The spring was drenched in the high-pitched buzzing of cicadas and the mating calls of frogs. Huge butterflies flitted amidst riots of colorful wildflowers and water lilies.
Zelma and Phoebe inhaled this glorious whiff of freedom. This wild kingdom was the closest they would ever come to self-determination.
Spontaneously, both women stripped naked and bolted for the water. Their tits flopped ridiculously as they fought each other for the privilege of being first to the spring. When Phoebe surged ahead, Zelma would grab her wrist from behind to pull her back. Phoebe returned the favor when Zelma managed to get a step ahead. They laughed and wrestled and tumbled about like children.
Phoebe finally yanked her wrist from Zelma’s grasp and tumbled backward into the water. She bounced up immediately from the shock of the cold spring, whooping and laughing. Zelma stood on the bank with folded arms.
“I ain’t wanna git in first anyway,” she said. “I knowed it was gwine be cold.”
Phoebe ignored her. She turned and took a full header into the deeper waters, undulating her body like a dolphin until she emerged again on the surface, whereupon she struck out across the spring using a strong freestyle stroke. The spring deepened to fourteen feet at points. Phoebe could still see clear to the bottom. Felled trees littered the watery landscape; she could see turtles and fishes beneath her, dashing about in a frenzy to be elsewhere as she approached.
“I wish’d I could do dis ever’ day,” she thought as she sliced her way thru the water.
Behind her, Zelma was dipping her feet daintily into the spring. She wasn’t about to go crashing head first into this frozen pool like a drunken polar bear and come up shivering from frostbite. No, she was going to get acclimated to the cold like a woman with some sense.
By the time Phoebe crossed the spring and returned, Zelma was just getting into knee-deep water. Phoebe didn’t wait for her. She turned and swam another lap. When she returned a second time, the crystal clear waters were lapping against Zelma’s hips. It wasn’t until Phoebe’s fifth lap that she passed Zelma heading the other way.
Zelma pulled herself up on the far shore and quit. She squatted on her haunches, air-drying, as she waited for Phoebe to catch up.
“Come on here, girl,” she called out.
Phoebe didn’t reply. She touched the far shore then turned to swim another lap.
Zelma didn’t complain about this disobedience. She wasn’t sure that she was doing the right thing by being here. Caleb was somewhere out in these woods. He was either hiding out or on his way.
In her concern about Phoebe’s late-bloomer status, she’d arranged for Caleb to take Phoebe’s virginity. It was her plan to micro-manage this event, even to the point of demonstrating proper technique to her younger sister. Caleb was a friend; he liked Phoebe. This was fortuitous, she thought, because she didn’t think Phoebe could (or should) endure some of the better-endowed bucks on the farm. Not for her first time, anyway.
No one had performed this service for Zelma when she came of age. She always regretted that her mother had not been around to instruct her in the ways of men. So she was going to perform this service for Phoebe and perhaps give her something to remember and pass on to her own daughter, when and if that time came.
“Hey, Zelly,” came a voice from behind her. It was Caleb. He’d been waiting for them for an hour. Zelma was not surprised to hear his voice. She turned to greet him.
“Hey Caleb,” she replied nonchalantly.
“You sho’ you wanna do dis?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess. Is YOU ready?”
“I been thinkin’ about dis all day and yesterday. I’se ready.”
“OK. Here she come. Don’ say nuttin’ til I axe you, OK?”
“OK.”
Phoebe pulled herself from the crystalline waters like a golden goddess. She wrapped her hair into her small fists and wringed it out like a mop. Her brown nipples stood out prominently; the line of her cleft split the curly black pubes of her cunt. Water beaded and ran off her skin as if she were made of butter.
More importantly, there was neither fear nor shame in her eyes. She stood naked before Caleb, a man that would soon part her cleft and leave his seed inside her, if all went according to plan. She had no problems with that end of the equation. She only wished that her sister would understand her desire for privacy during the process. Why couldn’t Zelma just go home? Or, at least go and stand guard along the trail against the intrusion of unwanted visitors? This being Zelma, she knew that neither of these things were probable. Not in a million years.
“Hi, Caleb,” she offered, still wringing out her hair.
“Hi, Phoebe,” he replied.
Seeing both women standing unabashedly naked before him, Caleb’s nature began to rise. His hardening penis made a distinctive poke against the fabric of his raggedy shorts. Zelma noticed immediately.
“See dis?” she said to Phoebe, pointing to his bulge. “Dis de fust thing that’ll happen to a man when he see a neckid woman an’ he like what he see. You ain’t gotta touch it. Dis happen by itself.”
“I seen it befo’, Zelma,” said Phoebe.
“You seen it happen without me touchin’ it or suckin’ it?”
“Oh. Well, um, no. I don’t think so.”
“Den shut up and lemme do de ‘splainin’.”
Phoebe pursed her lips and fell silent.
“Nah, Caleb here likes you. If he didn’t his dick wouldn’t rise like this just by seeing yo’ cooch. By and by dis go away, Phoebe, and you gotta tug on it or suck on it to make it git hard. It gotta git hard like this befo’ he can put it up in you. An’ Caleb, dis was de fust test fo’ you. If you wouldn’t-a got hard by seein’ Phoebe buck neckid, I woulda knowed you’d seen her buck neckid befo’. And me and her woulda got up and left. An’ I woulda had to whup yo’ ass fo’ lyin’. You hears me? Come over here nah.”
Caleb stepped over to Zelma obediently. She unbuttoned his trousers to let them fall around his ankles. His erect penis sprang free. It was almost eight inches long. Serviceable, but nowhere near Zelma’s preferred length. A small electric current ran thru Phoebe’s loins.
Caleb stepped out of his trousers to stand naked before the sisters. He was slim and trim, about three inches shy of six feet tall. Caleb was high yaller. He was a poontang baby. Many suspected Edward Leone of being his father. Indeed, most of the high yaller children on the farm belonged to the Leone men. Caleb was not descended from the Leone’s and he knew it. His father was a passing slave trader who’d raped his mother. She’d made a point of telling Caleb that Edward Leone was not his father.
Zelma gripped Caleb’s erect penis and stroked it. Both Caleb and Phoebe were shocked.
“Don’t ack shocked. I’m just tryna show you somethin’.”
She knelt before him and pressed his penis against her cheek.
“Phoebe, I’m fixin’ to tell you somethin’ I ain’t told you before. When we was younger Caleb, here, did it to me. Well, we tried doin’ it to each other but we was too young an’ it ain’t worked out. But we got to be frens. Good frens. Good enough frens where, when I found out you liked him, I said I was gwine try an’ git you two together. I wouldn’t do dis fo’ nobody else. Nah, I’m gon’ show you a few things. I don’ want you thinkin’ I’m tryna take yo’ man or nothin’. I’m not. I just wanna make sho’ you does de right thangs by each other. OK?”
“Is dass why you got his ‘thang’ up ‘gainst yo’ cheek?” Phoebe smirked sarcastically.
“I got his ‘thang’ up against my cheek, yeh. And I’m fixin’ to put it in my mouf, too. And den you gon’ do it de same way I does it, you hear me? So watch close.”
She looked up at Caleb.
“I’m jist gwine show her a few things, OK? Don’t cum in my mouf’. If you cums in my mouf’, I’m whuppin’ yo’ ass, OK?”
Caleb chuckled.
“What you laughin’ ‘bout? Ain’t a damn thing funny. I know dis much: if you cums in my mouf’ we gon’ fight. An’ don’t feel bad when you lose, neither,” Zelma warned ominously.
“Why you worryin’ ‘bout when I cum or not?” he retorted.
“’CAUSE YOU DID IT FAS’ DE LAS’ TIME!!!” she shouted.
“I ‘uz fo’teen years old!!!” he noted with exasperation.
“Hush. Don’t make ‘scuses. You did it ‘n left me all hot an’ bothered. I remember it good. ‘N dass why I ain’t give you no mo’ pussy since den. I don’t want you messin’ up my sister’s first time, you hears me?”
Caleb shuffled his feet and looked away. His erection began to wane.
“See? Dis is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” she said. “A minute ago you ‘uz pokin’ straight out. Now you saggin’ like a droopy dog.”
She turned to Phoebe.
“Dis happen sometime. You say sump’n an’ it cause ‘em to lose consecration.” (She’d meant to say ‘concentration’. She often confused English words when using slave jargon) “…‘N den dey dicks go down, like dis one is. OK, so watch me now.”
Zelma hefted Caleb’s dick up in her palm and eased her lips around it. Instantly, Caleb firmed up. Just as quickly, Zelma released him from her mouth.
“Nah see, again, dis whut I’m talkin’ ‘bout. If he had some stayin’ power it woulda took him a minute to git hard again. But, see here, he all the way hard soon’s I put it in. In another minute he’ll be shootin’ out baby juice.”
Caleb reddened.
“OK, Phoebe, now watch.” Zelma continued. If you grip him real tight down here at the bottom…(Here, she circled the base of his penis with her forefinger and thumb and squeezed)…you can keep him from shootin’ jizz into yo’ throat. Try it.”
She nudged aside to allow Phoebe access. Without hesitation, Phoebe knelt and took Caleb’s cock into her mouth. It was her very first experience with fellatio. Despite the normal trepidations of any first-timer, she didn’t want to show any reticence before her more experienced sister. Zelma tightened her grip on Caleb’s cock while Phoebe bobbed slowly up and down on it.
“Das’s it, baby. Start slow. Let him feel yo’ tongue on de bottom part of his ‘thang’,” Zelma cautioned.
Phoebe curled her tongue up. She began to flicker the tip of her tongue along the underside of Caleb’s pudenda. Caleb groaned deliciously. He began to hump her mouth.
“Not yet, Phoebe. Not yet. Don’t give him de tip just yit. Just use de flat part. You’a make him cum too fas’.”
Phoebe slowed a bit. Instead of using her tongue, she dragged her bottom lip along his shaft and quivered it ever so subtly against the underside of his pud. She noted that this action increased his length and girth in her mouth. His penis expanded and pulsed like a living heart as blood rushed into its tissues.
Now Phoebe noticed an unusual aroma wafting up into her nostrils from close range. In large part the smell consisted of she and Zelma’s saliva. Yet, there was another intangible odor, a scent that she recognized but couldn’t categorize. It was tart and earthy, almost trout-like for lack of a better description. It seemed to exude from Caleb’s very tissues without being truly Caleb. Nothing else on his body smelled like this.
Zelma noticed Phoebe’s quizzical look.
“Dass Martha’s coochie-cat you smellin’. Martha, an’ maybe a couple-a others. De smell don’t wash out. You git his dick wet and you-a smell all de coochies he been up in. Just keep goin’ baby. You doin’ good.”
Phoebe had been inch-blowing Caleb, concentrating on his pud. Now she probed further and further down his shaft, leaving slobber on the dry portion and cutting off her windpipe when he was fully inserted.
“Good, baby, good,” said Zelma. “Breive thru yo’ nose. Take a big breff when you pull back.”
Zelma put her hand on the back of Zelma’s head to dictate pace. Caleb’s toes began to curl.
“Phoebe, look. See how his toes is curlin’ up? He gon’ cum in a minute, so pull back. PULL BACK, NAH!! I ain’t say speed up!! Mattuh fact, pull off. PULL OFF! When his toes start to curl and you ain’t want him to cum yit, you pull off completely, den you start lickin’ him ‘long de shaf’, not de haid. Like dis. Watch.”
Zelma scooped up under Caleb and began to lick his shaft just above its juncture with his nuts. Phoebe looked on.
“You see how I’se doin’ dis? He likes dis. But he cain’t cum wif’out puttin’ his whole dick in my mouf. So if you do dis, you-a keep him hard wif’out reskin’ jizzin’ him out. When his toes stop curlin’ you can go back to suckin’. Like dis. You see whut I mean?”
It was true. Caleb’s toe quivering slackened.
Zelma handed Caleb’s dick back to Phoebe, expecting her to emulate what she’d seen. Phoebe licked him for a few strokes then delved further down to his nuts. She inhaled one of his nuts, coating it in her saliva. Caleb was delighted with her forwardness. His toes began to flutter again.
“STOP IT!! Stop it now!!” chastised Zelma shrilly. “Is I done tole you to suck his nuts yit? You gotta know a whole lot more’n you know if’n you want to suck a good nut. First of all, if you don’t do it right, you can hurt de nigga. Second, some niggas’ll cum if you suck dey nuts. Caleb prolly one o’ ‘em. Dey don’t need to have dey dicks in yo’ mouf. You don’t want dat. You only sucks nuts when you gots another girl helpin’ you. You suck de nuts an’ de udder girl suck de dick. An’ you switch back ‘n forth an’ yo’ nigga will cum all day an’ all night. You can make him faint, if’n you want to, an’ take his money an’ go home an’ he won’t know. He cain’t lose his ‘rection, even after he done fainted. Dat ain’t de way to git started right off. It ain’t fo’ fust-timers. You do like I axed you—lick de shaf’. De nut suckin’ll come soon enough.”
Obediently, Phoebe started licking Caleb’s shaft up and down, as if it were an ice cream cone.”
“Dass it. Good. Good.” coached Zelma.
While Phoebe continued to lick Caleb’s shaft, Zelma leaned over and wrapped her lips around his cockhead. She bobbed up and down lavishly until his toes began to wiggle, taking note of the time differential like a scientist measuring cause and effect. She noted the time between insertion and the first toe flutter. She continued sucking until the flutter became frantic. Then she stopped. She waited until he calmed and then repeated the experiment.
Zelma was getting Caleb acclimated to being inside fresh esophagus. Neither she nor Phoebe had ever blown Caleb. By taking him to the verge of orgasm and pulling back, she was honing his ability withhold his ejaculate. Too, she knew that when he did cum, it would be the ejaculation of a lifetime. Such orgasms are the bedrock of strong, enduring relationships. She planned to have Caleb’s dick in Phoebe’s mouth when that moment came.
A new element now became evident, an element not entirely unexpected. Phoebe’s toes began to tremble. Also, Zelma could smell the exotic odor that exudes from a slippery cunt. Phoebe was aroused. Her unsullied hairy pussy was coated with small, sticky droplets of feminine lubricant intermingled with spring water and sweat. This combination produces an unmistakable aroma that acts as an aphrodisiac to both men and women alike. The man who first bottles that scent is destined to become a billionaire.
Caleb detected it, too. His already erect penis leaped and surged. Even his cock could smell the silky odor arising from Phoebe’s snatch. Zelma knew that fairly soon, neither she nor Phoebe’s esophagus would satisfy Caleb’s lust. He needed to fuck. This instinctive imperative was imprinted in his genetic code as the appropriate response to Phoebe’s virginal aroma.
It was time.
“Phoebe, hurry. Come up an’ suck his dick now. He ready.” Zelma ordered.
Phoebe inched her way up Caleb’s shaft until she reached his crown, then she engulfed him in her mouth, plunging down on his dick as far as possible. She deep throated him once, twice and yet a third time. Caleb swooned and swayed. On her third foray he erupted so massively that Phoebe gagged and pulled away. Caleb wasted his second spurt against her forehead.
“Git back on it, girl!!” Zelma shrieked joyfully. “Swallow it!!! Git it, git it girl!!”
Phoebe drew a deep breath and went back in for seconds. She dove in and slurped Caleb’s third spurt, eager to swallow it down. To her surprise, it tasted bland, like salted paste. She took his fourth and fifth spurts, experiencing the same puzzling result.
“What’s so special about swallowing baby juice?” Phoebe wondered.
If someone served it to her in a glass, she’d have to mix it with cane sugar or honey to get it down. It just didn’t seem all that appetizing. Certainly it didn’t taste as zesty as Zelma made it out to be.
Caleb’s spurting slowed. His knees buckled. He spread his arms wide and lolled his head back like a zealot seeking absolution, shrieking out his joy to the heavens. Zelma had been right—she’d made his first sexual experience with Phoebe memorable. Life changing. Even ethereal. The two had never kissed.
Phoebe gulped his residual semen without tasting, as when a child is forced to take castor oil or some other unsavory medicine. She lingered her gaze over to Zelma who was kneeling right next to her, on her knees, cheering Phoebe on. Phoebe’s gaze dripped of disappointment. It said, “You lied to me. Jizz don’t taste like sweet potato pie and fried chicken. It tastes like lard.”
Zelma grinned widely. She knew exactly what Phoebe was thinking. All women are disappointed the first time they sample jism. It’s an acquired taste.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Zelma confided. “Right now, just finish suckin’ it down. Suck it ALL. You’a see why in a li’l bit.”
Phoebe continued to nurture at Caleb’s penis until he slumped to the ground, spent, lacking the strength to support his own weight. He faced Phoebe from his knees. Caleb lacked the energy to even hold his eyelids open. He weaved and swayed drunkenly. Though his penis was now limp, his body was still wracked by orgasmic tremors.
Spontaneously, Phoebe leaned forward to kiss him. She slipped her tongue into his mouth to share his semen with him. Caleb sucked her tongue gently. It was their first kiss. This, too, would prove to be memorable. He would never forget the sweet taste of her full lips and the salty, pasty taste of her saliva. Phoebe gripped the back of his head and turned her own head perpendicular so that they might share tongues more comfortably.
Zelma looked on.
“Dang. I ain’t showed her DAT,” she mused.
Still on their knees, Phoebe and Caleb kissed with increasingly animated passion. Phoebe caressed his buttocks. She lingered her left hand around front to cup his balls. Caleb fondled her breasts. He boldly slid his middle finger down the line of her moistened cleft to roil her clitoris. Predictably, his penis began to rise.
Zelma broke in.
“OK, OK hold up. Y’all is movin’ too fast. Dis ain’t how I wanted it to go. Y’all is way ahead of de plan.”
Phoebe cut her off.
“Hush, Zelma. I can han’le it from here.”
“NO YOU CAIN’T. It’s still a few things I need to show you.”
By way of response, Phoebe struggled to her feet. Using both hands, she gripped the back of Caleb’s head and pressed his face into her furry mound. She expertly flicked her clit up against the tip of his nose, giving him the full-fledged scent of her cunt. Caleb offered up his tongue for her and she began to fuck it. It slid into her hole easily. Phoebe hit him up with a series of quivering pelvic thrusts designed to fire her loins for full insertion.
Zelma said, “Phoebe, you goin’ too fas’!! Dis ain’t de time fo’ dat!!! Come on, le’s take a swim an’ we can git back to it. He-a be here. If you go too fas’, you-a miss some impo’tant steps!”
Phoebe ignored her. She was humping Caleb’s face now, driving towards an early orgasm. She humped him fast, like a rabbit, with her eyeballs rolled back into her skull and her exquisite golden musculature framed in profile.
Caleb was fully hard again now. His cock preened northward from his groin, seeking to merge with the scent that had first drawn his attention. Phoebe knew his cock was down there. She could smell it, pulsing and throbbing in its desire for penetration. She would get around to it. Right now she was swinging her hips back and forth like a manic pendulum, slapping her pussy against his face, often finding his chin between her labia and his lips astride her clit.
“Ohhhhhhh. OHHHHHHH!!!!! CALEB!!!!!” she groaned.
Zelma could see that the situation had gotten out of hand. She obviously needed a crowbar to pry these two apart. Surreptitiously, she crept up in between Phoebe’s legs and took Caleb’s dick into her mouth. Phoebe wasn’t paying attention and Caleb certainly wasn’t going to complain. The warmth of any feminine orifice was enough to dampen the fire in his nuts.
Zelma slobbed Caleb’s cock with precision. She knew how to get the desired result in the most efficient manner. She also knew Phoebe’s timetable. She surmised that Phoebe would fuck Caleb’s tongue for another few minutes or so before squatting to mount him just prior to climax. When she squatted, Zelma planned for Caleb to be limp again. If the heffah wouldn’t listen, it was up to Zelma to make her listen.
True to form, Caleb sprayed his jism into Zelma’s mouth before Phoebe even knew she was down there. Zelma sucked him dry, then rolled back into a sitting position, feigning innocence. When Phoebe peaked and attempted to mount Caleb’s cock, it was limp, wet and shriveled. Phoebe howled in rage.
“What happened!!!?!” she caterwauled.
“She…she…she…,” he stuttered, pointing at Zelma.
Phoebe understood immediately.
“Zelma!!!” she screeched.
Zelma was unperturbed.
“I tole you to slow down. Is you wants me to show you how to do dis or ain’t you?”
“It’s NOT yours, Zee!! It’s mine!! You ain’t had no right!!!”
“HE may not be mine, but YOU sho’ is. ‘N whut I say GOES. You hears me?”
Phoebe flicked Caleb’s dick with her hand in an attempt to pump some life into it. He was fully drained. Caleb looked at her apologetically. Here, Phoebe’s motor revved at nine thousand RPMs and there was no steaming hard dick with which to sate her lust. Her intricate timing had gone to waste. When she attempted to reach completion by humping his tongue again, it just wasn’t the same. He didn’t seem to have much interest in sucking pussy now that his dick was lifeless.
Phoebe looked over at Zelma with exasperation.
“WHY you did dis!?!! It ain’t fair!!”
“Is you gwine do like I say? Cause if you ain’t, we can walk home right now.”
Phoebe threw her hands up in frustration. She crossed her arms and stamped her feet like a petulant child.
“Well? Is you or ain’t you?” Zelma reiterated.
Phoebe could see that this was another unwinnable battle against her older sister. What kind of a ho sucks off her sister’s new boyfriend in order to keep that sister from getting laid for the first time? This was typical of Zelma’s hegemony since Angelia’s untimely passing. Phoebe should’ve been used to it by now. She frowned at Zelma with a look of resignation.
“Yes’m,” she said.
“Good,” said Zelma. “Now, you come wit’ me. Caleb, you stay here. Try an’ colleck yo’ wits. Me and Phoebe gots to talk. I promises to brang her back.”
Phoebe followed Zelma down to the waterline. They waded in and then struck out for the far shore. This time Zelma attacked the competition like a seasoned Olympian and left Phoebe in the dust. She was sitting onshore nonchalantly when Phoebe came slicing up. Zelma launched the first sortie.
“What ‘uz all dat? I ain’t axed you to let him lick yo’ pussy on de fust go.” Zelma challenged.
“What’s wrong wid it? I seen you make niggas lick yo’ pussy plenty times!!”
“YOU AIN’T ME!! Does you want to keep dis nigga or don’t you?”
“Y-y-yes. I reckon.”
“Well you need to listen to me, den!! You cain’t play all yo’ cards in de fust go. You gotta give ‘em sump’n to look fo’wahd to. Dass de quickes’ way to lose a nigga, givin’ ‘em all yo’ flowers at once’t,” Zelma lectured.
“You talkin’ ‘bout Shaddy again.”
“YES I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT SHADDY AGAIN. Dat uz ‘posed to be MY nigga. I gi’ven him enough pussy. I gi’ven him EVERYTHING. An’ he hooked up wit’ Lizzie cause she ‘uz dere when I couldn’t be dere. It ain’t all about de pussy, Phoebe, but a whole lot o’ it IS. Dat nigga’s dick been in every hole in my body. He been in my EARS. An’ it was a mistake. An’ I won’t have you makin’ de same mistake, you hear me?”
“Yes’m.”
“Now we got to make a ‘cision. He been in yo’ mouf. You been in his mouf. He ain’t been up yo’ pussy. He ain’t been up yo’ doodihole. He gon’ wanna be up in one of ‘em TODAY. One o’ ‘em, I say. NOT BOTH. You gotta gi’ven him sump’n to look fo’wahd to.”
“Yes’m.”
“You washed yo’ doodihole out dis mornin’, like I axed?”
“Yes’m.”
“Is you done doodoo’d since den?”
“No ma’am.”
“Good, good. Which one you gwine gi’ven him? De pussy or de doodihole?”
“I…I was gwine let him choose.”
“DUMBASS!! It ain’t NEVER de nigga’s choice! It’s ALWAYS YO’ choice. You jist make it SEEM like it’s HIS choice.”
“Yes’m.” Zelma knew everything.
“So? Which one is de hottest right now?”
“My…my pussy’s real hot, like always. It don’t seem like my doodihole ever gits real hot.”
“Dass whut I thought. OK, dis what we gwine do. When we gits back over dere, I’m-a suck his balls and you can suck his dick. It won’t take him long to git hard. Den, Im-a ack like I’m showin’ you how to fuck proper. I’m-a let him put his dick in my pussy. He gots a li’l dick an’…”
“His dick don’t seem all dat li’l to me,” interrupted Phoebe.
“Well, it’s li’l compared to de dicks I’se used to. I gots a big ole pussy. His dick won’t even scrape de sides. I’m-a let him inside, but he won’t feel much. Den, befo’ he lose his ‘rection, I want you to scooch up and gi’ven him some doodihole. A doodihole is a lot tighter’n a pussy, ‘specially a big ole pooncey like mine. An’ he’ll notice de diffunce and cum real fast. I’ve had ‘em cum in my ass before dey got it all de way in. An’ if he cum real fas’, you-a have dat to say ‘bout him if you breaks up, like Martha done. Did you bring de lard?”
“It’s in de bag.”
“Go git it. An’ when his dick is up in my pussy I’ll start groanin’ and ‘stract his ‘tention. Den you dips yo’ finger in de lard an’ poke it up yo’ butt. Rub it ‘round real good. Don’t let him see you doin’ it.”
“OK.”
“He gon’ try to put it up yo’ pussy. Don’t let him do it. Slap his hand away and point it up yo’ doodihole if you has to.”
“I…I…think I druther have him up my pussy, Zee. It’s gon’ hurt if I let him up my doodihole. Plus, won’t he think somebody else been up my doodihole if dass de fust thing I offer up? I ain’t never heard no gal say she had it up de doodihole fust.”
“Hmmmmm. You got a point dere. Not because it’ll hurt. But because he WILL think you ain’t no virgin if you let him go up yo’ poop chute first.”
“Ain’t nobody been up my pooncey OR my poop chute, Zee. You knows dat.”
“What I know an’ what he know is two diff’unt things, chile. Niggas come to de wildes’ ‘clusions, ‘n most of’m don’t make no sense, leastways as much as me an’ you can figger. Lemme study dis out.”
Phoebe looked across the spring at Caleb. His back was to them. His right arm was moving like a piston.
“Look, Zelma!! He over dere jackin’ his dick!! Look! Look!!”
“I knowed he was gwine do dat. He wants it to be hard when we git back. Dey all do dat.”
“Well, I ain’t never seen him do it. I wished he would turn around so I could see it.”
“He don’t WANT us to see it. Dass why he turned his back. Stop worryin’ ‘bout Caleb an’ think. We gotta come up wid a way to make him put it up yo’ butt.”
“We could tell him I’se wid de Curse?”
“Phoebe!!! Youse a genius!! Dass de play! By de way, when de Curse ‘posed to visit? Next week, right?”
“Yes’m.”
“OK, dis what we gwine do. I’m gon’ let him git up in me so’s he can see whut a really big pooncey feels like. He ain’t gwine like it much ‘cause he done busted his nuts two times already. Den you come scoochin’ up an’ offer him some doodihole. He gon’ try to put it up yo’ pussy. You say, “OK, but you gon’ git yo’ dick all bloody. I’se on de rag.” He’ll git all crunchy. An’ before he gits a chance to think about it (and he will) you offer up de doodihole. OK? ‘Cause if you gi’ven him a chance’t to think, he’ll go fo’ de pussy, blood ‘n all.”
“Yes’m”
“Don’t forget to git greased up ‘haid o’ time.”
“You already said dat.”
“OK. Let’s go.”
The two women waded back out into the spring and struck out across. This time they didn’t race. They luxuriated across the pond, taking time to observe the flora and fauna below, occasionally rolling onto their backs to expose their naked bodies to a view from above, occasionally frog-kicking down to the bottom to chase fishes, turtles and crawdads, sometimes swimming between the jumbled tangle of logs that supported the rich eco-system of the spring depths. Their muscular, golden bodies seemed to be very much a natural part of this paradise; it was the reality of their enslavement that seemed at odds with the natural order. For this one afternoon the sisters were primal goddesses of the jungle.
They emerged from the spring laughing and giggling as they had as youngsters, though now their grown-up bodies blazed with thick, curly pubic hair and their tits waggled like ripe fruit.
Caleb stood on the bank, anticipating their return. Despite his masturbatory efforts, his penis was only partially erect. He proudly displayed it to them.
It was a mistake.
“Nigga, we been gon’ a half hour ‘n dass de bes’ you can do?” chided Zelma.
“You ain’t been gone no half hour. You been over dere fo’ ten minutes,” retorted Caleb.
“Well, from what I can see, it don’t look like you ready fo’ no pussy. Not good pussy like dis, anyways. I guess me and Phoebe oughtta be gittin’ on home.”
“I’se ready!! I’se ready!! Look! LOOK!!!”
Caleb started jacking his dick furiously. Zelma winked at Phoebe knowingly, as if to say, “See how easy it is to git dese nimrods to do what you want ‘em to do?”
Despite Caleb’s efforts, his dick refused to respond. It flopped about comically, eliciting cruel laughter from Zelma. Phoebe felt bad for Caleb, however. Her look of consternation did little to staunch Zelma’s laughter. Phoebe decided to take matters into her own hands. She stepped up to Caleb, knelt before him and wrapped her lips around his cock. Twenty seconds later when she withdrew, Caleb’s cock steamed rock hard outward at a forty degree up angle to his body. He didn’t need to manually support it. Phoebe looked up at her older sister triumphantly. Zelma calmed, respectful of Phoebe’s efforts. While not in Shaddy’s league, Caleb’s hard cock was still impressive, especially insofar as she’d underestimated its size.
“OK, OK,” she chuckled. “Lay down on de grass, Mr. Caleb. It’s time fo’ me to show you a thang or two, too.”
Caleb dutifully stretched out on his back on the ground. Zelma dropped to her knees and crawled up between his splayed open legs. She took both of his balls into her mouth. She alternately sucked each nut, lavishing his shaggy skin with her spittle. Each drag she took upon his testicles caused his cock to leap and stagger. She took her index finger and twirled it into his anus. Caleb bucked upright. Phoebe took this as her queue to join in. She knelt and took his cock into her mouth while Zelma continued to suck his nuts. Phoebe met her sister’s eyes. In tandem they pleasured the young man.
Caleb had never experienced such a sensual dichotomy from his nether regions. What Zelma had said earlier was true—he could come repeatedly from this dual attention, more, this tri-partite attention, considering Zelma’s quivering, invasive finger. In fact, it was all he could do to keep from sluicing out his jism right now.
The pain of withholding his cum merely made Zelma and Phoebe’s attention all the more maddening. Martha had sucked his dick innumerable times, but it was nothing like this. Zelma sucked in one direction, Phoebe sucked in the other. This oppositional tugging held his ejaculate at equilibrium. In turn, this two-on-one standoff amplified the mind altering sexual narcotics coursing thru his musculature. Too, Zelma’s diffident, languid anal fingering was more than he could bear. He slammed his wrists and ankles against the ground repeatedly in an effort to release the energy built up in his tissues from this dual fellatio/ass-tickle combination.
Zelma had seen this before. In fact, she and Lizzie and Cora tripled teamed Meshach in this manner on more than one occasion. Meshach’s cock was so long that none of the three could deep throat him. This left his shaft open for consideration. Each of the three girls took turns mouthing his shaft as if it were a corncob while the other two slobbed his nuts and his pud. This is how Zelma perfected her craft.
Phoebe and Zelma continued to nurse at Caleb’s cock and balls. The two sisters suckled and caressed, slobbed and bobbed with expert relish.
Finally, Zelma used her eyes to remind Phoebe of the plan. She looked down at the little packet of lard in Phoebe’s hands as a way of telling Phoebe that the time had come. Phoebe eased up off of Caleb’s cock and released his steaming dick into the afternoon air.
Now Zelma released Caleb’s nuts and slobbed her way up to his cockhead, leaving a bubbling trail of saliva in her wake. She suckled his dick for a few strokes, then continued licking her way up his body. She delved into his navel with her tongue acting as a dick, sucked both his nipples in turn and left a huge purple hickey on his neck. When they were face to face she flickered her tongue out and slipped it between his lips. He tried to kiss her, but she wouldn’t allow it. By her reckoning, this was her sister’s man. Kissing him would constitute cheating. It was immoral.
Instead, she crawled a little bit further north so that she could center the helm of his erect cock between her labia. Then she eased herself down upon it with a spiraling waggle of her ass. As she’d predicted, she engulfed his dick with little effort. She hilted him with room to spare.
Caleb was shocked. The last time he’d been inside this pussy they’d been teenagers. He remembered that she’d been…a bit tighter. Too, he’d cum immediately. Nowadays her pussy wasn’t nearly as tight as her throat. He wished she’d go back to blowing him.
But evidently his sexual prowess was having some effect. Or so he thought. Zelma began to moan deeply, concurrent with her lustful, pelvic thrusting. Even though Caleb wasn’t feeling any two of her pussy walls at once, his length was enough to bring Zelma to the brink of orgasm. Her powerful groans of ecstasy were proof of his potency.
Caleb didn’t need Zelma’s pussy friction to bring him to the brink. Her strident sexual groans were more than enough fuel for a primal detonation. He was almost there.
Zelma could feel that Caleb was ready to erupt massively. She sat up astride Caleb’s lurching dick and released it into the sweaty late afternoon air.
As planned, now Phoebe backed her ass up to him, doggystyle. The cut of her vulva bulged alluringly from between her voluptuous ass cheeks. A little north of her vaginal opening, her sphincter loomed as a navel-like indentation with tight, sunshine lines erupting from the center. The skin surrounding the opening to her rectum was noticeably darker than her regular golden cinnamon hue, a testament to that opening’s main biological function. Phoebe’s lush, curly black pubic hairs disappeared wispily into the center of this anal discoloration.
Caleb saw all this as Zelma’s pussy suddenly freed his cock from its grip. Frantically, he leapt up to mount Phoebe from behind. As Zelma had predicted, he went straight for Phoebe’s pussy.
Phoebe reached back and pressed the flat of her palm against his stomach by way of declination.
“No, honey. I’se….on de rag, Caleb. But…you can go up in de udder…you know…de udder one.”
To explain herself better she gripped his penis and pointed it into her anus. Caleb understood immediately. Desperate for succor, he pressed forward and, to his surprise, her sphincter opened almost as easily as Zelma’s coochie. He’d expected a tough go; Phoebe’s doodihole was positively slippery. Caleb took a big whiff, suspecting that she might be using that natural, odiferous anal lubricant—shit. No evidence of such came to his nostrils. Instead, his penis slipped deeper and deeper into her behind without the usual necessary incremental probing. In no time, Phoebe’s ass cheeks jammed up against Caleb’s upper thighs like a pair of large, pliable balloons. He dipped a little and pushed deeper into her rectum so that he might experience the exquisite foreskin stretch that is always the prelude to a crashing orgasm.
Phoebe endured his penetration. She had no sensitive clitoris being stroked by this anal intrusion. Caleb’s balls flopped forward to slap against her clit as he humped her, but that was it. She wished he would think to give her a reach around. She didn’t want to polish her own pearl while being ass fucked; he might think it too forward a move for a virgin.
Caleb was already in the final throes of completion. He’d been inside Phoebe’s ass for less than a minute. He fired piston-like shots that rocked Phoebe to and fro, lifted her knees off the ground and pushed their conjoined bodies forward on the sward like a choo-choo train. Phoebe gasped repeatedly under Caleb’s savage anal assault.
Zelma looked on with delight. As soon as Caleb blew his nuts, he would become putty in Phoebe’s hands. Already the agonized grimace on his face told her that Caleb was in love with being inside Phoebe. From this point on, Zelma would not have to use her own pussy as a primer for him. Caleb would charge straight to the source of his adoration.
He climaxed with a shriek and a violent series of pelvic thrusts up Phoebe’s behind. Each burst of semen was delivered with the force of a thoroughbred stallion. Phoebe’s body shook massively each time he skeeted into her. She struggled to match his orgasmic passion. If he could have waited just a few more seconds…..
Caleb wasn’t finished, however. As he was still ejaculating, he flipped Phoebe over and spread her legs. Before she knew what he was about, he plunged his cock into her pussy and finished draining his nuts. Phoebe was astonished. Awareness of her feigned menstrual cycle hadn’t put him off. She wondered what he would say when he discovered that she’d lied.
Worse, he was still straining to empty himself. Phoebe could feel his dick softening. Yet she noticed it wasn’t softening quickly enough. In fact, it was still thickly sponge-like inside her. He pressed it as deep as it would go trying to draw heat and energy for a second go. And he was succeeding. However long he’d waited to get up inside this pussy, he was making up for it now.
Caleb’s deep thrusting succeeded in energizing Phoebe’s clit. It preened forth to probe his pubic mound just north of the base of his penis. Caleb could feel its poke.
Like any other male, he wanted to experience her satiation and release. He wanted her to give of herself fully, without reservation. He wanted her to cum wildly under the impetus of his steaming hard dick. This, more than anything, is the bond that ties a man to a woman in the early stages of any relationship.
Zelma didn’t know what to do about this sudden change of dynamic. She couldn’t very well pull the man out of her sister’s pussy—she’d arranged for him to be there. Plus, Phoebe didn’t look unhappy. She looked positively rapturous. She and Caleb were currently engaged in a long, sloppy, animated kiss while awaiting the return of Caleb’s tumescence. Phoebe wrapped her legs tightly around Caleb’s thighs. She surged upwards to offer the deepest portion of her pussy to him. They grinded against each other with an agonizing, purposeful slowness that stretched Caleb’s foreskin to its absolute maximum and sent sparks of white-hot electricity shredding upwards through Phoebe’s abdomen.
They were fucking the fuck of the newly in love. To a romantic soul, it was a wonderful sight. Zelma looked on in awe.
It didn’t take long for Caleb to regain his erection. Phoebe’s pussy, after all, was the reason he’d come to the glade. As he hardened and swelled to fill her cunt, Phoebe’s eyes widened in wonder. He was huge! If Zelma could take a dick twice as big, she must be masturbating with Mason jars.
Phoebe didn’t waste time making this mental comparison. She concentrated on enjoying the expansion of Caleb’s cock inside her. He throbbed and pulsed and lengthened like a sand filled balloon. His scruffy foreskin absorbed her concentrated heat scent even as she gurgled her vaginal juices into the void. One day she would taste herself in his dick, alongside the tastes of Martha and Zelma. Right now she tasted him with her pussy. He tasted delicious.
Caleb hardened until Phoebe could feel his urethral indentation with the back of her pussy. Using her ‘pussy eyes’ she could envision his dick—its arch, its curvature, its veiny shaft, its bulging pud—as she caressed it gently with her cunt. It was a rock hard angry puppy whose only desire was to burst alive and then soften. Her job was to pet and cajole it into submission each time it rose up against her.
He withdrew slowly until his cock quivered at the entrance to Phoebe’s vagina. He plunged forward just as slowly, enjoying the ride up just as much as the ride out. Each time he hilted, he gave a firm extra push that nudged Phoebe’s cervix partially open. Caleb knew this motion let Phoebe know he was there. It intensified the ‘full’ feeling that women need to trigger their orgasms. Phoebe appreciated his concern for her sexual requirements.
They rode the path to completion in this manner. When Phoebe needed Caleb to go faster she gave a little double pump as he probed her cervix. This was the start of establishing an unspoken sexual rhythm by the new couple, a rhythm only spoken and understood by genitalia.
Caleb surmised her double pump perfectly. It told him to withdraw more quickly and hit it just a bit harder on the next go, but not so hard as to make her explode. Phoebe was learning the primary lesson of sex: “Orgasms are compiled with forbearance; orgasms are unleashed with ordinance”. The longer they withheld themselves, the greater the detonation.
Of course, they both could seize up with speed and reach completion sooner. The bang would be short and sweet. Phoebe knew that an incremental buildup would increase the bang by a factor of ten. She was a seasoned masturbator.
So she measured her pussy language, doling it out in dribs and drabs, instructing her man in the unspoken vocabulary of sex, in which the main terms are “faster, harder, slower and deeper”.
Caleb luxuriated in the feel of Phoebe’s pussy. She had a series of soft bony ridges about three inches in, both above and below. These transitioned into a smooth, vice-like clench, ending at the back of her pussy with the tremulous, sensuous cushy pudding common to all women. All three of these unique surfaces were lubricated with his semen, making the trip back and forth all the more satisfying. When he withdrew fully her curly black pubic hairs embraced his cockhead and followed his re-ascent (for a short distance) up her birth canal.
As they neared climax, Phoebe raised her ankles up to her ears, gripping them in her palms. In the language of pussy, this meant “DEEPER. PLEASE!! DEEPER!!” Caleb accommodated her, smashing his pelvis against hers with an audible, sticky THWACK!! Caleb supported himself with his forearms. Phoebe draped her feet on his shoulders. Both of them were sweating profusely. She bared her teeth like a jungle cat, such was her fury for orgasmic restraint.
She gave his a double pump. Caleb re-doubled his efforts. He’d had a number of orgasms so he wasn’t as close to completion as she.
Finally, Phoebe could take no more. One thwack, two more and a fourth; Phoebe shrieked aloud. She began to hump Caleb maniacally, pounding the ground with her wrists and shaking her head from side to side. Her pussy quivered spastically. Her tits resonated like gelatin. She tugged at his shaft with her cunt, yearning for him to release his cum. Caleb fired power shots into her. His cock was still perfectly hard. He fucked her thru the entirety of her orgasm and into her recovery phase, during which she almost fainted. Her body went limp.
Now Caleb recalled Zelma’s caustic trash talk. She was lying on her side nearby, watching the copulating couple with interest. Caleb pushed up off of Phoebe’s body. Her legs crashed to the ground with a thud. Now he took a diving leap and landed atop Zelma, who rolled onto her back to receive him. She might have rolled onto her stomach, but secretly she suspected he would try this maneuver. Zelma put up a small, perfunctory fight, deliberately lost, and soon found Caleb’s dick inside her capacious pussy.
He grinned at her as a friend who has finally conquered and settled an outstanding debt. She’d spent years teasing him about his failed effort when they were younger. Now it was his turn for payback.
It was a good thing that Zelma was aroused. She really could have whipped his ass, if she were of a mind to. But he was a good friend. He’d serviced her sister well. This was the last bit of outside pussy he was going to get, so Zelma figured ‘What the heck.’
She fucked him graciously though he tried to intimidate her with extravagantly mammoth power shots. What did he think? That she was going to shrivel up and die from his anger banging? Zelma’s pussy had engulfed Shaddy, Duck, Nathan and Jerome at various points in her career. MEN. She was more than capable of handling Caleb’s cute little eight-incher.
She let him fuck her until he was on the brink of release, when he again surprised her by leaping up, mounting Phoebe’s limp body and shooting his jism into the younger sister.
Zelma smiled to herself.
“I guess he thought he was doin’ sump’n. Po’ thang. Phoebe like him, though. Look at her. She look like she ‘bout to cum again, bless her heart.”
Caleb slumped atop Phoebe as he emptied himself. Their sweaty bodies merged as they embraced each other, cheek to cheek, kissing weakly. The two lovers would never forget this moment. In the future, when problems arose, they would always have this day to look back upon with fondness, using it as a lubricant against the edgy personal frictions that inevitably arise in any long-term relationship.
Phoebe didn’t even mind his impromptu diversion into her older sister. She suspected that it would happen again and again. She and Zelma were close. And she knew that Zelma liked to fuck. And Zelma was the Boss, so……
When finally Caleb rolled from atop Phoebe’s limp body, the glade resonated with the odor of their sex. It arose like a palpable aura over the three naked bodies on the sward. Caleb lay between the sisters. His penis, sticky with cum, straddled his lower abdomen, reaching almost to his navel. Phoebe and Zelma lay on their backs with their legs open, titties lolling outward to their armpits. They were airing out their pussies, these being largely the source of the pleasant golden aura. Jism trickled from both of Phoebe’s southern orifices. It matted her pubic hairs into a meringue-like lather. Zelma’s pussy opened and closed shut like an octopus gulping seawater. With the right sort of eyes one could see vibrant heated energy billowing in waves from her primary sexual organ. She hadn’t had a single orgasm that day.
Caleb intertwined his fingers and rested his head in his palms. If this wasn’t the very best day of his life, it damn sure was pretty close.
It didn’t take long for the news of Phoebe’s de-flowering to make the rounds. The primary source? Phoebe herself. She was tired of hearing the snide remarks about spinsterhood and old maid fuddy-duddy. Sure, she’d started late, but she’d finished with a flourish. And she’d claimed her man to boot. Anyone who wanted to hear the story of how Caleb had sought her out and taken her maidenhead, despite her insistent reservations, had but to bring up a story about virginity. Phoebe, now a seasoned veteran, was sure to weigh in.
Caleb accepted congratulations from everyone except Martha, whose only comment was that he was better off fucking a virgin because his dick wasn’t big enough for a real woman. Caleb ignored Martha’s barbs. She’d had a good thing and wasted it by giving it up to every man on the farm. The fact that she’d been forced into such duty was no excuse, Caleb reckoned.
Zelma kept her mouth shut about the whole affair. Anyone who mentioned it to her received the stone-faced stank look, dipped in venom and wrapped around an outright denial.
Zelma had good reason to keep this news under wraps. The white folks might find out.
Usually, the Leone’s paid scant attention to the goings on of their niggers. So-and-so likes so-and-so? So what? Is there a baby in the offing? Good. “More money for us.” So-and-so got into a fight with so-and-so? So what? As long as both so-and-so’s show up for work in the morning. So-and-so is sick. So what? She damn well better have someone covering her workload.
Phoebe’s case was a little bit different.
Master Nate made it his business to sample. Phoebe was prime real estate. She’d never been sampled, and not because he hadn’t tried. He had. He just hadn’t tried hard enough, largely because Zelma was always available. Plus, Zelma was a pitbull of a watchdog. The Master of the Farm was secretly afraid of her reaction to a move on Phoebe.
Of course, he would never admit such. Zelma was a nigger. A slave. His word was law around the place. Her word counted for nothing. Still, she carried the weight of sisterhood. He thought she might craze out over Phoebe. Crazy people always had to be watched carefully. They had nothing to lose.
And so when the news of Phoebe’s graduation came to light, Master Nate began to re-assess Zelma’s weight. If she let Caleb tap Phoebe up, perhaps it was HIS time to claim his due, too. Perhaps Zelma wasn’t as crazy as he’d surmised. Perhaps it was time to put her in her place.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Master Nate visited Zelma’s slave shack on the following Saturday evening. Zelma noted his silhouette in her door. This was nothing unusual. He often showed up unbidden, dick in hand. She’d been nursing Sandra as he’d arrived. Now she hoisted Sandra up and handed her over to Phoebe, who lay half-asleep in the other bed. She doffed her night shift in preparation for a session with Nathan. Zelma had been feeling a little out of sorts lately. Maybe if she fucked Nathan into oblivion she might regain equilibrium. She wasn’t unhappy about his visit.
“Not you,” Master Nathan said. “You.” (Here he nodded towards Phoebe)
Zelma was confused. The master had never come for Phoebe before. There must be some mistake.
“Marse Nate, here I is,” Zelma corrected him, suspecting that he’d confused the two women in the dim light. “Dass Phoebe,” she said.
“I know who she is,” Nathan responded. “It’s time.”
He took Sandra from Phoebe and handed her back to Zelma.
Zelma was still confused.
“Marse Nate, no. I’se de one you wants. ‘N I been waitin’ on you! Come on. Leave Phoebe ‘lone.”
“Take the child and go, Zelma. Phoebe and I have business that ain’t no business of yours.”
Phoebe began to cry. Recognition began to dawn on Zelma.
“Marse Nate, NO, I said. NO. She jus’ a child! You don’t want no child. Dis ain’t how a ‘specktable young marse ack! Leave her ‘lone ‘n come on over here. I’se take care o’ you. ‘N I been wantin’ to take care o’ you fo’ some time. Whar you been?”
“I SAID GO, ZELMA. NOW.”
His stentorian tone set the stage for what happened next. Zelma had been fearing this moment since the day her mother died, the moment she took up Phoebe’s stewardship. The time had come for her to stand up. She steadied herself.
“NO, Marse Nate. YOU de one gots to go. GIT OUT MY HOUSE, CRACKUH! GIT OUT!! NOW!! Dis ain’t yo’ chile. BOFE DESE CHIRRENS IS MINES!!!!”
Stunned at her impertinence, Nathan stepped forward and took a swing at her.
It was a mistake.
Zelma ducked his swing, stepped inside and hit him with an straight left to the midribs that took his breath away. She followed this blow with an uppercut to the groin that felled him. Zelma knew how to fight.
Shrieking like hellcats, now both she and Phoebe launched themselves against the white man, swinging, kicking and scratching. This was exactly how they’d double-teamed black men who’d gotten a bit too frisky—except this man owned them.
Both women were surprisingly strong. Once Nathan was down Phoebe laid into him with a series of leaping kicks that would have done a Japanese ninja proud. In seconds, Nathan was a bleeding, gagging mess. Zelma’s original assault rendered him unable to defend himself. The two women rained vengeance upon him for a variety of grievances, heedless of the personal consequences.
Nathan Leone might have died that night without the assistance of his other slaves. The screaming commotion in Zelma’s hut did not go unnoticed.
“Zelma and
Phoebe is at it again!!”
The shock came when their victim’s identity became evident. Jerome burst into the cabin and grabbed Zelma. Seth tackled Phoebe. The two women seemed on the verge of insanity. It took three more men to corral them. And there lay Nathan Leone on the ground, bloody, barely conscious, unable to stand or walk on his own.
News of this assault on the master raced around the little farm. Slave households were awakened to blare the news. Zelma and Phoebe had given Master Nate a beatdown!!!
Nothing good could come of this.
Jerome and Caleb scooped Nathan up and carried him—half-walking, half-dragging—back to the big house. Fiona opened the door to them.
“My gracious!!! What happened!!!” she demanded.
“I dunno, Missus Fiona!! He come down to de quahtuhs and dere was a fight. He-a be OK. Look, he comin’ around now.”
Wisely, Caleb didn’t mention the principals in the fight. The names would be known soon enough.
Fiona had the two black men stretch her son out in the anteroom. Immediately, she began to tend to his wounds.
Aisleen now stepped from her bedroom. Seeing Nathan all bloody and beaten, she rushed to his side. The man had wounds, bruises and scratch marks up one side and down the other. Clearly, some woman had administered this beating.
Aisleen was no fool. She had a very good idea of the circumstances of this night’s work.
“WHO DID THIS!!!” she demanded.
“I don’ know, Miss Aisleen!! I found him like dis an’ brought him home straightway!” lied Jerome.
“Well, you better go and find out!! NOW!! Git, the two of ye!! And the next time I see you I want names!!”
Jerome and Caleb ran out of the house. Fiona now sidled up to Aisleen.
“Go get Mr. Delaney. Do it quiet. We got a nigger insurrection on our hands.”
The blacks expected an immediate, forceful reprisal. They girded themselves for the assault. White people were never known to take beatdowns from slaves. It just didn’t happen.
Surprisingly, no reprisal was immediately forthcoming.
The arrival of the dawn found Master Nathan absent. Overseer Delaney arrived to supervise work assignments for the day. He sent Phoebe and Zelma up to the big house where Fiona doled out their chores with the same snappish tone as always. The girls were wary. All the slaves were. The Leone’s acted as if nothing untoward had occurred.
This faux détente went on for three days, during which time Master Nathan was never seen. The blacks began to take heart in the stand-off. Maybe they’d won one!! Maybe the Leone’s were going to take this asswhipping in stride!!! News of Zelma’s victory spread to slave communities far and wide.
Zelma and Phoebe, too, began to feel more comfortable. In the immediate aftermath of the incident, both women thought of taking to the woods, maybe trying to find their way to a non-slave state. This was an unwanted option; white people up north weren’t much different than the white people they were used to. And anyway, they didn’t know which direction to take.
Zelma began to think that Master Nathan knew that what he’d tried was wrong. This sitzkrieg was his way of admitting as much. Maybe Missus Aisleen had chastised him for being down in the slave quarters in the first place. Maybe Missus Fiona had done so. However it came about, the whites spoke no word of the incident.
As time passed the slaves fell back into their regular rhythms. Zelma’s conquest became a light in their rear-view mirrors, a small but significant victory for the good guys.
When the reprisal came, it proved to be wildly beyond all expectations.
Master Nate re-appeared in the slave quarters early one morning. With him were four rough looking hombres—slave traders. All four men were on horseback. They carried whips and rifles. Thomas Delaney stood off to the side. He, too, was armed.
Along with the slave traders came four desultory looking blacks—two men, a woman and a young child. Their eyes were sunken and jaundiced. All of blacks, including the woman, were scruffy and unkempt. They were barefoot, underfed, fearful. Clearly, they’d been on a taxing journey.
Master Nate took a whip in hand.
“Zelma Leone!! Phoebe Leone!!! Come on out chere. NAH.”
The Leone slaves had been gathering for the morning work assignments. They shuffled uneasily in the dust.
Phoebe and Zelma stepped out of their hovel with bowed heads. Zelma carried Sandra. They were going to be whipped. Both women knew the penalty for laying hands upon a white person. It had been too much to hope that their transgression would go unpunished.
“Lize, take the child,” ordered Master Nate.
Lize scurried over and scooped Sandra up from Zelma’s arms. Zelma gave up her child willingly. She didn’t want Sandra to come to harm.
Now one of the slave traders dismounted his horse. He reached into a satchel and took out a set of wrist irons and a couple of neck clasps. Purposefully, he approached Zelma and Phoebe. He clasped their necks and wrists with these cruel, heavy bonds. Another slave trader came up and attached a long, heavy chain to each woman. He attached the other end of the chain to two horses.
Phoebe and Zelma looked at each other in confusion. This wasn’t the prelude to a stint at the whipping pole, a fate they were both prepared for. What was going on?
“Zelma Leone, I charge you with insurrection against your God-given masters on this farm. Phoebe Leone, I charge you with same. You are no longer wanted or needed here. You must go.” Master Nate intoned.
SOLD!!!! SOLD DOWN THE RIVER!!!!!
A tittering cry went up amongst the slaves. This cry was subsumed by the wail of despair from the two sisters. More than the sale itself, it was clear that they were being separated from Sandra. This was the diabolical punishment dreamed up Master Nathan.
He was selling both his nieces and keeping his daughter.
“MARSE NATHAN!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! OH LAWD!!!! MY CHILE!!! MY CHILE!!!!! DON’T DO DIS, MARSE NATHAN!!! LAWDY, NO!!!! OH MY GAWD, NO!!!! PLEASE, MARSE NATE!!! I’SE SORRY!!! I’SE BEGGIN’ YOU!!!! DON’T TAKE MY CHILE!!!!”
And from Phoebe:
“NOOOOOOOO LAWDY!!! MARSE NATE!!!! OH GAWD!!!!! I-A GI’VEN YOU SOME RIGHT NOW!!! HERE!!! LOOK, MARSE NATE!!! ALL DE PUSSY YOU WONTS!!!!! DON’T SEND ME AWAY, MARSE!!! DON’T DO IT!!! LAWD!! LAWD!!!!”
The slave traders turned their horses and quietly made their way off the property. Zelma and Phoebe were attached to their saddles by heavy chains. The two women fell to the ground and were dragged away shrieking prayers and imprecations begging mercy. Safe in Lize’ arms, Sandra looked on. The child began to cry.
“LAWDY!!! MASTUH NATE!!! AIN’T I BEEN GOOD TO YOU!!! PLEASE, MARSE, PLEASE!!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!! I’SE SORRY!!! I’SE SO SORRY!!!! LEMME STAY HOME, MARSE NATE!! I-A BE GOOD!!! FROM NOW ON I-A BE GOOD!!! SANDRA!!! SANDRA!!! OH! MY CHILE!!!”
Their cries echoed against deaf ears. This was a business for the whites, a fair trade on both sides, with the added benefit of a lesson learned by the other slaves: NEVER, EVER assault a white person.
Fiona, Aisleen and Abby watched this sad, heart-rending spectacle from a distance. Zelma called out to them for assistance. None was forthcoming. The two white women held mixed feelings. On the one hand they felt Zelma’s motherly anguish. On the other hand their kinsman, Nathan, had suffered at her hands. White people were a decided minority on this farm. If order were to be maintained, lessons of this nature had to be enforced ruthlessly.
Zelma and Phoebe kicked about in the dust as they were being dragged off. Their golden skin became filthy, tattered and torn. Their lustrous hair was caked with dirt. Their shrieks of anguish reverberated across the farm. The two sisters fought to return to the farm where they’d spent their lives in enslavement. It was the only life they knew.
This drama played out with torturous slowness. The indifference of the slavers contrasted with Zelma and Phoebe’s passion for home and hearth.
By and by the sorrowful cries of the two black women grew fainter. The remaining slaves shifted about, barely deigning to look at one another. Overseer Delaney whipped them into shape soon enough.
“Alright you nigras!! It’s over!! It’s done!! Git along wit’ you!!! Shaddy, you take Drake, there, and show him the ropes. Seth? You take Andrew.” (Drake and Andrew were the new male black slaves brought by the slavers.) “Elizabeth, you take Gerty up to the house wit’ you. Lize, take Gerty’s niglet an’ keep her til she’s done wit’ work.”
Lize did as she was told. The new baby’s name was Suzy. She was just shy of one years old.
Zelma and Phoebe were never seen again.
That night Master Nathan took Gerty aside and raped her. She was no Zelma. She just lay there in a catatonic daze during the ordeal, barely moving. Nathan wasn’t the first white man to rape Gerty that week. He was only the most recent.
He left Gerty sodden with semen in Zelma’s bed; she and Suzy now lived there.
Nathan’s underwhelming experience with Gerty left him a little regretful of the deal he’d struck with the slavers. That damn Zelma could fuck her ass off. It wasn’t an even trade.
Zelma had left him little choice, however. Slave revolt could never be countenanced under any circumstances. Besides, he still had Cora and Lizzie and Martha. And maybe one day Gerty would come around. The slavers said she was a wonderful piece of ass, even though Nathan’s first go around with her didn’t bear that opinion out.
The following morning Nathan awoke to a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits and smoked ham prepared directly by his mother, his daughter and his wife. Unusual this, because slaves usually performed this task. Sumptuous fare for a weekday. The two grown-up white women also seemed unusually soliticitous. All three Leone women stood off to the side, watching him eat, suppressing huge smiles. Undoubtedly, there was news.
“Well,” he said. “What’s all this? I ain’t complainin’, you know. But go ahead and spit it out. I’m waiting.”
Fiona and Aisleen looked at each other, each nudging the other forward. Finally, his wife stepped up.
“Mother Leone has had the fish dream!! Again!!”
Nathan swung his astonished gaze to his mother before realizing that the fish dream couldn’t apply to her. He looked back to his wife. She unleashed her suppressed smile and nodded “YES!!!”
“It’s gonna be a girl!!” chortled little Abby. “I want a sister!!!”
Nathan laughed aloud.
“And what would you name your little sister, Abby?”
“Annette!!!” the child screeched happily.
Annette was the name of one of Abby’s favorite dolls.
I am
Bardot. Thank you for considering
this narrative, my second.
This
installment of the trilogy is a prequel in which I introduce the parents of the
first book’s protagonists. It
probably has fewer fuck scenes, but they are longer and the storyline fleshes
out premise and gives depth to the characters I’ve introduced. I’m developing a conversational timbre that
meshes well with their physical interactions.
The
characters contained herein are fictional, wholly unrelated to anyone living or
dead. If you think you’re seeing your
Aunt Flossie in one of my characters, you’re wrong.
I hope to
write a third installment to this narrative.
I want to call it “Thrice Upon a Time in the South”. I like these characters. I feel as if I know them personally by
now. Whereas this second book
describes the underpinnings to the characters in the first book, a third book
will resolve a bunch of loose ends and unfinished issues posed by both of those
earlier missives.
Plus, I feel
like I’m developing a certain style with these lengthy, descriptive fuck scenes
and I want to see if I can outdo my earlier primitive efforts. And, too, the storyline is always
important, especially if my Auntie’s read this!! (I know that most of you perverts just read the fuck scenes
anyway. That’s all I read when I was
younger!)
BTW, if one
of you readers IS one of my Auntie’s I hereby deny authorship of this entire
narrative. And I’ll see you in church
on Sunday!!
Bardot can be reached at bardot1990@gmail.com
Table of Contents
I. Flashback 25 years 2
II. The Camp Meeting 7
III. Homecoming 12
IV. Nathan Gives Meshach ‘The Talk’ 23
V. Shaddy Broods 29
VI. The Stinky Session 32
VII. Bun in the Oven 38
VIII. Shotgun Wedding 43
IX. Nathan and Aisleen’s Wedding Night 45
X. Abby’s Birth and Leone Sister Engagements 50
XI. Slave Workday 54
XII. Night Moves 57
XIII. The Whipping 66
XIV. BethAnn's Lament 73
XV. McNulty and Jefferson Wedding 81
XVI. The New Farm 84
XVII. Zelma Markham Leone 85
XVIII. Off to Hank's Farm 92
XIX. Meshach and Lizzie’s Engagement 94
XX. Another Bun in Another Oven 98
XXI. Dark Clouds Gathering 102
XXII. Missus Fiona Comes Out 104
XXIII. The Whore From Babylon 117
XXIV. Little Boy Blue 124
XXV. The Cure 126
XXVI. Busted 134
XXVII. Building Hank’s Farm 137
XXVIII. The Stenstrom Visit 144
XXIX. Slave Orgy 148
XXX. Hank and Marlene Consummate…Finally 155
XXXI. Shubra the Warrior Princess 159
XXXII. BethAnn Recovers Her Whiteness 166
XXXIII. Edward Leone Has a Bad Day 168
XXXIV. Outrage and Retaliation 170
XXXV. Girls Gossiping 173
XXXVI. Funeral Aftermath 180
XXXVII. Nathan and Aisleen Get Freaky 183
XXXVIII. Girls Gossiping Again 188
XXXIX. Late Night Tent Orgy 193
XL. Bitch, Git to Steppin’ 213
XLI. Jealousy and Lies 217
XLII. Josephine Makes a Decision 227
XLIII. Aisleen’s Lament 229
XLIV. Josephine and the Pastor 231
XLV. Girls Gossiping Yet Again 234
XLVI. Sandra Jean’s Birth 240
XLVII. Lizzie and Cora Fight 244
XLVIII. Shaddy and Fiona Redux 250
XLIX. Re-Busted 260
L. Shaddy and Lizzie Wed 268
LI. Aisleen and Marlene’s Libidinous Encounter 270
LII. Hank and Marlene’s Wedding 278
LIII. The Fish Dream 283
LIV. New Generation of Leone’s 293
LV. Phoebe Comes of Age 297
LVI. Training Day 305
LVII. Zelma Don’t Play Dat 326
LVIII. Sold! 330
LIX. Annette 334