Date: Wed, 25 May 2005 07:47:40 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Mistletoe Farm: The Shopping Trip

MISTLETOE FARM
A cautionary tale

Chapter one:  The Shopping Trip

"A small house, sir, a small house, but I think you will
find it in good order," said Aaron Hardwick, turning the key
in the lock.  Six months ago the door would hardly have
opened, and then only with the squealing of rusty iron.  Now
it swung smoothly back, admitting the master workman and his
employer.  Hardwick stepped aside and with a look of pride
ushered the young gentleman within.  Simon Simmons took off
his hat, his pale, cornsilk hair swirling out from beneath
it.  Simon stepped into his new house and took a deep
breath, noting the smells of varnish and fresh paint mixed
with old applewood.  He nodded with approval as his gaze
swept the entry way.

"It looks remarkable, sir," the twenty-five year old owner
of the house said to Hardwick.  "Lead the way please, show
me all the renovations."

With a nod, Hardwick stepped inside and closed the door.
They stood in a bright, clean entryway, with a simple
staircase going up to the second floor on their right and
doors ahead and on either side.  "Shall we begin with the
drawing room, sir?" he asked, and led the way to the left.

Eighteen months ago, Simmons was not sure he wanted the
house.  A younger son, his parents had died in an
unfortunate carriage accident two years earlier, in 1838.
His older brother had inherited most of the family land,
near Charlottesville, Virginia.  It was only proper, as the
holdings would be kept intact for future generations.
Simmons had been willed this house, not a plantation by any
means but more of a large cottage, on one hundred acres a
little west of Roanoke, in the Blue Ridge foothills.  A
modest endowment came with the property, enough to keep it
up and to keep Simmons comfortable.  It took about a year to
settle the estate, and during that time Simmons made his
first trip to Mistletoe Farm to inspect his inheritance.  He
was appalled.

For years the family had rented the property out to tenants
who scratched a hard living from the pockets of tillable
soil that lay among the trees and rock outcroppings of these
foothills.  Then the property stood empty for years more,
without adequate care and upkeep.  When Simon Simmons first
saw it, he was inclined to burn it down.  The roof was
structurally sound, although in need of shingles.  But
broken windows admitted birds and bats, plaster hung down in
curls from the ceiling or lay in piles on the floor.
Sapling trees sprouted in the outbuildings.  The fields were
choked with weeds.  Yet, as he wandered through the house
and land, a feeling of connection and ownership grew upon
him.  The land and house and its outbuildings were his, and
a place to call his own.  Here he could give up his position
as a clerk in Charlottesville and live as a gentleman.
Simmons calculated the cost of repair and considered his
resources and made the decision to repair the house and have
the fields put in order, as much as was possible.  His
generous brother, Hammond, helped financially, perhaps glad
to increase the independence of his brother.  Aaron
Hardwick, a contractor, came well recommended, so
arrangements were made and the plan put in place.

Now as Simmons was led through the house, he congratulated
himself on his decision.  Every room was in perfect
condition, although each retained a feel of age and history.
Fresh paint or wallpaper covered new plaster and polished
wood floors gleamed, punctuated here and there with new
rugs.  Each room was fully furnished, some with items from
the Simmons family place, some with new purchases from
Roanoke.  Upstairs, four bedrooms surrounded a central
landing, each with a spectacular view of the hills and
forests of the surrounding countryside.

Pleased with his employer's approval, Hardwick led the way
outside.  A nearby well house included a wash room with a
large tinned tub, suitable for clothes or people as the need
arose.  Outdoor privies and other structures such as
smokehouses, a kitchen, and woodsheds were arranged around
the main house.  A barn stood near small fields newly
cleared and ploughed, not large enough for crops but
certainly adequate for vegetable gardens.  A grove of fruit
trees lay beyond the fields, and there were enclosed pens
for livestock, when those should be acquired.  Two horses
roamed one enclosure, their presence explained by the large
wooden wagon housed in the barn.

Three more structures remained to be inspected:  the slave
quarters.  Simmons had given specific instructions that
these should be made sound and comfortable.  Unpainted,
their wooden walls were nevertheless tight against wind,
rain, and the snow that would come in the winter some six
months hence.  A small verandah ran along the front of each
cabin.  Inside were simple beds, furniture, and a fireplace
in each for cooking and warmth.  Rough wooden dressers held
simple clothes, pine cabinets contained cooking instruments
and eating utensils.  The clean smell of new wood and
varnish floated in the air.  Simmons nodded his approval,
and gave further thought to his plans.

Returning to the cottage, Simmons wrote a cheque for the
funds due to Hardwick, shook his hand and congratulated him,
and offered him a drink of whiskey.  Hardwick politely
declined on the grounds that the sun was setting and he had
some miles to ride yet to reach his home.  Simmons saw him
off, then took his own horse, which he had ridden to this
appointment, to the barn, where he curried and fed him and
then put him up for the night with the two cart horses,
securing the barn door against predators.  In the gathering
twilight, Simmons walked back to the house where he lit some
lanterns and helped himself to a simple dinner from the
provisions he had caused to be delivered to the house.
Enjoying the whiskey himself, he sat on the cottage's
spacious verandah for a long time, listening to the
gathering night sounds of insects and owls, and the cough of
the deer that moved stealthily through the surrounding
woods.  Tired from the day's events eventually, he secured
the doors and withdrew upstairs for the night, to sleep for
the first time in his new home.

The first chorus of birds awoke him the next morning.  He
reflected that once he had acquired some livestock, it would
likely be roosters that performed that task in the future.
Arising, he ate a simple breakfast, visited the nearby
outdoor privy and then bathed quickly in the cold well water
of the wash room tub.  Dressing in the sturdy clothes of a
Virginia gentleman farmer, he pocketed a large wallet,
hitched up his two horse team to the wagon, and set off down
the winding path that led to the main road toward Roanoke.

The journey took the two hours he expected it would.  He
crossed small creeks, some so small they simply ran across
the road rather than under a bridge.  Birds sang in the
strengthening sun.  The road was good but, like all country
roads, pitted, with branches here and there that required
clearing.  Arriving in the small but bustling town, he
purchased supplies from several merchants:  Salt pork, lard,
oil, crackers, dried wheat and corn in heavy sacks, dried
beans, molasses, flour, cornmeal, salt, sugar, cloth, seeds
for planting, plus a musket and a shotgun with powder and
ammunition.  At another merchant's he arranged for the
delivery of two milk cows, a sow with a brood of young,
several hens and a rooster.  He purchased more whiskey, and
then went into a tavern for his midday meal of corn cakes,
boiled beef and vegetables, and beer.  Refreshed, he stepped
out into the street and up into his wagon.  Down one street
he went and up another, and pulled up in front of his final
destination.  A sign over the door proclaimed the nature of
the business:  BULSTRODE'S MARKET, FINE NEGROES BOUGHT AND
SOLD.  Simmons sat for a moment on the seat of the wagon,
his heart beating a little faster, his breath coming perhaps
a little harder.  He had been thinking about this business
for months.  Taking a final deep breath, he stepped down
into the street, secured his horses to a rail, and walked
into the building.

The place had an indefinable smell--was it uncleanness?
perhaps despair?  A man built like a brick building, and
just as red, sat in a large entryway, writing at a high
desk.  He looked up quickly, a keen appraising glance in his
bright eyes behind bushy brows.  With surprising speed and
grace for one so large, he skipped out from behind the desk
and approached Simmons with his hand extended.

"Good afternoon to you, sir!" he cried.  "My name is
Bulstrode." No other name was offered.  Simmons took his
hand, noting the strength in it, the surety of command and
control, and introduced himself.  "And what may I show you
today, sir?" inquired the slave merchant.

"I am newly come into some property a little west of here,"
said Simmons, "and I need servants."  Bulstrode nodded, his
eyes piercing Simmons with a calculating, appraising look.
"I am thinking I would like three male servants and three
female servants, sir," continued Simmons.  "If you have....
couples here already, or people already connected in some
way, I should be happy to consider them.  But six servants,
sir, three male and three female."

Bulstrode looked at the ceiling for a  moment, thinking.  He
snapped his fingers, thick as small branches.  "I have it
sir!  For four of them at least, we do have one pair, a man
and a woman newly mated...I can't say 'married,' can I?!" he
said with a wink, "and then one brother and sister, still
youths.  But a third couple.... I shall have to think, sir,
let me think.  But while I am thinking, let me show you the
property I have, and you shall decide if they meet your
needs!"

Bulstrode led the way down a narrow hallway and pushed open
the barred wooden door of a room.  A soft murmur of voices
ceased abruptly as they entered.  It was a large chamber
with benches lining the walls.  Sitting, standing, or
stretched on the floor were dark skinned people of every
description:  One or two family groups, many single people,
old and young, male and female.  Some looked terrified, some
unhappy, some carefully neutral.  It was, obviously, not a
joyous circumstance for any of them.  They all wore simple,
sometimes ragged, but clean homespun clothing.  Perhaps
forty dark faces looked sharply at the two white men who
entered, then quickly away, but as Simmons entered the room
he was aware of continued furtive surveillance under heavy,
curled lashes.

Bulstrode stepped quickly to the end of one bench and
stopped in front of a young man and woman who sat together
on a bench, hands tightly clasped between them.  "Stand up!"
he ordered them, then turned to Simmons.  "Two likely
Negroes, each about twenty, perhaps twenty-one years old.
Accustomed to skilled farm labor, although not field hands.
Just acquired from an estate sale to the east of here.
Would you care to examine them?"

"Examine...." at that interesting word, Simmons's heart
skipped a beat.  His eyes wandered over the two who stood
before him, heads bowed.  Their fingers were still
intertwined, furtively.  Simmons thoughts raced back to
earlier......examinations.

Raised with slaves ever present in his parents' home, his
earliest childhood friend was Brutus.  Nearly his own age,
very dark, with a hard, slim body, he and Brutus shared
every waking moment from his earliest memories.  As they
entered puberty, they shared their bodies as well, equally,
with clumsy, giggling first gropings and then breathless
strokings and suckings.  At thirteen, on a visit to his
cousin James's plantation, Simon Simmons was taken by his
cousin to the loft of a distant barn where James had
arranged for four slave girls between nine and sixteen years
of age to meet them.  Commanding the girls to disrobe, and
to disrobe them, James and Simon "examined" each girl in
detail, and as their curiosity and passion grew they gave
way to every form of fondling and intercourse they had ever
heard of in song or dirty joke, being sucked, fucking, and
buggering until their bodies were grey with the hay dust
plastered to their skin by the sweat of their and the girls'
bodies.

>From then on, there was no looking back for Simon.
Reuniting with Brutus upon his return, Simon led the way to
the slave cabins, where Brutus slipped in and issued his
master's orders to the girls within.  Again and again in hay
barns or clearings in the woods the "examinations" were
restaged and replayed, the white boy firmly in charge and
his black slave boy eagerly following suit, sharing the
fruits of his master's power, tasting these moments of
equality founded upon their shared male passions.

As Simon passed through his teenage years and entered his
twenties, he played the part of the Southern gallant at
balls and social gatherings, but his interest in the white
women of his set was strictly for show.  He lived for those
moments with brown and black bodies, shared with Brutus each
time.  In the course of time, Brutus took his own mate, but
shared her with Simon whenever the white man came calling at
their cabin.  When Simon came into his inheritance and
prepared to leave home, he shared one last romp with Brutus,
which ended with just the two, the white man and his black
friend and slave alone at dawn, arms entwined around each
other.  As he planned for his move to Mistletoe Farm, Simon
thought and planned for the kind of domestic arrangements he
wanted in that new home.

Simmons's attention shifted back to the two slaves in front
of him.  "Yes," he said slowly, "these might do.  Let me see
her first."

Bulstrode nodded curtly and took the woman by the arm,
leading her away.  Her hand kept its grasp with the man's
for an instant, then let loose.  The man did not raise his
head, but Simon could see from the corner of his eye how the
slave's gaze followed the woman intently, and how the man's
fists clenched silently.  Thinking, planning, Simon followed
Bulstrode and the female slave.  The merchant went through a
door into a small room equipped with a rude cot covered with
a tick mattress, a wooden table on which lay a number of
cloth rags, and a chair.  The floor was a little sticky.

"Knock on the door when you are done with your examination,
sir, and take your time," he said, then with an air of
professional detachment withdrew, shutting the door behind
him.

She was a full-figured woman, not fat but with the ample
curves of Africa much in evidence.  She remained standing,
head and eyes cast down.  "What is your name?" asked
Simmons.

"Aphrodite, massa.  They calls me 'Dite, though," she
replied softly, her voice full and reedy.

Simon stepped closer and raising his right hand, hooked two
fingers under the top button of the simple sack dress the
woman wore.  "Remove this," he said.  Dite paused a moment,
seeming to assess the situation, then sighed very softly and
undid the top three buttons.  The dress was so loose,
already nearly off one shoulder, that it slid to the floor.
Simon likewise lifted his finger to the kerchief she wore
around her head.  "And this," he said.  Reaching up, she
pulled the covering off, revealing a bush of springy black
hair about two inches long standing out from her head.
Simon willed his breathing to remain measured as he took in
her appearance.  Her face was round, the nose broad but not
overly large, with full, thick lips.  Dite's skin was a deep
chocolate brown, and flawless despite a life of work on the
farm.  Simon turned her shoulder slightly so he could see
her back--good, no scars from the lash.  She had full, pear-
shaped breasts, firm but pendulant.  Below them the smooth,
dark skin of her belly followed a curve down to her groin
area, where a dense triangle of black bushy hair separated
her two strong thighs.

A familiar passion began to flood over Simon, welling up in
him, taking control even as it bade him to take control.
His eyes sank down, down into dark chocolate flesh, and he
was lost.  Simon reached out and lifted Dite's chin.  Up
came her face, her eyes flickering, now taking in the white
man who was appraising her, now looking away.  Simon's
fingers brushed over her lips and then her cheek.  The
woman's dark eyes flickered again, this time with perhaps
more interest.  Now both of Simon's hands came out and
rested on her neck, then her shoulders, cupping the strong
muscles of the shoulders and upper arms, squeezing them,
sliding down the silken sable skin of the arms.  Her head
fell again, but now her eyes look directly ahead at Simon's
torso and her lips were parted.  Looking intently at her
face to see what might be read there, Simon's hands shifted
quickly, gently to her breasts.  He cupped them, feeling
their weight and firmness.  Now Dite sighed, and her glance
flickered up to the white man's face, then down, but she
spoke not a word.  Simon's thumbs flicked the nipples, now
hard purple-black cones.  Then his hands run down over her
belly and stopped, lingering in the dense thatch of her
pubic hair.

Dite's glance shifted downward now to where Simon's trousers
were visibly tenting out in front of him.  His own breathing
was becoming harder, and he realized he must do something if
he were to carry out his plan for the afternoon.  "Go to the
bed and get on your hands and knees," he ordered.  The woman
did so.  Simon walked up close and cupped each large, round
buttock in his hands, marveling once again as he had so
often at the ample spread of the African female buttocks.
Between them winked the brown starfish hole of her anus, and
the dark valley of her vagina below, now visibly moist.  Was
it his imagination or was the woman's own breath coming
faster now?  No time to speculate.  Simon quickly undid his
trousers and dropped them, then likewise his undergarments.
His erect cock sprang out, dusky red and purple, the flared
cockhead leaking precum.  He pressed the head to the vagina
opening and Dite gasped, looking half around.  He held it
there but a moment, then pushed in.  The black slave woman
gasped again, then moaned, and one hand came back to rest
against Simon's thigh as if to control his penetration, but
it was not a serious refusal, nor did it have any real
effect.  He was fully sheathed inside of her now and,
grasping her hips with both hands, began pumping his hips
back and forth as he stood behind her between her spread
legs, the firm flesh of his lower belly smacking against the
ample dark brown bottom in front of him.  Was she--yes,
there was no mistaking it, Dite was pushing back, shoving
her broad, brown pillows back against his belly and dick.
He increased his speed to a frenzy of short strokes.  It did
not take long.  Some distant part of his brain was careful
not to cry out, which might bring Bulstrode in.  His orgasm
gathered in his thighs and loins and then slammed out of
him, his semen pouring into the slave woman's body before
him.  Twice and thrice he slammed forward into her,
squeezing out his sperm into her.  He held himself tight
against her for a moment, then the crisis passed.  He pulled
out, trailing a thread of white semen.  Walking to the table
he grabbed one of the rags and cleaned himself.

"Dress yourself," he said in a hoarse whisper to the woman
still crouched on the bed.  Wordlessly, she stood up and put
on her dress and kerchief again.  Simon likewise had pulled
his clothing back up.  He paused for a moment, considering
her as she stood still with her eyes down, then walked to
the door and knocked loudly.  In a moment Bulstrode opened
the door.  "The man, now," said Simmons.

Bulstrode nodded and led the woman away.  Did her head half
turn in Simon's direction as she was taken back to her
place?  Certainly she did not look at her mate, who studied
her closely as Bulstrode took him by the arm and led him
into the room.

"Take your time," Bulstrode said again, pushing the black
slave forward, as he withdrew and shut the door behind him.

Simon's orgasm had steadied his nerves, but he was still
riding a strong wave of sexual mastery.  Walking up to the
slave, he tugged at the simple, rough shirt he wore and
said, "Remove this."

"Yassuh," whispered the man, and in one motion shrugged the
shirt off and dropped it to the floor.  Simon studied his
face.  The man's hair was about an inch long, worn in a
shock of tangled wool standing out from his head.  His neck
was strong and corded, the head wide and oval on top of it,
like the head of a dick.  The man was as dark as Aphrodite
had been, a rich deep chocolate color.  His lips were
likewise full, the lower one a little lighter as it curled
out from his firm, wide mouth.  Dark eyes looked out and
downward as he awaited the white man's commands.  Simon's
gaze traveled down to two square chest muscles, thick as
slabs of beef, with copper penny nipples set along the lower
edges.  A well developed line of muscles rippled on his
abdomen.

"What are you called?" asked Simon, as he stepped behind the
man.

"Pompey, massa, suh."  Standing behind him now, Simon
admired the deep ridge of the spine, a valley between two
strong rolls of back muscles, a trough descending down into
the firm, high butt so typical of African men.  Simon tugged
on the back of the man's rough trousers.  "Remove these," he
said.  "Yassuh," replied the black, and down went his
trousers.  Simon walked up close now and grabbed both of the
rounded, firm, high buttocks, one in each hand, kneading
them.  The slave gasped slightly, and began breathing ever
so slightly more heavily.

"I am looking for a couple that can breed.  Have you and
Aphrodite had children?" he asked.

"Naw, suh, but we only been together three month, massa.  We
can do it, I know we can.  Massa," he said, his voice
becoming urgent, "Massa, please, take both of us.  Doan
split us up, massa," he said.

Simon walked around to the front.  The man's dark skin shone
lightly, muscles moving under sable skin with every breath.
For such a muscular frame, with thick thigh muscles running
down to knotted calves, the black man had a surprisingly
ordinary penis.  Not small, but not the huge size so many
Africans sported.  It stood at half mast now above two
unusually large, dark purple black ballsacks, the whole in a
nest of short, tightly curled pubic hair.  Standing in front
of the slave, Simon reached down and weighed the testicles,
feeling their warmth and the wet potential within.  He
grasped the penis.  It stiffened, engorged with blood, and
grew some in length but more than that it increased in
width.  Simon began sliding his hand up and down the shaft,
a dark purple, nearly black, darker than the man's skin
color elsewhere.  The slave's feet shifted a little farther
apart, and his breathing really was becoming heavier now.

"You'll see, massa, I has lots of spunk, Dite and me, we be
good breeders," said Pompey, now breathing harder as Simon's
hand slid up and down the dark pole.  It was so wide that
Simon's fingers did not touch as they encircled the hot
meat.  It glistened with a steady stream of clear precum
that pulsed out of the thick tip of the penis at every
upward stroke.  For long moments the two men stood, Pompey's
hands working, opening and closing, hanging by his side, now
thrusting his pelvis forward in rhythm with the white man's
pumping hand.

"Aaaah!  I is coming, massa, look out!" breathed the slave,
and then with a huff and a grunt he thrust his pelvis
forward and held it.  A tremendous flow of semen came out of
the shaft that Simon still pumped, now more slowly.  The
white man was thankful it did not shoot out far or his
clothing would be covered, but he was amazed at the sheer
amount that welled up out of the ponderous ballsacks of the
black slave in front of him.  Still it kept flowing as
Pompey pushed, squeezed, and held his breath, and then the
black man slumped, and began gulping for air.  It was over.
A sizable pool of white semen lay on the floor between them,
and Simon's hand was coated with the stuff.  "Dress
yourself," Simon ordered as he wiped his hand on one of the
rags from the table.

"Yassuh," breathed Pompey, and as he did so he whispered
again, "Please massa, both of us..... we be good breeders,
massa, you is gonna see."  Simon was lost in the power and
lust of the moment.  This man, so much stronger than he, was
so totally in his control.  And he knew that he had just
given the black man pleasure, as Simon had given Brutus
pleasure throughout his youth.  He said not a word, but took
Pompey by the arm and walked him to the door.  A loud knock
brought Bulstrode quickly.  Simon followed the merchant and
slave into the large room as Pompey was led back to the
bench, the black man followed by curious eyes and by more
than one knowing smirk as he returned to Dite's side.  Not
looking at him, perhaps knowing, she smiled a bit and
reached over to hold his hand in hers.

"Now, sir, another couple, very likely and especially in
another year or two," Bulstrode said, leading his customer
up the line a bit.  "Stand up" he ordered to the two slaves
he stood before.  "About fourteen, sir, brother and sister,
newly purchased from the Richmond area.  Perhaps dangerous
to breed as they are from the same litter, but you decide,
sir, you decide," said Bulstrode.

Simmons beheld a boy and a girl of about the same age--they
may have been twins.  They were about four and a half feet
tall, with slim, taut musculature evident beneath their
baggy clothing.  Their rich caramel color betrayed a white
or Arab ancestor in the past, someone who took advantage of
a woman in the slave ships or the castles along the African
coasts.  The boy's hair was very short, a dusting of dense,
tight black hair hugging his scalp.  The girl's hair was
black but a deeper cap of curls framing her face.  They
looked remarkable similar:  oval faces, the girl with a
boyish quality and the boy with a girl's fine bone structure
and long, curling eyelashes.  They had button noses, not
overly large, and full, outcurling rosebud lips of a more
reddish hue than the deep caramel skin.

"What is your name?" he asked the girl.  "Rose" she replied,
her eyes cast down.  "And yours?" he asked the boy.  The lad
paused for a second and said, "Thorn."  Then added,
entreatingly, "I ain't lyin', massa, it really is."  Rose
glanced at her brother sideways and giggled.  "Hush up,
wench!" commanded Bulstrode.  The girl froze and looked
down, fear in her eyes.

"I will see them both at the same time," said Simmons,
calculatingly.  "Very well, sir," said Bulstrode, and led
the way, one slave child in each hand, back into the room.
Bulstrode left Simmons there with a nod, and closed the
door.

The white man walked slowly around the two and came to stop
behind the girl.  "Have the two of you been sold in a market
such as this before?" he asked.  They each whispered "No,
massa."  A tension seemed to be growing in the air.  They
knew something was coming, but not what, nor whether it
would be pleasant or unpleasant.  Simmons nodded.  Standing
behind Rose, he tugged at her dress.  "Take this off," he
said.

The girl turned halfway around and looked up at him in
surprise.  "All the way, massa?" she asked.  Simmons nodded
curtly.  She gulped, took a deep breath, and appeared to
consider for a moment.  Then, no options occurring to her,
she slowly unfastened her buttons, waited another second,
and let the simple sack garment fall to the floor.  She
shivered and stood naked before a white man for the first
time.  Her brother, who had been regarding her in mixed
curiosity and concern, now gasped, and his eyes flickered
from his sister to the white man standing behind her.
Thorn's lips parted as he caught his breath to see what
would come next.

Simmons stepped up close to the girl, his trousers tenting
out again now, his penis pushing through the cloth against
Rose's back.  Her body was slim but muscled, her hips
already wide and her buttocks already plump.  Simmons
reached his arms around to her front, hands placed on her
belly.  It was slim, firm, and muscled, the deep caramel
skin dappled with light, honey, and chocolate, as the belly
curved from her chest to her groin where a tiny patch of
wild curls could be seen.  Looking down over the girl now,
pulling her into himself, Simmons let his hands ride up her
belly, to cover her breasts.  These were small, the size of
oranges, but pert and firm, with nipples unusually large for
the tight mounds on which they sat.  Rose gasped and looked
down at the white hands that slid over her flesh, but did
not attempt to escape.  Her breathing came now more quickly,
through parted lips.

A few feet away, Thorn didn't know which way to look.  His
gaze shifted rapidly from intense examination of his naked
sister, to the floor, to quick hooded glances at the white
man....who was looking intensely at him all this time.

"Thorn," he said, "come nearer."  The boy did, hesitatingly.
"Closer."  The boy came gradually to within a foot of his
sister, his head turned to the side now, looking down.  "I
am looking for a servant who will breed children.  Not a
field hand.  Do you understand me?"  Thorn nodded rapidly
and whispered "Yassuh" between his parted rosebud lips--
every slave understood the blessing that came with not being
a field hand.  "Are you able to breed yet, Thorn?"

The boy blushed a deep red underneath his caramel skin.  "I
has tried, massa----well, a few times.  Mebbe I is, I dunno-
---" his voice trailed off.  "But I is sure I can, massa, I
sure is sure!"  His reedy adolescent voiced cracked once.

"Take off your clothes, boy," said the white man.  Thorn
glanced at him searchingly.  "Here, massa?"  "Yes."  Slowly,
but with a sense of inevitability, Thorn slid off his rough
shirt and then unfastened the single button holding his
patched trousers up.  Both garments fell to the floor and he
stood naked, a foot away from his naked sister who was being
fondled by the white man who might become their master.

Simon's breath came uncontrollably faster as he examined the
shallow, circular pads of muscle on the boy's chest, the
puffy nipples that, like his sister's, were a little large,
the tight but only faintly rippled roll of the abdomen as it
curved down to the small patch of black curls in the groin.
A slim penis above pendulous testicles was at half mast,
rising in spite of itself at the close presence of his
sister's female body.  Had these two played these games
before, Simmons wondered.  The boy's lips were still parted,
his heart could be seen pulsing the caramel skin of his
chest.

"Show me," said Simmons.

"Uh--what, massa?"

"Whether you can be a breeder.  Can you make the white stuff
that makes babies?"  Thorn blushed again and nodded quickly.
"Make it," ordered the white man, as his fingers massaged
the slave girl's breasts, tweaking the large nipples.

Thorn tentatively grasped his penis with his hand.  It
sprang to life, no longer at half mast, reacting to the
slightest stimulation.  Still slim but now longer, it curved
away from his body and up.  Slowly, then more rapidly, the
boy's fist pumped up and down as it encircled his own penis,
now darkening with the inrush of blood, and he began
breathing more heavily.  Perceptibly, the dangling ballsacks
began pulling up tighter.  The slave boy's head, turned to
the side, now swung to the front, to look down at his own
organ, leaking precum, but also to look a foot away at his
sister's naked body, at the white man's hands that now slid
down over her belly to bury fingers in the patch of black
curls below.  Thorn could not tear his eyes away from this,
and Simmons could not tear his eyes away from the site of
the slave boy masturbating.  Faster went the fist, it became
a blur, and then with a strangled cry the boy threw back his
head, thrust his hips forward, and slowed his pumping fist
as his penis shot out one and then two dollops of semen that
arced in the air to land on his sister's abdomen.  Nothing
even similar to the copious flow from Pompey, but it showed
that his fourteen year old genitals were fully functional.
The boy's fist slowed and then stopped, then fell from the
organ, which remained arched upward and out, oozing fluid
for a moment. The boy's breathing was ragged, the penis
still quivering.  Then it, too, began to fall.

Simmons reached down to smear the white fluid on the girl's
caramel brown belly, meditatively.  Then, stepping back, he
ordered both the boy and the girl to clothe themselves
again.  They did so, exchanging quick, questioning glances
with each other but avoiding any looks at the white man.
When they were clothed, Simmons stepped to the door and
knocked.  Bulstrode opened, nodded, and beckoned the two
fourteen year olds to follow him back to their benches.
Simmons took a deep breath and then brought up the rear.

Thorn and Rose deposited on the bench, Bulstrode turned to
Simmons.  "I'm afraid we have no other such couples,
previously connected sir," he said.  "But of course," and
here he gestured expansively to the whole room, "you might
make your own couple."

Simmons nodded.  "Very well.... show me unattached youths of
about eighteen.  A male first, if you please."  Very good,
sir.  Bulstrode walked to the end of the line and proceeded
down its full length, ordering first this and then that
young man to stand.  Making the whole circuit, he had about
a dozen youths standing quietly, eyes downcast.  He looked
at Simmons, who nodded, and began to make the circuit
himself.  He examined each young man, some large and strong
enough to seem to be in their twenties, some so slight they
might have been younger than Thorn.  A few he lifted the
heads of with his fingers under their chins to study their
faces.  He made the whole round, stopped, then walked
decisively to one in the middle.

"This one," he said.  "I will examine him now."  Bulstrode
nodded agreement and led the slave into the examination
room.  Once again, Simmons followed, and Bulstrode closed
the door behind him as he entered.

Simmons walked up to the youth, who stood with head bowed.
He was certainly no older than eighteen, if quite that.  He
was very dark, nearly a purple black.  Simmons lifted up his
chin to look into his face, as he had done in line.  The
youth's eyes shifted away so as not to stare at the white
man.  He had a rectangular face with full, heavy lips.  His
nose was broad but not flared.  Unusually long eyelashes
curled over eyes that were shining bright with irises of an
inky black.  It was a face both male and handsome and
girlish and beautiful.  Simmons ran the tip of is index
finger along the lips, which parted slightly.  Then Simmons
reached for the buttons on the collar of the shirt, and
unfastening them himself, he likewise lifted the shirt off
of the boy, who raised his arms to help.  Simmons himself
tugged on the simple knot in the length of rope holding the
youth's pants up, which gave way, causing the rough trousers
to fall.  He stood there naked before the white man.

Simmons walked slowly around him.  His shape and posture was
the beautiful S curve of the African body, shoulders held
back, a padded, muscular chest with purple black nipples, a
muscular, curved sheath of a torso ending in a groin that
flowed back into prominent buttocks pushed up high.  Passing
behind the boy, Simmons noted the rounded but muscular
countours of his bottom.  Coming back around to the front,
Simmons gasped at the sight:  his penis really was long,
perhaps not unusually so for an African but certainly beyond
anything possessed by a European.  Not as thick as Pompey's,
it was nevertheless a formidable organ, with heavy nuts
below it, and a tight tuft of densely matted public hair
just above it.  Not completely flaccid, the pendulous organ
hung nearly halfway down his muscular thigh.  Simon Simmons
was completely lost in the flesh and blood fantasy standing
before him.

"What is you name, and how did you work for your previous
master?" asked Simmons.

"I is Toby, massa.  I worked on the carts and wagons, with
the horses, massa.  I--I wasn't in the fields," he added,
hopefullly.  But it was unlikely that, as dark as he was, he
would have been used in the house.  Yet his skin was
flawless, reflecting no killing work in tobacco or grain
fields.

"Did you ever sire a child?"

"Mebbe," he said, ducking his head and looking at the floor.
"It's hard to tell, sometimes, massa."

Simmons nodded.  With his own experience among the slaves of
his parents' plantation, he could but agree.  "Can you
breed, do you think?" he asked.

Toby looked up brightly at him, then quickly lowered his
gaze again.  "Oh! yes, massa, I's sure.  I can sure give a
girl a baby, massa!"

Simmons walked up to him and said, "Let's see."  Then he
pulled up the rude chair by the table to sit in it before
the slave.  His white hand reached out to grasp the huge
penis before him.  Toby gasped and half-staggered, then
regained his footing.  Simon held the ponderous organ in
both hands, then began sliding them up and down the shaft.
Immediately the purple black organ thickened.  It was
already so dark, as dark as Toby's skin, that it could not
have darkened any more.  The skin, stretched by the growing
erection, took on a satin quality.  The organ grew to its
full length, and now it really might have reached to the
boy's knee, but Simmons held it straight up as his hands
slid up and down, more quickly now.  Precum glistened as it
oozed from the tip and slid down the shaft, but the rod was
so long it never made it completely down the mighty rod.
Toby held very still, only a rapid breathing betraying the
grow storm in his loins.  Faster and tighter flew the white
man's hands around the fleshy pole.

Suddenly, he uttered "Massa!" shuddered mightily and his
knees nearly buckled.  A rope of semen shot straight up and
landed a few inches to the side on the floor.  Then followed
a continuous ooze of semen as Simmons's hands slowed,
kneading and massaging the engorged rod.  The semen had so
far to flow from the black man's balls that it took a while
to milk all of it out.  Toby stood, his eyes wide in
astonishment, staring intently at the white hands wrapped
around his most private part.  When it appeared that no more
white spunk could be coaxed out, Simmons stood and cleaned
his hands on a rag.  "Dress yourself," he commanded, and
Toby obeyed.

"Toby," he said, "if you are to be a breeder you will need a
mate.  Shall we find you one out there?  Just you and me?"

Toby's eyes grew large again, a smile broke out on his full
lips, and he dared to look searchingly into the white man's
face.  "A---a gal, for me, massa?"

Simmons nodded.  "A man needs a wench, doesn't he?"  Toby
actually giggled, and nodded his head in delight.  This
strange white man was offering to buy a woman to service
him.  Toby's delight was also not lessened by the fact that
the same white man had just, undeniably, given him a great
deal of pleasure.  "Yassuh, please suh, I promise, Ise a
good breeder," said the slave.

"Very well," said Simmons, "we will go back in there and you
will pick out a likely wench."  Toby was nearly quivering
with his unexpected good luck.  Simmons strode to the door
and knocked.

"One more servant, please," he said to Bulstrode when the
man appeared.  "An unattached wench, about the same age as
this boy," he said.  Bulstrode thought a moment, nodded, and
once more made the round of those sitting in the room as
Toby and Simmons waited, watching.  Again, about a dozen
young women were told to stand, and Bulstrode gestured to
them and bowed to Simmons when he was done.

Simmons and Toby walked the line again.  Toby was so excited
he might have chosen every one, but Simon bade him look at
each one first.  It took two rounds but finally Toby turned
to the white man and whispered something.  Simon nodded and
whispered back.  Then he turned to Bulstrode and pointed
back to one figure.  "Her," he said.  Bulstrode nodded again
and led the young woman to the room.  As he was leaving he
made as if to lead Toby back to the bench, but Simmons
stopped them, saying, "The buck will remain here."
Bulstrode nodded and closed the door.

Toby stood directly in front of the young woman, about six
feet away, and looked at her intently.  Simon walked around
the two, slowly.  "What is your name, gal?" he asked, "and
how old are you?"

"I is Venus, massa.  I is seventeen," she replied in a soft
but full voice, resonant with the reedy timbres of Africa.

"What work did you do for your former master?"

"I cooks, massa, and sews, and works in a garden."

Simon nodded.  He reached out and tugged at the kerchief
around her head.  "Remove this" he ordered.  She pulled it
off, revealing a short cap of thick, kinky, utterly black
curls.  Her skin was dark, not as dark as Toby's but the
chocolate shade of Aphrodite's and Pompey's.  She had a
heart-shaped face, lips full and moist but not too large,
pushing out of a fleshy mouth beneath a broad nose.  Her
eyes looked downward, or shot furtive glances at Toby, from
beneath long, curled lashes.  She did not look at the white
man.

"And remove this," Simon ordered, tugging at the frayed
sleeve of her rough gown.  The woman paused, sighed, looked
again at Toby, then tugged slowly, slowly at the cord
holding the dress together, as if to delay the inevitable.
It gave way suddenly, her hand reluctantly let loose of the
cord, and the dress dropped to the ground.

Venus's chocolate dark skin had a light sheen of oil on it.
Her body was muscular but on a small frame.  Her breasts
were firm and very large, oblong like papayas.  Too taut to
sway, they bobbed as she moved.  They were assertive, fleshy
arguments presenting themselves to anyone who might want to
engage with them.  Beneath these magnificent bosoms, her
torso narrowed to a small waist, lightly muscled with a
prominent navel displaying a lighter colored button of flesh
just inside.  Then her hips swelled out in prominent,
rounded buttocks leading down into firm, muscular thighs and
calves.  Her body was made of the flowing curves of Africa,
exaggerated just a bit but not too much so.  A small, dense
triangle of pubic hair covered her groin.

Simon resumed his slow circling of the two.  The girl's dark
body was a spell conjuring up his memories of many like her
over the last few years, enchanting him into a siren world
of dark, warm flesh.  Then he reached over and gently hefted
one of the girl's breasts.  Venus gasped and then sighed,
but it was clear she knew there was nothing she could do.
Toby, watching with parted lips and increasingly heavy
breath, gave a nearly inaudible moan.

"Toby, come feel of her bosoms," said the white man.  "Will
she do, do you think?"  Toby started, seeming to come out of
a trance, and took two steps forward.  He grasped both
breasts reverently as the white man relinquished them to
him, and cupping them from below, gently weighed them.

"Yes, massa," he croaked, licking his lips.  Simon could see
that despite Toby's recent orgasm, his enormous organ had
begun to strain against the front of the slave's trousers.
The three held that pose for a few seconds, then Simon broke
the spell.

"Very well.  Venus, dress yourself."  Toby stepped back,
reluctantly, and the slave girl complied quickly.  Going to
the door, Simon knocked, which brought Bulstrode.

"I shall take the six Negroes I have examined, sir," he
said.

Pleased with such a sale, Bulstrode grinned hugely and
nodded, pumping Simon's hand in his iron grip.  The slave
dealer issued quick orders to the six to gather their few
belongings together.  Aphrodite and Pompey, Rose and Thorn,
Venus and Toby stirred, bewilderment, fear, and hope in
their faces and in the looks they exchanged with one
another.  Bulstrode led Simon Simmons down the hallway to
his private office, where papers were drawn up and money
exchanged.  The deal was concluded with another handshake.

"Now, sir, you have a wagon, do you?  Yes, very good, if you
will prepare it for departure I will bring your servants out
to you."

Stepping out into the late afternoon sun, Simon took a deep
breath, shaking his head of the fog of passion and
engrossment in which he had wandered ever since entering
this place.  He unhitched his horses and prepared them for
departure.  Out of the building, clutching pathetically
small cloth parcels containing all their worldly
possessions, stepped Simon's own new possessions, blinking
in the sunlight.  Simmons ordered them into the back of the
wagon among the new provisions, except for Toby, whom he
ordered to sit by him on the driver's bench, where there was
just room for one.  Fully loaded, the horses strained and
pulled and the wagon began to move forward.

West into the setting sun they went, toward Mistletoe Farm,
the wagon steady but creaking and sometimes swaying with its
burden.  The heat of the day was coming off the rough roads
and as they moved the last insects and birds of the daytime
world grew silent, to be replaced by the night travelers.
Rustling in the undergrowth to either side of the path
betrayed the movement of deer as the soon-to-be-rising moon
called them out of their naps.  And in the wagon itself, the
wary and appraising glances of the enslaved Africans among
themselves, the stares at the white man's back, the
whispered negotiations and explanations among themselves,
echoed the natural world's slow turn into night and the
strategies of night's creatures.

to be continued.....
comments welcome:  lokiaga@prodigy.net