Date: Thu, 26 Jul 2012 22:19:11 +0000
From: lokiaga@austin.rr.com
Subject: Visit to the Plantation 5

Visit to the Plantation 5
Lance Kyle

Montford Jackson awoke the next morning in a tangle of brown limbs and
torsos.  On one side, the sixteen year old deep chocolate boy slave Paris
was backed up to him, his meaty bottom pressed against Jackson's side,
Jackson's arm under the boy's head and neck, his hand against the boy's
chest.  On the other side, the thirteen year old brother, Pompei, lay half
on Jackson, the dark boy's morning erection already evident against the
white man's thigh.

Jackson thought for a moment about the pleasures he might take with these
willing boy slaves, then decided it would have to be quick, as he had a
long ride by horseback to return to his home in the capital by that
evening.  His right hand was near Pompei's firm, rounded buttocks.  He
cupped these, kneading them, and woke the boy up, who looked around for a
moment in disorientation, a little silver thread of drool dangling from his
mouth, then realized where he was and smiled at the white man.  Jackson
pulled the boy up toward him by his buttocks, slipped his hand to the boy's
head long enough to bring his full lips to his own, then resumed a firm
grip on the buttocks.  He luxuriated in pulling the top, then the bottom,
firm lip between his own, sliding his tongue past the full lips to run
along the teeth of the boy.  Pompei tentatively returned his own tongue,
then finding it was not refused he thrust it completely into the white
man's mouth, the two now kissing deeply, sucking each other's tongue and
sucking lips.

All this woke up Paris who turned over, his morning erection now slapping
the white man on the thigh, to see what was being done to his brother.  Now
Jackson grabbed the sixteen year old slave boy's dark brown buttocks and
pulled him up.  He released Pompei's mouth, the thirteen year old boy
gasping, saliva threads running from his mouth to the white man's.  All
Jackson had to do was turn toward Paris and the older slave boy knew what
to do, offering his own full lips to the white man who did as he had done
with Pompei.  The two kissed deeply for a few moments while Pompei tongued
the white man's nipples and gave hopeful little pumps of his penis against
Jackson's hip.

Then Jackson arranged the boys, explaining what they were to do.  They both
lay on their sides but at an angle on top of him, one on each side, so that
their rampant, purple black penises were aligned with Jackson's blushing
hard cock.  Jackson kept a grip on each boy's firm, rounded bottom,
squeezing and kneading the cheeks together, his face buried in the
luxuriant, crisp black skullcap of hair each boy wore.  At his direction,
each boy put one dark brown fist around the three penises together and
began pumping.  The two midnight black penises were above and the rosey one
below, two brown fists sliding up and down the three in rhythm.  Clear
fluid leaked out of each one and down onto Jackson's abdomen, heaving now
from his increasingly labored breathing.  Each boy and the man looked down
at the spectacle, each began thrusting his groin forward as much as he
could without breaking the bond among the three, each one squeezing his
buttocks together in aid of the impending crisis.

Pompei came first, squirming and crying out "Oh!  Masta!" as one and then
two dollops of thirteen year old sperm squirted out onto Jackson's chest.
Paris was right behind, groaning a wordless cry as his more potent sixteen
year old black dick shot out one long stream, then another, onto the white
man's chest, a few drops flying up into his own hair and that of his
brother.  Then Jackson came, roaring, pushing his pelvis up as his man's
load erupted, more drops flying onto the boys' faces and into their hair.
All three trembled and sighed, heaving and seething, and then at once they
collapsed, the boys' hands ceasing, both hands now slimy with semen.

They lay that way for a while, recovering breath.  Then Pompei began
running two fingers around the puddles of semen on the white man's body,
mixing them, stirring them together, until soon it was impossible to tell
(if one ever could have) whose white puddles belonged to whom.  Paris
giggled and then dipping his finger into the mess tasted it.  He smiled and
dipped again, this time offering it to Jackson, who sucked the finger clean
and smiled.  Now both boys got into the game, feeding each other and the
white man their shared semen until only a shiny slick remained where once
there had been islands of white.

Jackson now slapped each boy's bottom hard—his hands had never stopped
kneading their firm, rounded buttocks—slapped them hard again, and then
pushed each boy off, the three taking quick turns in the cold water of the
tub to wash off.  The three dressed, and then Jackson instructed the boys
to pack his belongings.  Was there a look of surprise, even of
disappointment on their beautiful brown faces?  The white man owed them no
explanation, but he felt he should give one anyway.

"I must return to my home," he said, each boy nodding, looking thoughtful.
"I expect I shall see you again when your master passes away," he said.
Now each boy really became thoughtful, as the consequences—for blacks,
often dire consequences—of the death of a master dawned on them.  As he
turned to go down to breakfast, Jackson stopped, turned back and kissed
each boy lightly on the mouth, looking briefly into their eyes—it meant
something that the boys knew they could return the gaze—and then left to
go down to his host.

Martin Merriweather looked rested from the journey the day before, but
Jackson was more convinced than ever that it was simply a matter of time
before the old man made his transition.  The two chatted about politics and
events, and then it was time for Jackson to go.  Slaves had brought his
horse, his belongings packed upon it, to the front.  Jackson and
Merriweather exchanged a hearty goodbye and a handshake; no doubt each
surmised it was for the last time.  And then Jackson mounted his horse and
rode off.  He caught a glimpse of Paris and Pompei peeking down from an
upstairs window, and by acknowledgement he touched the brim of his hat;
then he was off.

The journey took all day, and Montford Jackson was deep in thought.  He
grew up as the second son of a moderately prosperous small town doctor and
his wife.  The family kept slaves, of course, as befitted their social
status.  Not field hands, but house servants, for taking care of the
garden, the stables, and such.  Not a large contingent of slaves, but some.

Montford had long known he preferred males.  He had experimented with
females and found that while he could perform, they left him unsatisfied.
He had come to this realization early, at about age eight.  A black slave
boy his age, Julius, was more or less assigned to be his servant from a
very young age, and the two became friends as well as young master and
slave.  Of course they saw each other naked, with the usual curiosity the
young will have for the naked body.  But nothing really came of it until he
was eight.

He had gone to the stables to see about something, and although he was not
trying to be stealthy he made no noise as he walked.  Hearing a sound, he
turned into a stall to see an older black man, whom everyone called Uncle
Henry, sitting on a bale of hay, his pants down around his ankles, pumping
what seemed to be the largest penis Montford had ever seen other than on a
horse.  Montford was so quiet he was able to walk up almost on the older
man, whose eyes were closed and who was moaning softly, before the man
startled, opened his eyes and saw the boy.  He froze, his coal black
fingers wrapped around the throbbing shaft.

Montford was not alarmed and did not cry out.  He was astonished, and
frankly he thought it was a beautiful sight.  He took a step or two closer,
eyeing the beast, while Uncle Henry sat panting, studying the boy
carefully.  Even at a young age, the boy was trained in the habits of
taking liberties with the blacks, of an assumption of casual privilege.
Young Montford took a step closer, Uncle Henry studying him intently, the
boy's eyes on the iron rod.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.  "Pleasurin' mahself, Masta Montford,"
breathed the older man, still panting.  "How, how does that work?  What
will happen?" the boy asked.  Uncle Henry cocked his head, took a quick
read of the boy, and made a calculated gamble.  "Well, Masta, I can show
you or I can let you do it on me fo' yo'self," he said.  A small thrill ran
through the boy, as if he were being initiated into a great secret.  "Let
me do it," he said.  And so Uncle Henry, beckoning the boy right up to him,
gently took his eight year old hand and put it around the shaft.  Montford
felt the dark warmth, could feel the blood throbbing in the shaft, the
silky skin, the great veins standing out all along it. "Slid yo' hand up
an' down, young Masta," breathed Uncle Henry.  Montford did, then added a
second hand as it was clear he would need both.  He stood there pumping the
black staff while Uncle Henry moaned very softly, his breath increasing
now, nodding encouragement to the boy.  And then in a strangled voice,
after just a few minutes, he choked out, "Keep goin' no matter what, young
Masta," and then in another moment he groaned deeply, shuddered, and
squeezed his buttocks together hard.

Young Montford was surprised and astonished—but exhilarated.  It was
clear he had brought about some tremendous effect in the older man, exactly
what he didn't know.  But the visible and tangible evidence, besides
Henry's moaning and gasping, was a fountain of thick, sticky white liquid
that at first shot out of the tip of the black man's stiff road and then
flowed like a volcano down its sides, over the boy's hands.  "Slow down"
breathed the man, and then, "Stop" as his climax finished, leaving him
shuddering and gasping.

Montford held onto the still iron hard, black rod for dear life, eyes
glancing back and forth between the puddles of white stuff on Uncle Henry's
thighs and the stable floor, and Uncle Henry's face.  Finally the black man
reached down and gently pried the boy's fingers off, then he pulled out a
clean bandana and began wiping off first himself and then the boy's
fingers.  Montford did not mind waiting; he was astonished at the slippery
texture of the stuff.  Once done, Uncle Henry folded the bandana carefully,
put it back in his pocket, looked closely and serious at the boy and said,
"You know, young Masta, you can' tell nobody, or Uncle Henry gonna get this
cut off," gesturing toward his staff.  It was not a threat.  It was the
bare truth.  Nor did Montford feel threatened.  Somehow he had picked up
enough of the slave-master calculus to know that it was true, and he shook
his head vigorously and said he would not tell.  Uncle Henry nodded,
smiled, and stood up to pull his pants back up.  Montford went running from
the stables, not in fear but to share his news with Julius.

Julius had in fact seen Uncle Henry doing that very thing, although from a
hiding place.  Julius had seen slave couples going at it through chinkholes
in the slave cabins at night, he had seen one or two older boys with
erections down at the swimming hole.  So the two boys, black and white,
exchanged the information they had.  Each was on the lookout for more, from
then on, and Julius invited Montford more than once to spy on copulating
slave couples with him.

Years passed and each boy began to grow pubic hair, to observe the hair of
the other growing.  One night at about age twelve, Montford woke up after a
particularly vivid sexual dream to find his nightclothes wet and
sticky—with the same stuff Uncle Henry had produced!  He cried out to
Julius, who slept in a pallet in his dressing room just off the bedroom.
Julius came in, wearing just a simple nightshirt, and was astonished at his
master's—and friend's—revelation.  "How you do that, Masta?" he
asked.  Montford said he did not know; he woke up and there it was.  "I
wonder cain we MAKE it come?" wondered Julius, whispering.  Both boys
thought for a moment.  Then taking charge, Montford commanded his friend
and slave to get into bed beside him.  He pulled up Julius's nightshirt,
revealing his young midnight black rod already in full erection.  Thinking
back to Uncle Henry, Montford bade the slave boy lie back and then put his
fist around the boy's rod, and began pumping up and down, up and down.
Both boys looked with great earnestness at the white hand around the black
rod, at each other, back and forth, as Julius began breathing more heavily,
and then with a gasp and an "Oh!" Julius squirted out one dollop of semen,
then a second that landed white and glistening on his fudge dark belly.

Both boys looked at it in astonishment, as if jewels had squirted from the
black boy's penis.  Montford released the still stiff organ and touched a
white puddle with his fingers, then rubbed some between his fingers.  The
boys each touched it, smelled it.  Then Julius wiped it up with a corner of
his nightshirt.  "What did it feel like?" Montford eventually whispered.
Julius giggled and the two boys lay together in the bed a few minutes more,
Julius trying to explain what could not be put into words.

It was but the next night that the boys decided to experiment with their
discovery.  This time Julius wrapped his dark chocolate fist around the
white boy's rod and after some pumping brought him off; and Montford once
more returned the favor.  As you might imagine this led to further and more
complicated experiments; eventually they were doing, from sheer
imagination, what Montford would do the rest of his life.

Before long the boys also branched out into experiments with girls.  Julius
brought a worried looking fourteen year old black slave girl to the barn
one day when he knew they would not be disturbed, and the two did with her
everything they had ever heard of in dirty joke or song, keeping it up as
long as their ability to climax returned, simply fingering her all over
when it would not.  She left the barn, exhausted and disheveled two hours
later, the boys following not long after in jubilation.

And so it continued, but as their teenage years wore on it became apparent
that Julius was more enthusiastic for the girls, Montford more attracted to
Julius, and to the occasional slave boy they could catch alone in the
fields.  Eventually young Master Montford went off to college to study law.
There he found similar pursuits, now with white young men.  He and Julius
greeted each other fondly upon his return trips to the family home, but now
Julius was paired with a young woman and no longer sleeping in the house.
All his interest and attention now seemed focused on her.  Eventually
Montford took his degree and set up a practice in the capital city.  His
parents died, and the estate—including the human property—was split
between his brother and himself, his brother having trained as a physician
and choosing to take the family real estate as his share.  Montford still
saw Julius during family visits, but Uncle Henry had died not long before
his parents.

Jackson now led the life of the "eccentric confirmed bachelor," which he
knew to be small town Southern code for just exactly what he was.  He lived
in a comfortable but modest home in town, with a small garden in front and
behind.  He had no slaves; a cleaning woman came in once a day and her son
tended the garden when necessary.  He lived simply and took most of his
meals in a nearby tavern.  All of which circumstances he turned over in his
mind with the events transpiring soon at Hundred Oaks.  He had room for
slaves in the house.  It would not be unusual for him to bring back the
boys, and their mother.  He had no moral commitment to keeping slave
families together, but he knew he would need her domestic skills were he to
set up house with her sons.

These and other thoughts occupied him all the way home, and during the week
as he caught up on business.  And it was but at the end of that one week
that word came from Hundred Oaks that Martin Merriweather had breathed his
last.  Montford Jackson gathered papers, documents, luggage, and rented a
two horse cart.  He sent word ahead of his plans.  Setting off early one
morning, he headed for Hundred Oaks.

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lokiaga@austin.rr.com