Date: Sun, 21 Oct 2012 00:28:18 -0700
From: JD <sanjosejd@gmail.com>
Subject: Nate the Slave Boy

It was May in 1841.. my favorite time of year at Bluffton - the South
Carolina family plantation not far from the state line and Savannah - where
our people labored to grow rice, cotton and indigo, and had done so for
what seemed like countless generations at the time.

In May everything seemed bright and magical. The weeping willow slowly
swayed in their growing fullness, the sweet, faint scents of jasmine and
honeysuckle tickled and teased the senses along with the occasional whiffs
of the freshly-turned earth of our acreage, and the old oaks creaked in the
gentle, cool breezes which still occasionally blessed us before giving way
to the heavy, damp heat of summer.

And of course, there, were our people.. our field negroes. In the winter
months, they were seldom even noticed. To my young mind, they seemed to
disappear after harvest, scurrying away to some unknown winter refuge like
shrews scattering from a brushfire, only to miraculously appear again as
spring planting grew close.  Even then, and throughout the growing season,
my friends and kin paid them no mind, and seemed to scarcely know they were
even there. Our house niggers were of a different cut - polite, clean and
talkative, sometimes even sassy, they were almost family. But on the few
occasions I encountered our field hands while out in the acreage with papa,
I noticed they were sweaty, quiet to the point of being secretive, and
obviously fearful of white Christian folk. So it's little wonder most folks
didn't concern themselves with the field niggers or even cared to notice
them.

But I noticed them.

Even by the age of 19, I had little interest in the womenfolk with whom I'd
been acquainted - trussed up like holiday hens, with painted faces, dainty
coiffures and reeking of imported perfumes. They never piqued my interest,
let alone made my loins tingle. I suppose they just didn't quite fit with
the kind of rough-and-tumble notion I had of intimate interplay. At an ever
younger age I'd found myself fascinated by some of my male friends, but
that kind of thing was dangerous in the extreme, and terror of the
consequences kept me from pursuing my desires to anything approaching
fruition. Which is why I'd learned to love springtime at Bluffton. It was
at this time that the field hands magically returned in tremendous numbers,
and as I grew, I found myself riding one of our prize geldings out to the
acreage to take the air. Papa was thoroughly pleased at what he took to be
my precocious interest in the family's business. But my rides - which by 19
had become daily affairs - had an altogether different purpose. As I ambled
around the fields, I could watch our niggers toiling there, rhythmically
energetic, singing their quaint songs as they ploughed and planted together
like the workings of a clock. After a time I noticed something curiously
disturbing - the same sensations I felt had earlier with my playmates, only
amplified a hundredfold. There was a rutting rawness about these earthy
people - taut, lean bodies whose shredded clothing gave tantalizing
glimpses of dark, hot cocoa skin beneath, glistening and running with beads
of sweat - that had me fairly grinding against my saddle horn as I fought
to calm my thundering heart and labored breathing. The older, more muscular
negroes aroused in me a detached sense of beauty like the lines of a fine
horse, but it was the younger ones who stirred my innards in a powerful,
forbidden way that brings me to the heart of my story.

That May, for some days, I'd noticed a particular strapping young nigger,
lean and lanky but well-fed, who attracted my particular attention. I'd
never noticed him before, but was now intensely curious, so I called one of
our foremen over and - trying to appear detachedly interested as I would in
any new chattel - asked about him. The boy was called Nate, and I was
surprised to learn he had been at Bluffton for nearly two years. The
foreman guessed he was around 16 and I agreed. My mind whirling chaotically
with fragments of plots and plans, I advised the foreman that we were
considering a new house nigger and that young Nate might just be the
ticket. The foreman looked skeptical for a brief instant, then bucked up
and agreed with my choice as in duty bound. I could imagine the sniggers
and scandal of having this boy sent to my rooms, so instead I told the
foreman to have Nate report to the woodhouse in a quarter of an hour. At
the woodhouse, nervously alone with Nate, I tersely advised him to come to
my rooms in another quarter hour to be interviewed. He mumble-blurted some
kind of gibberish, which upon slowly repeating, turned out to be a query
about whether he should "clean up" before coming to the house. I advised
young Nate that that wouldn't be necessary.

A short time later, I responded to a barely audible mouse-tap at my
door. At my invitation, Nate furtively scurried into the door, closed it
and turned to me, his shoulders bent, hands clasped, grimy bare feet and
ankles poking out of the shredded ends of what had once been trousers. With
eyes down, he maintained a respectful distance from where I was seated in a
grand parlor chair by a window. And in an obviously fearful afterthought,
he snapped the dusty straw hat from his head and clutched it in his hands,
head bowed and silently waiting for my instructions. I slowly looked him
over in detail for the first time. He appeared to be about my height, not
quite six feet, lean and sinewy, with dark skin that still glistened with
the sweat of the field. Besides his hat and "trousers", his only other
garment was a collarless, untucked shirt with few remaining buttons, thin
as a window sheer, with sleeves rolled up past the elbow exposing long,
slender arms and hand with delicate long fingers. I asked him if he knew
why he was here, and he acknowledged the foreman had briefed him, and
thanked me for the opportunity. I told him I'd not yet decided to bring him
inside, to which he immediately looked abashed and whispered "yessir, young
mastuh".

Having reaffirmed our respective stations, and emboldened by the knowledge
that he was family property, I told him to step closer so I could have a
look him over. As he shuffled closer, I could feel the heat growing in my
loins as my primal juices started flowing, and required an effort to still
a slight trembling in my hands. As stopped a few feet from me, still
apprehensive and obviously shaking. I stood and with a hand on his shoulder
drew him close as I turned him around. I slid my hand over his shoulders,
down his back, felt and squeezed his arms, neck, and thighs, as one would
examine a mare for sale. He made no sound, quietly resigned to this
examination just as he'd no doubt done so on the block the day papa bought
him. Crouching, I let my hands feel of his tight, stringy calves, then
slowly up the front of his thighs, then I stood and turned him towards
me. Without a word, I slowly undid the few buttons remaining on his
threadbare shirt, exposing his trembling chest and taut, muscular
stomach. It was at this point I first noticed the heady aroma of Nate's
sweaty body, pungent and tangy, and saw the fresh sweat on his brow and
under his arms. As I let my hands feel his hairless brown chest and slide
slowly down his rippled stomach, I noticed some else - Nate's tortured
breathing had settled into a deep, heaving rhythm as his eyes - fixed to
the ground - occasionally shot a glance up to me, as he began to wonder
what I was about.

I sat again and asked him if he knew what would be expected of him if I
bought him inside. He said he didn't, but was ready to serve me in whatever
way I needed. And with that, I reached out and gently squeezed the lengthy
bulge in the front of his trousers, and said I had some very special
services in mind for him. I looked up at his sweating face, and for the
first time, he looked into my eyes. No further words would be required.

With my hands on his narrow hips, I moved him square in front of me as I
scooted to the edge of my seat. I pulled on the loose end of the old rope
he used as a belt, and his threadbare trousers tumbled to his feet. He
stepped out of them and kicked them aside as I moved my face closer to his
thin, kinky bush, closed my eyes, and drew in the intoxicating aroma of his
musky black crotch. Had I not been sitting, I would surely have lost my
balance as the heady scent filled my senses and set my head
spinning. Opening my eyes, I gently took my young stallion's cock veiny
cock into my hand, examining it closely as I had never seen an
uncircumcised one before, and never one like this - a good 7-8 inches, but
no thicker than mine, the head completely hidden by a soft foreskin that
seemed wet on the end. I looked closely at it as my fingertips eased the
skin back, exposing a slick, reddish bulb of meat that gave off its own
powerful scent. Now trembling, I let my tongue snake out and lick the
clear, sweet drop of honey that had oozed out of his slit, swirled it
around the musky head, then cradled him on my tongue as I let it slide deep
into my mouth, meeting only a momentary resistance as I grabbed his hips
and forced the full length of his cock into my hungry throat. I paused for
the longest time there, kneading the muscular bulbs of his black ass as I
breathed in his tangy odor, my nose pressed into his wiry bush - I could
feel his pulsing cock slowly swelling in my throat as my breath heaved in
and out of my nostrils.

As I gulped on his dick like a suckling calf, my throat muscles massaging
the veiny length of his cock, my fingers found his sweaty ass crack, slick
with sweat. I teased his tight hole with a fingertip, and could feel his
cock pumping more dribbles of warm honey into my throat as his breathing
grew deeper. I slowly slid his cock from my throat - tight than it had gone
down - like drawing the dasher from a butter churn. As I started to pull
him back, he gave a sudden start, jumping back a bit. With a pained look on
his face, he said "I'se real sorry young mastuh, but I'se gots to reliefs
myself somethin awful!" A deliciously wicked thought sped through my brain,
and I took him by the hand and pulled him back to me. As he stood there
astonished, I once again lifted his heavy cock and rested the throbbing
head on my tongue. Young Nate grunted a bit, but didn't know what to say as
I released his hand and slipped both hands slowly over his ass and up his
narrow, tight back. Closing my eyes, I felt the first driblets of his
scalding-hot piss drop on my tongue and roll down. When he saw me protest
from me, he sighed and released a slow, steady stream of hot, salty nigger
piss. I contentedly shut my eyes and closed my warm, soft mouth around his
aching cockhead, alternately letting his piss wash over my tongue and fill
my mouth, and taking it down in huge greedy gulps. It was clear that he'd
had a full bladder for some time, and had neglected to deal with it in all
the excitement of an invitation to the house. I pressed my arms and hands
into his heaving back and pulled him close as he squeezed the last few
spurts into my mouth. I took his cock in my hand and lovingly licked the
head clean, not neglecting the acrid bits of goodness that had gathered
under his foreskin.

Taking him deeply into my throat again, he spread his grimy feet apart for
better purchase and began pumping his cock into my mouth in earnest. The
thick saliva coating my throat must have felt like hot satin to his hard
black dick as he rhythmically fucked my hungry throat, his sweaty black
balls smacking my chin as his knees started to weaken and tremble. I felt
the head of his cock swelling in my throat as his hands flailed wildly
about, unwilling to lay them on me.  I gripped one of them in mine and
massaged his sweat-slick ass with the other, teasing his hole and wiggling
one fingertip up inside his tight boy-ass. I drove my mouth down over his
throbbing dick as he gave one final violent thrust of his narrow
hips. Nate's legs tightened and he stood up on his toes as his balls began
to pump a seemingly endless load of thick viscous nigger-spunk down my
gullet. I forced him back until his heaving cockhead was on my tongue and,
with my mouth tight around it, milked his cock of every last pungent shot
of sweet, hot cream, savoring the luscious texture and flavor as it shot
over my tongue and slid down. With a tight hand and a warm mouth, I teased
the last drops of his juice into my mouth, then fell back exhausted into my
chair. I looked up at Nate and smiled.

But now that my lusted had been sated and I had a moment for rational
thinking, I realized I couldn't make Nate into a house negro. The reason
was simple - besides suspicious questions from mama and papa, they would
insist that he be dressed groomed for house service, soaped up, scrubbed
and scented as befitted a house servant, and that I couldn't abide. No, my
boy had to maintain his scruffy, grimy appearance and the heady, pungent of
unwashed field nigger if he was to continue to please me as he just had. I
know this was be a disappointment to the boy, so I would take steps to see
that he and his family were extra-well provided for, but the aromas and the
tastes of my personal service boy had to be preserved. And so they would
be.