Date: Sat, 14 Jan 2012 16:58:50 -0500
From: lokiaga@austin.rr.com
Subject: Rue Dauphine 14

Rue Dauphine 14
Lance Kyle

The work of organizing and reorganizing the house on Rue Dauphine began
again right after breakfast.  In discussing and arranging matters, the
residents of the house came to realize that more goods would be needed:
food deliveries, sheets, towels, and so forth.  Cleopatra had some skill in
healing, and so a supply of healing herbs, medicines, and tinctures could
be procured along with other paraphernalia of her craft.  Of course, more
school supplies were in order.  His slaves were so busy that Scott Barnes
decided he had best take on the task of going about to various businesses
to place standing orders.  He carefully wrote down everyone's orders as
they discussed their needs.

Going out would also give him something to do.  In his early days in the
house, Scott had been occupied well enough with setting up the household,
inspecting renovations, and getting to know his slaves.  Now, two things
were apparent to him: first, his slaves were doing nearly everything that
needed to be done in the house; to tell the truth, he was overstaffed, but
then again staffing needs were hardly his motivation in buying most of
them.  Second, every day brought new invitations to join this or that club,
social organization, and so forth, even invitations to dinners here and
there.  He suspected Lawyer Toogood of publicizing his recent presence in
New Orleans as an eligible and wealthy young bachelor.  He thought about
it, and decided that the social life was not for him.  He loved being with
people, but the pretensions and etiquette of high society was not something
he had been raised to as a preacher's son, and he could not imagine it now.
He saw no reason to marry, as his slaves satisfied his every need for
companionship and sex.  He decided to embrace the life of the eccentric
bachelor, which was surely a well known enough pattern to follow in New
Orleans.  But then, that left him with the problem of what to do with
himself.

So he was happy to seize the opportunity to take his cane and hat and walk
out onto the street in pursuit of his tasks.  Summer was definitely in full
swing in New Orleans, so heavy clothing was not called for.  And best to
finish his tasks early and retire to the cool shade of the house before the
day became oppressive.

He went from one merchant to the other, and one of his destinations caused
him to pass the slave quarters again.  Going by one of the low brick
buildings he heard the sound of weeping coming from within.  Perhaps a
female weeping?  Perhaps another mother being separated from her child?  He
stopped on the street to listen, his heart sore at the sound.  He made
himself walk a few steps on--he simply could not buy up every distressed
slave that came through the city.  But walking on simply brought him within
the sound of a whipping going on in a courtyard behind a fence: the crack
of a whip and the cries of a man this time, pleading for mercy.  He paused,
then shaking his head in sorrow he forced himself to walk on.  He went half
a block and then heard a voice that was startlingly close, as if it came
from the wall beside him, or perhaps the air around him, or even within his
own head.  The voice said:

"And yet you own slaves."

He paused and looked around.  The street was empty where he was at that
moment.  Looking around for the source of the voice took him a moment,
during which time a carriage passed in the street.  The moment it passed he
saw on the other side a curious figure in bright clothing, head wrapped in
a kind of turban, just standing there on the sidewalk, stock still, looking
at him The voice came again, again as if just by or within him: "And yet
you own slaves."  He startled, and then looked more carefully at the figure
across the street.  It was Mama Désirée!

He quickly crossed the street, lifting his hat in greeting, gave a short
bow and gave a courtly kiss to her hand.  She looked at him in silence, a
sardonic smile on her lips, and then she repeated, now in her voice and
coming from her: "And yet you own slaves."

Scott sputtered in some confusion.  "But...but not like that," he said,
gesturing back toward the slave merchant quarter.  "I cannot imagine being
cruel to my people."

"And yet every dollar you have spent to buy a slave from these places keeps
the practice alive.  They use your money to go buy other slaves.  It is not
whether you are kind or not, it is the practice you support," she replied
in a soft but determined voice.

Scott was flustered.  He had nothing to say in response, although he had
not before this felt himself to be in the wrong.  He felt his kind--even
loving--certainly intimate relationship with his slaves was worlds apart
from what he had just heard walking down the street.  And yet he had no
reply.

"Think on it, Scott Barnes," said Mama Désirée.  "I have a work for you to
do."  And then she turned and walked away in majesty, leaving him there on
the sidewalk.  That was ominous, he thought.  Not "work" but "a" work; the
article made it seem like a large project.  But then his thoughts went back
to the subject of their brief exchange.  It was true: he owned slaves.  And
in being honest with himself he had to admit that his purchases had
furthered the institution.  Masters could of course be kind, even loving to
their slaves, but it was in the nature of the institution that cruelty was
often the result.  Cruelty of one kind or another had been visited on all
the slaves he owned, even if not by him.  But life-long convictions and
beliefs, simple assumptions he had always held, are not overturned in a
moment.  He walked on about his errands, and then back to Rue Dauphine,
thinking about what Mama Désirée had said.

Back in the house, everyone gathered in the attic schoolroom for some
lessons.  Scott had ordered more desks, but for now between desks and other
furniture, they made do.  He asked the slaves to work in the pairs they had
worked in yesterday, and was pleased to see sure and certain signs of
amiability, even friendship, among old and new, darker and lighter.  After
the lesson, Scott was sitting in the library, thinking random thoughts
about the house, and then it struck him: why was there no cellar beneath
the main wing?  He knew the shower baths drained down through that general
area, but a shaft might have been sunk for that drainage that still left
plenty of other space.  Why had it not been used?

He was musing on the problem when King walked by, going about his business.
Scott called to him and asked him to come in for a moment and sit.

"King, why is there no cellar beneath this wing?"  King thought for a
moment and declared that he did not know.

"The house was built and your uncle in residence before I got here," he
said.  "I've never heard him speak of any cellar below," said King.

Scott thought for a moment and then it occurred to him.  "How did you come
to be in this household, King?" he asked.

"Your uncle bought me, Master Scott.  I was fifteen, and my old master died
and the mistress wanted to sell up and move to be with her son in Natchez,
so the whole house was sold up.  Me, too."

"Were...were you alright with coming here?" asked Scott.

"Oh yes, Master, it was alright at first and then...as you know...your
uncle and I..." Scott nodded and patted King's hand.  His uncle and his
uncle's young slave had fallen in love.  "And as big and black as I am,
Master, I was sure I was going to be sold to the sugar plantations.  That
would probably have been the end of me," he said, an old look of fear
passing across his eyes.

Scott thought for a moment, looking at the handsome, full features of the
black man.  "King, I want you to tell me the truth.  Whatever you say, I
won't mind.  Please...do you mind being a slave?"

King looked at him in surprise.  "What makes you ask that, Master?" he
asked, with a touch of wariness.  Scott told him about his morning's
experiences, including his rendezvous with Mama Désirée.  King nodded
thoughtfully.  Then he seemed to make a resolution and said, "I think all
other things being equal, I'd rather be free, Master.  But all other things
are never equal. I can't go far with this color.  I don't know what I would
do or where I would go if I were free.  I'd probably get caught by slavers
and sent to the sugar plantations and nothing I could say would prevent it.
I think I have a good life here.  I think I have a good life," and here he
grasped Scott's hand that lay on the desk between them, "with you, Master,"
he said.

Scott nodded.  "But still, so many suffer from it," he said.  King merely
nodded in the affirmative.  Scott thanked him for his views and for the
information, and King went on about his business.

Scott continued to think about the question of the central wing's cellar,
or lack thereof, throughout the day.  Late in the afternoon, he had
occasion to go down into the wine and spirits cellar under the left wing,
taking the keys and lantern.  Curiosity led him to the shelves of bottles
against the far wall, beyond which lay whatever, if anything, was beneath
the central wing.  He began to wonder.  His uncle had created a secret
entrance to the cellar under the right wing, where his remains now lay in a
coffin.  Maybe...Scott began probing the small wall space around the
shelves with no luck.  He tried pushing here and there, tried feeling where
the wall met the ceiling--no luck.  He had about decided there was no
entrance, and to give up looking, when his original errand came back to him
and he began examining the bottles on the shelves in front of him, thinking
to try some of them.  He could only just read the labels, which were coated
with dust.

Except for one.  It was surely dusty, but near the neck it appeared as if,
within the last year or two, some of the dust had been wiped off by
handling.  Had someone inspected it and decided not to drink it?  He
reached for it, and met resistance.  He tugged a bit and it did not move.
Then he tugged again, harder, and the bottle pivoted up from its cradle but
the base remained in place, secured by some kind of hinge.  The shelves
moved just an inch or two, toward him.

He slipped his hand into the opening he had just created, and pulled.
Slowly, the heavy shelves continued to pivot on what must have been hinges
concealed at the other edge.  The door opened about two feet and then
stopped.  Behind it, in the stone wall, was a door.  It was locked.

Scott had the ring of keys he had used to open the left wing cellar, and
some of the keys were still not marked.  He hurriedly tried one and then
another and finally found one that turned in the lock.  The door swung
inward a little, pitch dark beyond. A distinct odor rolled out at him.  He
couldn't quite place it.  It was neither foul, nor springtime fresh.  He
had a bit of a sidling squeeze to enter this door, holding the lantern
before him, but he made it.

He was definitely in a room.  In the center of the room was a table, with
carefully organized papers and writing instruments on it, and then his
light caught a chair at the table.  He held the lantern up higher, but the
ceiling here was about as low as in the other cellars, and he could easily
touch the ceiling if he reached.  He looked around and surveyed the
contents of the room.

To his left a kind of rectangular shaft about two feet wide on a side
jutted into the room, covered with heavy stone and mortar.  This, he
guessed, was the shaft beneath the shower baths and laundry room that newly
stood in the courtyard.  Around the entire rest of the wall surface in the
room, however, were books.  They were on wooden shelves.  The odor he had
smelled was of books, the dusty sweet smell of a library.  But not of mold,
nor of rot, nor of the waste that must be tumbling down the shaft
regularly.  The cellar had been specially constructed to be as dry as
possible, given its location.  But why a library here, when there was one
upstairs?  Scott began to peruse the shelves, and he had his answer.  These
were books of magic, of ancient spells, lists of runes, mystical diagrams
and charts.  He looked on the table and saw an open book written in what he
guessed to be Arabic, and he saw his uncle's handwriting on some paper
there.  Evidently the old man had been studying, taking notes, just before
his final illness.

Many, perhaps most, of the books were not in English.  How had his uncle
been able to read them all?  He would not have been surprised to learn that
his uncle had many languages, but there seemed to be quite a lot of
different ones here, many in characters he did not even recognize.  Of
course, his uncle--like him, now--had been in the order of the Frères de
Saint Ange.  He must have studied these books to increase his magical
powers.  Was there some book, some secret, among the Frères that gave them
access to these strange languages?  And then it occurred to him that the
ring and the book might be of service.  There was much there he had not had
time to study before the confrontation with LeRoc; perhaps he should return
to the book and see what help it could give him.

From far away he heard the sound of King calling him to dinner.  He slipped
back out the secret door and walked to the bottom of the stairs up to the
left wing ground floor and called for King.  In a moment the big man stuck
his head into the stairwell, then came down the steps as Scott gestured.
Scott took him by the elbow wordlessly and led him to the opened secret
door.  King's mouth was agape.  "You did not know of this?" asked Scott.
King could only shake his head no.  Scott led King in, and quickly
summarized what he had seen and what he had guessed.  They spoke briefly
and agreed that this was indeed a treasure trove, and that the secrets
contained in these books must give great power.  They agreed to keep the
knowledge of the room among themselves, at least for the while.  Scott felt
a sense of excitement.  He had found for himself an important occupation;
this at least was a worthy calling, whatever "work" Mama Désirée might have
in mind for him.

Shutting and locking the door, closing the secret wine shelf door, the two
men left the wine cellar, locking that also behind them, and carried a few
bottles upstairs where they joined the others for the evening meal.
Everyone shared what had happened to them, except that Scott remained
guarded, leaving out his encounters in the slave market, his meeting with
Mama Désirée, and of course his discovery of the central wing cellar.  The
group dispersed to complete final tasks before bedtime.

Over the course of the next hour or so, King slipped up to Scott quietly
and asked if he cared who spent the night with whom.  Scott did not--except
for his own plans--and upon telling King so the big black man broke into a
grin, nodded, and slipped away.  Later he saw King talking to Cleopatra,
who was smiling, even giggling like a schoolgirl, leaving no mystery as to
that pairing.  As night came on Scott found the four younger slaves
completing tasks; the two girls were giggling between themselves, and
plainly eyeing James.  Just as bedtime approached, they descended upon him,
whispered to him.  His eyes grew plainly larger and then they took him, one
on each arm, and scampered away; so that was how THAT was being arranged.
Scott went up to Sampson, who regarded his departing friends with a bit of
wistfulness.

"Would you like to sleep with me in my room tonight" Scott asked.  Sam's
face brightened.  "Really?" he asked.  Scott put an arm around him and
nodded yes.  Sam nodded as well, beaming up at his master; did he fully
realize all the implications?  At any rate, master and mulatto slave boy
now went together, first to use the shower bath to relieve themselves, and
then to the master's bedroom.

Scott sat on the edge of the bed.  "Will you help me with my clothes?" he
asked.

"Yes, Master," replied the twelve year old mulatto boy.  He pulled his
master's boots off first, running to put them away in the wardrobe.  Scott
rose enough to slide off his trousers, which Sam pulled off and, with the
shirt Scott removed, hung those up as well.  The boy returned to stand
obediently in front of Scott.  Casually, the white man slipped off his
undergarments, sitting naked now on the edge of the bed.  He could see
Sampson looking hard at his groin where his cream and rose penis was in the
early stages of an erection.  The boy put the undergarments away and
returned, his gaze shifting quickly from his master's face to his master's
genitals.

"Take your clothes off, Sampson," said Scott in a voice just above a
whisper.  The boy grinned and did so, quickly, rushing to drape his clothes
across a nearby chair, returning to stand naked in front of his master,
just a foot away, his own twelve year old medium brown penis beginning to
grow.  Scott held out his hands and the boy took both of them.  The white
man drank in the boy's beauty for a moment, the coffee and cream complexion
with highlights of light caramel, the full lips and cute nose, the halo of
tight medium brown curls standing two inches high around his head, the thin
tube of a boy's body with just the trace of baby fat still on it, the
copper penny nipples on the flat chest, the rounded belly, the brown penis
and tight brown ballsack beneath it.

Still holding the boy's hand, Scott said, "So you spent the night with
James?"  Sam blushed under his light tan complexion, lowered his eyes, and
nodded.  "And had fun, I hear; James did anyway."  Sam kept his head down,
blushing even more, and nodded yes.  But Scott could see that the boy's
eyes were on his slowly rising penis, and that Sam's own twelve year old
rod had quickly reached the point of sticking straight out.  Scott pulled
the boy toward him and, scooping him up, settled him crosswise on his lap,
as one might hold a baby.  Scott's erection now rose against the boy's
bottom while the mulatto slave's slim brown rod stuck straight up out of a
few wisps of pubic hair. He had the boy leaning against his right arm while
with his left hand he began gently rubbing the boy's chest, tweaking his
nipples, cupping the curve of his belly.

"Did you enjoy it?" Scott asked.  Sam nodded yes, and then looked up
directly into the face of the white man holding him.  In response Scott put
his left hand on the other side of the boy's head to steady it, then leaned
down and kissed him.  Slowly, lips nibbling lips, then tongue sliding in
between the slave boy's full lips to meet his tongue, they kissed for some
minutes.  Scott pulled off to plant a kiss on the boy's forehead.  "Yes,
Master," gasped Sam, now looking intently at his master's face.  "What did
you do?" Scott asked.  "We, uh...we kissed...like that...we, uh...we sucked
each other," gasped Sam, his breathing now heavy.  Scott slid his hand down
the boy's abdomen, around the penis which was painfully erect, and cupped
the boy's ballsack.  "Did either of you put your penises into the other's
bottom?" he asked.  Sam's eyes grew a little wider and he shook his head
no.  "Have you ever done anything like that with men or boys before?" asked
Scott.  Sam shook his head no again.  Then paused.  "Missy Anne, Master's
daughter, she...she sometimes felt me.  Looked at me, with my trousers
down.  But that was all.  And no sir, no men or boys.  I...I didn't have a
lot of friends."  Scott nodded and now gently, gently grasped the boy's
rigid rod in his fist, bending it a little.  Sam squirmed and gasped.  "Oh,
Master, that feels so good!" he exclaimed.

Now Scott rose, holding the boy like a baby, and turned around to lay the
mulatto slave on the bed.  He swung up over the boy, his penis rubbing the
boy's penis for a while, then Scott turned over on his back and directed
Sam to lie atop him, but in the other direction.  In a moment the slave boy
was lying with his face above his master's stiff rosie cock, while the
boy's tight brown balls and penis dangled just above Scott's face.  Now for
a moment master and slave boy simply examined each other, the boy seeing a
white penis closely for the first time.  Not wanting to bring the boy off
too soon, Scott reached his head up and took the whole ballsack into his
mouth, gently sucking it, while he simply enclosed the rigid brown rod with
his fist but did not pump it.  Sam gave a little squeal of delight and then
took as much of his master's penis into his mouth as he could, nibbling the
bulb with his full lips, his tongue running around the sensitive knob and
then up and down the shaft as his head lowered.  Scott groaned with his own
wave of pleasure.  This continued for a moment, and then Scott decided it
was time.  Rolling over, he placed the boy back in position on the bed,
lying on his back.  Scott seized the pot of grease and squatted between the
boy's legs.  He lubricated the head of his own rampant cock, and then
inserted one greased finger into the boy's anus.  Sam flinched and cried
"ouch!" but slow massaging and slow insertion of the finger did the trick.
Soon Scott had his finger all the way in, and could sense a relaxation of
the sphincter.  It was time.

Withdrawing his finger he pushed the boy's legs up into the air, positioned
his penis at the entrance to Sam's boy pussy, and gave a gentle push that
landed the knob of his rigid cock inside, past the sphincter.  Sam cried
out and splayed his palms against his master's chest.  "Oh, Master!" he
cried.  "Just relax," replied Scott, waiting for a moment.  Sam calmed a
bit, and then with one long, slow push Scott was completely inside the boy.
Sam gasped and sobbed, but his hands could not push the white man off and
the rigid rose penis was now completely inside.

Scott kept that position for a minute while he could see Sam relaxing,
adjusting to the piece of hard meat that penetrated him.  Tears stood in
Sam's eyes, but in a moment he smiled.  "Does it hurt too much?" whispered
Scott.  "It hurts, but it's a good hurt now," said Sam.  Nodding, Scott now
began to pump, slowly at first as the boy gasped and writhed again, then
more quickly as he saw the boy's body adjusting to the penetration.  Soon
Scott was pounding his rigid meat into the boy, who now locked his ankles
around the white man's back, who was sliding his hands up and down the
white man's chest and torso as Scott held himself up off the boy, both
palms on the bed.  Harder and harder, faster and faster, Scott and the boy
now locked eyes, and were looking deep into each other when Scott seized
and clenched, bellowing at the boy, slamming his penis hard into the boy's
bottom, pumping again and then bucking forward again as he shot the last of
his semen into the virgin twelve year old ass.  They never broke off their
gaze, and once Scott could breathe again he lowered himself enough to kiss
the boy softly, his penis still inserted.  Then Scott pulled out with a
plop and rolled over onto his back next to the boy who was no longer a
virgin.

"Would you like to do that to me?" asked Scott.  Sam's eyes grew wide, but
he instantly nodded even as he asked, "Is it OK, Master?"  By answer Scott
dipped into the goose grease and oiled the boy's still rigid cock, then
drew his own legs up and lubricated his anus.  Without being directed, Sam
crawled over quickly and positioned his penis at his master's anus, then
with no ceremony or hesitation shoved it in.  Scott gasped, but the boy's
penis, although respectable for a twelve year old, was certainly not King's
size, nor even James's.  The boy was completely consumed with his need to
fuck, having not yet learned any of the arts and graces of prolonging the
experience.  Scott knew it would happen.  The boy pumped furiously, his
head above his master's chest but looking straight down, his eyes running
up and down the white man's body, his breathing now desperately ragged, and
suddenly the mulatto boy bucked once, arched his head up and cried "O!
Master!" and slammed forward quickly, once, into the white man's bottom,
shooting his small load of twelve year old's semen.  The boy held that
position, rigidly, for a few seconds, but then collapsed onto his master,
panting and heaving.  Scott could feel the boy's penis come out of his ass,
and so pulled the boy up higher onto his torso where he could push his face
into the boy's tightly curled hair, could wrap his legs around the boy's
legs and embrace him tightly with his arms.  Sam kept whispering "O!
Master!" for a few minutes more.  Then recovered, as if remembering
something, the boy pushed himself up off his master's chest, looked at
Scott, and asked, "Was that OK?  Did it hurt too much?"  In answer Scott
pulled him up and locked him into another long, lingering kiss.  And when
that was done, giving his chest for the boy's pillow, keeping him there for
hours yet into the night, Scott--and soon his slave boy--drifted off to
sleep.


Comments welcome
lokiage@austin.rr.com