Date: Thu, 28 Jun 2012 20:00:38 +0000
From: lokiaga@austin.rr.com
Subject: Visit to the Plantation

Visit to the Plantation
By Lance Kyle

It was already past dark when Montford Jackson rode up the tree lined drive
to the front door of Hundred Oaks.  Lamplight shone in a few of the
windows; it seemed as if most of the house had retired for the night.
Bugs--cicadas? katydids?--sang in the trees as he dismounted.  Clearly he
was anticipated.  Two black slaves, groomsmen evidently, ran out to greet
him and to unload his horse, then to lead the beast off to the stables.  A
butler, also black, waited two steps down from the top while footmen seized
Montford's two bags and carried them swiftly up the steps through the tall
double doors and into the candlelit interior of the house.  Into the
doorway stepped a wizened old white man who raised a hand in greeting.

"Monty!" he cried, "Welcome to Hundred Oaks.  Come in, come in, you must be
famished," the man said.

"Martin, my old friend, so good to see you," replied Montford, bounding up
the steps and seizing his host's hand.  "Thank you, I ate at the Custis
Tavern up the road a couple of hours ago--quite good, actually."  The two
men stood regarding each other in a friendly way.  Monty Jackson was in his
late thirties, hale and robust, with a figure of solid build although not
fat.  Flowing light brown hair escaped from under his hat.  Martin
Merriweather was in his seventies and frail; Monty could not help but
wonder whether his friend, his client's, condition were the reason that his
legal services had been summoned.

"I pressed on so we could devote the whole of tomorrow to this business you
alluded to," said Jackson.  "Oh, yes, yes, I think we need to think about
my will a bit," replied Merriweather.  "Some few things have come up.  Well
come in, come in, and at least have a nightcap," he said, tugging on his
lawyer's sleeve with a trembling hand.

The butler silently took Jackson's hat and traveling cloak and Jackson
followed his host into the nearby library.  A footman, also silent, brought
in two glasses and pitchers of whiskey and water.  At a gesture from
Merriweather, the slave poured drinks for each man.  With a heavy sigh,
Jackson settled back in his chair.  Only a few lamps lit the interior of
the great house, the far corners of every room still in shadow.  The two
men sipped their nightcaps while Jackson shared the news from the capital.
Merriweather complained about the conditions for growing crops, but had to
admit that his affairs were going fairly well.

At last Jackson thanked his host and declared that he would retire for the
night.  They shook hands and at the door to the library the butler met
Jackson with a lamp and, holding it high, led him up the stairs to the next
floor up, then down a long hallway lined with oil paintings, dim in the
evening dark.

"This is your room, Masta," said the butler professionally, opening the
door and standing back so that Jackson could enter.  This room was somewhat
better lit than the rest of the house.  A young black boy was busy emptying
Jackson's luggage, disposing of his clothing in wardrobe and dresser.
"This is Pompei, he will be your servant while you are here, Masta," said
the butler, indicating the boy.  The boy came forward, head lowered, and
bowed briefly.  "Welcome, Masta," he said in a soft reedy voice, on the
cusp of adolescence.  "Thank you, Pompei," replied the white man.  "I am
Master Montford."  The boy kept looking down and softly said, "Yassuh."

Jackson looked up at a noise in the corner.  A footman had just finished
pouring water that steamed a little into a large copper tub, near which
stood a wooden towel rack with towels and soap.  "For you, Masta," said the
butler, "after your journey."  Jackson nodded and then the footman and the
butler, the latter bidding Jackson good evening, retired from the room,
pulling the door closed behind them.

"Would you like yo bath, Masta?" asked the boy, still looking down.  "I is
put yo clothes up, an' the water is warm now."  Jackson agreed that he
would and sat down in a nearby chair to offer his booted legs to the boy,
who knelt and began removing the boots.  Jackson had a chance to study the
boy.  He was a deep chocolate brown, but not the purple black you sometimes
see among Africans.  The boy was well built, a slim tube of a body that had
not yet put on heavy muscle.  His face was cute and distinctly African, a
broad nose that was nevertheless not too large, full lips--maybe a bit too
full, as his ears were perhaps a bit too large, but all that would even out
as he finished puberty.  A cap of tight, kinky black wool covered his head,
about an inch thick.

Boots removed, Jackson stood and began removing the rest of his clothing as
the boy darted around him, discreetly taking items and hanging them up,
then scurrying back for the next thing.  Jackson got down to his underwear
and removed his undershirt.  The boy did not establish eye contact, but
Jackson observed well that the boy's eyes flickered over the solid mass of
his chest and abdomen.  "How old are you, Pompei?" he asked.  "I is
thirteen, suh, fourteen in two month," replied the boy, who had taken the
undershirt and carefully folded it.  His voice had the reedy depth to it
that boys get as they have begun puberty.  There was a pause as the boy,
eyes still cast down, nevertheless now stared in anticipation at the white
man's remaining undergarment.  Did the boy catch his breath just a bit as
Jackson whisked that off and handed it to him?  Did the boy's glance linger
for just a split second on the white man's generously but not grotesquely
sized penis, hanging down from a shock of light brown pubic hair?  The boy
turned to fold this last garment as well and Jackson stepped to the tub and
sat down in it.

The boy stood at the side of the tub and handed him a sponge and soap.  He
did not ask to help the white man, knowing that if help were desired it
would certainly be asked for.  But the boy remained there, standing just a
shade back of the white man and to the side, so if he WERE looking at
Jackson, Jackson could not tell.  The white man soaped up the sponge and
scrubbed himself all over, reached over his shoulder to scrub his own back,
leaned to the side to scrub his bottom and then reached down into the soapy
water to wash his genitals.  He paused, sponge in hand, and turned to the
boy, who stepped forward in anticipation of taking the sponge or handing
the towel.

"Remove your clothing and step into the tub as well," said Jackson.  There
was a pause and then a gasp from the boy.  "You...you mean later, Masta?"
he asked.  "No, now," said Jackson.  Another gasp.  "While...while you in
there, Masta?" the boy said, a tone of surprise and consternation creeping
into his voice.  "Yes, Pompei, please step into the tub now," said the
white man, gently.  There was a moment's hesitation, but it was clear that
the boy had no choice but to risk what might be a major faux pas if he had
misunderstood.  Just behind him and to the side, Jackson heard the sound of
disrobing.  He glanced casually over, but the boy had withdrawn behind him
somewhat.  Then silence and another pause and the boy, now naked, step to
the side of the tub.  His left hand covered his genitals, while with his
right he pointed to the soapy water in front of Jackson.

"Step in here, Masta, is that what you want me to do?" he asked.  The man
nodded in the affirmative.  The boy stepped in, his hand still covering his
penis, and quickly sat down in the water.  With man and boy, the water in
the tub came to his chest, and was within a couple of inches of flowing
out.

Now Jackson leaned forward--he did not have far to lean, the boy was but
inches away--and began soaping and scrubbing the boy's back, then his ears
and neck, and nudging the boy to raise his arms he scrubbed the underarms,
where he noticed just a few wildly waving black hairs had formed.  The boy
seemed a little tense, afraid of doing something wrong, anxious to do what
was required.

"Alright, stand up," commanded Jackson, and the boy, steadying himself with
his hands on the tub edge, rose.  Jackson ran the soapy sponge over the
firm, rounded buttocks that rolled out and a little up in the African
fashion, slab sided.  With one white hand he pulled a buttock a little to
the side--it was firm and meaty--and forced the soapy sponge into the
crack, rubbing it a bit up and down, noting the deep purple black of the
sphincter.  The boy gasped a little but kept his balance.

"Turn around," commanded Jackson.  "Turn around, Masta?" asked the boy, a
note of--what was it fear? wonder? creeping into his voice.  "Yes,"
commanded Jackson, gently.  The boy turned, both hands now covering his
genitals.  Jackson ran the soapy sponge up the front of his legs and then
between the legs, his fingers just brushing the ballsack at the top of
their transit.  Reaching up, he ran the soapy sponge over the boy's gently
muscled but otherwise flat chest, the deep dark but small nipples that
seemed a little puffy now, and over the belly which was just beginning to
show musculature but was otherwise that of a boy. He paused with the sponge
just above the hands.  "Remove your hands, Pompei," he said, gently but in
a tone not to be denied.  The boy hesitated and whispered, "Masta" ever so
softly, and then reluctantly let his hands fall to his side.  A half erect
purple black penis sprang out, not fully out but clearly in some state of
arousal, beneath a very small spray of coiled black pubic hairs.  A purple
dark ballsack hung beneath.  The penis seemed to have grown into
adolescence just a little ahead of the boy; it was large, although not
grotesquely so.  "I is sorry, Masta," the boy whispered, evidently
referring to his gathering erection.

"No need to be," said Jackson, and then gently held the penis in one hand,
pushing the foreskin back, which process was aided by the jerk and quick
spurt in length that this manipulation gave the organ.  As Jackson moved
the soapy sponge up and down the shaft, cleaning under foreskin, cleaning
the balls, the penis became more fully erect.  The boy's breath rustled in
his half opened mouth and Jackson was almost sure he could see the boy's
rapid heartbeat beneath the dark chocolate skin of his chest.  "Masta," the
boy whispered once again, staring down intently at his own distended member
in the hands of the white man.

Then Jackson handed the sponge to the boy and said in a cheery town, "Time
to get out and go to bed!"  In relief, the boy sprang from the tub, placed
the sponge in a dish and handed the towel to the white man as he also rose,
the towel as much hiding the boy's embarrassment as it served the man.
Jackson took charge in drying himself off and then handed the towel to the
boy, saying "Dry yourself," and the slave boy obeyed.

"Time for bed, I think," said Jackson.  "Yessuh, I get my pants on and find
yo' nightgown, Masta," the boy said quickly.  "No, no nightgown, it's a
warm evening, I will sleep naked," said Jackson.  Clearly the boy was
surprised but quickly recovered, nodding, "Yessuh."  And Jackson added,
"Time for bed for you also."  "Yessuh, I has a pallet in yo closet so I
nearby if you need sumthin'" said the boy, reaching for his trousers again.
Jackson quickly put his hand on the garment.  "No Pompei, you will be
sleeping with me.  You will also be naked."

Now the boy's eyes grew wide and he dared to look directly at the white
man, his full lips parted in surprise.  Then he remembered himself and
whispered, "Yessuh," looking down, but clearly the wheels of his mind were
turning at top speed.  "Put out those lamps," said Jackson, who stepped to
the bed and pulled down the covers and the top sheet.  The boy hurried to
obey, turning down the wicks in the two lamps set away from the bed, then
approaching the lamp by the bed.  He paused, his hand on the wick, and
looked inquiringly at Jackson, who stood on the other side of the bed.  The
black slave boy could not have helped but notice a gradually growing
erection of the white man's grownup penis.  "You...you wants me to sleep
here, suh?" Pompei asked one more time, just to be sure, just to avoid any
costly misunderstanding.  Jackson merely nodded and lay down on the bed,
pushing the top sheet all the way down with his feet.  Pompei turned
quickly to the lamp and turned it out, then as speedily climbed onto the
bed--as far to the side as he could get.

Nevertheless, he was not far from Jackson.  The moonlight which came in
through the window gave some illumination.  Jackson patted the space beside
him in the bed and said, "Lie here."  "Yessuh," breathed the boy, who
scooted over, now gazing frankly at the white man.  "What you want me ta
do, Masta?" he asked, breathlessly, as if he half suspected.

In answer Jackson reached over and scooped the boy's body in close to him,
the slave giving a gasp, his hands flailing in the air, not knowing where
to put them.  Jackson held the boy's face in his hand for a moment, and
then kissed his forehead, then his nose, and then the black boy's full
lips.  "Masta!" the boy breathed, but did not resist, dared not resist.
The white man ran his fingers through the crisp, firm hair, enjoying its
texture.  His lips nuzzled the full lips of the boy, then took those lips
between his own, then slipped a tongue between them.  The boy began
breathing heavily and squealed ever so softly, but he now tentatively, then
with more assurance put his own dark brown hands on the shoulders of the
white man, then into his thick light brown hair.  Man and boy could each
feel the growing erection of the other against his own groin, against his
lower abdomen.

Jackson thrust his tongue deep into the boy's mouth, running it over the
slave boy's teeth, over and around his tongue.  When the black boy dared to
return the gesture, Jackson sucked the tongue into his own mouth, biting it
gently with his teeth.  Then Jackson began sliding his hungry mouth onto
the boy's neck, kissing the throbbing veins there, onto the deep chocolate
shoulders and shoulder blades glistening in the moonlight, a sheen of
natural oil over their lovely dark tones.  Down the chest, nibbling the
boy's nipples Jackson went, and now the boy was panting, moaning, actively
caressing the white man whose head slid down, licking his navel, down, the
white man's lips now gently tugging at the small spray of pubic hair, and
when Jackson took the engorged purple black penis in his mouth the boy
writhed and cried out "Masta!" in exclamation, daring to thrust upwards
with his hips.  The man held that position for a few moments, ever so
gently sucking, and then quickly changed.

Sliding his whole body back up the boy's torso, his large adult penis
trailing clear liquid up the boy's dark skin, Jackson placed his penis at
the boy's full lips.  The boy looked up at the man questioning, but opened
his lips, and the rigid dusky rose organ slipped in.  Now Jackson squatted
on the boy's chest, his heavy ballsack against the boy's chin while he
began a heavy, slow rhythm of pounding the boy's mouth with his penis.  The
boy looked straight ahead at the white man's patch of pubic hair, or
straight up the mountain of the white man's muscled torso, his hands
steadied against the white man's trunk.  Jackson began picking up speed and
then suddenly cried out, clenched his buttocks and rammed forward, grinding
his groin into the boy's face.  Pompei choked and gagged a little but held
on, perforce swallowing the torrent of semen that boiled into his mouth.
Jackson held that position, shuddering, bucking once or twice and clenching
his buttocks again to make sure he was drained.  Then he pulled out.

What happened next was totally unexpected to Pompei, who expected to be
used and sent to his pallet in the closet.  Pausing just long to take a few
deep breaths, Jackson slid down the boy's torso again and once more took
the still engorged purple black penis into his mouth.  "Wha?!  Masta!"
cried Pompei, unable to believe what seemed to be happening.  The black boy
propped himself up on his elbows as he looked down his own torso at the
white man who was now sucking the black boy's dick tenderly, manipulating
the bulb of the cock with his tongue as the shaft slid in and out of his
mouth.  It took but a moment of this and the thirteen year old shouted
"Masta!  I is coming, Masta, issa gonna be in yo mouth!" and then in
another instant the boy gave a strangled cry and shoved his groin upward,
shooting the semen straight up into the white man's mouth, who swallowed
every drop, who lingered over the penis to suck it dry even as it began to
wilt.

As the white man moved up in bed again to lie beside him, Pompei still
expected to be ejected, sent to the closet, but no.  The white man pulled
pillows under their heads, reached down to pull the sheets up, and then
entwined himself with the black boy, holding him close against him, and
without a word fell asleep.  It took Pompei a little longer to sleep, so
full of wonder and confusion as he was about what had happened.  He knew
this strange white man was going to stay for a couple of days--what would
those days bring?

Comments welcome
lokiaga@austin.rr.com