0 comments/ 28038 views/ 0 favorites Slave To-Be By: tweetybird It was a hotel room, like many others she had been in. The sterile prints on the walls, earth tones made up the decor, telephone that she reached over and turned off, and the standard color "comes with 50 cable channels and HBO" television set. She unpacked her bag, shook the wrinkles out of her clothes and hung them in the closet. The next three days would consist of one meeting after another, pasty tasting hotel catered food, and 50 cable channels plus HBO with nothing worth watching on any of them. She sighed as she stripped off her clothes, thinking what could have been. They should have been together tonight, but schedules collapsed yesterday and he couldn't get away. She had stripped down to her panties and took a closer look at what she saw in the mirror. The three F's, fair, fat, and forty. The legs still held up well, her breasts weren't huge, average size with no sagging. Pink nipples the size of quarters topped each mound. She pulled at each nipple until it stood up and she began to feel her pussy getting wet. She stepped out of her panties and began to finger herself, thinking of the ways his fingers moved in and out of her until she moaned in delight and released her cum into his hands. Her fingers moved faster as her pussy started to tingle and she thought how he always brought his fingers up to his mouth to lick off her cum. Her thumb found her clit and began to roll it, her hips arching and writhing as she rose to meet her own hand. She could feel her orgasm nearing. Her fingers moved faster and faster, just as she was about to give in and fall into sweet pleasure, she heard the first knock at the door. She tried to ignore it and kept her fingers buried deep in her pussy. The knock sounded again, this time more insistent. This time she stopped and called out for the intruder to wait just a minute. She slipped on her lavender silk robe and ran her fingers through her short red hair to make an attempt to straighten it. She walked across the floor and asked who was at the door. She startled at the voice that answered and then quickly unlocked the door and opened it. "What are you doing here," she questioned, "I thought that your wife was staying home this weekend." He grinned, stepped through the door, closed and locked it behind him. "I lied" he told her. "I just had to see your face when you opened the door." "And what would you have done if my husband had decided to come along at the last minute?" "Called your house from a pay phone before I left town, talked to your husband and no you do not need a new vacuum cleaner." he chuckled. "Oh and you think that you are so smart, do you, well the mistress does not like her slaves to be so forward, I'm afraid that you must be punished." she said. "Mistress, please do not think badly of me, I only wanted to please you." he answered quickly falling into his role. "On the floor in front of me", she demanded,"and do not speak until I tell you too" He fell to the floor at the tips of her toes, for some reason he was a bit unsettled. They had played the game before, but she never sounded so stern with him. This time it seemed real, and he wondered if coming here and surprising her had been a good idea after all. "Crawl into the bathroom and run my tub, slave, undress yourself and prepare to bathe me." He couldn't help himself, even though she sounded really pissed at him his cock grew hard at the sound of the intensity in her voice. He crawled into the bathroom, staying on his hands and knees, he began to fill the tub with water. The hotel had supplied bath gel so he poured a bit of it into the tub. The bubbles in the bath scented the room so that it smelled of jasmine. He breathed in the scent as it permeated the room. She came into the bathroom, still dressed in her robe. "Undress me" she commanded. He started to untie her robe with his hands. "No, with your teeth, slave, you have committed a grave error today and your punishment must be severe, it is time you learn that your mistress is through with games. This is for real, but you must decide now, stay and please me or go, but it is no longer a game with us. do you understand?" He looked up at her face and saw the woman he wished so to pleasure, at that moment it no longer became a game for him either. He was the slave, she the mistress, and he would do anything to stay with her, to just be able to gaze into her eyes. "Yes mistress, I understand, I want to stay" he answered his eyes lowered to the floor as he spoke to her. "Good my lovely pussy slave, I will start your training now." she answered as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Go on, undress me." He tugged at the tie of her robe with his teeth until it opened. Then he began to pull at it in various places with his teeth until it loosed and fell from her shoulders. She was completely naked underneath the robe and he felt his cock harden in response. He longed for her to touch it, just brush her fingers against him, but his longing was to no avail. He assisted her as she got into the tub. Water and bubbles were covering her tits so just the nipples peeked out. He put soap on his hands and began to rub her body. He knew that she did not like the feel of a washcloth on her skin. His hands gently caressed her body as he soaped her shoulders, cleansed her breasts, found their way over the soft folds of her belly and ass. She opened her legs to him and he washed her feet, taking care to clean between each toe. His hands soaped her legs and then then he began to rinse her by cupping his hands and pouring the warm water over her body. He watched as she relaxed into the tub with a smile on her face. "You may wash my pussy now slave" she softly told him Using the scented bath gel he rubbed the outer part of her pussy lips. His fingers opened her and he began to use his thumb to roll her clit. She moaned and opened her legs further still for him. He began to move one finger in and out of her, still thumbing her clit. He positioned his body so that he could open her wider and see the inside of her pussy as it opened to reveal it's pink satin skin and and love hole. He put two fingers inside her and then three, as he began to pick up the intensity of his finger-fucking. He could feel her body stiffen, his cock pounding begging for release, as she came on his fingers. He looked at her, his eyes begging permission. "Yes, go on slave, you may taste me, it is your reward for the pleasure you have just made for me." He lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked her cum from his fingers. He could smell the musk of her sex on his hands, he knew that pre-cum was leaking out of his cock and his balls had tightened against his body. He continued to suck and lick his fingers until all taste of her was gone from them. She watched as he licked up her cum smiling at him. He knew that he had pleased her and hoped that perhaps his punishment might be a little easier because of it. She stepped out of the tub and he used one of the soft white body towels to dry her. She bent down, picking up her robe, and began to exit the bathroom. "You may bathe now slave. Wash your cock and balls very well but do not play with them, if I see that you have had an orgasm I will not be pleased." she stated. "I will wait for you in the bedroom." He washed himself quickly, making sure that every part of his body was clean. As soon as the washcloth and soap hit his cock he moaned for release but did not linger to play with himself. He must please his mistress. He got out of the tub, drained the water and dried himself off. Again his hand touched his cock and it jumped in anticipation. He was so hard by now that it hurt, the cum kept building in his balls. He had to touch himself just for a minute, he used his left hand to rub the length of his shaft, and cupped his balls in his right hand. But he knew he couldn't linger long in the bathroom or she would know that he had been touching himself. He lowered his body back to the floor and crawled back into the bedroom. The top of his head touching the tips of her toes, he stopped in a prone position in front of her. He kept his eyes lowered to the floor and did not speak. He knew that his punishment was coming soon and he tried with everything he had to soften her heart toward him. "You may look at me now." she said. He raised his eyes to find that she had donned a black lace corset, the bra pushing up her tits to make them look larger than they were. The lace on the bra stopped covering and lifting only the bottom of her breasts. The cherry colored nipples lay pointed toward him and he almost came just looking at her. "Lift your ass up", she commanded. He could see a small phallic shaped object in her right hand. It looked to be about 3 inches in width and about the same in length. She was covering it with a lubricant. Her hands parted the cheeks of his ass and one finger found the hole she was looking for. He could feel as she rubbed the lub around his asshole, sometimes sliding one finger in and out of him, fucking his ass with her fingers. Then she inserted the small dildo into his ass. He moaned in pleasure. She looked down at him. "You know that I will not punish you with pain. Well at least not now but tonight you will service me well and deny yourself. If you should think about cumming your punishment will be ten lashes with the riding crop Six of the lashes will be on your ass, 2 on your legs and 2 on your cock and balls." She lay down on the bed and motioned for him to kneel at the edge of it. She slid her ass down to the edge of the bed and opened her legs to him. "Eat my pussy, little slave boy, and don't stop until I have cum 5 times in your mouth" He eagerly moved his mouth to her pussy, licking the slit and sucking on her pussy lips. He ran his mouth back and forth on her until he could feel the wetness of her pussy begin dripping out and running down her thighs. He heard her moans of pleasure. His tongue parted her outer lips and he began to lick the inner parts of her. He sucked her clit into his mouth like it was a tiny penis. Finding the hood of her clit, he used his tongue to pull back the skin and started to lick the sensitive button underneath it. She cried out, grinding her pussy into his face, her orgasm reaching its height. "Yes, yes, "she cried out, "use your tongue and fuck me with it" Wave after wave of orgasm hit her and he made sure to lap up every bit of her juices. Every move he made he could feel the dildo in his ass and his cock was red, raw and raging by now. Precum ran from the opening in his cock and as he continued to suck her dry he knew that it was going to be impossible not to shot his load. Then he saw the riding crop laying on the bed beside her. He did not doubt now that she would use it if he released himself. She lay on the bed spent. She patted the pillow beside her and motioned for him to join her on the bed. He crawled in beside of her and lay his head on her breast. His cock was still hard and he knew that he would have trouble getting to sleep. She reached down and removed the dildo from his ass, then cuddled him to her body. "You were a good slave tonight and took your punishment very well, sleep now and rest, we have two more nights together my wonderful slave and if you continue to be good I will make sure that you are taken care of. You may speak now if you wish." she said. "Thank you mistress, I will serve your pussy well. I live only to please you" he answered "Sleep well my darling slave" she said as sleep overtook her. "Sleep well my lovely mistress" he answered as he cuddled in close to her. Slave to Her Mistress I experimented with writing in 3rd person. I didn't like it very much, but felt it was an interesting premise. (c) 2002 Couture *********** You're only sitting here because your computer at home is broken. Yes, the old 400 Mhz has surfed it's last erotic story site and taken with it every last story you archived to a hidden folder. "Thank God for libraries," you think, glancing around quickly to make sure no one is looking, before pulling up the latest Couture story. No, they aren't the best written stories out there, but they never fail to make you wet. Yes, there's a new one! You bring up MSN, and switch your active window back to the story; just in case you need to clear the screen in a hurry. As you read the story, your thighs squeeze together, wringing moisture from the soaking sponge that is your cunt. Your hand strays to your breasts, not for pleasure, but just to make sure your nipples aren't advertising your secret hidden thoughts like two beacons flashing from your chest. You continue to read. Your thighs begin their now familiar rhythmic motion: Squeeze, open, close-squeeze, open, close. Your thoughts are interrupted by the aggravating squeaking of a chair. Blushing, you realize it's your chair. The story is about two young girls dominated by two older women in a public restroom. The story makes you particularly hot, because in just a few minutes, you will be the one doing something naughty in the library restroom. You squeeze your thighs together again, priming the pump as it were. You feel your pussy open as your thick labia pull apart. It's hungry, you realize; smacking its lips in anticipation of being fed. At home it would get to feast on a trusty vibrator as you indulged your fantasies, but today it would have to settle for your fingers. Your lips pull apart again. You swear you could hear it smack this time. 'Stop that,' you think, as you look down at your crotch. 'Isn't it enough that you make me read these horrible stories? Why can't you like normal stories . . .like romances? No, instead you make me come down here to the library and risk everything for you. Even making me get my husband to take us here.' You realize your pussy cares not one wit for your patronizing speech. She's as hot as she's going to get and if you are going to keep from embarrassing yourself, you better go to the restroom and satisfy her hunger. After triple checking to make sure Internet Explorer is closed and there is no incriminating evidence left on the computer, you get up and head to the restroom. Once there, you check to make sure you are alone and secure yourself in the last stall. You decide to forgo the tissue on the lid and sit down unprotected after every other woman that has been there before. You ruck your skirt up, pull down your panties, spread your legs lewdly and stick a finger in your needy cunt, in one smooth motion. "There, are you happy?" you ask her. She isn't. Your hand deposits the panties in your purse, but returns with the pantyliner. "No," you beg. "Not that." Your hand moves of its own volition, overruled by your cunt. The liner soon finds its way to your nose. You try to hold your breath, but eventually you are forced to inhale the musky scent her arousal. Your fingers speed, fucking her, faster and faster. It's loud, and you wish you could quiet them - quite her. 'This isn't me,' you think. 'I'm a housewife, not the sort of slut that does this. That makes these sorts of squishing and smacking noises.' Your fingers move to your clit and circle the tiny pearl with deft strokes born of years of practice. 'Please hurry,' you beg her, but she's still not satisfied. She needs more. You hand begins to force the pantyliner in your mouth. 'No, please,' you beg silently, turning your head to the side. 'Don't make me do that. Not here. Not in public.' The orgasm you so desperately crave dances out of your grasp, leaving you there, gasping, sweating, and hanging by a thread. 'Oh, that's so mean, you horrible cunt.' Somehow your lips part just far enough for a finger to push part of the liner into your mouth. You give up and suck the remnants of the juices from it. 'See, I've done it. You made me taste you. You made me suck you. Please-please-please, just let me cum.' You spy your discarded panties lying balled up in your purse. You quickly look away, hoping she missed them. She didn't. That wicked little cunt never misses anything. Leaving the pussy pad in your mouth, you hand moves down and picks up the panties. 'No, please' you beg. 'Someone could come in at any moment. My husband's coming back to pick me up and I can't afford to smell like some back alley slut. Oh, please, haven't you humiliated me enough.' You hand pulls the panties over your head, and then proceeds to smear the soiled wet crotch over your face, rubbing her scent all over you, marking you, before settling the crotch over your nose. 'Oh, you've done it now. You've broken me. Turned me into your slut again. You've made a whore out of me. Are you happy?' You inhale the crotch of the panties, as you suck on her cunt soaked liner. Hands quickly unbutton your blouse, pulling your breasts out of their cups. Fingers tweak hardened nipples, not lovingly, but hard. Showing you she owns you. Your legs pull up and spread, causing the plumbing on the commode to jam uncomfortably into your back, but that cunt doesn't care about your back. She only wants to make you suffer. She has you like she wants you now. Stripped, spread, wearing her marks and getting fucked like the pussy-slut you are. You can feel your climax building quickly. It won't be long now. You pull the leg hole of the panties over your eye and then reach down to the bottom of your large pocket book. 'Please,' you beg. 'Don't make me see it. We both know you own me, isn't that enough?' You close your eyes tight. You won't look this time. You don't need it. Just once, you will just cum and everything will be okay. The orgasm doesn't come and neither do you. 'Just one little look. A quick peek,' you resign yourself. You open your eyes and look at the picture of a thirty-year-old housewife and mother of two, naked, but for a pair of panties, lying on the kitchen floor, her hand bunched up in her crotch. It's obvious she's holding the camera with her free hand. Though the view is distorted from the angle, the look in the woman's eyes is haunted and almost exhausted, yet at the same time relieved. There is a large wet stain on the crotch of the panties and a puddle around her middle. You know what the puddle is from, because the woman is you. Seeing yourself like that in the picture; put there and displayed in such a fashion of lewd depravity, a slave to your Mistress. It is enough to take you over the top. Your orgasm bursts forth from deep inside your loins like molten fire. Hips buck, heels scratch the surface of the steel wall surrounding you, and fingers stoke the fire that burns inside your womb. Your eyes never leave the Polaroid. After you come down from your orgasm, you take a deep breath and give a shivering sigh of relief. It is almost over, but not quite. You are careful to remain exactly as you are. It is difficult, because, now the chrome plumbing fixture digging into your back actually hurts and there is no pleasure to deaden the pain. You reach into your purse and extract the camera. Steeling yourself, you close your eyes and imagine the depravity, the pleasure, and how deeply you have been enslaved. You open your eyes and push the button on the camera. There is a flash and then the familiar ka-zzzzzttttt, as it spits out a square of white paper. As always, you refuse to look at it, and put it in your purse. Looking will come later. Now comes the hard part. The part when reality seeps back in. Ashamed, you put yourself back in order. Panties off head and into purse, panty-liner discarded into the porcelain bowl located conveniently between your legs, sex and fingers dried with tissue. 'God, look what you've done to me,' you think as you dry your fingers and still very aroused sex with tissues. You push your tender breasts back into the cups of your bra, button your blouse, and then stand up to smooth down your wrinkled skirt. You fold up the camera and hide it and the picture in the bottom of your purse. With heels clacking on the hard tile floor, you make your way to the sink. Once there, you cup your hands under the running water and plunge your face in. You wash your face and hands, trying to get her scent off of you. Even after, you can still smell her - the scent of her - her mark. Jesus, you can feel it in your bones. She wants you to do it again, but this time right here in front of the mirror. Right here for anyone to see if they should come in. Looking down at your still tingling crotch, you think, 'Christ, haven't you done enough to me? Charles will be here at any moment and anyone- anyone could come in and catch me. I can't - I won't - I refuse to do it.' Hurrying to get out before it is too late; you open your purse and powder your face, but the tingling in your sex won't go away. 'Please,' you beg. 'I'll get a new computer next week. Just wait until then and we can do anything you want. It's too risky here.' You remove the top from your lipstick and stare at the tip. "I can't," you whisper. "You're going to get me in trouble." Grabbing the hem of your skirt, you quickly raise it, exposing your sex. Lower lips - her lips - are painted red with lipstick, the color of arousal, the color of sex. You lower your skirt, smooth it down and paint the upper lips at your leisure. After placing the tube of lipstick in your purse, you triple-check everything, making sure that any incriminating evidence is safely down at the bottom of your purse and it is secured before leaving the restroom. Outside among the books, everything is normal. A young girl pushes a cart of books and stops to place one on the shelf. She glances at you, and you quickly do a mental check, praying that you didn't leave any outward signs of what you were doing just minutes earlier. The fresh air dries the wetness from your pussy as you walk to the bookshelf and pick up a romance that you will never read. You see a vagrant nodding off at the table in the aisle and you walk the long way around so you can avoid him, making your way to the front counter. Once there, the librarian scans the book, your library card and tells you to have them back in two weeks. You walk outside and wait for your husband by the front door like a good housewife, lick your lips and taste the flavor of your mistress. The End *********** If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. Slave to Love I knows there was gonna be a might big problem when Massa Edward over at Fairhope was left back when the Tremaines went down ta NawLens for the season. No matter he had fallen off a horse and broke his ankle and it hadn't healed complete yet. They shudda wrapped him up and put him in a wagon and taken him on with them. Didn't no one else on the banks of the Mississippi here see that my own massa, that treacherous Gordon Jackson, had heat for Massa Edward? Of course lots of men—and women too—hereabouts had heat for Massa Edward. I knew since we were boys of the same age and I was sent over to help keep him entertained and outa trouble, that Massa Edward would grow up to be someone who'd turn up anyone's furnace who had an extra notion for that sort of stuff—and that would be most of the gentry folks hereabouts. Not much else to do in these parts for the plantation folks when they were out here in the back wilds than to watch the darkies spin money for them and fuck. And Gordon Jackson of Twelve Oaks was randier than most. All the Jackson men are randy. Gordon's sire more than most. More maybe even than Gordon. And when I say all the Jackson men, I'm not sayin' nothing that I don't see in the mirror myself. 'Cause Gordon's sire was my sire too. Just that Gordon got made in the big four poster up at the house in Twelve Oaks and I got made in the milkin' room. But I had to admit that I was just as randy as the other Jackson men. Any hole will do me, and I got the Jackson men's big dick, thank the allout, so I tain't ever had trouble findin' willing holes—be they female or male. Same thing with Massa Gordon, though. And when Massa Gordon took a notion to bury his dick in someone, he pretty much got his way. That's why I stayed out of his way since I come in season. I knew chances were good he'd stick me one day, but no time soon if I could keep gettin' out of his way. I seed the looks he gave Massa Edward when Massa Edward come into season, though—I knowed those looks, because I was given him the same looks. The difference is that Massa Gordon t'was givin' them on the pretty much open and I had to hide mine. I don't think Massa Gordon pined for Massa Edward any more than I did. But I knowed my place. And I was mighty sorry and worried when the Tremaines left for NawLens, leaving Massa Edward here alone at the big house up at Fairhope for the social season down south. Massa Jackson hadn't planned ahead or anything. He'd already sent his wife and children and all the old widows and cousins and white by-blows that wintered at Twelve Oaks off to the townhouse down south. First night they done gone was the first night I made sure I was in some hut fuckin' one of the other darkies myself at the time Massa Gordon always took a notion to come cattin' around. I'd already found he didn't cotton to anyone sharing no pussy or hole with him, and so if he was ever comin' lookin' for me, I made sure I already was a fuckin'. He liked seein' me do that. I was a Jackson, if not a proper one; he liked the thought of Jackson men getting' their way and usin' those big Jackson cocks. So maybe what did to Massa Edward was my fault—at least part ways. But, then again, not much nohow, as I could tell in his eyes that he'd had heat for Massa Edward ever since Massa Edward came into season. I'd heard Massa Gordon tell the cook one afternoon that Massa Edward was comin' to dinner, just the two of them that night. I knowed what that meant, and I started out to hightail it over to Fairhope, no matter what happened when the Jack Overseer knowed I was gone from the field, but as I was pullin' the mule out of the shed, I turned, and there Massa Gordon was in the doorway, blockin' my way to the outside. He had that "it's fuckin' time" look in his eyes. "Going somewhere, Will Jackson?" he said. He was comin' in real close to me. He was stripped to waist, having just come in from the fields his self and sluiced water over his self to cool off and keep the sweat out of the house. He had a strong, able body. All us Jacksons did. Same solid muscle build his cousin Geofrey had two summers ago when he pulled me down into the hay in the barn and showed me what a man could do to another man. I didn't answer. I just lowered my head and scuffed my bare feet on dusty earthen floor of the mule shed. "Aren't you supposed to be over in the lower field making sure the other darkies aren't slacking?" Being a Jackson—even one born on the wrong color side—did have its status on the plantation. We black by-blows were either made into house workers or, when they were big and strong like me, made into suboverseers out in the field. I didn't have no complaint on that score. But Jackson men didn't do what men on most of the plantations did. Darky by-blows of the plantation families usually didn't have to worry about bein' bedded by those who made them. Jacksons didn't care none who they fucked, though. A Jackson was as good as one of the young, coquettish daughters of the other planters up and down the river. A fuck was a fuck. Again, I just continued givin' him the dumb darky treatment. This often worked. The fine folks often lost interest at this point. It got almost like fuckin' the livestock, and even a Jackson wouldn't stoop that low. Massa Gordon had stepped closer now. I could smell the liquor on his breath, and he was breathin' hard. It was in-heat breathin'. I'd heard it often enough—even done it often nuff myself. I felt his hands at the rope holdin' my britches up and he got the knot undone in no time, and the flimsy, patched britches just fell to the ground over my slim hips. "My, my," Massa Gordon muttered in a low, hoarse voice. "You really are a Jackson, aren't you? No wonder you've always got that in one of the darkies when I come around checking the inventory at night. And no wonder the one you've got it in is making such satisfied noises." "Massa Gordon—" I whispered in my best wheedling voice. But he weren't listnin' to me. "I want you to turn around and lean over that stall wall over there, Will, and spread your legs." I could see down his front from his waist down from where my head was lowered, and I could see that he had a Jackson-sized cock out and was holdin' it in his hand. It was already on its way to ass-splittin' size. It was time for me to speak—to do whatever I could for this not to happen, at least not today. I cleared my throat and spoke up, in a right respectful voice. I didn't want to set him off any more than I had to. "I was takin' the mule to go over and see Ma Tribbit at Fairhope. I gots the trots awful bad, Massa Gordon, and she knows best what to do 'bout that." "Christ almighty, why didn't you say that in the first place?" Massa Gordon said with considerable disgust. And I saw that big cock of his startin' ta go soft and it got folded back into his britches as pretty and as fast as you pleased. That excuse was always good once or twice, I'd found. And I'd never used it with Massa Gordon before. But then he continued and put paid to my trip to Fairhope to try to warn Massa Edward off of dinner. "You don't need to go over to Fairhope for that, Will. Your mam is good enough at taking care of that. Don't go back to the field. Go to your mam and get that straightened up. And tell me when you're able to take cock without messing everything up, you hear? You know what's what here. You've been let alone long enough." "Yas sir, Massa Gordon, sir," I murmured, and I dipped my head and pulled up my pants, scurried as fast as I could out of the shed and down slavery's Apple row without stoppin' to tie the rope as long as the shed was in sight. I was beside myself that night when I saw Massa Edward ride in slowly on his horse. I went over an helped him down from his horse, because I could see from the twinges at the corners of his mouth that the ankle was still givin' him fits. He nearly fell into my arms, as he slipped off the side of the horse. "Will," he said. And it was all he said. But I thought I could tell from his expression that he was pleased to see me—as pleased to see me as I was to see him—and feel him in my arms. It had been a good five years since we'd played together out in the fields and the forest, pretending we were settlers cleanin' out the Indians and building a life together. We'd been allowed to play together—to discover all sorts of things together—until we were coming into season and, there being none better offering explanations, had done some exploration together of our sex. We started out in handling ourselves and makin' comparisons and moved on to handlin' each other. And then came the day when I'd come when Massa Edward was handlin' me, and of course he wanted to come that way to. Nobody said nothin' about catchin' us at it, but in no time after that, I was being kept to Twelve Oaks and Massa Edward to Fairhope. And he'd been given one of the Fairhope house darky women to teach him the ways. I learned the ways myself inside the cabins along Apple row. When I come into season I had a cock everbody wanted—and I was a Jackson, even though I was also a darky. That meant somethin' on Apple row. But I couldn't help thinkin' back on those days of testin' out with Massa Edward. And I often wondered what he thought about that. In those brief moments when I was helpin' him down from his horse, I think I come to knowed all I needed to knowed about that. That made what followed doubly hard on me. "Will. Aren't you supposed to be doing the worker count and lockup tonight down along Apple row?" Massa Gordon had come out of the house. He'd taken special pains with his attire tonight. A billowy muslin shirt, so sheer that he might as well not be wearing it. He had a right hairy chest, just like all the Jackson men—although I wasn't hairy like that; I got some things from my mam's side. And his nibs were puckered up big like they did when I saw him fuckin' someone hard. Tight riding pants and polished up boots—the very same boots he'd had me polish up while I was restin' from the purging my mam had given me after what I'd told him in the shed to get him to put his Jackson cock back in his britches. And Massa Gordon smelt like he taken a bath—even though it weren't even Sataday night yet. And someone had been choppin' away at his black curly hair. As I moved quickly away, into the shadows of the white-pillared front porch on the family mansion, I turned my head and looked on with dismay at the smile Massa Edward gave Massa Gordon as they met on the front steps. Massa Edward always seemed to have come too much in season to me. He was too eager when we was together, and there was rumors how hard a time the Tremaines had in keepin' him saved in any fashion. All of this made me wonder again why they'd gone off and left him alone at Fairhope. He was ripe for the pluckin'. A regular peach. And when he'd been testin' ourselves together, he'd always told me how nice I looked and how much he wished he had a Jackson cock like mine. And I was the spittin' image of Massa Gordon if anyone wanted to look at me. But, of course, none of the white folk did want to look at me. They all wanted to look through me. All except that Margaret Jackson, Gordon's wife. She certainly didn't look through me. I fucked her good in their four-poster bed when all the white Jackson men were out in the field. She came sniffin' around for me, though. It ain't like I asked her to do anything that she didn't direct me to do. And all the house darkies, they just snuck around and twittered through their fingers while we were doin' it. There was no love lost for them Jacksons. No love lost for hardly none of the white folks in their fancy plantation houses along this stretch of the Mississippi. There was change and "had nuff" and killin' in the air. I felt it. All of the other darkies felt it. The whites didn't seem to feel it, though. They just took life for granted and looked right through us—until they wanted us in their beds. They liked our cocks and holes and pussies well nuff. There was more than one white woman—and man, for that—who wanted my black version of the Jackson cock in them. Until tonight I wondered where Massa Edward stood on that. But in that brief moment when I helped him down from the horse and he turned to me, I think I got my answer to that. I could see from the first moment they met on the front steps to Twelve Oaks where it was goin' with Massas Gordon and Edward, but still I couldn't just walk off and not know for sure. For one night the darkies could get along without having themselves locked in, I thought. That was a mistake I now know. There was a reason to lock the Apple row men in at night. I knew that. But it was only later that I understand the import of not doing it that night. Instead of that, I stole around the side of the house and peeked in one of the dining room windows. Massa Gordon had the liquor out and was liberally filling Massa Edward's glass through the dinner, which went on for more than an hour. Over desert and coffee and cigars, Massa Gordon said something to Massa Edward, and the young massa moved from the opposite end of the table to the seat at Massa Gordon's right side. They had their heads close together, and Massa Gordon had one of his hairy-backed hands on Massa Edward's forearm. They were laughing and smiling at each other and drinkin' far more liquor than Mass Edward should have. I heard Massa Edward say he felt hot and the air in the house was stuffy, and Massa Gordon suggested a walk in the garden. As they walked down the bricked walk toward the summer house, Massa Edward's cane tap tap tapping long on the bricks, the young massa was unsteady on his feet, besides the favoring of his ankle. He was leaning on Massa Gordon who was guiding him by the arm and had a beefy, hairy-backed hand on the small of Massa Edward's back. Before they passed into the shadows of the boxwood and out of my sight for at least the moment, Massa Gordon's hand had moved down to cup Massa Edward's buttocks. That's when I should have left the white folks to do what white folks do and gone back and put those Apple row men in their proper cabins and locked them in for the night. But I didn't do that. I started to do that, more than once, struggling with what I should do and what I wanted to do—no, not what I wanted to do, because I knew I didn't want to see what I was gonna see. But I had to see it anyway. I had to know it happened. But the time I had gotten to where I could see into the summer house and not be seen from there, Massa Gordon was where he knowed he was gonna git what he wanted. He had Massa Edward sittin' on the big bench in one corner. Massa Edward's good leg was running along the back of the bench with Massa Gordon sittin' in front of it, trapping Massa Edward in the corner. Both of their shirts were off and Massa Gordon had Massa Edward's cock out of his cod piece, and he was strokin' it slow like and had his teeth on Massa Edward's nipples. He had his own Jackson-sized cock out and was strokin' it with the other hand. He had Massa Edward worked up so well so fast that Massa Edward had his head thrown back and was beggin' to be fucked. I saw Massa Gordon's hand leave his cock and run in under Massa Edward's balls and I heard the slitting of the material of Massa Edward's britches and the groan and moan from Massa Edward as Massa Gordon's fingers found his hole. It wasn't long before Massa Edward was whimpering for the fuck. He had his eyes held tightly shut and his arms were hanging down to his side like he was puttin' up no defense at all. Massa Gordon stood and brought Massa Edward up in his arms and then sat again and turned Massa Edward facing away from him and then slowly brought Mass Edward's channel down into his lap on the mighty big Jackson cock. With strong, hairy hands on Massa Edward's waist, Massa Gordon worked the small ass up and down on his thick pole, with Massa Edward moanin' and groanin' up a storm. Then horrors of horrors as Massa Edward was scrunchin' up and jerkin' and spewin' out his milky cum onto the summer house floor, he cried out—and I turned in shock ran for my life, knowin' my world was comin' apart. Knowin' that the wrath of the Jacksons would be down on my neck now. For what Massa Edward cried out as he gave up his precious, patrician Tremaine seed wasn't "Gordon!"; it was "Will!" I ran for the cabins of Apple row, even though I knew I couldn't stay there. I knew that whatever Massa Gordon did with Massa Edward now, he would be comin' to look for me no later than the next morning. I ran up onto the path leading down Apple row, headin' for my mam's cabin, knowin' I'd need a few provisions and then I needed to try to run for it, to disappear into the forest, and take my chances with the searchers and their hounds. But as I was passin' the second cabin, the door flew open and strong arms grabbed me and pulled me inside. Even if Massa Edward hadn't cried out my name at the height of his fuckin' by Massa Gordon, the worst thing I could ever imagine to have happen to the head of the Jackson family, what I found now would have been enough to send me to a rope hangin' from the courthouse tree. All of the Jackson field slaves were in that cabin—all of the men who were usually segregated in separate cabins at night. And there was a reason for that. And the fact that they weren't locked in tonight meant the world was being turned upside down. "This is our chance, Will," Big Joe said as he pushed me down to a squat in the center of the floor. I looked around and saw that the men—and some of the women of Apple row too—had thick knots of wood with tar at the tips and they were all wearing mean and determined expressions. "We start here, tonight," Crocked Mike declared. "Most of the families have left for the season. We burn them out—tonight—and we head north. All of the darky families." "Are you with us or against us, Will?" Big Joe asked, pressing in on me. "Those still here?" I asked. "Death. We'll kill them all," Crocked Mike cut in. "Dead men can't raise alarms and dead men can't track us down. We need a head start. We can round up skiffs to take some north on the river, but the rest have to go on foot or mule wagon. They all have to die." I pushed away the hands Big Joe had laid on my shoulders and shrugged through Crocked Mike's grabbing hands and burst out of the door. A few of the men came out after me immediately, but I had surprised them, and I was quicker and stronger than any of them, not having been worked as hard through the day. Most of the men stayed back long enough to put the heads for their knots of wood into the fireplace and flame up the tar. I headed in the direction of the front the house, but as I saw an angry Gordon Jackson striding out of the garden on the brick path, I veered off to the left, toward the garden. He was alone, and he wasn't the one I sought. Gordon was on the coach path between the entrance to the garden and the portico of the house when he turned. He saw me, but his attention immediately went beyond me—to where the darky men were streaming out of the entrance to Apple row, the men in back carrying lit torches. Gordon turned and ran up the steps of the house, and the men from Apple row veered toward him. I went the other direction, into the garden. I found Massa Edward sprawled out on the bench, his face bleeding where Massa Gordon had punched him for what he had cried out. I gathered him up in my arms and ran cattycornered across the garden, bursting out onto the coach path a bit beyond the house. Twelve Oaks was alight. There was fire at every window of the first floor that I could see from where I was standin', holdin' Massa Edward in my arms, just inside the shadows, with the light from the fire lickin' out at us, searchin' us out.