MISTLETOE FARM A cautionary tale
Chapter Four: Aphrodite and Pompey
In the early morning hours Simon Simmons untangled himself from a nest of caramel brown limbs and staggered into the cool dawn light of Mistletoe Farm. For an instant a shimmer of thorn trees, savannah, drum beats, and the distant roar of lions hung in the air, more sensed than perceived, and then the veil rose to reveal the Blue Ridge foothills of his Virginia home. He shook his head to clear it and made his way to the wash house where he cleaned himself thoroughly. He walked alone back to the main house, his head full of dreams, then up to his own bedroom where he removed his clothing and went to bed naked, curled up beneath the cool sheets, slipping into distant dreams. From Toby and Venus's cabin, a dark hand which had held a curtain aside withdrew, a bright eye pulled back from monitoring the scene.
Floating back into consciousness in the late morning, Simmons looked reflectively at the bright rectangle of his window, curtains moving with the breeze of high summer. He felt---he didn't know how he felt. Torn between a world that was his and a world that was not, and unable to tell the difference. He rose and dressed, then walked downstairs and out onto the verandah to greet the day.
Toby had been trimming the boxwoods around the house; he looked up brightly as his master stood blinking in the sunlight.
"Mornin' massa! Let me get you some breakfast!" Simon smiled at him and nodded, then sat in one of the rockers, surveying the scene. Sights and sounds of activity were apparent; he marveled again at how his new servants had, in only a few days, become so involved and invested in running Mistletoe Farm. He had issued no orders for the day's activities, yet he could tell that tending of animals and gardens, washing and cooking, the gathering of firewood, were proceeding apace. Simmons gratefully acknowledged the breakfast tray that Toby brought to lay before him across the arms of the rocking chair.
Simon neared the end of his meal and was sipping coffee when he noticed out of the corner of his eye two people casually walking across the lawn, as if going from the separate kitchen to the vegetable fields. Craning forward to see, it was apparent they were two black men, and not belonging to Mistletoe Farm. In his surprise, Simmons cried out "Hallo! Hey there!" The two men, seeing they had been spotted, walked at a quicker pace to present themselves at the bottom of the verandah steps. They bowed and removed the battered slouch hats they each wore, murmuring "Massa" and "Yes, massa" as they stood before Simons.
"Who---who are you, where are you from, what is your business?" he asked them, not really knowing what to say. As he spoke, he took in their appearance. One was a man who appeared to be in his thirties, very dark, with an enormously powerful build. The ragged shirt he wore was open to the navel in front, and his dark skin stretched tightly over massive, defined muscles, oval dark nipples coming in and out of view as the shirt shifted with his movements. His neck was thick and muscular, his head pear shaped, crowned with a short cap of dense, kinky hair. His features were thick but not unpleasant; everything about him exuded strength, bulk, and masculinity. He stood nearly six and a half feet tall.
The other man was perhaps twenty and slender, a lithe, muscular but slender body inside a tobacco colored skin that shone with the morning light. His head was oval shaped, perched atop a slender neck. This young man's hair was tightly curled peppercorns dotted in thick clusters. His features were almost Asian, high cheekbones and almond eyes beneath thick, curling lashes, a generous nose but not flat, above a full rosebud mouth. He spoke first: "I is Rodney, massa," he said.
"I is Romulus," said his larger friend. "Beggin' yo pardon, massa, we is from Owlcroft, we is jes' passin' through and yo' servants gave us some water," he said, nodding toward the kitchen. At that moment, Pompey came around the corner of the verandah from the direction of the kitchen. "Yassuh, massa," Pompey said, a little out of breath in his hurry, "these is Mist'ess Woodruff's people, from Owlcroft. They jes' passin' through." He kept his head bowed but scrutinized his master from the corner of his eye.
Simon's eyes played over the two newcomers' bodies, taking in their skin tones, facial features, the contours of their bodies. As moments ticked by the scene seemed to freeze in time, the three black men waiting, furtively but steadily watching the white master---while Simon's mind occupied itself with dark oiled skin, tightly curled hair, out- turning lips and high, muscular buttocks. Then Simon's gaze seemed to snap back into focus. He nodded. "Very well, welcome to Mistletoe Farm," he said, a bit abstractedly. "You....you are welcome to the water," he murmured. The three blacks murmured "Yassuh," bowed again, and were off, each sneaking peeks back at the white man on the porch.
Simon sat a while longer in the sun, seeming to gather strength and focus. The people of Mistletoe Farm continued to go here and there, doffing caps or nodding to their master as they passed the verandah. As time went on, he finally rose, put on his hat, and set out to walk the grounds of Mistletoe, observing his servants as they went about their tasks of their own accord.
Reaching the path behind the row of trees beyond the vegetable field, Simmons decided to explore it, seeing where it might lead and which farms it might cross. He turned left and walked along, noting how well worn it was, weeds and undergrowth kept down by the frequent passage of feet. Birds cried in the summer sun and the wind stirred the trees as he made his way past fields and orchards, the hills of the Blue Ridge piled up in the near distance on his right.
He had walked no more than a mile or two when he came upon Titus, coming in his direction. "Massa," said the slave, doffing his battered hat and bowing slightly.
"Where are you off to, Titus?" Simon asked, stopping in the path.
"Back to White Springs, Massa," he replied. Simon nodded and then fell silent, looking up and down at the strong body of the slave. Then he reached out his hand and squeezed the strong arm, keeping the grip for a moment. "Very well, have a safe journey," he said. Titus nodded, but remained where he was, looking back at the white man intently as Simon passed along his way down the path. Another mile, and the path turned to follow the curves of a creek with quickly moving water. The shade and water brought some relief from the sun, which was now making the afternoon quite hot. Now fast moving, now spreading out into deep holes, the creek meandered among the farmlands. Sometimes Simmons saw a distant farmhouse on a hill, but for the most part he saw only cultivated fields, most of them tall with corn planted earlier that summer.
A distant sound became closer and louder as Simon strolled along the path by the creek. A murmur, shouts, squeals---he rounded a bend in the path and heard the unmistakable sounds of water play on the other side of a wall of tall grass and underbrush between the path and the creek. Cautiously Simmons pushed into the head-tall grass, pushing it aside to discover the source of the shouts and splashes. What he saw made him catch his breath.
In a deep pool bordered by a clay bank, three feet below the surface of the path, were perhaps half a dozen girls, naked, ranging in color from caramel to darkest brown, playing in the water. Simon quickly withdrew his head and looked to the left and right, up and down the path. Nobody was coming; indeed, Titus was the only person he had seen on the path the whole time he himself had walked it. Parting the grass, Simon looked back at the entrancing sight just a little below him.
Slippery as eels, the girls were clearly on holiday from whatever farm or plantation they belonged to. The youngest, a couple of nine year olds with bodies like boys, slim and taut with muscles that would soon develop into curves, splashed in the shallows on the other side of the pool. A thirteen and a fourteen year old pair, deep chocolate brown, treaded water just below Simmons, firm conical breasts just at water level. Sitting on the far clay bank was a caramel brown girl of perhaps seventeen, water still glinting in her bush of jet black curls on her head, and a smaller one in her groin, her breasts large but high. Higher up on the bank just below the line of trees and brush was perhaps an eighteen year old, jet black with moderate breasts in firm, high cones that ended in pointed nipples, sunning herself, rubbing water from her shock of braided black hair.
Simmons waited a moment; still nobody else came by, and as he thought quickly it became clear to him that these girls were swimming naked here precisely because few people ever did come by this spot. He had come upon it himself quite by accident. His heart beat faster and his breath became a little strained as his eyes slid over first one young beauty and then another luscious piece of flesh. They had not detected his approach, nor had they heard the rustling of the grasses on his side through the sounds of their own voices. As if in a spell, under a powerful compulsion, Simmons found a way to step down to the level of the pool still concealed by grasses. Off the path, he shed his own clothes quickly and quietly, then, his eyes still fixed on first this then that girl slave, he pushed through the grass and stood on the slippery clay verge of the pool.
Time stopped. The two nine year olds stared with open mouths, seeing their first naked white man, not knowing whether to laugh or run. The thirteen and fourteen year olds paddled back against the bank, their arms thrown across their swelling bosoms; they had enough experience of white males to know what could happen. The seventeen and eighteen year old covered their nakedness with their hands and began to scramble back up the bank as Simon waded into the pool, looking now here and now there, his reddish organ beginning to fill and rise. Then---out of the corner of his eye, was that Rodney, whom he had met earlier in the day, parting the grass on the other side of the bank? Those delicate Asian features, it must be him, whispering urgently toward the two older girls, nodding toward the white man--and then he was gone. The two girls whispered with each other and then--- wonder of wonders, began to walk back down the clay bank toward the pool, and toward Simon Simmons. They in turn gestured quickly and whispered a few words to the other girls. Each of them looked sharply at Simmons, appraising him, seeming to make a decision. It happened so quickly that the white man was not sure he'd seen it. And then he was up to the two nine year olds who stood mid-thigh deep in the water, rivulets running down their dark chocolate boyish bodies, still staring at the white man who was coming up to them.
Simmons swept up one in his arms and held her, her lithe dark body limp in his arms. Looking into her dark and shining eyes, he bent and kissed her, sucking her thick young lips into his mouth. She gasped but did not push away. Simmons's mouth moved down her thin neck to her flat boy's chest, nibbling the dark nipples, licking the water slick chocolate skin down to her navel. Now she giggled, and squirmed in his arms. The other nine year old looked up to her older companions for guidance. They gestured as they made their own way into the pool. Nodding, the little girl still in the water grasped the white man's reddish penis with her thin brown hand, making Simon gasp and look down. He quickly set down the girl in his arms and pulled both girls toward him, his hands grasping a pair of thin black buttocks on each side. The girls giggled and now the second girl grasped his penis as well, making a game of what had been an uncertain and possibly dangerous situation.
The white man was so engrossed in the slim chocolate bodies snuggling up to him, hands slowly pumping his now rampant cock, that he did not notice the ways in which the two older girls were gesturing and whispering to their companions, seeming to direct the action as if at a play. The two thirteen year olds began skirting the far edge of the pool, making their way to the far bank near where Simon now stood in the shallows, entranced, fondling the two boyish girls who squirmed and slithered against his body, giggling. The eighteen year old stayed on the bank, completely naked, watching and appraising. But the seventeen year old splashed through the water toward Simon and reaching him, pressed her water slick body against his and laughed softly. Simon steadied himself in the water and then pushed back, releasing the two little girls at his side, enveloping the caramel brown girl in an embrace. His iron rod slid upright between them, sliding between their wet bodies.
Laughing again, the girl slipped from Simon's embrace and skipped through the water toward the bank, gesturing to him to follow. He was right after her. Reaching the bank she tumbled down onto its wet clay, Simon flinging himself at her side a moment later. Her firm, high breasts pointed toward the sky, large conical nipples now swelling. A fierce energy came on the white man, who seized first one and then the other breast with his hands, kneading them, and then flung himself on top of the girl's prostrate body, sinking both hands into her bush of jet black frizzy hair while he mashed his lips against her full, reddish brown mouth. Heaving on top of her body, thrusting his penis up and down on the skin of her torso, the two wrestled in that way for a while, panting, murmuring.
Then Simon became aware that the slightly older girl, the ringleader of the band of nymphs he had discovered, had slid down onto the ground next two them and was running her hands up and down their bodies. She inserted her head with its mop of twisted braids in between brown girl and white man, kissing both, pressing her own pointed breasts into the dark body below and the white body on top.
Simon slipped up and off the girl for a moment, parting her legs, placing the full, plump cockhead of his rampant dick against her opening. Both their bodies were slick with water, with the wet clay of the bank, with their natural flowing juices. The white man pushed his rod into the black girl in one full stroke. She arched her back and cried out, but dug her fingernails into his back and pulled him into her even tighter. Arched over her now, holding himself off of her with his palms on the bank, he began pumping and banging wildly, frantically, beyond the bounds of any natural rhythm. The older girl stayed where she was alongside the couple but kept sliding her hands up and down the white flanks of the man and the caramel brown thighs of the slave girl. Master and slave, wordless until now, began murmuring and gasping incoherently, both uttering words in some strange language. On the struggle went. Then the girl climaxed, shouting out, twisting beneath the man, shuddering, her hands now flailing out to her side. It made her vagina contract, and its rhythmic pulsations brought him to the edge. Crying out as well, he slammed forward, grinding his loins down into hers as his semen poured down into the brown slave girl beneath him. Out it poured, and then the wave that had washed over him passed, and he collapsed, exhausted, onto her heaving, full breasts.
Simon drifted into a doze for a moment, then back up, pleasantly, still atop the slave girl whose breath was only just now returning to normal. He felt a tugging to the side; it was the older, dark brown girl, pulling him off of her companion. Over he came to sprawl on the bank, his penis pulling out of the slave girl with a plop. He lay on his back, the afternoon sun blinding him, breathing in deep sighs, aware only of the two warm bodies nestled on either side. Moments passed, and then the blinding sun was blocked. Regaining focus, he saw the two thirteen year old girls hovering over him.
One on each side, they crowded in over him on their hands and knees. "Massa" each whispered, then bent to kiss his ears, his forehead and nose, his neck. One offered her full mouth to his lips while another nuzzled his throat with her lips and tongue. Their firm but small breasts bobbed just over him, sometimes grazing his chest or belly. In an instant his penis began to rise again, arcing up over his thigh as it traveled toward his torso. Still the thirteen year olds kissed him, now nibbling his chest and nipples. Simon brought his hands up to fondle them in return, rubbing his hands over their rounded but small bottoms, fingers slippery with muddy clay sliding up and down the ass cracks, slipping into tight vaginas.
Suddenly he felt his penis engulfed in warmth, his thighs pressed down upon. Raising his head, he looked beyond the tobacco brown young bodies that covered his chest to see the oldest girl lowering herself onto his erect penis. He pushed his groin up to meet her, and was fully landed in an instant. Now the girl took over, sitting on her haunches over his groin, pushing herself up and down while she cupped her own breasts and looked at the white man whose rod had impaled her.
At that instant, Simon's world turned dark brown, caramel brown, tobacco brown, as both the nine year olds and his earlier sexual conquest flung themselves onto his body as well. Every part of him was covered with a writhing slave girl, licking, fondling, biting, offering firm breasts or flat, dark nipples to be sucked. Faster and faster bounced the slave girl on his rampant dick, deeper and deeper he wandered into a world of dark beauty, clouds of tightly curled black or woven tufts, eyes both bright and dark. When he came he could hardly push up with the crush of bodies upon him. He emptied himself up like a geyser this time, in one tremendous push, and then---and then sank from consciousness, lost in a deep slumber.
"Massa!" It could have been minutes, it could have been years. Simon woke with a start. The sun must be setting, for shadows were long. He lay naked on his back, coated with streaks of muddy clay. On the far bank, standing where he once stood at the start of this adventure, was Pompey. "Massa, you alright? I is come for you, massa," he said. Simon sat up and looked around. He was alone on the bank which was wet and roiled as if armies had struggled there. Thoughts of the afternoon came flooding back, memories--- where had they gone? To whom did they belong? He shook his head, and looked once again at his own slave, waiting amidst the grass on the far side. He nodded, rose, and splashed into the water, rubbing himself until he was clean. Emerging where he had come in, he wiped himself dry, then dressed quickly and climbed back up to the path. Pompey had come down to assist him, wordlessly helping, wiping the white man's naked body dry with bundles of grass. "Thank you, Pompey," Simmons muttered. Looking to the left and right, he took a moment to orient himself. "Mistletoe thattaway, massa," said Pompey, pointing to the right. Simon nodded and set off, lost in foreign thoughts, his slave half a step behind, toward his home in the evening shadows.
At the point in the path where they turned into the trees that bordered Mistletoe Farm, Pompey gently took his master's elbow and steered him in the right direction. But as they turned, Simmons halted for a moment. A hundred yards up the path, as he was turning off of it, three dark shapes stepped onto the path from the Mistletoe grounds and slipped off farther down the path.
"Wait..... who, those people, there.... who were they?" he asked, unsure, thinking only that they seemed to be dark skinned.
"I didn't see nobody, massa," said Pompey quickly, then tugged at the elbow more urgently. "Come, massa, rest," he said, and they pushed through the trees, the white man too tired and wrapped up in his own thoughts to argue. The slave led his master through the vegetable fields, still furrowed from the recent planting, and toward the house. On the porches of the slave quarters and here and there in the yard were dark skinned people who eyed the two quietly as they walked up the steps of the verandah. Pausing at the top, Simmons turned around and brought the yard and outbuildings into focus. "Were there....how many people were here when we walked up?" he asked abstractedly. "Have we visitors?"
"Nah, massa, jes' the Mistletoe people," he replied, and to tell the truth Simmons could detect nobody who did not belong there now as he looked closely. Yet it seemed as if there were more but a moment before. No matter. He was tired and spent. Pompey took him into the house, there meeting Toby.
"Come on, massa," said Toby, taking over from Pompey, "I know you is tired after your afternoon, come on up to bed," he said, and led the white man to his room. There he helped his master to strip, gave him a plate with a light repast on it which he almost had to feed to him, then lifted his naked legs into the bed and put out the light. Toby had pulled the sheet up over his master and was turning to leave when a white hand reached out to grasp his forearm.
"Toby."
"Yes, massa?"
"Stay a moment. Come.....come to bed. Remove your clothing, come."
Silently, Toby disrobed, the muscular contours of his slim, strong body and huge, pendulous penis visible in the ambient light. He slipped into bed beside his master and waited, still. The white man snuggled up against him, put an arm across his smooth, hairless chest, sighed deeply, then placed his other hand on the short cap of kinky hair atop the slave's head. Simon placed his own head on the dark, purple black chest and sighed again, listening to the lullaby of the strong heartbeat, breathing the clean, masculine perfume that rose from his satin skin. They lay like that for a few moments, Toby waiting and quiet, Simon moving his hands slowly over smooth skin and crisp hair. It was as Simon was drifting off in the moonlit room that he thought for a moment: how did Toby know about his afternoon? What did he mean? But he hadn't the energy to ask, and slipped into deep dreams in that moment.
Simon awoke alone in the mid morning, this time refreshed. Reaching for a pocket watch on his bedside table, he consulted the time. It was later than he thought, later than it looked. Rising, he walked naked to the window and looked out. The morning was grey, scudding clouds blocked the sun and a smell of rain came on the gusty wind. Dressing, he walked downstairs and straight out to the privy, then to the wash house where he scrubbed himself thoroughly. By the time he emerged, rain had begun to fall, a steady soaking shower, while distant thunder rolled. Sprinting to the house, he found Toby on the verandah, a brunch spread on a tray for him. He thanked Toby simply and then sat, eating, looking at the sheets of rain that moved vertically through across his view. From where he was sitting he could see the open barn door and thought he could see Thorn and Pompey at work there, moving in and out of four stalls to carry hay to the horses.
He paused. Four stalls? Four horses? They only had three. He had been glad for the initiative shown by his servants, but did it include acquiring livestock? Leaning forward he stared piercingly into the gloom of the barn, but could only see dark shapes moving back and forth at work. He turned to ask Toby, but the slave was gone, pursuing his own business. Finishing his breakfast thoughtfully, he rocked quietly. Then, as the rain began gusting onto the verandah, he withdrew, leaving the breakfast things for one servant or another to remove, and went into the house.
It was a good day to work indoors, which he did happily, continuing to put the house in order. But for the rest of the day, he sensed but never quite encountered Toby or any other slave. Going upstairs he found his bed made and room cleaned. Coming downstairs after hours of work, he found the verandah cleared and a good lunch set for him on the dining room table, but no evidence of a person who had performed that service. In the late afternoon he lit some lamps and continued his work, finally ceasing as more of the household accommodations and arrangement of his personal papers were to his liking. Still, he remained alone.
Simmons rose and put on an oilskin slicker, then walked out into the rain. It continued at the same pace, blowing a steady sheet of water. Reflecting on how beneficial that would be for the crops, he toured the place. He was hardly surprised to find nobody in the orchard or vegetable field, although there were lights in the cabins and some outbuildings. Simmons stepped to the outdoor kitchen and entered, enticed by the glow of lamplight from a window. There he found Rose and Venus.
"Afternoon, massa," they both said, each smiling pleasantly but keeping their eyes averted. He greeted them as well, then paused, his thoughts filled with the recent bouts of passion he had enjoyed with each of them. His eyes wandered over their bodies, his possessions, his to do with as he pleased. Venus broke the spell by turning to stir a pot set on the cast iron stove, and she said to him, "We is makin' a nice stew massa, you'll have some fo' your supper."
He started from out of his thoughts, then nodded and smiled. "That would be splendid, Venus. Have you.... have you seen Toby?"
"He was goin' to feed the stock, massa, then see what you needed in the big house."
"Ah," he replied. "The stock. Did we.... did someone acquire another horse?" The two women exchanged a quick glance. "I dunno, massa," said Rose, "that's for the menfolk, we jes' do women's work." Venus nodded agreement, but now both of them maintained a steady if furtive gaze at the white man.
"Ah.... ah, I see," he said. "Well, I will ask Toby later when he brings me dinner," he said, and having no further purpose in staying there, he withdrew.
The rain had picked up, and could properly be called a storm now. Unwilling to return to the house where he had been cooped up all day, Simmons decided to walk some more, but he ended up wandering aimlessly around the grounds. Still, none of the servants were apparent outdoors. He walked as far as the orchard, and as he reached the far limit of Mistletoe the storm increased in intensity. Lightning cracked and struck nearby, a tremendous boom of thunder shaking the very ground. The wind whipped the rain above, blew up his oilskin slicker, soaking his clothes beneath in an instant. Moving horizontally, the rain seemed to find every opening in the garment and came through. Aware that he was drenched, Simmons pushed back against the wind and made his way toward the buildings of Mistletoe Farm. His head down, he hardly knew where he was headed exactly, but then saw dead ahead of him a looming structure. He made out a lighted window, and a person's figure at the window in the lamplight. Coming up to the building he realized it was one of the slave cabins, but he could not make out which. The night had come by now, brought on early by the storm. Simmons slipped around the edge of the building until he found the door. He was about to push it open when it was opened for him from inside, and so he staggered in. Once inside, the door was shut behind him and gentle hands began removing his oilcloth. Wiping the rain from his face and eyes, he looked around. He was in the cabin of Aphrodite and Pompey.
The couple stood a few feet from him, eyeing him appraisingly. They glanced at each other and exchanged a nod. They approached the dripping wet white man, still trying to orient himself after the onslaught of the storm.
"Massa, you gotta get outta those wet things," said Aphrodite, kneeling in front of him. "Let me pull off your boots."
"Massa, lean on me whilst she pulls the boots off," said Pompey softly, coming up to his master's side and putting a muscular arm around the white man's shoulders. Simon nodded and whispered a thanks. He put an arm around Pompey's thick shoulders to steady himself as Aphrodite began already to pull off his wet boots. At that, Pompey turned in a little toward Simon and put his other arm across his chest to grasp Simon's other shoulder, almost embracing him. Simon looked right into Pompey's strong, thick neck, the dark chocolate skin tones and the short bush of kinky hair. He could feel the movement of dense muscle beneath the thin layers of shirt and skin. Aphrodite tugged this way and that and first one boot and then the next came off. Without asking, she unfastened Simon's trousers and let them fall around his ankles, then tugged down his undergarments. At the same time, Pompey quickly unbuttoned the white man's shirt which was all he wore over his torso beneath the slicker, and let that drop to the floor as well. It was Simon's turn to gasp in surprise, so quickly did it happen, so quickly did he stand naked before his two slaves.
But that did not last for long. Unbuttoning her own simple garment, Aphrodite let it fall from her shoulders and stood up directly in front of Simon Simmons, the dress falling to the floor to mix with his own clothing, naked in front of the white man. Her full, taught breasts bobbed a couple of inches in front of Simon and he gasped again.
Pompey moved back and both white man and black woman stepped together in an embrace. Simon scarcely noticed as Pompey stripped off his own clothing. But he was definitely aware of the strong black man's presence when he felt him press against his back. The black twenty year old slave was covering his master's naked back even as the master pulled 'Dite into himself, grasping her firm, wide buttocks with his hands. Pompey's dick, full and iron hard but not grotesquely large as was the case for some Africans, now pressed into his master's ass cheeks. The slave's unusually large testicles mashed into the white man's upper thighs. His bush of wiry pubic hair scratched the white man's lower back. His strong chocolate dark hands grasped his master's white shoulders and slid up and down the arms, now the sides and flanks, now around him to grasp Aphrodite and pull the three together.
In an instant Simon had surrendered himself to the flow of events, caught up in embraces front and back. Memories of every slave girl he had ever fucked came flooding back, while memories of his boyhood slave Brutus welled up in his mind as Pompey gently but insistently ground into his ass from behind. Simon began moaning, his breathing coming heavily now, his own penis pressing hard against the belly of the slave woman before him.
'Dite broke away from the embrace and, taking her master's hand, led him a few steps away to the bed. In Bulstrode's slave market the white man had taken her from behind. This evening she flung herself on her back, her legs spread and bent at the knees, and pulled the white man down onto her face to face. He followed, pushing his iron hard penis straight up between their bellies as he lay upon her, mashing her full breasts, squeezing them with his hands, finding her full lips and kneading them with his own. He tasted her, fondled her, felt the satin smoothness of her chocolate dark skin. Then, unable to delay, he pushed up off of her a little and placed the swollen head of his red penis at the entrance to her vagina. He pushed, going all the way in with one motion, while she arched her back and grunted.
Simon had no sooner landed completely inside the black girl than he felt his own buttocks being caressed by the strong dark hands of Pompey. As Simon began his rhythm of gliding in and out, he felt the black slave's fingers, slickened with some lubricant, probe his own anus. Simon's slow, preliminary movements in and out of the black girl in front created a slow in and out movement of Pompey's fingers in his bottom. And then Pompey was on him pushing up against his thighs and buttocks. Simon gasped as he felt the thick head of Pompey purple black, iron cock press against his asshole. But the white man was powerless to stop it, caught up as he was in a dance of lust with these two people he owned as property. A searing pain tore at his butthole for an instant as Pompey pushed his way in. Simon fell forward, still fully inside of 'Dite, as Pompey pushed forward as well to mash the white man down onto the body of the slave girl. The three held that position for a moment, physically locked together. Simon's pain passed and he began slowly, tentatively, to move his hips back and forth. Pompey followed his rhythm. 'Dite supported them both.
Soon Simon was riding between two chocolate brown bodies, sliding on a sheet of sweat from their black bodies and his white one. Pompey pushed and struggled to stay landed in the white man's ass even as the white man pounded in and out, in and out of the slave girl's willing body beneath him. Hands clutched shoulders, legs and ankles locked together, fingers ran through cornsilk blonde or frizzy black hair. Pompey bit the white man's shoulders and neck as the master bit the slave girls ears and neck. Harder and faster, harder and faster, murmurs becoming cries, until Aphrodite cried out and pushed her pelvis up, her fingernails tearing at the skin of the white man implanted so tightly within her. Her orgasm clamped and jerked on Simon's pounding cock, and in an instant his own ecstasy welled up in his thighs and groin and he roared, arching downward, shooting his semen into the dark slave girl below. Feeling his partners' lust, Pompey climaxed as well, pushing forward in one massive, muscular push, holding steady as his body pinned the white man between his woman and himself. His enormous balls emptied themselves into the master's rectum, a thick and steady flow of semen filling up the white man's intestines. When he finally went limp, the weight of his muscular body collapsed downward onto the two beneath him, all three gasping for breath, heaving with the aftermath of passion.
The storm raged without while the three went through dances of passion within. Simon returned the favor to Pompey, fucking his hard, bulbuous African butt, banging hard into the muscular cushion, while 'Dite ran her hands over both men's bodies. Simon took Aphrodite in the rectum from behind while she crouched over Pompey, lying on his back, his penis up her cunt, both men feeling each other's hard cocks sliding through the thin wall of the slave girl's flesh between. In the middle of the night as the storm passed, exhaustion overtook them all and they fell asleep, Simon covered by dark flesh all around him, dreaming of the dark within.
For three days Simon remained in the cabin, fucking or sleeping, emerging to use the privy or to wash and then returning to the rumpled bed where he lay, sometimes quietly, clutching or rubbing dark skinned flesh, sometimes thrashing and rutting in mindless passion. Sometimes he commanded his slaves simply to stand before him, to turn this way or that, to bend over, as his gaze washed over their sweat-shined bodies. In this way he made it to the end of his first week as an owner of slaves.
....to be continued. comments welcome: lokiaga@prodigy.net