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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}{NEW}MacKenzie's Journal II (See below)
Date: Mon, 30 Jun 2003 20:10:08 -0400
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This is the second part of a six-part historical novella first published at
Ruthie's Club in November, 2002, where it appeared beautifully illustrated
by Lloyd W. Meek.

The story codes would be MF+, Romance, D/s, BDSM, Slavery. The last of these
is literally slavery for the story is set in South Carolina during in 1839.

My thanks as always to my excellent and delightful editors - Gail Zane and
Ruthie.

The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for adults in
locations where it is legal.  If it is illegal in your location, DO NOT
read.  This is a copyrighted work.  Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may be posted as part of a  review or posted to free-access,
noncommercial archive sites.

Copyright 2002, 2003 by E. Z. Riter.

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

The works of E. Z. Riter are archived at www.asstr-mirror.org and
www.storiesonline.net

The works of E. Z. Riter writing as Ezra Zane as archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com, the web's premiere illustrated erotic pay site.

Please!        Give me your comments!

MACKENZIE'S JOURNAL II

Mr. Whitfield's Funeral

I saw the lights of Whitlands twinkling through the trees as I drove the
buckboard up the road to the plantation house. I popped the reins to
encourage my two tired draft horses to speed their way. They would rest soon
enough and I was anxious to arrive.

Whitlands was smaller than Ironwood-less land, fewer slaves, and without
Savannah River frontage that enhanced the viability of the property by
allowing direct water transport of its goods. Still, it was significant and
larger than many of the plantations, such as Riverwood, in our part of South
Carolina.

At Ironwood, we had three houses, all on a large circular road off the main
plantation road, in addition to the slave houses, barns, stables, and other
buildings. The Great House was home to my father and his family, which
included my mother until her death, my sister Elizabeth, and me. The Guest
House was next to the Great House and served as residence to business or
social visitors who, from time to time, stayed with us at Ironwood. The
Little House sat farther away to give it distance from the Great House but
be close enough for its residents to travel to the Great House with ease. It
was built for my father and mother upon their wedding. When my grandfather
died, my grandmother lived there until her own demise. Now it sat empty.

Whitlands contained only two such homes, both smaller than those at
Ironwood. Mr. Whitfield named the larger of the two The Manor and it was his
residence. The smaller was his guest house.

Father brought Liberty to a halt opposite the wide front steps at The Manor,
dismounted, and gave Liberty's reins to a stable boy who would tend to him.
I stopped the buckboard and a short black boy jumped into the seat beside
me. I handed him the reins and stepped down on Whitlands' rich soil. He
waited until two other slaves removed our baggage and carried them toward
The Manor before driving away.

As Father and I climbed the steps, Mrs. Whitfield came through the doors to
greet us. With her was a tall, thin man I didn't know. He was bald and
stooped forward from age but his eyes were sharp behind his pince-nez. Mrs.
Whitfield appeared sorely troubled as she rigidly marched toward us.

"Good evening, Mary Elizabeth," Father said.

"Good evening, Bruce," she replied, extending her hand to be kissed, which
he did by bowing from the waist, raising his hand so hers rested on it, and
gently pressing his lips to the back of her hand, as was our custom.

"Good evening, Mrs. Whitfield," I said to her, raising my hand.

I had never kissed the back of her hand or of any other woman's hand. That
honor was reserved for men who were friends or close acquaintances, not
boys. She had not treated me as an adult, but I felt it was time since I was
soon to be married to her daughter. It was another rite of passage, for in
asking to kiss her hand, I asked her to acknowledge me as a man. She paled
but stepped forward and laid her hand on mine. I kissed it perfunctorily
and, I presume, properly, but her hand trembled when my lips touched it.

"Hello, Stephen. How are you tonight?" Father said to the tall man as he
shook his hand.

"Fine, thank you, Bruce," the man replied.

"Stephen, let me introduce my son, Robert James MacKenzie, heir to Ironwood
and the betrothed of Miss Jane Marie Whitfield of Whitlands. Robert, this is
Stephen Burlingame of Burlingame & Simpson, Solicitors, of Savannah,
Georgia." After Mr. Burlingame and I exchanged greetings, Father continued
by saying, "Mr. Burlingame is Edward Whitfield's solicitor. I suspect he is
here to explain to Mrs. Whitfield the terms of her husband's will."

"Primarily to attend the funeral, of course," Mr. Burlingame said
effacingly.

As the three of them discussed arrangements for the funeral tomorrow, I
studied Mrs. Whitfield. She was only an inch or two above five feet tall,
considerably shorter than my six feet or Jane Marie's five feet five inches,
but she gave the appearance of greater height for she stood ramrod straight
and proud, holding herself with a regal bearing.

I would guess that a man who didn't know of her reputation and met her for
the first time would think she was attractive. Her waist was narrow, her
bosom impressive, particularly in relation to her height, and her face would
have been pretty if not distorted with sourness. But knowing her would
quickly lead a man to the conclusion her system was as full of poison as the
rattlesnakes hiding among the undergrowth in the woods.

On our journey to Whitlands that day, Father had attempted to soften her
nasty reputation by explaining her husband's folly relative to a slave girl
he took as a mistress, but I wondered which came first, the sourness or the
folly, like the age-old conundrum of the chicken and the egg. Mrs. Whitfield
didn't appear caustic that night. Rather, she was clearly frightened and
struggled to maintain her self-control. Father had told me her inheritance
was a trifle, only a small ration of what she expected, and I reasoned that
was the seat of her discomfiture.

"You and Robert will be staying in the Guest House, Bruce," she said. "Your
slaves have readied it for you."

Father was surprised and so was I. We were being dismissed and none too
politely, I might add. Mrs. Whitfield's face was crimson and set in stone as
she successfully held Father's gaze.

"Might I see Jane Marie?" I asked.

"She's not presentable, Robert. Tomorrow will be soon enough."

She held my gaze for a moment but Father still glared at her and our
combined strength made her relent.

"Please forgive me, Bruce," she remarked apologetically. "Stephen and I have
much to discuss tonight because I must understand Edward's will. It has
implications that..." She ceased speaking and spread her arms, struggling
for words to say what was beyond her comprehension.

I had never seen Mrs. Whitfield when she wasn't complaining or commanding.
Contrition and consternation softened her features and revealed a side she
kept hidden behind a she-devil's facade. For the first time, I felt empathy
for her and her position and an appreciation of her womanliness.

"Certainly, Mary Elizabeth," Father replied politely.

He and I took our leave with two of The Manor's slaves following with our
baggage.

"Give me a strong rope, a good whip, and an hour with her, and I could make
a decent woman out of that persimmon," Father muttered as we strode down the
path.

When we stepped on the porch of the guest house, the door swung open.

"Good evening, Master Bruce," Patience said.

She dipped to the floor in a full curtsy, complete with the hem of her dress
modestly extended by her right hand and ending with her knee resting on the
floor and her head bowed. I wondered who invented and institutionalized this
graceful civility for it showed women in a delightful light.

"Rise, Patience," Father said.

She rose as gracefully as she reclined and stepped back to allow us entrance
without looking either of us in the eye. I immediately saw two young
slave-girls standing near the back wall with their heads bowed. We waited
until the other slaves set our baggage on the floor and Patience closed the
door behind them.

"Come, girls, meet your new master," Patience ordered.

Both of them awkwardly stepped forward until they faced us.

"I am the slave of Master Bruce MacKenzie of Ironwood, but both of you
belong to Master Robert, his son," Patience explained to her daughters,
although Father had told me they already knew. "This is Ebony," she said,
touching the taller of the two. "And this is Fancy," she continued, touching
the other.

The two of them intoned "Good evening, Master Robert. Good evening, Master
Bruce," as they gave each of us a half curtsy.

"Master Robert, may I speak?" Patience continued.

"Of course," I replied.

"My girls were taught what you as their master will expect of them, but if
you are displeased, I beg that you allow me to instruct them in your
pleasure rather than taking the whip to them," Patience pleaded.

Father laughed and Patience trembled. "Patience, look at me," he commanded.
Her head jerked up to reveal her beautiful and terrified countenance.
"Didn't Edward explain to you?"

"Explain what, Master?" she whispered.

"I know you were his mistress and these girls are his daughters. He wanted
me to have you, Patience, to protect you from harm's way and I will, but you
will serve me and serve me well as you served him, and your girls will serve
Robert in the same manner. We don't use the whip at Ironwood except in rare
situations and we don't expect our slaves to always defer their eyes. You
will quickly learn service at Ironwood is easier and more enjoyable than
elsewhere."

Patience visibly relaxed and gave him a shy half-smile.

"It's all right, Patience," Father said gently. He waited until her
trepidation disappeared and her happiness surfaced before extending his
arms, and saying, "Give me a kiss and a real welcome."

She leapt into his arms, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him with
such heat I felt the singe. I had never seen a woman and man kiss
passionately, although in the dim recesses of my mind I had a hazy
recollection of my mother kissing Father with such fervor. And I had never
seen a white and a Negro touch intimately. In truth, a black touching a
white was often the reason for the black's death or brutal punishment.
Evidently Father had no complaints, for he returned her kiss with equal zeal
before gently sitting down on the chesterfield with her still attached.

I heard Ebony clear her throat. I turned to see the two of them standing
still as statues with their heads bowed.

In a flash of realization, I understood their actions. Father had released
his slave, but I was their master and I gave no such release. Without my
command they would stand there until they swooned.

That thought and the knowledge I was in possession of not one, but two,
slave girls to direct as I might wish, gave me a burst of heady emotions
that rendered me numb. My wishes would include one of them relieving me of
the tedious burden of my virginity and escorting me to sexual realms of
which I had only dreamed. I relished in this sea change, such a vital and
primal passage in my life.

In the quiet of the room, I heard Father summon Patience to lie beside him
on the chesterfield. While my eyes were on Ebony and Fancy, in my peripheral
vision I saw Patience crawl up to recline against him as they both watched
and waited for me to act.

Using a light touch, I cupped Ebony's chin in the palm of my hand. She
didn't move. I guided her head upward until she was face to face with me.
Still, she deferred her eyes.

"Look at me, Ebony," I whispered.

She raised her eyes to mine. She was, as I remembered from my visits to
Whitlands, a beauty with the sensual and feminine features of her mother.
Her eyes were soft and hot with expectation and she struggled to restrain a
smile from growing on her face as her pink tongue flicked to lick her full
lower lip. She seemed as eager to begin our relationship as I was.

When I released her chin, her head dropped to bow again. Again, I lifted it
and she remained that way.

"May I have your permission to be your lover, Ebony?" I asked quietly.

Clearly, she was surprised by the question. Her surprise gave way to the joy
of being given an opportunity to demure. Her infectious, broad grin brought
a smile to my face.

"I want to be your mistress, Master Robert," she said. I had no doubt she
was being truthful.

"You will be," I replied.

I leaned to kiss her, aware I had kissed girls playfully but never kissed a
woman. Ebony's mouth opened and her tongue flicked against my lips urging my
own mouth open to receive it. I knew this woman would enrich my life and
nothing would ever be the same. When I broke the kiss, Ebony's hot eyes told
me I hadn't done too badly for the first time.

I stepped to stand opposite Fancy. When my hand touched her chin, she
trembled.

"Look at me, Fancy," I said as I raised her face to mine.

Several thoughts rushed through me at once. I did not remember seeing Fancy
previously and, if I had seen her, I would have remembered for she was more
beautiful than either her mother or her sister. Her features were finer. Her
eyes were a lighter brown, near the color of a buckskin horse with flecks in
a blue-green hue, as compared to Ebony's dark chocolate eyes or the black
ones of her mother. Her skin was a lighter color than her mother's and,
perhaps, even a shade lighter than Ebony.

Most striking, though, was the realization her features resembled those of
Jane Marie, my intended and her half-sister. If one looked closely, the
family resemblance was clear, even to the freckles so obvious against Jane
Marie's paleness and almost hidden under Fancy's dusky sheen.

Fancy's face openly revealed her terrors.

"It's all right, Fancy," I said, hoping to assuage her with my tenderness. I
waited until she relaxed before saying, "May I have your permission to be
your lover?"

Her expression said the fear of being taken by me warred within her against
the horror of displeasing a man who could have her flayed to death.
Conflicting emotions brought tears to her eyes. She struggled for courage
and finally said, "Yes, Master Robert" in a voice giving lie to the words.

"I'm surprised you agreed. I was told you did not yet want to be with a
man," I said.

Her eyes widened and her head jerked to face Patience. "Mother," she cried
plaintively. I saw Father's hand tighten on Patience's wrist. She did not
reply and gave her daughter a look indicating she was unable to help.

Fancy shook in fear, on the edge of collapse and unable to contain her
copious tears. I put my arms around her and pulled her gently to me. She was
rigid with her arms folded against her stomach and her head hard against my
chest. I felt the throbbing of her heart and the erratic rise and fall of
her breasts as she cried.

Father smiled at me and winked, telling me I was dealing with Fancy in a
manner he approved. Patience smiled softly at me, silently thanking me for
tenderness with her daughter. Ebony wore a small smile, but I felt she was
miffed with her younger sister and the tumult she was causing.

I held Fancy until she cried herself out and rested limply on my chest. I
pushed her back and held her with a hand on each of her small shoulders as I
said, "You don't have to come to me if you don't want to, Fancy. You can be
my servant without being my mistress, you know." She nodded. "But no man may
touch you, not even a peck on your cheek, without my permission. Do you
understand?"

"Yes, Master Robert," she whispered.

"Good. Don't be afraid of me unless you have done something to cause your
fear. You're a smart girl. You'll know if you've been bad."

"I understand, Master Robert. I won't be bad."

"I'm starved," Father said.

His words broke the tension and motivated the women to action. I plopped
down in a chair and Ebony rushed to remove my boots as Patience did with
Father's. Fancy hurried to prepare a small feast. Our three slaves stood and
tended to our needs as we ate.

Once the repast was through, Patience said, "This house has two bedrooms. If
it pleases our masters, may I suggest we repair for the night?"

"It pleases me no end," Father said.

"And it pleases me," I said. "Fancy." When I called her name, she popped to
attention. "You can stay in here or join Ebony and me in the bedroom,
whichever you wish."

She looked at her mother for guidance. "Master Robert is a loving man,
baby," Patience said to her. "You can trust what he says and answer him as
you want."

"May I stay in here, Master Robert?" Fancy asked fearfully.

"Of course. Goodnight," I said to her. I stood to take my leave.

"Goodnight, Master Robert," she answered as she half curtsied to me.

I said goodnight to Father and Patience, took Ebony's hand with the
intention of dragging her to the bedroom, but she outpaced me, pulled me
into the bedroom instead, and closed the door after us.

The bedroom was small but sufficient, with a modest fire simmering in the
fireplace to ward off the damp. There were windows on two sides and a narrow
door opening to a stone path of twenty or so paces leading to the necessary
outer-house. I availed myself of those facilities and when I returned, Ebony
was perched on the edge of the wing chair near the bed.

She offered to disrobe me, but I said to wait. Her bright and eager eyes
drank me in as I undressed to the bottom of my long johns. I wiggled a
finger at her. She giggled as she jumped up to stand before me.

"Are you wearing your sponge?" I asked.

"Yes, Master Robert," she said.

"You must always wear it with me." She nodded her head. "And now that I own
you, there will be no other men for you, Ebony. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Master Robert. That's the way it should be," she said sweetly.

The sponge was something else Father had explained on the long ride from
Ironwood. It was designed to inhibit pregnancy and had been used since the
ancient days of Israel, he said. The woman inserted the sponge into her
vagina, snug against her cervix to absorb the life-creating sperm I would
leave there. He also suggested I use a catching safe, a sheep's intestine
membrane snug around my manhood to double our mechanical resolves, for
neither of them was foolproof. I, however, wished my manhood to feel her
womanhood unencumbered this first time, at least.

I followed one last piece of Father's advice, given when I asked about the
mechanics of the act itself.

"Ebony, when we are together alone like this, we are not master and slave.
We are man and woman. I want you to free your woman's fire to please me and
yourself."

"Am I your first, Master Robert?" she asked as her finger trailed up from my
stomach to my breast, sending shivers through me. It was the first time she
touched me of her own volition. I nodded, somewhat embarrassed to be the
novice between us. Her fingers stroked my manhood  "Oh, Master Robert,
you're going to love what we do."

Ebony was not a deferring slave in bed, but a wanton of Biblical proportions
and a marvelous teacher intent and eager to share her knowledge and herself
without hesitation or reserve. She allowed me to explore her as I chose
until my exploration ignited fires in her that she demanded, in crude
expletives, be tended without delay. I quenched those fires with my special
and thick white waters. Yet, they smoldered in both of us and required a
return by me into her to extinguish the heat.

I was surprised by the jutting nature of her derriere, which she explained
was common to black women, and pleased by the large, soft bounty of her
breasts, of which she was understandably proud. The thick thatch between her
legs felt like no hair, human or animal, I had encountered. The folds of her
sex were a pink flower that opened at my gentlest touch and emitted its
pungent perfume.

Her fervent urgings, uttered in the heat of battle in an earthy black patois
rather than the proper English she used in conversation, were stimulating
and rewarding to say the least. Yet, except for my own rewards, I was most
pleased by her comments as to my skills and her joy in them.

* * *

I awakened the next morning to cover my nakedness and make the trip to the
outer-house. Upon my return, I found Ebony sprawled on my bed. I kissed her
neck and nibbled my way down to suckle her breast.

She moaned. "Morning, baby," she said softly. She gasped and jerked away.
"Master Robert, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that to you," she said
contritely.

"Shush. I said we are man and woman in here."

She chuckled deep down in her throat and wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Does my baby want some more loving?" she asked.

Had Father's banging on the door come a minute sooner, he would have
interrupted us at a critical moment. As it was, I responded quickly to bathe
and dress in preparation of Edward Whitfield's funeral. We arrived at The
Manor accompanied by Patience, Ebony, and Fancy, each in the simple, gray,
cotton dresses of slaves.

Mrs. Whitfield and Jane Marie waited on the porch where the funeral
procession would begin. Mr. Stanley Burlingame, Mr. Whitfield's solicitor,
and Parson Simonton, the Anglican priest who would be saying the service,
attended them. Both ladies were dressed from head to toe in black, including
black veils over their faces. Their veils were not the heavy quality I had
seen worn to some funerals, but a fine gauze that allowed others to see
their faces.

Both replied when we bade them good morning. Mrs. Whitfield coolly said to
Father, "May I see you, Bruce?" It was more command than request.

I joined him, walking to the porch to stand between Mrs. Whitfield and her
daughter, who whispered good morning and squeezed my hand warmly.

"I don't want that whore and her bastard children at my husband's funeral,"
Mrs. Whitfield hissed at Father.

"Edward wanted it," Father replied.

"He is dead and unable to speak his mind," she snapped.

"It's in the will," Mr. Burlingame interjected.

"The will be damned," Mrs. Whitfield barked, turning her full fury on the
elderly lawyer. "I will not endure this. I will not."

Father leaned forward to whisper in her ear. She pulled away. He wrapped his
fingers around her upper arm and pulled her toward him. She resisted. He
continued until the corded tendons on the back of his hand popped out. Her
face was red from resistance before he overpowered her and held her still to
listen to his whisperings. I don't know what he said, but she relented.

As was proper and common, the wagon carrying Mr. Whitfield's coffin, draped
in black crepe and pulled by matched dark-skinned horses, slowly stopped in
front of The Manor. The Widow Whitfield, her daughter, and the priest
descended the porch steps to take their place at the head of the procession.
Father, Mr. Burlingame, and I followed immediately behind them, with the
other guests queuing behind us. The black-robed slave driving the wagon made
a clicking sound and gently popped the reins. The giant draft horses
lumbered forward, leading us all toward the Whitfield family graveyard,
wherein lay the parents of Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield, Mr. Whitfield's older
brother who died as a child, and the son stillborn to Mrs. Whitfield before
Jane Marie's birth. Patience and her daughters were last in the funeral
procession.

Parson Simonton said the proper words over Mr. Whitfield's coffin while his
widow and her daughter by him sat graveside, and his mistress and her two
daughters by him stood not too far away. Of the five women he left, none
cried as he was laid to rest, which divulged more about Mr. Whitfield than
any man's words. Sad indeed is the death of a man unmourned.

The Manor overflowed with people who came from far and wide to pay their
last respects, for weddings and funerals were the two primary functions
where neighbors gathered to socialize. The Manor's house staff was
overburdened and the three MacKenzie house slaves in attendance assisted in
the serving.

When I joined the gathered throng, Mr. Obadiah Martin of Briarlands shook my
hand warmly and introduced me to his wife. "I understand we can anticipate a
wedding announcement, Robert," Mrs. Martin said.

It was, for me, another rare moment, for on prior occasions I had been
considered a child and now I was an adult in the midst of adults, treated
with civility, not ignored, talked with, not at, included in discussions of
weather and crops and the value of slaves. Mr. Martin graciously instructed
me to call him and his wife by their Christian names, confirming they
considered me an adult and social equal.

I quickly found Jane Marie chatting with two ladies who were bending her
ears with advice on weddings. When I interrupted and took Jane Marie's hand,
she looked at me with a sparkle and warmth too long absent from her visage.
I guided her outside and down the steps of the front porch to the shade of a
stand of ornamental trees in the soft grass between the roadways.

There I took her hands in mine as we faced each other. "We have been pledged
in marriage," I said.

"I know," she answered.

"Nothing could make me happier. I love you, Jane Marie." Her bright eyes
glittered at me. "I must ask, for my own knowledge and nothing else, for our
marriage is as sure as Spring rain, but..." My head was light and my heart
pounding. "Would you have married me without our parents' pledge?"

"Why don't you ask and see?" she teased.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes, Bobby. I'll marry you. I love you, too. I love you with all my heart."

She raised her head to be kissed. Jane Marie and I had kissed when we were
children, wet play kisses from one tyke to another. We had kissed as friends
might, or cousins, soft closed-lipped pecks on the cheek, but this was our
first real kiss as man and woman. I heard the songs of Angels and felt the
warm caresses of Heaven's clouds.

We rejoined the adults and mingled, receiving congratulations early for the
formal announcement of our nuptials had not yet been made. Jane Marie and I
held hands throughout. That touch and the light brushing of our bodies, a
constant reminder of our friendship and love, stimulated my ever-conscious
desire to have her in my bed and share with her those special skills I had
only learned last night.

When Ebony approached us bearing a silver tray of canap�s, I, for an
instant, wondered if Jane Marie was aware of my frenetic dance with her
half-sister, or if she might read from our respective demeanors the
relationship we shared. She was aware our three slaves shared the guest
house with us last night, which was unusual unless for carnal reasons.

If she knew, it did not show. When Ebony said, "Canap�s, ma'am," her eyes
were diverted and her manner servile.

"Are you all right, Ebony?" Jane Marie asked solicitously.

"Fine, ma'am. Thank you."

"How's Fancy?" Jane Marie continued.

Ebony hesitated before replying, "Fine, thank you, ma'am."

"Ebony, don't lie to me. What's wrong?" Jane Marie said, but the rebuke was
given lovingly.

Ebony looked at us both for the first time. "She's in the butler's pantry
crying." Ebony's eyes cut to me and quickly returned to Jane Marie. "Having
Master Edward gone and belonging to a new master has upset her, ma'am."

"Thank you, Ebony. I'll talk to her," Jane Marie said. Ebony half curtsied
and moved to offer the hor d'ourves to another guest. "Are you coming with
me?" Jane Marie asked.

"Of course. She is my slave."

I could not comprehend her expression before she turned away to lead me
toward the kitchen.

We found Fancy sitting on a small stool in the dark corner of the butler's
pantry, crying softly into a white kitchen cloth. Jane Marie squatted by
her, taking Fancy's hands in her own, and gently shushing her.

"Everything will be all right, honey," Jane Marie said with a surprising
tenderness. Fancy didn't look at her. Jane Marie stood and pulled Fancy to
her feet. Seeing their profiles as they stood face to face reinforced my
opinion they shared a family resemblance. "Do you want to go to my room and
lie down?" Jane Marie said, brushing a tear from Fancy's cheek.

"No, thank you, Janey," Fancy said.

"Keeping busy is good for you so go back to work. And quit worrying. I'll
see that Master Robert is good to you." Fancy gave a small half-smile. "Go
on then," Jane Marie said.

I was surprised by the familiarity with which Fancy addressed her mistress.
Not that it occurred, because sometimes a master allowed it, but, rather,
that Jane Marie allowed it, particularly in light of her own mother's
venomous attitude toward Fancy.

We watched Fancy return to her labors. When Jane Marie took my hand, she
again gave me a glance I did not understand. She squeezed my hand once
before rejoining the wake.

By mid-afternoon, the funeral throng had dwindled to those who could safely
make it home that day since no nearby accommodations were available. By
sunset, all were gone except for Mr. Burlingame and our entourage. Mrs.
Whitfield was exhausted as was everyone else, including the staff. She asked
us to join her for breakfast the next morning to discuss business matters,
and we agreed. She bade us good night and excused herself.

"I think I'll retire, too," Father said. He glanced at me. I glanced at Jane
Marie.

She said, "Please stay and talk to me a while, Robert."

"I'd love to," I replied.

The Manor had two large swings, one seating two and the other three, at the
west end of the front porch with three rockers nearby. We had oil lamps by
the front door and the moon for light. I sat in the two-person swing with my
intended beside me. The evening was cooling and not yet damp, so Jane Marie
wore a white cotton shawl over her bare shoulders.

"We haven't set our wedding date," I said.

"I think Mother plans to do that in the morning. When do you want it to be?"

"As soon as possible," I replied.

"Why?"

I felt a blush rise, for my mind had exploded with carnal visions of Jane
Marie and her hidden treasures soon to be mine. She giggled and stroked my
face.

"I, too, wish we were already man and wife," she said and her loving,
sparkling face made my heart leap in joy. "I want to be married next month."

"Can your dress be made that quickly?"

"It's almost complete. I've been planning this for a long time, Bobby."

"Oh?"

"Since I was five or six."

"Was I the last to know we were to wed?"

She laughed like the tinkling of bells. "Not the very last."

"So all the consternation you've given me was a ruse."

"Ruse? Why, Bobby, how could you think that of me?" she asked with an
exaggerated innocence giving lie to the question. She giggled with her
fingers covering her lips and her eyes teasing mischievously.

We held hands and talked, discussing important matters interspersed amongst
the trivial, but we didn't discuss Fancy and I waited for her to open that
matter. As the evening wound down and the time to depart drew closer, I
brought up the subject.

"I was surprised at Fancy's familiarities with you," I said.

"Why? She is my half-sister." She watched me like a hunting hawk. "You knew
that, didn't you?"

"Yes. Father told me yesterday."

"I've known for years. Ebony is my half-sister, too, and while I do care for
her, I don't feel as strongly toward her as I do Fancy. Ebony is older and
stronger. She can take care of herself. Mother hates all three of them, as
you saw, and wants me to hate them, too. She instructed me to demand you
sell all of them in the Savannah markets."

"Savannah? That's the harshest slave market in the South," I said.

"So I've been told, but that's what she wants. She is not pleased you and
your father bought them. If she had her way, they would be flayed and sold
in short order."

"Are you pleased we acquired them?"

"Yes, I am, Bobby. Very pleased. They are good slaves and pleasant to have
around, and, well, I feel strongly about Fancy."

"Why?"

She looked away, staring into the darkness. "Look. A firefly. And another,"
she said.

I accepted her not too subtle change of direction in the conversation and
joined her in an observation and discussion of fireflies, allowing her, I
hoped, to gather her thoughts and return to the matter at hand. However, the
discussion drifted in other directions until she stifled a yawn and we both
knew it was time to part. I escorted her to her door, kissed her, told her
again I loved her, and bade her good night.

The guest house was dark except for the flickering flames from the fire in
the center room when I quietly entered. Ebony and Fancy were lying in front
of the fire, apparently asleep. I slipped into my bedroom to find a small
fire and turned back bed awaiting me. I partially disrobed, utilized the
outer-house, and returned to find Ebony standing by my bed, wearing a
sleeping gown and thin robe.

"Do you want me tonight?" she asked.

"Of course," I replied.

She dropped the robe, slipped the gown over her head, and tossed it aside.
Ebony had an open sensuality as if her nakedness and anticipated pleasure
with me were nature's way. To be correct, it was nature's way, but society
placed bonds on our behaviors, restricting us all. She smiled slyly as she
put my hands on her breasts and began to undress me.

I rubbed her nipples with my thumbs and she moaned, "Oh, I like that."

Her breasts were big as gourds and weighty as I hefted them in my hands.
They were soft, not like a feather bed, but more pliable than even the flesh
of her inner thighs.

"You like playing with my bubbies?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"I like you doing it, Master."

When she finished undressing me, she sat on the bed and pulled me to sit
beside her.

"You're a sweet man, Master, and last night pleased me, but..." Her
fingernail slid along my leg from knee to crotch and stroked the underside
of my manhood. "You held yourself back, didn't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I felt your fighting your urges, restraining your needs."

I did not answer her at once and she waited until I said, "So?"

"So, it's more fun for you and for me if you let go," she said. "Hold down
my hands and drive your big cock deep into my cunt. Do me hard. As hard as
you can."

"I might hurt you," I said.

"Oh, I'll be sore in the morning, but I'll love it tonight."

I was taught gentlemen, of whom I was one, were not violent with ladies.
True, Ebony was a slave-girl and slave-girls were not ladies, but, as Father
said, a woman is a woman, free or slave, white or black.

She sensed my confusion and interrupted my contemplation by taking my hand
in both of hers. She gently opened it until my fingers extended, and kissed
my palm. She put her wrist in my hand and closed my fingers around it. She
jerked her arm and pulled free.

"Don't let me go. Hold on to my arm," she said as she folded my fingers
around her wrist again. She jerked to free herself but I held firm. "That's
better. Now listen to me, baby. I want to resist you and struggle in your
arms. Will you let me do that?"

"If you like."

"Oh, I love it."

"You want me to take you against your will?" I asked.

"I'm not a slave-girl unwillingly taking her master's weight, or a free
woman being raped. I have said, 'Yes, I want you.' But all women, black and
white, like our man to be strong in bed. We like to be taken, to be held
down and fucked until we are sagging and spent."

"By any man?" I asked.

"Some women like having any man take them, but I don't and most women don't
either. We like it only after we've said yes." She chuckled and kissed me
again with her hot tongue flicking into my mouth. "I know it's confusing,
but you'll learn to read our signs. Until you do, this woman will tell you
what she wants. Understand?"

"I think so."

"Then do it."

"Get on your back," I said without emotion.

She kissed me softly on the lips. "That's not it, baby. If you want me
tonight, you need to make me do it."

Her hands were resting on her legs. I took a wrist in each hand and forced
them apart as she resisted.

"Come on, baby, don't stop."

I pulled and she yielded, although not easily, until her arms were spread.
Her eyes were wild as her tongue flicked across her lips. "The stallion
takes the mare. The bull takes the cow. The man takes the woman," she said
in a high, sing-song voice. "Hurry, my man. Take me," she growled
gutturally.

A vision of Palmetto, my thoroughbred stallion, at his last mating flashed
in my mind. My cock surged between my legs, throwing a lightening bolt to
sear my brain. I slammed her backward on the bed and drove myself into her.

"Oh, sweet God, that's the way," she exclaimed.

She grunted and twisted under me as I held her down. A true struggle by her
to dislodge my cock so snug within her would be a violent, disharmonic
clash, but this was harmony of motion, like a feverish dance as we thrust
and parried, one to the other.

"You're fucking me so good, baby."

Her climaxes, easily ignited and lustily relished, came soon and often,
until she felt the swelling of my manhood that signaled my own reward and
clamped her love scabbard tightly around my sword.

"Oh, fuck, yes. Yes. Yes."

I felt my own bodily contortions as the excruciating thrill of my sexual
pump's powerful gush came forth from me to extinguish both our flames.

"Oh, baby, you keep getting better and better," she cooed as I stared down
into her blissful, sweat-covered face.

A memory leapt into my mind's eye-a memory of Jane Marie over a year ago.
Her unmerciful teasing had only begun. I reacted as I am now sure she
wished, by chasing her through the grass until I caught her and wrestled her
to the ground. I pinned her wrists over her head that day and saw the wild
excitement in her eyes until we both suddenly realized I was on her and
between her legs, which is something unmarried ladies and gentlemen do not
do, even when fully clothed. I rolled off her, embarrassed by my
forwardness.

"Beast," she had said insincerely. The sly look from the corner of her eye
confirmed her ire was to fulfill society's pretenses and not her own
desires.

I released Ebony's wrists and lay my head down on her. She wrapped her arms
around my neck and her fingers stroked my back. Awash in sweat and
secretions, we slept in a cabin of aromatic air.


To be continued

-- 
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