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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}{NEW}Mackenzie's Journal III (See Below)
Date: Thu,  3 Jul 2003 14:10:06 -0400
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This is the third 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 III

Whitlands

Father and I arose early to bathe by moonlight in the cool waters of the
pond behind The Manor. Fancy held an oil lamp and exerted considerable
effort to avoid looking at us. I thought it strange she was reticent to see
our male equipment when Ebony was anxious to both see and take a man inside
herself.

Dawn found us dressed and ready to meet with Overseer Witherspoon, a sour,
fat white-man, before our later breakfast meeting with Mary Elizabeth
Whitfield. We instructed Patience, Ebony, and Fancy to ready our baggage and
all their possessions for the return trip to Ironwood, for we planned to
leave immediately upon the latter meeting's completion.

Plantations, successful ones at least, do not begin their day with the
rising of the sun. By sunrise, they buzz like a beehive, with all slaves fed
and at their work - the field slaves in the field, the seamstresses at their
sewing, the cooks in their kitchen cleaning up from the first meal of the
day and preparing for the others, and the servants polishing and readying
the house for the Master and Mistress. At Ironwood, the blacksmiths sweated
in the bright heat of the forge during the dead of night to avoid the added
heat of the day. Yet, at Whitlands, all was quiet and calm before dawn, our
first sign the plantation was improperly operated.

Witherspoon was waiting for us in front of The Manor, hat in hand and his
demeanor shouting his discomfort. Within a few minutes, Father and I had
ascertained his management was shoddy and his organization misfitted to the
many tasks to be performed. Within an hour, we had a solid idea of necessary
changes. We instructed him to have the buckboard loaded and waiting, and
Liberty ready for the trip. We then returned to The Manor's front porch to
sit and discuss what we had learned.

Father had begun my tutelage in farm management as early as I could
remember. At an age when most children played with a nanny, I accompanied
him to meetings or to evaluate fields or buy horses or cattle. I was
instructed to save my questions until he and I were alone, and I complied,
but once alone he never failed to take the time necessary to fully answer
all I asked.

My schooling included monographs on farming as well as the classics. More
importantly, I did all the farm chores, sometimes working under Father's or
Jonah's practiced eye until I dropped where I stood, too exhausted to move.
I can remember Father carrying me in his arms when I was younger, to lay me
down on my bed as I was dressed and cover me over to sleep. The other
sub-overseers, who were also slaves, took an interest in my education as
well, proudly sharing their particular skills with me.

I relished it all-the knowledge, the experiences, the challenges, and, most
importantly, Father's attention and approval. He did not hesitate to tell me
when I erred and when I succeeded, delivering all comments in a positive
manner intended to speed my own development. For my part, I was an active
and eager student, absorbing instruction like a sponge.

While I had much to learn, I felt confident, as we sat on Whitland's porch
that day, in discussing any farm issue with him. We agreed Whitlands was
sorely in need of new hands on its reins.

I heard the soft click of leather heels on the porch's oaken timbers and
turned to see Jane Marie, who was dressed in white, her black hair bound
high on her head.

"Good morning, beautiful lady," I said to her as I stood.

"Good morning, Bobby. Good morning, Mr. MacKenzie," she replied. She took my
hands, raised her lips to mine, and gave me a quick kiss. "Breakfast is
ready, gentlemen," she said.

We accompanied her inside to the dining room to find Mrs. Whitfield and Mr.
Burlingame waiting for us. Each bade us good morning before Mrs. Whitfield
graciously asked Father to take the head of the table and I the foot. She
placed herself on Father's right and Jane Marie at mine, with Mr. Burlingame
on Father's left.

Jane Marie's dress was a simple frock - thin straps over her shoulders, a
wide pink ribbon under her breasts that continued around and tied in back,
and a free flowing skirt below the ribbon. She was a beautiful vision. Mrs.
Whitfield was dressed more formally, heavily corseted to narrow her waist
and lift her ample bosom, no doubt to attract the male eye.

As the servants served us a typical plantation breakfast of eggs, bacon,
biscuits with butter and jam, and strong tea, we passed small talk. My
beloved was sparkling, with bright happy eyes. Mr. Burlingame was reserved
and professional. Father was his normal vigorous self.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Whitfield demonstrated a warmth of heart and lightness of
spirit I had never observed in her, as if a heavy weight was gone from her
soul. I contemplated Father's comments and my observations of her,
especially at Mr. Whitfield's funeral where she shed no tears and appeared
to be relieved when his coffin was in the grave.

Watching her interplay with Father, I realized they were flirting, and,
while she took the lead, he matched her measure for measure, joyfully
participating in their play. It dawned on me that he had long lived his life
as a widower, seeking sexual fulfillment in the slave-mistresses he chose to
warm his bed, and had neither sought nor found a woman of his class to share
his life. I had  always thought him complete, but maybe he had a void
needing to be filled. He certainly had opportunities to find a new wife. His
friends often appeared at Ironwood, one or more couples for parties or
simply an evening or two, but always with an extra woman in tow to be
introduced to him as a possible wife.

When breakfast was over and the sweet cakes served, Father changed the
conversation by saying, "We have a wedding to plan. Have you two talked
about it?"

"Yes, Father," I replied. "We would like to be married as soon as possible."

"Why?" Mrs. Whitfield asked.

I was not presumptuous enough to say what was in my mind, for that would be,
"Because your daughter and I are quite anxious to frolic in bed." Rather I
said, "We are ready to begin our life together, Mrs. Whitfield."

She looked at her daughter and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, we are, Mother. We were thinking of the middle of April," Jane Marie
said.

"Oh, my, that is much too early," Mrs. Whitfield exclaimed. "We have cakes
to make and The Manor to ready. And dresses? How is Cleopatra doing on your
dress?"

"Further along than you realize. If she could devote full time to it, it
would be ready in a week," Jane Marie answered.

"She doesn't have that kind of time," Mrs. Whitfield demurred.

"Ironwood and I would happily provide additional seamstresses to speed the
conclusion of the dresses, and our house staff could be made available to
assist in The Manor's readying," Father said.

"Thank you, Mr. MacKenzie. We accept," Jane Marie interjected before her
mother could answer.

"So mid- to late-April is acceptable as a date?" I asked.

"I don't think so," Mrs. Whitfield replied. "You two are rushing things."

"As would I," Father said with a gentle smile. "Relent, Mary Elizabeth, and
let them have their April wedding. Surely you remember the terrible
impetuosity of youth?"

"Only too well, Bruce." She exhaled and studied the plate on the table
before her before gazing at us once again. "All right. April it is, but you
three have manipulated me into this and I expect full and complete support
in the preparations."

After we all pledged our cooperation, the wedding date was set for the last
Saturday in April, a scant six weeks away. When Mr. Burlingame suggested the
rapidity of the wedding might encourage some to think the bride was in a
family way, Jane Marie bristled and stated time would prove such gossip to
be both incorrect and malicious.

Another piece of advice Father had given me on our long ride from Ironwood
was to let the women take the lead in planning the wedding and object only
if some factor was onerous to me. With agreement reached as to the actual
date of the service itself, our discussion proceeded that way, with mother
and daughter discussing and Father and I agreeing. The wedding planning was
complete as to this part that needed our male input. Much was still to be
done, but the ladies and their staffs would deal with the details.

Father started to change the conversation, but Jane Marie interrupted.

"Excuse me, Mr. MacKenzie, but I have one more matter - a very important
matter - concerning my wedding, which I feel we must address now. I want
Patience, Ebony, and Fancy to be invited."

"No," her mother said stonily.

"Yes, mother," Jane Marie said firmly. "I would rather have them present and
no other guests than them not attend."

I knew Jane Marie was a strong-willed and high-spirited woman and felt
assured we would clash from time to time as we traveled the road of life
together, but at that moment I was proud of her for addressing an issue
important to her and doubly proud for her confrontation of her mother. Her
tight squeezing of my hand beneath the table told me it was not easy for
her. But her lovely jaw was set and the fire in her eyes equaled the storm
in her mother's.

Mrs. Whitfield girded her loins and began to speak, her right index finger
poised to thrust like a rapier.

"Mary Elizabeth," Father said quietly but with a commanding firmness. "Why
don't we defer this particular question until later?"

We three observers waited with baited breath as the combatants faced each
other in silent conflict. When I saw her look down and her shoulders sag an
inch, I knew Father had won this battle but the war had just begun.

"Certainly, Bruce. It was not I who raised the issue," Mrs. Whitfield said.

All eyes were on Jane Marie. I silently mouthed, "Later" to her, and she
said a begrudging, "All right. We can defer it to later."

Father directed the conversation to Whitlands' operations. He made it clear,
and Mr. Burlingame confirmed without reservation, that management of
Whitlands was his and no one else's for the period of five years as his
contract with Mr. Whitfield provided. I had no problems with this
arrangement. Father not only shared Ironwood's books of accounts with me, he
had taught me how to prepare and understand them. Ironwood was indeed
profitable. I had full confidence in Father's ability to manage Whitlands
and my ability to do so under his direction.

When questioned as to his plans for the conduct of Whitlands' business, he
demurred, saying his plans were incomplete, and the others didn't press the
matter.

Father once again redirected us. "Have you told Jane Marie about Edward's
will?" he asked.

"I've told her enough," Mrs. Whitfield replied.

"You haven't mentioned it to me, Mother," Jane Marie said.

"Now isn't a good time to discuss it," her mother said.

Father wrapped his large, rough hand over Mrs. Whitfield's small, soft one
and said, "I think we should do it now because Stanley is here to guide our
understanding."

The battle was shorter this time. She capitulated to Father and instructed
Mr. Burlingame to explain the ramifications of Mr. Whitfield's will.

In essence, Whitlands and all its assets, including The Manor, were
bequeathed to Jane Marie in trust, with only a stipend from Whitlands'
profits and her personal possessions being left to Mrs. Whitfield. Mr.
Burlingame was trustee of Jane Marie's estate until she married, at which
time the trust terminated and the assets became the direct property of Jane
Marie and her husband, which, under South Carolina law, the husband managed.
Mr. Burlingame summarized the situation by saying that while Jane Marie
owned Whitlands, and she and Mrs. Whitfield shared Whitlands' profits,
Father's contract of management gave him sole authority over operations
until his contract terminated.

Essentially, Mrs. Whitfield was to be homeless and without sufficient funds
to maintain her quality of life, unless her daughter - and the daughter's
husband after marriage - provided for her well-being, or unless she
remarried and moved to the home of her new husband.

The impact of the new economic relationship between mother and daughter left
both dumb as they considered its implications.

I watched Father studying the Widow Whitfield with a singular intensity. I
wondered if he played a part in Mr. Whitfield's leaving his wife in this
unenviable position, and, if so, were his machinations to bring Whitlands to
our family or Mrs. Whitfield to his side? If not, was Father only availing
himself of an opportunity?

Father certainly was capable of such shrewdness, although I did not think
him capable of a callous disregard for Mrs. Whitfield and her well-being.
Mrs. Whitfield was an attractive and socially adept woman with only her
vituperous nature against her. Father's comments about her were not unlike
my own about Jane Marie, raising the question if he, too, was enamored with
a woman and frustrated with her behavior.

For her part, I wondered if Mrs. Whitfield's desire to postpone the wedding
was to postpone her day of reckoning, for surely she anticipated maneuvering
Jane Marie for her own benefit as long as Jane Marie was single.

"Mother and I should discuss this later," Jane Marie said.

Mrs. Whitfield shivered from the coolness in her daughter's tone. She turned
to Father who smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand.

"It is time for us to depart," he said. "I'll return Friday to begin my
management of the operations here. In the meantime, Witherspoon will
continue as he has been."

"We'll have the guest house ready for you," Mrs. Whitfield replied. "Will
Robert be joining you?"

"Yes, he will."

"And your slaves?" The question appeared innocent, but was not.

"I'd like to see Ebony and Fancy," Jane Marie interjected.

"Then they will come," I said and Mrs. Whitfield's eyes scolded me.

"Robert, shall we take our leave?" Father asked me as he stood.

Witherspoon was in front of The Manor holding Liberty's reins. Father spoke
with him before mounting. A slave held the reins of the buckboard with our
three acquisitions, their few possessions, and our own baggage aboard. To
Mrs. Whitfield's chagrin, Jane Marie rushed to Ebony and Fancy and whispered
something to them. When she finished, I kissed my intended good-bye, climbed
into the driver's seat, and took the reins.

Father doffed his hat and bowed to Mrs. Whitfield, received a sincere smile
tinged with concern and a nod of her head in return, and spurred Liberty
down the road. I popped the reins, called to my team, and followed.

We maintained a hard and steady pace for several hours before Father
signaled a halt and dismounted beside the road near a small pond. He
instructed the slaves to water the horses. As they lugged the water bucket
to and from the pond, Father and I walked a bit to both ease our backsides
and distance ourselves from their ears.

"Have you divined my intentions?" he asked.

"It may be presumptuous of me to give my thoughts," I replied.

"Presume," he commanded.

"You are going to marry Mrs. Whitfield, move her to Ironwood with you, and
leave Jane Marie and me at Whitlands."

"My God, was I that transparent?" he chuckled. "I think not. I think you are
that shrewd," he complimented. "What else?"

"You know I need a good and strong hand to assist me, so you will provide a
new overseer you trust for Whitlands."

"Who?"

"Jonah."

"Who will oversee Ironwood?"

"James," I replied, referring to the assistant overseer.

"Well done. You are correct on all counts," he said. "Now let me tell you
why I want to wed a shrew like Mary Elizabeth Whitfield."

His desire to wed her did not surprise me, although his voicing the desire
did bring me to a halt for a moment. He turned to face me and his face was
intense.

"Edward and Mary Elizabeth had a marriage made in Hell, as I am sure you are
aware. Their mutual dislike began early and grew until it was a venomous
hatred. I, more than anyone else, knew the depth of their feelings for they
both chose to take me into their confidence. Because our fathers were
friends, Edward and I knew each other since childhood and we shared the
common bond of farm ownership. Mary Elizabeth had no other ear to bend and I
was a good listener."

Father stared at me with such intensity and for such a length of time as to
bring me severe discomfort. "I think I can trust you with these confidences,
Robert, which I share only to explain my position and clarify circumstances
impacting you."

"You know me better than to question my silence," I said. I was wounded he
thought me unworthy of his confidence.

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely. "Yes, I know I can trust you." He looked
away to gather his thoughts. "Do you understand the implications of
adultery?"

"Other than 'Thou shall not commit adultery,' I do not," I answered.

"The ancient Israelites were given that dictum, passed it on to us, and the
State of South Carolina, indeed most of the states, have carried it into law
and provided severe penalties for those who violate it. Juries have further
modified the law until today men are never prosecuted for adultery unless
issues of class and race impact the situation. For women, the law provides
severe retribution and the juries have gone farther. No man has ever been
punished for any action taken against his wife for her adultery and only a
few times has the husband been punished for actions taken against his wife's
lover."

"He can do anything with her?" I asked.

"Yes, from divorce to whipping to killing her. Legally, it is a one-sided
issue, but the emotional penalties are as severe as the legal ones and as
varied as the participants. Adultery can quickly drain the heart, leaving it
dry and brittle or worse, make it a continually bleeding and festering
sore."

Father hesitated, as he is prone to do in these revelations, and I patiently
waited.

"Edward believed Mary Elizabeth was an adulteress and he believed it for
years."

"Was she?" I asked.

"She was not. I'm sure of that."

"Then why did he think it?"

"He told me she possessed a large carnal appetite and a ribald enjoyment of
pleasures of the flesh. He believed no woman of her position could be that
sexual and remain loyal to her husband, which is, unfortunately, a commonly
held misconception. It is a foolish untruth because neither race nor class
dictates enjoyment of one's sexuality, and the notion presupposes the woman
has no honor or strength of will, but Edward believed it and that was enough
for him."

"Why didn't he divorce her or turn her over to the authorities?"

"He did not divorce to avoid the embarrassment of appearing to be a cuckold
and he did not call in the authorities for he had no proof. Instead, he
punished her in his own cruel and insidious way."

"Look at our three slaves," he continued. We both turned to watch those
women. "Fancy is a sexless and frightened little mouse. Ebony is a wanton.
If she were white, she would be a courtesan or a prostitute, depending on
her status and circumstances. Patience is a beautiful lady with a
well-developed sensuality she understands and, more importantly, enjoys. If
she were white, men would make a week's ride to court her and lay fortunes
at her feet as an incentive to wed, but she is black and a slave. She
understands her slavery, accepts it graciously, and is fulfilled being the
mistress of a white man she trusts to protect and provide for her.

"While Patience's body is slave, her feminine heart is free. Edward made
Mary Elizabeth a slave, binding her feminine heart with society's mores and
the web he wove around her to restrain her more tightly than steel or ropes.
Surely, her unhappy prison makes her poorer than the slave-woman he threw in
her face, for Mary Elizabeth must face the world appearing to be free yet
shackled beneath the scold's mask she wears. Despite the years of her
husband's treatment, I believe Mary Elizabeth's heart is not empty, but
contains an untapped store of love and desire only waiting for the right man
to insert the key and partake of her bounty. I want to be that man."

Father studied me as he spoke and, while I tried to affect a blandness of
expression, I had not yet mastered my face's reflections of my thoughts.

"Go ahead, Son, say it," Father said.

"How do you know she didn't commit adultery?"

"Two years after your mother's death, I offered myself to her. I even
proposed that I approach Edward about a divorce, buying her freedom if need
be. She rejected the idea, saying she would not seek divorce no matter how
difficult her circumstances and she would never stoop to adultery. I
believed her. And I admired her for upholding her high standards in so
onerous a situation. Now she is a widow and free to marry whomever she
chooses. I will see she chooses me."

I pondered his comments as I watched the three slaves idly chatting beside
the buckboard. It seemed Father was correct, for they appeared freer and
happier than Mrs. Whitfield. Certainly, Ebony enjoyed our couplings with an
uninhibited lust, and I suspected Patience did likewise with Father. This
morning at breakfast as Mrs. Whitfield flirted with Father was the only time
I could remember seeing joy on her face.

We rode hard the rest of day to arrive late at Ironwood. The plantation was
asleep when we arrived, so Father, as was his practice, announced our
arrival with a single shot from his pistol. Quickly, slaves arrived to
transport baggage and care for the horses who had well-earned their rest.
Eliza, James' wife, came running to assist Sarah in the house, if need be.

While we were gone, Sarah, Jonah's wife and our household manager, and her
daughter, Constance Anne, stayed in the Great House with Elizabeth, my
sister. Constance Anne was only three months older than Elizabeth and the
two thirteen-year-olds were close.

Elizabeth bounded out of the house to welcome us, with Constance Anne close
on her heels. Seeing the two together made me think of the relationship of
Jane Marie and Fancy, but I had scant time to ponder as Elizabeth jumped on
me, threw her arms around me, and gave me a sisterly kiss on the cheek
before dropping to the ground and demanding an introduction to the three
slaves we transported.

Before the storm passed and quiet returned, all were introduced to all. We
arranged a meeting with Jonah and Sarah for the morning. Sarah then returned
to her home and left Constance Anne to finish the night in Elizabeth's room,
while Patience, Ebony and Fancy were ensconced in the small room formerly
occupied by Pearly Bright.

I said goodnight to Fancy and Patience, told Ebony to follow me, and led her
upstairs to the room that was mine since I was born. I had dreamed of having
women in this room with me, and those women were as varied as my fertile
imagination.

"This is your room?" she asked, peering around her.

"It is. And this is my bed."

"I'll be the first girl with you in that bed," she said happily. Ebony
leered at me and I responded by reddening. "The first real girl. Did you
think about women when you played with yourself, Master?" she teased as she
leaned into me with her breasts against my chest and her hand cupping the
growing bulge in my trousers.

"Yes, but tonight you will do the playing with me," I said.

"Of course." She began unbuttoning my tunic. "Tell me about some of your
imaginary women, baby," she said.

At that moment, I was green with envy of her free and open carnality, but I
did not wish to discuss my masturbatory fantasies with her. I changed the
subject.

"You, Patience, and Fancy speak proper English unlike any other slaves I
have known," I said. "Tell me about that."

"My grandmother was a house servant to a lawyer and his wife who insisted
their slaves speak properly. Momma told me the slaves practiced for hours on
end, and since she heard only proper English, it came easily for her. She
lived there until she was twelve or so and her owner sold her to Mr.
Whitfield's father who gave her to him. Like her own mother, Momma insisted
we speak properly." She gently pushed me to sit down on the bed and knelt to
remove my boots. "I can speak like the other slaves, if you prefer," she
continued.

"No, I like the way you talk."

"Thank you, Master. Please stand." I stood and she began to unbutton my
trousers. "Is Miss Janey one of the women in your mind who has been with you
here?" she asked.

"Many times," I said with a sigh.

"She loves you," Ebony said and her tone confirmed she was stating a simple
fact. "She dreams of you, too." She looked up at me and her dark eyes shone.
"She thinks of you when she plays with herself."

"She what?" I exclaimed.

"Women play with themselves, Master. We do it all the time."

"I'd like to see that," I said.

"Tell me when, Master." She looked down to finish my buttons, tugged on my
trousers, and I stepped out of them. "Who is Master thinking of now?" she
whispered throatily as she caressed my rigid manhood when it popped free of
its restraints.

"You."

"Not some other slave girl?"

"No. I'm thinking of you."

"But Master has thought about others with him in his room?"

"Yes."

"Did she look like me?"

"You are much prettier. And smarter. I suspect you please a man better than
she."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Ebony growled. "Master?"

"Yes?"

"When you thought of her, did you think of her doing this?" With a hand
around my shaft, she touched her pursed lips to the crown of my manhood, and
with excruciating slowness, inserted it into the wet hotness of her mouth,
creating a new and delightful feeling adding to my rapidly growing
repertoire of sexual pleasures.

Watching Ebony perform her magic as she knelt between my legs, I knew her
supplication and the feeling of power it created in me was a significant
part of my pleasure, as being taken was of hers.

"Stop," I commanded, and Ebony sat back from me, looking up with questioning
eyes. "Undress," I said.

She rose, discarded her dress, knelt, and reached for my manhood. Quickly,
she returned to her task and my needs flamed. I placed my hands on her head
and urged her to take in more of me until my cock's head rested at the back
of her throat. I pulled her head toward my crotch but my manhood made no
further progress into her mouth.

When I ceased my pressure, she popped my cock from her mouth, and said, "I
can't swallow it, baby. You're too big, but I can still please you this
way."

She returned in earnest, making slurping sounds as tongue and lips and hands
sped me toward a ready completion. I felt the surging in my loins and the
fiery passage down my cock's length as my reward flowed out of me and into
her willing mouth. I flopped back on the bed, pulling me from her. She
crawled up and resumed her oral ministrations, which maintained the hardness
of my lance.

"Mount me," I ordered.

In seconds, my cock wallowed in a wet heat of a different kind. I played
with her large and soft breasts, watched the passion on her face, and
listened to her soft but insistent groaning until my own needs demanded
activity.

I pulled her off me, causing her to moan, "Oh, God, baby, don't stop." I
opened her legs widely. With my hands behind her knees, I pressed them back
against the bed, and held her that way as my slick manhood found her
pinkness and thrust home.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, that's the way," she whimpered.

I was enamored with her expressions, for each movement of her sex on mine
was reflected in her countenance. Her hands dug into the mattress as she
tried to raise her hips to meet my thrusts, seeking that sure relief she
enjoyed well and often. Like a lightning bolt, I realized the way I had
mounted her prevented her hip movement, and with her legs kicking futilely
in the air, she was unable to bring herself to climax.

She dug her nails into my sides and pleaded, "Faster, baby. Faster and
harder."

"Put your hands behind your head," I commanded.

She groaned unhappily and complied. I varied the tempo of my thrusts,
exploring, if you will, the effect of the delayed climax on us both. Ebony's
mouth lolled open and her head rolled side to side as her hands crept to
manipulate her breasts and pinch her teats more severely than I would have
imagined.

We were a pot slowly building to the boiling point, with the accompanying
generation of heat and percolating, erratic motions. I experienced a focus
of need unlike any I'd ever experienced.

"Harder, Master. Fuck my cunt harder."

She growled and jammed her legs out, escaping my grasp and driving her feet
into the mattress. Her nails dug into the flesh of my buttocks as she drove
into me. I felt again the hot, hard flow of my juices into her as she began
to buck in mindless ecstasy until she lay satiated.

"My Master fucks me better than any man ever could," she whispered.

*****

Father and I met with Jonah and Sarah the next morning. He owned them and
could have commanded their move to Whitlands, but he did not. He offered
them an opportunity, stating both rewards and anticipated problems. They
were pleased and accepted.

Patience would be the new household manager at Ironwood. Sarah introduced
her to the other house slaves and began training her for the position even
though Patience needed no training. The Great House had been Sarah's to
manage for thirteen years and she took pride in her accomplishments.

Jonah, Father, and I next met with Samuel and David, Jonah's and Sarah's
sons, to offer each of them the opportunity to stay at Ironwood or move to
Whitlands, for they possessed the skills, intelligence, and loyalty of their
parents and deserved the right to make their own decision. Both evidenced
their desire to move and I thanked them in advance for their contributions.
We met with James to tell him of his promotion to overseer at Ironwood. He
was enthusiastic and thanked us profusely.

Despite all that, the week and the transition had just begun. That night,
exhausted by the day's activities, I fell into bed.

"Is my baby too tired to want his loving?" Ebony whispered to me as she
knelt naked by my prone form.

My youth and relative newness to the joys of intercourse made me incapable
of rejecting any offer, although my manhood lay still as death. I said, "Of
course not."

Ebony's eyes gleamed as she said, "I know how to get my baby up for his
loving."

I closed my eyes as Ebony's fingernails meandered slowly down my chest and
stomach, and her tongue tickled my nipples.

"Suckle my teat," she whispered and I felt her breast brush my face. I
sealed my lips around her rigid teat and sucked like a baby. "Ummm. That's
nice," she whispered. Her nail-tips stroked the inside of my thighs before
trailing over my manhood. She tugged my ball sack and slid her hand down my
thigh to begin again. She pulled away to drag her wet teat down my body as
she moved to my cock, taking it in her mouth to actively suck until it
throbbed.

"I'm going to please you, baby," she murmured as she straddled my frame and
slowly buried me into her wetness. "Do you like my hot cunt squeezing your
cock, Master?' she whispered.

"Yes," I replied.

"I like it, too," she whispered as she slowly moved her the muscles within
her cunt to play it on my cock.

I watched her face and lay supine, not even raising a hand to caress the
melons of her breasts dangling in my face. For her part, she worked slowly,
extending the pleasure for us both. The feeling was intense, yet the
opposite of intense as negative is opposite to positive, for my desires so
engendered were strong but without action by me. Suddenly, I felt the
welling inside me and grabbed her hips as I thrust up into her.

She laughed bawdily. "Drive your big cock into me, Master," she groaned.
Drive I did until I filled her. As if someone pulled a blanket over my head,
the world slowly darkened. "That's it, baby. Sleep," she murmured. Her hand
stroked my face and she gently kissed my forehead. "Sleep."

*****

The laws in South Carolina and other slave owning states prohibited the free
movement of Negroes. Any Negro not in the company of a white was presumed to
be an escaped slave and would be dealt with quickly and harshly. To allow
movement of Negroes without a white companion, the laws provided for papers
of passage to be given the Negro by his master to detail the reasons for the
Negro's unaccompanied movement and other related necessary information.

On Friday morning before dawn, with papers in hand, Jonah and his family
left for Whitlands with several wagons of supplies and their possessions.
Ebony and Fancy traveled with them leaving Patience to mind Elizabeth and
the Great House.

Father and I left before noon, he on Liberty, I on Palmetto, my mud-colored
stallion. We passed Jonah and his party on the road and continued to
Whitlands.

Jane Marie and her mother were awaiting our arrival, which, on the surface,
seemed delightful. On further investigation, however, it became clear they
were at loggerheads and each wanted to plead her case. Since I was soon to
be the master of Whitlands, I was the man they wished to sway.

We asked them to wait until we refreshed from the hard ride. Later at the
dinner table, sitting as we last sat, first Jane Marie, then Mrs. Whitfield,
presented her case relative to the issue in question: living arrangements
after Jane and I married, and the disposition of Patience, Ebony, and Fancy.

I shan't burden these pages with a complete transcription of their accounts,
for, except for Jane Marie's revelation concerning her half-sisters, they
are without value. As to that, Jane Marie sat on the edge of her chair with
her hands folded in her lap to keep them from trembling as she spoke with
honesty and intensity.

"I am close to Ebony and I do feel kinship with her, but Fancy is more. Much
more. You know we were born only two days apart, I here in this house, she
in a shack in the slave quarter. The same man sired us. The same midwife
birthed us. Surely you have noticed we even look like sisters, complete to
the freckles on our faces. In my heart, I truly feel she is my sister."

Mrs. Whitfield winced, her face distorted as if the smell of something
putrid filled the air.

Jane Marie continued, saying, "We grew up together. Mother did not like
that, I assure you, but we played and talked. I can remember once when we
were six or so, Mother bought me a doll. When Fancy and I played, I saw she
loved that doll, so I gave it to her. Mother accused her of stealing and
ordered her to be punished, but I told the truth. Fancy wasn't whipped at
the slave's tree, but my Mother's hand spanked me. A far worse punishment
was keeping us apart, but with our father's assistance and blessing, we
conspired to be together until Mother conceded and no longer separated us."

Jane Marie took a deep breath, holding it in as her eyes looked at each of
us in turn. She exhaled and began again. "I have wondered as I lay in my big
bed upstairs what she was enduring. I have wondered if she was the little
white girl in the big house and I was the little black slave-girl, would she
befriend and help and care for me? I know she would and I will do no less
for her."

"You must be aware your father encouraged your relationship with Fancy not
out of love for either of you, but to rebuke your mother?" Father said to
her. Mrs. Whitfield nodded her silent concurrence.

"Please forgive me if I appear to be forward, Mr. MacKenzie, for I have the
greatest respect for you. However, I believe that statement is untrue. I
think our father loved us, for we both felt loved by him. Whether he did or
did not makes no difference. We grew together, intertwining like the shoots
of two shrubs until one cannot be pruned without pruning the other."

I was very proud of this strong and upright woman-girl who soon would become
my wife and of the good heart that beat within her breast.

"How would you have us live, Jane Marie?" Mrs. Whitfield asked, her
trepidation evident.

"I haven't discussed this with Bobby," Jane Marie said as she looked at me.

"Go ahead," I replied.

She said, "Since Bobby is to be Whitlands' manager, he must be on the
plantation. Until our marriage, I propose he occupy the guest house. After
our marriage, I propose we live here - in The Manor - which is the
historical home of the plantation's owner. I would arrange permanent lodging
for Ebony and Fancy here at Whitlands, either in a house built for them or
in this house with us. Mother, you are welcome to continue living here, in
the bedroom you now have or in the guest house as you prefer. I would never
dispossess you."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Whitfield said.

"Might I make a suggestion?" Father said. There were no objections, so he
continued, saying, "Life with two mistresses under the same roof can be
unpleasant for the mistresses and their staff. I know this from my own
experience with my wife and mother both in the Great House at Ironwood after
my father died. Mary Elizabeth, I suggest that you do not live in The Manor,
both for your own comfort as well as that of the newlyweds. Living in the
guest house on a permanent basis as my mother did at Ironwood seems to be
the better choice."

Father waited, letting us digest his words.

"Or I have another idea, one that I personally prefer. You can come to
Ironwood with me." The words sprang from him in a rush.

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Whitfield exclaimed, clearly befuddled.

"Come to Ironwood with me," he repeated with a palatable intensity.

"Are you proposing marriage, Bruce?" she asked, her disbelief evident.
Father did not reply. "Bruce?" she said.

"I knew a woman once," Father said tenderly and with a sincere depth of
heart. "A magnificent woman of beauty and heart and fiery passion who
enflamed my heart and aroused my ardor."

Father paused for effect, never taking his eyes from her. She, for her part,
appeared confused by the abrupt changes facing her, but mesmerized by him
and unable to look away.

"I would not anchor myself to a dispirited shrew, but I would propose to
that woman in a heartbeat."

"That woman is dead, Bruce," she replied, the tears welling in her eyes
reflecting her great sadness.

Father said, "Dead? I don't think so. I believe she exists in a prison of
another's making where she awaits a man to release her."

"They say long-time prisoners lose their joie d'vivre while incarcerated and
never find it again when they are released," she countered.

"I would help her find it," he said.

"Would someone please tell me what we are discussing?" Jane Marie asked
sharply.

"Please excuse me," Mrs. Whitfield said.

She pushed back her chair and quickly rose, but before she could take a
step, Father, who stood when she did, pulled her into his arms and kissed
her. Her hands, balled into fists and trapped against her breasts when she
raised them in protest, slowly opened and her arms slipped around his neck
as she pushed herself against him.

"Mother!" Jane Marie exclaimed.

Father released Mrs. Whitfield and she him. She fled the room in tears.

"Mr. MacKenzie, what is happening here?" Jane Marie demanded.

"Excuse me, please," Father said. He followed Mrs. Whitfield from the room,
leaving us alone.

"Do you know what's happening?" she asked me.

"Yes, I do. He loves her and wants her to become his wife."

"So, it's true then," Jane Marie hissed.

We heard Father knocking on Mrs. Whitfield's bedroom door and pleading with
her to admit him.

"What's true?" I asked.

"Father told me Mother was an adulteress, but he didn't know her paramour.
It was your father."

"Your mother is no adulteress and my father is no adulterer."

"But you said he loves her, and now her actions are clear. It was always
obvious, even to me, that my parents despised one another. She must have
loved someone else - and that someone is him."

"Would you commit adultery?" I asked.

"Never," she snapped. "Never under any circumstances."

"Then why do you think your own mother would?"

We heard the thud of his boots on the hardwood floor. The front door opened
and closed.

Jane Marie sagged, her thoughts in disarray. "I don't know," she stuttered.
She stood and said, "I want to be alone, Bobby. Please excuse me." She
perfunctorily returned my kiss and slowly went toward the stairs and her
room.

I called for a drink of whiskey, although it was not my habit to drink.
After Melissa, The Manor's prime house slave, brought me my ration, I went
to the porch to await the arrival of Jonah's party. I was thinking of my own
intended, our respective parents, and their relationship when I heard the
clatter of wagons approaching on the road.

Jonah and his family had arrived. I greeted them and walked beside their
wagon to guide them to the spot designated for the tents that were to be
their home until one could be built.

I left Jonah and his family to be assisted by the Whitlands slaves and led
Ebony and Fancy into The Manor and Jane Marie. Clearly, Jane Marie was glad
to see them, but she barely acknowledged me. Her mind was elsewhere,
presumably on us, our nuptials, our parents, and the tumultuous events of
yesterday and today. She turned Ebony and Fancy over to Melissa to be fed,
and departed for her room with only a curt "good night" to me.

I instructed them to join me in the guest house after supping, and departed.
I was naked on my bed, evaluating all the myriad possibilities of my life
after marriage when Ebony rapped once on the door and entered.

"Do you want me in here, Master Robert?" she asked.

"Yes, unless you are too drained from your day's journey."

She grinned and said, "This slave-girl is never so tired she doesn't want
your cock plowing away in her, baby."

In seconds, she was being plowed, although I hoped no seeds escaped her
sponge and fell on fertile ground. Consummation brought relief to my groin
but only partial relief to my swirling head. She brought my cock to
attention again using the soft caresses of her hand and her active tongue
and lips. After our second coupling, I slept.

To be continued.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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