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Visiting The Jackson Plantation

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windar

windar

Teller of Tales
This is a story I wrote a while ago for an ebook site. It's had its run there and I think some of you may enjoy it, so I am going to post it here. There are no board characters and no chapters by Barb. Now I just lost most of my readers, but for those who are still with me, here goes...All comments, pro and con are welcome.

Chapter 1-Welcome to the Jackson Plantation Charleston, South Carolina, May 18, 1855.


It felt good to be on solid ground. I had left New York six days ago, and while the voyage had been uneventful, the New Haven was a small coastal frigate with limited room on the decks to stretch one’s legs.

The Charleston docks were a maze of activity, large Negroes running back and forth, many groaning under the weight of large, heavy bales of cotton, the shouts of merchants and overseers directing the traffic hither and yon to insure that each load of precious cargo was delivered to the proper ship for transport to the mills of Manchester or Lowell, Massachusetts.

Straight ahead was a clump of lovely ladies dressed in fine silks and satins, despite the heat, which, while it was still May, was every bit as intense and uncomfortable as New York in July. The women were of every color and complexion, from milky white to dark black and every shade in between, and they beckoned and called enticingly. Having been deprived of female companionship while at sea, I found their offers tempting, but I could not tarry.

For I was here in South Carolina not to partake of the professional ladies of Charleston, but to visit my best friend from my days as a student at Princeton University, William “Bill” Jackson, who owned a plantation a short distance south of Charleston and also to get a sense of how the plantations of the southern part of our great country functioned. As I stood, taking in the bustling scene in front of me, I heard a booming voice calling, “Missa Owens! Missa Robert Owens!”

That was me, Robert Owens, 25 years old, of New York, New York, Chief Associate of van Vliet and Associates, Commodity Traders, located at 33 Wall Street. I looked around to see who might be calling me. In an exchange of letters and telegrams before my departure, Bill had informed me that one of his servants would meet me at the dock in Charleston and drive me to the plantation.

“I’m Robert Owens!” I said loudly, not sure to whom I was speaking but hoping that the designated person would step forward.

“Missa Owens!” shouted a large black man as he approached me. He was dressed in a uniform that would have done a French Admiral proud, a blue jacket with a large amount of gold embroidery and black and white striped trousers.

“Yes, I’m Robert Owens. Did Mr. Jackson send you?”

“Oh, yassuh,” he said, nodding and smiling broadly. “Massa William said you was old friends from college up North and was comin’ down fo’ a visit. He tells me, ‘George, you go meet Missa Owens down by the docks in Charleston and brings him out to the plantation.’”

“Well, it’s good to see you, George,” I replied, reaching out to shake his hand. He had a powerful grip. “I’m very much looking forward to seeing the plantation,” I told him. “I have a trunk on the ship,” I said pointing at the vessel. “Would you be so kind as to retrieve it?”

“Oh, yessuh, Missa Owens. You wait right here and I’ll bring it down and we’ll be on our way.” It took but a few moments before I saw George making his way through the crowd with the heavy trunk on his back, straining a bit under the weight. I could see that he was sweating profusely in the near-tropical heat as he came up next to me.

“Can I help you with that, George?” I asked, trying to be polite.

“Oh, no suh, I gots it,” he replied. “Y’all just follow me and we’ll be on our way in no time.” And follow George I did, through the bustling throng to a rather elegant looking carriage pulled by two healthy-looking brown horses. George set the trunk down and opened the door of the carriage. “You’s be ridin’ inside,” he told me, grasping my left hand in his large sweaty hand and helping me up the two steps, shutting the door behind me.

Then, he hefted the trunk up on top of the carriage and freed the horses from the hitching post to which they had been tied. Grasping the reins in one hand, he hoisted himself on top of the carriage and we were off.

Soon, we left the smooth, brick-paved streets and elegant homes of Charleston behind for a rutted dirt road that led through fields planted with all manner of crops, most of which as a city boy, I couldn’t identify. As the carriage bounced along I noticed in almost every field, Negro slaves toiling in the hot sun, weeding the rows of young plants. When I opened the window of the carriage, I could just hear, over the sound of the springs bouncing whenever the wheels hit a rock or a deep depression, the sound of the slaves singing softly as they worked.

Finally, after approximately two hours, as the sun was slowly sinking into the west, we turned off the road down a lane lined with tall trees on both sides, surrounded by fields with the usual complement of Negroes working the rows. Ahead, lay a large white house with a long porch, the roof of which was supported by tall columns which I believe Professor Clark back at Princeton would have called Doric.

The carriage pulled up in front of the porch. George hopped down, opened the door and helped me out. Then, he mounted the carriage and retrieved my trunk from the roof, depositing it on the ground next to me.

In a moment, I saw the door of the house open and a tall, thin man emerging onto the porch, bounding down the steps, his hand outstretched, a broad smile on his face. There was no mistaking my old friend Bill Jackson. “Bobby, Bobby boy,” he cried in that familiar voice. “What’s it been, five years, if it’s been a day, I reckon.” He grasped my hand and shook it vigorously, then dropped the extended limb and embraced me.

Indeed it had been five years since that graduation day on the lawn back in New Jersey. The next day, hungover from our celebrations, we had both taken the train together to New York, from whence Bill had set out for Charleston to take over his ancestral plantation and I had set out to make my fortune on Wall Street. “Yes, Billy boy, it’s been five years, much too long, but now I am here,” I told him.

“And how was the journey?” he asked.

“A bit long,” I replied, “But more than worth it to see my best friend from the old days.”

Bill smiled. “We did have some good times then didn’t we? Remember those two Irish barmaids in the upstairs rooms at O’Grady’s Tavern?”

I laughed. “How could I possibly forget that, Billy boy? That red-haired one made quite a ruckus, didn’t she? I was afraid she would wake the whole town.”

“Good times, Bobby, good times,” Bill replied, poking me in the arm with an extended finger. “No responsibilities; enjoy life and study just enough to fool the profs, eh? But I am being a poor host, I’m afraid. You must be hungry and tired from your long journey. Let’s go inside-you can wash up and Sarah has prepared a Southern banquet fit for a king.”

As I was about to follow Bill into the house, I heard a woman’s voice yelling. I stopped, wondering what was going on. Bill turned, looking back at me. I must have had a puzzled look on my face, because he reassured me, “Oh don’t worry. That’s just one of the slaves about to get a whipping for slacking out in the field. Obviously she’s not happy about it, but she should have thought of that before and done her work.”

“A whipping?” I asked. This was something I had never seen back in New York, slavery having been abolished there before I was born.

“Oh, of course,” Bill replied, “I guess that’s not something you would know about, but down here, it’s an everyday occurrence. Without that, I’m afraid these slaves would never do a decent day’s work. You’re welcome to watch if you’d like. It won’t take but a few minutes and dinner will keep.”

“Watch?” I thought. I wasn’t sure a brutal spectacle like that was something I would really want to see. On the other hand, part of the reason I had journeyed down here was to see how plantations ran, and I supposed that whippings were an essential element in the business. “I am at your disposal, Bill,” I said. “After all, I’m here to observe and learn.”
 
windar said:
Now I just lost most of my readers,
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Still got one, anyway! ;)

windar said:
On the other hand, part of the reason I had journeyed down here was to see how plantations ran, and I supposed that whippings were an essential element in the business. “I am at your disposal, Bill,” I said. “After all, I’m here to observe and learn.”
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Every day a schoolday...
 
windar said:
“Watch?” I thought. I wasn’t sure a brutal spectacle like that was something I would really want to see. On the other hand, part of the reason I had journeyed down here was to see how plantations ran, and I supposed that whippings were an essential element in the business. “I am at your disposal, Bill,” I said. “After all, I’m here to observe and learn.”
Click to expand...
Break on the most interested point. You are a devil! ;)
 
Chapter 1 Continued

“Well then, let’s go continue the part of your education that they didn’t cover at Princeton.” Bill led me around the large house to the back, where, behind the kitchen, there were a few outbuildings surrounding an open dirt area, in the middle of which was a tall wooden pole sunk deep into the ground, next to which stood a Negro woman, perhaps my age or a bit younger. But unlike the other slaves who stood in a loose semicircle around the pole, she was naked from the waist up, her ample breasts hanging pendulously against her chest. Below the waist, she wore a simple blue skirt, similar to the other slave women, and, like them, her feet were bare. Despite my shock at the unusual sight of a half-naked woman, I felt a stirring in my loins at this display of flesh.

Beside the woman, with one hand resting on her shoulder was a short, but powerfully built white man. In the other hand, he held a long, fearsome-looking whip, several feet of what looked to be well-oiled leather, thick at the handle, but tapering to a thin edge at the business end that would doubtless soon be applied to the poor woman’s back.

As we came up next to the pair, I could see that the woman was panting, obviously terrified of the punishment she was about to be subjected to. “What’s going on, Carter?” Bill asked the white overseer.

“Esther here didn’t weed but three rows all day long. She been warned, but she didn’t pay it no mind,” the man replied.

Bill looked the young woman up and down. “Esther, you know that this plantation depends on everyone doing their job. I’m very disappointed in you.” He turned to the overseer. “Mr. Carter, this is Robert Owens, from New York. He is an old friend of mine from college up North and he is down here to see how we do business. Give her a dozen and don’t spare any efforts.”

Hearing this, Esther began wailing, “Please, Massa, please don’ whup me. I’ll be good from now on and work real hard. Please, Massa William. Give poor Esther another chance.” Ignoring the girl’s pleas, Carter grabbed her left arm and dragged her to the whipping post, which was fixed with two leather manacles several feet off the ground. Two large Negro men came forward to assist him, and, despite the girl’s valiant struggles, they quickly had her hands fastened over her head, her body facing the post, stretched on tiptoes.

Once she was fixed in place, Carter stepped back until he was about the length of the whip behind the post. Taking aim, he pulled the whip back and, measuring his strike, threw the leather forward, snapping his wrist as it approached the girl’s back. It connected with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot.

Immediately, a bright red line sprung up on Esther’s back. She writhed in her bonds, desperately trying to free herself and escape further chastisement, but to no avail. The second stroke elicited further struggles and a pitiful moaning from the girl. Dismayingly, I found the effect of watching her struggles quite arousing. I hoped that Bill wouldn’t notice the growing bulge in my trousers.

The third and fourth lashes each brought a scream from Esther. There were now four angry lines on her back, glowing fiery red against her dark skin. Carter delivered the fifth at an angle such that it crossed the other four, causing Esther to howl in agony and writhe mightily, her breasts rubbing enticingly against the wooden post.

The sixth lash was also delivered such that it crossed some of the earlier ones, drawing more piteous howls from the girl. She was only halfway through her punishment and I wondered how she would bear the rest. I wondered how I would as well, as my erection was now throbbing quite distressingly and I didn’t see any possibility of relieving myself in front of the assembled crowd.

Somehow, though, Esther made it through the six lashes remaining, howling and pleading for mercy after each one. By the end, her back was mess of wheals and wounds, blood trickling down from several spots onto her skirt. She hung motionless by her wrists, sobbing piteously as the two large Negro men moved to release her. Her legs were too shaky to support her weight, so they each had to take an arm and help her off the assembly ground.

I also made it through, willing myself to control my rising arousal at the lurid spectacle. Bill turned to me and winked. “Quite a little show, Bobby boy, wasn’t it? Nothing like that up in New York, I reckon.” I blushed, embarrassed at the reaction my body had displayed, despite my best efforts. “Now let’s go have us some dinner,” he said, punching me gently on the arm.
 
Marcius said:
Reading with great interest -- I like historical slavery scenarios most of all. I guess the floggings will continue until morale -- or at least weeding -- improves.
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I've tried to stick reasonably close to history, though in a few of the later chapters I will deviate somewhat. For sources, I should acknowledge "12 Years a Slave", both the book by Solomon Northup and the fine movie by Steve McQueen. Also, most importantly, "The Half Has Never Been Told" by Edward Baptist, who documents the role of cotton in the origin of industrial capitalism and how intrinsic slave-produced cotton was to wealth produced in the Northern US and Europe and the industrial scale of suffering endured by slaves. Many Northerners like Robert Owens profited from that without ever seeing a slave plantation. And the floggings certainly continued and will in the story.
 
Chapter 2-Evening on the Jackson Plantation

Dinner was a sumptuous affair; it was obvious Bill had laid on the best for his old college friend. There were a variety of seafood items, all fresh from the nearby shore, each complemented by a wonderfully piquant sauce, expertly prepared. There was succulent fried chicken, accompanied by a variety of greens, some of which were ones I had never encountered in New York. There were breads of several types and some wonderful pies for dessert, including a superb pecan pie, a dish for which the South was justly famed. All were accompanied by a selection of first-rate French wines, both red and white, and brandy to accompany the dessert course.

The meal was served by a Negro captain, decked out in a uniform that would not have been out of place at Buckingham Palace or the White House. He was ably assisted by two very attractive light-skinned serving wenches, dressed in blouses that left little regarding their breasts to the imagination. The aroused state that observing the whipping had induced had finally calmed down, only to begin to rise again as I stared down the blouses of the two serving girls.

As we were relaxing over our post-prandial brandies, Bill asked me why I had finally accepted this time when I had pleaded that the pressures of business had precluded accepting the many proffered invitations he had sent me over the five years since we had last seen each other.

“Well, as you know, I joined van Vliet right after Princeton. Our families have been connected for generations, but even so, I began in a junior position and didn’t dare ask old van Vliet for time off to voyage down here. But, with time and diligent effort on my part, I have risen to be his chief deputy.”

“We are a commodity trading firm, and I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you that the major commodity we trade these days is cotton from plantations like your own. Some of your product may well have passed through our hands on its way to the mills. So, when your most recent letter arrived, it came at a most propitious time.”

“You see, van Vliet and I had had many discussions of the situation in the Southern states, the agitation by our Northern abolitionists and how it might affect the cotton markets which are so critical to our business. Now, of course, we have agents down here in each of the cotton growing areas and they regularly file reports with us. But, ultimately, they have a vested interest in preserving our good will and tend to sugar coat the news.”

Bill nodded as I continued, “So, when your most recent letter arrived, I went in to see van Vliet and proposed that it might be useful for me to come down and have a look around and see what the situation is for myself. Not only did he give me permission to take time off and come down here, he practically insisted that I go. He’s paying me full salary while I am here on condition that I make a full report upon my return.”

“Well, Bobby boy,” Bill responded, “I’m certainly glad you came. But I’m afraid you won’t have much to report to your boss. Everything is just fine down here, as it’s always been. Our Negroes don’t pay much attention to those Yankee abolitionists and if any of them were to show his face around these parts, he’d be sent back to Boston right quick.”

“So this talk of abolition and freedom for the slaves, is just talk?” I asked.

“Absolutely, Bob, just talk. What you saw before dinner is what’s real. Slaves have to keep their nose to the grindstone or face the consequences. You think Esther will have time for anything tomorrow except weeding as many rows of cotton as she can to avoid another whipping?”

“I suppose she won’t,” I replied shaking my head.

“That’s right,” Bill continued. “Freedom is not something our Negroes can handle. They are lazy by nature and if we didn’t stand over them with whips they would lie around all day and end up starving. That’s the truth and denials by northern busybodies won’t change that.” Given what I had seen earlier today, it was hard to argue with Bill’s contention that the slaves were quite cowed into submission by their masters.

As we continued chatting, the two serving girls went about their duties, collecting the cake plates, coffee cups and brandy and wine glasses. I knew it was rude, even with their being slaves, but I couldn’t help peeking down their blouses to catch a glimpse of their breasts. I noticed that if I got the angle just right, I could see the nipples that capped those delicious pyramids.

When they had left, Bill turned to me grinning. “Quite a sight, aren’t they Bobby boy?” I blushed and struggled to think of the appropriate thing to say. “Now, now, no need to be getting all shy. Down here we are known for our hospitality. If you want them, they are yours for the night, Bobby, both of them, and I can tell you from personal experience it will be a night you will remember for the rest of your life.”

I swallowed hard. I felt my member, which I had just managed to gain control over after watching Esther writhing under the lash, stiffening at the thought of what I might do with these two beauties. “I couldn’t impose on your hospitality, Bill. That would be too much.”

“Nonsense, dear boy; what’s mine is yours as our Spanish friends say. You are my guest and I insist. If I feel the need for company I can have any of the slave girls I choose. That’s the way it works down here; none of them can say no unless they want to make a close acquaintance with the whipping post. And besides, these girls like a little action. It’s that hot jungle blood.” My erection rose even more at the thought of all that hot jungle blood in my bed.

“Now, you just get yourself up to bed, Bobby, and leave everything to me. They’ll be joining you and you can thank me in the morning.” Not wanting to seem an ungrateful guest, I thanked Bill profusely and made my upstairs to the guest bedroom where he had had George deposit my trunk. I undressed and put on the nightshirt I was used to wearing in New York, though it was a bit too warm for the sultry South Carolina evening.

I got into bed and lay there reviewing the events of the day, in particular the whipping which I found so stimulating. As I recalled the erotic scene of the leather striking Esther’s back and her piteous howls, I couldn’t help feeling the blood rushing to my groin. I might have taken matters in hand and relieved myself, but I knew the two serving wenches would be joining me soon, so I resolved to wait.

I didn’t have to wait long, for soon there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I called. The door swung open and there were the two lovely servers from dinner. Both had coffee colored skin and curly, but not kinky black hair, suggesting some mixed ancestry. I stood up to greet them. “Good evening, ladies,” I said. “Make yourselves comfortable.” I wasn’t sure of the protocol in this situation, never having encountered anything quite like it before, even with the barmaids at Princeton.

They approached me. “Massa William says we are to please you tonight, Massa Robert.”

“You already please me,” I responded. “You are both quite beautiful. What are your names?”

“I’s Lizbeth,” the taller one replied.

“I’s Patsy,” the shorter one added.

“Both lovely names, for lovely ladies,” I replied trying to be gallant. I was pleasantly surprised to see that Patsy had begun unbuttoning her blouse without waiting to be asked. Lizbeth followed suit.

The breasts that I had been working to catch a glimpse of at dinner didn’t disappoint in the least when fully revealed. Both ladies were amply endowed and the nipples which I had craned my neck to examine under their blouses didn’t disappoint either. They stuck out like tender little morsels and my cock hardened as I imagined sucking on them.

The two wenches wasted no time shucking off their blouses to stand before me bare from the waist up, just as Esther had stood earlier awaiting her whipping. The memory of that exciting tableau only added to my arousal.

“Massa Robert,” Lizbeth crooned, “It ain’t right that we’s half naked and you’s still got that nightshirt on like it being winter up North. It’s mighty hot down here and you won’t be needin’ that.” She grasped the hem and lifted it up, as Patsy grasped the top of the garment and, working together, they lifted it over my head to leave me naked as the day I was born.

They both stared down at my rampant erection, now on full display. “Why Massa Robert,” Patsy crooned, “It looks like you be needin’ some relief for that big ol’ thang of yours. Let me help you.” She knelt and caressed my erect cock, slowly, gently holding it between two fingers, before inserting the tip in her mouth. If felt as though I had died and gone to heaven, and the feeling only got stronger when she took it further into her mouth and began swirling her tongue around the aching shaft.

Meanwhile, Lizbeth moved around behind me and began stroking my shoulders pressing her breasts against my back. I could feel her hard nipples rubbing against my back muscles. By this point, Patsy had virtually my entire penis inside her mouth, enveloping me in her warm moisture. She brought me right to the edge, then eased me out of her mouth. She stood, pulling her skirt down over her hips and letting it fall to the floor before stepping out of it to stand naked before me, her soft coffee-colored skin glowing luminously in the candlelight.

As I turned, I could see that Lizbeth had similarly divested herself of her skirt. “Lie down, Massa Robert,” she instructed me. And even though I was her master for the evening and she was but a slave, I hastened to obey this command, for I suspected that I would not be sorry I did. And indeed, when Lizbeth climbed on top of me, her groin rubbing against my rampant erection and reached down to insert it inside of her, who then was the master and who the slave?

Patsy, who was not about to leave all the pleasure to her companion, knelt down on top of my face, her intoxicating odor wafting into my nostrils and adding to my excitement. I buried my nose in her slit, inhaling deeply, then stuck my tongue out and began lapping at her outer labia, savoring the delightful female essence.

Meanwhile, Lizbeth began riding slowly up and down on my throbbing erection, each stroke sending waves of pleasure up my spine. As the pleasure rose, I felt my balls tightening and began pushing up to bury myself even deeper within her loins, grabbing her hips to guide her motions. All the while I did my best to continue licking Patsy.

Soon I felt that electric tingling in my pelvis that was the precursor to the coming explosion. I gasped, stopping my stimulation of Patsy for a moment, before I felt myself pulsing, emptying my entire body into the eager slave girl, or so it seemed, anyway.

As my spasms slowly ebbed Lizbeth collapsed off me onto the bed, gently stroking my slowly shrinking penis. Now able to concentrate, I resumed licking Patsy, focusing on the nub of her pleasure center. Soon, she was moaning, her thighs gripping my head before she finally relaxed and slid off me to lie on the other side of me from her companion.

“Now, Massa Robert, what do you think of southern hospitality?” Lizbeth asked coyly.

I had barely caught my breath, but managed to say, “That was wonderful. I may never want to go back to New York.”

Patsy took my now wilted member in her hand and stroked it gently. “But poor Massa Robert is all tired out and covered with Lizbeth’s juices. He needs a good cleaning.” She stuck out her tongue and began licking my member like a cat grooming itself. Despite its exhausted state from its recent exertions, my penis began stirring, hardening under the delightful ministrations of the naked wench.

“Patsy, since those are my juices, don’t you think I should help clean Massa Robert up?” Lizbeth asked. Patsy stopped her licking and held my organ in one hand, offering it to her friend, who took upon herself the task of licking it clean. As the two lovely ladies took turns performing their task, I felt my cock stiffening and my breathing becoming more labored as the tension spread throughout my body.

They took turns licking my cock as though it were the most delicious treat they had ever tasted. “Keep going,” I urged them, an instruction they followed to the letter. Finally, I felt the surge of energy as I exploded, spraying both of their faces with my manly essence as they eagerly licked and sucked on the sensitive flesh. Exhausted, I collapsed on the bed and soon all three of us were asleep, the soft night breezes of the southern night drying the sweat from our skin.

When I awoke the next morning, my two nighttime companions had gone, presumably to attend to their duties. But they left me memories of one of the most exciting nights of my life up until then, though even greater pleasure was to come as I shall relate in later chapters.
 
windar said:
We are a commodity trading firm, and I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you that the major commodity we trade these days is cotton from plantations like your own. Some of your product may well have passed through our hands ...
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Looks like 'coal' was the commodity to pass through Robert's hands that night. :rolleyes:
 
Chapter 3 King Cotton

When I finally dressed and descended to the dining room, my host was already seated enjoying his coffee and partaking of some freshly baked biscuits, accompanied by eggs and ham topped with some gravy. He smiled broadly and stood up to greet me. “Well, if it isn’t the conquering hero,” he announced to the empty room. “How was your night, you stud?”

I smiled back at him. “It was wonderful! Thank you,” I replied.

“So Patsy and Lizbeth pleased you?” he asked. “Because if they failed to satisfy you completely, I can have them whipped. In fact, if you’d like, I can have them whipped just for your entertainment. You see, Bobby, I own them and can do with them as I wish.”

“Good God, no, Billy,” I protested, “They gave me the best night of my entire life. I don’t want them hurt.” But if the truth were to be told, I considered for a moment the erotic possibilities of seeing Patsy and Lizbeth writhing on the whipping post as Esther had been yesterday evening, or of me striping their gorgeous naked buttocks as they lay tied to the bed, howling and begging me for mercy that would come only when my lust had been sated. I blushed in shame at these wicked thoughts and banished them from my head.

“Well, that’s good, Bobby,” he said grinning. “But you must be hungry after such exertions. Sit down and have some breakfast.” He poured me a cup of steaming hot coffee, offering me sugar and milk. “Patsy!” he yelled. My companion from last night came through the door, curtsying, looking just as desirable in the morning light as she had by candlelight. “Bring Massa Robert here a plate of biscuits with sausage and gravy.

“Yes, Massa,” the girl replied, curtsying as she backed out of the room, to return a moment later with the requested food, which tasted just as delicious as it looked and smelled. Bill’s assessment had indeed been correct; I was quite famished from my night with the two lovely servants and wolfed the food down in only a few minutes.

“That’s the appetite I remember from the dining hall at Princeton, Bobby,” Bill said chuckling. “Now I hope you are fortified and ready to take a tour around the old place and see how a real Southern plantation functions.”

I patted my stomach and nodded, pushing back from the table with some effort. Bill led me out back of the house and across the dirt yard past the whipping post where Esther had been flogged yesterday, the mere sight bringing back enough memories to cause a swelling in my groin. We entered the stables where several magnificent horses stood, each in a large stall. “Julius,” Bill called.

A black man dressed in overalls, a checked shirt and riding boots popped his head out from one of the stalls where he had been grooming one of the horses. “Yessuh, Massa William,” he said, his voice full of respect.

“Saddle up Centurion and Knight. Mister Robert and I are going to take a ride around the plantation.”

“Oh, yassuh, those be our two finest horses,” he replied bowing and smiling broadly. “I’s have them ready for y’all in just a moment.” Then he scurried to the back of the stable, returning with two saddles, one of which he placed on a large reddish-brown horse and one of which he placed on a black horse. He busied himself fastening the straps and then led the two horses out of their stalls into the central area of the stables.

“Which one you want, Bobby?” Bill asked me. I chose the reddish-brown one. “Ah, Centurion, excellent choice,” he said. Julius brought over a stool, onto which I climbed and, with his help, mounted the impressive animal. Once I was properly seated, Julius helped Bill onto the black horse and we trotted slowly out of the stables and followed a dirt path into the fields.

The fields seemed to stretch on forever, much larger than any of the farms I had seen in New York. “We have over 400 acres in cotton alone,” Bill explained. “Also some rice, greens and other vegetables to feed all the slaves, corn, wheat and some orchards. But cotton is where the money is.” I nodded agreement, for that was the crop on which my business depended.

As we passed the along the edge of the field Bill pointed out the young plants, about a foot high. “These were planted back around the beginning of April, about 50 days ago. If conditions are good, they will be ready to flower in two or three weeks. But they are very sensitive at this time, easily crowded out by weeds, so the slaves have to be diligent in weeding them.”

And as I looked over the field from the height of Centurion, I could see that they were hard at work, dozens of them, men and women, bent over the rows pulling out the weeds by hand. “How do you make sure they do their work?” I asked.

“Well, Bobby boy, that was what that little display was about yesterday evening. Those who slack off get whipped and the others see it and take notice.” Then Bill stared over towards the far end of the field. “You see those two girls over there?” He pointed at two women, both of whom were standing straight, leaning on their hoes.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“That’s a very good question,” Bill responded. “Miller!” he shouted. “Miller!”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson,” I heard a voice call out. “Coming.” And I saw a tall white man wearing a broad-brimmed hat, making his way down the rows of young cotton plants towards us. Finally, he stood in front of us, looking up at us on our mounts. “Yes, boss, how can I help you?” he inquired.

“Who are those two Negro girls over there at the far end?” Bill asked, pointing into the distance towards the two slackers who were now bent over seemingly weeding as they were supposed to. It seemed that they had simply been taking a brief break as any reasonable person working in the hot sun would do. But apparently, my host saw things differently.

“I believe those are Lillian and Frederica,” the overseer replied.

“How is their work?” Bill asked him.

Miller paused to consider the question. “They’s lazy, like all the rest. No more so, no less so, I reckon.”

“Well, we had best liven them up,” Bill said. “I want them tied together and given two dozen lashes after work this evening.”

“No problem, Mr. Jackson. I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do, Miller.” Miller turned and started walking back into the rows of cotton. “It’s a constant struggle with these slaves to get them to put in a decent day’s work; and to tell you the truth, most of the whites aren’t much better.”

“Let me ask you, Bill,” I interjected, “I know you don’t think this will happen, but what if the abolitionists got their way and the slaves were free? Couldn’t you hire these people to work as regular employees?”

Bill laughed. “You Yankees really don’t know how things work. These people are lazy and have no ambition at all. If they were free and working for wages, they’d work just enough to earn dinner and then stop and the cotton would wither in the field. And harvest time is worse. You have only a limited time to pick before the boll weevils eat the crop and you need every hand working from sunup to sundown. Free people just won’t do that. I’d be out of business. And since your company makes its money trading cotton, so would you, Bobby.”

I wasn’t sure I shared his grim view of our Negro countrymen, who had always struck me as people no better or worse than whites, but he was my host and it would have been impolite to contradict him. We continued on past field after field of young cotton plants. Bill showed me the rice paddies, also tended by slaves bent over working the plants and then took me through the vegetable gardens and fruit orchards, those much more like what I was used to in New York. Finally, the sun was almost straight overhead and Bill suggested we retire to the house for lunch and some rest during the hottest part of the day.

After a delightful lunch, washed down with a few glasses of good French wine, Bill and I sat on the porch while he gave me summary of the financial affairs of the plantation. Cotton prices were high, as the demand from the mills of England and New England was insatiable, something I well knew from my business. The profit margins for the plantation were most impressive. It seemed that I could report to Mr. van Vliet that all was well in the cotton growing world.

But one thing was troubling me. I hated to raise it with my host, especially since he had been so generous with his hospitality, but my conscience was troubled and I thought it best to unburden myself. “Bill, I hesitate to ask about this, given how wonderful a host you have been.”

Bill chuckled and reached out a finger to poke me in the ribs. “I’ll say I have, especially last night, eh, Bobby? But we’re old friends and have always been straight with one another, so I insist you tell me what’s on your mind.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, Bill, you see, I really think those two girls out in the field were just taking a needed rest on a hot day. Miller said they weren’t especially lazy. I’m afraid you’re having them whipped just to provide a show for me and I don’t want anyone to suffer on my account.’

“Oh, Bobby,” Bill replied, “You always were a worrier. They’re slaves and being whipped is no big deal for them; it’s part of the way things are. Besides, since we’re being honest, admit that you found Esther’s whipping yesterday very exciting. Deny it all you like, I saw that bulge in your trousers.”

I blushed, quite embarrassed. I had hoped Bill hadn’t noticed, but obviously he had. And probably others had also. “Well, alright Bill, yes I did find it exciting. I can’t even say why, but I did.”

“It’s natural dear boy, nothing to be ashamed of. There is something very erotic about a naked or half-naked woman writhing under the whip, moaning and groaning. I suppose it’s the closest thing to how a randy young woman moves and sounds in bed. And I bet watching Esther got you in the mood for Lizbeth and Patsy and they didn’t have to coax you much.”

“No, they certainly didn’t have to coax me much,” I replied. We both guffawed with laughter.

“And Bobby, let me tell you, the spectacle of one woman being flogged is nothing compared to two of them tied together. And I am going to have them completely naked so’s they can take the whip on the ass as well as the back. Now what do you think of that, Bobby boy?”

Just from the mere description, I felt my cock rising in my pants as I imagined the harsh leather cracking against the outthrust buttocks of two women tied together. “It’s your plantation,” I mumbled.

“That’s right, Bobby, it’s my plantation. So you just relax and leave thing to me and enjoy the show, OK?” I nodded agreement.
 
windar said:
Chapter 3 King Cotton

When I finally dressed and descended to the dining room, my host was already seated enjoying his coffee and partaking of some freshly baked biscuits, accompanied by eggs and ham topped with some gravy. He smiled broadly and stood up to greet me. “Well, if it isn’t the conquering hero,” he announced to the empty room. “How was your night, you stud?”

I smiled back at him. “It was wonderful! Thank you,” I replied.

“So Patsy and Lizbeth pleased you?” he asked. “Because if they failed to satisfy you completely, I can have them whipped. In fact, if you’d like, I can have them whipped just for your entertainment. You see, Bobby, I own them and can do with them as I wish.”

“Good God, no, Billy,” I protested, “They gave me the best night of my entire life. I don’t want them hurt.” But if the truth were to be told, I considered for a moment the erotic possibilities of seeing Patsy and Lizbeth writhing on the whipping post as Esther had been yesterday evening, or of me striping their gorgeous naked buttocks as they lay tied to the bed, howling and begging me for mercy that would come only when my lust had been sated. I blushed in shame at these wicked thoughts and banished them from my head.

“Well, that’s good, Bobby,” he said grinning. “But you must be hungry after such exertions. Sit down and have some breakfast.” He poured me a cup of steaming hot coffee, offering me sugar and milk. “Patsy!” he yelled. My companion from last night came through the door, curtsying, looking just as desirable in the morning light as she had by candlelight. “Bring Massa Robert here a plate of biscuits with sausage and gravy.

“Yes, Massa,” the girl replied, curtsying as she backed out of the room, to return a moment later with the requested food, which tasted just as delicious as it looked and smelled. Bill’s assessment had indeed been correct; I was quite famished from my night with the two lovely servants and wolfed the food down in only a few minutes.

“That’s the appetite I remember from the dining hall at Princeton, Bobby,” Bill said chuckling. “Now I hope you are fortified and ready to take a tour around the old place and see how a real Southern plantation functions.”

I patted my stomach and nodded, pushing back from the table with some effort. Bill led me out back of the house and across the dirt yard past the whipping post where Esther had been flogged yesterday, the mere sight bringing back enough memories to cause a swelling in my groin. We entered the stables where several magnificent horses stood, each in a large stall. “Julius,” Bill called.

A black man dressed in overalls, a checked shirt and riding boots popped his head out from one of the stalls where he had been grooming one of the horses. “Yessuh, Massa William,” he said, his voice full of respect.

“Saddle up Centurion and Knight. Mister Robert and I are going to take a ride around the plantation.”

“Oh, yassuh, those be our two finest horses,” he replied bowing and smiling broadly. “I’s have them ready for y’all in just a moment.” Then he scurried to the back of the stable, returning with two saddles, one of which he placed on a large reddish-brown horse and one of which he placed on a black horse. He busied himself fastening the straps and then led the two horses out of their stalls into the central area of the stables.

“Which one you want, Bobby?” Bill asked me. I chose the reddish-brown one. “Ah, Centurion, excellent choice,” he said. Julius brought over a stool, onto which I climbed and, with his help, mounted the impressive animal. Once I was properly seated, Julius helped Bill onto the black horse and we trotted slowly out of the stables and followed a dirt path into the fields.

The fields seemed to stretch on forever, much larger than any of the farms I had seen in New York. “We have over 400 acres in cotton alone,” Bill explained. “Also some rice, greens and other vegetables to feed all the slaves, corn, wheat and some orchards. But cotton is where the money is.” I nodded agreement, for that was the crop on which my business depended.

As we passed the along the edge of the field Bill pointed out the young plants, about a foot high. “These were planted back around the beginning of April, about 50 days ago. If conditions are good, they will be ready to flower in two or three weeks. But they are very sensitive at this time, easily crowded out by weeds, so the slaves have to be diligent in weeding them.”

And as I looked over the field from the height of Centurion, I could see that they were hard at work, dozens of them, men and women, bent over the rows pulling out the weeds by hand. “How do you make sure they do their work?” I asked.

“Well, Bobby boy, that was what that little display was about yesterday evening. Those who slack off get whipped and the others see it and take notice.” Then Bill stared over towards the far end of the field. “You see those two girls over there?” He pointed at two women, both of whom were standing straight, leaning on their hoes.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“That’s a very good question,” Bill responded. “Miller!” he shouted. “Miller!”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson,” I heard a voice call out. “Coming.” And I saw a tall white man wearing a broad-brimmed hat, making his way down the rows of young cotton plants towards us. Finally, he stood in front of us, looking up at us on our mounts. “Yes, boss, how can I help you?” he inquired.

“Who are those two Negro girls over there at the far end?” Bill asked, pointing into the distance towards the two slackers who were now bent over seemingly weeding as they were supposed to. It seemed that they had simply been taking a brief break as any reasonable person working in the hot sun would do. But apparently, my host saw things differently.

“I believe those are Lillian and Frederica,” the overseer replied.

“How is their work?” Bill asked him.

Miller paused to consider the question. “They’s lazy, like all the rest. No more so, no less so, I reckon.”

“Well, we had best liven them up,” Bill said. “I want them tied together and given two dozen lashes after work this evening.”

“No problem, Mr. Jackson. I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do, Miller.” Miller turned and started walking back into the rows of cotton. “It’s a constant struggle with these slaves to get them to put in a decent day’s work; and to tell you the truth, most of the whites aren’t much better.”

“Let me ask you, Bill,” I interjected, “I know you don’t think this will happen, but what if the abolitionists got their way and the slaves were free? Couldn’t you hire these people to work as regular employees?”

Bill laughed. “You Yankees really don’t know how things work. These people are lazy and have no ambition at all. If they were free and working for wages, they’d work just enough to earn dinner and then stop and the cotton would wither in the field. And harvest time is worse. You have only a limited time to pick before the boll weevils eat the crop and you need every hand working from sunup to sundown. Free people just won’t do that. I’d be out of business. And since your company makes its money trading cotton, so would you, Bobby.”

I wasn’t sure I shared his grim view of our Negro countrymen, who had always struck me as people no better or worse than whites, but he was my host and it would have been impolite to contradict him. We continued on past field after field of young cotton plants. Bill showed me the rice paddies, also tended by slaves bent over working the plants and then took me through the vegetable gardens and fruit orchards, those much more like what I was used to in New York. Finally, the sun was almost straight overhead and Bill suggested we retire to the house for lunch and some rest during the hottest part of the day.

After a delightful lunch, washed down with a few glasses of good French wine, Bill and I sat on the porch while he gave me summary of the financial affairs of the plantation. Cotton prices were high, as the demand from the mills of England and New England was insatiable, something I well knew from my business. The profit margins for the plantation were most impressive. It seemed that I could report to Mr. van Vliet that all was well in the cotton growing world.

But one thing was troubling me. I hated to raise it with my host, especially since he had been so generous with his hospitality, but my conscience was troubled and I thought it best to unburden myself. “Bill, I hesitate to ask about this, given how wonderful a host you have been.”

Bill chuckled and reached out a finger to poke me in the ribs. “I’ll say I have, especially last night, eh, Bobby? But we’re old friends and have always been straight with one another, so I insist you tell me what’s on your mind.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, Bill, you see, I really think those two girls out in the field were just taking a needed rest on a hot day. Miller said they weren’t especially lazy. I’m afraid you’re having them whipped just to provide a show for me and I don’t want anyone to suffer on my account.’

“Oh, Bobby,” Bill replied, “You always were a worrier. They’re slaves and being whipped is no big deal for them; it’s part of the way things are. Besides, since we’re being honest, admit that you found Esther’s whipping yesterday very exciting. Deny it all you like, I saw that bulge in your trousers.”

I blushed, quite embarrassed. I had hoped Bill hadn’t noticed, but obviously he had. And probably others had also. “Well, alright Bill, yes I did find it exciting. I can’t even say why, but I did.”

“It’s natural dear boy, nothing to be ashamed of. There is something very erotic about a naked or half-naked woman writhing under the whip, moaning and groaning. I suppose it’s the closest thing to how a randy young woman moves and sounds in bed. And I bet watching Esther got you in the mood for Lizbeth and Patsy and they didn’t have to coax you much.”

“No, they certainly didn’t have to coax me much,” I replied. We both guffawed with laughter.

“And Bobby, let me tell you, the spectacle of one woman being flogged is nothing compared to two of them tied together. And I am going to have them completely naked so’s they can take the whip on the ass as well as the back. Now what do you think of that, Bobby boy?”

Just from the mere description, I felt my cock rising in my pants as I imagined the harsh leather cracking against the outthrust buttocks of two women tied together. “It’s your plantation,” I mumbled.

“That’s right, Bobby, it’s my plantation. So you just relax and leave thing to me and enjoy the show, OK?” I nodded agreement.
Click to expand...

Do be careful Windar old chap ....... The way the story is going, I am afraid Dorothy will be coming and the Meteorological Office will have to put out a warning of imminent flooding in the Leeds area ..............
 
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