Savannah Affair Ch. 09

Savannah Affair Part 09

Joshua's Story

This story is fiction--as any student of the history of the Civil War and the Post-war period will attest. I strongly suggest that you read the first chapters before this one. This is a POV chapter, spoken by the protagonist's "sidekick" and fuck-buddy, black, muscled and hung, unbeknownst to Bo, a step-brother, and another alpha--if any slave can be described as an alpha. All characters in this story are over 18. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

20

Joshua's story...(the time line drops back a little)

When Bo arrived at the Red Awning in Savannah, I assumed he was another defeated and down-at-the-heels Confederate soldier who had been released from one of the many POW camps as the War ended. There were hundreds of poor, hungry grey coats wandering the city, some looking for a bed, others for a bit of food and companionship. I assumed he wanted a girl, but we were not open yet. It was mid-afternoon. Sherman's decree had freed me, but the owner of this establishment (he also owned me until Sherman's arrival) had left weeks ago for England with everything he could reasonably take. He had left me in charge. There were still four young ladies in residence, ranging in age from 22 to 34, all black, all slaves. All had been there since my arrival three years earlier. They were all like sisters to me.

I recognized Bo immediately when I emerged from the dark back room. My mother, Priscilla, had brought a bag, actually two, for him when she had appeared a month or more ago. She told me he was wounded and a POW. She knew nothing more. I didn't think I'd ever see him again.

He looked tired and thin--and his clothes were threadbare and dirty. My heart reached out for him. He had once been my master; now he was someone I might be able to help. And of course, I had always loved him. And, under the grime and dirty clothes, he was still a beautiful young aristocrat.

As boys, we had been best friends (despite the fact that he was the master's son, and I was a young slave). Priscilla, my Mom, had raised us both in the plantation nursery. I had guessed years ago that we were step-brothers, that his father was also mine, but would never acknowledge me. My light skin betrayed a white Daddy--and I, of course knew my mother. She had even been Bo's wet-nurse and nanny for years. I knew that Bo's Daddy continued to sleep with Momma regularly. But, I had never mentioned it to Bo. It was part of her responsibilities at Howellwood. If she wanted to tell him, that was up to her.

At Bo's birthday into manhood, we had celebrated with a hunting and camping trip. He had specifically invited me to go along--and no one else. I suspected it was a ruse, and I was right. At his insistence, we had wrestled, embraced, kissed--and I had let him take me--the wrestling match and my ass. It simply wouldn't do for a slave to overcome a white boy--and on his birthday no less. He had a beautiful body, creamy-pink with a few cute freckles on his nose and high on his cheeks and one of the most remarkable white-boi-dicks I had ever seen. Not nearly as big as mine, but beautiful in its shape and length and really not so bad. He was a virgin, but he had been bred to treat others well--even slaves. I, on the other hand, had been introduced to sex with slave women, had been fucked by some of the bigger males, and had even had a few encounters with Bo's Daddy (who was also my Daddy--by then I was pretty sure).

Bo didn't just fuck me. He made love to me. Later, he took my leaking dick by mouth and his hands fondled my balls and stroked the shaft. He even smiled as he ingested my pre-cum, complimenting me on its taste. Then he had inserted his big white-boi dick in my ass, and using hands, lips and his cock, had made love to me. It was serious stuff, but fun nevertheless. He knew how to pleasure me. His size was perfect to punch and massage my most sensitive nut, and his soft hands stroked my shaft and fondled my balls like never before. During that camping trip, we coupled every few hours. By the end, he was addicted to my chute--and to my musky, nearly hairless body. His hands were on my dick all the time, keeping me hard and desiring all the time. I was in love, a hopeless, never-to-be love. I was his pet, devoted forever.

After the camping trip, we fell into a regular pattern. He fucked me every day, sometimes more than once. And he spent every opportunity fondling my shaft and balls--like they were a pet or a toy. He'd get me hard, so hard I hurt. Until I begged him to fuck me. It was tough. It had to be secret. Because his father was fucking me also, almost every night. In fact I was somewhat of a celebrity in the slave quarters where I went to pleasure women and be taken by the older bucks: I was attractive, and as a house slave, clean and groomed, and, the Massa and his only remaining son were both fucking me regularly. Everyone knew. It was an inside secret joke. In a sense, the boy was cuckolding his Daddy. I was learning to be a first class whore. And I was walking on eggs.

I tried repeatedly to switch roles, pleading with him, and seducing him with all the charm I could muster, certain that if we let me in, he'd be mine forever. But, he consistently refused. He claimed I was too big and would spoil him for others. But, I knew his bigotry, learned from his Daddy, persisted: a white, fucked by a black was a lesser man, in his mind. So as a slave (and his lover), I, of course, let him continue.

Finally, one evening, Bo's Daddy discovered us in a fairly spectacular compromising spot in Bo's bed. Bo hadn't heard the door open, and he was intensely engaged in filling my asscunt with his cum for the second time that night. He had rolled me into a tight jack=knife, using strong arms to hold my legs so my ass was pointing almost vertically. He shouted his release and dropped down to take my lips with his. Then he pulled back and stood beside the bed, dripping with his own cum, staring at me intently--maybe trying to decide if he had a third load for me. I saw the rage in his Daddy's face. Bo turned and his enormous glistening dick stuck out proudly from his gut aimed right at his Daddy. He smiled, didn't flinch or try to hide his rampant erection--a clear challenge to the older man. Bo was much bigger and had used his cock with more finesse than his Daddy. In the South in 1864, that was an impossibility. You did not embarrass a Massa, not even if he were your Daddy.

Massa promptly shipped him off to the Citadel. I never saw him again, and, Massa, after fucking me daily for a month, grew tired of me. We traveled to Savannah where he sold me to the proprietor of the Red Awning. I lived and worked there for almost four years. Mister Koch, the owner, realized that I liked boys more than girls. (He was wrong in that; at least at that time, I was addicted to sex period, male or female simply didn't matter.) So he assigned me to the girls during the day as their slave--shopping, fetching hot water, washing and ironing their dresses, doing the beds, but forbidden to lay with them. (That rule was broken often, but what Koch didn't know wouldn't hurt him.) I was around at night to ensure that the girls were not hurt. Each had a little bell bedside--and when they rang it, I was instantly at the door, threatening the john if he dared to harm one of my "sisters." They all came to love and depend on me.

One night, a young man who fancied me, went to the surprised proprietor, and bought me for an hour. That was the beginning. I soon became a "professional," requested by gentlemen from all over the city. My cock was legendary, and many of the older southern planters took great pleasure in fucking a young black buck with glistening muscles, obviously stronger, and with a cock twice their size, as they pounded into me while gripping my steely pole. It was sport for them. Taking one obviously stronger and bigger who took it because I had to. It was how they expressed their superiority. I didn't mind. They rarely hurt me. The proprietor saw to that. I was too valuable an asset. I was far bigger than any of them could ever hope to be. I knew to grease myself well before I appeared in their room. They became so excited when they saw and then handled my dick that they popped almost immediately after entering my tight chute. So they often paid me for a second shot. Occasionally one pleased me and brought me off. He got an extra treat as I used my anal muscles to massage his dick. And they always tipped very well.

There were a few who wanted to taste my dick--by mouth or in their asses. These were even more secretive, swearing me to silence while boasting to friends that they had hard-fucked a big hung black buck who had squealed for mercy as they pounded. They always left enormous tips.

By the time the proprietor had left for England, as Sherman approached, I had a stash of more than a hundred coins, mostly gold, some silver. I was probably the richest black in Savannah. I was running the Red Awning for a while at least, but I realized our time was over. Savannah was undergoing profound change, and the Yankees were said to be rigid Puritans. Somehow the Christianity of the South had "found" that blacks were not human--and thus "fornicating" with them was not sinful. But when the Yankees won and freed us, that excuse was not longer available. What a crock of shit!

When Bo appeared at the Red Awning, we talked for a few minutes. But, it was clear that the old sexual attraction was in the air. I could see his nose widening at my rising musk, and when we hugged, our erect members met and touched. He backed off quickly, probably still afraid of the power I had over him. And now, I was a free man, and he didn't have the power of proprietorship over me to restrain me if I had decided to force myself on him. We talked--rather he talked about going to Howellwood, and almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that I could go with him if I wished. I revealed my responsibilities, and with a little hesitance, he promised to take the girls too--after I promised to pay part of the passage. "Maybe they can help during planting," he whispered hopefully.

He returned later and took us all to the public baths. It was a treat for us, but I think Bo wanted to ensure that we wouldn't smell "too dark" if he found passage. Steamers often carried blacks up and down the river--but they were slaves, confined to the deepest holds. We were going to paying passengers--and the crew was entirely white. The next day, he returned--unexpectedly, he had secured passage. I announced to the girls that we were leaving and found old trunks in the basement which I allocated--telling the girls to take mostly plain clothes, but adding a party item or two. Silky, sexy things were not easy to find--and expensive.

The passage was uneventful, and a party the only night we anchored allowed my girls to ply their profession with the crew, earning valuable cash in the process. I slept with Bo that night, rekindling all of the intense desire that I had harbored for this boy for years. In a few short days, he had regained the confidence of a privileged white boy. But, the War had not changed him--he was compassionate and a great lover, perhaps even more skilled than when we had played as boys.

He pushed me on my back and stared, obviously entranced by my smoothly ripped gut and the dark towering manhood that rose from between my thighs. I think I was even larger than when we had last seen each other years before. His own cock was rigid, the hood rolled back, the head moist, a deep red. He had obviously been erect for some time. He was leaking copiously. I longed to taste it. But that was not his intent. He fell into me and we rolled and caressed, pressing chest to chest, squeezing butts, kissing, sucking tongue, rolling cocks together, and trying to crawl inside the other. It was like we were boys again.

Finally, he rose on his knees and pushed my legs apart and up. I held them high and rolled up to "face" him. His lips moved in. He sucked, sending shock bursts up my spine. Then it was his tongue, aided by fingers pulling me wide. I beat the bed, cursed, and used by thighs to trap his face. That feeling was one of the best any man can experience. When I could take no more, he sensed how close I was, and backed off. He lubed his cock with spit and pressed. Bo was big--and the years at the Citadel might even have added some length and girth. The pressure was painful, but I relaxed the muscle, and he finally slid in, smiling down into my face as he did so. He had conquered me again. He knew he had me. He poked the love nut. Then did it again, noting the spark of light in my eyes. He was soon deep inside, strafing my prostate as he sought even greater depths. Finally he bottomed and his over-full balls bounced off my ass.

I felt the first spasm. He was getting ready for liftoff. So I dropped my legs around his waist, wrapped the back of my knees into his pronounced hip depressions. I pulled him tight and reached around to probe his rim, edging, then plunging, one then two fingers as far as his prostate. I only needed to touch. His nose flared and his eyes rolled. I felt his gut contracting and his legs stiffening. He was going in for the kill. So I poked hard on the nut. I felt the spurt, then the heat, then the torrent of his pearly cum, filling my mancunt with his seeds.

I felt the deep heat, the deep stimulus. He was bringing me to one of those rare, but exciting moments--a deep body orgasm, originating deep in my anal cavity, spreading to my limbs, fingers and toes, and then up to my cock. It expanded to Herculean proportions, jolted, then began to spew the fertile essence of my black ancestors' seed spreading over our chests, almost sizzling in the nighttime heat, looking for a target to fertilize, but finding none. We were soon glued together. Only Bo had the power to do this to me.

At his last spasm, he had bent forward to take my lips, breathing my air, the same air we both breathed, inhaling the same musk we both produced, holding tight to the same muscles we both had. We were one. Still in lust. Still in love. Bo was like no other, a part of me. If only he'd relent and lose his prejudice, and let me take him.

But somehow, minutes later, when we had fallen apart and hardened again, I went to take him. "No, Joshua. Not that." Apparently we weren't as close as I thought. I was still a slave in his eyes--and maybe deep down I was, at least to his cock. Anytime, Massa, anytime. He was still holding back his ultimate surrender to my love--and my cock, which had pleased so many. His prejudice remained. He would allow only my fingers. Fingers, however, that were so practiced that I tickled his love nut to a colossal explosion of his cum. We were destined to resume our pre-War love-making. He fucked. I received. We hugged and caressed. My fingers brought his orgasms to epic size.

And, once again, he was addicted to handling my cock, which he endearingly named Joshie. Never before had I met a man or a woman who took such obvious pleasure from massaging, stroking, sucking, and just holding Joshie, feeling the pumping of my heartbeat in the shaft as he did so. Little did he know that it was not my cock he held in his fist; it was my heart. I treasured every stroke, every squeeze, every suck. Joshie was his, I was his--and he knew it.

I was disappointed, again, but I was prepared to sacrifice for my love.

The next day we landed at Howellwood. Bo took over and did well--selling the hidden crop of indigo to save us, managing the food which The Heloise had unloaded, saying farewell to his father, calming and hiring many of the former slaves, replanting and restoring a semblance of what the old plantation had been. He banished me to the foreman's house--a black could not sleep in the Massa's bed as a lover, only as a whore. He'd summon me when the urge required. But, it was always to the cot in his office, not the giant bed. Besides, the girls were there. So I was needed there--and as foreman on the plantation.

Life continued. He took me--in his Daddy's old study, rarely in his bedchamber--often, sometimes more than once a week. But, nothing else changed. My love languished, but I waited patiently for things to change.

21

During the late winter, when hunger set in for many, some of the younger freed men returned to the plantation seeking work. I accepted many, promising a sharecropper deal. And by March, the old slave quarters were full. Cookfires were everywhere. Laundry hung on the lines in the wintry breeze. Songs, often laments, could be heard late into the night. Two babies were born, both boys, the first free blacks to be born in Howellwood. We were going to make it. And Bo had engineered it all.

Late in March, on an unusually cold night, really the last gasp of winter, a young man, probably 18 or 19, but looking even younger, knocked on the foreman's house, now known as the House of Pleasure by so many of the workers. We had just sat to enjoy a meal of rice and beans, steaming in a thin gravy made from the previous day's chicken. I thought he looked young for my girls, and I suspected he had no money. He was barely clothed--a torn shirt hung on his shoulders, exposing his rippled abs and concave gut, and patched britches were tied at his thin waist with a coarse cord, the kind used to tie cotton bales. He was so thin I thought the britches might drop at any moment. His hips were narrow, but the swell of his butt was enough to hold them up. His feet were wrapped--sort of--in tree bark. He was shivering and could barely get words from his mouth. He was tall, taller than my six feet, and held himself like a soldier. And he was deep black, the indigo black of a pure African. Of course, I invited him in. Really pulled him in as he stood silent and stonelike in the doorway. The girls pushed him near the fire and circled him, warming him with their bodies. His shivering stopped, and one of the girls quickly took another tin bowl from the shelf and re-apportioned the food.

"Sit and eat. We can talk after." We all sat to eat. The normal lively conversation was silenced as we stared at the boy. He ate like it was the first meal he had had in days. He was dirty, but the structure of his face shone through the grime. And the way he held his long neck, his shoulders and his upper torso were well-trained. He was clearly of African aristocracy. He was thin, but his developed muscles strained the gossamer shirt. The muscle cuts on his torso were deep and impressive. He had been a laborer, obviously a slave, probably for most of his young life, and had developed a very nice body.

Later we moved him back to a seat (my seat) in front of the fire. And he began his story. He was "about" 19 years of age. His story unfolded slowly. He spoke with a melodic, intoxicating cadence. We listened raptly, already entranced by the inner beauty of this boy. "I was born on the West Coast of the Great Land across the sea where my father was chief of a large tribe--we called him 'King' like his father and his father's father. My name is Kinde (pronounced kin-DAY). I was the second son, but my older brother had died, so I was in line for the throne, perhaps in ten years or so. I had much to learn, and needed to prove my mettle to my peers. I was leading my first hunting party after I became a man--14 in our village. We had been on a wild chase for impala, penning more than a dozen in a U-shaped rocky outcropping, for slaughter. We were ready to begin culling from the herd. The clan would dine well for days. When suddenly, we heard gunshots, many, from the direction of our last camp where we had left a few, all women, to maintain the fires. Gunshots were not unknown, but rare. We hunted with spears, arrows and knives. White hunters seeking blacks for the slave trade had come before, raided before, and taken many. We were immediately wary, but being young men, we felt invincible and, leaving a few with the trapped impala, we moved back."

"Quietly, we circled back to the camp, ready to free captives or flee back to main camp, if there was no chance of rescue. There were only a few, and they had pushed the women into one of the lean-tos. The men would enter one by one, most likely raping our women before heading off with them. I was about to lead my companions into my first major encounter with the enemy. I was puffed up and excited. But the hunters were many more than we expected. They were well-armed, and there was a second group in the vanguard. We were captured, stripped, tied together and marched naked to the shore--the entire party, ten young men and four young women, the future of our tribe.

Within a few days, we were loaded onto a few small boats. We would never see our fathers, our mothers, our brothers and sisters, or our loves again. At first, it was a loss and a regret. Then we considered it a blessing. If we saw them again, it would mean that they too had been captured and were headed for slavery.

Two days later the small boats landed at a white city farther north on the coast, not one of ours, but created in a small harbor by the Europeans. It wasn't much--except for the large prison, a wood-walled stockade really, with pens and cages spaced in the center, open to the sunlight. It dominated the square. We joined others already inside, dozens, maybe hundreds of us. A few days later, there was an auction, and I and others were sold. We really had no idea what was happening. No one had ever escaped from the situation. So no one had ever reported on the process. Within a week, we had gone from the freedom of young men in the jungle, enjoying the first few weeks of manhood, to animals, chained together at ankle and wrist, captured, in cages. We were loaded into a small ship, forced to lay on the bare planks of the lowest deck, side by side, chained together, with the next deck mere inches from our eyes.

Two months later, after a long sea voyage where many died, we were sold again--at an outdoor place that we now know was a slave auction in Savannah. Days later I was working the fields of the O'Malley Plantation, Sharon's Rose." (It was a place we knew to be only a few miles away, up river, closer to Augusta, on the other side of the Savannah River).

"I worked for more than four years, tracing the days of my captivity in charcoal on a discarded piece of wood, picking various crops, but mostly cotton, carrying the heavy burlap sacks through the fields to the barns. And despairing of ever seeing my home or my family again. We heard there was a War which might free us. But, it seemed distant and unlikely. And Massa seemed confident that his side would prevail anyway. And then I thought. If freed, how would I ever get home anyway? What difference would it make for me? Perhaps another Massa?"

"The Massa was a "good" guy, we were told. We were punished rarely, mostly for things we didn't even know we had done. And after a few years, "Old Tom" had taken a shine to me, commanding me to his bed--after his wife had died. I sucked his pole, which wasn't much, swallowed his seed, and often he entered me and filled me with his. I was his bitch, he murmured repeatedly--although a bitch with a large appendage, twice the size of his own, that he could hold tightly as he pounded from the rear. But, at least he let me have an occasional bath, and he gave me some clean clothes--although he required me totally naked always in his chamber. His hands were always on me. And it seemed I was always hard, and my hole was often dripping with his cum. He lightened my chores, but not by much. Mostly, I brushed his coats, polished his boots, groomed his stallion, and carried his food on a tray. A snap of his fingers, and I knew to plant my knees in the middle of his bed and bury my black face in his pillow."

"You can probably guess the rest. Sherman came. He stripped the plantation of anything valuable or edible and torched parts of the house and the slave quarters. He announced we had been freed by the President months ago. We scattered in all directions, having no idea where we were, where to go, where to find food. We just ran, in groups of two or three, hiding in the woods, living on the wild life we caught, wild plants and stolen crops. We lived in the woods--a community of us for several months, maybe two days walk from here--until a week ago. Then, we were rousted by men on horses, claiming they had bought the land, and we were trespassing. They drove us off. I was lost to the other three men. I've been walking and hiding since, alone, ready to die."

While the story was told, there was total silence, save the occasional crackling of a small log falling into the ashes. And the sobs of several of the girls. By the end, Kinde was no longer shivering, and the flashes of the fire on the planes of his face, sculpted neck and shoulders were mesmerizing us with his beauty. We guessed that he was now nearly twenty, and obviously no longer a boy. And he was telling his story which was our story, maybe not in those precise words or places, but our story nevertheless.

While he talked, Juliette, the youngest, who had been eyeing him with love and lust, had quietly slipped away and filled two large pots that we used for washing ourselves. As he finished his story, she moved them to the fire to warm.

I handed Kinde a tin cup with some diluted moonshine. "This will warm you inside." He eyed me carefully, took a sip, and choked on it. Then he swallowed the rest and smiled back innocently.

Later the girls tied on aprons, removed his clothes, and had him step into our largest tub. He stood there straight and tall, a magnificent man, a king. Then they washed him, using soft cloths, soap, and even a bit of perfume from their treasury. He was nearly hairless, so his muscled torso shone in the candlelight as they scrubbed. His straggly hair glistened when clean and fell into two inch curly locks crowning his aristocratic face. He stood tall and stiff as they worked, some ancestral memory returning--apparently accustomed to such treatment as a youth. His shoulders were wide and his pecs well developed, although a little thin. Giant round aureoles, lighter than the surrounding blackness, but punctuated with swollen nipples, attested to his sensuality. His ass was hard, high and round--built by running, hunting--and carrying large sacks of cotton. His concave gut was nevertheless rippled with muscles. His waist was small, and his hips were narrow. They washed his body, taking much longer than I thought necessary with his buttocks and his cock--which rose and enlarged. At first I thought it might even be larger than my own. But, it stopped growing just short of mine, standing out majestically in the flickering firelight. At last, they dried him and he stood like an ebony statue lit only by the flickering flames. They stood back and stared, almost worshipping. He was obviously accustomed to such treatment as well. His eyes shone and his lips turned up in a brief smile. The blue tint of his frozen lips had turned to a deep red, framing blindingly white teeth. I brought him a nightshirt, and the ladies slipped it over his head.

Prudence, the oldest, asked, "There are but three beds in this house. Which one of us you gonna sleep with tonight, Kinde?" With that she bumped toward him and held her breasts up with both hands.

I interrupted. "He will bunk with me. Tomorrow, we shall see if he fancies one of you. But, I would have him do it by the light of day, and rested, not out of necessity. Tonight, he will sleep. Go to your beds, ladies. Tomorrow he can decide." I heard the silent groans. They all wanted him.

Then I turned to him, "We have work here for freed men, not slaves. We will feed you and house you until the crop cashes out. You can then pay for your keep with your share of the crop. This is a good place. Work hard and you will be happy. Stay with us if you wish--for as long as you wish."

"I can work. And I would like to stay. As a free man." A dazzlingly white-toothed smile blinded me. And his dark eyes looked right through me. Perhaps he felt the warmth and kindness that I was directing toward him. But, I felt the chill, like a shard of ice had pierced my heart.

That night, Kinde did indeed sleep with me--and it was sleep, not sex. During the night, he awoke shivering again. So I drew him into my body and held him tight. He nestled comfortably into me, pushing his naked butt cheeks into my gut, absorbing my warmth--and later, I learned, my love.

By morning, we awoke together. My fist was holding his cock tightly. In my dreams, I had rolled the hood back, and my fingers were playing with the juices that he had emitted during the night. He was rigid, long and thick--and hot. And the musk has stimulated me to rigidity as well. I released instantly and jolted away. "Forgive me, Kinde. As a free man you can choose your partner in sleep. Man, woman. It is your choice. I had no right."

His response was unexpected. He backed into me, lifted a leg and trapped my rigid cock between his thighs, and using a hand, put my fist back on his cock. His hand outside mine began the long strokes. No words were necessary. At least for that morning, he had chosen. I slipped my rigid dick between his thighs, lubricated only by our sweat, as I continued to stroke his manhood, his hand holding me tight to the shaft. The shaft was long, twice the width of my hand. My face moved to his neck and I inhaled his musk, blended with the ladies' soap. My lips touched the nape. I felt him shiver. I sucked lightly, and he groaned. Seconds later, he erupted into my hand and squeezed my cock with his thighs until I too came into his waiting hand. His hand went to his mouth, and he sucked on my essence. He murmured only a few words, "Thank you." At the time, I wasn't sure whether he was thanking me for hospitality of my bed or the sex. But, I was content to lay with him, holding him tight, spreading his cum over his thinly veiled abs, absorbing the aroma of African man-sex. It felt so good to awaken with a boy in my arms, one who had not commanded my performance or paid for it.

Later, I lent him clothes, and he reported for work--preparing the paddies for planting. The weather had turned. Spring had come. Within a week, he was bent over daily, planting the rice seedlings, a difficult labor, made even more arduous by his height. It was women's work--for short "traditional" women with low centers of gravity. The age-old process was still in use: drain the field, use a short straight stick to create a small hole in the mud, drop a seedling in the hole, use fingers to close it, and repeat. Later, the field would be flooded again as the seedlings peaked up from the mud. There were not enough women to do the job. So, the men were needed, and he pitched in without comment, doing far more than his share. Curiously, the "girls" of my harem, understanding the importance of the planting, had donned "worker's" uniforms and pitched in also.

Bo was there too, planting with all of us. But, I noted that he looked over often--at me and just as often, hungrily at KInde, a bare-chested beautiful boy-man wearing only loose short pants, whom he knew I had adopted. In another time, Bo would already have taken him from me. I could see it in his eyes.

Each night, Kinde elected to sleep with me, nestled into my embrace, satisfied that I was using my talented fist to take his seed, as I planted mine between his legs. Then, after a week, he innocently whispered. "Is there something wrong with me, Master? Do you not want to put your manhood inside me? I am ready. In my land, boys routinely pleasure each other. It's how we prepare for manhood. I want it--but only if it pleases you. I long for the pleasure that only another man can give. Please..."

Obviously, it did please me. But, first, I responded, "I am not your master."

"Maybe you are, but by my choice."

And that night, for the first time, I prepared him and entered, probing for his sensitive love muscle and ultimately bottoming. His muscled ass was a dream--and his tight hole was a treasure. He was a lively receptacle, urging me deeper and harder, massaging my cock from within, squeezing his sphincter to stroke me. Taking everything I could project into him. Moaning in pleasure. "Deeper, Joshua. Please. I need you to lose your member inside me." Then he tightened the sleeve, pushed hard back into my gut, and exploded with me.

I realized it was the first time he had used my name. We were coupling as men, not as master-slave. His mancunt was indeed a treasure. I knew I wasn't the first to discover it, but I hoped I would be the last. I was in lust with this muscular boy.

And then, after a few days, he uttered the most incredible words, "I have given you myself as a free man. You are the first by choice since I was a boy playing with the others. The first that I have desired. I am yours, Joshua. Yours for so long as you would have me in your bed. Now, can you do it again? I am not sleepy. This is the first night of my freedom--and I give it all to you. I want this feeling to last. Take me, Joshua. I am yours." I was indeed ready, and our next encounter was one of the longest and most pleasurable of my young life. He drew it out like one of my whores, until finally, I unloaded in total ecstasy, straining every muscle of my body to plant him deeply and permanently with my seed. And when done, I was empty--totally and completely spent. He had drained me of my seed, but filled me with love. I was in love! Kinde was not a dream. He was all man, my man.

Over the next month, Bo called me occasionally to his bed, as did several of the women in the slave quarters. And of course, I responded. At heart, except with Kinde, I was still a slave, responding to the calls of duty and superiors. But, Kinde had become mine. I called a carpenter and widened my bed--not much wider, we slept curled together anyway. And Kinde settled in as my partner and lover. Every night I learned more about him, bringing him higher and higher as I deposited my seed deep inside, insuring my ownership by ensuring that he was addicted to me. I learned every contour of his smooth black skin and where my touch would light a fire within. I knew that I had found my soulmate.

A week after we had first fucked, I took him inside. He resisted briefly when I asked, but he too was an alpha--and he ultimately agreed to switch places. He was huge and hard, a young stallion, giving me more pleasure than I had ever experienced. He was athletic and loud, pulling me tightly into him, filling and stretching me, pounding my center of love, enjoying his playtime as much as I had enjoyed mine. It was pure joy, not tinged with sadness or duty. I cherished having his young hot cum deep inside. He plugged it for a few minutes, but when we rose, it dripped down my thighs, perfuming the air around me with his musk. Perhaps this is the aroma of heaven.

After that night, Kinde and I became "us." Bo began to fade in my desire. My nights were filled with the discovery of the various ways that we could bring pleasure to a partner and ourselves. We entered from the rear, from the side, riding, missionary, hung on a neck as we stood and rocked, in each other's laps--and then the more exotic positions like scissoring, plunging from above, anything to pound the love nut harder or to reach deeper. Often opening up the secret chamber which held the internal lube of a full body experience. His youthful athleticism and openness to newness re-kindled my own. My dreams were filled with Kinde. I was mated to an African King, or at least a Prince--I would make him my King. A beautiful young man. Who, above all others, had chosen me. Who took my cock deeply inside and held it in loving embrace until my seed erupted and crept deeply into his being--and entered me gently or hard, but always lovingly, bringing me to fulfillment as he too spurted his seed deep inside. We were equals, free men, with the right to choose a life-partner. Sherman's declaration in Savannah had at last real meaning for me, for us.

A month later, everyone knew that Kinde and I were together. Bo stopped calling for me. And Kinde and I began to share the "duties" with the women in the shacks. After all, we would need more workers some day. And young black virile men were expected, like roosters, to service the hen house. I think Kinde was soon the preferred of us. All the women wanted a child by the King. It didn't bother me at all. In fact it was a compliment of sorts--that beautiful man was mine, all mine, and I worshipped him.

The harvest was successful, beyond our wildest dreams. Bo had sent word to Savannah that we had a large crop of rice and another of the valued indigo. The rice was sold and picked up before Bo had left for Savannah, leaving me in charge of the plantation. For some reason, he was going to attend a matchmaker's ball. Banks sent word. He would personally arrive in a month with two galleons, ready to purchase and load after the indigo had dried. Howellwood was back.

And I assumed Bo would return with a bride to take over Howellwood--and try to pick up where his Daddy had left off. But, not with me. I was a free man. And Kinde was more than enough for me. I think we had a long future to look forward to. Hopefully at Howellwood, but wherever we needed to go to be together.

TBC

BD