Slave to Love

I knows there was gonna be a might big problem when Massa Edward over at Fairhope was left back when the Tremaines went down ta NawLens for the season. No matter he had fallen off a horse and broke his ankle and it hadn't healed complete yet. They shudda wrapped him up and put him in a wagon and taken him on with them.

Didn't no one else on the banks of the Mississippi here see that my own massa, that treacherous Gordon Jackson, had heat for Massa Edward? Of course lots of men—and women too—hereabouts had heat for Massa Edward. I knew since we were boys of the same age and I was sent over to help keep him entertained and outa trouble, that Massa Edward would grow up to be someone who'd turn up anyone's furnace who had an extra notion for that sort of stuff—and that would be most of the gentry folks hereabouts. Not much else to do in these parts for the plantation folks when they were out here in the back wilds than to watch the darkies spin money for them and fuck.

And Gordon Jackson of Twelve Oaks was randier than most. All the Jackson men are randy. Gordon's sire more than most. More maybe even than Gordon. And when I say all the Jackson men, I'm not sayin' nothing that I don't see in the mirror myself. 'Cause Gordon's sire was my sire too. Just that Gordon got made in the big four poster up at the house in Twelve Oaks and I got made in the milkin' room. But I had to admit that I was just as randy as the other Jackson men. Any hole will do me, and I got the Jackson men's big dick, thank the allout, so I tain't ever had trouble findin' willing holes—be they female or male.

Same thing with Massa Gordon, though. And when Massa Gordon took a notion to bury his dick in someone, he pretty much got his way. That's why I stayed out of his way since I come in season. I knew chances were good he'd stick me one day, but no time soon if I could keep gettin' out of his way.

I seed the looks he gave Massa Edward when Massa Edward come into season, though—I knowed those looks, because I was given him the same looks. The difference is that Massa Gordon t'was givin' them on the pretty much open and I had to hide mine. I don't think Massa Gordon pined for Massa Edward any more than I did. But I knowed my place.

And I was mighty sorry and worried when the Tremaines left for NawLens, leaving Massa Edward here alone at the big house up at Fairhope for the social season down south.

Massa Jackson hadn't planned ahead or anything. He'd already sent his wife and children and all the old widows and cousins and white by-blows that wintered at Twelve Oaks off to the townhouse down south.

First night they done gone was the first night I made sure I was in some hut fuckin' one of the other darkies myself at the time Massa Gordon always took a notion to come cattin' around. I'd already found he didn't cotton to anyone sharing no pussy or hole with him, and so if he was ever comin' lookin' for me, I made sure I already was a fuckin'. He liked seein' me do that. I was a Jackson, if not a proper one; he liked the thought of Jackson men getting' their way and usin' those big Jackson cocks.

So maybe what did to Massa Edward was my fault—at least part ways. But, then again, not much nohow, as I could tell in his eyes that he'd had heat for Massa Edward ever since Massa Edward came into season.

I'd heard Massa Gordon tell the cook one afternoon that Massa Edward was comin' to dinner, just the two of them that night. I knowed what that meant, and I started out to hightail it over to Fairhope, no matter what happened when the Jack Overseer knowed I was gone from the field, but as I was pullin' the mule out of the shed, I turned, and there Massa Gordon was in the doorway, blockin' my way to the outside. He had that "it's fuckin' time" look in his eyes.

"Going somewhere, Will Jackson?" he said. He was comin' in real close to me. He was stripped to waist, having just come in from the fields his self and sluiced water over his self to cool off and keep the sweat out of the house. He had a strong, able body. All us Jacksons did. Same solid muscle build his cousin Geofrey had two summers ago when he pulled me down into the hay in the barn and showed me what a man could do to another man.

I didn't answer. I just lowered my head and scuffed my bare feet on dusty earthen floor of the mule shed.

"Aren't you supposed to be over in the lower field making sure the other darkies aren't slacking?"

Being a Jackson—even one born on the wrong color side—did have its status on the plantation. We black by-blows were either made into house workers or, when they were big and strong like me, made into suboverseers out in the field. I didn't have no complaint on that score. But Jackson men didn't do what men on most of the plantations did. Darky by-blows of the plantation families usually didn't have to worry about bein' bedded by those who made them. Jacksons didn't care none who they fucked, though. A Jackson was as good as one of the young, coquettish daughters of the other planters up and down the river. A fuck was a fuck.

Again, I just continued givin' him the dumb darky treatment. This often worked. The fine folks often lost interest at this point. It got almost like fuckin' the livestock, and even a Jackson wouldn't stoop that low.

Massa Gordon had stepped closer now. I could smell the liquor on his breath, and he was breathin' hard. It was in-heat breathin'. I'd heard it often enough—even done it often nuff myself.

I felt his hands at the rope holdin' my britches up and he got the knot undone in no time, and the flimsy, patched britches just fell to the ground over my slim hips.

"My, my," Massa Gordon muttered in a low, hoarse voice. "You really are a Jackson, aren't you? No wonder you've always got that in one of the darkies when I come around checking the inventory at night. And no wonder the one you've got it in is making such satisfied noises."

"Massa Gordon—" I whispered in my best wheedling voice. But he weren't listnin' to me.

"I want you to turn around and lean over that stall wall over there, Will, and spread your legs."

I could see down his front from his waist down from where my head was lowered, and I could see that he had a Jackson-sized cock out and was holdin' it in his hand. It was already on its way to ass-splittin' size. It was time for me to speak—to do whatever I could for this not to happen, at least not today.

I cleared my throat and spoke up, in a right respectful voice. I didn't want to set him off any more than I had to. "I was takin' the mule to go over and see Ma Tribbit at Fairhope. I gots the trots awful bad, Massa Gordon, and she knows best what to do 'bout that."

"Christ almighty, why didn't you say that in the first place?" Massa Gordon said with considerable disgust. And I saw that big cock of his startin' ta go soft and it got folded back into his britches as pretty and as fast as you pleased. That excuse was always good once or twice, I'd found. And I'd never used it with Massa Gordon before.

But then he continued and put paid to my trip to Fairhope to try to warn Massa Edward off of dinner. "You don't need to go over to Fairhope for that, Will. Your mam is good enough at taking care of that. Don't go back to the field. Go to your mam and get that straightened up. And tell me when you're able to take cock without messing everything up, you hear? You know what's what here. You've been let alone long enough."

"Yas sir, Massa Gordon, sir," I murmured, and I dipped my head and pulled up my pants, scurried as fast as I could out of the shed and down slavery's Apple row without stoppin' to tie the rope as long as the shed was in sight.

I was beside myself that night when I saw Massa Edward ride in slowly on his horse. I went over an helped him down from his horse, because I could see from the twinges at the corners of his mouth that the ankle was still givin' him fits. He nearly fell into my arms, as he slipped off the side of the horse.

"Will," he said. And it was all he said. But I thought I could tell from his expression that he was pleased to see me—as pleased to see me as I was to see him—and feel him in my arms. It had been a good five years since we'd played together out in the fields and the forest, pretending we were settlers cleanin' out the Indians and building a life together. We'd been allowed to play together—to discover all sorts of things together—until we were coming into season and, there being none better offering explanations, had done some exploration together of our sex. We started out in handling ourselves and makin' comparisons and moved on to handlin' each other. And then came the day when I'd come when Massa Edward was handlin' me, and of course he wanted to come that way to.

Nobody said nothin' about catchin' us at it, but in no time after that, I was being kept to Twelve Oaks and Massa Edward to Fairhope. And he'd been given one of the Fairhope house darky women to teach him the ways. I learned the ways myself inside the cabins along Apple row. When I come into season I had a cock everbody wanted—and I was a Jackson, even though I was also a darky. That meant somethin' on Apple row. But I couldn't help thinkin' back on those days of testin' out with Massa Edward. And I often wondered what he thought about that.

In those brief moments when I was helpin' him down from his horse, I think I come to knowed all I needed to knowed about that.

That made what followed doubly hard on me.

"Will. Aren't you supposed to be doing the worker count and lockup tonight down along Apple row?"

Massa Gordon had come out of the house. He'd taken special pains with his attire tonight. A billowy muslin shirt, so sheer that he might as well not be wearing it. He had a right hairy chest, just like all the Jackson men—although I wasn't hairy like that; I got some things from my mam's side. And his nibs were puckered up big like they did when I saw him fuckin' someone hard. Tight riding pants and polished up boots—the very same boots he'd had me polish up while I was restin' from the purging my mam had given me after what I'd told him in the shed to get him to put his Jackson cock back in his britches. And Massa Gordon smelt like he taken a bath—even though it weren't even Sataday night yet. And someone had been choppin' away at his black curly hair.

As I moved quickly away, into the shadows of the white-pillared front porch on the family mansion, I turned my head and looked on with dismay at the smile Massa Edward gave Massa Gordon as they met on the front steps.

Massa Edward always seemed to have come too much in season to me. He was too eager when we was together, and there was rumors how hard a time the Tremaines had in keepin' him saved in any fashion. All of this made me wonder again why they'd gone off and left him alone at Fairhope. He was ripe for the pluckin'. A regular peach. And when he'd been testin' ourselves together, he'd always told me how nice I looked and how much he wished he had a Jackson cock like mine. And I was the spittin' image of Massa Gordon if anyone wanted to look at me. But, of course, none of the white folk did want to look at me. They all wanted to look through me.

All except that Margaret Jackson, Gordon's wife. She certainly didn't look through me. I fucked her good in their four-poster bed when all the white Jackson men were out in the field. She came sniffin' around for me, though. It ain't like I asked her to do anything that she didn't direct me to do. And all the house darkies, they just snuck around and twittered through their fingers while we were doin' it. There was no love lost for them Jacksons. No love lost for hardly none of the white folks in their fancy plantation houses along this stretch of the Mississippi. There was change and "had nuff" and killin' in the air. I felt it. All of the other darkies felt it. The whites didn't seem to feel it, though. They just took life for granted and looked right through us—until they wanted us in their beds. They liked our cocks and holes and pussies well nuff.

There was more than one white woman—and man, for that—who wanted my black version of the Jackson cock in them. Until tonight I wondered where Massa Edward stood on that. But in that brief moment when I helped him down from the horse and he turned to me, I think I got my answer to that.

I could see from the first moment they met on the front steps to Twelve Oaks where it was goin' with Massas Gordon and Edward, but still I couldn't just walk off and not know for sure. For one night the darkies could get along without having themselves locked in, I thought.

That was a mistake I now know. There was a reason to lock the Apple row men in at night. I knew that. But it was only later that I understand the import of not doing it that night.

Instead of that, I stole around the side of the house and peeked in one of the dining room windows. Massa Gordon had the liquor out and was liberally filling Massa Edward's glass through the dinner, which went on for more than an hour. Over desert and coffee and cigars, Massa Gordon said something to Massa Edward, and the young massa moved from the opposite end of the table to the seat at Massa Gordon's right side. They had their heads close together, and Massa Gordon had one of his hairy-backed hands on Massa Edward's forearm. They were laughing and smiling at each other and drinkin' far more liquor than Mass Edward should have.

I heard Massa Edward say he felt hot and the air in the house was stuffy, and Massa Gordon suggested a walk in the garden.

As they walked down the bricked walk toward the summer house, Massa Edward's cane tap tap tapping long on the bricks, the young massa was unsteady on his feet, besides the favoring of his ankle. He was leaning on Massa Gordon who was guiding him by the arm and had a beefy, hairy-backed hand on the small of Massa Edward's back. Before they passed into the shadows of the boxwood and out of my sight for at least the moment, Massa Gordon's hand had moved down to cup Massa Edward's buttocks.

That's when I should have left the white folks to do what white folks do and gone back and put those Apple row men in their proper cabins and locked them in for the night. But I didn't do that. I started to do that, more than once, struggling with what I should do and what I wanted to do—no, not what I wanted to do, because I knew I didn't want to see what I was gonna see. But I had to see it anyway. I had to know it happened.

But the time I had gotten to where I could see into the summer house and not be seen from there, Massa Gordon was where he knowed he was gonna git what he wanted. He had Massa Edward sittin' on the big bench in one corner. Massa Edward's good leg was running along the back of the bench with Massa Gordon sittin' in front of it, trapping Massa Edward in the corner. Both of their shirts were off and Massa Gordon had Massa Edward's cock out of his cod piece, and he was strokin' it slow like and had his teeth on Massa Edward's nipples. He had his own Jackson-sized cock out and was strokin' it with the other hand.

He had Massa Edward worked up so well so fast that Massa Edward had his head thrown back and was beggin' to be fucked.

I saw Massa Gordon's hand leave his cock and run in under Massa Edward's balls and I heard the slitting of the material of Massa Edward's britches and the groan and moan from Massa Edward as Massa Gordon's fingers found his hole.

It wasn't long before Massa Edward was whimpering for the fuck. He had his eyes held tightly shut and his arms were hanging down to his side like he was puttin' up no defense at all.

Massa Gordon stood and brought Massa Edward up in his arms and then sat again and turned Massa Edward facing away from him and then slowly brought Mass Edward's channel down into his lap on the mighty big Jackson cock. With strong, hairy hands on Massa Edward's waist, Massa Gordon worked the small ass up and down on his thick pole, with Massa Edward moanin' and groanin' up a storm.

Then horrors of horrors as Massa Edward was scrunchin' up and jerkin' and spewin' out his milky cum onto the summer house floor, he cried out—and I turned in shock ran for my life, knowin' my world was comin' apart. Knowin' that the wrath of the Jacksons would be down on my neck now.

For what Massa Edward cried out as he gave up his precious, patrician Tremaine seed wasn't "Gordon!"; it was "Will!"

I ran for the cabins of Apple row, even though I knew I couldn't stay there. I knew that whatever Massa Gordon did with Massa Edward now, he would be comin' to look for me no later than the next morning.

I ran up onto the path leading down Apple row, headin' for my mam's cabin, knowin' I'd need a few provisions and then I needed to try to run for it, to disappear into the forest, and take my chances with the searchers and their hounds.

But as I was passin' the second cabin, the door flew open and strong arms grabbed me and pulled me inside.

Even if Massa Edward hadn't cried out my name at the height of his fuckin' by Massa Gordon, the worst thing I could ever imagine to have happen to the head of the Jackson family, what I found now would have been enough to send me to a rope hangin' from the courthouse tree.

All of the Jackson field slaves were in that cabin—all of the men who were usually segregated in separate cabins at night. And there was a reason for that.

And the fact that they weren't locked in tonight meant the world was being turned upside down.

"This is our chance, Will," Big Joe said as he pushed me down to a squat in the center of the floor. I looked around and saw that the men—and some of the women of Apple row too—had thick knots of wood with tar at the tips and they were all wearing mean and determined expressions.

"We start here, tonight," Crocked Mike declared. "Most of the families have left for the season. We burn them out—tonight—and we head north. All of the darky families."

"Are you with us or against us, Will?" Big Joe asked, pressing in on me.

"Those still here?" I asked.

"Death. We'll kill them all," Crocked Mike cut in. "Dead men can't raise alarms and dead men can't track us down. We need a head start. We can round up skiffs to take some north on the river, but the rest have to go on foot or mule wagon. They all have to die."

I pushed away the hands Big Joe had laid on my shoulders and shrugged through Crocked Mike's grabbing hands and burst out of the door. A few of the men came out after me immediately, but I had surprised them, and I was quicker and stronger than any of them, not having been worked as hard through the day. Most of the men stayed back long enough to put the heads for their knots of wood into the fireplace and flame up the tar.

I headed in the direction of the front the house, but as I saw an angry Gordon Jackson striding out of the garden on the brick path, I veered off to the left, toward the garden. He was alone, and he wasn't the one I sought.

Gordon was on the coach path between the entrance to the garden and the portico of the house when he turned. He saw me, but his attention immediately went beyond me—to where the darky men were streaming out of the entrance to Apple row, the men in back carrying lit torches.

Gordon turned and ran up the steps of the house, and the men from Apple row veered toward him. I went the other direction, into the garden.

I found Massa Edward sprawled out on the bench, his face bleeding where Massa Gordon had punched him for what he had cried out. I gathered him up in my arms and ran cattycornered across the garden, bursting out onto the coach path a bit beyond the house. Twelve Oaks was alight. There was fire at every window of the first floor that I could see from where I was standin', holdin' Massa Edward in my arms, just inside the shadows, with the light from the fire lickin' out at us, searchin' us out.