It was May in 1841.. my favorite time of year at Bluffton - the South Carolina family plantation not far from the state line and Savannah - where our people labored to grow rice, cotton and indigo, and had done so for what seemed like countless generations at the time.
In May everything seemed bright and magical. The weeping willow slowly swayed in their growing fullness, the sweet, faint scents of jasmine and honeysuckle tickled and teased the senses along with the occasional whiffs of the freshly-turned earth of our acreage, and the old oaks creaked in the gentle, cool breezes which still occasionally blessed us before giving way to the heavy, damp heat of summer.
And of course, there, were our people.. our field negroes. In the winter months, they were seldom even noticed. To my young mind, they seemed to disappear after harvest, scurrying away to some unknown winter refuge like shrews scattering from a brushfire, only to miraculously appear again as spring planting grew close. Even then, and throughout the growing season, my friends and kin paid them no mind, and seemed to scarcely know they were even there. Our house niggers were of a different cut - polite, clean and talkative, sometimes even sassy, they were almost family. But on the few occasions I encountered our field hands while out in the acreage with papa, I noticed they were sweaty, quiet to the point of being secretive, and obviously fearful of white Christian folk. So it's little wonder most folks didn't concern themselves with the field niggers or even cared to notice them.
But I noticed them.
Even by the age of 19, I had little interest in the womenfolk with whom I'd been acquainted - trussed up like holiday hens, with painted faces, dainty coiffures and reeking of imported perfumes. They never piqued my interest, let alone made my loins tingle. I suppose they just didn't quite fit with the kind of rough-and-tumble notion I had of intimate interplay. At an ever younger age I'd found myself fascinated by some of my male friends, but that kind of thing was dangerous in the extreme, and terror of the consequences kept me from pursuing my desires to anything approaching fruition. Which is why I'd learned to love springtime at Bluffton. It was at this time that the field hands magically returned in tremendous numbers, and as I grew, I found myself riding one of our prize geldings out to the acreage to take the air. Papa was thoroughly pleased at what he took to be my precocious interest in the family's business. But my rides - which by 19 had become daily affairs - had an altogether different purpose. As I ambled around the fields, I could watch our niggers toiling there, rhythmically energetic, singing their quaint songs as they ploughed and planted together like the workings of a clock. After a time I noticed something curiously disturbing - the same sensations I felt had earlier with my playmates, only amplified a hundredfold. There was a rutting rawness about these earthy people - taut, lean bodies whose shredded clothing gave tantalizing glimpses of dark, hot cocoa skin beneath, glistening and running with beads of sweat - that had me fairly grinding against my saddle horn as I fought to calm my thundering heart and labored breathing. The older, more muscular negroes aroused in me a detached sense of beauty like the lines of a fine horse, but it was the younger ones who stirred my innards in a powerful, forbidden way that brings me to the heart of my story.
That May, for some days, I'd noticed a particular strapping young nigger, lean and lanky but well-fed, who attracted my particular attention. I'd never noticed him before, but was now intensely curious, so I called one of our foremen over and - trying to appear detachedly interested as I would in any new chattel - asked about him. The boy was called Nate, and I was surprised to learn he had been at Bluffton for nearly two years. The foreman guessed he was around 16 and I agreed. My mind whirling chaotically with fragments of plots and plans, I advised the foreman that we were considering a new house nigger and that young Nate might just be the ticket. The foreman looked skeptical for a brief instant, then bucked up and agreed with my choice as in duty bound. I could imagine the sniggers and scandal of having this boy sent to my rooms, so instead I told the foreman to have Nate report to the woodhouse in a quarter of an hour. At the woodhouse, nervously alone with Nate, I tersely advised him to come to my rooms in another quarter hour to be interviewed. He mumble-blurted some kind of gibberish, which upon slowly repeating, turned out to be a query about whether he should "clean up" before coming to the house. I advised young Nate that that wouldn't be necessary.
A short time later, I responded to a barely audible mouse-tap at my door. At my invitation, Nate furtively scurried into the door, closed it and turned to me, his shoulders bent, hands clasped, grimy bare feet and ankles poking out of the shredded ends of what had once been trousers. With eyes down, he maintained a respectful distance from where I was seated in a grand parlor chair by a window. And in an obviously fearful afterthought, he snapped the dusty straw hat from his head and clutched it in his hands, head bowed and silently waiting for my instructions. I slowly looked him over in detail for the first time. He appeared to be about my height, not quite six feet, lean and sinewy, with dark skin that still glistened with the sweat of the field. Besides his hat and "trousers", his only other garment was a collarless, untucked shirt with few remaining buttons, thin as a window sheer, with sleeves rolled up past the elbow exposing long, slender arms and hand with delicate long fingers. I asked him if he knew why he was here, and he acknowledged the foreman had briefed him, and thanked me for the opportunity. I told him I'd not yet decided to bring him inside, to which he immediately looked abashed and whispered "yessir, young mastuh".
Having reaffirmed our respective stations, and emboldened by the knowledge that he was family property, I told him to step closer so I could have a look him over. As he shuffled closer, I could feel the heat growing in my loins as my primal juices started flowing, and required an effort to still a slight trembling in my hands. As stopped a few feet from me, still apprehensive and obviously shaking. I stood and with a hand on his shoulder drew him close as I turned him around. I slid my hand over his shoulders, down his back, felt and squeezed his arms, neck, and thighs, as one would examine a mare for sale. He made no sound, quietly resigned to this examination just as he'd no doubt done so on the block the day papa bought him. Crouching, I let my hands feel of his tight, stringy calves, then slowly up the front of his thighs, then I stood and turned him towards me. Without a word, I slowly undid the few buttons remaining on his threadbare shirt, exposing his trembling chest and taut, muscular stomach. It was at this point I first noticed the heady aroma of Nate's sweaty body, pungent and tangy, and saw the fresh sweat on his brow and under his arms. As I let my hands feel his hairless brown chest and slide slowly down his rippled stomach, I noticed some else - Nate's tortured breathing had settled into a deep, heaving rhythm as his eyes - fixed to the ground - occasionally shot a glance up to me, as he began to wonder what I was about.
I sat again and asked him if he knew what would be expected of him if I bought him inside. He said he didn't, but was ready to serve me in whatever way I needed. And with that, I reached out and gently squeezed the lengthy bulge in the front of his trousers, and said I had some very special services in mind for him. I looked up at his sweating face, and for the first time, he looked into my eyes. No further words would be required.
With my hands on his narrow hips, I moved him square in front of me as I scooted to the edge of my seat. I pulled on the loose end of the old rope he used as a belt, and his threadbare trousers tumbled to his feet. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside as I moved my face closer to his thin, kinky bush, closed my eyes, and drew in the intoxicating aroma of his musky black crotch. Had I not been sitting, I would surely have lost my balance as the heady scent filled my senses and set my head spinning. Opening my eyes, I gently took my young stallion's cock veiny cock into my hand, examining it closely as I had never seen an uncircumcised one before, and never one like this - a good 7-8 inches, but no thicker than mine, the head completely hidden by a soft foreskin that seemed wet on the end. I looked closely at it as my fingertips eased the skin back, exposing a slick, reddish bulb of meat that gave off its own powerful scent. Now trembling, I let my tongue snake out and lick the clear, sweet drop of honey that had oozed out of his slit, swirled it around the musky head, then cradled him on my tongue as I let it slide deep into my mouth, meeting only a momentary resistance as I grabbed his hips and forced the full length of his cock into my hungry throat. I paused for the longest time there, kneading the muscular bulbs of his black ass as I breathed in his tangy odor, my nose pressed into his wiry bush - I could feel his pulsing cock slowly swelling in my throat as my breath heaved in and out of my nostrils.
As I gulped on his dick like a suckling calf, my throat muscles massaging the veiny length of his cock, my fingers found his sweaty ass crack, slick with sweat. I teased his tight hole with a fingertip, and could feel his cock pumping more dribbles of warm honey into my throat as his breathing grew deeper. I slowly slid his cock from my throat - tight than it had gone down - like drawing the dasher from a butter churn. As I started to pull him back, he gave a sudden start, jumping back a bit. With a pained look on his face, he said "I'se real sorry young mastuh, but I'se gots to reliefs myself somethin awful!" A deliciously wicked thought sped through my brain, and I took him by the hand and pulled him back to me. As he stood there astonished, I once again lifted his heavy cock and rested the throbbing head on my tongue. Young Nate grunted a bit, but didn't know what to say as I released his hand and slipped both hands slowly over his ass and up his narrow, tight back. Closing my eyes, I felt the first driblets of his scalding-hot piss drop on my tongue and roll down. When he saw me protest from me, he sighed and released a slow, steady stream of hot, salty nigger piss. I contentedly shut my eyes and closed my warm, soft mouth around his aching cockhead, alternately letting his piss wash over my tongue and fill my mouth, and taking it down in huge greedy gulps. It was clear that he'd had a full bladder for some time, and had neglected to deal with it in all the excitement of an invitation to the house. I pressed my arms and hands into his heaving back and pulled him close as he squeezed the last few spurts into my mouth. I took his cock in my hand and lovingly licked the head clean, not neglecting the acrid bits of goodness that had gathered under his foreskin.
Taking him deeply into my throat again, he spread his grimy feet apart for better purchase and began pumping his cock into my mouth in earnest. The thick saliva coating my throat must have felt like hot satin to his hard black dick as he rhythmically fucked my hungry throat, his sweaty black balls smacking my chin as his knees started to weaken and tremble. I felt the head of his cock swelling in my throat as his hands flailed wildly about, unwilling to lay them on me. I gripped one of them in mine and massaged his sweat-slick ass with the other, teasing his hole and wiggling one fingertip up inside his tight boy-ass. I drove my mouth down over his throbbing dick as he gave one final violent thrust of his narrow hips. Nate's legs tightened and he stood up on his toes as his balls began to pump a seemingly endless load of thick viscous nigger-spunk down my gullet. I forced him back until his heaving cockhead was on my tongue and, with my mouth tight around it, milked his cock of every last pungent shot of sweet, hot cream, savoring the luscious texture and flavor as it shot over my tongue and slid down. With a tight hand and a warm mouth, I teased the last drops of his juice into my mouth, then fell back exhausted into my chair. I looked up at Nate and smiled.
But now that my lusted had been sated and I had a moment for rational thinking, I realized I couldn't make Nate into a house negro. The reason was simple - besides suspicious questions from mama and papa, they would insist that he be dressed groomed for house service, soaped up, scrubbed and scented as befitted a house servant, and that I couldn't abide. No, my boy had to maintain his scruffy, grimy appearance and the heady, pungent of unwashed field nigger if he was to continue to please me as he just had. I know this was be a disappointment to the boy, so I would take steps to see that he and his family were extra-well provided for, but the aromas and the tastes of my personal service boy had to be preserved. And so they would be.