MACKENZIE'S JOURNAL III

Whitlands

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" Mrs. Whitfield asked.

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

She looked at her daughter and raised an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," her mother said stonily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, he will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you divined my intentions?" he asked.

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

"Presume," he commanded.

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

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

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

"Who?"

"Jonah."

"Who will oversee Ironwood?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was she?" I asked.

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

"Then why did he think it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is. And this is my bed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I like the way you talk."

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

"Many times," I said with a sigh.

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

"She what?" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

"You."

"Not some other slave girl?"

"No. I'm thinking of you."

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

"Yes."

"Did she look like me?"

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

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

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mount me," I ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Harder, Master. Fuck my cunt harder."

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," I replied.

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go ahead," I replied.

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

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

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

Father waited, letting us digest his words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please excuse me," Mrs. Whitfield said.

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

"Mother!" Jane Marie exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's true?" I asked.

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

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

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

"Would you commit adultery?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued.
E. Z. Riter
MacKenzie's Journal 4