Emerald-Green Eyes

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32


Sally Mae entered the mistress’ bed chamber precisely at 9:15 a.m. with the mistress’ coffee and beignets tray. To not have done so at this precise time every day without prior counter instructions would have been courting a whipping, and Mistress Muriel ruled the plantation with an heavy whip. When Sally Mae set the tray down beside the bed, she experienced a brief heart flutter over whether also to pull the drapes on the chamber’s three windows. But protocol was protocol, and she did as she was tasked to do every day, pulling the drapes to the filtering in of mottled sunshine through the thick leaves of the magnolia trees at the corner of the house. She then withdrew as quietly as she could.

Her head was bowed, her emerald-green eyes looking straight down at the worn oak floorboards. All of this would make it quite obvious to anyone observing that she wasn’t looking at the four-poster mahogany bed that dominated the room. But of course she knew what was happening in the bed—and who it involved.

Why couldn’t they have let the bed curtains down, she wondered, as she took up station in the plantation house’s upstairs corridor. She sat in a straight-back chair not far from the mistress’ door, in wait to be able to perform her other tasks for the mistress—the dressing and then the cleaning of the chamber—the minute Mistress Muriel wanted her to be there.

While she waited, Sally Mae’s emerald-green eyes slitted, she licked her lips, and she dreamed of what she had seen in the bed and of who she couldn’t know to have seen—especially of the young man, his finely sculpted, tanned naked torso, raised on an elbow as he leaned over the side of the woman and looked down at the woman’s still-firm breasts, the nipples large and rosy in their arousal.

As Sally Mae had been entering Muriel Smithson Livingston’s bedchamber at Briarton, on the Mississippi, a plantation downriver from Baton Rouge, about half way to New Orleans, the young man in question, Jarid Livingston, had been embracing Muriel from the back and leaning over her side. Both were lying on their sides. Jarid was languidly fucking the woman from behind. They were lying under a single sheet, the ruffling and rustling of which left no doubt that the younger man had his hard cock buried three-quarters of the way up the older woman’s vagina and was slow pumping her.

Sally Mae, a house slave, had every reason to understand how well the cock of the young man could work inside a woman. As she moved silently toward the door, she placed a hand on her only slightly rounded belly. Indeed she knew what Jarid Livingston’s cock could do inside a woman.

Muriel, as the mistress of a large southern plantation and a Smithson by birth, had been pampered all her life and was still a voluptuous, shapely, raven-haired beauty at the age of thirty-eight, which, for a woman of the south who led a more rigorous life easily could mark a haggard middle age. Still, she was old enough to be her lover of the morning’s mother, as Jarid was barely twenty. And, in fact, Muriel was Jarid’s mother.

Muriel was a Smithson, and the Smithsons of a handful of family-held plantations on the Mississippi, including Briarton and the family seat, Smithfield, “enjoyed” (if one could use that word in this context, although the Smithsons themselves didn’t seem to care) a dubious reputation throughout the region between Baton Rouge, to the north, and New Orleans, to the south. They were well known for their inbreeding and their uninhibited propensity to fuck anything that moved.

Before marrying an older second cousin Livingston and, upon John Livingston’s death, adding Briarton to the Smithson holdings, Muriel’s lover had been her brother, Tyler Smithson, now patriarch of the Smithson clan, resident at Smithfield. Since her husband’s death, Muriel, who was highly sexed, and once having declared at a Baton Rouge cotillion banquet that semen was good for the skin, had taken on a series of lovers. The latest of those, now that he had grown into adulthood, was her own handsome-of-face and perfection-of-body son, Jarid.

That was only a recent development, though, as Jarid had been up at the College of William and Mary in Virginia, studying for the law before having done his grand European tour. He had only been back at Briarton for two months and had only been in Muriel’s bed for the last five nights.

But they had been long nights of sex. Muriel was insatiable and Jarid was born randy and indiscriminate. He had also developed into a sexy, irresistible hunk with a horse-hung cock—the spitting image of his uncle Tyler. In fact, he had been sent as far away to college as Virginia so that every child born to a comely woman between Baton Rouge and New Orleans wouldn’t have the Smithson’s signature emerald-green eyes.

Such were the mores of the American south in the early nineteenth century that Muriel and Jarid may not even have been aware that the house slave, Sally Mae, had come into the bed chamber to set the morning coffee tray and open the drapes while Jarid was fucking Muriel in the four-poster. Slaves in those days were invisible until their masters and mistresses türbanlı escort wanted to use them for something—or noticed that they weren’t there, for which they were called lazy and shiftless.

Sally Mae was outside of the chamber and settled in the corridor to knit a wool scarf before Jarid tensed and barely had time to pull his cock out of Muriel’s cunt, bury it in her other passage instead, and pump three times, jerking, and ejaculating. When he’d done so he snuggled up closer to his mother and she twisted, turning her face to his, and they kissed.

“That was nice, sugar,” she whispered. “Today I’d like you to take some of the men out to the levy and check for storm damage.”

“Can’t, Mother. I’m riding to Smithfield today. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Smithfield? We? What are you up to?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? I got married while I was in New Orleans last week.”

“Married!” she exclaimed, sitting up in the bed. Jarid snaked a hand around her back and latched on to one of her breasts to distract her, but she shrugged him off, and moved away from him. She then turned back to him and lifted the sheet to cover her chest. “I’ll be damned if you get married without my permission. Who is this slut? Is she pregnant?”

“I don’t need your permission to marry—or to do much of anything else—Muriel,” Jarid answered, flaring a bit. “I’m of age, and if I pushed the issue, I’m legally the master of Briarton now. If it amused me to work as hard at it as you do, I’d assert my authority. And, yes, of course she’s pregnant. Would I be marrying her otherwise?”

“Who is she? Some doxy from New Orleans? But, no, either she is a woman of wealth or her daddy’s got a big gun. You wouldn’t marry her just because you’d fucked a child up into her.”

“No, she’s not from New Orleans. That’s why I’m going to Smithfield to retrieve her. It’s Susan. And I guess you could say her daddy’s got a big gun. You certainly have thought so over the years.”

“Susan? Tyler’s daughter, Susan?”

“Yes. Cousin Susan. I don’t see an issue. Smithsons frequently marry their cousins. You married a second cousin. And now, when Tyler dies, I’ll become master of Smithfield too. I would have thought you would salivate at that development.”

“Susan. You can’t marry Susan!” Muriel had climbed down from the bed, pulling the sheet with her, suddenly putting a barrier between her and the son who not more than five minutes earlier had been inside both of her passages.

“Apparently I can, Mother,” Jarid said, sitting up in bed. His voice had turned to an amused tone. He had been looking forward to informing his mother that another woman was coming to Briarton to demand some of his attention and to compete as woman of the house. Muriel was being entirely too possessive, and he was determined to become the master of the plantation in fact, even if his mother had ruled it with a horsewhip for a dozen years. He hadn’t meant for Susan to get pregnant, but he had to admit that it fit in with his plans.

“No, you can’t! Not her. You don’t understand. This can’t happen.” Muriel gathered her sheet about her and marched to the door to her water closet.

“It has already happened,” Jarid reiterated. “I fucked her; she’s making something of my seed—good old Smithson baby-maker wine.” But he was speaking to the closed door of the water closet. He scooted over to the edge of the bed and jumped down to the floor—the mattress having been raised to where even he couldn’t put his feet flat on the door. He bent down to scoop up his clothes, but he was thinking of Susan and of how he’d fucked her from evening to morning in that New Orleans hotel the day they’d hurriedly gotten marriage. She was a luscious and saucy little piece, and her pregnancy had only made her body riper for him, her breasts full and firm, her belly more round, her labia seemingly puffier between his lips. And there were no thoughts of consequences as he released his seed deep inside her—she already had quickened.

The thought of what he and Susan had done, what he had planted inside her, gave him a hard on. And that being the case, he didn’t start putting his shirt and breeches on. He hadn’t been oblivious to the passage of the sweet little morsel of chocolate, Sally Mae, through the bed chamber after all. Instead of dressing, he went right out into the corridor, in the nude, and smiled at Sally Mae. She started up from the chair she was sitting in in wait to help Mistress Muriel get dressed. She turned and darted for the door to the servants’ backstairs. Just to be sure, though, she glanced around when she got to the door and gave Massa Jarid a saucy little smile—or rather she smiled directly at the magnificent erection standing up from his curly black bush.

Jarid caught her at the top of the servants’ staircase, pressed her chest against the wall, and gathered up her skirting. A tug as her loosely woven cotton drawers was enough to rip then from her body. In no time he was pressing her cheek to the wall with hand to the back of her neck, snaking his other hand around to palm her two-months-gone tüyap escort belly until he’d gotten his cock inside her cunt. Then he moved the hand down to cupping her muff and working her clit as he went down the road of pumping her full of broadly shared Smithson-Livingston cum.

Sally Mae stood docilely under his control, her emerald-green eyes were flashing, but there was a tight little smile on her lips. She was just a slave; she had no say in which of the Smithson men used her. She very well might have welcomed Jarid using her anyway, though. He was young and virile and handsome—and he was a man and a half where it counted. And she enjoyed his cocking. He was just a much younger version of Massa Tyler from over at Smithfield. And she had to admit that she enjoyed Massa Tyler fucking her to when he visited Briarton.

Massa Jarid also was giving her a baby. And her work would be slightly alleviated thereby for several months. When he released inside her, she felt his hands go to cover her belly as he nuzzled the back of her neck with his lips, and she heard him sigh, both of them knowing that she too would be giving him a child at Christmastime.

Her mother had told her to stay away from all Smithson men, but how would that have been possible? It hadn’t been possible for her mother. Sally Mae knew she’d been gotten on her mother by Massa Tyler. But that was the way of the South. And it benefitted her. She was light skinned thereby, a mix of the races. That turned her to service in the plantation house rather than in the field. Her mammy was begot by a Smithson too. And it had gotten her in the kitchen rather than the fields. It was the way of the South. Probably always would be. There would be Smithsons on both sides of the color bar marching down through the ages. Sally Mae would only be beyond the bar in decree. Her skin was almost as white as Mistress Susan’s.

You go on and put your seed up there inside me again, Massa Jarid, Sally Mae mused in her brain as he was doing just that. You’all can do that much as you like. T’ain’t nothing you’ll get out of it that hasn’t already been started. Of course, Massa Tyler had been visiting Briarton when Massa Jarid first came home—and first laid his hands on her. Sally Mae couldn’t really tell who the father would be—Jarid or Tyler. Not that it mattered. At best, it would mean that the child, when grown, would work in the house, not in the fields. And one thing was for damn sure. It would have emerald-green eyes, and that meant it would forever be a step above the field hands.

Another thing she knew was that both of the Smithson men got to her before a darky of the field did, although they were all sniffing around and fucking her now. Her first baby wouldn’t have to work in the fields.

* * * *

Susan Smithson Livingston sat up on the end of her bed at Smithfield, rubbed her chafed wrists, and brushed her petticoats and long skirt down off her thighs. He had been particularly rough with her that time—her father, Tyler, when he’d pushed her on her back at the foot of the bed, roughly worked with his hands in her folds and cunt and at her clit, underneath her skirts as he stared fiercely down into her face, waiting for her to beg for his cock.

She had, of course, begged for it, which pleased the old man. Her father controlled everything in her world—or had done so before she married Jarid, which was just exchanging one master for the next. But she had learned to manipulate him to get what she wanted. Old Willa Ann, her nanny, had long ago told her of the ways of the Smithson men and also the ways she could get her own way with them. Susan had been left motherless and to her own defenses early in life. Tyler was going to fuck her anyway when she became old enough to arouse him, Willa Ann had declared to her, so she could just learn to make the best of it. Will Ann had known what she was talking about.

Pushing her skirts and petticoats up to her waist, Tyler had spread her thighs with his knees, thrust inside her, and pumped her as he leaned over her panting torso, his emerald-green eyes boring into her own eyes of the same color. She’d moaned for him and whispered the words she knew he wanted to hear and made the most of the big, hard cock inside her that, indeed, was able to bring her to orgasm, while he held her to the bed and fucked her with long, sure, knowing strokes with his hands pressing her wrists into the bedspread. She had moved her hips against him as his thrusts had gained in speed and become rhythmic and his breathing had grown heavy and hoarse, and she had known just what to do with the muscles of her passage to make him release his seed.

Manipulating her father had led to Susan being a tease with men, with a readiness to submit to their lusts to gain her own sense of power and control, and with a deep hunger for the orgasms men could give her. And her youth and shapely figure—at least for now—and her dark, sensual beauty had made many a man want her. But now that she was pregnant and soon would start showing, she had needed a husband. Surveying those who could tuzla escort not deny parentage if she claimed it, her cousin, Jarid had been the best bet. She was an only child, but her father would never let her inherit and control Smithfield. She had always needed an arrangement that protected her interests. Jarid was the perfect foil for that. He also had a magnificent body—a body constructed far keener than his hard cock-obsessed mind was. She felt fairly certain she could dominate and control him.

The choice of Jarid had the added advantage that he couldn’t deny parentage. Two friends had stood watch on the door at Smithfield during his coming-home party, while he had fucked her in her bedroom—a coupling she had thoroughly enjoyed. So, being shackled to him wasn’t a disaster as long as he continued to plow her to gasping orgasms. Within two hours of that, though, two other men, including her father, had released their seed in her. She couldn’t, for sure, say who the father was—and at least in Tyler and Jarid’s cases, they were of such identical countenance that a child favoring one would equally favor the other. Thus, it was up to Susan to declare the father—and then for the one she declared to quietly and swiftly do the honorable act.

The southern code of conduct was strange and powerful force. Even a Smithson wouldn’t deny begetting a future heir to family name and fortune.

Tyler had roared with anger when she told him that not only was she pregnant and had declared for Jarid, but she also had secretly married him in New Orleans. This had been the cause of the particularly rough fuck—one that she, nevertheless, had thoroughly enjoyed. When Tyler had cooled down, though, he had realized the wisdom of her choice. No one had ever batted an eye at the by-blows he had deposited around the plantation and the region between Baton Rouge and New Orleans. But none of them had been gotten off his own daughter. That, certainly, would set the region buzzing. Susan’s choices had negated that problem.

But he was quick to anger nonetheless and he was also quick to change his mind and his moods. He had treated her so roughly that Susan feared his fickle moods and what he could do under the influence of drink. He’d left her and gone directly to the bottle.

Thus, he was not more than fifteen minutes beyond stuffing that big cock of his back in his breeches and marching off for his study when Susan was calling for her personal maid, Sadie.

“My husband is coming for me tomorrow, but I fear I cannot spend another night under this roof. I will go to him at Briarton today. Run and tell Samuel to bring me my trunk—without my father knowing it—and you must help me pack. We will leave as soon as Papa has sunk into his usual drunken stupor.”

The young slave woman turned her emerald-green eyes to Susan and agreed with the wisdom of her choice. She regretted the young mistress wasn’t taking her too, but such hopes were useless. The massa would demand that she be here to serve his needs—there would be even more of a demand from him if Mistress Susan wasn’t there. And going to Briarton with her was no answer either. Massa Tyler visited Briarton regularly. There was no place where any slave woman he took a notion to poke could hide from that man on a Smithson plantation. And Sadie had already heard of the insatiable appetite of Jarid Livingston, the man Mistress Susan had secretly married.

Samuel, the carriage driver, delivered the trunk. Both Susan and the slave woman looked upon him with a smile. Of all the house slaves, Susan relied on Samuel, a strapping, muscular, easy-to-look at young man with milk-chocolate skin of a mixed parentage, like most house slaves, for support, and, given Tyler’s increasing drunkenness, possible protection. In turn, there wasn’t anything Samuel wouldn’t do for Susan. He would drive her to Briarton, but she’d do everything in her power to keep her there with him rather than send him back to Smithfield.

“Go, lurk near the study, Samuel, until we have packed this trunk. Then you can take it to the town carriage, and I will join you in the carriage house for the drive to Briarton.”

When he’d left, Susan and the house slave, Sadie, worked side by side quickly and efficiently to load Susan’s trunk. The two young women could be mistaken for twins as they worked together, save that one was mistress of a plantation whose family owned the other. The similarities between them were striking. If not twins, they certainly could pass as sisters—which, in fact, they were in half measure, both having been fathered by Tyler.

Half way between Smithfield and Briarton, Samuel turned the carriage into a narrow, tree-shrouded track that led down to the banks of the Mississippi. There on a bed of ferns in a slight depression by the river, hidden from view in every direction, they hurriedly stripped each other of their clothes, and, both naked and glorious of ripe young bodies, Samuel lay on his back, staring up, lovingly, into Susan’s rapturous face through his emerald-green eyes. Susan, her rump nestled into Samuel’s groin and her hands palming his bulging pectorals, languidly rode the cock of the black, muscular, stud who had had her maidenhead and who, of all her lovers, was her preferred one, despite the great color divide existing between them. If she could have her choice of any man to dominate and to have impregnated her, it would be her carriage driver—and half brother—Samuel.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir yanıt yazın