tagInterracial LoveLeasa: Flower of the South (Ch. 01)

Leasa: Flower of the South (Ch. 01)


It was before the war spread south to Georgia. It was a time when Atlanta was still beautiful and the home of many of the Confederacy’s finest gentlemen. It was then that Leasa Edwards, daughter of Colonel Everett Clyborn Edwards, was the most sought after beauty south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Heiress to one of the largest plantations in Georgia—‘Tara’—Leasa Edwards was both wealthy and lovely. This stately, young woman caught the eye of all and any fine, young, southern gentleman in her vicinity. Who could resist her slender, 5’7” frame swaying through a southern breeze? And who could not admire her fine, blonde hair coiffed demurely in a bun or rolling freely down her back. And those deep blue eyes set in a perfect face of pale white, delicate skin were found irresistible by any man who met her acquaintance.

Most men also admired her goddess-like figure: 36C-24-35. She was as close to perfect as ever a woman was...with a personality to match. She was kind-hearted, gay, and bright.

Leasa Edwards was truly a treasure of Southern femininity.

Atlanta's nights would see many of the city’s finest young gentlemen calling on “Miss Leasa”. They would take strolls with her along the paths of the city and around the plantation’s many acres. They would sit with her on the mansion’s veranda, just gazing on her beauty. But all of the courting was very much chaperoned, of course, by Leasa’s family as well as some of the house slaves.

Some nights Leasa’s daddy, the Colonel, would hold parties on the grounds of the plantation. There would be much drink, food, and partying. Some lucky young beau would get to hold Leasa’s hand while they watched the darkies dance and sing for the pleasure of the upper crust Whites in attendance.

Old, fat Sambo—one of the older slaves—would dance for the revelers and make everyone laugh till their sides split. Leasa would love to watch the funny, fat, black man dance from foot to foot playing his harmonica, his baggy pants jostling just like a clown’s.

“Oh Sambo!” she’d exclaim, “You make me laugh so!”

Sambo would smile and dance on, acting the buffoon for white society...and for the beautiful Leasa Edwards, daughter of his master.

But in Sambo’s heart was a yearning for the day that the Union Calvary would stamp the Confederacy under its hoof...the day that Sambo and his many wives and children, which he mated with and bred for Master Edwards, would be free.

One day in early spring it was announced that Leasa Edwards was engaged to Captain Jonathan Beauragard, one of the Confederacy’s finest horseman. He was a fine cut of a man with long blonde hair, a square chin and handsome features.

Everyone thought it a match made in heaven. They were two of the finest looking, young specimens the white, Anglo South had to offer. Unfortunately, their wedding came just at the time that the Union Army began its siege of Atlanta and the burning started.

At that time, Sambo and the 80 or more slaves on Tara rebelled and left the mansion and its grounds in ruins. The Union Army swept into Atlanta and the rest—as they say—is history.

After the war, things were very different in Atlanta. Social position and graces once prized in southern society were no longer of the same importance. Leasa’s daddy, the Colonel, was killed in the fight for Atlanta. It was unfortunate for Leasa that the Colonel never left a will. And with ‘carpetbagger justice’ being what it was—she was left with nothing.

Captain Beauragard owned little. Without the prestige of his military position, he had little to offer. He knew no trade and had little education for business.

Soon after the war, prospects for the once enviable, young couple grew more and more meager. In short time, they moved into a small one-bedroom apartment in downtown Atlanta...and not one of the nicer downtown areas at that.

Two years had passed now since the war, and the owner they’d paid rent to had changed several times. They were soon to understand that a Northerner now owned their apartment building and would be collecting their rent weekly rather than monthly. The young couple’s poor payment history had put them in this humiliating situation.

They awaited their new landlord’s arrival one evening, hoping he would be kind, generous, and merciful—perhaps recognizing them as once having been the cream of antebellum, southern society.

“Darling, please don’t drink before Mr. Beaux arrives tonight. We need desperately to impress upon him that we are responsible tenants,” Leasa Edwards implored her husband, who had turned heavily to the bottle over the past 2 years.

“I know Leasa, my love...but it’s been hard for me to stop. My sorrow for our lost Cause, and its honor, troubles my heart so,” the ex-Captain, Jon Beauragard replied, slightly slurring his speech, sitting slouched in a corner chair.

“Darling, we must get over the war and the changes it’s wrought on our lives. We have to find a new life and a new way...” Leasa pleaded with him, as she had done so many times before.

A loud knock on the door interrupted the young wedded couple’s well-worn conversation.

When Leasa opened the door she found a large, rotund black man before her. He appeared at least 60, dressed in a top hat, vest, suit jacket and tight riding pants. He was dressed as fine as the wealthiest of southern society. But his attire appeared so out of place on this large, over-weight Black.

Then the shock of recognition grew over Leasa’s elegant features. Before her stood the man who was once her father’s lead slave—Sambo!

“Sambo! My god, Sambo! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? And dressed in such a way?”

The black man’s face remained grim. Gone was the old, slaphappy, partially toothless smile of Leasa’s favorite ‘darky’. Before her stood a powerful, embittered African businessman. He was a businessman that expected to be paid—and repaid—all that he was owed. No excuses!

Sambo was the Beauragards’ new landlord.

“Leasa, my name is now Samuel Beaux. And you will address me as “Master Beaux” whenever you are in my presence. Is that understood?”

Leasa stepped back in shock at her one-time slave’s affront.

Her husband, witnessing all this in shock, leapt to his feet furiously:

“Why you damned nigger! I’ll teach you manners if I have to beat them into you!!!”

But the large black man simply back handed the drunken, white Confederate officer and sent him sprawling back onto the floor, his lip bloodied.

“I wouldn’t try that again, boy. Unless you’re prepared to take the beatin’ of your life in front of your wife,” Sambo admonished the shaken, Confederate soldier.

Slowly, with his wife’s help, the Captain struggled to his feet. He rushed the ex-slave again, only to receive a powerful punch deep into his solar plexus, dropping him to his knees in front of the immense black man.

Leasa watched in terror as her husband knelt in front of black Sambo, clutching himself and trying to regain his breath. She couldn’t conceive this ‘darky’, who once served as her family’s clown, subduing and humiliating her husband—her country’s hero—with such confidence, such ease, and such mastery.

Sambo reached down, grabbed the Captain by his long—now mangy—hair, and slapped his face, first with the front, then the back of his hand. He then delivered another blow to the kneeling Captain’s ribs. This last blow sent Captain Beauragard flopping over into a fetal position...moaning and whimpering.

Leasa watched in horror at the spectacle of the husband she once revered being reduced to a thoroughly beaten, whimpering shell of a man.

“If you want more, you’ll get it,” Sambo sternly warned, gazing down at the white man huddled around his feet.

“Now APOLOGIZE!!!” the ex-slave ordered the Confederate Captain, who remained gasping and whimpering at his feet.

In the stunned silence of the room, all that could be heard was the Captain’s moans and whimpers. Leasa stood looking on, unable to move—to hardly even breathe—in a state of bewildered shock.

“Well then,” Sambo said impatiently, as he leaned over and began to lift the Captain’s head by the scalp in order to continue administering the beating...

“Please,” a voice squeaked.

The voice was not Leasa’s.

The voice was Captain Beauragard’s:

“Please, don’t...don’t hit me anymore.”

“Apologize!” Sambo shouted in the Captain’s face.

After a long pause, the Captain squeaked, “I...I...apologize...”

“Master Beaux!” Sambo demanded.

“I...I apologize, Master Beaux,” the once proud Confederate repeated, as instructed.

Leasa turned away from the ghastly scene to hide her tears. It would be difficult for her to ever look her husband in the eye again.

“Get your scrawny, white ass off the floor, boy,” Sambo demanded.

“B-b-but I can’t. I’m hurt...” the Captain begged, looking up into Sambo’s black face for mercy.

None was to be found.

“You either get your useless, white ass up or I’m takin’ a belt to you in front of your lovely wife!” Sambo said, looking over to the beautiful young wife, whom he thought he noticed blushing slightly at his words.

Slowly, Captain Beauragard lifted himself to his feet.

Sambo shed himself of his coat and threw it onto the thread worn couch behind him. Leasa Edwards drew in her breath at the sight of the huge black man in his skin-tight, riding pants.

Sambo’s enormous genitalia were clearly outlined between his legs, and they hung down nearly half a foot from his crotch. The Captain could see his young wife’s amazement as she stared at the Black’s crotch, seeming almost mesmerized by the awesome sight. The Captain’s shoulders slouched more as he saw his wife’s face and neck redden in—what could only be explained as—arousal.

Sambo sat down into the couple’s only easy chair, his legs spread wide and his genitals hanging half off the front of the chair. He looked over the thoroughly beaten, white Confederate Captain slouching before him.

“Now, where is this week’s rent?” the powerful, black man demanded.

“We only have half...Master Beaux,” Leasa chimed in, hoping to make it easier on her whipped and humiliated husband.

“Well, that won’t do,” black Sambo replied curtly, “It just won’t do.”

“How will you pay the interest if I allow you to pay up in full next week?” he asked.

“How can we...?” Leasa inquired of the commanding, black presence seated before her—looking like some sort of African king.

“Maybe by entertaining me...” the Black smirked.

Turning to the Captain, Sambo commanded:

“Drop your pants, boy!”

The Captain looked at him befuddled...in disbelief at what he’d heard.

“Did you hear me, boy? I said drop your trousers—and do it now!”

The Captain froze. He looked over at his wife, almost pleadingly. Leasa Edwards averted her eyes to the floor, ashamed and embarrassed for her impotent—and now pathetic—husband.

“If I have to get up, boy...I swear, I will beat you within an inch of your life, and then take you out in the street and use my belt to whip your white ass in front of all your neighbors. You want that? A whippin’ by a black man—given to a Confederate officer—for the whole community to see? The newspapers will probably print it up too. Hell boy, you’ll be famous.”

Silent, tense moments passed slowly in the room.

“One...two...” Sambo began counting, his impatience and anger mounting audibly.

Then it happened.

Captain Beauragard slowly began to unbutton his pants.

In a moment they were undone. He glanced over to his wife, tears in his eyes, shaking in fear of his black oppressor. His young wife looked away, disgusted and ashamed of the humiliating spectacle her husband had become in just minutes before the power, strength, and confidence of her ex-slave, Sambo.

“Get ‘em down!” Sambo shouted.

Startled and frightened, the submissive Captain now quickly pulled his pants down to his ankles. He stood before the black man naked from the waste down. The Captain’s tiny penis and testicles looked ridiculous on his six-foot frame.

Suddenly Sambo started laughing uproariously at the ludicrous, under-endowed sight before him.

“Good god, Mrs. Beauragard...you must be one horny woman if this is all you ever had in your bed!!!” Then Sambo continued laughing, slapping his knee and shaking with delight.

Leasa tried to look away, however she couldn’t help but notice just how little her husband’s genitals were. Her gaze was then drawn to the sorely stretched pouch that struggled to contain the huge phallus between the black man’s spread legs. Her gaze was lost on neither Sambo nor the humiliated Captain Beauragard.

Sambo fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out his old harmonica.

“OK Captain, I’ll play. You dance!”

Sambo began playing the kind of merry tunes he used to play when he was the one commanded to dance, in the old days on the grounds of Tara.

Captain Beauragard just stood there in shock, his pants wrapped around his ankles.

Sambo stopped abruptly, “Didn’t you hear me, boy? I said, ‘dance’!”

“But...I...I can’t dance,” the Captain pleaded.

“Sure you can, Captain. Just remember how I used to do it. Lift your feet up in a little kind of a jig...go ahead! Leasa and I want to watch ya’ and have a laugh. Don’t we, Leasa?”

Leasa Edwards hung her head in shame, remembering how she would laugh at the fat, black man’s dancing years ago. She would never have imagined, in those heady times, the tables being reversed in such a horrible way...as they were now, in the awful spectacle taking place before her.

Sambo began playing again and tapping his foot. The Captain stood trembling before him.

Sambo finally stopped. He gave the trembling white man in front of him an angry scowl.

“I won’t ask again. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, BOY?”

The Captain nodded.

Sambo began the song again, tapping his foot in time.

The Confederate officer—slowly at first, then faster—began to lift his feet in a silly jig. He struggled with the pantaloons that were tangled around his ankles. But in time, his efforts paid off, and he was jumping and bobbing around in a ridiculous, little dance.

Along with the hopping and bobbing, the Captains infantile genitals flapped and swung about in ludicrous fashion. Sambo suddenly had to stop his playing to laugh aloud, uncontrollably.

Leasa Edwards turned her head away from the nightmare she was witnessing, and began sobbing. She could never again feel anything but pity for the pathetic, dancing white man before her. As she sobbed, Leasa wondered what she could have ever seen in this man.

The Captain finally fell backwards to the floor with a loud thud, his feet hoplessly tangled in his pants. He just lay there crying with shame at his own humiliation and cowardice.

“Leasa, come here,” Sambo commanded, turning to the sobbing woman who once represented the height of southern society.

Leasa dabbed her eyes, rose from her chair, and approached the black man, as instructed.

“Kneel here in front of me, girl,” Sambo ordered her.

Slowly, Leasa turned to look for any kind of protection or aid from her husband. She looked down to find him still lying on the floor, his pants tangled around his feet, just watching on, his face streaked with tears.

Leasa knew no protection would come from the thoroughly beaten and humiliated wreck of a man that lay there.

The gorgeous blonde turned back to the black man and slowly sank to her knees between his spread thighs. Her deep blue eyes were now level with the bulging crotch of the fat Black’s pants.

“I’m uncomfortable in these tights, Leasa. Unbutton them!!!”

A low moan was released from the Captain behind her. But Leasa’s eyes never left the bulging outline of the huge African genitalia before her.

The blonde southern belle’s delicate, alabaster hands slowly rose to the buttons that strained to confine the horse-sized, sexual equipment the tight riding pants contained. As the refined and elegant Leasa Edwards began unbuttoning the fat, black man’s fly, each undone button would jerk open from the strain of the over sized contents they had imprisoned.

When the buttons were all undone, Sambo lifted his hips:

“Pull ‘em down, girl,” he commanded.

Leasa Edwards reached up and began peeling the tight pants off the corpulent Negro’s frame.

“Noooo...” the deflated Captain whined softly behind her.

But Leasa moved as if in a trance. She never really heard her husband’s protest. Leasa Edwards now wanted to see the trophy-sized, stud equipment that this giant of a man possessed...more than anything in her life.

As Leasa pulled the pants off of Sambo, she stopped suddenly in stunned awe at the amazing length and girth of the stallion-sized, uncircumcised dick that lurched up before her face. Unconsciously, Leasa licked her lips. As moments drew on, the blonde goddess just knelt between the obese black man’s legs, staring at his gargantuan dick.

The Captain stared too. Sitting on the floor a few feet away, he could only sit transfixed, watching the horror of his beautiful, white wife stripping the pants off, what was in his racist mind, “this old, fat nigger!!!”

Both men could see the obvious flushing of Leasa Edwards’ white skin, and the flaring of her nostrils, as she stared lustfully at the drooling, uncut, black dick, bobbing its head just inches from her face.

“Suck it, Leasa!” Sambo instructed the daughter of his one-time master.

A long pause ensued. Then Leasa Edwards Beauragard gently grasped the 12” black dick in her dainty, pale hand, pointed it toward her full pink lips, leaned forward and kissed the drooling, gooey, sheathed head of it.

“Noooo...god, noooo....!!!” Captain Beauragard whined.

Leasa ignored him completely. As if in a trance, she remained focused on the black organ she’d brought her lips to...and as she withdrew them, a long viscous, string of precum formed a gooey rope from her lips to the dick’s frothing nozzle.

The blonde beauty immediately leaned forward again and stretched her mouth obscenely wide, engulfing the fat head of the black cock. Then she began bobbing her head up and down on the Negroid dick. It was a task she had never performed for her husband, and being new to it, Leasa made loud sucking and slurping noises.

Sambo looked over to the traumatized Captain and gave him a broad grin:

“Ya’ know, Johnny boy, if a man don’t keep his woman with a secure roof over her head, well dressed...and well fed...another man will have to take care of those responsibilities fo’ him.”

Sambo laughed after gesturing to Leasa’s bobbing head when he mentioned the ‘well fed’ part of his lecture. The miserable white man just continued to lay helpless on the floor, being cuckolded right in front of his eyes by a sixty-year-old, fat ex-slave.

Leasa worked her mouth furiously over the fat, black dick that Sambo was feeding her. Her dainty white hand was becoming accomplished at shucking the monstrous organ into her mouth on her upstrokes. Her other hand had begun to instinctively milk the stallion sized testes that Sambo had hanging between his legs.

The poor, slavering southern belle could hardly palm the grotesque balls in her one tiny hand due to their swollen dimensions. So she began to use her index finger, sticking it between the two huge orbs and jiggling them back and forth. As the two bloated balls jiggled about, they slapped against the young wife’s wedding ring, smearing it with the sweat of Sambo’s scrotum.

Leasa loved the taste of the obese black man’s cock. The thick, salty flavor of Sambo’s precum mixed with the deep male musk exuding from his crotch. It made the young, Caucasian wife ravenous for the black seed that was beginning to churn in the abnormally large African testes she milked with her wedding hand.

Sambo began grunting as Leasa Edwards sucked furiously at his cock. Her blonde hair was now becoming undone as her head bobbed up and down with an ever-quickening pace. Loud smacking, sucking, and even snorting sounds were echoing throughout the room, as the once demure beauty became a hungry, cock-sucking whore for the old, black man who was now offering her his dick.

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