You Got the Power

One minute eighteen-year-old milk-chocolate mulatto slave, Angel, was standing on the lower slat of the fence around the horse ring at Reveille Plantation and watching the itinerate white horse trainer, Seth Granger, putting Roman Fire through his paces. In the next minute, it seemed, the small-for-his-age, but strikingly handsome young man was bent over bales of straw in the Ashley River, South Carolina, plantation upriver from Charleston, horse barn, and Granger was behind him, hovering over him, on top of him, one hand gripping the young slave's neck to hold his head down, and the other pulling the Angel's arm painfully up to his shoulder blades, and was fucking the slave to beat the band. Angel wasn't struggling against the assault because he'd been raised to expect this.

Angel was a new slave to Reveille, having been sold there cheaply for as handsome a specimen as he was because on his home plantation up the coast from Charleston at King's Hall, owned by Carlton Crosley, Angel was growing to look too much like Carlton Crosley for the comfort of the man's wife. That and Mrs. Crosley's brother, who lived on the King's Hall Plantation, was fucking Angel. This was too much going on in the family--too much fraternization with the slaves and too many blacks looking too much like Crosley's by-blows for it to continue.

Mrs. Crosley laid the law down and her husband cleaned house. So, as comely as the lad was, good for house slave work, he had to be sold south. Crosley had suggested selling him in Charleston to a male brothel, where he would have fetched good money, but the Crosleys lived in Charleston in the social season, and Mrs. Crosley would have none of that either. The young man's features were just too revealing. They were an affront to Mrs. Crosley, always reminding her of the sins of men. Carlton Crosley was an exceptionally handsome man. Angel was an exceptionally handsome young man. Charleston, where Carlton Crosley often went on business, was too close for Mrs. Crosley, if she could have her way.

Of course, Mrs. Crosley couldn't have her way in everything. She couldn't keep her husband from covering their female slaves or her brother from covering their male slaves. But they could see the sense of selling their by-blows away. There was profit both in begetting them and selling them when they'd come of age.

In Angel's case, she'd held off, because he was growing to be so handsome that she was hoping to have him in her bed herself--she held that what her husband could do she could do as well--but Angel had developed to go with men, so he was of little use to her.

The master of Reveille, Leonard Lexington, came into the barn, hearing what was going on there before seeing it, in time to see Seth Granger mounted on the slave's ass and giving him the cock. Lexington hadn't decided what to do with Angel yet--to bring him into the house, to leave him here in the stables, or to send him out to the plantation's rice fields. Seeing the young man writhing under Granger was helping him decide. It raised in him the lust to cover Angel himself.

"Look lively there, Mr. Granger. Are you taking sport while I'm paying you to train Roman Fire to trot?"

"Roman Fire trots just fine, Mr. Lexington," Granger answered, not letting up on Angel because he was at a delicate stage of the fuck and also because he knew how the master of Reveille swung. "I'm just finishing up here with a bit of pleasure."

"Make it pleasure for the both of us, then," Lexington answered. "I like watching best when I can see the muscles work, when the flesh is there to see. You are a fine figure of a man. Strip yourself and the slave completely. Let me watch you breed him full natural like then."

Granger laughed, pulled out Angel's channel, got them both stripped, and resumed the fuck. He put the young man on his back, grabbed his ankles, wishboned his legs, thrust up inside him, and began the dance of the fuck again. Resigned, Angel lay back on the bale of straw, his head and arms dangling off the far side, and endured. Knowing now of his new master's interest and being more interested himself in working in the house than the fields, Angel turned his face and eyes toward his master, showing a submissive demeanor, seeing a sure-fire means to get on the household staff.

Lexington laughed and said, "Lordy, isn't that a joy to behold? Two prime men's bodies going at each other full tilt." He unbuttoned his breeches, pulled out his hardening shaft, and masturbated to the sight of the itinerate horse trainer taking his sport with the recently acquired young slave. Lexington had marked on the good looks of the young man already. Now he was put into heat by seeing Angel fully in the mild-chocolate flesh being used--and willingly so, or at least not resisting it in any meaningful way.

After Granger tensed and released, tensed and released, and pulled away, letting Angel's legs fall to where he was dangling at four points off the bale of straw, open and vulnerable, panting and whimpering, Lexington walked over, moved one hand between the young man's thighs while still working his own shaft with his other hand. He fingered the slave's hole, smiling at hearing the gasp when he penetrated with the fingers, until he was ready to come, upon which he turned his own erection to the young man and released on Angel's belly.

Abraham, Lexington's older slave carriage driver, was standing by, as was his job to do. When Lexington had come and stuffed his shaft back into his breeches and was buttoning up, he turned to Abraham and said, "I've decided this young darkie will do in the house. Clean him up and send him to Betty in the kitchen. Tell her to have Elias train him to serve table."

"Yes, massa," Abraham answered, bowing his head and turning his gaze to the ground, but Lexington had already turned his back on the tableau and was going back to the big house.

That night it was Lexington who was kneeling between the young man's thighs in his fourposter bed at the big house. It was Lexington who was holding the young slave's legs raised and spread, with his hands gripping the young mulatto's ankles. Angel, defeated by the whip laying beside him in the bed, his back and buttocks covered in welts, was arching his back; jutting his pelvis up by demand; panting and moaning, his hands clutching at the headboard overhead to keep himself steady; as he took a cock that was thicker, longer, and more cruel than that of either Seth Granger's or Mrs. Crosley's brother.

But Angel was enjoying a bit of smile for himself. He was in the house, not the fields. Being taken or not was not in the options. He was a small, well-formed young man, more pretty than handsome. He would be taken in the fields as hard as he was taken in the house--just not as comfortably.

* * * *

Angel came into the kitchen house, saying, "Who's come, Betty? There's a fancy carriage out in the--" but then he stopped because it was evident who at least was one of those who were visiting the plantation. The who was there, lounging at the kitchen table, big, jet black, and overpowering in stature and Africanness. There were slaves who had been here for generations, many of whom, like Angel and Betty, the plantation's chief cook, had become more white than black by the breeding habits of their masters. And there were some, like this hulking monster of a man, who seemed to have come straight out of the African wild. This coal-black, magnificently hulking example of manhood bore the patterned stippling on his face of native arts being applied only in Africa. The man turned, took Angel in with a piercing gaze, and gave him a white-toothed smile.

"This here is Black Bill, bringing his man from the city to see Massa Leonard," Betty said. By the look of the food that had been placed in front of the man, Betty was impressed with him and going all out with hospitality. There was no mistress at Reveille Plantation, so Betty, a handsome, substantial, and buxom woman in her forties, who was at least a quarter white herself, had usurped much of that role for herself, encountering no opposition--not even from Leonard Lexington, who cared most about having good food on his table when he wanted it and his house slaves in order. Between them, Betty and Elias, the house manager, kept a tight rein on the house servants.

Betty would have given the big, black visitor more than just food service if he'd shown the interest. When he didn't, she was able to hold her pride because she had every studly buck on slave row at her beck and call. They kept her sassy and pregnant most of the time. It was evident she would be happy to add this big, black bull of a visitor to the list of men who had lain between her thighs and given her the poke and a baby, though.

"What city?" Angel asked, innocently. He'd been brought down from the north and had little idea where he was now.

"Why, Charleston, of course," Betty said.

Then the monster of a man, black as coal but muscular and handsome in self-assured way, spoke, his voice deep and reverberating between the white-washed stone walls of the kitchen building.

"I'se driver for Massa Clive Calvert," he said, with a show of pride. "He done be the owner to the finest gamblin' house and gentlemen's club in Charleston, he do, and he be here to squeeze what Massa Lexington owes him for gamblin' and other pleasure outa your massa. And I do see where Massa Lexington must get a lot of his pleasure right here on his own plantation." The latter remark was added with a leer in Angel's direction. Neither Betty, who hadn't been looking and therefore assumed the remark was for her, nor Angel got the inference then, but Angel certainly did a bit later.

"That's a mighty fine carriage, sir," Angel said. "And the horses. Abraham and me put the horses in the barn for now, not knowing how long before the carriage be needed. And he told me to come here to say that had been done. But he didn't tell me a man would be here to tell."

"A man who is man enough for you, boy," Black Bill was quick to note. Before Angel could answer that, though, Black Bill said. "How old you?"

"I be eighteen," Angel answer.

"You do look younger. But you one handsome slave. You not from this plantation, be you?"

"No, sir, not originally. I just been bought to here from up north, from King's Hall."

"From Carlton Crosley, maybe?"

"Yes," Angel answered, confused.

"I see the resemblance. Thas what hinted me you wasn't from this plantation--but from Crosley's. It look good on you," Black Bill said. "Massa Crosley, he gamble at Calvert's--thas the name of Massa Clive's club--but he don't use the gentlemen's club. He don't do it that way." Then he laughed. "Which would be why you is here, I guess."

Doesn't do it that way? Angel was confused, but he didn't ask more than that. Black Bill was continuing. "You best stay from Massa Clive while we here, though, unless thas somethin' you want. He do it that way. And he do it hard. You been whipped, boy?"

"Sometimes, when I be sassy."

"Not quite what I mean. I mean when a massa or a big buck like me is randy and whipping a boy like you helps them get hard nuff to stick it in him. Is that somethin'--?"

Betty interrupted. "That's not likely to be possible," she said, a little perturbed that Black Bill's interest had gone from her to Angel when the young man had come into the kitchen house. "Your Massa Clive is here for dinner and the night, I'm told. And I'm told Angel here is needed in the big house to help serve the meal."

"Well, then, mayhap I need to get my licks in first then," Black Bill said. "You want to see that fancy carriage up more close, boy?" he said to Angel.

"That would be nice," the young man answered, "long as you is going to be here till tomorrow."

They did spend some time admiring the carriage, with Angel running his hands over the fittings of the carriage and Black Bill doing a bit of that hand thing on Angel. Angel was used to men fondling him, so, although he noticed it and felt himself tremble at the touch, he had no notion to pull away from it or to tell Black Bill to stop.

Slaves being who they were and doing what they were told to do, Black Bill didn't feel embarrassed to ask Angel, "You are such a fine-looking boy. Really nice ass you got on you. Does you go under men? You happy enough with men poking you? Man got his cock in you yet?"

Angel had been going under men since Mistress Crosley's brother, so he felt no need or reason to lie. If he knew the reason Black Bill was asking, he didn't let on. But he could hardly not have noticed Black Bill's interest in him, and the man was so big and commanding looking and self-assured--and intriguingly coal black--that Angel didn't need any seduction, if that was what Black Bill had in mind. He looked down at the pouching at the man's crotch and almost swooned with anticipation.

"I take men's cocks, yes," he answered. "You slave on a plantation, you do what the boss men want."

"Just white massas, or do you take it from darkies as well?" Black Bill asked. "You had a big black one yet?"

Angel hadn't just been taken in Massa Leonard's bedroom since coming to Reveille. Elias, the master's man in the house, in charge of all there, including the keep of Leonard Lexington, there being no women of the family in residence, had his bed in a room off Leonard's chamber. That had become Angel's bed as well. So, yes, Angel lay with more than the white masters, and he admitted a much to Black Bill.

"I'se just a young slave," Angel answered. "A big man, no matter what the color, just takes what he wants from a plantation slave." He was being honest, but he also was signaling to Black Bill, a man much larger than him, that he could have what he wanted.

"Thas good to know," Black Bill said, with a big smile on his face. "I hear this is a rice plantation," Black Bill then said. "I've never seed rice fields. You have rice fields here?"

"Yes, down by the river. Do you want to see them?"

"That be right nice, yes."

"You gonna fuck me down by the river?" Angel asked.

"For sure I gonna fuck you down by the river," Black Bill answered. "You gonna spread your legs and show me your hole and then I gonna fill it good for you. You gonna squeal like a pig."

Angel shuddered, But, for truth, he liked the sound of that. He didn't mind squealing like a pig for a big-cocked man. It meant he was getting pleasure too.

* * * *

They never made it as far as the fields, but they made it to an embankment overlooking the fields and the river beyond, where Black Bill pulled Angel to the ground; brought the young man's slight body under his overpowering, muscular one; pulled Angel's and his own breeches off without much of any resistance from Angel; mounted the young man; and fed him the longest, thickest cock Angel had ever had. Angel didn't resist this much either, although the embrace and stretch of the big black African bull was far beyond what the young man had had to endure before. Endure it he did, the crows disturbed and reeling overhead being the only creatures who seemed either to hear or to care about the cries of anguished pain-pleasure Angel experienced as the monster of a jet-black man worked the young slave with his cock, filling, stretching, breeding, and seeding him.

When Black Bill was finished, he was obviously pleased, and said, "That were a good one. You be worthy of the Calvert stables. If you want to move up to the city, best you give Massa Clive a pretty eye at sup."

Angel didn't know whatever Black Bill might have been talking about, but it didn't matter. Angel was a beautiful young man. He hardly could help giving a man a pretty eye, even if he had wanted to. His disposition went too solidly with the name he propitiously had been given.

* * * *

"Is there no shirt to be worn with this?" Angel asked. He was with Elias in the butler's pantry in the big house at Reveille, prepared to serve table for Leonard Lexington's dinner for the visitor from Charleston, Clive Calvert. Angel was in tight-fitting, brown-suede breeches and with black leather slippers on his feet. The waist of the breeches dipped low, showing off the young man's narrow hips, the seat of the breeches accentuating the pert roundness of his cheeks and the hollows under his hip bones. Elias made no bones about why Angel was being dressed to be provocative, saying "Massa Leonard likes this but not that so much."

"No, no shirt. Massa Leonard wants you to be enticing for his visitor. And you are to capture and hold the man's interest and to fall in with anything he wishes. He wants to give you a poke, your job is to take him inside you and 'thank-you, sir' to me."

Angel most certainly understood why he was being dressed this way, but it was not his place to question. And once he'd entered the candlelit dining room, he didn't care and didn't really have any trouble following the instructions. In contrast to his master, Leonard Lexington, who was well up in years and on the heavy side, albeit well-muscled enough because he was a hands-on planter, keeping as much in the management of his estate as his overseer did, the visitor, Clive Calvert, was young, trim, more elegantly dressed, and handsome. He was dark haired, with the look of a fox, and carried himself with a pride that was well deserved. Angel found him sexy and alluring, and Calvert responded to him in like way. Angel, who was fully aware of what his most-wanted use was and who was comfortable, if not jaded, with that, instantly knew that the man desired, upon first look, to ride him and that he, in turn, having no embarrassment over his lot in life, would cooperate. The man was so good looking and the young slave was so conditioned to his lot in life that Angel wished to be ridden by him.

Little did he know what being ridden by a man of Calvert's refined sexual interests meant, however.

"This is the slave I was discussing with you," Leonard said to Calvert, as Angel and Elias moved about the table, serving the two men, who looked a bit lost as being the only two diners at a table able to sit twelve.

"He is a comely lad," Calvert said. "How old?"

"Tell him how old you are, young man," Leonard said.

With lowered eyes, Angel responded, "Eighteen, sir."

"A bastard of Carlton Crosley over on King's Hall, I surmise," Calvert said.

"Aye, he is that," Leonard answered, showing a bit of surprise that Calvert could discern that. "By a houseslave who was a quadroon herself, so just a touch of the darkie in this young man."

"You ride him yourself, of course."

"Of course," Leonard acknowledged.

"And he gives you good sport?"

"That he does, yes."

"On him, the Crosley look does well. Good thing Crosley is of such sturdy and handsome stock as much as he insists on spreading his seed far and wide," Calvert said. "Come here, slave. With your permission, of course, Leonard."

"Yes, yes, enjoy yourself."

Angel dutifully placed the platter he was carrying on a buffet and walked over and stood by Calvert. The man pulled his chair away at a slight angle from the table. Lexington and Elias continued with their role in the meal as if nothing was happening, while Calvert used his hands to examine Angel's body as if the young man were a horse Calvert was contemplating buying--and, to a great extent, it was an apt reference.

The man glided his hands all over the small, young, comely slave's body, his fingers going to the lad's nipples and rubbing them and tweaking them, to enjoy the young man's gasp and bit of a writhe in response to the slight pain-pleasure of the touch. The hands glide lower down the young man's torso, to his belly and beyond, not excepting his privates. The breeches easily were drawn off the young man's hips, and Calvert hefted and rolled the balls, stroked the cock to see if it would engorge, which it did, and penetrated the young man's channel with a finger. Angel held steady, but he rocked slightly into, rather than away from, the searching fingers and hands and he panted a bit and emitted low moans.