Date: Fri, 10 Sep 2004 21:42:44 GMT
From: "anonymous4371@juno.com" <anonymous4371@juno.com>
Subject: The Mississippi Mustee (Historical)

THE MISSISSIPPI 'MUSTEE'

by Bill Smith

          [AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place in Southern
          Mississippi and New Orleans in 1842; just 21 years before
          the Emancipation Proclamation]


     "Masta, Masta," the young black shouted excitedly, "there's one of
them there mustees, I think, coming in the gate.  Either that, Masta, or
they've got a white gentleman all chained and hobbled up just like a black
nigger somehow.  I'se don't know what to make of it, Masta!  You better
come out front, Masta, because none of us dumb niggers knows what's to do.
I'se can't tell the difference most of the time no how between one of those
mustees and a white gentleman, Masta, so you'se better come see for
yourself.  He's in a coffle with about 18 others, Masta, being led by a Mr.
Peterson, that dealer from Jackson we do business with all the time. But I
don't see them mustees much, but I suppose Mr. Peterson knows what's he's
doing, yes sir, Masta."
     The master, Mr. Stopes of the esteemed "Stopes & Carney, Esq.,
Livestock Dealers", slowly finished his morning coffee, placed the cup back
in its saucer, lifted his considerable bulk up out of the office chair, and
said, "God Almighty, Ganymede, cut all the damn clatter and stop telling me
what to do, you goddamn little nigger bastard. I tell you I'm going to whup
your black butt till it bleeds if I catch you telling me what to do one
more time. You're getting just too damn uppity for a damn nigger slave that
ain't worth what it cost to feed you.  Now what's all this about a mustee?"
     Ganymede looked somewhat chastised by all the admonishments, but
promptly lowered his deeply lashed dark eyes and said, "Masta, there's a
slaveboy out in the yard there that looks just like a white man, yessiree,
and if he IS a slave and not some white gentleman all chained up or
something, then his nigger blood sure doesn't show much, I'se don't
believe. Mayhap he be a cross between a quadroon and a white man or
something, but he sure don't show much of the nigger in him if he be a
slaveboy all right.  You'se remember that octoroon wench we sold last
Spring to that gentleman up in Alexandria. Well, master, this slaveboy
whiter even than her, I swear's."  Ganymede made his little speech as
contritely as he knew how and hoped he hadn't angered Mr.  Stopes more than
he seemingly already had.  Only last week, Mr. Stopes had had Ol' Jacob
give him five lashes on his butt for being too "uppity" which still hadn't
healed and caused him to have to sleep on his stomach even yet.  Worse,
yet, those lashes had been administered in front of all the yard slaves
which added to his humiliation, especially since he'd been kept butt naked
the rest of the day so it would "get some air on you where you're still
bleeding," as Mr. Stopes had said.  Another whipping on top of last weeks
and Ganymede just didn't know if he could take it or not. There was no way
he wanted to get Mr. Stopes all upset with him again, no way.  From now on,
he was going to be the best little nigger boy Mr. Stopes ever knew in his
whole life.  No need to whip Ganymede, no need at all.
     Mr. Stopes did decide to go down to the yard and when he got down to
the coffle Ganymede was talking about, he let out a low whistle between his
tobacco-stained lips.  "Jesus, Josh," he said looking at Mr. Peterson, the
dealer from Jackson, "looks like you all either bleached a nigger white or
we've got a white man by mistake or something.  Jeez, that nigger sure
looks white, if that's what he is - a nigger I mean.  I suppose you
wouldn't have a white man all coffled like that, smart as you are, Josh."
     "Look, Conrad," Mr. Peterson addressed his longtime business
associate, "you don't really think I'd chain up a white gentleman now do
you.  No sir, Conrad, this is a genuine guaranteed mustee from up around
the Delta region in central Mississippi.  I bought him off some poor old
white trash up there - that's the only slave they had to sell - and they
wasn't very talkative about where he came from.  I suggested to them that
he was probably a bastard pup out of some master fiddling around with his
octoroon gal or something and ended up near pure white.  But eventually the
man selling him to me told me it was worse than that.  I fed him a little
corn likker and he told me he was given to them as a baby about 20 years
ago by one of the house slaves up on one of the big plantations up there on
the Delta.  Turned out, the mistress of the plantation was a fairly young
widow woman who'd been fooling around with some of the bucks on the
plantation.  Seemed she just couldn't keep her hands off them and she
didn't seem to give a shit what people would say about it - just sort of
kept to herself on that big old plantation and just did what she damned
pleased.  He said one of her regular bed bucks was a big, strapping
octoroon slaveboy she'd bought down here at this very spot.  She'd no
sooner got him home than she was bedding him down right regular and before
too long, she found herself knocked up as big as any wench in the barns.
Well, he claimed she tried her best to get rid of it, but all attempts
failed, and so she just up and birthed the little bastard who was born as
white as the driven snow.  But she didn't want to keep it around because it
raised too many questions due to its high color and all and she'd been a
widow far too long to claim it as her own, so she had her maid give it to
us to raise and sell when it got growed.  That's what he claimed anyway.  A
pretty sorry story if you ask me, but that's what happens when our Southern
women don't have the protection of men around.  And, you know, those
slaveboys are always going to despoil any of our pure white woman any
chance you give them, yes sir. Sometimes I think we should just castrate
the whole bunch of them, horny as they are all the time," and he spit into
the ground for emphasis. "At any rate, after looking him over good, I'm
sure he's got traces of nigger blood in him, all right, so I bought him
from that white trash for a decent price considering the circumstances, and
brought him down here with the coffle for you to sell at a big profit if
you can find the right situation for a oddity like that."
     "What made you believe a cockamamie story like that," Mr. Stokes
countered.  "I'm sure things like that happen often enough, but usually you
just get rid of the git so there's no evidence one way or the other.  Why
would you give a baby away that could stain your reputation and all?
Sounds mighty unlikely to me - especially if the widow were young and rich
as you claim."
     "I admit I was leery at first, but when you look this one over, I
think you'll see the nigger in him, just like I did.  But one thing that
puzzles me, though" Josh continued, "is that this mustee doesn't seem to
have much slave training in him at all.  He's always protesting and
carrying on like he don't think he's a slave at all.  All I can figure out
is that white trash just raised him like his own son or something and
didn't consider he was a slave by blood and God's destiny."
     Conrad snorted and said, "You telling me, Josh, you think this white
trash so hard up he's selling his own git after he'd growed 'em and trying
to pass his own white git off as a mustee?  I've heard tell of it, of
course, but it sounds to me like he knew all along this mustee was a
slave. Maybe his own git all right, but most likely out of some nigger
wench he had ahold of back then or something.  My guess is if he didn't own
any other slaves than this half-breed bastard he'd bred out of some bitch
Negress, he didn't know poop shit about managing a slave proper and just
brought him up free willed and wild as an willow. That's the way white
trash is.  They don't know nothing about breeding and raising livestock or
crops or anything else.  That's why they're always so damn poor they can't
even afford to feed themselves, let along buy them the help they need to
get ahead in this world," and Conrad tried to cover Josh's spit with his
own on that definitive statement.
     "Well, anyway, let's see what you got if you so damn sure you ain't
got a white man all chained up here by mistake.  Get him shucked down so I
can do a proper examination.  If he a damn mustee, no telling what stories
he'll come up with to throw us off - all that human blood in a mustee makes
them clever you know - but it turns devious in a white nigger so you got to
watch out for'em all the time, I tell you. Have him gagged while he's being
shucked down - I don't want to hear any of his damn white nigger lies while
I'm examining him.  Just what made you so damn sure, Josh?  You just have
looked him over good?" and with this Conrad raised a quizzical eyebrow.
     "You get up close and you'll see those little tell-tale signs that no
nigger can hide," Josh answered.  "There's a little hint of kink in that
curly blond hair of his and he ain't got much facial hair to speak of - at
least not as much as most white men have - and he got's just a trace of
yellow in the whites of those big blue eyes so I didn't let that fool me
either and although I don't see a trace of nigger in his nose, his lips are
quite puffy and pretty big for a white man - a lot bigger than most white
men's at least, and his ears are smaller than most white men I know.  That
was enough proof for me initially, but what really proved it you've got to
see for yourself, Conrad."
     "Well, we'll see.  Nigger blood's hard to cover up, all right, and it
seems to be you've been able to see right through all that white blood in
him to the nigger he really is," Conrad said in a warm, confirming tone.
"But what's all this proof that will convince everyone he's a nigger deep
down inside?"
     "Come see for yourself," Josh said, and led Conrad back into the
unshaded yard where the coffle had stopped but where the slaves now stood
shed of what little covering had been on them on their long journey to New
Orleans. The mustee was struggling in his chains and trying to yell but
he'd been gagged effectively and all you could hear out of him were some
muffled shrieks and wild-eyed looks. "See," he said, pointing to the
mustee's genitals with their fine light covering of blond hair.  "Ever see
anything like that on anything but a nigger, Conrad?"
     Conrad stared a long time, went up and hefted the sexual apparatus for
a better look and after carefully weighing the ball sac and the penis in
the palm of his hand, said "By God, Josh, you're dead right about this
nigger.  No one but a nigger could be hung like that.  That nigger blood
will show every time, even though this nigger boy could probably pass for a
human if it wasn't for this horse dong of his giving it all away.  Lord,
almighty, just think, Josh, he could cover that monstrosity up with some
fancy clothes and pass himself off in decent society as a white man if it
hadn't of been for you and I.  Thank God we've got him right where he
belongs now - at an auction barn for nigger stock.  No chance of him
passing himself off to decent folk as human now," and he hugged Josh warmly
in a gesture of self-congratulation.
     The Antebellum South had racism down to a fine art.  All slaves were
black.  Blacks were basically animals, inherently inferior, and needed
guidance from their superiors.  As animals, blacks best responded to
treatment like an animal.  Physical, social, and psychological coercion,
fear, and constraints were all necessary just as they were for effective
management of other livestock such as a mule or donkey.  Failure to freely
employ these techniques allowed their true slavish nature to emerge and
predictable problems such as unrestrained licentiousness, inherent sloth
and laziness, and moral depravity inevitably resulted. Slavery, where their
lives were controlled by their betters, was actually a blessing for their
own best welfare as well as uplifting in their development.
     A slave who wasn't black had to be "made" black one way or another to
justify his or her slave status.  The way to do this was label him a
"mustee" which meant, a white black.  This would suggest the white had some
black in him somehow and therefore justified that white being a slave. A
careful search of the slave's physique and physiology usually managed to
reveal traces of Negro blood in them.  These traits were usually hints of
features typical of many blacks such as kinky hair, thick lips, wide flat
noses, and "yellowed" eyes. Blacks were also thought to have bigger builds
and larger muscular structure than whites which demonstrated their draft
animal status. Similarly, blacks were thought to be simple-minded, even
childlike, in their mental abilities, not unlike most other domestic
animals.  Blacks' sexual organs were also thought to be comparatively
larger, more comparative to animals such as horses than humans (whites),
reflective of their animalistic sexual lust which generally had to be
controlled one way or another.
     A white possessing any of these features could easily be accused of
being a black in disguise and therefore most whites were very careful to
flaunt their exclusive white traits at every opportunity and hide those
traits that might be associated with blackness.  White women avoided the
sun at all costs to avoid risking any skin darkening possibilities and face
powders and other makeup was always as white as possible.  Light colored
hair and blue or green eyes, highly unusual among blacks, was seen as the
ideal standard and much admired. Among white men, excessive muscular
development was avoided, clothing was highly stylized away from
practicality, and performing manual labor of any type was left to those
"born to it." Wit, verbosity, and a commanding tone in the voice were
highly valued traits in that they clearly distinguished the master race
from the slave race.
     Black behavior was rigidly specified to meet these social
expectations.  Therefore, small, non-muscular blacks were devalued as
"runts" or "defects"; blacks who were articulate or verbose were viewed as
"uppity" and "smart-mouthed" and subject to severe but necessary
"correction"; and blacks dressed up in white's clothing were seen
condescendingly as amusing "dandified pets" or "showpieces" of their
masters rather than the practical work animals that resided beneath that
fancy clothing.  "Bucks," the black males, were viewed as being continually
"randy" and in an almost constant state of sexual arousal thereby posing a
constant threat to the sanctity of white women.  Blacks of both genders
were thought to be so wanton and morally depraved that they enjoyed
engaging in sex with anybody at any opportunity.  These latter traits made
the black slaves exceptionally good sexual playmates, rapacious in their
reproduction, but dangerous in their licentiousness.
     Racism was so embedded, so developed, so perfected in the South of
1842 that it affected the victimized blacks themselves as well as the white
masters.  Blacks raised in such an environment actually thought that the
lighter the skin, the better the person; whites were smarter and brighter
than blacks as a rule; blacks were probably much better at manual labor
than whites and therefore were probably born to do that; and that blacks
enjoyed sex more because they had great interest in it and did it better
than their white masters. Believing some of this, blacks often risked
imitating whites in speech, clothing, behavior, and even looks.  Hair
straightening, hair bleaching, highly stylized clothing, and exaggerated
articulated speech patterns became almost comical in their imitative
efforts and soon became the butt of white's jokes and characterizations
which quickly embedded themselves in the rubric of stereotypes.
     And white's got trapped in the same environment.  Manual labor became
despised and the plight of poor white trash who couldn't afford black
labor; exclusive white characteristics became idealized along with white
society's own cherished concepts of moral righteousness; white religion
molded itself to support and uphold white superiority as God-given and
divinely inspired; and the legal system, controlled entirely by whites,
encapsulated all of these beliefs into a legal code which was designed to
keep things just like they were and ward off any potential threats to the
status quo of black slavery.
     The story told that my dad had sold me to a dealer had it right for
the main part.  I was his offspring out of a octoroon slave woman he'd
owned back then and he had raised me with the idea of selling me once I was
full grown.  Which is exactly what he did when a itinerant slave dealer
showed up a few weeks ago.  It was also true he was poor white trash just
like they said and didn't know squat about raising slave stock since the
only slave he ever had was the woman who had birthed me and she'd been sold
off to raise cash shortly thereafter. Therefore, I knew practically nothing
about how to be slave, let alone a "proper slave" they keep talking about,
although I'm beginning to get the idea what with the constant beatings,
humiliations, and physical and sexual abuse I've been getting since I was
sold.
        The very first night after I'd been sold, that dealer stripped me,
chained me up to a nearby tree and then proceeded to rape me right there
out in the woods where he had camped his coffee of slaves he picked up at
one farm or another over the past few weeks.  The rape, my first real
sexual experience not of my choosing, was traumatic enough; the humiliation
of being sexually used right in front of all the other slaves was equally
traumatic at that innocent time of my life. Little could I anticipate then
in those virginal days what lay ahead of me!"
     But that original dealer had second thoughts on his new purchase the
next morning and decided it might be real hard to sell me without a lot of
questions being asked since I looked to be pure white for all practical
purposes.  The more he thought about it, comparing to the others in his
coffle, he more he decided he better sell me off the first chance he got
before people started accusing him of kidnapping or abducting whites
despite the ownership papers he had on me signed by my own previous owner -
my own father. Perhaps the father had sold him his pure white son to raise
some ready cash.  He decided he'd overstepped his bounds in acquiring this
boy who looked too white to be a nigger slaver - it would probably be more
trouble in the long run than the quick profits he originally anticipated.
     The next day the coffle arrived in Natchez and I found myself chained
to the wall of a barn of a Natchex slave dealer stark nude awaiting his
inspection.  Within a hour, a rather corpulent middle-aged man with a seedy
unshaven appearance shuffled through the barn door with the dealer who had
raped me and went straight toward me.  "I just don't know, Jebediah, what
you got with this here new purchase of yours, but if it be what you say,
we'll get him off your hands faster than a pig shits its supper", laughing
at his little metaphor but adding, "of course, the value goes down
considerably when a nigger ain't got proper papers or maybe isn't a nigger
at all!"
     "Well, I'll be damn, Jebediah," this new personage exclaimed, "why
he's as white as you or me.  You ain't trying to sell a white man to me,
are you Jebediah?" and he laughed at the absurdity of it all.  "That's one
of the whitest damn niggers I've see in a while, although I've seen several
down in New Orleans that could pass if you didn't look'em over careful
like."
     "I'll need to finger him, Jebediah, so I can look him over proper,"
the new personage announced as he grabbed my genitals and pulled them
toward him. "Boy, get those legs far apart as possible so I can see what
you've got here," he barked. But I'd heard enough of this nonsense and just
spit at him in total disgust. Without saying a word, he calmly took a buggy
whip off the barn wall, uncurled it slowly and with careful aim lashed out
at my naked torso.  The pain was unbelievable - I could only describe it as
white hot - and all I could do was gasp as my breath was simply knocked out
of me. I thought I would faint, but the pain was too great.  Then I felt it
- blood flowing down my back and a burning feeling that nauseated me so
badly I began retching.  By that time, the second stroke hit and I reeled
under the shock.  The third blow and I was out.
     I sputtered under the cold water thrown on me to hear "I'll say one
thing about mustees I've noticed over the years - they just don't have much
stamina - too fine- blooded and sissified I guess - a little bit of pain
and they're gone.  Yessiree, no stamina at all like you see in those big
coal black bozals that they use down in the sugar fields.  Why hell, you
can beat on them all day and it just raises their appetite - doesn't seem
to hurt'em a bit - damn good for 'em if the truth was known - keeps what
little minds they got on what they're supposed to be doing - keeps 'em out
of trouble too," he added sagaciously.
     "Now, Jebediah, we'll look this boy over like I started to do" he said
with one of the coldest glares I'd ever seen.  Jebediah shoved me forward.
"Well, look at that, Jeb.  I've never seen the like - yessiree - this boy
must have been owned by a Frenchie or Creole - probably kept him as a pet
or something judging by the size of this," and he hefted my genitals in his
palm to weight them.
     As Jeb explained my origins, Mr. Peterson moved his hand to my penis
and started stroking me until, despite my humiliation at responding so
readily to him, I was at full erection..  He then looked me over good in
every pore of my body.  I can't explain why I didn't fight more at the
insult of his examination.  But I think my back hurt so bad I wasn't up to
any fight whatsoever until the pain subsided.  To tell you the truth, I
don't know what he did or didn't look at or examine - I was just totally
out of it right then.  All I heard was, "Jebediah, you were right - there
here's clearly a mustee, all right - look at that little bit of yellow
around those blue pupils - that nigger blood shows every time.  And look at
that blond hair curling up at the ends - that's the kinky hair coming out.
See those thick lips - oh, they're not nigger lips - but that thickness is
due to some ancestor from Africa a long time ago and he can't hide that,
now can he?  But what convinces me you're dead right about him being a
mustee is all that equipment he's sporting down there between his legs.  No
white man's hung like that! Why he's pure nigger down there and there's no
way he can hide that fact when you see him big as a bull down there even
though it appears as white as yours and mine. Might even add to his value
if we find the right buyer and all," he added speculatively unconsciously
smacking his lips.
     Without further ado, I was sold to Mr. Peterson, my 'owner' for the
next three weeks on the way to New Orleans. Sure enough, some papers were
manufactured for me stating I had been bought from a Mr. Jebediah Smith of
Mississippi and had been born on his property to his octoroon wench, Sadie,
with sire unknown, but presumed white. Mr. Paterson read me the description
of stated property on my bill of sale: "Mustee male, probably in early
20's, tall and muscular with good strong physique, sound health, and
attractive looks.  Unusual blond hair and blue eyes denoting some human
blood. Could benefit from strong discipline and further training. Should
consider as stylish majordomo, butler, or coachman. Potential stud for
light-skinned offspring if desired. Seller guarantees sound body,
sufficient wit, and freedom from recurring diseases to the best of his
knowledge." So my life was summarized in one paragraph.
     I can't describe the horror of the forced walk to New Orleans. It was
marked by ankle chains chaffing me until I was usually bleeding half the
time, a bullwhip cracking over my back and shoulders until they were black
and blue with bruises, a chronic feeling of hunger and pain, and depression
so intense I just stopped thinking after a while and shuffled along with
the others. I was filthy most of the time, unshaven, and had my own waste
all over the ragged pair of pants they'd issued each of the slaves for the
trip.  When we finally got to the slave pens in New Orleans I was actually
glad.  At last I might be able to get clean, get some rest, and avoid the
constant 'touching ups' from the bullwhip that accompanied my every
step. To add to my misery, my white skin burned badly under its constant
exposure to the unrelenting Southern sun and I had even blistered in some
spots before I began to darken up a little.
     The sale was scheduled shortly after we arrived, so the very next day
after we got to New Orleans, some potential buyers began to look us over
prior to the 'venue' as the slave auction was politely called.  Once in the
holding pens, all clothing, even my shoes, were taken away and with each
customer's 'inspection', we were expected to spread our legs, put our arms
in back of our heads, tense our muscles, and passively submit to their
pawing, probing, and fondling of our naked bodies. Most of the slaves hated
this as much as I did, but they just gritted their teeth and endured.
Those buyers checked everything: number of teeth, size and strength of your
muscles, your skin condition, your bone structure, the condition of your
feet, whether you were ruptured or not, and freedom from piles.  Everyone
under 40 was also carefully evaluated as potential broods and sires since
domestic slave breeding was all important now that the importation of
slaves had been outlawed by the damn Yankees for over 20 years now.  For
the women, this meant special humiliations such as the examination of the
condition of their nipples and vagina along with inspection of the
stretching of their belly skin in previous pregnancies.  And this meant the
men were repeatedly tested in how fast they became erect when stimulated
and minutely evaluated as to the size and firmness of their genitals once
they were excited.
     At first, I marveled at the slave's unending patience at these
horrendous violations of their privacy as well as their bodies, but it
never occurred to me the same would be expected when it was my turn.  Well,
my turn came fast enough and when I promptly rebelled, that whip came down
so fast and hard on me I was knocked unconscious.  The next time I was up
for inspection, I was as passive and spiritless as they were but coped by
just not thinking, period. At least, there was no more pain from the whip.
     The auction came the very next day and I was exhausted by the forced
march, the poor food, the lack of rest, but mostly the humiliations and
shame from yesterday's endless 'inspections'.  I swear some of those people
were just there to get their jollies at our expense in that the liberties
taken with our bodies were just too much.  And the idea of males and female
slaves being together the whole time while this was going on was more than
I could bear. I foolishly looked forward to the auction just to get out of
this hell.  I thought nothing could be worse.
     Well, I was wrong again.  The auction was worse.  I thought they would
at least give us some pants to wear since the auction was public, but when
I was whipped up on that block stark naked with my hands chained behind my
back, turned around for all to see like a piece of meat, and heard the
auctioneer describe my bodily assets with a leer in his voice as he tried
to paw me into an erection right there in front of everyone, I felt like I
was going to faint throughout the process.
      "Here's a guaranteed mustee," the auctioneer shouted to the excited
crowd.  Born from an octoroon mother and a white father, he's probably just
1/16th negro blood - enough to make him biddable, but human enough to make
him a most unusual slave for the right owner.  But his musculature, his
size, and especially his equipment proves his background.  Look at his
manhood, genetlemen, and tell me if you've ever seen anything like that on
anything but a black slave.  Just proves the rarity this boy is - a
purentee white nigger."
     At one point, as my bid price grew higher and higher, one of the
potential buyers asked to inspect me again.  I was jerked off the block
into a little side anteroom and when the customer entered, I was not just
handled, but fondled until my shame dizzied me and I simply fainted. God
knows what happened after that!
     Some water was thrown on me and I staggered back up to the auction
block (at least I noticed I was flaccid now) to the general speculation and
amusement on the part of the crowd as to what went on in that little room.
With a smirk on his face and a knowing wink, the auctioneer explained my
fainting spell was due to excessive shyness due to a pampered background
and the delicate nature often present in mustees due to their high content
of human blood.  The crowd roared in appreciation of his wit and humor.
     I must have sold for a lot of money, because when the gavel came down
there was a lot of talk and the buyer was given considerable applause as he
came forward to pay for the merchandise.  It was the same guy who'd handled
me so intimately in the private inspection room only minutes ago.
     "Don't wear that mustee out too fast, Mr. LaFitte," one dandy in his
late twenties shouted over the crowd. "After you get him trained to your
liking, you may tire of his charms eventually - that's when I'm counting on
you to give me first bid on that buck," the dandy continued, "that is, if
he can still get it up when you're through with him," and the man burst
into gales of laughter with the rest of the crowd.
     "That boy's gonna get rid just like a horse - three or four times a
day where'all he's going," another man commented loudly, "and the rest of
the time, he'll either be studdin' or nursin' at a big one, I'll wager."
This comment brought gales of laughter with a lot of knowing looks.
     "He'll need that nigger blood in him just to endure all the using he's
going to get - knowing Mr. LaFitte's interest in the best use of
good-looking slaveboys," another swaggering young planter sneered.
     My manacles were undone so I could put on a pair of ill-fitting pants
they threw at me, led out of the sales hall, tied to the back of his
carriage, and forced to run through the streets of New Orleans for a mile
or so until we abruptly stopped in front of a huge well-tended mansion.  I
was led around to the back door and, after delivering me to a huge black
butler, my buyer turned and left.
     The huge black told me he was my boss for now and he didn't want "no
trouble or you'al will feel the whip till you can't walk no how." He was so
big I wouldn't consider giving him trouble and meekly nodded. He
immediately had me bathe right there in the kitchen, rubbed my body with
some oils scented with sandalwood, and shaved me before ceremoniously
holding his nose and throwing my pants into the fireplace. He then locked a
heavy, but well fitted iron collar around my neck explaining I'd have to
wear this collar so people would know I was a slave, being so white and
all.  Otherwise people might get confused and I'd pay for that dearly, so I
was a lot better off with that collar in place in his opinion - for
everyone's sake, including mine.
     He didn't give me anything to wear before he led me out of the kitchen
and up some grand stairs into a large sitting room on the second floor. I
blushed with embarrassment and tried to cover myself, but he just laughed
and said I'd get used to that soon enough.
     When we first entered the room I didn't notice the young man sitting
over by the window until it was too late. When I saw him, I turned fifty
shades of red and tried to hide behind some furniture, but he just gently
laughed at my plight.
     "Oh, I see Monsieur LaFitte has bought me a shy one," he said rather
lightly to the butler, "but he's certainly good looking and light-skinned.
If he's as good in his duties as we expect, Mr. LaFitte may have earned
himself a bonus this time around."
     "Juno, get that slave up here where I can look him over," he directed
his butler.  "Lord knows he probably cost enough what with Mr. LaFitte's
commission and all."
     Instantly, Juno grabbed me, pinioned my hands behind me, and with his
huge strength, easily pushed me right in front of the handsome young
master, holding me rigid for this inspection of his new property.
     "Oh! He's most promising and he's already clipped," he exclaimed as he
blatantly and unembarrassingly grabbed my genitals. "Now let's just see
what we can produce here," he said softly as he began to vigorously stroke
me with one hand while gently massaging my balls with the other
hand. "Monsieur LaFitte promised me he'd buy me a big one this time.  He's
always complaining that heavy-hung mustees are hard to find these days. But
if anyone could find one, it would be Monsieur LaFitte, who seems to always
have practically a harem of them in his own house."
     I found the situation so unbelievable, I didn't know how to react due
to my own shock and just stood there dumbfounded. A man no older than
myself nonchalantly stroking away on a naked man's genitals right in broad
daylight in his drawing room?  And all the while, discussing 'heavy-hung
mustees' and 'harems' as if one were discussing the weather or the beauty
of fall foliage?  To me, this was some sort of dark fantasy - it couldn't
be for real. My upbringing had never prepared me for anything like this!
Maybe I was just a hopeless country bumpkin!
     Despite my shock, my genitals were responding as if they had a life of
their own which embarrassed me all the more. "Oh, Juno, I think we may have
something worth keeping after all," he said as he increased the tempo of
his efforts.  "But he is a shy one, isn't he?  Look at that blush - if he
gets any redder, he'd turn into an Indian," and he laughed softly at his
little joke. "That's the trouble with someone as black as you are, Juno.  I
never know how you react to all these situations unless you're stripped
down and I can check where you can't hide it. That's a good reason to keep
you out of those silly butler togs as often as we can," and he chuckled as
he fondly exchanged knowing looks with his butler. "If this one keeps
growing, he's going to be a serious rival, Juno!"
     "What's the last time you spurted, boy?" he asked as I shamefully
quickly responded to his manipulations.
     I stared at him and shook my head because I didn't know what he was
talking about.  I'm not sure I could have talked anyway I was so shocked by
what was happening.
     "Answer up, boy.  He's talking about your juices.  When did you last
shoot out your juices?" Juno prompted with a sharp jerk on my pinioned
arms.
     "That man - that man that brought me here - the man that bought me -
he, he took me in this little room before I was finally sold- and he
started handling me - and I, I - I couldn't help it after a while," and I
began to cry.  I couldn't stop sobbing. This was just too much for anyone,
I thought.
     Juno sort of kneed me and I added, "This morning - this morning was
the last time," and I cried all the harder realizing my own shame and
embarrassment in this horrid situation.
     "So Monsieur LaFitte had his fun with you, did he?" the handsome young
man laughed oblivious to my misery. "It won't be the last time probably, if
I know him, but next time he'll expect a lot more than you just juicing off
for him," and he laughed even harder at the thought of it.
     "Well, look what we have here, even with you wallowing around crying
and all.  You're a big one, all right, about as bright-colored as a nigger
ever gets, and with some proper training you'll probably be just what we
need around this place, eh, Juno?" as he increased his manipulations of
me. "He's getting it up right proper like considering he's been milked not
too long ago and all."
     "Well, no use wasting his juices again," he announced as he let loose
of me.  "Juno, I'm putting you in charge of this one for some proper
training - he's as unschooled as any slave I've seen lately.  I want you to
turn him into a proper fancy - you know what I mean - a slaveboy who knows
what's expected of him and is eager to do it whenever he's called on.  You
understand, Juno?"
     "Yes, master. We'll get this mustee trained all proper like in short
order.  Juno will make sure Master isn't going to be unhappy with this
one."
     "Well, here's what we'll do, Juno," he started in with a bemused
little glint in his eye. "No use hiding something as pretty as this under a
bundle of blond hair," he said as he hefted my genitals again in his hand.
"Get him shaved all over down there until he's smooth as a baby's butt.
And pluck those hairs out of his sac while you're at it - I want these
balls smooth with no hairs getting in the way of anything."  He let loose
of me again but stood to run his hand over my chest.  "See these hairs
around his tits, Juno?" he asked.  "Pluck them out.  I want no hair up
there if I'm going to suck on them once in a while.  The rest of the front
of him is already nice and smooth - I like these blond boys that aren't
covered with a bunch of fur like some of the mustees I've seen.  Now turn
him around.  I want to look him over good."  Juno whirled me around and
this time pinioned my arms from the front. "Good, no hair on his back, but
his butt has a little.  Shave him back there and make sure there's no
stubble when I feel that butt.  I like my boys bubble butted and baby
smooth!" laughing at his own comments. "You can leave the hair under his
arms and on his legs and arms - that doesn't bother me and look how nice
and blond it is - sort of makes him sparkle like when you put him in the
sun."
     "You show him how to keep himself that way, too, Juno, while you're
doing it.  No use you always taking care of him like he was an invalid or
something.  He can just learn to shave himself in the future and keep
himself presentable for me."
     "Juno, you make sure he understands what he's here for and what we
expect out of a fancy like himself.  He might as well learn right now that
high priced mustees like him have to earn their keep doing what's expected
with no sass, no back talk, no reluctance, and no playing sick.  Fancies
like him have got to learn to be interested all the time, no matter what.
And you make sure this boy understands what's going to happen if he doesn't
work out exactly like we have planned for him. What I'd do, to start out
right, is tell this boy what he was bought to do and what's he expected to
do around here in the future.  Then give him a thorough beating he won't
soon forget so he fully understands what will happen if he doesn't fully
cooperate at all times.  Mind you don't break his skin, though, when you're
training him this way. Then take him down to one of the cages in the
basement, manacle him with his hands behind his back so he can't play
around with himself, and let him sit there and reflect on how he can best
meet his duties but no food and water for 48 hours.  That'll show him again
who's in charge here and what he has to look forward to if he doesn't fully
cooperate as our new fancy boy.  After that, shave him like I told you and
polish him up with some of that perfumed body oil I got down at the Square
the other day.  Then send him up to me and we'll see how he works out. You
might tell him that he's not only got to meet my fancy, but he's obligated
to met the fancy of some of my friends too as we meet together from time to
time and swap our boys around now and then.  And you might as well tell him
right now about loaning him out to Monsieur LaFitte now and then for some
more intense training he'll need as time goes by to meet the needs of some
of my friends who like to play rough. And tell him about loaning him out to
some of my lady friends now and then. No use him thinking he's going to
play preferences or anything - he might as well learn right now that slaves
don't have preferences - they do what they are told to do and that's that."
     "Juno, if he's not naturally inclined to meet my needs in bed, you
might assure him you don't seem to be either, at least you weren't when I
first bought you, and yet you manage fine with me and my men friends and it
doesn't seem to spoil you at all for the enjoyment of the ladies I loan you
out to.  It won't hurt him anyway - might be good for him in the long run -
it'll sure teach him to be more useful as a fancy boy and that's the big
market for handsome young mustees."
     "And get him the livery he'll need as one of my coachmen.  But let him
know he'll not be wearing those fancy togs in this house - that's just for
show when we're traveling around town. He might as well learn now that
fancy boys are either dressed to the hilt in the grandest outfits around or
are butt naked.  There's no in-between for - especially good-looking
high-priced mustees like him."
     "And you might as well let him know right up front that if he doesn't
like all this, well, that's just too bad.  But any willfulness on his part
and he'll find himself sold over to Monsieur LaFitte so fast he won't know
what happened.  And Monsieur LaFitte, as you well know, can break a boy
down to his will in short order in that basement of his."
     I literally felt Juno shudder on this last announcement so the
basement scene was indelibly etched in my memory as a horror chamber of
some type.
     "Look, boy," and he looked at me threateningly, "fancies often get cut
when they don't cooperate to the very best of their abilities.  It makes
them safe around anybody's house and there's never a question of
respectability when you've had your male servants altered. So you think how
you'd like to be castrated like a lot of other domestic animals before you
ever start objecting to anything asked of you," he said darkly.  "That's
what you are here in New Orleans - just a domestic animal.  But you'll not
be treated nearly as well as the lowest animal if you don't respect my
wishes to the hilt!"
     With that, he waved Juno and I away, but added as we were leaving,
"Juno, as soon as you give him that lesson with the whip and get him in his
cage down in the basement, you get cleaned up proper and come on back up
here and bring Celia with you.  I've gotten all excited with this new fancy
and all.  Maybe you two can put on an amusing little show for me this
afternoon if nothing else."
     "Yes 'em," Juno responded. "I'll be up just as soon as I finish up."
I couldn't tell by his tone whether he looked forward to this, was just
neutral about it, or dreaded it.  There was no indication in his response.
      The minute we were back in the kitchen, Juno started explaining
things to me.  Although exceedingly handsome "fancy boys" had been around
for decades in New Orleans, the latest trend was to get them as
light-skinned as possible, so most of them nowadays were either mustees
like me or at least quadroons.  "Fancies" had a variety of uses around the
elegant homes able to afford them.  They served as expensive ornaments to
be shown off by their owners as status symbols in which case they usually
ended up as coachmen, ladies-in-waiting, drivers, waitresses, majordomos,
butlers, maids, or valets - wherever they'd be readily seen and often
envied.  But most fancies had less visible duties also levied on them in
sensual New Orleans. Picked for their appeal and exotic good looks, most
also served as bed mates for their owners.  Exceptionally well built and
handsome male slaves who were well equipped, as well as phenomenally
beautiful females, were eagerly sought out as concubines, always ready and
totally compliant to their owner's wishes.  Males became popular among
widows, neglected but daring wives, and rich divorcees. But the largest
market for male fancies was with rich male owners who could afford to
indulge their natural proclivities with no fear of public sanction as well
as wealthy males who could afford to fully explore every whim in all
avenues of sensuality and pleasure despite their natural proclivities one
way or the other. Still other moneyed males bought up male fancies just to
use them to shock people's sensibilities with their own outrageousness or,
even more likely, to get a feeling of power only inherent in the total and
complete control of another man's body.
     Mr. LaFitte had purchased me acting as an agent for his close friend,
the Frenchman upstairs whose extremely wealthy father had left him with no
worries for money ever. The Master, as even Mr. LaFitte called him, could
pretty well do what he wanted due to his great wealth, including flaunting
what few restrictions the French of New Orleans placed on anyone's
behavior.  Therefore, he didn't hide the fact he kept fancies of both sexes
around for his amusement, and even shared them with his intimate friends as
the mood struck him.  Mr. LaFitte had purchased me, though, in that men of
the highest social class (as the Master was) attending a slave auction,
with inspection of the livestock and the ribald talk about the slaves that
went on there, was considered poor taste and generally beneath
them. Mr. LaFitte, of a lower social standing, would certainly know what to
look for in that he himself kept a whole stable of fancies, mostly but not
exclusively male, over at his own house which he not only used himself but
frequently loaned out, usually for a substantial fee of course, to his
friends which caused a great deal of talk about town much to his delight
and amusement.
     Although I'd soon be outfitted with a coachman's togs, I would only
wear those when the Master went out in his carriage complete with his
coachmen: Juno explained as the head man he would serve as the driver, and
the other slaveboys would fill in as an assistant driver, a "horseman"
whose duties would be to ride the lead horse, and two footmen riding in the
rear for a total entourage of five.  All of the other slaveboys were
fancies too although I'd be the only mustee.  Juno, our supervisor, was
black; two were octoroons and the other was a quadroon; but all of them,
like myself, were mainly kept around for their "other duties".  Like those
other men, when I was in the house, I would usually be kept nude unless the
Master was expecting guests he didn't know well in which case I'd have to
wear my coachman outfit because it wasn't worth bothering to get me other
clothes. The only other fancy around was Celia, a light-skinned female
beauty who did most of the cooking, helped Juno supervise the men in their
cleaning of the house, and participated in the little "tableaus" the Master
liked to stage with his fancy boys in the upstairs salon for his own and
others' entertainment.
     "You've already heard how the Master wants you body shaved and all and
I'll train you in that area when I shave you the first time. You pay
attention, because from then on you'll need to keep your body exactly as
Master wants it. Once we get you trained and looking pretty, you make damn
sure you always do exactly what the Master or his friends want and you be
perky about it.  As you heard yourself, any hesitation or lack of
enthusiasm on your part and you'll find yourself over in Mr. LaFitte's
basement being trained, and believe you me, you'd rather die than go
through that.  He's a mean bastard if I do say so myself, but there ain't
nothing I can do about it," he said with a deep sigh.
     "Now when he calls you up to his rooms, he expects you to show you're
happy to be there and ready to go if you know what I mean," Juno continued.
So you practice a little on getting it up and keeping it up - that's
expected of fancy boys. It shows Master you're willing and interested and
that's what he expects at all times. I don't ever want to hear of you
getting yourself off without permission.  What you got you save for the
Master.  That'll do more than anything to keep you interested and able when
the time comes. You belong to him now, boy, and don't you forget it.  And I
don't want you fooling around with the other boys or Celia either.  You
keep your hands off of them - you're here to serve the Master and the
Master alone - not get your own pleasure. If those other boys or even Celia
try to tempt you or get you cornered or something, you let me know about it
and I'll handle them myself.  Naturally, they're a randy lot - that's why
they're here - but don't you go wasting your juices on the likes of them or
you'll end up in that basement I was telling you about. What juices you've
got's for Master's use - don't forget that."
     "No matter what Master asks you to do, you just do it.  If you don't
know what to do, you just do the best you can and ask me about it later.  A
pretty boy like you must have some experience under his belt by now so you
just do what comes natural and what you know men like.  But Master expects
a lot and you may not know how to do everything he wants exactly how he
wants it done.  You can ask him what he wants if you really don't know and
you're really sincere about learning, but mainly you just do what you're
asked to do the best you can and ask me about it later.  You been with a
lot of men?" he asked.
     "No," I answered with some finality.
     "You sure?" Juno prodded.
     I blushed. "Well, the dealer that first bought me raped me the first
night he had me."
     "That's all?" Juno responded incredulously.
     "Yes," I replied with a cold look and Juno seemed to believe me, but
was shaking his head.
     "Well, what about women then?" Juno continued
     "Not really," I answered.
     "Well, how many then?  You're no virgin I'd wager - not looking like
you do."
     "Well, no," I admitted.  "I've been with about four women I guess at
least once."  And then I remembered my experiences with some slave girls
that used to sneak out from a plantation nearby. "Well, maybe about 10
women, altogether.  Two or three of them I was with several different
times," I added hopefully.
     "Jesus," he snorted, "you might as well be a virgin.  Who in the hell
owned you anyway?  Some dried up old woman or what?  Talk about a
waste. Shit, boy, you're going to grow up in this house, believe me, and I
bet you love every minute of it. Hell, you look like a natural from what I
saw upstairs."
     "Those women you serviced.  Were they the venturesome kind?" Juno
asked.  "What'd you do with them once they got you into their bed?"
     It was obvious Juno couldn't even imagine a situation where you didn't
"service" someone or you weren't ordered into someone's bed. "Well, I made
love to them, that's all," I explained rather feebly.
     "Well, well.  A romantic if I ever heard of one.  Making love, eh?
Well, that's a good start, anyway. But you're expected to do more than
'make love', boy.  You're expected to bring your owners the greatest
pleasure they ever had - time after time without fail - and if you call
that making love fine, but it's not love to them - it's getting their
pleasures in all ways possible.  That's what it's all about now."
     "As little experience with men as you've had, you must have been owned
by some old man who only liked girls or didn't have any idea at all of how
to use slaveboys or was over the hill. That's not going to help you out
either upstairs with the Master or when Monsieur LaFitte borrows you now
and then. You've got a lot to learn, boy, and you're going to have to learn
fast.  That tiny bit of experience with some slave girls will help you out
a little maybe when the Master loans you out to some of his lady friends
now and then, but you have a lot to learn in that area too.  There's a big
difference between servicing one of the Master's lady friends and fucking a
slave girl, believe you me.  The expectations are entirely different.  From
now on, you're there to service, not get your jollies.  Oh well, you'll
learn soon enough.  It was going to happen sooner or later. It's hard for a
pretty well-built boy like yourself to avoid the attention of rich men
intent on exploring all the pleasures," he added understandably with a
wink.
     "No man's ever owned me," I retorted angrily, "let alone for that!"
     "Well," Juno chuckled, "they sure as hell do now."
     But his tone changed dramatically as he said coldly, "Grow up,
slaveboy. Just because you weren't used up to now will only work to your
disadvantage now that you've been bought as a fancyboy. You're mighty
expensive to just have sitting around playing with yourself," and he looked
at me as if he was sure I was lying about my previous experiences. "Well,
you can lie to me if you want, boy, but it won't do you no good.  But if
you're telling the truth - just by chance - you've got a lot to learn
before you're going to make the Master happy or get loaned out to his
friends.  If you don't learn quick, you'll really come back in a state of
shock, believe me.  But broken in once and for all, if I know the Master
and Monsieur LaFitte and all their friends."  Juno looked so disgusted with
me I felt sick with apprehension.
     "You're a damn virgin for all practical purposes," Juno said with
contempt. "With some of the master's friends, and especially Monsieur
LaFitte, you'd be just what they're looking for and they'll wear you out in
no time at all, believe you me," and he laughed uproariously at the thought
of it. "And those lady friends he'd loan you out to - they eat virgin boys
alive.  You better keep that to yourself or they'd wear it right off of
you, yessiree," and he went into another fit of laughter.
     "Well, let's see.  Where's that whip that won't scar you up?  Oh yes,
here it is," he said as he grabbed a whip off the wall rack that had
several menacing wide leather straps attached to its stocky handle.  "Get
yourself down to the basement where I can get you shackled up for the
whipping. I ain't got all day, you know.  Master will get real mad if Celia
and I aren't up there to amuse him within the hour.  And I've got to wash
up after training you a bit."
     With that, he shoved me down to the basement, fastened me to the wall
so my backside faced him, and, without further explanation, proceeded to
"train" me with the whip.  My screams ended in whimpering little sobs after
a while and I just slumped in the manacles unable to move after a short
while.  After that I must have passed out, because when I came to I was in
this little cage cramped up where I couldn't stand up, stretch out, or lie
down flat. All I could feel was white hot pain in my back and rump muscles,
a gnawing hunger and raw thirst.  It was a misery I'd never ever
experienced before and it was a real lesson before it was over.  I resolved
to never, never question anything again and to just do what I was told
REGARDLESS - anything to avoid this ever again. The training was a real
success, I thought ironically.
     Two days later, I was released, cleaned up, shaved everywhere as
ordered, and properly oiled, groomed, and made presentable for the Master
upstairs.  Juno made sure I understood all this was to be my responsibility
from now on and I paid careful attention to what was necessary, including
such trials as shaving my ass cheeks with a mirror, plucking stray hairs
out of my tits and balls, and other challenges.
     Next, I was fitted with the coachman's outfit the Master had
personally designed for all of us: skin-tight indigo blue cotton tights
that laced up the crotch which were fitted so low on the hips the top came
to three inches below my navel, a white pullover shirt made up of a tight
fishnet material that allowed total viewing of your upper torso, shiny
black patent leather boots and a indigo blue headband which kept my hair
neat.  The entire outfit was revealing I felt even more naked than I did in
the house, probably because I was obviously "on display" in this outfit,
especially since the white laces over the crotch contrasted so with the
dark indigo tights that people's eyes were drawn to the clearly defined
budge in that area. With the iron collar around my neck, the fact I was
someone's possession was plain for all to see and the outrageous costume
seemed to publicly announce that possession's main purpose.
     But the outfit was only to be used when we were outside the mansion
and Juno taught me how to properly fold and store the outfit as soon as he
was satisfied with the fit. Juno reminded me once again that my shaved body
was to be fully displayed at all times I was in the house or on loan to one
of the Master's friends.
     Then it was upstairs with me and a reintroduction to my new owner.
When I arrived, he called me to him and began playing with me right away
until I got erect. I never moved while he was doing this, but kept my legs
spread apart and my pelvis thrust out as he instructed.  He then had me
remove his clothing and led me over to his bed.  I did everything he asked
without question and tried to please him with my gentleness and interest in
his pleasure as Juno had strongly suggested.  He told me to hold it in
until he granted me permission to cum or I'd be sorry, and even though this
was one of the hardest things to do I'd ever attempted, I did manage it
using every trick I knew of (and some Juno had shared with me on the way up
to the drawing room) and when my master told me I could "get off" at last I
sighed out of pure gratitude and had the most copious discharge I'd ever
experienced in my whole sheltered life by a long shot.
     Then he called Juno up to the room and said, "Juno, he cooperated well
enough, but he doesn't seem to know how to please a man.  He gagged and
carried on like he was going to choke when I had him suck me off and when I
fucked him, he squirmed around and groaned like it was the first time ever
- why, hell, Juno, he didn't even use his ass muscles to milk me when I
screwed him.  Tell you what, Juno," he continued with a sigh, "I'm giving
you special permission to beat this boy every night just like you did two
night's ago so he'll learn his place and then I want you to fuck him good
so he'll loosen up some and learn to use that ass of his to start bringing
some pleasure to people in this world.  And then I want you stuffing that
black monster of yours all the way down his throat and you get him to
swallow that thing all the way down while he's sucking his heart out.  And
you make sure he swallows every last drop, you hear, Juno?".  Then, while
he's digesting your cum, you lock him up in that cage in the basement so he
can reflect on how to best serve his master.  Just for two weeks, mine you,
to sort of give him some good training.  And, Juno, while I'm thinking of
it, you have Apollo and Adonis and Buck stuff it down his throat and up his
ass while we're at it - but those boys aren't going to be allowed to shoot
off while they're using him - just you - that's all the cum we can waste
around this place," he laughed, "but just for two weeks, that should be
enough to get him trained proper like."
     He looked threateningly at me and said, "you pay attention to learning
how to please a man proper. If that training with the other boys doesn't do
it, I'll sell you to one of those brothels over by the river port where
you'll be fucked so hard around the clock by every old bastard with a
nickel to spare you'll barely be able to walk ever again."
     With that, he played with both Juno and I until we were both erect and
dripping and then sent us back downstairs where Juno was to send up another
one of the coachmen, an astonishingly handsome quadroon named Buck.
     Buck had been property of the Master for several years now and knew
exactly how to stay in his favor.  As a result, he taught me a lot in his
spare time, especially since Master frequently loaned Buck out to a lot of
his men friends and a few of his lady friends in return for a special
favor, as a birthday present, or just to alleviate their boredom. So Buck
had a lot of experience with a wide variety of men and quite a few rich
women as well and could wise me up on what fancy boys were expected to do
to survive in this world where fancies earned their keep as instruments of
pure pleasure.
     The other two fancy boys in the house, besides Juno, were octoroons
and almost as white as myself.  Apollo and Adonis, as they had been named
when they were sold as "fancy boys" had been in Master's service now for
about ten years but were still relatively young since he bought them when
they were 16 or so.  Nevertheless, they were beginning to show their age
and boredom just a little and weren't quite as enthusiastic about their
duties as Buck was in my opinion.  But they were smooth when it came to
"servicing" Master and his friends.  There wasn't anything in this world
those boys didn't know how to do and do well when it came to servicing, and
that extended over into the trips to Monsieur LaFitte's also. Their main
concern was what was going to happen to them when they got too old to
please their owner.  I realized this was the plight of every fancy (and
really every slave) when you got right down to it.  All you could hope for
was that you'd get eased out into "regular" domestic service which I assume
most of them were eventually. Whenever I talked to them, I couldn't help
notice their casual, non-evaluative way of reflecting on their duties as
bought chattel - I wondered how long it'd be before I was just like them.
     After my two week "training period" was over and not only Juno, but
Buck, Apollo, and Adonis had all used me over and over as the Master had
ordered, my life settled down into a routine.  At least one daily call up
to the Master for his pleasure; sometimes twice a day.  Sometimes with
Celia while the Master watched or even directed on occasion.  Sometimes
with one of the other fancy boys in the same bed with us. And occasionally
loaned out to one of his friends as a gift who generally used me pretty
hard until I'd be sent back to Master's completely exhausted. Several
times, I simply couldn't "get it up" when he wanted me after some of these
loans, so he got in the habit of giving me eight hours relief after the
visits before he asked for me which pretty well solved the problem.  I'd
been loaned out to Monsieur LaFitte twice, but thank God each time he
simply fondled me until I ejaculated just like back at the auction house
and then let me just watch the others in action until he had me suck him
and a few of his friends off and I was sent back.  Of course, his demands
could change at any time.
     One time, while I was servicing the Master and one of his friends
simultaneously, the friend asked if he could borrow me to 'serve stud' for
a few of his 'broods in heat'.  "Be doing all of us a favor," the friend
expounded.  "Using a light-skinned stud like this would help brighten the
breed," and we can start with three wenches I got need to get knocked up -
been over five months now since they popped their last suckers. Pay you a
sizable stud fee, of course, once they take."
     The next day I was delivered to the friend's estate and within five
minutes was stripped and shown into his drawing room with the three wenches
he's selected for studding.  I waited for him to leave, but he said he was
staying for the show and so I started in on my assignment with the
shivering girls, none older than their late teens, who, judging from their
extensive stretch marks, had already been through this "successfully"
several times before. Several days later, after many directed breedings, I
was returned to the Master without comment or even knowing the girl's
names.  I suppose they were pregnant because I didn't go back there and
Juno told me the Master got a big "stud fee" for my services.
     Even his women friends bought me for stud rather than just pleasuring
sometimes.  One lady had me sent over to her house to service three of the
female slaves in her house who were kept constantly pregnant.  Like the
masters I'd been lent to, she stayed right there while I performed my
duties, urging me on and even directing me at times.  With her first maid,
I drove into her as far as I could when I orgasmed.  Just then, I felt a
cold pair of hands on my balls squeezing. "Empty it all, stud, empty those
balls until they're completely dry," the mistress directed as she squeezed.
I did, of course, but she had me do all three in a row, so I don't imagine
the last two got too much out of me on that first round anyway.
     Since the importation of new slaves from outside the South was
outlawed, slaveowners' biggest source of profit came from successful
slavebreeding and consequently slave women were kept pregnant throughout
their childbearing years by a succession of carefully selected slave studs
put to the task of improving the breed through lightening, more
musculature, more stamina, more size, and more good looks.  This meant only
the male slaves epitomizing these qualities were allowed to breed and they
were utilized heavily.  Consequently, slave studs were invariably
light-skinned, big boned, very muscular, extremely handsome, and very heavy
hung. It was hoped that within two generations slave stock would be
dramatically improved through these breeding schemes. Upon birth, the
results of these breeding efforts were separated from their broods, shipped
off to the plantation nurseries where they were reared by slave nannies,
and carefully trained toward a compliant uncomplaining life of exacting
servitude for their owners. They were auctioned off around 16 of 17 years
of age to the huge profit of their original owners and most were, as could
be predicted, happy in their slavery since no concept of free choice or
self-determination had ever entered their heads and they were content to be
wanted, taken care of, and used for their owner's betterment in one fashion
or another.  Slaveowners took breeding very seriously because slaves were
the most profitable cash crop around and fortunes could be made in this
area with just a lot of patience and a little effort to mate the right male
to the right female.
     For me, not carefully raised to be a slave and one who knew what free
choice and self-determination actually meant, it wasn't an impossible life
- it was just a totally degrading one.  True it had its rewards for a
healthy young man like myself, but the thought you were there for their
pleasure as a bought piece of beef never really escaped you.
     I had been counting the days since my dad had first sold me into
slavery. To imagine spending a lifetime of this, like the two octoroon
fancies here in the house for a decade now, seemed inconceivable.  But,
really, what could anyone do about it?  Did Buck, the quadroon, or those
two octoroons, any of whom could easily pass for white in any society but
this one, ever see the total injustice of it? Did they ever think life
could be drastically different for them in either a different setting or
with just a little more white in their skin?  Did they ever dream of what
was ahead of them in a little over 20 years - emancipation regardless of
how dark they were?  And could they think of making their way in the world
if they couldn't use those beautiful bodies to their advantage?  Could they
really make decisions for themselves after all this time of always
complying to what others wanted? Could they really plan their own future
after so many years of having others do it for them?  After being exploited
themselves for so long, could they avoid exploiting others given the
opportunity since they'd had no modeling in how to do otherwise? Could the
effects of such drastic racism EVER be thrown off, even by those most
victimized by it? And since morality didn't affect slaves and other
animals, could they embrace a moral code that would effectively govern
their own behavior once they were free and considered human?
     But the rich whites got help in maintaining black slavery. Even in New
Orleans of 1842, freed blacks were busy buying up other blacks so they
could exploit them as slaves. And most blacks in 1842 New Orleans appeared
to be so dispirited by what they saw happening to blacks around them they
rarely seized any opportunity to advance themselves or their fellow blacks
when given the chance if they viewed it as more work for them. And the
truth is, most black slaves were being effectively managed and supervised
by other blacks seeking favor with their owners (such as Juno keeping us in
line).  The majority of overseers, slave drivers, assistants to slave
auctioneers, and slave trainers throughout the South were themselves black
slaves if you got right down to it.  It seemed like a perfect system for
the wealthy who owned all these slaves.  No wonder it lasted over 400 years
without abatement!
     Celia was interesting to me because she was one of the few female
slaves I could really get to know well.  She'd been born in Alabama to a
mother who'd been the house cook; her mother had confided in her that her
daddy was actually her master although her "daddy" gave no sign of it ever.
That's why she was so light colored, she explained. Her mother had a child
about every two years or so, usually with a different "boyfriend" assigned
by the master after she'd "birthed", so Celia had many half brothers and
sisters she grew up with.  She'd also gotten use to having a man around the
house, at least during the evening hours and night, and of hearing her
mother "take her pleasure" when she could in the little one-room
shack. She'd been sold away from her mother and family when she was about
14 and had already birthed one little boy as a result of her master giving
her as a prize to one of his young male slaves after he'd won a boxing
match for him. Celia never did learn her child's father's name but said he
was a handsome and hugely muscular boy who really just sort of raped her
right in front of the master and his friends. She claimed he was so
inexperienced with women he barely knew what to do and had to be coached by
his master as he proceeded to ravish her. Celia's baby was given to her
mother to raise when she was sold so she never saw him again.  She supposed
he was still there on that plantation, probably weeding the garden by now
and she smiled at the memory.
     Celia's new master saw a lot of profit in her and, after sampling her
body himself nightly, took her to New Orleans to the huge slave venues
there with the idea of selling her to a brothel with her good looks and
unresisting body. But Monsieur LaFitte, always alert to Master's needs in
the slave market, saw her and snapped her up for the Master's needs.  The
demands on her here in the house were certainly better than having to sleep
with the old dealer who bought her, and cooking came natural to her due to
her childhood training by her mother.  Actually, she liked it pretty well
here.  She didn't have to work very hard, she was bedded down with the best
looking men she'd ever seen, and even being "on stage" for Master's shows
was no worse than "seeking pleasure" in a one-room shack with everyone
looking at you like her mother had had to do all her life.  And her mother
had no real choice who she bedded down with either, so what difference did
it make?  Did any slave woman get to bed down with just who THEY wanted?
She doubted it - that was just white woman's stuff as far as she could tell
and even there, the typical marriage of a white woman seemed as confining
to her as slavery did in many respects. At least Master did exactly what he
wanted to do, but then he was rich and white and knew what he wanted.  How
fortunate for her!  If she'd been sold to a rich woman as a serving girl,
her life would be quite different and not much fun, Celia informed me with
a knowing look.
     Celia said, "You'se mighty good in bed when we'se have to perform for
Master's pleasure, but I'se always got the feelin' you'se not real relaxed
and loose about it like I'm.  You'n just need to loosen up a bit and enjoy
yourself more.  I'm mighty mystified as to why'n you don't just forget
about white folk watchin' us and you'n goin' ahead and enjoy what you're
doing because it's mighty, mighty pleasurable when you want it to be.
There ain't much you can do to change what's going on anyway."  Celia
continued that "a slave has to take pleasure when it's offered, pretty boy,
and not ask any damn fool questions.".  That was her philosophy and her
life proved how wise that was.  She told me, "when I was in the slave pens
waitin' auction, I took on several of the male slaves placed in that same
old pen with me regardless of what they looked like.  It felt good to me
and I had no idea when the next time I would have the chance to get
'pleasured'.  Besides, they were grateful as all get out and treated me as
nice as could be after that.  Sure beats getting raped," she added to prove
her point.
     "We're lucky, you know," she continued.  "We're handsome looking stock
and white people are drawn to us like bees to honey.  Imagine what your'll
life would be like as some ugly ol' bozal down in the sugar fields sweating
away or what my life would be like working dawn to dusk picking cotton up
in Mississippi.  Like hell, I'd bet, and there wouldn't be a damn thing I
could do about it either."
     "A pretty mustee like you, well built and with all that equipment you
got, you never have to worry about nothing.  Some rich white's always going
to want to bed you down and all you got to do is cooperate with 'em. Pretty
easy life.  You and me - we're the lucky ones."
     "You wouldn't say that if you were sent over to Mr. LaFitte's for an
evening or too," I ventured.
     "Don't shit on me, boy. What you think Master want me to do when he
loans me out to some of his women friends? It no different than you and
Monsieur LaFitte or Master, as far as that go for you boys - ain't no
harder - ain't no easier.  But it still a hell of a lot easier than most
poor blacks have it, believe you me. You know, you should just relax, like
I keep telling you, and stop evaluating everything - that's your trouble.
You don't want to service Mr. LaFitte - tough shit - there's nothing you
can do to not do it - so just do it and forget whether it was your idea or
his. You'd live a lot longer, pretty boy," and she stroked my cheek with
almost motherly affection. "Those other boys around here don't mind it a
bit, even getting used by all his friends, cause'n they know it ain't going
to hurt them anyhow in the long run.  They know getting Master and Mr.
LaFitte thinkin' positive about 'em and on their side is very important
here in New Orleans if you're just a slave.  You don't want to make an
enemy of either one of them, believe you me. A sore ass or whatever for a
day or so ain't nothing compared to them or their friends getting down on
you," she added without malice.
     I blushed at her openness and obvious knowledge of what went on in Mr.
LaFitte's house when we were sent over there or the endless hours we were
upstairs in Master's bedroom by ourselves or with one of the other boys.
But an idea just sprung into my head.  Perhaps I could somehow figure
Mr. LaFitte into my plans to get up North and be free. I thought I could
sort of test the idea of Mr. LaFitte's vulnerability to my "escape" plans
the next time I talked to Apollo and Adonis who'd had a lot more experience
with him than I had.  Those two, along with Buck, had spent many a night
over at the LaFitte mansion and were obviously highly prized in that
Mr. LaFitte often asked for loan of at least one of them two or three times
a week.
     The very next day, the five of us males (Juno, Adonis, Apollo, Buck
and myself) were ordered to dress in our form-fitting (and revealing)
livery and before long were ornaments on the Master's carriage for one of
his shopping excursions.  Juno drove the carriage with Buck sitting up on
the driver's seat alongside him ramrod straight.  Adonis rode on the lead
horse as a showy added touch.  Apollo and I stood at strict attention on
the footman's steps located at the back of the carriage since our job was
to open and close the carriage door but was primarily for show. Like the
others, I quickly discovered that the friction from the tight fishnet shirt
irritated my nipples as we bounced along the streets and it didn't take too
many miles before my nipples were swollen and tender.  And the pants were
so tight they tended to chafe you the minute you did anything but stand up
in them. But what bothered me more than anything was the stares we would
get as we went down the street.  It was obvious you were primarily there
for display, and you could simply "feel" the people talking about you and
what you did and who owned you and what you looked like with those pants
off and all the rest.  But like everything else in my life as a slave in
New Orleans, you got used to it and after a while learned not to think
about it.
      Since we had to stay "in place" while he was in a store, it was a
perfect opportunity to talk to them about Mr. LaFitte.  They didn't seem to
mind too much talking about serving the Master's best friend since just
standing at attention by the carriage got terribly boring and talking about
anything, even Mr. LaFitte, helped alleviate the long waits.
     Buck was newest to the scene and strangely the most enthusiastic.
Adonis and Apollo seemed more matter-of-fact and resigned to their fate but
probably knew Mr.  LaFitte as a person better.  All Buck talked about was
what Mr. LaFitte's friends wanted him to do, how well he was able to
accommodate their wishes, and how much they bragged about him to
Mr. LaFitte.  Buck obviously felt vastly superior as a man to whose he was
asked to serve and seemed to revel in the idea of others admiring, envying,
and desiring him.  The thought he really had to pleasure them, no matter
how he felt about it, never seemed to occur to him.  The overriding thought
to him was that they wanted him to pleasure them because of who he was: a
relatively rare super-male who was highly desirable.
     Adonis and Apollo were both more circumspect.  Their duties at
Mr. LaFitte's house were viewed as chores they had to do because they
didn't have much choice in the matter so they might as well just "grin and
bear it" and, if possible, learn to enjoy it.  At any rate, Mr. LaFitte and
his friends must always be convinced that they were doing the slaves a
favor by choosing them to pleasure them.
     Fancies of both sexes were purchased for a definite purpose. Slaves
purchased for that vocation were expected to meet their owner's
expectations that being chosen to pleasure their betters was a rare
privilege afforded few slaves and they should appreciate this opportunity.
Comparatively, the owners had a point.  Fancies at least got to experience
a lot of sex and its physiological pleasures unlike most slaves; fancies
almost always got good housing and food; fancies often had beautiful
clothes they could wear in public much to the envy of other slaves; fancies
often did indeed enjoy at least some of their "work"; and fancies were
often admired, praised, envied, and petted by their owner's friends and
sycophants. Fancies seldom were exposed to backbreaking manual labor, were
never mutilated or scarred in any way that would mar their natural beauty
and were given the best of health care.  Although they were often passed
from owner to owner as people became bored with them, each new owner
generally coveted their new possession and rarely asked them to do anything
they didn't expect. Fancies quickly became acclimated to exposing their
naked bodies to others, being handled, stroked and fondled frequently, and
being denied any real choices in their sexual activities, especially since
most fancies quickly realized that any resistance in these areas would be
totally self-defeating if not devastatingly painful.

     Buck seemed to really like Mr. LaFitte and viewed him as generally a
very kind and gentle master, but one who had definite sexual proclivities
which were going to be well satisfied by his slaves without hesitation or
question. Buck told me that "once after I'd pleasured Master LaFitte
especially well, I asked him if I could have a candy drop he had in a dish
on the table nearby and he gave me a whole handful of them cause I'n had
pleasured him so well. Then, after a while, he took his pleasure again with
me, and when he was through, he said I was a mighty good slave and he was
going to 'commend me to his friends. I like'n a master than 'preciates you
and all.  Some of his friends have just used me and then never said a word
about it one way or another - just sort of dumped me like a sack of
potatoes or something once they'd been satisfied and satisfied well, I'll
tell you.  But Mr. LaFitte isn't like that - he's the 'preciative type who
values a good slave."
     I asked Adonis and Apollo if Mr. LaFitte had ever done them any
special favors or if they felt he would if they asked him special.
     "What sort of favor?" Adonis asked cautiously.
     "Oh, say, giving you a rest or something if you were especially tired
or if you had some pretty heavy demands placed on you by some of his
friends or something," I countered.
     "He pretty reasonable," Adonis said.  "Don't take no nonsense about
not doing something you not too fond of.  One time I hesitated a little too
long when he asked me to do something I never even heard of, let alone know
people did to each other, and he had we whipped good and proper - hell, I
couldn't even walk for two or three days after that whipping - so I never
done hesitate on nothing he asked after that, no matter whether I'd ever
done it or not. But if'n I just plumb wore out or kinda feeling sickly or
something, he right receptive 'sidering I'm just a slave and all. Once'n I
just couldn't get all worked up like he wanted me to and I really tried
hard but it was just one too many times for that day and I thought he'd
have the bejesus beat out of me but he just looked at me solid like a long
time and then patted my head and told me we'd get back with it the next day
when I'd had a chance to rest up.  He's most understanding that way.
Mayhap that's why I don't dread going over there like I imagined I would -
he's right reasonable considering we'se just property, that's all. Those
things he has us do - I never heard tell of people doing all that, but,
truth is, it don't hurt you none - no more than what the Master always
asking us to do - just so much you can do no matter what it is or who you
with - slaves can't choose no how so no use thinkin' about it one way or
another."
     "Well, what if I asked Mr. LaFitte to do a special favor for me?  Say,
like, going off by myself for a little while to get the Master a present?"
I ventured.
     "Where you get any money to buy a present?" Apollo asked
suspiciously. "You been stealing or something? You do that and you drag all
of us into real trouble," and he gave me a dark look like I'd pay dearly if
I brought him any punishments.
     "Mayhap he whoring on the side," Adonis added.  "Master find out you
doing that without his permission and he whop you till you wish you a dead
man. Where a slaveboy like you'un getting hard money without stealing or
whorin?  What I wonda where'en you getting the free time?  And now askin'
around about getting more free time.  You gon'na get all of us in trouble,
that's what you gon'na do, and get us all whipped heavy," said Adonis
threateningly.  "You'all better learn to behave like a proper slaveboy or
you get us all in trouble, that's for sure," Adonis added more or less
closing the topic.  I found it interesting Adonis could only think of a
slave selling his body or stealing as means of getting ahead in the world.
     But I was persistent and queried Apollo again as to how he would go
about getting a special favor out of Mr. LaFitte.
     "First off, I'd keep my mouth shut until he was pleasured
exceptionally well and exactly as he wanted.  And I'd make sure he knew I
appreciated the privilege of pleasuring him more than anything else in the
whole world. Then I'd try to get him interested in using me again just as
soon as he able.  Then mayhap I ask him for a little favor, but not too
much out of line because he real strict like with his slaveboys as you know
yourself by now. He not too tolerant with a lot of talk out of niggers,
especially slaveboys he brought over to his house to service him," Apollo
answered.
     But Adonis interjected.  "But that Masta Johnson, he quite different
like.  I think he light in the head or a horse kicked him or something.
Once he got his pleasure out of you, he just don't seem to give a damn
about what a slaveboy up to.  Nosiree, he very different than Masta LaFitte
on that score, believe you me.  I think he just white trash or something.
You do just what he want and get him off good and he do anything you want -
he just that dumb. That white trash don't even own a nigger himself and
don't know shit about handling niggers.  He'n just let 'em run wild once he
gets off good.  You want to go chasin' around stealing a present or
somethin' - he'd let you if you serviced him 'till he really got off.  I
don't understand why Masta LaFitte hang around with white trash like Masta
Johnson - it just not becomin' to'im."
     "He and Masta LaFitte mighty attracted to each other, that's why,"
Apollo said.  "Masta Johnson mighty good looking fellow and he hung like a
nigger stud, " Apollo added.  "One time I standing available like with the
two of them right there and they got so involved pleasurin' each other they
forgot I standing there available and all. I never saw a white man hung
like him - he's almost as big as most nigger fancy boys."
     I found Apollo's observation rather interesting in view of the fact
that Apollo himself was as white as Masta Johnson ever was and yet he was
viewed as in another world.  Nevertheless, the white man's tendency to be
lenient with slaveboys right after he had been pleasured sounded like my
way up North.
     "What does Masta Johnson like to do with you'all, given the chance," I
asked.
     "Just the usual," Adonis said with a bored look.  But Buck added, "he
really likes to show off that equipment of his.  Gives him a sense of
power, I think, he doesn't get not owning slaves himself and all. Seems to
me he most enjoys showing off his power as a Masta to you, like shoving it
to you with you all bent up double and sore as all get out.  The last time
I had him, he really got off on me moaning from being so sore and tender
from him using me so heavy.  When he asked me what I was moaning about, I
told him it was because he was too big for me and that really turned him on
and seemed to be most satisfying to him. I noticed he got off really strong
after that.  Of course, I could handle it all right, but I was putting on a
little show for him cause I knew he really got off on that."
     "You got that right," Adonis said.  "The more you moan and groan about
he the biggest you ever had and you don't think you can handle it and all
that, he really get turned on and it ain't too long after before you all
done with your duties and he's happy as a lark saying you a good slaveboy
and all."
     Apollo laughed through a big smile and said, "I thought I was the only
one knew that slave trick around here, but I see you all a big a whore as I
am. The last time I ended up with Masta Johnson I spent most of my time
telling him he the biggest I ever saw and I scared he gon'na hurt me and
all that and before I knew it he was pushing me out of his bed with a big
grin on his stupid ol' white trash face and I none the worse for wear."
     Adonis joined in the laughter.  "Masta Johnson thinkin' he so big and
all - why he ain't near as big as any of us fancy boys.  And that scrawny
ol' body of us wouldn't bring a plug nickel on the auction block downtown.
You put that pasty faced white trash up for sale as a fancy boy and you'll
starve to death real fast - everybody just laugh their heads off he such a
joke and all.  The only way he big like is because he a white man and
friends with Masta LaFitte. Lookins to me like you got to have some nigger
blood in you to get to be a real man," and he sort of thrust himself out in
his blue tights to prove his point.
     Our master returned from shopping and our talk ceased instantly as
Adonis and I leaped to help him into the carriage. As we began rambling
down the street, I thought to myself that Masta Johnson didn't sound like
such a meal ticket to the North and freedom as I originally thought. With
my limited experience to date over at Masta LaFitte's, I was pretty certain
I didn't want to go through all that would be necessary to get him to grant
me some free time. There must be an easier way than that I thought,
although I knew the others riding along with me on the carriage would have
viewed that thought as pretty uppity for a slaveboy.
     Perhaps I could "escape" when I was on loan to one of the Master's
female friends.  So far, my loans out to their homes had been tightly
monitored and observation of my whereabouts were ever-present by either the
woman I had been loaned to or her majordomo.  And how far could I get with
that iron collar around my neck anyway?
     Suddenly, it hit me.  If I were dressed up in my livery but had a long
dressy flock coat with a high collar, I could pass for a rich gentleman
planter, even wearing tights, and, most importantly, it would completely
cover my iron neck ring if the coat collar were cut high enough. With the
articulate accent I'd picked up by my owner/dad, my ability to read and
write, and my knowledge of Southern aristocracy mannerisms I'd observed
from the perspective of a freeman when I thought that's what I was, I could
easily pass all the way to the North. Once I actually got pass the
Mason-Dixon line, I could worry about getting rid of my damned locked neck
collar.  Now all I needed were two critical items: lots of pocket money and
the necessary flock coat. I'd start work on those two items immediately, I
thought as I jostled along at the back of my owner's carriage.  Perhaps
Masta Johnson would come in handy after all if he had a reasonably decent
flock coat flung aside in his reveries, especially if he had some ready
cash in the pockets of his flock coat.  If Masta Johnson was playing around
with one of the fancy-boys he'd hardly be too concerned about the
whereabouts of his flock coat.
     Perhaps, I thought, I'd team up with Buck or Apollo or someone the
next time I was loaned out to Masta LaFitte and Mr. Johnson happened to be
there. The sobering thought I could end up being a bed buck the rest of my
life to anyone that had the cash to buy me tended to keep my thoughts
centered on the task at hand.
     One of my master's women friends came over and I was afraid I'd be
loaned out again, but instead she and Master had a romp upstairs with Buck
and me that began with first using me, then Buck, then trading around
again.  After repeating the whole scene a second time, everyone, including
my Master's friend, seemed pretty satiated.  Buck and I were pretty
exhausted ourselves after that round and weren't in any shape to be loaned
out for further use at any rate.
     But a week later, Mr. LaFitte visited the Master and shortly
thereafter Buck, Apollo, Adonis and myself were all ordered up to the
Master's drawing room.  There both the Master and Mr. LaFitte looked us
over thoroughly and after a lot of fondling, stroking, pinching and poking,
Adonis and I were ordered to get into our livery and accompany Mr. LaFitte
back to his house on another loan.  Once there, we were expected to strip
down to nothing, of course, but this time I made sure my tights and boots
were easily accessible in case a good opportunity for escape turned up.
Mr.  LaFitte ordered Adonis and me to stand straight up with our legs
spread wide apart, but he seemed interested only in me at the moment and
stroked and fondled me until eventually I sprayed my seed all over the
place which seemed to be what he wanted.  It was humiliating and demeaning
but certainly one of the lesser demands of that particular house and I just
grinned the whole time.  He then turned his attention to Adonis who had a
sheepish grin on his face and led him into his bedroom where poor Adonis
really got some heavy use that went on for several hours.  During this
time, I was pretty well left to my own devices and I was able to slip away,
root through Mr.  LaFitte's wardrobe closet until I located a fancy flock
coat with a very high collar, was cut to extend well below the hips, and
which fitted me reasonably well.  Checking all the other coats and pants
hanging there yielded about $60 dollars, a considerable amount in those
days. Within minutes, I had struggled back into those indigo tights and
patent leather boots, got the stolen coat on until my iron collar was
completely covered, stuffed the $60 in the coat pocket, and was sneaking
tippy-toed toward the front door past his bedroom.
     "Stay right where you are," Mr. LaFitte ordered and I froze in place
in the outer room.  "Now get those legs up proper like before I have to tan
you good, Adonis.  You're kind of slipping when it comes to pleasuring,
boy.  Maybe you need a little touching up with that new whip I just got to
get your mind on it."
     "No, Masta.  My mind on it good.  I do just what you want and will
pleasure you good.  You see, ol' Adonis just as good as he ever be, Masta.
No need to touch him up" and I heard the bed squeak as Adonis obviously
shifted positions.
     Standing absolutely still, I heard Adonis' low groans followed by some
heavy breathing from Mr. LaFitte and the bed squeaks took up a regular
rhythm.  This was my big chance and I stealthily crept out the front door
and onto the street outside.
     As luck would have it, a cab was within hailing distance and within a
minute I was safely in the cab headed for the New Orleans docks.  The cabby
seemed to fully accept my ruse as a genuine Southern gentleman out on
business.
     Judging what I knew Adonis and Mr. LaFitte were involved in, I assumed
they would be totally occupied for at least 15 minutes or so and, knowing
Mr. LaFitte, would probably be repeated as soon as he had recovered and
Adonis' sweat had dried off a little. That would give me enough time to
locate a boat upriver, hide myself in one of its cabins, and wait out the
journey to a riverport on the other side of the Mason-Dixon line.
     When I reached the dock, there were about five different boats posted
for upriver travel to the North.  The one leaving within the hour was not
really a passenger ship but mainly a freight barge.  But the pilot said I
could book passage for only $5 if I didn't mind the tiny little cabin that
was the only one available in that all other people on the boat were slaves
and slept in the hold or on deck. He added there wouldn't be any fancy
service or anything, but I could spend most of my time out on the deck just
looking at the scenery, sleeping in the tiny cabin, or eating some pretty
good grub cooked up by an old Negress he'd bought years ago up in Memphis.
     As promised, the old freighter cast off within the hour, headed up the
Delta with her chimneys spewing forth volumes of smoke from all the wood
stuffed in the furnace and her paddlewheel churning up a lot of froth in
the muddy waters. The old boat only had a crew of five: the old cook, two
huge perspiring blacks that cut the firewood and stoked the furnace, one
older man in charge in the boiler, and a very short, good looking, muscular
young black kid who did repairs, stacked the cotton bales, and apparently
did all the rest of the work that needed to be done.
     As soon as we were safely out of New Orleans, I ventured onto deck
where I was greeted by the young black boy.  "Afternoon, Masta sir," he
started out. "Nice day for a gentleman traveling upriver.  Mighty glad to
have a distinguished white master on board, sir," he gushed out with his
barrage of everything he could think of that would be acceptable and not
risk any trouble. "Where'in you all headed, Masta sir, if I may ask?"
     At first I thought I'd just play the role of the typical arrogant
white planter and tell him to shut his damn black mouth and mind his own
business like a good slave should.  But then I remembered that I didn't
even know what river port was actually in the free North and if he'd been
on the boat very long, he'd know exactly where to get off.  Coming to New
Orleans as part of a walking chained coffle with a whip on your shoulders
half the time didn't lead to a good geography lesson and my education as a
boy was just what a poor white trash father who'd never been anywhere
talked about.
     "Heading up North, boy," I answered. "Need to get home to my business
up in Illinois," I said since it was the only state I could think of that I
thought was in the North.  "Never traveled by river boat, though.  Always
used the train and don't rightly know where to get off most convenient for
me," I queried.
     "What town you all from, Masta sir?" the slaveboy asked with a look of
genuine interest.
     "Oh, just a town close to the river in Illinois - the first town you
get to when you get to Illinois on the river," I said cleverly so as to not
reveal my total ignorance of where I wanted to go. Suddenly I remembered my
dad talking about a Cairo, Illinois (which he pronounced Ka-ro) which was a
river port where the Mississippi met the Ohio river. "Place called Ka-ro."
     "I's heard of that place, Masta sir.  We unload at Ka-ro most every
trip up north.  It's where we take on wood, Masta.  'Course I can't read or
nothin, but it's this nigger's back that carries most of those boxes we
unload at Ka-ro, Masta sir."
     "So you plan to stop at Ka-ro, boy?"
     "Yes sir, Masta sir. That'd be the place you'd get off all right."
     "How far from here to Ka-ro, boy?"
     "Don't rightly know, Masta sir.  Never done been off this boat since I
about twelve or so when Masta Clements bought me at market," the young
slave added without any tone of regret. "Couldn't be too far, though, Masta
sir, because we'se be there in less than a week if our wood holds out," he
added helpfully.
     "You happy living on the boat?" I asked.
     "Yes sir, Master Sir," he answered cautiously. "Masta Clements, he a
good Masta, fair and all longs' as you works real hard and he feeds well
too.  Only whipped me hard three or four times since I been owned by him
and that hardly scarred me up at all.  And he give me a new pair of pants
and a shirt every year at Christmastime."
     "What did he whip you for, boy?" I continued.
     "Twice for getting too lazy like and slothful in my ways he said - he
probably right that I did need a little touching up about that time to
remind me to earn my keep and all.  Once for sneaking off to fool around
with a gal from another one of the river boats we docked next to up in
Memphis without his'n permission and last time for playing with myself when
I didn't know he'n watching me. Masta Clements don't tolerate no niggers
playing with themselves. He says I'se his property and he wants all that
kept for his pleasure or me having to pleasure those big bucks back in the
furnace room when'n he say so. Says big nigger bucks need to be satisfied
if they be manageable.  But he don't seem to worry none about me too much,"
he added wistfully. "Wish'n he let me get together with some nigger wench
to fool around like'n up in Memphis that time, but he tell me I not to do
it with any gal. He says white mastas way too lenient like with their
nigger bucks and the nigger race getting too mongrel like as a result.  He
tell me niggers need to be bred toward improvement and I too small and
runty to improve the breed. He won't even allow those big bucks back in the
furnace room to breed proper - says they too ugly to breed - and here I'se
ends up having to satisfying them," he said rather angrily.  "Other mastas
don't seem so worried about improving the breed and all - just Masta
Clements."
     "But he's not the only one with those notions," the young boy
continued. "One time we brought a coffle down from near Memphis.  Best
looking niggers I'se ever did see.  Females just as big boned but mighty
comely as you can imagine and most of 'em seemed to be knocked up going by
their swollen bellies.  And all the male slaves were really big and
muscular with mighty handsome features.  I bet every one of those bucks
were over 6 feet tall and weighed close to two cotton bales apiece and the
womenfolk were almost as big.  And all of them sort of a pretty brown color
with fairly straight hair - not kinky and matty like most real black
niggers.  Those niggers told me they'se going to market as breeding stock.
Turns out they'd been bred themselves at a special breeding farm up in
Mississippi and now they would be used as sires and dames for plantations
that wanted to improve their stock.  Those nigger boys mighty proud of
themselves and strutted around to show themselves off every chance they
got.  They told me they too expensive to be sold as anything but stud
niggers and that's all they'se trained to do - just studding 'till the day
they die - and lovin' every minute of it.  Of course, I 'pose they
exaggerating a little.  They get too old to stud after a while, but they
not worried about that now.  That's what I'd like to do - just be a nigger
stud - that's this nigger boy's idea of heaven," and he laughed as he
finished his story about the breeding stock from Mississippi.
     "You ever want to be sold to a new master, boy?" I asked.
     "Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like living off a boat and having
people other than just the five of us around. And sometimes I think I'd
like the excitement and all of a big city like New Orleans or Memphis.  But
I's gets around.  The master takes me with him sometimes when we goes
shopping in the city and so I gets to see more than most niggers and when I
sees what niggers have to do sometimes loading and hauling I think I got it
pretty good.  And some masters mighty strict like when it come to their
livestock.  I's seen a lot of backs awful scarred up along the riverfront
and when we stop to load sugar I sure wouldn't want to trade places with
those poor devils bought for the sugar mills. Those places just eat you up
alive.  Some of them fancy-boys bought up for display and all seem to have
a good life.  I'se heard all they have to do is pleasure their masters or
mistresses in bed and wear all those fancy clothes when they out on display
like.  That'd be nigger heaven I bet!  Course'n they all mighty fine
looking slaveboys - better looking than I've ever be," he added with a
sigh. "I'se probably best off where I'm at with Masta Clements - it's bout
a good a life as this nigger boy likely to see.  I never go hungry and I'm
not beat half to death either," he stated rather proudly. "Yes sir, I'm
probably best off right here on the boat."
     "Boy, you got a name?" I asked.
     "Yes sir, Masta sir, Masta Clements calls me Toby."
     "Where were you raised, Toby?"
     "On a farm up around Memphis somewhere."
     "What did you parents do?" I continued.
     He stared at me a moment and then said, "They slaves of course.  My
mammy worked in the fields but she had 13 pickaninnies 'fore me but I never
knew her much.  She died when I about four or five giving birth to her
fifteenth, so I was raised by another one of the nigger ladies on the farm
who ran sort of a nursery there what with so many pickaninnies running
around loose.  Never knew a daddy.  They all told me my mammy pleasured
with a lot of different fellas and no one was ever sure just who fathered
who along the way.  The men folk would get sold away a lot, so I don't know
if I ever actually met my daddy or not."
     "Why did your master sell you from the farm, Toby?"
     "They way too many of us around to feed as we got older and not nearly
enough work to keep everyone busy, so he sold off a crop every year or so
of excess niggers.  That place as much a nigger raising plantation as it
was a cotton farm.  I think he made more money selling us niggers than he
ever made selling cotton," and Toby smiled at the thought of this.  "Always
a ready market for niggers, it seems."
     "Seems that way," I added thinking about the huge crowd at the auction
where I'd been sold in New Orleans buck naked.
     By this time, we were well into the Mississippi channel headed
upstream in a part of the river very easy to navigate and Mr. Clements took
a reprieve on the open deck from his piloting chores.  Toby saw him coming
and quickly launched into rearranging some cargo on the deck to make it
easy to unload at their next stop.  His furtive glances toward his master
revealed he thought he had spent way too much time talking to the boat's
sole passenger and his burst of energy at his chores was designed to make
sure his master didn't feel any corrective action was going to be
necessary.
     "Where will you need to depart, Mr. Roberts?" Mr. Clements asked.
     "I'll be getting off at Ka-ro, Mr. Clements," I answered as politely
as possible.  "Mighty good day for river cruising, seems like, and your
crew seems most capable."
     "Keep a firm hand on them, I do, but it pays off in the long haul I
imagine.  Most been with me quite a while now. Niggers getting so expensive
they tend to get uppity if you let them.  We should be in Ka-ro in about
five days, God willing and our wood holds out. Please don't think me
inhospitable or rude, but I really must get back to my piloting or we'll
end up on a sandbar, I'm afraid. You look mighty hot in that fancy flock
coat.  Feel free to take it off if you please.  We don't stand on formality
and fashion on this old boat.  If you need anything, Toby here can probably
handle it.  The only thing Toby can't offer you is a good woman and good
booze.  Don't have either one on board," and he laughed as he returned to
the pilot house. "But you can use Toby if you really get hard up," he
shouted from some distance and laughed uproariously at his own humor as
Toby blushed a deep maroon.
     That night I slept with my flock coat on buttoned to the top in the
hot stuffy little cabin.  I didn't see where I had any choice without
risking someone seeing the slave collar around my neck.  Better to sweat to
death than risk that I thought.  Besides, Mr.  Clements or Toby could enter
the cabin at any time and if either one saw even a glimmer of that collar,
I would be instantly labeled a mustee slave on the run and my life, if I
weren't killed on the spot, would be hell: branded and shipped back to
Master for his disposition which would probably be sale to the river port
brothels.
     Exactly as Mr. Clements had predicted, we arrived at Ka-ro within five
days which passed quicker than I thought.  Toby and the two big blacks
unloaded all the crates marked for that dock under the careful eye of
Mr. Clements who carried a coiled whip for this part of the operation.
     I got lodging at the fanciest hotel in Ka-ro to avoid suspicion which
only cost me another dollar for the night and supper.  The room was large,
clean and airy.  For an additional 10 cents I arranged to have one of the
hotel's servants bring up a copper bathtub and buckets of hot water which
was refreshing after the long boat ride in the hot flock coat which I
couldn't loosen around the collar for obvious reasons. My body odor was
pretty strong by now, and I'm afraid was matched by my tights and flock
coat but there wasn't much I could do about that.
     As I left the hotel the next morning to start my life of freedom,
unbelievably the itinerant slave dealer my father had first sold me to
years ago came ambling down the sidewalk right toward me. I knew it was him
and I felt doomed.  Under the Fugitive Slave Act, he could seize me on the
spot, take me back to the South, and sell me right back to any situation
where he'd get a maximum profit which meant I would once again be a "mustee
slave" up on the auction block, but this time with a big "R" branded on
either my creek or forehead as a runaway.  I tried not to panic, brushed my
expensive flock coat down smoothly, deliberately posed in a jaunty,
arrogant fashion, and turned my head slightly away as if looking for a
friend on the other side of the street.  The dealer glanced at me briefly,
spit some tobacco juice out in the street, and continued to walk right past
me.  I wished I could bash his brains out right then and there but decided
it would be self-defeating at this particular moment.  To think he was
quite willing to buy me as a slave from my own father and send me into a
life of degradation, shame and constant humiliation as a pet for a
well-heeled spoiled French gentleman for some ill-gain profit made the bile
rise in my throat. Well, maybe God would get him - I didn't have time to
bother right now!
     I started walking rapidly in the direction he was coming from.  After
about four blocks, I begin to feel less panicked.  Then I realized!!  I was
free.  Although the Fugitive Slave Act could send me down river to be sold
as a slave, I had to be identified and claimed as a slave to put that into
action.  All I had to go was get rid of this collar locked on me and get
some decent clothes.
     I wandered around Ka-ro and ran across a half-drunk blacksmith who
looked like he could be bribed and would have an alcoholic's memory.  Sure
enough, he got that collar off of me with the bribe of a fresh bottle of
corn likker, and after I'd poured him a few drinks, he passed out and I
stripped him of his clothes.  In his ramshackle house attached to the
blacksmith shop, I found the rest of his wardrobe and took it too since we
were both about the same size.
     Newly attired, I hit the road and realized I still had $53 in my
pocket, no outward signs of my period of servitude other than a few
callouses left from my iron collar, and a willingness to do anything to
keep myself out of the South.
     It was 20 years later I volunteered for the 'Illinois Brigade for the
War to Protect the Union,' and was eventually promoted to serve as Captain
over 100 men.  When we reached New Orleans in 1864, I found out my old
Master had fled by ship to Brazil only two days before, taking two of his
favorite fancyboys and all of his money with him so he could continue his
life in a slave society unabated.  I "liberated" the remainder of my old
Master's slaveboys who weren't of course the same ones who had served with
me but fresh handsome meat that looked as good as I'd looked when I was
there.
     The stable included a mustee that looked so much like I did years
before I concluded he had to be a product of when I was loaned out on stud
to service one of my former master's friend's slavegirls and then he had
bought the boy when he was ripe for auction.  Another fancyboy left in the
house was one of the last slaves sold in the New Orleans slavemarkets
before they closed down or went undergrown with the Union takeover.  He
looked to be around 18, had skin the color of creamy coffee stretched over
a magnificent muscular physique, the high cheekbones and heavy eyelashes of
a Moor which made me suspect some Indian or Arab blood in him, and good
looks that were only matched in appeal by his huge genitals which were well
shaped and seemingly perpetually excited. Despite the fact the Union Army
was entering the city as he was sold, he still brought a staggering price
at the slavemart.  - a compliment of sorts I suppose or else his buyer
thought he would never actually never grant this slaveboy his freedom, no
matter what!.  These two and three other fancyboys still in the house
couldn't handle freedom any more than I had thought they could years ago -
they'd been bred and born into slavery and couldn't be happy outside it
with its decision making, responsibilities, and hardships.  I took them
over with their eager consent and they're my "fancyboys" now, complete with
fancy costumes for going out and buck naked for the house.  My old master
had trained them well, including the mustee (perhaps my own offspring) and
the new boy so recently purchased!  I haven't come across one single thing
those boys can't do to perfection that I've wanted in the line of
servicing.
     On thing my old Master had taught me whether he wanted to or not.  He
taught me what pleasure was all about and my inclinations to seek my
pleasures with men every chance I get has stayed with me throughout my
adult life.  My problem is, I was born to be a master, I guess, in that I
want to be the one getting sucked and doing the fucking instead of the
other way around that had usually characterized my life as a slaveboy in
New Orleans..  But up North, you couldn't just order someone to your bed
when the whim hit you like the Southerners had enjoyed for years.  But I
knew my time would come!. I took advantage of every minute in my old
Master's house and those boys' throats and asses were probably chronically
sore from all the use I got out of them, let alone the use I put them to
loaning them out to my other Union friends who appreciated having such
bodies available for their pleasure. Since post-war New Orleans was
changing fast, within months I set up a brothel available to all who could
afford the fees with my newly acquired fancyboys "hired" on as staff for
room, board, and a set of "going-out" clothes.  Technically the "fancyboys"
weren't property anymore but "employees" - it was all legal and no one
asked where they came from.  The "boys" loved it - it was the security and
direction they needed in their lives and their familiar duties of offering
up their bodies for other's pleasure were all they knew in their lives
anyway.  And they knew they were lucky in those chaotic days to get food
and shelter under any circumstances.  Most of all, they appreciated a
strong "Master" in their lives.  Experience on the other side makes the
best masters of all, my boys tell me, and they seldom try to shirk their
responsibilities or resist any requests made of them because they know I'll
see right through them having been a slaveboy myself..  I never have told
my mustee boy who his sire probably was. It'd just get him all excited
about serving stud and those days of slavebreeding are over now, I expect.
My wealth grows daily so there is no need for financial worries now or in
the future - my boys are young enough to have years of usage left in them -
and the last sold slave in New Orleans is moaning away in as I plow into
his muscular ass for the third time today.
     A mutual friend told me my old Master, the French dandy, was now
living in San Paulo with his two favorite slaves he taken from New Orleans
and eight new boys he picked up in the Brazilian slavemarts. And, he
reported with a twinkle in his eye, those Brazilian fancyboys are decked
out in red silk pantaloons that you can see right through, bare chests with
ringed nipples, brass collars around their necks , and bare feet whenever
they accompany their Master outside the house.  Some things never change!

THE END