Nowhere Man Book One Chapter 47
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“Roman, fetch me a glass of water,” the raven-haired woman called out.
“Yes’m,” replied the young house slave.
The old maid, as she was considered in 1826, was an elder sister of the current plantation master. She was only one of his three sisters to have never married. The houseboy that was dedicated to her was the son of their mammy, Bessie. The woman, who had nursed and cared for the four Colbert c***dren, passed away giving birth to this one. Henry, taking pity on the motherless c***d and his sister, allowed the infant to be taken in by Marjorie. It was now sixteen years later and by the natural order of things, Roman was just a house nigger to them. Marjorie thought more of him, but not much.
The early autumn day came to end and dusk sat in. Roman walked from the majestic big house where his owners lived to the slave quarters. He searched without seeming obvious for Fred. Born just a week apart, it was decided by the Colberts that the two boys should be playmates. At some predefined moment it seemed that Fred was no longer welcome in the house. No matter how much the other house slaves of Marjorie talked negatively about the more brusquely Fred, Roman was still dedicated fiercely to him. When the other field hands teased Roman for being a short, girly, Massa’s favorite, Fred feverishly defended him.
Once another slave accused Fred of being sweet on Roman, the solidly built average height dark-skinned boy pounced and crushed the taunting idiot into. No one had uttered another word since. Roman spotted his best friend in the world. He ran over to the larger, more muscular young man. “You find a place,” he whispered.
“Yeah. Down by the blackberry patch,” Fred said equally as quiet.
The two rushed down to the shield of the bushes.
Finally covered, Roman announced, “I got you some biscuits and ham left over from they breakfast.”
“Thank ye, kindly,” Fred obliged,
“Was it hard in them fields today?”
“Not no harder than always.”
“I just hate what they make y’all do.”
“It’s gotta be betta bein’ a house nigga,” Fred said inhaling the victuals.
“I is still a slave,” stressed Roman.
“I know li’l buddy. They don’t be givin’ us enough to eat. I be tired of cuttin’ that rice all day.”
“I know, Fred. If I could change it, you I’se do it for you.
Fred finished the morsels and said, “We best get goin’.”
“You right,” Roman agreed. “Tomorrow. You’se gon’ get a surprise.”
“What is it?”
“A surprise. Means I know. And you don’t,” the butler laughed. “I just got to stay a li’l bit lata tomorrow night.”
“I ain’t no dummy just cause I’se a field nigga.”
“I know, Fred. You’re my only friend.”
The next day went as expected for both of them. The five-foot-four-inch Roman spent the entire waiting on the needs of the spinster Marjorie. Fred spent ten hours thrashing rice. Roman helped Marjorie get ready for the lieutenant governor of South Carolina coming for dinner. After the maids had done their job in dressing her, he did her hair. The southern belle would allow no one else to touch her tresses. Roman completed the job and snuck off to the kitchen. He pulled out a large gourd, placed it underneath a spare 95-gallon barrel of Madeira wine, filled it up, and left for the slave quarters.
“Hey,” Roman heard the familiar voice under the cover of darkness.
“Where we goin’ tonight, Fred?”
“It’s gon’ be lonely on the north side of the plantation since massa’s havin’ a party and all them slaves and dumb slaves here is gon’ be near the carriage house or by the hay barn.”
“You is so smart. Let’s go. I’se ready to show you the surprise.”
When they reached a thicket, Fred sat down.
Roman was still sanding. He pulled out half of a cheese sandwich. “I’se sorry,” he offered.
“Betta than not gettin’ nothin’, Fred confessed.
“Oh, but I got us somthin’ else, Fred.”
“What?”
“This,” the diminutive house slave announced showing the vessel.
“A gourd,” Fred laughed.
“
This ain’t just no regular ol’ gourd. This gourd is filled with some of Massa’s ‘finest Madeira wine’ as the missus would say,” Roman mocked her for a portion of his statement.
“You sound just like her,” chuckled the five-foot-ten-inch, two-hundred-twenty pound man.
“Go ‘head and take you a drink. I’se get some after you.”
They continued sharing alternate guzzles as they heard the sounds of fiddles and laughter from both the big house and the slave quarters. Fred had drunk a much more than his smaller former play buddy. Yet, both were a bit tipsy.
Encouraged, Fred started, “Roman, you know how a man gots a natural attraction to woman?”
“Yes,” the dizzied house slave answered.
“Well, I gots dem feelin’s fo’ Lucy.”
“She a pretty girl,” Roman exclaimed.
“But there a problem, Roman.”
“What is you talkin’ about, Fred.”
“I got dem same feelin’s fo’ you. You on’t think I’se wrong.”
“Stop playin’.” Roman smacked his arm.
“I’se not playin’ right,” Fred looked squarely at him.
The moonlight made their figures shadows.
“I love you, Fred. Always have,” Roman confessed.
“You been feelin’ this too then,” Fred checked.
“Yes,” huffed Roman pressing his lips against Fred’s.
Fred grabbed his sweet friend close and kissed him passionately. He gripped Roman tightly as they tongue wrestled.
Fred pulled away, “You feel like a woman.”
“I’se yo woman, Roman purred.
“I’se ready to take you!”
“Yes! Yes! Oh yes!”
Roman felt Fred’s stiff eight inch dick and wrapped his mouth around it. Fred groaned with pleasure. Soon, Fred had Roman bent over in the bushes.
“Take me,” Roman cried.
“Oh it feel good,” howled Fred.
“I’se yo’ woman. I’se gon’ have yo’ baby!”
“Yesss. Take it, guhl!”
Fred hammered away in Roman’s virgin asspussy. The screams of the little faggot were overpowered by the music and laughter of the white folks and the slaves. Fred knew the cries of desperation were due to pleasure. Roman loved the feeling.
“Make me yo’ woman,” Roman cheered.
“Here you go. We is makin’ a baby,” Fred declared.
“Yes, Fred! Yessuh!”
“Ohhhhhhh, yeahhhhhh!”
Fred nutted deep in Roman and they fell asleep. When they heard the carriages leaving, they awakened. They waited until they’d heard silence for what amounted to next twenty minutes and slinked away to their respective cabins in the slave quarters.
“Yes’m,” replied the young house slave.
The old maid, as she was considered in 1826, was an elder sister of the current plantation master. She was only one of his three sisters to have never married. The houseboy that was dedicated to her was the son of their mammy, Bessie. The woman, who had nursed and cared for the four Colbert c***dren, passed away giving birth to this one. Henry, taking pity on the motherless c***d and his sister, allowed the infant to be taken in by Marjorie. It was now sixteen years later and by the natural order of things, Roman was just a house nigger to them. Marjorie thought more of him, but not much.
The early autumn day came to end and dusk sat in. Roman walked from the majestic big house where his owners lived to the slave quarters. He searched without seeming obvious for Fred. Born just a week apart, it was decided by the Colberts that the two boys should be playmates. At some predefined moment it seemed that Fred was no longer welcome in the house. No matter how much the other house slaves of Marjorie talked negatively about the more brusquely Fred, Roman was still dedicated fiercely to him. When the other field hands teased Roman for being a short, girly, Massa’s favorite, Fred feverishly defended him.
Once another slave accused Fred of being sweet on Roman, the solidly built average height dark-skinned boy pounced and crushed the taunting idiot into. No one had uttered another word since. Roman spotted his best friend in the world. He ran over to the larger, more muscular young man. “You find a place,” he whispered.
“Yeah. Down by the blackberry patch,” Fred said equally as quiet.
The two rushed down to the shield of the bushes.
Finally covered, Roman announced, “I got you some biscuits and ham left over from they breakfast.”
“Thank ye, kindly,” Fred obliged,
“Was it hard in them fields today?”
“Not no harder than always.”
“I just hate what they make y’all do.”
“It’s gotta be betta bein’ a house nigga,” Fred said inhaling the victuals.
“I is still a slave,” stressed Roman.
“I know li’l buddy. They don’t be givin’ us enough to eat. I be tired of cuttin’ that rice all day.”
“I know, Fred. If I could change it, you I’se do it for you.
Fred finished the morsels and said, “We best get goin’.”
“You right,” Roman agreed. “Tomorrow. You’se gon’ get a surprise.”
“What is it?”
“A surprise. Means I know. And you don’t,” the butler laughed. “I just got to stay a li’l bit lata tomorrow night.”
“I ain’t no dummy just cause I’se a field nigga.”
“I know, Fred. You’re my only friend.”
The next day went as expected for both of them. The five-foot-four-inch Roman spent the entire waiting on the needs of the spinster Marjorie. Fred spent ten hours thrashing rice. Roman helped Marjorie get ready for the lieutenant governor of South Carolina coming for dinner. After the maids had done their job in dressing her, he did her hair. The southern belle would allow no one else to touch her tresses. Roman completed the job and snuck off to the kitchen. He pulled out a large gourd, placed it underneath a spare 95-gallon barrel of Madeira wine, filled it up, and left for the slave quarters.
“Hey,” Roman heard the familiar voice under the cover of darkness.
“Where we goin’ tonight, Fred?”
“It’s gon’ be lonely on the north side of the plantation since massa’s havin’ a party and all them slaves and dumb slaves here is gon’ be near the carriage house or by the hay barn.”
“You is so smart. Let’s go. I’se ready to show you the surprise.”
When they reached a thicket, Fred sat down.
Roman was still sanding. He pulled out half of a cheese sandwich. “I’se sorry,” he offered.
“Betta than not gettin’ nothin’, Fred confessed.
“Oh, but I got us somthin’ else, Fred.”
“What?”
“This,” the diminutive house slave announced showing the vessel.
“A gourd,” Fred laughed.
“
This ain’t just no regular ol’ gourd. This gourd is filled with some of Massa’s ‘finest Madeira wine’ as the missus would say,” Roman mocked her for a portion of his statement.
“You sound just like her,” chuckled the five-foot-ten-inch, two-hundred-twenty pound man.
“Go ‘head and take you a drink. I’se get some after you.”
They continued sharing alternate guzzles as they heard the sounds of fiddles and laughter from both the big house and the slave quarters. Fred had drunk a much more than his smaller former play buddy. Yet, both were a bit tipsy.
Encouraged, Fred started, “Roman, you know how a man gots a natural attraction to woman?”
“Yes,” the dizzied house slave answered.
“Well, I gots dem feelin’s fo’ Lucy.”
“She a pretty girl,” Roman exclaimed.
“But there a problem, Roman.”
“What is you talkin’ about, Fred.”
“I got dem same feelin’s fo’ you. You on’t think I’se wrong.”
“Stop playin’.” Roman smacked his arm.
“I’se not playin’ right,” Fred looked squarely at him.
The moonlight made their figures shadows.
“I love you, Fred. Always have,” Roman confessed.
“You been feelin’ this too then,” Fred checked.
“Yes,” huffed Roman pressing his lips against Fred’s.
Fred grabbed his sweet friend close and kissed him passionately. He gripped Roman tightly as they tongue wrestled.
Fred pulled away, “You feel like a woman.”
“I’se yo woman, Roman purred.
“I’se ready to take you!”
“Yes! Yes! Oh yes!”
Roman felt Fred’s stiff eight inch dick and wrapped his mouth around it. Fred groaned with pleasure. Soon, Fred had Roman bent over in the bushes.
“Take me,” Roman cried.
“Oh it feel good,” howled Fred.
“I’se yo’ woman. I’se gon’ have yo’ baby!”
“Yesss. Take it, guhl!”
Fred hammered away in Roman’s virgin asspussy. The screams of the little faggot were overpowered by the music and laughter of the white folks and the slaves. Fred knew the cries of desperation were due to pleasure. Roman loved the feeling.
“Make me yo’ woman,” Roman cheered.
“Here you go. We is makin’ a baby,” Fred declared.
“Yes, Fred! Yessuh!”
“Ohhhhhhh, yeahhhhhh!”
Fred nutted deep in Roman and they fell asleep. When they heard the carriages leaving, they awakened. They waited until they’d heard silence for what amounted to next twenty minutes and slinked away to their respective cabins in the slave quarters.
Virginia
- 06.03.2022
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