Home and Away Again

Author's note: The following depicts a while male master sexually dominating a black male slave in the period just before the Civil War. I have every intent of writing a black male dom/white male sub story that takes just after the war. If the racial politics of this fiction upsets you, please skip it.



When in the summer of 1859 I returned to my family's home and plantation in North Carolina, I was escaping the very heart of Yankee-dom for the beauty of the South. I had graduated Harvard University just months before. On his deathbed in early 1858, my father had made me promise to finish my education there. The management of our vast estate, including its 400 slaves, was left to our chief overseer and my uncle, my father's brother-in-law, who occupied a nearby plantation of half its size.

Even at half, Uncle Bob's place still was among the biggest, and he had made a fortune with his cotton mills in the north. He offered us a considerable sum, although not worth its full market value. My mother and I decided to be magnanimous and refrained from haggling. I received 45 percent of the amount, and my mother an equal share. The remaining 10 percent would go toward large dowries for my sisters. They did not lack for suitors before this windfall, and the dowries only increased their numbers. It would be a short time indeed before wedding bells would be heard. My mother and my sisters moved permanently to our Charleston house, which they much preferred anyway.

It was at this point that my own story really begins. As befitting a young gentleman of means and education in the antebellum South, I needed a valet. I chose Charlie, a Negro of 22 years who had grown up on our plantation. He had no children and no slave wife, a bit unusual at that time. Both his parents were gone — his father sold many years before and his mother dead of yellow fever. Taking him with me to New Orleans where I planned to read law would not entail any drama of separation. However, Uncle Bob seemed oddly distressed when I informed him of my plans. I asked him if anything was wrong, but he demurred and consented to my taking Charlie with me.

The two of us left by ship in the autumn of 1859 to sail around Florida into the Gulf of Mexico and then onto our destination. That first night in the private cabin of the steamship brought a revelation. I had eaten heartily and had more than one glass of wine. The attractiveness of the female passengers had only served to stoke the fires of my own steam engine. As Charlie helped me undress before putting on my night clothes, I made a joke about my tumescence. Charlie was on his knees in front of me as he pulled my pants off and away from my now naked feet.

He looked up at me and asked, "Would you like me to help relieve your swelling, sir? I used to do it for your Uncle Bob, Mister Dowling."

(Pardon me, if I do not have Mr. Twain's skill for translating the dialects of Negroes to the page.)

This took me aback.

"What?" I exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, sir. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Mr. Dowling told me never to say a word about it. Said folks wouldn't understand. But, I figured that now that I'm your valet ..."

To this day, I can only attribute my next actions to the effects of wine and lust, but perhaps it was something baser within myself. I was no virgin, having enjoyed the pleasures of slatterns in Boston and Virginia, and courted one or two ladies, but I had never imagined this.

After the awkward silence, I finally managed to ask, "Did you mind doing it for Uncle Bob, Charlie?"

Still on his knees, he looked up at me and right into my eyes. Charlie slowly shook his head 'no' and smiled.

"Take down my undergarments then, Charlie," I said.

My cock was almost fully tumescent but still a little soft.

"Oh my, sir, you're much bigger than Mr. Dowling," he said with just a touch of happy surprise in his voice.

Charlie proceeded to bury his lower face in my scrotum. I could feel his hot breath as he inhaled my scent and began to lick and suck at it. Charlie's soft moaning also caused a stimulating vibration. The boy almost was as hungry to suck me as I was to be sucked.

I watched from above as his pillowy, African lips traveled up the side of my thick, long shaft, sucking and licking as they did. Charlie next inserted his tongue into the space between my foreskin and the glans of my cock. Now, it was my turn to moan in pleasant surprise.

"Yes, Charlie," I said. "That is delightful."

With his tongue, he pushed back the foreskin further and then stretched with his lips as his mouth descended down in its length. His oral service of my manroot already had shown itself to be more skilled than what I had received in those whore houses. It was his passion for it that made all the difference. Charlie's mouth was so wet and warm and only seemed to get more so the longer he nursed between my legs. The suction he applied was strong but carefully measured. I loved watching my cock appear and disappear as he bobbed on it, bathed in soft lamplight.

Our mutual panting and whimpers and moans were the only sounds heard, apart from the barely perceptible sounds of the water lapping at the ship as it plied the waters of the gulf.

As I looked down at Charlie, I saw his lips stretch around the shaft of my manroot in a way that reminded me of a young cow or bull sucking at its mother's tip. That's when I realized Charlie actually was desperate for my seed. It was then I knew he WANTED me to seed his mouth.

"Look up at me, Charlie," I commanded.

He did. I loved the sight of his soft eyes, glazed with lust, hungry and desperate, watching me.

"I am going to give you my essence and you will drink it down like a good boy. Won't you?"

He nodded his head but did not cease his worship.

A minute later, jets of my white lava gushed forth and filled his mouth. Copying a practice he learned between the legs of my uncle, he savored the taste, opened his mouth and showed me. With a smile, he closed his mouth and visibly swallowed and showed me his gullet again, now empty.

I smiled back, and then noticed his a large wet spot in his crotch. He had shot his own seed into his pants.

I gently pushed him away and instructed him to clean himself before getting in bed. I proceeded to disrobe and do the same. My sleep was long and peaceful.

Both of us treated the next day like it was any other, but I think we both were pretending. I noticed him looking at me differently, worshipfully in a way that went beyond the ordinary respect and fear a slave has for his master. Similarly, I noticed his shape in a way I hadn't before, the curve of his ass and the bulge in his trousers.

Other than that, it was any other day on a well-appointed steamboat. Meals were served, idle conversations with fellow passengers were had and I enjoyed a leisurely game of faro with some new friends. Dinner was good but ordinary. I asked Charlie to procure us some extra rolls to take back to our cabin. I asked to get a generous amount of butter for them.

Once we were back in our cabin, I asked Charlie if my uncle had ever used him "as a man would a woman."

He answered me in the affirmative, and I smiled in response.

"Good, good, Charlie. Take off all your clothes then I will give you mine to put away."

Charlie was thin, as underfed slaves sometimes were, but he had a delicate cast to his frame that was almost girlish. His manroot was quite average, neither small nor one of the veritable snakes I had seen some other male slaves sport. Charlie's manroot was very erect. He wanted this.

Once we were naked, Charlie bent over and touched his toes then remained in that position.

He bent his knees a bit and said, "This is how we used to start, Master."

I applied the butter, and he shivered.

"Mr. Dowling never did use no butter, sir."

"So, he stuck you dry, Charlie?"

"Yes, sir."

'What an idiot,' I thought silently to myself.

With my cock also buttered, I thrust into Charlie's ass. It was a revelation. The pussies of those stretched out Yankee whores did not compare to the sweet chocolate tightness of Charlie's posterior. Keeping me inside him, he fell forward onto the bed, and I felt his butt clench my cock even harder.

"The butter makes it much better, sir. Mr. Dowling hurt me when he did it."

I said nothing but began humping him.

Charlie started moaning.

"I likes being your woman, sir."

"You're a good, bitch slave, Charlie."

"Yes, sir, I be a good bitch for you."

I could feel my cock swell even larger as he said that. I could feel the glans of my cock flare and I slowed my pace to postpone my release.

"Do you like being sodomized, Charlie?" I had to explain that word to him.

"Yes, sir. I like it."

"Would you like other white men to fuck you, Charlie?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'd be real good to them, be a good woman like this for them, sir."

I maintained the slower pace of my humping.

"Where did Mr. Dowling sodomize you, Charlie?"

"In the woods usually, when he took me to help him hunt, sir," he said with a moan.

I reached under Charlies and began pulling gently but forcefully on his cock.

"Oh, my sir, thank you, sir."

I felt him squeeze me even tighter. That was too much and I let flow a torrent of my seed, filling him. In turn, Charlie came and splashed the sheet. For a few minutes, I stayed inside him. We were silent, and then I withdrew. Charlie stood up, cleaned up and collapsed onto my bed. Sleep came fast.

In the next two years, I would be admitted to the bar, take on a shipper as a client, teach Charlie how to read and the two of us made our way to Paris for the duration of what would be the Civil War. Working with my former client as a business partner, the two of us would amass great wealth. I formally freed Charlie a full year before Mr. Lincoln's proclamation but retained him as a paid valet. Our Paris adventures were a book in themselves, but I will save those for another time, perhaps.Author's note: The following depicts a while male master sexually dominating a black male slave in the period just before the Civil War. I have every intent of writing a black male dom/white male sub story that takes just after the war. If the racial politics of this fiction upsets you, please skip it.



When in the summer of 1859 I returned to my family's home and plantation in North Carolina, I was escaping the very heart of Yankee-dom for the beauty of the South. I had graduated Harvard University just months before. On his deathbed in early 1858, my father had made me promise to finish my education there. The management of our vast estate, including its 400 slaves, was left to our chief overseer and my uncle, my father's brother-in-law, who occupied a nearby plantation of half its size.

Even at half, Uncle Bob's place still was among the biggest, and he had made a fortune with his cotton mills in the north. He offered us a considerable sum, although not worth its full market value. My mother and I decided to be magnanimous and refrained from haggling. I received 45 percent of the amount, and my mother an equal share. The remaining 10 percent would go toward large dowries for my sisters. They did not lack for suitors before this windfall, and the dowries only increased their numbers. It would be a short time indeed before wedding bells would be heard. My mother and my sisters moved permanently to our Charleston house, which they much preferred anyway.

It was at this point that my own story really begins. As befitting a young gentleman of means and education in the antebellum South, I needed a valet. I chose Charlie, a Negro of 22 years who had grown up on our plantation. He had no children and no slave wife, a bit unusual at that time. Both his parents were gone — his father sold many years before and his mother dead of yellow fever. Taking him with me to New Orleans where I planned to read law would not entail any drama of separation. However, Uncle Bob seemed oddly distressed when I informed him of my plans. I asked him if anything was wrong, but he demurred and consented to my taking Charlie with me.

The two of us left by ship in the autumn of 1859 to sail around Florida into the Gulf of Mexico and then onto our destination. That first night in the private cabin of the steamship brought a revelation. I had eaten heartily and had more than one glass of wine. The attractiveness of the female passengers had only served to stoke the fires of my own steam engine. As Charlie helped me undress before putting on my night clothes, I made a joke about my tumescence. Charlie was on his knees in front of me as he pulled my pants off and away from my now naked feet.

He looked up at me and asked, "Would you like me to help relieve your swelling, sir? I used to do it for your Uncle Bob, Mister Dowling."

(Pardon me, if I do not have Mr. Twain's skill for translating the dialects of Negroes to the page.)

This took me aback.

"What?" I exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, sir. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Mr. Dowling told me never to say a word about it. Said folks wouldn't understand. But, I figured that now that I'm your valet ..."

To this day, I can only attribute my next actions to the effects of wine and lust, but perhaps it was something baser within myself. I was no virgin, having enjoyed the pleasures of slatterns in Boston and Virginia, and courted one or two ladies, but I had never imagined this.

After the awkward silence, I finally managed to ask, "Did you mind doing it for Uncle Bob, Charlie?"

Still on his knees, he looked up at me and right into my eyes. Charlie slowly shook his head 'no' and smiled.

"Take down my undergarments then, Charlie," I said.

My cock was almost fully tumescent but still a little soft.

"Oh my, sir, you're much bigger than Mr. Dowling," he said with just a touch of happy surprise in his voice.

Charlie proceeded to bury his lower face in my scrotum. I could feel his hot breath as he inhaled my scent and began to lick and suck at it. Charlie's soft moaning also caused a stimulating vibration. The boy almost was as hungry to suck me as I was to be sucked.

I watched from above as his pillowy, African lips traveled up the side of my thick, long shaft, sucking and licking as they did. Charlie next inserted his tongue into the space between my foreskin and the glans of my cock. Now, it was my turn to moan in pleasant surprise.

"Yes, Charlie," I said. "That is delightful."

With his tongue, he pushed back the foreskin further and then stretched with his lips as his mouth descended down in its length. His oral service of my manroot already had shown itself to be more skilled than what I had received in those whore houses. It was his passion for it that made all the difference. Charlie's mouth was so wet and warm and only seemed to get more so the longer he nursed between my legs. The suction he applied was strong but carefully measured. I loved watching my cock appear and disappear as he bobbed on it, bathed in soft lamplight.

Our mutual panting and whimpers and moans were the only sounds heard, apart from the barely perceptible sounds of the water lapping at the ship as it plied the waters of the gulf.

As I looked down at Charlie, I saw his lips stretch around the shaft of my manroot in a way that reminded me of a young cow or bull sucking at its mother's tip. That's when I realized Charlie actually was desperate for my seed. It was then I knew he WANTED me to seed his mouth.

"Look up at me, Charlie," I commanded.

He did. I loved the sight of his soft eyes, glazed with lust, hungry and desperate, watching me.

"I am going to give you my essence and you will drink it down like a good boy. Won't you?"

He nodded his head but did not cease his worship.

A minute later, jets of my white lava gushed forth and filled his mouth. Copying a practice he learned between the legs of my uncle, he savored the taste, opened his mouth and showed me. With a smile, he closed his mouth and visibly swallowed and showed me his gullet again, now empty.

I smiled back, and then noticed his a large wet spot in his crotch. He had shot his own seed into his pants.

I gently pushed him away and instructed him to clean himself before getting in bed. I proceeded to disrobe and do the same. My sleep was long and peaceful.

Both of us treated the next day like it was any other, but I think we both were pretending. I noticed him looking at me differently, worshipfully in a way that went beyond the ordinary respect and fear a slave has for his master. Similarly, I noticed his shape in a way I hadn't before, the curve of his ass and the bulge in his trousers.

Other than that, it was any other day on a well-appointed steamboat. Meals were served, idle conversations with fellow passengers were had and I enjoyed a leisurely game of faro with some new friends. Dinner was good but ordinary. I asked Charlie to procure us some extra rolls to take back to our cabin. I asked to get a generous amount of butter for them.

Once we were back in our cabin, I asked Charlie if my uncle had ever used him "as a man would a woman."

He answered me in the affirmative, and I smiled in response.

"Good, good, Charlie. Take off all your clothes then I will give you mine to put away."

Charlie was thin, as underfed slaves sometimes were, but he had a delicate cast to his frame that was almost girlish. His manroot was quite average, neither small nor one of the veritable snakes I had seen some other male slaves sport. Charlie's manroot was very erect. He wanted this.

Once we were naked, Charlie bent over and touched his toes then remained in that position.

He bent his knees a bit and said, "This is how we used to start, Master."

I applied the butter, and he shivered.

"Mr. Dowling never did use no butter, sir."

"So, he stuck you dry, Charlie?"

"Yes, sir."

'What an idiot,' I thought silently to myself.

With my cock also buttered, I thrust into Charlie's ass. It was a revelation. The pussies of those stretched out Yankee whores did not compare to the sweet chocolate tightness of Charlie's posterior. Keeping me inside him, he fell forward onto the bed, and I felt his butt clench my cock even harder.

"The butter makes it much better, sir. Mr. Dowling hurt me when he did it."

I said nothing but began humping him.

Charlie started moaning.

"I likes being your woman, sir."

"You're a good, bitch slave, Charlie."

"Yes, sir, I be a good bitch for you."

I could feel my cock swell even larger as he said that. I could feel the glans of my cock flare and I slowed my pace to postpone my release.

"Do you like being sodomized, Charlie?" I had to explain that word to him.

"Yes, sir. I like it."

"Would you like other white men to fuck you, Charlie?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'd be real good to them, be a good woman like this for them, sir."

I maintained the slower pace of my humping.

"Where did Mr. Dowling sodomize you, Charlie?"

"In the woods usually, when he took me to help him hunt, sir," he said with a moan.

I reached under Charlies and began pulling gently but forcefully on his cock.

"Oh, my sir, thank you, sir."

I felt him squeeze me even tighter. That was too much and I let flow a torrent of my seed, filling him. In turn, Charlie came and splashed the sheet. For a few minutes, I stayed inside him. We were silent, and then I withdrew. Charlie stood up, cleaned up and collapsed onto my bed. Sleep came fast.

In the next two years, I would be admitted to the bar, take on a shipper as a client, teach Charlie how to read and the two of us made our way to Paris for the duration of what would be the Civil War. Working with my former client as a business partner, the two of us would amass great wealth. I formally freed Charlie a full year before Mr. Lincoln's proclamation but retained him as a paid valet. Our Paris adventures were a book in themselves, but I will save those for another time, perhaps.

home and away again

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