It was my duty, but I really did not want to do it, however I had no choice, and besides, it would, I was sure, have a very pleasant result in the long run. But I hate crying women, despise them. I knocked on the girl's door and let myself in without waiting. She was still in her bed, the covers loosely bunched about her hips and her luscious body nearly bare, dark hair spread widely across her pillows. But then the sun was barely up, painting her gold and red. I felt the beginnings of arousal.
"Melissa," I said loudly.
She sat up quickly, shaking her head and then raking back her lustrous hair with her fingers, her high breasts nearly bared to my eager eyes. "Uncle," she cried, "what time is it? What are you doing here?"
"I have bad news girl, I'm sorry, very bad news. I know it's early but I just found out by telegraph messenger. I felt you should know at once." My eyes devoured her, her youth and beauty. I could hardly wait to pin her to a bed with my hard prong, to have her writhing beneath me, begging and moaning.
She licked her lips, lips I would soon own and savor. "I don't understand." Her hard little nipples were clearly defined beneath the thin material, her long legs bare to the hip.
"Your parents, my dear, are dead, drowned. Their ship foundered off Nova Scotia two nights ago. Only one seaman survived and he brought the news. A man from the newspaper came out and told me an hour ago."
"Dead, both of them. I can't believe it." She let the gown fall off her right shoulder to bare her round breast. It was lovely. My palms itched and I felt myself salivating and hardening. She wept into her hands, deep sobs, just as I had feared. I hardened anyhow, painfully.
I tried to look mournful and stepped forward to pat her shivering back, and look down her gaping gown. "I'm sorry, but it is true. Now we must prepare." Her nipples were berry like. The death of my stupid brother and his beautiful doxy would make me richer as well as give me this lovely little bitch to warm my bed, but I tried to look sad.
"Prepare, prepare for what?" She sniffed and looked up at me, tears on her cheeks, so young and lovely
"Your father died deeply in debt, Melissa. There will have to be a sale, a sale to pay his debts."
"Father? In debt? I can't believe it."
"Sadly it's true and the bank will demand payment from his estate, payment at once I fear. He also owed several men, gambling debts I'm sorry to say. And he owed me, owed me a great deal, several thousand." I did not tell her that I planned to foreclose and take the land, all of it, nearly a thousand acres, as soon as he returned from England. I would have made him my tenant farmer and used his wife as well as his daughter for my pleasure. My late brother was a sniveling fool.
"Let me get dressed," she said, pulling her nightgown up on her shoulder and nearly freeing her other lovely mound with its pink tit. Melissa Wessex at barely sixteen and without a corset had the best pair in the county. She was a little more than five feet tall and probably weighed a hundred pounds or so, all of it prime. I could hardly wait to skewer her, and I felt my groin trembling. I adjusted my trousers.
"Of course," I said and sat in a soft chair and crossed my legs, repressing a smile, my cock well down my thigh.
"Uncle, please," she said, wiping her face with her hands, "give me some privacy." She swirled her nightgown about her legs.
"Oh I think not," I said with a smile. "Now you are just property, my girl, goods and chattels, simply another slave, one of his three dozen or so. Slaves do not get privacy as you call it. Slaves must not conceal anything."
She spun from the bed and put her feet on the floor, her light gown flowing about her lush body. My cock jerked.
"What! You're mad. What are you talking about?" She was angry and her color rose.
"He didn't tell you? Pity. My brother was such a fool. I suppose he was waiting until you were older or engaged to be married, then he would have to tell. Damn'd shame." I was enjoying myself, I must admit, watching her mystified face.
She found a blue robe at the foot of her bed and shrugged into it, covering my delighted view of her wonderful body. Since I was sure I would soon own that body, I resolved to be patient. Curiously, I had seen no sign of pubic hair. There should have been at least a shadow. She was surely nubile, wonderfully nubile, ripe, ready for plucking. I had poked enough black striplings to know the signs.
"Let me explain, my dear. You are a nigra, some say nigress I suppose, an octoroon although not exactly that, and you are a Wessex slave just as was your mother, your grandmother and your great-grandmother who was probably the offspring of some vile slaver or overseer long, long ago. She was the first, old Philip's wife if he actually married her, the original African bitch's bastard child. Her picture's on the stairwell, isn't it? The family claims she was some sort of princess." I chuckled. "But look at her. She's a nigra for sure."
"My mother. Lord, she was fairer than I am, and I am whiter than you are."
'We are not talking about color, Melissa. We are talking about blood. You are part African, a mulatto. We really do not have a term for your pedigree. Your grandmother, Patricia wasn't it, was one-fourth black, a quadroon is the word; your dear mother an eighth and you are one-sixteenth, but that is enough. It would be enough if you were only one-sixty-fourth. You will be sold with your father's other possessions."
"It can't be," the girl cried, backing up to the wall and looking horrified, her comfortable world of luxury collapsing around her. I stood, crossed the room, opened her robe and tore off her fancy nightgown, stared at her bare body, tossed the gown on the bed and then left to see my attorney about confiscating my brother's land before the sale.
As I had predicted so it was to be, and on sale day after the house, the furniture, pots and dishes, paintings and carpets, farm equipment and stock were sold, the slave auction began. Some of the older ones found no buyers and were turned out; most brought a good price for my brother took care of his animals and his people being very sparing with the whip, fool that he was.
Then, as the last piece of property, Melissa mounted the platform wearing only a plain shift, barefoot, black hair hanging loosely down her back, nearly to her wonderfully rounded buttocks, her eyes red from crying, mouth pouting nicely I thought. She had watched her comfortable world, as well as most of her clothes and jewelry, being swept away to strangers' hands. By damn but she was a shapely wench for one so young. I was sure there was not a limp cock in the crowd.
"Take it off," said Tom, the auctioneer. I must admit he leered at the lush youngster. I couldn't blame him. He had sold off some good-looking black girls during the past hour, and stripped all of them, but nothing like this piece of ass, this lovely chattel, this shapely child, this breathing property.
She shook her head and he grasped her flimsy garment between her firm breasts and tore it from her and tossed it to the ground. She yelped. The crowd sighed. Melissa put a hand between her legs and her forearm across her breasts, one shoulder strap hanging from her elbow. Disbelief filled her pretty face.
"Turn about," said Tom gruffly. Melissa had almost as good a backside as she did a front. Her hips were not very wide but her butt was quite shapely and her spine wonderfully curved and deeply trenched. I was sure I could bounce her on that fine ass and longed to feel it pressed against my belly.
At that point the best price yet for a Wessex slave was $2,100 for a farrier-blacksmith who was barely thirty, a skilled workman. The bidding on Melissa quickly passed $2,500. I waited. Because the estate owed me, I could bid recklessly.
When I said, rather loudly, "Three thousand," Melissa glared at me. It was the winning bid. She stepped down from the stage, and I handed her the torn shift. She threw it down and stepped on it. Her nipples were hard and jutting. I was tempted to have her then and there, to rip her open on the platform so everyone could hear her scream.
"You bastard," she hissed at me as I led her to my rig where two naked fieldhands waited wearing neck halters. I watched their young pricks start to harden as we approached, the girl's lovely jugs jiggling nicely. I was sure that they were, as advertised, good breeders and they surely had first class equipment. I slipped a halter on Melissa, tied her hands behind her with a strip of rawhide, and we were ready to travel, the small, white-skinned girl between the two large, ink-black bucks, both sporting hard pricks, jutting horns.
I mounted to the driver's seat, made sure the family pictures I had bought were secure and then clucked at my horse. The three slaves roped on behind had to trot to keep up, hard to do with their hands behind them, but I never went faster than a rapid walking pace although I must admit I was tempted to canter. It was about five miles, and I turned now and then to admire Melissa's bouncing boobs and stricken face, her hair streaming out behind her like a flag. The boys seemed to be enjoying themselves. I let the horse trot as we turned into my long drive, and the slaves had to run up the path of crushed shells. I am sure it was painful, but the boys' feet were hard.
.... There is more of this story ...