Southern Confessions
Copyright© 2026 by Controlling a Moment
Chapter 1
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - First person reflections of a wealthy Carolina plantation heir-to-be looking back on his struggle resisting the urge to abuse the power and leverage he holds in society, particularly over women, during the early 1800s. Hoping to turn over a new leaf after the recent birth of his son, who he almost lost along with his wife, John Elder, confesses his sins to paper before burning them to let go of his past and find a healthier way of living. **Please read opening paragraph and note the story tags
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Coercion NonConsensual Rape Historical Cheating MaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Black Female White Male White Female
Backstory
My name is John Elder. Let me start by saying I, along with my family, am the product of fortune, privilege, and fortuitous timing. I am well aware of the rare and admittedly unfair opportunity I was born into. As the only son of a wealthy Charleston plantation owner in the late 1700’s America, I have had access to opportunities and experiences that few in history, let alone this juvenile country, have ever come close to having.
For the last 75 years the Elder family has been steadily building a small agricultural empire. My grandfather, Albysus, along with his brother, William, moved to the Carolina’s around 1710 from Britain as representatives of the British Trading Company. Initially tasked with the expansion of their American agricultural and commodity business such as livestock, wheat, flour, and of course slaves. For the majority of their career the two worked closely with the British government, including the appointed governor of South Carolina.
As the state grew and matured, they played a pivotal role in the shaping of the region’s agricultural economy. As key founders of the Carolina Commodities Exchange and Elder Trading Company (which is now the state’s largest international Import/Export business) the Elder name slowly became a powerful and successful family name in the Charleston community.
Towards the end’s of their careers in the mid to late 1740’s the family moved into agricultural financing and banking where they started acquiring and investing in regional farms and plantations. However, it wasnt until my father, John “Sr”, and his brother Abe took over in the 50’s that the true accumulation of wealth and power emerged. To keep it brief my father and Uncle, although close to the crown, did not agree with the heavy taxation being placed on the community and country as a whole. During the revolution they served as spies and benefactors to the rebel cause, providing crucial supplies, information, and of course funds to American leadership. All of which was acknowledged in a handwritten letter from General Washington himself after the war thanking the two for their contributions and awarding them service medals.
After the war, the two brothers not only purchased sizeable lots of land from the newly formed government who had repossessed it from high ranking British officials, they also acquired thousands of acres of land throughout the region from struggling farmers and plantation owners. By the end of the 1700’s the Elder family business was one of the largest private agricultural families in the United States.
That finally brings it to me. I will spare you my life story at least for now. What you need to know is that I am 36 years old and the year is 1811. I, along with 2 of my cousin’s, am in charge of the Elder empire. While my cousins, Jasper and Thomas, run most of the farming operations, including most of the operations on my sibling’s and I’s land, I have moved to overseeing most of the commodities and investment business.
I am writing this because yesterday was the birth of my first child Danielle and while I finally married my wife 18 months ago, to the surprise and disbelief of nearly everyone around me including my wife - all of whom believed was a day that would never happen, the becoming a father is one thing I myself thought would never happen. It is the “Why” behind that thought that is the motivation for this reflection. The last twenty years of my life have been centered around the pursuits of my own pleasures and indulgences. For the first time I have something new to care about. My hope in writing this “Confession”, for lack of a better word, is that the outward admission will serve as both a symbolic and literal closing of a specific life chapter, so I can move on to a tamer and more dignified one. These writings are my attempt to savor my past and wrestle with my future. I have never been one for prayer, and Lord knows it would need to be a long one, however, these stories are my admission of guilt to myself and the fire I cast them too once I have finished.
The Past
I have never cared about money or social status except for the luxuries they can buy. Unlike most of my immediate family I do not need houses, clothes, or political power. What I have cared about is the pursuit of experience and the privacy and resources needed to indulge in those experiences whenever and however I want.
To my immediate peers and community, I have always been charming, quick witted, and confident. A wealthy bachelor with a hint of mystery and a knack for mischief. A rare non-conformist pushing back against traditional institutions and confining social circles. At the worst, some saw me as a spoiled playboy that, although a shrewd businessman, was childish in my refusal to grow up and embrace traditional social norms. That said, even in the eyes of my biggest critics no one saw me as evil. However, if I were to look back at both my public and private life as only one can do, I am a little more unsure. If not evil, then definitely at times self indulging, conniving, controlling, and manipulative. The truth is I have always been motivated by two things: control and desire.
But it wasnt unit is was about 10 that I realized how much power and control I was already born into. Growing up I was exposed to the family business as early as I can remember. I immediately showed a knack for learning. I excelled in both my tutoring and my work with my father, particularly the investment side of the business. For years as a kid, I shadowed my father and his employees both in his office meetings and on the farms. I helped with planting schedules, harvesting, and even the distribution of slaves. I would later hand off the land management responsibilities of my father’s land to my cousin Jasper, but for most of my life I managed, purchased and sold the slaves that worked my father’s fields. I grew up working and managing slaves in almost every aspect of my life both on the farm and in our home. However, when I was 9 or 10 years old I saw something that changed my life forever.
It was a late summer evening. My mother had taken my step sisters to my uncle’s Charleston mansion to find a new gown for the independence gala being hosted in the city for the fourth. My father and I stayed to work the week but were planning to leave for the city the next day to meet them for the weekend.
It was late and I had been instructed to go to bed by our house slave Anita. Anita was second in command to her mother Bertha, or Momma Bert as my sisters and I called her. Mamma Bert and Anita came to my family when Anita was a child, well before I was born. Although they had both helped raise me, Anita was the new primary care giver to me and my younger stepsisters now that Mamma Bert was slowing down and showing signs of sickness. Although I wouldn’t say my family ever loved a slave, besides maybe my sisters, Anita and Bert shared the highest status of anyone in our slave community. For the most part, at least for the time being, we the kids did what they said with only minor push back.
At the time, I would guess Anita was probably in her mid to late twenties, maybe 26 or 27. She had big brown eyes that were bright, clear, and full of life. She had dark coffee colored skin with a slender face, strong healthy cheek bones, plump full lips and a delicate but defined jaw. Unlike her mom who was large and heavier set, she was only 5’5” with a more slender athletic physique, feminine and petite in many ways but yet strong her hips, back and butt. At that time in life I wouldn’t have noticed, but she had a genuinely striking demeanor, especially compared to the delicate form of the white girls her age.
After fighting desperately to stay up and help my father like the adult I “rightfully” saw myself as, Anita had finally gotten me washed and in bed. It was a pivotal period in my life that I remember well. I was entering a new phase of manhood from both a physical and responsibility perspective and poor Anita was forced to bear the brunt of the conflict, especially when my mother was away. It was when she was saying her goodnights from her seat at the foot of my bed, laughing off my last and final protests, that we were interrupted by my father’s voice from the dark hallway, “Anita, when you are finished, please, meet me in my study ... I ... I need to speak with you.” There was a pause. Although not frequent, I had heard him call her to the study before, but this time I was looking directly into her face when he had done it. She was tense, almost frozen in a mix of disappointment and fear as if she had just received the bad news she thought she had avoided. After a short collection of self, Anita turned her head toward the dark empty hall and responded “Yehs, Masta.” The sound of descending footsteps and creaking stairs was confirmation that the message had been received.
When she turned back to me, her face, illuminated by the incoming moon light, was stern but accepting. “Go’da bed masta John. We have an early morning of travel tomarra - i musst go tend to ya father” she said patting my leg as she reached for the bedside candle, completely ignoring any of my last ditch please.
Her steps down the stairs sounded slow and almost lifeless. I was transfixed on what had just happened. Her whole orah had changed the second she heard my fathers voice. It seemed to transform her from a neutering almost “older sister” like figure, playfully bantering with her restless, immature younger brother to a poor, hopeless house slave devoid of love, opportunity, or choice, all in a matter of seconds. I laid in bed for what seemed like ages, fascinated by the event, running it over and over in my mind. Finally I broke and quickly but quietly snuck down the dark poorly lit plantation stairway. I followed the low grumbling sound of my father’s gravely voice. However, as I got half down the dark east wing hallway towards my father’s study, a soft clapping sounds started to accompany my father’s grumbles. The study was at the end of the hallway and was typically guarded by two large beautiful white french doors, however tonight, a night my mother happened to be out of town for, they had mistakenly left slightly ajar allowing soft candle light to poor out and escape into the dark hallway. Curious but nervous to get caught out of bed I kneeled down onto my knees as I slowly and quietly pried open the doors three or four inches in order to steal a glance on what hid inside.