Darkwood Plantation
Copyright© 2026 by Phillip Marks
Part 1: The Northern Cousin
Historical Sex Story: Part 1: The Northern Cousin - A woman visits her relatives in the south on the eve of the American Civil War and struggles to fit into their world.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Interracial Black Male White Female Anal Sex Facial Oral Sex
My ass hurt.
That was the only thing I could think of as the phaeton carriage I was in rumbled down a rutted road the color of alluvial clay. I was in Mississippi. The trip down here had been so long and arduous it didn’t even matter where I was anymore. Down here even the railroads, what few existed, were rough. I wasn’t sure how a railroad could be rough.
A heavy set man named Duncan was guiding the carriage down the roadway with a gray standardbred horse in the reigns. I was in the back seat and behind me was a pile of suitcases, hat boxes, and bags that contained my personal items. I grimaced as a particularly deep pothole sent an extra jolt of discomfort through my body.
“Sorry ‘bout that Miss Polly,” called out Duncan. “We’ll have to get some of the blacks out here to fix the potholes.”
I sighed. I was in the land of the Philistines.
Miss Polly; I was going to have to get used to that as well. I had been born down here nineteen years ago and had spent the first seven years of girlhood at Blackwood Plantation, a sprawling area that grew mainly cotton but also had a few of the trappings of traditional farms. My real name was Patricia Lynn Morgan but my childhood nickname had been Polly. Fortunately for me, my parents, Douglas and Elaine Morgan, had relocated to Philadelphia, where my father became involved in a thriving import/export business.
I was going to spend the summer down here with my aunt Margareet and my cousin Ella Rose who I vaguely remembered from my childhood. It was early June of 1858 and the Mississippi sun was already starting to beat down upon us. The petticoat, hoop skirt, and corset I was wearing didn’t help matters much either; at least my bonnet and fan seemed to help a little.
We rounded a long curve and passed a knot of trees as the horse trotted along, revealing a vast field of cotton. This must be the edge of Blackwood. I saw small groups of field hands scattered across the farmland. We were quickly approaching a larger group and a mounted man near the fence line.
“Duncan,” I called out. “Is this the edge of Blackwood?”
“Indeed it is Miss Polly.”
“How many hands does Uncle Wyatt employ now?”
“I think we got 126 blacks; depends if Sadie gave birth last night.”
I rolled my eyes and flapped my fan in futility against the rising heat. “What kind of acreage do they have now? I haven’t been down here for ... twelve years.”
Duncan thought for a moment. “I’m thinkin’ 800 acres, maybe 900,” replied Duncan.
I was surprised a man like Duncan could use such big numbers.
“Whoa there,” said Duncan, bringing the horse to a halt near the rider. He came up to us, a man on a brown horse with a wide-brimmed hat on and bearing a pistol. I noticed a group of five field hands working along the side the road near the fence. It looked like they were digging a drainage ditch.
“Miss Polly, this is Alexander Glouster, our lead overseer.”
I nodded politely and the man tipped his hat. He was rough looking and unshaven, certainly not what my mother would call a ‘gentleman’ but my eyes had noticed someone else, one of the field hands.
He was a big man. I was 5’4” and this person was at least a foot taller than me, maybe even a bit more. His skin was a deep obsidian and had a slight sweaty sheen to it now that the sun had risen in the sky. He wasn’t wearing a shirt ... and that to me was a good thing. His hair was cropped short and he had dark eyes. He took a long, risky glance at the wagon. I sighed when I noticed scars on his back – the signs of whipping. He glanced at me and the wagon again.
I leaned forward, trying to push out my bosom and emphasize my shapely narrow waist, bound like I was in a corset and a tight waisted dress. I twisted a lock of my brown hair non-nonchalantly. I knew I had caught his gaze. Fortunately for both myself and the field hand Mr. Glouster picked up on my cues incorrectly.
“It’s nice to meet you Miss Polly,” said Glouster.
“Likewise, sir,” I said with a fake smile.
“Miss Polly here is Mr. Wyatt’s niece. She’s come to us all the way from Philadelphia,” added Duncan.
“Ah! So you’re comin’ to old Dixie for the first time. Be careful ma’am, you might never leave.”
I plastered another smile on my face. “Oh no Mr. Glouster. I was born down here right on this plantation in fact.”
“A wayward daughter of the South,” commented Duncan.
“Perhaps,” I added.
Glouster noticed the big farmhand looking at the wagon. “Samson! Mind your eyes boy!” the overseer roared. “Y’all get back to digging that ditch!”
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