Darkwood Plantation
Copyright© 2026 by Phillip Marks
Part 4: The Barbecue
Historical Sex Story: Part 4: The Barbecue - 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
“Uhhh!” I grunted.
“We’re almost done Miss Polly,” answered the woman who was tightening my corset.
I just rolled my eyes and glanced around the bed chamber. Ella Rose and I were getting ready for the barbecue at Blackwood Plantation. Ella was nearby, clutching a chair. A second servant, a plump woman of color was happily lacing the back of her corset up.
I felt a final sharp jerk as the corset narrowed my waist a bit more. “All finished Miss Polly. Let me get your crinoline and petticoat.”
God, I thought, we weren’t even to the damn dress yet. “I’m ready Bet,” I said with as much happiness as I could muster.
“This is so much fun Polly! We are going to look so good. I’ll be ready to be swept off my feet by a dashing Mister like I’m a fairy tale princess,” said Ella.
“Absolutely,” I replied, hoping I sounded far more enthused than what I was.
I glanced at myself in a nearby mirror. My hair and face had turned out quite well I had to admit; the pink ribbons and headband matched my brunette hair well and left my hair loose enough to be alluring. I smiled and pulled a stray strand of hair loose, letting it hang. Nice.
Thankfully, I was almost done with this tedious process. I had on my chemise, the corset, my stockings, the bulky bloomers (which I hated), and a pair of very pretty shimmering pink heels. The crinoline, petticoat, and dress remained. My ensemble was pink, or more accurately dusty rose. Ella would be wearing light blue.
I glanced out a window. On the grounds of Blackwood slaves were scurrying about doing the final preparations for the barbecue. I saw a whiff of smoke from the pits; three whole pigs were being cooked. The whole experience struck me as vaguely medieval, like something out of an Ella Rose fairy tale. It was strange, almost as this festival didn’t belong in this time. I had seen the port of Philadelphia packed with shipping. I had seen the smoke drifting over steel mills and manufactories in Pittsburgh. I had heard the roar of steam engines in New York City.
This experience, here at Blackwood, was jarring to the senses.
Aunt Margareet whirled into the room with the energy of a dynamo. She was wearing a soft red jacquard gown. “How are we doing girls?” she demanded.
“Making progress, Mum!” said Ella Rose.
“I’m almost done, Aunt Margareet,” I added happily. I really was happy to almost be done with this nonsense.
“Very good! Bet and Maggie, chop chop! I need my girls downstairs before the guests arrive.” Margareet came over to me and examined my hair after Bet tied my crinoline in place. “You look marvelous, Polly. You should’ve been a southern belle, not some man-hating harridan from the north.” She pulled another strand of hair loose, carefully framing my face. I smiled meekly at her.
A few moments later Ella Rose and I walked down the main stairs of the big house. It felt like almost floating with the bloated dresses on. Ella Rose was right: the experience was like a fairy tale. Aunt Margareet was in red and Uncle Wyatt, dapper in a very well cut suit, looked wonderful and smiled at us. The only one who seemed a bit dejected was Charlotte, who was just a tad too young to fully partake of the festivities and was still relegated to the role of a child.
The guests started to arrive in about an hour, a stream of well-heeled families, southern belles, eligible bachelors, and land owners. I spotted a few uniforms of the Citadel, the Georgia Military Academy, and even one cadet from VMI among the young men. My hand was kissed so many times I thought it would fall off at one point.
I spent the rest of the morning, and the noon hour in a rapid shuffle from group to group, with a special emphasis on the young men. The garden I had my very memorable encounter in was in full use and I vaguely wondered where Samson was. The field hands had a rare day off today. I adapted to this social situation as best I could.
Ella Rose was the belle of the ball so to speak. A knot of young bucks practically followed her around. I was a pretty young woman as well but I was a guest, a temporary commodity in this place. Ella was a very desirable bachelorette. This was fine with me; the chevalier in butternut concept was hard for me to believe at best, absolutely foolish at worse.
The food became available right after noon and it was delicious. The people who did the cooking were all slaves and wow did they know how to prepare pork! It literally melted in your mouth. I was told it was a Memphis, Tennessee style; sweet molasses based sauces focused upon pork. I didn’t care much; it was good and that is all I cared about.
I played the role of a demure lady as best I could but even I have a breaking point and eventually it came.
Ella Rose escorted me into a group of three young men, one wearing the uniform of a Citadel cadet and introduced me to all of them: Miles (the cadet), Wesley, and Conrad, who was the best looking of the bunch. I caught a snippet of their conversation as we approached, something about a massacre or battle at Marais des Cygnes, Charles Hamilton, and Kansas. Miles had interjected something about the question of states rights coming to a bloody conflict.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt gentleman,” began Ella Rose, “but I just must introduce you to my dear cousin Polly. She has come to visit us all the way from Philadelphia.”
I received another round of hand kissing and I demurely played my part.
“We are truly happy to host such a lovely young woman here in the South,” said Conrad.
“Of course,” I said. “I was born here though, some have dared to call me a wayward daughter of the South.”
Wesley snorted. “That man was a cad for sure Miss Polly.”
I thought about that and considered who had said it. “Of that I have no doubt sir,” I said. The group of men chuckled. I was dimly aware that Ella Rose had been dragged away by another young suitor.
“Mr. Miles, I had overheard you comment about states rights before. I do truly hope that the differences between our states do not come to that.”
“Well of course,” commented Miles. “It just seems that we are on a dark path.”
“I would be curious Miss Polly, as to the perspective of a northerner on our current troubles,” asked Conrad.
Wesley scowled. “Hardly a subject a young lady would be knowledgeable about.”
“Indeed,” said Miles. “The fact remains that if it comes to war the bravery and honor of the southern gentleman will carry the day against the Yankee hordes. Think of the Revolutionary War – Washington, Jefferson – all of the great men that founded our Republic were gentleman of the south.”
I smiled tightly and fanned myself. This was going to be fun. “Well, I am of course just a lady but I have more than one reason to hope that our conflict doesn’t come to bloodshed; aside from the damage a death such a war would cause it would also go very poorly for the South.”
Miles shot a look at me. “Simply the perspective of a woman.” The men chuckled again.
“It is a perspective,” I said. “The facts are quite simple and verifiable. The South can not win such a war.”
“You have no knowledge of war Miss Polly,” shot back Miles.
“Quite true,” I said. “I do understand commerce, mathematics, and economics however. These three things are what matter in modern warfare.”
“What of bravery, honor, and the fighting spirit Miss Polly?” asked Conrad.
“All of what you mention are important Mr. Conrad and Mr. Miles is quite correct, almost all the great leaders of the Revolution were southerners but today is not 1783. Wars are won far behind the battlefield nowadays-”
“The musings of a mere woman,” interrupted Miles.
“If I may finish sir,” I shot back. “The facts of such a conflict are in front of us in the unfeeling letters and numbers of charts and statistics. The South has almost an entirely agriculture based economy. It lacks the skilled labor and infrastructure needed to industrialize in any meaningful way. The North, on the other hand, has all the shipping and commerce, the banking and financial institutions to support not just a war effort but a mass mobilization the likes of which the world has never seen before. We have almost all the railroads, we have mills and manufactories that can rapidly be converted to war production when the time comes and the capital, and infrastructure, to do it. Iron, textiles, ammunition, weapons, and ships will flow from our mills and yards while your farms continue to produce cotton, tobacco, and corn.”
“Well I-” began Miles.
It was my turn to interrupt. “I am still not finished Mr. Miles. The final nail in the coffin of Dixie is a simple statistic: population. There are 22 million people in the northern states. The population of the South is only 5.5 million, not including your slaves. Even if all of the so-called “border states” sided with Dixie that only provides an extra 2.5 million people, still not enough. I have been doing all the book work for my family’s company for several years now. I understand numbers. They do not lie.”
Miles deflated abruptly.
“An interesting perspective Miss Polly. It seems you have an understanding of some things that we do not. However, you underestimate Europe. If the European powers, particularly England, were to be cut off from southern cotton they would intervene and your precious North could not stand up to that kind of force,” said Wesley.
“A fine point,” added Conrad. He seemed fascinated by me.
“England and France will not help the South,” I began flatly. “You overestimate the power of King Cotton. Both of these powers have opposed slavery since 1808 and the South is a slave based society. France is irrelevant in our discussion as 90% of the textiles made in the world come from England. It is certain that the loss of American cotton will hurt England but only for a short time. Egypt stands ready to replace that supply – they are already expanding production. The Delta and the Nile Valley have an excellent agricultural pedigree dating back to the Roman Empire and shipping across the Mediterranean is far easier than the Atlantic. Again, gentlemen it’s simple economics and numbers.”
The men were aghast. I could tell from Miles face that if I had not been wearing a pink gown I might have a duel on my hands today. He was lucky I was wearing a pink dress I thought.
Then I heard my Uncle Wyatt: “Gentleman, let us retire to my parlor for brandy and cigars!” A murmur of agreement went through the gathered men and to my amazement the ladies started to detach themselves from the gentleman. I felt Ella Rose’s grip on my arm as I moved to follow the men.
“Come with me Polly,” she said smiling.
“What?” I said. “Oh no. Brandy and cigars; I was having a splendid conversation about economics and politics with these young men.”
“Oh those things aren’t for ladies,” Ella Rose said. “The men will go to the parlor to discuss business while we refresh ourselves with a brief nap and then we will rejoin them for dessert.”
“No! I want a brandy and a cigar!” I exclaimed.
“Don’t be a silly goose Polly. If you had a cigar your dress would smell awful and brandy is bad for your humours.”
Shit!
Despite my protestations Ella Rose dragged me into Blackwood Plantation and up the main stairs with the rest of the women. I fought her but didn’t make a horrible scene – I realized I didn’t have much choice. Upstairs in one of the large gathering rooms a specific area had been set up for us. This was a new and fresh kind of hell for me.
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