I passed by my father’s bedroom to tell him I was going down to the river to meet my friend Sydney from the neighboring Sheldon Grove sugar cane plantation to fish for mangrove snapper for cook’s special fish stew, but I could see he was busy. Jimar, the uppity house slave—well beyond his station since childbirth took my mother and the baby away three years earlier, in 1822, when I was but eleven—naked, on his back on my father’s bed. My father held, ramrod straight, above the boy of fourteen, between his legs, supported by his straight-armed fists and his toes, while Jimar thrust his pelvis up. His hole was sheathing my father’s cock and Jimar was fucking himself on it.

Jimar used his flexibility to take my father’s shaft. The boy’s legs were wrapped around my father’s buttocks, his heels dug into the man’s mounds, and the boy’s hands gripped my father’s biceps. They were kissing as Jimar raised and lowered his pelvis, taking my father deep. My father was partially clothed. His britches were undone and pulled down to his upper thighs, having allowed his cock to escape the codpiece, the laces of which dangled down, tickling the small, ebony slave’s thighs as they slapped against them. His broadcloth shirt laces were also undone and the two wings of his shirt hung down.

My father was still a fine figure of a man, of average height of an English plantation owner in Jamaica, barrel chested and slim waisted, with a shock of reddish hair on his head and in tuffs elsewhere on his hard, muscular body. His cock was of proud proportions, although not near what our West African field slaves were swinging.

Jimar had been uppity ever since my father took him to bed. He and I were of the same age, but I was smaller and slimmer than he was. He was more muscular, more like a field slave in development rather than the coddled house slave—and bed warmer for my father—that he was. Before my father had taken him into his bed in recent months, Jimar and I had been fast friends. We’d done everything together. Since then, however, I had become friends with Sydney Sheldon, from the sugar cane plantation next to our plantation, Trelawny, near the northern Jamaican coast, not far from the town of Falmouth. And, with Sydney, came Tion, his house slave, who was fourteen, like me—Sydney was sixteen and, being two years older than me, was forever showing me the way forward. Tion was now the playmate to me that Jimar had once been. But Jimar felt himself above me now. He lay under my father in the plantation master’s bed.

Jimar was a witch. He had bewitched my father, and he made no effort to hide that from me. I thought he might have come under the spell of the Obedie pagans who gathered in the foothills of the mountains inland from the coast and whose drums I could hear now and then at night. The Obedie, a coven of black bucks, who, according to Sydney, performed all kind of sexual rituals at night on the mountain and devised all sorts of potions and poisons, which they used for their own devices. I had little doubt that Jimar had used a potion on my father to entice him to cover and be bewitched by the boy.

I stood and watched for a while, through the transition where my father could not stand Jimar having control any longer and put an arm around the boy’s waist, set his knees down to give himself leverage, and took over control of the stroking of the shaft inside the boy’s passage. Jimar lay there, gasping and muttering in that half West African half English dialect of the slaves until my father tensed and jerked and gave the boy his seed.

I hoped he took Jimar in pain, but Jimar was lucky one of the big black bulls among the salve hands wasn’t plowing him.

I turned and left the house, headed for the river, envying Jimar—not because he had managed to elevate himself in the world of slavery, where the work was brutally hard in the fields and not so hard in the house, but where a man and boy were a slave in either place if they were black and their people had been brought here to work the sugar cane plantations. I didn’t covet my father’s cock in particular. I was more smitten with the black bulls who worked the fields. But I was on the cusp of being a man and was making the discoveries of sexuality that went with that. My eye was not on females, the women slaves or my sisters, or Sydney Sheldon’s mother at Sheldon Grove. I was smitten with the men on the plantation—the black bulls of the field.

Sydney Sheldon was helping to prepare me for the world of men fucking men. He claimed to have known it all already, although he only was sixteen. But so far we had only been working ourselves slowly into it. He said he could only take me so far, because we both were of the preference to being submissive to men, like Jimar was. I wasn’t sure I understood what Sydney meant or why he and I could not do it all together. But he was two years older than I was, already an experienced man. And I had no other guide available here on the plantations. Certainly, it was not something my father and I could discuss—not as long as he was lifting up someone who had once been no higher than my house slave and play companion.

“Tion didn’t come with you?” I asked, as I met up with Sydney near the river, both of us carrying our poles, both of us knowing we were going to do more than fish. Sydney was taller than I was and two years ahead of me in growing into a muscular body, even though he was still slim. Neither of us just lay around the plantation house sucking on cane stalks. Plantation work was hard, whether in the field, the house, or the workshops. Sydney and I were the heirs of our respective plantations, but we both had our duties, and that entailed physical work.

My body was smaller and leaner than Sydney’s, but I was in as good a physical shape for my age as he was for his. On this day, as usual, we wore only our three-quarters linen britches with laced codpieces. Sydney, who was of auburn hair coloring and brown eyes, was brown as a berry. Men of his coloring tanned easily and well. I had inherited my father’s reddish coloring that tended toward burning in the sun rather than tanning. Luckily, however, I had inherited my mother’s blond coloring to mix in with the red and more tolerance for the sun. So, I was lightly tanned, with blond hair, streaked with red highlights, and blue eyes.

“I could not locate Tion before I left,” Sydney answered.

We found Tion in the next couple of minutes’ walk to the river, though. He was being fucked by the black bull field slave with the muscular body of a god, Demonde, on the riverbank. It was the discussed image of the attributes of Demonde that Sydney and I often stroked ourselves off to during our fishing trips to the river. Demonde lived apart from the other slaves in a clearing in a mangrove patch. He was a man apart, not only in magnificent body but also in social interaction. Sydney had whispered that he was sure the hunky slave was a priest of Obedie.

At the moment he was ravishing Tion. We heard them before we saw them, so we were able to sneak up on them unobserved and watch from the cover of lush, high-sprouting ferns.

They were in much the same position as my father and Jimar had been at the last when I left them at the house. Demonde, his britches unlaced and flared, wearing nothing else, was knelt between Tion’s spread thighs, one of his beefy arms under the boy’s waist, holding him in place. Tion, naked, was under him. Demonde was holding the boy’s upturned pelvis a foot off the ground, and Tion’s torso streamed down, with only his shoulder blades and his head touching the ground. The boy’s knees were hooked on Demonde’s hips. Demonde’s free hand was gliding over the boy’s torso and stroking the boy on the hip as his own hips were vigorously thrusting, fucking the boy deep.

Tion’s head was turned toward us. He was looking directly at Sydney and me, hidden in the ferns, but his eyes were glassy. He wasn’t seeing a thing. His mouth was open, blowing bubbles, and he was babbling, sounding much like Jimar had done while my father was fucking him. The boy’s arms were flung away from his body in visible surrender to the man fucking him.

Demonde’s glistening body was magnificent in the strain of giving sex, but it was even more so when he pulled out of Tion, stood, and raised the boy’s body with him. Demonde was in magnificent erection, long, long, long and as thick as my arm. I gasped and Sydney chuckled.

“A monster, isn’t he?” Sydney whispered.

“How can a small boy like Tion take him?” I murmured.

“Nature has a way of making everything fit,” Sydney said. “Although, with Demonde, it’s very difficult. I had a hard time taking it.”

“You never. You’re making that up,” I said, aghast. Certainly not believing him.

“Yes, of course I did. Demonde fucks whoever he wants. He’d do you one of these days.”

“Surely he won’t. He’s a slave,” I responded.

“With a cock like his, everyone is his slave. You’ll see.”

We watched as Demonde lifted Tion and draped him, belly down, in the bowl of a split trunk tree, with the boy’s torso hanging down on the other side and his legs on the side we could see. His buttocks jutted out at the fork of the tree. I took my breath in when I saw Demonde part the boy’s cheeks with his hands. The hole was cavernous. Demonde had already reamed it to his needs. The smallness of Tion’s body accentuated how extraordinarily wide the black bull had reamed him.

“You’re as small as Tion,” Sydney whispered in my ear. “He will stretch you like that too.”

I moaned.

As we watched, Demonde stepped up to the boy, knelt down, and stuck his face in Tion’s crevice. We could hear the otherwise completely docile boy moan, as the big black buck ate his hole out, enlarging it even further. And then Demonde was saddled up behind the boy, forcing himself inside, and fucking the hole again with his club of a cock. From where we were crouching I could see the cock moving in and out of the hole, moving ever deeper, stroking ever faster, until Demonde, like my father had just done inside Jimar, tensed and jerked, and released his cum. He took his time seeding Tion, tensing, jerking, and releasing and then repeating, several times. Cum was dribbling out of Tion’s hole and dripping down his quivering thighs. Tion had jerked and cried out at each release, but then he held quietly, as Demonde laughed, pulled of him, took his cock in his hand and rubbed it’s dribbling cum around on the boy’s rump, and then pushed it back inside the boy for a few more, slow pumps, before he ultimately pulled out.

Demonde stuffed the cock back inside his britches, laced his codpiece up, and strode back toward the sugar cane field where he had been working before he took his fuck break. Tion remained, draped over the crook in the tree, quivering but otherwise remained in place.

“Should we go to him?” I whispered.

“No, he will not want us to know he was seen being fucked. He will be all right.”

“Is he humming? Is he not in pain and distress?”

“No, he’s purring, as you will be when Demonde takes you and deflowers you. Tion is purring like a contented cat. It is a real honor on the plantation to be covered by Demonde. There is much pleasure in that pain.”

I turned and moved away from there, hoping that Sydney didn’t see me shudder and trembling from the prospect of that. We moved further along the riverbank to our favorite, hidden hollow by the grassy verge into the river and set our fishing poles. Then, both in heat, we moved into a depression lined with moss and lay on our backs beside each other, our shoulder blades propped up on tree trunks.

I watched as Sydney unlaced the codpiece of his britches, flared the freed panel, and pulled out his cock. He was more than half hard, as I was too, after seeing Demonde fuck Tion and not being able—or wanting—to erase the images of that from my mind. Sydney stroked himself for a few minutes and then reached over and unlaced my codpiece and fished out my cock. He was stroking me when I reached over and stroked him as well. We had gone this far some weeks earlier. We had only just moved into what we did next for the last two weeks, though. Sydney rose up over me, stretching his full body over mine, supporting his weight on his elbows and knees, placed on either side of my body, he took my cock in his mouth. His was dangling there in front of my face, so I took it in my mouth as well.

In this way, after a few minutes, we had given each other release. We had gone this far before, but Sydney said we could go no further, because we both wanted the same thing and couldn’t satisfactorily give that to each other.

“You need a man who wants to put it inside you,” he said as we lay there afterward, discussing what we’d seen Demonde doing with Tion.

“And when Demonde comes for you and has taken you, you then will be able to do it with any man. I know of no man as thick and as long as Demonde. He will prepare you for all the rest.”

“Like you say he has prepared you,” I said skeptically.

“Yes, as he has prepared me for Samuel, Lamar, and Benjamin. They all are big, but not as big as Demonde. I take them without pain.”

The three slaves named were all young, strapping, black studs who worked the Sheldon Grove sugar cane fields.

“You never,” I said. “You are just making empty boast.”

“No, I am not, and you will see. Demonde knows what you want. He will come for you. He will want to have you first.”

“How would he know what I desire?” I said, still skeptical.

“Because I told him. Did you see what he did with Tion on that tree. Demonde loves to take boys on trees like that. He has a tree in his clearing. He calls it his Fuck Fuck Tree. It has branches every which way that he likes to use to put the boys in positions useful to him. He ties them to the tree. And he fucks them and fucks them and fucks them.”

“And you claim he has done this to you?” My voice was hoarse now, thick from desire.

Before Sydney rolled over on top of me again and we took each other’s rehardened shafts in our mouths, he whispered, “Yes, he has, and it was—and is—nothing like I have ever experienced before. You’ll see. He came for me when I was fourteen. He still ties me to his tree. I’ll take you there some night to watch him ravish me. And some day he will come for you and carry you back to his Fuck Fuck Tree and tie you to it too. And you will feel pain, pleasure, and passion beyond your imagination. I will help prepare you. I am helping you have more pleasure than pain when Demonde comes for you and tears your virginity out of you as he did to me. I was in pain for a week but could tell no one of it. And on the eighth day I was hanging on Demonde’s tree again—willingly.”

And then I subsided into moaning and moving my hips, feeling his warm mouth descend down the sides of my throbbing cock. This wasn’t just like what we’d done moments before, though. He was going further. I felt a finger at my rim. I gasped and moaned as he moved it around the rim and then groaned as he sank the finger inside me. My muscles grasped and tried to expel it at first but he held it stead, persistent, inside me, and I felt my muscles relax and draw the finger in deeper.

When he did something new with me it was always a guide and an invitation. I tentatively touched his pulsating rim with a finger and moved it around. He groaned and I pressed the finger at his opening. He wasn’t tight as I had been. His hole was gaping open, his passage loose, when I moved it inside.

“Another one. Two more,” he whispered, and I penetrated him with three bunched fingers. He took me easily. He was open. My thoughts went to Tion, draped over the crook in the tree, his hole wide open, having just been stretched by a monstrous cock. And then I believed. Sydney had, indeed, been covered by Demonde—and possibly by any number of other black slave bucks.

“You will be opened much more than that by Demonde when he hangs you on his tree,” Sydney whispered.

I shuddered in anticipation—but, for now, in envy.

I slipped out of the big house at Trelawny at 3:00 in the morning that Sydney designated and met him beyond slave row. He took my hand and we moved toward the mountain inland from the plantation home compound. We were still on Carter land when we reached a level area in the lower foothills of the mountain. Demonde was a Trelawny slave. He lived apart from the other slaves, but he was one of ours. He lived in a beaten-earth clearing in the middle of a grove of Blue Mahoe trees. Before we got to the clearing, we stopped and Sydney told me to crouch down there.

“Be quiet. Watch from here. There’s an unobstructed view, but you’ll be in the dark, unseen from the clearing,” he whispered. Trembling, I crouched down as he told me, and watched him walk, upright and steadily into the lit clearing. Torches picked out the edge of the tree line across the clearing from Demonde’s cabin. There at the very edge, between the torches was the split trunk and spreading branches of the dead Blue Mahoe, branches jutting in all directions but directly between the tree and the clearing. The branches looked petrified, as if they had turned to polished stone.

As Sydney approached, Demonde, muscular body glistening in the torchlight, naked save for fringed bands around his ankles and above his biceps, and a necklace of old coins around his neck, came out of the cabin and watched Sydney walk to him. Samuel, a muscular, handsome Sheldon Grove slave, wearing three-quarter, laced cotton britches came out of the cabin. Behind him came Lamar and then Benjamin, all wearing only tight, laced britches, all magnificent black bucks, none the towering bull that Demonde was, however.

Sydney stopped in front of Demonde, close to him. They didn’t kiss, but Demonde placed his hands, palms spread, on Sydney’s breast and Sydney reached up and did the same with Demonde. Demonde was a head taller than Sydney and his body was that of a powerful god set against Sydney’s. Sydney, in turn, was a head taller than I was and not as slim of torso and hips.