Part One

In the spring of 1825, I, Henry O’Doul, had just celebrated my eighteenth birthday. I was given a big party because my parents thought it was a real milestone, but I just thought it was another day on the calendar. I lived in rural Georgia. My father was the local blacksmith. I took after him because I was good with my hands. In some cases, I surpassed my father in being able to build and repair items. It didn’t bother him; it actually made him proud.

My family were not slaveholders; most southerners were not. However, we lived nearby numerous plantations, large and small. The most noteworthy of them was owned by another person of Irish descent named Gerald Flaherty. He was a real character. A 70-year-old man, he owned a vast tract of fertile land that grew cotton, tobacco, rice and sugarcane in great amounts. He had become wealthy in a hurry and wasn’t afraid to spend money on luxury items and caprices. Known for his generosity and eccentricity, Mr. Flaherty was a semiretired widower whose two middle-age sons mostly ran his enterprise for him now. He often summoned my father to do repairs and other small household jobs for him not necessarily connected with horses. I think he sometimes hired my father to do odd jobs just so he could have someone to converse with to pass the time.

One day when my father brought me along to help him, Mr. Flaherty took an immediate shine to me because I was adept with tools and I was a generally positive person to have around. In subsequent days, when my father was busy with another customer, I would go alone to see what Mr. Flaherty wanted done. That was alright with him. Without fail, I was always able to do the assigned task and do it well. Mr. Flaherty was particularly thrilled when I was able to replace a wobbly leg on his favorite chair to make it sturdier than ever. He handed me $10 for my labors—which was more than ten times what I would have charged him for that simple fix.

When I visited Mr. Flaherty’s plantation for the first time, I encountered one of his most well-known and well-discussed eccentricities. Only a blind man would miss it: All the female slaves who worked inside his household never wore any clothing above the waist. That was the dress code he imposed. In other words, their breasts were on display for all to see and admire. That’s certainly what Mr. Flaherty did, day after day. He explained to me, “This policy of mine began a few months after my beloved wife Doreen passed away. That was nine years ago. She wouldn’t have stood for it; she would have thought it was vulgar. However, she’s no longer here to stop me! Henry, I think all females are lovely to behold, even the slaves on this plantation. I like their curves and contours. I don’t want their gifts hidden under any blouses. I want to be able to admire the scenery all the time and maybe fondle those treasures now and then. Can you understand that?”

“Absolutely!” I declared. Frankly, I thought it was a fabulous idea. “I think you are on the right track, sir. At your age, you should indulge yourself in whatever makes your life enjoyable. Why deny yourself such a simple pleasure?” Mr. Flaherty smiled and patted me on the back. I was soon to discover more of this gentleman’s sexual peculiarities—and enjoy them thoroughly.

Part Two

Mr. Flaherty saw my carpentry skills and was impressed. He hired me to build several bookshelves for hundreds of volumes that he had hidden away, stacked on tables in storage rooms. That project came at my suggestion when I saw his vast collection of tomes that had been virtually forgotten. I figured the job would take me at least three weeks to complete. After the first day, when I was left pretty much alone, Mr. Flaherty arrived to inspect the work I had done thus far. He was quite pleased with it. “You do fine work just like your father,” he complimented me. “Accordingly, I want to give you a non-monetary bonus, Henry. It’s an incentive to continue your high standards of workmanship. Follow me, please.”

He took me to an elevated spot in his house where we could overlook several rooms below at the same time where about a dozen slave girls of all ages were busily tending to their various tasks of cooking and cleaning. All of them were gloriously topless, of course.

“Nice view from here, isn’t it Henry?” he asked rhetorically. “I come here all the time. I can sit here for hours and not be bored in the slightest.” I was starting to like this eccentric old fellow more and more. It seemed we had a lot in common.

I gave him an answer, anyway. “Yes, the view here is fine. I can see how you’d be fixated on the jiggly activities down below.”

He chuckled at my reply and then became abruptly serious with me. “Have you noticed the skin color that all my slave girls possess, Henry? They’re not especially dark. Some of them could pass as white girls on a good day. They’re mulattoes, quadroons and octoroons—every one of them. That’s not a coincidence.”

I hadn’t noticed, actually, so I commented, “So you only acquire mixed-race slaves?” I asked him.

“The verb ‘acquire’ would be misleading in the case of this plantation, Henry,” he told me. “These slave girls weren’t purchased by me. They’ve been bred by me and my two sons. If you look at their faces carefully, you’ll see they have traits common to my family, some more strongly than others.”

That news startled me. I’d never even thought about such things, but, of course, I never grew up as the son of a wealthy Georgia plantation owner. At the risk of being impolite, I asked an important question: “Didn’t all that breeding with slave girls bother your wife and doesn’t it bother your sons’ wives?”

“My late wife never said a word against it during her entire life,” Mr. Flaherty insisted sternly. “She understood the realities of plantation life and the clear advantage of breeding slaves over purchasing them at an auction. Here’s something you probably don’t realize: When you raise a slave from infancy, you can weed out some negative and rebellious traits. I’ve never heard either of my sons' wives grumble about it, either. I assume they are contented daughters of the South who understand this region’s traditions. Be that as it may, this little show is directly related to the non-monetary bonus I want to give you today, Henry, for your ongoing fine work around here.”

I had no idea what Mr. Flaherty was driving at, but I didn’t have to wait very long to find out.

“There are about ten or twelve girls working down there,” Mr. Flaherty said as he waved his right hand in a sweeping motion. “You can plainly see they’re all quite healthy and fit. I insist on it. My slaves are well fed and quite clean. They don’t live in squalor. In the past, I would have taken care of the breeding duties with these fertile creatures myself, but at my advanced age it is now beyond me. Sadly, I can’t even attain an erection anymore. It’s embarrassing. It’s just old age setting in, I suppose. My doctor says I’ll likely never father another child again. I knew that without him telling me so. Even though I’d like to have strong ejaculations until I’m six feet under, I can’t complain. I’ve had a good, long run with my copulating.” Mr. Flaherty then hesitated. I think he was waiting for me to make a comment, but how does one politely remark about a man’s admission of impotence?

After a lengthy pause, when it was clear I wasn’t going to say anything about the demise of Mr. Flaherty’s sexual prowess, he spoke again. “Today, you’ll have a treat, Henry. I’ll let you have your pick of any one of these slave girls for the purpose of procreation. Do you think you’re up for that task? There’s a little pun there, but my offer is quite serious.”

I had led somewhat of a sheltered life, so this offer was a truly extraordinary one! I could count my sexual experiences on one hand and still have a finger left over. Three-quarters of them had been paid for by a maverick uncle of mine who thrice took me as his guest to whorehouses in Atlanta to, as he amusingly put it, “have a good time horizontally.” This situation facing me was totally different. Being asked to perform a human stud service was uncharted waters for me, but I was eager enough to quickly agree.

“That’s fine!” Mr. Flaherty said. He was happy I had said yes. A smile engulfed his face. “Which one of the slave girls do you fancy the most, Henry? I think I know which one you’ll choose, but I won’t tell you in advance. I want to see if my hunch is correct.”

I scanned the field of candidates. A lanky female with a moderate set of bouncy breasts caught my attention. Yes, she’d do nicely for a sex partner! I pointed to her, saying she was the only one who had a blue skirt just to ensure there was no confusion about my selection.

“No, I was wrong! You’ve chosen Varna! That’s not a bad choice either,” Mr. Flaherty informed me. “I honestly thought you’d choose Beulah. She has the biggest tits on the plantation. I often play with them when I have nothing better to do. Getting back to Varna, she’s a fine specimen. I’m not sure if I’m her father or if one of my sons is responsible for her existence. The three of us were all copulating with her mother, often one right after the other. I suppose it doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Mr. Flaherty arranged for Varna to be brought to the bathing room on the lower floor by one of the older female slaves. That was where we met her.

“Varna, this is young Mr. O’Doul,” Mr. Flaherty said as an introduction. “I’ve decided that you and he should make a baby together. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, ” Varna responded softly and subserviently. She knew her place and how to behave.

“So, Varna, let’s get you into a bathtub so you are nice and clean for Mr. O’Doul to enjoy.”

Mr. Flaherty then asked me if I’d like to take a cool bath, too. After a busy day of carpentry, that idea sounded quite refreshing to me. Two large metal tubs were brought out of storage. They were promptly filled with cool water from a pump.

Varna removed her skirt and underwear when told to do so. Her nude body was getting me aroused. She slowly stepped into the tub and then sat down. The water’s temperature startled her for a moment, which made me smile and Mr. Flaherty chuckle. He picked up a large cake of soap and began washing Varna from head to toe. He was no fool. He was quite enjoying it. “My dick doesn’t work anymore, Henry, but there’s nothing wrong with my hands,” he joked. “I love bathing my slave girls—each and every one of them.”

After working up a good lather on Varna, Mr. Flaherty gave up any premise of washing her. He just began fondling her breasts and vagina with gusto while kissing the nape of her neck repeatedly. This interaction included repeatedly ramming a finger inside Varna’s pussy. He was thoroughly enjoying what his active hands could do!

“I hate to interrupt my good time, but why don’t you wash Varna for a while, Henry?” he suggested. “It’s a great pastime.”

I was quite happy to do so. I basically copied what Mr. Flaherty had been doing to Varna. At the first touch of her pokey tits, I became instantly hard. I had never experienced such a strong erection before. As I was washing this comely slave girl, I was afraid I was going to be finished before I started! Mr. Flaherty suspected what was happening below my beltline. He said, “Henry, you need to get into your cool bath right now—and not just for the point of cleanliness. I’m worried that you’re getting too excited too soon.”

I agreed that was indeed the case. The shock of the cool water on my naked body helped relax my penis a bit, but I still had a prominent erection that was a little bit embarrassing when Varna got out of her tub to wash me. That part of the treat was something I didn’t expect, but I was completely happy about it.

“Be proud of your strong dick, Henry,” Mr. Flaherty noted after seeing I was a bit bashful about being nude in front of a slave girl—even one I was about to screw. “Trust me! Someday you’ll miss being able to get that hard. I speak from experience.” I tried my best to relax when Varna scrubbed me from head to toe, especially when her hands hit a certain part of my anatomy. Mr. Flaherty’s treat for me had been great already—and the best part was yet to come!

Part Three

Our baths ended. After we dried ourselves with clean towels from a large pile, Mr. Flaherty led us into an anteroom where there was a thick, sizeable mattress on the floor covered with a pristine, white bedsheet.

“Okay, you two...I think you both know what you’re supposed to do next. Now have at it.” Mr. Flaherty said that as he was placing a chair for himself about two feet from the side of the mattress. Apparently, he was going to watch our carnal activity up close! I hadn’t figured on that at all, but I wasn’t going to complain about it, either.

“I decided to stay and watch you two,” he told me and Varna. “Hey, it’s my house, so I’m entitled to be here to see how you do.” I had never thought of sex as a spectator sport, but I couldn’t really object to my eccentric host taking a few liberties.

Mr. Flaherty was not a silent spectator. He promptly began coaching us on our fucking techniques—especially me. He issued a nonstop list of helpful suggestions: “Don’t enter her pussy, yet, Henry. Enjoy yourself for a while. Pleasure Varna, too. She deserves it. See if you can make her come. Fondle her tits and suck on them! Sure, you can kiss her if you really want to do that. That’s more like it! Okay, Henry, now mount Varna and start copulating!”

I took my coach’s advice. I placed my stiff penis at the opening of Varna’s pussy. Then I pushed it forward very slowly. Her vagina was considerably tighter than those of the Atlanta hookers I had experienced at my uncle’s expense, but not as tight as Mary O’Reilly’s. (She was a vapid, busty girl with loose morals whom I had gone skinny-dipping with in a river when my family visited hers a few years back.) I was truly enjoying being inside this slave girl! The sensation was excellent. I felt that nothing else in the world mattered at the moment than my being able to deliver a supply of sperm to the fertile girl I was so joyously riding. I began slowly thrusting my manhood back and forth while occasionally feeling Varna’s sexy set of breasts. “Varna, our job is to make a baby together! Let’s do it!” I told her in a strong voice.

“That’s right, Henry!” Mr. Flaherty agreed with enthusiasm. “Good idea. Keep talking to Varna! Encourage her to give you a great sexual experience.”

I complied with that advice. “That’s right, Varna. Accept my dick,” I said aloud as she stared at me. “I want to shoot my warm seed inside you! I know I have a big load for you. Varna, I want you to carry my baby! Oh, yes! I think I’m going to come right now!”

At that point the inevitable ejaculation occurred. I thought it was a magnificent one! I felt several streams of semen move from my balls, up my stiff shaft, and deep into Varna’s lovely pussy. It was, without a doubt, the greatest sensual feeling that I’d ever experienced in my 18 years. Varna was far more fun to ride than those prostitutes in Atlanta had been. Those professionals had been put to shame by a lowly slave girl.

“You came, Henry! That’s excellent!” declared Mr. Flaherty. “Don’t pull out yet. Be careful! Make sure Varna gets every drop of your precious seed. You want to do everything possible to impregnate her.” He may have said a few other things to me, but I didn’t hear him. I was too overwhelmed and overcome with rapture to pay much attention to idle chitchat. Besides, I was focused on sucking Varna’s tits. They were a real treat.

When I did finally pull out, I embraced Varna for a long time. At one point, I happened to glance over at Mr. Flaherty. He had his trousers at his ankles and the shaft of his penis in his right hand. I gave him a quizzical look.

“I wanted to see if I could successfully masturbate to the sight of you two copulating,” he explained. "No luck, though. It’s still the same problem with me. The mind is willing, but the body won’t comply. Such is life.”

To my delight, Mr. Flaherty said that this wonderful treat would be repeated every day after my carpentry work had been done. I thanked him immensely.

“Don’t thank me, Henry. You’re doing me the favor, ” he claimed. “I want to make sure you and Varna successfully complete your fun task. If things go according to plan, in about nine months, Varna will give birth to another slave for this plantation. With any luck it will be a girl. I don’t deal much with the baby boys as they are eventually just put to work in the fields as laborers. However, the girls work inside the house where I can admire their lovely assets.”

Nevertheless, I thanked him again. “What are your plans for the rest of today?” I asked him as I was heading out the front door.

Without missing a beat, Mr. Flaherty said, “I’m fairly certain I’ll have a cool bath, too. The only thing I’m unsure about is which slave girl will be the one to give me a good lathering. Presently, I’m leaning toward busty Beulah.”