Visiting My Relatives Down South (Part #3)

In the final segment of this story, 14-year-old Morgan learns he has successfully impregnated slave girl Fawn. Now he intends to father many more children.

Introduction

This is the third installment of a story set in the antebellum American South in 1856. A Michigan family named Miller is invited to spend two weeks with an enormously wealthy family at their plantation near Savannah, Georgia. The head of the family has an older sister who married into the Merriwether family more than two decades earlier. She is now the mother of three boys and two girls. She and her brother have rarely seen each other over the intervening years. The story centers on 14-year-old Morgan Miller. None of the four Millers know quite what to expect from the Merriwethers and plantation life in general, but they agree not to openly question anything as it might be perceived as an insult to their hosts.

The Millers’ accommodations in the main mansion are fabulous. There are many enjoyable things for Morgan to do. His favorite pastime quickly becomes screwing slave girls alongside his three male cousins, their father, and grandfather. As the plantation makes part of its vast fortune by breeding slaves, impregnating the mulatto girls is simply part of everyday life there. Morgan chooses Fawn, a pretty and busty slave approximately his own age, as his personal sex toy during his two-week southern vacation. Morgan sheds his virginity with her and becomes a frequent visitor to the “zenana” because Fawn is an excellent fuck.

As in the first two episodes, Morgan also narrates the third one as a 54-year-old in 1896 who is writing his memoirs.

Part One

The first half of my family’s two-week southern vacation had flown by swiftly. Obviously, I did not want it to end as I was having the time of my live screwing Fawn on a daily basis. Our romps were becoming more enthusiastic by the day. Fawn was eager to become impregnated by me—or by anyone, for that matter—because a pregnant slave girl on the Merriwether plantation led a life of luxury with little or no work demanded from her. All she had to do was stay healthy and deliver a baby in nine months’ time. I was more than happy to provide my seed for that enjoyable task! On about the fifth day of my stay, Fawn must have seen me coming to the zenana with my three cousins because when we unlocked the door, she was already lying on a bed with her legs spread in anticipation of having intercourse with me. Of course, I could not disappoint such a lovely and enthusiastic female. I got right to work. Within five minutes I had deposited what I believed to be the most sizable load of semen I had yet ejaculated into Fawn’s womb. If this comely girl was not pregnant yet, it was not attributable to my lack of trying!

Screwing may have been the greatest highlight of each day on the plantation, but there were other activities and social engagements that we Millers happily shared with our fabulous hosts. We visited neighboring plantations to celebrate birthdays or just for companionship. I discovered I was considered exotic by the local girls because I was a northerner—something they rarely encountered. A 13-year-old girl named Hannah Johnston, who was quite fetching, openly courted my affections and insisted I should spend two weeks at her family’s plantation later that year. It was all quite flattering. I discovered I was not much a of a dancer, so the Merriwether girls, both of whom were slightly younger than I was, happily gave me waltz lessons. When word of this got out, other girls around their age and slightly older would visit the Merriwether plantation to give me dance lessons, too. I loved every minute of being “a catch” for southern belles. When I wrote letters to my friends back in Flint each night, I told them I rued being born north of the Mason-Dixon line and I had no desire whatsoever to leave the South.

On one occasion, when the Merriwethers and the Millers attended a huge birthday celebration for the owner of a plantation about ten miles away, the 60 or so male visitors stopped by the slave quarters to have sexual dalliances with about a dozen nubile females. Of course, we all had to patiently wait for our turn. I found this to be a very different situation than I had gotten used to as a guest of the Merriwethers. Many of the men were not particularly interested in breeding with the girls; they just wanted specific sexual acts to be performed on them. I watched fascinated as one girl serviced three middle-aged southern gentlemen simultaneously with her mouth and hands. All three of them enjoyed orgasms; none of which involved vaginal penetration. The busy girl, who looked to be about 16 and had obviously been doing that for years, ended up covered in jism from her face to her navel. I figured that was a total waste of perfectly good sperm.

Accordingly, when it was my turn for some recreation, I ended up vigorously fucking a small-breasted girl named Daphne. She was my first sex partner other than Fawn. Daphne was reputedly 14 years old, but I had my doubts. “Ride her hard, Yankee boy!” one fiftyish gentleman encouraged me as I thrusted away at her tight vagina. I left a large load inside her pussy, moaning with great satisfaction at my carnal achievement. I stated to the spectators, “I honestly don’t understand why you fellows would want to ejaculate on one of these slave girls rather than insider her. Isn’t that where sperm is supposed to go? Hey, to each his own, I suppose.” For the rest of the birthday party, I was kiddingly referred to as “Make It Count Miller” by the adult males who were present. Nevertheless, as a healthy and horny 14-year-old lad, I and Percy—who was also my age—stopped by the Merriwether zenana for a follow-up romp before heading to bed. I almost fell asleep beside Fawn after coming hard twice within a few hours. Still, it was wonderful to possess youthful energy. I told Fawn that I had fucked another slave girl earlier that day at a neighboring plantation, but that the latter couldn’t compare to her physically or otherwise.

Fawn seemed slightly irked by that bit of news. “Fuck me only please, Mr. Morgan,” she pleaded with me. “I want your baby. Don’t give it to another wench.” I laughed and informed her that I had plenty of sperm to spread around. To prove it, I mounted Fawn again, merrily plowing her with my stiff rod, until I had my third orgasm since dinnertime. It was a tiny squirt of jism when compared to my previous two cum shots I had launched earlier that day.

Part Two

The medical student who served as the Merriwether family’s personal physician as well as the slave girls’ doctor stopped by the plantation on the seventh day. After examining the inhabitants of the zenana, he announced that eight of its residents were almost certainly pregnant. He listed their names, including Fawn’s. I felt of sense of euphoria upon hearing that news. Percy, Gregory and Charles all offered their congratulations to me. “That’s a job well done, Morgan! Not bad at all for a visiting Yankee boy who didn’t know what to do with his penis a week ago!” Charles, the oldest of my cousins, told me. I took the kidding in stride. I actually was quite proud of myself. Fawn’s pregnancy absolutely affirmed my manhood—not that there was any doubt about it.

The names of the girls now expecting babies indicated that all of the Merriwether men had succeeded in planting their seeds within at least one mulatto slave girl—including my staid, conservative father! I had no idea he had even visited the zenana, but I later learned he had somehow made three trips there with his brother-in-law without my mother knowing about it and impregnated a slender teen named Faith. When I looked at him quizzically, he explained, “Son, I’m on vacation here, too! Now don’t utter a word about this to your mother or your sister! Let’s keep harmony in our family, Morgan.”

My cousins’ 64-year-old grandfather was also on the list of successful breeders. His son (my uncle by marriage) congratulated him on his sexual feat. “My dick still has what it takes,” the patriarch of the Merriwether family proudly noted to all and sundry. “Son, I plan to be knocking up slave girls when I’m 80.”

The only downside to this news was that Fawn was now off limits to me for sex. Once any slave girl at the Merriwether plantation was found to be pregnant, she was “taken out of service” until the baby was born—which was entirely understandable. I did want to see her one last time, though, so the next day I got permission to visit the building where the expectant mothers were housed. All of them wore a special string of red beads to indicate they were pregnant and entitled to receive special treatment. Fawn smiled when she saw me. I promptly embraced her, which alarmed one of the elderly nurses there. Her name was Hilda and she was apparently a martinet when it came to protecting the females whose wellbeing she was overseeing. “Mr. Morgan, sir! No sex with pregnant girls! That’s the rule here, sir! it must be followed by everyone, including all houseguests!” she shouted at me with surprising authority for someone who was herself a slave.

“I’m not here to fuck Fawn. I just want to cuddle her for a while!” I told her. She looked at me as if I were crazy, but she permitted my unusual request. “Cuddle all you like, but if you pull out your penis, I’ll have to report you to the master.”

“Understood!” I replied. For 20 minutes I sat beside Fawn on her bed and tenderly fondled this pregnant young girl’s terrific breasts. I sucked on each one before I left the building. I kissed her cheek, wished her well, and I never saw her again. Of course, I never saw the child I had fathered, either.

That extended round of groping Fawn made me horny, so I went to the zenana with Gregory. As a sex partner, I chose the busty new girl who was about 16. Her name was Lizzie. She was one of the three female slaves who had just arrived recently at the Merriwether plantation. I had her perform fellatio on me. That was something I definitely wanted to try since seeing it at the birthday party. It was a new act for her, too, so it likely wasn’t as pleasurable as it might have been with a slave girl who was experienced in giving blowjobs. After about two minutes, I switched to traditional sexual intercourse with her. I fucked her with slow thrusts until I came in her pussy. Lizzie was not Fawn, but she wasn’t bad at all as a bedmate. I had the unmistakable sense that I had just fathered another child. Only time would tell, though.

During the final week of my vacation with the Merriwethers, there were more social events to attend, including what was billed as an enormous “community picnic” about six miles from the plantation. The amount of food and drink there was staggering. The weather was perfect and the conversation was engaging. I must have gotten come-hither looks from at least half a dozen girls, aged 10 to 15, who were decked out in their beautiful but enormous crinoline dresses.

One pretty, unabashed, flirtatious lass, who was aged nine, quickly took a shine to me and occupied most of my time. Maryann Stapleford was her name. She was an attractive brunette with curly tresses. She had the prettiest face I’d ever seen in my life. Maryann was also a nonstop chatterbox, but she amused me with her forthright attitude. Extremely intelligent for her young age, she told me her plans were to get married to “a fine young gentleman” no later than age 14 and have nine or ten babies before she was 30. I quickly got the idea that I was now on her list of potential husbands and sperm donors.

“Don’t you want to kiss me, Morgan?” she asked not long after learning my name.

“I’d love to, but am I allowed to kiss you?” I asked in response.

“Surely you can, Morgan!” she informed me. “A gentleman can kiss any southern girl he likes who is under the age of ten. Once a girl gets beyond that age, however, it becomes a courtship and the gentleman needs permission. I’m just nine years old, so kiss away!”

Despite her age, Maryann was a lot of fun to pamper, kiss and cuddle, so we spent most of the picnic doing just that—which irked her older and more shapely competition. Maryann and I exchanged mailing addresses. We corresponded regularly for the next five years, swapping very affectionate letters. Once, when she was 12 and I was 17, Maryann concluded her letter to me with an enigmatic postscript that said, “Although I live in a large house, I am saving my small, cozy thatched cottage for you and I to enjoy together.”

My father took an interest in the missives I got from this delightful, young southern belle. I mentioned to him that Maryann apparently had picked out a house for us to dwell in, and showed him the letter. He laughed and said, “Morgan, she’s subtly referring to her vagina. She wants you to fuck her pussy. I’m certain of it.”

I wasn’t entirely sure he was correct, so when I wrote back to Maryann I declared, “I can think of nothing I’d rather do than spend hours and hours within your cozy thatched cottage where we could start our family.”

When Maryann replied, “Where else could we possibly start a family?” I knew Dad’s assumption was right. I did intend to return to the South and marry this girl when I was 19 and she was 14. However, the Civil War interrupted those plans. Mail service between the warring states was terminated, and I lost track of her forever. What became of Maryann Stapleford I do not know.

Getting back to 1856, I had just a week left at the Merriwether plantation before I’d be returning to the tedium of Flint, Michigan. I intended to screw slave girls every possible minute because who knew when I’d ever have such an opportunity again. Cuddling and kissing with Maryann had made me horny, so the minute our party returned home I made a beeline to the zenana with Percy, Gregory and Charles. This time I picked out the smallest girl there (Sally), gave her a good screwing, wrongly called her Maryann a couple of times, and filled her pussy with gobs of my warm goo. I returned there the following day for a repeat performance with her.

Over the remaining four days, I made a deliberate choice to sample the carnal delights of four different slave girls in the hope that I could fertilize four different eggs and make four babies. An 18-year-old named Betsy—already a mother of three—was the next slave girl I bedded. I had become quite proficient at fucking by then so I penetrated her from three different positions before ejaculating. Charles commented, “Morgan, I suspect you’re going to be the talk of all the young ladies in your hometown when you return if you demonstrate to them what you’ve learned during your two weeks here in Georgia.”

The next day I rode Emily, who was perhaps a year older than I was. She was nothing special to look at, but for some reason her plainness turned me on. I was done in two minutes. I was mildly embarrassed that I came inside her the quickest of any slave girl I had bedded, so I stayed with her for an hour and fucked her a total of three times to redeem myself.

Because I had exerted myself with Emily, I did not return to the zenana for 36 hours, the longest time span between fucks I had endured since losing my virginity with Fawn. It was approaching midnight when I knocked on the locked door of the zenana. A slave girl I didn’t recognize opened it. I said to her, “I don’t know who you are, but would you like to ride my dick and make a baby?”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan, sir!” she replied. “You’re the Yankee visitor. I’ve heard all about you, sir. I’m Joy. Please share my bed!” Joy was indeed a joy. She did ride me until I ejaculated inside her. I fell asleep for a couple of hours before I headed back to the mansion at 4 a.m., quite satisfied with the outcome.

On the last full day of my being a plantation houseguest, I made one final pleasure trip to the zenana. Only Percy was with me. He made a suggestion I hadn’t considered. He said, “Why don’t you bed two girls at once, Morgan? It’s likely the last time you’ll be here. You might as well make it a memorable occasion.”

The beds weren’t really made for three people, but I figured the tiny girl (Sally), whom I had fucked after the community picnic, was small enough to be a third occupant with me and a regular-sized girl. I chose Miriam, a 17-year-old whose facial features definitely resembled those of my uncle. After some experimentation, it was determined that the most efficient way I could fuck the two slave girls was for me to lie in the bed with the girls taking turns riding my dick in one-minute shifts. While one girl was pleasing me with her vagina, I could enjoy the other’s breasts with my mouth—even though Sally easily had the smallest tits of any of the zenana’s inhabitants. Luck was with me because when I came while Miriam was bouncing on top of me, I pulled out in time to give Sally a short blast of my semen too. It was certainly the messiest cum shot I’d had in my two weeks of screwing slave girls as more jism covered the bed than got into the girls’ vaginas.

The next morning, I and the rest of the Miller family tearfully departed the Merriwether plantation at 8 a.m. I had briefly considered getting up in the middle of the night for one final screw in the zenana, but I was too tired—and I agreed with Percy that my three-in-a-bed finale couldn’t really be topped. Our cousins and their parents accompanied us to the railway station. Once we had boarded our first train, we started talking about what we had done during our vacation. I had seen very little of my sister Martha. She and my female cousins had done a lot of horseback riding and girlish things indoors in those two weeks. Martha had learned how to crochet and was quite good at it. She occupied herself with that hobby during the long journey back to Michigan.

I perpetuated the huge lie that I had spent time with my male cousins, hiking, fishing, hunting, and “exploring nature.” The latter was definitely true. There was nothing on earth more natural for a healthy young male to be doing with compliant, nubile females. My mother naively never questioned why my hunting and fishing trips never resulted in game nor fish being brought home.

A couple of weeks after arriving back in Flint, I got a letter from Percy Merriwether saying that all five of the girls I had fucked at the plantation after I had impregnated Fawn were also pregnant! Baseball was in its infancy in 1856, but Percy used an allusion to the sport when he wrote that I had “compiled a fine batting average.” I was ecstatic at being such a prodigious baby-maker. My mother never saw that letter. I still have it, though.

In April 1861, when I was 19, the Civil War came with all its casualties and cruelties. Life in the South changed dramatically when the fortunes of battle turned against the Confederacy. We, of course, lost all contact with the Merriwethers. I had no particular quarrel with the Southerners, so I did not volunteer to fight on the Union side—at least not right away. I eventually joined a Michigan artillery battalion in 1864, not exactly of my free will, but because I was a bit of a societal outcast for not having enlisted earlier in the conflict. One of the places the war took me was Tennessee. My army colleagues and I served at both Franklin and Chattanooga in November 1864 where the Confederacy suffered massive losses in decisive defeats. Years later I learned that all three of the Merriwether boys were killed in those two battles. I hated to consider the possibility that shells I fired might have taken their lives.

My aunt became a widow as my uncle, a major in his Georgia regiment, died not from a battle wound but from meningitis in 1862. (Army camps in both sides were notoriously unhygienic in the early part of the war.) The plantation she loved was razed by Federal troops. She eventually married a Northern veteran and relocated to rural Ohio. My father visited her once and reported she was not the same woman he had known. The war and the death of her beloved first husband and her three sons had sucked the life from her.

I am 54 years old now in 1896 as I write the reminiscences of my youth. The year 1856 seems a lifetime ago—which it almost is for me. Still, I often think back to that memorable two weeks at the Merriwether plantation where life was nothing but nonstop fun and fucking. I know I might have six mulatto children who would be nearly 40 years old. They are the tangible, living residue from my wild carnal frolics at and around the vanished Merriwether plantation. I do not care to search for them. What could I possibly say to them—or to their mothers?