In the South of the 1820s it was unusual for a free black man to be a slaveholder. It was scandalous for a black man to buy a white slave, especially one that was a woman. Josiah Cavanaugh didn’t care. Once he saw the red-haired Irish girl on the slave block – the girl who so resembled the woman who had seduced and humiliated him – he had to own her. Then perhaps he could exorcize his demons and get the sexual revenge he had longed for.
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“Yes, sir, he did.”
“So why did he sell you?” Idly, Josiah drew a fingertip from the valley between her full, proud breasts down to the small dimple that was her navel.
“He got married. A rich man’s daughter. He had to get me off the place before she came.”
“So you ended up on the slave ship.” The finger descended over the slight swell of her belly and gently drew a triangle around the coppery curls of her sex.
His fingertip spread into his whole hand as he slid back up her stomach and then around to cup the globes of her behind. Abruptly he pushed her back and stood; a scant number of inches separated them.
Obediently, Pegeen tugged his shirt from his trousers and lifted it off over his head. He raised his arms without prompting, but did not help her in any other way. He towered over her; she couldn’t help brushing against his skin and surprised it felt so satiny. She hadn’t had call to touch many of the bucks in the islands, but when she had their skin was dried and leathery from the sun.
Her new master was very solid, muscular and almost totally hairless, something she wasn’t used to. Only a few kinky curls of hair sprouted around his nipples. The skin on his chest was as dark as the skin on his face, and so black it seemed to absorb the light.
One thing made her gasp, one thing about him similar to the black slaves she had known in the islands; a silvery gray webwork of scars covered Josiah Cavanaugh’s shoulders like a lacy shawl. Pegeen could not stifle a gasp.
Josiah Cavanaugh was silent, his eyes cold.
Her stomach tightened, and Pegeen dropped her eyes to the distended front of his trousers. The fabric was stretched so that she fumbled with the buttons, at last opening the flap to reveal an engorged organ of remarkable size. In spite of herself she felt a flutter of… what? Fear? Anticipation? She didn’t know; though she had been bedded by a fair number of white men – her three former owners, and their friends to whom she had been lent – the coupling of a male and a female had never brought her the pleasure it did to the men. White ladies weren’t supposed to enjoy being bedded, but Pegeen thought some of them really did. They talked about it enough between themselves.
Reaching around him she eased his trousers down and his erection jabbed her in the breasts, making her nipples tighten and tingle in response.
“I need to take your shoes off,” she said huskily, kneeling in front of him.
Silently Josiah sat, allowing her to lift one leg and then the other as she eased off his shoes with their ornate pewter buckles, his thin cotton stockings and finally his trousers, dropping them all to the side. Then he reached out and snarled his hands in her fiery mane, bringing her face toward him. It was not a rough act, nor a painful one, but unmistakable in its meaning.
Obediently Pegeen opened her mouth and took his massive shaft between her lips. Her second master, old Mr. Winterborough, had liked this form of pleasuring more than the way Nature had intended, but old Mr. Winterborough had not been anywhere as large as this man. This man filled her mouth and stretched her lips until she was afraid they might split; still, she knew what was expected of her and began to move her head up and down rapidly in the way that had given old Mr. Winterborough such pleasure.
The pressure on her head increased, holding her to a leisurely stroke. Now she could feel each throb and curve of him, feel him quiver and strain as she slid slowly up and down his shaft.
It didn’t last long; Josiah Cavanaugh gave a convulsive shudder, cried out and exploded into Pegeen’s mouth, flooding it so much that small streams of thick translucent liquid ran from the corners. Immediately he released her, and Pegeen, half-way choking, swiped quickly at her dripping chin.
His breath was rough and ragged, but when he looked down his eyes had lost their hard glitter. “Do you not like that?”
Pegeen choked down the last of the salty liquid and tried not to throw up. Old Mr. Winterborough had always pulled out at the last moment, wanting to see how far he could spew his seed. The carpet in his bedroom had been a disgrace, but he wouldn’t let anyone touch it.
This was twice her new master had asked her what she liked! What kind of a man was he who cared what a slave thought?
She shook her head. “Not much. Not the… liquid.”
“Take your clothes and go,” Josiah said in a flat voice.
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Additional information regarding this book
While a work of fiction, this book is historically accurate. Modern history has chosen to forget that during the Poverty Clearances of the early 1800s many Irish were swept up and taken to the American South and the Caribbean, where they were sold as slaves just like the African blacks. For reasons unknown, black slaves were more highly prized; they brought better prices and were better treated. The Irish were simply worked to death and then replaced. Also, in 1822 in South Carolina there was a slave rebellion led by a slave named Denmark Vesey. He was betrayed and the revolt failed before it could get really underway. He was executed, and his name used as a rallying cry among black regiments during the War Between the States.