The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave (new erotic novella)


1851. USA.
Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.


Southern Woman: A Worshipful Ode (erotic poem)


To you who make of others all

An ugly, lowly, cheapened swarm,

I bend my knee and raise my eyes

To chance admire pure white thighs.


The veins which run beneath your skin

Must boast in great supply within

The blood of masters, heartless kin,

Who dared correct the fault and sin


Of tired slaves, rebellious minds,

Who, cruelly owned by evil kinds

Superior in arms to them,

Did fight the ordering of men.


Pinke Grapefruit

You can support my writing by buying my erotic novels:

The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery” –

Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun

Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle :
Paperback :

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The Bathing Quarters (erotic flash fiction)


I am required by my mistress to clean her bathing quarters at this time every week. This is the first time this has happened.

As I mop the floor, my mistress, with her long black mane of hair still dry around her shoulders, lies naked in the bath, one of her thick and pale legs draped gracelessly over the edge. She is eating a leg of chicken. She has yet to take her eyes off me. I have asked her if it would be better if I return at a later time. But she has disagreed. And her word is all that counts. A Negro’s counts for nothing.

She just won’t take her eyes off me. I wish that she would. My heart is accelerating. The stripes and wounds on my back are still fresh and painful. There is grease from the leg of chicken all over her white fingers. Bits of liquid fat are dripping into the water.

She just won’t take her eyes off me.


You can support my writing by buying my erotic novel: “The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery” – – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

“Understanding Your Negro” (Master and Mistress magazine, October Edition, 2017. Confederate States of America.)


New and Old Methods On Show at Tuckman Plantation, Silvercoat

In light of the growing consensus among Negrologists that Negroes are capable of greater emotional understanding than previously thought, many planters across the confederacy are actively attempting to establish a deeper, more humane relationship with their slaves.

Caroline, 23, from New Orleans, is one such planter. Her mulatto Percy, 44, was raised by her mother Catherine until her death in 2015. Now, being part of the newest generation of drivers, Caroline feels inclined to seek out new depths in the buck she has inherited, experimenting with new philosophies and techniques quite alien to her mother’s era.

“He’s tremendously warm at heart,” she told us from her back garden at the luscious Tuckman Plantation, just outside Silvercoat. Percy, who boasts a beautiful coat of golden skin, is seated smiling broadly at her side. “I would feel quite lost without him.”

Percy is clothed in a chequered shirt and dark-blue dungarees. His fluffy black hair is almost hidden under a small straw hat.

“He looks very happy,” I say pointing to him.

“Oh, he is,” Caroline grins pleasantly, stroking him on the shoulder. “He’s most content. I try to make things as pleasant as possible for him. The happier they are the harder they work. That was one of my momma’s philosophies. I don’t see any reason to go against that one.”

“Are you happy,” I ask Percy.

His smile grows still broader.

“Yes, ma’am. I surely am. Miss’us Caroline is very kind to me. She is kind to all of us.”

Thirty two Negroes, of various purities, are put to work at Tuckman. From where we sit I can see more than twenty busily at work in the fruit fields. It is a hot day. Many of them work with their torsos unclothed, their black skin shining beautifully under the harsh Louisiana sun. It is a classic Southern scene; in equal parts timeless and modern.

Percy works mainly in the flower garden behind the main house, tending to the rich assortment of sunflowers, opium poppies and red and purple roses which are planted there, divided neatly into rows.

I ask him if he loves his mistress. He wastes no time in responding.

“Yes, I do,” he nods, exposing his shining teeth. “She is like a momma to me. I do miss Miss’us Catherine. But I know that Miss’us Caroline is following her ways. That’s good enough for me.”

“What new techniques have you tried with Percy?” I ask her.

“It’s quite simple really,” she replies, pouring lemonade for us both. (Percy is now contentedly supping from a glass of milk.) ”I try to treat them as I would a human child. Dr Beronstock (Note: a much admired Negrologist from Louisiana State University) suggests that Negroes have the emotional reactions and preferences of a seven year old human. I have a daughter named Lindsey. She’s at university now. But I can still remember how she was at that age. I try to speak and behave in the same way I did then with Percy.”

Beronstock’s novel technique is called “emotional-loading”. It works on the logic that Negroes can be better pacified by loving treatment than by harsh tutelage and raw discipline.

“And what about when he rebels?”

Caroline’s smile disintegrates.

“There are times,” she admits after a pause. “But we have soft techniques for those occasions. He’s had to skip a few meals this past week. He loves his food, so that usually does the trick.”

Before we leave we are shown inside the luxurious Tuckman mansion (completed just after the Confederate victory in 1868), where we are introduced to two more Negroes, one of whom, with her glowing blonde hair, pale skin and dazzling blue eyes, is very difficult to distinguish from a white woman.

“This is Victoria,” Caroline says, pointing to her. “She is an octoroon doe. She works in the kitchens.”

The most dilute Negro working at Tuckman is a doe named Meredith, who, after testing, was found to be just over 2% Negro in ancestry (the remainder being a mix of Scottish, Danish and Norwegian stock). I ask Caroline if there is any trouble with the white-looking Negroes at Tuckman, referencing specifically the recent quintroon uprising in Atlanta.

“No,” she answers quickly, “I have always been very clear about the line of acceptable behaviour. We have a whipping post out the back. I know some people think it’s cruel in this day and age, but it works even only as a deterrent, especially for these, who might try to runaway and blend in with white folk.”

It seems that even as new methods are trialled at Tuckman, the old ways remain ever ready to hand.


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The Correction of the Quadroon (erotic flash fiction)


“This won’t take long”, Margaret said by way of response to Victoria’s writhing. And then she checked that her slave was properly secured by the chains wrapped around the wooden chair.

“You’re wasting your time wriggling around,” she said, as her gagged property continued to make the chair bounce in small hops from the floor. “I just won’t have it. It’s not the order of things.”

Victoria was a fresh-faced, 18 year old quadroon slave from Margaret’s house-staff. She was staggeringly pretty, as such women tend to be – her skin the colour of champagne, her hair lustrous and chestnut brown.

The evening before this, Margaret, a 54 year old widow who was greatly afraid of losing the beauty for which she was complimented repeatedly in her youth, had entertained at her mansion a man in whom she was keenly interested for remarriage. Victoria had that evening served the food and cleared the table. To Margaret’s horror, she had also, on a number of occasions, caught this gentleman’s eye.

“It’s not even legal,” Margaret muttered, fumbling about in her toolbox for a suitably sharp implement. “He was probably a pervert. Your species should turn a healthy man’s stomach.”

Finding an implement to her liking, Margaret turned around and looked at the fearful, tear-stained face of her young slave. “I won’t enjoy hurting you, Vicki.” she said. “I want you to know I won’t enjoy this. You’ve always been like a daughter to me. But I don’t want you getting to thinking you’re the princess around here. That just isn’t the order of things.”

And so she about her grim work; a long and painful process, during which many tears were shed, and not only by the victim.

But Victoria’s ‘correction’ was ultimately a gruesome success. She never again attracted attention for her beauty. And she died, childless, decades later in the service of Margaret’s son, by whom she was inherited.