Will has no interest in women. He thinks them all animals to be trained, beaten. It doesn't take him long to discover his preference for men, but time and error reveal how wrong view toward women is. Before long, he is able to separate the way he treats women, which is still horrific, from the way he regards women, as fellow human beings.
How does a slave become an equal? What does it take for a young man to see women in a new light?
In the fourth installment of her Blue Moon House series, Angelica introduces Will, a slave boy from the early nineteenth century. You can purchase Slave on Amazon, Smashwords, and Naughty Nights Press.
Angelica Dawson is the author of Blue Moon House, which has been in the top ten best-selling titles at Naughty Nights Press for over six months. She has also written two short stories, “The Highest Bidder” and “Leave Taking” which were each included in anthologies.
She contributes flash fiction to several blogging collectives and excerpts from work in progress can also be found on her blog. She is active on Facebook and Twitter.
She has been writing for several years and having sex a lot longer than that. Angelica is a wife, mother and environmental consultant. Her love of plants and the outdoors is not diminished by the bloodsucking hoards – mosquitoes and black flies, not vampires.
Will had puzzled out how to make corn bread biscuits that were perfect for putting cold meat on, but he had no way with yeast or the delicate pastry they made in the bakery. He rarely ate the fluffy confections, but the masters had praised him when he brought them the first time, so he always picked up a few.
“William,” the baker’s daughter, Madelyn, greeted him. Her mother, who helped in the early morning, was usually gone by the time he came in the afternoon.
Madelyn had her hair tucked into her cap, but she patted it, as though uncertain it was still there.
“Hello, Miss Nelson,” he said, bowing at the counter and shrugging his load from his shoulders. “I’m here for my usual purchases.”
She leaned on the counter and her white bosoms pushed up in her high-waisted dress, which was pulled down. “Just the usual?” she asked, pouting out a very red lip. “I can’t tempt you with some tarts?” She stood up again and moved to the glass dome covering the sweets and keeping the flies out. “Fresh strawberries and cream,” she promised. “I have a broken one to taste.” She returned from beneath the counter with a kerchief in her gloved hands, bearing a piece of pastry with filling spilling onto the cotton. She pushed it toward him. “Try it.”
He felt a little odd eating in front of the white woman, but he did as she asked. The filling burst on his tongue, the sweetness drawing saliva to fill his mouth. The pastry was so fine, it melted away, and the result washed down his throat. He grinned and saw the same reflected on the red lips and green eyes of Madelyn Nelson. “Buy some?” she asked.
“I think I must,” he said, turning back to the platter. “Half a dozen?” He passed her a wicker tray he used to carry the pastries each time he came, and Madelyn filled it and wrapped a cheesecloth over to keep everything else out. Then she passed over his usual loaf of bread and dozen buns in a canvas sack. Will set those atop the vegetables and balanced the tarts at the very top. His basket was full.
He straightened and turned, surprised to see Miss Nelson on his side of the counter. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“I...Would you like...” She sighed and turned away. “Never mind.”
He touched her elbow as she turned, his fingers just barely brushing across her arm. She stopped and looked back. “Thank you for the tarts,” he said.
Her smile thinned. “William...?” Again she seemed unable to speak.
“You can ask me anything, Miss Nelson,” he told her, tying down the top of his basket.
“I find you attractive,” she said, touching his hand atop the wicker. He froze, the contrast of her white gloved fingers on his black hand brought the memory back. Her hand was as light. His other hand caught her wrist, holding her there.
A small gasp escaped her lips and her fingers curled to grip his.
Will stroked the back of her hand with his, then released it. “I should be going,” he said, hefting his load. Once he had it balanced, he touched her arm above the elbow, squeezing it gently. “Your father would kill me if he saw us.”
She smiled. “Only because of that, though, right?” she asked, hopeful.
Angelica Dawson has been writing for several years and having sex a lot longer than that. Angelica is a wife, mother and environmental consultant. Her love of plants and the outdoors is not diminished by the bloodsucking hoards – mosquitoes and black flies, not vampires.
She contributes flash fiction to several blogging collectives and excerpts from work in progress can also be found on her
Her stories don't scrape the surface of BDSM, but go deep.
Coming March 15
Naughty Nights Press
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