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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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The Adventures of Stampley Plantation - 1
by WannabeWhitman (wannabewhitman@yahoo.com)
***
A Northern Abolitionist inherits his Uncle's Georgia
plantation along with its slaves, and soon begins to
discover the many temptations and possibilities his new
position provides. (Mmb, ped, nc, rp, intr)
***
DISCLAIMER: This story is a homosexual fantasy
involving slavery in the antebellum South, sex with
minors, and racial epithets. If you think any of this
might offend you, DO NOT READ. If you live in a
country, state, or jurisdiction that prohibits you from
reading this material, DO NOT READ. If you are a minor,
DO NOT READ.
NOTE TO READERS: The following is my first attempt ever
at writing erotic fiction. Although it's set in the
antebellum South, I have not done extensive research
and cannot guarantee complete historical accuracy. Most
of the names, however, are taken from actual records of
slave-owners and their slaves.
If you are looking for a quick, wham-bam-thank-you-sir
jack-off story, this is probably not the story for you,
at least not yet. The following is an extended
introduction to what I envision as a continuing, multi-
part series. I imagine it as the equivalent of a
television drama, so consider this the "pilot" episode,
establishing the setting, background, and a few of the
characters.
While there isn't a lot of action in this first part, I
believe there are some intensely erotic passages, as
well as a brief sex scene recollected by one of the
characters. I hope serious readers who enjoy
interracial, slavery, and/or intergenerational stories
will be patient and follow the story as it develops.
Any and all feedback is more than welcome! I would love
to hear advice on how my writing might improve,
suggestions for future characters or storylines,
stories and fantasies of your own, and anything else
you might want to share. E-mail me at
WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com.
***
Introduction: From Schoolmaster to Slave Master
James Stampley's emotions were in as much of a
whirlwind as the dust that blew up in his face from the
stagecoach. The one good thing about the long journey
from Boston to Potter County, Georgia, was that it gave
him an opportunity to collect his thoughts. He was
still in shock at how suddenly his life had changed in
just three short days. One minute he was enjoying his
life as a thirty-year-old urban bachelor, beginning the
routine of his summer vacation from his job as a
schoolmaster - enjoying his daily strolls through the
park, occasional visits to his elderly aunt, evening
drinks with his friends at the pub, and late nights
reading Walt Whitman or Uncle Tom's Cabin by lamplight.
But just three days earlier he'd received the letter
that would permanently alter the rest of his life. His
Uncle Walter Stampley had died quite suddenly, leaving
HIM with an inheritance of the large and prosperous
Stampley Plantation in Georgia - its staggering 3,154
acres of land AND 248 slaves.
At first James thought it was a joke. Although they
hadn't seen one another in nearly ten years, he and his
Uncle had corresponded regularly, and his Uncle was
well aware of his Abolitionist leanings. They'd had
many spirited debates on the subject of slavery and the
South, and James never hesitated to share his opinion
that chattel slavery was barbaric and inhumane, a
disgrace to a country declaring itself a democracy.
From everything he'd read and seen, Negroes were every
bit as human as white people, so to treat them as no
better than animals and property was shameful and
immoral. He wasn't exactly ACTIVE in the Abolitionist
movement, but many of his friends were, and he'd met
many free blacks in Boston who seemed like decent
enough people.
Of course his Uncle's decision might just be due to the
simple fact that his Uncle Walter was a widow, had no
children of his own, and his only brother (James's
father) had passed away years ago, leaving him the
logical inheritor.
But James was convinced it was deeper than that, and
had puzzled over his Uncle's will for nearly a day.
Perhaps it was his Uncle's way of freeing his slaves -
knowing his nephew would almost certainly do so, but
sparing himself the damage to his Southern pride had he
done so himself. Or perhaps it was his Uncle's devious
way of testing his Abolitionist beliefs, placing the
enormous power of slave ownership - along with its many
temptations and benefits - within his grasp, as if to
say, "Give it a try, then see how willing you are to
refuse its luxuries and pleasures."
On the day after reading the news, James decided to do
both. He made up his mind to free all his Uncle's
slaves and sell the property before the summer was
over. But, having had a spirit of curiosity and
adventure ever since he was a boy, he also decided to
experience his Uncle's life for several weeks before
returning to his Boston routine. He'd only been to the
South once as a toddler, and was eager to observe its
people, both free and enslaved, as well as its sights,
smells, and sounds. He viewed himself as an explorer,
or perhaps a journalist, witnessing the ways of a
foreign culture in order to educate himself and others.
But on a deeper, darker level of which James was
scarcely conscious, he wanted to know how it felt to
own other human beings, especially those darker-skinned
creatures belonging to that beautiful, mysterious race
that had always intrigued and unsettled him.
He'd always been fascinated by how different their
faces and bodies looked compared to whites - the large,
flared nostrils; the glistening dark skin of varying
complexions; the tight, curly, nappy hair; the wide
hips and maternal bosoms of the Negro women; the
slender, muscled physiques of the Negro men and boys,
especially the way their asses seemed to protrude
higher, rounder, and firmer in their pants than most
white men's; and of course the great unspoken myth, the
reason some Abolitionists had even pointed to as the
ultimate source of white envy and hatred, the mystery
between the legs of Negro males, rumored to be longer
and thicker than many horses.
He recalled the confusing thrill he'd feel when passing
a Negro boy or man in the street, the way they seemed
both curious and fearful of him, never looking him in
the eye or offering more than a civil, "Good morning,
sir." If even that slightest submission excited him,
what forbidden thrills might he discover in OWNING
Negroes as his very own, their future misery or
contentment entirely determined by his will?
These and similar thoughts were barely formed in his
mind before he'd shiver with guilt and disgust at
himself, scattering them into a general mixture of
excitement and anxiety.
Shaking himself free of such thoughts, James looked out
of the stagecoach and realized they were already
traveling off the main road down a dusty path leading
to the Stampley plantation-house. It looked as splendid
and intimidating as he'd imagined it would, based on
his Uncle's stories, and drawings of other plantation
homes in books. A massive rectangular two-story
structure with many windows, a wide verandah sweeping
across the front of the house, and white pillars making
it appear a palace for princes.
The stagecoach had barely pulled to a stop before the
house before James was greeted by the eager, handsome
face of a mulatto boy no more than 16 or 17 years old,
dressed nicely in a crisp collared white shirt and
vest.
"Welcome to Stampley plantation, Master... Stampley?"
the boy beamed.
"Call me James," the young white man replied.
"Welcome to Stampley Plantation, Master James," the boy
repeated, smiling and holding out a youthful, golden-
complexioned hand to help James out of the stagecoach.
If James's emotions hadn't already been in a flurry
from the trip and his reflections, they most certainly
were now as he was confronted with the most beautiful
adolescent, of any race, he'd ever laid eyes on.
Whatever its origins, the racial mixture in this boy
had resulted in a stunning creation. His dark hair was
somewhere between the nappy kinks of a full-blooded
Negro and the fine, soft strands of his own hair; his
eyes were probably his most striking feature, a
piercing green that melted James with their gaze;
beautiful, smooth, high-yellow skin; a slender nose
with just a hint of flared Negro-nostrils; and
similarly, deep-red lips that were a moist, perfect
cross between the typically thick Negro-lips, and the
thin, barely visible lips of most Caucasian boys.
Fidgety and nervous and trying desperately hard not to
stare, James grasped the warmth of the boy's adolescent
hand and stepped down out of the claustrophobic
stagecoach into the fresh Georgia early-evening air.
Eager to make a good first impression (but hardly
knowing why), James said, "Thank you, kindly, Mr... ?"
The boy seemed caught off guard both by the respectful
title and what seemed like a sincere wish to know his
name. "Ummmm, er... Abel, sir," the boy stuttered,
looking down shyly for the first time since his eager
approach. "I'll take your bags to your room right away,
Master James," Abel added, eager to change to a more
familiar subject and get the attention off himself.
He quickly went around to the side where the driver, a
poor white man from the North, handed him James's two
pieces of luggage. As Abel scurried off to the
plantation-house, bags in hand, James nervously mumbled
something like, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Abel," to
which Abel's head turned back with a split-second "is
this man crazy?" look of surprise and discomfort before
he concealed his confusion with the obligatory smile.
James's face had broken into a sweat and his insides
were churning like crazy from this brief and simple
encounter. Yes, he was thrilled by the boy's striking
beauty, and ashamed of his clumsy, nervous reaction,
but even more than that he was aroused by the boy's
insistence on calling him "Master," as well as his
eagerness to please. Of course James knew the threat of
a whipping probably had a lot to do with it, but it was
a thrill to experience nevertheless. He cringed at the
image of such an angelic creature stripped naked and
receiving the lash of a whip, but at the same time -
no, he must have imagined it - his cock twitched ever
so slightly at the thought.
"Little Jimmy!" a booming voice startled him out of his
conflicted reverie. He looked up to see a stocky white
man in his mid-fifties approaching from the porch with
an outstretched hand. "Well, I'll be damned, I remember
you when you was no more than a pup!" he shouted,
grabbing James's hand as if he meant to rip it off and
eat it for supper. "The name's Potter... Samuel Potter,
from the plantation just down the road. I've been
keeping an eye on things since your Uncle's death...
God rest his soul," he said, insincerely looking toward
the ground. "I remember when you visited with your
folks years ago, but you must have been only three or
four, so I won't hold a grudge for your not remembering
me," Mr. Potter added with a hearty laugh, backed up
with a patting on the back which almost sent James
flying to the ground. "I see you and Abel have already
met," he said, nodding toward the house. "Nicest nigger
you'll ever meet, that boy."
James winced at the crude word, but at the same time it
made him blush with excitement.
"Bought at a mighty steep price, no doubt," the
animated man continued. "Acting as head house-slave
while his daddy's fallen ill, and doing a hell of a
fine job I have to admit. That boy's got more
experience at 16 than most niggers twice his age.
Almost as good a house-nigger as his Mammy is a cook.
The three of 'em have a room off the kitchen - only
niggers who actually stay in the house... Exceptin'
those with special permission, of course," he added
with a lewd laugh and wink.
It took James a moment to realize what he meant, and
his body briefly shuddered - with revulsion, or
excitement, or both? -- as soon as he did. Funny how
he'd never let that possibility cross his conscious
mind - it made perfect sense that if slaves were
required to please their masters in every other way
(cooking, washing, cleaning, driving, plowing,
planting, picking), they might also occasionally be
forced into other acts of... "service." A feeling of
compassion for his darker brothers and sisters washed
over him, and he tried to push the perverse possibility
from his mind.
The approaching of a lanky Negro with deep-dark skin
and thick, wooly hair, dressed in ragged, dirty clothes
interrupted James's blushing and stuttering response to
Mr. Potter.
"What the hell took you so long?!?" demanded Mr.
Potter, his warmth toward James instantly transformed
to hostility to the newly arrived slave.
"I sho is sorry, Massuh Potter, sir," the sweaty dark-
skinned youth replied. "I was 'temptin to shoe Ole
Nancy, sir, and you knows the fuss she can make when
she takes a mind to it. Jacob won't let it happen
again, no sir."
James's heart went out to the visibly frightened slave,
even though Jacob's expression was more stoic and
aloof, like he secretly knew he was better than them
and couldn't wait for the moment's charade to be over
so he could go back to shooting the breeze with his
Negro pals, or chasing the pretty brown he had his eye
on, or catching a quick nap in the hayloft. James was
also drawn to the slave's intense good looks, nearly as
striking as Abel's, but more purely African.
The slender but toned physique, the wide, flat nose
with gaping nostrils, his white teeth shining between
thick, purplish lips set in a dark, handsome face -
James guessed him at 17 or 18, less a boy than Abel but
certainly not yet a full-grown man. There was also
something strangely appealing about this strong young
man, who could easily have been a warrior or prince in
his native Africa, sheepish and stuttering before two
pasty-skinned white men who could order him stripped
and whipped in an instant. The white men's physical
strength was certainly not intimidating, so James could
only conclude with amazement that it was the pervasive,
entrenched social system of slavery that had broken
this strapping young man into a cowering fool before
his masters.
"You're damn right, you're sorry, you lazy nigger," Mr.
Potter hissed. "You'd best make it up to Master James
in the future if'n you want your new master to order
fewer whippings than Master Walt used to. Now get these
horses unbridled, washed and fed before doing another
damn thing!"
"Yessuh, Massuh Potter," Jacob said, but James thought
he detected a slight glint of pride and defiance in his
eyes. As Jacob started on his task, the two white men
walked together toward the plantation-house, although
James was reluctant to take his eyes off the handsome,
sweaty young African slave.
Samuel Potter led James into an enormous, two-story
hallway running the length of the house, with a marble
staircase circling up to the second floor.
"You're probably exhausted, young man," said Mr.
Potter. "With so little daylight left, I'll save the
grand tour of the house and grounds for tomorrow, after
you're well-rested. Let me show you to your room, where
you can wash and rest a bit before dinner."
Mr. Potter led James up the staircase to a spacious
bedroom at the end of the hall. It contained large
windows on both sides, looking out on the front and
rear of the house, as well as a fancy wood-frame bed
against the wall, a large dresser, lots of closet
space, and of course the essential wash basin and
chamber pot beside the bed. After Mr. Potter left him
alone, James collapsed on his newly acquired plush bed,
weary from his travels and overwhelmed by the
sensations of his new and strange environment.
Following a brief and restless nap, he washed his face
and hands in the clean water Abel had been careful to
put in the washbasin, and joined Mr. Potter in the
dining room for dinner.
Over dinner, Mr. Potter dominated the conversation with
his endless talk of community gossip, politics, and
economics, with jokes about James being a clueless
Yankee thrown in frequently for good measure. The
tiresome conversation was only made bearable by the
delicious southern cooking - greasier and saltier than
he was accustomed to, but also tastier - AND the
welcomed presence of the mulatto houseboy Abel as their
server.
James could sense Abel eyeing him with curiosity, but
for the most part he remained silent and unobtrusive,
other than the occasional, "Would you like more wine,
Master James?" or "Let me clear your plate, Master
James."
James knew deep down that a beautiful, energetic boy
like Abel shouldn't be forced into such degrading
service, at least not against his will, and that in a
better world he'd probably be making a good living as a
carpenter, or perhaps even a storekeeper or attorney.
But James had to admit, having this boy so eager,
almost fearful, to please him was a new and addictive
thrill. Plus James was enjoying sneaking the occasional
sly glance at what appeared to be a firm round ass
pressing against Abel's tight silky serving-pants. He
shrugged it off as nothing more than innocent lust,
knowing a young slave boy like Abel would never give an
older white man like him a second glance, and never
willingly allow himself to be sexually enjoyed.
After dinner the two men retired to the front verandah
to smoke and drink more wine.
"So, Mr. Yankee, do you think you'll be staying with us
for good?" Mr. Potter asked.
"I haven't really made up my mind," James lied - as far
as he was concerned, his noble plan to free the slaves
and sell the property was still in place. But he sure
as hell wasn't about to let a rabid Southerner like Mr.
Potter know that.
"You might say that now," Mr. Potter laughed, "but your
mind will be made up in no time. Ain't nothin' been,
nor ever will be, like we got it right now in Georgia.
Your Yankee friends want to take it away from us, but
they underestimate how hard we'll fight for this life,
'cause they ain't LIVED it. All this fuss over niggers,
it's just jealousy if you ask me. They only WISH they
had niggers to make thousands of dollars for 'em each
year, plantin' and harvestin' their crops. Niggers to
cook their meals, wash their clothes, drive their
wagons, and wait on 'em hand and foot. Because THEY
can't have it, they don't want NOBODY to have it. And
you wanna know the BEST thing about nigger slavery?"
Mr. Potter asked, his noisy voice hushing to a sordid
whisper, a wicked smirk taking over his face. "Two
words for you, Little Jimmy: Nigger. Pussy."
He winked and took a lusty puff on his cigar.
"Best thing on God's green earth. 'Course nobody TALKS
about it, but everybody KNOWS it, the women same as the
men. Most of the womenfolk don't like it, mind you, but
they know it exists, and most'll tolerate it."
James shifted uncomfortably in his chair on the
verandah, blushing from the sudden crude turn in the
conversation.
Sensing (and probably relishing) James's discomfort,
Mr. Potter, continued, "Let's face it, men are
beasts... we crave pussy like we crave the fresh air or
water. And not the same old sagging pussy night after
night neither. Fuck that 'till death do us part'
bullshit, we need fresh pussy. Young pussy. And that,
my friend, is the genius of nigger slavery. A
constantly replenishing supply."
"That's a horrible thing to say," James interrupted. He
was mad at himself, both for being so naïve that he'd
never imagined this particular perk of slavery, and for
finding himself curious to hear more.
Hearing the insincerity in James's voice, Mr. Potter
persisted in his shocking defense of sexual slavery.
"Buy a young nigger girl, ripe and virgin if you're
lucky and willin' to pay extra, say, 13, 14 years old,
she's yours, completely. Hell, I usually fuck that
tight virgin pussy the minute I bring 'em back from
town, while they're still cryin' over their mammy or
brother or whoever the hell they was sold away from.
'Cuz it's either the whip or sucking my dick. Death or
lettin' me have my way on top of 'em. And only the
craziest nigger bitches truly want to suffer the lash
of a whip or die."
"Stop!" James cried out. "That's revolting, and I don't
want to hear any more of it! That's precisely what's so
ugly about the South, the way you treat other human
beings like animals - WORSE than animals, cuz only a
few go around raping their livestock, I imagine."
A battle of epic proportions was raging within James's
soul. A war between conscience and instinct, morality
and desire. He knew the behavior celebrated by Mr.
Potter was cruel and inhumane, that there was pain and
tears and human heartache felt by those young girls he
spoke of as disposable cum-rags. Yet he couldn't deny
the story's perverse appeal, the guilty goose bumps he
got from hearing sex talked about so much more candidly
and unapologetically than it ever was in the North. So
much for Southern gentility and piety, he thought with
a sneer.
The angel on his shoulder told him to wish Mr. Potter a
hasty goodnight and rush to bed, but he couldn't resist
his curiosity to hear more. He softened his tone and
added, "But I suppose you're right when you say that
men are animals, and slavery must certainly present its
temptations to fight against."
Mr. Potter smiled devilishly, seeing through James's
weak effort to disguise his lurid curiosity as piety.
Mr. Potter went on with his story: "Hell, if you've got
the money and the will, you can fuck two different
niggers, twice a day for years on end if you want, and
never fuck the same nigger twice. If you're lucky to
live long enough you'll end up fucking your own
offspring, hell, even your own grandchildren, and it
don't make no difference cause they ain't really your
CHILDREN."
For a second James thought he might vomit, but his
nausea quickly gave way to intensified fascination, and
his silence was taken by Mr. Potter as tacit permission
to continue.
"Sorta sick, I s'pose, but sure as hell feels good to
fuck your own virgin daughter with nobody to say shit
to you about it. And that ain't even the sickest thing
I've done. That's the beauty of the whole system,
because they ain't considered nothin' more than
animals, because they're our own damn property, we can
do anything we damn well please, as sick as we want,
and to hell with the consequences."
He looked over at James to see where things stood.
Other than the blush on his cheeks and a look of
general uneasiness, James sat enthralled with this
sickening, mesmerizing defense of the most barbaric
behavior. Mr. Potter knew they'd passed the point of no
return, and he loved an eager listener. Besides, the
wine was beginning to have its liberating effects on
his tongue.
"I'd have to say the sickest thing I've done," Mr.
Potter continued, nearly whispering, "and I'll beat
your scrawny little Yankee ass if you tell a soul of
this, fuck who your Uncle was... once I got so horned
up and drunk that I fucked a nigger boy."
If Mr. Potter didn't have James's attention before, he
most certainly had it now. James had no experience with
either females or males, but he'd realized long ago
that he admired the body and character of his own sex
far more than those of females. More than that, he
recognized, with even greater shame and confusion, that
he desired boys as well as teens and young men. He sat
up stiffly, nearly certain that the story he was about
to hear would make terrific material for his guilty
masturbation later that night.
Mr. Potter, almost bragging, went on with his story: "I
was taking a drunken late-night walk through the slave
quarters, ready to stumble into the nearest cabin and
grab the first pretty little nigger I saw, when I saw
the cutest little pickaninny you ever did see, no older
than 11 or 12, walking back to his cabin in the dark --
must've been running an errand for his Mammy. I was so
fucking horny that night I could have fucked a horse
and not complained none about it, and when I saw that
pickaninny's frightened little eyes and pouty nigger
lips, the demon rum just seized hold of me and I knew I
had to try my first nigger-boy ass. So I grabbed the
little thing up in my arms, clamped down on his mouth
before he could scream, and told him he'd better be
quiet as a mouse else I'd sell his Mama so far down the
river he'd sure as hell never see her again. I dragged
him off to the closest patch of grass away from the
cabins, threw him down on his stomach, ripped off the
tattered rags he called pants, wet my dick with some
spit, and fucked his little pickaninny virgin ass right
there in the grass. Boy had to bury his head in the
grass to keep from screaming and waking the entire
county.
" Only boy I ever tried, but the best pussy too.
Tighter and juicier than any girl pussy I ever had
wrapped around my dick. Something sexier about it
too... cuz with girls they almost expect it, it's just
a part of life for them I s'pose. But with that boy...
it was the last thing he expected to happen on his walk
back to his cabin, it was like he'd never even imagined
his body could be used like that. The shock on his face
and in his groans had me shootin' my hot juices up in
that tight little boy-ass in no time. I'd probably try
it again, 'cept I don't want word gettin' out that I
like dick more than pussy. I got sons and grandsons,
you know, and a reputation to uphold."
James would have laughed at such absurd hypocrisy if
his dick wasn't rock-hard against his will, and his
head still spinning from the story he'd just heard. He
was deeply ashamed of himself. Instead of crying over
the brutal rape of the innocent little Negro boy,
instead of reporting the scandalous behavior to local
authorities or Northern journalists who might just do
something about it, instead of demanding the stagecoach
take him back to the North first thing in the morning,
he was envious of Mr. Potter, jealously imagining
HIMSELF atop the pickaninny's half-clothed body in the
grass under the moon that night, and getting an
embarrassing hard-on as a result.
"That's quite a story, Mr. Potter," James mumbled. "You
should be ashamed of yourself, a grown man like you
taking advantage of a helpless boy forty years younger
than you. Did you ever stop to think of that boy's
feelings after you left him there, scared and alone in
the dark? Or how his Mama must have felt seeing her boy
come home half-naked and sobbing?"
Mr. Potter laughed a hollow, dismissive laugh. "You'll
lose that holier-than-thou attitude soon enough, Little
Jimmy. Just wait till you see what you've been missing
all these years. You'll change your tune soon enough,
mark my words. Because you, my Little Jimmy, are the
luckiest young man in Georgia right now. Not only have
you inherited the second-largest stock of slaves in the
whole state, but you also don't have a nagging wife to
answer to or share your bed with.
"Hell, just say the word and I'll have one of the
overseers fetch you the finest piece of nigger pussy in
the state of Georgia. Any age, any color. Shit, any
sex," he added, laughing and eyeing the still-throbbing
erection James was futilely trying to conceal with his
glass of wine. "There's not a thing stoppin' you. All
two hundred and some-odd one of 'em belong to you, you
know, thanks to your generous Uncle Walt. Not a soul
other than maybe the overseer and a handful of slaves
need ever know; the overseers are nothin' but white
trash no how, and what the hell harm can slaves knowin'
do you."
"Enough!" James nearly shouted, slamming his empty
glass down on the table beside him and standing up to
leave. For a quick second he thought of Jesus's forty
days and forty nights in the desert being tempted by
Satan. This must be what it felt like, he thought -
only worse, because Jesus was the Son of God, not a
weak white man with intense, unfulfilled desires, and
248 human bodies at his complete disposal.
"I thank you for your company tonight, Mr. Potter, but
wish to have no part in the abusive activities of which
you speak. Please do not speak to me of it again.
Goodnight, sir, and I'll see you in the morning for my
tour of the premises."
"Suit yourself," said Mr. Potter, still smiling
wickedly. "Suit yourself."
***
The following day's tour consumed almost the entire
day. Like the previous evening's dinner, Mr. Potter's
annoying company was only relieved by the pleasure of
secretly drooling over a handsome male slave. This time
it was Jacob instead of Abel, as it was his
responsibility to hitch up the wagon and drive the two
white men around the 3,154-acre property. While Mr.
Potter's voice droned on and on about weather, crop
rotations, overseers and their various personalities
and methodologies, good fishing holes, church picnics,
and just about everything else under the sun.
James guiltily entertained himself by catching quick
glances at Jacob's lithe, youthful body driving the
team of horses on a seat several feet in front of the
two white men. He stared at the adolescent's thick
wooly hair, disheveled with the occasional piece of
straw or leaf blown into it; his thin back rippling
with youthful muscles, a patch of sweat creating a
growing circle through his thin cloth shirt; and best
of all, the firm, muscular melons jutting off his seat,
stretching at the thin cloth of his pants which
maddeningly concealed the dark mysteries beneath.
What I wouldn't give for just one hour alone with such
a young man, James thought to himself; but alas, Jacob
was a slave and he was a pale, scrawny white man nearly
twice his age. Jacob might already have a wife, for all
he knew, and even if he didn't, what were the chances
his desires matched James's own perverse interests in
same-sex activity. And even if they did, James
shrugged, Jacob would most likely fool around in secret
with one of the other young bucks, never giving his
white owner a second thought beyond what was necessary
to avoid the crack of a whip.
James was both impressed and overwhelmed by his Uncle's
immense property and responsibilities. His land
stretched out for miles, with acres devoted to almost
every crop under the sun, cotton and tobacco being
primary.
As far as James could tell, his Uncle had an efficient,
productive system in place. He had a total of eight
overseers in his employment, which figured out to
approximately one overseer for every thirty slaves. He
had over 150 bucks who worked in the fields from sun-up
to sundown, with Sundays off and nearly a week off for
Christmas. He had about 25 women who worked almost
exclusively as breeders, most of their offspring raised
and sold at prime rates; when they weren't too burdened
by pregnancy, these women would also work in the fields
beside the same bucks assigned to impregnate them the
previous night. Another 25 or so of the slave stock
were elderly men and women who worked nearer the
plantation-house, washing clothes, cleaning the main-
house, tending to smaller gardens and livestock, and
raising the young children (the rest of the 248) until
they were old enough and strong enough to join their
parents in the fields.
Since Uncle Walter was a widower and somewhat of a
loner, only Abel and his parents, Abraham and Becky,
lived in the main-house and served as his personal
attendants. According to Mr. Potter, the Stampley
Plantation had a reputation for being strict but not
sadistic, firm but not excessively permissive. The
overseers were crueler with their tongues than their
whips, but didn't hesitate to inflict severe punishment
when it was deserved. The awareness of the plantation's
three bloodstained whipping-posts, as well as the
sometimes-implicit, sometimes-explicit threat of being
sold off always hanging in the air, kept the Stampley
slaves in "their place," as Mr. Potter put it -
ignorant, obedient, and humble before their masters.
Having a large and trustworthy staff, not to mention
two nearly grown sons, to run his own plantation, Mr.
Potter agreed to stick around the Stampley Plantation
until James felt more settled and accustomed to life as
a Southern slave-owner. He didn't bring up the previous
night's sore topic of conversation again, knowing James
would bring it up on his own eventually - Mr. Potter
wasn't blind, after all, and he'd seen the way James
looked at Abel, Jacob, the field-bucks, even some of
the pickaninnies playing around the slave quarters,
when James thought he wasn't looking.
James's sleep the second night was just as restless as
his first. He hadn't had a sexual release for nearly a
week, since before the letter arrived that changed his
life, and he felt like he was going to explode from his
pent-up desires.
He was embarrassed and weary of being a virgin at his
age. It wasn't that he hadn't had opportunities. He
wasn't magnetically attractive and charismatic the way
some men were, but he was good-looking enough, with a
boyishly handsome face, brownish-blonde hair, and a
little bit of fuzzy facial hair that made him look more
like 20 than his actual 30. He had a slender, appealing
build - a bit paler and softer than he would have
liked, but school teaching by day and drinking and
reading by night didn't exactly lead to a tanned or
muscular physique.
Plenty of charming young women had devoted their
attentions to him, but while he found them abstractly
attractive, his true, hidden attraction was to the
forbidden bodies of boys and men. He knew without a
doubt that his cock came to life at the sight of his
more handsome schoolboys, or the striking young men
he'd sometimes pass at the local park, or spy swimming
naked at the local swimming-hole. He was even vaguely
aware of what he wanted to do with their bodies, what
he wanted them to do to HIS body, if he ever had the
chance. But he never dared pursue any such thing.
Exposure as a "sodomite" would lead at the very best to
public humiliation and social exile, at the very worst
to imprisonment or execution, depending on the
geographical location and circumstances of the
exposure.
So here he was a thirty-year-old virgin, tossing
sleeplessly in the middle of the night, his body
wracked by temptation. As hard as he tried, he just
couldn't cleanse his mind of the images and ideas
placed in his head by Mr. Potter the previous night.
He knew it was wrong. A very real part of him wanted no
part in the dehumanization and oppression of his fellow
human beings, no matter how sanctioned by law and local
society such behavior might be. He looked forward to
the surprise, joy, and relief that would come across
his slaves' faces when he announced that he was giving
them their freedom. He wanted to prove himself worthy
of his claimed convictions and return to his
Abolitionist friends with his conscience and integrity
intact.
But at the same time, he knew he had an opportunity
that he would never have again, and the temptation was
excruciating. Mr. Potter was right, just 300 feet or so
away in the slave quarters were warm, living, breathing
human beings with no choice but to obey his orders.
Cute little pickaninnies, preteen boys on the cusp of
adolescence, young adolescents just entering manhood,
strapping young men whose bodies yearned only for their
fellow slave women, all available for his total
possession, for anything he desired, with no more than
a word to Mr. Potter or one of the eight overseers.
He clenched his head in his hands as he agonized over
his temptation. After years of fear and repression, his
new and unasked-for role as a slave-owner presented him
with an incredible opportunity to explore all the
deepest desires and fantasies he'd ever dreamed up -
hell, even fantasies he HADN'T dreamed up yet. He could
fulfill every desire that ever presented itself, almost
immediately, with little fear of social exposure or
judgment.
He recalled Mr. Potter's tale of the sobbing little boy
with the tiny upturned ass under the moonlight and once
again imagined himself in Mr. Potter's place. He
thought of the golden-skinned Abel and the inviting ass
outlined by his dress pants. He pictured Jacob's
sweaty, muscled back and the intoxicating smell of his
youthful, Negro sweat and wooly hair. He imagined the
countless other boys and young men inhabiting his
property - what was he thinking, they were his property
- who were perhaps just as, if not better, looking than
Abel and Jacob. They all belonged to him. He could have
them all.
The thought made him delirious with desire, and his
cock sprung to full life beneath his sheets. What was
happening to him??? Just two days' exposure to slavery
and it was already changing him. He screamed into his
pillow, buried his head beneath the sheets, and forced
himself to sleep.
To be continued?
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 46