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Subject: {ASSM} The Adventures of Stampley Plantation: Introduction (Mb Mm nc rape interr anal hist va)
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The Adventures of Stampley Plantation

By WannabeWhitman (WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com)

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.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge the strong influence of Lance Kyle's
stories on my work. His erotic fiction on Nifty, particularly his
"Mistletoe Farm" and "Seaward Plantation" series, is the best
I've ever read on this subject, and his fertile imagination has
greatly inspired my own. I hope he and his other fans will see this as
"inspired by" his work, not "plagiarized from."

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 na�ve 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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