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The
Adventures of Stampley Plantation
By WannabeWhitman
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 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. If you enjoy this story, please let me know! Any and all feedback is welcome and desired! I would love to hear constructive criticism, scenes or themes you particularly enjoy, stories and fantasies of your own, and anything else you might want to share. E-mail me at WannabeWhitman07@yahoo.com.
If you share my obsession with the beauty and sexuality of black males, check out my Google group! Explore your TABOO erotic fantasies about black males: slavery, domination/submission, economic coercion, prison scenes, adult/ youth themes, gangbangs, and more. Discuss your forbidden fantasies, share photos, and post erotic stories. Join me in looking at interracial desire in a way that most are too timid to talk about! This is NOT your average interracial group. Stay away if easily offended! 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.
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.
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