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Subject: {ASSM} The Adventures of Stampley Plantation: Introduction (Mb nc hist interr va)
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<1st attachment, "The Adventures of Stampley Plantation - Introduction.doc" begin>

The Adventures of Stampley Plantation 


By WannabeWhitman (Mb, nc, rape, interr, hist, va)


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.


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 <a
href="mailto:WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com">WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com</
a>. 

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 nave 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. 


*****************************************************************
******


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 <a
href="mailto:WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com">WannabeWhitman@yahoo.com</
a>. 


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