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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   Nifty 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, 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 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.             
   

 		
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