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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"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
"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
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
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
After dinner the two men retired to the front verandah to smoke and drink more
"So, Mr. Yankee, do you think you'll be staying with us for good?" Mr. Potter
"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 naive 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
"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
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
"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
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.