By Taylor Jones ©2020
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” – Hamlet (1.5.167-8)
PART ONE
XAVIER
As Xavier Wellington rode the plantation, his attention wandered from his daily survey of operations. His eyes sought out Baptiste, the strong, fortyish field slave. The big nigger was everything that Xavier’s peevish, drunken father was not — kindly, sober, and temperate in thought and speech, so much so that Xavier couldn’t recall a time when he had not adored him. Sometimes, he even thought his feelings might be reciprocated, detecting in Baptiste’s eyes a warm light when they conversed. His own eyes, without a doubt, must have betrayed his lifelong infatuation.
He soon spotted Baptiste, for indeed, he was hard to miss. At well over six feet, he towered a head above the other slaves as they tended the Wellington tobacco crop. At an age when most slaves began to wither under the yoked burdens of hard work and mediocre nutrition, Baptiste seemed to thrive. Stripped to the waist in dark cotton trousers, woolen socks, and undyed leather shoes, with a course linen shirt tucked into the back of his trousers, he carried himself with unassuming dignity.
His sweaty body — ebony slabs of muscle on muscle like those of a Percheron workhorse — glowed like polished obsidian. A back of chisled bedrock supported wide, round shoulders from which hung heavy, sinewy arms, and a deeply cleft chest dropped steeply to a sensual washboard of a stomach. His lower body was even more powerful, the high-slung boulders of his ass segueing into legs as massive as black oaks.
Tightly coiled black hair with random, interspersed white threads capped his head, while sparse peppercorn patches adorned his chin and cheeks and a softer fuzz his upper lip. His dark brown eyes, framed by a low, prominent brow, glinted with gold when the sunlight came through them at a certain angle.
Xavier could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t keenly aware of Baptiste, but as a young boy he had only dared to wave the occasional greeting at his hero. Only recently, after his graduation from the university, had he chanced upon opportunities to speak with him. The first had been when he was strolling alongside a field and had come upon the big nigger urinating.
Holding his jet black, uncut penis lightly, he had given the thick organ a small shake and an amber torrent of urine poured out, creating a wet, staccato drumroll where it pummeled the soil beneath. Xavier caught himself staring and managed to find something else to look at, but soon caught himself staring again. He was reminded of nothing so much as horses pissing.
Baptiste looked up as he urinated, and, seeing Xavier, smiled broadly. His prominent teeth had gaps from a lifetime of indifferent dental care, but they only added a certain rough charm to his guileless smile.
“Mornin, Massa,” he greeted. The torrent continued unabated, like a rain gutter emptying after a storm.
“Hi Baptiste,” he said, nodding a greeting. Though he pretended to have only the most casual interest, his face flushed, his stomach fluttered, and mentally he kicked himself for contriving nothing better to say. In fact, and despite no experience whatsoever in carnal matters, he suddenly envisioned himself kneeling with his mouth around Baptiste’s elephant trunk, looking up at his hero as he gulped the flow.
“Drink it all, whiteboy,” Xavier imagined Baptiste saying as he affectionately caressed his head. “Drink yuh nigger’s piss, honey, all o’ it.”
He emerged from his reverie to hear Baptiste say, “Drink o’ water, Massa?” He had scooped some water from a tin pale using a coconut-shell dipping gourd affixed to a long wood handle, and was offering it to Xavier.
“Oh!” Xavier said, flustered by his salacious fantasy. He shook his muzzy head, denying himself a moment to linger. “No, thank you, Baptiste. Refresh yourself, but I must get on with my auditing chores, lest our venal managers steal us blind while Father drinks away the remainder of the fortune. We’ll talk again soon, I hope.”
He had somehow summoned the courage to smile broadly at Baptiste, nodded, and strode on. Baptiste had smiled after him.
They had talked now and again, but, as Xavier could think of no good reason for sustained conversation, their camaraderie was brief. Now, he rode his steed boldly up to the slave, adopting the bearing of a young aristocrat coming into his own as heir of the Wellington tobacco empire.
“Good morning, Baptiste,” he said, trying on his most polished Princeton accent and smiling with what he hoped was a confident air.
“Good mornin, Massa Xavier,” Baptiste said. “Sho is a nice day.”
“It is,” Xavier agreed. “Listen, Baptiste, as one of our most senior field workers, I need your advice and discretion. I thought we might meet somewhere later today that will be free of the eyes and ears of both Father and the other workers. Say, along the creek where it turns south? At dusk, perhaps.”
“Well sho, Massa,” said Baptiste, his face reflecting his puzzlement. “If yuh think ah can hep yuh with anything.”
“Several things, actually,” said Xavier. “So, splendid, I shall see you there. Please don’t change or anything like that. Come just as you are. I’ll bring some ale to refresh us whilst we talk. See you then.”
With that he turned the steed and rode away at a lope, leaving behind a rather bewildered-looking slave.
BAPTISTE
When Baptiste approached the appointed spot in the heat of the early evening, cicadas chirred at full volume in the trees above the sandy flats along the creek. The sun was a burnt-orange disk striated with dark-red bands as it sank behind the distant hills.
Field slaves were allowed to start their work at sunrise and break during late afternoon, when the sun was at its apex and the heat at its worst, so he had finished his labors much earlier. With his family, he had consumed a dinner of pepper rabbit, hominy, greens, and okra soup before bidding his wife and children goodnight to go foraging for berries. They knew how much Baptiste liked his berries and didn’t expect him back soon.
Topping a sandy rise, he came upon the young master reclined on a plaid quilt beneath a tall cottonwood tree, which in turn perched at the edge of a steep, sandy embankment running parallel with the creek. Xavier was barefoot and filling a tin cup from a small keg of ale beside him, his tall riding boots standing alone off to one side. Nearby, an unseen bobwhite whistled its distinctive, eponymous call.
Once again Baptiste was struck by Xavier’s remarkable resemblance to his mother. He knew that the boy hardly remembered her, as she had died from yellow fever before he had reached the age of three. She had been a lady of rare character, and the nigger felt hardening between his legs thinking about her delicate beauty. Her thick, sand-colored hair was shared by her son, as were her olive skin and finely honed facial features. If the whiteboy had her long hair, he might be mistaken for her.
Xavier stretched out before him now. Not too tall, but with broad shoulders, big legs, and a round, full rump. Baptiste’s sex stiffened even more as he inspected the young master, and something stirred in his stomach.
He was unsure why the meeting was necessary, but he was a good slave and never disrespectful to his owners, so he was there as requested. He would have been a good house nigger if only he were of lighter complexion, but, as it was, he was as black as night. With his large, almost ape-like hands, and muscles piled on muscles, guests to the master’s home might have been frightened. Though they needn’t have been. Those close to him knew him to be a gentle giant — docile, kind, and generous to a fault.
XAVIER
Xavier stomach was aflutter, and he had begun to doubt his boldness by the time he settled under the big tree. He had hoped a rare breeze would cool him, but saw only the occasional silver flicker of the poplar leaves above him. He lay there swigging a cup of ale to calm himself as he entertained and dismissed various ice-breaking stratagems. Beside him lay a bottle of processed coconut oil he had brought along hoping Baptiste wouldn’t wash so that he might have a pretext to bathe and massage him.
He recalled again the sweet musk that had wafted from Baptiste’s sweaty body when they passed each other earlier that day. It had been too pleasant for words. To wash that away would be like the gods throwing out ambrosia. Had he the opportunity to get his nose closer to, say, those unwashed armpits, no doubt the effect would be intoxicating.
Could such a thing happen? As the Wellington heir, surely propriety demanded restraint from him towards slaves. But still …
“Ah is here, suh,” a deep baritone voice boomed.
Xavier started from his memory upon hearing the loud greeting. Jumping to his feet, some of his misgivings vanished when he saw, in the soft light of the salmon sky, the big nigger smiling amiably at him. Baptiste’s courtesy and manifest goodwill were so evident, he felt suddenly buoyed and able to respond without guile.
“Baptiste, you came!” he said, beaming, and launched into his prepared speech. “I- I- there are some important matters we must discuss. General Sherman has taken Atlanta without much difficulty and changes are in store. Soon — very soon, it seems — slavery will end, and I would like us to forge a future together — all of us — as business associates and friends, if possible. With that in mind, could you and I not first have some time together here and acquaint ourselves with one another? Please sit with me and share some ale.”
Xavier was so occupied with his lines and with filling a cup of ale for Baptiste that he almost missed the dawning expression of amazement on the slave’s face.
“Great day in de mornin!” Baptiste exclaimed, moving about excitedly, a huge grin across his face. “Ah will be a free nigger! Ain’t nobody done told dis til now, Massa!”
BAPTISTE
Baptiste wanted to dance when he heard the young master’s words about slavery ending, but his initial joy was quickly overtaken by the larger concerns. What would freedom mean, he wondered?
The Wellingtons had been good to him. He had been born and raised on this plantation, and never during his entire life had they whipped him. Of course, that was due partly to the fact that, had a slave been beaten, the cold wrath of Maggie Wellington nee O’Hara would have descended on Master Wellington. The auburn-haired Boston debutante had been wooed and lured south during their college years, but she retained her northern sensibility and would never have countenanced such cruelty. Xavier, without a doubt, had adopted her values.
Still, Baptiste was puzzled. Reluctantly, he sat next to Xavier, not wanting to offend him.
“Friends, Massa?” he said. “Yuh funnin with me. We ain’t friends, Massa. Yuh live in de big house, ah live in a shed. Ah got nothin to offuh, suh.” Then, looking around to make sure no one was watching, he picked up the cup of ale, nodded, and took a sip, grinning. Every slave knew that eating food uninvited off the master’s table could get a nigger locked in an iron collar and bit until he understood that it wasn’t his to take.
XAVIER
Hearing Baptiste describe his dismal living conditions made Xavier’s heart ache and his face burn with shame. The slave’s words captured in a few deft brush strokes the essence of southern inequity. The callous system debased both the enslaved and their owners. Niggers suffered openly, while whites grew up turning a blind eye to their misery in order to perpetuate their own wealth, leading, as night follows day, to a corrupt and dissolute society.
“Baptiste, I want to change all that,” he said. “After the war, people will still want tobacco, and plantations will still need workers. Father is no longer in charge. Indeed, if his liver keeps him alive until the first of the year, it will be a Christmas miracle. I am running our holdings now and I swear, your lot will improve.”
He looked up into the grinning face of Baptiste and was emboldened. The nigger possessed an animal magnetism not unlike a more handsome rendition of drawings he had seen of lowland gorillas. Low, prominent brow. Wide, flared nostrils. Deep-set, almond-shaped eyes. Combined with his coal-black skin and gap-toothed grin, his features snatched a grace from beyond reason. To Xavier’s eyes, he was nothing less than masculine beauty incarnate.
“On the contrary,” Xavier demurred, mesmerized. “You have so much to offer, Baptiste — your strong body and resolute heart, the knowledge you have of this plantation and its operations. The rest I will redress. All niggers will have good, sturdy homes and their own plot of land for gardening if they choose to rema-” His voice broke, swallowed by his nerves, sadness, and fear. “If they would rather stay than … than leave.”
“I hope,” he continued, “you will remain and work with me, Baptiste. Let us start right here to become friends. Jesus washed the feet of travelers. Why don’t you rinse yours in the creek and let me rub them with this wonderful oil?”
BAPTISTE
Baptiste saw the whiteboy smiling up at him, looking so young and gentle, but many of his words had confused him. Xavier running things, plots of land, someone’s feet being washed? He could certainly wash himself, couldn’t he? But then, he knew he wasn’t the smartest nigger, maybe even below average in figuring, and he spent many of his days in confusion. He took another deep swig of the strong ale, and everything he had heard sounded better to him.
Taking in Xavier’s hopeful gaze, he again saw echoes of the boy’s beautiful mother. Baptiste had not known his own parents. He was sired by a big giant of a nigger who had visited his mother regularly from another plantation. After she died giving birth to him, the father did not return, and Baptiste suspected that the owner of the other plantation had been paid for the nigger’s stud services.
In Maggie Wellington he recognized the beauty, strength, and kindness he would have wanted in a mother. She had loved strolling the grounds of the plantation, and, as a preadolescent, he had often trailed behind, naked and erect. It spoke volumns about Virginia slave society that no note was taken of the nudity of a nigger boy nor his aroused state. However, for years after she passed, Baptiste spent many nights fantasizing that he was holding her and stroking that smooth, pale skin.
Suddenly, back in the present and abashed at his swelling sex, he stood quickly and headed to the creek. The young master wanted him to wash his tired feet in the water, that much he gathered. Once he got to the creek, he removed his old, worn-down shoes and put his toes in the warm water.
“Dis okay, Massa?” he asked.
XAVIER
Xavier gave Baptiste a reassuring smile, realizing he had prattled on and confused him with his excessive verbiage. He really didn’t care what was washed. The musky fragrance he caught from the overworked, sweaty nigger as he strode past had stirred him anew, and he was eager to fill his nostrils again and more fully.
“Yes,” he called. “Now, just shake them off and come back. I want to massage you.”
“Remove all your clothes,” he said when Baptiste returned. “Put them here on the quilt, then stretch out on your stomach. You will love the feel of this coconut oil. We import it from India. It’s so light one hardly knows it’s there and it has almost no odor.”
So that Baptiste would be clear about stripping completely, Xavier gulped some ale, stood, and pulled his shirt over his head, then kicked his shoes off, dropped his trousers, and removed them. He turned away to hide his growing erection, then pushed his briefs to his ankles and stepped out of them. After he made a small, neat pile of his things, he quickly sat with his arms wrapped modestly around his legs.
Baptiste watched him undress, looking confused, but once he had finished, the slave repeated his motions, beginning with several gulps of ale. His clothes were sticky with sweat and took longer to remove, and when they were off he hung them from a tree branch well away from the quilt. Xavier assumed this was because he was worried about the smell. Then, as instructed, the big, naked nigger lay on his stomach across the blanket, looking uneasy.
“Dis okay, Massa?” he asked.
“That’s fine, Baptiste,” Xavier said, thunderstruck by the beauty of the muscular black body stretched out in front of him. He opened the slender bottle of champagne-colored oil and set it near his feet. “I hope I’m not being too forward, Baptiste, but I can’t help but admire the size and strength of your body.”
“Ah thank yuh, Massa,” Baptiste said. “It jus be de one ah was born with.”
“Indeed,” Xavier said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I’m going to begin by cleaning the sand off your feet and rubbing them. Let me know if anything bothers you and I will stop. Now, spread your legs wider so that I have a place to sit while I work.”
BAPTISTE
Baptiste didn’t understand the reason for all this attention, but he trusted Xavier. The boy had always been kind to him and even gave him extra food. Now, here he was, naked, on his stomach with the equally naked whiteboy seated between his legs. When Xavier grasped his foot and began to wipe the sand off, it felt good. Very good. Yet, one thing puzzled him.
“Massa, ah been workin since sunrise — be impossible fo me to smell good, suh,” he said, incredulous that Xavier would remain so close. “Ah mus smell like an old bull.”
“Not at all, Baptiste,” Xavier said, kneading the sole of his foot deeply with the flat of his thumbs, “Perhaps it’s just me, but you smell far better than any bull. And, after all, you were clean just this morning, weren’t you? So what I smell is just the honest sweat of a single day’s work, which I rather like.”
Xavier finished both feet and rubbed oil up over Baptiste’s calves, working it around the leg onto his shins, then up the hamstrings and over the tops of his buttocks. He leaned into his kneading, his attentive hands pressing deeply and stretching the muscles. His touch caused Baptiste to stir in a most unnatural way. He only got hard when in the company of his wife and other ladies, but the way Xavier touched him was gentle, just like a woman, and it had the same effect.
XAVIER
Xavier massaged Baptiste’s boulder-sized buttocks with firm, circular up-and-out motions that stretched wide the deep cleft between them, displaying the nigger’s anal pucker with each circuit. Leaning into his work, he lowered his face and inhaled the pungent funk, making himself dizzy with longing.
“Maybe it’s just me, Baptiste,” he said, light-headed. “But I have been around niggers all my life. It shouldn’t be surprising that I like to see, feel, or smell that with which I am accustomed. And, I really do think you smell good.”
Xavier climbed up and sat straddling the muscular rump and worked his hands over Baptiste’s back, putting sustained effort into coaxing the knots from the muscles. He was fully erect now but his patient seemed not to notice, sighing and moaning contentedly. Still, Xavier was grateful the big nigger lay face down.
“Okay, Baptiste,” he said, “I believe I’m done with your back. I trust it feels better now. Turn over and I’ll get to your chest and stomach.”
Baptiste was slow to turn over, and, when he did, an erection as thick as a can of turpentine slapped up against his stomach, the tip coming to rest well above his navel. Xavier had never seen a dick that large that wasn’t on a horse. The poor nigger lay there, a forearm covering his tightly-closed eyes, obviously embarassed half to death at his aroused state.
“Ah be so ashamed, Massa,” he said. “Yuh shouldn’t see me dis way.”
Xavier felt awful being the cause of his slave’s shame and could restrain himself no longer. He quickly lay down alongside Baptiste and threw his arm around the nigger’s broad chest, letting his head rest on the big shoulder next to the upraised arm.
“No, Baptiste,” he exclaimed, looking into the anguished face. “Please, please don’t be ashamed on my account. I just wanted us to be closer. Please believe me when I say this is nothing to be ashamed of. You are a strong, virile nigger, and, for you, being erect is as natural as breathing. I would expect nothing less.”
Xavier snuggled closer, turning his face into Baptiste so that his nose pressed near the cleft of the upturned armpit. The dense brush was pungent with an acrid, saline musk, and he inhaled deeply, finding it the best sensory experience of his young life. His head grew light and he wanted to bury his face there, but he turned back to speak.
“Why, if anything, you should be proud of that great pole between your legs,” Xavier said, his voice soft with wonder. “That is your nigger pride. I am just grateful to behold something so majestic.”
As he summoned the nerve to make his impending request, Xavier’s face burned with anxiety. On one hand, it probably wouldn’t be such a surprise, since his own erection was throbbing against the side of Baptiste’s thigh. On the other, so much depended on Baptiste’s response. A soft breeze had stirred the leaves above them, and, for a time, he just hugged the big nigger and listened to the cicadas sing. Finally, though, he found the courage to give voice to his need.
“Baptiste,” he said softly with great unease. “Do you think maybe I could touch it?”
(Continued in Part 2)
Copyright 2020 by Taylor Jones. All rights reserved.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/f0p3s8/sacred_night_pt_1_mm_raceplay