I reckon I oughta start at the beginnin’, ‘fore everythin’ got all tangled up inside me.
My name’s Beau Langston, and I turned eighteen last April, out here on the Langston cotton plantation in the Mississippi Delta, year of our Lord 1858. I’m the only son of Colonel Harlan Langston and Missus Evelyn. Papa owns near two thousand acres of the blackest, richest dirt God ever put under a cotton seed, and close to a hundred souls that work it from can-see to can’t-see. Mama keeps the big house runnin’ like a Swiss watch, all lace and lemon oil and whispered prayers.
Folks say I favor Papa at a tall, six foot two already with broad through the shoulders from helpin’ with the horses and the occasional day in the fields when the overseer ain’t lookin’. My hair’s the color of ripe wheat, always fallin’ in my eyes no matter how Mama fusses. Eyes blue as the summer sky after a rain. Skin pale from stayin’ mostly indoors with my books, though the sun still finds a way to freckle my nose and the tops of my arms. I’m lean but strong, with a flat stomach and long legs that look good in ridin’ boots. Down between ‘em… well, that part of me’s thick and heavy, the kind that hangs noticeable even when soft, and swells up proud when it gets a mind to.
I got a proper education. Tutor came up from Natchez every week till I was sixteen. Schooled in Latin, Greek, mathematics, history of the Romans and the English kings. I can quote Shakespeare and Virgil both, and I write a fair hand. Papa says book-learnin’s fine, but a man’s real duty is the land. He and Mama got it all planned: I’m to marry Miss Caroline Beauregard from the next parish over. I do say she’s pretty little thing with yellow curls and a dowry that’d make the angels jealous. Then I’m a takin’ the reins of Langston Place when Papa’s too old to ride the fields. Produce heirs. Keep the name goin’. Keep the cotton flowin’.
Only trouble is… I don’t want Caroline. Don’t want any of the girls they parade past me at the church socials or the Christmas balls. When they flutter their fans and look at me with them soft eyes, my stomach just twists up cold. What I want—what’s been eatin’ at me since I first noticed boys instead of girls—is somethin’ I can’t never speak aloud. Not in this world. Not with the Bible thumpin’ and the law and the way folks talk about sodomites like they’re lower than the dirt.
At night, after the house settles and the cicadas start their racket, I lie in my four-poster bed under the mosquito nettin’ and do the only thing that quiets the ache. I push my nightshirt up, spit in my palm, and wrap my fingers around my cock. It’s a solid eight inches when hard, thick as my wrist at the base, veined and flushed dark pink, the head flarin’ out smooth and sensitive. I stroke slow at first, then faster, eyes squeezed shut, imagin’ not some pale debutante but the dark, powerful bodies of the field hands I see every day. Broad backs glistenin’ with sweat, strong thighs, the way their trousers pull tight across their fronts when they bend to pick. I picture one of ‘em, sometimes several, pushin’ me down in the cotton rows, their rough hands on me, their cocks hard and dark against my pale skin. With my fingers in my ass imaginin’ it’s a black cock, I come hard into my fist, bitin’ the pillow so nobody hears, then clean up quiet and try to sleep with the shame burnin’ hotter than the spend.
That’s how it was, till Isaac.
Isaac’s twenty. Been on the place since he was a boy, bought with his mama from a trader out of New Orleans. Tall as me, maybe a shade taller, skin the deep, rich brown of good coffee with just a drop of cream. Shoulders wide from years of hard work, arms corded with muscle, chest broad and smooth. His face is handsome in a quiet way, high cheekbones, full lips, eyes dark as river water at night. He works the stables mostly now, gentle with the horses, soft-spoken. We’d spoken a few times when I brought my mare in, nothin’ more than “Yessir, Massa Beau” and “Thank you, Isaac.” But somethin’ about the way he looked at me… like he saw past the master’s son to the boy underneath.
It happened one humid evening in late May. Supper was done, Mama at her needlework, Papa with his whiskey and ledgers. I slipped out the back, past the kitchen house and the quarters, down the path to the old pond under the willows. I like it there. It’s quiet, water dark and still, frogs singin’. I sat on the grass, boots off, toes in the cool mud, tryin’ to quiet the restlessness that never leaves me.
Isaac came outta the trees like a shadow. He was carryin’ a water bucket, must’ve been sent for the stock. He stopped when he saw me.
“Evenin’, Massa Beau,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You ain’t disturbin’,” I answered, thicker accent slippin’ out like it does when I’m nervous. “Sit a spell if you want. Water’ll wait.”
He hesitated, then set the bucket down and lowered himself a few feet away. We talked quiet about the horses, the weather, nothin’ much. But the air got heavier. I kept glancein’ at the way his shirt clung to his chest, the strong line of his throat. He glanced back. Finally I couldn’t stand it.
“Isaac… you ever… feel things you ain’t supposed to?”
He was quiet a long time. Then: “Yes, sir. I reckon I have.”
Somethin’ broke open in me. I moved closer. Our knees touched. My hand found his, rough and warm. He didn’t pull away. Next thing I knew we were under the biggest willow, screened by the long green curtains, the pond lappin’ soft nearby. My heart was hammerin’ so hard I thought it’d give me away.
We didn’t speak. Just looked. Then I reached for the buttons of his trousers, fingers shakin’. He did the same to mine. We pushed the cloth down just enough.
My cock sprang free, already half-hard, pale and thick, the head shiny with early wetness. His… Lord have mercy. Isaac’s cock was a little longer than mine, maybe eight and a half, darker than the rest of him, almost black along the shaft, thick and heavy, the head broad and blunt, already swelling up full. Veins stood out under the tight skin. A bead of clear fluid gathered at the tip.
We stared for a second, both breathin’ hard. Then I wrapped my hand around him. Hot. Hard. Silk over iron. He groaned soft and took hold of me the same way. His palm was callused, rough in the best way, grip firm but careful.
We started strokin’. Slow at first, learnin’ each other. I thumbed over the head of his cock, spreadin’ that slickness down the shaft. He did the same to me, twistin’ a little on the upstroke the way I like when I’m alone. The wet sounds of our fists filled the quiet. Skin on skin, soft grunts, the night insects. I leaned in, forehead against his, smellin’ horse and sweat and clean river water on him. His free hand came up to my hip, steadyin’.
Faster now. My balls drew up tight. His cock pulsed in my grip, gettin’ even harder. I watched my pale fingers work that dark length, watched the way his bigger hand looked wrapped around my own cock, pullin’ and squeezin’. The pressure built quick, months of secret wantin’ crashin’ down at once.
“Beau…” he whispered, the first time he’d ever said just my name. That finished me. I came hard, thick ropes of white spillin’ over his knuckles and onto the grass between us. A second later he followed, cock jumpin’ in my fist, his spend hotter and just as plentiful, splashin’ across my wrist and the grass.
We stayed like that a minute, breathin’, hands still gentle on each other as we softened. Then he wiped us both clean with his shirttail, careful. We fixed our clothes in silence. Before he stood, he touched my face once, brief.
“This can’t be nothin’ more,” he said quiet. “You know that.”
I nodded, throat tight. But when he walked away into the dark with his bucket, I already knew I was lost. I’d fallen in love with him right there by the pond, with the frogs singin’ and the willows hidin’ us, and nothin’ Papa or Mama or the whole damn South could plan was ever gonna change it.
