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Love and Indigo

This is a sample from Love and Indigo, a new gay erom from Brutewood Plantations. This is quite possibly the only gay interracial black/Native American historical erotica on the market!

There were brilliant blue flowers as far as the eye could see. Each row of indigo plants was equal in size and growth and every other way, but Walter could tell exactly where he was even though he had been wandering for hours. He didn’t even know how long it had been, but he recognized this field.

He wasn’t on Master Martin’s plantation anymore. He was on Appleberry Farms, owned by Master Jeffries. Walter rather wished he was owned by Master Jeffries, who was much kinder than Master Martin.

If that had been the case, Walter thought, none of this would have probably happened. On Appleberry Farms, he had heard, no one was whipped, or coerced into marriage or church of any kind. That sounded preferable to Walter.

But he had to stop ruminating. He stood in the middle of a field, trying to decide what to do. Could he go back there? To those men who had tortured him so? To that shrill harridan Melissa?

She was his wife, technically, or maybe not, he thought, since the marriage had never been consummated. That’s what started all this, just last week. He and Melissa were wed, against his and her strenuous objections.

Then, much to Walter’s humiliation, he was unable to perform with Melissa. He was not surprised by it, but he was humiliated. The other slaves made fun of him mercilessly, and Master Martin had had him whipped, and said he would be again for every night he was unable to live up to his husbandly duties.

And so Walter limped away. There was nothing to do now, he thought, but take his chances on the road north. If he made it to Pennsylvania, he’d be free.

He set off into the woods. He knew it would be at least a day or two before Master Martin sent anyone after him. Walter was prone to wandering, and Master Martin had told him to get his head on straight, not to come back until he figured out what it meant to be a man. The idea that Walter would run away was unthinkable, so the dogs would not be set until it was too late. He just needed to avoid being captured.

Luckily he was well-versed in wood-lore — a skill taught by his Mama Henrietta, who was not his grandmother, but was rather a grandmother to the whole of the slaves of Master Martin’s plantation. She had passed on last year, but she knew early on what Walter was.

“You gunna hafta be wit’ a woman, sooner or later,” she had said on a couple of occasions, clucking her tongue and looking at him as though he had done a grave wrong. Walter didn’t know what she meant then, and she had refused to explain, but he knew now.

He simply did not like women. There were any number of slave boys he rather enjoyed tumbling around with, but they all preferred the company of women. They settled for him when Master Martin said the slaves were not “in estrus” (whatever that meant, Walter didn’t know, for he had always ignored it when the boys were told of sex and feminine matters). He found all of that unappealing, and girls both tedious and trite.

He was beginning to get nervous. He was well away from his home now, and outside of any part of the forest he had ever been. He was staying clear of the well trafficked areas, so he was deep in the dense woodland where no one ever went. It was reputed to be haunted by ghosts and Indians, but Walter didn’t believe in the former at all or in the latter in this area.

That night, Walter felt free for the first time in his life. He was scared of being caught, but he was entirely on his own — there was no one to help. It was a frightening realization. If he so much as badly stubbed a toe, it could be the end of him. That thought didn’t help him sleep one bit.

But sleep he somehow did, and he was so nervous and hungry he awoke early. He ate his last biscuit and set out. He drank from a stream and continued.

Soon he fell into a sort of rhythm. He remained alert, on edge with every step. He was acutely aware of everything around him.

The days stretched into weeks. He passed settlements on several occasions, but he was lucky in avoiding any real interactions. He was three weeks out before he passed anyone who saw him, and that was just one old slave who nodded at him with a knowing stare. Walter nodded back, but he didn’t slow down.

And then early one morning, Walter awoke to the realization that there was someone in his camp. A large shape loomed overhead.

His heart jumped up in his throat. Walter gasped. He assumed a fighting stance, only to find that the man sat peaceably on a log. He was carving a piece of wood into some sort of idol. He had long black hair, straight and strong, with high cheekbones and a noble, dark face.

“Hello,” he said. “You should not sleep so deep, Negro.” His voice had the distinctively halting lilt of the red man, and Walter breathed a sigh of relief. He could be fairly certain that an Indian man would not be a slavecatcher.

“Oh, oh, yes, I… uh, yeah. Right. Sure,” Walter said. He winced at his own weakness. This was exactly why the men of his plantation had turned on him — he was a weakling, a woman at heart. Any of the other male slaves would have punched the Indian to force him to submit as soon as they saw him in the campsite. Walter only blushed and kicked the dirt around..

“My name is Natapoke,” he said. “You will come with me. My people will give food and water. You will stay with me tonight.”

“Oh, I should really keep going. I don’t want to stay-“

“I say it in hospitable manner, but it is not request. It is not option,” he said. He narrowed his eyes to slits and growled at Walter. “This is Catawba land, Negro.”

“Okay, okay,” Walter said. “I’ll come. I’ll… take it as hospitality instead of kidnapping.”

Then a long awkward silence passed between them. The sun was just coming up, so Walter could barely make out Natapoke’s face, but he couldn’t see any emotions pass over him. Natapoke might as well have been a statue, sculpted to stare straight at him.

“Well?” Walter asked when the silence grew too great. “What are we-?”

“I will tell you when it is time to leave. We should not get there too early. The chief will not be awake if we go there now anyway,” Natapoke said.

“Oh. So we just wait here?”

“Yes.”

“In silence?”

“Preferably. If you must talk, talk,” Natapoke said.

“Well… I dunno about must,” Walter said. “I don’t want to just sit here and do nothing. That’s awkward.”

“Then do something, I do not care. Just do not leave this campfire,” he said.

Walter gulped nervously. “That limits my options. None of the things I used to do to pass the time can be done-“

Natapoke scowled like he would have greatly preferred sitting in awkward silence. “What are those things? What do Negros do to pass the time?”

“Y’know, whatever, play games or something.”

“Games? Children play games.”

“Adults do too. I know Indians do. Y’all got a ball game-“

“That is sports. It is different. We are not doing the sports here and now.”

“Well, yeah, I know we can’t do it… Nevermind, you’re a real pain in the ass, Natapoke, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we should just sit here in silence. Ain’t nothin’ we could do together that I used to do with the other Negros.”

After a long pause, Natapoke looked directly at Walter. “What was it you used to do? What can you do with Negros but not an Indian?”

“Fornication,” Walter said. He hoped to shock Natapoke, maybe get him so confused or dismayed that Walter could get the jump on him. But Natapoke looked as though he had been expecting that answer.

“Fornication? You want to do sex?”

“Well…”

“We will do,” Natapoke said. “Get on side.” He laid on his side, ready to open his mouth and take Walter in, while putting his own groin near Walter’s head. He almost looked like he had been waiting for precisely this opportunity. Was Natapoke, like Walter, a man’s man? He seemed so tough and masculine that that was unlikely, but Walter didn’t know about Indians or what they believed about manhood.

Interracial coupling was so tightly forbidden that Walter hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Natapoke would be willing. Such things simply didn’t happen on the plantation. But that was different, he thought, because the only other race around were the white folks. He didn’t know that black and Indian sex was just as forbidden — he had a feeling it was also not allowed, but in this lonely moment in the early morning, he wanted nothing more than to do it. He wanted to feel safe and secure and loved, just like he had when he and his fellow slaves used to pass the lonely hours at night in each other’s arms.

He opened his mouth as he undid Natapoke’s leather britches. He had a long, uncut cock and straight pubic hair, which was strange to Walter — he had never seen anyone with straight pubic hair. He hadn’t even known that was possible.

When that throbbing cockshaft pushed into his mouth, Walter moaned, excited about the sex — his nervousness vanished, and he could have almost forgotten he wasn’t with one of his fellow Negroes. He instantly felt like he had known Natapoke for many years.

Then Walter moaned as his own cock disappeared down Natapoke’s throat. Natapoke must have been experienced at this, Walter thought, because he sucked expertly, his tongue slathering spit up and down Walter’s throbbing shaft.

“Oh god, man…” Walter said around the dickmeat in his throat. He gurgled merrily around it, savoring the salty flavor of Natapoke’s body. He had long had to pretend with his fellow slaves that he didn’t really want to do things like this, but with Natapoke, there was no pretension. It was obvious that Natapoke wanted to do it, and he didn’t care that Walter wanted to do it too.

Walter felt his orgasm approach a few minutes before it arrived. A part of him wanted to delay it as long as possible, but he wasn’t willing to disentangle himself from Natapoke’s ropy-muscled limbs, so he could do little but flail as cum sprayed into his new friend’s mouth.

At the same time, Natapoke’s balls crawled up in his sac, and he sprayed his own cumload. It was spicy and salty, creamy and thick, with a dewy taste, Walter thought — he tasted like the forest he guarded for his tribe. He moaned around the cum that coated his throat.

Then at last Natapoke pulled away. He grunted, heaving for breath, and his dark eyes flashed with passion as though he had never thought it would feel that good. He cleared his throat.

“That is nice. Negroes do that good.”

“Injuns got some skills too,” Walter said. He sat up, then without giving it a second thought, leaned in and kissed Natapoke. It was only when their lips touched that Walter realized he might be crossing a line — there were plenty of slaves who did sex willingly but would have punched him into the ground if he tried to kiss.

Happily, it seemed Natapoke was not like that. He kissed Walter back, and they lay there in each other’s arms until the sun was fully overhead. It was relaxing enough that Walter could forget that he was an escaped slave, that his life might be forfeit if he was caught, and that Natapoke was holding him prisoner; he forgot all that, and remembered only how perfect the world felt next to Natapoke’s smooth body.

The Quarterback Sees a Masseur

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Quarterback Sees a Masseur, about a college jock getting a “happy ending” from a masseuse who turns out to be a taciturn indigenous masseur instead! It’s part of The Native American Masseur series!

 

Nathan excitedly walked into the spa, laughing with his buddies to hide how nervous he was. He felt out-of-place because of his clothes — he had only packed workout clothes, his jersey and the suit Coach made them wear on the bus from Nome. So he wore the suit, minus the jacket and tie, just a button-down shirt and slacks. It wasn’t what anyone else wore to the only spa in Anchorage.

The game was tomorrow. The state football championship match promised to be a close one, and it was all anyone on the local radio talked about. Nathan was nervous about it. As the quarterback on his college team, Nathan was held responsible for the entire team’s performance. It wasn’t fair — he wasn’t even the team’s official captain, that was Roger.

Nathan and the other players all stopped short when they walked into the spa. Nathan was nervous. Why be nervous? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt tremendously out-of-place. This was a sumptuously decorated spa for new age types; there were crystal skulls, something labeled an “aromatherapy alcove” and pretty women in kimonos walking around.

This was not like any part of Anchorage Nathan had ever seen. He grew up in Texas, and had gotten a scholarship to the University of Northern Alaska. Everyone in his hometown thought it was a joke; it was precisely the kind of joke Nathan might have made. But it wasn’t a joke. Nathan was good, just not good enough to get a scholarship to a major school.

But he still loved the sport of football, and he was proud of himself for taking the team to the state championships. Now they had spent a whole day on a rickety bus coming to Anchorage, and everyone was sore, exhausted and too drained to even think about getting pumped up for tomorrow.

So that was why Coach Alupi sent them to the spa to get a massage, to get them in tiptop shape for the game. He even paid for it out of his own pocket.

“Hello, boys, you must be the UNA Bears?” asked one of the Japanese women.

“Yes, ma’am,” Nathan said. He blushed a little at his Texan accent, which had never really seemed all that thick until he moved to Fairbanks, Alaska, where he sounded like a movie caricature of a hillbilly, at least in his own mind.

All of the women who worked here were young, pretty Japanese women. Nathan wondered if Roger had been right — Roger was a linebacker, team captain and the one who had been joking for the entire ride to the spa about how he was going to fuck his masseuse. “Coach wouldn’t have sent us here for a massage. Coach Walton gives massages. I bet this place gives happy endings. If the masseuses are Asian, that’s it, that’s proof. They’ll give you a handjob for free after the massage. They don’t even think of it as sex in Asia, it’s just massaging your dick. Coach Alupi probly-“

“Shut up, Roger, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Coach Walton couldn’t give us each a massage. It would take like all night and all day tomorrow,” Nathan had said. Coach Walton was one of the assistant coaches, and it was he who usually massaged any player who needed it before a game.

But Roger insisted, and the rest of the team had remained noncommittal. At the time, Nathan thought Roger was just talking trash; he always claimed to have girls begging for his cock, but Nathan knew it was all nonsense.

Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. These Japanese women were beautiful. There weren’t even hardly any Asians in Alaska, he thought, these must be a large portion of the city’s Asian population. He nervously smiled at them.

“Your coach called us boys, he said you each need a full massage from a licensed masseuse,” she said. Her accent was mild, but noticeable. She pursed her lips and smiled. “That means you’ll have to take turns, we only have a dozen licensed masseuses. Could I interest any of you in a chemical peel while you wait? It helps your skin-“

You could interest me in somethin’, but not that…

How will this massage be ending, miss? Happily?

The team laughed. No one really listened to the woman, who blushed and scurried away after finishing her upselling spiel. Nathan felt bad about his teammates’ rudeness, but there was little he could do — since he was new, and he wasn’t Alaskan, the team by and large didn’t care what he thought about anything.

I’m so horny I might blow my load even if she don’t give a happy ending.

Then the masseuses started. They came one by one from a doorway leading to the spa area in the back, and they each took a player by the hand. First it was Roger, the team captain, a burly roughneck’s son with colorful tattoos covering his broad shoulders. He smiled a dimpled grin at the Japanese woman who led him away, then made a masturbation gesture with one hand, making the rest of the team laugh along with him. The Japanese woman blushed as though not sure if the team laughed at her or not, and disappeared with him in the next room.

The next masseuse was another beautiful Japanese woman, this one a little older, but with delicate features and a soft touch. She caressed Tulimaq’s arm, smiling at his nervous shudder, as she led him away. Then came a trio of masseuses, who each led a player away.

That meant Nathan would be next, since they were simply grabbing the player nearest the door, and Nathan was now closest. He now had a sinking suspicion that Roger had been right — this looked rather brothel-y, now that he thought about it, and these women had a flirtatious look as they came into the room to gather up their player.

Then the door opened. The person who came out was a man, a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, straight black hair. He had the gruff, angular face of an Indian, and he was short but squat, strong, looking like an oil rig worker who had gotten lost.

A few people tittered, and Nathan felt the entire team watch him. Someone mumbled something low about Nathan turning gay, and Nathan blushed.

For a moment, Nathan’s heart sank. Did he have such terrible luck that he got the one masseuse here who was not a sexy young Japanese woman? No, he decided, this man must be a customer on his way out.

But then the Indian man stopped in front of Nathan and raised his eyebrows. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Patuk, I’m going to be your masseur today.”

Nathan’s heart thumped. The team oohed as though he was getting in trouble. Nathan stood and blushed. Would it be weird to decline? Would it come across as racist? Would it look like he was a pervert who had just come here to ogle the pert young Japanese flesh? Was this a prank the rest of the team had put together?

But Patuk had such an authoritarian vibe that when he turned to leave, Nathan instinctually followed. Patuk’s broad shoulder muscles rippled beneath his plain white t-shirt.

Beyond the door — the hoots and laughter of his team fading into the background — Nathan followed Patuk down a long hallway. He saw his teammates getting massages in small rooms as they passed. This place no longer looked brothely, he thought. There were posters outlining the major muscle groups. Another poster advertised free mammograms. There was a portly white man giving a massage in one room.

Nathan was both gladdened and disappointed to learn there would be no “happy ending”. He would have been nervous if he thought it was genuinely going to happen, but he was still disappointed that it wasn’t; of course, he was overjoyed this rough Indian masseur wouldn’t be doing it.

They stopped at a massage room, and Nathan walked in. It was warm and smelled of incense. This was definitely Patuk’s assigned room, Nathan decided, as it was clearly Indian — there was Inuit symbolism all over the place, a distinctive quilt folded up on a chair on one corner, a crudely carved statue of a polar bear, and a beautiful painting of a stone inuksuk towering over a coastal scene.

“Take off your clothes and lay on your belly on the table,” Patuk said. His voice lacked all the grace and delicacy of the Japanese woman out front. He wasn’t even looking at Nathan; he just shut the door (which Nathan wished he hadn’t done, none of the other rooms were shut) and lit a pile of braided branches. Then he put out the flame so the embers continued to fume, filling the room with the scent of sweetgrass.

Now Nathan was getting very nervous. Coach wanted them to do this to be relaxed before the game, but it was having the opposite effect. The stiffness in his neck now seemed like a very minor problem.

“Take off your clothes,” barked Patuk, who glared at Nathan. Then he added, “Sir.”

Nathan had always been an obedient boy. That was just how he was raised back in Texas, and as an athlete, he was used to being naked in front of strangers in the locker room. So he quickly took off the button-down shirt and pants, then got on the table. He still wore his underwear, hoping that Patuk didn’t expect him to be fully naked.