Colonel’s Treasure
Rob turned his head toward the open flap of the tent. He could see the tawny fringe of the Shewan subchief’s buckskin jerkin at the fringe of the lamplight escaping the tent’s doorway. And the two eagle’s feathers sticking out to the side of the back of the native’s head, up at the very top of the tent doorway. The savage must be at least six and a half feet tall, Rob thought. And he knows. How could he not know. The colonel was grunting that unmistakable sound of full rut.
Rob twitched and arched his back and stared straight up at the play of the shadows on the ceiling of the tent as the colonel nipped his belly button and stuck his tongue in it and then slurped out of the indention and ran a thick tongue down Rob’s underbelly and into a fiery red thicket before tracing back up his engorged cock to the edge. Rob twitched again as his cock was possessed by the colonel’s sucking lips. He sighed and rubbed his back on the bearskin rug thrown out over the rushes that served as the colonel’s mattress. There was a faint rustling at the opening flap of the tent, and Rob knew that the savage was just beyond the opening, listening and silently observing. The colonel thought no more of an Indian, even a Shewan subchief, than he did of the stray dogs of the camp, though, so it bothered him not a twit if the Indian could see them.
The shadows on the ceiling showed the hulky colonel hunched over his diminutive, lithe aide. Rob was kneeling on his knees on the colonel’s beefy thighs, with his back arched behind him, his shoulder blades touching the silky fur of the robe. The colonel encased his young aide with an arm wrapped around the small of the younger man’s back. His other hand was cupping Rob’s small, but firm ball sacs and the small finger of that hand already had purchase just inside the rim of Rob’s ass. The golden crest ring on that finger was rubbing roughly on Rob’s rim, a familiar feel for Rob after four months of service under the second in command of Brigadier General Nicholas Herkimer, commander of American forces in the Mohawk Valley.
Colonel Seth Hampton worked his young aide’s cock hard with his mouth. He’d already been sucked into arousal himself. His evening invigoration had been interrupted by the announcement that one of his spies in the English forces, the subchieftain Otetiani of the Shewan minor tribe of the Iroquois nation, had arrived and awaited his pleasure. Hampton had irritably commanded that the savage stand outside the tent until it was his pleasure to receive him—his pleasure obviously was focused elsewhere at the moment.
Hampton having had enough of his young man’s cock, the young aide watched the shadows on the ceiling swirl into a new pattern, as the colonel wrapped large, callused hands around Rob’s ankles and forced his legs up the length of his body. In the process, Rob was rolled up onto his shoulder blades. The colonel held Rob’s legs to his body with hands pressing in under the crook of his knees, as the older man savaged the younger man’s entrance with tongue and teeth and a heavy helping of saliva.
Then the colonel was up on his knees, crouching over the young man and thrusting inside him. Rob arched his back and spread his arms wide, digging his fists into the soft, grass-covered ground of the New York valley and took what the colonel was giving him, like a good soldier. And the colonel, mad and worried about the positioning of his forces and the rumors of the gathering British attack in superior force, put all of his frustration and fury into plowing his flaming-red headed subordinate hard and fast and deep.
The colonel was grunting and groaning and voicing his pleasure in tones that could be heard all over camp, without the possibility of misinterpretation. All of the soldiers knew their colonel fucked men. But he was a damn good soldier and a brilliant strategen, and if anyone was going to conceive how to push the British out of the Mohawk Valley and back to London, it was probably going to be him. So there were few to deny him his release.
Rob had been sent from the brothels of that pagan city of Savannah, precisely to be the tension reliever to the colonel that he needed. The young man had been trained to this, so there were no regrets or concern to be expended in that direction.
Rob held off on his vocalizing at first, because he knew the savage was out there, just beyond the open flap. He’d only caught a glimpse of the man, but he had frightened Rob. He was so tall and large, a man and a half. Rob had never been comfortable around the savages. He felt something primeval in them. They frightened and fascinated and aroused him all at the same time. He had known—biblically—all of the types of colonists who had washed up on the American shores. They no longer meant anything to him. No, that wasn’t true. He had come to really like the colonel, to want to give him any relief possible for the responsibilities he had to bear.
It was strange to think that at the moment, when the colonel was driving his cock so hard inside Rob, making his legs ache and his back rub raw as it was jerked back and forth on the bearskin under the thrusting of the colonel’s manhood. But the colonel was usually gentle with him. It was only now when the colonel was so worried about how badly the campaign and positioning was going and so worked up and frustrated that he was taking Rob like a frenzied bull cow.
Rob had to do what he could to help the colonel. He knew the colonel liked it when he groaned and moaned and said the colonel was spitting him and was too big for him. So that’s what he did, ignoring the unsettling presence of the Shewan warrior. And it worked. In a cry of ecstasy, the colonel shot off inside him in one, two, three lurchings and then, without extracting his cock, pulled Rob’s legs down alongside his and began to kiss him on the nipples, neck, and lips. Rob wrapped his arms around the thin waist of the well-fit military officer and returned the kisses enthusiastically.
He had done his duty. Now it was time to ask for his favor.
“No, Rob, we’ve discussed this. I can’t let you stay.” The colonel had pulled back on his rump and brought the younger, smaller man with him. Hampton now was sitting on the bearskin rug, his legs stretched out in front of him. His aide was in his lap, sitting on the colonel’s half tumescent cock, his legs encircling his master’s thin waist, the two chests against each other, beating hearts competing, throbbing in the temporary quietude. Hampton had his lips buried in the aide’s throbbing neck, and Rob was staring across the light of the candle, watching the hint of the savage’s persistent presence. Rob knew there would be another fucking. The colonel almost always wanted another one, and the second one would not have the fire of the first. The second one was the one that told Rob the colonel really cared for him. And this was the colonel’s most vulnerable time.
“But, I don’t want to leave you. I—”
“And I don’t want you to go. But you’re no solider, Rob. We will, almost inevitably, be in the thick of fighting within the week. Burgoyne is gathering forces up on Lake Champlain, more than 10,000 English, Canadians, and Indian forces, including the Iroquois and the Huron. They’ll be streaming down here, joined by Howe’s forces from the Coast. They are more than we can handle. It will be a bloodbath if I cannot come up with a miracle. No, you cannot stay. You are no soldier. This is all you are good for me. This release of my tension in the field.”
Rob lowered his head onto the colonel’s shoulder, and Hampton could feel the wetness of his tears.
“Nay, lad, I didn’t mean it harsh like that. You are a treasure. You are my treasure. There is no way you can help me other than to leave for Albany tonight and not come back until it is safer.”
“I know I can do more. I know—” Rob snuffled.
“This is enough, love, this is enough.” And with that, the colonel moved his encasing, heavily muscled arms down to the small of Rob’s back, and Rob leaned back, as Hampton’s lips and teeth went to the younger man’s nipples. Rob sighed for him and felt the strong cock of his master coming back to life. Rob began to move his hips, and the colonel started to breath heavily. Hampton turned Rob onto his side and came down with him, leaving his cock encased. They kissed and Hampton continued worrying the younger man’s nipples with his fingers while he side split him in long, languid glides to mutual ejaculation.
Afterward the colonel rose, wrapped himself in a fur-lined deer-skinned robe, and sat down at his field desk, looking very official. He called the patiently waiting Shewan subchieftain, Otetiani, in. The chieftain entered the tent, all dignity and towering strength and handsome savage splendor, and stood in front of the colonel. Despite the unusual heat in the Mohawk valley in July of 1777, the Indian chieftain was wearing the same attire his tribe wore year round—side-fringed buckskin breeches with a bearskin codpiece, and a buckskin jerkin with fringed arms. His moccasins were of some sort of finely cleaned leather and he had two feathers attached to the base of whatever was holding his long black ponytail at the back of his head—two feathers to denote his somewhat exalted rank. He turned his head briefly to Rob, lying, still naked on his back on the bearskin rug, and Rob saw the Indian’s eyes go wide with surprise. Rob couldn’t imagine why the savage would be surprised. He had heard them fuck twice and had no doubt gotten an eyeful already.
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Otetiani inexplicably bowed low to the young aide and said something in his own language that Rob couldn’t even begin to fathom. And then he turned his full attention to the colonel.
“Is it true?” asked the colonel. “What I sent you to find out, is it true?”
“True,” the Indian said, in quite good English. “Iroquois have called all of its nation—all minor tribes—to join with the Huron and serve the English in the coming fight.”
“The Iroquois and the English? I’d never thought it would come to that. Damn. Isn’t there anything you can do to split them? Your people hate the Huron.”
“True. The Iroquois hate the Huron, and none more than my own Shewan. But the English are strong. And the Huron are strong. The Iroquois are not strong enough to resist. And the Shewan feel weak too.”
“The Shewan feel weak? You are the most ferocious warriors of the Iroquois nation. How can you feel weak?”
“The signs have not been good. The Shewan wait for a sign. We need strength; the Shewan warriors need to feel the strength.”
“Well, try to think of something.” the colonel said. “Do whatever you can do to drive a wedge between the Indian forces. We have to try to do something to weaken St. John’s forces up at Fort Oswego.”
“I will try. There may be something.” Otetiani sounded somewhat reassuring. Hampton knew that Otetiani was smart as a whip as well as being the bravest and studliest of the Shewan tribe. The colonel had often thought he’d like to get his cock inside him, but he knew Otetiani was too strong for him. Two determined tops did not make a promising match.
He was finished with the Indian. He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He didn’t bother to look up, so he missed the contemplative look the Indian subchief was giving Rob.
After Otetiani left, the colonel dismissed Rob as well. He didn’t want to reveal how hard it was for him to let his young lover go, so he just gruffly told him to pull his breeches and jerkin on and to be on his way to Albany before the break of day.
When Rob left the colonel’s tent and started moving toward his own, he heard the slight rustle of the bushes at the edge of the encampment clearing. He hoped it wasn’t the sergeant sniffing around to claim his seconds. The sergeant was thicker and crueler than the colonel was.
But it wasn’t the sergeant. Otetiani, the savage subchieftain, was beckoning him the edge of the light from the encampment’s fires.
“You want to help your colonel?” Otetiani said to him in a hoarse whisper. “I heard you say that.”
“Yes, but I don’t know what I can do. If I only could get to Fort Oswego and see the English colonel, St. John, there may be some way I can help. I have heard that men please him. Surely there’s something I can do there to find information that will help our forces. The colonel’s right, I’m no fighting soldier. But I have my own means of fighting.”
“I could take you to St. John,” Otetiani said. “I could deliver you to him as a prisoner; say you are Colonel Hampton’s aide. You would have value to St. John then, wouldn’t you?”
“You would do that?” Rob asked, suddenly excited about the possibilities.
“Yes. But I have orders too. You could help me with my orders. If you really, truly want to help your colonel and are truly brave. But it would not be easy, what I have to propose. Most men could not endure it.”
In short order Otetiani had told Rob what he could do and Rob had agreed. It wasn’t anything less than he knew what to do.
While they talked, Otetiani was fingering Rob’s flaming-red hair gingerly, and when Rob agreed to the plan, Otetiani spoke.
“To do what I need to do, I need much power. I need to gather strength and power. Before I take you there, you need to give me that power.”
“Yes,” Rob said, although he felt his heart stop and his breath escape him. He was trembling. He’d already agreed, though, so both now and then, it didn’t make any difference.
Otetiani took Rob by the arm and led him into the fringe of bushes at the edge of the encampment, past the horses staked out on a rope. The horses whinnied slightly and shifted nervously away from them as they passed. The Indian was an imposing, troubling figure. A man and a half.
Otetiani stopped in front of a smooth-barked tree of middling girth with two sturdy branches at equal heights jutting out at the side a foot above the level of Rob’s head. He maneuvered Rob to where his back was against the tree. The towering Indian faced the young man with the flaming-red hair closely and pushed him gently down on his haunches with one hand while releasing his own codpiece with his other hand and letting it drop.
He was already half ready, at the very thought of what he was going to do.
The thick cock was larger than Rob had ever managed before, but he worked expertly on it with his lips and mouth as he had been trained to do at the Savannah brothel. It was mere minutes before Otetiani pulled Rob up and turned him toward the tree. Rob grabbed up for handholds on the jutting branches, while Otetiani spit on his hands and added that to the spit Rob had already lathered the huge tool with. The Indian savage lifted Rob by his hips with his hands, spreading the young man’s butt cheeks with his strong thumbs, set Rob’s hole on the bulbous head of his cock and started working his way in.
Fearing raising an alarm in the camp, Rob stifled the scream he wanted to let loose as well as his gulps and gasps and groans as he slowly stretched inside to accommodate the digging tool. The Indian was so tall that Rob’s feet were off the ground and the only leverage he had was the handholds on the tree branches.
When Otetiani had bottomed inside Rob’s ass canal, he moved one hand to palm the young man’s belly and the other one to cap the flaming-red hair of his head and began chanting in his native tongue. He was using the strong palm of his hand on Rob’s belly to move the young man’s channel up and down on his sk$$$$$ng member, and Rob was pulling up and releasing on the branches to try to match the rhythm.
Rob came first in a shooting against the tree trunk. Otetiani stopped his fucking and chanting long enough to bend his knees and set Rob’s feet on the ground. He used the fingers of the hand he had been palming Rob’s belly with to capture globs of Rob’s cum, which he dabbed on his own cheeks in streaks going from ear to upper lip.
Then he palmed Rob’s belly again and picked him up and resumed stroking the young man’s ass up and down on his cock until he spasmed four, five times, shooting great spurts of man juice up into Rob’s intestines.
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The chanting stopped and the hand came off the head. But the hand remained on the belly, and Rob remained trapped against the tree trunk, while the Indian pulled a hunting knife from a sheath at his side.
Rob felt a brief stab of fear that the savage had tricked him; that he didn’t intend to help the colonel’s cause at all and only wanted to fuck Rob before collecting his scalp. But Otetiani just used the knife to cut a lock of Rob’s flaming-red hair and tuck it into the band holding his ponytail in place.
“Is good. Is true. You gift from gods. I can feel the new power. We go now.” After declaring that, Otetiani just let Rob slump to the ground and readjusted his codpiece and turned to stride back to the encampment to prepare to leave.
It was several minutes before Rob was able to rise and hobble after him. He’d never been fucked like that before.
* * *
The sun was going down as the ceremony in the Shewan longhouse deep in the Mohawk Valley began. It was announced with the beating of drums that required all woman and children of the tribe to leave the village clearing in the flattened hillock accessible by a secret cliffside trail and gather at the life-giving stream below to sing praises to the gods until they heard the end to the drum beats.
All was as prescribed by the chieftain, Nadie, as given on his deathbed following the previous spring’s battle with the Huron. He had counseled that the Shewan were to retreat to a minor role in Iroquois affairs, subordinating themselves to the other tribes when they normally would take a lead in matters of warfare, until they had regained their strength and power, and, most important, the blessings of the gods that they had forfeited by losing to the Huron.
As he had neared death, Nadie told his warriors to look for a sign from the gods—a being with fire coming out of his head who possessed power and would transfer power to warriors who were worthy through ritual congress. In his dying breaths, he had related in detail the requirements of the ceremony.
When assurances were given that all of the woman and children had departed the village circle, the torches were lit in the longhouse of the chieftain.
The flaming-haired Rob Winston was led, a willing participant, into one end of the longhouse. He was nude except for a tight, strong leather belt around his belly of the brightest crimson that had dyed-red feathers and strong rings of gold attached to the belt at the side of his waist, fine red-dyed moccasins, and thick, red-dyed leather bands at his wrists, also with rings of gold attached to them.
He stumbled into the tent and would have fallen if he had not been supported by two young, strong, muscular braves who were helping him to walk. These braves were costumed in the identical minimal dress Winston had, except that they both also had long, sharp hunting knives in sheaths tied to their thighs by leather straps.
Winston had spent much of the afternoon drinking ceremonial cups of a potion that largely consisted of alcohol and herbs from the forest collected for their propensity to numb and block pain. The day before he had been plied with purgatives that emptied and purified his internal systems and had his channel packed with concoctions of the numbing potions that had been withdrawn mere hours before the ceremony.
Winston and his escorts approached the center of the longhouse, where an altar had been placed and covered with a blanket made of laced-together red fox pelts.
All of the adult men of the tribe were gathered in a circle around the altar, At the outer edge of the circle were the elders and the older unselected warriors, dressed in their usual leather breeches and jerkins. The only difference in their dress on this special ceremonial day from any other day was their long, black hair. Whereas a Shewan tribesman’s hair customarily was tied back in a ponytail, with a feather in the band, now every man’s hair was hanging loose below his shoulders. The torches lighting the ceremony were lodged in the ground behind this outer circle of men, which included much the greater number of the men of the tribe. At the four geographic points of this circle sat a set of two drummers each, maintaining a steady, slow beat to mark the duration of the ceremony.
Inside the greater circle of older tribesmen were twelve of the youngest, most fit brave candidates of the tribe, young men who had achieved their manhood only since the defeat at the hands of the Huron in the spring, newly minted men eligible to be fully blooded warriors but not yet initiated.
And standing next to each of ten of these young warriors was an older, fully blooded, peak-condition warrior. When Winston’s two escorts had led him to the altar and lifted him on top, they went to take their places next to the remaining two novitiates.
The twelve most worthy warriors, identically attired to Winston save for the sheathed knives, were the twelve selected to carry out Otetiani’s plan to aid Colonel Hampton—and not only to aid the plans of Colonel Hampton as promised but also to return the Shewan to the full favor of the gods of war.
Standing at the base of the altar, facing it, standing taller than any other, legs spread wide, looking stern and magnificent, was the subchieftain Otetiani, the tribe’s war leader. Attired like the twelve of the chosen, he stood with arms crossed and leather hand whips, with multiple leads, dyed crimson red, held tightly in each fist.
At a signal from Otetiani, the two warriors who had escorted Winston into the longhouse vaulted gracefully onto the altar. They raised Rob to a standing position and moved him to the center of the altar. On either side of the altar here, strong tree-trunk poles rose from the ground up to the top of the barrel-roofed longhouse, serving as part of the frame of the structure. Each of these poles had a chain wrapped around it at the height of Winston’s shoulders. The warrior on each side of Winston attached the end of the chain on each side to the ring in the leather band at his wrist and pulled it taut, so that Rob’s arms were stretched out fully to his sides. There were chains lower on the poles that they similarly attached to the rings at the side of his leather belt. Winston now was held in a standing position at the center of the altar with little give of movement in either direction. The two escort warriors hopped back off the altar and took up their station beside their designated novitiate.
At a signal from Otetiani, the drums changed their beat; the warriors began a chant, one that had been prescribed for this phase of the ceremony by the dying chieftain, Nadie; and clouds of incense rose from the fires set under open vents in the sections at either end of the longhouse.
Otetiani opened his arms wide.
Swish. The leather strips of the hand whips lashed out in succession. Winston raised his head in drunken, nearly numb recognition of the start of the purifying scourging. Swish. Swish. Otetiani circled the altar, scourging Rob’s flesh, arms, legs, back, belly, chest, buttocks, from each side in light strokes that didn’t cut deeply but that cut deeply enough to raise welts and rivulets of blood.
Winston remained stoic throughout. The ceremony had been explained in detail to him. This was all necessary to Otetiani’s plan. Winston couldn’t be a soldier for the colonel, but there were things he could do, perhaps things that had a greater impact than a single foot soldier could contribute. Rob was determined to do what he could. And he had been prepared well for the ordeal. He would be in great pain later, when the alcohol and drugs wore off than he would be during the ceremony.
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The ceremony of the purifying blooding was complete. Upon another signal from Otetiani, the ceremony of the congress, the actual transferring of the power from the gods through the vessel with the flaming head, began.
The two escorts vaulted back up on the altar, released the chains at Winston’s side and loosened the chains at his wrists. He was still tied to the altar poles but each chain now had considerable give to it.
One of the warriors jumped down from the altar. The other one remained. The first to receive the power. The twelve chosen warriors, in succession, and, by prescription in different positions, and on the rhythm of the beating of the drums, consummated a congress with the flaming-haired gift of the gods. The first simply went down on his knees behind Winston’s crumpled, scoured figure and pulled the young man into his lap and onto his hard cock and fucked him until the warrior’s seed had been planted and the power of the war gods had been transmitted back into his body from the channel of the gift. The fucking had somewhat revived Winston, and the second warrior lay flat on his back and made Winston hover over him, feet and hands flat on the altar cloth and slide up and down on the warrior’s pole. The third made Winston stand, folded over at the waist, the warrior supporting him with arms locked around his belly, and plowing him from the rear. The next warrior pushed Winston up on his knees and took him like a dog. With Winston collapsed on his belly from this taking, the next merely straddled his hips as he lay there and rode him like a horse, stroking hard between the young man’s tightly closed butt cheeks.
The sixth turned him on his back and mimicked the White missionaries. Then he was pulled back up onto his feet and made to stand facing a warrior with a long, curved cock, who raised one of Winston’s legs up the line of his torso and thrust up into him in a standing position. He was taken one of the poles with his legs wrapped around a warrior’s waist, and the most solid, shortest of the warriors made Winston wrap his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck and he walked up and down the center line of the altar carrying Winston like a young child and thrusting up into him from below. He was side split from both sides and the most acrobatic of the warriors made Winston stand on his hands and held his thighs as he fucked down into his hole, the blood rushing to Winston’s head and momentarily making him faint.
With each congress, the powers was passed through Winston to the chosen warrior, and each warrior was smeared in the blood of the gift that had been raised by scourging. At the end of each congress, Winston sank to the ground in gathering exhaustion while the blessed and empowered warrior unsheathed his sharp knife and took two locks of hair from the flaming head. Three of the warriors were especially blessed and, by being so were designated by the gods to be the subleaders of the raid they had been chosen to undertake. This designation came with the three ejaculations of Winston during the ceremony. The warrior rewarded with this sign of the gods’ approval while they were in congress with the flaming-haired gift captured what ejaculate they could and smeared it on their cheeks as a special sign of favor.
After each warrior had received the power, he jumped off the altar and went and stood beside his designated novitiate.
When the twelfth had completed his part of the ceremony, Otetiani himself leapt up on the altar. At a signal to Winston’s two original escorts, the chains at Winston’s arms were pulled taut around the tree-trunk pillar once more, bringing Winston to a staggering standing position.
The drums beat louder as Otetiani bowed in front of Winston and then took the young man’s cock in his mouth and just continued giving it suck until Winston had his fourth ejaculation and Otetiani had received the full force of the gods’ approving nectar. Then Otetiani stood and moved behind Winston and pulled the young man’s suspended body into him. He lifted Winston straight up with hands on his waist, crouched a bit to get under him and lowered Winston on his gigantic, throbbing tool for the transferring of the gods’ power. As he did that, the two escorts stepped up to the side of the altar. Each took one of Winston’s ankles in his hand and pulled Winston’s legs back, around Otetiani’s heavily muscled calves. Otetiani held Winston’s torso close to his with one palm on his belly and one on his breast and took Winston in long deep glides, the rapidity and depth of the thrusts increasing with the increase in the tempo of the drums.
After Otetiani has spouted forth once, he had the escorts release Winston’s ankles and then the chains on his wrists, and Otetiani gently let Winston down on the red fox pelting on his belly, without withdrawing his embedded cock. He covered Winston’s body closely and gently rocked on top of him until once more aroused and then he took one last extract of power in a gentle fucking through thighs tightly encased in his own.
While Otetiani was completing the ceremony and taking his lock of the flaming hair, the short, secret segment of the ceremony was performed. Only Otetiani and the twelve chosen warriors had been told of this, concluding part, the initiation of the novitiates. As Otetiani was lowering Winston to the ground for his second taking, he signaled to the twelve, each of whom turned to the designated novitiate beside them, knocked him to ground and overpowered him.
Each blooded warrior then passed on part of the power of the war gods he had acquired by taking the novitiate’s virginity by force, but, more important, lifting him up to full warrior status, and, in the end rewarding him with one of the flaming locks of hair they had taken from the gift of the gods. A privilege of this magnitude came only once in several generations. But for many drum beats, the confused, surprised, and initially angry strugglings of the prideful young men, heretofore not told that no warrior in the tribe reached full status with his virginity intact, reached a decibel level that surely could be heard down at the stream, as hard tools relentlessly dug out the last vestige of their innocence. What they were yet to find out was that they would be mastered again and again for the next three nights as part of the chosen warriors strength preparation for their mission.
The drums suddenly stopped. Loud trilling could be heard from the banks of the stream below, and the ceremony was complete.
Winston spent the next three days in a separate longhouse, recovery from the ordeal he had agreed to undertake to serve his struggling revolutionary forces, while Otetiani and his twelve chosen, now anointed and empowered warriors, prepared to go on the warpath—and the twelve newly deflowered initiates recovered from their manning into the tribe.
* * *
“Here, I have a present for you.” The senior English Indian scout, Otetiani, lifted the bundle off of the back of the pack horse like it was a peddler’s sack and dropped it on the ground just inside the doorway into the log shed Colonel Reginald St. John was using as his temporary office and bedroom while the stockade and permanent buildings of Fort Oswego were under a quick reconstruction. General John Burgoyne, St. John’s superior officer and the strategist for the coming British Canada arm of the Central Campaign, had ordered the Oswego fort to be fortified better before it was left on minimum garrison.
All eyes had been on Otetiani as, unimpeded, he walked the horse by the Huron chief’s encampment just outside the stockade wall, through the central gates, and up to St. John’s quarters. The missing sections of stockade fencing here and there didn’t escape Otetiani’s attention, and he permitted himself a private smile at his good fortune. The ceremony had worked; the gods of war were with them.
St. John, stripped down to his breeches and having been in the process of shaving himself, toed the bundle on the floor hard. The bundle rewarded him with a grunt of pain.
“What do we have here, then?” St. John said, the tone of disdain clear in his voice. “And why do you bother me with this?”
“I thought you would want to be the first to interrogate the aide to the American colonel, Seth Hampton.”
St. John’s interest was piqued by that news, and he put his razor down on the wash basin on the stool and wiped the remaining lather off his face with the cotton towel that had been hanging around his neck.
“Let’s get him up, then.”
Otetiani crouched down and undid the canvas sacking around his prize, revealing a much-bedraggled Rob Winston, tied roughly with rope at wrists and ankles.
“Hang him up on the hook on the center pole,” St. John directed.
Otetiani did so. The hook was high enough to cause Winston to have to stretch his arms high up along the pole. He was facing the pole, his back to the two men. Otetiani untied the young man’s ankles in the same movement he used to push Winston against the pole, hoping, with success, that St. John either wouldn’t notice or didn’t see any reason to comment on it.
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“And you found him where? You just snatched him out from under Hampton’s nose?”
“I found him in the forest, outside the Americans’ camp. He said he was escaping, that he wanted to turn himself over to the English, that he had things he could tell your forces about the Americans’ troop strengths and locations.”
“And does he speak? Do you speak, young man?”
“Yes . . . Yes, I speak, M’Lord,” Rob answered, although he barely whispered.
“You say you were coming over to the British to help us? And why should I believe that?”
“He mistreated me, M’Lord. He treated me cruelly. I had to leave. I hate him; I hate them all.”
“And why is that I should believe that, my little friend?”
“Look at my back and my legs. All over, M’Lord. There’s proof enough.”
“Likely story,” St. John said with a sniff.
“That part seems true, My Lord,” Otetiani said. “I’ve seen the marks myself.”
“The marks?” St. John pulled up the back of Winston’s jerkin, to reveal the welts and cuts across his back.
That’s when St. John’s cock started to take interest. He’d heard that the American colonel, Hampton, liked his young men. He hadn’t heard he liked to treat them this way. St. John, on the other hand, very much liked to treat young men this way. His urges in this direction, in fact, were almost uncontrollable.
“That will be all, Otetiani. I think you can find the mess tent. And you can tell my clerk that you are to receive the usual amount.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Otetiani murmured, and he backed out of the hut and left the camp directly, visiting neither the mess tent nor the colonel’s clerk. He had preparations to make and plans to change. His plans could be simpler now, because of the construction under way on the fort and the missing sections of stockade fencing. As he left, he cursed the prick of an English colonel under his breath. Otetiani hadn’t anticipated that he would be thanked or rewarded for bringing him this treasure from the American camps. And he hadn’t been wrong.
Inside the hut, St. John’s hands were trembling. He could hardly keep his hands off this one. And there was no reason why he should have to. He could use him, interrogate him, and then dispose of him.
“You say Hampton did this to you all over?” St. John asked, coming up very close to Winston’s back.
“Yes. If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
He hadn’t really needed the invitation. St. John shucked Rob’s breeches down his legs to the ground and pulled the young man’s moccasined feet out of the breeches. It was true. There were welts and cut marks on the young man’s flanks and his buttocks and thighs and legs.
St. John couldn’t resist. This was this colonel’s weakness. He touched his fingers to the line of welting on the young man’s flanks. He was breathing heavily, and his cock had gone rock hard almost instantaneously.
“M’Lord?” It was almost a whimper.
“Shut up,” St. John commanded in a harsh, husky whisper. St. John ran one hand down a flank and the other up Winston’s back under his jerkin, following welt lines.
“M’Lord!” Rob said more sharply.
“I said shut up. You are in no position to object. I own you now. I can decide whether you live or die.” The breathing was very heavy. St. John was beyond control now. The welting was just too delicious. The young man’s body just too desirable. He took his hands away from Winston’s body but only so that he could unbutton his breeches with one hand and lean over and scoop soapy lather out of his shaving mug with the other.
“Not a word,” he hissed as he started to rub lather into the crack between the young man’s butt cheeks.
“Ohhh,” Rob murmured in low tones.
St. John moved the bulb of his hard cock into Winston’s crack, through the gobs of lather, and the young man went tense and moaned.
The colonel prepared to thrust past the young man’s defenses, but he gulped in air in surprise when, as his bulb breached Winston’s sphincter muscle, the young man’s channel tightened around it and drew his cock inside the warm, moist channel. Using every trick he’d learned in the Savannah brothel, Rob set his ass channel walls rippling over the colonel’s cock, pulling it deep inside him and making love to it with the muscles inside him.
“Ahhhh,” St. John murmured, his fingers not being able to resist continuing to track those lash marks on the young man’s body. “You are a catamite, aren’t you? You’re no casual lay. You were Hampton’s prostitute. You have experience.”
“I was his pleasure, yes, that’s right, M’Lord. But no catamite. I’m a full grown man. And I was his to release his tension, by arrangement with my master in Savannah, yes. But there was no agreement for him to treat me this foully, sir.”
St. John was moaning louder than Winston was. He’d never had his cock massaged like this inside a man before, and those lovely welts on his flanks and thighs and back and belly and chest. The colonel’s hands were moving everywhere, finding lovely ridges to follow everywhere.
“M’Lord, I’ve come to you of free will. I have information I can give you. And if it’s a proper fucking you want, you only need release me. You have a bed over there. I can please you as you’ve never been pleased before. You couldn’t be fucked better in London.”
Colonel St. John was lost.
St. John laid on his back on his bed, Winston straddling him above and reversed. Winston gave St. John’s cock a sucking like he’d never had before, while St. John dug at the cut lines on the proffered butt cheeks in rotating motion right before his eyes, smeared rivulets of blood across the luscious orbs, and rubbed fingers across loosening rim and into the channel of rippling muscles. After a tantalizing eternity of this, Winston turned and lowered his hole onto St. John’s erect phallus and started the drawing in, sphincter clutch, and massaging wall treatment all over again as he rotated his hips around and around, and St. John moaned and groaned and cried out in ejaculation.
The colonel held Winston prisoner in his quarters and mostly in his bed for the next three days and nights. The young man was chained to the bed, which, fortunately for him, was still within reach of the colonel’s camp desk, during the day. At various times during the day, St. John questioned the young man on the disposition and strengths of the American troops in the Mohawk Valley, and Winston told him what he thought St. John would believe and would be dismayed by if he tried to take advantage of. And at night, the colonel would bind Rob’s wrists and hang them high on the center pole and lash his back and buttocks with a riding crop until the colonel’s cock was rock hard and then either fuck the young man there or drag him back to the bed.
Rob was picking up some useful information during the colonel’s absences to check on the stockade construction, but he hit paradise on the third day when a messenger from General Sir William Howe, commander of the eastern army of the British Central Campaign forces, both arrived with a message to be sent on to General Burgoyne and left before the colonel even knew he’d been there.
Rob identified himself as St. John’s aide and said he’d give the message straight away to the colonel unopened. He’d managed all of this with his arm behind his back and not revealing that he was chained to the bedstead.
Continue next page …….
He opened the dispatch to discover that it announced a change of plans in the campaign. Philadelphia, the rebel’s capitol, lay defenseless before General Howe’s forces in New Jersey. Howe believed that was a larger prize than what they hoped to gain in New York with a pincher maneuver of his forces from the east and Burgoyne’s forces from the north. He was willing to continue with the set plan, as it had been blessed by London, but, unless Burgoyne sent a request to this effect back to him within a week, Howe would take and occupy Philadelphia instead.
Burgoyne could be waiting for half the army to join him, not knowing it would never come, Winston realized. He rejoiced in the thought. By keeping this message from reaching Burgoyne, he, Rob Winston, could be of more service to his beloved Colonel Hampton and the colonists’ cause than any soldier could.
The dispatch was quickly consigned to the fire in the hearth.
That night, after St. John had beat Rob with the riding crop, fucked him against the pole, and then dragged him back into the bed and fucked him again, like a dog, digging his fingernails into the newly opened cuts, all hell broke out in the fort.
They heard the most ungodly savage sounds from beyond the stockade walls to the west, and the sky lit up like it was day. The Huron camp was ablaze.
St. John struggled out of the bed and pulled on his breeches. He took up his long rifle propped up by the door and ran for the stockade gate.
As soon as he was gone, Otetiani climbed in the window at the back of the hut. Rob pointed to his chains in despair, but with a mighty heave, Otetiani pulled the bed frame asunder and Rob was free. Rob was naked, but Otetiani gave him no time to find his breeches and pull them on. They escaped through one of the open sections in the stockade fencing.
They reached the fringe of trees at the opposite side of the fort from the burning Huron encampment without any of the British soldiers seeing them. Eight of Otetiani’s handpicked braves he’d taken on the raid were waiting for them there. A loss of four, but several fewer than Otetiani had calculated would be killed in the raid. There were ten of them, including Rob, and only nine horses. Without a moment’s hesitation, Otetiani took Rob up on his horse with him and snuggled the young man into his lap. He barked orders to his braves and they all started to file quietly away from the area of the fort. When they’d forded a river, Otetiani barked again and his braves took off in a gallop in three different directions.
None of them were with Otetiani and Rob now, though. The two rode on through the night. Rob gradually became aware that Otetiani was getting hard. And the savage’s tool was free of his codpiece. That monster cock of his was rising up the small of Rob’s back and they were losing speed. The Indian warrior’s palm had been on Rob’s belly for many miles, helping to hold the young man steady on the horse, but now it was wrapped around Rob’s cock and the young man was being stroked off has they cantered across the meadows.
Winston was trembling and becoming fully aroused. The horse was still cantering along in a rolling motion, but Otetiani raised Rob’s hips and when he brought them back down, Rob’s ass channel was sinking onto that huge, thick cock. The cock was moving inside Rob’s channel to the rhythm of the horse’s gait. It was all too much for the young red head. He ejaculated onto the silky mane of the horse’s lower neck. Otetiani stopped the horse at that point and slid off. He pulled Rob off and laid him down on the soft ground in a field of clover on his back. He unstrapped a rolled-up blanket that had been on the horse’s rump and wedged it under Rob’s buttocks so that his hips were raised, his legs were spread, and his back was flat on the ground. The Indian chieftain knelt between Rob’s legs; he propped a heavily muscled arm on the ground on each side of Rob’s torso and his face hovered over Rob’s. His hair was loose and cascaded down onto Rob’s chest in long strands. Otetiani leaned down and kissed each of Rob’s nipples in turn and then he looked directly into Rob’s eyes.
This was no ceremony or necessary action. Otetiani wanted him. And he wanted to know if Rob would receive him with the same need. Rob reached down between them and took Otetiani’s hard cock in both hands and guided it inside his channel. He closed his sphincter muscle over the base of the huge bulb when it had moved inside him and then drew the cock in slowly with his channel muscles, causing the walls to ripple over the throbbing cylinder. Otetiani’s eyes opened wide and a big smile spread across his face, and then he lowered his face to Rob’s and, for the first time, they kissed deeply, while Otetiani began to stroke hard and deep inside the young man.
Waves of pleasurable sensation rolled through Rob’s body. He was fucked often and had more or less become numb to it, but no one had the length and thickness and strength of this man and a half. Or the staying power, as Rob learned when he was ridden and ridden and ridden while he writhed and bucked against the master fuck—or the recovery power, when after multiple spoutings inside him, the Indian chief returned almost instantaneously to the saddle and rode him some more. The twelve fuckings of Otetiani’s virile warriors hadn’t left Rob this exhausted or satiated.
* * *
The Shewan raid on the Huron chief’s camp was fully accepted as an act of war by the Iroquois nation itself, and a third of Burgoyne’s forces that he’d been welding together to wipe out the revolutionary forces in the Mohawk Valley evaporated into internecine warfare. The failure of half of the total forces of the campaign—General Howe’s troops that now were occupying Philadelphia—to materialize at all put an end to any hopes of a knockout invasion from Canada. Weeks later Burgoyne surrendered his troops upon taking too few men into battle at the Battle of Saratoga, and the bottom had dropped out of Britain’s strategy to hold on to its American colonies.
Rob Winston went on to Albany, where Colonel Hampton thought he’d been all along, and when he was fully healed and returned to Hampton’s camp to take up his duties as Hampton’s aide and lover once more, he was all congratulations on the miracles from heaven Hampton described to him that had made the British forces evaporate before the American forces in the Mohawk Valley.
“Yes, yes, the gods have been good to us,” Rob whispered. He moaned as the colonel’s tongue moved up his inner thigh and his lips closed over the young man’s cock. Rob began to rotate his hips and murmured his pleasure at the fingers invading his entrance, preparing him for the second fucking of the night, the love fucking, given almost apologetically for the brutality of the earlier tension-release fucking.
Rob glanced over toward the entrance of the tent, hoping to be able to see the hint of leather fringe and feathers there. Otetiani had been here earlier in the evening, and Hampton was making him wait to give his report until after his had taken his evening pleasure with his aide.
Rob spread his legs and arched his back and wrapped his arms around his lover’s shoulders, as Hampton’s hard dick started its slide into Rob’s hole. Rob cried out and moaned for the colonel’s invasion, knowing this would please his colonel.
He looked back through the shadows to the tent opening. Yes, Otetiani was still there.
Later, after Otetiani had given his report and when a satiated Colonel Hamilton was snoring on his camp bed, Rob stole out into the night, beyond the staked horses, to the special tree to the waiting arms and the hours of riding the wave of ecstasy on the monster cock of his savage master.
The End
Good Night And Sweet Dreams
Maid spoils master’s fantasies
When I was 17, we had a pretty maid who’d always wear miniskirts and see-through dresses. She was a year older than me, and my parents were taking care of her studies, too. There was a time when I came back from school and caught her sleeping on the couch sleep, her tiny blouse exposing her belly and a part of her breasts. Seeing this triggered me to go to the bathroom and jack myself off. I was about to come when I heard a noise coming from our living room. I ignored it and went on with my business.
A few seconds later the bathroom door swung open. It was her, and she caught me doing the dirty deed! Shocked and embarrassed at the same time, I grabbed the tissue holder as I held on to my dear life, and then it popped! The thing is, she saw me in blitz and never said a thing. She just smiled. I came out of the bathroom with my head down. “Kumusta naman?” she asked with a smirk. I was never able to look straight in her eyes again.
Couple does cyberspace super-poking
My husband has recently left to work abroad. He has always been sexually active, which I love, and so because of the distance we have had to resort to cyber sex to release some sexual tension. Here’s one episode: After sharing what we did for the day, I blew him a kiss followed by me licking my “blow-job” lips all around (as he calls it—as I have pouty lips) along with a sexy, piercing look. He used to love me doing that just before I go down on him. He has a fetish of fucking me on a miniskirt so I wore a short babydoll dress—and I bended over to give him a peek of my bum wearing a thong, then faced the camera caressing my big breast. I gently stroked my nipples as he moved his camera to show me his hard erection. This got me going to do some sexy dancing, showing him my sexy curves and tossing with my long hair as I watched him move his hand up and down his erection on the screen.
He then told me to take my knickers off and sit on a chair fingering myself, with one of my legs up in the air, then later asked me to take everything off and bend over as if he was fucking me from behind. He told me he remembered me sitting on him on that very chair with my breasts on his face. It was all so horny that I got very wet! I came with satisfaction as I watched his cock spitting white all over his hands!