Savannah Affair Part 03

Savannah Affair Part 03

Hank and Bo "Spend Time" Together

This story is entirely fictional--as any real student of the history of the Civil War will attest. Warning: I have done only a little research to ensure the accuracy of the history or the geography. All characters in this story are over 18 when the actions described took place.. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

The story, set in Savannah under Sherman's occupation, in previous chapters, has traced Bo's early young-adulthood on the plantation (Howellwood), his initiation into sex, his injury on the battlefield, and the initial encounter between him and a young New England Captain in Sherman's army. They have "lain" together, and reached climax together, but neither has penetrated any orifice. Bo is a young son of a wealthy plantation owner, accustomed to getting what he wants. The war has potentially changed all that. Hank is a Puritan with a heightened sense of guilt and how much pleasure a man can allow himself. Hank has returned to camp after a brief encounter in bed with Bo, in Bo's family's city-home which is about to be commandeered to house Sherman's officer corps.

5

The story continues in Hank's voice....

Within a few minutes of night-dreaming in my cot, my member was rigidly erect again and crying for relief. I had been taught that masturbation was sinful, self-absorbed and "unmanly." I had done it, but tried to limit the practice. Doing yourself is a deep sign of personal character weakness. No. I won't touch it. That is not right. I can't touch it. Nor use my hand to relieve it. But, I was so hard that I hurt. Bo had turned on my sexual self to such a high flame that I was burning with desire. I would never sleep.

So with guilt and reluctance, I grabbed my soiled linen and wrapped my rigid member inside, being careful not to actually touch the flesh of the shaft. If it shot of its own accord, I wasn't responsible and wouldn't be soiled. I flipped myself on the cot and began to squirm--stroking my linen-wrapped erection against the thin mattress as I did so. There was almost enough friction to make it happen. I just needed an image. My thoughts inevitably moved to the boy in the bed--his nakedness vivid in my memory. Never before in my life had I been so instantly enchanted by anyone. And it was a boy, no a man. An angel. Does God send angels to tempt men? I think not. I could see and feel him as though he were still with me. Never have I felt such a strong and intense attraction to anyone. I was helpless against myself.

I feel him now under me. He is naked and squirming with desire--for me. He is warm, soft and hard, receptive. Our members are rubbing together. Then, in my mind's eye, I flip him and my cock penetrates between his thighs, slides within his muscled cheeks, and slips in, feeling the tight enclosure massaging my cock, squeezing it, coaxing it to release its creamy treasure. Ah, the intensity of the feeling. It doesn't take long. My cock lengthens and shoots over and over into the shorts. Relief is mine. No not relief, the incredible pleasure of shooting my seed inside my angel. It is a dream, but so real that I'm empty, yearning for his physical touch, still hard, still wanting. His anal muscles tighten again and massage again. Oh fuck, I'm hard again. I'm cumming again.

I filled the cloth, perhaps with more of my seed than ever before. Then, without removing the cloth, I fell into a guilty sleep, drugged by the musky smells beneath me. Curiously, my dream had portrayed me as the seducer--not the other way around. I had taken my first boy. In my dream anyway.

That same night I dreamed of him again. He was in my bed. Caressing me, as I did him. His fist was wrapped around my shaft, stroking. My hands were on his supple ass cheeks, pulling him hard into me. Our naked, warm, moist bodies were sliding together in rhythm. Our lips met. Our tongues dueled. My cock slid between his legs and stroked. I entered him, this time while staring into his eyes. I withdrew and plunged repeatedly, enjoying the sensations that radiated through my body. And then we climaxed together. I had had a taste of heaven. And I fell into a deep contented sleep.

I was obviously bewitched. And I was rewriting the script. He had seduced me and taken me--if only with two hands. But, in my dreams, I was the aggressor, the seducer, in command. Which would it be? Did I need him to be in control to feel less guilt? Or was I a man, a victorious army officer entitled to some of the spoils of war? Whatever! I must have him.

The next morning as I rose, I realized that I had deposited yet another load of my seed in the linen. I stunk. I smelled of sex. My brain was fogged, but I felt guilt in the mist. We had been together in the flesh--and twice more in my thoughts. I was besot. So I washed, redressed and prepared for another day, putting such thoughts aside. It would be a very busy day with much to distract me from such evil carnal thoughts.

I had decided. I wanted more of that boy. I wasn't really sure of what that meant. But I had to have him. And I had decided how it might come about. I would use my position and discretion. He obviously had been an officer, perhaps on the front. As a scout, he was always in the forefront of the action. He understood the vagaries of the remaining Confederate colonels, regrouping in South Carolina for the final battles. I convinced myself that he must have intelligence that would be valuable to Sherman. The war wasn't over, although nearly so. I needed to interrogate the boy. I needed time to break him down and extract intelligence. There was a special place for that, and coincidentally, since my current assignment--reconnaissance of the residences was complete, I would return to my role as an intelligence officer.

Fort Pulaski, on a long island in the Savannah River had been the major "downtown" garrison defending Savannah--assuming that any attack on the port city would come from the sea. It had been blockaded for months by the Union Navy. Sherman had easily taken it from the landside after only a brief siege and without serious damage. Inside was a small brig, deemed too small to handle the hundreds of POWs that Sherman took. So it had been commandeered as a place for "special prisoners"--who might have special intelligence, or who might be valuable as negotiating pawns in the future. The idea was not Sherman's. He wanted complete and unconditional surrender with punishment, typically a firing squad for officers and forfeiture of all property for the political leaders. Interrogation of and negotiation with the rulers of the old city were not in his playbook. But the powers in Washington had other ideas and had demanded that we round up and separately incarcerate the elite as future bargaining pawns, if not for their intelligence.

I would remove him to the prison--really just an abandoned brig in the harbor fort--and take personal responsibility for him. It was risky. I knew nothing about him--except how he looked. I wasn't sure what I would do with him. And I certainly am not a homosexual. There is no such thing in my family. But, his body was calling to mine--or at least a long, hard part of me.

I wasn't thinking with my "big brain." Perhaps for the first time in my life--but certainly not the last.

6

I returned to the house at the edge of the park the next afternoon with a medic (not a doctor) and two guards. The maid was at the stove, making something that smelled incredible. Where had she gotten the ingredients--and the fuel for the stove? But, I wasn't there to eat. I greeted her, and she smiled back. I felt quite comfortable for my safety. So I left the guards inside at the top of the stairs leading to the basement where he had taken refuge. The medic climbed down the steep stairs with me.

I entered the room and noted that the musty, antiseptic smell was gone. He sat in bed, clean and sweet-smelling, propped on pillows, his wavy red hair spread out around him like Medusa's famous do. He looked so innocent. Like a delicious candy waiting to be picked and eaten. He greeted me, "Captain Morris. How good of you to come so soon. I see you have brought reinforcements. I assure you that I am innocent and harmless--if that is indeed what you are hoping for. If not, we should talk. I am, so to speak, in your hands. I surrender." He lifted his bare arms toward me and smiled broadly.

The medic moved to the bed and removed the coverlet. This time, Bo was dressed--sort of--in thin cotton skivvies and a po-boy shirt. Both were white, fresh and clean, enhancing the angelic impression. They did little to conceal the body (and the manhood) beneath. A pair of patched britches hung over the nearby chair. The bandages had been changed, but it seemed that some leakage had seeped through. "I'm going to remove the bandages, boy. I need to see the condition of the underlying flesh. I presume the bullets or the shrapnel have been removed. But these wounds often fester and gangrene. If so, we will need to remove the flesh--or perhaps the legs."

He unwrapped the long cotton bandages and revealed the flesh beneath. One leg was barely injured. It appeared almost entirely healed--the bandages had been used for effect. As to the other, there was a bit of an odor. The medic lifted each leg and turned it slowly and carefully, examining the flesh which was unusually colorful--green, black, pink and yellow. There were several wounds, but they seemed to be healing. He remarked that he detected no infection. "He is lucky. No bones appear to have broken." Pointing to the wound on the upper part of his inner thigh, he joked, "A few inches to the right, and he would be singing soprano. Lucky boy. This boy has been well-doctored. It has saved his legs. But, he needs more time to heal--and the more sterile the conditions, the better. We can provide nothing of the sort at the prison. Might it be possible to keep him here under house arrest?"

I had been staring at the boy throughout the examination. He was everything I had recalled--and more. "Thank you, Sergeant. I think, under the circumstances, I will permit him to remain here for another day. But, the General is anxious to begin moving his officers and troops into these houses. It is getting cold after all. I will prepare a clean space for him in the Fort. And we will transport him there on Friday. I know you have others to tend to. Thank you. You may go."

"May I remind you that Friday is Christmas Eve, Captain?"

"Yes, but this is war, and I'm not feeling very celebratory. Maybe there will be some unexpected gift for all of us on Friday."

He left, leaving us alone. I stared at him for a few seconds, soaking in the masculine beauty. Priscilla then entered with a pot of soup. Then, the sense of authority between us shifted again. "Will you dine with me, Captain? Pris, please fetch another bowl. I'm sure the Captain is hungry."

She put the pot on a small table and left to fetch the bowls.

He made no move to pull the coverlet back over him, but sat up in the bed and adjusted his skivvies, carefully re-arranging his jewels, for my benefit I presume, which seemed to be larger. He was obviously conscious of my stares. I think he was putting on a show for me.

As he stroked his cock through the thin cotton, he spoke, "Is there something that I can do for you, Captain? Is there something that I have that you want. I'm afraid that any information I have is old and useless. So, I guess this will be our last time together. I'm willing to join my comrades in prison. I don't need special treatment."

"Oh, but I think you do. The medic has indicated you need as close to a sterile environment as we can manage. The conditions in the POW camp do not fit that description by any means. And I believe you will have some very interesting things for me--if only we are patient, and I spend time with you, extracting what it is I want."

"I'm going to make you my special project. You will be my personal prisoner. I have special plans for you. I am trained in extracting what I want from my prisoners. And I'm guessing that you will have many things of value for me before we are done. Somehow I think that you will be giving me everything I want--whatever you may think now."

I noted that, as I spoke, his erection tented his skivvies. He even covered himself when Priscilla re-entered with the bowl. I think he was embarrassed. Then I looked down and realized my own member had snaked well down my pantleg and was readily recognizable for what it was. I turned slightly so she wouldn't see it. But as she filled the bowls from the warm pot, her smile suggested she knew what was afoot. She obviously knew Bo better than I. So she left quickly.

"Captain, could you help me to the chair. Eating soup in bed is not really easy."

"Of course."

7

Bo.....

He moved to the bed, and I rolled onto my side, inviting him to pick me up. One arm went behind my back; the other paused (apparently not wanting to further injure the wounds in my thigh); then slowly insinuated itself just under my ass. He lifted me easily. He was very strong. Quite deliberately, I threw my arm around his neck, bringing our faces together. He moved, our faces inches apart, but one hand was definitely holding my left ass cheek--an entirely unnecessary grip for the short distance to the chair. I could feel his erection on my outer thigh, and there was no question that he could now see mine tenting the underwear. His face reddened, and I could feel the heat. He stumbled as he placed me in the chair, and rather deliberately, I assume, squeezed my cheek as though he were testing a melon. I in turn grabbed for his leg and fisted his dick. I think he actually moaned when I did so. Fuck, he was nearly as turned on as I, and almost as big. Last night was not a mistake. Or a one-off. Our little game was continuing.

He moved away quickly and placed himself on the other chair across the small table. We stared silently at each other for a few minutes; each of us afraid to break the spell. Then I picked up a spoon. The stew was wonderful and fragrant, and for several minutes we both hungrily devoured the tasty food--while our eyes were telegraphing something quite different. My knee "accidentally" touched his inner thigh where his erection rested. He jolted and spilled the soup, before he smiled and closed his legs to hold my leg hard against his dick. I was sure that I had made a conquest. Now it was only to reel him in. Or was he the angler? And was I the fish dangling on his lure?

At any rate, the homemade stew turned into the first course of a sexual banquet. Finally, he broke the silence. The heat between us was rising. "Do you have a special girl? Or even a fiancé?"

"No. In times of war, it is best to keep things casual. One never knows. And frankly, it is easier to find another boy willing to exchange relief, without commitment, than to court and disappoint a belle." He didn't seem as shocked as I would have anticipated at my revelation that I went with boys. I guess he had already figured me out.

"So you find solace in other boys? I could never do that. Whatever seconds of pleasure I would find would haunt me for days. It is so foreign to my upbringing. And as they say, to the natural order of things." While he was speaking, his eyes drifted from mine, a sure sign that he was fabricating. Maybe he was trying to convince me that last night was unusual for him. Obviously, it wasn't. And, I really didn't care.

"Seconds of pleasure? Pshaw. If you were with me, it would take minutes, perhaps even an hour. It is a level of pleasure that no man should ever deny himself. Another man can produce feelings so much greater--because he knows himself what can do so You have never enjoyed the practiced strokes of another man? Or his warm mouth and tongue? Or his shaft? Or his hole? Being done by a man who knows how to do it is really quite better. And the pleasure can be drawn out and enhanced. Or was last night a fluke? Were you just playing me for a fool? Can I expect more, Captain? Or are you going to pick up your balls and run home?"

By the time I finished, he was as red as any Yankee who had sat in the Georgia sun for hours. I had called his bluff. But he continued to dissemble.

"Never. Never. Now we need to change the subject. The conversation is definitely unseemly. This stew is wonderful. But, I'm afraid, Bo--may I call you Bo?"

"Bo is fine. And what may I call you? 'Captain' does seem rather formal under the circumstances."

"Hank, please. Only when we are alone together. But what circumstances are we talking about? You are about to become my prisoner. I will need to interrogate you, using every technique that I have been taught. We cannot be friends, Bo."

"Oh, I think we will be friends. But, if not friends, lovers. I've known such situations before. Lovers need not be friends--it only depends on how one takes one's pleasure. We'll be alone together quite I bit I should hope. But, I must warn you, Hank, that I have nothing of intelligence value to give you. I hope I don't disappoint you. I am actually looking forward to anything that you might do to me to make me talk--or whatever. Do you have a whip? Cuffs? A branding iron? Will I be stripped and scourged? You do know, I'm sure that the wall that separates pain and pleasure is very thin. And in some circles, it's only a matter of an inch or so or a minute or so. Perhaps I might even enjoy it. Definitely if you are the torturer. I could even invent some things if that is required."

His face turned really dark. I was accusing him of being a torturer, while he considered himself a patrician gentleman. He was on very thin ice, imagining himself upright and righteous, while his member was going to be calling all the shots--and they might be upright, but certainly not righteous. I smiled at my own play on words. Clever boy!

"Don't be silly. Whatever you may have heard, we northerners--at least those of us from New England--are really quite civilized. And let me be the judge of what is of value." He paused, sat back and clearly savored the stew--and, I dare say, the view. And the feelings. My knee had brought him to steely harness. Maybe he was contemplating some other devious pleasures. I had planted the seed. Now it only had to sprout. Or, if I'm lucky, to shoot.

I had won the second round. He was aroused and curious. And he was taking personal responsibility for me--presumably housing me in quarters that were significantly better than those my fellow warriors were "enjoying."

"This has been a wonderful meal. But, I must leave. I have duties this afternoon--including extracting some information from one of your friends. I'll be back tomorrow to transport you to the fort. Please be prepared. I shall bring a cart if you cannot walk. We will go to the quay where a military launch will take us to the fort."

"Priscilla, incidentally is free to go and do what she wishes. But, she cannot accompany us to the fort."

He had changed the subject to reduce the temperature in the room.

"She has nothing, Captain. No family, no friends, except those at the plantation, and we know nothing of them. And she couldn't get there anyway. I'm told that nothing is moving on the Savannah River, and our plantation is nearly 100 miles up river near Augusta."

"The march avoided the lands east of Augusta. It had already been pretty much cleared of Confederate rebel militia. So the plantation may be forfeit, but it probably wasn't destroyed."

"Do you grow cotton or rice or tobacco?"

"Mostly rice and indigo."

"We spared the rice farms, although we did requisition the crops. We needed the food. It is winter now and the harvest is complete. But your family and friends will be expected to plant in the spring under the supervision of a Union quartermaster. But, the slaves have been freed. They may or may not have left the plantation."

"Thank you, Hank. You have already told me more than I could have learned myself--much more I'm afraid than I could ever provide to you." We were seated very close together as the table between us was small. As I spoke, I pushed a knee deeper into his crotch and opened him. He looked up, not really surprised, and smiling. My knee moved up his inner thigh until it stroked his rigid pole. He jolted, but pushed back. Fuck, he was so mine!

"Well, we'll see about that. I'll try to see what provisions are being made for women like Priscilla. Obviously, she is a very skilled cook. But, Bo, remember: she is now free to do as she wishes."

"I wish that were true for all of us. I can think of a few things that I'd like to do right now if I were free."

"It remains to be seen, Captain, what freedom really means to the former slaves--and to their former slavers. Freedom is built on knowledge--and opportunity--and money. None of which they seem to have at this time."

He didn't respond. He stood. His cock was obscenely tenting his navy trousers. "Do you want me to carry you back to bed before I leave?"

"Anytime, Hank. You carrying me to bed will be a lasting image. It will hold me for the night. I'm sure you'll join me sometime. In bed, that is. Somehow I think we are going to have a very interesting future together. Torture or not."

He rose and picked me up, carrying me like a babe to his chest the short steps to the bed. I was rigid, the tip of my cock peeking out from the slit in my skivvies. He stared at it. Licked his lips. Then looked away quickly. He gently placed me on the pillow and seemed to stumble. He righted himself but didn't drop me or remove his arms. I grabbed his neck and pulled his head to mine. Our lips touched and I used my tongue to invade. At first he froze. Then, he opened and our tongues tangled. But, it was too much. He started to back off, going to attention at the bedside. So I used the occasion to palm and squeeze his erection through his britches. It was rock hard, and although not as impressive as my own, it was long and thick. I noted the wet spot at its tip. I needed a quick retort that acknowledged his arousal, but didn't insult him. I needed him to stay.

"If this is the intended instrument of your torture, Hank, bring it on. I can take it. It could make me do almost anything for you. I promise."

He didn't back away. So I continued to stroke his manhood through the uniform. He whispered, "Please don't do that." But, of course, I disregarded his brief protest--he didn't move and didn't mean it. So I unbuttoned a few and reached in, drawing out his hardness. It filled a hand, really two. He was indeed carrying a lethal weapon. I stroked as he froze, his hands fisting at his sides. Then I bent forward and took the head in my mouth. His precum was deliciously salty with a strange touch of honey and the deliciously large bulb at the tip filled my mouth. I sucked, twirled my tongue, and when he didn't protest, used my other hand to draw out his heavy balls. Now all his manhood hung outside the uniform. I sat back and feasted on the view. Against the navy background, the light pink shaft, long and thick stood out perpendicular, a prodigious eight inches or more, stretching over the darker sacs. The shaft was set off by curling red and blue stripes. And the deep purple head had emerged from the hood and was dripping with precum. But visual stimulation is not enough. I took him again inside, swallowed him deep and used my tongue--this time I moved in earnest to bring him to climax. I pulled him in deep.

My eyes drifted up. He was close. Eyes closed. Nose struggling to take in air. His body was stiff. The hands at his sides were in fists. Then, he started to pump into my mouth, increasing the friction and the speed. And with a silent scream he started to respond. He bucked forward and his hands went to my head to hold me in place as he began the familiar fucking motions. My hands went to his balls, massaging them softly between my long soft fingers. Then he shot, washing my throat with the first blast. The second and third shots filled me. So much, I had to swallow, but still it overflowed from around my lips. I released and licked the last from the head of his cock.

And then the spasms stopped, the last few dry, and his hands dropped from my head. I released his balls, but not before allowing a finger to stray toward his hole. I toughed the rim, and penetrated to the first knuckle. He didn't protest or balk. But he did moan, a deep moan of desire. He backed away from the bed. Without a word, he positioned his dick back in his britches, re-buttoned and turned to leave. He hadn't touched me--except to hold my head in place. But, my own skivvies were soaked with cum. I too had enjoyed the encounter and had ejaculated when he did--without a touch. He stared at the moisture, recognizing I'm sure that he had caused it. The aroma was hanging in the air. There was no mistaking the continuing hunger in his eyes. He paused, his nostrils flaring to inhale the smell for later; maybe even thinking about how he might explain spending the night.

But, he didn't.

I was sure I'd see him again. Very sure. I had awakened his desires. Sherman may have taken Savannah. But Bo Howell had taken Hank Morris. I owned his cock. And soon, I would own his ass.

As his foot touched the first stair, he said, "Until, tomorrow. Thank you, Bo."

I watched as his tightly clothed ass muscles contracted as he climbed the stairs. If he used those cheeks to torture, I'd give him everything I had. I was intoxicated with his manliness--almost as much as he was with me. That was not in my plans. But, I think that I had won both of the first two sets. Next set was match. He might take some shots at my hole, but I would definitely ace his. Maybe next time.

TBC

BD