Savannah Affair Part 05

Savannah Affair Part 05

An Affair Ends Before it Begins

This story is fictiol--as any student of the history of the Civil War will attest. I strongly suggest that you read the first chapters before this one. The story is all about character--a young man of privilege, initially so sure of himself, but with confidence shaken by defeat, and an older, less sophisticated Puritan, who is in denial, but has been seduced into the world of man on man sex. It has rocked his world. But they are torn apart by circumstance. All characters in this story are over 18. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

9

(It's evening, after dinner, Christmas Eve. Hank is in bed in his quarters at Fort Pulaski in Savannah harbor. During the afternoon, Hank had had his first "interrogation" session with Bo. Hank can't sleep--and it has nothing to do with his anxiety about whether Santa is coming or not, although he has certainly had some internal discussions about whether he's been naughty or nice.)

Hank...

I had been conditioned to feel guilt--about almost anything, particularly anything that gave me pleasure. And believe me, Bo's seduction and submission had provided me with a level of pleasure that bordered on the sublime. So it must be worthy of guilt, a great big shitting pile of guilt. Isn't it curious how my ancestors have equated pleasure with sin? And how have they've managed to keep man-on-man sex a taboo and secret from so many of us? And why do they continue to condemn it? Who is getting hurt? Consenting adults. No unwanted pregnancies. It's an enigma.

Someday I'll have to research that. It seems so counterintuitive--and I know it wasn't true in earlier times and places. Even the Bible sings the praises of romantic sex, although the passages are rarely read in our churches, and they are often expunged from the "official" versions distributed. And certainly in a patriarchal, agricultural society with strict protection of women, men must have taken men.

But, I didn't feel any guilt at all. In fact, I felt pretty good about myself. He had set me up. Asked for it. Even directed the action. I wasn't really responsible. I had released his bonds, and he had presented himself to me for the taking. My mouth was literally watering over his magnificent orbs, particularly when he bent over and lofted them into my face. I was like a dog with a bitch waving her fragrant hole in my nose. I was helpless. Of course, I responded. For my first, I think I did a jolly good performance. I'm sure he was dissembling a bit, but he's not that good an actor. He enjoyed it and was ready for more. And, if the truth be known, I rather liked it myself. In fact, I loved it; it was perhaps the finest few minutes of my adult life. I was ready to go again, this time with a lot more confidence and control. But the afternoon was getting late, and there is a limit to which I can push my authority and the procedures. The guards were, after all, stationed just outside the door.

So a few minutes after I filled his chute, I calmly returned to my desk to write the report and called them in. The guards sniffed the musk when they took him away, but I'm guessing they assumed he had orgasmed as I "thrashed" him. I had sounded the thrash against the wooden cross and slapped the wall hard to simulate interrogation. It had happened before. Some guys get off on pain. In fact, in my experience, many do.

Maybe they'd decide that I had fucked him. They did look at me in a different way, although I sat quietly at my desk, writing reports. I guess, even if they thought I had, it'd probably elevate their opinion of me. Why not have some fun with these reb prisoners? No real harm is done. Many interrogators get off using their victims. God help me. Not me. Some prisoners just got off with a good thrashing. Others were raped. Some were injured to within minutes of death. But Bo had asked for it.

Bo had put on a beaten-up, distraught face as he left, and I was as gruff as ever. I had announced success. And the desire to have another session or two with him. But,....

I fell asleep easily, visualizing his naked body bent before me, ready, no anxious, for my taking. And it had felt so good. Maybe the best feeling of my life. When I moved in and grabbed his dick and cradled his balls, at first it was an act of aggression, out of the toolbox of an interrogator anxious to establish authority. Then, a new world opened to me. As soon as I touched him, a feeling of warmth spread through my body--and my own cock twitched excitedly and began to grow. His shaft was hard yet the surface was as soft as a baby's bottom. And the balls, alive inside with the turmoil of seed production. They were hot--and a wonder to hold. Now I know. Holding another man's equipment is one of the joys of life. Life, yes, you are holding his under your complete power. In my hands, I held his present joy and future potential. Pleasure or pain? Just thinking about it made me hard yet again. I had looked down and seen the thrash hanging from my belt. Why not? I had curled it around his shaft and balls and pulled it tight. He had gasped in pleasure and turned his head. His eyes had rolled up into his head with the exquisite feeling of wanting to cum, but being prevented from doing so. I think it's called edging. So I had learned: when a potential partner is near the end, grip his stuff with all your might and block any further motion. It delivers exquisite pleasure for him--and moments more in which to enjoy your own.

And then, later after I entered his ass, I know he had used his chute muscles to hold me in--so he definitely wanted it. And the feeling of that soft moist inner flesh on my shaft! It's where a man's cock belongs, wrapped in the massaging chute of another.

Reliving the afternoon had me rock hard, almost painfully so. The room was chilly. I needed another blanket.... or maybe another warm body to cuddle.

I realized he was only a few feet away in his cell, locked securely, and awaiting my next act. Finally I drifted into sleep. My dreams were even more lurid than before. So much so that I woke only an hour later with a raging, leaking erection. I touched it and stroked it slowly (when had I started that?) and felt the hardness and the pearly moisture at the tip. Then I grabbed it. It was rigid. I was sunk. I needed him again now.

Fortunately, given the small size of the fort, my room was relegated to the brig wing, with the prisoners. I rose from the bed, dressed only in my night shirt. I opened the door to my room carefully and peered out silently, noting that the corridor was dark and empty. Our security within the brig at the Fort was lax since there were few prisoners, unarmed, confused and despondent, mostly thought to be non-violent, with guards only at the entrance to the brig, probably sleeping by now, and at the perimeter of the fort.

I moved quietly to the key drawer of the old battered steward's desk. Bo was one of only three prisoners that night. So I quickly identified the key to his cell. Moving to it, I slipped the key in the lock, turned and pulled the heavy metal gate open. Fortunately it opened quietly. There was no light. The room was totally dark, black on black. I used a match to light a small lantern and saw him lying on his back, spread eagle on the cot, uncovered and naked as a jaybird--and smiling broadly into my briefly-lit countenance.

He whispered, "I've been expecting you for hours. Why did you wait so long?"

I was stunned. How had he so obviously read my desires and how I would react to them? He must be very confident of his ability to attract.

"Come with me to my room. This cell stinks. And the gate gives us no privacy."

Without another word, he stood and held out his hands for the cuffs.

"I don't think we'll be needing those--at least not yet." I pushed him across and down the corridor to the sliver of candle light that marked the slightly open door to my room. He entered as I reached out and pulled him into me. He turned and our lips met as my hands went to his naked flesh, squeezing his soft globes. He molded into me, pushing his hard pole into my gut, and surely feeling mine in his.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Captain. You are dressed."

"I think your disadvantage results from your choice of army to support. Maybe the misfortune of being injured in battle, or the fact that you are now my prisoner. Not to the fact that I'm wearing a nightshirt. Besides, I readily admit it. I like having you at a disadvantage and in my power."

"I admit to everything--except that I am your prisoner." He reached down, slipped his hand under the shirt, and grabbed my erect, leaking penis. It was like the first time at his bedside. Would it be like that everytime? Everytime another touched my cock? I stiffened and waited. His hand was soft, like a gentleman who had never worked, and talented. "I think when I am in control of this guy, you are my prisoner, Hank. Wouldn't you agree?" To make his point, he stroked a few times, then knelt, climbed under the voluminous shirt, and took me into his mouth.

His mouth was moist and warm. He pushed the hood down with a tongue and circled the glans. He began to suck. Then, he held my balls and took each in turn into his warm mouth while the heel of his hand pressed hard on my taint while a finger circled my ring and penetrated about a half inch. I jolted and dripped fluid on his face. Then I spread my legs to give him more access. The tension in my body continued to rise. I was stiff and hard, my gut muscles pulled tightly in. My arms were at my sides again. And my fists were drawn into rigidity. I was helpless before him.

He released my jewels, but his tongue reached under to wash the taint and round my rim. A tongue even penetrated. He was right. I was his prisoner, not the other way around.

Then he rose again and pulled off the nightshirt, stood back and admired my body, seeming to eat it with his eyes. Then back on his knees as he swallowed me to the hilt. When my tip touched his throat, I knew the meaning of heaven on earth. He could have anything. Anything. There was no other place I would rather be at that moment. And no other place I would have my rigid member. It belonged deep in his throat. If not his hot ass. I was indeed his.

Involuntarily, my hips began to thrust into him, pulling out and pushing ever more deeply inside. My arms moved from the rigidity a my side to his head, now covered in short fuzz, as I held him in place for my thrusting. I was close. I think he sensed it--and he wanted more than my seed in his mouth. He released my shaft, pulled hard on the balls with one hand as the other squeezed the base of my shaft.

It hurt, but I instantly drew back from the brink. He clearly knew what he was doing. Earlier when he had said he could extend my momentary pleasure to long minutes, perhaps an hour, it had not been an idle promise. He was plying his trade already.

"Let's take this to your bed, Hank." Once again, the thought flashed through me: I was the captor, older, in charge, and the aggressive one, but he was in control. And I didn't care a bit!

10

Bo...

We moved to his bed--but this time, even though I was still controlling him, and no longer his prisoner, I decided to let him enter me again. I dared not take him yet. It might break the spell. I'm not sure he's ready for the initial pain of being fucked for the first time. The guilt might be too much. And the loss of his anal virginity could push him over--and away from me.

But there was another reason. He was growing on me. For the first time, I was enjoying being fucked. I knelt on the bed, pulled his pillow to my gut and placed my shoulders on the mattress. I pushed my butt up as I spread my legs and arched my back lasciviously like the feline whore I was. I heard him gasp as he made out the silhouette in the dim light of his chamber, lit only by a candle on the desk.

He froze and stared.

"I'm waiting, Hank. We don't have all night."

Then the spell broke and he moved to cover me. I felt the cold oil dribbling in my crack--and smelt it. He was using his pomade, a hair oil. He hadn't yet even discovered the potential for special lube! (Too bad that he had taken my carpetbag with its "necessary" contents.) His hands reached around and fondled my cock--trying to memorize its contours or maybe just enjoying the sheer joy of holding a dick. His hand tightened and, involuntarily, I used his fist to stroke. He held me securely as he moved his tip to my opening. He pressed, then harder. I breathed out and pushed back into him, as he stretched the muscle and moved in. He froze again, until instinctively he felt the burn within me began to fade. So I turned, and, although he couldn't see the smile of assent in my dark face, he knew. His hips moved and he launched up inside. Again and again. Soon he had reached the limit and was crowding my nut as he stretched the chute. He pounded the center of my pleasure again and again, raising my arousal and readiness with each stroke. Fuck! Paradise on a stick. Or on a dick! I loved the fullness. In a way, it completed me. And I loved the power it gave me to have his manhood trapped inside me. It's the age old mystery: a man thrusting during sex is in control in one sense, but the one receiving the thrusts is in control as well--as he has trapped the instrument of pleasure.

His hands moved from my gut, one to the shaft to clutch it firmly as the other cradled my balls and rolled them among his fingers, stimulating my seed. He was a natural. Instinct had created a perfect lover. He pounded over and over. Finally, I couldn't handle his weight any more. We collapsed on his bed. But, he continued to pound. At first he stiffened and used his push-up muscles to pummel my hole. Then, as he drew near, his chest fell to my back to hold me tight and his hips thrust his member deep inside. He moaned in contentment, echoing my own noises of pleasure. I wanted this never to end. He had me at the brink of ecstasy, and I wanted to stay there. I froze to hold the feeling. But, it was too late. I felt the massive spasm starting at my curled up toes, a full body earthquake as his first load of spunk painted my deepest center. At that precise moment, I too stiffened. I felt the hot fertile fluid running up my shaft, enlarging my bulb, until finally I squirted into his hand. And doing so tightened the anal muscle through which he strained to shoot more and more inside. Fuck, he was a man. A real man. A lion capable of seeding an entire pride. Virile and strong. Shooting gob after gob of fertile spunk. Taking me as I had never been taken before. I shivered in the realization that while I thought I had been seducing him, he had, in fact, bought me with his talented cock. No one had ever made me feel this way. I was his, body and soul. Til death....

My big strong innocent boy-man Yankee took me again that night. The next time he entered me from the side after cradling me in his muscled cocoon as we shared our bodily warmth. He pushed my leg forward, opened me quickly with his lips and fingers, and jammed in, lubed by his previous deposit. This time he did indeed last long, bringing me up the hill of arousal with his dick before pullng me down with his fingers at the base of my shaft. Once, twice, then again. I could stay in this state forever. Heaven on fucking earth! That would become one of my favorites, being taken as he cradled me--stimulated while secure, in his total sensual control. He proclaimed his love and devotion, but what did I know at the time? After he climaxed, and his cock finally subsided and pulled out, he flipped me and took me in his arms. We kissed as the fragrance of our combined fertility wafted into the room. It was like a drug, but better than any I had ever tried.

And when he brought me back to the cell before dawn to return to his chambers before reveille, I knew that I was lost. I had to have him. Or at least keep him. But how? The tables had indeed turned. I was now the seduced. I needed him.

Unfortunately, circumstances intervened the next morning, before I could even begin to plan my next steps. Two new captives appeared, both senior Confederate officers. They clearly outranked me--and their intelligence was most likely far more valuable. I didn't see Hank for more than a day as he spent hours interrogating them. And that night, Sherman visited the fort, and Hank was involved until the wee hours unloading intelligence to Sherman and his senior staff. There was no visit to my cell from Hank that night. With Sherman in residence, all guards were doubled and at attention.

And then I spotted him only briefly as I was processed out as "no longer infirm" and moved to one of the schools where POW's were being housed. Only then did I learn that he had ticked my papers for VIP treatment. I guess that was his thank you parting gift. I assumed our time together was over. It was great while it lasted. But, what did I expect? I was a fallen warrior, a POW, despite my family history and their historic money and influence. Hank watched--I think helplessly and with wistfulness in his eyes--as they moved me in shackles to the barge which would take me back to the mainland and the camp where my countrymen were being held. Henceforth, I would be just a Reb, a POW, with the initials "G" for Georgia, "O" for officer, "17009" for nothing. I had reached the end of my short life.

I had lived life to the full, probably copulating with more women than most men--and enjoying the orifices of so many young men. And then there was Hank. What indeed was he? More than the man who had deflowered me--if not actually physically, at least emotionally? More than the man who (I think) had loved me?

However, all of that was another world. I set out to survive in the POW camp, and it turned out to be quite easy. Many deferred to my looks or my name or my reputation. I had enough food--barely. And my legs continued to heal. Within weeks, I felt normal and was looking forward to beginning life again. I knew not where or with what. Or even when. I was still a prisoner. And the threat of hanging or a firing squad still hung over all Confederate officers.

I learned that Hank had moved north with Sherman within a week of our last night together. Obviously it had been impossible for him to contact me--or maybehe had not tried--maybe our night together was a quick encounter and I'd never see him again.

Two months later Lee surrendered unconditionally to Grant at Appomattox in Virginia--and the war was officially over. We in the south waited patiently to hear of our fate. Rumors ran from mass execution by firing squad or hanging to general pardon. In fact, no one knew.

I understood that we had been at war, a war which the Northern victors insisted had been a war of illegal secession from the Union. And, in the name of the Christian God and human virtue, to end the hideous practice of owning and exploiting other humans. It was a war that "we" had started, and they had ended. It was the will of God. Victors always write the history. We were thus criminals, entitled to nothing except what the victors decided to give us.

(Later of course philosophers and theologians began to wonder whether slavery was the only way that men exploited men. But, at the time, things were black and white (what a curious phrase!)--we were criminals and beasts for enslaving others. And they the victors could rest comfortably with their effective economic ownership of the lowest economic classes.)

Unexpectedly a few weeks after the war ended (and a few months after I had been moved to the prison), the North proved magnanimous in its victory--perhaps because Lincoln anticipated that re-Union depended upon forgiveness and reconciliation. In that he was probably a genius and one of the greatest statesmen of all time. He understood that Union would bring size and ultimately stability and power to the nascent Republic, flexing its muscle on the world stage. He guided the fractious and angry Northern Congress into a measured program that freed all the POWs, required us to pledge allegiance to the Northern Flag, and required us to abandon the use of arms (except for hunting) for the remainder of our lives. All before he was assassinated by a madman who objected to his lenient attitude toward the South. Later of course, the politicians took their pound of flesh--they absconded with our property, rigged the vote to take leadership of our southern political institution, and, in genera, l raped the South of its remaining assets. Few escaped. What Lincoln had magnanimously given, the rapacious Northern politicians took back.

None of that was an issue for me. I was too close to the edge of survival to be thinking about such heady political matters. Would I survive? What about Howellwood, and my family and friends? We waited for the effectuation of the national order. Was Howellwood forfeit? Did I have a home?

The release from camp (a converted grammar school) was a non-event. They just closed it, stopped feeding us, and opened the doors and gates. We left with the clothes on our backs. No weapons. No provisions. No money. No dignity.

11

I knew Savannah, of course, and my first task was to survive; then to determine whether my family survived and still had a home. I started with an attempt to find Priscilla. Overnight I had aged from a wanton pleasure seeking rake to a man attempting to survive and rescue whatever remained of family and fortune. Hank was, by then, a distant, but incredibly pleasant memory.

I went back to the park-side city-house, but it was still inhabited by soldiers and their aides. That was obviously not going to be my home for a long time, if ever again.

I returned that night when all was quiet. There were no guards. The war was over. I moved to the carriage house in the alley behind the townhouse. It was unexpectedly deserted. I pulled up a board in a corner and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized the Yanks had not discovered our hidden treasure cache. I extracted the leather bag of gold coins--not a fortune, but enough to pay for lodging and food for months and to travel to Howellwood. I left the Confederate paper in the hole and replaced the board. If they found the "treasure," they'd assume it was now worthless. I hid the coins in various places on and in my body and was soon lost in the misty night as I disappeared from the house.

I found a deserted home near the wharf and went in to make a temporary nest and slept. The next day I sought out the house of a family friend. They were gone, but it was being turned into a rooming house by an enterprising Northern interloper. (My God the scavengers were here already!) I selected a room and paid for a week.

Then I remembered what I had agreed with Pris. So I went to the Baptist Church and looked at the bulletin board. It was filled with notices of lost relatives and friends. But, Pris had attached a four-leaf shamrock to her most recent note, obviously written by someone else. It was more than a month old and the shamrock was withered, but I spotted it immediately. (As a boy, I had sought the illusive four-leaved variety for hours, and Pris had remembered.) The note had a simple address and date: 111 Foster, April 10, signed "P"--presumably two days after the historic surrender in Virginia.

So I walked to the address. It wasn't far from the wharfs. I soon knew why. I approached the place late in the afternoon. Tattered red awnings remained over the windows of a building that had been once pretentious, gaudy and grand. I walked up to the porch and pushed through the semi-open door and walked into a once-grand foyer. The place appeared to be deserted. Off to the left were the remains of a gaudy golden parlor--obviously a place for a certain kind of entertainment, redolent of smoke, spilled alcohol and semen. Perhaps once for Southern gentry, but more recently for Northern officers. Maybe, probably, it was livelier and looked better at night. I instantly wondered whether Hank had been here. No, never in a million years. Not Hank.

A man spoke from the shadows at the back of the hall, "Sir, please leave. We don't open until eight. Kindly come back then. We'll be happy to find you someone who will please you then. My girls need to sleep sometime." The diction was precise as was the grammar, but the subservient tone indicated a Southern slave.

I froze and didn't move to leave.

"Didn't you hear me? Are you deaf? Go away until eight. And then return only if you have the dollar of admission. We are not a charity. We are a business." This time the tone was commanding--and attempting to be authoritative.

Suddenly, it hit me. I had heard the voice before. "Is it you, Joshua? It's Bo."

"Bo Howell? I can't believe it. Yes, I am Joshua Howell."

"Joshua? Howell? What the fuck? What are you doing here? I'm looking for Priscilla. Surely you remember her."

"For the love og God, I remember her." He paused, sighed, and then began again, "She is not here. I had hired her several months ago to cook for the girls and clean this place. She died of the pox a few weeks ago. She was very special to me. I am still in mourning. Don't you remember me, Bo? Joshua?"

"Of course, I know who you are. But you look so different. By then he had moved out of the shadows. You are thin, emaciated even. Your face is lined. Your eyes are dull. You are not clad in the garments of a slave; that jacket is that of a gentleman. And you have scars on your arms. You were once a beautiful boy, with the clearest skin.... I'm sorry. I should know better than to make such observations."

"The last three years have been hard--and a joy. Your father sold me to the owner of this place. For years, I served the women who entertained men. And occasionally... well not occasionally, often, I was taken by a customer. Many were pretty rough. After awhile, I became one of the attractions, and a major source of his revenue. The owner took better care of me, a prized asset. And, I survived. The scars are old. And the emaciation is relatively new--since Sherman arrived. Food has been scarce and expensive. Before that, I had all the food I wanted."

"The owner disappeared a few weeks ago when rumors of Sherman's approach reached us. He left me in charge--and it is my duty to protect these women, feed them and see to their welfare. As of a few days ago, our customers have begun to revisit. Once they were Southern gentlemen or would-be gentlemen, often in their cups. Well-dressed, well-mannered. Knew the rules and followed them."

"Now we have the officers from the North. And no doubt soon, the unwashed hoards of bluecoats will be at our doors. If they have the cash, I'll admit them. But, I'm not sure I can control them--or please them. Only four "girls" are left. Girls. HaHa. They are all now over fifty and deserve a rest. I have no idea where I might find more."

"Soon this place will be closed. I'm not sure what will happen to me then. But, until then, I shall do my duty."

"Can I do anything, Joshua? I am apparently a free man now, with the right to travel. As are you. But, I'm guessing that your freedom is mostly illusory. Maybe the Northern interlopers will change that."

"Pris left a bag for you. I knew you would be coming for it. Or at least I hoped. It is good to see you, Bo. You look well, well-fed, well-groomed and clean. Oh, to be clean again! The water has been off for a week, and who knows when it will be restored. So we are left with sponge baths using water from the river."

"But, Joshua, haven't you heard? You are a free man. You are not bound to this place. I am sure you will find work. You are strong and clever."

"You jest, Bo. Doing what? As a boy, I was a houseboy. There is little call for such service today. So, I have only one profession--to provide a receptacle for another man's pleasure. And only one duty--to care for these helpless women."

"We shall see, Joshua. This is not the end for either of us. Now that the war is over, we are free to travel--former slaves and even former POWs like me. All it takes is cash. I intend to return to Howellwood. I don't know how or when. But, if you wish, I will take you with me. It will be better there."

"Only if the girls can come as well. And only if you see me as a free man--and your equal."

"I am not sure what Momma, or even Daddy, would say to housing four former prostitutes. And what would they do there anyway? But, none of us can predict the future at this time. Perhaps my folks are already gone. I've heard nothing from the plantation for almost six months. Will you come if I can manage it?"

"Yes, with the girls,--and I do have some money. Most is worthless Confederate paper, but for the last year, the owner has required payment in gold--and I have set aside my share for unfortunate times--and these indeed are unfortunate times."

"I also have found some gold. And, I've already started looking for a small boat that will take me up the river. I shall be back. Joshua, your days of selling your body are over." I stepped into him and squeezed him tightly to my body. He was thin, very thin, but the contours were almost familiar, and the hardening shaft that poked into my gut was certainly familiar. He held me tightly and did not release. Maybe, there might be something there? At least one part of him remembered the times we had had together. Maybe again someday. Could he make me forget Hank? My cock was already hardening.

I backed off to leave, knowing that if I stayed any more, I'd be in his bed.

"Come back tonight, Bo. I'll be happy to take care of that for you. No charge." He smiled and blew me a kiss.

TBC

BD