Savannah Affair Ch. 06

Savannah Affair Part 06

Bo and Joshua Return to Howellwood

This story is fiction--as any student of the history of the Civil War will attest. I strongly suggest that you read the first chapters before this one. This story is all about character--a young man originally very 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-o- man sex. It has rocked his world. All characters in this story are over 18. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

12

Bo's voice...

The last months have been the most tumultuous in my life. Hank (my captor and interrogator, a Bostonian captain in the Union Army, Captain Henry Morris, USA) had taken me from my prison cell to his bed and made love to me--it wasn't sex, it was love. In the afternoon before, on the rack, I had seduced him and coached him to fuck me in the hopes I might get some advantage. Always before I had been successful in using my physical attractiveness and cock size, but always as a top. But, I knew there was no way that I would convince him to let me fuck him. It was simply outside his lifestyle. Even if I was confident that one experience with me would change his mind.

So, I had given him my adult anal virginity in the hopes of buying my freedom. He certainly seemed worthy of it. He had the potential--and the equipment--to become a legendary lover. We had terrific sex, but not earth-moving (at least for me). And I wasn't exactly sure what I had accomplished.

But later that night, things were very different. He was smitten. And anxious. And ready. He had come to my cell and escorted me to his bed. Our copulation was hot and incredibly enjoyable. I actually enjoyed feeling secure in his arms as his talented cock stimulated me to orgasm. He was tender, loving, and incredibly talented. He had converted me. I was his, not for self-preservation, but because my lust was turning to love. So, I was looking forward to several more days in which I could weave a web of spell around him. I was prepared to let him do me a few more times before I wormed my way into his hole. He would be my security in these unsettled times. And maybe we could even foresee a future together. Stranger pairings had occurred!

Everything had changed the next day. It (I) was taken out of his hands. He was commanded to do other things. We never spoke another word. In fact, I didn't even see him. Two guards had roused me at dawn, marched me to a barge and whisked me off to the POW facility at a former school. One had noted that the cells were needed for real potential informants--with information to end the war. The incoming barge had brought several captured officers of the Confederate Army. General Sherman himself was due for inspection and might even participate in the interrogation.

It all happened so suddenly that it is doubtful that the guards had reported our liaison and turned on Hank. It was just coincidence.

But his departure without a farewell--but with the gift of my survival in the POW camp (due to his recommendation, commending my cooperation) left me totally in the dark. The end of the war, the closing of the camp and the freeing of all prisoners (including me), and my accidental discovery of Joshua, my first sex partner, in Savannah had all occurred within weeks thereafter. All this left me confused, inadequate and needy.

I am now alone in Savannah, living by my wits and intelligence (and the small stash of gold that Daddy had hidden in our carriage house). Somehow I had convinced myself that getting out of Savannah and getting back to my boyhood home, Howellwood, would somehow restore my fortunes. My days there had been idyllic, and my last year there had been spent with Joshua, a Negro house-boy, one year my senior. It had been wonderful--a time that I would never forget. I had handled his prodigious cock often, watching in wonder as it grew and spurted. Then I had filled him every day, sometimes more than once. He had become my big, live sex toy. It had been the happiest year of my life. Now I had met him again. I had noted the spark--even after almost five years.

He had been sold by Daddy to a brothel in Savannah where he had lived for a long time, exposed daily to the best and the worst of human sexuality. No doubt he had changed--and he now seemed to be in charge and with a deep sense of responsibility for the women under his care. When he and I hugged after only a few minutes of conversation, he was already sporting a semi. He did remember. And he invited me back. So maybe... But, then there was the memory of Hank--which had indeed changed me to the core.

Hank had suggested that rice-growing plantations, like ours, had been spared destruction to provide food for the Union troops. And I knew we were out of the direct path of Sherman's destructive march to Savannah. So, I pinned my hopes on the survival of Howellwood.

I spent the next few days wandering along the quays, seeking a boat large enough to carry me, Joshua and his four female charges upriver the 100 miles to home. (I couldn't believe that I had agreed when Joshua insisted that his duty required him to help those women, but I realized if I refused, he wouldn't come either. And deep down, I needed some link with the past, and I thought that I might want to rekindle our young relationship--after I cleaned him up and fattened him a little, that is.) Beyond that, I could not plan. I really knew nothing--except that I had to get home. With Joshua, if possible. The thought that Hank might seek me out after the truce didn't even occur to me. We had been together for only five days and joined together for less than a day. We lived in different worlds, connected only by the pleasures he had given me with his magic wand.

The next day out on the quay, I discovered that the old Savannah Baths had reopened, not to their previous splendor, but with plenty of warm water, soap and the promise of normalcy. I went in and inquired. Yes, they were open, and yes, men and women were being admitted, to separate chambers of course--and Negroes as well--through the back entrance and to separate rooms and pools, in the older part of the building. The attendant even assured me that the waters of the various pools were not in any way commingled. I need not worry! And the cost was only a few pennies per person. I hurried back to the brothel and escorted Joshua and the four women to the baths. An hour later, we parted, but I could tell that their spirits had been raised by the baths. And Joshua already looked like a new man.

After the bath, I dared to put on some of the clothes that Priscilla had packed in the carpetbags before my arrest and incarceration by the Yanks. (Joshua had given me the two bags when we had met a few days before.) Priscilla had chosen well. She anticipated that I would be trying to seduce the Captain--and so she had chosen my sexiest undergarments and most attractive blouses, knickers, a waistcoat, and a morning coat. You would have thought that I was headed for a ball rather than the brig! But donning those clothes for my daily foray onto the quay cheered me and gave me confidence. And it brought some interesting stares. Most of the folks were workers, repairing boats, loading or unloading others, pushing carts filled with sacks of grain and other foods.

The commerce on the quay was slowly recovering. There were many military vessels--and they all needed repairs and provisioning. And a few smaller merchant vessels began to appear, now that the blockade had ended, mostly seeking vainly for the traditional cargo exports for Europe--cotton, tobacco, rice, indigo.

Dressed as I was, I was immediately taken as a man of importance, means and influence. Clothes do make the man. They are the most effective advertising a man has. And the big embroidered codpiece of my britches certainly advertised me as a man of substance. I guess it didn't occur to me that I was presenting to many as a male prostitute.

One afternoon, I struck up a conversation with an agent for one of the smaller vessels. That day I was dressed as a gentleman of means and power, and the agent had called to me as I passed. "Young Sir, please forgive my boldness, but might you know of any friends with a crop of rice or indigo that has escaped the destruction?" I had no idea why he had chosen me or asked that question. His voice was not from the South, nor the North--perhaps he was British or French--I really couldn't tell the difference. The coincidence was great, but I decided to play along. There were many scams afoot, so caution was demanded. I decided to play superior.

"Hello. I suppose that such questions without prior introduction are now customary as Savannah is now under Northern control--and manners. May I ask your name,, your ancestry, your reason for being in Savannah, and which vessels are under contract to you?"

"The name is Joseph Banks, of London. I represent six vessels, all owned by the London West India Company, but for the moment, only one, the Heloise, is expected in port later today or tomorrow, ready for cargo. I've been searching for cargo for a few days, but none of the agents with whom I previously dealt on the quay are here. Their shops are all shuttered. And the warehouses appear to be empty. Thus, I have no references and no contacts. So I must think about going to the source--if such a source exists--to start again. Have you heard any rumors? I can pay well for valuable information. It has been years since we have been able to find indigo, and it will have great value in Leominster--for the cloth weavers."

"Let's find a place to sit and have a drink. I may have something interesting, but I need to have some evidence of your bona fides before I say anything more." He seemed wary, assuming I guessed that I would proposition him with sex, but he really had little alternative.

We moved to an old tavern that had just reopened. They had no spirits, but had just received a few barrels of ale. We sat and talked--for over two hours, progressively revealing more and more. He produced letters of introduction on elaborately embossed stationery, and a passport attesting to the fact that he was "A Subject of His Majesty the King." He was very talkative--and I think mesmerized by me. My seduction had begun successfully.

At last it seemed that we had determined that we could deal with each other. Both of us more out of desperation than total trust--although I sensed that he perhaps wanted more than information from me.

I identified myself--and Mr. Banks knew of Howellwood and our production of indigo. I told him that I had been informed by a high ranking Union intelligence officer that Howellwood had been spared destruction and was still in production.

(I was a little more certain in my promise than I really expected, and I knew the "production" was likely rice, not indigo. I knew that we grew indigo in alternate years to refresh the soil--but in different fields each year. The resulting dye was valuable, stored in small barrels, typically in a cellar--or a whole in the ground, covered by timbers and reeds. So I really had no idea whether there was any indigo left. But, in business one is not required to reveal the quality and cleanliness of one's undergarments.)

"Knowing my father, I expect that he has hidden at least one season of indigo product. As you know, our product is the finest and sought by the finest cloth weavers." (I knew nothing of the kind, but...)

Banks bit. Maybe he had no choice. Or maybe I was a good tradesman. Or liar. Or maybe they are the same.

"Howellwood is 100 miles upriver. At this time of year, when the River is running low, the trip takes a steam-driven vessel about a day, two at the most. I have had no word from Daddy recently. But, if you wish, I would show you the way. And introduce you to Daddy. My price is one-way passage for six individuals to Howellwood. I can promise no product or price. I leave those negotiations to my father, Beau Howell, who is known as fair, but tough. But, I must go now. I have another appointment. Apparently others are seeking cargoes. I'll return here to the quay at around this time. Let me know then if you wish to take up the offer."

I could tell he was hesitating, trying to determine how much I had said was bluster and how much might be true. I stared into his eyes with all the sincerity that I could muster, and I saw the glint. He had decided.

Then I looked over at the quay, and his eyes followed mine as I did. "Ahha, another agent that I remember from the past. You'll excuse me, please. Daddy has sent word to me here to find potential customers, and he's advised me that old friends are preferred. If you wish to talk further, we can have lunch tomorrow--perhaps at the Crystal Room--I'm told it has re-opened. Shall we say one o'clock?"

I think he would have committed at that second, but later he might have regrets. I was pretty sure I had hooked him. So, I quickly walked up to the man that I had pointed to and asked directions. He was well-dressed, appeared prosperous, and his eyes shot up at being accosted on the quay by someone he didn't know. He was about to turn away. I had been too forward, it seems. But then his eyes swept over my clothes (which were old, but in great condition, and a little flashier than most of the post-war outfits being worn), pausing at my bulging crotch. He was intrigued--and maybe interested. So he stopped and began. His answer was complex--I had asked about an obscure location quite far away--and he seemed to be awfully interested in me and my body--so it lasted for some time. By the end of his peroration, he was clearly wondering about the possibilities. Finally, I thanked him and took his hand. He took mine while another wound behind me and drew me into an embrace. Now, I knew I had him. But, did I want him? Well, at least for the present purposes. So we walked off toward the town center, his arm around my shoulders as he whispered a proposition into my ear. Banks, I'm sure, did catch it all.

I managed to part a few hundred yards down the quay, with the excuse of a pressing engagement. "Shall we meet for dinner..."

"The name is Bo Howell, sir."

"Yes, Bo, shall we meet for dinner? My name is Thomas O'Malley. I am staying at the Savannah Grand--really not so grand anymore, but quite acceptable, and with a functioning kitchen."

I thought for just a moment. Thomas O'Malley? Possibly the son or younger brother of someone my father had caroused with in Savannah in better times. The O'Malley's had a plantation upriver from ours, on the Augusta side. A good meal and a night on clean sheets in a decent room. Why not? "I think I might be available--if you dine late, that is. I have a few appointments before then."

"Shall we say eight?"

"I shall see you then."

Both of us suspected that our date was not only for dinner. But when times are bad, some things become more important

Then, I left and went the Red Awning to talk with Joshua. I explained everything and asked him to be ready for travel the next day. I saw the joy in his eyes. "You are our savior. What can I ever do to repay you?" He rose quickly from the gold damask-covered settee and pulled me into his arms. We kissed as hands trailed over each other's body, and the room seemed to heat.

Then he pushed me back into the settee and started to unlace and unbutton my britches. I should have told him to stop. Things were so different from five years ago when I would have welcomed his mouth artistry. I whispered out, "No. Please Joshua. I can't have you do this."

He paid no attention, and I said no more. It had been weeks since I had had a good release. Seconds later I felt his lips coaxing my semi-hard cock to its potential. He sat back on his knees and stared, "You indeed have one of the largest and most beautiful cocks in Savannah. And I've seen many, believe me."

And seconds after that I was thrusting up from the couch into his throat as his fingers wormed their way under my balls to stroke and tease my taint. Oh the incredible pleasure of practiced finger tips massaging my most sensitive place! His tongue worked its magic as his fingers cradled and caressed my balls. I drove into his face, fucking him with all I had. His mouth was so hot and moist! "Fuck, I'm cumming! Too fast! Too much!" I felt the movement of my seed and automatically spasmed and pushed further into his throat. And at the split second before I shot, I felt his two long fingers press hard into my hole, touching the prostate while the heel of that hand pressed at the base of my cock. The constriction of the tube was both torture and exquisite pleasure. Joshua had developed some fine talents at the Red Awning. Then, I reached out and held his head tight and exploded a load of creamy spunk deep inside; then another and another. With the last I had stiffened and my ass had risen from the settee. He caught my cheeks, squeezed them tightly while a finger or two remained deep inside. And finally I collapsed back as Joshua slowly pulled back, smiling with a load of my cream dripping from the corners of his mouth.

"Ah. Tasty as always. And nutritious. I look forward to our trip, Bo. My first and only love has rescued me from ruin. I am yours forever. Whatever you want. Whenever you want it. I will always be your slave."

At that moment, my head was swirling as I returned to earth. I looked into his eyes and saw love. Yes, he would serve me. Perhaps forever. I knew that I did not love him despite the depth of our affection. He had been my first. Perhaps one of the best. It would be good to have him by my side. But not as a full permanent partner. He was, after all, a black and now a "former" slave. Then, almost immediately Hank's image flashed before me. He alone had taken me--and I had never had the chance to take him. I'm sure that if I had, he would be in Savannah now looking for me. It was a wistful moment. A dream. Not worth my pursuit. Joshua, on the other hand, was here and very much real.

13

It was by then late and I had an appointment at the Savannah Grand Hotel. I cleaned up and re-dressed carefully. I wasn't sure what I wanted from the stranger who had unknowing helped me to make my case to Bankst--the probable engineer of our travel to Howellwood. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight was tonight. Certainly, it would be my first good meal in months. And the promise of clean sheets and another bath were exciting. If I had to fuck him to make it happen, why not? We're all whores now anyway if only to survive. Joshua has proven it. And Sherman has seen to it.

It was only a few blocks to the hotel--everything in Savannah is close. The air was warm and moist. So I walked slowly so as not be appear anxious or sweaty when I arrived. I entered, nodding to the black doorman, who, I guessed, was now an employee, and walked to the main dining room which I knew well. I approached the maitre'd. "Mr. Howell. Mr O'Malley is expecting me."

"Right this way, Sir. He has taken a private table. (The back and one side of the dining room contained booths with draw-able drapes to shield them from the larger dining room. My Daddy and others had often taken their trysts to these tables before the War.) I was sure now that O'Malley wanted me. But, what did I want?

I was escorted to the table, and when he saw us coming, O'Malley stood and did a quick bow-nod, like a gentleman. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Howell. Please sit." He had arranged the tableware so that both of us would be sitting side by side on the back of the banquette, looking out. He slid in beside me as the steward dropped the curtains with a knowing glance at O'Malley.

Tom had just showered or bathed obviously. His curly dark hair was moist and fell over his tanned forehead. Bright blue eyes promised mischief, as did the bow-tie lips. He was perfumed. Quite handsome in an effete sort of way. Sharp, yet soft; clean-shaven, perhaps powdered. Dressed in a fashionable three-piece white linen suit, hanging loose over his big, apparently muscular frame, but tight across the waist and crotch. It had been tailored carefully to his spec. An erection would show immediately before stretching comfortably into the roomier linen fabric covering his thighs. He was pulling out all the stops. Being a seducer myself, I knew all the signs.

"I've ordered for us. I hope you don't mind. Raw oysters, steak-rare, Lyonnaise potatoes and a green salad. I'll let you choose the dessert later." (With the latter phrase he grinned slyly. Fuck, could he be any more obvious?)

We engaged in small talk. I learned he was essentially my peer--the youngest son of a planter who knew Daddy. He was unsure of the status of their place, but he had heard it had survived. He was in Savannah, as he had been for a few years, to act as middle-man for the products of the plantation. For weeks before Sherman's arrival, he had been converting assets to gold which had been smuggled out to London via Barbados only days before the siege. (I thought that this revelation was rather indiscreet. That was illegal. The Union would pay for such information--it might even be his ransom.

He wasn't married. He had avoided service in the Confederate Army because of an unspecified congenital issue. And he had been looking for someone--like me--to socialize with in Savannah.

I briefly outlined my history and situation--leaving out any mention of my imprisonment, the Red Awning or my plan to travel to Howellwood in a day or so.

The food was delivered, and it would be obvious to remark that the aphrodisiac raw oysters were consumed sensually. He actually fed one to me. Half-way through his hand rested on my thigh. After the last were consumed, it had moved to the inner thigh and the tops of his fingers were brushing my semi. I said nothing, but, I did work a hand into his lap and began to massage the soft sausage that I found there. As expected, it began to grow. It didn't seem over-large. Throughout, Thomas (call me "Tom"), continued to sweep his tongue around the oyster shells as he smiled lasciviously. (Oh, to have that tongue washing my rim.)

The steaks were served--and unfortunately, we needed two hands to consume the main course since the steak was tough, but his thigh maintained close contact with mine. He was hot and clearly ready.

As the waiter removed the spent dishes, Tom whispered, "I think we should have dessert upstairs in my room, don't you." He reached under the tablecloth and fisted my cock--in the unlikely event that I didn't understand his intention. It was by then hot and rigid. He pulled back like a child who had stuck his hand in the fire. He breathed deeply and his eyes widened. "Fuck, you are a big one. That codpiece you wore yesterday was not false advertising."

Then, sure of myself, I smiled and replied, "Of course, Tom. That's a good idea. But, you should know that I am a confirmed top. And I never bottom on the first date. I wouldn't want to go upstairs under false pretenses. We can consider this evening over if you wish."

He paused for only a second. He was a bottom; I knew it. "That can be arranged. Let's go." He called for the check, signed and we moved to the stairs. As we walked out of the restaurant, several heads turned, but this is the South--even if most of the diners were blue-coated officers from the North. No one said a word or tried to stop us.

We entered his room where he had ordered a tray with berries and cream. "Shall we get comfortable, Bo?" He was already stripping out of his jacket, pants, waistcoat and silk shirt as he spoke. He had a nice body: modest muscles, thin but not emaciated, cleanly shaven, and a smallish cock, the size of a nice Cuban cigar--long, but thin. His pubes were shaved to a short curly halo. Then, naked, he bent to pick everything up to deposit it all on the valet. His ass was big, plump, round, shaved (or perhaps he had no hair there at all) and pink. I followed, and as I pulled the silk drawers slowly down, he gasped at the size. "Oh my. That is a trophy. I'm not sure I can take it all. But, I am ready to try. You'll need to be gentle." He moved into me and fisted it. "Fuck, it's bigger around than my hand. What did they feed you in Howellwood?"

"I think we can have some fun trying. I'll go slow. And I'm not inexperienced, Tom. I presume you have some lube."

He moved to his open valise and pulled out a large tube which he threw on the turned-down feather bed. Then he moved into me and embraced. We were almost the same height. One hand went to my waist; the other went behind my head as he pulled me into a deep soul kiss. It lasted and lasted. Fuck, he could kiss! Both of my hands went to his ass cheeks to massage those soft, pillowy melons. I pulled him hard into me, and he gasped at the size of my erect cock.

He knelt, used fingers to draw back my hood, and took my cockhead inside. Those lips and that tongue were good for kissing, but they were great for taking my manhood. I was hard and leaking within less than a minute. Fortunately, Joshua had taken the top off only a few hours before. So I lasted and continued thrusting into him, reducing him to a whimpering cum dump.

"Let's take this to the bed."

It was time for me to take the lead. I pushed him toward the bed and over the edge, belly down. Then I kicked his legs apart, used my fingers to spread and dove in. The pink rose was clean and perfumed with mint. He had expected this apparently and prepared himself. My tongue circled the rim and plunged. He loved it. He pushed up into me asking for depth. My lubed finger entered and swirled around as he moaned. Then it was joined with another. I found the nut and began to stroke it. His legs stiffened, his gut drew in and his back arched to invite still more. So I tried a third and finally a fourth after he begged me fuck him hard. I sawed a few times as he pushed back into me each time. Finally, I positioned my lubed rigid member at his hole. Pressure and a little more. The rose resisted, then opened enough. I slipped through. "Fuck, you're so big. So big," he gasped. But he held steady and less than a minute later he signaled.

I pushed again and slipped in another two or three inches. He was so tight, yet, once in, he was so smooth and soft, like a soft caress, a silken pouch. My head touched his nut, and he groaned, "Yes, Bo, right there, again, please." I tapped again before using my thighs to deepen. And a few minutes later, I had bottomed, filling the chute completely, crowding the prostate. "Oh, my god, that is so good. I'm so full." Finally, after another short pause, I backed out and started the repeated pounding as my hands held his cheeks apart to get me deeper and deeper. He gave easily, so my hands moved to his shoulders to hold him in place as I pounded.

I could feel the end coming. So I stretched out on his back and planted my hands on his windpipe. Just as I shouted my release, I compressed. His moans silenced, and then he shot with me, filling the sheet with his cum--squeezing my cock inside--as I filled him with mine.

It wasn't the best fuck I've ever had, but the softest and the deepest. Finally, I pulled out, motioned him to the pillow and climbed in behind him. I pushed his beefy thigh forward and plunged again to plug my seed inside. Minutes later, I was hard again. So I took him from the side as I pinched his tits until he squealed in pleasure and fisted his stiff cigar. We did manage to cum again. Then he murmured, "You're quite good, if I do say so, Bo. Stay the night. We can do this again. In fact, if you need a place to stay in Savannah, my home is available. I'm expecting it will be restored to us by the end of the week. Daddy authorized the bribe a few days ago. And I'd be available anytime."

Fuck, twice in one day, I'd been promised the everyday availability of a cum dump. Maybe I've chosen the wrong profession. What profession had I chosen anyway?

The next morning, I luxuriated in a bath, had a lavish breakfast in the room with Tom, fucked him again, "borrowed" some clothes--claiming that I had a business meeting and needed something different from my "night" outfit, and left for my meeting with Mr. Banks. As I walked to the restaurant, I felt in my pocket--and drew out a gold coin. Fuck, Tom had paid me. He had sensed my desperation, perhaps my destitution. First you're a whore; then you're a paid whore. But he had bottomed--so it must be the kind of boy he wanted to be.

14

My lunch with Banks was exactly as I had planned. He was more than anxious to travel with me (and my five guests) up river to Howellwood. The Heloise had docked that morning and could be ready to depart the next day on the tide--about eleven a. m. I hemmed a bit about a potential deal with O'Malley, and then he dropped the prize-winner. Heloise has molasses and rum on board. I can tell them to leave a few barrels of each as a gift to your father. And ee would sell him the rest if he is interested, or barter as necessary. Is there anything else he might need? I thought quickly. "Maybe some chickens, a pig or two, and some sheep. I'm guessing that the Yanks stole all his livestock. I'm sure he'll pay--and if not, I will." Banks quickly agreed. He even knew where to get the animals.

He seemed at the edge of inviting me to his hotel. Fuck, it must be in the air. Or am I that obvious? But, before he could ask, I begged off, pleading other affairs to conclude before leaving Savannah, but leaving open the possibility of something on the Heloise during the journey.

And so immediately after, I walked to the Red Awning and informed Joshua. He was excited, called the "girls" together, and instructed them on what they should bring--mostly sturdy, simple clothes, boots, at least one "party" outfit including dancing shoes, silky under-things were okay--they didn't take much room and would be a reminder of better days--and whatever keepsakes they couldn't live without. He pointed to four large trunks. One each for you. Fill them as you need to. None of them had ever been on a vessel before, and so there were many frightened questions. I learned later that each of them had packed several "party dresses"--in anticipation of better days, perhaps. Or maybe as security blankets.

Then, I went back to my room, packed and returned to the Red Awning for the night. I had decided that I would sleep with Joshua again.

I had pushed Hank entirely out of my consciousness. Fuck, within 24 hours, I had been propositioned by three men, had been blown by one and had fucked another many times. Good times were rolling again. Bo Howell was back in circulation. I was confident that Hank would soon be a distant remembrance. A night with Joshua always picked up my spirits. He seemed to enjoy what I did to him, and taking a guy with such prodigious equipment was always an ego-booster. I was looking forward to the upcoming night--and the days that might follow.

TBC

BD