Savannah Affair Ch. 08

Savannah Affair Part 08

A Few Weeks in Savannah After the Harvest

This story is fiction--as any student of the history of the Civil War and the Post-war period will attest. I strongly suggest that you read the first chapters before this one. All characters in this story are over 18. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

17

Joshua and I have been at Howellwood for just about a year after the end of the War. We had planted rice in the old proven paddies by the Savannah River during the spring floods, share-cropping with many of those who had been slaves on the plantation before the War. The arrangement was new, but the planting techniques were timeworn. The primitive irrigation dikes, sluices and paddies had worked. The planting had been back-breaking with so few to plant. But, the resulting crop was large and of fine quality since everyone had worked so hard and long--and the weather had cooperated for once.

I had also secretly planted several fields of indigo (a plant which yielded a valuable purple dye prized by the cloth weaving mills of England), paying hourly wages to a few trusted workers to help plant "my" crop. I knew there would be a market for the rice, but couldn't predict the price. Given the War, I presumed there would be a shortage and prices would be high. And I had promised Banks an indigo supply. He had maintained contact to ensure that I remembered him. Both crops were successful and had been harvested, the dried rice now in bags and the indigo, after drying in the rafters of the barn, would soon be in barrels, both stored in the old barn.

I had contacted an agent in Savannah, and the rice had been sold at significant profit. Apparently we were among only a few plantations that managed to recover so quickly after the devastation of the War. Two vessels were needed to load the sacks of rice; they were headed up the Savannah River at that moment to load the cargo. And Banks would be arriving soon to pick up his allocation of indigo. Howellwood was back on the map, so to speak. The last vessel, The Heloise, a steam galleon, that had provided me with my first break after the War, was calling in about a month to pick up the indigo.

I was feeling very pleased indeed. And tomorrow afternoon, after the boats left with the bagged rice crop, I had decreed a giant barbeque and picnic for all the workers. A three-piece band was riding in from Augusta. The rice barn floor would be swept as the bags were removed as a dance floor. It was to be the first celebration at the plantation since the War, and the first ever with former slaves as "guests." I even broke out one of the barrels of rum that Banks had left a year ago.

I was being treated as a local hero. Unlike my father, who had been ruthless and often cruel, I was more easy-going, laboring side by side with the others, like a Daddy or benevolent leader to all who were living at Howellwood. I had learned their names and complimented those whose work was exemplary. I had worked out share-crop arrangements with the new tenants, tough but reasonable considering what my neighbors (now, mostly Northern interlopers) were doing. Secretly, I was quite proud of the transition that I had engineered--and I owed at least some of the credit to Joshua who had spoken for the former slaves.

There was only one melancholy note to all of this. My relationship with Joshua, my first and boyhood love, had strained. At first, our couplings tapered off as Joshua began to make the rounds of the younger women in the former slave quarters, and had bedded down with some of the younger workers who had sought employment with us. I knew that he needed to top--and it was something that I just could not bring myself to permit him to do with me. Then it had almost ceased when an attractive, young, dark-skinned, African applied for work. There was an immediate spark. And over the last month, Joshua seemed to be frequently "entertaining" the handsome, muscled buck at the foreman's cottage. At first, I assumed the young guy was partaking of the gifts of Joshua's girls. But, it soon became clear that the liaisons were between the two young men. Joshua, it seemed, had a new lover, presumably one who could give him what he needed and deserved.

At the party, which went on until dawn, I announced that I was going to Savannah for a week or so. I had been invited by another planter who was hosting the first debutante ball since the end of the War--something that had been commonplace during the winters before the War. Six young Southern Belles were to be presented. They had almost all been in Europe during the War with their Momma's, and were ripe and ready to retake a place in Southern society. Given my past, which was dotted with young men and slave women, it was time for me to find a bride for Howellwood. Winter was beginning and there was little work on the farm. The harvests were in. The paddies had been bedded down for the winter. The indigo was drying--and Banks and The Heloise weren't due to pick up their cargo for a month.

18

I started to pack, but really didn't have the kind of clothes that one wore to a deb ball in the South. In fact, I didn't have any clothes at all, save the rough homespun pants and shirts that we made for ourselves on the farm--it was all we needed. I wasn't a gentleman; I was a farmer. And, in the year that I had been at plantation, I had thickened my thighs, broadened my chest and enlarged my arms. Nothing fit. I wasn't a lightly muscled playboy anymore. My young body had been the product of exercise and vanity. Now it was the work. I was a muscled man of labor and the earth. So I decided to leave a few days early, hoping to find one of the haberdashers open so I could do a bit of shopping. I hoped that within the next year or so, I could resume our pre-War pattern--spending a few months in the winter in Savannah "being social." If I decided to marry, that would become an essential part of my life. Somehow it sounded hollow and boring at the time, but it might grow on me.

There were a few steamers operating again on the Savannah River, and, downstream, the journey took only a day. We raised the flag at the end of the dock which signaled the next steamer passing by to stop for a passenger or freight. One of the farm hands brought news the next day that a steamer was edging up to the repaired dock. So I left that morning, leaving Joshua in charge for what needed to be done. He hugged me and wished me Godspeed. I didn't even detect any regret that he wasn't coming with me.

I had time to become retrospective on the steamer. I was no longer a boy without cares, a boy who casually seduced anyone that I fancied, any boy or girl at all. I was now the owner of Howellwood with responsibilities for dozens of farmers working my land. Joshua was no longer mine. And the Captain had not reappeared. I now had the time to reinvent myself. What did I really want from life? The answers didn't come easily.

I arrived in Savannah in the evening and went immediately to our former townhouse. I didn't really expect to stay there--the furniture was gone and it would probably be in bad shape after the Union Army had used it for quarters. I was surprised, however. It had been cut up into three or maybe four flats, and it was occupied by folks that I did not recognize, presumably squatters. The entire neighborhood seemed to be a checkerboard of reclaimed townhouses and unrepaired places filled with refugees from the countryside who had lost their homes and livelihood to Sherman. I was alone, with no papers, and it was late. So, I decided not to attempt an intervention. I'd see our family lawyer before I left to see whether there was any chance that I could recover our property. I was about to head to the Savannah Grande Hotel--since I really couldn't face trying to find Daddy or his brother yet. He hadn't written in the year since he had left Howellwood. I wasn't even sure he was still alive. Frankly, he and I had never been particularly close anyway.

Then, I had an idea. I would call on Thomas O'Malley. He had invited me to stay with him in Savannah, a year ago when we had spent the night at the Savannah Grande. I had fucked his brains out for the entire night, and in the morning, he had professed that he was in love. He was a professed bottom, a bit feminine, and very vocal about what I was doing to him. Not someone that I could take often--but occasionally. He was a different kind of meal, filled with pastries and sweets, not the meat of life.

Surely he'd be in Savannah for the "season," and, given our days spent together a year ago, I was pretty sure he welcome me. I was not wrong. I approached the house, not unlike ours in size, but clearly in repair and prosperous. There was a doorman, black of course, and presumably now a paid employee. He announced me to Tom who rushed from his office and pulled me into the foyer and an embrace. "I didn't think you'd ever take me up on my offer." He was dressed in colorful silks--a billowy shirt, a frockcoat and a voluminous tie at his neck--and perfumed. His hair was perfect and I detected a bit of makeup. And that ass! It was as wide and soft as I remembered. It would be a pleasure to use it properly.

"I'm here to attend one of the balls. And maybe purchase a few new outfits."

"Fuck, you've filled out, Bo. You are definitely now a man of distinction." He tapped my swollen hard chest, spun me around and drooled over my muscular legs. Then he pulled me close and whispered a question, "Did anything else grow, Bo? I hope so. Not that you were deficient in any way, but my needs have continued to mature."

"I'm afraid that what you see is what you get, Tom. But, I will show you the rest later, if you want, and let you decide. Can you spare a bed for a week or so?"

"Gee, with all the relatives here for the first post-War season, I don't think we have a spare room. But, you're welcome to bunk with me if you can stand me."

"That will be fine, Tom. I think I might even enjoy that."

He shouted to the uniformed maid at the top of the stairs, "Girl, draw Mr. Howell a hot bath. In my bathroom. He's obviously been traveling and needs to shed the stink of the rivah."

Then turning to me, he added, "We'll have dinner after you've had a chance to clean up. Now, while she does that, come into my office and tell me what's been going on." Before I could utter a word, he sat me on a sofa and moved behind the desk--I guess that I did have the "stink" of the "rivah." He began again, "You probably know that we had to buy back our farm from a Yankee interloper who claimed that he had paid the back taxes and now owned it by forfeiture. It was all a lie, but he bought off the judges and we were forced to pay. Daddy decided to stay and try to raise a crop next year. I understand he's found enough workers, but it's not clear whether we'll have a market. As to me, I'm staying here. It's much more suitable for a man of my simple, non-agrarian tastes."

(I thought, "Simple, non-agrarian tastes? Fuck, he's a dandy, and even more of a flamboyant bottom than when we were together a year ago.")

"The rumor is that you have brought in a good crop and that Howellwood was spared the embarrassment of Sherman's march and a Yankee taking over."

"We were lucky. Sherman did not cross the river. It probably would have slowed him down too much. So we were spared his torches and cannonballs. And afterwards, Daddy probably chased anyone with such an idea off--with a few blasts of his shotgun. He's left Howellwood. He's here in the city now. I think staying with a brother--if the rowdy occupiers of our townhouse didn't kill him when he confronted them. The plantation belongs to me now. I'm a planter--and we've just brought in and sold our first crop. And I guess the townhouse is too, if I can manage to wrest it back from the squatters."

"I haven't heard about him in the city. But, we did have to ransom this place back from the Union Army. They claimed they had "saved" it from the Great Fire (which they had set) and were entitled to recompense. Thank God, Daddy had had the foresight to send our gold to Barbados before the War and never invested in that worthless Confederate paper."

"Now tell me. You are going to a deb ball? Have you changed your mind again about your sex life? Are you really looking for a bride? Are you taking up like your Daddy, with a sweet wife in a separate bedroom, popping out heirs, with a roster of young black bucks and pretty little things on the side? I didn't think that was you, Bo. Maybe I'm wrong?"

"I'll tell you all about it later. There is no one for me at Howellwood except the black boy that grew up there with me. And it simply wouldn't do to take up with him. I can play around and use his ass, but nothing more permanent is going to happen. I think he's found someone like himself anyway. Good for him. And boys like us aren't exactly prized upriver, if you know what I mean. I've at least go to try to live a normal life--if that is even possible after the War."

"So maybe I can convince you to stay here with me. I'd like that Bo. We can talk about those possibilities. Go get your bath. I'll set out some clothes that will probably fit you, and we can visit my guy tomorrow. On second thought, just go into my wardrobe and take what seems to please you."

The bath was luxurious--everything about the O'Malley townhouse was luxurious. The water was hot and bubbly, perfumed with sandalwood and cedar. Thankfully, Tom had not subjected me to one of his floral concoctions. This almost smelled like a man--a gentleman. His room was warm and brightly lit. Tom's "man" shaved me, trimmed my longish hair, and even touched up my pubics--a luxury that I hadn't had in a year. Then he led me to Tom's closet which was filled with a riot of colorful silks. I chose carefully, black britches that fit me like a glove and a billowy white shirt, which I left unbuttoned below my deeply tanned and rock hard pecs. A tuft of ginger hair pushed out at the top of the open shirt. No vest or jacket. We weren't going out, I presumed. Then, I slipped into cloth house shoes, embroidered of course. I was not so flamboyant as Tom, but I did present a decent image of a man who know his way around a bedroom--or a brothel. My only indulgence--I tied my hair at the back with a blood orange leather strap that almost matched the russet of my hair which had been bleached in the sun. I looked into the mirror on the wall of his bedroom. Yes, I did cut quite a figure! I think I could get anything I really wanted from Tom.

The townhouse was large and occupied by many family members. But, Tom had decided to avoid the typical family dinner in the large formal dining room. He wanted privacy. His room was really a suite, with a sitting area, an office, a dining alcove in a windowed corner, and a giant feather bed, draped in silks and with telltale ribbons on the posts. Tom's place was obviously equipped for his kind of fun, occupying the entire upper floor of the mansion. I even noted a back staircase, obviously designed for secret entrances and exits. His staff and family probably knew, but his discretion enabled them to deny they knew anything.

The dinner was fine and light. I wasn't very hungry, and Tom was anxious to begin the playtime that he had promised. I could tell as he spread his legs wide across from me as I diddled his crotch with my knee. We finished quickly. He rang and the plates and dishes were carried off--leaving a bottle of iced French champagne and a bottle of whiskey.

As soon as the staff had left, Tom announced it was time to get comfortable. He stood and stripped, leaving only a pair of lacey silk boxers which were fitted to his ample bottom. Thank God they were white and not pink! He had grown a little soft, but not much. I followed his lead. I was commando, so when the britches fell to the floor he gasped. "Oh fuck! What a nice treat. Your body is a treasure, Bo." I posed as his eyes swept over my body. I was as lean as I had ever been, deeply cut, tanned and feral. Then he fell to his knees and inhaled my semi, sucking it to hardness as his hands gripped my hardened glutes. He was good, obviously practiced, possibly the best blow that I'd ever had in my life. Suddenly, however, he backed off. "I want this guy in my ass, Bo. I've been dreaming about this for over a year."

(It probably wasn't true. I assume that he was picking up various guys in Savannah. But, I was ready to believe him. My ego needed it. And my welfare might need it in the coming days.)

He slipped out of the silky drawers and climbed onto the bed, depressing it inches as he moved into position. I turned as he pushed yet another pillow under his gut. Oh, fuck! That ass is so big, round and soft. This is going to be a fuck to remember. I knelt behind him and swatted the legs apart. I slapped the cheeks hard, several times, and they jiggled tantalizingly. There was muscle, but hidden under a half inch of soft fat. Then I grabbed the beefy cheeks and pulled them apart. His hole was hairless, creamed and quivering. I spotted the large tub of grease on the side table. I took a few fingers and slathered it around his rose and penetrated with a finger, then two. He was tight, but not that tight. Fortunately my dick was large enough to stretch even the most practiced chute. I lubed my dick, which was by then, rigid and dripping. Without anything more, I positioned and applied pressure. It didn't take much. BJ slid right in, right to the bottom, in one stroke. Tom squealed in a high-pitched keen. "Oh, you beast. Right there. Take me. Pound me. Bo, you are the best. I'm so ready. Fuck, that cock is so fat that it's stretching my chute. Oh, God, yes, there, pound that nut, boy."

He was surprisingly tight, and obviously very responsive. His butt pushed back into me with every stroke, as he lavished compliments on my size and my technique. And he had practiced using his internal muscles to massage. It was like being in a bunk on a turbulent sea--he was rocking and rolling with every stroke. Great feeling. And the compliments were not bad for my ego. I felt the initial contractions of an orgasm. So I reached under and fisted his dick. It was hard and leaking. And It fit easily into my callused hand. He was probably only about five inches long, but built like a fireplug--thick with an even larger head. I stroked a few times. Then, when I felt the tell tale first spasm, I squeezed hard and stopped him in the earliest throes of an orgasm. He swore; then smiled; he knew I was edging him. I plunged a few more times; as I released him, pressing hard on the taint to increase his ejaculatory pleasure. I flexed my thighs and pushed him to the bed, crushing him with my chest on his back. My gut hollowed and my legs stretched as I bottomed and held. Then I shot, several times, filling him with each exertion. I could feel the tension of his spunk searching for release and recognized the intense pleasure that he was feeling. So I released a bit more. He shot into the sheets, clasping my cock with his anal ring as he did so. My cock expanded and finally released its tension, unloading gobs of Southern nectar into his ass. Then I collapsed into him, grasping him with arms and legs to avoid falling off the quivering ass, nipped and sucked a brand on his nape.

"Oh, you dear boy, that was so good. But don't go, please. Hold him in there. I love the feeling of having a guy's big cock inside me." He was a consummate bottom whore. And it brought back so many memories of my earlier life in Savannah.

Later we did rise from the bed. Tom poured us each a whisky and we sat in his French armchairs sipping, totally naked. Then he asked me to tie him to the bedposts, belly down, and spank him. "That really turns me on." I obliged and did thrash him with one of the leather toys he had stored under the bed. He came, without my even entering him. By then, I was rigid again. "Can you take me missionary, Bo? I'd like to see your eyes when you cum." I obliged again--once again almost becoming seasick with the wallowing movement of fucking one so soft. I was spent, and grasped the edge of the bed, putting myself into a posture that would make cocooning impossible. I didn't think I could handle that. And then we slept until late the next morning.

In the sunlight, the room looked like a cyclone had struck. Clothes and bed linens were everywhere. Spunk covered everything. Tom rolled over, and seeing my rampant wood, bent in to suck me dry for the morning. I would never tire of having someone to relieve my morning pain. Minutes later, he rose from the bed, dripping my cum from his still reddened lips. He rang for the maids to "clean up this mess" as we moved to the bath to get ready for the day. "I'm taking you to George. He's been dressing--and undressing--me for over a year. We'll find you some suitable clothes. If we are to be seen together in Savannah, you must be dressed for the part. I think I want my friends to meet my new Daddy."

I wasn't sure that I wanted that, but I did need some clothes. So I redressed in the clothes that I had brought with me--shabby as they were. An hour later, we left his mansion, a blackbird next to his peacock. By the end of the day, I had a suitable wardrobe in dark-ish blues and greys--and a "modern" evening coat for the Ball. It was black with satin lapels. Tom thought it all too somber. "You're going to a party, man; not a funeral." But I insisted. My only indulgences were a few long silk scarves in brighter hues that I could knot below my chin and tuck into the open collar of the brilliant white shirts.

I ultimately spent ten days with Tom in Savannah. We fucked every day, usually more than once--except the day of the Ball. I managed to engage a solicitor to begin the work ousting the squatters from my townhouse; searched for Daddy--and discovered that he and his brother had gone to England; and attended the Ball.

The Ball was a delightful, but formal evening. It was held at the Cotillion Hall, a public house, with a balcony for a small orchestra, a dance floor and alcoves where the six debs were "presented" surrounded by family. Although the place had been banked with thousands of flowers, the shabbiness of its former brilliance was evident. And the whole evening was scripted and formulaic. It was history reenacted, not really the new South that I was beginning to feel. Thankfully, Momma and The Citadel had polished my gentleman's manners, and I was not a country bumpkin.

I met two potential debs, danced with both, got punch for each, and set up a supervised rendezvous in the next days to "begin an acquaintance." Two stiff afternoons later, each supervised by her Momma, her maid, and her Aunt, where we had sipped tea and exchanged family histories, probably mostly fiction, I knew that, if I wished, Sara Maybelline Foster would become my bride. No doubt, her family by then knew that I was the owner of a once grand plantation, and soon the grand Savannah townhouse would be restored to me. I had the required pedigree. And I was a wounded officer of the Confederacy. What more could a girl's family want? She was worldly, reasonably intelligent and petite. It would be like marrying a China doll, and then installing her in the plantation house like a flowering bush.

By the end of the brief time in Savannah, I had opened up various possibilities for my future. But, I was clearly undecided. Something held me back. I needed more than the endless pursuit of pleasure, retracing the lives of Daddy and his daddies. So, I left things "promising" but not "decided" with Sara and agreed to return for a month after the last of the indigo was carted away. By then, I hoped I could begin the restoration of my townhouse, take my place in Savannah society, and begin the required year-long courtship of Sara--or maybe find someone else. We said our farewells, for the time being, and we hugged and pecked each other. Through her voluminous silks and satins, I'm sure she did not feel it--but BJ did respond to even that brief encounter. I guess I could make do if necessary.

19

On the way home, on the steamer heading up river, after a few weeks of partying, a night where I had almost said the words of proposal, and endless hours of wallowing on and in Tom's body, I started to reassess. I had plenty of time to do so. I was the only passenger heading north into the wintry months ahead.

I knew Tom would be available anytime that I wanted to spend some time in Savannah--but he was a pleasure partner, a fleshy indulgence, a balm for my ego, not a long term prospect. Sara Maybelline was a beautiful, intelligent and potential partner--assuming that I wanted a woman at Howellwood. And I'm guessing she would have said yes, if I had asked. I was almost there, but not quite. Maybe later in the winter--or next season.

I knew it was inevitable that Joshua was no longer mine. Although we had continued to make love in my bed, even after Kinde had arrived on the scene, things began to change. He moved again into the familiar patterns of a slave. I had in the past and in the last year, confirmed to Joshua that there was no long term future for us. I am white, a planter's son and heir; Joshua is black, a former slave, and currently a benevolent pimp as well as plantation foreman. The gulf between us was too wide to bridge the terrific sex--I had consistently refused to bottom, a bone of some contention for Joshua. I knew that when I returned to Howellwood, I would be starting again with few prospects for sexual release. Sure, the hired young bucks would bend over for me whenever I wanted. But, there was no society. And no white women--or young men--within miles with whom I could expect to form a mutually satisfying relationship.

I had written, twice, to the Bostonian patrician whom I had met in Savannah near the end of the war. Captain Henry Morris (Hank) had fallen immediately and hard for me--at least so I thought. I had pulled out all the seductive stops: a beautiful young sensuous Southern boy had fallen into his clutches--and I let him believe that he had caught me. It was literally a stunning example of instant attraction and love. He had called me his angel, describing me as glowing with creamy beauty, arrayed on clean white sheets, wounded, but a POW, a potential source of intelligence, when Hank first saw me. As a ruse to remain with him, Hank had interrogated me over several days. I had used all his wiles to lure the Captain into a "puppy-love; it was seduction plain and simple, and Hank was a goner before it even began. During those days, I had effectively seduced him (to enhance my chances of surviving as a POW). Hank had fallen, no crashed, into love, and we had spent a long, spectacular night together--the only man to whom I had ever given my anal virginity. Hank too had been a virgin before the encounter, but quickly managed to have his way with me. I was so sure, after that night, that Hank was mine. I was sure that I read in Hank's eyes a special kind of attachment and love. But, the relationship had no time to mature and bloom. Only later did I realize that Hank had impacted my life as no one had before. It was too late. Hank was gone. In another world.

I had to conclude that I had been wrong about Hank. Surely the feelings were not mutual. I was just his first--and the first is always special, I thought. The young Captain had been torn from Savannah early the next morning for a special assignment. No chance for farewells or promises. We had not talked or met since. And I assumed my letters had never reached Hank--or that Hank was having none of it. One night of exquisite love-making had left me enchanted and in love. And now almost 18 months later, I realized that I'd probably never see Hank again--and that my mooning for Hank had probably cost me Joshua's affection as well.

I was very depressed as we made our way up the river, noting that many of the trees had lost their leaves and that winter was setting in. It was going to be a long, lonely winter. Joshua, after years of devotion, was moving on. He deserved to be happy. Maybe I should have stayed in Savannah with Tom. But, I realized that was not going to happen. Tom was not enough man for me. Maybe I should have proposed to Sara Maybelline--she was certainly enough woman for me.

Before we docked, I had made a tentative decision. After the indigo cargo was loaded, I was going to return to Savannah, perhaps even on The Heloise, planning to stay for some time. I would fight for our family's home in the city, living in a hotel until that fight was successful. And, I was going to look for another Hank. If by the end of winter, I had not been lucky enough to find someone, I would propose to Sara, and I would resign myself to a reprise of Daddy's life at Howellwood. The very thought was depressing, but I had hopes that during the winter in Savannah, my charms would draw another into my web. I simply had to. At least now I had a plan. I had Howellwood and it was coming back to life. I would have the house in town; I promised myself that. And so I whispered the words, trying to convince myself, "Bo Howell is optimistic. Bo Howell is a very handsome, very good lover. Bo Howell always gets his man. Bo Howell is a survivor, a winner. Bo Howell always gets his man! After all, tomorrow is another day."

TBC

BD

Author's note: these last paragraphs were modeled on Scarlett's ruminations in the last scenes of Gone With The Wind. I hope you caught the allusion. (Unfortunately, Margaret Mitchell's famous novel ends inconclusively for Scarlett. That is not my intent for Bo.