Savannah Affair Part 04

Savannah Affair Part 04

Bo finally gets Hank to make his Move

This story is entirely fictional--as any real student of the history of the Civil War will attest. Although each chapter is more or less standalone, I strongly recommend that you read the first chapters before this one. This story is all about character--a young man sure (cock-sure in the extreme) of himself, but with confidence shaken by defeat, and a slightly older, less sophisticated Nineteenth Century Puritan, who is in denial about himself and his needs, but ready to be seduced. Can they find love? All characters in this story are over 18. © Copyright, 2025, Brunosden.

6

It wasn't his first blow. But he hadn't had many--and most were in extremis, battlefield anxiety relievers, always initiated by others. Although he was essentially passive when it came to matters of the flesh, Hank had enjoyed every one and his heightened sense of Puritan propriety had produced feelings of guilt afterward. He had taken advantage of a situation. He had used someone (who had actually been using him). He had tarnished his character. Weakness in sexual matters is a serious flaw. But, when there are feelings, and the partner is skilled, a blow can be earth-shattering. His was. It cracked his stilted Puritan shell. It rocked his world. And this time, he didn't regret--or feel any guilt, just an intense desire to do it again.

In Hank's inner voice, after he returns to camp....

Zounds! What have I gotten myself into? He has rocked my world. Playing around with brothers or being stroked or blown by a fellow soldier in the field for relief is one thing. But, this is a whole new level of sex. He is so perfect. So beautiful. So sure of himself. He has raised a base act to the sublime. It's almost a religious experience. Even though I am the victor and his captor, somehow I feel at a disadvantage. Never have I experienced such attraction. I am out of control. I am out of my depth. This ocean that I find myself in is pretty deep. But I do know how to swim. And fuck, I'm an Army Captain, an intelligence officer, well-educated and in command! I need to get it together.

I've restrained myself. I haven't touched him. But, I've allowed him to touch me--and he does know how to touch a guy. These next days are going to be very different from anything I could have imagined. But, I will get what I want from him--if only I knew what that is. No more holding back. I'm sure he wants this as much as I do.

Beowulf Thomas Howell, certainly a Southern patrician, maybe the heir to a great plantation, and, although young, a self-proclaimed master of sex is about to become my personal prisoner. Tomorrow I will move him from his basement refuge where he has been recuperating from leg wounds to a cell in the brig at Fort Pulaski over which I had control as the senior intelligence officer. His leg is healing well. And I'm sure he knows secrets and details of rebel plans that I must extract. At least I have convinced myself that this is so. Otherwise, there was no way that I could maintain contact. He'd go to the POW camp with the other captured rebs, and I'd probably never see him again. It was going to be a genuine pleasure trying to handle him. My whole body ached with the prospect.

Bo is definitely an enigma to me. Young, handsome (beautiful of face and body), intelligent--and apparently experienced in matters of the flesh. He definitely offered his body to me for my use--as though it were his to give. As victor, it is already mine. As victor however, I know now that I have his physical body, but what about his soul or his psyche? He seems ready to give me those too. But, I am bound by my damned scruples! How can I explain what I feel felt with his naked flesh against mine and his hand stroking my manhood with his, within minutes of our first meeting? Sure, he was the aggressor. He is definitely a seducer, the devil-incarnate. He's conniving for his life. Somehow it doesn't seem wrong or sinful. Is that how the devil does things? Deliver carnal pleasure to a young man, even a passive confident young army officer--and the rest follows? I'm not at all sure what that means. I am confused. And, yes, a little scared. No, a lot scared. But, I'm definitely going to enter this inferno.

I may be scared, naïve and uninformed in personal matters. But, I understand seduction. And I know he's been trying to seduce me during the few hours that we have been together. No doubt he is out for survival. I see no reason for him to perish. But, we will see. Never before has anyone--female or male--attempted to seduce me. As the son of Puritans, we don't think of such things and avoid situations where they might happen--but even the youngest of us knows what it means to be seduced. Normally for us, it is seduction by fortune or power. Never by sex. It must be the Savannah air. You can smell the corruption. And we all know how corrupt in matters of the flesh the South can be.

7

I commandeered a cart and a horse early the next day. Then we filled it with hay--destined for the few horses garrisoned in the fort--and headed to the townhouse. Bo was ready, dressed in casual clothes--tight britches laced loosely over his bulging crotch, a blousy shirt, long sleeved, with ties, but open at the neck, long socks and leather shoes. A deep blue silk ribbon tied his long red hair in a tail. Priscilla had packed two carpet bags with changes. He seemed dressed for an outing, a picnic, or a holiday, not a trip to the stockade for imprisonment and interrogation. He was smiling, groomed and waiting. My breath caught at the beauty. Considering my conclusion that during our next encounter, he was going to stage a major seduction (to which I intended to succumb), he had donned exactly the correct battle armor! I felt underdressed and unprepared in my deep blue uniform. He was a prince. I was a mere foot soldier.

I greeted Priscilla and handed her a note. "Take this to the cook tent on the green. The chef is looking for help, and he will offer you a job. You may stay here in this house until we need the place. Then the folks at the cook tent will help you find a place to sleep. You are now free to do as you wish. Do not be concerned. I will take care of Bo." She looked at the note, but obviously couldn't read it. She showed it to Bo and he nodded. She thanked me.

Then she turned to Bo with tears. "Mister Bo, I won't leave Savannah without you. I'll drop by the First Baptist Church every day. Leave me a note--you know I can't read--so draw a shamrock on the page, and I'll know it is from you--when you're ready for me to come back to you." There were tears in both their eyes as they embraced.

"Be careful, Pris. I will find you soon and take you home to Howellwood. This war is almost over. I promise."

Then, I turned to Bo. "You'd best leave those bags with Ms. Priscilla. They'll take them from you at the brig, and you'll probably never see them again. Only Army-issued clothes are permitted. And I'm sure you are not carrying any contraband on or in your body. They will do a thorough search when we arrive. And if they find anything, they won't go easy."

He said nothing, but handed the bags to Priscilla. "Save these for me, Pris. I'll need them soon." Then, he whispered to me. "I'm assuming I won't need clothes where we are going anyway."

(He doesn't have any idea at all what's coming.)

I helped him into the wagon where he stretched out his injured leg (a little too dramatically, I thought). And we were off.

I took less than a half hour to reach the quay. The bales of hay were first loaded on the barge. Then Bo was shackled and placed in the center, tied to the mast, with another prisoner, both under a superfluous guard. A few minutes later we reached the Fort. The trip was short--downstream as the tide ebbed. And it was only a few hundred yards down into the harbor.

I really couldn't participate in the intake. It would add too many questions to the potential relationship between the interrogator and the prisoner. I allowed others to take him into the fort. So I went to my small office and reviewed the list of prisoners who were due for my attention. There were only a few. And they didn't appear to be promising. Most were old and had not been on the battlefield. They might know where Savannah's treasures were hidden--most of which we had probably already found and confiscated, but nothing of military strategic value.

I knew Bo would be led to a common area where he would be told to strip. He'd be cavity searched and bathed in a cold stream of antiseptic (for bugs, like lice). They would roughly handle his body and inspect his anal cavity, probably quite rougly. They'd probably joke among themselves over his hairless body, obviously trimmed pubes and enormous phallus. A medic would rewrap his wounds with the same bandages which they had just removed. His hair would be cut short to within an inch of his scalp, and he would be issued a standard one-piece cover-all without any undergarments, and cardboard sandals--all designed to degrade his masculine dignity and begin the interrogation stage-setting. Then he would be cuffed again and delivered to my facility.

When the two guards brought him to one of the cells, across from my office and interrogation chamber, I was shocked. The loss of his hair had transformed him to a man. Most of the traces of his femininity had disappeared with his long red locks. But, he stood tall and continued to smile. My angelic boy was very definitely a handsome man now, not the least belittled by his treatment orthe drab cotton "dress" that they had given him.

Not wanting to appear too interested or eager, I allowed them to place him in the designated cell. It was austere, with one tiny window high under the ceiling, a palette with no mattress, a single blanket, a chamber pot--and nothing else. No cell mate. The cell was open to the corridor, separated only by a "wall" of bars and a padlocked door.

But, I did schedule an interrogation for that afternoon.

He was brought to me a few hours later. I decided to put on the toughest demeanor that we had been taught. I needed to establish my authority immediately. Turning to Bo, I ordered gruffly, "Strip Reb. Then stand by the rack, facing me. You will be silent unless asked a question. And you will not be clothed in my presence." (This was another pre-step to interrogation--training had taught us that instant "take-charge" was required and that nakedness resulted in insecurity and vulnerability, setting the stage for a fruitful interrogation.) Actually, I was anxious to see him totally nude in the full light of my office without a shred of covering. "You must learn your place if you are to have any value to me."

He whispered, "Oh, Captain, I do know my place," as he undressed quickly, pulling the one-piece garment over his head, never varying his stare from my crotch. It unnerved me. He was not yet acting like a prisoner.

Fuck, I was hardening already. He had turned up the flame again.

Bo stood naked in the middle of the room. I pointed to the x-shaped cross in the alcove off my office. He walked to it and dutifully fit his ankles and wrists into the cuffs. He was still bandaged. "Guards, don't bother attaching the cuffs to his ankles. He's obviously been injured." But, they did pull out his arms and attach his wrists to the cuffs.

The guards, after they completed the immobilization, stood beside me, gawking, impressed with the size of his limp dick. It was the size of a generous sausage. One made a joke about the size of Georgia snakes, even the non-poisonous variety. They were enjoying the show, assuming Bo was embarrassed. Actually, I think he was enjoying the attention.

I glared at them. "Enough. We follow protocol with our special prisoners; we do not disrespect them unless they ask for it."

"Turn him so he faces the wall."

They loosened the cuffs, turned him and relocked. This meant he would need to swivel his neck uncomfortably to respond--or talk to the wall. But, it removed his hardening cock from view. Only then did I realize that in its place, I now had the view of the two magnificent globes that made up his bubble: clean, hairless, unblemished and pinkish. As a show, I grabbed the leather thrash from the wall hook. Brandishing it, I dismissed the guards. "Wait outside. He's harmless. I need to soften him up a bit before the interrogation begins. He's still way to proud of himself and secure about his future. I'll call out if I need anything." They left, obviously disappointed not to witness the reaction of his body--and maybe his cock--to the whip.

I brushed the soft braided strands of leather through my hands as his eyes went wide. "I thought you had denied using a whip."

"I lied. And this is a thrash, not a whip. A technicality really, but it is more useful in confined quarters. And, I only use it when I detect fabrication. So beware. Now, start from the beginning. I want to know everything about you. Parents and superior officers, where the guns are hidden on your plantation, how you enlisted, how you were trained, your campaigns, the circumstances of your injury and where your comrades in arms have hidden. And how you got back to Savannah. Leave nothing out. I want it all. I'll be the judge of relevancy. And If I detect any prevarication, you will feel the lash, I promise."

"I was born on May 7, 1843, at Howellwood..."

I used the thrash on his butt, just a brush really. But he yelped and screamed as though I were torturing him.

"Stop, not that early a beginning. I don't have all day. I don't give a damn about your sordid childhood. Let's start about your time at The Citadel." I was speaking very loudly and used the thrash several times on the rack, and to emphasize the situation, I pointed to the door--the guards were just outside and presumably listening.

He was immediately complicit.

He groaned for their benefit. Then, his voice dropped in volume. "At Daddy's insistence, I entered his alma mater, the military institute five years ago on my 18

th

birthday. Because of the war, we graduated 30 months later. I didn't do very well academically, but they did teach us to shoot and use a sword and some rudimentary military tactics. I guess I did well enough to be commissioned in the Army of the Confederacy. They were desperate. And frankly, given my family and my position in Southern society, it really was not a choice. We were told that we were defending our lives and lifestyle against aggressive Yankees who would turn us into servants if they won."

"I suppose you must realize by now that they were spouting Confederate propaganda. It had nothing to do with your lifestyle or your properties. It was all about freeing slaves which we, no I, saw as a total human abomination. It was not aggression. You seceded illegally to preserve an immoral and illegal practice. Nothing you say would convince me or right-thinking people otherwise."

Bo continued, as though I were a minister preaching from the pulpit to a bored and unhearing congregation. "I was immediately given command of a small platoon of scouts--in an area not far from the plantation, all along the river, where I knew the terrain well from my youth. Our job was to move through the woods which we all knew well, determining likely points of contact with the Yanks, places where we might ambush. We harassed when we could and disappeared into the wood. We dropped logs into the river to inhibit Union travel by water. And we reported on movements. My Army Division was led by General Throckmorton, a complete idiot--a planter, graduate of The Citadel, but with an intelligence below that of most of our slaves. Most of the junior officers were my friends and barely competent, but we knew how to survive in the woods. I did so for over two years, occasionally sniping or skirmishing before disappearing into the wilderness. I think we did little damage, not much. Our main job was to survive."

His voice dropped to a whisper--so I had to draw near to hear the rest. "I was really popular at The Citadel. With the ladies in town--and with the cadets. This dick opened doors. And pussies. And assholes, including some of the lieutenants with whom I was serving. In the scouting troop, I had my own harem of holes which lined up for plugging. You'd be surprised at how far a little aggression and big dick can accomplish."

I was appalled at the casualness with which he spoke of his conquests and prowess. Could my angel be a complete slut? I brushed the thrash over his ass, reminding him of who had the upperhand at the moment.

In an even lower tone, really a whisper, he began to describe some of the intimate adventures in which he had engaged. He certainly professed to know his way around and in a man's asshole. My cock expanded and hardened in my uniform pants--his stories were having their intended effect.

I was drawn, like the proverbial bee to the smell of nectar.

I moved close, pushed against his back, shoved my crotch into his butt, and wound an arm around him as I grabbed his cock which was already beginning to inflate. And before he said even another word, my other hand reached out, of its own accord, I think, and cradled his nuts. I spoke in a whisper--using words that I didn't really even know. "You are fuckin' with me, Bo. I've had enough of your teasing. But, it would be easier if you agreed."

"I can't imagine what you mean, Captain. I am helpless. I'm shackled. I am yours. You have my agreement to do anything you must. I can feel your hardness through the thin cloth of your uniform. Begin your punishment, Captain."

I released his dick and his balls, but he was still cuffed at the wrists. So I backed off, retrieved the key and unlocked them. "Now, say it again, Bo. What are you saying? Do you want me to make love to you? Or is it a ruse to avoid punishment. I will not touch you sexually without your permission."

"How quaint. We haven't used that phrase among ourselves in years. I would never consider a Yankee making love to me. But, if you're planning to push that monster inside my innocent little ass, I guess I have no choice. You are my captor. 'No' to love, Captain, but 'Yes' to sex. It shall be my punishment. I'll not give permission. But, I won't resist. Do your worst." He turned stared into my eyes before dropping to the tent in my trousers, "Or your worst, whatever pleases you."

His insolence and the casualness with which he approached matters of the flesh unnerved me. Never before had I felt like this. Always before it had been unplanned, reaction, relief, momentary, followed by remorse. This was so much more. I wanted HIM. My character had morphed and was in the gutter. (I think the devil in me took over.) "'Innocent little ass', now we're talking in riddles. Don't give me that innocent act." I grabbed my hardening dick through the pants. "You want this. Don't you? You've been asking for it for three days. My opportunity has nothing to do with your imprisonment. You want this, don't you? You've been seducing me, but you've crossed the line. I have no more resistance. Obviously, you a well-experienced in matters of the flesh. By your own admission you have taken many. But, I think not one so large as this. You, on the other hand, will be my first."

I backed off just a bit, opened my trouser flap and dropped the covering, revealing the cock below. I stroked my dick to maximum size. He turned and licked his lips when he saw what I was offering. Then he waggled his buns. His body said everything. He wanted me. I moved back in. I rubbed against him.

"But, I was telling the truth."

"Really, I had the impression that you were holding back on me."

"The truth is that I want you. I want you inside. Now. Hard and harder. Fast and faster. Put him in, Captain. That is the unvarnished truth, Sir."